TheKingsViper (19 page)

During the day she received many visitors. Rarely the same
ones twice, and sometimes she wasn’t even told their names. At first they were
all women of high birth and good manners, whose questions were gently phrased.
Later the questions became blunter, cruder, more demanding. As the weeks went
on, her interrogators included men, which she found threatening. But when it
boiled down to it, the questions were the same, however couched.

Did he ever touch you? Or you him? Did he require you to
put your hands upon his person? Did he ever kiss you? Did you ever see his male
member? Did he watch you make water, or at stool? Did he touch you between the
legs? Did he ask you to take his member in your mouth? Did he talk of concupiscence?
Did you ever see him rub himself like so, about the crotch? Did he lay his head
upon your bosom? Did he make you undress before him? Did he fondle your
breasts? Did he speak of cunnys and cock? Did he stroke your hair, your
breasts, your buttocks? Did he ever lift you in his arms? What, not even to
cross a stream? Did he speak you fair words? Did he call you his pet, his
sweet, his bitch? Did he slap you about the face, or the rump? Did he swive
you? Did he fuck you? Did he sodomize you?

Over and over again, until she wanted to scream. The only
light in the gloom was that repetition deadened the effect; in the beginning
the intimacy of such questions roused memories and feelings so strong that it
made her afraid they would be able to tell, and she had to disguise her guilty
reactions as confusion and shock. But soon it became a question of denial by
rote; a stony, furious, tearful protestation of innocence that was utterly
heartfelt yet had nothing to do with truth.

But the worst—the very worst—the closest she came to
stumbling into the traps laid for her, was one day a week or so into her stay
in Kingsholme, when she was out walking upon the battlements of the great wall
that overlooked the river harbor. There was a wide section there, below the guard-towers,
that was used by the ladies of the Court as a promenade, and Eloise liked to
linger there either in the company of her peers or alone—or alone as she might
ever be, with two grumpy serving women trailing her back and forth across the
stones. To one side as she looked over the wall she could see the light upon
the water and small ships gathered in the estuary, and watch the seagulls swoop
between the masts. That scene made her long for home. To the other side was the
great courtyard of the palace. She kept a furtive and uneasy eye on that view,
longing to spot among the figures coming and going a lone dark man with a long
stride and a preoccupied air. She never saw him.

But she was found up there by someone else—a woman in a dark
blue gown, who swept up and took Eloise’s breath away by embracing her and
kissing her upon both cheeks.

“Forgive me! I cannot help it, Lady Eloise—I feel as if you
are my sister, almost. My name is Hilde, Baroness of Eltingham. Perhaps Severin
mentioned me?”

Oh dear God. His mistress.

Eloise blinked wildly. “You have me at a disadvantage, I
fear,” she said to gain time. “Lord de Meynard rarely engaged me in
conversation as such. He only spoke to give me orders.”

The woman before her was blonde, with slanted green eyes—neither
as young as she had imagined, nor as conventionally pretty, but with a
vivacious clever sharpness to her features that Eloise found uncomfortably
fitting. She had the feeling that in normal circumstances—when he wasn’t
sleeping in a cowshed or trudging across five hundred miles of enemy
territory—Severin was a man who liked sharp.

“Hah! How like him!” laughed Hilde. She caught Eloise’s arm
in a conspiratorial embrace. “I am his paramour,” she murmured, watching
Eloise’s face closely.

“I see.” She saw an opening for the information she
desperately desired. “The Baron de Meynard is well, I hope?”

“He’s been called away on the King’s business, alas.”

He’s vanished. Does she guess where?
“Ah.”

“He’s always busy. In the meantime, you and I must be
friends now. We have so much in common, have we not?”

The spasm that caused Eloise to jerk against the grip on her
arm was not entirely voluntary. “Hardly.”

“Oh don’t think I am jealous, my darling. I know you have
spent more time in his company than I these past months, but believe me I am
just grateful that you brought him home to me.”

“I think it’s rather the other way round. He brought me
here.”

“And all the Court is a-buzz with excitement! His majesty
must be beside himself with delight. But as for me—I confess I am only pleased
to have Severin back in my bed.”

It’s a trap. She’s trying to provoke me
, Eloise told
herself, saying nothing. Her mouth twisted in an uncomfortable smile.

“And goodness, my darling, he was pleased to be there too!
Not a moment’s sleep did I get that first night, I swear to you.”

“I think that’s hardly a proper—” she began, faintly.

“Over and over, my darling, like a man possessed. People
think he’s cold, but underneath… Ooh.
Every
orifice,
several
times. Some women couldn’t take that sort of treatment—he’s got a cruel streak
in him, as I’m sure you realize.” Her eyebrows flashed, signaling a gleeful
horror. “I couldn’t walk the next day, believe me!
Black and blue.
”

But he wasn’t like that! Not with me!

“Please.” Eloise’s voice came out cold and frightened. “I’m
not yet a married woman. I shouldn’t be hearing this sort of detail.”

“Of course, my darling.” Hilde patted her forearm, but her
eyes never left Eloise’s face. “And I’m sure the King will never subject you to
such rough passion. Severin is of lower birth and cruder proclivities,
naturally. But oh—such an appetite! He must have been full to the brim and fit
to burst with frustration after your little walk together.” She smirked.

“I don’t know what…”

“I mean, all those weeks without being able to sheathe his
blade. It’s not him, my darling. It’s not natural. A man like him
needs
to rut.”

“And I am sure you are both very well suited to each other,”
said Eloise through locked teeth.

“Oh we are.”

“Then I wish you great joy together.” She extracted her arm
with more effort than anyone watching would have been able to tell. Hilde,
showing no sign that she noticed, clasped her face instead.

“My darling, you must tell me all about your ordeal. There
must be so much to say—and I’m sure none of these harridans at Court understand
the things you’ve been through. They’ve never known worse trouble than an
undercooked dinner, you can be sure—not like you and I. You need a woman’s
worldly advice, I can see, and we will be such firm friends.”

“Actually I was intending to return to my chamber and sleep
a little. I am still very tired, you see.”

“Of course. It must have been quite dreadful. Let me walk
back with you.”

Eloise had to accept that. She had to put up with Lady
Hilde’s hand in hers all the way back, and a constant stream of bright,
knife-edged questions. She felt like a woman in a fairy story who had fallen
under the petrifying enchantment of a sorceress. On the outside she was stone,
cold and stiff, communicating nothing. Inside, she twisted and thrashed, her
cries unheard. And with every step she took the shock curdled more to pain,
until her chest was one great hollow cask of nausea and hurt.

She held to her silence though, all the way. Until she’d
bidden Hilde a lying farewell full of promises to speak again, and locked
herself away in her chamber with the shutters closed. She lay down on her
coverlet with her forearm draped over her face.

It can’t be true, what she says. He wouldn’t…

But he would. She knew that, really. Severin was a pragmatic
man. He’d never promised to be true to her. He’d never even hinted at such an
intention. So of course he’d make use of his leman as soon as the opportunity
arose. He’d probably do it deliberately, because anything else would look
suspicious.

He’s had to do it. He’s had to, to hide what he really
feels…

And there it was, like a poisonous viper hidden in the
bottom of a barrel of apples—hope. That tiny, deadly hope that could destroy
her in a moment. She saw it just before she put her hand upon it and it struck
at her with its fangs.

Don’t hope, foolish girl.

The truth was that they had lain together, that was all. She
had instigated it, and she must take the consequences. Whatever burden of
emotion either she or he bore—and she still did not know what he felt, and she
never would—they would never do it again. Love or regret or self-loathing, it
made no odds. The consequences were identical.

Eloise let slip an involuntary moan of anguish.

“My lady?” The room around her filled with the rustling of
skirts.

“I have an ache in my head,” she said, her voice thick with
pent torment. “Too much bright sunlight, perhaps.”

“Would you have us make up a wine posset, my lady?”

“Yes. Go on.”

They’d set her a cruel trap in Hilde, who might or might not
know what was happening to her lover elsewhere. They’d hoped that where
coercion had failed, jealousy would wrench a confession of guilt from the
King’s betrothed. They must have hoped she’d blurt out some protest, from
outrage or from spite. She was only a young maiden after all. Women could not
keep their counsel, could they, in matters of the heart?

It might well be true, all of it,
she told herself,
staring at the shadowed ceiling joists through blurring eyes.
It probably
is. It doesn’t matter. I made my choice. It doesn’t matter whether he loves me
or not. I love him, and I will not betray him.

* * * * *

One month exactly after her arrival in Kingsholme, a servant
knocked at her door bearing her food on a tray.

“Am I not to eat in the Great Hall?” she asked. She was at
that moment half-dressed in her formal clothes, preparing to descend for the
day’s main meal.

“His majesty says to tell you that he has no desire to wear
out your strength and patience before the wedding, and that he feels a quiet
supper in your own chambers will be less taxing.”

Ah,
she thought.
It begins now
.

She attended no more banquets. As the days passed,
instructions to attend other functions grew thinner upon the ground too, and
social invitations began to drop off steeply. One by one, her entourage of ladies-in-waiting
diminished, the most high-born first, without explanation or farewell. There
was no overt insult offered. She was still fed well, and still acknowledged
politely by those—few and growing fewer—she happened to meet. But as she walked
out upon the walls, ladies of real rank only nodded to her now with a faint
smile, and she wasn’t invited to join any conversations. It was as if she were
being forgotten, becoming a ghost even as she lived and breathed. Eventually
she was reduced to a single servant, dour and silent.

No one ever said to her,
It’s over. You have been
rejected.
She was expected to absorb the news through her pores, to
understand and acquiesce without any fuss or unseemly questions.

The natal day of the Unconquered Sun came and went, and
while all the Court celebrated with bonfires and pine branches and a gilded
masquerade, Eloise stayed in her room, curled up before the fire, her fingertip
stroking the scar upon her breast.

It was a bright winter’s day when a servant came to tell her
that a ship stood in the dock below Kingsholme, and that she would be leaving
upon it with the turn of the tide to return to her father’s house. She was to
bring the last serving-woman in her employ, but her bags had already been
packed and stowed overnight. There was no need for further delay.

The news was no shock, but still Eloise felt a chill. They
had not even seen fit to tell her in advance.

“May I see the King before I go, to say farewell?”

The under-steward cleared his throat. “I regret, my lady, that
the King has been detained outside Kingsholme on affairs of state. But he
instructed me to pass this letter into your keeping and charge you with his
royal blessing and his most sincere good wishes.” He handed over a folded piece
of parchment and Eloise glanced at the royal seal without any real interest. It
was all over, just as Severin had predicted. She was in the hands of those far
stronger and more ruthless than herself, and her only task was to submit.

Part of her was deeply relieved.

“If you would follow me, my lady.”

The under-steward led her and her maid from her empty
chamber down through the palace, turning into passages she had never visited
before. Those servants and courtiers whose paths crossed theirs glanced at the
small procession curiously. Eloise was a little comforted by their air of
normalcy—it had occurred to her that this show of politeness might all be an
elaborate precursor to her disappearing rather more thoroughly, though she
could not bring herself to care much. The weight of despair in her gut was too
great to let fear flutter its wings. And after all, she was not important
enough to merit assassination, was she? And if she were, who would do such a
shameful thing, now that Severin de Meynard was absent?

Then they crossed into an open chamber and her stoicism
vanished, because Severin was there. She nearly tripped over her own feet in
shock.

He was standing by the far door, leaning against the wall as
if waiting for someone. Lounging nearby—not too close, yet within easy reach—were
two guards and an older man who looked familiar, but whom she could not place.
The King’s Viper was looking at the floor. Eloise felt her heart bang against
the cage of her breast as if it were trying to break out. She felt the charge
of warmth to her face and she was once more glad that she had painted it like a
lady of the Court and that no one could see the flush in her cheeks.