The Black Prince: Part I

by P. J. Fox

  “Arvid is a guest of honor at this table.”

  The tribesman grinned.

  “He’s disgusting!”

  “I’m right here, you know.”

  “You are welcome, of course, to take dinner in your own rooms.” Tristan’s tone was cool.

  “Girls,” Hart said, addressing Asher, “don’t like it when you call them teats.”

  “What do they like?”

  “Well that is the great question. The bards call them love globes and supine orbs, but women loathe that also. It’s best, indeed, not to mention them at all.”

  Arvid took a long drink of ale. “I want women to tell me that I have a good, thick cock.”

  “They’d have to see it first,” Isla pointed out.

  “I can see her teats! And her daughter’s teats, too!”

  Hart sighed.

  Rowena glared at a pie, as it was presented to her. “The proper thing, you know, is to separate the courses. Savory first, then sweet. It’s what’s best for the humors.”

  “And we should all castrate ourselves and live in a convent. What’s your point?”

  “I don’t believe,” Isla cut in, “that they actually castrate themselves. Rather, they take a vow of—”

  “Your guest of honor is revolting.”

  Isla subsided into silence. As usual, no one was listening. She caught the mason’s eye and he smiled. Apple was revolting. But she was also somewhat entertaining.

  Isla sipped her mulled wine, a drink that some claimed had medicinal or even aphrodisiac properties. Sugar, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, grains of paradise and white pepper. A cheaper version of the drink used honey, which was the only sweetener she’d tasted before she got married. One of Rowena’s books claimed that sugar was for lords and honey for the people. But Isla thought she still preferred the sticky golden substance regardless.

  She found herself studying the array of custards on the table, and thinking about the expense that had gone into producing them. Sandalwood to achieve the bright red, saffron for a yellow as fiery as the late summer sun. Boiled blood for the black, which was served with some sort of sauce.

  There was more money on this table, at this moment, than Enzie Manor had seen in the last decade and she wasn’t certain how she felt about that.

  “Why are these people here?” This from the son of the earl of Hardland, who’d come to witness the adoption on his father’s behalf. Hardland was significant to border defense, its leadership fiercely loyal to Tristan and often the first to send men in times of need.

  Hart shrugged. “I found them wandering in the woods.”

  Apple began to sputter.

  The lordling, Quinn, looked dubious. “Well that’s…awfully good of you.”

  “Perhaps,” the mason conjectured, sopping gravy from his plate with a piece of bread, “he means to sacrifice them later.” He appeared to be only half joking.

  “Yes,” Asher chimed in, “sacrifice them!”

  Tristan gave his son a look.

  Rowena turned to Arvid. “You shouldn’t scratch your—boils, or flea bites, or whatever ails you. And you shouldn’t pick your nose.”

  Surprisingly, he didn’t make a comment about wanting to scratch Rowena’s flea bites. Instead, he answered seriously. “They’re not flea bites. They’re war wounds. They pain me afore each change in season. But,” he added, “to answer your earlier charge, while we’re on the subject of my failings, women need men. And men, women, although we like to pretend otherwise. And there is no shame in being found attractive by one.”

  “I am betrothed,” Rowena said stiffly.

  Arvid’s eyes widened fractionally, but he added no further comment.

  The conversation turned to the new and troubling rumors from the South, that Maeve was raising an army. To the news that Piers was being challenged, openly now, in the capital by her supporters. That there had been imprisonments, and executions. To the news of Owen Silverbeard’s defection, which brought roars of rage from Arvid. Who, of course, already knew. But by his own admission, he could scarce stomach mention of the man’s name. Worse than betraying some Morvish liege lord, he’d broken the Northern code of honor. And for, not revenge or lust but for nothing more than gold.

  And so Isla heard, for the first time, the full tale of what had befallen her brother in the mountains.

  That Hart had survived was a miracle, although one he seemed not to credit. If anything, he regarded his having returned home as a failure. He spoke of a friend who had died, a friend Isla had never met. Nor heard tale of. He spoke, not of his own deeds but of those of his friends and how he and they had come to recognize their betrayal. That Hart had fought bravely and ensured the survival of many, Isla knew only from Callas’ occasional interjections.

  Hart was a hero, and would be recognized as such in a ceremony as soon as there was time for such things.

  And provided that Hart could be made to attend.

  Asher spoke to Isla across his father. “Dinner with the other pages was a lot more interesting.” But he was smiling.

  “You’re privy now,” Tristan said dryly, “to the councils of war.”

  “I was before!”

  Tristan arched an eyebrow.

  Asher subsided, throwing himself back into his chair with an expression of mock disgust. Moments later, he was presented with another cup of well-watered wine. He was being served by the young son of a different vassal, who might or might not be elevated to his old position. Now that Asher had been formally recognized, Tristan would need a new page as Asher, while he’d still accompany his father most places and continue in many of his old duties, would no longer be expected to perform menial chores. But a household the size of Caer Addanc had many pages, squires, and other young men come to serve. All eager to prove themselves. To Tristan and, Isla supposed, now to Asher, too.

  Did Asher know? Or care? She doubted that.

  “All the best gossip is in the kitchens.”

  Tristan sipped his own mulled wine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  But Asher was content. More than content. And their guests appeared content as well. Even Hart appeared to be regaining something of his old good nature, laughing and making the occasional joking comment. Isla had just begun to relax, thinking that, perhaps, her family’s presence wasn’t the curse she’d initially thought, when it happened.

  “Rowena!” came the voice.

  Silence fell like an axe.

  “I’m here to rescue you!”

  Rowena jumped up, swooned, and promptly fell over.

  THIRTY-SIX

  They were back in their private sitting room.

  Gods, would this circus never end?

  Rowena lay prone on the couch. Greta was fanning her. Rudolph strode back and forth in front of them, doing nothing. “She’s dying!” he cried.

  “No she isn’t, you overdressed oaf.” Greta’s tone was sharp. “It’s the belladonna. But you’re certainly not helping.”

  Promptly, Rudolph sat down.

  Rowena groaned, rolled over, and vomited onto the floor.

  “She will,” Tristan offered, “unfortunately, be quite fine.” There was no known antidote to the poison but if a patient’s heart could be kept stimulated with certain spirits, or indeed the imported drink that Tristan favored, called in its own language wine of the bean, then eventually the danger would pass. Rowena, in her efforts to beautify, had rubbed the poison on her cheeks to give them a glow as well as put it in her eyes.

  Too much caused nausea, hallucinations, and a rapid pulse that in severe cases quickly trickled down to nothing.

  “Oh, Rudolph,” she moaned, “I feel awful.”

  “Darling.” Jumping up, he threw himself down on one knee before her makeshift sickbed, all but knocking Greta over. “I’m here.”

  Asher came to sit with Isla. “Why do women do this to themselves?”

  Rowena vomited again. This time onto Rudolph. Her ardent beau seemed distinctly nonplussed. Isla w
ondered what he’d been up to all winter. She knew that Tristan was wondering the same thing. Rudolph of the codpiece and, this time, feathers.

  She shook her head. “Darling, I don’t know.”

  “I mean, I know all girls aren’t this stupid. You’re not this stupid.”

  “Why thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Asher’s tone was formal. “She hates me, you know.”

  I hate her. “Rowena is…unwell.”

  “She’s frightening.”

  That she was. Although there was no true justification for those feelings, was there? Rowena was a chit, to be sure, but a harmless chit. She might speak cruelly to Asher but she’d never hurt him. Wasn’t capable of hurting him, Isla was sure. She’d hurt Isla, yes, but with words. Words that only could hurt, because of what had once existed between them. At least, what Isla thought had existed. But Asher had no such limitation.

  And then another familiar face appeared.

  Eir.

  Isla leapt to her feet, overjoyed, and embraced the shocked gnome. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you so much!”

  Eir arched an eyebrow. “Missed…?”

  Asher joined them. “Hi, Eir.”

  Dropping her gaze, she inspected him with her pale, almost colorless eyes. “Hello, small…human. Congratulations on your…recognition.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Among my people, such acknowledgment is…irrelevant.”

  “What do you mean?” Isla had never heard this before.

  “A woman…knows who her child is. The man who…gave it to her is an…the term in your language would be…afterthought. If he pleases her, then she might choose to acknowledge him. If not….” She smiled, revealing the same frightening teeth that Isla remembered. “Many a man has…come home…to find his things placed outside the door.”

  “A woman can do that?” This from Asher.

  “We are…civilized. The woman owns the home.”

  “Your women must be scary.”

  Eir made a strange hissing noise. It took Isla a minute to realize that the gnome was laughing. Frightening indeed. When they’d first met, Isla had all but wet herself in fear. Of course, then, Eir had been dangling from the ceiling.

  Rowena began calling for more brandy and Eir made a face. “I see that the fat, stupid one is still…with us.”

  “She was gone for awhile.” Asher made a face. “But she came back.”

  “I should…eat her.”

  “We’ve had the conversation already about eating people I know.” Isla’s tone was firm.

  “But this one is…especially annoying. I should eat her.”

  “You should not.” Isla blessed her friend with a meaningful glare.

  “There’s only one solution!” Rudolph cried.

  Eir licked her lips.

  “We need to conjoin our union. Right now.”

  “In front of all these people?” Asher’s eyes widened. Isla wanted to cover his ears.

  “He doesn’t mean….” At least she thought he didn’t mean.

  “Oh, turtle dove, really?” Rowena’s eyes were still black pools.

  “As soon as we can secure the chapel.”

  Isla felt herself relax. Thank the Gods. Although she couldn’t imagine where her sister would find a priest.

  Moments later, Tristan voiced the same concern.

  Isla wondered, obscurely, if the thought had been hers or his. He might be standing across the room, but they operated with one mind. How many of the thoughts, which she believed originated with her, in fact did not? It was an unsettling question, especially since she had no answer. And no means of gaining one.

  According to Tristan, as she adapted, the line would continue to blur until it dissolved entirely. By which point, she’d want that. She’d no longer cling to her sense of self, by her fingernails sometimes it felt like, terrified that she was forgetting what it meant to be her own person. To think for herself, by herself.

  She forced the thought from her head, concentrating instead on her immediate surroundings. Tristan sounded distinctly nonplussed at the idea of hosting Rowena’s wedding. Then again, he was hardly known for his enthusiasm at the best of times.

  “We should get married before father passes.” Rowena, in contrast, seemed quite excited. Including about the earl’s mortality. “So he can know that I’m well taken care of.”

  Rudolph, taking her hand, beamed.

  “I would like,” Isla said, her voice pitched for Eir alone, “a single week where nothing happens. Nothing at all.”

  Where no one showed up unannounced, and no one threatened to expire. Where no one announced a surprise wedding and there were no ambushes. Where she could pause, and breathe, and come to terms with the facts of her life before they changed yet again.

  Rowena turned her gaze to Tristan. “How soon can a wedding be arranged?”

  Tristan’s face was impassive, his eyes dark. “Your sister is mistress of this home, so that depends on her wishes.”

  Including, came the echo, whether Isla wished to host this thing at all.

  But then Isla remembered that, were they to host another celebration, something quite exciting would happen. A magical event that she’d fantasized about mere hours before. An event that would, she decided, be so magical as to entirely compensate for the stresses any further exposure to Rowena might cause.

  Rudolph would meet Arvid.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Asher thought things were stupid.

  Really, really stupid.

  The mean one was back and he was still doing chores. Evidently being recognized as his father’s son didn’t mean he wasn’t still responsible for his own horse. A knight and a gentleman cared for his own horse, blah blah blah. Except he didn’t; no one Asher knew over the age of about sixteen winters did. His father didn’t waste time out in the stables with his horse, the great black behemoth.

  It was all a scam.

  The snow, as quickly as it had come, had started melting and the stable yard was a pool of mud. It was almost to his knees now; pretty soon he’d be swimming in it. Why didn’t he just dive in now? His half-frozen fingers were raw on the bucket handle, because he’d insisted on not wearing gloves. Because he was stupid.

  He wore the ring on his forefinger. It just fit. In time, he’d grow. He wondered if he’d be as tall as his father. He didn’t think he wanted to be huge, like Arvid. Hart and his father were of a height, and Asher thought it was a good height. Enough to be intimidating but not so much that he’d never blend in anywhere. Asher didn’t want to have to wear pelts and file his teeth.

  He sat down on the edge of the well. There was a cover, which had to be lifted off. And then, under that, probably still a thin film of ice. It was someone from the kitchen’s job to break through the ice every morning with a pickaxe, and sometimes again in the afternoon as well. Turning, Asher eyed the wood. Not enough to save a grown man being pushed into the well, but enough to prevent accidents. Asher wondered, and not for the first time, if he’d been the target of such…accidents.

  Or maybe he was just paranoid.

  Too many halfwits like John made it hard to believe in this inherent goodness of people idea that Isla seemed so keen on. Asher didn’t need to lie in bed at night, awake in the dark and fantasizing about monsters, to be afraid. He had enemies.

  All he had to do, to see them, was come downstairs for breakfast.

  He dropped his gaze to the ground. He didn’t know why he was so upset. He should be happy now. Except…so much had changed while so much hadn’t. He’d found, upon rising from his bed to greet his first morning as the son of a duke, that he was more confused than happy.

  He’d thought of Isla as his mother almost since he met her. A spot for which she had no true competition. And never had had. Even when Maeve had been around, she hadn’t been. Asher had loved her, because of course he had, but his desire for true feeling between them had been unrequited. He remembered following her around, as
king for a hug or to show her something, and her shooing him off. On a good day. On a bad day, she’d vent her ire on him with whatever lay nearby. He’d lived in terror of upsetting her. Looking at her wrong, making what she called a bad face, was enough.

  Isla was…different. Reliable. And she was funny.

  As for Tristan…Asher had long ago come to accept that Tristan was his father. At first, simply because everyone else seemed to think he was. But then, over time, he’d begun to see the similarities, too: in their coloring, in their mannerisms. Asher was a quiet, strange child who related poorly to others his own age. And while those around him might have chalked this up to many things, including the circumstances of his arrival at Caer Addanc, they instead chose to see Asher’s temperament as further proof of his true parentage.

  The duke was no man’s boon companion.

  Asher wanted to be like his father. Scary. And appealing to women.

  And it had felt good to be recognized, and still did. Although the ceremony was really gross. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to do it, cutting the lamb’s head from its body. Hart had given him some pointers, which Asher had barely grasped through his shock. After that first blow, he’d almost turned tail and run.

  Fear of what would happen if he did kept him going. Oh, he knew he’d still be his father’s son, but would it be legal? Still, far more importantly to Asher, he wanted his father to be proud of him. To feel like he was making the right decision.

  To feel like Asher was worthy of the trust Tristan was placing in him.

  There were rumors that Isla couldn’t conceive but those had mostly been spread by Rose and Asher didn’t believe them regardless. Rose was just bitter that she’d gone from being Isla’s companion to scouring pots in the kitchens. And besides, Asher had overheard Hart telling Callas once that Isla had been with child and had lost the baby. And Isla’s own brother—Asher’s uncle, now—should know best about his own sister. Better than some ugly, mean-spirited scullery maid with an axe to grind.