A Man Betrayed (75 page)

He glanced quickly
to the small door that stood to the side of the main table. Behind its wooden
panels waited the lady who would alter the course of history: Melliandra, his
bride-to-be. She had no idea her father was here. He could see her now, downing
a little more wine than was good for her and scolding her servant for listening
at the door, whilst she herself did the same. It wouldn't be long now before he
brought her out.

Shifting his gaze
from the door, back to the table, something caught his eye that gave him cause
to be wary. Baralis was sitting next to Catherine. That in itself was a blatant
disregard of his wishes, but what was more alarming, however, was the way the
girl leaned over the man, feeding him meats and sweet breads, her breasts
brushing against his arm. Any other time the duke would not have tolerated such
behavior. He would simply have pulled Catherine from the table and sent her to
bed. She had obviously been drinking, for nothing else could explain her
immodest behavior. Even as he watched, Baralis placed a restraining hand upon
Catherine's arm and moved his chair a little way back from hers. The duke was
pleased, but not surprised. Baralis was not a stupid man.

But he would soon
be an angry one.

And Catherine? How
would she react? She would not be pleased, that much was certain. The duke
shrugged. Temper tantrums of young girls were easily dealt with.

It was time.
Eating had stopped, and drinking had reached the point where people no longer
bothered to hide the quantities they drank. The duke brought down his cup,
banging it loudly on the table. All eyes turned toward the noise. He stood up,
and a hush descended upon the room.

Maybor had been
waiting for this all night. He'd barely tasted the seven pheasants, the haunch
of venison, and the two jugs of lobanfern red which he had consumed. His mind
was on what the duke was going to do to Baralis. It was high time that
villainous demon was dealt with once and for all. Of course, the puzzling thing
was that Baralis would finally be getting his way tonight: Kylock would wed
Catherine. Indeed, His Grace was in the process of making the announcement now.
Maybor sat back in his chair, his cup resting upon his knee, and listened to
what the duke was saying.

"My lords and
ladies," he said, speaking in a strong and ringing voice, "I have
chosen the Feast of First Sowing to make two important announcements. As you
know, First Sowing is traditionally a time when we pray for healthy crops and
high yields from the seeds which we have newly sown. I hope for the same
bountiful harvest from the two seeds I sow tonight."

The duke paused. A
wave of nervous chatter and coughing rose up to fill the silence. People
shifted restlessly in their seats. Maybor noticed many a person using the short
break to bring wine cups to their lips. All was silence when the duke spoke
again.

"Firstly, I
must inform you of my decision to go ahead with the marriage of Catherine and
Kylock-"

The duke was cut
off in midsentence by the noise of the crowd. A wave of something close to
panic spread fast across the room. Breath was sharply inhaled, eyebrows were
raised, and expressions of disbelief were on everyone's lips. Maybor glanced
toward Lord Cravin: the man's expression was grim. Baralis and Catherine, on
the other hand, looked as smug as a pair of newlyweds. Maybor began to feel a
little wary. What if the duke had been leading him astray? Promising something
that would upset Baralis, just to keep him quiet?

The duke did not
look pleased. The skin was drawn tight across the bridge of his nose and his
lips were drawn into a whip of a line. He rapped his cup on the table. "Si
lence!"
he boomed.

Every single
member of the court froze on the spot. Cups were suspended in midair, tongues
were caught in midflap.

Satisfied, the
duke continued. "Not only have I decided to go ahead with the match, but I
have also set a date. Two months from tonight, my beloved daughter Catherine
will wed King Kylock."

The crowd lost
control once more. The hall was filled with the hiss of dissatisfied
whisperings. It was a testament to the duke's power that no one dared speak out
loud.

Abruptly, Lord
Cravin stood up. He bowed to the duke. "I request Your Grace's permission
to leave the table," he said, pronouncing every word precisely.

"Request denied,
Lord Cravin. You will sit and hear my second announcement like everybody
else."

Humiliated, Lord
Cravin shot a look filled with pure malice toward the duke.

Maybor fancied he
saw a spark of amusement twinkle in the duke's eye. The court, seeing how sharply
Lord Cravin was dealt with, grew more subdued.

The duke beckoned
his daughter to stand. Catherine did as she was bidden, her pearls resting like
raindrops against her dress. Borc, but she was beautiful! thought Maybor. Her
pale and heavy hair was piled high atop her head. Combs and pins didn't quite
succeed in keeping all the locks in place, and several golden curls fell like
jewels around her face.

"To my
daughter, Catherine," said the duke, raising his cup high. "Who, even
before the crops begin to ripen in the field, will become queen of the Four
Kingdoms."

Maybor choked on
his wine. Queen of
the Four King
doms. Melliandra should be the woman who
bore that title. His daughter should have been queen. In all the plotting and
politicking surrounding Catherine's inheritance, somehow the fact that the
duke's daughter would be made queen of the kingdoms had gone unnoticed. Even by
himself. Maybor suddenly felt very tired. The crowd cheered halfheartedly. With
Kylock rapidly approaching the Halcus capital, things looked very different
than when they had first enthusiastically accepted the betrothal.

The duke waved
Catherine down. "Now," he said. "I come to my second
announcement. I have been a long time unmarried. It is over ten years since my
beloved wife died, and I think now is the time for me to take another
wife."

The crowd was
stunned. No one spoke. No one moved. Maybor leaned forward in his chair. He had
an idea of what the duke was up to: he was attempting to supplant Catherine as
his heir by producing a legitimate male child to take her place.

The duke
continued. "I have recently met a lady of high birth. A beautiful young
woman who has agreed to be my wife. I know this will come as a surprise to most
of you here, but I intend to marry her within the month."

With the noise of
the crowd sounding in his ears, Maybor turned to look at Baralis. The man was
as pale as a corpse. This was coming as a rather nasty surprise. Maybor smiled
softly. The great lord's plans were about to go sadly awry.

Melli was growing
impatient. She had paced the length of the antechamber so many times now that
she could swear her feet had worn a path in the stone. "Nessa, what d'you
hear now?"

"Well,
m'lady," said the small and dumpy girl. "I think His Grace looks set
to introduce you."

"Out of my
way." Melli pushed Nessa away from the door and put her own ear to the
wood. The crowd, which had been so vocal only minutes earlier, was now
ominously quiet. Melli stepped away when she realized the duke was speaking.
For some reason, she didn't want to hear what he said about her. "Pour me
another glass of wine," she ordered. Nessa swiftly obliged. Melli's hands
were shaking so much that she was forced to drink the wine leaning forward,
with her neck stretched out, to avoid any spilling on her dress.

Just as she
brought the cup to her lips, three knocks sounded upon the door. The signal for
her to make her entrance. Thrusting the cup into Nessa's waiting hand, Melli
smoothed down her dress. "Do I look all right?" The maid nodded, but Melli
barely noticed. The door opened up in front of her and she was blinded by light
and smoke.

Melli heard the
sound of a thousand bated breaths. She froze, unable to move a limb. A trickle
of perspiration ran down her cheek. Never in her life had she been so afraid.
She felt a strong desire to turn around and run away, all the way back to the
kingdoms and the safety of her father's arms. What had she gotten herself into?
A hostile court awaited her, ready to criticize and condemn.

Then, just as her
eyes grew accustomed to the light, the duke was by her side. His arm was upon
hers, lending her strength. His lips gently brushed against her lips.
"Come, my love," he said. "Come and meet your courtiers. I
promise I will not leave your side." Never had she heard him speak so
tenderly. His voice was both a caress and a comfort. He looked into her eyes.
"Your beauty makes me very proud tonight." Guiding her from the
shadows, he led her into the great hall at Bren.

"This, lords
and ladies," he said, walking her toward the main table, "is
Melliandra of the Eastlands, daughter of Lord Maybor, and the woman who will
soon become my wife."

Maybor dropped his
cup. It was Melliandra. His Melliandra. All these months of not seeing her, and
now she had turned up here. He stood up. In three mighty leaps he was beside
her. A second later she was in his arms. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
He didn't give a damn if anyone saw them. He ran his hands along her hair; it
was as soft as he remembered. She was so small, so frail. He didn't want to let
her go.

"Melli,
Melli," he whispered. "My sweet Melli. I never thought I'd see you
again." She was shaking like a newborn. He felt something wet on his neck,
and realized that she was crying, too. Maybor pulled away, wiping the tears
from his eyes with his fist. His daughter was ten times more beautiful than he
remembered.

"Father, I'm
sorry," she said quietly, for his ears alone. Maybor took up the corner of
his robe and gently rubbed the tears from her cheek. "Hush, little one. Now
is not the time for regrets. We are a family again, and the time has come for
us to act like one."

Catching hold of
Melli's hand, he turned to face the duke and his court. A performance was
called for now. A good one. Not only did he need to make these people think
that he had known about the wedding all along, but he also had to impress them.
Three days back, the duke had asked if he could rely on his composure. Tonight,
he would prove that he could be more than composed-he would actually seal the
pact.

Maybor cleared his
throat. He looked around the great haIl, meeting every eye that was focused
upon him. When he spoke, he did so slowly, giving proper weight to every word.

"I am more
than pleased to give my only daughter, Melliandra, in marriage to Bren. I
choose the word Bren carefully for I am well aware that Melliandra will wed
more than just the duke; she will wed the city itself. I can never hope to
repay such an overwhelming honor, but as a father it is my duty to try. I have
humbly offered the duke one-third of my eastern holdings and one quarter of my
wealth. He has cordially accepted, and the contracts have been drawn."
There. Let no one say that Maybor could not think on his feet.

He quickly looked
toward the duke. The man nodded his approval. Hastily grabbing a cup from the
table, Maybor came to stand between the duke and Melliandra. "A
toast," he cried, uniting the two lovers' hands. "A toast to a
glorious match between two of the oldest families in the north. May the might
of Bren and the Eastlands forever be united."

As Maybor drew his
cup to his lip, something dark in the corner of his vision caught his
attention. It was Baralis. He looked ready for murder.

Tawl watched as
the crowd went into a frenzy over the toast. They hardly knew what to make of
the marriage, but somehow Lord Maybor had managed to whip up support.

Who could not be
moved by the sight of a man weeping in happiness at the announcement of his
daughter's marriage? The worldly and cynical court had been touched by such a
spontaneous show of paternal affection. Particularly when the man in question
had gone on to compose himself and then give a gracious speech. Tawl smiled,
his lips brushing against the thick satin curtain. He could certainly see where
Melli got her spirit from.

Tawl could see
nearly everyone in the room from his position at the side of the head table. He
was concealed in the passageway that connected the great hall to the kitchens.
Normally it was used by servants carrying hot food to the tables, but tonight
Tawl had turned it into his own personal den. He had arranged to have a thickly
lined curtain hung from the entrance and had forbidden anyone in the kitchens
to set foot in the passage during the feast. It was the ideal place to keep a
discreet eye on what was going on, and if matters came to a head, it would also
provide the means for a quick escape. He could have Melli out of the hall and
into the kitchens in less than a minute.

He didn't think it
would come to that, though. Not tonight. But it would come soon. He pressed his
eye against the slit and searched out Baralis' face. The man was not even
bothering to keep up appearances. Whilst the people of the court were at least
putting on a show of goodwill for the newly betrothed couple, Baralis was
sitting there, lips drawn to a thin line, eyes dark with hatred, stabbing away
at the tabletop with the point of his eating knife.

Tawl's gaze
traveled to the girl sitting to the right of Baralis: the exquisite Catherine
of Bren. Appearances could be so deceptive. She looked like a chaste virgin:
she was not.

She looked like a
sweet angel: she was not. She looked like the sort of girl who would never harm
a fly: most definitely, she was not. Even now, Tawl could remember the venom in
her voice the day she had sworn to see him dead. Unpredictable, dangerous, and
a consummate actress, the duke's daughter was not what she seemed.

Just as the
cheering died down, Catherine stood up. Tawl saw how pale her face was and how
her hand shook as she grasped the back of the chair. His fingers encircled his
blade.