by Karen Miller
Berardine’s indrawn breath sounded harsh. Painful. “There is more, Catrain. And worse.”
She looked at the second letter her mother held out. Worse? Roric had rejected her. What could be worse than that?
“Mama—”
“Be silent and read it,” her mother said coldly. “You cannot learn too soon about the perfidy of men.”
Roric’s rejection hurt and offended her. But she’d much rather that than the fear now curdling in her throat. Her mother had become a pagan goddess, icy and remote. Fright-sweat damped her temples, her armpits, the palms of her unsteady hands. She tossed Roric’s rejection onto the seat of a nearby chair and took the second letter.
“To Berardine, Duchess of Ardenn, from the Regents’ Council of His Most Sovereign and Serene Highness Prince Gaël,’ it read, the heavy parchment gilded, each cursive character exquisitely formed with expensive ink by a master scribe. “Madam: we understand you have sought for your husband’s eldest daughter and heir, Catrain, a match with the bastard murderer and traitor Roric, self-styled Duke of Clemen. Be apprised of His Highness’s grave displeasure at this news and know you are summoned before this council, in the company of Baldwin’s heir, to explain your grievous actions.”
Catrain stared at her mother’s sword-straight back. “Could it be a forgery?”
“No. That is the prince’s seal.” Berardine snorted. “His Highness’s grave displeasure. As if a milk-sucking babe feels grave displeasure over anything but the emptiness of its wet nurse’s tit. Oh, Catrain! These men who want to rule me. Curse their blood, curse their bones, and their tiny little cocks.”
Startled by her mother’s crudity, she dropped the regent’s letter. Hid her confusion by hastily retrieving it from the carpet. “What are you going to do, Mama?”
“Do?” Berardine turned away from the window. As befitted an icy pagan goddess, her cheeks were pale as snow. “What can I do, Catrain, but obey this arrogant demand? A duchess is not a prince, nor even a prince’s regent.”
Hidden by her long wool skirts, her knees were shamefully trembling. “Will they punish you for offering me to Roric?”
“No. They’ll bluster and they’ll threaten, but they’ve no power to do more.”
She wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe her mother believed it. But behind Berardine’s cold self-control there was a fear that matched her own. She could feel it.
“Mama…” She had to wet her dry lips. “What if they decree I’m to marry a man of their choosing?”
Berardine’s eyes glittered like frozen glass. “They won’t.”
“They might! What if—”
“There is no what if, Catrain. Do you think I’d allow the regents to wed you anywhere without my consent? Do you imagine Ardenn would allow it?”
A surge of relief. Her mother was right. She was Baldwin’s daughter, adored by his people. Let the regents try to force a marriage and the whole duchy would rise in protest. That was Baldwin’s power, seven years after his death. And the regents knew it. She was safe.
Or was she?
Chilled, she looked again at the regents’ unfriendly letter. “If that’s true, Mama, then why am I summoned?”
“Because the prince’s keepers seek to beat two mares with one stick,” Berardine said, derisive. “You’re to be duchess after me, remember? They want you subdued, while you’re still young.”
It seemed the most likely explanation. And yet… “What aren’t you telling me, Mama? I thought we agreed I’m no longer a child.”
Instead of answering, her mother crossed the chamber to Baldwin’s imposing desk and sat behind it. Her restless fingers tapped his fabulously expensive silver-filigreed onyx inkwell, the one gifted to him by his second cousin’s youngest daughter, who’d married the heir to Duchy Trehnt. Still cold, her eyes watched the play of light on her pearl and ruby rings.
Catrain followed her to the desk. “Mama? Please. If yesterday I was old enough to marry, then today I’m old enough to know the truth.”
With a shuddering sigh, her mother looked up. “Prove it. Read the regents’ letter again.”
And what did that mean? Had she misread it the first time? Missed some hidden message or meaning? One uncertain glance at her mother, then she scanned the letter a second time.
… we understand you have sought for your husband’s eldest daughter and heir, Catrain, a match with the bastard murderer and traitor Roric…
Oh! Of course! Like a ninny she’d let herself be blinded by the pain of Roric’s rejection. The regents understood there’d been a match sought? How? Unless–unless—
“So,” said her mother, darkly pleased. “It seems you have the makings of a duchess after all. Yes, Catrain. We were betrayed.”
“Not by Roric,” she said quickly. “He’s not that kind of man.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know him.”
“Yes, I do. When we saved those horses, I—”
“Not another word about those wretched horses, Catrain!”
No fool, she fell silent. But she knew she was right. At court a man could hide his true face, wear a hundred different masks, disguise the stench of evil with a soaking of sweet perfume. But fire burned away all pretence. Surrounded by smoke and flame she’d seen Roric for who he really was. And for her sins, between heartbeats, she’d fallen in love with the man he’d shown her…
… but she wasn’t going to think about that. Not yet. Not until she could think of him without wanting to weep. But that didn’t mean she could leave him undefended.
“It wasn’t Roric, Mama.”
“You’d accuse our sailing captain? Or Master Tihomir? Or perhaps this betrayal is Howkin’s doing!”
She felt her face flush. “I’d say rather the lord Humbert’s behind it! His daughter’s to marry Roric, isn’t she? What if he wanted to make certain, and so sent word to the regents of our meeting in Eaglerock to stir trouble for us.”
“Humbert?” Berardine murmured. Her gaze softened as she considered. “That’s a clever thought, Catrain.”
Judging it safe enough, Catrain sat in a tapestried chair without asking permission. “And if not Humbert, then it was another of Roric’s councillors.”
“You seem very sure.”
She was. Her history tutor didn’t leave every lesson smiling for no reason. “Clemen’s noblemen deposed Harald for their own purposes as much as for the duchy. I’d wager every pendant in my jewel-case they think Roric the bastard owes them his fealty more than they owe any to him.”
Now her mother’s gaze was intent. “Meaning they’d never permit him to marry you. Or indeed any maid safely beyond their control.” A strange look passed over her face. “I should have seen that. And I would have seen it, only—”
“Only what, Mama?” she said, uneasy. Her mother’s stricken expression was disturbing. “I don’t—”
Berardine stood. “It’s nothing, child,” she said, her face snowfall-smooth again. “A passing thought, of no import.”
She didn’t believe that, but there’d be a better time to pursue further truths. “So, Mama.” She tossed the regents’ letter onto her father’s desk. “When do we leave for the Prince’s Isle?”
“We don’t,” her mother said, frowning. “I’ll be confronting the regents alone.”
“But Mama—”
“Don’t argue! Their quarrel is with me, Catrain. I’ll not have you dragged into it!” Berardine turned to the portrait on the wall behind the desk. “Your father would never forgive me for that.”
“The regents won’t forgive you for leaving me behind!”
“I’ve made my decision.” Her mother nodded at the door. “Now, be a good girl and go. I’ve much to arrange and little time at my disposal.”
And that was that. Defeated, Catrain dropped into a curtsey. “Madam,” she said, the dutiful daughter, and did as she was told.
Berardine departed Carillon at dawn the following morning. Catrain watched her mother’s
carriage out of sight, her throat tight, her eyes stinging. Then she set about killing fear with duty. Thirteen days later a troop of royal men-at-arms trotted menacingly into the ducal palace’s forecourt.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Howkin said, his voice choked. “But they’re sent by the prince’s regents and they have a warrant. Look.”
Outwardly stony-faced, inwardly panicked, Catrain took the parchment he thrust at her. Read it quickly, willing her heart not to beat right through her chest. The warrant gave no hint of what had been done with her mother, just tersely commanded that she present herself before the regents’ council without delay. Like the first letter it was signed by Lord Leofric, maternal uncle to the prince.
Howkin’s fingers were clenching and unclenching, betraying his agitation. “Captain Markus awaits your answer, my lady.”
Captain Markus could go piss himself. But since that wasn’t the kind of thing Baldwin’s daughter could say out loud, she nodded at her father’s majordomo.
“Tell the good captain that as Prince Gaël’s loyal subject I shall of course obey. I suppose I’m to be given enough time to pack suitable clothing?”
“Captain Markus indicated his desire to depart Carillon within the hour.”
“Carrying me piggy-back behind his saddle?” she asked. “Or am I permitted the extravagance of a coach?”
“Neither,” said Howkin, smiling despite his dismay. “The captain understands my lady is an intrepid horsewoman and hopes she is fit enough to ride with him and his men.”
That made her stare. “He wants me to travel for nearly a week without a suitable female companion?”
“I did object, my lady,” said Howkin. “You have the regents’ word your honour won’t be touched.”
“Do I?” she said sourly. Ordinarily there was nothing she’d love more than several days of cross-country riding on her favourite horse, without the burden of a complaining female companion. But the thought of agreeing to anything this captain wanted made her teeth ache. “And if it turns out I’m not as intrepid as he’s heard?”
“My lady…” Howkin hesitated, then heaved a mournful sigh. “I think it prudent to accommodate him. I fear Captain Markus is a man lacking both patience and humour.”
She glanced out of her dayroom’s window. “And common sense, apparently. Or else he’s blind. It’s raining, Howkin.”
“The captain seems indifferent to rain, hail or shine.”
Well, didn’t he sound charming? “Very well. Inform Captain Markus I’ll meet him downstairs in an hour. Then tell the stables I want Otebon groomed and saddled. Oh–and have the kitchens send me up a meal to eat while I’m packing. Nothing too heavy.” She smiled, unamused. “Or likely to excite the bowels. I don’t suppose this dour captain wants to be stopping every half-league or so.”
“Very well, my lady,” said Howkin, his eyes bright. “And if you’ll excuse me saying so, could Duke Baldwin see you now he’d be ever so proud.”
The comment caught her off-guard. Hiding emotion behind a frown, she nodded. “Thank you, Howkin. Now, best not keep the captain waiting.”
“My lady.”
“Howkin—”
Pausing, he turned. “My lady?”
“I don’t suppose–I mean—” She lifted her chin. “Did Captain Markus bring any word from the duchess?”
Howkin seemed to shrink a little. “No, my lady. I’m sorry.”
Yes. And so was she. Sorry… and afraid.
It was tempting to be late downstairs purely on principle. But she didn’t delay, because she was her father’s daughter and Baldwin always said only a fool made an enemy without good reason.
Captain Markus, grey-haired and wiry, was polite enough, but aloof. His men, ten of them, were likewise fit and unapproachable and, echoing their captain, indifferent to the soft, soaking rain. They surrounded her in the palace forecourt like wolves circling a lone lamb, and at Markus’s barked order hustled her away in his wake.
Snatching a last look behind her she saw Howkin and her bevy of matronly attendants and her sisters, Brielle, Derrice and Markela, standing on the palace steps. Every one of them was weeping.
She wanted to weep too, but she’d die before she let the regents’ wolves see how much she feared the future she was riding towards.
For five gruelling days, from before dawn until deepest dusk, they rode hard on their tough horses and she rode harder still to keep up. They left Ardenn behind, crossed first into Trehnt and then into Rebbai. Captain Markus made no allowance for her. Each night, as they bedded down in this plain inn, or that one, all he asked was whether she could continue. And though her body shrieked in protest, all she ever answered was yes. Beyond that, she thought, to him and his men she might’ve been a block of wood.
They reached the Prince’s Isle late on the fifth day after leaving Carillon. But when dusk fell, instead of stopping for the night Captain Markus kept riding. Then dusk gave way to darkness and still he kept riding, willing to risk the horses beneath a sliver of miserly moon.
By the time they stumbled through the imposing gates of the prince’s palace, Catrain was so bone-shatteringly weary she could hardly remember her own name. Impersonally rough hands pulled her out of the saddle, stripped off her riding cloak, hustled her indoors. Too tired and hungry to care about the whispers and stares that followed her, she let herself be chivvied through the palace until she reached a large, gilded chamber warm and bright as noon with burning candles. Blinking at the three men and one woman who stood before her, Catrain cleared her throat.
“Where is my mother? I demand that you take me to the Duchess of Ardenn.”
The oldest of the three men was dressed head-to-toe in black. His black hair was oiled and close-cropped, his beard badger-striped grey. He looked at her with brown eyes containing no warmth at all.
“Little girls don’t make demands. They hold their tongues and do as they’re told.”
“I am not a little girl. I am Baldwin’s daughter.”
The man smiled, a snarl of teeth. “You are one of Baldwin’s daughters. As for your mother, she’s returned home.”
Knives of fear, stabbing. “Without me? I don’t believe you!”
“Believe what you like,” he said, shrugging. “I am Lord Leofric. This is Lord Auberon.” He gestured to the red-haired man to his right. “And this is Lord Beyden.” A gesture to his left, at a bald man with a paunch. “We are the prince’s regents.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “My lords, why am I brought here?”
Leofric nodded to the elegant woman standing off to one side. “This is my wife, Lady Leofric. She will have the governance of you, while you’re in our care.”
Terrible waves of heat and cold were washing over her like storm-surge. “What do you mean, in your care?” she said faintly. “Where is my mother? I want to see my mother! I want–I want—”
The bright room dimmed as her vision blurred, as her bones turned to water and she crumpled to the floor. The last thing she heard, before darkness claimed her, was a woman’s voice whispering into her ear.
“Hold your tongue, my husband said. The prince and his regents don’t care what you want.”
“What?” Berardine said blankly, staring at Howkin. “How can Catrain be gone? Gone where? With whom? Man, what—”
Howkin was wringing his hands. “Madam, madam, the regents sent for her. Days ago. With a warrant. I was sure you knew. And when word came to me your carriage was sighted I assumed you were bringing her home!”
The regents. Those duplicitous, treacherous bastards. “What warrant? Show me.”
Howkin sent for the warrant and, surrounded by tearful servants, she read it. Crushed it in her fist when she was done. “Get out. All of you. And if you value your freedom, don’t come back till I send for you.”
Wisely, not a one of them protested. As Howkin and her ladies trickled out of her dayroom, she retreated to her privy chamber and slammed the door shut.
“Mada
m,” said a soft voice. “You are troubled. Let me lift your cares.”
Berardine felt her heart near stop with fright. Then she saw it. A slender shadow standing against the night-drawn curtains. Memory woke. Izusa. She moistened her lips. “You. How did you get in here?”
“Does it matter? You’re in no danger.”
“I promise you, one of us is. You said you’d give me counsel, but it’s been years, Izusa. Where were you?”
“Madam…” Izusa sighed, chiding. “I said I’d come if you needed me. You’ve not needed me till now. And now I’m here. Let me help.”
“Help?” Sick with rage, Berardine snatched a cushion from a nearby chair and threw it. “Liar! Deceiver! Slither from my presence the way you came and never show your face again!”
Unperturbed, Izusa stepped forward into warm candle-light. “Do not fret, Berardine. Your daughter is safe.”
“She’s been taken by Leofric and his lapdogs! How is she safe?”
Fox-red hair curled in twists and tangles around Izusa’s narrow face. “The regents will not harm her. You have my word.”
“Why should I believe you? Everything you’ve ever told me was a lie!”
“Everything?” Izusa’s lips curved, briefly. “Berardine.”
She wanted to slap and scratch the witch’s hollow cheeks until the blood ran. “You told me she’d marry Roric!”
“True,” said Izusa. “But did I say when?”
“What?”
“Catrain will marry Roric, Madam. When the time is right.”
Still smiling, cat-confident, Izusa settled herself on the edge of the large four-poster bed. Patted the marten-pelt coverlet beside her. Dazed, Berardine started towards the bed then caught herself, just in time, and instead chose an unpadded wooden settle. She was duchess here, not Baldwin’s soothsayer.
“Explain yourself,” she said coldly. “Or things will go ill for you.”
If Izusa was frightened, she didn’t show it. “You are angry.”
“Indeed! How amazing. You must be a witch.”
“Madam…” Another chiding sigh. “The regents have taken your daughter so they might keep you constrained.”
