A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Melli was beginning to wish that she'd never called for a mirror, as the face reflected in it was surely not her own. Who was this girl with the deathly pallor and eyes as large as pancakes?

  "Nessa," she called. "Bring me some wine, as strong as it comes." The duke would be here any minute and she would have some color in her cheeks by the time he arrived even if she had to drink herself silly to do so.

  Melli put down the mirror and took up a small silver vial containing fragrance. She dabbed it on her bosom and neck, sprinkled a little on the surrounding sheets, and finished by letting a single glistening drop fall upon her tongue. The bitter taste made her wince.

  While she wondered if it would be better for the duke to find her in bed, or on the bench by the window, Nessa returned with the wine. "His Grace is on his way, miss," she cried. "He'll be-here in a moment."

  "Well, hurry with the wine, girl," snapped Melli. A second after the cup was placed in her hand, it was pressing against her lips. She drank all the wine except for the last drop, which, in a sudden burst of inspiration, she scooped up onto her fingertips and proceeded to rub into both of her cheeks. She knew she was behaving like an expectant courtesan, and at any other time, with any other man, she would never have deigned to primp and preen, but over the past few days she had found herself becoming more and more attracted to the duke, and she now found herself rather anxious to look pleasing for him.

  The trouble was she didn't know how to. All her life she had paid little or no attention to her appearance. From as early as she could remember she had been hailed as a natural beauty; years of hearing this had caused her to scom all the usual range of feminine embellishments. Powders, perfumes, and plucked eyebrows were mysteries to Melli. As were colored waxes, greased soot, and rouge.

  The door opened and in walked the duke. The first thing he did was sniff the air. Melli instantly realized she had overdone the perfume and quickly threw the heavily scented coverlet from her bed.

  "You smell like a cheap tavern wench," he said.

  Melli felt the heat come to her cheeks. She shot a venom-filled glance at Nessa: it was the servant girl's perfume she was wearing. Unable to think of a suitably withering retort to the duke's insult, she settled for haughtily dismissing her maid. "Do not stand around gawking, girl. Leave us. And take this coverlet with you-I insist you wash it yourself. That should teach you not to spill perfume again."

  The duke waited until Nessa had left the room before he crossed over to Melli's bed. He took her hand and placed a brief kiss upon her wrist. His lips were cool and dry. "I have another gift for you," he said, pulling a silk-wrapped object from his tunic.

  There was a small part of Melli that found the duke's behavior rather perfunctory; it was as if he were performing a military maneuver: first the kiss, then the gift, then a little verbal sparring. The exact same scenario had been acted out the day before, when he had given her a scabbard in which to keep her knife. She turned over the package in her hand and wondered if her misgivings were grounded in good sense, or merely the folly of an idle mind. After all, she had been cooped up here on her own for five days now.

  "Open it," he commanded.

  Melli unwrapped the silk to find a large glove inside. The leather was thick and brightly painted with scrolls and flourishes. "A falconer's glove?" she asked.

  "Yes," said the duke, "and the falcon to go with it." He clapped his hands together sharply, and a man entered the room. Upon his arm he carried a large, silent bird that wore a hood.

  "A gerfalcon," said Melli, unable to keep the wonder from her voice.

  "Aye, miss," replied the falconer, coming forward. "And a lady, too."

  Melli knew that female gerfalcons were considered the most precious of all the hunting birds. "It is truly beautiful," she said.

  The duke smiled at her softly. "Put on the glove." Feeling a little nervous, Melli slipped on the glove. Her father's eastern estate boasted a mews, but in the kingdoms falconry was an exclusively male sport and so she had never handled a hawk before.

  "I scented the glove, miss, so it will smell just like home." The falconer brought his arm on a level with hers, tapped gently on the bird's belly, and then drew his arm down. At the same time the duke took the underside of Melli's arm and moved it forward. The gerfalcon took the cue and stepped neatly onto Melli's glove. The bells strapped to the bird's feet tinkled brightly.

  What struck Melli first was the sheer weight of the thing. The creature was dense and solid. The duke still held her arm near the elbow, and she was grateful for the support.

  She felt the bird's talons grasping at her wrist through the leather, and she became a little afraid.

  "Easy, miss," said the falconer. "Don't fret, my beauty won't hurt you." He stroked the bird's belly and whispered words of tender encouragement.

  Melli felt the duke holding her arm firm, stopping it from shaking. On his prompting she risked raising her other hand to touch the bird. The speckled feathers of its breast were soft beyond telling. It was a joy to feel the warm down beneath her fingertips. The creature's heart was beating faster than her own. Growing more confident, she moved her arm nearer her face. The gerfalcon shifted for a moment, resettling its wings, and then gripped her wrist anew. This time Melli enjoyed the feeling.

  The falconer smiled at her. "You're a natural, miss. I've never seen my beauty calmer."

  Even though she knew the man was flattering her, Melli couldn't help but feel pleased. "What's her name?"

  "Well, miss, a hawk has two names. The first is given when she's just a chick, newly taken from the nest. The second is given the day she's ready for her master's wrist."

  "And is she ready?" asked Melli.

  The falconer nodded. "She brought down a crane for me, just two days past. You should have seen her fly, miss. Sweet and as sure as an angel, she was."

  "So, Melliandra," said the duke, "she needs a second name."

  Melli caught the offer of his words. "You want me to name her?"

  "She is yours, you must call her what you will."

  "But I know nothing about falconry. I couldn't possibly take her."

  "Once you are well enough," said the duke, "we will ride down to the valley with our birds upon our wrists, and I will teach you everything you need to know." He reached out and stroked the bird's breast; as he did so, his fingers brushed against Melli's. "Name her now and claim her as your own."

  Melli was thrilled beyond words. This magnificent creature would soar upon her bidding. "I name her Aravella." Tears prickled, fast and unexpected. After all these years she was still moved by the sound of her mother's name.

  "Beautiful, miss. Beautiful," said the falconer. "A name worthy of greatness," said the duke.

  Melli looked up from the hawk and found herself staring into the duke's eyes. She was overcome with feelings of sadness and joy. "Thank you," she said. "In all my life, I have never received anything as precious as this."

  "I would give you everything I own," he said, "if you would only be my wife."

  Baralis was walking across one of the many deserted courtyards of the duke's palace. He had just paid a man to travel to Bevlin's cottage and tear the place apart, and was about to calculate how long it would be before he was in possession of the wiseman's library when a sharp pain stabbed at his chest. The sensation was so sudden and so violent, it stopped him in his tracks.

  Closing his eyes, he sought out the blackness of selfawareness. His heart raced ahead of his thoughts; beating wildly it conveyed a silent warning in the rhythm of the blood. Words barely remembered amid so much else that had been said in Larn flashed across his mind like lightning: "Two days ago one of our seers spoke of you. He said that for now your greatest threat is a girl with a knife at her side. "

  Struggling to keep his feet, Baralis looked around the courtyard. A sandstone bench resting under a leafy trellis gave him something to aim for. By the time he made it there, he had calmed himself. A bod
y heavy with the weight of foretelling slumped against the stone. Only it wasn't foretelling, exactly-the seers of Larn had done that alreadybut more a sign that it was coming to pass. Somewhere, right now, someone's fate was in the balance, and the racing of his heart meant the outcome would surely affect him directly.

  As he rubbed the sweat from his brow, he racked his brain trying to imagine who the girl with the knife could possibly be.

  "Easy, boy. Easy," whispered Maybor, running a hand over his dog's bristling snout. Shark growled deep in her throat, a chilling sound that told of deadly intent. She had caught a whiff of the enemy and her hackles rose to the scent. All the baiting had paid off. Eager to attack the man sitting alone in the distance, she strained against the leash like the killer she was. "Good boy. Good boy."

  Maybor had recently discovered that the combination of fine clothes on his back and a fine animal at his side turned heads, especially women's. With this in mind he had taken to walking through the palace grounds each day, leading Shark on a fine leather leash. He enjoyed the admiring looks from the ladies and the envious glares from the lords. This afternoon, however, he had spotted something more interesting than a blushing maiden: Baralis secretly engaging the services of a journeyman. A messenger, judging from the leanness of his horse.

  The meeting was near the stables. When Maybor had first come upon them, he had toyed with the idea of setting Shark loose. But there were too many stablemen around, any one of whom might have spotted him nearby. More importantly, one of them might have stepped in to save Baralis and taken an ax to the dog. Maybor was growing rather fond of Shark and hated the idea that she might get hurt. So he had stayed where he was, watching the two talk from a discreet and shady distance. He wasn't in the least bit surprised when the meeting ended with the journeyman receiving a heavy purse; money was the only way Baralis could ever get a man to do his bidding. As he watched, the two parted and Baralis began to make his way back to the palace.

  Never one to take traditional routes, Baralis slipped down alleyways and slid under bridges, taking a path less peopled than any normal man might choose. Feeling rather pleased with himself, Maybor trailed him all the way. Shark stalked her prey well, never once letting Baralis from her sight. Eventually they had come to a fair-sized courtyard. Deserted at this time of year, it was probably a haven for romance in high summer. Trees and shrubs were beginning to show their green, and flower beds were hoed and ready for planting.

  Maybor was just about to follow Baralis across when the man suddenly doubled up on the spot. He clutched at his chest and then turned an unpleasant shade of puce. Maybor immediately sent a prayer to Borc, thanking him for sending a seizure to his enemy. Unfortunately, Baralis seemed to recover. He stumbled over to a bench and sat whilst he caught his breath.

  Shark's head was moving from side to side, and when Maybor looked down he saw that she was wearing away at the leash. She chewed with chilling determination. Time and time again, she had ripped apart bags filled with the remains of Baralis' undershirt. The man's scent was burned upon her soul. Now the time had come to strike her prey.

  "Easy, boy. Easy."

  Maybor looked quickly through the bushes to the place where Baralis was sitting. Deep in thought, the man didn't look as if he'd be moving for some time. Maybor then whirled around and searched the surrounding masonry. Aha! Just the thing. Near the bottom of the wall was some fancy stonework: cherubs aimed bows at demons, whilst nymphs frolicked with lions. The arm of one of the cherubs was styled in relief, jutting out from the wall at an angle, its elbow forming a shape that was as good a loop. Maybor threaded Shark's leash through the stone and tied a fine soldier's knot in the leather.

  Shark growled with anger and began to pull against the leash. Her whole body thrashed violently from side to side, but knot and stonework held.

  Maybor was careful to pick his distance before kneeling down by the dog, making sure that he was at least a leashlength away. Shark had worked herself up to an eye-bulging, muzzle-frothing frenzy. "Ssh. Easy now." The dog calmed a little. "That's a good boy." Maybor risked bending forward a little. He took a deep breath and then hissed: "Kill, Shark, kill!"

  The words had a profound effect on the dog. Her ears pricked up, her hackles rose, and she began to chew with terrible intensity upon the leash. Her teeth tore at the leather as if it were silk.

  Maybor knew the time had come for him to make a quick exit. ln less than two minutes, Shark would be free, and he couldn't risk being here when she ripped out Baralis' throat. He paused a second to admire the deadly slant of the creature's teeth, briefly imagined them covered with blood, and then cut a hasty path toward the stables.

  The duke had commanded the falconer to leave with the hawk. Melli was hardly aware of the man taking the bird from her wrist. Her head was reeling. Marry! She couldn't believe her ears. Had the duke lost his senses? She risked a quick look at his face. Gray eyes met hers without a blink.

  "You think I jest, Melliandra?" His voice was as serious as his expression.

  The door closed with a discreet sweep and click. The falconer leaving with his bird.

  Melli stood up and walked over to the window. She needed time to think. However, the duke appeared to have a different plan, for she heard his footsteps behind her, and then felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm. Firm enough to draw her round.

  "Melliandra," he said, "I am not a man who speaks lightly. I told you the other day how I felt about you. Could you not guess at that time that I would want to marry you?" His hand slid down the length of her arm and caught at her fingers.

  His palm was dry, she noticed. "You purchased me as if I were a sack of grain, and now you want to marry me?" It didn't make sense. The duke was a proud man, yet here he was proposing marriage to a girl he believed to be illegitimate. Such a union would only bring him shame. Unless, of course, he was too in love to care. Melli's pride rose up like a lid over a boiling pot. Why wouldn't he be in love with her? Many others had been before. Castle Harvell was full of men who had fallen at her feet-though she was quite sharp enough to know that it was her father's money, as much as her own personal charms, that sped the bending of their knees.

  Unlike the vain and pimply noblemen of the kingdoms, the duke knew nothing of her family or wealth, yet he still wanted to marry her. Surely that must count for something? Melli returned the pressure of his hand.

  The duke took the gesture as his cue. "Melli, if you agree to marry me, I swear that you will not be just a bedmate. We will play, hunt, and politic together. You will be by my side, but not as my lover or my wife, but as my equal." He grabbed hold of her other hand. "Imagine it, Melliandra: you and I, the duke and duchess of Bren, walking arm and arm through our palace, talking policy and power one moment, and love and life the next."

  Strange, thought Melli, the words themselves were tantalizing, but they were spoken with little emotion, like an actor running through his lines for the first time. Still, the duke was a dispassionate man, and by his own admission, he had gone many years without strong feelings toward any woman except his wife. Perhaps the quality of natural reticence, combined with old-fashioned nervousness, made him speak the way he did. "And what about my past?" she asked, desperate to give herself time to think. "Many would scorn me because of it."

  "If anyone dared to scorn you, Melliandra, I swear I would kill them." There was emotion in his voice this time: the huskiness of threat and the tremble of anger. "I will not tolerate a single word spoken in mockery or contempt."

  Melli's heart thrilled at the sheer power of the duke. He would kill anyone, she didn't doubt it for an instant. It was pleasing to think that such a man would be actively defending her honor. Not wanting to betray her thoughts, Melli pulled away. She threw a question to test him. "How do I know you speak the truth about involving me in affairs of state? It could be a ploy to tempt me into agreement."

  The duke walked over to the sideboard and tested the jug for wine; finding it
empty, he spun around to face Melli. His sword sent light flashing across her face. "You're not the type of woman to sit quietly and embroider all day," he said, a dry smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "Gardening, gossip, and housewifery are not pursuits that will engage your interest. Indeed, that is what I love about you-you're spirited, you're independent, and you're not afraid to speak your mind." His smile was full now and bright with admiration. "You could certainly teach the ladies of Bren a thing or two."

  "Not how to put on cosmetics, that's for sure."

  The duke laughed. "I had wondered what those marks on your cheeks were."

  "One of your vintage reds," she said, secretly hoping that she didn't look too embarrassing.

  "I would stick to drinking it next time."

  "Hmph!" Melli picked up a pillow from the bed and threw it at him. The duke's sword was out in an instant. The pillow never reached him. The blade sheared it in two, sending goosedown flying into the air like snowdrops. He looked magnificent standing there, sword held aloft, muscles tensed, skin dark against a flurry of white feathers. Slowly, he looked toward her and smiled. "You'll have to be faster next time."

  "No. I think I'll just blunt the edge of your sword when you're not looking."

  "I like a woman who can think on her feet." -

  "I like a man who looks good covered in goosedown." They both laughed merrily. The sound of shared laughter acted like a charm upon the room, changing the atmosphere, making it lighter, less serious and, as the sun broke free from distant clouds, bringing sunshine to accompany the joy.

  The duke put down his sword and walked toward Melli. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. He came and knelt by her feet. "Agree to marry me now, Melliandra, or as Borc is my witness, I will lock you up in here until you do."

  "And will you make me pick up the feathers one by one?"

  "With tweezers, no less."

  Melli took a moment to look at the duke. He was a handsome man; the lines of his face told of experience and the hook of his nose told of power unchallenged. She liked the way he dressed-plainly, like a soldier-and she liked the way he carried himself--turning every movement into a simple statement of pride. Unlike Kylock, he laughed and had a sense of humor, and although Melli was sure that he could be cold and calculating, she was also sure he would never be cruel. And in that respect, he was a world apart from Kylock.