TheKingsViper

by Janine Ashbless

  “You have skills—”

  “Not the sort that will save us here. How many years do you see me patching walls for widows in exchange for crusts? And what will we live on if you are eight months pregnant, and I happen to break an arm?”

  His logic was irrefutable.

  “I love you,” she said in despair. It was all she had left.

  Severin’s jaw was set, his face stiff. “I know,” he answered. “And I’m sorry. Because it doesn’t make any difference to what we must do.”

  She parted her lips, but she could not bring voice or shape to the question Do you love me? because she knew there was no hope. Only her eyes pleaded.

  “I will take you home,” he said, forestalling her unborn words. “You will be safe. That’s all that matters.” And then, with a brutality that took her breath away, he added, “If we survive this, Ella, we will not see each other again.”

  She turned her face away then so that he could not see the pain that wrenched it all askew. She heard him rise.

  “Stay here.”

  Then he was gone.

  He was gone a long time—hours, perhaps. She didn’t allow herself to cry, though she wanted to. She held out until the pain became a great clawing emptiness inside her. When it got colder she walked around a little. It was long after midnight before he came back, almost soundlessly, his silhouette a thicker darkness against the clouded sky. There was no moon visible that night.

  “This way.” They left the pack and he led her by the hand downhill and to their right. Then, step by step, down a rocky cliff, on which he had to place her feet in the invisible footholds. They ended up on a stony shore surrounded by the clamor of moving water. Severin placed her hands onto the smooth curved flank of a beached log.

  “Here. We’re going to push this off and use it to float downstream. It’s dead so it should ride high. There are branches for you to hold onto…there, you see?”

  Eloise could see little except blocks of shadow, but she could feel where to get a grip on the stubs of broken wood and she mumbled, “Yes.”

  “Right. I’m going to rope us together. We must cross to the far bank before we get far enough downriver to see the lights of Rounay—otherwise both sides will use us for target practice. So when I tell you, we both swim hard as we can, and upstream—the current on your right and in your face. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Strip down to one skirt and blouse.”

  She started to obey, feeling almost numb. That feeling lasted until he took a hold of her waist, knotting a loop of rope around it. His touch was like a burning brand on her skin; it couldn’t be ignored. She reacted by grabbing his hand and laying it upon her breast. Her flesh nested soft and heavy in his palm and through the wind-chilled linen her nipple pebbled eagerly in response to the touch. “Severin,” she whispered, pressing up against him and lifting her mouth to his.

  “Ella, don’t do this—”

  “Take me.” She had no ulterior motive, no plan to change his mind. She knew it was too late for that, and she spoke out of sheer desperation and the hunger of her body, her lips burning against his jaw. “One last time. Any way you like. Please, Severin! Don’t you want it?”

  He caught her up against him, pressing her back against the log. She could feel the heave and jut of his cock as it hardened. “Ella,” he gasped, his lips blurring against hers, his breath tangling with her own. “Oh God, don’t doubt that!”

  “Just once more!”

  He groaned, blaspheming painfully, and seized her bottom lip between his teeth, taking her to the brink of pain. Every muscle in his body was tensed, his erect cock was stabbing up against her through his loose clothes and his hands were heavy on her ass cheeks. “No,” he growled as he released her lip, crushing her up against him in direct contradiction of his words. “We can’t, Ella. I can’t.”

  Then he pulled her with him, slithering down the shingle into the water. The bank dropped steeply. They were up to their hips in seconds. The chill of the water took Eloise’s breath away. It quenched every fire and she fell against him with a sob. He buried his face in her hair.

  “Oh my little mouse—remember, not a word! Our lives are in our hands.” He clasped her hand in his, furling his fingers about her fist. “You hold my life here.” Then, without warning, he lifted her face and kissed her lips softly and lingeringly; a kiss into which almost anything might be read by a young woman—regret and tenderness and desire, certainly. For a moment they clung together.

  It was the last warmth Eloise was to feel.

  The river should not have been bitterly cold at this time of year but it certainly seemed so. She heard herself whimper with discomfort as, pushing against the log, they took step after step away from the bank. She could feel the current pulling at her already—and then suddenly it caught the tree trunk and they were all moving together. Severin shifted behind her, so that she was floating within the circle of his arms. She lost her footing as the water deepened and then felt her knee smack painfully off an unseen rock, but she clenched her teeth and didn’t cry out. They had to be silent.

  There was no room for thought now, nothing beyond the imperatives—breathe, hold on, stay quiet. The night was moonless and she could see next to nothing, only the paler strip that was the clouded sky beyond the black rock walls, and Severin’s hands, a paler blur still, bobbing in front of her where they clutched the wood.

  “Let go!” he hissed in her ear. “Swim!”

  He pulled her away from the log and she felt it draw past them, swinging to scrape her hip. She took a breath and struck out, swimming hard. It was harder than sea-swimming. She seemed to be lower in the water, and the rope was cutting into her waist. Current against my right cheek, she thought, her cold hands plowing the river, her breath squeezed out of her tightening chest. It was too dark, too chaotic, too cold. She could feel herself starting to lose sense of time. They seemed to have been in the water forever.

  Then her shins barked another rock and her hand whacked against a submerged branch. To her right there came a gasp and a splashing. The rope went savagely tight; it took her a moment to realize Severin was hauling on it, drawing her to him. When her skin met his she was so numb she hardly recognized his hands. But he was braced against a rock with his head and shoulder clear of the river, standing in the shallows under the north bank. He put his mouth to her ear.

  “Come on! We’re nearly there!” His breath felt scorching hot.

  They half-swam, half-waded out of the river, tripping and slipping on the algaed stones, panting with exertion. Eloise’s clothes seemed to weigh a hundred-weight. She was glad to be down to her underskirt, at least until she was out of the water and on dry land, and then she wished she had far more layers on, because the night that had felt warm and still on the other bank felt horribly cold now.

  She bent, panting, to wring out her skirt, then hugged herself. Severin was busy cutting the rope. He groped for her shoulder in the dark and clasped her face with both hands.

  “All well?” he whispered.

  She nodded, shuddering, although things could hardly be less well, so far as she felt. She wished she was dead—as long as death did not involve going back into that river.

  Quickly Severin stripped off his leather jerkin and helped her slip it on. The hide was soaked and heavy, of course, but blocked the wind. Taking her hand, he led her up the bank.

  There was little cover this side of the river. The land was less steep and Ystria kept woodland cleared from all along its borders. They found themselves climbing through coarse grasses and low, thorny scrub. Eloise was concentrating all that was left of her awareness on her footing when she became vaguely aware that someone had shouted.

  Instantly Severin stopped. He shoved Eloise to the ground and walked away, sideways and forward.

  “Who goes there?” the call was repeated. Ystrian words, strange sounding after all these weeks of Mendean.

  Light flared in a long beam, a bull’s-
eye lantern. Peering up through the grass, Eloise saw Severin suddenly silhouetted, facing away from her, his hands out at his sides. His clothes hung dark and dripping upon him, his hair was plastered to his head. She could see nothing of whoever it was holding the lantern, but she could hear more than one male voice.

  “Hey you! You there!”

  “Stand, you bastard!”

  “Who are you?”

  “In the name of Arnauld,” Severin called back, his voice hoarse, “his majesty, King of Ystria—stay your hand!”

  “Who are you? Who the fuck are you?”

  Severin jerked his chin up. “Baron Severin de Meynard, the King’s own man, by royal command and prerogative. Oppose me and you oppose the King.”

  Someone came forward of the lantern, just a little. Eloise could see enough of his outline to make out that he was wearing armor and a military tabard, and had a crossbow aimed straight at Severin. “De Meynard’s dead!”

  “Not yet, I’m not. Grievous though that news will be to some.”

  “De Meynard’s dead, you lying bastard!”

  “Take me to your captain and tell him that,” Severin growled.

  “He drowned at sea!” The voice was almost screechy.

  Oh dear God, Eloise said to herself. They’re only youths. And they’re panicking. They’ve probably never had anyone cross the river before.

  “I’m certainly a little wet,” Severin admitted, dripping. “But as you see, not dead. You will take me to your captain. I need to speak to him. Now.”

  “You don’t look like a baron to me! You look more like some Boscian spy!”

  “You just crawled out the river, you sewer-rat!”

  “Lift your hands! Lift your fucking hands!” The stock of the crossbow jerked.

  They’re going to shoot him, she thought. After all this, he’s going to be killed by idiot boys. So she stood up. “He’s telling the truth!” she called. “He’s de Meynard!”

  The lantern wobbled, grass-shadows sweeping, the light suddenly glaring into her eyes so that she flinched and averted her face. She was aware that, apart from Severin’s open tunic, she was obviously and incongruously female. Her wet skirt clung to her thighs like a second skin, and her linen blouse was plastered to her breasts.

  There was a moment’s stunned silence.

  “Who the fuck is she?” said one of the soldiers, in a much quieter voice.

  “That,” answered Severin, in a voice that sounded like despair, “is the Lady Eloise of the Isle of Venn, daughter to Lord Ailwyn of Venn, the King’s betrothed, our Queen-to-be. I’ve brought her home.”

  Chapter Five

  By late morning of the day after they crossed the river, Severin had vanished. There was no sign of him at the dining table when the household broke their fast. When Eloise plucked up the courage to ask—she thought the question was natural in the circumstances and would hardly arouse suspicion—the knight in whose hall they’d been lodged shook his head.

  “The Baron de Meynard has ridden on ahead to Kingsholme, my lady. My wife and I have been charged with your care until a proper escort is sent for you.”

  After that, she took little notice of what happened to her. None of it seemed real, though in the days and weeks to follow she was bitterly impressed by the accuracy of Severin’s prophecy. Everything fell out just as he had predicted. A troop of soldiers headed by three mounted knights in full heraldic barding arrived within days, and she was put into a horse-litter—as if she were an invalid, she thought—for the journey north to the capital. The night before her arrival at Kingsholme she was quartered with the family of an earl, and there she was washed once more and combed, painted and perfumed and rouged and dressed in a gown of green silk all embroidered on the sleeves and hem with flowers of garnet and emerald, for her final presentation.

  It was like some dream from which she couldn’t awake, even though she knew it wasn’t real. One of those dreams one has after going to bed bitterly hungry—the hunger stays, gnawing at the belly, even when one stuffs one’s mouth with dream-food. Eloise’s hunger, an aching need for Severin’s touch, never left her for a moment.

  She entered Kingsholme in an open litter, through streets thronged with cheering people. Knights, with their household pennons fluttering, rode before her and soldiers marched behind. Flowers were thrown down on the cobbles before the procession. Everywhere she looked she could see a sea of open-mouthed faces, grinning or gawping or cheering as the mood took them. The noise was frightening, but she straightened her shoulders and tried to appear serene as they marched on into the great courtyard of Kingsholme Palace.

  The crowds waiting there were of a more refined sort altogether, their clothes brightly colored and rich. They didn’t cheer her like the people of the city, but as she alighted from her litter and turned toward the dais at the far end of the courtyard, they began to clap. The applause rose around her as she stepped forward on a carpet of sweet rushes interwoven with fresh yellow roses—Arnauld’s family symbol—and the gray gull feathers that symbolized Venn. There were people awaiting her on the dais. Eloise lifted her chin and wished her dress did not weigh so much, that her shoes didn’t pinch, that she could be home now, back on the island, in her father’s house and away from all this clamor.

  As she drew closer to the dais she realized that out of all the people in the crowd there were only two, other than the guards, who were not applauding her. One was King Arnauld who stood to the fore, crowned and with his palms out-turned in welcome. The other was Severin de Meynard, who stood to the King’s left and a little behind like a dark hole cut into the bright scene, his arms crossed over his chest to hide his heart.

  Oh—it’s him! He’s here!

  Eloise’s own heart turned over inside her as she saw him. She was glad of the makeup that plastered her cheek, hiding the rush of blood there. In the pit of her belly a hot plume of recognition gushed. For the briefest of moments she allowed herself a hungry look at his face. He wore an expression of studied satisfaction, she thought, as if at a job well done. Then she snapped her attention back to the King and, reaching the bottom step, sank in a low curtsey before him. For the rest of the ceremony she did not dare look elsewhere.

  I saw him. He’s here. It must suffice.

  There were kisses and speeches of welcome. There were rituals of thanksgiving—the release of white doves, the sprinkling of rosewater, the sending out of riders with baskets of coins to throw among the populace cramming the outer streets. Eloise, a picture of modest silence and gratitude, shifted her gaze between the King and the ground before her, never elsewhere. Then the lords and ladies of the Court retired indoors, to where a sumptuous banquet awaited in the great dining hall of the palace.

  None of this is real, she told herself. He warned me, it will not last. It’s all for show. For the sake of the King’s honor. She picked at the roasted and gilded songbirds on the platter before her and listened to Arnauld’s small talk and smiled whenever she remembered to. And all that time she made sure that she didn’t look to her left along the high table, no matter how strong the pull of instinct, for fear of seeing the quiet dark man seated beyond Arnauld.

  When, toward the evening, the eating was done—though her own plate was all but untouched—Eloise was taken to a suite of rooms high up in the palace that were to be her own. There half a dozen ladies-in-waiting busied themselves settling her in, removing the stiff formal dress and replacing it with a fur-lined gown, combing out her hair, playing the lute, turning down her sheets.

  Just after the watch-bell tolled, the door to her chamber opened and Arnauld walked in.

  There was a polite, muted fluttering and cooing among the ladies-in-waiting, as if the room were a dove-cote, as they all drew back to the walls. Eloise stepped forward and curtseyed to the floor, bowing her head. “Your majesty,” she said, thinking, What has he come here for?

  “Please,” he said, “let us not be formal. I would talk candidly with you, my lady of Venn. Please,
stand.”

  Biting her lip, she obeyed. Her inner voice of warning—and she recognized that voice as Severin’s—was already suggesting a number of different threats this new situation presented.

  “Leave us,” he told the attiring-women mildly. As they retreated, Eloise let herself meet Arnauld’s gaze full on, almost for the first time. He smiled, but his expression was more troubled than cheerful beneath the pleasantry. She thought once again that he was a very handsome man; his skin browned by the sun until it was darker than the wheat-straw of his neatly cropped hair, his youth on the cusp of giving way to a craggy maturity that suited him very well. A part of her saw clearly that if it hadn’t been for the shipwreck and what came after, she would have fallen in love with this man swiftly and easily. Her life would have been entirely different.

  If.

  But now she loved Severin, a far lesser man in the eyes of the world, and the golden king would never own her heart.

  “Well,” Arnauld said when they were alone. “Are you content with your chambers, my lady?”

  “Very much so, your majesty.”

  “I ordered the spinet to be brought here myself.” He indicated the musical instrument with a wave of his hand. “I would not have you missing any of the diversions and comforts of your own home.”

  Eloise was momentarily nonplussed. Her occupation at home on Venn had largely consisted of attending her father, who had wanted her to be familiar with all the business of the island earldom in order that she might teach her future husband—she’d never had much time to spare for such accomplishments as music. She managed, however, a grateful smile. “Thank you, your majesty.”

  “Will you join me if I have a cup of wine?” He stepped toward a jug upon a side-table.

  “It’s I that should be offering to serve you, your majesty.” She reached the table before him and poured wine into gilded goblets. Her hands were hardly unsteady at all, she noted, surprised. Perhaps no man could make her as nervous as Severin had. The fact was that the King of Ystria hardly seemed to matter to her, in comparison to his dark vassal.