by Karen Miller
“Remember this, Your Grace,” Blane had warned, standing with him on the dock before he boarded the merchant’s swift cog. “Cassinia’s regents are determined to protect their prince’s dwindled influence. And I’m sure in their secret hearts they dream of curbing the ambitious dukes, even of restoring the Isle’s majesty and might to its former glory. So while I admire you, and wish you every good fortune and hope for success, don’t think for a moment they’ll look at you twice, should what you’re asking for conflict with their desires.”
Each night, after bedding down, Roric heard Blane’s warning echoing in his ears. He did his best to disregard it, or at least not let it daunt him. In this mad venture it would be so easy to be daunted. And what would happen to Clemen then? What would happen to Bellows and all the men like him, whose families were going hungry for want of an egg.
So no. He’d not be daunted. He’d reach the regents… or die trying.
Seventeen relentless days after leaving Eaglerock, he and Bellows halted their exhausted horses before the grand, golden gates of the prince’s palace. Behind them, spread like a rich damsel’s skirts at the bottom of the steep hill they’d just climbed, Varence Cassinia’s royal city.
Coughing, Bellows dragged a dirty forearm across his face. “There now, my lord,” he croaked. “Did you ever see the like?”
No, never. Awestruck, Roric stared across the palace’s vast, immaculately gravelled forecourt at the slender limestone towers capped each with a crimson witch’s hat spire, the four-storeyed wings joining them with their steeply gabled roofs tiled crimson and gold, the countless glass windows glittering with sunlight, the exquisitely proportioned formal gardens laid out on each side. By comparison, Eaglerock castle was little more than a glowering pile of red stone. A clenched fist belligerently raised at the harbour.
He shook himself. Enough of this. Let Clemen’s duke quail before limestone and glass, and he was defeated before uttering a single word on his duchy’s behalf.
“Bellows,” he said, shifting in his saddle. “We’ll part company here. Go back and wait for me in the Crown and Garland.”
Bellows hunched his shoulders. “But, my lord—”
“I’ve no need of you,” he said, fishing within his leather doublet for his coin purse. “Here.” He held out a silver ducat. “This will purchase prompt service.”
Bellows was staring at the coin as though it was poison. “My lord, I’m sworn to your side till we see Eaglerock again. Master Blane won’t like that I—”
“You needn’t fear Master Blane. I am his duke, just as I’m yours.” He smiled, to soften the reprimand. “You’re a good man, Bellows. But what I do now, I must do alone.”
Heaving a great sigh, Bellows took the silver ducat. “As you wish, my lord. Though I’ll be honest. I don’t see why.”
The reason was simple. Another warning from Blane. “Your Grace,” the merchant had said, frowning with worry. “Bellows will see you safe and swift to the prince’s palace. But after that, you’d do me a kindness if you left him safely to one side. If you must know, I don’t trust the regents. I’d not have him used against you, or against me because I helped you.”
Roric clapped a hand to Bellows’s arm. “You don’t need to understand. Just obey.”
For a few moments he watched Bellows ride reluctant down the sloping road. His horse flicked an ear, its only protest at being abandoned. Then he turned back, to stare again at the palace.
Cassinia’s royal emblem was a lion, rampant. Now here he stood, Clemen’s falcon, at the mouth of the lion’s den. And if he wasn’t careful…
“Up, nag,” he said, pricking spurs to his horse’s flanks. His heart was beating hard, as though he’d just run a race. “Time to spread my wings.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The prince’s palace was as elegant inside as outside. Bronze statues of frolicking wood faeries, displayed on green marble pedestals, graced its glossy, cream, marble-floored entrance hall. The floor-to-ceiling windows were framed by crimson silk brocade drapes, captured and fastened with tasselled gold silk cords. The walls were covered in cream silk, hung with paintings of past princes commanding on horseback, or surrounded by an adoring wife and richly clad children. Standing guard, one in each corner, most fabulously etched and inlaid suits of armour. The helms were magnificent: a snarling lion, a fanged wolf, a shrieking eagle and a roaring bear. Sunlight streaming through the undraped glass dazzled on polished steel. Roric found himself breathless at the exquisite craftsmanship. There wasn’t an armourer in Clemen whose work could match it. And it was doubtful Eaglerock’s treasury contained enough coin to purchase even one fantastical helm–or so much as a gauntlet.
Mouth suddenly dry, he tugged at his scuffed leather doublet. From the corner of his eye caught sight of himself in a mirror, and winced. So much for his bath and barbering at the Crown and Garland. Travelling as a simple merchant’s man, he’d not been able to carry court finery with him into Cassinia. So he’d donned his one remaining clean linen shirt, done his best to polish his boots, and trusted his ducal bearing would carry him the rest of the way.
Looking around him, he wondered if that wasn’t a mistake. Perhaps he should’ve risked a little velvet and a pearl earring.
The click of a door latch. Turning, he saw a cunningly concealed panel in one silk-covered wall swing wide. The gate guard who’d confiscated the daggers sheathed on his hip, strapped to his left forearm and tucked into his right boot had escorted him into the palace, then remained to guard him while the regents’ steward was fetched. Now the man straightened smartly out of his slouch.
A thin, middle-aged courtier with sleekly pomaded brown hair stepped into the entrance hall and closed the panelled door behind him. Elegantly supercilious in cloth-of-silver livery, wearing a blue-enamelled silver chain of office, he dismissed the gate guard with a flick of his fingers, then approached. In his flat grey eyes, almost hidden, a gleam of derision.
“You claim to be Roric, duke of Clemen. Is that correct?”
Roric looked at him steadily. “It’s no claim. If you’ve seen the letter I gave to the gate guard, and the signet ring, you’ll—”
“Yes. I’ve seen them.”
“I’ve seen them Your Grace. And you are?”
“Docien.” The courtier hesitated, then inclined his head in the merest hint of a nod. “Your Grace. Steward to the prince’s regents.”
“The letter and my ring. Where are they, Docien?”
The steward smiled, his eyes still flat. “Being authenticated, Your Grace. A precaution your own steward would take, I’ve no doubt. If he knew his business.”
“I’d be a fool to present myself as Clemen’s duke if that were a lie, don’t you think?”
“Certainly, Your Grace. But the world is full of fools. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
He’d not sailed for days and ridden scores of leagues to bandy words with a palace servant. “Docien, shall we dispense with the pleasantries? I’ve come to see the prince’s regents.”
“So I’m given to understand, Your Grace.” The steward frowned. “But if you’ll forgive my plain speaking? The odd manner of your arrival, your lack of warning to their lordships–or an invitation–and your—” His flat gaze travelled up and down. “—colourfully rustic attire… it’s all somewhat alarming. The regents are, to put it bluntly, taken aback. This visit could hardly be described as formal.”
“Agreed,” he said. “But it is urgent.”
A raised eyebrow. “To you. Your Grace.”
So. The regents were determined to twist his tail. A good thing he’d not brought Humbert with him. By now his foster-lord would be bellowing fit to shake those glorious suits of armour to pieces.
“It was never my intention to alarm or dismay, Docien,” he said, mild as milk. “Or to rudely impose. I only desire to speak with the prince’s regents on a matter of mutual concern. If my arrival is inconvenient, I’ll express my regret and offer to wait somewhere le
ss conspicuous until their lordships are comfortable that I am who I say I am. At which time, we can talk.”
The steward’s eyes narrowed, considering him. Then he bowed. “Allow me to show you into the gardens, Your Grace.”
Hiding an impolitic smile, Roric followed the steward out of the palace into warm, late morning sunshine and the sleepy droning of bees. There Docien left him, with a veiled warning that while there were guards in the palace grounds, he’d not be disturbed.
The gardens, viewed closely, proved as elegant as everything else in the Prince’s Isle. Densely green hedges were immacutely trimmed to knee height, or carved with pruning shears into dragons and griffins and unicorns and nymphs. Water splashed into marble basins through the mouths of sculptured, snarling lions. Marble benches in deep blues and blood-reds and pale greens and purest white, their feet styled like lion claws, offered the weary visitor somewhere to sit. Narrow paths gravelled in blue and white river pebbles meandered between flower beds bursting with fragrant blooms. Jewel-winged butterflies danced above them, flirting with the bees. Breathing deep, feeling his head swim with so many mingled scents, Roric recognised daisies and snapdragons and roses and violets, but there were a half-dozen vibrant blossoms he’d never seen in Clemen. Dotted haphazardly, delicate trees with trailing branches that dripped creamy petals like falls of Harcian lace.
And most curious of all, tall wooden poles striped white and red, white and blue, white and green, each supporting a carved wooden creature painted vivid, unlikely colours and lavishly tipped with gold. Here a black panther spotted crimson and white, and over there a crimson bull sporting a wreathe of blue roses. A purple hare with silver whiskers. A coiled green snake with yellow eyes and bronze fangs. Extraordinary. They seemed almost alive. He shivered, half-believing they were alive and watching him with their glossy glass eyes.
Achingly aware of the toll the many days’ hard travelling had taken, Roric abandoned his garden wandering and sank gratefully onto a marble bench. At first he sat upright, alert for the first sign of the steward Docien’s return. Turning his thoughts resolutely from Clemen, so far away, determined not to imagine the worst happening as soon as his back was turned, he rehearsed what he intended to say to the prince’s regents. Thought of how he’d persuade them to leave the past in the past and let his duchy’s merchants back into Ardenn. But before long, his eyelids started to droop… his head lolled sideways… and the droning bees droned him to drowsy sleep.
A soft, childish giggle rowsed him. Blinking, pushing out of his sideways slump, he looked around. He was alone. Another giggle. No, not alone. But where—
Ah. There. A short stone’s throw distant, a boy-child crouched within a trailing, lacy latticework of slender branches. Staring at him, Roric saw an impish face, shadow-mottled and pale as moonlight, crowned with curling silver-gilt hair. Greenish-hazel eyes fringed with long, oddly dark lashes. A slight frame lacking any pudginess of youth. Aside from his scarlet wool mittens, he seemed to be naked.
The boy met his startled stare boldly. Revealed pearly teeth in a mischievous smile. “Shhh,” he confided. “I’s hiding.”
Charmed, Roric propped his elbows on his knees and nodded, gravely. “Yes. I can see that.”
“But you can’t see me,” the boy added, imperious. “I’s a faery sprite. I’s magical. I’s—”
“Gaël! Gaël! You little wretch, where are you? Oh, please, do come out. You know they’ll whip me for losing you!”
And that was a young woman’s voice, anxious and coming closer. Mouth open–Gaël? Was this Cassinia’s prince?–Roric spared the boy a last look, then stood and turned to face the unlucky servant sent to seek her truant sovereign.
Tall for a woman, and reed slender, she was dressed in a severely plain dark blue linen dress. It covered her from throat to wrists to ankles, leaving only her face and hands bare. Her hair was hidden in a white linen coif, save for an escaping tendril that clung to her cheek. It was a beautiful honey-gold, and shone in the sunlight. Her eyes were crystal blue, like the waters separating Clemen from Cassinia. Her nose was fine and straight, her lips full, her gently flushed skin flawless. Even flustered, she was graceful.
She saw him, and stopped. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she caught her breath in surprise. “Roric?”
And then he knew her. Six years had wrought changes, but he knew who she was. “Catrain.” Stunned, he felt his heart crashing against his ribs. “I thought–I was told–you were dead.”
Tremulously smiling, she came closer. “To the world, I am dead. And for my mother’s sake the world mustn’t know any different. Roric–I’m sorry, Your Grace–why are you here?”
He scarcely heard the question. Relief had almost stopped his ears. This was Catrain, alive. In sending her from Eaglerock he hadn’t caused her death. He wanted to touch her, just to make certain, but kept his fingers fisted by his sides.
She was waiting for him to say something, her expression a mingling of pleasure and alarm. What had she asked him? Oh. Yes. “I’m waiting to see the regents. Clemen suffers badly from their sanctions, and the squabbling of Cassinia’s dukes. I’ve come to better arrange matters.”
She grimaced. “Your Grace, you mustn’t—”
“Not Your Grace. Roric.”
“Roric.” A small headshake. As though she, like he, found this meeting hard to believe. “Truly, you’re wasting your time if you think Leofric and his brother regents will show you or Clemen mercy.” A shadow darkened her lovely face. “They don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“The regents mistreat you?” Anger surged. “What you said before, about a whipping, was that—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, with a wary glance around them. “And speak gently. In this place I think they can eavesdrop on your dreams.”
He had to take a deep breath, to calm himself. “But it does matter. You’re kept a prisoner.”
“I’m less trammelled than I used to be,” she said, shrugging. “I’ve learned how to behave. Please, don’t imagine me locked in a dungeon with naught but rats for company and rancid gruel to eat.”
She was as courageous at twenty as she’d been at fourteen. But even though captivity had failed to break her spirit, still it was bruised. He could see it in her eyes, and the way she held herself–for ever braced against a blow.
“Catrain.” He had to breathe deep again. “I’m so sorry. I wish…”
She shook her head. “Don’t. What’s done is done, and that was done long ago. I know you married elsewhere. Lindara? Isn’t that her name? Are you happy, Roric? I want you happy. How many children do you have?”
He could lie. He should lie, to spare her. But this was Catrain. Dishonesty would insult her.
“I have no children, my lady. And no. I’m not happy.”
“Oh,” she whispered.
They stared at each other, choked to silence by their separate and mutual griefs. A single tear, welling, spilled down Catrain’s cheek.
A wild scuffling to one side, then, as Cassinia’s little prince burst out of hiding. “Bad man, bad!” he shouted, his impish, moon-pale face flushed bright red. “You’s making Cattie cry!”
Putting his head down, the boy charged. Roric tried to avoid him, feared hurting him, but he lost his footing on the loosely pebbled pathway and slipped to one knee. With a shout of angry triumph the boy snatched up his ungloved left hand and bit him.
“No, Gaël!” Catrain gasped. Wrapping her arms around the child’s slight, naked body, she snatched him aside. “Oh, you wretch! You’ll have the guards on us!”
Glowering, his mouth sulky, the boy stamped his bare foot. “I’s not a wretch, Cattie! I’s a magical sprite!”
“No, my lord, you are a prince,” Roric said, shaking his smarting hand. He should’ve left his gloves on. “And no prince worth his royal blood sinks his teeth into another man’s flesh.”
“I do,” the boy retorted. Spinning about, he waggled his naked rump in defianc
e, and blew a loud raspberry like a fart.
Roric smacked him.
“For shame!” he said sternly, as the boy stared at him in wide-eyed shock. “To behave so in front of a lady. Beg her pardon, at once.”
The prince of Cassinia burst into tears.
“Oh, no, don’t cry, lambkin,” Catrain begged him, and lifted him into an embrace. As he wrapped his arms and legs around her, and hid his face against her shoulder, she frowned over his silver-gilt hair. “That was unwise, Roric. I might be the only one in this forsaken place who truly cares for Gaël, but he’s still the prince. If the regents find out you chastised him…”
His curs’t hand was still smarting. The boy had come close to drawing blood. “Will you tell them?” he muttered. “Will the boy?”
“No,” she sighed. “He’ll keep it secret, if I ask him. Gaël and I keep many secrets.” She kissed the snuffling, hiccuping boy’s temple. “Don’t we, sweeting?”
“Catrain…” The way she held the child, so tenderly, touched him out of temper. “It’s whispered beyond the palace gates that Cassinia’s prince is—” he mouthed the word “—mad.”
Her chin came up, and in that gesture he saw again the young girl who’d dared him into those burning Harcian stables.
“And if he is?” she said fiercely. “Do you say it’s his fault?”
“No. But—”
“I should think not. Yes, it’s true he’s… troubled. But he’s orphaned, Roric, and in his way he’s as much a prisoner as I am. Never expect me to abandon him.”
“I don’t. I wouldn’t. But Catrain…” He felt a dreadful fear for her, rising. “In befriending him, and sharing secrets, you’re playing a dangerous game.”
