In The Shadow Of The Beast

by Harlan H Howard

  The Regent was not pleased. He followed his son’s eye line to the thing that had so ensnared the young lords attention. That damned serving girl. Sigourd thought that his secret rendezvous with the girl had gone unnoticed. Oh she was a pretty thing to be sure. Polished and pampered she’d be more than a match for any of the young debutantes parading before them. A darn sight less concerned with the cut of her dress or the expense spared for the jewels around her neck than those others too most probably. But as pleasing a prospect as she may be, there was not a chance in all the seventy seven heavens that Sigourd would be permitted to continue his trivial dalliances with her. The son of The Regent of the great city of Corrinth Vardis could not be seen to fraternize with those so low born that they could not even be counted amongst the registry for the city’s official census. The girl had seemingly appeared from out of nowhere, her employment within the halls of the city being granted only recently and there being little to no trace of her origins prior to that time. No doubt she was one of the numberless orphans churned out by the last great conflict between the houses, and therefore certainly not someone to whom a prince should be seen to have become romantically involved with. Sigourd’s betrothal to one of the daughters of these neighboring houses hinged upon the sanctity of the union, and everything else hinged upon the betrothal. He could bloody well do as he pleased after an heir was produced. He could pack his bedchamber with harlots from the south lands or pretty painted ladies from the circus tents of the Harrubah hives, it mattered not so long as there was a child produced that would seal the political rift.

  But of course Sigourd, the romantic, had gone and fallen in love with the girl. So typical of the boy he had always been, that he would be ruled by his heart when matters of state so dearly needed him to retain a more taciturn aspect. It was his mother’s influence of course. He was ever his mother’s son and The Regent was surprised to find a twinge of...what was this, a small chink in the armor of his pride, to know that his son was almost totally unlike him.

  The Regent pushed the errant emotion aside. He should have sent the bloody girl away, had her re-assigned to another house or sent her from Corrinth Vardis altogether. But he was not so cold hearted himself after all to deny his boy in so cruel a fashion. Cursed distractions, cursed youth. Just one more headache to keep the old man up at night, staring into the dark for answers that weren’t there.

  Sitting beside her son, Veronique wore a pleasant smile upon her face as the debutantes paraded past. She’d been there herself once, as tradition had demanded, and had been fortunate enough to have been chosen by The Regent as his bride to be. That all seemed so long ago now and whenever Veronique tried to think back to that time of her life, which was as infrequently as possible, she was overcome with a wave of anxiety that for all the world seemed like it might submerge her.

  Turning to Sigourd, she took his hand in hers, ‘Have you seen anything that stirs your heart, son?’

  ‘I can’t say that I am particularly taken with any of these ladies, mother,’ whispered Sigourd. Veronique squeezed her son’s hand reassuringly, ‘It must seem terribly overwhelming, to be at the center of such activity. It was overwhelming for your father too, but he came out of it well enough, and so will you.’

  ‘Yes mother,’ agreed Sigourd, his expression falling. ‘It’s just that I’d always hoped to able to choose the woman I’d marry in a less....formal fashion.’

  It saddened Veronique to see her son troubled so, but she knew that like it or not, he understood the necessity of this process. ‘We must all abide by our responsibilities Sigourd. This is the price and the privilege of our position in society. We must be steadfast in our undertaking of its laws and traditions, for we lead by example, weather it is our intention or not. Always be mindful of that.’

  Sigourd groaned, ‘It seems as if all my life I’ve been manacled to those responsibilities. Surely as regent I must be allowed some freedom to live as I choose?

  ‘You will live through your people. You will live for them.’

  Sigourd turned to look once more at the raven haired serving girl at the back of the chamber. His heart sank as he realized that for all his high hopes his destiny had already been laid out before him.

  ‘What if this is not what I want, mother? What if I were to walk away from it all?’

  ‘I would not countenance such a thing!’ spoke a voice deeply leaden with authority. Sigourd looked up to see his father standing behind him. ‘Your birthright requires that you meet certain expectations, and you will. The sooner you accept that the easier this will be for us all,’ said The Regent, glancing at the serving girl, ‘and that means any interests you have acquired that are in opposition to your betrothal will be laid aside, ‘Am I understood?’

  Sigourd followed his father’s gaze, turning back to The Regent with a defiant gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Excuse me mother,’ he said, before jumping up and storming from the dais as the assembled court turned to watch, their stunned expressions already turning to delighted whispers.

  The Regent looked on angrily after his son as Veronique rose to take her husband’s hand in hers.

  ‘He has the fire of passionate youth in his belly. I have an idea where he gets it too.’ She said.

  The Regents hard expression began to soften, a look of fatherly concern replacing his usual stony mien. ‘I only hope that fire does not consume what affection he might yet have for his father.’

  Veronique’s tone was comforting as she spoke, ‘It will not. Sigourd understands all to well what is required of him. Just as you did.’

  The Regent gently stroked his wife’s lustrous golden hair, tilted her face up so that he might look into eyes that sparkled like pale sapphires, ‘Ah, but my son has a far harder task than I ever did,’ said The Regent. ‘For me there was no doubt at all over whom I would take as my bride.’

  ‘It’s flattery like that which lured me to you in the first place.’

  ‘Really,’ exclaimed The Regent, effecting genuine surprise, ‘I always thought it was the obscenely huge dowry I paid your brother.’

  Veronique cuffed her husband playfully upon the arm, ‘You beast.’

  The Regent smiled at his wife, kissed her lightly on the cheek before looking up as someone approached. ‘Speak of the devil and he shall appear...’

  Veronique turned to see where her husband’s eyes had fallen, and her playful mood dissipated in an instant. Moving toward the couple, as imposing as he had been twenty years previously, The Baron Vincenzo Mortaron strode across the throne room, the assembled celebrants hurriedly making way before the old baron like a school of fish moving in synchronized unison to avoid some oceanic predator.

  Mortaron came to a stop before The Regent, bowing his head in deference to his liege lord.

  His voice came in a rough bark as he spoke, ‘My lord, your wisdom is required at council. This matter with the Morays will not rest.’

  ‘Brother’ sighed Veronique, ‘The Regent is enjoying the company of his court. Won’t the council give him leave to relax amongst his subjects for just one day?’

  ‘The court be damned!’ shot back Mortaron with a vehemence that left little doubt as to his contempt for the other nobles of the kingdom. ‘War looms, and its advance will not be delayed in the face of these fops falling about trying to impress their betters.’

  ‘There is word from the border?’ asked The Regent, all trace of the smile he wore only moments ago now long gone, replaced by his more usual stoic demeanor.

  ‘We have had word from the barracks at Daros. There are indications of troop movements from across the river there.’

  The Regent breathed deeply, ‘Excuse me my dear, this cannot wait.’

  With that, he kissed Veronique lightly upon the forehead before turning to stride away across the throne room, the celebrants in attendance respectfully bowing their heads in the wake of their departing lord.

  Veronique watched him leave, before looking up to notice her brother
watching her with obvious distaste. He spoke not another word, merely content to study his sister for a moment longer, as she in turn coolly met his gaze without comment. An instant later Mortaron turned to follow his master from the chamber, leaving Veronique standing by herself.

  She was not alone for more than a few moments as well-wishers from the court, craving the indulgence of their lady, moved to engage Veronique.

  It was while being addressed by a particularly fat officer of the household guard, who talked at some length about his penchant for the cultivation of the Horsethorn rose, his ladyship’s favorite according to popular consensus, that Veronique became aware of an odd feeling. Some unsettling sixth sense gave her cause to turn and catch a glimpse of a face in the crowd, only a fleeting glance really, of a man presented in the attire of a visiting dignitary, but with a bearing that seemed too coarse, too craggy for his immaculate garb, posing an image entirely at odds with itself.

  But the thing that struck Veronique more than the fellow’s strange appearance was the note of recognition that rang within her, like the sound of a ship’s bell tolling distantly through the mist. It was a feeling that filled her with unease.

  Veronique reached out to one of her nearby ladies in waiting, took her in a not so gentle fashion by the arm, ‘Raquel, who is that man?’

  Surprised by the uncharacteristic note of desperation in her lady’s manner, the serving girl looked in the direction Veronique had indicated, through the crowd of well wishers and drinkers and dancers, but she could see no one there that her ladyship might be referring to, ‘Whom are you speaking of my lady?’

  Exasperated, Veronique craned her neck to peer more clearly through the crowd. But much to her dismay the mysterious dignitary had disappeared.

  Sigourd threw open the door to his bedchamber, striding into the room he cast off his ceremonial dress as he went, throwing the elaborate clothing here and there about the chamber not caring a jot wherever it did land, desperate to shed the accoutrements of his royal status, to be free of that responsibility.

  Lastly, he reached up to the brooch attached to his chest, that silver bauble that bore the Fellhammer family crest, gripped it tightly in his clenched fist and tugged at it almost without thinking.

  But it would not come loose. It was fastened deep into the leather of his enameled leather bodice and wouldn’t budge matter how hard he tugged at it.

  Building like the over-pressure from a kettle too long on the boil, Sigourd’s anger flared in an instant and he jerked at the pendant with such force that when it finally tore free it sliced into the flesh of his palm, between the thumb and forefinger, causing him to snatch back his hand as the pain shot through the injured limb. The pendant clattered to the stone floor, a shrill ringing accompanying the little impact.

  Sigourd pressed his palm to his mouth, supped at the wound there to stop the flow of blood. It was then that he caught sight of his reflection in an ornate mirror hanging from the wall on the other side of his bedchamber.

  He almost didn’t recognize the man he saw there, breathing hard, a look of anger in the eyes so intense that it gave Sigourd pause to see it in himself.

  It was as if the ferocity had bubbled up out of hidden recesses in his soul that he had never known to exist, like living in a place one’s entire life and stumbling into a room you’d only just discovered had been there all along.

  Unnerved by this aberration of character, Sigourd concentrated on calming himself using the breathing rituals in which Cal had instructed him, for use before competition in the many royal tournaments that were a regular feature in the life of any noble son of Corrinth Vardis.

  He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose to fill his lungs slowly and deliberately, releasing the tensions that filled him as he exhaled, he pictured those tensions leaving his body like vapor rising off a still lake, fading quickly to harmless whisps before him.

  Then it came, a rapping at the heavy oak door of the bedchamber.

  ‘Be gone,’ Sigourd barked at whomever it might be on the other side. But again it came, the knocking louder and more insistent this time.

  His irritation returning, Sigourd pulled off his boot, ‘Be gone I said. Are you deaf!?’

  He raised his hand, about to throw the heavy studded boot at the door in hopes of scaring off this interruption, when he was distracted by another sound. The sweet chirruping of a small bird. Looking to the window behind him, through which the last rays of the afternoon sun were falling, he could just make out a little blue nightingale perched upon the window ledge.

  The bird hopped from one foot to the next, chirruped again. The sound was only slightly distorted by the thin glass separating him from this pleasant little creature.

  As understanding took hold, a slow smile began to break on Sigourd’s face and he lowered the boot in his hand before dropping it to the floor with a thud.

  Crossing the room in a few quick, long strides, Sigourd reached for the oak door to swing it wide before him.

  Standing there, framed in the warm light of the setting sun was the raven haired serving girl. From afar she had been beautiful, from so close a distance she was breathtaking, and it was all Sigourd could do to maintain his composure.

  When she spoke, her voice seemed to purr from a mouth with lips the color of ripe cherries and a voice as sweet as honey, ‘My lord left the throne room in quite the hurry. I thought I would inquire as to his well-being.’

  She looked up at Sigourd with eyes that were such a pale shade of hazel they seemed almost to flash gold in the light, and the young lord of the realm of Corrinth Vardis found himself being drawn into those golden eyes quite willingly. For a moment, Sigourd stood in the doorway non-plussed, but then that broad smile began to creep over his face once more.

  ‘You brought refreshments I hope?’ he said, and with a playful twinkle in her eye the serving girl produced a full drinking skin from behind her back, holding it up so that he could see that she did indeed come prepared to ease his choler.

  His smile broadening, Sigourd took the serving girl in his arms, pulling her in close to kiss her hungrily upon the lips, to which she eagerly responded, her own hand going up and around to delicately caress the back of his head.

  Their kissing was passionate, burning full of youthful desire and a mutual need to experience the richness of their shared want for each other.

  Finally, the girl pulled away to fix Sigourd with her golden eyes, ‘you looked terribly angry when you left the throne room. What happened?’

  ‘I fear my father knows about us. Or at least suspects something.’ He swallowed hard before continuing, ‘He is demanding that I give you up in favor of a bride from one of the other houses.’

  The girl moved into the room, closing the heavy door behind her. It was a long moment before she was able to speak, and when she did so she could not bring her eyes up from the floor for fear that Sigourd might see the tears forming there.

  ‘We knew this day would come,’ she said finally, trying to muster as much bravery as she could in the face of her heartache.

  Sigourd crossed over to her and took the girl in his arms once more, ‘Isolde, know that I love you like I have never loved another, and will never love another. You are my sun and moon. But I am torn between my feelings for you and my duty to my family.’

  ‘And I would never ask you to choose between myself and your obligations to your family. We knew from the start that the son of The Regent might take a lowly serving girl as his lover, but never as his wife. All that I ask is that you follow the truth written in your heart, that is the path that will lead you to the answers you seek.’ She reached up to stroke his face tenderly, the torment in her lover’s eyes bringing her great sadness to see.

  ‘Know that whatever you decide, my love for you will out last eternity. If we had but a fraction of that time I would be content. Alas, all we have is tonight,’ and with that she kissed him gently upon the lips once more, and led him to bed.

&nb
sp; CHAPTER 3

  Inferno...

  The hand maidens were gathered quietly in a neat semi circle in front of the crackling hearth fire, ministering diligently to their needlework. The only sound was the low crackling of the fire as it hungrily consumed the wood pile that fed it, and the conspicuous giggling of two hand maidens who were trying hard not to make too obvious the subject of their conversation.

  Veronique had decided to call an early end to the celebrations in the throne room. The departure of her son and husband had rendered the whole thing pointless, and besides that, Veronique had more pressing concerns to trouble her.

  Try as she might she was unable to focus entirely on her embroidery, a past time in which she usually found great solace. The crude yet familiar face of that well dressed dignitary kept floating to the surface of her mind. She would push it back down, and it would return soon after, insistent and unremitting. Finally, she could stand it no longer, and searching for a suitable target upon which to vent at least a measure of her frustrations she spoke out suddenly, snapping at the two maidens who continued to giggle quietly in a most irritating fashion, ‘ladies, what is so amusing that it must keep the rest of us from concentrating on the task at hand?’

  The two girls looked up guiltily, the closer of the two, a pretty girl named Tumi, with too much stock in her own appeal to the hearts of the men of the realm, was the first to answer Veronique, ‘forgive us my lady, we were merely wondering which of the young ladies lord Sigourd might have taken a fancy to.’