The Black Prince: Part I

by P. J. Fox

  “Oh, girl. Hundreds.”

  It had, Lissa decided, been a day of discovery.

  FORTY

  “I can’t believe you’ve pulled this same stunt twice.”

  Isla was furious. No. Beyond furious. There wasn’t a word adequate to describe the white hot—more than rage coursing through her. Her insides felt like one of the exploding mountains in the East, that Tristan’s books described.

  Rowena’s expression was studiedly innocent. She was standing in the center of the room—Isla’s room—while a tailor pinned fabric around her. Not Eir. Eir’s interest in the domestic arts apparently extended only to Isla. Eir was present though, sitting by the fireplace in her woodland garb. One long, thin leg was stretched out in front of the other, and she was smoking a pipe. She was watching the proceedings with interest, which made Isla even more upset. Couldn’t she do something?

  “My wedding dress is going to be more attractive than yours.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Don’t you care?”

  “Passionately.”

  It was nice enough: a fitted surcoat made from dark blue velvet with a lighter blue linen beneath.

  “I need more gold.”

  The tailor looked at Isla.

  “No you don’t.”

  Rowena turned. “Why are you looking at her? It’s my dress and my wedding.”

  “Yes,” Isla snapped. “Paid for by me.”

  “I demand better.”

  “Then get married in your shift.”

  “I bet your wedding dress was more expensive.”

  Eir was laughing again.

  “When did you write to Rudolph? And how?”

  “Who says I did?”

  “He does, you nitwit.”

  “This,” Eir hissed, “is better than the puppet show at the brothel.”

  “I bet you’re a big hit there.” Rowena swiveled her piggish eyes to the gnome.

  “Yes. I go to…rent the pretty boys.”

  Excusing herself, the tailor stood up and walked into the garderobes.

  Things couldn’t get any worse, Isla decided. They just couldn’t. She’d be the laughing stock of Barghast within the week, if she wasn’t already. Isla and her traveling band of fools.

  The door opened and Greta came in.

  “You’re needed in the kitchens.”

  Isla glanced at Eir. The gnome was now whittling a piece of kindling she’d pulled from the box into a miniature dagger. Isla could have used that dagger to stab her erstwhile tailor and protector. Who apparently saw that last duty as relevant only when she saw fit. But not at meal times, or rest times, or at any other time that might occasion the Gods-be-damned creature to stir her stump.

  Eir smiled back in a flash of teeth. “I…will wait here. Guard the fat one.”

  Rowena let out an indignant squawk.

  Isla turned and left.

  Trying not to feel like she’d been chased out of her own bedroom, she followed Greta down the hall.

  Greta turned. “Why is Rudolph here? I mean,” she added, after a moment and in a slightly different tone, “not that I’m complaining. He’s a fop, but a cute one.”

  Cute? She thought that waste of life was cute? Rudolph didn’t need a codpiece for his member, he needed one for his brain. “Rowena sent him a message.” Just like she’d done before. Rowena led that man around by the nose, and always had. Although Hart questioned his motives. And, Isla supposed, she did, too. For someone so willing to be led, Rudolph had never seemed to eager to actually be married.

  “Don’t you wonder what’s underneath the padding?”

  Isla turned. “What? No!” She made a face. “I’m sure it’s tiny, anyway.”

  “So you have wondered.”

  They arrived at the kitchens.

  Caer Addanc’s kitchens were…enormous was the wrong word. They were a kingdom in and of themselves, a series of long, narrow galleries with vaulted ceilings from which all manner of smoked meats and herbs hung. The cook, along with the small army of men and women he oversaw, was responsible for feeding the entire castle and, as well, for stocking the larders not just against the North’s long winters but against possible siege.

  The main kitchen was marked into three sections by three separate arch supports, and between each was a massive fireplace. Two were open, for hanging pots and turning roasting spits, with ovens on either side and the third was entirely ovens for baking bread and pies. A series of long tables provided work surfaces. The walls were lined with shelves.

  Beyond the main kitchen was the scullery, where the messiest chores were performed. Dishes were washed, birds of all sorts were plucked and dressed for the ovens. Fish were cleaned in stone basins provided for the purpose. And beyond that again were the larders: dank, windowless rooms kept as cold as possible for the storage of butter, cheese, fruits and vegetables, nuts, oils, and the barrel after barrel of salted fish and various meats that made up so much of the winter diet. Spices, a precious commodity and a currency in their own right, were stored separately in a locked chamber. Only the cook himself and the castellan possessed keys.

  The cook, who stood there with his hands on his hips and an evil look on his face, wore his about his neck.

  Rudolph, who stood next to him, wore a look of utter defeat.

  “There will be no sugar sculptures!” the cook thundered.

  “The Chivalrous Heart….” Rudolph trailed off.

  “You’ve come in here, to my kitchen, trying to bamboozle me into spending more on one night’s feast than most houses spend in a year. And,” he added, jabbing a finger at Rudolph, “without my master’s permission.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “If the duke wanted sugar sculptures, then the duke would be down here telling me this himself. Not you, in your ridiculous getup, trying to play me for a fool.” The cook was a fat man, and huge. He towered over Rudolph; he towered over most men. The skin of his neck flushed a dark beet red, which was creeping up into his cheeks. “I should rip off that codpiece and make you eat your wedding dinner out of it! I’m sure there’d be more than enough room to hold a king-sized feast, once you ripped the padding out.”

  Poor Rudolph.

  Seeing Isla, the cook turned. “He wants to steal my sugar!”

  “Magnus,” she replied, in what she hoped was a soothing tone, “no one is going to steal your sugar.”

  The cook shot a triumphant look at Rudolph.

  “But Rowena—”

  “Rudolph, Rowena is not mistress of this castle. I am. And Magnus is right: it’s completely inappropriate for you to be here, ordering my staff around as though it were your own. Magnus is—”

  “Magnus is a servant!”

  “Magnus is standing right here!” The cook’s glare intensified.

  “Magnus is a trusted and valued member of this household and I’ll not have you addressing him in such a manner! Nor speaking about him as though he weren’t present. He has a job to do, which you are preventing him from doing. You, meanwhile, are a guest.”

  “I’m the son of—”

  “But you’ll have no sons if you—”

  “Both of you, enough!”

  Silence hit like a thunderclap.

  Somewhere, a pot clattered to the floor.

  She turned to Rudolph. “Explain yourself.” And though she was giving him the chance to do so, she was half tempted to boot him out into the mud regardless. He was a guest. He was also a man on the eve of marriage and Rowena’s corruptive influence was clearly too much for his weak mind. She’d sent him down here, no doubt about that, all the while smiling her false smile and pretending stupidity.

  “According to The Chivalrous Heart”—he meant, according to Rowena—“all the finer tables serve subtleties. Special sugar sculptures, you know. In all manner of curious forms. Castles, ships, famous philosophers. Scenes from scripture. They’re served at the beginning of the banquet, as a means of alerting guests to the wonders to come
. And between courses also, I believe.

  “Rowena feels very strongly that, as her sister is now a relative of the king’s by marriage, she deserves a…suitable celebration.”

  “I see.”

  “I should go.”

  “Yes.”

  Rudolph left.

  “A suitable celebration.” Magnus grunted. “I should make them eat pottage.”

  Indeed. As part of a special penance, to help them enter the right frame of mind for marriage. Many in the church recommended prayer before the initial consummation, and every time thereafter. Perhaps Rudolph could be persuaded to wear a hair shirt under his ridiculous frippery. Or a cilice. Even better would be if she could have engineered the wedding to fall on one of those days where sex—marital or otherwise—was forbidden by the church.

  Alas, their joint demand that they be married as soon as possible meant that Rowena and Rudolph would be joined in two days’ time. Which meant that they were quite fortunate that any feast could be prepared. Magnus was right: they should eat pottage. They should, once in their lives, either of them experience any consequence to their choices.

  But Rowena was upstairs having a dress fitted and Rudolph had no doubt gone off to sulk.

  “What is the menu?” Isla asked.

  “I’d thought we could have bread and butter, honey-mustard eggs, pickled pears, sallet, egurduce, leek and potato pie and roast boar.”

  “That all sounds delightful.”

  “And it’s cheap.”

  There was that.

  “Is the feast still meant to start at noon?”

  “Yes. The service is scheduled for midmorning.”

  “Has anyone managed to secure one of those limp wristed, boy touching priests?”

  In truth, no one had bothered to look. Rowena could get married in a Northern ceremony, or not at all. She hadn’t even bothered to ask which priest, or priestess, would be present but instead had left the choice up to Tristan. Her mind was on more important matters, like sugar. To say that Isla herself didn’t care, however, would be to deny the near white hot rage she felt at her sister for bringing all of this down upon their heads.

  “No,” she said.

  Magnus grunted. “Thank you, ma’am, for coming downstairs.”

  “If either of them takes it in their heads to demand anything else, advise them to take the matter up with the duke. He would, I’m certain, be more than delighted to hear them out.”

  Magnus grinned.

  And then Isla felt a sharp tug on her sleeve.

  Magnus swatted the offender with a gigantic, bear-like paw. “Don’t go touching the lady of the house, you twat.” Magnus seemed oblivious to the fact that his own behavior was hardly more decorous. Nowhere in The Chivalrous Heart did it advise using the word twat in the company of one’s mistress.

  Rose recoiled.

  Isla studied her. She looked different. Not thinner or fatter, just…worn. Experiencing the first honest work in her life would have that effect, Isla supposed. Before coming here, Rose’s life had been one of indolence: taking advantage of a poorly run manor and, then, Isla’s friendship to craft herself one self-interested situation after another.

  And now here she was.

  She had bags under her eyes, and a smudge of soot on her cheek. Her hair, like that of the other women in the kitchens, was tied back in a kerchief to keep it out of her eyes and out of the food. She was wearing the same brown homespun, too; whatever else they owned, no one here wore their best clothes to work to get covered in flour and spattered in grease.

  “I need to speak with you.”

  “Alright.”

  “Outside.”

  Isla let Rose lead her out through the door to the kitchen gardens. A door that, like all the points of entry to Caer Addanc, was heavily fortified. Isla couldn’t imagine someone in the kitchens committing treachery, but supposed that was foolish. People were cruel and stupid everywhere. Which was why, although the cook and his staff were responsible for locking and barring the door at night, there were nonetheless soldiers stationed to either side. A different pair during each of the castle’s three shifts.

  They pretended not to notice her.

  Isla turned, her arms crossed over her chest. It was cold out here, without a cloak. She was always cold. And this was the first time she’d spoken to Rose since…the incident. “Yes?”

  The word came out more harshly than she’d intended, but she didn’t feel comfortable doing this. Or at all. She wanted to be back inside. She wanted, even more than that, to be alone. She felt smothered—by her family, by the impending wedding, by such an awkward and unwanted encounter with her onetime companion.

  She wondered, briefly, if Rose knew about her father and that’s what this was about. Maybe she wanted to offer her condolences. Maybe she’d come to regret their last conversation and wanted to apologize.

  Maybe not.

  “You have to get me out of here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I hate it here. In the kitchens. They’re smelly and dirty and horrible.”

  “Rose—”

  “They make me scour the floor. And clean vegetables. And pluck feathers!”

  Which all sounded reasonable to Isla.

  “I have to wash chamber pots. And Marcus is mean.”

  Everyone had to wash chamber pots. Washing chamber pots was a fact of life. Had Rose really never done any of these things at Enzie? Isla had. And her life now, while certainly more comfortable, was hardly a life of leisure. She had an entire household to manage, as well as representatives from Barghast and vassals of her husband to meet, and entertain, and occasionally to appease. As the lady of the house, it was her job to hear those grievances with which Tristan could not be bothered.

  Or, in his absence, to hear them all.

  “Marcus is not mean,” she said firmly. “He has expectations.”

  “You’re talking to me like a servant.”

  “You are a servant.” A chill wind was picking up, and Isla shivered.

  “You—we were friends!”

  That we were. “You made a choice, Rose.” She couldn’t believe that she was having this conversation. “What did you think would happen, that I’d allow you to waltz around the castle putting me down? You came here as my companion, at my sufferance. You made it clear, once you’d arrived, that you no longer wished to be my companion. And so.”

  “So you’re punishing me for—”

  “Punishing you? Punishing you? You should be grateful to me.”

  “You whispered evil things about me into your husband’s ear and—”

  “My husband doesn’t even know you exist. He is the duke. You are a maid. And an ungrateful and stupid one at that. He’d only notice you if he wanted to bed you and, thank the Gods, he doesn’t have such poor taste.” She watched the words cut. And, for once, she didn’t care. Why was she responsible, forever responsible, for the feelings of her enemies?

  “You’re still here because of me. If not for my interference on your behalf, Rose, you’d have been out on the street. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was never trying to hurt you. I was trying to help you. But if you don’t like your job, I’m sure you have pay saved up.” She wasn’t a bond slave, forced to scrub pots in exchange for her keep. “You can leave.”

  And with that, Isla suddenly felt tired.

  No, tired wasn’t the right word. She felt as though she hadn’t seen her bed in a solid moon, nor slept for as long. This was a weariness she’d suffered from since the change, one she barely held at bay at the best of times but that invaded her very bones at times like these. Times when she’d stood too long, and hadn’t rested. Times that, not long ago, wouldn’t have phased her at all now brought her as low as if she were recovering from the plague. Which, she supposed, in a manner of speaking she was.

  “I…I’m sorry.” She could feel what strength remained draining out of her, like grain from a punctured sack. “I…I have to go.”

  L
eaving Rose staring after her, she turned and stumbled toward the door.

  FORTY-ONE

  Hart sat in Tristan’s private gallery, with the other men.

  Relaxing in a well-padded chair, one leg crossed over the other and a drink in his hand, he should have been content. But he wasn’t sure that, barring the time his own sister had had to dose him with sulfur because it suddenly hurt when he peed, he’d really ever had less fun.

  Tristan’s private gallery was across the great hall from the women’s gallery. Where, presumably, the women were. Doing whatever it was that women did when men weren’t around. Hart didn’t know what that was and, if he was honest with himself, didn’t particularly care. He felt exceedingly fortunate that he and Lissa, for the most part, lived separate lives and thus their time together formed a distinctive event. The best part of time, out of time; like savoring only the choicest cuts of meat, and not the gristle that was daily life. That formed the boredom and resentment of the average relationship.

  He didn’t want things with Lissa to sour. Like they seemed to sour so often, and for so many. And he was glad, too, he also had to admit, that she wasn’t being exposed to this nonsense. Although the failings of men were certainly nothing new to her.

  And tonight, this group of men was gathered to celebrate Rudolph, who was getting married on the morrow.

  That the atmosphere felt more funerary than jovial could, no doubt, be chalked up to the fact that he was marrying the world’s greatest cunt. Hart would be sitting there, poleaxed, too. Then again, this was Rudolph’s choice.

  Arvid, at least, was making an attempt to be merry. “When I first bedded my most recent wife,” he said, pouring himself some more wine, “Sigrid, she ran from me, screaming.”

  “It was the smell,” Callas advised.

  “She said I wasn’t going to put anything that big inside her!”

  “Had she never seen her own thumbs before?”

  Arvid snorted. “Told me I’d kill her, but she almost ended up killing me. Insatiable, that one. Once she got going.”