TheKingsViper

by Janine Ashbless

  “Please, my lady, sit down.”

  She perched herself upon the linen press at the foot of her bed, but Arnauld did not sit either next to her or in one of the high-backed settles provided with the room. He paced up and down the rug instead, his cup dangling from his fingertips.

  “I would have you,” he announced, “tell me in your own words about your journey here.”

  Eloise inhaled, slow and deep. This was it—the first occasion for the recounting of her tale. If what Severin had warned was true, it would not be her last. She must be sure to get every phrase right, every detail irreproachable. There must be no contradiction, neither with Severin’s report nor her own subsequent retellings. “Of course,” she said in a low voice. Then she began. She kept it simple, not mentioning names, taking it slowly and pausing every so often to allow Arnauld to break in with questions. She made sure she confessed to everything that was genuinely unclear to her—the ship’s course, the passage of days, their route home.

  All the time Arnauld paced, his expression grave and intent, the goblet rolling in his fingers, the wine within forgotten. When she finished, she looked up at him and awaited his verdict.

  “Baron de Meynard has already given me his account, of course. Do you know how he described you, my lady?”

  “No, your majesty.”

  “He said you were reasonably biddable.”

  Oh that stung. But it was exactly the sort of coldly unflattering assessment the King’s Viper would pronounce. Eloise lifted her hands and then folded them submissively. “I’m pleased to have met with such approval.”

  “What did you think of him, my lady?”

  Her heart, which had been numb for days, rediscovered its capacity for fear with a sickening lurch. “In what way, your majesty?” she asked, stalling.

  “Let me be honest with you, my lady of Venn. This miraculous return of yours, when all was thought lost and all hope abandoned, has caused a storm of speculation both within and without the Court. There were many who felt that the task of escorting you should never have been entrusted to the Baron de Meynard in the first place. There are those…” He hesitated, and when he spoke again there was something in his face that made her think he was being honest with her, at least to some extent. “There are those among my subjects who think less of me because I honor the man. They decry his low birth. They tell me that he has no genuine blood-loyalty to the royal line. They think, though they do not tell me to my face, that I am mistaken to trust him.”

  Eloise let her lashes sink modestly, making it clear that she did not see herself fit to hold any opinion on the subject.

  “Do you know that he saved my life, many years ago? That’s how he came into my household. I was thirteen years old and I fell into a river one day while messing about on a bridge. My guards were all in heavy armor, my companions all too frightened of the swift waters. Severin, who was merely in the vicinity, dived in and hauled me from the depths. That is something we have in common, you and I—is it not, my lady?”

  Wanly, she smiled.

  “I insisted, after that, that he be numbered among my closest companions—against, you realize, great opposition from those who saw it as their own right. So, you understand, it means a great deal to me to be able to place my utmost trust in him. I embrace him as a friend, not merely a subject. Over the years there have been occasions where I’ve owed him my life and my throne. Now I owe him a debt of gratitude for my betrothed, returned to me. Lady Eloise, tell me that my faith is not misplaced. Tell me that he is as true to me as I believe.”

  Ah, there it was, the first intimation of the question that would be in everybody’s secret heart: Did he swive you?

  Eloise stared, her emotions churning within her. She couldn’t really comprehend the complex relationship between the two men who, between them, held her life in their hands. Arnauld’s warmth toward Severin was obvious—yet she’d been told exactly what he would do to test that bond, how poor his payment would be for that loyalty. Was it the friendship he cared for, or his honor, or his pride in his own judgment? Was it self-interest or honesty behind his sincere desire?

  She realized she had hesitated a moment too long, and she dropped her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, your majesty.”

  “Sorry?” His voice was soft, and as cold as the first touch of steel.

  “Your warm regard for the Baron de Meynard is quite clear. I wish that I could feel the same way, for your sake. But the fact is, I found him a harsh and uncouth man. He didn’t seem to remember or care that I am a lady of gentle breeding, not some strapping peasant wench. He did not treat me with respect as due your betrothed. He made me walk ’til my feet bled and offered me no kindness, nor any word of encouragement. Upon occasion, when I felt I could go on no longer, he would mock and berate me unbearably. I’m sorry to tell you these things when you feel so strongly in his favor, but he was not kind to me. If I was little trouble to him, as he reports, it was because I was afraid of him.”

  She shut her mouth firmly, thrusting out the lower lip a little, and listened to the thump of her pulse in her ears for what seemed like an age.

  “Hh,” grunted Arnauld, and she looked up to see his smile. “My lady, does it not occur to you that the man saved your life at risk of his own? That you faced death or worse in Mendea, and that he sheltered you from every harm?”

  “Of course, your majesty—but could he not have been—?”

  “That in the face of that great endeavor, a little uncourtly language does not even weigh in the scales? And that, in the circumstances, it might even have been necessary in order to goad you to efforts to which you did not know yourself capable?”

  She stared at her hands and counted silently to three before saying, “Your majesty, perhaps I was a little childish. A little short-sighted. I humbly accept your rebuke and your greater wisdom. Please forgive me.”

  He swept forward and she thought for a moment that he was going to pat her on the head, but instead he took up her hand and kissed it, drawing her to her feet. “There. Do not blame yourself, my lady. The road home was long and cruel and you bore a burden of suffering that you had never been raised to carry. It would be unfair to expect you to see the whole picture. It is enough that you are safe, and that now in hindsight you recognize that you owe the Baron de Meynard for that, even if you cannot like his manners. He’s not, I admit, the most charming of men.”

  “I do not deserve such grace as you have shown me, your majesty.” She could see the satisfaction shining out of him, like sunlight.

  “You deserve joy and peace and comfort, my lady. All the good things of the world.” For a moment a shadow slipped over that sun. His gaze seemed to bore into her.

  He can’t be thinking of swiving me tonight. Not tonight.

  Arnauld cleared his throat. “And this evening you deserve the sweetest of sleeps. I thought you very fair from the moment I saw you, but I wouldn’t have that beauty tried by exhaustion.”

  They both made farewells, couched even more formally than their previous conversation, and Arnauld retreated to the door. He looked over his shoulder at her as he left. “Such a shame,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  “Your majesty?” she whispered.

  There was no reply. He closed the door behind him as he departed. Eloise was left staring.

  Good, she said to herself. Good. That went well, I think. He could not have been more pleased with what he heard. Then, far more bitterly, And look what they have made of you already, Ella—a mouse playing at being a serpent. Trying to manipulate your king.

  Was that worse than betraying him with the one man he trusted? It had felt worse. Lying to Arnauld had bruised her conscience, yet she still could not find in herself a particle of regret for that passionate night in Rounay. No, despite all the pain it had caused.

  She knew she had only a moment before the ladies-in-waiting returned to attend her. Turning her back upon the door, she wrapped her arms about the pillar of the bed an
d laid her forehead against the carved wood, eyes closed.

  Severin. Severin. What is he going to do to you?

  * * * * *

  The next day, Eloise was preparing to go out when she was visited, with no warning, by Arnauld’s mother. The Queen Dowager swept into her chamber accompanied by several well-dressed ladies.

  “Lady Eloise,” she said. “You are dressing to go out of doors?”

  “I was, your majesty. Lady Katrine of Tockforton has invited me to walk with her in the rose gardens this afternoon.” Eloise had received a number of invitations to social gatherings—hawking, musical soirees, the consumption of drinks and sweetmeats—from noblewomen since her arrival. She was the single greatest focus of interest on the distaff side of the Court.

  “Well, that can wait. We have more important business.”

  “Of course, your majesty.” The Queen Dowager was a tall, bony woman with eyes like a winter’s sky. Eloise hadn’t actually been looking forward to spending time with Arnauld’s mistress, the woman she was putatively about to supplant, but this particular interruption brought no sense of relief.

  “The young woman betrothed to marry the King of Ystria must of course live up to the very highest expectations. You will allow me a physical examination of your person.”

  “Oh. I see,” said Eloise, her gaze skidding round the royal entourage arrayed about her room. All were female except three men in very sober robes, each sporting a white beard.

  “Be so kind as to remove your kirtle, Lady Eloise, and place yourself upon hands and knees upon the bed.”

  “Your majesty?”

  “It will not hurt, child. And these men are my personal physicians. You have nothing to fear.”

  The words were reassuring, but there was nothing kindly in the Queen’s tone of voice. The physicians’ expressions were stony and Eloise felt her skin grow clammy with anxiety. “Your majesty,” she repeated, humbly, but casting an appealing look at her own ladies-in-waiting. She had some vague hope that they would speak out for her, but they only came forward to disrobe her. In moments Eloise was stripped down to her bare skin, and she covered her breasts and groin with her hands. She knew her body was blotched with bruises from the river-crossing. She’d scraped both shins and the scabs were still rough. She felt like a wasp-grub exposed in its broken nest, pale and ugly and about to be pecked at by a flock of bright birds.

  “That will suffice, child. Up now. Hands and knees, facing away from us.”

  Clambering upon the bed, Eloise was glad not to have to look at the ranks of cold-eyed faces awaiting their chance to inspect her. She felt sick with shame and outrage, though she remembered Severin warning her that this would happen. Severin. No, the one thing she must not do in these circumstances was to think about him. She braced herself upon the mattress, staring at the headboard and biting the inside of her lip as an anonymous hand urged her thighs apart to expose her sex. It felt like a dozen pairs of eyes were eating into her. She made herself think about the river above Rounay, its cold and bitter bite upon her skin, as fingers began to poke and prod her.

  Her flesh seemed to shrivel up.

  They—she could not tell whose hands they were, male or female—were not rough, but they were horribly thorough. Tears sprang to Eloise’s eyes and her body spasmed with a hiccoughing gasp. The sense of invasion and defilement was so acute that she wanted to scream with rage, but she did not dare. Yet, she thought, it would not be unnatural for her to weep. They might even expect it of a truly innocent maiden. So she permitted the hot tears to come bubbling up in stifled little sobs, and pressed her face into the coverlet.

  They were whispering. She couldn’t hear what the Queen Dowager said, but she caught the phrase “my opinion the hymen is intact” from one of the old men. That ought to be the end of it, surely? she thought. But it wasn’t, because each of the ladies in the Queen’s entourage had to see with her own eyes, and it took a long time for each of them to shuffle to the fore and bear witness.

  “You may get dressed, Lady Eloise,” came the verdict at last. This time, though the words were terse and formal, Eloise thought she detected satisfaction in the Queen Dowager’s voice. But she couldn’t sit up. She could not look at them. She pulled her discarded dress across her body and rolled into a curl, with her hands over her head.

  Arnauld’s mother sighed, loudly.

  “Lady Katrine will be waiting for you. Don’t keep her wondering where you are. That would most discourteous.”

  There was a clatter of heeled shoes upon the boards as, one by one, the royal examining committee withdrew from the room.

  * * * * *

  For a few weeks Eloise was the toast of the female circles with the Court. For a month she attended banquets, walked and rode and was seen abroad. She sat at Arnauld’s side on public occasions and danced with him at balls, though he never engaged her in more than cursory conversation again. She suspected he found her dull; she knew the women of the Court did. They did not bother to hide their disappointment when she refused to describe her ordeal to them. They looked askance that the King’s betrothed should be such a mousy, distracted, pensive thing.

  After that first day, there was no sign of Severin de Meynard. She didn’t dare ask where he had gone, but his absence felt like a raw wound in her breast. She did hear, however, that reinforcements had been sent to the southern river border with Mendea.

  Out of the public eye, things were equally busy. She was never alone, not even when using the close-stool. Night and day her ladies-in-waiting kept attendance. Even when she lay down to sleep, there were attiring-women to tuck her in and a servant in the truckle bed at the foot of her own just in case she needed something in the small hours. She didn’t get a moment’s privacy. And because she knew those women were there to watch her and report, she didn’t dare talk to herself, or relax, or weep, though the burden of tears in her breast grew as heavy as a rock.

  Sometimes when she couldn’t bear it any longer, under cover of heavy darkness, in the small hours when sleep seemed a hundred miles away and desperation clawed at the bars of her skull, she would seek temporary respite by cautiously fingering herself to a breathless and silent climax, just as terrified of discovery as she had been that first time in Severin’s presence—no, more so, because she had a far grimmer idea of the consequences now. To be seen to be less than sexless, to be discovered in possession of carnal appetite, that might be fatal. She knew it was a risk she shouldn’t take, but she could not bear to abstain, not every night, when it was the one link back to him. Severin burned in her memory—his voice, his scent, the texture and shape of his body—and she couldn’t give that up. Only in the darkness behind her closed eyes could she find freedom, only in memory could she taste joy.

  During the day she received many visitors. Rarely the same ones twice, and sometimes she wasn’t even told their names. At first they were all women of high birth and good manners, whose questions were gently phrased. Later the questions became blunter, cruder, more demanding. As the weeks went on, her interrogators included men, which she found threatening. But when it boiled down to it, the questions were the same, however couched.

  Did he ever touch you? Or you him? Did he require you to put your hands upon his person? Did he ever kiss you? Did you ever see his male member? Did he watch you make water, or at stool? Did he touch you between the legs? Did he ask you to take his member in your mouth? Did he talk of concupiscence? Did you ever see him rub himself like so, about the crotch? Did he lay his head upon your bosom? Did he make you undress before him? Did he fondle your breasts? Did he speak of cunnys and cock? Did he stroke your hair, your breasts, your buttocks? Did he ever lift you in his arms? What, not even to cross a stream? Did he speak you fair words? Did he call you his pet, his sweet, his bitch? Did he slap you about the face, or the rump? Did he swive you? Did he fuck you? Did he sodomize you?

  Over and over again, until she wanted to scream. The only light in the gloom was that repetition deadened
the effect; in the beginning the intimacy of such questions roused memories and feelings so strong that it made her afraid they would be able to tell, and she had to disguise her guilty reactions as confusion and shock. But soon it became a question of denial by rote; a stony, furious, tearful protestation of innocence that was utterly heartfelt yet had nothing to do with truth.

  But the worst—the very worst—the closest she came to stumbling into the traps laid for her, was one day a week or so into her stay in Kingsholme, when she was out walking upon the battlements of the great wall that overlooked the river harbor. There was a wide section there, below the guard-towers, that was used by the ladies of the Court as a promenade, and Eloise liked to linger there either in the company of her peers or alone—or alone as she might ever be, with two grumpy serving women trailing her back and forth across the stones. To one side as she looked over the wall she could see the light upon the water and small ships gathered in the estuary, and watch the seagulls swoop between the masts. That scene made her long for home. To the other side was the great courtyard of the palace. She kept a furtive and uneasy eye on that view, longing to spot among the figures coming and going a lone dark man with a long stride and a preoccupied air. She never saw him.

  But she was found up there by someone else—a woman in a dark blue gown, who swept up and took Eloise’s breath away by embracing her and kissing her upon both cheeks.

  “Forgive me! I cannot help it, Lady Eloise—I feel as if you are my sister, almost. My name is Hilde, Baroness of Eltingham. Perhaps Severin mentioned me?”

  Oh dear God. His mistress.

  Eloise blinked wildly. “You have me at a disadvantage, I fear,” she said to gain time. “Lord de Meynard rarely engaged me in conversation as such. He only spoke to give me orders.”

  The woman before her was blonde, with slanted green eyes—neither as young as she had imagined, nor as conventionally pretty, but with a vivacious clever sharpness to her features that Eloise found uncomfortably fitting. She had the feeling that in normal circumstances—when he wasn’t sleeping in a cowshed or trudging across five hundred miles of enemy territory—Severin was a man who liked sharp.