The High King came escorted by no man. His backguard, my youngest brother Birnan, followed at the customary distance. It was the High King’s right that he went nowhere in public, not even within his own keep, without a sword of unquestionable loyalty at his back. In their own courts, the under-kings could decide whether to keep a man at their backs, demonstrating their importance and their caution, or dismiss him, showing their confidence in the security of their household. In the Black Keep, only the High King merited a backguard.
Birnan joined Murrow and Cedrick. The High King stepped onto the dais. He stood for a long moment behind the high table in his place, looking out and through the hall, seeing, I knew, who met his gaze, who glanced away, who seemed discomfited by his consideration.
My breath caught as I watched him. I could not have said how many years it had been since I’d seen him in the formal attire of the High King. I had forgotten how well it sat upon him. The snowy white linen shirt, embellished with gold and green braiding, belted over brown linen breeches. Noble, but not ostentatious. Dark cloth was ten times as dear as undyed. The white shirt was yet more difficult and costly. The fabric had to be washed and laid out to bleach in the sun a dozen times. Only the most royal wore true white. His cloak was as black as his boots, clasped at the right shoulder. He was too far away for me to see it, but I knew the ancient bone pin that held his cloak, its triangular base carved with an image of the clustered islands, a small black-and-gray speckled stone, surely a fragment of the black mountain, inlayed in the place of the Keep.
Francis’ raiment had been far costlier, gold thread used in much more than his braiding. Philip of Ragonne, too, boasted regalia as fine as his palais. The High King appeared in court as his father had, and further back. Well-cut garments of the finest cloth. But the elegant braiding at his cuffs and collar was the only showy part of his attire. The bone pin was brazenly modest; any farmer in his thatched hut could whittle a pin of bone. It bore a similarly common decoration. Not a costly Valenian gem, but a bit of the black mountain such as anyone might pick up from the shore. The court apparel of the High King bespoke age and tradition, and a lineage so secure in its authority that it need not flash the new fashion. It showed the difference between real power and mere wealth.
The King stood for a moment longer behind the high table, then with deliberate and slow dignity, sat.
***
Rustling filled the hall as the under-kings, then Utor, and finally those at the side tables, took their seats. Murrow came to the empty chair on my right.
“Maudlin!” His lips barely moved. Another of the noble’s skills I’d never mastered. “We are glad you’re home. Even so,” by which, I knew, he meant the Saradenian letter.
Cedrick grinned like a lantern flash as he sat across from me. He had not lost his impishness, then, but had learned to conceal it. “Poor Birnan,” he whispered in mock sympathy. “We get you, and he has to stand behind the King, watching Utor try to remember not to wipe his knife on the tablecloth.”
Murrow squeezed my hand. Then he turned, his posture, the hold of his head, even the light in his eyes becoming guarded. “Ladies,” he bowed his head to the queen consorts, “may I present my sister, Doctora Maudlin Bann, princess of Bruster, Vere-trained scholar, and clerk to the Roth of Elbany?”
Two heads dipped in polite greeting and one in a cursory nod, but I gave each a proper response. “Her companion,” Murrow continued. “Master Hal Carlson of Ragonne.”
Hal’s bow went unnoticed. Three pairs of feminine eyes stayed, appraisingly, on me. Even for Lady Wealdin and Lady Yvein, who’d met me before, I surely was an object of interest. Before, I’d been the High King’s daughter. Now I was his cast-off, barren, willful, long-absent daughter, returned but perhaps not fully received. All three must be wondering how my presence might affect the next day’s counsel.
Lady Lida’s gaze moved to Hal. I was right; there was calculation within that beauty. She thinks Hal brought a message and I accompany him, to cloak his doings and ease his access to the High King.
Murrow interrupted further scrutiny. “You remember prince Cedrick,” he said. “Especially you, Lady Wealdin, from his fosterling years.”
She smiled. “Certainly. Although he could not look over my head then.”
“A tribute to the excellence of your household,” Cedrick said. He returned her smile with his roguish grin, seeming years younger. “I’m nearly as tall as Utor.”
Lady Wealdin let noble impassivity slip enough to laugh. “You may catch him yet.”
He looked doubtful. She smothered a second laugh. His mouth opened, but his face froze as he realized he had let formality slip further than he ought in open court. He must have liked Lady Wealdin very much. Perhaps that was not surprising. Cedrick’s fostering had begun early, only a year after our mother’s death, and I had heard that Lady Wealdin had taken special care of the bereaved prince. Such connections were crucial if Bruster were to ever calm the crackling suspicion among its lords, a primary reason the High King had introduced the Elbish custom of fostering.
“Prince Utor is a fine heir,” Lady Lida said, smoothing over Cedrick’s embarrassment. “I am sure my lord of Eban hopes our son will prove as well.”
So she had already given Petrus an heir. I wondered how old the child was.
“Height is no true measure of a man’s stature,” Lady Yvein said.
Lady Wealdin’s brow furrowed, clearly forgetting to conceal her thoughts in her astonishment at Lady Yvein’s rude misapprehension.
“Certainly not.” Lady Lida’s composure remained unruffled. “The Prince has many merits.”
Lady Yvein sniffed, but further response was forestalled by the first course.
“Did you speak to the cook, Cedrick?” Lady Wealdin spooned herself a portion. The dishes, like all else about the evening, honored the gathered rulers. The first was Soludin roasted fish. “I remember how much you liked this dish.”
“The Steward did ask the princes’ thoughts on the courses.” Cedrick tasted the fish. “Kimbur did very well. But it is not quite the same.”
Lady Wealdin took another bite. “No, indeed,” she protested. “It is just as it should be.”
Cedrick said Lady Wealdin was kind to say so but he was certain the fish was not as he recalled. As Lady Wealdin restated her conviction that the Soludin dish had been reproduced exactly, I turned my attention to Lady Yvein, intrigued by her undisguised disdain. Was she unable to conceal her thoughts, like me? If she could cloak her reactions, why didn’t she? As I watched, she took one bite of the Soludin fish, then her mouth twisted and she laid down her knife and spoon. Not wanting to attract her notice, I moved my gaze to Lady Lida.
“My lord,” Lady Lida said to Murrow, “you fostered in Elbany?”
“Yes, lady,” he answered. “In the court of Lord Garland.”
The father of Lady Elsbeth. My brother might have met her there, and perhaps the Roth himself when he was Douglas of Elbs and his marriage to Lord Garland’s daughter was being arranged. It was strange to think of Murrow with my Elbish patrons. The Roth and Lady Elsbeth might know more of me than I’d hoped, coming to Elbany to begin anew.
Which was patently ludicrous. Of course they already knew all about me. The tangled web of relations among nations and nobles suddenly seemed a smothering weight, and I wished to be back in my Elbish library, teaching my copyists—no, the quill in my own hand, the exemplar text before me, inscribing old lines into a new book, the task both mindless and engaging, and sweet immersion in words.
“Did Lord Garland have Ragoni roses in his garden?” Lady Lida asked. “Mine are not thriving. If you saw them cared for, you might be able to advise me.”
“Alas. I spent little time in the gardens, lady. Lord Garland’s fostering focused upon weapon skills.” Murrow let a smile flash. “I may still have bruises.”
She returned his smile but amusement did not show in her eyes. Her attention slid to Hal. “Perhaps Master Carls
on would have a suggestion.”
Hal turned. “I’m sorry, lady, did you speak to me? Lady Wealdin was telling me about Soludin fishes, one of which becomes this excellent dish.”
She repeated her question. She could now inspect him as he explained that while like Murrow, he spent few hours in his lord’s garden, he had been in Ragonne for several years and had learned one or two things about their roses. She nodded encouragingly as he described Ragoni plants’ preference for the longer Valenian days. Since she was seated at the end of the table nearest the dais while Hal was at my left, their voices were raised, but not so loudly as might be supposed. All other speech among us ceased. The other queen consorts also welcomed a chance to consider the Ragoni visitor.
“Is Ragonne really much warmer?” Lady Yvein’s gaze flicked between Hal and Lady Lida. “Most of Valenna is, I know, but Ragonne is not far from Bruster.”
“The mountains keep Bruster and Elbany cool, lady,” Hal said.
“Elbany’s northern mountains,” Murrow said, “are as high as Bruster’s.” He paused. “Crossing outside the Conlo pass is...challenging.”
“Impossible, most would say,” Lady Wealdin said.
“I would not say they are wrong,” Murrow said.
I wondered about Murrow’s fostering, that he knew something of the terrors of Elbany’s northern mountains. Even the Conlo pass was neither easy nor quick, I’d learned on my journey to Ragonne.
I’d not traveled the land route between Elbany and Ragonne before my journey with Orlo. The mud and chill of May, the river high and swift, its roar echoing among the surrounding mountains. The horses of Orlo and his men had clearly trodden the narrow trail that crawled between water and rock before. But the mount I’d been given obviously had not. I’d patted the skittish mare, crooning words instantly lost in the water’s rush. As the horse’s distress worsened, I decided I’d have to lead her. But the path was barely wider than the horse. If I dismounted I could easily be knocked into the river. Both the horse and I might fall in if her frightened dancing continued. As I appraised the inches between hooves and river, Orlo glanced over his shoulder.
Grasping the problem in an instant, he clicked his tongue and slipped his reins over his horse’s head. When his man turned, not so deafened by the water’s roar he did not hear his master’s summons, Orlo tossed him the reins. Freeing his feet from his stirrups, he pushed himself back and off the saddle, patting his horse’s rump as he slid over its tail. A warrior’s horse, to tolerate such a strange and uncomfortable dismount, I thought, busy as I was with my own. Meeting my mare’s eyes and speaking words I could not hear, Orlo eased his hands up to her bridle.
I was irked at the need for his assistance but before that slow walk ended, I was grateful for it. I doubted I could have guided the nervous mare alone. Once through, he begged pardon for not ensuring I’d been given an experienced horse. I told him I regretted not realizing the mare was in trouble sooner. The path widened as it sloped towards Ragonne. He rode beside me, talking of the challenge the mountains had been to Otto. Intrigued, I forgot his behavior in Rothbury for a time and spoke with him. Later, those moments confused me when I thought of them, before his letter had come. The glint in his black eyes had not felt like derision.
Chapter VII
Remembered black fire in Orlo’s eyes and the road to Ragonne faded.
“I visited Rothbury once with Lord Garland,” Murrow was saying. “But Maudlin would know better.”
Lady Wealdin turned to me, smoothing her skirt. “Are the Roth and Lady Elsbeth well?”
“Very well.”
She opened her mouth again.
“No children yet,” I said. “Nor none expected, when I left.”
“That was my question, I confess. I will hazard another.” She covered one hand with the other. “It has been many years since I was in Elbany. I wondered—”
“Left? For Ragonne?” Lady Yvein interrupted. “What had Elbany’s ‘librarian’ to do in Ragonne?”
Outrage at her tone was shouldered aside by astonishment not just at her rudeness but also that she knew I had been in Ragonne. I saw consternation shimmer on my brothers’ faces for an instant before it was wiped away.
“Perhaps Ragonne moves with aid against Bruster,” Lady Yvein said.
Lady Wealdin’s composure crumbled. Face flushed, she seemed silent only because she had not yet found words dire enough to respond to Lady Yvein’s insinuation that Elbany would join forces with Ragonne against Bruster. Then she caught herself. Watching her breathe deep, struggling for control, I found my irritation manageable, even as I was troubled by Lady Yvein’s provocations.
“What had Elbany’s librarian to do in Ragonne?” I repeated. “Books, of course. King Philip’s clerk found some. I was sent to decide whether to copy any.”
“King Philip has books?” Murrow said, helping steer the conversation to a safer path.
“I would not have supposed Philip of Ragonne interested in books,” Lady Wealdin said. Her voice quavered, indignation not quite suppressed.
“He may not be,” Lady Lida said. “But Elbany will have a library, so most likely King Phillip feels he must also.”
There were definitely wits in Lady Lida as well as beauty, I thought.
“Did you find what you sought?” Lady Wealdin asked. Her face smoothed until it showed only earned lines of age, but she grasped the edge of the table one-handed, as if steadying herself.
I clamped my own hands together in my lap to keep them still as I studied her. Did you find what you sought? Not Did you find books to copy? Did Lady Wealdin suspect I sought something else? Or was I so taut with suspicion I saw meaning where none lay?
She blinked, and I let that break my scrutiny. Probably Lady Wealdin, like the rest of us, was grasping for topics that did not invite Lady Yvein’s scorn. “Not in Ragonne,” I said. “But I went next to Vere, where I borrowed several volumes.”
“You return soon to Elbany?” Lady Lida asked.
“Yes,” I said. “The Roth is anxious for his library to begin in earnest.” My shoulder was jostled by a servant, slipping between myself and Murrow to set down the second course. I frowned, surprised Gustor would allow such a clumsy man to serve at court. Perhaps he was nervous, the fault uncommon. But he had not even asked pardon. I would speak to Gustor about him later.
“I have heard Ferrant has nearly as many books as Vere. More, some say.” Lady Yvein’s voice came clear and cold down the table. “Is that so, Doctora Bann?”
I wondered again how Lady Yvein knew such a thing. My consternation must have been evident. Her smile broadened.
Francis meant to keep Ferrant’s collection secret, like so many kings before him. But Francis had forfeited my loyalty. “Ferrant does own books,” I allowed. “But not more than Vere.”
“If the Roth seeks books to copy, surely he will send you...back...to Ferrant?”
At least this jab was unmistakable, prodding a known bruise, perhaps for no other purpose than to see the wince. Perhaps. “He may.”
“Why?” Lady Wealdin asked. “Surely you read them already. Send a message, if there are books suitable, asking to borrow them.”
The question seemed honestly asked. I ate shame and answered it. “I have not. The King of Ferrant would not allow it.”
Lady Yvein’s smile returned.
“Ah.” Lady Wealdin’s impassivity wavered enough for me to see her real sympathy.
“King Petrus,” Lady Lida began, glancing towards where her husband sat at the high table and the kings ate around a conversation clearly as stilted as ours, “has agreed to consider having our son instructed in letters.”
Which suggested, I thought, that Lady Lida had urged it.
“Clerks’ work,” Lady Yvein said.
“It can be hard to let go of the...old...ways,” Lady Lida said.
Lady Yvein’s lip curled at the insinuation about her age. Point to Petrus’ new queen, I thought. Lady Lida continued as
if she had seen nothing amiss. “The High King finds merit in letters.”
Lady Yvein’s let her gaze slide to me in unmistakable contempt for the result of the King’s experiment.
Murrow’s hand squeezed mine under the table. “Have you tried the Verune soup?”
Watching my hand as if it would not move otherwise, I tasted the soup. I was surely hungry, although I did not feel it. I’d not eaten since Vere. But the Verune dish did not stoke my appetite. It was too salty for any but an acclimated tongue.
Lady Wealdin took her turn at conversational shepherding. Noting the hall’s tapestries, she asked Lady Lida if she had made any. Lady Lida responded she was still weighing a subject. Lady Wealdin engaged the topic with enthusiasm, leaning slightly towards the other woman as she spoke. Then she nodded at me. “Are any of these tapestries your mother’s?”
“Not the one of Ator,” I said. “But those above the other hearth are.”
“They’re very well done,” Lady Wealdin said. “Whom do they portray?”
“On the left is Magistre Feun. The other is High King Bluditor.”
“Fitting men to grace the company of Ator.” Lady Lida brushed a golden curl, escaped from her braid, back from her temple.
“Legends and quill minders,” Lady Yvein sneered. “Have we no real heroes?”
Murrow and Cedrick shared a glance, concern hovering below their trained impassivity like a fish in a pool.
“After Cynan Maccus, the founder of Vere, Magistre Feun was the most famous scholar to ever live,” Lady Lida said.
Lady Yvein considered her nails. “A man wields a sword.”
“Ator and Bluditor were warriors, lady,” Murrow said.
“Stories. Fables.” Lady Yvein bit the words like a crisp pickle.
“Mayhap they were real before they were stories, lady,” Cedrick said.
“Ator is said to have conquered the known world. Bluditor is supposed to have died fighting an overwhelming invading force.” Yvein twitched her shoulder dismissively, sending the end of her braid arcing out. “If such men lived and such deeds were done, why do we not know more of them?”
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 39