Blood Winter: Immortalibus Bella 3

by SL Figuhr

  “Are you implying she knows more than she is letting on?” Flouten demanded as his faded lace cuffs revealed his hands with a flick of his wrists.

  “When one thinks upon it, her sudden departure is highly suspicious. I wouldn't be surprised to discover she is a plant. Put in place by the orphan himself to dispose of the king and steal the throne.” Jenabram signaled for more wine as he let his insinuations take root.

  “If so, she is going about it in a rather strange way. She helped expose the former sheriff and the corruption which ran rampant through his office,” a noble whose name escaped the marquis called out.

  “I'm sure we will find it a calculated move designed to bring her closer to His Majesty.” Jenabram swallowed half the contents in his goblet, giving his listeners time to ponder his words. “We don't need a person like that gaining more access to the throne.”

  “Or someone who is only known to be concerned for his own prestige,” Sir Dalton, who had been listening in, muttered to Earl Sydney. In a louder tone he asked, “Whom are you suggesting we support for the role of advisor? His Majesty did make himself quite clear on the subject of meddlers.”

  “Pah,” Kendall spat in contempt. “I have it on good authority he spends his days like all the others: having the harem entertain him, and eating—when, of course, he isn't obsessing over assassins.”

  “He has had good reason of late to be concerned about such things.” Sir Dalton spoke up.

  “Of late?” The marquis pretended shock before slipping back to his customary tone. “It is all he ever concerns himself with, even above his constant rutting with his harem. No, we will just have to tell His Majesty he has a new advisor and present it as a fait accompli. We must be united behind the person.”

  The marchioness, gowned and bejeweled as elaborately and as expensively as her husband, noticed the slight shudder Chadrick gave at those words. He purposefully ignored the pointed look the marquis directed his way.

  Flouten was not to be put aside. “We tried that already. Or has your famous wit become addled from all the wine?”

  Blue eyes glittered in anger. “I am not suggesting we put forth a selection of candidates. We only need one. Me.”

  “I say! That's rather presumptuous of you.”

  “No, it is smart,” Jenabram replied, the anger in his eyes slowly kindling to fury at the stupidity of those sitting around his table. “The king already trusts me. The town folk know of me and my customs. They know what kind of advisor I shall be. A known quantity is preferred—nay, required—over an unknown.” He drank the last of his wine with a self-satisfied smile.

  “I would not be so sure. There may be another noble who is just as capable,” Flouten insisted.

  The withering glare his words elicited gave him a small pause, but the man continued. “What about Earl Sydney?”

  Chadrick hastily swallowed his mouthful of wine. “Oh no, I have no desire for it,” he demurred, without supporting the marquis' claim, a move which earned him a searing look of hate from the marquis.

  “We don't need another traitor next to the throne. Have you all forgotten his brothers? Executed for their crimes.” Countess Sydney's chilly voice cut through the babble. She was sitting near Lady Anne, every motion and word she made calculated to remind everyone how a high peer of the realm should behave and dress.

  The earl winced inside, wishing he had not come. His wife had apparently decided turning their children against him was not a sufficient enough punishment. She did her best to attend every gathering and event the nobles hosted, whether she liked them or not, spreading her malice and spite.

  Sir Dalton cast a disapproving look toward the woman, as those trying to toady to the marquis sniggered in delight.

  Chadrick noted the new outfit she had on, an expense which should not have gotten approved. He briefly wondered if his seceding control of the family fortunes over to his son a mistake.

  The intricate ballet of slaves, food, and dishes continued as another course was served. A wine, picked to complement, was poured. Five different courses and wines had been served, and it appeared more was still to come.

  The marquis continued extolling his virtues, all the while making subtle jabs at Sydney, whose only wish was for the dinner to end, a sentiment he seemed to hold almost continuously when he dined with his peers while the duchess remained away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Henrik shivered as he polished dented pewter mugs and washed out wooden ones. The half-burnt tavern had yet to be rebuilt. He wondered, as he always did lately, if he could nudge out the current owner and become the tavern's sole proprietor. The clientele of the Bloody Knuckles seemed to have gotten even worse, if such a thing was possible, now that the old sheriff was dead. The ex-soldier kept his conversations with the patrons on innocuous subjects. If they wanted to try and engage him in the more outlandish speculation floating about the kingdom, he let them rattle on, adding noncommittal noises. In this manner, he learned all kinds of tasty tidbits. Henrik picked his marks with care, dropping hints he was a trusted intermediary for all kinds of trading. For a small consideration, the barkeep would arrange meets with buyers and sellers. A few more coins slipped to Henrik gave the customer access to choice rumors. He also learned which of the bandits who now frequented the tavern could be trusted to carry out illegal acts in complete secrecy.

  From behind the kitchen door, came the sound of Jenfry cursing out her daughter's replacement. After a moment, the child came into the bar area, sniffling and wiping at tears and snot.

  Henrik watched as the child made her way out into the maze of pathways shoveled out of the snowbanks. He wondered vaguely where she was off to. His answer came several hours later. The child dragged a basket of food, and behind her, the mad priest walked, tugging on his long, greasy beard and wearing his customary scowl.

  The barkeep held the kitchen door open for the child, calling to Jenfry, “The crazy priest is here.”

  She snorted and began berating the small girl. Henrik let the door shut and took his position back up.

  “My usual,” the priest snapped out.

  Henrik didn't bother hiding his distaste for the man as he filled a mug and thumped it down before him. Joseph refused to gossip, and if any tried to engage him in conversation, he would immediately begin preaching and trying to convert the unlucky soul into becoming a member of his church. Henrik had tried a few times to speak of certain people and their sinful ways, hoping the madman would unknowingly let slip information. It only worked once, and the outcome was so small, it made the hassle the barkeep had gone through not worth doing again.

  The priest mumbled over his mug, probably some blessing, before greedily gulping it down and waiting for another. Halfway through his second mug, the child came out with a loaded tray. She had to carry it with both hands, and even then it looked as if she struggled to keep from dropping it. Henrik took pity; he relieved the child of her burden and set the bowls of stew and burnt bread before the priest. The child hurried back into the kitchen with the tray.

  After the priest had eaten and the bowls sent back, Jenfry came out with her threadbare cloak on. “Mind the place. I'll be back,” she curtly commanded the barkeep, as if he didn't know his job.

  Henrik made no reply—only narrowed his eyes as the two set off. He knew they were taking advantage of the duchess's absence to harass Jenfry's daughter. The fat owner made no effort to keep her voice down when she bragged to the whores in her employ about her visits. At this time of day, there usually weren’t any patrons. Henrik finished his task, then crept up the stairs. He listened for any movement behind closed doors which might signal the whores stirred. All was quiet. The former soldier picked the lock on Jenfry's private sitting room door. If all went well, he would be able to continue his search for the deed to the tavern, and the profits the owner hoarded.

  * * *

  Jenfry had no trouble entering the Duchess's grounds. Priester Joseph's ranting and raving as he stood in the middl
e of the nobles’ street distracted the guards. As she came upon the courtyard, the sounds of mock battle could be heard drifting from behind the mansion. One of the entrance doors to the mansion itself stood open, and from inside came the steady chink of chisel on stone. Jenfry continued toward the stable area. Behind the day’s manure pile, which hadn't been carted off yet, was a garbage pit. Her daughter claimed she liked to visit the horses, but Jenfry knew she lied. She knew her smart-mouthed former stable slave was probably trying to seduce the girl.

  Jenfry kept her beady eyes on the kitchen doorway. She huddled farther inside her cloak, making sure to keep hidden in the shadows cast by one side of the stable wall. Jenfry's daughter walked around the manure pile, scraps pail in hand. She saw the shock and panic spreading across her daughter's face before the girl stopped her forward momentum. Mary Elana stood as if frozen.

  “Daughter! Come here and greet your poor old mother,” Jenfry demanded.

  The girl stood trembling, shaking her head in denial.

  Her mother walked the few paces toward her daughter and grabbed her by an arm. The girl barely resisted, and her mother shoved her roughly into the corner made by the stable wall meeting the stone boundary wall of the property.

  “Now then, child,” her mother began, eyes glittering with malice, “let us have a nice little chat.”

  The girl's eyes remained wide in shock, her breathing fast and shallow, fists clenched tight around the handle of the pail.

  “Rumor has it your mistress manages to stay the king's favorite. So here's what you're going to do for your dear old mother. You're going to volunteer to accompany the slaves when they go to fetch wood and food for the household. You'll make sure some of it finds its way to me. If you don't,” she dropped her voice even lower, “the good priest will stand outside the whore's gates preaching against her, and everyone who lives here, until you do.”

  Tears spilled out of Mary Elana's eyes, snaking down her face. Her mother's grip tightened painfully around her slim wrist as she jerked the girl closer to her.

  Jenfry's sour breath blew over her daughter. “You think I won't? Your mistress is an adulterer, a whore, an unclean soul. What do you think will happen when the king withdraws his support, and another takes her place? Huh? I'll tell you where you'll be, begging in town and whoring alongside her.”

  Her mother ranted on while Mary Elana cried harder and harder. She tugged, trying to break the bruising grip around her upper arm. Jenfry only tightened her hold.

  “Stupid bitch! I can get in here anytime I want. It doesn't matter how hard your mistress tries to keep me away; she can't. Doesn't speak so highly of her, now does it?”

  Spittle hit Mary Elana's tear-frozen cheeks; her breath wheezed in terror. The girl's mother had now taken to slamming her daughter's unresisting body off the stone wall behind them. Jenfry's voice rose higher as she spewed her hate, and Mary Elana's panic grew. If anyone found out her mother was here, they would tell Her Grace when she returned. She might even be angry enough to dismiss the young woman from her post. Mary Elana couldn't let that happen; this was the first time she’d felt safe. She was fed, clothed, and warm. No one tried to grope her, no one berated her for no reason. She couldn't lose the comfort of her new home.

  In a blind panic, Mary Elana swung the pail she still clutched upward as her mother slammed her against the wall. The hard, cold metal clipped Jenfry on the chin, snapping her head back from the force. The slops in the pail rained down upon both women and the ground. The young woman felt her mother's grip loosen, and she bashed the pail on her mother's head on the downswing.

  Jenfry staggered backward, shock, disbelief, and pain in her eyes over the unexpected attack from her mousy daughter. Mary Elana scrambled for the small opening presented between her mother, the manure pile, and the stone wall. She slipped on the ice, started to go down, flinging her arms out in a desperate bid to stay upright. Mary Elana's hand, and most of her weight landed heavily on her mother's shoulder. As the young woman pushed off and away, the momentum caused her mother to lose her footing on the treacherous ground. Mary Elana didn't bother to see what happened; she bolted around the pile and toward the stable. If she had glanced back, she would have seen her mother land backward in the manure.

  The young woman let the side door slam shut behind her. The horses nearest the noise startled, whinnying and shifting in their stalls. The girl ran toward the middle of the stables. She didn't know when she had let go of the pail. She skidded to a stop, breath whistling in and out, chest heaving from a combination of fright and adrenaline. She had the dim thought that perhaps she could hide in a stall until her mother left the grounds.

  A high pitched nicker, and banging on a stall door drew her gaze around. Windstorm had his head and neck stretched over his door toward her. His lips moved as he sent a torrent of sound her way. His antics looked like he was blowing kisses at her. Mary Elana stared at the stallion a moment, then broke out into hysterical giggles.

  It was thus how Domiano found her. “Um, hey . . .” He waved to catch her attention. “Are you hurt? I saw from the hayloft how your mother attacked you. I was on my way down to help.”

  She shook her head, giggles fading until she caught sight of the stallion, and then they started up again.

  The stable master turned to see what she found so funny. “Stop that,” he commanded the stallion and walked closer to the girl. “Ignore him. He likes to flirt with all the pretty females; thinks he's gonna get lucky.”

  Her giggles finally subsided, the realization of what she had done causing her to gasp in panic and blurt out, “My mother! She'll have me arrested and-and thrown in the dungeon to rot!”

  “No, she won't,” Domiano fiercely replied. “She attacked you. She isn't even supposed to be inside the gates. Stupid guards.” He muttered the last.

  The girl shook her head. “Yes, she will. She'll find a way.”

  “You think your mother can outwit Her Grace? Despite what she was yelling at you, she can't. You're safe here.”

  “She said she can get inside anytime.”

  “No. If the guards had been doing their duty, she wouldn't have. You need to tell Her Grace about this. She will speak with the security and make sure they don't slack in their duties.”

  “I can't!” Mary Elana blurted, cheeks reddening. “I don't want to get anyone in trouble. They'll hate me if I tattle on them.”

  “It's not tattling,” Domiano insisted. “You mention what happened—what she bragged about being able to do. Her Grace will investigate the matter, and the guards will be so worried about how your ma slipped past them, they won't think to blame you.”

  The girl stood with shoulders hunched inward, arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself. “But what if they still do?”

  “You worry too much,” the man replied. “I'll see that they don't. Come on, let's find your pail and get you back inside. You can't work all covered in stinking scraps.” He took an oil lamp off a nearby hook and held a hand out to her.

  Tentatively, Mary Elana placed one of hers in his warm, work-roughened grip. He led her outside into the gloaming. Voices were shouting from near the front gate. The two young people could make out Jenfry and the guards having a confrontation.

  “See, they have caught her sneaking around. They'll tell Her Grace and you won't have to worry about getting them in trouble.” He let go of her hand as he stooped down.

  The scrap pail now bore two dents. The girl accepted it back, and let the stable master escort her to the kitchen door. She slipped inside, shyly thanking him. Luckily, Cook didn't notice the length of time she had been gone.

  “Unto the Great One! I said to toss the scraps into the garbage heap! Not try and wear them,” the man bellowed, catching sight of her. “Go clean up and change. I'll not have smelly, dirty slaves at my table.”

  “S-s-sorry. I slipped . . . on the ice,” she meekly answered as she set the pail in its assigned spot.

  “Hrmph,” he snorted, tu
rning back to stirring an enticing-smelling stew and thus effectively ignoring her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The mansion grounds and those who lived there were slowly waking. The great gates remained closed and locked, something which would change within an hour or two. Illyria landed in the deepest patch of darkness she could find, the wind from the river tugging at her and Eron's cloaks. A few flakes of snow drifted lazily out of the sky, which was slowly turning silver as the sun rose behind a thick cloud cover.

  The two made their way inside the house. Noises made them aware the slaves were beginning a new day. With her blood in his veins, Eron noticed he could see much better in near-darkness. It was an unnerving sensation at first, but now it just fascinated him. A faint light glowed from underneath a closed door.

  The two immortals stopped; Eron knocked. He had to repeat the knock several times before Colin opened the door. By his mussed hair and clothes, along with the creases on one side of his face, he had been sleeping. His eyes grew wide at sight of his friend, a brief look of worry passing across his face before he stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him softly.

  “I am glad you both made it back. Was your trip a success?” he asked.

  “Yes. How is your brother?” Eron replied.

  “The medicine the herbalist gave seems to be working. His cough has lessened, and he no longer has to struggle to catch a breath.”

  “Good. Let me know when Mica is awake and alert so I can fill him in on what happened,” Eron requested. “We just got back. I'm going to grab some sleep, if possible.”

  “Sure,” Colin agreed, and turned the knob to go back inside the room. He paused before blurting out, “Are you sure you're all right? Your eyes look weird.”

  Shit! Eron thought while out loud he said, “Yeah, too much sun and no sunglasses.” He waved goodnight and headed toward Illyria's office, meaning to nap on her couch.