by Patrick, Den
‘What did you say?’
‘We found him, Duke Prospero, at the bottom of the stairs. He must have hit every one of them on the way down. He was a mess.’
‘I thought Dottore Angelicola discovered him?’
‘No.’ Dino shook his head. ‘After you left La Festa, Anea wanted to leave too. I escorted her back to her rooms, just as you asked me. It was still early so I went back. Lady Stephania spoke to me. She was a little drunk at that point. She wanted to show me her pony.’
‘Her pony?’ Lucien exchanged puzzled glances with Virmyre.
‘She was drunk. She was talking about her pony and . . . anyway, we left the party to go to the stables. She said she knew a short cut, a stairwell in House Prospero. That’s where we found him.’ Dino shivered and looked down at his feet. The wind shrieked around the towers of Demesne, across an army of battlements, haranguing rusted weathervanes.
‘I’m so sorry, Dino. Did you get any sleep?’
‘There’s more,’ said the boy with a touch of defiance, daring himself not to cry, Lucien guessed. Virmyre stared at the boy, one hand straying to his beard.
‘Stephania wanted to come to you after we found him. I brought her to your apartment. The door was open so we went into the sitting room.’
Lucien felt himself grow pale. His stomach became a tight knot.
Dino glanced at Virmyre for an instant, then continued. ‘When it was obvious you were unavailable we left, but she’s very upset.’
‘How is Lady Stephania today?’ asked Virmyre. If he caught the unspoken moment between the Orfani he did not show it.
‘Not good. Not good at all. She’s refusing to speak to her mother. She says her father threw himself down those stairs because of the business with the capo.’
‘The duke was drunk. He got lost and he fell,’ said Lucien angrily. ‘He’d never commit suicide. He’d never abandon Stephania.’ But even as he uttered the words he faltered, remembering how broken and despairing the old man had sounded.
‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ said Virmyre. ‘He could have had a heart attack or just dropped dead on the spot – he might even have been pushed. We’ll never know.’
They stood unspeaking as blacker clouds heaved themselves across the sky, presaging a twilight darkness. Drain pipes gurgled and gutters ran like miniature rivers all across the rooftops of Demesne. The blocky form of the sanatorio was just discernible in the distance, visible through a veil of rain.
‘I should take Achilles back inside,’ said Dino. The drake had curled up and looked miserable. ‘I came to return this.’ He proffered the sword cane to Lucien, barely concealing his distaste.
‘Keep it. Seems to me you earned it last night.’
‘I don’t see how: the duke’s dead.’
‘I didn’t ask to you to protect the duke.’ Lucien emptied the dregs of his coffee onto the cobbles and gave Dino a hard stare. The younger Orfano shrugged and turned away, leaving without another word.
‘Anything you’d like to tell me?’ rumbled Virmyre.
Lucien shook his head, watching the puddles in the courtyard ripple as the rain fell, imagining the scent of Rafaela.
The funeral took place a week later, coming to be regarded as the most awkward event in living memory. The rain had fallen steadily since that bleak morning, making the trip to the cemetery an ordeal for anyone who couldn’t get a seat on a cart or carriage. At the graveside the mourners huddled under stiff parasols of waxed black canvas. The artisans of House Prospero had worked tirelessly to prepare them. The duke had his faults but was unanimously loved by his workers, Lucien wondered if they’d remain as productive under Duchess Prospero.
The high wall that surrounded the final resting place of Demesne’s nobility seemed lower than Lucien remembered it. A few more stones had come loose since the day he’d run away, only to be brought back by Virmyre, and everywhere was the insistent cling of ivy, seeking to undermine the barrier between living and dead. It looked to be succeeding. The copse of cypress trees rustled, bending in the wind like old men. No one had repaired the gates, and so they remained rusted in place, weeds binding them to the ground. Lucien had arrived early and hunched down under his own parasol beside them, watching the other mourners approach.
Anea and Dino arrived first. Dino kept off the rain with a parasol as Anea held his arm. She was huddled in a great .
Virmyre and Russo arrived, representing the teaching faculty. They nodded to Lucien, exchanging a few words with him before passing through the gates. Lucien realised he could count the number of people he could trust on one hand, but he was grateful that Virmyre was among them.
Duchess Prospero was attended by a smattering of pages. Her aide was a new girl with bright blonde hair braided into a severe plait that drooped over her shoulder in the rain. Lady Prospero smiled tightly at Lucien but swept past him, keen to get the ceremony over.
The Majordomo arrived, unfolding his lank frame from a carriage. He moved with lurching, arthritic grace. The damp had invaded his joints and he rested heavily on his staff. He was splendid in formal crimson robes, now wet and muddy to the ankle. If the Domo saw Lucien he didn’t show it, instead making his way straight into the graveyard.
The capo followed, leading a guard of honour that seemed as redundant as it was in bad taste. Duke Prospero had never been a fighting man, and it was unlikely he’d have wanted the capo within fifty miles of his funeral. The soldiers marched past, keeping their gazes frozen ahead of them. Lucien scowled and pushed his fingers through damp hair.
Everyone present had someone to stand with.
Everyone except Lady Stephania, who arrived by carriage. Alone. Lucien approached her with a tightness in his chest.
‘Hello,’ he said in a low voice, feeling abashed. Stephania nodded to him, her mouth pinched, brow set hard.
‘Where are they burying him?’ No grave had been dug as far as Lucien could see. He doubted digging a grave in these conditions was even possible. Stephania extended an arm, pointing to a sepulchre at the back of the cemetery. They walked toward it, boots crunching on the gravel path.
‘About La Festa—’ He got no further.
‘I really don’t care, Lucien,’ she said icily. ‘I don’t care who she is, if you love her, if you’re going to bed her again or even if you prefer men. We’re getting married, and that’s all there is to it. I’m going to take control of House Prospero before my mother makes us a complete laughing stock. And you’re going to help me.’
Lucien concentrated on the ground. The rain beat a staccato on the fabric of his parasol. He chewed his lip. ‘I’m not sure this is going to work, Stephania.’
‘I don’t see you have any choice. Giancarlo and Golia are dying to find a reason to get rid of you. Permanently. By becoming Duke Prospero you’d make their lives hell. They wouldn’t dare try and kill you for fear of the other three houses uniting against them.’
They were close to the sepulchre now. People were shaking the rain from their parasols and squeezing into the gloomy interior. The Majordomo waited with a scroll unfurled in front of him.
‘You’ll marry me, Lucien. You’ll marry me if you want to live. And you’ll help me teach my mother a lesson. What you do at night is your own concern, but I will want an heir at some point, so try not to catch anything.’
Her brown eyes ran him through before she turned on her heel and entered the sepulchre, leaving him drowning in uncertainty outside.
After the ceremony the mourners filed out, glad to be away. Stephania exchanged a few brief words with the Majordomo as the sombre gathering dispersed. If Duchess Prospero had any feelings about her husband’s passing she did not show them. No one stepped forward to offer her condolences, instead addressing Stephania. The mourners crossed the cemetery, picking their way through overgrown grasses and broken masonry, back to the convoy of carts and carriages. Coachmen shouted, whips cracked, and the procession headed back to Demesne – back to the beating hear
t of Landfall and the strange edicts of the reclusive king.
Lucien remained. He leaned against the cold stone of the sepulchre, lingering on Stephania’s words, turning them over in his mind. She was correct of course. Politically, her thinking was sound. Only by aligning with each other might they survive. There was a dreadful hardness to her. It were as if she were someone else, someone new. As if the flirtatious girl at La Festa had surely fallen down the stairs with her father. Lucien wondered how excruciating it must have been for her to stand in his sitting room, hearing him abed with Rafaela. How terrible for her to have sought him in her hour of need, only to find him in the arms of another. He cursed Dino for bringing her to his apartments, knowing even as he did that Dino was blameless.
A shadow detached itself from the trees, no more than an outline in grey. It approached quickly, bearing no parasol, blurred and indistinct due to the falling rain. Lucien drew his blade on instinct. He’d welcome a fight. Someone who could hurt him. Someone he could hurt. Anything to prove he had some choices left in his life. Anything but the twisting skeins of politics and intrigue.
Capo de Custodia Guido di Fontein emerged from the gloom, hair plastered to his pretty face, clothes sodden. Despite this he wore a ridiculous grin. He stopped a dozen feet away from Lucien, beyond the range of his blade. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword and took a moment to catch his breath.
‘Master Lucien, you appear to have missed your ride back to House Contadino.’
‘I was just enjoying the weather.’
‘You have peculiar tastes, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Actually I do.’ Lucien still hadn’t sheathed his sword. No reason to make it easy for the empty-headed noble.
‘We’ve not really had a chance to talk recently,’
‘It seems I’m still entitled to small mercies.’
‘I had to discipline one of my men yesterday.’ The capo smiled, relishing this, like the final moves of a chess game. Lucien didn’t reply, merely raised an eyebrow and nodded to show he was still listening.
‘I caught him gossiping. It seems your maid was seen leaving House Contadino early the morning after La Festa.’
Check, thought Lucien.
Perhaps she left something at home. She lives out on the estate,’ replied Lucien. He tightened his grip on his sword.
‘The guard in question is an observant sort. He couldn’t help noticing she was wearing the same attire she had worn on the previous day.’ Checkmate.
Lucien let it hang between them. The rain was beginning to slacken.
‘I can’t say I’m concerned by such things. If your man is so interested in dresses perhaps you should buy him one.’
The capo clapped his hands slowly in mock applause.
‘What do you want, Guido?’
‘You will address as me as Capo,’ he snapped.
‘Work hard to earn that title, did you?’
‘Did you work hard to earn yours, Orfano?’
‘I didn’t ask to be born Orfano; there are days I’d rather be anything but.’
Silence crowded about the cemetery and the capo shivered.
‘Duchess Prospero would prefer it if you declined any invitation to marriage from Lady Stephania.’
‘Really?’ Lucien almost laughed. ‘The duchess has been actively campaigning for many months for that very thing.’
‘She would prefer it if you declined any—’
‘Or she’ll tell every one in the four houses that she thinks I bedded my maid on La Festa.’
‘What?’ The capo looked less sure of himself. Lucien guessed Duchess Prospero had coached him, but she’d not rehearsed him in what to say in the event Lucien didn’t yield. He stepped forward, eyes like flint, hatred aching out of every pore. How he’d love to cut this popinjay down where he stood. For the duke. For Stephania. For himself.
‘Tell her I’m not going to be blackmailed with half-truths and might-have-beens. Tell her she’s going to need a bit more than a hung-over guard crowing about a maid. Tell her that after the death of her husband it would be respectful for her to retire from public life for few weeks.’
The capo stood with his mouth open.
‘Now get the fuck out of here before I chop your head off,’ growled Lucien. He spun the sword in his hand, keen to use it on the soaking fop. The capo fled, falling twice before he made the safety of the cemetery gates.
Lucien sneered after the fleeing figure, annoyed at anyone thinking he might be cowed with such paltry threats. His marriage to Stephania seemed all but inevitable now, but his reason to refuse it wouldn’t be blackmail. It would be Rafaela.
39
Coda
THE OLD SANATORIO
– Febbraio 316
Lucien sat in bed, his hair tousled, sleep crusted at the corners of his eyes, last night’s sweat faint and salty on his skin. Rafaela stood at the window, her scarlet skirt hanging from her hips, shoulders bare. Lucien admired the curve of her spine, the sweep of her back, her olive skin soft and inviting. Her hair had grown back but had yet to reach her shoulders.
‘What happened that night in the King’s Keep?’ The words had come unbidden, the thought leaving his mouth unconsciously. She stiffened but said nothing. He waited, chewing his lip, regretting the question.
‘You’re asking me that, now, a year later?’ Her eyes remained fixed on the world outside, her voice hushed.
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘Seems a strange time to discuss that. I’d been doing my best to forget.’
‘Me too.’
He waited, wanting her to fill the silence, unsure he’d like what would come next. She remained at the window, ribcage rising and falling with the passage of breath. He knew every inch of her now. They’d been insatiable at first, their passion a hunger that had been denied far too long. The nine months since they’d been together had been heady, but the shadow of Rafaela’s night in King’s Keep had always darkened their time together.
‘I should have asked sooner, but I was scared—’
‘Scared?’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘You didn’t seem very scared when you fought Golia, or Giancarlo. Were you scared when you killed the king?’ Her eyes had none of their characteristic warmth, while her arms were folded across her stomach.
‘Of course I was scared when I fought, but it was a different kind of fear. When you walk into a fight you face your opponent and then you walk away. Or you don’t. But the truth? No one walks away from the truth.’
She softened at this, sitting at the end of the bed, folding her hands into her lap neatly. She addressed the floor, her gaze unfocused, remembering the night of her abduction.
‘He didn’t touch me, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘I—’
‘He didn’t touch me. He said I was no use to him. I was so scared. He said I was barren and too old.’ She pressed one hand to her mouth and swallowed, then took a breath. ‘He sniffed me like a dog, said I had a scent of sickness about me. He ridiculed me for not being able to bear children.’
Lucien attempted to speak, but she silenced him with an outstretched palm, eyes locked on the floor in front of her.
‘And then they took me to the sanatorio. And I was so glad, so grateful. Sitting there in the dark I realised how many girls, how many women, hadn’t had my luck. Every Orfani in Demesne is a testament to the king’s wickedness. Every Orfani is a marker for a life ruined, a woman preyed on.’
Lucien felt the familiar wave of guilt that washed over him at times like these. Being well acquainted with the feeling didn’t make it any easier to bear. The king had used devices to deliver his seed, but in the end his rape was as repellent as any other.
She paused. Her eyes hadn’t left the floor. Lucien watched her profile, the tightness in the jaw, the tension in her smooth shoulders. Her hands clutched at one another.
‘And I felt guilty,’ she whispered, ‘guilty that I should be spared something so ho
rrible, so awful, when all those other women had suffered and were driven insane.’
‘I should have asked sooner,’ he said, shifting until he was kneeling next to her on the bed. She looked up at him at last, tears bright in her eyes and tracking down the soft curves of her face.
‘No, I’m sorry. I could have started this conversation – should have started it. I hoped it would go away, be forgotten about. But nothing ever goes away, does it?’
Warm hands found each other. They looked down at the union of their entwined fingers.
‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ said Lucien. ‘Who knows what any child of mine might look like. Simply birthing an Orfano might kill you.’ He chewed at his lip. ‘I couldn’t bear it. I nearly lost you once; I’ll not see you in danger again.’
A smile touched her soft lips, and then she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. They sat together for silent minutes, heads at peace on each other’s shoulders, arms wrapped firmly around one another.
‘Come on, time to get up. You’ve a big day ahead of you.’
‘Don’t say that; you sound like my nanny used to.’
‘Uncanny, isn’t it?’
‘You’d like her.’ He grinned. ‘Attractive, funny, smart. Kind too.’
‘Too bad she’s already taken.’
A knock came at the door.
‘You’re late,’ came a peeved voice from the other side. Unmistakably Dino.
When Lucien had washed and dressed, he found the younger Orfano outside. He was taller now, hair cut short in a rakish sort of way, and festooned with daggers. He’d adopted a suit of pale grey since Demesne’s reformation and taken to wearing his boots unbuckled, sword cane clutched in one hand, lacquered and polished.
‘You know, you’ve had all year to get under her skirt, and now when you’re summoned, you’re still at it.’ Dino shook his head and rolled his eyes.
‘One is not “at it” with a woman like Rafaela.’
‘Sleeping in, were we, my lord?’
‘You’ll be the same one day.’ Lucien grinned. ‘Just you wait and see.’
‘I doubt it.’