Widow's Pique

by Marilyn Todd

  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.

  'I'm so sorry, my boy.'

  Drilo's shoulders slumped.

  'The mule doctor is adamant that your wife will - well, that Rosmerta will not last the day.'

  Nosferatu was feeling a whole lot better, now, thank you.

  Twenty-Six

  Orbilio wasn't the only person whose blood turned to ice in their veins. The flurry of panic that swept round the house told Claudia
that something was seriously wrong, and that it wasn't purely the gruesome haul in the fishermen's nets. This apparently was not an uncommon occurrence, something to do with storms down in Greece creating currents that could, in extreme conditions, carry ships off their course, but which either way flushed out any remains lodged in Vinja's den. It was how families knew whom to honour with red ribbons in the shrine to the fire-breathing monster. As always, the sea gives up its dead.

  And, in a way, it was a relief to discover Raspor's corpse among the grisly finds. Not because Claudia's story would be vindicated. She'd never had doubts on that score, and whether anyone else believed her or not was irrelevant. No, she was glad, because at last the little priest got what he deserved. She might not have been able to save his life, but she could take comfort in knowing he'd receive a fitting burial in accordance with his beliefs and that his bones would rest with his ancestors, protected by gargoyles in empty black robes and safe in the knowledge that his sacrifice had not been in vain.

  But right now, Raspor was low on the list of priorities. The dead were dead, it was time to protect the living and, as her footsteps reverberated along the marble corridor, there was only one thought in her brain.

  Pavan.

  I'll give you gruzi vol, you callous, unfeeling bastard. And

  as for that bullshit about how serving Histria was to serve the King, did he really think she'd swallow that? Who laid his massive paw on the doctor's trusting shoulder and led him away? Who insisted Rosmerta be left alone - for her own good, too! And who, my friend, had been so angry that the King's proposal had been refused? Small wonder. It scuppered Nosferatu's plans for whatever little accident he'd been planning for the King and his bride, the one that he had so insidiously persuaded Mazares to invite his good friend Marcus over here to act as an official witness for.

  I'll gruzi bloody vol you with my own bare hands, you devious bloody bastard. No wonder you were so concerned the other night when those rapists clawed at me. Can't afford to have the bait damaged, can you?

  Mazares was still in his office when she burst through the doorway, and it looked as though he'd spent the whole night there, since the cushions on the chair were flattened and his clothes were creased and in disarray.

  'Claudia!'

  He jumped up and reached for where he'd kicked his boots.

  'An unexpected honour, I must say.'

  There was no time for preambles. 'You've heard about Rosmerta?'

  'I have.' His dark curls nodded miserably. 'Poor Kazan, can you imagine what the poor sod's feeling?'

  'Are you referring to Vani expecting his child or him not having to pretend that he isn't ashamed of his wife any more?'

  Mazares paused from lacing his boot and stared at her thoughtfully.

  'I think I'll get that sour-cherry tree axed,' he said slowly. 'The blossoms are beautiful, but the fruit can be awfully acid.'

  'If you think this is sharp, I suggest you saddle up now, because you're in for a rough ride, Mazares. There are things that need airing and they won't wait.'

  He stooped to finish his lacing. 'So, Kazan's the child's

  father and grandfather at the same time? His sons resemble him so closely that no one's likely to suspect, and anyway he turned his attentions to the other boot - 'who's going to care? Half the children in Gora are miniature versions of my brother.'

  'Sod Kazan! It's your other brother I'm interested in. Brac'

  Mazares straightened up, tucked his shirt into his pants and clipped on his gold torque.

  'Do you sleep in a normal bed, like everybody else,' he asked, 'or do you hang upside down in a cave overnight?'

  'Mazares, I'm serious. Surely even you can see it now? Rosmerta's death isn't an accident—'

  'Well, I'll agree with you there. My sister-in-law is very much alive. Admittedly, she's in what the Greeks call a koma, but, unlike certain people in this room, I would at least hesitate before burying her.'

  Claudia heard a gnashing sound and thought it might be her teeth. At this rate, she'd be down to the gums, but she had to accept his point, and, goddammit, he looked even worse in broad daylight. The grey pallor to his face had turned waxy from lack of sleep, the lines round his eyes looked like chasms. Exactly what a grieving man would look like, she supposed, when faced with the prospect of no heir for another year at least, while being confronted by the very woman who'd consigned him to that fate.

  She shivered, as much out of contrition as guilt. She'd failed Raspor by not taking his claims seriously. She would not fail Mazares by inducing him to do the same.

  Drawing a deep breath, she set to ticking off the deaths on her fingers and made no mention of Pavan's betrayal. The King was a good man, who trusted those around him, but, given a choice, he would trust his general above a shrew -especially a Roman shrew. No. Let him find out for himself that, when it came to rodents, there was a rat in his household that was infinitely more dangerous, for while Mazares might be noble, he was anything but stupid. The facts could speak for themselves.

  Like strapping young Brac, dead of a fever three days before his twentieth birthday, and Dol, whose weakness of lungs came on surprisingly late in life, yet had him in his grave aged just fifty-two.

  However, when it came to relating the drowning of a twelve-year-old child, the clinical reporter found herself unable to look the father in the face when she recounted the circumstances of his daughter's so-called accident, much less when she rehashed the circumstances of his son's death, and may Juno forgive her, she was almost glad to move on to how his wife's 'suicide' was most likely assisted.

  'If you know so much about my family,' Mazares said thickly, 'you will also know that Delmi was prone to bouts of depression. She'd tried to kill herself once before, but Rosmerta, for all her faults, stepped in and saved my wife's life. She never forgave herself for not preventing it the second time.'

  'Maybe that's why Rosmerta was mur— given that overdose,' Claudia suggested.

  It had to be something that had been done, or said, recently that triggered Nosferatu into action. His was a careful, coldblooded campaign which Rosmerta had somehow tripped

  up.

  'Nonsense,' Mazares said wearily, pouring two goblets of wine. 'A tile slipped, it gave her concussion and, in her confusion, Rosmerta took more than one dose of the poppy draught to ease the pain. We've all done it, but not with such tragic consequences, of course.'

  Claudia sipped at the wine, but the heat had soured it, or perhaps it was nothing more than the bad taste in her mouth.

  'What would you say if I told you Orbilio has verified that no tile was missing from the house roof?'

  There was a glint in his eye as he watched her over the rim of his goblet.

  'Has he?'

  'Well. No. Not exactly.'

  Dammit, it was impossible to lie to this man.

  'But I'm sure if you ask him, he'll go up and confirm my theory, and anyway, what about the boat builder? His body bears out Broda's account, Raspor's body has also been washed up, which confirms what I saw, and now the young physician who rode in yesterday has suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. How convenient, when he'd just announced his findings!'

  'You're worried about the young doctor?' Mazares chuckled as he drained his glass. 'Don't. Pavan sent him back to Gora.'

  Well done, Pavan. Very neat. Very tidy.

  'Don't tell me. It was for the boy's own good?'

  Twinkling eyes studied her from lowered brows.

  'Actually, he felt there was more need for a physician in a town where the population is greatest, seeing as we have a perfectly competent mule doctor here on the island, who, I'm sure, will prescribe something suitably minty for My Lady's indigestion.'

  Claudia was not finished yet.

  'Surely, after hearing how your own physician met his end, you can see it?' she asked softly.

  The lines round his eyes suddenly became gorges.

  'What a waste,' he rasped, and there was no
trace of laughter left in his voice. 'What a waste of a life, of a talent, but what you have to bear in mind, my dear Claudia, is that homosexuality is considered unnatural among the Histri. Imagine if a hot-headed tribesman mistook friendliness for a come-on, who knows how he might react? Obviously, I'm not condoning the killing, but I've long accepted that things can be said -and done - in the heat of the moment that are regretted in the cold light of day. Just,' he added with a disarming grin, 'as I have accepted the curse that lies on my family.'

  'Which is precisely what I'm trying to drum into your thick skull.'

  How the family totem wasn't the mule, she'd never know! Wasn't it Salome who'd called the Histri boneheaded? Stubborn wasn't the word.

  'It's not a bloody jinx, it's a campaign to undermine you,

  eliminate your bloodline, bring a new order to this kingdom at the expense of everything you and your father have ever worked for and, Croesus, I'm so confused, I don't know whether he's planning to incite Histria to rebel against Rome or bring the kingdom closer to the Empire, but at the moment I don't bloody care. All that matters is that you're next, Mazares. You're top of Nosferatu's hit list, and whether you believe what I've told you or not, for gods' sake, be careful, will you?'

  She finally ran out of steam and it was with a weary voice that she added her postscript.

  'He'll want it to look like an accident.'

  Mazares's tired eyes managed one further dance as he rested both hands on her shoulders.

  'Is it just you and Salome, or is it a precondition of Roman citizenship that women bust their men's balls?'

  'Which brings us to another point. You do realize that Salome—'

  'Claudia.'

  He leaned forward and planted a kiss on the top of her head as though she was three years old.

  'Claudia, will you please, please, give this poor eunuch some peace? In case you hadn't noticed, I have the mother of all hangovers this morning, and I could really use a few moments to myself to groan quietly while my skin finds its way back to my body and the tingling in my mouth stops spreading up my whole face, because very soon I will have to step outside wearing the broadest of smiles and play king to my people, while, as you so kindly pointed out, Histrian virgins change hands like cooking pots.'