by Angus Wells
The idea had taken hold and grown, and almost he had gone. Then thought of Flysse had delayed him. He’d not announce his intention to her: in part for fear that were he discovered, she be punished as an accomplice; in part for fear that she seek to dissuade him or inadvertently blurt out what he did. He pondered what reason or excuse he could give her, and then that did Wyme summon him, she might come tell him and thus save awakward explanation of his absence.
He found himself caught in a dilemma: unwilling to subject Flysse to risk, unable, quite, to trust her, and yet likely needing her help.
“So shall you tell me,” he heard her ask, “or are they secrets, your thoughts?”
“No,” he lied; and then dissembled, “I thought only how cozy this is, we two alone and all the household sleeping. As if this were our kitchen, and we some old wed couple.”
He gestured at the dim-lit room, warmed by the great kitchen range. It was, indeed, a cozy scene. He occupied the armed chair that was customarily Benjamyn’s preserve, a mug of chocolate steaming at his elbow. Flysse sat close by, where usually Chryselle would take her place. They might have been a married couple, enjoying the comfort of their own kitchen before retiring. He was not certain—it was perhaps only the stove’s red glow—but he thought Flysse blushed.
She said, “Yes,” in a small, soft voice, and he saw her lashes fall over lowered eyes.
She seemed suddenly nervous, as if his words and her response carried them to a place that was, if not dangerous, then somehow threatening, where she must tread carefully. He waited for her to say more, but she remained silent, busying herself with the repair of a skirt’s hem, and would not meet his eye.
He frowned and asked her, “Flysse, what’s amiss?”
She continued her needlework, not looking up, and only shook her head.
“Have I offended you?” he asked.
She answered, “No,” in the same small voice, and he leant a little way across the table, enough that he saw moisture shining on her cheeks.
It was a moment before he realized she wept, and then he acted without thinking. He rose from his chair and settled on the table at her side. He cupped her chin, to raise her face. For a while she resisted, but then let her head tilt back, and he saw the tears that trickled slowly down her cheeks. He moved to brush them away, but as his fingers touched her cheek she shuddered and drew back.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is my touch so offensive?”
She shook her head violently and sniffed, and said helplessly, “No, Arcole. Never that.”
“Then what?” He set a hand against her cheek and this time she did not resist or move away, but only made a soft, inarticulate sound.
The skirt, part mended, fell to the floor as Flysse looked into his eyes. She could not help herself, but neither would she tell him clear what anguish his casual words, his touch, produced. That was for him to discover, for him to say the first words. She could not, for fear he dismiss her, that her declaration drive him away: that she could not bear.
Arcole stared at her. She was lovely in her grief. She was, it came to him, always beautiful. Did he not still think of himself as a gentleman, of her as a—what did he think her? Surely not a common servant, for Flysse was most uncommon. And was she a servant, then so was he in this place, and therefore they equal. Were she dressed in the finery of a lady, how would he perceive her? Save she lacked the affectations of the gentlewomen he had known, she was their equal; more, for she was courageous and kind, gentle, compassionate.
He realized he listed her attributes, and that she compared favorably with any woman he had known in the Levan.
He looked into her eyes and for the first time saw the truth, as if her tearful gaze drew back the curtains of his blindness.
He said, “Oh, Flysse,” and could not help himself as he bent toward her.
Which was altogether far more than Flysse could resist. She closed her eyes as his face came closer, and then her arms, of their own volition it seemed, were around his neck. His breath was an instant warm on her mouth, and then lost there.
Arcole held her, for the moment oblivious of all save the pleasure of the kiss, of her body against his. It had been a long time since he held a woman; longer since he held one who loved him. And that Flysse loved him, he could no longer ignore. In some hinder part of his mind he recalled the signs—the looks, the words, her smiles—that should have told him earlier of her feelings. They had been there—on the Pride of the Lord, here in Wyme’s mansion—and he had ignored them, been too preoccupied with his own fate, his plans, to read the signs aright. He was too used to the coquettish ways of the Levan’s gentlewomen: Flysse was entirely honest, without artifice or devices. He was unused to such behavior.
When they moved a little way apart, he studied her face anew. The tears were gone, in their place a glorious smile. She said, “Arcole,” and he could not help but draw her close again.
He had not quite known that his hands moved to the lacings of her bodice until she pushed them away. He was heated now: he wanted her, with no thought for the future, but only for the moment. Had they been in the Levan, were she kindred to the women he had known there, they would by now be undressing one another. But they were not and she was not; she was—it struck him with dazzling bemusement—too respectable.
As she said, “Arcole, no,” he said, “Flysse, I’m sorry.”
They laughed together, and though he still lusted for her, he knew he must wait.
For what? asked a seditious voice that belonged to that part of him that was still the gambler, the duelist, whose rakehell reputation had seduced grand ladies in another world. He knew the answer: marriage. That came from that part of him exile had changed, association with Flysse had changed. Flysse was respectable, she was not a woman of Levanite society whose favors were bestowed at whim, to whom a casual bedding meant no more than the saddling of a new horse. She was … unique. He drew her close again—careful now with his hands—as he accepted that he should have her only in the marriage bed, honestly; respectably.
Almost, he laughed at the notion. Arcole Blayke, swordsman and gambler, considering marriage to an exiled serving girl? That would surely afford his friends amusement. Then he thought: What friends? None save Dom risked taint when I was taken, but looked to their own skins. Laughter dissipated: Flysse saw him only as … what? Himself, he supposed: a man who wore exile’s brand on his cheek. He thought Dom would approve of this woman. And marriage … Had the idea not crossed his mind? Should it be so bad? He pondered the alternatives, which appeared quite straightforward: he could have Flysse or not; he could wed her or not.
There came into his mind then a feeling of horrid loneliness. It surprised him: that it should be hard to bear, did he reject her now. To live so close, to see her daily, but never again hold her or kiss her? He thought he must find that intolerable now. She might turn to another. There were enough fellow servants present already cast lustful glances her way, had so far stayed their advances only because she dismissed them. Because—it dawned on him sudden as anything this revelatory night—it was understood she was bound to him. Only he had failed to see it: he could not help laughing then.
“What is it?” Flysse asked against his cheek. “Do I amuse you?”
“No,” he told her, quite honest now. “I laugh at myself. At my blindness, that I could not see what was before my eyes.”
“That I love you?” she murmured.
He answered, “Yes,” knowing her question asked another, asked for an answer he was not yet—quite—sure he could honestly give.
Did she notice that hesitation, she gave no sign, but said, “At first I thought you haughty,” and when he frowned: “I thought you too much the gentleman to notice me.”
Guilty, he whispered, “I was.”
“I thought,” she said, “that you believed yourself too grand. That you considered me beneath your dignity.”
He said, entirely honest now, “Oh, Flysse, you’re not ben
eath my dignity, nor anyone’s. You’re fine as any lady. God knows, you’re better than most I’ve met.”
“I think,” she said, smiling at the compliment, “that you did not always believe that.”
“No,” he admitted. “But you taught me better. You opened my eyes.”
“It was when you befriended Davyd,” she said, “that I saw you different. With him, and when you came to our defense.”
And that delivered another pang of guilt, for had he not concealed his motives in befriending the boy? He thought that did he tell her that, then he must tell her everything—tell her of Davyd’s dreaming and his unformed plans to escape, all of it. And then? He had dismissed the notion of taking her with him when—if—his plans came to fruition.
Another seditious thought then: married servants were granted their own room. Had he such privacy, it should be easier to study Wyme’s map, to keep secret such papers and documents as he might need copy. But then he must surely tell her everything. And did she know, how would she react? Might she insist she go with him, perhaps under threat of revelation? Or insist, on the same terms, that he remain? She was brave—that he knew beyond doubting. But to ask she face the wilderness with him, to risk her life on a venture he must admit—should it even prove feasible—must be mightily dangerous, certainly arduous—did he want that?
He could not properly conceal his thoughts. He wondered if under her influence he lost his skills of dissemblance, of prevarication, when she said, “You’re troubled again, my love.”
He said, “Yes,” and cursed himself and the unfair justice of the Autarchy that put him in this position, that he not deal honestly with her. She deserved honesty, but he could not yet bring himself to tell her what he planned. He told himself it was too soon; that it were better did he wait and come to know her better, and knew that for procrastination. He found himself once more caught on dilema’s horns.
“What is it?” she asked.
His answer was not entirely dishonest: he said, “I wonder what we do now.”
Her response was entirely artless. She stiffened somewhat in his arms and her face lost a little of its radiance. She said quietly, “Is that not for you to say?”
“How do you mean?” he asked, afraid he flung himself headlong into a choice he had sooner not yet make.
Flysse pulled farther back, until he must hold her by the elbows else she withdraw entirely. He did not want that; neither did he want to choose.
“I know not how your society ladies do such things,” she said. “I am only a plain woman …”
“Never plain,” he told her, seeking to shift her direction, wondering how that should trouble him so. Wondering was this love, to feel so guilty that he deceived her? He wished she would not put him to the test: he doubted now he could hurt her. It seemed she commanded a power over him, in ways he could not properly comprehend. Surely he could not understand how it could come so sudden, that he feared to hurt her or dash her hopes. He wondered if somehow, without his knowing it, he had come to love her. He felt abruptly afraid: love was not a thing he was used to.
“No,” She disengaged his hands, stepping a pace back. Her expression was both firm and frightened, and when he moved toward her, she raised a hand, silently bidding him keep his distance. “No soft, sweet words, Arcole. Please? Those are for your society ladies; I’d have only the truth of you.”
He said, “Flysse,” sensing where this conversation went, knowing he’d not venture there yet. Save neither would he lose her now: that should be too painful.
“No, please hear me out.” She moved back farther, to where shadow touched her face and he could not properly read her expression. “I tell you—I am a plain woman, and decently raised. I’ve naught to my name, save I hold my honor, which brought me here. Because I refused the blandishments of a man … ”
“Armnory Schweiz?” He spoke the name in genuine outrage. “Do you compare me with that animal?”
“No,” she said, “and—forgive me—yes. He wanted but the one thing of me. Do you want different?”
“I am not Armony Schweiz,” he said angrily. “You insult me with that.”
“I’d not,” she said. “Save your intentions be no different.”
“They are!” he protested. “They are not the same at all.”
“What would you ask of me, then?” she demanded.
Were he quite honest, he would have told her, “I’d bed you. I’d have you now, and tomorrow, and for so long as I remain here, and not think of that decision I must one day make.” But that, he knew, must surely lose her; and he knew with sudden clarity that he’d not lose her. It was as if he sat at a gaming table, his fortune to be lost or won on the turn of an unseen card. Well, he was a gambler, no? Perhaps even a man in love.
He said, “Flysse, I’d ask that you wed me.” He was surprised the sentence came out so clear, so definite. He was not quite sure from where it came.
She said, “Arcole, I will,” and stepped forward, out of the shadow that hid her face so that he could see her smile, which was bright with happiness and solemn in equal measure.
He moved toward her and this time she did not bid him back, but raised her arms to embrace him. He thought he had never been kissed like that before. Certainly he had never been in this situation before, and even as a part of him wondered what he did and where it should lead, another told him this was what he wanted.
The card was turned now, but he knew the stakes were changed. It was strange, how happy he felt.
Into her hair he murmured, “So, what do we do now?” Adding quickly, “I’d not besmirch your honor, but how do we go about this?”
The card turned, the step taken, he’d delay no longer than he must. Her kisses were sweet and full of promise—more, almost, than he could bear—and could he have her only in wedlock, then he’d turn that key soon as was possible.
She said, “We must go to Benjamyn, ask him. He then approaches the master for permission. Is that granted, a priest comes here to perform the ceremony.”
“You’ve ascertained all this, eh?” He could not help but chuckle. “Were you so confident, then?”
She leaned back against his arms to look him in the eye and blushed prettily. “Not confident,” she said, and smiled. “But hopeful.”
“God, woman,” he laughed, “you surely do speak plain.”
“Would you have me otherwise?” she asked.
Arcole shook his head and said, “No, Flysse, I’d not. I’d have you just as you are.” Which was the truth, and quite unexpectedly prompted him to answer that unspoken question he had earlier avoided: “I love you—just as you are.”
It was, he realized, an honest declaration; or, at least, as honest as he was capable of. He was not sure precisely what love was, but if it meant such feelings as he entertained at the thought of losing her to another, or seeing her each day knowing he could not have her, then, yes, he loved her. If it meant this exhilaration he felt holding her, at the thought of their being together nightly, then, yes, he loved her. But if it meant staying with her, both their lives lived out as servants of Andru Wyme, indentured until death freed them, then—he must admit—he was not sure. He could not forsake his dream of escape. He could not tell her that, nor yet feel confident of sharing his dream. The guilt he felt at that surprised him, and if such guilt was a part of love, then again yes, he loved her.
Perhaps he would tell her. Likely, when they shared a room, it would be impossible to hide it from her. He decided he would wait, like any canny gambler, and see how the cards fell.
For now, with Flysse in his arms, he felt too happy to entertain such troubling thoughts for long.
26 A Messenger Cursed
Winter came early to the mountains. The valley lay under a mantle of snow that shone bright in the light of a sun that granted no warmth. The stream froze and Arrhyna must hack through the ice to obtain fresh water. Rannach had constructed a shelter for the horses and kept a fire burning close by their enclosur
e, lest the wolf winds that came howling out of the mountains freeze them where they stood. What hunting he did now was done afoot, trekking laboriously through deep drifts to set traps for snowhares and whatever other creatures ventured out under the White Grass Moon, or huddling cold amongst the trees to put an arrow in an unwary deer come foraging down from the high slopes. At least it was fresh meat to augment the supplies he’d built up against the cold moons, but he could not help thinking that buffalo meat should be better, taken in the warm moons and stored ready for the cold. He could taste it, when he thought about it: the rich, fatty taste of ribs and haunches roasted over the embers of the campfire, the lodges of the Commacht all around, secure in the Wintering Ground. The men would be working on bridles and arrows, lances and shields; the women weaving blankets or softening the hides of buffalo and deer for tentcloth and clothing, sewing beads. He remembered the last winter in the lodges of his clan, when he had talked with Bakaan and the others of the spring’s Matakwa and how he would claim Arrhyna for his bride.
Now he had his wish—Arrhyna was his wife—but he had never thought it should be like this, the two of them all alone in the white wilderness of the valley. He worried about her: that she missed her parents, the company of other women, her moods. She seemed mostly content, but there were times when she grew sharp, her tongue cutting, and he did not understand those. Neither did he understand why Colun and Marjia no longer visited. Save … He dismissed that thought. Surely they could not be slain; surely the Grannach could not be defeated by the invaders. Surely the Maker would not allow that. For if he did, then Arrhyna was in terrible danger, and Rannach hated such ominous brooding. He pushed it aside and took the hare from the trap.
Three in one morning—a good catch. Enough that he felt justified in returning to Arrhyna; so he slung the carcass with the others on his belt and turned back toward their lodge, less needfully than only to see her and touch her and know her safe. He had done all he could, banished as he was, to make her life comfortable. Their lodge was warm and he had an ample supply of wood set by, no less sufficient meat. There were deer hides and the pelts of rabbits for winter clothing. They had furred boots and hardy garments to see them through the cold moons, and the stream still held sluggish fish for the hooking. But yet there was something about his wife that troubled him, as if sometimes she was about to speak of some momentous thing but then held back and kept it from him. He did not properly understand that, nor her appetite, which was large.