0857664360 (19 page)

Wynne snorted. Other footsteps came running along the great hall and a moment later Tresilian appeared in the doorway.

“What’s happened here?” His eyes moved from Alwenna standing at bay against the far wall, Wynne with the broken chair at her feet, and Vasic lowering his fists.

Tresilian advanced on Vasic. “You still haven’t learned to take no for an answer, have you?”

Vasic squared up to him. “She’s made it clear enough she doesn’t want you. It’s time you let someone else have the field.”

Tresilian glanced at Alwenna. “Has he hurt you?”

“No, not really.” She managed to keep her voice steady. “I’m fine.”

“Not really?” Tresilian turned to Vasic. “What does she mean by that?”

Vasic shrugged. “Likely means she was enjoying it.”

Tresilian snapped and swung a wild punch at Vasic, connecting with his jaw so hard his teeth clacked together. Vasic retaliated and in a moment they’d wrestled one another to the floor in a tangle of flailing fists.

Wynne skirted round the room to Alwenna. “Come with me, child. We’ll leave them to it.”

“But Wynne, shouldn’t we stop them?” Alwenna stepped aside as the two combatants rolled in her direction.

“No, not this time. This is long overdue.” She wrapped one arm about Alwenna’s shoulders, ushering her away from the scene. Two men-at-arms hovered in the doorway, uncertainly.

Wynne spoke to the elder one. “See no lasting damage is done – step in if it looks likely.”

“Aye, I can manage that.” The bearded man-at-arms winked at her.

Wynne patted the man on the shoulder. “Just see it doesn’t go too far.”

The last Alwenna saw of the scene as Wynne led her away was Tresilian on top of Vasic, pounding his bloodied face.

“It’s all my fault again, isn’t it? If I’d just accepted Tresilian none of this would have happened.”

“Don’t think like that, my lamb. Those two have been after an excuse to go for each other’s throats for years. If it hadn’t been you it would have been over some servant girl, or an argument about handling hawks, or a hundred other things each more silly than the last.”

“If I agreed, do you think this hostility between them would be at an end?”

“Frankly, no. Vasic’s small minded, Tresilian’s an idealist; they’d clash no matter what. Your uncle insists on throwing them together. He thinks they’ll work through it that way. There was a time I thought he was right but now I’m not so sure. The grudge runs too deep.” She opened the door to Alwenna’s chamber. “But never mind their foolishness, did he hurt you in any way? You said not, but was that the truth?”

Alwenna fingered her lip. “It was the truth. I think he may have cut my lip, but it’s nothing.”

Wynne examined her mouth. “So I see. I know it irks you to hear this, but you should keep a servant at hand, always.”

“Yes, Wynne. I admit you are right.” She sat down by the fire, chilled by the realisation this wasn’t the end of her problems, but only the very beginning.

Alwenna sought out Tresilian later that evening, at the high table. He sported a cut lip, while one eye was swollen shut. Vasic was nowhere in sight.

“Alwenna, I didn’t think you’d join us this evening. Sit next to me.” He moved along the bench to make room for her. She sat gracefully where he’d indicated and he leaned over to speak so no one would overhear. “You are none the worse for this afternoon’s incident, I hope?”

“None the worse, cousin. I seem to have fared better than you.”

Tresilian’s grin was rather more lopsided than usual. “This is nothing. You should see Vasic.” He took another mouthful of ale. Alwenna guessed he’d had several already.

She drew back a little. “Do you think you ought to make light of it like that?”

“Make light of it? I don’t.” He pushed back a tress of hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “I was never so angry before. Vasic’s been asking for a beating for a long time, and I’m pleased to have been the one to deliver it. I hope he remembers it whenever he dares so much as look at you.”

“Ho, Tresilian!” Stanton called to him from further down the table. There was another one who thought too highly of his own charms, although the ladies at court didn’t seem to mind. “A toast to your health.”

Tresilian grinned and raised his glass. Alwenna felt a frisson of unease: Vasic would remember the scene in that chamber, she was certain of it. Every time he looked at her he’d remember it, and resent Tresilian – heir to the throne – all the more for it.

Alwenna shivered. She picked up her goblet, hoping the wine would warm her. As she raised it to her lips she glanced down the table past Tresilian to where a man-at-arms sat, watching her with a grim expression on his face. The wine stung the cut on her lip and she lowered the goblet, splashing wine onto the table and over her hand in her haste. She dabbed at it with a kerchief, and looked along the table once more. The soldier’s eyes turned hastily from her to the tankard he nursed in his hands.

“What are you up to, Alwenna? Spilling good wine? For shame.” Tresilian topped up her goblet, grinning.

“Who’s the man-at-arms sitting beyond Stanton and his friends?”

Tresilian looked along the table, puzzled. “Oh, you mean Weaver? He’s a fine fellow, come to us from The Marches. He’s as handy in a brawl as you could ever hope to find. A widower, lost his wife a couple of years ago.”

“That’s sad.” No wonder he looked so dour.

“I should introduce you.” Tresilian turned, but the soldier had already left the table and was making his way to the door. “I’m sparring with him tomorrow morning – you should come and watch.”

“I might.” She’d seen enough violence for one day.

“He gets tongue-tied when he’s in company.” He leaned to murmur in her ear. “Especially with beautiful ladies such as yourself.”

She felt an odd thrill at Tresilian’s words and for the first time wondered if her reasons for resisting marriage to him were all imagined. Embarrassed by her own thoughts and feelings, she turned away and found Weaver watching them. He’d paused on his way out of the room, hand on the door. He inclined his head politely and turned as flames sprang up around him, devouring the wooden door and flaring up to hide him from sight in a matter of seconds. The roar of the fire blotted out all other sounds. The heat grew so fierce she was forced back and she had to turn and flee, leaving everything she knew behind her.

Alwenna woke, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding, her mouth parched. She was out of bed and halfway across the chamber to the door before she realised she’d been dreaming. There were no flames here, only fading embers safe in the hearth. And there had been no flames then, on that long-ago day.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Vasic summoned Alwenna to his throne room at noon. As at their previous meeting his retainers were banished to the far end of the room, while her maidservant also waited there. As before, Vasic’s eyes never left her as she walked the length of the room. With her hair dressed in formal style and wearing a richly embroidered gown, today she was dressed for her part, every inch a queen.

“Good day to you, cousin Vasic.” She ignored the etiquette that required she remain silent until the king had spoken. She would miss no opportunity to remind him she rejected his claim to Tresilian’s throne.

Vasic’s eyes narrowed, but he ignored the slight. “Lady Alwenna. I trust you slept well?”

She hadn’t, not after waking from the vision. “Tolerably, I thank you.”

Vasic raised a sceptical eyebrow. “You have had time to reflect on my offer. I hope you have seen the wisdom of accepting. My generosity is not boundless.”

“I recall your generosity of old, cousin. It was never offered without the hope of gain for yourself.”

“Madam, do not try my patience. I am king of this realm now. I do you a great honour offering marriage – you are, after all, used goods.”

“The condition of the goods is immaterial, is it not, cousin? As king you might take those goods and use them in any way you wish. It is my lineage you need to secure your throne – and that is every bit as important for you as it was for Tresilian. Perhaps more so, since your claim is in opposition to my own as his widow.”

Vasic smiled, that tight smile she knew of old. “As you rightly say I could take from you whatever I needed, but I am not so brutish a creature. You have chosen to disregard me and treat me as something lesser, but let me prove to you now that I am capable of refinement and delicacy in matters that warrant it.”

He was working up to some new outrage, Alwenna could tell.

“You spoke yesterday, madam, of your concern for loyal servants of your husband who are my prisoners here. Consent to the match and when it is publicly announced all but two prisoners will be granted amnesty and released.”

“All but two, cousin?” She was careful to control her reaction to his words.

“All but two. There are some seventy prisoners in my dungeons. I shall release sixty-eight of them, as my wedding gift to you. Think of it, Alwenna: sixty-eight souls, redeemed through your actions.” Vasic was far too pleased with himself.

She forced herself to remain calm. “And what of the two, cousin?”

“One will be released after our marriage is consummated; the other must face trial for treason. You may choose which.”

She drew a steadying breath. “That is a strange kind of justice, cousin.”

Vasic’s smile widened. “My dear, you would be wise not to pit your wits against me. I have the upper hand this time.”

“And which two do you wish to single out for such treatment?” As if she didn’t know the answer already.

“My dear cousin, need you ask?” His lips curled with glee. “Father Garrad attaches the blame firmly to you for bewitching these poor fellows, yet these commoners have presumed to look too high above their own station. Their crimes are too base, too self-serving – I cannot let them go unpunished. But even now I am prepared to be generous. One must be made an example of – there is no smoke without fire and there has been altogether too much smoke resulting from your time at Vorrahan, has there not?” He paused to enjoy his little joke. Alwenna’s stony silence seemed to amuse him even more. “Once I have taken you as wife, one of these men will be granted a pardon, while the other must face charges. And you may choose which, my sweet: the novice monk known as Brother Drew, or the deserter Ranald Weaver.”

“Your generosity is almost boundless, cousin. How am I even to know these loyal servants still live? If there are seventy prisoners you must let me see them and count them for myself.”

“Alwenna.” His voice dropped an octave, dangerous, caressing. “Would you question my integrity? Is my word not enough?”

“If I must weigh so many lives against my own happiness, I would look upon their faces first.”

“I see no necessity. They are an ugly, unwashed bunch. They would offend all your senses, as well as being riddled with vermin and pestilence.”

“Then let them wash and send healers among them, cousin. You cannot purchase my fidelity with the freedom of dead men.”

“My sweet, you use such ugly terms. I am simply offering you a way to help your people escape the consequences of their actions.”

“Let me see them, let me count them. If they are my people, I cannot make such a decision until I have walked among them.”

“You may look and you may count, but I shall not permit you to walk among them.”

“You will if you want my agreement.” Alwenna shrugged. “When can you arrange it?”

Vasic studied her face. “Very well. An hour after noon.”

“Then with your permission I shall withdraw until that time.” She didn’t trust Vasic to keep his word, but if she could buy the freedom of so many, how could she resist further? As for Weaver and Drew, how could she make such a choice?

“You have my most gracious permission, madam cousin.”

Alwenna stalked from the room, skirts rustling in her wake.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Alwenna descended the stairs to the dungeons behind Vasic. Two men-at-arms preceded them, carrying torches. A guard unlocked the dungeon door and pulled it open. A fetid odour of damp earth, unwashed bodies and worse lifted from the chamber.

Vasic raised a scented handkerchief to his nose. “You are determined, madam, are you not?”

Alwenna steeled herself and nodded.

“Very well.” Vasic reached imperiously for her hand. After a moment’s hesitation she set her fingers over his. He signalled the torch-bearers to enter the room before them, then led Alwenna after them. They moved between the prisoners, who stirred uneasily, squinting in the unaccustomed torchlight. At first she feared she would retch from the vile air that filled her nose and mouth, but her senses adapted and she was able to ignore it. As she walked through the suffering and the filth she was grateful her boots would be easy enough to scrub clean. She doubted whether her memory would be so fortunate. Some faces were familiar: men-at-arms who had served her husband and his father before him. Decent men, many of them with wives and families to support. She could secure their freedom, simply by agreeing to lie with the man who led her about the room now, studying her face for any emotion she might reveal. Her conscience would only allow her to do one thing. She attempted to count the number of prisoners in the room. Vasic’s figure seemed to be accurate.

“You spoke of two others?” Her voice rang out, oddly strained in the eerie silence of the dungeon.

Vasic’s lips curled in a predatory smile. He nodded to the guard who led the way to the far corner. The torchlight fell upon a familiar face, recognisable despite the cuts and bruises: Weaver. The pain of recognition was so intense she dared not let her gaze linger, but in that moment Weaver met her eyes. With a movement so slight she could not be certain he had moved at all, he shook his head. If he had opened his mouth and uttered the words aloud his meaning could not have been more clear: Don’t do it. Somehow he must have learned of Vasic’s ultimatum. Beside him Drew huddled, his gangling limbs tucked against his chest as he stared at the floor, one eye swollen shut.

Alwenna turned away, fighting to contain her anger. She would not give her half-cousin the reaction he sought.