by Aldrea Alien
Clara’s face heated faster than the dampened fire and hot tea could provide. She let her gaze drift towards the dimming embers poking out of the ashes. “That was probably my fault.” After everything she’d said and done in Thad’s presence—from her mistaken accusation of Lucias’ intention to rape her, to fleeing for home at the first chance she got—the man had probably been dumbfounded to discover just who his lord planned to marry.
“Nonsense.” Thalia flapped her hand in the air as if batting the thought away. “He was probably shocked that, after so many generations, a Great Lord would choose to marry his mistress.” She lifted her cup to her lips and hummed. “I don’t know what went on between you and our Great Lord—unlike some of my ladies, I’m aware such talk is none of my business.” She leant forward and laid her hand atop Clara’s. “But truth be told, when he greeted you just now, I’ve never seen him happier.”
“He missed me.” That knowledge alone made her trip here bearable.
The woman sat back with a grunt. “Of course he has, the man’s been insufferable since he arrived. Hardly ever rests. Barely talks about anything beyond you and tactics. Thankfully, the border attacks have been brief and relatively bloodless. For our side, at least.”
Clara felt the blood rushing from her face. She glanced at the floor, fully expecting to find a puddle of it pooling around her boots. “He’s been patrolling the border?” When the woman mentioned patrols, the very idea of him being anywhere near the border hadn’t crossed her mind.
Now that it had, her stomach knotted at the thought of him barrelling headlong into battle, knowing full well what his death would do to the kingdom. Of how many soulless men and women would suddenly be in full command of themselves. She’d already saved this kingdom from a fate of being torn apart by its own criminals bent on vengeance towards those who’d sent them to their worse-than-death sentences. She had no desire to repeat such an act.
Was his very-much-direct involvement in defence the reason he’d kept communications between Endlight and the Citadel to a minimum? So she wouldn’t find out? They were going to have some very long talks about that. “Since when?” The question came out far sharper than she intended, but she had to know. “And how often?”
“Daily since he arrived. And there are his biweekly visits to the Pillars…” Thalia shook her head. “And my darling husband tags along every time. I’m certain he’s convinced that it’s his duty alone to keep his lord safe.”
“And have there been any attacks whilst he’s there?” If Thad had enough sense to know Lucias should not be putting himself in such danger, then he also should’ve been using whatever brother-like influence he claimed to have on his Great Lord to direct Lucias away from the enemy.
Thalia grimaced. “I haven’t asked. But I would suspect they get into the usual conflict the patrols all face nearer the mountains.”
Minor skirmishes, then. It was still too dangerous. All it’d take to kill Lucias would be one well-aimed arrow, or one lucky sword swing, and the kingdom would tear itself apart. She rubbed at her temple. Lucias dear, you are a fool. Had she not come to that conclusion months ago? Yes. But he was her fool. Or, at least, he would be by the end of this week.
“Oh!” Thalia hastily set her cup aside to clasp Clara’s knee. “But I am upsetting you.”
“Not at all.” The grip on her knee was quite strong, stronger than she expected from a woman of noble birth. She twisted her leg to and fro, unable to find a means of relaxing the fingers holding her fast. “Really.” She should’ve expected Lucias to fling himself into battle alongside his men instead of sitting idly by.
“I’m certain our Great Lord is taking every precaution towards keeping himself safe. He’s not an easy man to anger.”
Clara thought back to her first few weeks in the Citadel. Even when riled, he’d been beyond patient with her, certainly more so than she would’ve been if the situation was reversed. “And you must know a lot about him to be confident in that assessment.”
The fine lines around Thalia’s eyes deepened. “I may not have known him for as long as my husband, but I know him well enough.”
The door at the far end of the room creaked open, the diversion enough to let Clara win her knee free of Thalia’s grip.
A woman, likely the same age as herself, appeared around the door and scurried to their side. “My ladies.” She curtsied deeply before them. “I was instructed to bring word to the Great Lord’s Mistress that her room is ready and to escort her there at her convenience.”
Clara sighed. Great Lord’s Mistress. How she hated the sound of her title. As if she’d suddenly stopped having an identity of her own the very second word had leaked out of the newly-made Great Lord having already chosen the woman who was to produce his much-needed heir. It would only get worse once they were married.
At least Great Lord’s Wife was a title she could live with.
She stood, smiling her thanks to Thalia. “I should go freshen up.” She faced the servant as Thalia babbled her understanding and farewells. “Lead the way.”
“Yes, my lady,” the woman said, bobbing another curtsy.
Clara followed the servant through the winding halls. Unlike the dim, enclosed halls of the Citadel, they breezed through wide, airy sections lit by way of large windows or a line of bright candles.
There were people everywhere. Most of them were garbed in the muted greens of the castle staff and they went silently about their duties without a glance in their direction, but a handful of the men and women she saw had the look of nobility about them. It was these people who watched their passage with great interest.
My passage. They had to know all about her by now. She coiled a finger around a lock of hair, morosely tugging it before realising even that action was being noted. I have to be careful. This was to become her life from now on. Her every movement, every single word she uttered… just fodder for these people.
Small wonder Lucias held little fondness for social events. He probably used the patrols as an excuse to keep away from these people for as long as was possible without arousing suspicion. I wonder if I can join him. She’d grown quite accustomed to wielding a sword over the past few months.
“Not much further, mistress,” the woman said as they ascended a short set of stairs and began their way down another lavishly decorated corridor.
There weren’t many doors down this stretch, what with one side being mostly windows. A large portion of the doorways were shut. However, through the open doors, she spied rooms that appeared empty of residents. Was she to have this section of the castle to herself?
“Here we are.” The woman stopped before a dark door. Unlike the others, the wood was engraved with the stylised fire of the Great Lord.
Clara eyed the door directly opposite. It was one of the empty rooms. “Will my page be nearby?” She wasn’t likely to require Tommy’s services during her stay here, but she’d certainly feel better having someone she knew and trusted within earshot. Just in case. They were near the border, after all, it couldn’t be considered as being paranoid to prepare oneself for the possibility of danger.
“Your page will be stationed across the hall, my lady.” The woman opened the door and bowed. “I’ve been instructed to tell you the key to your chambers is on the bedside table.”
She stepped past the woman and into the room, softly grumbling to herself upon taking in the decor. Throughout the castle, she’d seen greens and golds adorning the walls and flooring. But here, it was like someone had taken a small chunk of the Citadel, using the dark colours to decorate this one room.
Large windows took over most of the outer wall. The autumn sunlight glowed softly against the warm wood of the furniture only to be captured in the darkness of the bedding and the curtains. At the foot of her bed sat the two chests she had journeyed with, both of them blending into the shadows. And here I thought I’d escaped the black and reds for just one week.
“I do hope it is acceptable for her
ladyship.” The servant cleared her throat. “A bath has been drawn to your preferred specifications.” She indicated a second door.
“A bath?” She whirled on the woman. “It’ll be ready right now?” After a week travelling across the kingdom, such a luxury would be bliss.
The servant flinched and then curtsied. “Of course, my lady. The count prides his staff on our efficiency.” She dipped her head. “Someone will be up in the evening to escort you to dinner. Unless her ladyship requires anything else…?”
Escorted to a meal. She had not required such formalities for many months. But then, with only the pair of them sharing the Citadel’s great hall alongside the soulless servants, neither Lucias nor herself saw much point in any sort of ceremony. And when he left her side for Endlight, she ate every meal in the kitchen whilst the servants continued their tasks around her.
“No, thank you, that’ll be all.”
Clara waited until the woman was gone before further exploring her accommodations. True to the servant’s word, a key sat on the bedside table. Seeing it didn’t bring as much comfort as she hoped. There were undoubtedly other copies.
The bed itself was quite large. Bigger than the one she slept in back at the Citadel, yet not as wide as the bed filling the Great Lord’s windowless bedchamber. Big enough for two. But she wouldn’t be sharing this bed with Lucias, would she? He’d surely carry her off to his own chambers—wherever that was—and ravish his newly-made wife there.
Clara snatched up the key and, with her face heating something fierce at the thought of their wedding night, hastily locked herself in before making for the adjoining door. Would it be too much to ask for the bathwater to be cold?
The red and black motif carried on in the second room. Even the bath, standing in the middle of the room with steam issuing from the sudsy water, did not escape the stark treatment; its outer shell having been coated in black enamel.
Lured by the perfume and gentle warmth caressing her cheeks, Clara quickly stripped and sank into the bath’s welcoming embrace. She stared up at the ceiling, her mind unable to keep still. No one would be requiring anything of her until this evening, where she’d encounter the majority of the court for the first time.
This is it. Her stomach twisted. No more hiding away in the Citadel for her. Tonight, she would stand before them and be known as nothing else except the Great Lord’s Mistress.
Clara slipped further into the water. Goddess, she pleaded. Don’t let me embarrass myself.
Chapter Three
“Aren’t you hungry?”
Clara looked up from her bowl and to her right, instantly meeting Lucias’ eyes. Such a warm, dark shade of brown and brimming with concern. “I was,” she confessed. The journey had made her so nervous that she’d barely eaten much of anything.
And yet, as ravenous as she had been…
She lifted her spoon to timidly stir the pale gloop which she sincerely hoped was meant to be some sort of fish soup. Her stomach twisted, threatening a revolt if she put even a spoonful into her mouth. “I guess I’m not one for seafood.” Clara winced as the words left her lips. Her mother would’ve whipped her backside and sent her off to bed hungry for refusing good food.
She took a deep breath. This wasn’t the little house she’d once called home and there was more than just her mother and herself here. Whatever wasn’t consumed by the court wouldn’t go to waste.
Her gaze lifted from the bowl to the tables filling the castle’s great hall. No matter how hard she tried to ignore the flurry of motion coming from the tables arrayed before them, she couldn’t. Each mighty row of wood had its fair share of men and women. I didn’t think there’d be so many. There had to be over a hundred people seated before her. The whole court. It had to be.
Those who sat closer to the head table were bedecked in finer clothing than she was. Several of them glittered in the candlelight as they moved. Most of them appeared engaged in their own little conversations. Even so, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were also secretly watching her.
It didn’t help that she’d been seated at the head table, sharing it with not only Lucias but Count Farris and his family. Or at least a handful of his older children. Despite knowing the count had been married several times, she hadn’t expected his family to be quite so large. Sixteen children if she’d heard right, the youngest being only three years of age.
At least she didn’t have to share the table with all of them. Not that it would’ve mattered if Farris’ entire family had surrounded her. Like Thad’s blond mop of hair, she still would’ve stood out like a lit torch amongst so many dark-haired people. I should’ve worn the scarf. It would’ve been hot and uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t be so easily spotted. The perfect target for an assassination if the neighbouring kingdoms were so inclined. Bit late for such regrets.
Another person’s hand grasped the rim of her bowl.
Clara jerked upright, instinctively clutching her chest in search of her dagger. Her fingers had closed around the hilt when she realised it was merely Lucias.
“If you’re only going to play with your food,” he said, “then here…” In one swift move, he switched his empty bowl for her full one and proceeded to devour the contents, lifting the bowl ever nearer his mouth to speed the process.
She snickered into her gloved hand as he slurped down the last of her soup, forgoing the spoon altogether. In their time apart, she’d forgotten the amount of food he could consume in one sitting.
Clara poked his side. “You’ll get fat if you keep eating so much.” It was thrice the amount she’d seen any one man eat for a single meal, even during the Feast Days back in Everdark.
Lucias snorted and plonked the bowl back onto the table. “I’ve been eating like this for half my life.” He patted his stomach. “Haven’t gained anything yet. You, on the other hand.” His gaze swept over her, clearly pleased with what he saw. “I see Gettie has been making sure you eat well enough.”
Growing warmth took hold of her cheeks. After months of being under the old woman’s care and eating far more than she used to back in the village, Clara’s body had definitely done much towards filling out a few of the hollows in her figure. Her daily routine of sparring with the guards—both in unarmed combat and with a short sword—was steadily aiding in shaping the rest.
Servants bustled around the table, collecting the empty bowls. More people pushed carts laden with domed platters into the room. Clara’s nose twitched at the smell of roasted flesh wafting from them. It wasn’t a familiar scent. Whilst Lucias and herself had eaten modestly enough in the Citadel, she rather doubted the court would follow suit.
Even so, her stomach gave what she hoped was a hungry grumble.
A pair of servants pushing one of the many carts advanced on the head table. A few more followed, each with an additional platter in hand. One from the latter group bowed to Lucias and presented him with one of the platters. At Lucias’ nod, the servant lifted the lid. The steaming dish underneath was piled high and festooned with bright decorations.
Clara froze as a similar dish was set before her. The servants back in the Citadel never did this and, after months, they’d become so accustomed to her preferences that she never needed to ask them to prepare her anything more lavish than a stew.
The men bowed and moved down the table.
No longer so focused on the pair, Clara gradually became aware of how other servants were engaged in similar tasks around the room. They went along the tables in pairs, unveiling a domed platter for each guest. Quite different to how the food at the Citadel was served during the last feast. There, it had all been laid out on the table for anyone to grab in whatever portion they wished.
The blade of a knife clanked terribly against the rim of her plate—which she now saw was etched with swirls of gilding. Clara jumped, a startled squeak escaping her throat. She followed the knife to the hand holding it, then up the arm. Eventually glaring at Lucias.
Infuriatingly,
he merely stared back, a tight smile gracing his lips. With that insufferable look on his face, he picked up his goblet and shook it at a passing servant.
It wasn’t until the woman had refilled the goblet with wine and moved on that he spoke.
“Clara.” His voice was pitched so quietly that her name escaped as little more than a sigh. “I rather doubt you’ve eaten a single thing today. You must be starving. If you don’t start eating fairly soon, I shall summon a doctor.”
She blinked, following his gaze to take in the half-consumed bulk of his meal and the untouched heap on her plate. Did he truly think her ill enough to warrant a doctor? Most likely. And such an action would garner all sorts of talk that she could do without.
Giving him a brief smile, she tried her best to ignore the servants still flitting about and turned her attention to the food. It was a bird of some sort, a whole roasted bird about half the size of the chickens she’d seen hanging in the butchery window down the street from her mother’s home. The bird sat upon a slice of crisp bread, which seemed to be getting less crisp by the second, and was encircled by an assortment of steaming vegetables.
Clara poked the bird with her fork before plucking a slice of carrot from the base. At least that was recognisable. She frowned at the first bite. It didn’t taste like any carrot she’d ever had. Not bad, a little sweeter than she liked, but not inedible. Emboldened, she moved on to the meat. That, too, surprised her by being not so different from the rabbits her father used to bring home.
On the edge of her vision, she could see Lucias watching her eat with visible relief.
Guilt twisted her stomach. She’d only refused the soup because she’d been unsure of the contents. She hadn’t realised such refusals still upset him. Had she not made herself clear enough that she’d no intention of leaving his side, much less stage the same act of refusing food to get her way?
It was probably for the best to get his thoughts far from any idea of her being unwell. Clara clasped her goblet and washed down her mouthful with a sip of tart wine. Her stomach bubbled. She took a larger gulp of the wine, grimacing at the aftertaste. Whilst she only indulged in alcohol on the odd occasion, none of the wine back at the Citadel had been so foul.
