Dark One's Bride

by Aldrea Alien

  Clara settled on the bench seat next to Brenna. Not because they shared a commonality in their birthplace, but she figured the woman was the least likely person to treat her as some unearthly being.

  “My lady,” Brenna murmured, demurely lowering her head. “I would offer another curtsey, but…” She rubbed her belly. This close, the bump was almost as huge as Thalia’s. “My back sadly cannot hold up as well as it did a few months ago.”

  “I quite understand.” Her mother had loaned her services to several expectant mothers who either had young ones that were too young to help or were otherwise alone and not in the position to clean or cook. For some, birthing seemed to be the easiest part.

  They sat there for a while, their silence broken only by a servant offering tea. Mercifully, they left them the option to sweeten it on their own rather than subject them to a sickly brew.

  Clara sipped at her cup, savouring her tea. A pea-sized glob of honey had been just the right amount to cut back the sharp bitterness of the leaves. Her gaze slid to Brenna. “So,” she drawled, her mind racing to think of anything beyond the obvious topic swimming at the fore of her thoughts. “I hear you chose to swap your husband for a younger version?”

  Brenna snorted and lowered her cup, resting it on the saucer delicately clasped in her other hand. “You mean Lord Farris? He wasn’t my husband. He was going to be,” she admitted with a shrug. “But… Well, I’m sure you’ve heard all the sordid stories. They do like to gossip here.”

  She nodded. Although much of what she’d heard had come from Lucias, there’d been snippets here and there amongst the court chatter of border squabbles and what she’d deemed as the usual complaints of taxes and trade.

  “Leonard has as many excellent qualities as his grandfather,” Brenna insisted before Clara could utter a single word. She rubbed her belly. “And, this way, I’ll be giving him his heir instead of another half-uncle.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “What of you? Everyone’s been wondering how you convinced our Great Lord to marry you.”

  “I didn’t convince him of anything, he proposed.” She hadn’t even realised marriage was an option before then. Everyone knew the Great Lords only ever had mistresses.

  One of Brenna’s perfectly arched brows lifted higher. Her painted lips twisted in disbelief.

  Clara didn’t care. Some people were content to believe in lies even when faced with the starkness of truth. She had long since given up expending her time where any impact would fail to matter. Instead, she turned her attention to her children.

  They currently played at the other end of the room with the Endlight lords’ younger children, having been introduced to the majority of them yesterday. Except for Derek, who was considered too old at thirteen by local standards to mingle with unrelated children below his age. Instead, he sat near the door, speaking with Tommy and casting the odd protective glance at his siblings.

  None of the children seemed at all concerned as to the origin of Clara’s little group. But she’d seen that sort of mingling on the streets of Everdark, where the boys and girls from wealthier families would happily include others without a care they were from less well-off homes. The desire for separation often came at the parents’ behest.

  A few in the group seemed enamoured with Sweetie’s hair. Others would shuffle up to Derek and speak with him, darting back, their eyes wide, to divulge what he’d said to those who’d remained behind. They seemed focused on his skin. Curious about the difference—and her heart had pounded out an entire symphony before she had come to that realisation. If only she could find a way to get closer and be entirely certain. All she could really console herself was with the fact Derek seemed content.

  Brenna leant on her, peering around Clara’s shoulder. Her soft rumble of humour shook the both of them. “They’re such nosy things at that age, aren’t they?”

  “Forgive the gossip, but Thad seems to have…” Clara hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to mention the prejudice she’d witnessed in the training grounds yesterday. Something that couldn’t get easily spread. “…particular views.”

  The gleam in Brenna’s eyes spoke of knowing precisely what Clara meant. “You mean about the older boy?” She nodded before Clara could respond. “I think he might’ve gotten that from his mother, Lord Farris certainly doesn’t give a whit what people look like so long as they can do the job they were hired for. Thank the Goddess’ good graces that she sent Lady Thalia this way.”

  Clara caught herself frowning before she could smooth the expression. From the way Lucias spoke about the woman, Lady Jennah certainly hadn’t sounded like the type. She’d been generous, kind and like a mother to him. That in no way exempted her, but he’d never mentioned anything in the way of flaws.

  Perhaps time had eroded those memories.

  “You might find a few things are different here,” Brenna continued. “That’s the influence of the moor nomads.”

  Clara grunted noncommittally. Despite being part of the kingdom, for over a century at the very least, there was little literature to be had in the Citadel on the people or their customs. Much of what she’d learnt about them had come from Lucias and what he’d experienced during his time amongst them. Blatant prejudice had either been swept from his mind or never reared its unsavoury head in the presence of what would’ve been the Great Lord’s heir at that time.

  The solarium entrance opened, granting passage to a pale-faced woman with dark-brown hair and full rosy lips—and a curvy figure Clara would give anything to flaunt. She looked suspiciously like the woman she’d spied draped all over Lucias a couple of nights back.

  Brenna nodded towards the woman. “I see you’ve spotted Farris’ current piece of skirt.” She leant close enough for Clara to feel her breath. “I hear she came straight out of a local brothel.”

  “That’s not a crime.” Her mother might’ve considered it as such, but Clara had always tried to keep an open mind about people’s choices. At least, when those choices didn’t wind up with them stealing from those who couldn’t afford the loss or harming others in whatever manner.

  The woman wasted no time in sashaying over to their little bench seat, pointedly paying Clara no mind. “Brenna, darling. It does me great pleasure to see you mingling on this fine morning. Has the wee one finally chosen to settle down?”

  Brenna’s hands crept across her belly as if protecting it from the woman’s words. Her gaze flicked to Clara and relief washed over her face. “Allow me to introduce you to Clara Weaver, the Great Lord’s Mistress.” She twisted in her seat, opting to face Clara more than the woman. “Clara? This is Marie.”

  Marie? Why did that name sound familiar? Had she heard it somewhere before?

  Marie’s bright red lips curved. From afar, it could be mistaken as a smile. Up close, there was nothing pleasant about the expression. “Of course.” Those brown eyes, rimmed with smoky powder, traversed Clara. “We met briefly upon your arrival, but it is a pleasure to see you again. How is Lucias? I’ve missed our little talks.”

  I know that voice. She’d heard it just the other day in the corridor after growing weary with dancing. This was the woman who’d been propositioning her future husband. “My betrothed is well. Although, I doubt he’d appreciate you being so familiar with his name.”

  The woman shrugged. “I must say, you would have to be very good at what you do for him to gift you so many liberties.”

  Clara gawped at the woman, taken aback by the personal way she uttered the words. “Excuse me?” she growled, her teeth clenched. A sideways glance revealed Brenna to be in a similar state of shock.

  Marie waved her fine-boned hand in the air, flipping it back and forth. “All this trouble he’s going through to wed you, the current whispering rumour going around that you’re a virgin—of all the things to lie about, that has to be the most preposterous—and now you bring in these orphans off the streets. You must be very good in bed.”

  Rage stole her voice for a few heartbeats. Bristling,
Clara straightened in her seat. “How dare you,” she rasped. “What gives you the right to make such a statement?”

  The woman’s smile grew twisted. Those smoke-rimmed eyes practically glittered with malevolent glee. “Why, by being someone who knows the Great Lord far better than his mistress, it would seem. In ways your sweet little mind wouldn’t dare to think of.”

  Clara bit her inner cheek in an attempt to remain composed. She folded her arms in some vain hope it would help stave off the wedge of dread trying to bury itself into her chest. “Lies,” she curtly replied.

  Still, her mind was abuzz. She couldn’t help notice the confident way Marie planted herself before them. She comes from a brothel. Lucias admitted to spending much of his past in such houses. Was she one of the women he’d given money to lie with? It would certainly explain why he’d preferred not to speak of the woman when Clara asked.

  “Oh?” Marie laughed, showing an obscene amount of teeth. “I do believe I have the truth of it. Tell me, is he still a taker? You don’t have to lie to me, I know precisely how lacking in tenderness our Great Lord can be.” Marie bent over, her red lips pulled into a horrid smirk as she whispered, “Or are you really still the innocent little petal?”

  Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. It was one thing to know her husband had lain with such women, quite another to find herself face-to-face with one of them. And such a wretched creature as this, to boot.

  Steeling herself, she opened her mouth to object.

  Brenna got there first. The woman rocked to her feet, the pregnant bulge of her belly lurching forward like an avalanche. The crack of Brenna’s hand across Marie’s face echoed through the room.

  Marie scuttled back, clutching at her cheek. The paleness was gone, wiped clear of powder by Brenna’s hand. She stared at the pregnant woman, shock having her mouth gaping like a dead fish. “You hit me?” she whispered. She rubbed at her cheek. More white powder transferred onto her fingers. “You little…” Her other hand rose, the back of it ready to retaliate.

  Clara was on her feet and grasping the woman’s wrist before she could think of her actions. “You would sink to striking a pregnant woman?” she asked, incredulous at Marie’s audacity and surprised at how even her own voice was.

  Anger blazed across the woman’s face. She snarled like a caged street mutt. “Let go of me, little girl.”

  “You spiteful harpy,” Brenna hissed over Clara’s shoulder, all but spitting in the woman’s face. “You dare to speak that way to the future Great Lady? After you also have the hide to insinuate she is lying? You would be wise to take your leave and do so swiftly if you wish to remain within these walls.”

  “I only—”

  Clara held up a silencing finger, its mere presence making Marie flinch. “Do as she says,” she whispered. “Leave now whilst you’ve still a shred of dignity, or I will have the guards throw you out.” She cocked her head as a new thought came to mind. “Or perhaps you’d like to explain your actions to my dear Lucias?”

  Marie stared at her. Whilst her powdered face couldn’t get any paler, her painted lips opened and shut wordlessly. Then her whole body sagged as she opted to silently back up to the exit.

  Settling onto the bench seat, Clara continued to watch the woman’s departure. Was it possible Marie knew the extent of the Great Lord’s power? Who had warned her? Lucias? One of the servants? Just how much did the Endlight people know about their ruler that Everdark was ignorant of?

  Brenna collapsed next to Clara onto the bench with a rumbling sigh. “Everything she said was true, wasn’t it?” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “You’ve not lain with him.” The words were more statement than question.

  Nevertheless, Clara felt they deserved an answer. “I haven’t. Yet.” She glowered at Marie’s departing form. “Not that it’s anyone’s business.” Everyone seemed a little too interested in that topic.

  “Of course it isn’t,” Brenna replied. “It must seem strange having such gossip about you. No one back home would talk about sex, you know?” She scrunched up her nose. “Or perhaps they did with you, coming from a common background. I guess we moved in very different circles, didn’t we? Funny how things work out, both of us winding up here.”

  Clara stiffened in her seat. “I didn’t wind up anywhere. I chose this.” Lucias had already arranged a carriage with enough money to see her settled beyond their kingdom’s border. Then his mother and her pet barbarian had attacked and…

  Only when Clara had been faced with him dying, had she realised she didn’t really want to leave him.

  Brenna’s gaze dropped. Beneath the dusting of pink powder that tinted her pale skin, her cheeks steadily turned redder. “I’m sorry. I just assumed that, being the Great Lord’s mistress, you—”

  “I had no say in any matter?” Clara finished for the woman. Quite a few people seemed equally as puzzled as to Lucias’ actions. None seemed to consider the obvious answer. “Don’t assume next time, it’ll make you seem less the fool.”

  Surprisingly, Brenna merely nodded in reply. A far cry from the rather physical response she’d displayed to Penny Tanner, the cobbler’s daughter. That’d been some months back, when five young women, including herself, had been whisked off by the Great Lord’s men as a potential mistress. Was it being out from under the stern control of her father that’d changed the woman, or the pregnancy?

  A shriek from the far end of the room turned all heads and banished all questions from her mind bar one. Who—?

  Thalia lay on the floor, clutching her stomach. Women gabbled and fluttered around her like startled pigeons, terror shaking the wits from them.

  Clara leapt to her feet and was at Thalia’s side before she realised she’d taken a step. Speculations of poison raced to the forefront of her mind. Had her would-be assassin lied about being the only one? Could he speak anything but the truth whilst under Lucias’ control? It didn’t seem possible.

  Her knee rested in something wet. Clara dropped her attention from the woman’s pained face to the floor. A puddle of red seeped across the rug, emanating from Thalia. The woman’s skirts were already dark with blood.

  Clara had been present at a few births, mostly fetching this item or that thing for those more knowledgeable, but she knew the early stages of labour weren’t like this. The midwife. If anyone knew how to proceed, it was Abby. “Fetch the midwife,” she said, the words surprisingly steady despite worry shaking her to the core.

  The command, or perhaps the tone, seemed to snap a few of the women out of their frightened state. “What are you just standing there for?” one of them demanded of the servant who’d frozen near the door. “You heard my lady. Now!”

  “Quickly!” Clara shouted after the man. Giving Thalia’s hand a comforting squeeze, Clara stood. With her arms akimbo, she took only one look at the noblewomen running about. “You two,” she snapped at a pair who seemed hearty enough to carry a bucket between them. “Fetch some water. You!” She singled out a middle-aged woman who wore the brown and yellow garb of a personal servant. “Gather some cloths, the softer the better. You three, help me get Lady Thalia off this cold floor. We could be in for a long wait.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  So much blood. Clara sat in a corner of the study, looking out onto the castle gardens, her thoughts awash with the vision of the past few hours.

  The whole court was alive with the chatter of Thalia’s newborn. Celebrations of the birth had begun almost immediately. Some prattled on about how lucky Thad was to have another son, whilst others voiced their many concerns about Thalia’s current state—which was the reason why Thad was at his wife’s side rather than basking in the traditional adulations.

  Even without the presence of either parent or child, the small bundle dominated most talks. That was to be expected. Whilst the baby had a relatively low chance of ever inheriting his grandfather’s title of Lord of Endlight, the newborn’s life was another strand for the Endlight line to continue down, t
o forge new alliances and strengthen the old ones. For now, those talks also brushed aside mention of the Great Lord’s impending wedding.

  Clara had swiftly excused herself from such revelry to pursue what little peace of mind this alcove overlooking the gardens afforded her. Laughter and music invaded her sanctuary from time to time, shattering the illusion of solitude.

  Her chambers would’ve given her the complete quiet that she sought, except she wasn’t entirely certain she could make it to the door unnoticed never mind through the corridors. Leaving now would bring questions she would prefer to leave unasked. The last thing she wanted was to taint anyone’s evening or draw attention away from the extremely fortunate family. That left her the option of waiting for the crowd to thin.

  She wouldn’t have minded joining in on the revelry had her mind not been flooded with the vision of the birth.

  Clara squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to block the memory. The midwife had opted not to move Thalia. Those who could help had. So few. The flurry of panicked women had only added to the chaos. And the rest…

  The solarium had been transformed into a world dominated by Thalia’s screams. And blood. There’d been so much of it. Too much. Clara knew giving birth wasn’t always an easy process, but none of the births she’d assisted in had ever involved the Goddess attempting to take the mother’s life whilst bringing another into the world.

  The air before her was disturbed. The subtle aroma of warm leather and wine wafted into her nose.

  “Clara?”

  She opened her eyes at the sound of Lucias’ voice, an act that did nothing to banish the memory of a woman soaked in her own blood and sweat.

  Lucias had laid claim to the seating on the opposite side of the alcove. His arm draped down one side of the chair, a goblet dangling between his fingertips. “I thought you’d be with the other noblewomen.”

  She shook her head. It didn’t feel right. One of their own had almost died right before them and they all still chattered so frivolously. “I’m not in the mood to mingle tonight.” If she’d been forced to, she would’ve given them a piece of her mind.