Widow's Pique (30 page)

In the banqueting hall, exhausted musicians strummed to the last of the revellers, much of whose dense, drunken laughter was absorbed by walls of thick island stone.

How could she? How could she, Claudia Seferius, deny him another shot at that happiness?

She climbed off the bed frame, blinked the tears from her eyes and set the pleats of her robe into knife edges.

When she was born, it was into the slums. When she was ten, her father marched off to war and never came home, and when she was fourteen, she found her alcoholic mother had slashed her own wrists. At which point, she realized that all she owned were the clothes on her back, her mother's good looks and her father's grit - and that it wasn't much of an inheritance. Which was why she vowed that, if she was forced to prostitute her body, it would bloody well be through marriage. Finding a husband became her career. Quite frankly, if someone had said then,
I can make you rich, I can make you the mother of princes,
she would have bitten their hand off. As it happened, Gaius Seferius offered her wealth, social standing and respect - all the things her upbringing hadn't - and she'd been grateful for that. So why not now? Why not now, when the stakes were that much higher?

Picking up a mirror, the same mirror Mazares had sent her, the bronze one whose handle was shaped like a cat, Claudia studied her reflection. Make no mistake, it was still beautiful, but she did not kid herself. The assets she'd had to trade at seventeen were very different from those she possessed today, and she could not rely on looks for much longer. Also, women in trade were anathema in Roman society, and although that might be offset by the perception of wealth, any half-decent audit would soon uncover a welter of financial mismanagement. So then; if age was against her, being in trade was against her and she was broke, why, oh why, did she turn Mazares down?

'Ye can still change your mind,' a gravelly voice rumbled behind her. 'It's a woman's prerogative.'

Claudia spun round. He looked older, she thought, and he was tired. She could tell from the way the thong round his ponytail had slid down to his shoulder-blades. Had he the energy, he would have tied it up tight, but perhaps he was drunk, because there was a strange glint in his eyes that seemed almost feral.

'Pavan, it's late—'

'Correction, ma'am, it's early.'

The scent of leather was like an invasion.

'Late, early, I'd still prefer to be alone, if you don't mind.'

His reply was to advance into her room, close the door and brace his backbone against it.

'Why?' he asked thickly. 'Isn't the King of Histria good enough for ye?'

There was nowhere to go. The shutters were bolted, and even if she managed to undo them in time, the drop from the window would break both her legs . . .

'My reasons are none of your business.'

'That's where ye're wrong,' he growled. 'Histria is my business, and it might only be small, this country of ours, but we're a progressive society and one that looks set to rise with considerable speed.'

'You shouldn't take it so personally when people tell you size matters, Pavan.'

Something rumbled deep in his throat, and she didn't think it was phlegm.

'God knows, woman, this kingdom's crying out for an heir.' He patted the point on his belt where his dagger would normally hang. 'Why would ye not give him that?'

Perhaps she could fob him off with some cock-and-bull tale about being barren?

'After all,' the gravel voice rasped, as he ran his displaced hand along his ponytail instead. 'Mazares is no a bad-looking chap.'

He was certainly no Gaius, she'd give him that. He was handsome, debonair, clever and fair, and not many men in their forties could wear skin-tight pantaloons and still turn heads for all the right reasons.

'Why?' she retorted. 'How bad do you think a man would need to be, before I refused to bed him?'

Pavan's face turned a deep red. 'I didna mean it like that.'

Claudia flung open the shutters, admitting fresh air and sunlight into her room whilst releasing the strong scent of leather into the wild. Down on the foreshore, she was surprised to see Orbilio sitting alone, nursing a goblet of wine in both hands as dawn broke over the landscape.

'It's just that I was wondering,' the general persisted, 'could it be for a different reason that ye refused him? Something money can't buy?'

She tore her eyes away from the still, silent figure and turned to Pavan, trusting that by clenching her fists behind her back it would not show how much they were shaking.

'I don't understand you,' she said.

Like everything else in this bloody country, Pavan was another study in contrasts. What
is
it with these wretched people?

'From the outset, you were against me marrying the King and now suddenly, here you are, telling me there's still time to change my mind.'

The oak tree strode across the mosaic to tower above her.

'As commander of the King's army, it's my duty to see Histria's interests are looked after, but, hell, I've grown up with that laddie.'

Hard grey eyes shifted to the horizon.

'I've watched his brother die, then his father. I've seen his wife betray him and I stood beside him when he buried his children.'

The eyes dropped to Claudia and bored right through her skull.

'To serve one is to serve the other, ma'am, so I'll ask ye again. Why did ye refuse him?'

To her credit, she didn't flinch, and when she finally spoke, icicles could have formed on her tongue.

'Like I said, Pavan, it's none of your business. Now get the hell out of my bedroom before I scream rape.'

'Aye,' he rumbled. 'I reckon ye would at that, but I just hope ye know what ye're doing.'

In four paces, he was at the door and jerking it wide.

'Because, if a marriage isn't announced today, there canna be one announced for a year. Remember that.
Ma'am.'

As the hinges reverberated, the trepidation inside her retreated. She listened to the fall of his boots on the marble. Waited until the corridor had fallen into silence once more. Then breathed out. Down on the foreshore, Orbilio was still cradling his goblet as he stared across to the islands. He needed a shave, she decided, and wondered what thoughts could be preoccupying him so intensely that he didn't swipe away the fringe that had flopped over his forehead or stop to drink from his glass.

Isn't the King of Histria good enough for ye?

Pavan's questions pummelled her weary brain.

This Kingdom's crying out for an heir. Why would ye not give him that?

He didn't understand. Pavan was like a wounded bull, kicking out in his frustration and anger, for the simple reason that he did not understand. But Mazares did. Mazares understood. Hence that flicker of emotion in his smoky green eyes, which he'd covered by bowing. But not before Claudia recognized that the emotion had been relief . . .

Could it be for a different reason that ye refused him? Something money can't buy?

Suddenly, there was a lump in her throat the size of a wagon and the sea must be carrying salt on the breeze because her eyes were stinging and her vision was blurred. A picture flashed in her mind of her husband on their wedding day. He was in a spotless white toga and about to place his distinctive signature on their marriage contract - status and wealth in return for a trophy wife. The day had been mild and fair, she recalled, and on the whole, it had been a pretty good party. On the whole it had been a pretty good pact . . .

'It's what I wanted,' she murmured aloud. 'It's what I gave and it's what I received.'

But at some stage between that day and this, she had changed.

She watched as Orbilio stood up, stretched the stiffness out of his muscles and spiked his wayward mop into place. The rosiness in the sky had deepened, she noticed, a sure sign of impending storms. Perhaps that explained the turmoil inside? But instead of turning away, her gaze remained fixed as he drained his goblet, shook out the drips and walked slowly back to the house.

Isn't the King of Histria good enough for ye?

Claudia placed the flat of her hands on the windowsill and absorbed the warmth of the stone through her palms.

Could it be for a different reason that ye refused him? Something money can't buy?

Sweet Janus, she had already condemned one man to a loveless second marriage. She was damned if she'd do the same to another.

What she couldn't understand, though, was why it bloody well hurt.

Orbilio was halfway back to the house when the cry rang out from the harbour. Considering today was the day when marriages were pledged in this kingdom, it was hardly surprising that boats were materializing from every direction, and rumour had it that the ferryman was also braced for a record number of crossings. Therefore Marcus didn't give the shout a great deal of thought, other than to curse it for interrupting his train of thought.

So many strands, so many deaths, so much terrible waste . ..

He had spent half the night trying to make sense of it all and finding that, when dawn finally broke, all he could think about was how he was going to break the news to the Cretan girl's mother - a slave in his own household, goddammit -that he had sent her daughter to certain death. How could he face that poor woman?
How could he face himself?
It was only when one of the women let loose a mourning wail that his attention was fully drawn.

One of the fishing boats was signalling frantically, and a crowd was gathering down on the jetty. Their expressions were grim.

'What is it?' he asked, pushing his way through to Kazan, who was ordering that the high priest be sent for. 'What's happened?'

Kazan's handsome features distorted into a grimace.

'Bodies,' he said sourly. 'The fishermen have been picking bones out of their nets all bleeding morning.'

He indicated the channel separating island from mainland with his thumb.

'Looks like they were flushed out in the night. It happens from time to time around here, something to do with storms and equinoxes and the Ionian Sea, someone was saying, but it's not a pretty sight, I can tell you. See her?'

He pointed to a woman sobbing uncontrollably as she clutched a small child with long, raven-dark hair that fell to her waist.

'That's her uncle they've just fished out, the poor bitch. He used to build boats on this island. Bloody fine craftsman at that.'

As it happened, Orbilio was already aware of who Broda's mother was. He had spoken to both her and the child, and at length. He knew who Broda's uncle was, too.
And
her father.

'The same boat builder who Nosferatu was supposed to have murdered?' he murmured.

Kazan adjusted the headband round hair that was identical to his daughter's in every respect.

'That's the chap.'

His mouth turned down in distaste.

'Not much left of the poor bugger, though, and look -people are already making the sign of the horns.'

Orbilio had never really understood this business about 'evil eyes', but he knew enough about superstition in Histria, and everywhere else for that matter, to know that the gesture they

were making was no automatic response to folklore. These people genuinely believed they were in peril.

'You can practically read their minds,' Kazan said. 'That it was Nosferatu himself the girl saw, and when he'd finished gorging on his victim's warm flesh, he tossed the bones in the channel like rubbish.'

'Someone certainly did,' Orbilio murmured, but his words were cut short by the arrival of another slimy corpse being slapped down on the cobbles. Bloated and mutilated as one would expect after a week in the water, the halo of dark curls surrounding the little plump face remained unmistakable.

'Sweet Svarog!'

The gasp of the high priest took Orbilio by surprise.

'It's true, then! Raspor
is
dead!'

His shock appeared genuine, Marcus thought. Except he'd seen too many grieving husbands/fathers/wives who'd turned out to be cold-blooded killers, that one could never take these things for granted.

'I'm really sorry, Drilo,' Kazan said, laying his hand on the taller man's shoulder. 'He was a conscientious little feller, too.'

'One of the best,' Drilo nodded, then stopped short. 'But good grief, man, what am I doing? It's me who should be comforting you!'

'Me?' Kazan frowned. 'Why me?'

'Heavens, has nobody told you?'

Orbilio's blood suddenly ran cold.

'Told him what?' he asked gently.

'Rosmerta,' Drilo said. 'She took an extra dose of her sleeping draught by mistake, and now, of all times, would you believe, that young physician's disappeared into thin air, we can't find the idle hound anywhere, so the King's had to call in the same mule doctor as tended the Lady Claudia after her fall the first night she arrived here and—'

'And what?' Kazan prompted quietly.