The Black Prince: Part II (17 page)

Read The Black Prince: Part II Online

Authors: P. J. Fox

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Dark Fantasy, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Historical, #Sword & Sorcery

BOOK: The Black Prince: Part II
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Had a sword been at her throat, Isla could not at that moment have come up with an appropriate response.

Rowena shook her head again. She was gazing, half at Isla and half out at nothing. The castle. The past. Who knew. “I didn’t want to call off the betrothal, because that would have been unchivalrous. And I didn’t—I didn’t want to be an old maid. But the bards tell us that the highest form of love is that made forbidden by the bonds of marriage.”

Adultery. Rowena was talking about adultery. Isla had heard the stories too, and they were all ridiculous. The knight pining after his lord’s lady, the lady pining after her lord’s head groom. Just something to pass the lonely nights. A diversion. Not a blueprint for living one’s real life.

“So I thought that—that once I was married, he’d become so overwhelmed with jealousy and lust that he’d kill Rudolph, solving the entire problem.”

“In one swift stroke.”

“Yes!” Rowena agreed, Isla’s tone apparently lost on her. “Marriage—it’s supposed to be so wonderful but it’s not. All Rudolph ever wanted to do was take my clothes off and talk about his feelings.”

Gods, how onerous. Rowena talked as though she and Rudolph had been married for two decades. Not less than two moons. And yes, Rudolph might not be as rich or as exciting as some other men—but kill him? That was cold-blooded, even for Rowena. Isla had heard of women who, after enduring year after year of abuse, had helped to arrange for their husbands to have “accidents.” Or who had stabbed them outright, at table or sometimes while they slept.

Such an act of retaliation wasn’t a crime in Barghast, the laws of Darkling Reach being influences as they were by tribal law. Wherein a woman had every right to kill her husband if he raised a hand to her. As well as a man who wasn’t her husband. Whereas the church viewed a woman as merely an extension of her husband and any attempt by her to exercise free will as extremely suspicious, and probably evidence of witchcraft, the tribes understood that a woman’s right to self determination was sacrosanct. Women were the font of all life. Women were magical.

But those women had, for the most part, gone into their marriages with good intentions. They stayed, and fought, because they wanted things to work out. Rowena was talking about using the act of marriage, itself, as a weapon.

And for what?

“Who is the other man?”

Rowena near shouted the answer, as though Isla had asked where was the lake. “Callas!”

“Callas?”

“But he
still
hasn’t pressed his suit. And I know it’s because he’s too good to kill Rudolph.”

Had Rowena ever met Callas? Were they speaking of the same man? Isla doubted that there was a single creature in this world that Callas felt too good to kill. But of course they were speaking of the same man. Or, at least, Rowena’s ideal of him. Which apparently seemed not to include that Callas embodied none of the virtues extoled in
The Chivalrous Heart
.

Which, from Isla’s perspective, was a definite boon. She liked Callas, and considered him a friend. She wondered if he had any idea that Rowena’s obsession was so fixed. Or had, apparently, only been fired by his rejection.

“Callas….” Isla trailed off. She’d been there, the other night. Rowena knew that she’d been there. And had seen Callas, far from embrace Rowena, remove her forcibly from his person.

Callas was, however, the most powerful man in Caer Addanc after Tristan. And Rowena’s own brother. Isla wouldn’t have put it past Rowena to seduce Hart, or at least attempt to do so, if she thought that opinion could be turned to support the venture. What mattered to her, above all, was power.

But whatever else Rowena was, she was a creature of convention. Both South and North frowned on incest, as did the church. Which, for all the bards’ talk of forbidden love, controlled nearly every aspect of a couple’s marriage. Or attempted to. Sex was not allowed while a woman was with child, during her moon phase, or for a certain number of weeks after she’d given birth. Nor could a man seek his wife’s bed on fully half the days of the week.

After marrying, a couple couldn’t even enter a church for a full moon.

So while Rowena might seize on a man as a potential partner for any number of wholly superficial reasons, and be willing to overlook his flaws, for any number of equally superficial reasons, even for her there had to be limits. Although Isla was fairly certain that from the church’s perspective, if not the North’s, throwing her lot in with one of the Chosen might be just as bad as bedding her brother. Or indeed worse. Most sexual sin could be forgiven, with penance.

The penalty for apostasy was death.

Isla turned back toward the castle. She was tired, and wanted to rest. And have something to eat. “I think that….” How to put this delicately. “Callas doesn’t intend to marry.”

“Of course he does. All men do. Marriage is intended by the Gods to prevent fornication.”

Now it was Isla’s turn to sigh.

They walked in silence for awhile. And then, finally, “I don’t know that there’s anything I can do.” The church forbade divorce. And even if Callas could be persuaded, which he couldn’t, her next marriage still wouldn’t be like those in the songs. Marriages weren’t.

“Get me an annulment. Something.”

“I’ll speak to Tristan.” Who was there, of course. Had heard the entire conversation and, after his own fashion, participated. Isla knew his thoughts full well, and they were not kind to Rowena. He wanted to eat her more than ever, but was also now considering that she might work well for one of the numerous rituals that Callas led. His god was a god who demanded blood.

She made a sacred vow
, came Tristan’s thought,
in short, because she had nothing else to do on that particular morning
. Which was, Isla supposed, the long and the short of it. But she pointed out to Tristan that watching Rowena throw herself at Callas would at least be amusing.

Rudolph, Tristan was of the opinion, deserved to dine with Bragi for having survived the attentions of such a creature. He might as well have been sacrificed to the Dark One on that altar, for the pain he’d endured. And for love. For the love he believed Rowena felt. A sadder tale no bard had ever told. For no one would believe it.

The truest stories suffered the worst in the retelling, Isla mused.

“What’s it like?”

Isla started. “What?”

“Being duchess. What’s it like?”

“I….” They’d reached the gardens now, which were somewhat sheltered from the wind. Isla sat down on a bench. Rowena sat down beside her. “That he had a title mattered to me not at all. I would have been perfectly content to live with him in a cottage. Or a cave.” She stared down at her gloves. The same muted gray. Only these had been a gift from Tristan. Asher’s gift had been in honor of a celebration held in the North, when the snows melted, of mothers.

The spring was a time of new life, of old life renewed. For this, the old religion taught, all should give thanks to Freja. She who granted life and was, thus, both a goddess in her own right and representative of the divine within all women. Mothers were brought gifts, and thanked for their service. It was, Isla reflected, likely the only day of the year when the average woman didn’t have to cook. Although judging from the dubious offerings of the average man, she might have well preferred to. And so the cloak meant a great deal to her, for that reason. Their cook had also helped Asher to bake a pie, which came out raw in the center.

“I never wanted the rest.” And, in truth, it had been hard to get used to. Isla hadn’t been created for public life, and relied on Tristan’s support to accomplish those tasks, which her new station demanded. Giving audiences, making polite conversation with total strangers.

“I only wanted him.”

“You know,” Rowena said, “I envy you for that. More than you know.”

Which might, Isla reflected, be the first entirely true thing her sister had ever said.

NINETEEN

“H
e’s lost the eye.” The surgeon shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

He’d just come from Rudolph’s room, into the hall, where Hart and Arvid had been waiting. For some time. Usually, after a battle, screams from whatever temporary infirmary had been set up were a good thing. They meant that the patient was alive and could feel pain.

But from Rudolph, there had been only ominous silence.

The surgeon wiped at his face with a rag. He was middle-aged, perhaps half a generation older than Hart. And in truth he was little more than a camp barber, but at least blood didn’t frighten him. His grime-encrusted robes hung on him like a belted potato sack. Which, in combination with the fact that he was balding, gave him the effect of a tonsured monk. He seemed to care as little for his appearance, too, which Hart found reassuring. His only education might have been practicing on his patients until they began to die less, but he was serious about his work.

“But will he live.” Hart didn’t care about the eye. A man only needed one.

The surgeon nodded. “Yes. Provided there’s no infection.”

Hart grimaced at the memory of Callas’ ghastly tonic.

“The wound was cauterized while he slept.” Meaning, men had pinned Rudolph down while he was still unconscious and a white-hot brand had been applied to his eye socket. Which was intact, although the matter inside had been crushed. Rudolph was such a mass of wounds when he was found that it was difficult to say how.

The burn would be treated with honey, which had healing properties in its own right but also prevented disease—ill humors, to the church fathers—from entering the wound. Usually. And then there were Rudolph’s other wounds: to the leg, and to the shoulder. To the arm. Cuts both large and small. He’d lost his little finger. But a finger here or there, provided he wasn’t an archer and they his pulling fingers, was nowhere near the loss to a warrior as his depth perception.

“Well at least he hasn’t lost his cock.” This from Arvid.

“This is true.” The surgeon brightened somewhat.

Hart said nothing.

Rudolph hadn’t been found until shortly before dinner.

The first order of business, apart from making sure that all, friend and foe, were accounted for was removing the bodies. Pits had been dug about half a league off, and carts had been commandeered from the stables. There wasn’t time for individual burials; they’d be up to their shoulders in rotting flesh before half were complete. Nor could they spare oil enough to provide any a proper burial by fire. If, even doused, the wood could be coaxed to burn. Everything was waterlogged, and would be for weeks to come. So all would rot together. Not out of disrespect for the dead but concern for the health of the living. The Northern words for the dead would be said over all and Hart had allowed that if a priest could be found, and was willing, the Southron words could be said as well.

He might not share his new subjects’ religion, but he had no intention of barring them from its practice. Indeed, planned to do all that he could to facilitate their living their lives however they pleased, so long as they harmed no one. A contented populace was a loyal populace.

But some of those men responsible for moving bodies had noticed that one was still moaning. The one at the very bottom of the pile. Apparently what had happened was that between Hart leaving Rudolph to guard the door while he climbed up to the winch and Arvid and the rest of the men actually gaining entrance to the castle, those few defenders had concentrated their efforts on stopping Hart.

On killing Rudolph.

Who’d been, judging from the scene, responsible for a good half the fatalities the enemy had suffered.

Hart had brought Rudolph, himself, to the chamberlain’s room, where someone had dragged in a map table. He was operated on there. Hart had had no notion that Rudolph was so gifted with a sword. Or that he’d possessed such cods to use his talents. Most men would have turned and fled, or been overcome by their own terror long before the enemy had a chance to finish the job.

But Rudolph had kept to his post.

It didn’t seem possible that he was alive. At first his moaning was attributed to the bearers’ collective imagination. Until he opened his one good eye. Some were convinced that his corpse had been possessed and he should be tossed in the moat because demons hated water. Luckily cooler heads had prevailed, and someone had been dispatched to locate Hart.

Hart had been waiting in the hall ever since.

At least someone had fetched him a chair.

Rudolph had been under that pile for almost a full day. He was badly dehydrated, as well as had lost a great deal of blood. Even more astonishing than that he’d lasted that long was that he’d lived through the surgery. Hart could only thank the Gods, on Rudolph’s behalf, that he’d been unconscious. He’d be in pain enough, still, as he recovered.

“He’s awake,” the surgeon said. “Although he shouldn’t be.”

“I’d like to see him.”

“Fine.” The surgeon cast a suspicious eye at Arvid. “But the giant stays here.”

When Arvid started to protest, the surgeon jabbed a finger in his direction. “My patient, cave troll. My rules. One visitor at a time. If you’re so interested in medicine, you can help me rip bandages.”

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