Blood Winter: Immortalibus Bella 3

by SL Figuhr

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  “Victor,” the drawling voice of the marquis brought his slave’s head up. “How long has it been since we had one of our special parties?”

  “Not since your masque, m’lord.”

  “I think it is time we had another.”

  “But where? The hunting lodge . . . in this snow?”

  “Naturally, not there. You will make inquiries of Madam Breck, say, to be held in three days’ time. She is to supply me with my usual request.”

  He scribbled a note and sealed it before handing it over to his slave.

  “For Madam?”

  “No, you will take that to Gri. I have a surprise for my guests he needs to supply me with.”

  “Is refusal an option?”

  “No.”

  “As you wish, m’lord.”

  “Oh, and Victor,” the marquis drawled out, making his slave pause in the doorway. “Find a way to shut that damnable priest up, one that won’t have the new sheriff sniffing around.”

  Victor gave a deep bow, a sly smile curling his lips up as he left the room to do as bid.

  Kendall lit a cigar, estate books and business papers spread across his desk. His office sat in flickering shadows, and occasionally a cold draft caused the heavy gold-brocaded velvet drapes to move. His plans of becoming advisor had been momentarily squashed by that insidious woman and the honorless earl who’d betrayed him when he made his bid for Nicky’s position.

  It was abundantly clear to him, the earl seemed to have a fondness for women who kept a tight grip on his balls. He should have known better than to think the coward would be able to help elevate him to the status of king’s advisor, which he desired and deserved.

  The marquis fingered the note delivered by a freezing, snow-covered slave earlier this morn. A cruel smile caused his lips to curl upward. He’d sent his reply back with the slave who delivered the note. Abruptly he stood, walked to the fireplace, and tossed the note into the flames. He then continued out and up to his wife’s sitting room.

  The white painted and gilded wooden doors were closed but not locked, and they flew open to bang against the wall, startling the occupants inside. Anne’s already pale countenance turned even whiter as she unconsciously shrank farther back in her chair.

  Her slave hurried to kneel on the floor, with bowed head.

  He savored the scent of fear and strolled farther into the room. “Leave us,” he curtly commanded, and the slave scrambled to do his bidding.

  Kendall sat across from his wife, who had yet to speak a word. She appeared frozen in place. He took a second or two to puff on his cigar and survey the room.

  It was not changed much from his last wife, as he had forbidden his current wife to make changes without first asking him. She had tried at the start of their marriage until she learned her place. The walls were papered in white- and black-flocked silk. The black marble, gold-veined fireplace was carved with satyrs and nymphs. The furniture was delicate, gilded wood. Even the heavy velvet drapes drawn shut across the window were black.

  Sitting in the midst, his wife appeared a thin reed, trembling and swaying whichever way fate, or his fists, blew her.

  “Tell me, Anne, how is your friendship with the duchess going?”

  Her breath whistled in and out, eyes growing so wide, they looked as if they would pop out.

  “Anne,” he warned her in a low growl.

  “My-my friendship? You said I was to be polite and welcoming. You did not say I was to become friends.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. You will go visit her, tomorrow.”

  “What-what if she-she is-isn’t there?”

  He gritted his teeth at her stupidity. “Send a note telling her you will be there.”

  “What if—”

  “Dammit, woman! Did I say this is an option for you?”

  Tears leaked out, her chin quivered, and he felt disgust coil inside.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. I will do as you say.”

  “Good.” He sat and smoked.

  She bowed her head, hands clenched around her embroidery, wrinkling it as she fought back her tears. He hated when she cried for no reason, and she didn’t want to set his temper off.

  Please leave, she thought. Why do you continue to sit there?

  “You know, you are looking rather thin. I will have Cook prepare you some food. You will eat it.” His silky voice broke the relative silence of the room.

  Anne nodded her head in understanding, and couldn’t keep from flinching when his fingers caressed the side of her face. She almost expected him to hit her, but then the feel of his flesh left hers and she heard his voice ordering her slave back inside, and the door closing. She breathed a sigh of relief. If only the rest of the day and night would pass without him noticing her.

  * * *

  Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the dark, lowering clouds made it seem closer to twilight. Anne stepped from the carriage, shivering despite the mounds of blankets, the hot brick at her feet, and the fur-lined cloak she wore. A slave stood holding the door open to a small house for her.

  The woman took a moment and looked around her in interest; the mansion glowed with light, and one side of the double front doors stood open to allow workers to freely come and go.

  She stepped through the open door of the cottage, only to be led farther inside and to a small back parlor, where a fire crackled. The young woman handed her cloak over to a slave and sank with a sigh on the couch which had been placed facing the grate. Shortly thereafter, the duchess came in, gowned in dark midnight blue velvet, heavily embroidered in silver, and sparkling from small gems sewn onto the fabric. White fur encircled the neck, wrists, and hemline.

  “Hello, Lady Anne.” She greeted her warmly and sat beside the woman.

  A timid smile was all the marchioness could muster. I can’t do this! But I have to! If I don’t, he will take his displeasure out on me. She felt dowdy sitting next to the glamorous older woman. There was no reason she should; the marquis made sure she was dressed in the height of fashion, and had jewels to match. Like a toy, she thought bitterly.

  The door opened again, and Anne could smell food. A slave came around the couch and set a loaded tray on a small table before them. Without asking, she proceeded to place items on a plate and handed it to the guest, along with a mug of what smelled like hot cider.

  “Oh.” Anne was distressed. “You-you should not have gone to the trouble. I know you are busy with the king’s requests. I-I had not planned on staying long.”

  “Nonsense,” was the reply. “If I am needed, the palace slaves know where to find me. You and I both know your husband is a sadistic brute who starves and beats you when he thinks you have committed some perceived slight on his part.”

  Anne felt the blood drain from her peaked face, and a buzz started in her ears. She began to hyperventilate.

  “There is no need to worry anything we speak of here will get back to him. Eat, drink, and please try not to pass out.”

  The young woman took a tiny sip of cider, let its warmth flood her being. When she felt calm enough, she picked delicately at the food, even though she had a gnawing ache from lack of sustenance.

  She didn’t know how to say what her husband wanted her to. She had nothing in common with the duchess the way she did with the other noble ladies. It seemed she would not be expected to talk . . . at least, not yet.

  “I do hope the snow isn’t causing problems for you. Lady Lily mentioned the other day that if it weren’t for her duties at the palace, she would not get out at all. The Sydneys have sent word of Lady Sally’s engagement. I hope to see you at the party. I do not recall having ever met the man she is to marry.”

  Anne nodded and made noises indicating she was listening as she filled her stomach while the woman before her continued to make small talk. Before she realized it, the marchioness was replete with food. She felt warm, cozy, and safe, a feeling she had not felt since before her marriage.


  “Lady Anne, forgive my intrusiveness, but I know you did not come to hear me prattle.”

  “I . . .” Anne couldn’t breathe, sudden terror flooding her brain.

  “Please, I don’t mean to upset you. I shan’t let on to the marquis that I know he sent you for a reason. What is it he wishes me to know?”

  “I . . .” She struggled to get the words out, misery at having to be a part of her husband’s deception bringing tears to her eyes.

  “He-he wants me to invite you to supper. A-a special supper.”

  One elegant brow arched upward. “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Except for the crackle of the fire, no other noise was present.

  “Very well, I accept.”

  Anne let out the breath she had unconsciously been holding. She began to babble her thanks, but a raised hand cut her off.

  “None needed. I suspect any other answer will cause your husband to take his ire out on you.”

  The marchioness blanched; her chin trembled and then she swallowed, unsure what to say. She felt miserable for the part she was being forced to play in Jenabram’s deception.

  Her Grace reached over and gently touched the back of the young woman’s hand. “If at any time you wish to sever ties with your brute of a husband, I shall be only too glad to wield my royally appointed powers and make it happen.”

  Mutely Anne shook her head, a near inaudible denial slipping out. “No one can help me. He will kill me, and any who try to help.”

  A brief knock sounded on the door, and the duchess called out for the person to enter. A slave walked over and bent low to whisper in Her Grace’s ear, then left with her reply.

  “Please keep my offer in mind. If you will excuse me, I have palace business to attend to. Please feel free to stay as long as you like, and order more food and drink if you want.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t. I mustn’t.” Anne cried in panic. “He will be waiting for me, and-and your answer.”

  “Then your coach will be made ready. I will send a slave in for you so you don’t have to wait out in the cold.”

  Before Anne could thank her again, the duchess had risen and swiftly left the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The line of displaced, starving townspeople snaked out the palace gates and down the street. Many had little more than the clothes they wore, and for most, their outfits showed the ravages of many washings and patching. Farther back, the slave traders fumed with their wares, people of all ages chained together and shivering violently as many went barefoot and dressed in scraps of cloth. Darkness slowly descended on the land, the wind picking up in force as yet another storm bore down on them. Saizar and his men patrolled the length of the street, making sure no fights or stampedes broke out.

  “Sir,” Guts addressed his superior, “the people aren’t gonna wait nicely no more. They’ve been here all day, most of ’em.”

  “I will try to find out what the holdup is,” he replied.

  The sheriff walked as quickly as he dared on the icy stones, stopping to reassure those in line he was working on getting them inside faster. He got to the gates; only one side stood open. Two shivering clerks, Will, and Panja, sat at tables taking down names, ages, and occupations while tired guards milled about. The man he looked for was not immediately noticeable, so he went and banged on the barracks door. A recruit opened it and ushered him inside where the captain sat.

  “Captain Mathias, the line is moving entirely too slow. The people are ready to riot.”

  “I have my orders, same as you. We’re going as fast as weather and time permits.”

  Saizar shook his head. “I suggest, sir, something more be done.”

  Mathias ran his hands through his hair and over his face. “I cannot do more.”

  “I can’t accept that. We can at least get them inside the gates, set up braziers outside for people to warm themselves by while they wait.”

  “His Majesty—”

  “—is too busy cowering in his rooms to give a shit!”

  The men glared at each other.

  “May I remind you, such language is enough to mark you as a traitor. Old spies are replaced with new, and those who will take the opportunity to improve their lives through careless slips of the tongue.”

  “Her Grace, the advisor, would agree with me.” Saizar leaned his fists on the tabletop.

  Mathias grimaced, muttering, “Bloody woman! Even the king with all his demands doesn’t give me half the trouble she does.” Louder he said, “Then you find her, and she can damn well help instead of prancing around giving orders.”

  “So be it,” the sheriff gritted out and stomped from the room, back to his men. It was a little harder to get out the gate, as people were now bunching up, complaints getting louder and the nervous palace guard fondled their sword hilts or pike handles.

  “Merrit!” he bellowed, and the man trotted over.

  “Sir.”

  “I need you to quickly find Her Grace. Try her mansion first. Tell her we need her at the palace; a riot is threatening to break out.”

  “Yes, sir!” the man barked out and half trotted, half slid down the hill.

  Saizar went over to the people bunching up. “Come on, now. We’re all cold, tired, and hungry, but this isn’t helping. Form the line. Come on.”

  He received grumbles, complaints, a few held fists up. Long, tension-filled moments passed by before a whisper ran up the line.

  “She’s coming!”

  “Look at those manky whores, thinking they’re guards.”

  “You bitch, you said you’d help us! This ain’t it! We’re starving and cold!”

  “Let us in! Let us in now!''

  Her Grace caught his eye and indicated with her head he should follow. Surrounding her was a squad of women wearing leather armor and carrying weapons so shiny, it was doubtful they had seen battle. Leading them was a dark-haired and -eyed man. She was not riding her stallion, but a bay mare. The horse’s hooves threw slush balls out, and she used the bulk of the beast, along with the novelty of female soldiers to move people out of her way so she could enter the courtyard. Saizar nipped in behind her and held the bridle as she dismounted.

  “You”—she pointed to a guard—“get me Mathias, and you, get me Aranthus. Saizar, bring your men in.” The force of her commands had the three scrambling as she handed the reins over to a palace groom and stalked toward the gates.

  “How many people have been processed through?'' she demanded.

  “Since word first went out and the line formed, about a hundred,” Panja snapped back before returning her attentions to the man and his family before her.

  The duchess took the few steps needed to reach the guards still manning the gates and spoke quietly with them. They nodded, eyes widening a bit in fear, but created a line to prevent anymore coming in. By now, Mathias stomped over, scowling.

  “My men. . . ”

  “Who set this up?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s a piss-poor job. Are you trying to make them riot?”

  He opened his mouth for a hot rebuttal, but she continued with her dressing down. “There is an entire courtyard going to waste. Send some of your men to have slaves bring out wood and get bonfires started. Those two can stay at the gate; have the others stand watch around the perimeter and the admitting door.” She turned away from him, ignoring his sudden swearing, but he didn’t dare disobey; not after the king’s tantrum over complaints about her.

  “Panja, and you—”

  “Will, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, take your stuff over by the admitting door. Quickly now.” They scrambled to obey.

  Aranthus came huffing and puffing, his staff bobbing by his side.

  “My dear! I thought . . .” He leaned over, wheezing for breath. “I thought something serious was happening.”

  “It is. Where are those who have already been let inside?”

  “In . . .”—more wheezing—�
��In a side room.”

  “Tell the kitchen staff to start boiling large quantities of water and find empty barrels which can be used as baths. Have them gather up all the soap, towels, and grooming implements they can find. I want two rooms, for men and women. Their clothes are to be taken and boiled clean. The great hall can be used for feeding; have some sort of a simple meal made ready,” she continued on.

  Aranthus stood there with his mouth hanging open in shock.

  “They are filthy! If they won't bathe, they can sleep in the outbuildings. I will not risk infection or disease setting in.” She turned away from him, walking toward the two people who had reset their tables, telling them what she wanted passed along to the townspeople.

  The voices outside the gate had reached a pitch loud enough to be heard clearly. The duchess signaled to Mathias.

  He lifted his horn and blew three short blasts. When the babble quieted, the commander shouted instructions. “Keep order! No pushing or shoving. You will be admitted inside the courtyard, then the palace, as rooms are made ready. Failure to maintain order results in arrest.”

  Mathias then signaled for the waiting people to be let back through at a trickle. Illyria stood before the door, on the stone landing before it. The man and women with her formed a half ring around the stone stairs. The citizens first in slowed from their run to a jog at sight of the line of shields. They did their best to re-form some semblance of a line. However, some people still outside had other ideas, rushing the opening. The royal guards struggled to keep a grip on the gates The men braced their entire bodies against the wood, and two more rows of their fellow guards added their weight to help. A group of men, the instigators, rushed in, some slipping and falling. They ignored the shouts of outrage from their fellow citizens and continued at a run, desperate to gain entrance. There were cries from those who were shoved aside and fell to be trampled underneath.

  “ORDER! YOU WILL KEEP ORDER OR YOU CAN TAKE YOUR CHANCES BACK OUTSIDE!” Illyria's clarion voice rang out strong, the force of her command making itself felt.