The Black Prince: Part II (40 page)

“Yes,” he said. “If you’d like.”

He’d wonder, later, why he’d said yes. He could only tell himself that it had been because her interest was refreshing. And more than that. She made no effort to pretend, as so many did, that she couldn’t see his injury. Nor did she treat him like a pariah. As though the loss of an eye might be catching. No, her frank admission of the truth made that same truth easier to take. And created, at the same time, a kind of intimacy between them. An intimacy that had been missing from his life for a long time. An intimacy that said, she saw him for who and what he was, and was interested. Not in pitying him, or mothering him, but simply…in him.

She leaned forward, her expression intent. Her hands might be small, but they were well formed. And deft as she removed the eye patch. She studied the knot of scar tissue and the puckered lines running from it. That the leather mostly covered, except near his ear.

Her touch was feather light. “Does it hurt?”

No, he wanted to tell her. No. He was a whole man and just fine. “Yes,” he said.

“And gives you headaches.”

“I took a blow to the head, and was unconscious for a long time. There’s no way of knowing what damage was done. Nor whether I will ever fully heal. Which,” he added, “is really quite frustrating.”

“You’re brave, to keep going,” she said. “A great many wouldn’t.”

“I’m not brave. I’m a coward of the worst sort.”

“No, you’re not. And you’re not hideous.”

He thought then, for a single heartbeat, that she might kiss him. And found, too, that he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. Which said nothing good about him, being a married man. She was being kind to him; that was all. And some women mistook pity for deeper feelings. But she sat back, the look that had flashed so briefly in her eyes replaced her usual good cheer.

Leaving him to wonder what he would have done if she had kissed him.

And to wonder, too, at how great his capacity for self-delusion must have grown. As kind as she was to disagree with Rowena, Rudolph knew the truth. More civil minds simply held their tongues. If Greta had kissed him, it would have been for comfort. Consolation, maybe. But not lust.

Why then did he wish now that he’d kissed her back?

F
or the first time in a long time, Apple made an appearance at dinner.

She must have heard about Solene. And wanted to inspect the creature for herself. Fortunately for her, or unfortunately, Solene had given them all a great deal to inspect. She was resplendent in white, her bodice plain but her sleeves embroidered in a mixture of crimson and thread of gold. Heavily at the cuffs, then trailing into nothing near her ties. Her hair was pulled back and braided, more elaborately even than Rowena’s. Which Rowena had no doubt noticed.

Solene’s manner hadn’t improved, though. She still, apparently, considered herself the only true person in the room. She’d held her tongue, so far, although the insult was plain in her eyes. Indeed in her every mannerism. She made no attempt at pleasantries. Any more than a farmer would, to his sow, if forced to sleep with her in the sty.

She sat next to Hart, who sat almost opposite Isla and Tristan. Asher sat to Tristan’s right and Isla to his left, as usual. But this time Rudolph sat to her left. Which put Rowena opposite Solene. Callas was there, too, and Elias. And Greta, of course. And little Aveline, the urchin, who so far hadn’t said a word. Quinn had gone home to marry his beloved. His wit would have been a relief but, more than Quinn, Isla missed Arvid. What she wouldn’t give now for one of his toasts.

Apple looked drawn, and older. But she’d bathed, at least, and her eyes glittered with excitement at the drama being enacted before her. A drama in which she seemed content to play no part. At least for the time being. She was dressed like a nun, in brown wool that resembled a sack, her hair pulled back and covered with a simple cap of the same material.

It should have been a quiet dinner, family and retainers enjoying one another’s company during this temporary respite from the greater conflicts plaguing the kingdom. A chance to renew acquaintances. To appreciate what they had, and to relax.

But it wasn’t.

Hart looked tense. Asher looked fascinated. Callas looked like he very much wanted to laugh, and was trying very hard to pretend otherwise.

The next course was served.

As Tristan helped Isla to some choice pieces of duck, she struggled to think of some topic that would be appropriate to broach with Solene. The trouble was that every topic was a sensitive topic. She couldn’t very well ask Solene about her family, or her wedding. Or compliment her on where she came from.
What a lovely little earldom
, she could picture herself saying.
Tell me, how did it feel when it was taken over?
Solene, undoubtedly, would have actually preferred to take her dinner in the sty. Isla, no matter how pleasant she tried to act, would still always be an enemy.

No one else seemed to have the inspiration—or the courage—to make conversation either. At least, beyond asking their tablemate to pass the peas. There was a great deal of sniffing, and sighing, and staring. Solene seemed determined to kill each person with her glare in turn. Only Aveline seemed unaffected; she focused on her food like she’d never seen food before, shoveling it in with grim determination.

Greta said something to Rudolph, and Rudolph laughed. Isla wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him laugh before. Even when he was still wearing codpieces.

Rowena shot him a quick, withering glare. And then she opened her mouth. “Solene.”

Solene’s head turned.

“I’m sure that, having married the brother in law to the king, your wedding was magical.” She was in fine form tonight, was Rowena. Her eyes were bright and face was flushed from too much drink. She’d had plenty since dinner began but not enough to account for this. At what point had she started? Since, Isla suspected, long before her husband arrived home.

Apple’s eyes lit up, too, but for an entirely different reason.

“Because,” she continued, not waiting for Solene’s response, “my own wedding was awful. My dress—the food! I can’t even decide which was the worst thing.”

“I married the Dark One,” Solene said quietly.

“Although I suppose the
worst
thing had to have been the groom. Next to his limp-dicked, limp-wristed failure, the pickled herring was a joy! And I should tell you that—”

“Enough!” Rudolph pounded his fist on the table, sending the plates jumping.

Rowena jumped, too, plainly startled to be addressed in such a fashion. But she recovered herself quickly enough. “How dare you!”

For a heartbeat, Isla thought that Rowena would fling her wine into her husband’s face. But that, in the end, would have been a waste of good wine. And Rowena’s priorities, if not evolving, were certainly growing more apparent.

“I dare,” Rudolph responded, “because I am your husband. And you will address me as your husband, with all the courtesy due to that relation.”

Isla doubted that Rudolph had ever said such things to Rowena before. Indeed, she’d been fairly certain during their tenure in the Highlands that that was a great part of Rudolph’s appeal. If not the greatest part. He’d never stood up to her. Over anything.

“I don’t know why you expect this loyalty.” The look Rowena turned on her husband was deathly. And Isla had seen it before: at that long ago hunt, when she’d been so hideously cruel to Asher. “You’re poor and you’re stupid and now you’ve had the gall to renounce your title, which was your only redeeming feature! And left me married to some—some peasant!”

The table had gone completely silent. Isla was certain that the rest of the hall, too, could hear Rowena’s every word. She sounded quite a bit like Solene had earlier. Which fact she’d likely take as a compliment, if pointed out. Those two should have married each other, Isla decided. They deserved each other.

“Rowena,” Hart said, “shut up.”

“I did
not
agree to marry a peasant and I did
not
agree to marry a cripple! You”—this was directed at Solene—“might have to share your bed with a madman but at least he’s rich. At least he’s an earl.” It didn’t appear to occur to her that she was discussing her own brother, now, in such unflattering terms.

“I expected loyalty,” Rudolph said, his tone icy, “because I’d given it. Our vows spoke to love, not finance. Nor title.”

“A pox on your vows! Vows count for nothing if you’re tricked into marrying the wrong person.”

Rudolph considered her words in silence.

Even Aveline had paused from her labors and was staring, wide-eyed, at Rowena.

Rowena, for her part, seemed surprised by the collective response. What had she honestly expected? For people to cheer? She’d rejected her husband, the war hero, for being a cripple and, more importantly, for being a king’s man. In a world where a man’s own achievements, especially on the field of battle, were all. Moreover, from the purely Morvish perspective, a sheriff was the king’s direct representative, whose edict carried the full weight of his authority. There were a good many women in this room, Isla wagered, who’d gladly change places with Rowena in a heartbeat.

“You,” Rudolph said coldly, “are a shallow creature not worth the lives of the ermines you killed to make your gown. You pretend to be so devout, such a perfect adherent to the church and to your precious book,
The Chivalrous Heart
, but at your core you’re everything that both despise. You’re corrupt, Rowena. As corrupt, and as charmless, as a gallows pit.”

“You—”

“You think only, ever, of yourself. Of glorifying yourself, until you become in your own eyes like the Gods you pretend to worship. But you are not, however deluded you might become, a God. And have no power over us save what we give you.” His eye bored into hers. “Die alone, Rowena. Or take a lover. It matters to me not.”

And then he stood. Turning, he extended a hand to Greta. His demeanor turned pleasant, as though nothing at all were amiss. “Lady. I’d be honored if you’d accompany me for a walk in the gardens. It seems to have grown a bit stuffy in here and I’m concerned that there might be humors, which would be injurious to your health.”

Greta’s smile was small. But real. And there was a light in her eyes that Isla hadn’t seen before. “Sir. I would be honored.”

She let Rudolph, still every inch the courtier, escort her from the table.

Rowena watched in horror.

Some fool in the kitchens sent out another duck.

“I like Rudolph,” Callas said, pouring both himself and Elias more wine. “I always thought it was a shame that he’d married so far beneath him.”

“Indeed.” This from Hart. “A warrior of his stature deserves far better.”

This time, Rowena did throw her cup. “I hate you all.”

“I
don’t want to be here.” Solene’s voice was small. She looked small, perched on one of her trunks. Small and sad, like some child’s doll forgotten among the luggage.

“I know,” Hart said.

They’d share a suite of guest rooms for the duration of the visit. Hart, now being a married man, could hardly resume his place in the barracks. Although it wouldn’t go to waste, of that he was certain. Rudolph would need a place to sleep. Unless, after this night, he moved in with Greta. He could hardly doubt that Greta’s bed would be warmer than Rowena’s.

“I hate your family.” A pause. “And I hate you.” But there was no rancor in her words, only sadness.

“I know.” And he did.

The rooms were pleasant enough, for Caer Addanc. A bedroom, a sitting room, and garderobes, all with plaster atop wood paneling in a classic linenfold design. The bed had two mattresses, one stuffed with eiderdown atop one stuffed with wool. The hangings were simple, a dark loden green, but clearly expensive. And warm. The rest of the furniture was similar: simple and elegant. Warm. Both fireplaces in both rooms were marble, the warmish gray of a wolf’s fur. A line of quatrefoils had been carved into the breast beneath the mantel shelf. The mantel legs were triple columns. Fires danced in both, burning the damp from the nighttime air.