:So . . . if you will take my advice, you will suggest to Dia that she take Violetta under her wing. At least she will have someone near her age to socialize with. Even if she will not be precisely happy, she won’t be miserable.: Rolan waited for her answer, and she had to admit, he had a good idea.
:Meanwhile—: he prompted.
:Meanwhile, Violetta is the least of my problems,: she admitted, and switched her point of view to Lord Leverance’s mastiff.
After that epic display of temper when he nearly murdered Violetta for daring to object to his plans for her life, she wanted to keep an eye on him.
—
Mags strolled into Lord Kaltar’s hall, to find Brand lounging in front of the fire. “Well, the man of the hour,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too sardonic. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be—”
“Mucking about with betrothal nonsense? Why?” Brand countered. “There’s no need for me. All of that is in the hands of my charming betrothed’s family. I really don’t even need a new suit of clothes, and frankly, I don’t intend to get one.” He shrugged. “I suppose the girl is presentable enough. I’ll follow the Prince’s orders. And I hope I’ll discover when I take control of the lands and manor he’s bestowing on me, that it will provide me with the income to get what I really want.”
“Lelage,” said Mags, unsurprised. “So that’s why you’re not kicking at the traces.”
“Nor trying to throw off the collar. Which completely infuriates my father.” Brand poked at the fire broodingly. “He seems to think we can do something to engineer the downfall of the Chendlars, somehow. I have no idea what he thinks we can do at this stage. Well—I could do one thing, I could refuse to get the wench with child, but that would be rather counter-productive as it would leave us without a Raeylen heir, and in the meantime, one of the other two Chendlar girls would be spawning away in service of their house. So?” He poked the fire. “I shall let father rage to all and sundry, and plot, and go ahead and marry and get myself out from under his tyrannical thumb at last.”
Well, this was new . . . Mags poured cups of wine for himself and Brand, and brought Brand’s over to him. Brand took it with a nod of thanks. As Mags had hoped, the wine and his own silence loosened Brand’s tongue.
“I envy you, you know,” Brand said, with a lifted eyebrow. “I envy the fact that you don’t have someone looming over you, day and night, demanding that you live up to some impossible family standard. That you shape your entire life, not around what you want, but around what he thinks is best for the ‘family.’ Do you know what he actually screamed at me when we finally all got back up here?”
Mags shook his head.
“He wanted to know why I hadn’t taken the opportunity to kill Leverance when I had it.” Brand shook his head. “Never once asked me about how Talbot was trying to cut me to ribbons. All he wanted to know was why I hadn’t joined him to take out Leverance and spent a good candlemark shouting at me. The only reason he didn’t go at it longer was because he had other people to shout at.” His face hardened. “Good gods, I hate him. Nothing I do has ever satisfied him, nothing I will do will ever satisfy him. Nothing would please me more than—” He stopped himself. “Never mind. He’s off somewhere, probably telling someone what a disappointment I am to him. Once I have lands and money of my own, it won’t matter. I’ll be able to do exactly what I want.”
“That’s true enough,” Mags agreed.
“Just a few more days,” Brand muttered. “Just a few more days.”
Since he showed no signs of planning to get up and go anywhere, Mags just poured him another cup of wine and took his leave. He was overdue for checking with his sources down in Haven anyway, and today would be a good day to take care of that.
But Brand’s words did seem very curious. Because in “a few more days,” he’d be betrothed, not married; he wouldn’t be able to take possession of the lands and manor the King was going to give him until the vows were said.
But he shrugged it off. Maybe he figures on persuading the girl to get married quickly, he thought. And really, that would not be a bad idea. It would get Lord Kaltar out of Haven, even if it didn’t get his rival out as quickly. It would get Brand away from poor little Violetta, who was probably very unhappy, not only because her infatuation was getting wed to her sister, but because she was about to be tied up to a man old enough to be her great-grandsire. On the latter, he couldn’t blame her. It was bad enough that these people regarded marriage as a sort of dynastic and financial contract, but it was worse that they ended up putting together couples who were so wildly unsuited for each other.
And worst of all? That they treated their women like some sort of superior livestock whose only purpose in life was to breed and to serve.
Cole Pieters was like that, too.
It occurred to him that maybe he and Amily could convince the King to do something about the girl’s match . . . but what could they do? And wouldn’t that still be treating her like potential breeding stock, just suggesting she be bartered off to a slightly more desirable man?
He wished the poor thing had some interest other than sappy poetry. Or . . . well . . . some backbone. Then, maybe, they could convince the King or the Prince to become her patrons and get her more education, give her a chance to have an independent life, and then she’d have some choices, informed choices, not a life forced on her. . . .
Might as well wish for the moon, he thought glumly. And he had to remind himself of something he’d been told over and over in so many lessons. . . .you can’t save everyone, so save the ones you can. Easy to agree with, though, when you were nodding along to what the teacher was telling you. Hard not to feel guilty when you saw so much misery. And really, how “miserable” was she? She was unhappy, certainly, but there was real misery down in the slums of Haven, where people were trying to figure out where their next meal was coming from.
But hell, for all I know, she’ll be happy, once she gets over bein’ unhappy. Never heard nothin’ bad about the old man. Might jest be reserved, not cold. Might open up to ’er. They might come to like each other just fine.
He could hope, couldn’t he? And meanwhile he could get down to his lads in the city. Them, he was certainly able to save.
16
Squashed into the carriage with her mother and her two sisters, Violetta rubbed her temple, and not at all surreptitiously. Brand had told her to make some excuse to get away once the betrothal ceremony was done, but she was not actually having to feign feeling ill. She actually was feeling ill. Her courses had started—they had begun late, but thanks to the blood on the sheets the night Brand had first loved her, Nurse thought they were early, and that they had come early due to all the excitement. There was a dull ache in her gut and a pounding in her head. While they were dressing Aleniel, she’d said something about it, quietly, but no one had noticed except Nurse, who’d done her best in the middle of all the fuss but—
Well, no one was paying any heed to her or how miserable she really, truly felt. Everyone’s attention was on Aleniel.
Aleniel was in fine fettle, with rose in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkling, clearly relishing her chance at being the center of everything. Candlemarks had been spent on making sure her new gown—deep blue velvet with sleeves lined with fur and a fur collar, over a chemise of creamy lambswool as soft as silk—fitted perfectly. Another had been spent on her hair and the wreath of wax flowers that sat on it. She’d had a special betrothal bath full of scent, rose scent had been liberally applied to her, she had been gowned and coiffed, and a magnificent fur cloak, gift from Lady Dia, had been placed over her shoulders. She’d been bathed and dressed in the ladies’ solar, after all the men had been chased away from that part of the manor. Then there had been the fuss of getting her into a carriage and down to the remade theater.
No one paid any attention to anything else. So f
ar as everyone else in her family was concerned, Violetta had been, more or less, excess baggage.
When they arrived, Violetta saw that the theater was surrounded with guards, but they were not of the Valdemar Guard, nor her father’s men, nor those of Lord Kaltar. No, these were paid men, hired by the Crown, and presumably that was because they would be absolutely neutral and not take any sides if some altercation broke out. They looked very odd, with their helms and lances wreathed with holly and ivy. Comical in a way, though Violetta had been feeling too uncomfortable to laugh at them.
When Violetta trailed after her sister into the refurbished theater, she was astounded at the transformation that Lady Dia had made to it. First of all, it blazed with light. The somewhat shabby walls were hidden behind hangings of green baize. Panels of tapestry had been pinned on the soft wool at intervals, and the upper selvages were hidden with garlands of holly, ivy, and evergreen branches. Braziers stood along the walls, not only warming the air, but adding the perfume of pine cones. Hundreds of candles and dozens of lanterns added both heat and light, and underfoot was a laid wooden floor she could not have told was not gracing some home. Only the canvas roof gave the origin away, and even that was bedecked with more garland swags, draped from the center (where the centerpole propped up the canvas) to each corner of the structure.
There were two tables—one for the members and allies of each House—and Violetta took her place where she was told. You could not see the table itself, it might have been boards laid over trestles for all she could tell, for it had been draped with more green baize, and whatever supports were under it had been swathed in more of the stuff. Candles and lanterns stood in centerpieces of nuts, apples, and pears all along its length, and trencher-bread was already at each place, waiting to hold the feast meats.
There was also a smaller table at the far end, set at right angles to the rest. That would be for Aleniel. . . .
. . . and Brand. . . .
It was like a knife to the heart every time she had to think of the two of them together. Tears sprang to her eyes as she took her place on the stool she had been shown to, and she bowed her head and reminded herself that all this was just a farce, a show. And tonight she would be Brand’s bride, and nothing would undo that.
But it was hard, so hard, to sit through the betrothal ceremony.
It began as soon as all the seats at the tables were filled. Brand and Aleniel stood behind their table, as the Prince presided, solemn-faced. This was only a betrothal, of course, not a wedding, so there was no priest, just the reading of the contract, and the recitation of promises to hold to the contract.
It’s tawdry, Violetta told herself, desperately. It’s not about love, it’s about business, and ending a stupid feud. They don’t love each other, the only thing Aleniel cares about is the title, the manor and the lands.
But it was so hard, listening to Aleniel recite her vows in a proud voice, and hearing Brand repeat his, sounding much more subdued. It got harder, as they put their names to the contract . . . and as the Prince declared them formally betrothed it felt worst of all. Her insides were twisting up, and it was all she could do not to break down in tears right then and there. That should have been me!
It was cold comfort to know that the moment the Prince held up the signed contract should have been the moment for enthusiastic applause—and that moment was marked only by tepid handclapping, quickly cut short.
That seemed to satisfy the Prince however. He waited until Aleniel and Brand took their seats at their little table, and took his leave with his entourage.
The serving of the feast began. At the table across the way, Lord Kaltar was holding forth on horses, and pedigrees, with some sly glances at her father. Father was ignoring him, and holding forth on trade. The two families might just as well have been at two different feasts.
No one had been allowed anything larger than the tiny little eating knives that were at each place. The only people armed were the guards.
The first course came in; bowls of pottage, a Boar’s Head, baked waterfowl, and custard tarts. The carvers began on the Boar’s Head (one for each table) and the waterfowl; the one at Violetta’s place, which she would share with five other people, was a goose. But the entrance of the servers with their platters of food at least distracted the two antagonistic groups from each other.
That gave Violetta her chance. She got up from her seat and went to her mother’s, really and truly feeling ill, now. Between the strain of the ceremony, the frantic beating of her heart at the very sight of Brand, and the aching of her head and gut, she wasn’t having to pretend anything. She felt drained, and sick, and her carefully-braided and coiled hair felt as heavy as a helmet.
From her mother’s reaction when she finally got Lady Leverance’s attention, she looked as ill as she felt. “Violetta?” she said, more than a little sharply, as if she somehow thought her daughter had gotten ill deliberately. “What ails you?”
Violetta bent and whispered “My courses,” and her mother’s face cleared and became at least a little sympathetic. Violetta spoke a little louder, so that her father, whose attention had finally been caught, could hear her as well. “My head aches fearfully, and I had rather not eat . . .”
“Then go back to the manor, child,” he said, instantly, which told her that she really must look pitiable. “You won’t be missed.” He signaled to a page, and gave the young lad instructions. “Take the lady to our carriage, see she is safely back home, then return with the carriage immediately.” He turned back to Violetta, but already she could see his attention was wavering. “Go on, child, get better. Follow the boy.”
I cannot leave this place quickly enough, she thought, as she hurried out in the wake of the child in Chendlar livery. The cold air outside the tent was a blessed relief; the silence in the carriage even more of a relief. The little boy sat solemnly across from her and said nothing. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, trying not to think of Aleniel’s smiling face. It isn’t you he wants, it’s me, she thought, spitefully. You can have your nasty old man once I have Brand. I’ll live in a cottage if it is with Brand.
It seemed to take forever for the carriage to make its way back to their door; the page hopped out and helped her out, opened the manor door for her, then jumped immediately back into the carriage before she was even inside.
She went in and closed the door behind herself. The heavy thud it made echoed through empty rooms. Every servant that could be spared was down at the theater, and the rest—mostly kitchen and cleaning staff—were probably already asleep.
She trained through the silent house to the kitchen, and found it equally empty. But there was a store of custard tarts in one of the pantries, and shortbread cakes with their tops all encrusted with sugar crystals, and she had hidden away apples and a knife in her room. She was craving sweets, so she helped herself to a plate of tarts and cakes, and a bottle of mead, and carried them all back up to her room without seeing or hearing anyone else.
Once there, she struggled out of her feast-dress and into the more practical garb that Brand had told her to wear; a warm woolen hunting-dress, soft and loose, with a split skirt. Then she curled up on the bed with her stolen sweets and her little dog, and began the interminable wait.
—
Mags was more than happy to have the evening “off,” so to speak. He had not been invited to the betrothal feast; “Magnus” was neither lofty enough in rank nor close enough to Brand in friendship to warrant an invitation, it seemed. Or perhaps Brand was afraid that the tale of how he had hidden behind Magnus for the entire fight might have been revealed if Magnus was invited.
That suited him just fine. He’d already had one taste of flinging himself into the fray to keep the warring parties separate, and he wasn’t eager for a second. Even if the fray was purely verbal.
Besides there were more than enough invitees on both side
s to subdue any hotheads. That theater was crammed. And he had real work to do.
In the afternoon, while Flora’s girls were primping themselves in anticipation of customers, he’d had a chance to do a long-overdue interview of both Flora and his chief informant among the girls themselves. There wasn’t anything at all urgent that they could tell him, but he didn’t like to leave them unspoken to for as long as they had been.
From there he had gone to a tavern that Harkon was known to favor, and simply ate and drank, waiting for people to approach him.
And that was where things got a little . . . odd.
He felt eyes on him the entire time.
This wasn’t unusual; people were afraid of Harkon, but they also generally wished they had something to sell him at the same time, because he was known to be prompt and generous when some bit of information was particularly good. But tonight it felt as if people were uneasy, but didn’t know why they were feeling uneasy, and dropping into a slightly more receptive frame of mind, with some of his shields down and others thinned, didn’t get him anything much in the way of stray thoughts. He got the sense that something was brewing, and some people here knew that, but didn’t know what it was. And you didn’t get any money out of Harkon by coming up to him and telling him “Well, I hear there’s something up, I heard it from a cousin who heard it from a friend, but I don’t know what it is.”
In fact, you were far more likely to get cuffed across the ear for wasting his time.
Finally, he gave up, and went on to his third stop of the night, Aunty Minda’s. Here, he was met with considerably more enthusiasm than in the tavern.
His “lads”—he called them all “lad,” even the girls—swarmed him, eager to let him know their new accomplishments. There were a handful still out, the older boys, who could safely stay out later, since thanks to more experience, muscles, and faster reflexes they could be expected to be able to keep themselves out of trouble.
Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 32