Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2)

by Nilsen, Karen

  “Nothing. But then she’s Safire’s sister.”

  Deciding it was pointless to evade her any longer, I said, “True enough.” My hands tightened on her shoulders. “Eden, I want your help on this. Obviously, it’s gone further than I thought it would.”

  “So she is a witch then . . .”

  “I don’t know what she is. But I do know one thing--she’s in the Landers family now, and her fate is our fate unless we accuse her of witchcraft ourselves, which I’m not prepared to do.”

  “Selwyn is.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Selwyn talks more than he thinks or does.”

  “It only takes one loose-tongued fool, Mordric.”

  I ignored her familiar use of my name. “I’ll return to the hall tomorrow and speak to him about it.”

  She nodded. “Good. He thinks me a whore so anything I say is suspect, but you scare the hell out of him. He‘ll listen to you.”

  “Your language, my dear.”

  She grinned. “Come, sir. You can have my first waltz.”

  “I don’t want it,” I retorted as we left the anteroom.

  “I would have offered you the first reel, but I thought it would be too strenuous.”

  “Hussy.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I drew rein as my horse Hunter trotted through the ivy-draped archway into the cobbled courtyard. Landers Hall loomed tall and gray before us, the many gables sharp against the sky. Hunter snorted and stopped abruptly as Perry, a stable boy, raced up and reached for the bridle.

  “Thank you, Perry.” I dismounted slowly, stretching my knotted muscles the instant I reached the ground. There was a green rankness in the air. Puddles glistened across the cobbles in the reddish light from the west--it must have rained here earlier. “Has it been raining a lot?” I asked.

  Perry glanced up from examining Hunter‘s hooves. “Only a few showers, sir.”

  “Good.” Too much rain this late in summer could ruin the harvest. I started towards the house. I had intended to go up the front steps but found myself instead veering in the direction of the kitchens. One of the cooks can make me dinner, and that way I won’t have to eat with those fools in the banquet hall. This was the excuse I gave myself as I ignored the tingling burn of the scar under my shirt. The front steps were where I had almost fallen on my sword. Coward.

  “Sir Mordric,” Hester the head cook exclaimed as I entered the kitchen. She hastily wiped her hands on her skirts and smoothed back tendrils of gray hair that had escaped in the damp heat. A few of the scullery maids glanced up from their various tasks, gaping until Hester shot them a sharp look. The kitchen was servants’ territory, and I had breached an unspoken boundary by coming here like this.

  “Hester, I want dinner.”

  “The family’s at dinner now.”

  “I’ll not disturb them. I‘ll take a tray in my study.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.” As I left the kitchen, I heard her send the maids scurrying with a single command.

  The news of my arrival traveled quickly among the servants. By the time I reached my study, Baldwin, one of the house footmen, was already kneeling on the hearth, tinder box in hand as he started a fire. Soon after a tray arrived from the kitchen, and I settled down at my desk to eat and read the letters that had piled up since my last visit home. Most of the correspondence having to do with my position as provincial minister came here, so I was treated to a litany of complaints about the death of some poacher at the hands of Sullay’s gamekeepers, one florid, defensive message from Sullay himself, and several requests for my judgment in various other matters involving land and inheritance. By the time I had finished and started on my replies, I had sent Baldwin for more bread and sausages, as well as a bottle of whiskey. The study decanter was empty, an inexcusable occurrence.

  “Come in,” I said when someone knocked on the door.

  Selwyn entered. “Good evening, sir. Baldwin said you wanted to see me . . .”

  “Where’s Whitten?”

  “He took ill after dinner.” Selwyn cleared his throat.

  “I bet he did. Was it before or after he heard I was here?”

  “After.”

  Baldwin came in then. “Your tray, sir.” He set it on the edge of the desk.

  “Baldwin, go fetch Sir Whitten for me. If he says he’s ill, tell him I can make it worse. If he says he’s dying, tell him I want to see him first--he has some papers to sign.”

  Baldwin bobbed his head and left. Selwyn took a seat, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

  “Your mother wrote that Dagmar is with child,” I said finally.

  Selwyn jumped a little. “We think so, sir.”

  “That’s good--some new blood in this House.”

  He nodded. “I hope it’s a son.”

  “Don’t discount the blessing of a healthy daughter.” Two of my dead wife’s stillborn babies had been daughters. I poured the whiskey too quickly, and it sloshed on the desk. Swearing under my breath, I blotted it up with my handkerchief.

  “No. Any child would be a blessing, of course, but a son would be less likely to inherit,” he lowered his voice, “the taint.”

  “What taint is that, Selwyn?”

  “You know, sir.” He crossed his arms, his shoulders hunched.

  “No, I don’t quite follow you. I didn’t realize we were tainted.”

  “Not us, sir. The House of Long Marsh. Dagmar‘s House.”

  “I’m quite aware of her maiden House. Are you saying your lady wife is tainted?”

  “Oh no, sir. She’s a good woman, an exemplary wife. She can’t help her bloodline.”

  “That’s a generous attitude for you to take, Selwyn.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He didn’t sound thankful at all--occasionally even he caught my sarcasm.

  “So, how is her bloodline tainted?”

  Over the course of our conversation, he had been slowly shifting to the edge of his seat. Now, he shifted so much that he almost fell to the floor. “Well, sir, you understand. Her sister, Safire . . .”

  “What about my daughter-in-law?”

  “Well, sir, some have said, not anyone here of course, but some have said, well, that she’s a, a witch, sir.” He started as Whitten skulked in and quietly took a chair near the door.

  “Ah.” I leaned back and brought my fingertips together. “And who are some?”

  There was a long silence. Selwyn glanced at Whitten, but Whitten looked at his hands, not willing to involve himself. In some ways, Whitten had more cunning than I had previously given him credit for. He presented himself as an ineffectual, feckless drunkard, which he mostly was, but underneath he had a criminal’s skill for self-preservation which I hadn’t noticed until he had violated my order to leave Safire alone. If the witch had not come out of her fit in bed after he had touched her, no one, including her, would be any the wiser that he had consummated their marriage of convenience without her knowledge or consent. Afterwards, when faced with the charge of rape, he had not denied it but instead had played on my inclination to see him as a foolish sot. Selwyn, although ostensibly the brighter of the two, could never have managed such an attempt at devious manipulation, so I kept my eye on Whitten.

  “Well, sir,” Selwyn said finally, “servants and such . . .”

  “Servants here?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I thought you said no one here had called her a witch.”

  “Well, I meant no one in the family. Servants will talk, sir,” Selwyn said.

  “Yes, they will, if their masters give them something to talk about.”

  Selwyn licked his lips, then said, his words coming in odd fits and starts, “But, sir . . . surely you don’t mean me. I haven’t . . .”

  “Should I mean you?” I looked at him without blinking.

  “No, of course not--I haven’t been talking about her.”

  “You just mentioned her ‘taint’ to me.”

  “I mean,
I haven’t been talking about her in front of the servants.” He took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “Really sir, no one in the family would have to say anything about her for the servants to gossip. Unfortunately, she’s raised plenty of suspicions among the servants on her own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The broken windows, for instance.”

  “What of it?” Several panes near the front door had shattered inexplicably after I had stabbed myself. It had been a most peculiar day.

  “Well, sir, she caused it.”

  “How do you know that? I was in the courtyard that day, Dagmar was in the courtyard that day, Merius was in the courtyard, servants . . . even you, Selwyn, were there. So how are the broken windows attributable to Safire and Safire alone? Any one of us who were there could have caused it.”

  “But none of us have her history,” Selwyn sputtered.

  “Her fit, you mean?”

  “Well, yes, and her insistence there are spirits in this House, and the cuts that just appeared on her arms that time for no reason, and . . . sir, there are so many things. Forgive me, but she’s a witch.”

  “Perhaps.” I held my temper in check. Best to be as casual as possible, not let him realize the ace he held.

  Selwyn looked taken aback by my sudden concession. “So you agree with me?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I agree with you or not. You have some compelling reasons to think as you do, but the fact is that it doesn’t matter. We’re not priests or judges here. We can‘t send her to the stake.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  I took a sip of whiskey, cradling the tumbler between my hands. “You say she’s a witch. Can you tell me what else she is?”

  Whitten cleared his throat. “A Landers,” he said hoarsely. “She’s a Landers.”

  “Thank you, Whitten. Of course, you have a particular knowledge of the lady in question, dearly gained at risk of the lash.” He flinched. Good--he hadn’t forgotten the flogging I’d given him. Rape generally warranted harsher penalties, but there was no way to punish him beyond a flogging without it coming to the notice of the magistrate. The Landers couldn‘t afford the magistrate‘s notice in the matter of Whitten and Safire’s marriage.

  “But . . .” Selwyn turned and glanced at Whitten before he looked back at me. “But, sir, we can’t let a witch escape . . .”

  “You’ve just been shown up by your drunkard cousin, Selwyn. Don’t dig yourself in deeper.”

  “But sir . . .”

  “Are you really saying you’d send your wife’s sister to the stake? Do you think that would improve your marriage?”

  “Dagmar’s my wife. She accepts what I tell her.”

  I chuckled. “See if you say the same in a year. Women can accept everything you say and still make your life a living hell. If you haven’t learned that by now, there’s little hope for you.”

  Selwyn opened his mouth, then closed it again, like a fish suddenly realizing it was caught on a hook. “Also,” I continued, “there are other things besides your marriage at stake. As Whitten so astutely pointed out, Safire is a Landers, whatever else she may be. If you accuse her of witchcraft, that tars all of us.”

  “But, sir, doesn’t it look better if one of us accuses her instead of an outsider? We’ll come under suspicion, certainly, but our willingness to expose her should clear us.”

  “That could happen, yes, but others have tried the same before and still been excommunicated, sometimes worse. Did you hear of Rhianan of Norland? They’re already questioning her family to see where she learned witchcraft. There’ll be more Norlands burned for certain. Once the word witchcraft has been whispered, it’s well nigh impossible to keep it from growing to a shout. Do you want to risk yourself, Dagmar, your unborn child? Don’t forget that Dagmar is Safire’s sister, her closest relative--after they’re through with Safire, they’ll be certain to look at her next, no matter who made the original accusation.”

  Selwyn swallowed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Considering all of these things, I’ll flog the next one who says witchcraft and Safire together or speaks of that day in the courtyard. It’s never to be discussed, not in front of the servants, not at the dinner table, not anywhere. Ever, if you want to keep the skin on your backs. Do you understand?”

  Both Whitten and Selwyn nodded, Selwyn saying, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, fetch the ledgers--I should start going over the columns tonight.” I blinked, feeling a dull ache start in the middle of my brow as if someone were slowly pounding a wedge through my skull. Usually Merius had gone over the ledgers for me--he could add a column of numbers in his head quickly and with no errors. He had to return. He had to take back his duties. He would, if I had anything to do with it.

  Chapter Five - Eden

  The mirror shot arrows of light across the room. I grimaced, squinting. Pain throbbed in my left temple, a sharp reminder of Segar’s wine last night. It was some spiced foreign kind, a dark burgundy, heavy as quicksilver in the glass, and I had drunk far too much. He just kept talking and talking, and I just kept sipping and nodding and sipping and nodding. When I started to stand, my knees buckled. Wine usually didn’t affect me much, but this was more brandy than wine. His talking threatened to turn me into a drunkard.

  I grinned at the mirror, then grimaced again--smiling made my head hurt worse. I had left him around midnight while he was still talking about that poor wretch Rhianan of Norland who would die at the stake today. It seemed his manipulation to save her life had been for naught, and now he blamed himself. He owned a tender heart, the fool, too tender for a prince.

  I touched the diamond studs in my ears--yet another gift from his Highness. Odd really, all these gifts--we had only tumbled a few times, contrary to court rumor.

  There came a knock at my door, and Bridget, my lady’s maid, entered with a tray. “Where have you been?”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but the king had an early hunt this morning, and he and his men ate everything but the porridge.”

  “I detest porridge.”

  “I know. That’s why I waited for the cooks to make more toast and sausage.”

  “Is that tea?” I sniffed at the steaming pot.

  “Yes, the coffee was down to the dregs.”

  “Tea’s fine, as long as it‘s strong.”

  She poured me a cup with two spoonfuls of sugar and several drops from a lemon wedge, just the way I liked it. A small, brown-haired creature, she darted about like a wren. She could actually call me Lady Eden with a straight face.

  As I ate a piece of toast dripping with butter, I glanced at the bed, where half the contents of my wardrobe lay scattered across the bedclothes. My headache had made it difficult to decide what to wear today, and so I had ended up tossing several frocks on the bed to be discarded. I hated keeping clothes too long anyway, particularly presents from admirers. They never looked as good as what I picked out for myself. Men had no idea of color or style.

  “Take that blue frock I wore to the masquerade for yourself. I don’t know what Sir Colmer was thinking--blue makes me look sallow, but it would bring out your eyes.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  I nodded and reached for my tortoiseshell combs. “These will do for today.”

  She plucked them from my hand before she picked up the hair brush. “Do you want it piled up or pulled back?”

  I thought for a moment--I had a long trip before me and didn‘t want my hair in my face. “Pulled back,” I said. Mordric had summoned me to Landers Hall. Ever since Merius‘s departure, I had been getting more assignments. Hopefully this one wouldn‘t be at Landers Hall, though the fact he summoned me there didn’t bode well.

  “I heard a rumor about Sir Mordric,” Bridget said, her voice dropping.

  “From who?” I leaned my head back as she brushed the snarls out of my hair.

  “Lady Casian’s maid. Sir Casian intends to offer his youngest daughter’s hand to
Sir Mordric.”

  I choked. “She’s barely out of the cradle. What is she? All of eighteen?”

  “Seventeen, my lady.”

  “That’s sending the kitten to play with the lion. What is Sir Casian thinking?”

  “Well, they say that Sir Merius’s quarrel with his father is far from over, and that Sir Mordric had better think about siring more heirs. That‘s just what some say, my lady,” she finished hastily. “I certainly don’t . . .”

  I shrugged. “Just tell me if you hear any more, all right?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  As she pulled my hair back with an expert twist and secured it with the combs, I gazed into the mirror. A seventeen-year-old virgin, married off to Mordric? She wouldn’t last a year. I wouldn’t last a year, and I was twenty-three, with more experience with men then I sometimes cared to admit. I touched my hair, smoothed a stray strand--it was a dark, uninspired brown, thick and straight and irritating in humid weather. Mordric liked blondes, from all the evidence. His dead wife Arilea had had a gorgeous fall of golden natural curls, and most of his mistresses had been the same without Arilea’s claws.

  There came a knock at the door. “Come in,” I yelled.

  A flustered court page with a pocked face and the gangly limbs of an overgrown whelp lurched through the door. Probably some minor nobleman’s son, fresh from the provinces with no proper training. The prince’s steward piled in behind the page, and then Prince Segar himself. Bridget dropped the hairbrush with a clatter, her mouth agape.

  I rose and made the barest curtsy. “Your Highness. This is most unorthodox.” That was true enough, if a bit rude--he had always summoned me, never visited me. That was how things worked with royalty.

  His fingers closed around my arm--another unorthodox gesture, especially in front of onlookers. Even the best servants could only be trusted so far--they were frail humans like the rest of us, gossipers and liars and thieves. Had he gone mad? Queen Verna and Mordric tolerated our supposed affair only as long as it remained an unconfirmed rumor.

  “Lady Eden, will you accompany me to the square?”

  I shook my head. “Your Highness, we can’t go out in public together.”