The White Queen: The Black Prince Trilogy, Book 2

by P. J. Fox

  “Three times round,” she intoned, “once for the Daughter, twice for the Crone, thrice for the Mother, who sits on the Throne.”

  Tristan said nothing. His expression was serious. Asher, beside him, looked merely awestruck. He must, Isla realized suddenly, be almost as unfamiliar with the northern religion as she.

  Returning to the altar, having completed her three circuits, she laid the sword carefully down. In a strong voice she intoned again, “Your servant begs the attendance of the elements of life.” She paused, as if gathering herself. The silence crackled. And then, “hail to the Guardians of the Watchtowers of the West! Powers of water and intuition!” Isla sensed a power in the invocation, although she didn’t understand it. “Bless this couple with a love as depthless as the deepest loch, and as endless as the movement of the tides.”

  There was another pregnant pause.

  “Hail to the Guardians of the Watchtowers of the South!” The high priestess continued to speak in a strong voice, completely confident of herself. In this, she was not so different from Cariad. And, indeed, reminded Isla strongly of her lost friend. Except where Cariad was reserved, even secretive, she sensed that before her here was a wild witch. Not a careful hoarder of secrets but the laughter in the woods. “Powers of fire and feeling! Ignite the fire of passion for this blessed pair. Grant them a passion, of blood and of mind, that is ever burning yet never consuming.” Meeting Isla’s eye, she smiled slightly.

  Isla swallowed. There was no mention of passion in a Southerner’s marriage vows. Not even passion for the Gods, and certainly not the kind of passion that fired one’s blood.

  “Hail to the Guardians of the Watchtowers of the East! Powers of air and invention!” The high priestess continued, but Isla wasn’t listening. All of her attention was on Tristan. She’d leave this chapel with her husband. The high priestess was now calling on the powers of the North, asking them to bless the couple before her with wisdom and patience.

  And then she turned to Tristan. “Please state your intent.”

  “I declare to all present,” he responded, “human and divine, that I wish to join my hand to this woman.” His words had the note of rote.

  The high priestess turned to Isla, and asked her the same question. Isla replied in kind. The priestess turned to the altar and when she turned again, she was holding the skull.

  “Share this cup as, from this moment forward, you will share your love and concern for one another. As you will hold faith in each other, in the face of suspicion and trial.”

  She passed the skull to Tristan, who drank.

  And then he passed it to Isla.

  Trembling, she took it. She’d never held a human skull before. Never held any skull. She didn’t know what was inside. She was frightened that it might be blood.

  She froze. And then, aware that a thousand eyes were on her, she forced herself to raise her hands. To bring the skull to her lips. A thousand eyes, weighing her. Testing her, and testing her commitment. Waiting for her to fail.

  She drank.

  It was water.

  She lowered the cup from her lips. The high priestess took it from her and returned it to the altar. The taste of lake still lingered in her mouth. Loamy and pungent, full of secrets. Like grave dirt.

  The high priestess produced the bread. “Share this bread as, from this moment forward, you will share your worldly goods. Holding faith in one another, through rich harvests as well as famine.” The ritual was repeated. Bread, at least, Isla could stomach. Although she couldn’t, as it turned out, stomach much; the bread tasted like ashes in her mouth.

  One last time, the high priestess returned to the altar. Tristan took Isla’s hands in his own. Draping the cord over them, the high priestess put her hands over theirs; one above and one below.

  “May love guide your hearts,” she said quietly. The other words had been rote; this, Isla knew from the change in tone, was her personal blessing. “May the God and Goddess guide your souls, always toward the same goals and toward one another. May your joy be a light to the world, now and always.”

  Three times, she wrapped the cord around their joined hands. “All hail the God and Goddess!” she cried. “Joy and long life!”

  The resounding cries, and claps, were deafening. This outpouring of approval, and of sheer joy, was certainly no part of any church ceremony. A Southron wedding was as joyless and timid as a funeral. But this—they might have just returned victorious from battle.

  Pulling her toward him, Tristan kissed her long and hard.

  The roar intensified.

  And that was it: they were married.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Isla sat beside Tristan at the feast, where she’d sat the night before.

  Only since then, the great hall had been transformed: arrangements of flowers had been placed at intervals down the center of each long table, the handful of fall-blooming flowers native to Darkling Reach interspersed with lemons and oranges from Tristan’s famous greenhouses. Each had been spiked with cloves, forming simple geometric patterns; the scent they released into the air was heady, sweet and sharp at once.

  Isla hadn’t yet thought of Darkling Reach, and especially not Caer Addanc, as a place of color; but color was everywhere along with—laughter. The reds and oranges and whites of the flowers contrasting with the oranges and yellows of the fruit; the sounds of mirth and merriment as excited guests traded gossip and remarked on the particulars of the ceremony. The general consensus seemed to be that the bride had been unexpectedly lovely, the ceremony unexpectedly moving, and the food entirely worth the wait.

  As well as the wine, which flowed freely.

  Asher had resumed his usual place behind Tristan, and served them both. He’d continue to do so, now that she and Tristan were married. Married. The concept didn’t seem real. She, Isla Cavendish, was married. And to a man of her choice. She felt a sudden and entirely unexpected surge of joy. Not simply with Tristan but with the fact of her escape. She’d finally done it. She was free. She’d never have to go back to Enzie again.

  This was her life now.

  This feast. These people. The man beside her.

  Misinterpreting her smile, one of the other guests smiled back. And belched. His braided beard marked him as a tribesman. He’d worn his own people’s ceremonial garb to celebrate her union: a leather vest and jerkin covered by a massive cloak made from fox pelts. A head, still attached, rested on each shoulder. The eyes had been replaced with marbles.

  On his lower half he wore some sort of…skirt, it seemed. And yet this man could not possibly have been confused with those Southerners who, like Rudolph, had chosen to adopt a manner of dress that was increasingly feminine. There was nothing feminine about this man, with his riot of red hair, and pointed teeth. Around his neck, he wore a necklace of what appeared to be ferret skulls.

  “You admire my necklace.” He seemed pleased.

  “Ah, yes,” Isla faltered.

  “Each skull represents the capture and sacrifice of an enemy chief.” He smiled.

  “That’s—astonishing.”

  “I know. But Arvid, Son of Audun is no weakling.”

  “His father,” Tristan interposed smoothly, “had ten such necklaces.”

  Arvid smiled, and belched again.

  Before joining their guests at the feast, Tristan and Isla had gone back inside the castle proper and up to the balcony that she’d seen before. There, he’d presented the waiting crowd with his new bride. The ground beneath them wasn’t visible: every square inch of space was packed, with those who hadn’t attended the ceremony and those who wouldn’t attend the feast. Many, according to Tristan, had trekked great distances overland. Some had even come by boat, from other points along the lake. All wanted to see her.

  They’d stay in Barghast’s inns, or with their friends, and celebrate this night with feasts of their own. Not because they cared so deeply about their lord’s happiness—and rare was the lord whose marriage brought happiness, a
fact of life known throughout the kingdom—but because the marriage made them hopeful. They wanted peace, for themselves and for their children, a peace that had not been secured by Tristan’s previous marriages.

  Darkling Reach needed an heir.

  Isla had stood beside Tristan, his hand firm around her waist as he held her at his side, and greeted the crowd. They, in return, had greeted her. She was young; not like his last wife, who’d been merely well preserved. The rumor was that this had been, at least on his part, a love match; Isla knew this, because Rose had told her and Luci, being Luci, had asked her point blank if it was true. Isla colored at the suggestions shouted up from the crowd, about when and how often her lord should visit her bedchamber. Some of them were…quite colorful. But Isla, in turn, had only smiled and this had won her their approval.

  The next course was served.

  Rowena eyed her cinnamon brewet with distaste. Cinnamon brewet was a confection of beef tenderloin, almonds, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and red wine. The meat was first seasoned, and then braised in a combination of red wine and its own juices. Which, after cooking, were then strained and reduced to a thick sauce that was again thickened with almonds. “This is a travesty,” she announced.

  Hart glanced over at her. “Really?” he inquired around a mouth full of food. “I think it’s delicious.”

  “The church prohibits meat on Diu Triach.”

  “How fortunate,” Arvid pointed out, “that the church has no writ here.” He, too, had made short work of the food on his plate. Casually, he signaled for more wine. He seemed not to be bothered by Rowena’s constant complaining as the others were, but rather captivated by her spirit. He eyed her appreciatively, making no secret of his interest.

  “I am betrothed,” Rowena said stiffly.

  “Has he bedded you yet?”

  “How dare you ask such a thing!”

  Arvid seemed genuinely confused at her reaction. “In the North, a marriage isn’t valid until the groom has proven his worth.” He made an obscene gesture, which brought gales of laughter from the other men. Even Isla had to admit that she enjoyed seeing the tables turned on her sister and for once she being the one made uncomfortable.

  “In the South, a man proves his worth by his devotion to the Gods.” She sniffed again. “Undoubtedly why you aren’t married.”

  “Me?” Arvid laughed. “I have four wives already, and both glad to see me gone for the week!” He grinned at Rowena, exposing sharp teeth. “But I’m always looking for another, especially one of your fire. You’d be a minx to tame and no doubt about it.”

  Rowena stared fixedly ahead.

  Arvid, who truthfully seemed harmless, and not a little rueful of his own demeanor, sighed. “Ah, well then.” He raised his cup in a toast. There had been several toasts so far, each stranger than the last. “Here’s to nipples! For without them, titties would be pointless.”

  Hart laughed. “I like you,” he told Arvid.

  “Aye, and we like you Southron boys. Maybe later, if I sweeten you with a little talk, you’ll show me your titties. I’m sure they’re milky white and fine.”

  “I do, indeed, have the best titties in all of Ewesdale!”

  Both men were, Isla realized, not a little drunk.

  “We like Southrons,” Arvid shot back, “because they’re so easy to kill. So soft and coddled, you can hardly tell the difference between the men and the women.”

  “You must use Southron men when there are no sheep to be found!”

  “I’ll show you how to fuck a sheep! Bend over on this table here!”

  “Sin,” Rowena hissed. “This place is a den of sin.”

  “Friends may come and friends may go, and friends may peter out, you know! But we’ll be friends through thick and thin, come peter out or peter in!” The unlikely duo was now singing a tavern song. Callas, who sat to Rowena’s other side and who clearly occupied some place in the castle’s hierarchy that Isla didn’t understand, watched them with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

  Of the men at arms, Callas was the only one to be seated at the high table. Brom, Caer Addanc’s master at arms, and the other directors of the castle’s affairs were seated at their own table. Where, if anything, the drinking was carrying on at ten times the pace. The high table, where Tristan and Isla sat, had been reserved for their honored guests: Isla’s own family, those among Tristan’s more powerful vassals who’d managed to make the trip, and the tribal chiefs with whom he’d won an alliance. Chief among those was Arvid.

  Hart turned to Callas. “Your turn,” he announced.

  Callas arched an eyebrow. He looked perpetually smug. That he was handsome in the extreme only made him more revolting. He raised his cup and then, in his cultured tones, “here’s to sin and here’s to virtue; a little bit of both won’t hurt you. A little virtue is enhancing, a little sin can be entrancing.” A small, private smile flickered across his lips and was gone. “Be good, my dear, but don’t be haughty; there’s too much fun in being naughty.”

  Hart threw back his head and roared.

  The earl, who’d been nodding towards sleep, blinked and stirred himself. And then he addressed Rowena. That the conversation had moved on seemed to have escaped his notice entirely. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “that that’s entirely true.” It took Isla—and everyone else—a minute to grasp his reference. “That meat is entirely forbidden.”

  Apple turned. “Oh?”

  “According to the church, fish may be consumed on Diu Triach.” And on those other days for which fasting had been prescribed, as well; at some point in the church’s history, fasting had begun to mean going without meat. A challenge readily accepted by most of Morven’s population, which was too poor to afford other than bread and the occasional root vegetable in the first place.

  “However,” he continued, rather ponderously, “I have read that in the opinion of certain clerics—and our dear, departed Father Justin was one—several different species of animal count as fish. Seagoing birds, given that they live at sea and are caught over the water. Like fish, you know.” He sipped his wine. “And creatures like seals, too, that live in the water. Again, like fish.”

  The table absorbed this.

  “Beavers are classed as fish, because they are aquatic and have fish-like tails.”

  “Aye,” Arvid agreed, “and fur, too.” He shook his head, clearly in disgust.

  “The barnacle goose, too.”

  Arvid put down his cup. “How did your uneducated kind ever rout us from the lowlands?”

  The earl waved his hand in a dismissive, somewhat feminine gesture. “The Gods, my boy.”

  “But in either case,” Rowena interjected, “a cow is not a fish. And a boar is not a fish.”

  “The Crone has indeed blessed you with the keenest powers of observation,” Callas observed mildly. His hand was around the base of his cup, but he’d drunk barely anything at all.

  “Will there be a bedding?” Apple asked.

  “No.” Tristan’s response was short and firm.

  “That’s a ritual, in the South.”

  “But not in the North.”

  Which was a relief—to Isla, if not to the stepmother who’d have loved to see her humiliated. To, indeed, ensure the maximum amount of horror on Isla’s part. Such was Apple’s nature, even when she didn’t dislike someone.

  The so-called bedding was, especially for a more shy and retiring couple, often the most dreaded part of the entire wedding—or, indeed, of the marriage itself. After the wedding ceremony itself had been performed, and the marriage feast concluded, the newlywed couple was carried upstairs by their guests and put to bed. Often accompanied by everything from ribald suggestions to drum playing. After which, those who didn’t remain outside the door to call in suggestions returned to the feast. Sometimes, everyone remained outside the door. Apple certainly would have.

  “Among my people,” Arvid told them, “when a man wants a woman he carries her off.”

/>   “Arvid,” Tristan told her, “oversimplifies the situation. Having spent time among the tribes, I rather doubt that a single woman has been abducted who hasn’t wished to be. Especially given that the woman must first signal her desire to be abducted by placing a wreath at the man’s feat. And then make herself available for such an act to occur.”

  “This is true.” Arvid sighed. “Ilga made me accept her wreath at knifepoint.”

  “So she abducted you?” Isla asked.

  “She’s delightful!” Arvid told Tristan.

  A stranger wedding feast, Isla didn’t think she’d ever imagined.

  Dish after dish passed before her, brought first to Tristan to sample and then sent on, after he’d served himself, to those choice favorites whom he chose to recognize. To be sent a dish from the head table, from the lord himself, was a tremendous honor indeed. Isla ate sparingly, although the food was delicious. She had too much on her mind to feel hunger, or to even taste the few morsels that did pass her lips. A tremendous waste, she knew; she doubted that she’d ever see such a repast again. But that was the irony of the wedding feast: those of whom it was in honor rarely got to appreciate its bounty.

  Recognizing their new status, Isla and Tristan ate from a single plate and drank from a single cup. The wine hadn’t been watered, and was very strong. The few sips she’d had had gone to her head, partly because she hadn’t eaten anything of substance since the previous morning. Asher brought her a cup of water, for which she was grateful.

  Unlike in Enzie, where dinnertime servitors were cobbled together from their household staff, all of those assisting the head table were of noble rank. For the true nobility, like Tristan, as opposed to men like the earl who simply had a title, a feast—even a wedding feast—was also a display of social and political bonds. The key serving positions, such as Asher’s, provided a highly visible opportunity to declare loyalty. The other pages were all sons of Tristan’s vassals, brought here by the lords they served. They hoped to, one day, succeed in their fathers’ positions or perhaps even to rise higher.