Finally she went limp, the laughter gone. But still they remained as they were: on the floor, Molly in his arms—except that now he held her gently, as a lover would, his head leaning against her neck, his hand stoking her hair.
And then she was crying.
And then it was over.
9
A Very Deep Game
SHORTLY AFTER SUNSET, SLAVES bearing lamps came to Alaric’s villa to escort him and his companions to dinner. They formed a tight little procession, with two slaves in front and two behind to light their way, and the three of them in the middle. Alaric went ahead, looking quite handsome in his beautiful toga—handsome, small, and defenseless. Molly and Tobias followed close behind. All of them were as watchful as cats.
The palace, like most royal residences, was fortified with both an inner and an outer curtain wall. The outer wall was extensive, enclosing everything from the stables and craftsmen’s workshops to the fishpond, the brewer’s yard, and the guest compound. The much smaller inner wall protected the king’s domain.
When the procession arrived at this inner wall, the gate was already open, a guard on either side standing at attention. But as soon as they’d passed through, it was shut behind them, its great iron bolt thrown with a harsh, metallic clang. The sound made Molly’s skin crawl. It was a dark reminder that walls weren’t just for keeping enemies out. Sometimes walls were for keeping people in.
They continued along a series of covered walkways lit by torches on the walls, turning first one way, then another, until finally they reached a large courtyard garden. This Molly recognized. They’d been there earlier in the day, shortly after they’d arrived. But it had looked completely different then.
Candles now lined the paths and marked the edge of the pool, while the rest of the garden, with its wealth of flowers and ornamental shrubs, lay shrouded in darkness. And the dining porch, which she hadn’t even noticed before, was ablaze with little lamps—the light glinting off the gold frames of the dining couches, casting its warm glow over the ancient frescoes on the walls, picking up the sheen of purple silk cushions, and spilling out onto the walkway beyond, right to the garden’s edge.
Suddenly Alaric came to a halt and froze in a defensive posture: leaning forward, his hands slightly raised and away from his sides as if ready to draw a sword that wasn’t there. At the same moment, Molly felt his fear pass over her like an icy draft from an open door. What had he seen that had caused him such alarm?
She squinted intently at the room—searching, searching—but nothing seemed the least bit threatening. The other six diners were already there, sitting on the benchlike couches: three and three, across from one another. And a few servants were bustling about, making last-minute preparations. But that was all.
Then something told her to look at the diners themselves.
From left to right she scanned the faces. First couch: a young boy, next to him King Gonzalo, and then the princess. Middle couch: empty, waiting for them. Third couch: older boy, vaguely familiar . . .
And then, for the second time that night, she felt the little hairs rise all over her skin. Because the next face she came to was more than vaguely familiar. It belonged to King Reynard of Austlind.
Tobias had spotted him too. He gasped and grabbed Molly’s arm.
“I know,” she whispered. Her mind was racing now, trying to put all the pieces together but finding that they didn’t quite fit. Because if Alaric was wrong and the two kings really were colluding to murder him—maybe the plan was to split Westria between them—why show their hand so openly? It was careless and sloppy. And that didn’t sound like Reynard.
Unless he had insisted on being there so he could watch his cousin die. Now, that Molly could believe. Because Alaric had been the innocent cause of the most shameful, humiliating failure of King Reynard’s life.
It had been some time after the night of the wolves. The royal family of Westria had all been slain—except for Alaric, who had disappeared and was presumed to have drowned in the course of his escape. So Reynard had declared the prince dead, claimed the throne on legitimate grounds, and was already planning his coronation when along came Alaric, very much alive, riding down that hill to the walls of Dethemere Castle, followed by half the kingdom. And there he’d stood—just a boy, really, all of sixteen, with unkempt hair and slept-in clothes, his handsome face glowing like the sun—calling up to his cousin on the ramparts, asking Reynard to open the gates and acknowledge him as the rightful king of Westria.
Reynard had laughed.
It was Molly who’d given Alaric the idea that had sent his cousin packing. It had been clever, and it had worked. But that victory had come at a heavy price because Reynard, like any wounded animal, was far more dangerous now. For a proud man to have been bested by a boy young enough to be his own son, to have been frightened away by some story about a family curse so that he’d run home to Austlind with his tail between his legs—oh, how that must have chafed at his spirit this past eighteen months and more. How deep and bitter must his hatred have grown!
Yes, Reynard would want to be there to see the knife go in. He might even wish to do the deed himself.
“Your Grace?” It was one of the slaves, who didn’t understand why they had stopped. “Please, won’t you come? My lord King Gonzalo is waiting.”
“Of course,” Alaric said.
As they emerged from the darkness of the garden into the light from the porch, Gonzalo leaped up from his couch and came out to greet them, his arms outstretched like a fond uncle.
“Welcome, welcome!” he cried. “Isn’t this a grand evening? Come—join the party!”
But Molly wasn’t paying attention to their host; she was still staring at Reynard—and so she saw the look of horror cross his face. That’s when the pieces finally fell into place, and everything made sense: Reynard wasn’t in collusion with King Gonzalo; he hadn’t even known Alaric was coming! The king of Cortova had brought them both there to compete for the prize—sort of an auction, with the princess and the alliance going to the highest bidder.
Gonzalo was making introductions now, as smoothly and graciously as if he actually liked them and really expected them to like each other.
“Son,” he said to the handsome boy who sat on the end of the couch, furiously kicking his legs back and forth. “Stand up. That’s it. I want you to meet King Alaric of Westria. This is my son, Prince Castor.”
The boy nodded in an offhand way; it was hardly a bow at all—certainly not what was appropriate when greeting a king. At the same time he did something disdainful with his nose: flaring the nostrils as if he detected a stink. Watching this, Molly felt herself drawn back to her childhood on the streets, and her hackles went up as they always had when she was challenged by a bully. In those days she’d have used her fists. Now she just squinted her eyes at the child, slightly baring her upper teeth. He saw it and blinked with surprise.
“And this lovely creature—I’m sure you’ve already guessed—is my daughter, Princess Elizabetta. Of course you know King Reynard and Prince Rupert, though perhaps not Lord Wroxton, the king’s friend.” (He was actually the king’s bodyguard, but it would have been rude to state the obvious.) “And I believe this is Lady Marguerite and her husband, Lord Worthington?”
“Not husband,” Alaric corrected. “They are only betrothed.”
“Ah. My mistake. Not yet married. Well, who knows? Perhaps a double wedding is in the stars!”
It hadn’t been “his mistake,” of course. It had been quite intentional. And Molly had the feeling it was meant to wound—though what Gonzalo hoped to accomplish by it was impossible to guess. Maybe it had just been a lead-in for the remark about the “double wedding,” in which the identity of the other couple was yet to be determined. A bit subtler and more elegant than “Let the games begin!”
Gonzalo now returned to his couch and proceeded to make himself comfortable: reclining at an angle, turned halfway on his side, one arm draped over a l
arge silk bolster. The others waited till the king was settled, then followed suit.
Alaric had been placed at the end of the middle couch, directly beside the princess. This seemed such a blatant mark of favor that Molly shot a glance at Reynard to see how he was taking it. But she learned nothing. His face was a blank. So she turned her attention back to Alaric.
He and the princess were deep in conversation. She was leaning in toward him, her face transformed by a radiant smile, her eyes bright with interest. Then, in a flash, her expression altered, as though the clouds had moved in and obscured the sun. She reached over and took Alaric’s hand in a consoling sort of way.
“I know,” Molly heard her say in a voice that was soft and deep. “I know.”
The princess gave Alaric’s hand a squeeze, then released it. Molly watched, fascinated, as the sun slowly began to emerge from the clouds once again.
“I was glad when Father told me that you had . . . enquired about me. I . . .” She blushed and glanced down, then looked shyly up again.
“I was afraid that the very idea of a connection with me might be painful for you.”
“It was. It . . . it still is, a little.” She smiled sheepishly. “But at the same time, I know you understand my feelings in a way that others could not. We shared the same tragedy—though of course it was worse for you, as he was your brother.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Edmund was terribly fond of you, you know, so eager for us to meet and like each other. He said—What was it? Let me think—that you were one of the few people in the world he trusted without question. He said you were doggedly loyal to those you loved and loyal to your ideals—though perhaps a little too saintly.”
Alaric laughed. “Saintly—oh, my! I’m afraid my brother was wrong about that. I was a self-righteous little prig, if you want to know the truth. I do hope I’ve grown out of it by now.”
“I hope so too,” she said, raising her brows and grinning.
A little girl now came into the dining porch dressed in sky-blue silk and carrying a basket in her hands. With the delicate grace of a tiny dancer, she scattered rose petals onto the tables, then quietly tiptoed away.
Moments later there came a blast of trumpets as the slaves brought in the basin, the ewer, and the towels. As at any banquet in any great hall, they went first to the king, who held his hands above the bowl as perfumed water was poured over them, then dried them with a fine linen cloth. Likewise, according to rank, the rest of the royal family and their guests did the same.
And then the little sprite was back again, silver bells in each of her hands. She tinkled them sweetly as she led a procession of waiters into the room. They held their golden platters high, like offerings to the gods; and the dining porch was filled with an incense of cinnamon, cardamom, turmeric, and cloves.
Rich and elaborate dishes were expected at a royal dinner, but these were exotic and new. They came bathed in sauces that bit the tongue and excited the senses. They whispered of faraway lands: of camel caravans laden with silks and spices making their way across scorching desert sands, and of colorful markets bustling with noise and color, where men wore turbans and mangoes were sold, and pomegranates, coconuts, and dates.
This was to be a culinary tour of the world, a reminder that Cortova was not some insular, landlocked kingdom. Gonzalo practically owned the Southern Sea. The world lay at his feet within easy reach of his famous fleet of trading ships. And an alliance with all that wealth and power was theirs to gain or lose.
Molly thought yet again that they’d best not underestimate this man. He played a subtle game, and he played it very well. Nothing would ever be as simple as it seemed.
“Do you hunt?” the princess asked, her voice very soft now. The buzz of conversation had dropped since the food came in.
“On occasion,” Alaric said. “I’m no sportsman, but I’m rather good with a bow. You’d never think it to look at me.” Then, with a wicked grin, “My cousin Reynard deserves all the credit. I was fostered with him as a boy and was trained by his master of arms.”
“I was aware of that, yes.” The princess pinched her lips and met his wicked smile with one of her own. “I suppose this is all rather awkward for you.”
“You might say that.”
“Well, you’ll have a chance to show your prowess very soon. Father has arranged a hunt for later in the week.”
“Will you be riding out?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Then I shouldn’t have boasted. Now I’ll have to prove myself.”
“Indeed you will. I promise to stare at you constantly and make you nervous.”
Molly smiled down at her hands, finding that she rather liked this princess and noting with some satisfaction that things were going remarkably well. Not only had they not been murdered, which was certainly a relief, but Alaric seemed to be running well ahead of poor Prince Rupert in the race to win the princess’s heart.
Everything they’d done this past year and more had been leading up to this very moment. And suddenly it felt very real. The princess wasn’t just some prize to be won; she was an actual flesh-and-blood girl. And if everything went as planned, she would soon be Alaric’s wife. She would share his bed, give him sons, and rule the kingdom at his side. She’d become his dearest friend, privy to his most intimate secrets. And she’d be his helpmate, too, sharing the burdens of office he had heretofore carried alone. Alaric, having expected nothing beyond the usual royal marriage—which would bring him an alliance and, with any luck, an heir—would be overcome with gratitude that such a treasure should be his. Doubly bound by the harmony of their natures and the magic of the Loving Cup, they would grow closer and fonder as each day passed till at last they’d achieved that rarest of feelings: a truly perfect love.
It was more than she could possibly have hoped—for Alaric and for Westria. It would be a real, rays-of-sunlight-streaming-from-the-clouds, swelling-music, showering-apple-blossoms kind of happy ending.
“Lady Marguerite?”
The words drifted into Molly’s consciousness like a leaf blown by the wind. She looked up and saw that the waiters had cleared away the platters and were now setting down little silver cups filled with iced fruit. And the princess was gazing expectantly at Molly with one of those radiant smiles that she had heretofore reserved for Alaric.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness—were you speaking to me?”
“I was, but you seemed lost in thought. I hope I didn’t interrupt something profound.”
“Not at all. Just woolgathering, I’m afraid. What were you saying?”
“I asked whether you played chess.”
Molly stared in astonishment.
“Chess,” she said stupidly, struggling to regain her composure. “Why no, I never have. But how very strange—I’ve been thinking of late how much I’d like to learn.”
“Really? Well, then I shall teach you! I’ll get to enjoy your company, and I’ll feel so frightfully clever when I beat you—which of course I will at first. But then, once you’ve mastered the game, we can battle it out; and that’ll be even more fun. What do you say?”
“That’s very kind, Your Highness. I’d be greatly honored.”
“Good. I’ll send for you tomorrow then. In the morning.”
“Thank you. I’ll be ready.”
Molly couldn’t help wondering what the princess would think if she knew that her new friend, “the lady Marguerite,” had once scrubbed pots in the palace kitchen. Would she smile so sweetly on Molly then? Would she still expect to “enjoy her company”?
And then it hit her with the force of a blow: the princess already knew.
Well, of course she did! Gonzalo had spies all over Westria, where Molly’s story was common knowledge: the scullion who’d been raised to high station and now went about in silk and jewels. It was just the sort of delicious gossip that King Gonzalo would appreciate, and there was no way he wouldn’t have
shared it with his daughter.
Assuming she knew, and considering that no princess would really want to spend time with someone like Molly, the only obvious conclusion was that she was doing her father’s bidding, acting as Gonzalo’s spy.
So it had all been false: Elizabetta’s kind invitation, those warm smiles and sweet words, possibly even her attentions to Alaric. Just part of a very deep game.
And suddenly a different version of the future played out in Molly’s imagination. Alaric would still be seduced by Elizabetta’s beauty and the power of the Loving Cup. She’d still be his queen, and share his bed, and give him sons. But his mind would know better than to trust her. She’d never be the partner of his life. He would carry his burdens alone and keep his secrets to himself. His marriage would be exactly what he’d expected from the start: an arrangement based on property, politics, and the need for an heir to the throne—and nothing more.
At last the dinner was over. Slaves were assembling and lighting their lamps, preparing to lead the guests back to their quarters for the night. Only then did King Gonzalo get down to business.
“My lord king Alaric,” he said, “I will send for you in the morning to discuss the matter at hand. Then, it is the custom here in Cortova to rest during the hottest part of the day. But I should be ready to receive you, my lord king Reynard, in the cool of the late afternoon. Will that be acceptable? Good.
“So then, dear friends, I bid you farewell until we meet tomorrow.”
Once again they formed a procession, with two slaves in front and two behind to light their way. Once again Alaric walked alone, followed by Molly and Tobias. And once again they crossed the garden on a path marked by shimmering candles.
The Princess of Cortova Page 6