by Glenda Larke
“I stand corrected, and will wear it with that in mind. Thank you, sir.” She inclined her head, and effaced herself like the mouse she was. When he noticed her next, she’d faded away into a corner of the room like a shadow, to sit with her head meekly bowed over a book. Probably her prayer book, although he was beginning to wonder if it was wise to make assumptions about her.
Princess Mathilda was sitting on a window seat surrounded by others of her ladies. She was examining something in her lap. She looked up as he crossed the room towards her. His heart jumped. She’d never looked so lovely, or so openly glad to see him.
Dear Va, what I wouldn’t give to have her look at me like that every day of my life…
“Witan Rampion! I am so glad you’ve come. Look what we have.” She indicated the heap of feathers that struggled in her lap. “It’s a finch that flew into the room, but it broke its wing against the window in its attempts to escape. Is there anything that can be done for the poor thing?”
He heard resignation in her tone, but when she raised her face to him, her eyes were pleading.
He took the bird from her and examined it. “It may be Va’s mercy if we were to kill it painlessly.”
“They are such beautiful songsters. I cannot bear the thought that it will never sing again.” She stroked the head of the bird with her forefinger. “I have an empty cage right here…”
Knowing what he did about her future, he was unable to refuse her anything. “Very well. We can try. First, does anyone have a kerchief I can use to immobilise the wings?”
One of the ladies immediately produced a piece of fine linen that probably cost enough to support a working family for a month or more. Carefully he wound it around the finch’s body and tied it firmly. Celandine brought the cage and Mathilda placed the bird inside, where it sat unmoving, traumatised.
“Everything should be free,” she said. “I hope it knows we are only trying to help.”
Va have mercy, how could he tell her she was about to lose whatever freedom she had? Postponing the moment, he said quietly, “I’ll ask the gardeners to supply you with a selection of seeds and nuts, for I doubt it will eat much else. Keep it bound like that until the wing is healed. Then we’ll see if it can fly and be released back into the wild.”
One of the ladies cried, “Oh no! We must keep it in a cage so we can enjoy the song!”
“Birds sing more sweetly without bars,” Princess Mathilda told her firmly. “Should it heal, I shall let it go.”
“Truly spoken indeed,” Celandine said, coming forward to take the cage and set it back on its stand.
“Right now, it’s better covered, to keep it still and quiet,” he said.
Celandine placed her own shawl over the cage, then retreated again in silence to her corner. The others giggled and lifted the edge of the shawl to see what the poor thing was doing in the dark.
Under the cover of their chatter, he turned to the Princess and said, “I must speak to you in private. Could you send your ladies away for a while?”
Her mouth tightened as she absorbed the seriousness of his request. She shooed the women from the room, telling them the bird needed quiet and she wished to pray. They left without a murmur, although being alone with a man, even a cleric, was a breach of protocol for a princess. Luckily, none of her older ladies-in-waiting were around. One of them would have insisted on staying, for sure.
With a gesture, Mathilda granted him the privilege of being seated in her presence. She herself sat upright, her back straight, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her eyes round with foreboding. Still she did not speak, and he felt his heart twist.
He said, “I am here at the request of the King, through the agency of Prime Fox. His Majesty wishes you to know that he has settled on a husband for you. He asks that you accept his choice and remember your duty.” The words choked him. You bastard. How can you even say them aloud?
She paled. “So very formal, witan? I think you have ill news for me.”
He ploughed on, each word bruising his soul. “The Regal of Lowmeer has asked for your hand and his offer has been accepted. Your dowry has been agreed upon and the monetary amount in jewels and gold has been received. The rest of the dowry concerns – concerns a trade agreement, as yet to be signed.”
She was quite white now, and her hands twisted in her lap. “How long do I have?” she asked in a low whisper.
“The announcement of the nuptials will be made tomorrow. You are expected to leave as soon as we have word that the Regal’s royal barque has been sighted at the entrance to Betany Bay. I believe you will be escorted there by Prince Ryce. The wedding will be performed by our Prime on board ship because the Regal does not wish to set foot on Ardronese soil. That could be as little as two or three weeks hence.”
For a long while she sat silent, her face hardening in a way he’d never seen before. “And you?” she asked at last. “What do you think?”
“Need you ask?” The huskiness of his voice betrayed him.
“Yes.”
He chose his words carefully. “The marriage of a princess of Ardrone is a matter of duty, not pleasure. Your late mother was sent from Staravale to marry your father. I doubt anyone asked her if it was what she wanted. Yet by all reports, she was content, even happy.”
“No one married her to a man more than thirty years older than she was.”
Oh, blister my tongue. “Ah … that’s true.”
“Can you save me from this?”
“I? I have no power at this court.” Her lack of guile surprised him, even as the request ripped him apart. She couldn’t think he could offer her a way out, surely?
“Would you save me if you could?” she asked. She stretched out her hand and laid it over his fingers. The touch was soft, but it sent waves of tension rippling through him.
“That’s not a fair question.” He swallowed. “You know I think of you kindly and desire your happiness.”
“I know you love me.”
He was stilled, appalled at having been so transparent, terrified that she was outraged by his presumption. Fool that he was, he’d thought he’d hidden the depth of the affection he had for her. She sat regarding him with her lovely blue eyes, no sign of tears now. Her face could have been carved from cold marble.
He said, carefully neutral, relying on the formality of language to maintain his distance, “You are the daughter of the monarch to whom I give allegiance. As such, you have my deepest respect.”
“You love me. And I do not speak of your duty, but of your heart. I am not blind. Your eyes tell of your longing. Your body speaks to me of your desire.”
Abruptly, he stood. “It is not meet for us to speak of such things. No matter how much I revere you, you are a princess, and you will marry as the King bids. I am not even of noble birth. I – I will leave you now. Should you wish me to lead you in prayer, send word to my room and I will come, as always.” He bowed deeply.
He was halfway out of the door when he turned back to say additional words of comfort, and his gaze met Celandine’s. In shock, he realised she’d never left the room, but was still sitting in the corner. How is that possible? She wasn’t there!
Aghast, he knew she must surely have heard everything they’d said. Her eyes – as grey as the rest of her – contemplated him with a complete lack of expression, as blank as a pane of window glass. Forgetting what he had been about to say, he left the room.
Va’s teeth, he thought. She does have glamour witchery.
It had not been the lascar’s dagger trying to bewitch him on board Juster’s ship; it had been Celandine Marten.
Sorrel hid her anger. It wouldn’t help Mathilda to know how enraged she was. But the thought was there nonetheless. How dare they treat a woman, any woman, as if she was a commodity to be bargained for?
She said, “It’s not the witan’s fault, milady. He has no power to alter this decision.”
Mathilda, still seated by the window, did not bother to look her w
ay. “Do you think me stupid? I know that.”
Then why were you winding him up like a clockwork toy?
“And what of Ryce? He must have known the details of this for months! It doesn’t even matter to any of them that the Horned Death is raging in Lowmeer as long as they get the kind of treaty they want,” Mathilda said bitterly. “I so hate being in their power. Sometimes I want to seize a sword and chop off somebody’s head.” She took a calming breath, and added softly, “I will sabotage their plans if I can.”
Va’s teeth, what was the girl planning now? She knew better than to ask; she was not Mathilda’s confidante. She had to wait to be told, which might or might not happen.
Mathilda glanced at her then. “Don’t worry, Celandine. Sorrel. No matter who I marry, I’ll take you with me. In another country, you’d be safer. You could even use your own face and name, for surely no one in Lowmeer will have heard tell of a common landsman’s murder outside the petty little town of Melforn on the other side of Ardrone.”
And it doesn’t occur to you that I might have other wishes? She stifled a sigh. Once you’d lost control of your own life, it wasn’t easy to get it back again.
The Princess stood up, and squared her shoulders. “One day I will have power. I will show them all what a woman can do.”
Pox on all royals, Sorrel thought. She’s up to something.
18
The Witan’s Folly
There was no way he could sleep that night. He tossed and turned, then walked about the room until his feet were cold and he had to return to bed. It wasn’t just thoughts of Mathilda’s fate that tormented him; it was the mark he couldn’t see on his hand.
A’Va had tainted him. There was only one reason he could think of to do that: he was marked for death. Sooner or later one of A’va’s bootlickers would take it upon themselves to rid the world of a witan believed to be a threat. And how am I supposed to be a threat anyway?
When he heard someone tapping at his door around midnight, his immediate reaction was relief that he didn’t need to pretend, even to himself, that he was going to have a good night’s rest. Expecting it must be someone in need of his pastoral care – a dying member of the King’s household, perhaps? – he rose, lit a candle from the coals still burning in the fireplace, and carried the holder to the door. At least he didn’t have to beware of an assassin within the palace.
It was a woman. She’d pulled the hood of her grey cloak low to conceal her face. Her ringless fingers clutched at the folds of the mantle, but when she stepped forward, he saw she wore her plain grey gown beneath. Celandine. She was alone and the passage beyond was empty. She entered, almost treading on his toes, forcing him to step back.
He was so surprised, he gave way. “Mistress…” he began in protest, but before any further words, she was inside, shutting and barring the door. He tried again, speaking to her back. “Mistress, you really shouldn’t be here. What if someone saw you? Your reputation! If you have a message from the Princess, then…”
She turned and flipped down her hood to reveal her identity. “I just borrowed Celandine’s clothes. We’re the same size.”
“Milady!” Appalled thoughts tumbled through his mind, one after another. She was clay-brained. She could be destroyed by this, her whole life reduced to ruins. She might be confined to a cloister for the rest of her life. A scandal like this – dear Va, it could reverberate across nations! It was one thing for a married woman of lower rank to be careless with her assignations, but a virgin princess? And with him? He could be charged with treason. Beheaded, if they thought he’d shared her bed. Oh, sweet Mathilda, what are you doing?
He swallowed, searching for the right words, for a way not to hurt her. “This is unwise. Milady, you must leave. Just because I am a witan mentoring you does not mean we cannot be accused of behaviour that could wreck your marriage!”
“Maybe that’s a good idea.”
Appalled, he went cold. “Oh no. Milady—”
“Oh, pah! Stop ‘miladying’ me all the time! My name is Mathilda. Use it, at least while we are alone. And I’m not serious, of course, not about wrecking the nuptials. I will marry the Regal. I know my duty. I’ve known since I was five years old that this moment – or one like it – would come.” She made no attempt to conceal her vexation. “I don’t have a choice. But I do have a choice about who will be, um, the first.”
She must surely have been blushing, although he couldn’t see it in the candlelight. He took another step backwards, but the room was small and he bumped into his clothing chest. She took a step closer, twisting a hand into the cloth of his nightgown. He was forced to lift the candle holder high to avoid setting fire to her cloak.
Her upturned face was inches from his own as she whispered her next words. “I’m going to marry an old, wrinkled man.” She undid the ties at the top of his nightgown with her free hand and touched his bare chest with her fingers. He started sweating. “I want to have a memory to take with me. Of what it’s like to be cherished by someone who loves me, someone who will take, with gentleness and respect, what should be mine to freely bestow where I will. Someone who also has passion and desire.”
Her hand slid up to his shoulder and then to the back of his neck. He stopped breathing.
“I’ve watched you, Saker. I’ve seen your duty turn to devotion, your respect replaced by love. I’m offering you all I have in return for a memory to last me a lifetime. A memory to see me through the horrors and the loneliness I will have to endure. Can you turn away?”
He opened his mouth to tell her again she must leave, choking on words he didn’t know how to say without hurting her. Words that were becoming more impossible to voice with each passing minute. His heart thundered under his ribs.
When he still did not reply, she lowered her gaze, and continued, “Was that such a hard question?”
“Milady – Mathilda – what you ask is impossible. No matter how much I would value such a – such a perfect gift.”
“I’m begging you.” She raised her head, her words little more than a breath shivering against his skin.
“Please, Lady Mathilda…”
“Look, I humble myself before you.” She slid to her knees in front of him. “A princess on her knees, beseeching you. Is it such a hard thing to ask you to love me tonight, to take me in your arms, to kiss my lips?”
His face flamed hot with embarrassment and desire. He groaned and grabbed her by the elbows and pulled her to her feet. “You mustn’t kneel. Not you. Not before me. Milady, Mathilda, please.” He wanted to tell her she’d been watching far too many of the court’s romantic masques, but the depth of feeling in her voice told him she meant what she said.
She was holding him now, pressing her body to him, her mouth inches from his, whispering. “Do not fear for consequences. What court lady does not know how to ensure there is no child to explain away after an indiscretion?”
Embarrassed, he stuttered something incoherent. Mercifully, she changed the subject.
“Tell me this, Saker, dearest friend. If you were instructed to accompany me to the Regality as my mentor, how would you feel knowing you had to live out the rest of your years in Ustgrind, away from your friends and family? Never to worship again in the forests of Ardrone? You told me you’ve been to Ustgrind, and you thought their stone chapels cold, and their mists and their meres drear.”
Every word she uttered was a blade of guilt into his soul. Torn, he knew he should offer to accompany her if it was allowed, to be her comfort in her lonely exile. She had just as good as told him she loved him. How could he say no? But the horror of drab Lowmeer and the comparative bleakness of its Way of the Flow, the idea of living for years at the Lowmian court, with its rigid protocols…
The words that came out of his mouth were not the ones he intended to say, but as he heard them, he knew they were right. “How can I go with you, feeling the way I do? If you hold me in equal affection, how could you look at me day after day and be loyal
to your husband?”
She raised her eyes again then, to stare at him, her face so close, her breath a whisper against his cheek.
“Va save me, I would do it,” he said. “I would do it, if I thought it was possible and if I thought it’d make you happier. But neither the Regal nor his clerics would ever allow an Ardronese witan at the Lowmeer court. And the Pontifect would never send me.”
The moment dragged on, then she gave a slight nod. “Yes, you are right. Saker Rampion, always the wise mentor. Do not come with me, then. Instead…” She raised a hand and cupped the side of his face. His candle wobbled and shadows danced. Her next words were whispered. “As your beloved princess, I demand you give me my memory of love in your arms.”
Without waiting for his answer, she drew his head down with one hand and ran her tongue over his lips. For a moment he resisted, but then her mouth was hard against his – and he was lost. His hips pressed against her, his desire swallowing him whole. He managed to place the candle on his clothing chest, but that was the last coherent thought he had.
He drew her into the vortex of his need, and she was there, matching it with her own. He tried to be gentle, to be cautious, but her response to his touch was so passionate and unrestrained that the last of his self-possession was devoured by desire. Afterwards he could never be sure how they ended up on the bed, sheened with perspiration, naked and in each other’s arms.
Still later, when he lay sated at her side, she gave a low laugh. “And now you start to wonder,” she said, “don’t you? You doubt my virginity. Yet there is blood – see?” She touched the bed linen.
“You – you know much for an unschooled maiden,” he said, careful not to sound condemnatory. He had no right to that. He was dazzled by what had happened. Sublimely happy, petrified with horror, all at the same time. He’d lain with a king’s daughter. Broken her maidenhead. He could die for this. So, possibly, could she. Utter, irresponsible madness. Yet so glorious. With a finger he traced a line down her body from her neck, across a nipple, to the fuzz of her pubic hair, just to be sure she was real.
