“Yes, lord. Lord Orlo and my lord the Roth decided it could add valuable knowledge to our coffers.”
He waved a hand. “Our new enemy means to attack. What more do we need to know?” He glanced towards the windows as if his thoughts were wandering. It would be foolhardy to trust that, but I allowed a portion of my attention to go to the windows as well. The palace enclosed an interior courtyard and this room overlooked it. The windows, larger than those on the lower and external walls of the palace, were open. A light wind feathered in, and I could smell apple blossoms.
“We must attack them first.”
I bit down. It wasn’t my place to debate the merits of this plan with him. “Even so, lord, surely it would be helpful to know as much as we can about the enemy.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. What is certain is that the stronger we are, the better. If we attack in surprise and in strength, we can overwhelm them before they realize what is happening.”
My patience splintered. “I have heard Lord Edwy used to say the best battle is one you don’t have to fight. By learning about our enemy we might avoid a war with them.”
“Edwy was not as clever as many believed. The Roth is new to his station. It makes him hesitate where a stronger man would strike.” Philip drew himself up. “I will strike.”
Behind my back my hands curled into fists. “Yes, lord.”
He looked surprised. I took advantage of his silence. “When may I begin, lord?”
“As soon as you like.” His smile said he believed he’d bested me. “Someone will show you to your room, then to the library.”
“Thank you, lord.”
The smile broadened. “Given how anxious you are to get to work, your presence will not be required at dinner tonight. Or any other night.”
Another insult. I was to eat in the kitchen with the servants. I clung to the shreds of my temper with both hands. “That will be most convenient, lord.”
“One more thing. Our clerk has become...indisposed—”
I suppressed a snort with difficulty, doubting I managed to keep my face even. Lord Orlo had said the clerk was a drunkard.
“—and is not always able to keep our records properly. While you are here, I expect you to assist him in these duties.” Philip folded his hands.
From that smooth movement I knew he understood how offensive his demand was and he reveled in making it. I was there on a desperate search, trying to save his home and mine from an unknown but obviously powerful enemy. He insisted I keep his drunken clerk’s accounts. If rage could set a man ablaze, Philip of Ragonne would have burnt where he sat. I nodded stiffly.
“Very good,” he said, satisfaction full in his voice. “I am glad we understand each other. But know this: war is coming. I will tolerate my cousin’s foolishness so long as it does not interfere with my preparations.” His eyes flicked away, dismissing me with more completeness than simply giving permission to leave. “You may go.”
Chapter VI
I followed the servant, humiliation and wrath squeezing my throat. My fingers leapt to my belt knife but I pulled them away. The Roth would not thank me for killing his cousin. Even this one.
Besides, if I were to kill a king…
***
I had not believed what was happening, even as I watched it happen. I had marked the woeful anniversary of our marriage by sitting up alone, wondering what would become of me. The five childless years required to show barrenness were complete. I watched the moon rise, wane, and set, saw the change of the guards on the wall at middle night. Later, the eastern sky sprouted light like mold on week-old bread, misplaced and forgotten behind the water jug.
The sun had been up for two hours when a maidservant came to pack my belongings. I had not summoned her. She bobbed an uneasy bow and did not look at me. She worked with care, folding my things neatly, but only those items I had brought with me. Every shift and gown Francis had given me remained. I wondered which of his mistresses he meant to bestow them upon.
Not long after noontide, there had come a rap upon the door. Francis’ steward stepped inside without waiting to be called. The arrogance of the action was customary. The compassion on his long face was not. Dread that had been fermenting in my gut since the night before foamed and rose as I wondered what Francis had planned that moved his haughty steward to pity. “You are sent for, lady.”
Lady. Not Queen. I knew what was coming, what I had expected since the maid packed my things.
I thought I knew. I didn’t.
We did not go to the stable but the hall, and I understood then that I had been wrong. I was not to be sent home quietly.
The hall was full when we arrived. It seemed as if every noble in Ferrant, his wife, and heirs, every wealthy merchant and his apprentices, every servant who could slip away from his duties and pretend to wait upon the king’s guests crowded Francis’ formal feasting hall, three times as large as my father’s.
The steward took me to the court herald and disappeared from my side like a shadow at noon.
“Maudlin of Bruster,” the herald intoned, the high ceiling booming my name—my old name—through the hall like drumbeats.
“Let her approach,” Francis called.
I heard the whispers of a thousand garments, but no throats, as the crowd drew apart to let me pass. The burden of their eyes dragged like a wet cloak.
Francis wore a gold-embroidered silk tunic and fine linen trousers. An ermine-lined cloak hung over all, so long it draped the arms of his throne and brushed the floor. His left hand rested on the head of a boy of about five, standing at his knee. Another boy, perhaps three, held the older’s hand. A woman, as lavishly dressed as the king, sat to his right. On her lap, she held a third boy, more than a year old but not quite two.
“Sire.” I gave him a queen’s bow. Small foolhardy gesture of rebellion.
Francis said nothing. His eyes met mine like sword upon shield. There had never been love within them. Contempt, always. Derision had never left his look, not even when he came to my bed to take me in duty and his own vile amusement. When his eyes darkened in his pleasure, disdain stayed.
I would like to think I fought him then, stare to stare, fought him though we stood unmoving, a clash of wills alone. But in truth, few heartbeats passed before I let my eyes drop. There was no path to triumph for me here, not even a way to leave with my honor intact.
I knelt, as any supplicant before the king, as he clearly wanted.
“What do you wish, Maudlin of Bruster?”
He summoned me before him, then spoke as if I had come to beg a boon. That you might fall dead where you sit, you bastard son of goatherd.
“As the king wishes, sire.” I spoke in a normal voice, and from my kneeling position, it was unlikely anyone, perhaps not even Francis himself, heard me.
“To be released from our marriage bonds?” His words reverberated through the hall. “That is well. It is good we are agreed. I also wish this. Five years have passed, and you have not given me an heir. Your barrenness is proven. More—” His voice rose. “I take it as a sign that my lords who urged against this alliance, whose advice I ignored in favor of the Brusterians’ enticements, spoke true. This match was so unfit that the royal blood of Ferrant refused to mingle with base Brusterian. A horse might more easily produce offspring with a sow.”
Murmurs ran through the crowd, like the rush of water in a rill after a sudden rain. I strained to listen, wondering if he had gone too far and lost the temper of the hall.
One burst of open laughter. Then another. The hall burst, a torrent of approving mirth echoing from the walls, the arching ceiling ringing with it.
Francis rose, the oldest boy stepping aside hastily. The crowd quieted. He held out his hand to me.
I dared enough to look up, feeling my eyebrows pull together as I tried to guess what shame he meant to inflict now and make it seem my choice. Finally he seemed to comprehend my confusion. He pulled the ring I had given him, the one my mother had pr
esented to my father upon their marriage and he had worn until her death. Understanding at last, I fumbled to slide his from my finger.
I dropped it on his outstretched palm. It hit the other with a small clang I saw as much as heard. He lifted his hand.
“The ill-conceived,” he paused to allow the crowd to chuckle appreciatively, “marriage between Francis, King of Ferrant, and Maudlin of Bruster, is at an end, through the just cause of her barrenness. The fault is hers, and hers alone.” One hand gestured expressively at the boys beside him. They bore his stamp like so many silver pennies. “I am free to take another wife. Upon the urging of my lords, I choose Hilde, daughter of the lord of Nilsom—”
In the tail of my eye I saw a red-faced man nodding vigorously, smiling. The new-made lord of Nilsom. Yesterday he had been a fishmonger, happy to pander his daughter to the king. Francis turned, holding out his other hand to her. She rose, settling the smallest boy on her hip. He took up his ring, yet warm from my finger, and slid it onto hers, then gave her my father’s ring to put upon his own.
Holding her hand, he drew her forward. “Queen Hilde.”
At his gesture, the boys stepped to his side. “Prince Henri. Prince Georg.” He jostled the babe on Hilde’s hip. “Prince Magne.”
“Our queen! Queen Hilde of Ferrant!” the crowd shouted, and continued to shout. “Prince Henri. Prince Georg. Prince Magne!” Francis let them, until the walls and ceiling rang once more. Finally he held up his hand. They quieted. He directed the new queen back to her chair, and her sons followed.
“You have leave to depart,” he said to me.
“As soon as my lord wishes,” I said. “Are horses and attendants ready?”
“Why should I spare either horses or attendants to guard that which has no worth?” he said.
Why should I spare either horses or attendants to guard that which has no worth? His words echoed in my head like the crowd’s shouts had echoed in the hall. I had heard them every day since, had seen them behind my eyelids when I tried to sleep, had thought of them when I dressed each morning as if they were written on the soles of my boots.
I rose slowly from numbed knees, bowed, and left. I had enough wit remaining to slip back to my rooms to take my best boots although they had been made in Ferrant, empty the bag that had been packed for me, and visit the storerooms to fill it with cheese, apples, and twice-baked bread.
It was a long walk from Ferrant to Logan, the closest of our allied nations, where I begged a Brusterian boat captain to take me to Reud.
***
Francis had been eminently worth killing. And, perhaps, my father...?
I had grappled that question before but was no closer to an answer. He had made the match with Francis to strengthen Bruster from a provincial power to a force within the larger political world of the Three Lands. The failure of the marriage, my failure, had shattered my father’s ambitions.
My attention jerked back to my surroundings. Why were we still going downstairs? The Black Keep could have fit into one of the palace’s upper floors, and there were lower levels too? What did they do with it all?
The first underground level clearly held the kitchen. My nose filled with the smell of the palace’s approaching supper, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten since morning. So close to our destination, we had decided not to stop at mid-day. If the aroma was anything to judge by, the household’s cook was excellent.
The servant went on, descending the odd angled stairs. They were narrower than the ostentatious set at the front of the palace, less than half their width, but they would still be more difficult to defend than proper spiraled steps. I began to be alarmed. They could not keep books down here. “Where are we going?”
The woman looked around. “To your quarters, lady.”
Ah. I let my breath out. A room in the lower levels was annoying but unsurprising. “Where are the books?”
“They’re here too.” I followed her into a passage. “For your convenience King Philip assigned you a room on the same floor as the library.” She opened a door. “Your room.” She indicated another door to the left, slightly open. “The books are in there.” She twisted her hands together. “May I go, lady? It’s almost supper time. I’m needed in the kitchen.”
I took two steps towards the second door, sniffing.
The woman repeated her question. Not really listening, I nodded, taking another step. I smelled mold coming from the library.
***
Inside, seated at a table, was...the clerk?
When Brusterian bards word-painted a fat and slovenly fool, they might have been thinking of this fellow. A manuscript lay before him, an open wine bottle and a loaf beside it, the piece in his hand dropping crumbs. Onto the book. For this offense, eating or drinking at a table where a book sat, any student in my library, as in Vere, would have been switched.
He belched. “What do you want, girl? You lost?”
Anger, roused by Philip and banked rather than extinguished, burst back into open flame. It was almost a relief to have this deserving and non-kingly target. “I am Doctora Maudlin Bann, Vere-trained clerk, and librarian to the Roth of Elbany. I have been sent by my lord to consult Philip of Ragonne’s books. You will show me to those books and,” I let my voice drop, “you will cease using them as table linen.”
He scratched his belly with his free hand. Something rumbled. I felt my nose wrinkle when the stench reached me. I waited, watching him, thinking of how hard I’d fought for the learning he shunted away.
He blinked, saying nothing. Finally he pushed his chair back and stood. “Be off, wench. You’re lost. And a liar.” He moved around the table. “Vere does not teach girls. Everyone knows that.”
His speech was clearer than I’d expected. I narrowed my eyes, not taking my gaze from him.
He leered, stepping closer. “Long as you’re here...” His hand was at his belt.
As was mine. My knife was out, the blood pounding hot in my ears. One more step. Even Philip could not object. It would be a favor. Ragonne could request a real clerk.
“The scholars taught me. And before them, my father’s armsmaster.” The point of my blade hovered between us. “Everyone also knows Brusterians are unmatched with the knife.”
Some caution seeped through. He took a step back. “Now, listen...”
I held my knife steady. “The books?”
Footsteps and a shuffling of parchment startled us both. Through a doorway to my left came a much younger man, carrying a pile of books and loose pages.
His lips rounded in surprise but the next moment his expression smoothed. “Good day, lady.”
I was impressed. Even in Bruster, a bared knife was usually worth mention.
“King Philip sent word you had come,” he continued, “but I didn’t expect you today.”
“Get your own, Hal,” the older man growled.
The younger man set his armload on the table. “I see you’ve already met Doctora Bann.” He stepped closer, looking into Domon’s eyes. “You remember. The clerk from Elbany? The king sent word she’s to have access to our books.” He touched his elbow, guiding the larger man back to his chair. “Finish your supper, Domon. I’ll see that the king’s commands are fulfilled.”
“The king.” Domon allowed himself to be seated. “The king my brother wants me to find books.” His hand went to his bottle. “And read them.” He patted the other’s hand. “You’re a good man.”
Hal tapped the book. “How is this one?”
Domon shrugged. “Another history.” He turned back to the book. With some difficulty, I resisted slapping the bottle out of his hand. The drunkenness was unsettling but not appalling: in Vere the scholars were known to indulge. But endangering a manuscript was unforgivable.
The young man picked up his pile again. “If you would follow me, lady.”
***
I stood in the doorway, speechless at the sight and smell of that inner room.
There were no windows. The whiff
of mildew I’d caught outside the first door was a choking reek here. The stench of rot mingled with the smell of damp stone and candle smoke. An astonishing amount of smoke from two flickering candles. Dark and damp. The slow death of books.
I scanned the room once more, horror ebbing somewhat as closer attention revealed efforts to preserve the books despite their surroundings. The room was neatly arranged, and neatly kept. Shelves lined the walls. Shelves of the proper size. The carpenters of Ragonne, at least, knew their craft. I’d not seen any like them before, but they were well designed for their location, made not of solid boards but narrow slats, minimizing each book’s contact with the surface. The volumes lay well apart, touching neither each other nor the wall. Air circulated as freely as possible. Nonetheless, the books were suffering. I could see warped leaves.
So many...
Lord Orlo’s estimate had been low, or his information old. Shelves stood along each wall except for a portion occupied by a worktable, sixteen sets in all. Each held about twenty books. Three hundred and twenty. A grandson, more likely a great grandson, of the Roth might see as many books in Elbany’s library. It was nearly one tenth of Vere’s.
It was dreadful but understandable that books might be scattered through the castles of Ragonne’s lords, moldering in neglect and ignorance, but to have searched for them, only to put them in the cellar like last year’s apples...Philip had gathered them to say he had a library before Elbany’s had even begun. That accomplished, he let them rot. I began to mutter in Brusterian, then stopped. I didn’t know anything vile enough to call him.
“May I speak plainly, lady?” The young man set his pile on the table.
“Please do,” I managed.
“My lord Philip collected these because the Roth is creating a library—”
“That’s what Lord Orlo said.”
“Then you already knew...” he paused, weighing his words, “it was unlikely they were kept well.”
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 4