The Black Prince: Part II (24 page)

Had an man, ever, followed that last commandment? These vows were nothing, he had to remind himself. All vows were nothing, compared to the One Vow. “I will.”

Turning, the priest posed the same set of questions to Solene.

She didn’t answer.

A rustling as someone shifted position. A cry from outside. A cough.

Arvid stepped forward and, taking her head between his hands, forced her to nod.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur.

And then, after a long-winded blessing that Hart did not hear, the words he’d been dreading:
those whom the Gods have joined, let no man tear asunder
.

It was done.

There was, now, no escape.

T
hey sat next to each other at the high table, their shared plate and cup untouched between them.

It was a beautiful thing, chased and embossed. Silver. There was a strap-work border, he saw. And scrolls. A stylized wreath in raised relief about the center, symbolizing bounty. He supposed that many generations before her must have used that cup. And hoped, for all their sakes, that their weddings had been more joyous occasions than this.

He could have been happy. She wasn’t who he would have chosen but men and women had made the best of things before. He could have laughed. With her. About the trials they’d face, coming to know one another. Possibly not before they’d conceived a child. It could have been an adventure. No, she never could have competed with Lissa, even under the best of circumstances. But she might have been an ally. A friend. And, in time, who knew? He might have come to love her after his own fashion. And she, even, to love him.

Which would have been better, for all concerned.

Instead they sat in silence.

He couldn’t help reflect on these things, as he endured his own wedding feast. Although
feast
might have been a misleading term. It was a lunch, and a large one. But there was none of the abandon here that marked a true celebration. Hart sipped his wine. It had been tasted, of course.

He’d always had a philosophical bent, although he’d hidden it as a younger man. He liked to think things through. To observe: individuals, and how they interacted with each other and in certain situations. Only he did it quietly, which often led others to assuming that he made snap decisions. Simply because he didn’t choose to share, with them, the means by which he reached them. At no point did he announce,
I am now considering
. Merely shared his conclusions if and when they became relevant. He might have taken minutes to reach them, or moons.

If
the South wasn’t so hidebound.
If
Maeve’s supporters could have simply accepted Piers. If, if, if. Women—and men—like Solene didn’t realize that they built their own cages. And forced others to join them inside. If they didn’t all view blood as a better claim to title than actual worth, then she would have been free to marry whom she chose. But she perpetuated the very myths that she now railed against. In silence.

The food was served. Each boast of the kitchen to him first. Veal pie. Hare stew. Mutton. Duck a la dodine, which was duck first braised in its own juices and then cooked again in a casserole with wine, cognac, shallots, nutmeg, laurel leaf and pepper. All of this was mounted with butter. Often, in the finer houses, it was served with a slice of truffled pâté. It was a rich dish.

He selected the best pieces for Solene. Who of course refused to eat. No one else showed such compunctions, as around them platters emptied. There were no pages to serve, so household servants took the duty. The high table consisted of Arvid and Hart’s other officers, along with those local worthies who could be persuaded to attend. The head of the local mason’s lodge was there, and seemed beyond thrilled with his duck. He’d brought another from the lodge as well—Hart had learned, recently, that the proper name for their guild hall was
lodge
, not hall, as a mason was no furrier—and that man also seemed content. So much the better.

The rest of the guests were taken from those fighters who’d distinguished themselves, on both sides, and their guests. Let them bring women in from the village. Let them bring their families. Let them all see that Hart was no monster. That he recognized all men as his fellows, regardless of their rank. As his predecessor had never done. Let them see that Hart rewarded good conduct, as well as punished bad. And that, in all this, he was a true emissary of the king.

“You should eat something, dove.” His words were pitched only for Solene.

“There is a tradesman at our table.” Her words, in turn, seemed to cost her some effort.

“Yes,” Hart agreed, silently thanking the Gods that no one could hear them. “And he’s more educated than all of us.” And likely more powerful. Only a fool ignored the masons. They’d helped Piers to power, because they’d recognized something in his vision vital to their own success.

“Is this to be your plan now?” Her voice was brittle. She sounded on the verge of tears. Or a screaming fit. “To dine with dirt?”

“I might remind you, queen of my heart, that I am also self-created.”

“At least your father was something.” She sniffed.

“My father was not.” His tone was cold. She recoiled slightly, as if she’d been hit.

He sipped his wine.

She deserved the rebuke. She deserved a good thrashing, and would receive one if she caused him further embarrassment. Whatever her personal viewpoint, she had to learn some restraint. She was no child, to point at a guest and call him fat, or demand that he be banished from her table.

From his table.

“I only meant—”

“Do not presume to speak of my father.”

Her mouth firmed. “You speak enough of mine.”

“If you wish to spend your wedding night kneeling naked on the floor with your wrists tied to your ankles then please, by all means, keep on as you are.” There was no anger in his tone; he was merely explaining. There was play, and there was punishment. Solene’s night of kneeling in the chapel had perhaps not been as…instructive to her as it could have been. He would gladly, if required, redirect her efforts. For her benefit, as well as for his.

“So it’s true. You are a sadist.”

His shrug was almost imperceptible. “Of course.”

It was simple enough to assume that, given the inherent nature of a power exchange relationship, that was, where one person dominated the other, that all training flowed in one direction. That, in short, he who held the power did the teaching. But the actual truth was somewhat more complicated. Training was a continuum of experience. For both. Both taught and, indeed, both learned.

Hart knew enough about women to know that each was different. What worked with one would not, therefore, work with another. Lissa was naturally submissive. Eager to please. His main task with her was convincing her that she had the right to exist at all—with or without him. He had to exercise a great deal of caution in, not even his commands but his mere revelation of preferences, as she would not tell him if the pain was too great or if she was well and truly frightened. He had to have limits for both of them, which was…challenging.

Restraint was not natural to his character. But she’d taught it to him and, with it, a degree of empathy. But Solene…had different requirements. And would require something different from him.

She still hadn’t eaten.

His question was casual. “Is your self-denial political?”

Arvid was now telling the masons some horrendously inappropriate story, and they were roaring with laughter.

More wine was poured. Laughter, from different quarters. In general, the guests had been respectful with the serving girls. A quick pinch here and there, or an invitation, but none had pressed their suit overmuch once rejected. Joining the former earl and his son in decorating the castle’s outer walls were, along with those guardsmen who’d refused the pardon, was a man from among those Hart had brought south who’d raped a girl in town. No man could pass in or out of House Draca without that stark reminder of the king’s justice. Which Hart hoped would also serve as a reminder that there were plenty of willing women to be found.

“No.” She still wouldn’t look at him. “I merely can’t bring myself to eat when I’m around someone so disgusting.”

“Ah.”

“I loathe you.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “You’ve made that quite clear.”

“You mock me.”

“No, dove, merely reassure you that you’ve communicated your point effectively. There could be no doubt left in any man’s mind, after your various recitations. Any one of which would have been more than sufficient.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Calling you what?”

“Stop using—endearments.” She spat the word as though she were speaking of plague.

“You are my wife.”

“Do
not
remind me.”

“Oh.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, and she flinched. “But I intend to remind you. Every night.”

“I’d rather die.”

“But you won’t.” If she’d had the courage to end it, she would have done so before their wedding. Of this he was certain. To her, with her faith in her Gods, standing before him at that altar must have been the height of shame. An idea that didn’t arouse him as much as it might have. She wasn’t Lissa, to suffer pain for his pleasure. Solene’s pain was of a private nature. It alienated him. It alienated her. From everything that could have been a source of comfort.

She’d barely spoken to him, but she’d refused utterly to speak to Jeanette. Or Emma. Or any of her women. Thinking, as she did, that they’d betrayed her. Not seeing that they had lives to live, just like she. That their sacrifice would have proved nothing. Meant nothing.

They’d tried. All of them, but particularly Jeanette. They cared for her.

But in Solene’s mind, she was alone.

“Now,” Hart said, “eat.”

“W
here are you going?”

Hart looked down. It was Aveline. She was waiting, expectantly, for an answer.

They were standing at the foot of the stairs in the central hall. Above them were the guest chambers and chief retainers’ rooms. And adjacent to those, of course, were Hart’s own. Where, he supposed, Solene was waiting. Unless she’d returned to the chapel, for more prayer.

He didn’t particularly care where she went, when he had no need of her, unless it was to leave the castle. Or do something even more foolish, like attempt to send a message by raven. They still weren’t sure which ravens returned to whom, because the cages were marked in code. A code that, apparently, only the immediate family had known. The previous earl, it seemed, had trusted his castellan about as much as Bossard had trusted him in return.

And whatever Solene knew, she wasn’t sharing.

“You’re carrying a tray.”

Hart was. He nodded. “I’m bringing food to my friend.”

“There are servants for that.” But it was really more of a question, than a statement.

Hart nodded again. “There are. But while any man—or woman, for that matter—can carry a tray, he cannot be me.”

“You mean that you want to see your friend.”

Hart nodded.

Aveline digested this. Finally, she said, “no one here has any friends.”

That this was nothing more than a simple statement of fact struck Hart as sad. And undoubtedly true. And familiar. Except, he corrected himself, not truly. Isla had been his friend. Was still.

And then, “can I come?”

He saw no reason she couldn’t.

She followed him up the stairs. She showed no sign of fear. Rather, she was as familiar with him as if she’d known him all her life. As if he were some favored uncle. She talked to him in the indulgent manner that some children had with adults, as though they were the smartest beings in the world and exercising all the world’s patience in explaining what should be obvious to these galumphing idiots. Which, Hart reflected, there might be some truth to that notion.

Most adults, including himself, could be a bit slow to catch on.

“So who are we visiting?”

“His name is Rudolph.”

“What kind of name is that?”