by P. J. Fox
Tristan, Cariad told her bluntly, had been possessed.
She turned again, meeting Isla’s eyes. “He called forth something—my guess is that he called forth the same demon he’d been summoning for months, if not years—and it took him. Demonic possession is the control of a human being by a preternatural being. Usually a malevolent one. Demons, true demons, don’t have corporeal bodies like we do. And they want them. They crave the sensations we take for granted: the taste of something bitter on your tongue, the feel of silk against your skin. The scratching of coarsely spun wool. The thrill of a lover’s embrace.”
“They…want to be like us?”
“Foolish, aren’t they?” Cariad’s brief bark of laughter contained no humor. “The original man died that night. The Tristan Mountbatten who was born to Sienna lived for a short but nevertheless reasonable span of years during wartime. His body should long ago have decayed and returned to the earth. But instead it hasn’t aged, hasn’t changed, in any respect for over a hundred years. It’s perfectly preserved—a shell for its host. And so it will remain so for as long as its host chooses to inhabit it.
“No true life animates that body,” she finished, “only the demon’s spirit.”
“So he’s…?” Isla’s eyes widened. “But how? And why?”
“As to the how, trust me, you don’t want to know. And as to the why….” Cariad trailed off, and shook her head.
“What happened to his betrothed?”
“Look at you, always the romantic.” They were almost back to the cottage now, and late afternoon sunlight filtered weakly through the leaves. The air was growing chill again. “No one knows,” Cariad said. “She disappeared off the face of the earth, totally and completely.”
There was a mystery there, and Isla wanted to know what it was. “Is…whatever he is truly evil?”
“He did kill his last wife, who was by all accounts a lovely young thing.” Cariad snorted. “But in all fairness to him, she was plotting against him with his enemies. He used strychnine, I believe. Sat at the table, eating his roast venison and watching her die. Then served himself another piece.”
“How do you know so much about him?”
“I’m afraid of him,” Cariad said bluntly. “And you should be, too.” They were at the door to the cottage, now.
Isla knew that she had to go home, and didn’t want to. She was even more afraid now than she had been before, and the idea of riding home in the gathering twilight did nothing to add relish.
“My skill is with herbs and midwifery and with counseling the bereaved and the ill of mind.” Cariad’s brand of counseling involved a lot of tough love and pointless manual labor, but it worked. “Tristan Mountbatten is a powerful sorcerer and a sadist. I’m no weakling, but I know the extent of my strength—which is part of what makes me strong. And I’m no match for him.”
She sighed. “Evil? I don’t know, child. But he’s not human and that means more than people think. He might look like a man, might have many of the same wants and needs as one. He must, after all, enjoy some aspects of his charade. He’s inhabited that same body now for a long time. And he’s certainly learned how to appear human. But he’s not.
“Remember that,” she urged. “He’s not. However he appears, he doesn’t have any of the same sensibilities as a man; any more than a wolf does, or a mountain lion. A mountain lion doesn’t see anything immoral about picking a struggling calf out of the herd, any more than a hunter sees anything immoral in killing a mountain lion for doing the same.” She paused, choosing her next words with great care. “Normal is an illusion. Moral is an illusion. Whatever else happens, never lose sight of those two facts. What’s normal to the spider, is after all, chaos to the fly.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Isla whispered, realizing as she said the words that in the back of her mind she’d been hoping for some sort of escape.
“I can’t help you,” Cariad replied, but not without empathy. “And not because I don’t want to. But because I can’t.”
And Isla knew that, because Cariad had told her so, she was telling the truth. Cariad was hard, but she never lied. “You’ve made a devil’s bargain, and no mistake. You don’t like yourself and so you don’t expect anyone else to like you, either and in consequence you’ve done something foolish and noble for a feckless young girl who, mark my words, won’t appreciate your sacrifice.
“You’ll both live to regret this choice,” the witch added, “and not for the reasons you think.”
Her last words had the ring of prophecy to them. Isla felt chill fingers press into her spine.
EIGHTEEN
She came home just in time to see Rudolph ride in. He reined in his charger, his face thunderous in the gathering gloom, and swung down into the mud of the courtyard. His boots made wet squelching sounds as he marched across the open space toward the entrance to the manor. Isla, who’d just bid Piper goodnight in the stables, stood under the eaves to his left and watched. She half dreaded, half relished the confrontation to come. A realization that made her intensely guilty. Still…a small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth.
Behind him, the groom, sensing something of Rudolph’s mood, hurried away with the discarded mount. A gelding, he threw one last baleful glance at his master before letting himself be led to the stables and, hopefully, to dinner. Horses were testy about their meals, the same as people.
“I trust that you enjoyed your trip to the wood?” The duke’s tone was mild.
Isla started; she hadn’t realized that he was behind her, hadn’t heard his footfall or sensed his presence at all. The smile she saw when she turned was faint and knowing. And extraordinarily unpleasant.
She studied his smooth-shaven face, his marble-white skin carved into hard planes, and then looked away, flustered. She was saved from further comment—on her part or his—by a shout and, seconds later, the appearance of Rowena. She ran shrieking from the front door, her skirts fluttering around her in the breeze. “Rudolph!” she cried, quite unnecessarily.
He caught her in his arms and swung her around. “I came as soon as I heard,” he said.
“Then he must ride rather slowly,” Tristan remarked under his breath.
Isla said nothing.
“I’ve been so frightened.” Rowena’s tone was plaintive.
“I’m here now,” Rudolph assured her, a bit self-importantly. “And now, since it’s freezing out here”—it wasn’t, but it was chilly—“we’re going to go inside and I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago.” He, at least on this score, seemed entirely sincere. His face was set in hard lines of determination as he glared at the closed front door. As if it, and not the earl behind it, had offended him somehow.
“I was so worried you wouldn’t come in time,” Rowena said, as though Rudolph and not Isla were responsible for saving her.
Isla stiffened in spite of herself. By this late date, Rowena was in no danger whatsoever. But Rowena, dressed once again in a lovely pale peach that made her look as innocent and virginal as the dawn, gazed up at her beau with utterly innocent devotion. And for the first time, Isla felt a sick twisting sensation in her stomach.
Rowena batted her eyelashes. “My hero,” she murmured. The doting tone of her voice sounded only a little forced, and Isla was left with something akin to the ghastly saccharine aftertaste one got from eating too much honey.
“I almost lost you,” Rudolph replied.
“Through your own reticence,” Rowena pointed out, accurately if not too kindly.
“I’ll not make that mistake again,” Rudolph assured her.
As they carried on, each outdoing the other with treacly outpourings, Isla watched in silence. She wasn’t sure what to think. She’d seen something in Rowena’s eyes that Rudolph clearly hadn’t seen, and that Isla wished she hadn’t seen; that she couldn’t really be sure was there. Was it…calculation? No, surely not. Rowena was too sweet, and too, well, stupid.
“How…did you kn
ow where I was?” she asked the duke, without looking at him.
“You’re my betrothed,” he replied. “Are you truly under the impression that I’d let you wander off somewhere, possibly into harm, without my knowledge?” Isla wondered if this meant that her betrothed considered her a flight risk. The thought of escape hadn’t actually crossed her mind, although she supposed now that it should have. When she failed to respond, he arched an eyebrow.
“You’re mine,” he continued, quietly but none too gently. “And therefore my responsibility. Don’t do anything to upset me overmuch, or you’ll live to regret it.” His words sounded like less of a threat, and more of a promise. Indeed, his tone was almost pleasant. He still spoke with the same sibilant hiss that she remembered from their first conversation, unpleasant and yet strangely mesmerizing, like the hiss of a snake as it hypnotized its prey.
“I…she’s my friend,” Isla said lamely, resenting the fact that she was explaining herself to this man and resenting herself even more for allowing herself to be trapped in such a situation.
“And a good one, I’m sure.” Sliding his arm around Isla’s waist, the duke turned to greet Rudolph. Isla, trapped, had no choice but to lean in against him. His grip was like iron, and she felt like she’d been locked in a vise. The duke, for his part, appeared to treat the situation as entirely normal. Isla glanced quickly up at him, and then back at Rudolph. They looked, for all the world, like some sort of couple. She wanted to be sick.
“Your Grace,” Rudolph said, somewhat taken aback.
Clearly he hadn’t expected to find the most powerful peer in the realm standing in his lady love’s stable yard. For all that Rowena had surely revealed the name of his potential competitor. But not, evidently, the news that he’d stayed. Or had become affianced to Rowena’s less interesting sister. Recovering himself quickly, Rudolph swept into a low bow. He made a very pretty bow, with his right leg extended at just the perfect angle and his ankle turned out.
Tristan inclined his head the slightest fraction. “Sir.”
Rudolph wouldn’t be My Lord or Your Lordship until his father died and he assumed the barony and he’d never be either to Tristan, who outranked him. Sons often adopted one of their father’s other titles, as many noblemen did indeed hold several. But Jacob Bengough only had the one: Baron of Ahearn. That made his oldest son, as his heir, Sir.
Isla couldn’t help but notice the difference between the two men. Rudolph looked ridiculous. As upset as Isla was, she needed all her self-control not to laugh out loud at what she was sure he considered a marvelous getup. It must have cost him the earth, too. His cloak was an ordinary enough garment, but he’d swept it back over his shoulders to reveal a cornflower blue tunic with great billowing sleeves that had been gathered up at the wrists. Goldenrod-colored braid adorned neck, front and cuffs, with extra frogging at the lapels and down over the breast. His breeches were nearly flesh-colored, giving him a rather astonishing appearance of nakedness. And over his breeches was a pouch made of stiffened leather that had been attached in such a fashion as to exaggerate his…manly attributes.
Isla had seen codpieces before; they were often extremely large, meant to give the idea of an erect penis. Rudolph’s wasn’t the largest she’d seen, but it was surely far, far larger than was strictly required. No man could possibly use such a weapon, in real life. He must stuff it with sawdust or cloth, as many men did. The word codpiece came from a vulgar bit of slang that Isla wasn’t permitted to use: cods, which meant scrotum. Which was rather ironic, considering that the codpiece was the height of courtly fashion.
Rudolph also wore rather unusually pointed footwear. The poulaine was another and almost equally popular fashion statement, the length of the point also meant to suggest the size of the wearer’s penis. The longer the toe, the more virile the man. Clearly, everyone at court was penis happy. Privately, Isla thought that men who found such statements necessary must be overcompensating for something. Surely the size of a man’s penis couldn’t be relevant to a woman, unless and until he had her in the bedroom? At which point, she’d be able to decide for herself.
Unless, of course, he planned to make love with his codpiece on. A small giggle escaped her, which she quickly transformed into a cough.
Rudolph immediately began to offer solicitous remarks on the coldness of the weather and suggestions that she might want to warm herself by the fireplace lest she develop an ill humor.
Isla did her best to smile. “Thank you, Rudolph,” she said, using his given name because she’d known him her whole life. “And it’s good to see you again. On behalf of my father, welcome.”
The duke, who hadn’t spoken since offering his initial greeting, was dressed more simply in a long tunic made of indigo flax and trimmed with brocade. Over it he wore a traditional overcoat cut from fine brown wool that had also been trimmed with the same brocade. Both overcoat and tunic reached nearly to the ground, and were belted at the waist with a band of extremely finely tooled leather. He looked, Isla had to admit, regal. And far more masculine.
She banished the uncomfortable thought. Giggling and grinning at each other like a pair of idiots, Rudolph and Rowena turned and ambled toward the front door. She had her arm in his and was leaning against him, her head resting against his upper arm. He, for his part, seemed both thrilled and perplexed that such a development could occur. He didn’t seem entirely clear on how he’d gotten here, but nor did he particularly seem to care.
Like Rowena, Rudolph stood as a glorious testament to the human form. He was tall, for a Westerner, tall and he had the same flaxen hair as Rowena. His eyes were blue and his skin was rosy beneath his tan. He had perfectly formed, slightly too-square teeth. He told funny jokes. He was everything the modern man should be: well-educated, well-versed, well-trained at a variety of arms and able to command a horse. He was devoted to his mother and his king. He wrote poetry. He sang songs. He dreamed of giving his life gloriously in the cause of honor. Isla found him so dull as to be positively soporific.
Rudolph said something amusing and Rowena laughed. Isla glanced up at Tristan again, and was startled to find herself looking directly into those night-black eyes. Blood rushed to her face and she bit her lip, flustered that he should catch her in the act.
“It’s alright to look at your future husband,” he observed mildly.
“But you’re not my husband yet,” she said flatly, aware that she was being rude and that being rude was a very bad idea, but unable to stop herself. She was too flustered to think straight, and too tired. She’d had a very long few days.
“We’ll have to work on your delivery, darling.”
Tristan’s tone was still mild enough but there was a dark promise to his words that made her shiver. Where Rudolph looked like nothing so much as an overeager puppy, Tristan looked like…like a dragon, was the only comparison that came to mind, his gaze curious but completely devoid of human affect. Dragons didn’t exist, of course…and neither did demons. Nevertheless, he didn’t look like any animal from this world. He looked like a monster.
“Shall we go inside?” he asked.
Isla paused, uncertain.
“Your father,” the duke supplied, “has had another guest arrive in your absence. One Father Justin.” At Isla’s flicker of disgust, the duke smiled slightly. “I take it then that you know the man. I, too, find him…difficult.” Isla doubted very much that the duke found anything difficult, but held her tongue. “Regardless,” he continued, “your father seems to have recently found religion. The good Father Justin will grace his table tonight and then officiate at a special service tomorrow morning. I’m sure we’re all thrilled,” he added dryly. And then, incongruously, “did you enjoy the practice this morning?”
“I, ah—I suppose. I don’t know much about weapons.” He’d seen her?
“A regrettable oversight,” he allowed. “The average woman has as much or more need to defend herself as any man. Perhaps I can teach you.” He helped her up onto t
he broad steps, which were slippery with lichen. Someone should have scrubbed them down with lye this fortnight past but, of course, no one had. Isla ignored the offer, seeing it as one more attempt to tease her or torment her or goad her into—something.
“You can put a crossbow into the hands of any fool and call him an archer,” the duke told her, as if this were a perfectly rational and pleasant conversation between equals, “but the longbow is an art.”
Isla sniffed.
NINETEEN
The longbow is an art, indeed. What a pompous ass. “Who is your page?”
“His name is Asher. Asher Moss.” Tristan’s boots were surprisingly quiet on the flagstones; his overcoat just missed the floor. The sword that hung at his side must have weighed five pounds, which seemed like a little enough weight until one sparred with it for an hour. Like everything else about weapons, Isla had learned that from Hart.
Pages were common enough in Morven, but sending a child to a bachelor’s house to be educated struck Isla as strange. Then again, the duke never stayed a bachelor for very long. Still, she mused, with no other children….
“Asher is your ward, then?”
“My hostage,” Tristan corrected calmly. “Or the king’s hostage, rather.”
Isla digested this information. Hostages, too, were common enough. Most were treated well, as members of the family rather than prisoners, and most grew to love their, for lack of a better term, host families. Or at least tolerate them. Although there had been horror stories, there were horror stories within all families. Isla nevertheless found the practice barbaric: to snatch a boy from his home, in some cases literally from his very bed, as punishment for some crime that his father had committed? Or might commit in the future?
And, Isla reminded herself, the hostage wasn’t always a boy. The commonest fate for girls was a politically beneficial marriage. Beneficial to the person who’d taken her hostage, that was. Sometimes this meant marriage to a scion of the house in which she lived. Her own wishes were naturally irrelevant. Isla fumed silently. She’d never had the trick of easy acceptance that so many did; that Rowena, for example, did. The people around her, of all classes and life situations, tended to take the circumstances of their lives—however gruesome—for granted.
