The Black Prince: Part I

by P. J. Fox

  “I—absolutely!” And Tad vanished, leaving his school things behind and Hart and Lissa by themselves in the comfortable salon that made up half of Lissa’s suite of rooms. Salon and bedroom, as well as adjoining garderobes. Her maid, Jorja, slept separately, in a chamber down the hall she shared with Cassie. More than many a titled woman had, to call her own. More than Lissa ever would have had, had she met and married him in the Highlands. A place that, more and more, seemed like a dream to him now.

  He sat down next to her, and drew her to him, and the taste of her lips was sweet. He pushed her back onto the floor and he took her, not bothering to remove her clothes, only freeing himself from his breeches enough to complete the act. Her kirtle was laced tight, restricting her movement, but he didn’t care. He liked her like this. Helpless. Trusting. He knew that he had her trust. Her love. Her dependence.

  It seemed impossible that he might not hold her like this for months. Or ever again. Not taste her again, nor touch her again, nor feel her trembling in his arms. He wanted her to stop taking the moon tea but hadn’t asked. Because he’d known, as soon as he’d realized that he’d survived the ambush, that he’d be coming home only to leave. To hunt Owen Silverbeard. He couldn’t ask her to bear a child he might never meet and, jealously, he couldn’t stand the thought of his son—or daughter, but in his mind it was always a son—in another man’s arms. Calling another man father.

  Her lips parted as her eyes rolled back in her head. She went limp. Seconds later, he felt his seed release deep within her. He said nothing and neither did she, and for a long time he didn’t move. When he did, it was to roll over so she could get up and clean herself off.

  When she returned, her hair had been reformed into a neat new bun. He was still on the floor, although he’d managed to return himself to his breeches. He stared up at the ceiling.

  “Would you like wine?”

  “Yes.”

  She poured him some, and herself perry. He hated the stuff, and wondered who had ever thought to make alcohol from pears. It must have happened by accident. A far unluckier accident than brandy.

  “Come,” he said. “Sit near me.”

  She did.

  “You know that the world is at war.”

  She nodded.

  “This kingdom’s history has been one of war, with peace the term we use merely to describe the occasional pause for a gathering of arms.” He was still staring up at the ceiling. There was nothing up there except smooth white plaster punctuated by carved beams.

  “Piers would bring prosperity. The chance to rebuild. To till one’s fields without fear of molestation and see one’s children grow to adulthood. But some would throw that all away. For a bloodline. Because to them, what makes a man the rightful king isn’t his ability to rule, but the names of his ancestors.”

  All knew that Brandon’s father had been a terrible king and that Brandon, after him, even worse. Brandon instilled the kind of fear, not felt toward a ruthless warlord but a rabid dog. No one knew what he’d do next; the only hope of survival for those at court had been to appease him. And even among what passed for his confidants, his deviancy had been legendary. His deviancy, and his cruelty.

  He’d personally ordered the executions of hundreds. Thousands more had died in battle after battle, defending principles that only a fool could deem worthy. Brandon had wanted, not the good of the realm but the glory of House Terrowin and, through it, the glory of the church. He’d been, reputedly, obsessed with saving souls. By fire if necessary.

  Under a restoration of House Terrowin the terror would return. Along with the raids and roads, kingdom-wide, that were too unsafe to travel, because the crown was concerned with who worshipped what gods and how rather than whether they remained alive to do so.

  But superstitious fears ran deep, fears that Maeve—and the church—used to her advantage. The king was king by divine right; turning from the man the Gods had chosen would bring ruin upon them all. Crop failures. Pestilence. And, in the next life, the ever-molten pits of hell as the Mediator turned His face from them.

  It was pap for the weak-minded.

  The only good news was that those foolish enough to believe it could also be swayed, equally easily, to believe in something else. Hart hoped that food, and safety, in their own backyards would be enough to trump the vague—and increasingly distant—threat of hell.

  A bird in the hand.

  He sat up, finally accepting his wine. Lissa waited. She was very patient. Which he both appreciated and admired. Her life couldn’t be an easy one, even now. Especially now. In her position, he’d want to ask questions. Demand answers. As he was sure that, in truth, she did. That she held her peace was, he knew, purely out of respect for him.

  Respect, and love.

  She understood his limitations.

  The wine was good. Full bodied and rich. “I have to go,” he told her.

  At first she said nothing. And then, “when?”

  “Soon.” He didn’t need to tell her, that he’d come to say goodbye. He hoped only for the time being. “There are traitors, further south. The man from the longhouse. I now know who sent him. And know too that he’s plotting to overthrow the king.”

  “And you’re going to stop him.”

  “Yes.” He put his cup down. “I might not be back for some time.”

  Lissa’s lower lip trembled. Other than that, she gave no outward sign of distress. “But you are coming back.”

  “I have every intention of doing so, yes. But this matter, like all others, lies in the hands of the Gods. And They have Their own intentions.”

  Lissa swallowed.

  “The men I’m bringing with me are loyal,” he told her. “They’ve suffered at the hands of Maeve, and her cronies. They know better than believe her promises, because they’ve seen, all of them, how hollow those promises are. How hollow Maeve is, and her cause.

  “I intend to take this den of turncoats in the king’s name, sever Silverbeard’s head from his body and then bring it to Caer Addanc, to present to the duke. And then, if you consent, I intend to take you back with me.” Or even if she didn’t consent. But he wanted her to feel as though she had the choice. “To what, I believe, will after this be my new home.” His new home, and hers. He had no intention of telling her about Solene. Solene didn’t matter, so the less spoken of her the better. Lissa would have enough to keep her up at night, in the weeks and months to come. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than necessary.

  And besides, if he did survive, she’d find out soon enough.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “If I don’t come back—”

  “But you are coming back.”

  Reaching out, he caressed her cheek. He needed to hold, to fix this moment. To sear each of her features into his mind. Wherever he died, he wanted her to be the last thing he saw.

  FORTY-NINE

  He had his suspicions about the other traitors, indeed.

  Something about Rowena’s unexpected return still bothered him. But Rowena was no mastermind. And neither was Apple, for all she thought herself to be a veritable queen of intrigue. Apple was a jumped up country bumpkin with delusions of grandeur and Rowena almost too stupid to function. She made no secret of her emotions, positive or negative, and not in such a cunning way as anyone believed she was putting on a ruse.

  No. There was someone else. The real problem was that, depending on how he approached the issue, the list of potential suspects was either too short or too long.

  He tightened the girth on Cedric’s saddle. Then gave Cedric a sharp punch to the side, to surprise him, and tightened the girth again. Cedric, especially, liked to puff himself out as much as possible to avoid what he considered a terrible indignity.

  He’d tried to put Lissa out of his mind, as much as possible, since leaving her the night before. He had a job to do. Patting Cedric and consoling him with a tired looking apple he’d lifted from the kitchens, he decided it was probably time to address th
e person standing behind him. The one who thought himself so cleverly hidden in the shadows.

  He’d seen Rose in the kitchens, too. She’d looked bad. She’d spoken to him, but he’d ignored her.

  Luckily for her.

  Rose seemed to think that if she petted and preened, she could weasel her way back into Hart’s good graces. What she didn’t realize was that she’d never been more than a cunt to him, even in his more jovial incarnation. Whatever feelings of friendship he’d had toward her had been due to her friendship with Isla. When she’d thrown that away, she’d thrown away any interest he might have had in her. Other than, of course, to see her suffer for what she’d done.

  And he knew how to make people suffer.

  “Hello, Rudolph,” he said.

  There was a gasp. “Wait—how did you know?”

  “Magic.” Hart still hadn’t turned. In truth, Rudolph wore very strong cologne, a mix of scents that not many Northmen would favor. And Hart had a sharp ear, and had heard him moving around in the hay as well.

  “You’re—it’s true, isn’t it.” Rudolph’s voice was full of awe.

  Hart turned. “Yes.”

  Everything was true, from a certain perspective.

  Rudolph took a step forward. He was less ridiculously dressed than usual, but still looked like an ugly whore who’d been forgotten by the circus. He fidgeted nervously. “I need your help.”

  Hart considered this. Behind the blank-faced mask that had at some point become habitual, he was surprised. Rudolph made it a practice to avoid him. Especially now.

  “You must be desperate, if you’re approaching me. Does your priest know you’re here?”

  “I…ah…no.” The fidgeting had become full on twisting, like he was wringing out imaginary laundry.

  “I see.”

  “You’re leaving soon. The whole castle knows it. On a mission you might not survive.”

  The new bridegroom’s talent for stating the obvious was truly exemplary.

  “I’m leaving today.” He studied Rudolph with interest. The man looked like he was about to vomit. “This must please you. Think of all the prayers you’ll be able to offer in thanks, as soon as this afternoon.”

  Or he could go down on his knees before whomever he’d found to serve as his confessor. Father Justin would have liked that, if he’d still been alive. Personally, Hart didn’t care what Rudolph did, with himself or anyone else, so long as he did it elsewhere. Hart had better things to do than stand there and be gawked at by a man child who, he very strongly suspected, was even now still a virgin.

  Despite having been married now for the better part of a week.

  Rudolph swallowed. “Take me with you.”

  “What?” And Hart had thought himself too jaded to experience true shock. More fool he.

  “I need you to—I mean—please take me with you. By all that is holy.”

  They didn’t find the same things holy, but Hart decided to let that pass.

  “I’m going to kill people. To crush their skulls and drink their blood and make their surviving loved ones suckle it from my cock.”

  Just in case Rudolph thought this was going to be a soiree. With costumes, and a wealth of picnic baskets. Like a particularly well-attended hunt.

  “I…I know.”

  Gods, what could he say that would get the fop off of this ridiculous idea?

  Hart thought about describing the sexual pleasure he’d no doubt gain from such an act, but didn’t. Rudolph might simply drop dead and he wasn’t especially keen on dealing with that fallout. So instead he waited. And what he heard next surprised him even more.

  “I know…and I don’t care. I’ll do it with you, if you want. Anything. Just”—he looked right, then left, as though they might be being spied upon—“you have to save me from Rowena.” His eyes found Hart’s again. “Please. I can’t bear it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just…I’ve always felt so sorry for her. She was always so sad. In need of love.

  “She—she made me believe that she was the victim. Of everything. That no one truly appreciated her, except me.”

  “And you married her for this?”

  “It was the chivalrous thing to do! And….” He trailed off into a miserable silence. “And until last year I thought I loved her.”

  “So your heart’s not simply weak, but changeable as well.”

  “It’s not like that!” And then, more moderately, “I—I’d promised. She’d told me that she’d end up in the clutches of someone like Tristan if I didn’t. That he’d make her perform unspeakable acts. She told me that she loved me, too. And I believed her.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “I see.”

  “She’s not a good person.”

  “I know.” Hart’s tone was dry.

  “No she…she says things about other people that I don’t like. About Asher.”

  Hart tensed. He wasn’t surprised, only to hear Rudolph admitting as much. The chit’s loathing for Asher was well known. Still, “if you’re accusing her of treason, you need to do it before the duke.”

  “I don’t think…she’d actually do anything.”

  Oh, she would. And Rudolph knew it, too. But Asher was well protected. And Rowena’s…proclivities were still no excuse for her husband to shirk his duty. He’d made his bed, literally and otherwise. He had no cause to go crying, just because he regretted that decision. That wasn’t what real life was about, wasn’t what true manhood was about, and Hart pointed out as much. Forsaken he might be, but he took a dim view of men who ran out on their wives.

  “But,” Rudolph said, “I might die.” He sounded hopeful.

  There was, indeed, honor in giving one’s life for one’s lord. But that wasn’t what was going to happen. “Rudolph, have you ever even held a weapon?”

  “I, ah…yes. I trained with my father’s master at arms.”

  At what, Hart wondered. Dressing the jousting dummies? “Life on the road isn’t fun. Forget battle. Soldiers don’t sleep in cushy inns, like you did on your way here, or stop for midmorning snacks. They sleep in the mud, with the wolves, and shit into holes in the ground.

  “You’re going to come along, thinking you’re having a grand adventure, and escaping your wife for awhile, the best of both worlds, and then halfway to Beaufort you’re going to come to your senses and beg to be returned home. Except, as many men as I get, I can’t spare any of them for nursemaids. And I can’t afford to carry dead weight.”

  “I’ll toughen up. I can do it.”

  “There won’t be any priests along, to offer you absolution.”

  “I…that’s okay.”

  “These men, they aren’t choirboys either. And we’re at war. There’s going to be rape. And murder. And I don’t mean on the battlefield. All the things that shouldn’t happen, but do. You talk a good game about dying for a cause, but there’s no pennants and bards scraping on strings and singing about honor where I’m going.”

  “But you are going.”

  “Do you think I’d wish this life, what I am, on another?” Hart shook his head. “Rudolph, stay home.”

  “You were allowed to make a choice.” Rudolph met his gaze levelly.

  Which was right. He had been. It was possible, Hart supposed, that apart from hating his wife Rudolph had simply grown sick of being the walking, talking butt of a joke. That he wanted to serve his kingdom. Do something more meaningful with his life than try on outfits. Everyone, Apple used to say, had to grow up sometime.

  As to the rest, he’d bear it somehow.

  “Fine.” He led Cedric past Rudolph, through the barn door and into the courtyard. “But you’ll have to meet me on the road. There’s one last thing I have to do, before I can leave.” He turned. Waiting, in the square of dark, was the man who’d be a soldier. Wearing a light blue tunic and a doublet embroidered with bumblebees.

  “And for the Gods’ sake, find some real clothes.”


  FIFTY

  “Ah.” Arvid breathed deeply. “This air is very bracing.”

  “Arvid,” Hart asked, “do you miss your wives?”

  If Arvid was surprised by the sudden change in topic, he gave no sigh. “Sigrid, yes. But when I left, she was with child and too round to travel. Like a gigantic egg.” He grinned.

  “And the others?”

  “Aja is mean-spirited, and Astrid is stupid. But I miss them both, yes. If a bit less. I miss how Aja screams and pulls my hair, and chases our thralls around with her eating knife. And I miss how Astrid laughs. Blessedly for her, she has a sweet disposition.”

  “Isn’t there a fourth?”

  “Yes. Borghild. But she lives now in the hall of her ancestors.” Meaning that she was no longer with them. “She passed into shadow, giving me my firstborn. Arfast. A good boy.” The tribesman’s expression grew serious. “She was my first wife. How I yearned for her to make me the wreath.” He swung into his saddle, an astonishing feat considering his bulk. Like watching a sack of onions fly through the air. Now his eyes were level with Hart’s, blue to green. “I honor her still.”

  “I mourn with you, brother.”

  “I don’t know if, had she lived, I would have taken the other wives.”

  “There are reasons, other than love, that a man marries.”

  They set off through the first of the main gates, and through the shadow of the guardhouse that loomed over head, and out onto the bridge connecting Caer Addanc to the mainland.

  “Yes. Which lies at the heart of my question, brother.”

  “Yes?”

  Around them, birds swooped and cried. The snow was still melting, but the North was coming alive. Before long, crops would be planted, farmers struggling in the knee deep mud. Planted, and then harvested. Life went on.

  “Why not marry them both?”

  “You know the answer to that question.”

  “It is sometimes the case,” Arvid began, “that a clan chief has a particularly ugly daughter. Or perhaps she is reasonably attractive, with milk white teats and a nice round rump, but the sour disposition of a goat. A he-goat, or a wether.