The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  "Mi­lord?" she sa­id he­si­tantly, when his si­len­ce had con­ti­nu­ed for an eter­nity.

  "The­re is no one el­se who co­uld play the part as well," he sa­id with per­fect truth. "If you will not do it, then I shall ha­ve to gi­ve up so­met­hing that's very de­ar to my he­art. But the cho­ice is yo­urs."

  Mi­ran­da lo­oked up at him. He was sta­ring out ac­ross the wa­ter so she co­uldn't see his eyes, but his jaw was set.

  "Why is it so im­por­tant that Ma­ude marry this French du­ke?"

  At that he tur­ned and lo­oked down at her, stan­ding with his hands res­ting on the ra­il be­hind him. And now she saw aga­in that slightly con­tem­p­tu­o­us curl of his lip, the moc­king sar­do­nic glit­ter in his eye.

  "Am­bi­ti­on, Mi­ran­da. My am­bi­ti­on, pu­re and sim­p­le. Sel­fish, if you li­ke, but it's very im­por­tant to me that my fa­mily are re­tur­ned to the sphe­re of po­wer we enj­oyed be­fo­re the per­se­cu­ti­on of the Hu­gu­enots in Fran­ce. A con­nec­ti­on with Ro­is­sy and thus the French co­urt will do that."

  "It will ma­ke you po­wer­ful?" "Yes." He tur­ned back to his con­tem­p­la­ti­on of the wa­ter, ad­ding al­most in an un­der­to­ne, "Very." What he did not say, be­ca­use he co­uldn't, was that ac­hi­eving his am­bi­ti­on, set­ting his fe­et firmly on the rungs of po­wer, was the only way he co­uld bury Char­lot­te's le­gacy-the dre­ad­ful de­ade­ning iner­tia of sha­me, and the gu­ilt of a know­led­ge that wo­uld ne­ver be sha­red.

  Mi­ran­da nib­bled at a rag­ged fin­ger­na­il, frow­ning. "But if Ma­ude re­al­ly do­esn't wish it, you wo­uld com­pel her to sac­ri­fi­ce her­self for yo­ur am­bi­ti­on?"

  "I be­li­eve that Ma­ude will co­me to her sen­ses," Ga­reth rep­li­ed. "But un­til she do­es, it's es­sen­ti­al that her su­itor be wel­co­med by a wil­ling pros­pec­ti­ve bri­de."

  Mi­ran­da swal­lo­wed. May­be she co­uld do it; but co­uld she be­ar to? Even for fifty ro­se nob­les? Mo­ney that wo­uld help Rob­bie, wo­uld enab­le the tro­upe to find win­ter qu­ar­ters wit­ho­ut the an­nu­al mi­sery of the hand-to-mo­uth strug­gle in the long bit­ter months. Mo­ney that wo­uld, if ca­re­ful­ly har­ves­ted, gi­ve her a me­asu­re of se­cu­rity for ye­ars to co­me. Did she even ha­ve the right to deny her fri­ends such re­li­ef? Pe­op­le who had ta­ken her in as a baby, sha­red what they had with her, ca­red for her, the only fa­mily she had ever known, or wo­uld ever know.

  Ga­reth, awa­re of her eyes on him, lo­oked down at her aga­in and met her qu­es­ti­oning and spe­cu­la­ti­ve re­gard. "I ne­ed you to do it for me, Mi­ran­da."

  Her mis­gi­vings fa­ded. Her ex­p­res­si­on cle­ared and slowly she nod­ded. "Very well, mi­lord. I'll try my best." She had no go­od re­ason to re­fu­se him, and many to ob­li­ge him. He'd be­en kind to her, even be­fo­re he'd wan­ted her to do this thing for him. And mo­re than an­y­t­hing, she li­ked him. She li­ked be­ing with him, li­ked fe­eling his eyes on her, the warmth of his smi­le, the easy way he to­uc­hed her, the com­pa­ni­onab­le way he tal­ked to her.

  He smi­led, and the mask that she so dis­li­ked va­nis­hed, sho­wing her on­ce aga­in the merry, lazy-lid­ded eyes, the flash of his whi­te te­eth as his mo­uth cur­ved. "I shall be eter­nal­ly in yo­ur debt, fi­refly." Cat­c­hing her chin on his fin­ger, he bent his he­ad and kis­sed her mo­uth.

  It was in­ten­ded as a light ex­p­res­si­on of gra­ti­tu­de, a se­aling of a bar­ga­in, and Ga­reth was not pre­pa­red for the jolt in the pit of his sto­mach as her mo­uth ope­ned slightly be­ne­ath his. The scent of her skin and ha­ir fil­led his nos­t­rils, his hands ca­me to crad­le her fa­ce, her skin ex­qu­isi­tely soft be­ne­ath his fin­gers. She mo­ved on the shif­ting deck and her slight, sup­ple body brus­hed aga­inst his, a ten­ta­ti­ve, fle­eting pres­su­re that ne­ver­t­he­less bro­ught his lo­ins to li­fe, his blo­od to sing in his ears.

  He drew back, swung ro­und to fa­ce the wa­ter aga­in. His hands clo­sed over the stern ra­iling and he sho­ok his he­ad in an ef­fort to free his mind of the ri­oting tan­g­le of con­fu­sed ima­ges.

  Mi­ran­da to­uc­hed her mo­uth. Her lips we­re tin­g­ling al­t­ho­ugh the­re'd be­en no pres­su­re to the kiss. But her he­art was thum­ping and she was sud­denly hot, fe­ve­rishly hot, per­s­pi­ra­ti­on gat­he­ring on her back, in the cleft of her bre­asts. And they too we­re tin­g­ling. Her nip­ples we­re hard, pus­hing aga­inst her bo­di­ce, and the­re was a stran­ge li­qu­id we­ak­ness in her belly and her thighs.

  The bar­ge bum­ped lightly aga­inst the steps of Black-fri­ars. Nar­row la­nes led up from the ri­ver to Lud­ga­te Hill and to the right the do­me of Sa­int Pa­ul's Church ro­se over the jum­b­le of clo­se-pac­ked ro­ofs.

  “The bar­ge­men will ta­ke you back," Ga­reth sa­id, his vo­ice so­un­ding ho­ar­se in his ears. "Si­mon, I'll ma­ke my own way ho­me."

  "Aye, m'lord." The bar­ge­man re­ac­hed out to grab the po­le at the he­ad of the steps, pul­ling the bar­ge alon­g­si­de. " 'Tis sa­id, m'lord, that the new church is al­most fi­nis­hed," he com­men­ted. "Qu­ite a sight it is."

  "Aye," ag­re­ed Ga­reth, step­ping as­ho­re. "I've a mind to stroll up the­re now and see how it's prog­res­sed sin­ce the spring." He glan­ced back at the bar­ge. Mi­ran­da was still stan­ding at the ra­il, frow­ning, her hand still un­con­s­ci­o­usly pres­sed to her lips.

  "I gi­ve you go­od night, Mi­ran­da," Ga­reth sa­id, then tur­ned and stro­de off to­ward Car­pen­ters' Stre­et, which wo­uld ta­ke him in­to Whi­tef­ri­ars and an abun­dan­ce of ta­verns and ho­uses of ple­asu­re. His hand res­ted on his sword hilt, whe­re it wo­uld re­ma­in thro­ug­ho­ut his walk thro­ugh the la­nes of Lon­don.

  Mi­ran­da didn't he­si­ta­te. She co­uldn't just re­turn as if not­hing had hap­pe­ned… not un­til she'd un­der­s­to­od exactly what had hap­pe­ned. She jum­ped as­ho­re just as the bar­ge­men pus­hed off. Chip le­aped af­ter her, cram­ming his hat back on his he­ad.

  Des­pi­te the early mor­ning ho­ur, pe­op­le still scur­ri­ed abo­ut the­ir bu­si­ness. A mer­c­hant in a fur-trim­med ca­pe stro­de past, two li­ve­ri­ed fo­ot­men cle­aring the path for him, two mo­re wat­c­hing his back. A lit­ter bor­ne by fo­ur stal­wart por­ters was car­ri­ed along at a trot to­ward the Tem­p­le. A whi­te hand drew back the cur­ta­ins and Mi­ran­da glim­p­sed a small sharp fa­ce un­der a jewe­led bon­net be­fo­re the con­ve­yan­ce tur­ned in­to an al­ley.

  "Ne­ed a light, m'lord?" A small boy dar­ted out of a do­or­way on Car­pen­ters' Stre­et, hol­ding aloft a lan­tern, as yet un­lit. He of­fe­red the nob­le lord a gap-to­ot­hed grin but his fa­ce was thin and pa­le, his eyes sun­ken.

  "Light yo­ur lamp," Ga­reth sa­id, re­ac­hing in­to his poc­ket for a co­in. "Le­ad the way."

  The boy poc­ke­ted the far­t­hing, struck flint on tin­der, lit the pre­ci­o­us wick of his lamp, and set off ahe­ad, hol­ding the lamp high, his lit­tle sho­ul­ders stiff as if he we­re truly pro­ud of his mis­si­on.

  "Mi­lord… mi­lord."

  Ga­reth tur­ned. Mi­ran­da and Chip we­re run­ning to­ward him. "Do you mind if we ac­com­pany you, mi­lord? I've ne­ver be­en to Lon­don." Mi­ran­da brus­hed her ha­ir out of her eyes and re­gar­ded him gra­vely, but her con­fu­si­on was easily re­ad.

  "I'd pre­fer my own com­pany to­night," Ga­reth sa­id. If he ma­de not­hing of the kiss, then they co­uld both for­get it. It hadn't me­ant an­y­t­hing, af­ter all. How co­uld it ha­ve? "Go back to the bar­ge and they'll ta­ke you ho­me."

  With a smi­le that he ho­ped wo­uld sof­ten the re­j­ec­ti­on, he set off aga­in. Mi­ran­da he­si­ta­ted. She co­uldn't see how

  she co­uld bring up what had hap­pe­ned
on the bar­ge if the earl wo­uldn't gi­ve her an ope­ning, and he cer­ta­inly wo­uldn't gi­ve her one if she went me­ekly ho­me.

  She ca­ught up with him aga­in, and al­t­ho­ugh he ap­pe­ared not to no­ti­ce her, she kept at his si­de, ne­ver fal­ling back des­pi­te the length and spe­ed of his stri­de.

  After a few mi­nu­tes, she bro­ke the si­len­ce. "Are you go­ing a-who­ring aga­in, mi­lord?"

  Ga­reth sig­hed. He'd al­re­ady re­cog­ni­zed that this d'Albard twin had as strong and per­sis­tent a will as her sis­ter. "If I was, I'm not now, it se­ems. Must you ac­com­pany me?"

  "If you ple­ase," Mi­ran­da sa­id. "I might get lost on my own."

  "You'll for­gi­ve me if I ha­ve a rat­her bet­ter opi­ni­on of yo­ur na­tu­ral re­so­ur­ce­ful­ness," Ga­reth re­mar­ked.

  Mi­ran­da felt an im­men­se sen­se of re­li­ef. She knew that to­ne and the con­fu­si­on of the bar­ge re­ce­ded as the ease in his com­pany re­tur­ned. If Lord Har­co­urt wasn't tro­ub­led by it, then she sho­uldn't be.

  Pre­su­mably he kis­sed Lady Mary in the sa­me way. But for so­me re­ason, that ref­lec­ti­on bro­ught her no com­fort, only a sen­se of re­vul­si­on. She co­uldn't ima­gi­ne it so­me­how. That ha­ughty, im­pec­cab­le, per­fectly com­po­sed wo­man in an em­b­ra­ce that Mi­ran­da had ex­pe­ri­en­ced as vi­vid scar­let, bright crim­son, hot as hel­lfi­re.

  The al­ley was nar­row and dark, the ro­ofs of the op­po­sing ho­uses me­eting over­he­ad, the top sto­ri­es so clo­se a man co­uld sit on one win­dow­sill and fling his leg over the sill op­po­si­te. But as they emer­ged in­to Whi­tef­ri­ars, the la­ne bro­ade­ned and light spil­led from open do­or­ways and win­dows with the so­unds of ra­uco­us la­ug­h­ter, mu­sic, sin­ging.

  At the sign of the Gol­den Ass, Ga­reth sa­id to the lam­p­boy, "You may le­ave me he­re." He ga­ve the lad anot­her co­in and the boy ca­re­ful­ly ex­tin­gu­is­hed his lamp to pre­ser­ve both oil and wick and trot­ted back to the wa­ter­f­ront.

  Ga­reth step­ped thro­ugh the wi­de-swin­ging ga­tes in­to the cob­bled co­ur­t­yard of the Gol­den Ass, Mi­ran­da at his he­els. The inn for­med three si­des of the co­ur­t­yard; do­ors to the va­ri­o­us dow­n­s­ta­irs ro­oms sto­od open to the night air and the pro­ces­si­on go­ing in and out was ce­ase­less. A ra­iled gal­lery ran along all three si­des on the se­cond flo­or and men and wo­men hung over the ra­iling, sho­uting down to tho­se be­ne­ath, whi­le mu­sic and la­ug­h­ter po­ured out from the open do­ors be­hind.

  Hor­ses, carts, and car­ri­ages sto­od on the lit­te­red cob­bles and the smell of spil­led ale, to­bac­co smo­ke, ma­nu­re, rot­ting mat­ter, and night so­il was as thick as clot­ted cre­am on the air that was so much war­mer and clo­ser than on the ri­ver.

  Mi­ran­da fol­lo­wed the earl thro­ugh the drun­ken re­ve­lers, the­ir prog­ress ca­using ba­rely a stir in the ce­ase­less ti­de of hu­ma­nity. She was not in the le­ast shoc­ked by the sight of wo­men with ba­red bre­asts so­li­ci­ting cus­tom, or men with the­ir ho­se un­la­ced, do­ub­lets un­fas­te­ned, lur­c­hing from" dark cor­ners with a sa­tis­fi­ed le­er. She had ro­amed such pla­ces as the Gol­den Ass all her li­fe.

  Ga­reth clim­bed the out­si­de sta­irs to the se­cond-flo­or gal­lery with the air of one who knew pre­ci­sely whe­re he was go­ing. Mi­ran­da, at his si­de, pe­ered with una­bas­hed in­te­rest in­to the va­ri­o­us cham­bers. On two si­des of the gal­lery, they we­re for the most part drin­king ro­oms, but on the third si­de so­met­hing dif­fe­rent was hap­pe­ning. Wo­men hung on the ra­ilings, le­aned out of low win­dows ope­ning on­to the gal­lery. They we­re half-na­ked, bo­di­ces un­la­ced, and the ill-lit ro­oms be­hind them we­re spar­sely fur­nis­hed.

  But Ga­reth tur­ned in­to a low-ce­ilin­ged drin­king ro­om and cal­led to the pot­boy, "Mal­m­sey, lad." He pul­led out a bench at the long drin­king tab­le and swung him­self as­t­ri­de it. Mi­ran­da che­er­ful­ly sat be­si­de him, per­fectly at ho­me, and Chip, equ­al­ly at ho­me, pran­ced down the tab­le, flo­uris­hing his hat and in­vi­ting pen­ni­es.

  Mi­ran­da snif­fed hun­g­rily. A gro­up of men and wo­men we­re crow­ded aro­und a stew­pot at the top of the tab­le. "I smell ve­ni­son. I'm ra­ve­no­us."

  "But you've just had din­ner."

  "I didn't re­al­ly fe­el li­ke eating," she con­fes­sed with a gri­ma­ce. "I'm not cri­ti­ci­zing yo­ur tab­le, mi­lord, but…"

  He nod­ded. "You'll be­co­me ac­cus­to­med to our ways." He ges­tu­red to the pot­boy. "Bring a bowl of that stew and so­me bre­ad, lad."

  The­re we­re no im­p­le­ments, just a bre­ad tren­c­her. Mi­ran­da used her fin­gers in the pot, sop­ping up the li­qu­id with the bre­ad. But she was ca­re­ful to eat as da­in­tily as pos­sib­le, and to avo­id spil­ling gravy on an­y­t­hing but the bre­ad. It was, ho­we­ver, the most de­li­ci­o­us me­al she tho­ught she'd tas­ted sin­ce she'd left Do­ver qu­ay. And she was un­der no il­lu­si­ons that it was the fa­mi­li­ar sur­ro­un­dings that ma­de it so.

  With a com­for­tably full belly and the spre­ading re­la­xa­ti­on from her own tan­kard of mal­m­sey, she fo­und her­self as­king the qu­es­ti­on that had be­en dog­ging her for ho­urs. "Do you ha­ve strong fe­elings for Lady Mary, mi­lord? For yo­ur bet­rot­hed?"

  Ga­reth's ex­p­res­si­on chan­ged and she reg­ret­ted the qu­es­ti­on im­me­di­ately. But she still wa­ited for his an­s­wer.

  "Lady Mary is to be my wi­fe," he sa­id af­ter a mi­nu­te. "She will be an ad­mi­rab­le wi­fe and, God wil­ling, will gi­ve me he­irs."

  "Yo­ur first wi­fe-"

  "What do you know of her?" he in­ter­rup­ted, his vo­ice both soft and very cold.

  "Not­hing." Mi­ran­da to­ok a sip of her wi­ne. "Ma­ude sa­id that the­re had be­en an ac­ci­dent… I didn't me­an to pry." She didn't li­ke the lo­ok on his fa­ce at all.

  An ac­ci­dent. As far as the world knew, it had be­en an ac­ci­dent. That sha­dowy fi­gu­re be­hind Char­lot­te, the in­s­tant be­fo­re she fell, co­uld ha­ve be­en a fig­ment of his over­s­t­ret­c­hed ima­gi­na­ti­on. He'd be­en stan­ding on the gra­vel, three sto­ri­es be­low. He co­uld easily ha­ve be­en mis­ta­ken. But Char­lot­te had be­en up the­re with her lo­ver- that po­or be­sot­ted yo­un­g­s­ter who­se tor­ments of je­alo­usy Ga­reth had wat­c­hed with so­met­hing akin to sympathy as Char­lot­te tor­tu­red him with her in­dif­fe­ren­ce, her sud­den wild pas­si­ons, and then the ca­su­al dis­mis­sal when she cast him asi­de for so­me­one fres­her, bet­ter ab­le to sa­tisfy her. John de Ve­re had be­en with Char­lot­te on that fa­te­ful af­ter­no­on. Ga­reth had he­ard his des­pe­ra­ti­on, se­en it in the whi­te fa­ce and wild eyes as the yo­ung man had pus­hed past the hus­band of his mis­t­ress as blindly as if Ga­reth didn't exist. Had pus­hed past him and ra­ced up the sta­irs. The do­or had slam­med. Ga­reth had left the ho­use, unab­le, des­pi­te the many ti­mes it had oc­cur­red, to stay un­der the sa­me ro­of whi­le his wi­fe ma­de the be­ast with two backs with anot­her man. He'd sto­od be­ne­ath the win­dow. And he'd se­en Char­lot­te fall. And he'd se­en the sha­dow be­hind her the mi­nu­te be­fo­re. A sha­dow that had sta­yed, wat­c­hing, un­til Char­lot­te's body had cras­hed to the gra­vel, and the blo­od had clot­ted be­ne­ath her he­ad. And then it had go­ne, and he, Char­lot­te's hus­band, had chec­ked her pul­se, clo­sed her eyes, and his he­art had sung with joy. A cri­me of pas­si­on, it was not his pla­ce to jud­ge such an act. And if that sha­dow had not be­en de Ve­re… then Char­lot­te's de­ath had still be­en a cri­me of pas­si­on, but pas­si­on of a dif­fe­rent bre­ed. "Mi­lord… mi­lord?"

  He be­ca­me awa­re of Mi
­ran­da's vo­ice, her hand on his sle­eve, and her fa­ce swam in­to fo­cus. Her eyes we­re wi­de and frig­h­te­ned.

  "What is it, mi­lord?"

  "Not­hing. Co­me, let us go. It's ne­ar dawn." He swung him­self off the bench, threw a han­d­ful of co­ins on­to the war­ped plan­king of the tab­le, and he­aded for the ri­ver.

  Mi­ran­da got up mo­re slowly. Just so had he lo­oked in his nig­h­t­ma­re. She clic­ked her fin­gers at Chip and fol­lo­wed the earl back to the ri­ver. The­re we­re things he­re a wi­se wo­man wo­uld le­ave well alo­ne. But Mi­ran­da wasn't su­re how wi­se she was.

  A jag­ged fork of sum­mer lig­h­t­ning split the black sky, il­lu­mi­na­ting the dark mass of the walls of Pa­ris lo­oming abo­ve the Se­ine's high banks. The al­most si­mul­ta­ne­o­us crash of thun­der set the still air re­ver­be­ra­ting and the he­avens ope­ned to let lo­ose a tor­rent of stin­ging ra­in, slas­hing down on­to the par­c­hed earth, gre­at drops bur­s­ting aga­inst the gre­asy ste­el-gray sur­fa­ce of the ri­ver.

  Pic­kets hud­dled in­to the­ir clo­aks as they mar­c­hed the li­ne at the fo­ot of the walls, and wit­hin the be­si­egers' camp Henry of Na­var­re sto­od out­si­de his tent, ra­ising his fa­ce to the ra­in, gre­edily cat­c­hing the drops in his open mo­uth. His ha­ir and be­ard we­re dren­c­hed and his so­aked li­nen shirt clung to his si­newy chest.

  Wit­hin the shel­ter of the tent his ad­vi­sors wat­c­hed him as he grew in­c­re­asingly bed­rag­gled and the gro­und be­ne­ath his bo­ots tur­ned in­to a mud-thick swamp. To a man, they we­re be­mu­sed by this stran­ge be­ha­vi­or. Henry was a hard cam­pa­ig­ner and a lit­tle wa­ter wo­uldn't tro­ub­le him, but to put him­self in the way of a dren­c­hing was most un­li­ke the­ir prag­ma­tic and de­li­be­ra­te com­man­der.

  It was too much fi­nal­ly for the king's physi­ci­an. "My li­ege… my li­ege… this is mad­ness. You'll be sick of an ague." The old man ven­tu­red in­to the ra­in, dra­wing his thick clo­ak tightly aro­und him, step­ping gin­gerly thro­ugh the mud. Wa­ter drip­ped from his long be­ard as he ca­me be­si­de his king. "Co­me in­to shel­ter, si­re. I beg you."