Master and Fool (14 page)

His food had given
out three days earlier and right about now he was ready for a meal. In fact,
even as he walked through Bren's southwestern gate, Jack was planning exactly
how he'd get his hands on some food. No unsuspecting goatherders here, that's
for sure. He would have to rob someone, and after three days of not eating, he
wasn't particularly fussy about who-the first man he saw with a hot pie, most
likely.

The scale of the
city took his breath away. There were buildings of stone and brick and timber,
two, sometimes three stories high. The streets were wide, and most were either
paved or cobbled. Shops and taverns and warehouses crowded side by side,
leaning against each other for support, all jostling for recognition with
brightly painted signs and carvings above their doors. Above it all towered the
wall. It dominated the city, rising high above the buildings and casting its
long shadow to the east. Jack had never seen anything like it in his life.
Annis' wall seemed like so many naked stones compared to this.

Stillfox had said
that Annis and Highwall would lay siege to Bren. Jack cast a last admiring
glance at the battlements: he would like to see the army that would try to
breach these walls.

Jack began to walk
the city in search of food. The place was a lot quieter than he'd imagined.
Yes, it was late in the day, so stallholders were upping stakes and shopkeepers
were closing shutters, but those people who were on the streets seemed
strangely subdued. There were no riotous drunks, no children chasing pigs, no
old women gossiping in groups. Even the beggars were quiet.

Jack approached an
aging stallholder who was busy loading his mule with unsold goods. His baskets
were filled with apples, not pies, but Jack decided to try him anyway.

He had a
kind-looking face. "Can I help you with those baskets, sir?" he
asked.

The stallholder
looked him up and down. "You're welcome to, young man, but only expect the
sour ones for your trouble." He indicated the baskets to be lifted.
"From your accent I suppose you're here for the war. People from all over
have been flooding into the city hoping to have a go at Highwall's army."

Jack shook his
head. "No. I'm not here for the war." He began loading the baskets on
the mule. They were heavier than he thought, and he wondered how the old man
had managed to do the job every night.

The stallholder
seemed to read his thoughts, for he said, "Any other night, young man, and
I wouldn't have needed your help. Business has been terrible slow today. I've
got so many apples left they just might break my poor mule's back." Jack
was thinking just the same thing. The old man must have someone else deliver
the apples in the morning, as the mule did not look up to it. "So you
normally sell them all?"

"Aye, that I
do. But not today." The stallholder spat reflectively. "Never seen a
day like it in all my life. It's like the whole city's in mourning."

Jack felt his
stomach twist into a knot. "Why? What's happened?"

The stallholder
looked at him as if he were mad. "Where've you been these past months,
boy? Living under a rock? Today is the day that Catherine marries King
Kylock." He looked up into the deep blue sky. "And if I'm not
mistake, the ceremony will be over and done with right about now."

Right on cue, a
distant bell began to ring. It tolled three solemn notes. Jack's blood
quickened to the sound: it was almost as if the notes were for him alone. He
stood, apple basket in hand, unable to move a muscle or take a breath, and
listened to the sound of Kylock's fate. It tolled strong and clear, setting the
whole city vibrating in time. The very walls rang with it. Jack felt it in his
soul like a message, like a warning, like a blade. Ever since the first morning
he'd woken in Stillfox's cottage and seen a vision of the war, Jack knew Kylock
and he were destined to oppose each other. And the ringing of the bell marked
the beginning of the match.

Jack lost his hold
on the basket and the apples went careening to the ground. He'd come to the
right place at exactly the right time. Bren had called him for so long, and now
that he'd finally arrived it was no coincidence that Kylock, Baralis, and Melli
were here, too.

As if the very
city itself were confirming Jack's thoughts, a hundred separate bells began to
chime. Chapels throughout the city were marking the wedding, each one bent on
out-pealing the last. High and low they rang out their notes, no two of them
ringing in time.

The wedding feast
had been torture to Kylock. Hundreds upon hundreds of people had touched him,
holding out hands to be clasped and cheeks to be kissed and cups to be shared
in toast. His whole body was tainted with their saliva and their sweat.
Minuscule fragments of their skin clung to his sleeves, and his lungs were
filled with their breath. He would have liked to burn them all for his
suffering.

But he wouldn't.
Oh no, he played the game, instead. The game of courtly manners, smiling and
bowing and gracious to a fault. Promising positions and pensions and elevation
to those who counted, whilst barely deigning to acknowledge those who did not.

Through it all one
thought had kept him going: tonight Catherine would be his. Just to look at her
calmed him. Her face so pale and serene, her eyes so blue and pure: she was an
angel, created for him alone. The only part of his body that was clean were his
fingertips, for she had kissed them before they left the hall.

Up to their
chamber they walked, the lamp-holders stepping before them, the court watching
quietly from below. Baralis waited at the top of the stairs, his eyes flashing
a caution as he bowed his head toward the floor. Kylock paid him no heed. He
stretched out his arm and his new wife rested her hand upon it.

"My lord
chancellor," he said, "you have done your duty well. Your presence is
no longer called for this night." Beside him he felt Catherine shudder,
her breast pushing gently against his arm.

"As you wish,
sire," murmured Baralis as they passed. The double doors to the chamber
were flung back as they reached the nobles' quarters, and the heady scent of
roses crept forth to meet them. Kylock turned to one of the servants who was
holding back the door.

"Get those
flowers out of here. Now!"

The servant darted
forward to do his bidding. Kylock stepped into the room with Catherine. His
eyes took in all the details of the chamber. Good. A tub full of scalding water
steamed away in the corner. "Draw a screen around the bath," he
commanded to the servant whose arms were now full of roses. The man off-loaded
his burden to another and began to pull the screen out from the wall.

When the screen
was in place, Kylock ordered the servants to leave. He and Catherine stood side
by side until the double doors closed behind them. Kylock then turned to face
his new wife. Catherine was radiant in the firelight: more than an angel now,
she was a goddess. Her golden hair glowed like a halo and her skin was as smooth
as a statue. She was a holy icon, and it was only fitting that he kneel at her
feet.

Catherine shifted
nervously as Kylock stepped forward. Her hand fluttered up to her chest.
Looking down at him, she saw to her amazement that he was lifting the hem of her
dress. She couldn't stop herself from shuddering. He was so solemn, so
intent-like a man possessed. His neck arched further and he kissed the fabric
of her satin bridal shoes. Even through the fabric she could feel the cool
touch of his lips.

Part of her was
thrilled by the gesture-here was a king supplicating himself before her-yet
part of her knew it was wrong. She felt out of her depth. Kylock was a
stranger, an unknown entity who seemed intent on worshiping her. Uneasy, she
took a step back.

Her withdrawal
seemed to break the spell. Up came Kylock's head. His eyes took a moment to
focus. There was a trace of spittle on his lips. "My love," he said,
so softly she had to strain to hear him. "I can hardly believe that soon
you will be mine."

"Why
soon?" Catherine said. "Why not take me now?" Reaching back, she
pulled at the lacings of her dress. She wanted to be naked before him. She
didn't want to be worshiped, she wanted to be desired.

Kylock raised up
his hand. "Not now, my love. Not like this." His voice had an edge to
it, and Catherine let the laces fall. Satisfied, Kylock continued, "I must
ready myself first." He motioned toward the screen.

Catherine hid her
disappointment. She had hoped Kylock would be like Blayze: unable to resist
her. Shrugging her shoulders, she said, "Very well, my lord. As you make
ready, so will L" She turned her back on him and walked over to the
dressing table. By the time she had poured herself a cup of wine, he had
disappeared behind the screen. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and downed
her drink in one.

Well, it was
obvious she was going to have to work a little harder to gain Kylock's
interest. He was no Blayze, that was for sure.

Catherine cast her
gaze upon the mirror. Her own beauty never failed to please her. Slowly, she
took the pins from her hair, relishing the fall of every golden lock. Next she
turned to her beauty box, dipping two fingers in to scoop up the rouge. She had
deliberately not worn any cosmetics in Kylock's presence, thinking that he would
prefer his women unadorned. Now it seemed she would need all the help she could
get. She would not have Kylock regarding her as a holy relic to be worshiped.
She was a woman with a woman's needs, and when he emerged from his bath he
would see her for what she was.

During the banquet
she had been unable to drink or eat. Her excitement over her wedding night had
drawn her stomach to a close. It had been many months since she had been with a
man, and she missed the rough-soft excitement of passion. Kylock was darkly
handsome with a mouth that was marked by a cruel downward twist and eyes that
were deeply set and thickly lidded. Catherine had felt sure he would be
aggressive, even rough, in his lovemaking. Now, when they were finally alone,
the first thing he wanted to do was take a bath!

Catherine smiled
and poured herself another cup of wine. She would make sure that her feet were
the last thing he'd want to kiss when he emerged from behind the screen. She
rubbed the rouge into her cheeks and then her lips, turning them from pale pink
to bloodred. Once finished she took up her cup. The wine was unwatered and went
quickly to her head, making her feel wicked and lustful. For centuries people
had said that the women of Bren were like cats in heat, so there was little
point in denying it now.

Rather merrily,
Catherine tugged at the strings of her bodice. As the fabric cleaved apart, she
turned to the mirror and paused to admire the high curves of her breasts. A
flash of inspiration came to her, and she rubbed a spot of rouge into each
nipple.
Oh, yes,
she thought, arching forward to admire her handiwork,
Blayze
would have loved this!

What next?
Catherine picked up a jar of scented oil and began dabbing behind her ears, at
the base of her neck, and anywhere else that she fancied. As she finished her
toilette, she listened for telltale signs of readiness from behind the screen.
She could hear nothing at first, then her ears picked up the sound of water
splashing ... and something else. She couldn't tell what. Slipping out of her
underskirt and stockings, she walked over to the screen. Without her maiden's
belt she felt strangely light, not herself at all. Early this morning Bailor
had passed her the key, and she had now been without the belt all day.
Catherine almost missed it. the pressure and the chafing had delivered a subtle
pleasure all their own.

Coming to stand
beside the screen, Catherine started to brush a stray hair from her face when
she noticed there were still spots of rouge on her fingertips. Naked now, she
went to wipe her hands upon a nearby tapestry. At the last moment she stopped
herself, a chuckle of delight sounding deep within her throat. Instead of
wiping the rouge on the tapestry, she rubbed it into her pubic hair instead.
The blond down became a blushing pink. Catherine bit her lip; she wanted to
laugh out loud at the sight of it.

The faint rubbing
sound that was coming from behind the screen put a stop to all her delight.
There was something unnerving about it: here was a man on his wedding night,
with his new bride waiting for him, yet he chose to spend their first hour
alone together scrubbing himself in a tub. Catherine felt a cold chill skim
down her spine: this wasn't right, it wasn't normal.

She crept along
the length of the screen until she came to the end. Then slowly she peeked her
head around the corner of the screen.

Steam rose up from
water hot enough to scald most people. Kylock sat in the tub with his back
toward Catherine. A series of red scratch marks ran from his flank to his waist;
some still had flakes of dried blood attached to them. He was bent forward,
intent on something set before him--Catherine couldn't see what. She swung out
a little farther: Now she saw what he was doing. He was scrubbing his hands
with a small wooden brush. Back and forth the brush went, so quickly it was
only a blur.

Catherine watched
for a moment thinking, Surely
he will stop before he rubs all the skin from
his bone.
But he didn't. He continued scrubbing with a terrible blind
purpose. It was as if nothing else mattered.

Looking up from
his hands to the slant of his cheek, Catherine realized that his jaw was
moving. She could neither see his lips nor hear the words, but the muscles in
his cheek kept working and his jaw jerked up and down.

Catherine withdrew
back behind the screen. She had seen enough. The sight of Kylock muttering to
himself while he rubbed his hands raw had changed her mood entirely. There was
something very wrong with her new husband: it almost seemed as if he wasn't
quite sane. Catherine shook her head. No. She wouldn't think such thoughts.
After all, only two days back, Kylock had learned of his mother's death. All of
Bren was talking about it.