“It was probably from a restless wife looking for Midwinter fling,” Amily said, with a shrug. “I saw a dozen such delivered just while I was watching for such things. The gods only know how many people up at Court went to the ‘wrong’ beds last night.”
“Well, so I reckoned, and so I tol’ him, so he laughed and cracked it open an’ started t’read it, an’ his face changed. I ast him what was wrong, an’ he got irritated. ‘It’s a stupid letter from a child who should know better,’ he says, and flings it in the fire and picks up his mug an’ says, ‘I’m goin’ t’bed,’ an does. Well the fire wasn’t even coals at that point so . . .” He shrugged. “I’m the King’s spy. I fished it out. Hadn’t even begun to burn, but I hunted up some scraps of paper in his lordship’s study an’ tossed them in an’ made sure those did. Just in case he came back down t’make sure it’d burned.”
Now he handed Amily the letter. “So. Here ’tis.”
She read it through, her eyes going wide. “Oh,” she said, faintly. “My. Is Brand—”
“I don’ think he’s gonna do anythin’ ’bout it. But if he asks me, I’ll say he’s best off keepin’ dead mum. That he’ll look like a pure fool, with some liddle girl all love-lorn after him, an’ worst of all, it bein’ Leverance’s daughter. An’ that his pa is sure to figger he encouraged it somehow, and be riled about it.” He shrugged. “If that don’t work, I’ll tell him mebbe it was all made up by some’un else entirely t’make him look like a mortal fool if he said somethin’ ’bout it. I cain’t see any good could come outa this, an’ what’s th’ point of shamin’ the girl?”
“That’s exactly what you should say,” Amily said soberly. “In fact, the more you emphasize that his father will take this poorly, or that he has someone who is trying to make a fool out of him, the better off you are. We are. Violetta isn’t exactly a . . . little girl. She is certainly marriageable age. I can all too clearly imagine Lord Kaltar deciding to take some revenge on Lord Leverance by making the letter public, or at least making the fact that it was sent public. The poor child would never live down the shame. Mags, I am so very glad that you brought me this.” She folded it up and put it in a safe place over the mantelpiece. “I will have to show this to the King, and then I think we will destroy it.”
“Prolly all for the best.” Mags huffed out a breath. “Were you ever that . . .” he groped for words.
“Innocent? Idealistic?” she suggested. “Romantic?”
“Somethin’ like that.” He pondered. What he wanted to say was were you ever that much of a damn little fool, but that was cruel, and really, who knew what was going through the child’s mind? Poor thing, it might actually be a lifebond, though if it was, it was very one-sided. That happened, and the result was usually unhappy for everyone.
“No. I was far too sensible. But I was living at the Court and steeped to my eyebrows in intrigue, thanks to Father.” She sighed. “I can certainly see how a naïve young woman, fresh from a country estate, who has been sheltered all her life could be.” She made a face. “Do I dare tell Dia about this?”
“We’ve been trustin’ Dia for a long time. Though Dia might well wanta march up there an’ give the girl a good shakin’,” Mags said. “I think ye better.”
“Hmm. This gives me an idea. This might actually have turned out for the best.”
Mags couldn’t imagine how, but then, he wasn’t Amily.
“In that case . . .” He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively. She laughed.
“Yes, I think so. This will all have to wait until morning anyway.”
9
Amily and the King were alone in the King’s study, as they always were, first thing in the morning. Like her father, Amily shared breakfast with Kyril, combining eating and working, a small table between them, and food and papers spread out over the top of it. She had waited until after they were finished eating, but before Kyril managed to bring up anything more serious, before presenting him with Violetta’s letter, along with an explanation of how Mags had gotten it, what Mags had done, and what they had discussed.
There was a very long pause, during which the King’s face took on an expression of mingled exasperation and alarm, while he read it.
When he was done, King Kyril folded the letter with a muttered curse and looked up at Amily. “You and Mags were absolutely right to bring this to me immediately,” he said. “And Mags’ ideas to keep that hothead Brand from saying anything about this are precisely what we need. Dear gods.” He threw the folded letter into the hottest part of the fire in his study and watched it burn. “That little idiot could have ignited the feud all over again. Only think what might have happened if Brand was actually more cunning than he is!”
“Or if his father had gotten wind of this,” Amily agreed, grimly. “The first thing that went through my mind was that Brand might have decided to lure the child somewhere and—well, best not to think of what could have happened. It would certainly have been very ugly. I’m still worried that he might think of that; I don’t know him, and I don’t know if he has that sort of mind. I’ve been trying to think of some way to distract him so he forgets the letter ever existed.”
“You would think there would be distractions in plenty,” the King said, dryly. “He’s a very good looking lad, and there are many ladies with wandering eyes here at Court.”
“Yes, but are there any beauties with wandering eyes and complaisant husbands?” Amily replied, a little shocked at herself for even suggesting such a thing. “That’s what we need for a distraction.”
Kyril raised one sandy-gray eyebrow. “My dear King’s Own . . . I am the King of Valdemar. I cannot exactly go to certain ladies of negotiable virtue and suggest they should throw themselves at Brand, now, can I?”
She had to laugh. “No, and neither can I. But Mags could, and so could my father.”
“Nikolas is probably better schooled to make that particular suggestion, especially now that he is no longer King’s Own,” the King agreed. “And he also probably has a better idea which of them is bored with her current inamorata and likely to be hunting for something fresher.” He smiled at Amily. “While I was . . . rather unhappy to lose my old friend as my right hand, I have to admit that not having him be King’s Own is turning out to be extremely useful. And having both him and Mags available to do things I would rather not ask other Heralds to do is changing things for the better.”
“I can’t believe we’re saying things like this,” she murmured, half to herself. “This isn’t what I thought . . . ruling . . . was about.”
The King patted her hand. “It isn’t always swords or laws, my dear. Sometimes it’s just plain manipulation. Ugly perhaps, but it does get things done.” He picked up a stack of papers from his desk, and evened their edges. “Now. About getting things done. Do you feel sufficiently prepared for the meeting with the heads of all the Guilds this afternoon?”
—
In the morning, Violetta told herself that there could not possibly be a response from the young man yet; it was much too early. Who knew when he would read the letter anyway? But she told everyone that she was feeling ill, and stayed home from the afternoon party at Lord and Lady Abrogin’s manor, because that would be the perfect time, not only for him to send back his reply, but for her to intercept it without worrying that Mother would get it first. And it wasn’t really a lie, either. She was nauseous with anxiety, waiting for his reply, and wondering what it would be.
But there was no reply. The only letters that arrived were for Mother or Father. And as the afternoon turned to evening, and as the rest of her family returned and began the business of getting ready for the evening open-house at Master Soren’s, her anxious sickness turned to real illness. He hadn’t replied, because he wasn’t going to reply. She had poured out her heart for nothing—except, perhaps, ridicule.
No, surely he is too kind to share
it to make fun of me. He probably threw it in the fire. . . .
But her stomach was utterly in revolt now, her head hurt so much that she could scarcely stand it, and she took to her bed. Mother came to check on her, diagnosed “overwrought nerves,” and suggested that bed was the best place for her for a day or two. “Too many parties with too many people in too short a time for you, Violetta,” she said with authority. “You are exhausted. You aren’t used to this sort of excitement.”
Since that was exactly what she wanted, she meekly agreed. Her old nurse put her to bed, tucking her in as if she had been a child. Silence fell over the manor as first Mother and her sisters left, then the cousins, and then, at last, Father. There was no one left—well, perhaps the odd cousin or two who was still suffering from over-indulging last night, but no one else but the servants.
If she hadn’t felt so miserable, she might have actually enjoyed herself. Although this room was a fraction of the size of the one she had back home, she didn’t have to share it with her sisters. It was a tiny little wood-paneled thing with one window and a small fireplace, and just enough room for the curtained bed, the chest of her dresses and the chest of her chemises. The bed had its own little lamp, and places in the headboard to store her favorite books. At home, Mother always had her working at something and she never got a chance to stay in bed and read and daydream.
Her old nurse brought her up a mess of cooked apples and honey in beaten cream, but she had no appetite for it and sent it back. That brought up the cook herself, along with her nurse. Both of them fussed over her a little, which was oddly comforting, and the cook brought her brandy and cream and honey and told her to drink it down.
Violetta had never had brandy before, but the drink was warm and soon she was a little tipsy and very drowsy. Her stomach still ached, and so did her heart and her head, but she felt as if she might be able to sleep.
But just as she was thinking about putting out the candle, her nurse returned. “Oh poppet,” the old woman said, “I know you’re not feeling well, but Lady Dia is here and I told her to come right up!”
“Oh—” Violetta began, but before she could say the word “no,” Lady Dia was already in her tiny bedroom.
“You can leave us alone, Nurse,” Dia said, firmly, and although she did not actually, physically push Nurse out, somehow, with her sheer force of personality, she impelled Nurse to leave, and firmly shut the nice thick door behind her. Then she stuffed a handkerchief into the keyhole, to prevent listening.
She walked the three paces it took, and sat down on the foot of the bed, and looked at Violetta so sternly that Violetta shrank back against her pillows. She had never seen this expression on Lady Dia’s face before. It was controlled, and focused, anger. Not rage; Lady Dia was completely in control of her emotions and herself. This was . . . implacable.
“I am exceedingly angry with you, young lady!” Dia said, in a quiet, but furious voice, as Violetta quailed and felt her eyes filling with tears just in pure self-defense. Lady Dia not only looked angry, but little Star, the tiny dog, clearly felt that she was angry, for the pup cowered and whimpered, and tried to hide in Violetta’s bedclothes. “I have seen toddlers in this Court that display more sense, and more forethought, than you did last night. Of all the thoughtless, inconsiderate, foolish things you could have done, you chose to perform the one thoughtless, inconsiderate, foolish thing that could have brought permanent disgrace to you, reflected disgrace to your sisters, and bloodshed to your family!”
Now Violetta’s mouth dropped open in shock, because she could not imagine what it was that Lady Dia thought she had done! She hadn’t insulted anyone—she hadn’t even spoken to anyone! She’d been quiet and deferential, and spent most of the time in the Library! And Lady Dia and that Guardsman had told her it was all right to be there! “But—what—”
“That letter!” Dia hissed, leaning closer, so that Violetta instinctively tried to make herself smaller and clutched the bedclothes up to her chest. “That incredibly foolish letter! It was bad enough to send something like that to a strange man you know absolutely nothing about—that alone could have disgraced you forever! And not just if he had merely made it public, which not a few young men would have done! But let’s just discuss that, first, shall we?”
Before Violetta could say anything, Dia continued ahead; clearly this was not going to be any sort of “discussion,” since it was going to be Dia talking and Violetta listening. Not that she could have said anything. Her throat was so choked she could not have gotten a single word out.
“Now, suppose the man you sent it to had decided to share it with his friends. And he could have had many reasons to do so. He could have wanted to prove—in the event that you were planning to cry rape on him, that it was you who approached him. He could have thought it was funny, or flattering. He might simply want to shame you, since you clearly were feeling no shame when you sent it to him. What do you think would happen when that letter got out?” It was a rhetorical question; Violetta had no idea, and Dia did. “I can tell you. First of all, you would be utterly, utterly disgraced. Really, child, what woman, outside of a tale, would ever send such a thing to a man she didn’t know? Only someone with no sense, or no morals, or looking to entrap a man. The entire Court would know, within days, if not hours. You are not of high enough rank for the King to intervene. No one would offer to marry you, at least not anyone here at Court, or connected enough with the Court to have heard about this. If you were lucky, someone very far from Court, who never planned on going to Court, might be induced to take you off your parents’ hands. But unless he was very old, ignorant, or careless, it would cost them an enormous dower.”
Violetta blanched at that. She had already heard, at great length, how her dower was going to have to be smaller than her sisters’. Any addition to her bride-price would have to come at their expense, and she knew what her sisters would have to say about that.
Dia nodded grimly. “I think that would be very unlikely. So what other courses of action could there be? Well, one of your cousins might be induced to marry you, on the condition he became your father’s heir. But you would never be able to set foot outside your own lands again, and even so, your infamy would probably be known, and even your servants would be aware of it. Possibly they might get you off their hands by wedding you to some wealthy farmer or other, and I know how those weddings generally go. Your husband would never let you forget he did you a favor. He might verbally berate you, he might beat you, no one would lift a finger to help you. Even if he did not abuse you, you would learn what it is like to labor like any farm wife, and like any farm wife, you would be giving birth every year, and there would be no nurses to help you tend to your growing brood.”
Violetta was cursed with a very good imagination, and as Dia spoke she could see all this in her mind’s eye. She sat there, frozen, unable to move.
“But say your father didn’t care to unload you on a farmer, or a cousin,” Dia continued, as Violetta wondered what could possibly be worse than that. “Your parents would not only punish you in every possible way they could, there is the very real possibility that they would declare that for some reason you had gone mad and lock you up until they could take you home. Where you would be locked up in your room, forbidden to leave.”
Violetta felt herself grow cold. “But—why?”
“Because if they said you had gone mad, and people believed it, they’d feel sorry for the rest of the family and your sisters would not lose their chances at good marriages as well as you,” Dia said grimly. “And believe me, I have seen people declare their children insane for less reason.”
“But I—” Violetta said, her voice breaking. She hadn’t meant for any of that to happen! In the tales, no young man would be so cruel, so unthinking, so unchivalrous as to betray her by making her letter public! Why would he? What could he possibly gain?
But Dia had already told her w
hat he could gain. He could protect himself from someone who might be trying to trap him. He could gain notoriety of the sort he wanted, among his friends, showing that girls were practically throwing themselves at his feet. And his reputation would not only emerge unscathed, it might emerge enhanced.
“But you, you stupid girl, didn’t even bother to think of anyone but yourself, did you?” Dia went on, running right over the top of her. “And that is just the least harmful of all the things that could have happened. What if he had sent you a letter back telling you to come to him? You’d have gone without a second thought, wouldn’t you?”
Violetta’s face must have betrayed that she would have done exactly that, for Lady Dia snorted with disgust.
“And then, he would have had his way with you and if you were lucky left you to explain why you had gone and met a man alone and gotten deflowered,” she said, shocking Violetta with her blunt language. “He most certainly would not have married you! And then your father would have had to either challenge him—a very bad idea, might I add, since if I were this young man, I would insist on Lord Leverance taking up the challenge himself, since he would be easy for me to kill—or take the case before the King—another bad idea, since that would put the King in quite an untenable position, and would require a trial, complete with Truth Spells, in which you would be revealed to be the foolish little idiot that you are. And then, well, we are back to what would happen if the young man revealed the letter, and all those consequences. He would be punished for taking advantage of you, yes, but not for rape, because you threw yourself at him. And so far as husbands for your sisters were concerned, well, they would evaporate. And as for you, not even a swineherd would marry you once you’d been ruined. Oh, and let’s not forget that if your father challenged this man, your father would be dead.”
Tears overflowed from Violetta’s eyes and burned their way down her cheeks. “But he wouldn’t—I could tell he wouldn’t hurt me—”
Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 18