TheKingsViper Page 15

  “Hah! How like him!” laughed Hilde. She caught Eloise’s arm in a conspiratorial embrace. “I am his paramour,” she murmured, watching Eloise’s face closely.

  “I see.” She saw an opening for the information she desperately desired. “The Baron de Meynard is well, I hope?”

  “He’s been called away on the King’s business, alas.”

  He’s vanished. Does she guess where? “Ah.”

  “He’s always busy. In the meantime, you and I must be friends now. We have so much in common, have we not?”

  The spasm that caused Eloise to jerk against the grip on her arm was not entirely voluntary. “Hardly.”

  “Oh don’t think I am jealous, my darling. I know you have spent more time in his company than I these past months, but believe me I am just grateful that you brought him home to me.”

  “I think it’s rather the other way round. He brought me here.”

  “And all the Court is a-buzz with excitement! His majesty must be beside himself with delight. But as for me—I confess I am only pleased to have Severin back in my bed.”

  It’s a trap. She’s trying to provoke me, Eloise told herself, saying nothing. Her mouth twisted in an uncomfortable smile.

  “And goodness, my darling, he was pleased to be there too! Not a moment’s sleep did I get that first night, I swear to you.”

  “I think that’s hardly a proper—” she began, faintly.

  “Over and over, my darling, like a man possessed. People think he’s cold, but underneath… Ooh. Every orifice, several times. Some women couldn’t take that sort of treatment—he’s got a cruel streak in him, as I’m sure you realize.” Her eyebrows flashed, signaling a gleeful horror. “I couldn’t walk the next day, believe me! Black and blue.”

  But he wasn’t like that! Not with me!

  “Please.” Eloise’s voice came out cold and frightened. “I’m not yet a married woman. I shouldn’t be hearing this sort of detail.”

  “Of course, my darling.” Hilde patted her forearm, but her eyes never left Eloise’s face. “And I’m sure the King will never subject you to such rough passion. Severin is of lower birth and cruder proclivities, naturally. But oh—such an appetite! He must have been full to the brim and fit to burst with frustration after your little walk together.” She smirked.

  “I don’t know what…”

  “I mean, all those weeks without being able to sheathe his blade. It’s not him, my darling. It’s not natural. A man like him needs to rut.”

  “And I am sure you are both very well suited to each other,” said Eloise through locked teeth.

  “Oh we are.”

  “Then I wish you great joy together.” She extracted her arm with more effort than anyone watching would have been able to tell. Hilde, showing no sign that she noticed, clasped her face instead.

  “My darling, you must tell me all about your ordeal. There must be so much to say—and I’m sure none of these harridans at Court understand the things you’ve been through. They’ve never known worse trouble than an undercooked dinner, you can be sure—not like you and I. You need a woman’s worldly advice, I can see, and we will be such firm friends.”

  “Actually I was intending to return to my chamber and sleep a little. I am still very tired, you see.”

  “Of course. It must have been quite dreadful. Let me walk back with you.”

  Eloise had to accept that. She had to put up with Lady Hilde’s hand in hers all the way back, and a constant stream of bright, knife-edged questions. She felt like a woman in a fairy story who had fallen under the petrifying enchantment of a sorceress. On the outside she was stone, cold and stiff, communicating nothing. Inside, she twisted and thrashed, her cries unheard. And with every step she took the shock curdled more to pain, until her chest was one great hollow cask of nausea and hurt.

  She held to her silence though, all the way. Until she’d bidden Hilde a lying farewell full of promises to speak again, and locked herself away in her chamber with the shutters closed. She lay down on her coverlet with her forearm draped over her face.

  It can’t be true, what she says. He wouldn’t…

  But he would. She knew that, really. Severin was a pragmatic man. He’d never promised to be true to her. He’d never even hinted at such an intention. So of course he’d make use of his leman as soon as the opportunity arose. He’d probably do it deliberately, because anything else would look suspicious.

  He’s had to do it. He’s had to, to hide what he really feels…

  And there it was, like a poisonous viper hidden in the bottom of a barrel of apples—hope. That tiny, deadly hope that could destroy her in a moment. She saw it just before she put her hand upon it and it struck at her with its fangs.

  Don’t hope, foolish girl.

  The truth was that they had lain together, that was all. She had instigated it, and she must take the consequences. Whatever burden of emotion either she or he bore—and she still did not know what he felt, and she never would—they would never do it again. Love or regret or self-loathing, it made no odds. The consequences were identical.

  Eloise let slip an involuntary moan of anguish.

  “My lady?” The room around her filled with the rustling of skirts.

  “I have an ache in my head,” she said, her voice thick with pent torment. “Too much bright sunlight, perhaps.”

  “Would you have us make up a wine posset, my lady?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  They’d set her a cruel trap in Hilde, who might or might not know what was happening to her lover elsewhere. They’d hoped that where coercion had failed, jealousy would wrench a confession of guilt from the King’s betrothed. They must have hoped she’d blurt out some protest, from outrage or from spite. She was only a young maiden after all. Women could not keep their counsel, could they, in matters of the heart?

  It might well be true, all of it, she told herself, staring at the shadowed ceiling joists through blurring eyes. It probably is. It doesn’t matter. I made my choice. It doesn’t matter whether he loves me or not. I love him, and I will not betray him.

  * * * * *

  One month exactly after her arrival in Kingsholme, a servant knocked at her door bearing her food on a tray.

  “Am I not to eat in the Great Hall?” she asked. She was at that moment half-dressed in her formal clothes, preparing to descend for the day’s main meal.

  “His majesty says to tell you that he has no desire to wear out your strength and patience before the wedding, and that he feels a quiet supper in your own chambers will be less taxing.”

  Ah, she thought. It begins now.

  She attended no more banquets. As the days passed, instructions to attend other functions grew thinner upon the ground too, and social invitations began to drop off steeply. One by one, her entourage of ladies-in-waiting diminished, the most high-born first, without explanation or farewell. There was no overt insult offered. She was still fed well, and still acknowledged politely by those—few and growing fewer—she happened to meet. But as she walked out upon the walls, ladies of real rank only nodded to her now with a faint smile, and she wasn’t invited to join any conversations. It was as if she were being forgotten, becoming a ghost even as she lived and breathed. Eventually she was reduced to a single servant, dour and silent.

  No one ever said to her, It’s over. You have been rejected. She was expected to absorb the news through her pores, to understand and acquiesce without any fuss or unseemly questions.

  The natal day of the Unconquered Sun came and went, and while all the Court celebrated with bonfires and pine branches and a gilded masquerade, Eloise stayed in her room, curled up before the fire, her fingertip stroking the scar upon her breast.

  It was a bright winter’s day when a servant came to tell her that a ship stood in the dock below Kingsholme, and that she would be leaving upon it with the turn of the tide to return to her father’s house. She was to bring the last serving-woman in her employ, but her bags had
already been packed and stowed overnight. There was no need for further delay.

  The news was no shock, but still Eloise felt a chill. They had not even seen fit to tell her in advance.

  “May I see the King before I go, to say farewell?”

  The under-steward cleared his throat. “I regret, my lady, that the King has been detained outside Kingsholme on affairs of state. But he instructed me to pass this letter into your keeping and charge you with his royal blessing and his most sincere good wishes.” He handed over a folded piece of parchment and Eloise glanced at the royal seal without any real interest. It was all over, just as Severin had predicted. She was in the hands of those far stronger and more ruthless than herself, and her only task was to submit.

  Part of her was deeply relieved.

  “If you would follow me, my lady.”

  The under-steward led her and her maid from her empty chamber down through the palace, turning into passages she had never visited before. Those servants and courtiers whose paths crossed theirs glanced at the small procession curiously. Eloise was a little comforted by their air of normalcy—it had occurred to her that this show of politeness might all be an elaborate precursor to her disappearing rather more thoroughly, though she could not bring herself to care much. The weight of despair in her gut was too great to let fear flutter its wings. And after all, she was not important enough to merit assassination, was she? And if she were, who would do such a shameful thing, now that Severin de Meynard was absent?

  Then they crossed into an open chamber and her stoicism vanished, because Severin was there. She nearly tripped over her own feet in shock.

  He was standing by the far door, leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone. Lounging nearby—not too close, yet within easy reach—were two guards and an older man who looked familiar, but whom she could not place. The King’s Viper was looking at the floor. Eloise felt her heart bang against the cage of her breast as if it were trying to break out. She felt the charge of warmth to her face and she was once more glad that she had painted it like a lady of the Court and that no one could see the flush in her cheeks.

  Because it was a trap, of course. It had to be. The under-steward was striding toward the far door and she would have to walk right past Severin. They wanted to see if she would give herself away. What did they expect, she wondered wildly—that she would throw herself into his arms and confess her passion? That she would burst into tears?

  Both of which she wanted to do.

  Her soft shoes seemed to pound on the bare flagstones, each footfall a drumbeat on her path to execution. Her mind raced. She had seen him. There was no disguising that, though she’d done her best to keep her thoughts from her expression. To ignore him would be so ridiculous as to look suspicious. He was her acknowledged savior. She looked down at her sleeve and fiddled with a button, trying to seize some time. Her teeth dented the inside of her lip. She would have to say something.

  So as she got within a few paces of Severin she stopped. “My lord de Meynard,” she said softly, hoping her voice was blamelessly neutral.

  He looked up and met her eyes. “My lady of Venn.”

  She nearly lost her self-control then. Not just because she missed him so much but because he looked awful. His skin was gray and his eyes sunken. There was a big crusted bruise on one cheek and a scab on his lower lip. There was something changed about him on a deeper level too, something missing. She realized it was his self-possession. Severin had always carried himself with confidence—not loud or aggressive, but an irreducible faith in himself. He didn’t do so now. He looked brittle, she thought, as if he were a bundle of kindling held together by a single length of twine, and that if that string was cut he’d fall apart. His expression was so blank that he might as well have been sleepwalking. For a moment she couldn’t think what to say, and then she caught herself.

  “It’s been many weeks since I saw you last.” Eloise’s mouth felt as dry as if she had bitten into a crab apple.

  “I’ve been ill, I regret to say. I am recovered now.” His voice was toneless. His clothes were clean, she noted, but he was holding his right wrist against his chest and the hand was bandaged rather badly.

  “Your hand…?” she said weakly. There was old blood on the linen. What have they done to you?

  “A minor hunting accident, my lady. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Her heart was trying to climb up her throat and she felt like she was choking. Every fiber of her being yearned for her to catch hold of him and kiss him and tell him how much she needed him, and how frightened she was for him. It was unbearable to have to stand there and make distant small talk. It was more unbearable to know what the alternatives were. She swallowed. “Have you been told? I am returning to Venn directly.”

  “I had heard. I wish you a safe voyage, my lady.”

  “Then I must thank you, Lord de Meynard, one last time. You saved my life. You have the gratitude of Venn.” She felt as if she were forcing the words out through a throat made of sand.

  His mask did not shift, but his gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. “I did no more than my duty, my lady.”

  “Would that every man did his duty with such courage,” she answered. Picking up her skirts, she made herself drop a little curtsey. “Farewell,” she said, hating herself, wanting to rip her hair in bloody chunks from her scalp, wanting to vomit, wanting to die.

  He didn’t answer. She couldn’t tell whether he was watching her as she turned away to the door, holding her head high. She could not tell if the under-steward or the guards or anyone had seen through the charade. She only knew that that was it, her last glimpse. She would never see Severin again.

  * * * * *

  When the door closed behind Eloise, Severin permitted himself to shut his eyes and catch the tiniest moment of respite. Eloise was safe—or as safe as she could be. He was grateful for the throbbing pain in his hand. It helped keep his mind off worse things.

  “She’s a fair girl,” remarked Lord Gevan, the King’s constable. “I’d have been prepared to go through a lot myself, for one so pretty.”

  “Pretty?” Severin summoned enough disdain to curl his lip. “You think I went through all this for such piddling small change as pretty?” But exhaustion was winning out over his contempt, and there was little bite to his final words. “The King must be grateful that I’m not such a fool as you.”

  “Yet still such a fool as to bait the man who owns your life.”

  “There’s only one man who owns me. And you, Gevan, are not him.”

  “Hh.” Gevan’s eyes narrowed. “You know, you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are, de Meynard.”

  “Evidently,” he answered with a sour smile and a lift of his crushed hand.

  “Well, we are done here. You may return to your own chambers.”

  “My own?” Severin didn’t allow any hint of hope to rise in his voice or heart. He didn’t think the constable was that subtle, but it was possible that this was only another ruse designed to break his spirit.

  “I imagine they’re in need of some airing, after all this time.”

  Severin’s throat seemed to stick together. “I’ll be sure to open the shutters,” he muttered.

  “You do that. I’ll be seeing you later, doubtless, at his majesty’s pleasure.” He walked off.

  Severin wasn’t sure his heart was still beating. Slowly he pushed himself off from the wall and turned to follow.

  “My lord?”

  His heart plunged painfully into the pit of his stomach.

  It was one of his guards. Severin turned back, bracing himself. His guards were always scrupulously polite to him. Even when beating him, or burning him, or crushing his fingertips in that vise, the soldiers had always addressed him by title. He was nobility after all, and that mattered.

  “Your sword, my lord.” The guard held out a belt and scabbard. Severin thought he detected a shade of nervousness in that bluff face.

  Dear
God. It really is all over.

  He took the weapon without a word, trying not to show how shockingly heavy it felt now.

  “No hard feelings, my lord?” the soldier grunted.

  Severin’s smile was more ghastly than even he intended. “None at all.” He had the satisfaction of seeing the big man’s face blanch. Good, he thought. His reputation was intact, even if he wasn’t.

  Squaring his shoulders, he walked stiffly away toward freedom, alone.

  * * * * *

  The three-masted carrack Bright Fire reached the Isle of Venn in less than two days, flying across the swells before a brisk wind. Despite the chill, Eloise spent almost all that time on deck, sitting forward among the roped cargo, bundled up in furs. She was glad her maidservant was hiding down below in the cabin, battling seasickness. She was going to make damn sure the woman was sent back on the next boat to Kingsholme.

  As the sailor in the crow’s nest hailed the first sighting of land she went right up to the bow, clutching her furs about her. The wind burned her cheeks and whipped at her hair, tangling the curls ferociously. Slowly the blue line of the island lifted above the horizon.

  The bite of the wind forced tears down her cheeks.

  I’m home. There are the Stacks. There is the headland of Venn Keep. I’m home, and soon Father will meet me on the dock, and I will be Eloise of Venn again, just a girl on an island, and it will be like none of this ever happened. Everything will be the same as it used to be before I left. The only difference will be inside me. The only difference will be me knowing that there is something I cannot have, no matter how much I want it. I will be like my Old Edith, who lived out her life mourning her son and her husband, tending to strangers and the children of strangers, always alone. If she could endure it then so must I. And nobody will ever know.

  She lifted a hand to wipe at her face, the tears coming quickly now.

  I will hear, eventually. They will not break him, but there will be news sooner or later, either that Severin de Meynard has died, or that he has gone on to do something else terrible for the King’s sake. Maybe I will hear that he has married. I will not curse that day. I will rejoice for him. Maybe he will remember me sometimes, while he lies in another’s arms. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. It does not matter, so long as he lives. So long as he knows I was true to him. I kept my promise. He will know that I loved him.