by P. J. Fox
Asher rolled his eyes. “You’re such a girl. Fred isn’t a warhorse name.”
“And what will you do when you become a squire?”
“Kill people.”
“Oh.”
“Only people who deserve to die, of course,” Asher reassured her. He rolled his mug around on the blanket. A squirrel came over to investigate, and he fed it a piece of his apple. “Bad people, people who want to hurt the king or ravish pretty ladies and rob them of their virtue.”
“What about ugly ladies?”
Asher considered this proposition for a minute. “Them, too.”
“Well that’s good to know.”
“A true knight is always nice to ugly ladies.”
“Is he, now?” Isla fought down her amusement.
“Yes. Lord Tristan says so.”
“Does he.” Isla arched an eyebrow.
“But don’t worry, you’re not ugly.”
“Thank you for the compliment!” Isla laughed.
The squirrel, claiming its apple piece, darted away.
“You’re welcome.” Asher smiled benevolently.
“And then what?” she prompted. “Become a knight?”
“Yes!” His face fell. “I’ll have to, since I have no title anymore, of my own.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean—”
They were interrupted then by the arrival of Apple, trailing an unpleasant-looking Rowena.
At exactly the wrong moment, Isla thought with chagrin. She felt terrible; she hadn’t meant to bring up a sore subject and, indeed, found it altogether too easy to forget the true nature of Asher’s circumstances. His own acceptance, at least of Tristan, proved strangely seductive. But he was a captive, and the king had locked up his uncle probably for the rest of his life. Moreover, Asher’s uncle having been stripped of his earldom and Derwent lands having reverted to the crown, Asher could inherit on neither his mother’s side nor his father’s. House Terrowin, too, was defunct. Asher was, in the truest sense of the word, an orphan—without parents, or parentage, without title or name or future but for what the king chose to grant him. Or Tristan.
Given which, it struck Isla as remarkable how well the two seemed to get along. Asher was an astute child; he must know that Tristan had been largely responsible for his father’s death. Tristan had all but engineered the coup that put his brother Piers on the throne, and had planned the strategy of the war that followed. The Battle of Ullswater Ford, where Brandon Terrowin and thousands of other men had died, had been entirely of Tristan’s making.
The two women sat down. Rowena arranged her skirts neatly around her. Apple gestured at one of the servants to bring her more cider. She was wearing an expensive gown of light green wool; where she’d gotten her hands on enough money for such an extravagant purchase, Isla had no idea. And, quite frankly, didn’t want to. “Some of the duke’s men are very handsome.” Apple grinned wickedly. “And quite…enthusiastic. I am simply exhausted from all the excitement. Last night….”
She nattered on, telling some story involving one or two or maybe even ten of the duke’s men, Isla wasn’t listening. She stared off into the glade, wondering where Tristan was now and how the hunt was faring. The light had begun to change, reflecting the slow passage of the sun across the sky. Noon had given way to afternoon. Soon, this lunch would be more of a supper. Which suited Isla just fine; she wanted the time to pass quickly, so she could speak with Tristan again. She was still, despite his earlier actions, unsure of where she stood with him. Of what he truly wanted.
She wondered how many women he’d been with. That Tristan Mountbatten was no celibate had been more than obvious. Did he have other women, even now? He’d said he didn’t keep a mistress, at least, not that she’d recognize as such. Which suggested that there was a woman—or perhaps many women. And why shouldn’t there be, she reasoned with herself: he was a grown man who, until very recently, hadn’t known her to trip over. He was who knew how old and, for at least the last hundred or so years, he’d had the same needs as any man. She could hardly hold what he’d done before he knew of her existence against him. And she didn’t, not really; it would be enough, she thought, to know what his intentions were. He’d told her he wanted her to be his but…what did that mean? From him, what did that mean?
She wondered, too, where Father Justin’s catamite had disappeared to—really. Tristan’s explanation had suggested that he’d somehow been complicit in the murder and Isla could well believe such a thing. She didn’t think she’d care to be treated so by a lover, cherished in private and ridiculed in public. Father Justin publicly condemned the love of a man for another man, urging all faithful churchgoers to accept that participation in such sinful behavior was the shortest route to Hell.
Resentment, yes, Isla understood resentment; but enough resentment to kill? She’d like to think no but, the truth was, she didn’t know. She’d never been in that desperate of a position. She did know, however, what it felt like to be trapped. She would have cheerfully killed Father Justin to escape him, if only she’d had the strength and skill to do so. And she’d be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t fantasized about doing something horrible to her father. To be let down, and so badly, by someone one had trusted….
“Isla, you’re woolgathering again!” Rowena’s exclamation was cheerful enough, but held more than a note of reproach. Clearly, she thought Isla should have attended the conversation with bated breath. A conversation that, from the brief snatches that Isla had caught, seemed to have been mainly about dresses and food and the stupidity of men.
“I was saying,” Rowena repeated without being asked, “that men are all idiots and need women to care for them. Otherwise, they’d live in squalor and probably perish from starvation sitting in the larder and waiting for a meal to appear.”
“Perhaps,” Isla said, feeling unaccountably irritated by Rowena’s never-ending and near mindless banter, “the problem is that such an attitude only attracts men willing to be thought foolish.”
Asher laughed. Rowena glared at him. Apple, meanwhile, looked thoughtful as she sipped her drink. “You have a point, there,” she said finally. She turned to Asher. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” She introduced herself, and Asher responded with a surprising grace. Someone had taught him manners, after all. Apple smiled, pleased. “You, Sir, are a knight already.”
“I intend to take my vows at twenty-one,” the page replied seriously. Twenty-one was the earliest that a man might do so, and many were not knighted until much later—if at all. Asher’s plan was ambitious. “At the Solstice,” he added.
“And what order will you pledge to?” Apple asked.
“The Order of the Dragon. Like Lord Tristan.”
Each chivalric order served a slightly different purpose, and some were harder to obtain than others. Membership in the Order of the Dragon was granted by the king and no other, and only to those members of the nobility who’d already proved their worth to both crown and kingdom. It was one of the oldest orders in the kingdom; Tristan, Isla realized, must have joined before…he changed. Asher confirmed this suspicion a minute later, when he explained to Apple that Tristan himself had been knighted at the incredibly young age of twenty-one after successfully defending Darkling Reach against an enemy incursion.
The purpose of the order was both to defend the kingdom against outside threat and to achieve domestic cohesion. Its members were diplomats, peacemakers, and other architects of change. Sometimes rough change, like at Ullswater Ford where Asher’s father was captured and executed on a cold and rain-swept field by a river run high and overflowing with the mangled dead.
Although the specific list of mutual obligations between knight and king were known only to those parties themselves, Isla knew that members swore an oath of loyalty directly to the king—as well as to the queen, and to their future sons. They were an institutionalized royal faction, decried by some as nothing more than a group of thugs who got rewards and favors in return
for doing the king’s dirty work. But whatever honors were heaped upon them, and however justly, the order was powerful and membership in it was almost a guarantee of political success.
“His Grace has been good to you, then?” Apple asked directly.
“I am most fortunate,” Asher responded. Somewhat carefully, Isla thought.
She studied the boy, wondering. But Apple asked him more questions and he slowly relaxed, telling her about his hawk—who carried the improbable name of Fluffy—his horse and his chess set and how he bedeviled his masters at every opportunity. He’d grown quite good at escaping from his classroom, easing himself out through the narrow window and climbing onto the parapet outside. He clearly wasn’t afraid of heights—or of much. But he was afraid of something, though; Isla had seen that shadow pass over his face before. Asher, for such a small boy, already knew well how to guard his tongue.
“How,” Rowena interjected, “can you speak so highly of the man who killed your father?”
Asher froze. Apple’s mouth fell open. Isla blinked, wondering if she’d heard her sister right. Could Rowena really be saying this, and to a small child? Rowena, who’d never had a malicious thought in her life? Isla studied her sister’s narrowed eyes and white-lipped grimace, and then transferred her gaze to Asher. Asher said nothing, but his eyes were defiant.
Rowena met their stares, equally defiant. “Oh, come on,” she said, “don’t act like it isn’t common knowledge.” Isla was shocked at the venom in her tone. A chill seemed to infect the air, where before the breeze had felt pleasant. “All his men brag about it, in the practice yard. How he”—he meaning Tristan—”captured the man on the battlefield and dragged him, screaming, through the mud to the command tent. How he made him kneel down before him outside, in the rain, and beg for his life; and how, afterward, he ran him through with his sword.”
Rowena turned to Isla, ignoring Asher entirely now. Asher, who’d turned the color of milk. “His sword is named Morrigan, you know; the goddess of death who punishes oath breakers, in the North.” She sniffed. “Heathens.”
“Rowena,” Isla began, “I really don’t think that—”
“You don’t think. Well listen to that. He”—Brandon Terrowin—“didn’t die right away, you know. He lay moaning in the mud for hours, while life went on around him, and no one lifted a finger to help.”
Asher’s lower lip trembled. “My father—”
“You refuse to even carry his last name.”
Apple glared. “Rowena, enough!”
“Rudolph says that he was the true king.”
“Rowena!” Isla gasped, horrified. She reached out a hand, as if to silence her sister’s traitorous words.
She could scarcely credit what she was hearing. And if they were to be overheard by the wrong ears, if Rowena’s assertions of Rudolph’s loyalties were to be overheard, then that would ruin him. Sedition was a crime punishable by death, and tensions were high in a country just now knitting itself back together after a decades-long civil war. She heard movement behind her and froze, imagining that there stood a representative of the king’s. Or their neighbor the Earl of Strathearn’s. Or, even worse, Tristan’s. Her chest tightened so painfully she could barely breathe. She turned; thank the Gods, it was Hart. He looked as upset as she felt.
“Come on, now, what’s this?” he demanded. Looking around the glade, Isla saw with a sinking heart that the hunt had returned. Rowena was still carrying on, describing the once-heir’s death in gruesome—and undoubtedly imaginary—detail. She certainly hadn’t been there; how could she possibly know?
Hart took quick stock of the situation and, with a concerned glance at Asher, strode forward. “Enough,” he said firmly, pulling Rowena to her feet. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but—”
“Well if you’d been around, instead of leaving us all in the lurch while you were off gallivanting with the duke—”
“Rowena, stop!” He stepped back, studying his half-sister with a critical eye. Hart might have his moments, but he was no fool and he knew that something was badly wrong. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, in a softer tone. He sounded wondering, and Isla knew that he’d been just as shocked as she to see this chance come over their sister. She wasn’t…hadn’t been…herself. Isla, too, felt like she was staring at a stranger.
Rowena opened her mouth to respond and then, “hullo! Hullo! Capital day, isn’t it? How’s everyone enjoying themselves? I say….” Rudolph trailed off, his normally cheerful expression sagging into one of dismay as he realized that something was very badly wrong. “Rowena?” he queried. “Darling?”
“You’re practically prostituting yourself to him!” Rowena shouted at Hart. “You couldn’t stop licking his boots from the moment he arrived! What are you going to do next, you fool, suck his cock?”
“Rowena!”
Gods, Isla thought, would everyone just stop repeating themselves?
Rudolph looked almost as upset as Asher. Asher regarded the proceedings with stoic quiet, but Rudolph looked to be on the verge of tears. He hadn’t probably thought that his darling even knew such a word. Isla was a bit surprised, herself; she didn’t think any references to sucking cock appeared in The Chivalrous Heart.
“Now you listen here,” Hart began, “I will not—”
“Turtledove,” Rudolph pleaded, “buttercup, please, sit down. You feel unwell—I imagine, ah, the sun has been strong. I’ll fetch you some cider and then—”
“Moss?” Rowena returned her wrath to Asher, the pale-eyed, too thin boy who’d already suffered so much and who was bravely making the best of a terrible situation. In truth, Isla hadn’t known that it was Tristan who’d killed his father but she wasn’t the least bit surprised to find out. Tristan was an able commander and had been in command of the king’s troops at Ullswater Ford. He’d killed an enemy of the king’s; this was war. Did Rowena imagine that knights sang songs to each other on the battlefield?
“What,” she shrieked, losing what little grasp she still had on her last few shreds of self-control, “have you finally accepted the rumors and labeled yourself as the bastard you are? Why, I—”
Her head snapped to the side as Tristan hit her, knocking her to the ground. He used the back of his closed fist, connecting squarely with the side of her face. She cried out, clutching at herself as she stared up at him in shock. If he’d been wearing gauntlets, he would have broken her jaw. He glared down at her, his eyes full of the same cold fury that radiated from his tense, still frame. Everyone watched, transfixed, to see what would happen next.
“That,” he hissed, “is a child.” He could have shouted. That his voice remained so deadly calm was what made his response terrifying. Rowena trembled, her fit over as quickly as it had begun and aware suddenly, horribly, that she’d made a terrible mistake. She opened her mouth, and shut it again. Tristan made no move to help her up. He made no move at all.
She pressed disbelieving fingertips into her cheek. “You hit me.”
“Yes, and if you want to fight with someone who can fight back I’ll gladly hit you again.”
“But I’m, I’m—a lady!” she protested.
“I’ve seen no evidence of such a thing.” Tristan’s voice was cold. “It is only as a favor to your sister that you’re not dead. I suggest that you be grateful.”
“Rudolph thinks you’re a traitor.” Rowena sounded like a mulish child.
“What?” Rudolph protested, dithering. “I do not!”
Asher, standing next to Isla in the now-silent glade, two spectators among many, pressed his lips together in a thin line and said nothing. He looked so horribly too old in that moment. Isla placed her hands on his shoulders and pulled him back against herself, holding him. He let her. Neither of them spoke.
“I support the king,” Rudolph continued, “which you know perfectly well. What you claim I said, lady, you’ve gravely misrepresented. I merely meant that—”
Tristan waved his hand, sile
ncing the man. Isla, too, believed that Rudolph was telling the truth; he was too stupid for treason, and his outrage seemed genuine. People, of course, pretended other than their true loyalties all the time but Rudolph wasn’t that good of an actor. From the beginning, he’d shown nothing but enthusiasm for an alliance that would bring his family great opportunities—economic and otherwise.
Which was, perhaps, Rowena’s problem: did she want her future husband to be the king’s enemy? To be Tristan’s? And why in the Gods’ names would Rowena suddenly hate Tristan—hate them all—so much? Isla couldn’t understand it. She wished, more than ever, that she had Cariad to talk with. But Cariad, like so much of Isla’s former life, was gone forever.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Isla’s father had agreed, finally, to go ahead with the funeral.
And now here she was. She shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, her hands folded in her lap and her back aching, and wished this beastly exercise were over. The smell in the chapel had been bad to begin with, and with each passing minute was growing nigh on appalling. The hunt had only been the afternoon before last, but Isla felt like a thousand years had passed since then. The same handful of unseasonably warm, summer-like days that had brought her so much pleasure had brought them to their present pass. And her memories, once so beautiful, now tasted like ashes in her mouth. What was she doing?
Meanwhile, their own parish priest droned on.
He extolled Father Justin’s virtues, a man he’d little known except to loathe. The dead, Isla had noticed, were often reborn in their eulogies. However wretched they’d been in life they were remembered, once gone, as sterling examples of humanity. Inconvenient facts were discarded, new ones invented, and what truth managed to survive embroidered almost beyond recognition. So it had been with her own mother. Hart’s mother, alone of all of them, had deserved every bit of praise that could be offered a woman. And received none of it.
Isla sat next to Asher, behind Tristan and his retainers and across the aisle from Rowena. The earl and Apple sat in the front as well, in front of Rowena and across the aisle from Tristan. Isla and Rowena, being unmarried women, were personages of lesser importance. Beside her, Asher said nothing. The already solemn little boy had been even quieter than usual of late. His easy, joking manner in the glade had been something of an aberration—one all too soon cut short. Isla had been so hopeful, that afternoon, that he’d emerged from his shell at last. She spared a quick glance at Rowena. She and her sister hadn’t spoken much, either. In truth, no one had spoken much to anyone.