The White Queen: The Black Prince Trilogy, Book 2

by P. J. Fox

  “There might come a time when you want more of me than I can give.”

  Love. He meant love. And companionship. The companionship of a partner who shared her feelings. Who understood, on a visceral level, what feelings were. Tristan might be capable of bending his mind to logic, but he was incapable of empathy. He might understand her motives, perhaps even better than she did, but he’d never truly understand her.

  Just as she would never truly understand him.

  “There are…aspects of a life with me that you don’t yet understand.” He paused. “Sacrifices that will be required. I am…concerned also that what you’ve chosen, you’ve chosen in ignorance. That you’re…not ready and so, in time, will come to resent me.”

  Isla studied his eyes, looking for some clue there. “If you have no intention of letting me go, then what does it matter?” Moreover, she knew in her heart of hearts that she wanted to be with him. If something terrible were to happen, she’d almost rather it be a surprise. Because foreknowledge of the future might frighten her, but it wouldn’t change her mind.

  And couldn’t change her heart, foolish soul that she was.

  “I’d rather that you chose to be with me of your own free will.”

  “I’d be your willing captive.”

  He kissed her again.

  FIFTY

  Isla sat in her own carved chair at Tristan’s side, presiding over the head table at a dinner filled with discussion and—surprisingly—even some laughter. Most of that, as well as most of the discussion, came from the lower tables. Isla heard Rose’s shriek of mirth from somewhere below the salt; she would have known that voice anywhere. Rose, at least, was already making friends in her new home. Isla wondered how her erstwhile servant’s afternoon had passed, if she’d been assigned a room and if she had duties now other than caring for Isla. If she had, in fact, requested them and had merely used her connection to Isla to cadge a trip north never intending to actually serve her at all.

  How quickly she’d been forgotten—by everyone. She sat stiffly, her hands in her lap. Luci had repaired her hair for her, when she’d reappeared back in her room. She’d arched a rather telling eyebrow, but refrained from comment. The other girls, Luci’s nameless assistants, had giggled. And now Isla was here, looking as fresh and perfect as the snow queen of legend, and no one was paying attention.

  Her chair was a smaller, daintier version of Tristan’s. Both had been beautifully carved in the same ornate style as much of the woodwork, the rearing heads of stylized dragons forming the armrests. The seat, patterned as it was to look like scales, was uncomfortable. The ridge that ran along the third, and largest dragon’s back dug painfully into her spine.

  Tristan, next to her, appeared to suffer no such discomfort. Lounging in his chair, he surveyed his dominion with a confidence that bordered on the lazy. He held his cup in one hand, resting it idly against the armrest. With his other, he signaled for the next course.

  He was in complete control over his dominion and he knew it. His guests knew it, too; they ate in almost complete silence, casting nervous glances at him on the rare occasions when they dared to lift their eyes from their plates. Even the earl, normally immune to social undercurrents, drank his wine with a furtive air. He darted sips, and scraps of meat, like a squirrel.

  A great, fat squirrel. Isla sighed inwardly. They’d none of them spoken to her since she’d sat down, and she hadn’t spoken to any of them. Although Rowena had cast a few dark looks in her direction. She was currently sopping at the gravy on her plate with a crust of bread. Pewter, just like Isla had always imagined. Most of the table seemed impressed; no one had such fine things, in the West. Rowena, however, was doing her best to appear unimpressed, dropping little hints here and there about how she’d had better at her future husband’s table.

  The next course was served, a veal tart with cream. There was an apple muse as well, for a side dish, sort of an apple bread pudding, as well as some sort of root vegetable. The food was all strange, but tasted fair enough. Isla was no fan of the veal tart, though. It tasted heavily of nutmeg, a strange addition to meat. Isla was used to meat that tasted of nothing much but salt. The cream was very heavy.

  “Well I say,” said the earl, “this is all delightful.” He and Apple were being served by a household retainer, as Apple had been persuaded—by her eunuch—to leave her eunuch at home. Isla wondered, idly, what the man was getting up to in her absence. If it was any of his old tricks, then Apple might very well arrive home to discover that he’d been executed. Where the earl could be distracted, or outright confused, into looking the other way Isla imagined that embezzlement went over like a lead weight with Silas.

  The retainer served the earl more wine.

  “Do you serve blanc-manger?” Apple asked.

  “For the next course.” Tristan sipped his wine, doing little more than raising the cup to his lips.

  “Rudolph never indulges in such irreverent excesses at his table,” Rowena said.

  “That’s because Rudolph can’t afford them,” Hart cut in. “Besides, it’s not his table. Unlike Isla, here, when you get married you’ll be moving in with your dear heart’s mother and father.”

  “It says in The Chivalrous Heart….” Rowena glared at Hart, and fell silent.

  Asher, from behind Tristan’s shoulder, glared at Rowena. No love had been lost during their weeks apart. Isla had been profoundly glad to finally see the boy, and see that he was well, although they hadn’t yet spoken. There hadn’t been a chance; she and Tristan had arrived to dinner, as was proper, directly after the last of the guests so that none would risk offense by coming in after. Drinks had already been poured, and the first of the courses were circulating.

  Catching his eye, now, they shared a small smile.

  “So,” the earl broke in, entirely too heartily, “when’s the wedding?” And then, in answer to his own question, “I was thinking in a week or so, after Lady Cavendish and I have had a chance to settle in. After all—”

  “Tomorrow,” Tristan said, cutting him off.

  There was a collective gasp. “Tomorrow?” Apple shook her head slightly. As if this decision were somehow up to her, or indeed she’d been consulted. “That’s far too soon.”

  “The bride is ready and so am I.” Tristan sipped his wine. His gaze held Apple’s over the rim of the cup, which was also pewter and finely wrought. “There is no need to wait.”

  “Why yes there is. I’m not ready and I’m certain that—”

  “Your preparedness is of no concern to me.”

  “But surely my comfort—”

  “Is of no concern either.” Tristan’s tone was polite enough, but his meaning was more than obvious. Still, Apple forged on where a wiser woman would have been silent, explaining in some detail the preparations she needed for a wedding not her own. Tristan listened to her in silence, letting her finish before he spoke again. “Madam, should you feel unequal to the task, you’re more than welcome to forego the festivities.

  “I had imagined that you and your lord would wish to return south before the snows come, effectively trapping you here. But, should you wish to remain as my guests through the winter, I’m certain that entertainment can be found for you. Perhaps in the kitchens.”

  Apple’s eyes widened. She turned to Isla. “Surely you must want more time. After all, a maid such as yourself—”

  So now Apple had decided that Isla was a maid. After informing half the camp that she was not. “I,” Isla said, surprising herself, “do as my lord wishes.”

  “When I’m married,” Rowena replied, “I intend to do no such thing. No man will ever stand between me and doing what I believe to be correct.” She sniffed. “Because I am a person of integrity.” She tried a bite of apple muse, grimaced, and put her spoon down.

  “Surely then,” Tristan said, “you don’t intend to be married in Morven.”

  “What?” Rowena, despite having just spoken, seemed surprised that Tristan was addressi
ng her directly. Which, Isla reflected sourly, wasn’t much of a surprise; most lacked the courage to do so, instead leaving her free reign to attack as she chose.

  Tristan continued to speak in that same, characteristically mild tone. “Under our laws, a woman becomes one with her husband. She has no right to refuse him because, according to the logic of our esteemed jurists”—and here there was the faintest trace of sarcasm—”she has no mind of her own.”

  “In The Chivalrous Heart—”

  “Chivalry is based on fantasy. Marriage is based on reality. Your Chivalrous Heart is an object lesson in how to worship the unattainable; love, or what passes for love, is merely a means of mediation between two different—and forever separate—worlds. The man dreams of the woman, because he cannot have her; he pours all of his energy into describing her in couplets, and casting about favors, because he cannot fuck her cunt.

  “As, I assure you, is every man’s want. And marriage, I also assure you, is about a man’s wants—all of them. Including possessing for his own the object of his desire. In whatever manner he wishes, whenever he wishes. A man who is content to worship from afar is a man of no true passions, perhaps even to himself disguising his inability to decide what he wants as chivalry. But Rudolph, mark my words, will either bend you to his will and teach you obedience or he will suffer the consequences.”

  Isla and Rowena exchanged a worried look. Tristan’s words, while still quietly spoken, had been as hard and cold as steel. And as cutting. They’d carried, moreover, the uncomfortable weight of prophecy. As though Tristan knew something, concerning Rudolph, that the rest of them did not. Had he been threatening Rowena, or warning her?

  Isla, who had rarely heard Tristan speak in such vulgar terms, felt a little of her old fear creep back.

  The earl blinked. “Well,” he said. “I say.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Dinner had been an unmitigated disaster, blanc-manger or no blanc-manger.

  The wedding had been set for the following afternoon, a decision that Tristan had apparently made without consulting anyone. Isla wasn’t ready, but then she wasn’t sure that she’d ever be ready. She might as well get it over with.

  The preparations for Rowena’s wedding had been ongoing and dramatic, with her sister loudly bemoaning the failure of every suggestion on subjects ranging from slippers to flowers. And the more room was found in the budget for extravagances the likes of which Enzie Hall had surely never seen, the less satisfied Rowena became.

  Isla, on the other hand, knew nothing of her own wedding. Not who would attend, nor what food would be served, not even where the ceremony itself would take place—or of what, indeed, it would consist. She knew next to nothing about the northern religion, and what she did know had come to her by way of Tristan and Eir. Neither of whom evidenced the slightest interest in the sort of things that might interest a typical human woman. Such as, for example, what might or might not occur on the day she’d been raised from birth to believe was the most important day of her life.

  Rowena, after Tristan’s—from any other man, it would have been an outburst—had sulked. Apple had spoken, several more times, on the ill advisedness of rushing into one’s nuptials. Tristan had asked her if she was speaking from personal experience. Hart had, uncharacteristically, drunk far too much.

  By the time the last course was served Isla was exhausted, and had never felt less like getting married in her life.

  Tristan had excused himself directly after, asking Isla to join him on a walk.

  And now here they were, side by side, in the dark.

  Isla hadn’t realized, earlier, just how large the grounds truly were. The top of the tor was vast indeed and the inner bailey contained a sort of wilderness large enough to be considered a deer park. Cut down the center by a smooth, undulating strip of grass that was itself as wide as the grandest of paved roads, it faced Loch Addanc. The lake that was as large as an ocean, and rumored to contain some sort of monster. Which Isla could well believe. Rumors that were difficult enough to dismiss in full sunlight seemed entirely plausible now, under the fitful light of a waning moon.

  They stopped, staring down the length of the green to the water beyond. The end of the world, its black surface sparkling. The moon’s light was a cold one, its beauty pitiless.

  This was the end of the world.

  “I want to show you something,” Tristan said.

  Isla, her mind still on the events of that night’s dinner, allowed herself to be led. He turned right, into the woods. The trees were all but bare now; the last leaves clinging to the branches were dead. Isla shivered, although not from cold. Tristan’s cloak kept her warm. She was realizing, suddenly, that she wasn’t where she’d expected to be.

  The woods had opened up into a wide circle. A clearing that reminded her uncomfortably of Alice, of the night that…but this clearing was manmade, as was obvious from the fact that it was perfectly round. And it was large. Perhaps fifty paces across in each direction, it was as large as a decent-sized home. Large enough, certainly, to accommodate quite a crowd. For what rituals, though, Isla could only imagine.

  “You sense it,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  They stood side by side at the crest of a short rise, looking down into the circle below them. Grass formed what must have been in summer a perfectly lush and thick carpet. One that still, even now, retained a hint of green. But for the ravages of weather, there was not the slightest touch of imperfection. A state that stood at sharp odds with the condition of the ruins surrounding.

  At the center of the circle was a sunken basin, like a pool, but empty now of all but a few scattered leaves. Surrounding the circle was the foundation of what must have once been some sort of raised colonnade. It was accessed by a flight of stone steps, crumbling now. And marching along the colonnade at even intervals were the remnants of what must once have been pillars. Every single one was broken, reminding Isla of nothing so much as a curving row of jagged teeth.

  There was a sense of…presence, of waiting. The air was pregnant with it. Never in a thousand years could Isla have guessed that, so close to the castle, there existed such a place. It appeared to occupy its own separate world; the idea that civilization could be reached in a few moments’ walk seemed impossible to credit.

  “This is where I was born,” Tristan said.

  Isla glanced up at him, uncertain of what he meant.

  “Where my…host first conjured me into being. And where I stopped for a few moments’ rest, the night I fled the castle after—after I’d changed,” he finished. Isla didn’t understand this reference, but she sensed that she shouldn’t interrupt him. After a pause, he continued. “After that I disappeared into the forest. Fully half of what is now Barghast was forest, then. The city has expanded greatly in the years since I was born.”

  He didn’t, she knew, mean his supposed span of thirty winters. Barghast had changed little, in that time. No, he was referring to a time long before her grandfather was born.

  “This is a place of power,” he said, “that long predates even Caer Addanc. It was built, or so we believe, by the people who predated even our northern tribes. The Galicia, they called themselves, meaning the people who worshipped the oak tree. We know little about their priests, or their rituals, because both instruction and practice were secret; carried out in caves and forests and, for the most elaborate rituals, in circles of standing stones like these.”

  “Did they perform”—she forced herself to complete the sentence—”human sacrifice?” As little as she wanted to know, she had to know. Had to know why he’d brought her here.

  “Yes.”

  She bit her lip again. “How?” She thought back to his warning her, earlier, that there were things she didn’t understand yet. Things she might not be ready for. But she trusted him, didn’t she? And hadn’t he earned her trust? More than earned it? He’d saved her from Father Justin, protecting her and—after his own fashion—caring for her when no one e
lse had.

  She fought the urge to run. She had to trust him. She loved him.

  And if she ran…then what?

  “The threefold death,” he said. The term was oblique. She waited. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. After awhile, he spoke again. His words were confusing, at first, but as she listened she began to understand what he meant. “The universal law is one of threefold return: whatever energies one releases to the universe, one will receive in return threefold.

  “The Goddess is Maiden, Mother and Crone; there are three Fates. The God, who had three sons, endured three trials upon the Tree of the World in his quest for the runes, the means by which he could give man access to sacred knowledge. He was hung, wounded, and suffered from both hunger and thirst. The threefold death is thus considered to be the worst punishment of all; because it robs the soul, not just of its place within the body but of its chance to progress on. To be reborn.”

  “That sounds…horrible.”

  “He’s killed three times, simultaneously; each manner of execution represents another means by which his soul is severed. The usual practice,” Tristan continued, “is to strangle, drown, and wound. The basin is filled, and the ritual performed there. It is,” he added, “a ritual reserved only for the most evil of blasphemers.”

  “And…the others?” she ventured.

  “The others,” he said in that same disinterested tone, “are burned. A large cage is constructed; what the Southrons call a wicker man although the shape is not always that of a man. Some are extremely complex and require weeks to construct, the act itself an act of worship.”

  “When…does this happen?”

  “At festivals, and during other auspicious events. To propitiate the gods, before a battle.” He glanced down at her. “Prisoners are used. These are not…decent people.” He’d told her that, of course, not because he cared but because he knew she would. And, recognizing this, just the slightest tension eased from her shoulders. He’d always known that she was different; he knew, now, that she was afraid. And that sharing the darkness with him, like this, was an act of trust.