Darkness shrouded the room, except for the glow of a dying fire. The light gleamed faintly on the rounded edges of wine bottles, strewn here and there. The stench hit her like a nauseating wave, rank and sickly. Her stomach roiled and she clasped her hands over her mouth, struggling to keep from retching. She’d smelled it before, only now the reek of many-days-old sweat added to the rest.
She would have rushed from the chamber right then, except that Ruyven had followed her. He touched one shoulder, and she spun around. His expression, what she could make out in the uncertain light, was not unkind. He held up both hands, clearly meaning to reassure her that he meant no harm.
“My lady, you should not be here.”
I have the right to know where my husband is and what he has been doing. But she knew what he had been doing. She wondered if he’d sobered up in between.
With an effort, she took her hands away from her mouth. “Where is he?”
“He is not here.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
Ruyven regarded her with a flat, level gaze. She controlled the impulse to shake the answer out of him. He wasn’t going to tell her. Of course not. His fiercest loyalty had always been to Gwynn.
There was no point in asking if Gwynn was all right. If he’d been drinking himself into a stupor, he wasn’t. But Ruyven would not let him come to any harm. She must content herself with that, and preserve what fragile alliance had grown up between her husband’s man and herself.
33
Perdita joined Alayna for breakfast, as had become their custom, and afterward the two of them embarked on a tour of the castle, searching for a space Alayna might claim as an office. If she were to fulfill her duties as chatelaine of the castle, she needed someplace other than her own sitting room. Dimitra suggested a long-disused chamber that still had a working fireplace and was not too distant from Zefano’s own workplace. Under dust-laden drapings, Alayna discovered a desk, old fashioned but usable once the wood was oiled, with drawers and compartments for scrolls and writing implements, as well as several book cases that still bore ledgers. The pages were brittle and discolored with age, and the writing had faded to illegibility.
Over the next tenday, Alayna cleaned her new office and set it in order. She could have had the servants dust and polish, but this place was to be hers. Back at Rockraven she knew her way around a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush as well as any of them. She borrowed an old gown from one of the kitchen maids, tied a headkerchief over her hair, and set to work. Perdita joined her, similarly clad. It quickly became apparent that, despite her attempts at secrecy, half the castle—the female half—knew what she was up to. One or another of them would peek in, sometimes with the excuse of a trivial question or in response to some errand she could not remember sending them on, and would just happen to have a jar of furniture polish or a pile of clean rags. Somehow, in the process of explaining the forgotten errand or setting down the rags, the maid or scullery maid would pitch in.
Dimitra arrived with two kitchen maids, bearing pitchers of jaco and platters of cheese and toasted nut-bread as an afternoon repast. Alayna set aside her polishing rags and rinsed her hands in the bucket of soapy water. The maids set down their trays on the desk, which was still covered by an old sheet.
“Whose chamber was this?” Alayna asked, in between bites of toast and sips of jaco. “And what was it used for?”
“I believe this was once Lady Scathfell’s study,” Dimitra said, waiting politely for Alayna to help herself to toast. “The mother of old Dom Rakhal, who was Dom Gwynn’s father.”
“His grandmother, then?” Alayna broke off at the sound of men’s voices. One voice was very loud and very angry, and clearly Gwynn’s.
The next moment he burst into the room, Ruyven a pace behind. His face was flushed, and his hair every which way. He halted, directing a wintry glare at first one and then another of the women. “What in Zandru’s seven frozen hells is going on here?”
“Housekeeping,” Alayna replied without moving from her seat. “And a snack. Would you care for some jaco?”
“Who gave you leave to yoosh—use—this chamber? ’Sss—it’s my grandmother’s!”
Alayna could not see Dimitra’s face, but Perdita’s, in profile, turned very pale. She wanted to smack Gwynn for terrifying the poor child. “I was not aware I needed your permission to tidy a room that clearly had not been looked after. It’s not as if it were already in use. However, I see that my actions have upset you. I—”
“Sh—stolen everything that’sh mine.” Gwynn reeled.
Ruyven moved to his lord’s side. “Vai dom, these women are not your enemies. See, here is your loyal wife and her friend, and Domna Dimitra, who has served this house long and faithfully.”
“Loyal? Loyal?” Gwynn made as if to strike his friend, but Ruyven avoided the blow handily and took Gwynn firmly by the elbow. “Thrice-damned traitors—” Alayna was too shocked to follow exactly what was said, but somehow Ruyven got Gwynn under sufficient control to guide him from the room.
Dimitra rushed to the door and locked it. The key itself, when she pressed it into Alayna’s hand, felt cold.
“What does it mean?” Perdita asked in a small voice. She had clearly not yet recovered from her fright in the presence of a very angry, very drunken man, one who had not only tremendous personal physical strength but the power to hang any of them from the battlements. “Why does Lord Scathfell speak of traitors?”
Alayna glanced down at her hands, somewhat surprised they were not trembling. “He didn’t know what he was saying.” But he had known and had meant it.
“If our efforts here have become a subject of discord,” Alayna said, “then we must set them aside for the time being.”
Dimitra gave her a curious look and said, “If that is your wish, vai domna.”
Alayna judged that it would not be wise to approach Gwynn until he’d had time to sober up and hopefully have a decent meal. Over the next days, she kept an eye out for him. She did not want to appear to be searching for him or, gods forbid, spying. Sneaking and skulking—she could imagine his accusations and how his anger would ignite like pitch-pine in fire season. She wasn’t sure how to appear not-sneaking and not-skulking and settled for walking slowly but not too slowly, head high, her smile gracious when there was any occasion that warranted it. In her mind, she practiced what she would say to Gwynn if she encountered him in this corridor, going up those stairs, or in that chamber.
My dear, how lovely to see you again. I’ve missed you.
He’d never believe that, not even if Aldones Lord of Light descended from the heavens and told him so.
Gwynn! Hello, it’s been a while.
And then he’d hear, even if she did not say it, Where have you been? I demand to know!
Likely, she’d just stand there, maybe summon a curtsy if she could manage one without tripping over her own feet, and wait for him to speak. My wife, he might say.
My husband.
You’re looking well.
Yes.
The weather has been very fine for this season.
Yes.
Shall we go down to dinner?
If it pleases you, my lord.
Sometimes the imagined conversations would break down into frantic kisses and avowals of undying love, but even Alayna at her most romantic understood how impossible that would be. The best she could hope for was an exchange of perfectly polite, perfectly insipid phrases.
Fine weather.
Yes.
As best she could, Alayna went about her business. On sunny mornings, she sat with her ladies in the solarium, sewing and making music. She spoke with the cook about the day’s menu, and she consulted with Zefano about the various stores of food; she and Marianna counted linens and inventoried the various herbal tinctures used for healing. Zefano found her a bound blank book
in which to keep a journal; it had probably been intended as a lady’s diary from a generation or so ago, when such things were fashionable, or so Perdita told her during one of their after-dinner meetings.
On one of these occasions, the two friends had exhausted the day’s supply of castle gossip—Shayla had caught the eye of one of the guards, and he, hers—and fell silent. Alayna could not stop wondering how long this separation from her husband would last. Men did return to their real selves, didn’t they?
But which was the real Gwynn—the captivating host and passionate lover she had given her heart to? Or this brooding stranger in whom vengeance festered like an unhealed wound? The man who had spent his entire life in readiness for war?
“Perhaps you will have your meeting tomorrow, my lady,” came Perdita’s gentle voice, “and then all will be well, or at least on the path to being mended.”
In a flash, it came to Alayna that their marriage could not be mended—Gwynn could not be mended—until he gave up this insane feud. She wondered how he could ever stop hating Aldaran for the deaths of his parents and brother, and then feeling cheated by the loss of Kyria and the sons he’d hoped for.
“I hope that may be so,” Alayna said, struggling to mask her thoughts, “but if not, we will all continue as best we can. At least, winter’s worst is behind us. Zefano said that the weather will soon be fine enough to permit a day’s outing.”
Perdita’s expression brightened. “We arrived so late last year, I’ve had little opportunity to explore the lands hereabout. I am not a great rider, as you know, but even so, I would like to see more of the valley and its folk.”
“Then we shall visit them together,” Alayna promised. It was high time she took an interest in the farmers and herding folk, as well as the villagers. The fields where the army camped, she could cheerfully avoid.
The notion was so appealing, so lifting to Alayna’s spirits, that she had no difficulty in falling asleep at the proper time. On this night, as on many others, she heard voices, Gwynn’s and Ruyven’s, coming from his sitting room. She no longer tried to make out what they were saying. With the latch on her side of the interconnecting bedroom door firmly jammed, she left them to their own.
She jerked awake at the sound of tapping. Darkness still shrouded the room and the air was chill; as near as she could judge, given the sleep-befuddled state of her mind, it lacked several hours until dawn. Holding her breath, she listened. The sound came again, from the door leading to her own parlor. Grabbing her dressing robe, she made her way across the room.
Dimitra stood there, holding a branched candelabrum. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, vai domna.”
Alayna made a dismissive gesture. Whatever had gotten Dimitra out of bed could not be trivial. “What’s wrong?”
“Dom Ruyven has been injured. His servant came to me, frightened half out of his wits.”
“Avarra’s mercy!”
“Indeed. Will you come, my lady? According to Dom Ruyven’s servant, he has refused to seek aid, but I think he will not deny yours.”
“Of course, I will come.” Alayna hurried back to her bedchamber to make herself presentable, for the lady of the castle could not go rushing about in her nightgown, no matter how grave the cause.
Dimitra followed close behind. “Sometimes a calming presence is all that’s needed to sort matters out. The servant may have panicked at the sight of a few bruises.”
The two women hurried up a flight of stairs to the rooms occupied by unmarried men of good standing. Ruyven’s quarters consisted of a sitting room, with a door leading to a small bedchamber. Alayna had only the most hurried impression of the furnishings: several elaborately carved wardrobes and an equal number of chests, a standing full-length mirror. The bed curtains had been pulled aside, not in an orderly way but rumpled. Alayna caught the sweet-tart aroma of Gwynn’s best red wine.
The light of Dimitra’s candles fell full on Ruyven’s unconscious form. His eyes were closed, his hair was disheveled, and dark smears covered one side of his face, running down the side of his neck and chest. The front of his jacket was unfastened. Dimitra lifted one side of it and lifted the candle higher. Glistening wetness drenched one side of his neck, seeping down the front of his shirt. Alayna smelled it now, rising above the reek of the wine: that distinctive, coppery tang.
“Sweet heavens, is he—”
Ruyven himself answered her with an explosive sound that was as much a snore as a snuffling grunt. Alayna’s gaze met Dimitra’s; they were thinking the same thing. Dimitra shook her head, meaning that even if he were as drunk as a Comyn lord on Midsummer, the blood was real. Together they straightened him out, brought water—grown cold at this hour—and towels, and lit as many additional candles as they could find. By rolling him from side to side, they managed to extricate his arms from the jacket and slide it out from under him. It was stained along the opening, but that could not be helped. And serve him right, Alayna thought.
Dimitra drew out a little pair of scissors, along with a needle, thread, and an extra candle stub. She held the needle in a candle flame, threaded it, and then set it carefully on the stub.
Beginning along Ruyven’s neck and proceeding downward, Alayna washed him. At any moment, she expected to discover a deep slash, perhaps still oozing blood. Ruyven shifted, occasionally muttering phrases Alayna could not make out, interspersed with ones she wished she hadn’t. Carefully she cut away the shirt, peeling back the sodden strips, but still there was no discernible wound.
“I don’t understand,” she said at last, surveying his bare torso, lightly smeared with blood. “Where did all the blood come from? Maybe—oh, Dimitra, maybe it isn’t his? Could it be Gwynn’s?”
“No, I think it’s his. Here, look at this.” Dimitra angled the light to shine on the far side of Ruyven’s head. Alayna had already washed his temple and cheek, and had not thought to look more closely. “There, under his hair.”
Alayna bent over, turning his head for a better view. Indeed, there it was, an open gash in his scalp, a couple of inches above the hairline. Blood flowed sluggishly from it, soaking the pillow. “This was the source of all the blood? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Scalp wounds bleed profusely,” Dimitra observed. “This one will need to be sutured, and best to do it now, when he can’t feel it. But I’m afraid my eyesight is none too good in this light.”
“That’s all right, I’ll do it.” Ruyven would be far less likely to complain if she, Lady Scathfell, had mended his cut with her own hands.
After wiping the area around the gash, Alayna took up the threaded needle. The skin was more like leather than fabric, and it took more effort than she expected to force the needle through, especially when the oozing blood made the needle slippery.
“I wonder how he cut his head,” she said, trying to distract herself. “Likely falling and smacking it against something unforgiving.”
“Ask rather why he was falling down, or who he was falling down with. You don’t think he became inebriated all on his own?”
“Ow!” said Ruyven, as Alayna jabbed the needle back through the lip of the gash.
“Not inebriated enough, apparently. Lie still, you wretched man. You deserve every—single—puncture—”
His eyes flew open and he struggled to lift his head.
Dimitra pressed a firm hand against his chest. “Dom Ruyven, with utmost respect, you do not want to do that. Not when Lady Scathfell has a very sharp needle, is about to poke it into your scalp, and has every reason to be angry with the man who encourages her husband in getting drunk.”
“Not my fault. Keeping him company—make him too drunk to think—”
“I wouldn’t,” Dimitra said, every syllable precise. “I really wouldn’t.”
34
Alayna stationed watchers outside both Ruyven’s door and Gwynn’s, with strict instructions t
o alert her the moment either of them stirred. It was not until well past noon that the man assigned to Ruyven found her in the solarium with Perdita. After ordering breakfast to be brought to Ruyven’s chambers, Alayna went there, moving at a leisurely pace to give him ample time to tidy himself. Her knocking elicited a groan, which was all the greeting that could be expected from a man who’d been excessively drunk the night before. She found him sitting on the chest at the foot of his bed, wearing the same trousers and boots as last night. His shirt, while clean, looked rumpled. He was poking gingerly at the injured side of his head, and each touch produced a wince. His eyes were visibly bloodshot, and he hadn’t shaved.
“Vai domna,” he said, managing to get to his feet and bow. “You find me somewhat—improperly attired.”
“You looked even worse last night. Now sit down and let me take a look.”
He sat, although his motion was closer to falling. Alayna crossed to the wash stand, poured out a little water, dipped a corner of the smallest towel, and rubbed it over the ball of fine lemon-scented soap. These she carried to where he sat.
“No, don’t touch!” she said, slapping his hand away. “You’ll get it dirty, and that’s if you don’t pull out the stitches.”
He winced as she parted his hair and dabbed at the crusted blood. To her relief, the wound looked clean. The stitches had all held, which was something of a miracle, given last night’s conditions.
“I take it that you are responsible for doctoring my scalp,” he said, “for which service, my thanks.” He sounded too miserable to be very grateful.
“I did,” she said, setting aside the cloth and basin, “although I was hoping you could tell me how it happened.”
He didn’t answer, he wouldn’t look at her.
“You owe me the truth, Ruyven. Your shirt was so drenched with blood, I thought surely someone had stuck a knife into you.”
Thunderlord Page 37
