A second cheer erupted from the crowd. The prince responded like a mummer drunk on applause. Lifting his lady’s hand like a trophy won at tournament, he presented her to the crowd. Tucking her hand on his arm, he escorted her toward the baron. “Baron Rognald, may I present the Lady Cereus.” The Priestess gave the slightest curtsey, just enough to offer a better glimpse of her bosom. The baron’s stare plumbed her cleavage, clearly enjoying the scenery.
“My pleasure,” the baron’s voice was a deep rumble, his gaze focused on the Priestess. “Welcome to Lingard. It’s rare to have such beauty grace our castle.”
So the old rogue is a lady’s man, Steffan hid a grin, but then Danly broke the mood.
“And this is my counselor, Lord Steffan.”
The baron sent him a frosty glance. “Yes, I’ll hear your news from Pellanor. Dispatches from the queen have been all too few.” The baron gestured toward the stone keep rearing above the heart of the city, but his gaze remained fixed on the Priestess. “Come, you’ll want to change and then we’ll dine, meat and mead to celebrate such fair guests. Despite the war, you’ll find my cooks can set a comely feast.”
The baron led the way through the throng of soldiers but Steffan interrupted, “My lord, our troops outside the wall?”
With a negligent wave, the baron answered, “Yes, yes, let them enter. They can barrack with my soldiers.”
Steffan watched as a captain leaped to obey, one step closer to success, and then he followed the others up the cobbled lane.
Lingard proved a prosperous city, a prize waiting to be plucked. Shops flanked the street, most of them doing a bustling business despite the war. Everything seemed clean and well tended, the wide cobblestone streets smelling of sweet horse dung instead of sour pisspots, but it was the faces of the people that Steffan found most telling. Peering from windows and shop doors, they watched the procession of lords and soldiers with open curiosity instead of fear, so different from Coronth. And all the faces seemed well fed and content; more proof the harvest of Lanverness was sequestered behind Lingard’s walls. Steffan hid his smile; the city was well worth the risk, provisions for his army, and souls for the Dark Lord, a bounty waiting to be harvested.
The cobbled streets curved up a small hill to the tower keep. Steffan walked half a step behind the others, letting the baron set the pace. The Priestess hung on the prince’s arm, but the full brunt of her allure fell on the baron. Rognald succumbed to her charms, nattering on about his dreary lineage as he led the way through the cobbled streets. Steffan ignored the idle chatter, studying the city as they walked.
A fair-haired page approached at a run. The lad whispered a message to the baron and then scurried back toward the tower keep. Soldiers and citizens seemed to leap at the baron’s slightest order, more proof the baron was a formidable leader, a thorn in the side of their plans, just as the Priestess predicted.
They reached the stone keep set atop a small hill, a tower surrounded by a second ring of crenellated walls. Guards in gold surcoats snapped to attention, but the portcullis was already raised, leaving the gate wide open, seduced by the peace of the city. Steffan hid a sneer, the people of Lanverness were so trusting they deserved to be conquered.
The royal party passed beneath the iron teeth, into a second courtyard.
“Welcome to the Fist.” The baron gestured toward the great drum tower, a grin of pride on his face. “The stoutest tower in all the queen’s domain. Lingard has never fallen while held by a Rognald.”
“Never?” Steffan hid a smile, knowing there was always a first.
The baron gave him a frosty glare. “Never.” Turning his back on Steffan, he made a welcoming gesture to the prince and his lady. “Come, let me show you the ancestral home of the Rognalds.”
The Priestess made soft murmurs of appreciation while the baron ushered his guests into the tower. Stone walls thick as a man’s height bespoke a tower built for war, but the interior proved surprising, a rare mix of elegance and martial pride. A massive oak table dominated the great hall, six silver candelabras gleaming along its length. Tapestries lined the walls with scenes of hunting and war, the embroidered heroes all showing a striking resemblance to the baron. A massive fireplace spewed heat while glowing candles filled the room with light. A dozen servants in gold livery stood in a line, bowing low. The oldest among them, a thin pinched-faced man with gray hair stepped forward. “Welcome to the Fist.”
The baron waved toward the gray-haired servant. “This is Daschel, my seneschal. He’ll see to your needs.”
A dust-covered soldier stepped from the shadows, a courier’s pouch strapped to his side. “My lord, may I have a word?”
The baron silenced the soldier with a raised hand, and then turned toward the prince, a congenial smile on his face. “Daschel will show you to your chambers. We’ll sup in my private solar at seven.”
Danly nodded. “I look forward to it.” Placing a possessive arm around the Priestess, the prince followed the seneschal toward the staircase. Steffan fought the urge to linger, concerned about the courier, but his curiosity might raise suspicions, and suspicions were often the death of deceit. Nodding toward the baron, he followed the others up the spiral staircase, playing the dutiful counselor.
Five turns of the staircase brought them to a hallway lined with oak doors. The seneschal opened the first, his gaze fixed on Steffan. “This will be your room, my lord.”
Small but well appointed, the chamber had a four-poster bed, a tapestry on the far wall, and a pair of arrow-slot windows fitted with mullioned glass.
“The privy chamber is just down the hall. I’ll have a page bring a fresh basin of hot water.”
“And my clothes chest?”
The seneschal nodded, his face prim. “Will be brought to you.”
“Very well.”
The seneschal gave a half bow and retreated to the hall, closing the door behind him. Steffan listened at the door, hearing the laughter of the Priestess as they moved away. He did not like being separated from the others but the ruse demanded it. Much depended on the Priestess keeping the prince in hand.
Steffan crossed the room and opened the mullioned windows. A gust of crisp wind swirled inside, tugging at his dark hair. He leaned out the window, studying the city below. The streets bustled with commerce, no sign of any alarm despite the dust-coated courier. Reassured, Steffan studied the forest beyond the city’s greensward. The dense thicket of woods seemed peaceful enough. He’d have to trust General Caylib to play his part. Trust was never one of Steffan’s strengths, but sometimes it was necessary. He lingered at the window, watching the sun set in a burst of fiery light, bathing the walled city in a red glow like an omen of flames.
A knock came from the door.
“Come.”
A page entered, balancing a steaming basin. Behind him a pair of soldiers struggled to carry a well-worn travel chest. Steffan recognized the soldiers, two of his Black Flames hiding beneath emerald surcoats. “Put the chest by the window and the basin on the nightstand.”
The page took careful steps, a hint of lavender rising with the steam. The lad settled the basin on the nightstand, laying a fresh towel on the bed. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes.” Steffan tossed a coin to the page, watching as the wide-eyed lad bowed his way from the chamber. When the door shut, Steffan skewered the soldiers with a warning glance lest they betray the plot. “Have the men been fed and settled?”
The bearded sergeant grinned. “They gave us barracks near the east gate, just as you said.”
“All of you together?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Keep your swords sharp. Remember, you serve the prince.” He moved toward the sergeant, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Tonight as planned.”
“As you say, counselor.” The sergeant flashed a grin as he strode from the chamber.
Steffan shut the door and leaned against it, satisfied that everything was going as planned. Deceit was so deliciou
s, especially when the stakes were so high. He felt himself grow hard, needing the Priestess. Danger was such an aphrodisiac. Stripping to the waist, he washed at the basin, using a sharp razor to scrape the stubble from his chin. He nicked his throat, a brief slice of pain. “Damn.” He missed Pip’s attentive service, but mere counselors rarely merited their own valets. Wiping the blood on a towel, he opened the travel chest and chose a red shirt of the finest silk and supple black leather pants. He tucked an assassin’s dagger in his right boot and another behind his back and then pulled on a thick leather belt with an embossed scabbard holding a fancy table dagger. At the bottom of the chest, he found a purse thick with golds, and tucked it into his belt. Twirling a black wool cloak around his shoulders, he strode to the window to wait. Twilight had come and gone, leaving an inky blackness overhead, yet lanterns glowed in the city below. Blanketed by night, the city seemed peaceful.
A knock came from the door.
“Come.”
A page entered. “The baron invites you to sup in his solar.”
Steffan smiled. “Lead the way.” He found the prince and the Priestess in the hallway, both dressed in their best court finery. Danly gave him a leering grin, his silver circlet gleaming against his black hair. “Evening, counselor.” His hands roamed the Priestess, his dark eyes glazed, drunk on wine, or sex.
Probably both, Steffan scowled. “My prince.” He emphasized the title, hoping to put steel in Danly’s spine.
“All is well.” The Priestess gave him a subtle smile. A vision of curves in dark purple, she wore a kirtle of delicate gold chains over a velvet gown, a graceful table dagger hanging at her waist.
Steffan leaned forward, catching a whiff of her musky scent. “The prince is a lucky man. With you by his side, the night is sure to be intoxicating.”
“So it begins.” She licked her lips, her gaze laden with heat.
For half a heartbeat, he forgot the plan, falling into her stare.
“My lords?” The page interrupted, gesturing toward the staircase. “The baron awaits.”
Steffan nodded. “And we are rude to delay the inevitable.”
The lad gave him a puzzled look and then led the way up the stairs to the baron’s solar. The page knocked, admitting them to a small chamber. Tapestries hung from the walls and silver service gleamed from a round table. Candles glowed in sconces, the smell of fresh baked bread filling the air. Warmth came from a fireplace crackling with pine logs, a cozy room for intrigue.
Baron Rognald rose from the table, his gaze fixed on the Priestess. Clad in an elegant doublet of gold, Rognald looked more like an aging courtier than a warrior lord. Beside him stood a big ruddy man in a gold surcoat, a soldier with red hair and a brawler’s flattened nose, a sword belted to his side. Steffan recognized him from his talks with the Priestess; he prayed she knew the captain’s appetites as well she knew his appearance.
The baron grinned, gesturing them toward the table. “Welcome to the hospitality of the Fist.”
Three pages leaped from the shadows to hold chairs for the guests. The Priestess took a chair next to the baron, keeping the prince on her right. Once seated, a line of pages began the service. Steaming bowls of oxtail soup accompanied by fresh baked bread, deviled quails’ eggs, and slivers of smoked duck in a savory sauce. Rich aromas swirled through the chamber, a princely start to a fine feast. When the first course was laid, the baron made the introductions. “This is Leonard Vengar, the captain of my guard. He’s a dull fellow when he’s not in his cups, but I wanted him to hear first-hand the tidings of war.”
The Priestess leaned toward the baron, laying her hand on his sleeve. “Must we speak of war?” She gave him a playful pout. “It’s been so long since we’ve had such courtly company.”
“Or such a fine feast.” The prince hefted his goblet. “War is a dirty business, for clods and dullards, not princes and lords.”
Rognald speared the prince with a glare. “You always were the lesser prince.”
Danly bristled. “But a prince no less, and you’re but a baron, a lackey to a queen.”
The two men locked stares like stags in rut. Steffan threw an angry glance at the prince, but the Priestess intervened, loosing her seductive charms on both men. Stroking the prince’s arm, she fixed her gaze on the baron. “How is it you set such a fine table despite the war? I never expected such a feast outside of Pellanor.”
The baron hefted his goblet, puffed with pride. “To a fine harvest and an even finer queen.” They all drank to the toast. The baron leaned forward, spearing a sliver of roast duck with his table knife. “By orders of her majesty we’ve gathered all the harvest for leagues around. Lingard’s granaries are full to bursting. We’ll weather this storm of flames behind stout walls, waiting till the war burns out.” Rognald grinned as if sharing a secret. “And when the enemy turns tail and runs for Coronth, the queen will find a way for Lanverness to profit, you mark my words.”
The baron’s bold-faced confidence intrigued Steffan. “You show a commendable loyalty, but don’t you fear a siege?”
“A siege!” The baron snorted a laugh. “I see you’re not privy to the queen’s counsel.”
Danly bristled but Steffan restrained him with a hand hidden beneath the table. “What do you mean? The army of the Flame is said to be legion.”
“Exactly.” The baron quaffed a goblet of wine and a page promptly refilled it. “The queen wants a siege! She’s practically begging for it.” His dark gaze gleamed with a hunter’s delight. “Let the enemy bring their numbers against Lingard or Kardiff. A siege makes the coming winter an ally of Lanverness. Cold and hunger will whittle away their numbers, while we pummel them with our catapults. And when they’re at their weakest, the Rose Army will take them from behind, trapping between steel and stout stone walls.” His fist banged the table, as if crushing a gnat. “Let them bring their siege and the queen will have her checkmate.”
Steffan swallowed a scowl, realizing the queen was a shrewd opponent.
Danly glowered. “My royal mother is not infallible.”
“Aye, but she’s a canny queen, and I’ve yet to meet the man who can match her at chess.”
“War is not chess.” Danly sulked in his cups.
Steffan sent a warning glance to the Priestess. Smooth as honeyed milk, she intervened, laying a distracting hand on the baron’s arm. “Such a stalwart lord, it’s why the queen sent us to Lingard, to the protection of her best baron.”
“Her best baron.” Rognald raised an eyebrow, his voice gruff. “I like the sound of that. I wooed her once, you know, back when we were both younger.”
“You and the queen?” The Priestess feigned interest. “What was she like back then?”
“Ever the beauty. I won her favor at the tournament, no one could best me at the joust.” The baron fell into vanity’s trap, reminiscing about his younger days. The Priestess proved a rapt audience. Full of sultry looks and subtle praise, she worked her wiles on him, stroking his ego and puffing his pride, while keeping his goblet brimming with wine. Steffan eased back in his chair, content to let the Priestess lead, like watching a black widow spider weave a seductive web. And all the while the prince glowered in his cups but at least he did not spoil the plot.
Servants brought more courses and the candles melted to stubs. The hour grew late. Finally when the last course was consumed, the servants brought a voiding dish of apples.
The Priestess claimed the bowl, giving the baron a beguiling smile. “My lord, let me serve you.”
The baron blustered. “There’s no need.”
“But I insist. It is the least I can do to show my gratitude for such a fine feast…and for such a splendid lord.” Her gaze smoldered.
The baron flamed red.
“Dismiss the servants, for we’ve no need of them.”
The baron nodded, issuing the order. The servants left, closing the door behind them.
Flames crackled in the hearth, sending a surge of heat through t
he chamber. The Priestess waited, as if gathering the men’s stares, and then she stood, loosing her raven-black hair, the lush tresses cascading down her back. Her hands reached up, smoothing the velvet of her gown. Like lovers hands, she caressed her own body, cupping the curve of her breasts and then spilling down to her waist, slow and sensual as a dance. One hand reached for the jeweled dagger at her waist, slowly drawing it from the silver sheath.
Steffan leaned forward, his manhood stiff with need.
The baron groaned.
The Priestess licked her lips, full of suggestion. She leaned forward, her breasts straining against her gown, displaying a spill of cleavage. She selected an apple from the bowl, plump and golden. Slow and sensual, she sliced the apple in half. Giving the baron a searing look, she made another deft slice, carving a long thick wedge from the juicy apple.
Licking the juice from her fingers, her voice was low and sultry. “Apples are the fruit of temptation, don’t you think?” Her lips puckered for a kiss. She took the first slice for herself, slowly forcing it through her pouting red lips. The entire length slipped into her ample mouth.
The baron groaned.
She cut a second slice and offered it to Rognald. “Do you want a bite of my apple?”
“Yes, oh yes!” He leaned forward, sweat beading his brow.
The Priestess held the slice to his lips, slowly sliding it in.
Steffan nearly came.
The baron took the slice, his gaze locked on the Priestess. He licked her fingertips, suckling them, making hungry noises. His arms reached for her, but the Priestess evaded his grasp. “Not yet.” The baron sprawled in his chair, his eyes glowing with hunger.
The Priestess cut a third slice and offered it to the prince, sliding it along his mouth like a slow tease. Danly ate the apple. “More.” His voice dropped to a moan. “Give me more.”
Steffan watched, gripping the arms of his chair, nearly bursting with need.
The Priestess turned her gaze on the captain, her voice low and sultry. “Will you taste my apple?”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 29