Fair, Bright, and Terrible

by Kingston, Elizabeth

  “What does it matter? She will always hold your heart, Robin, whatever her true nature.”

  “Nay. I cannot love her as she is.”

  “Oh?” Kit did not look at him, but he fairly reeked of skepticism as he turned back to look over the crowd in the hall. “As you say. Then you will not mind if that little Polly keeps me company tonight.”

  “Polly?”

  “Red hair. Sweet mouth. Blue eyes that are rarely off you.” Kit drank down the rest of his ale in a long gulp. “If you’re to sleep in your own bed, I have a mind to offer myself as consolation to the poor lass.”

  “Go,” said Robert with a smile. He tried not to think of the cold bed that awaited him. “I will avoid any red-headed maidens I see on my quest to refill my cup.”

  “My thanks. And I will lend my counsel, Robin, from my years of experience: marriage requires a fair amount of ale in a man’s belly, but not this much, and not this soon.”

  Robert pushed off the wall and looked steadily at his friend. “If you will act with discretion with your Polly, I will drink my ale with moderation.”

  But he was drunk within the hour and stayed that way long into the night. By a grave miscalculation, he was beginning to sober as he stumbled into the room where Eluned slept behind the bed curtains. The fires were banked, the air was crisp, and he was tired and hazy enough to succumb to the promise of warmth inside. His hand found the split in the heavy curtains, warm air flowing over his fingers. She lay on the far side of the bed, a lump beneath the blankets. He climbed in and said her name, but the only answer was her even breathing.

  He could not forget that he had dreamed of this. Of sharing a bed with her, all through the night. Of waking to her warm body next to his. He held himself very still as he lay on his side facing her, trying to calculate the distance between their bodies as his head slowly stopped its drunken spinning. His hand rested between them and he realized his fingers were touching her braid, a thick rope that ended in a soft tail of hair.

  It, at least, felt the same as he remembered. He rubbed it between his fingers and thought again of the darkness between stars. It was the same darkness that held her apart from him now, filled with all the empty and broken years since last they had lain by each other’s side.

  Do not risk death to win a heart that is yours, she had said to him with tears in her eyes. But maybe he had remembered that wrong, too.

  He might never know how much of what he remembered was invented or imagined. There was no single, verifiable truth. There was only memory. He could choose his own truth, decide whether she had stopped loving him or had never loved him at all.

  In the dark, with the brush of her hair between his fingers, he knew he had not been wrong about her. She had been filled with fire. She had wanted to be with him.

  Eighteen years. Never think I forget any more than do you. She had said that, too.

  In the black of their first night together, he decided to believe she had truly loved him, as deeply and as truly as he had loved her. Because he could not bear for it to be an illusion, he decided it was not. She had loved him, even if she denied it. Even if that love was now gone.

  The pain was no less, but somehow it was more bearable. His longing for her was a familiar and comfortable ache. It curled in his belly again, radiating up to his heart and spreading down his arm to his fingers, which pressed the curl of her hair to his lips as he fell into sleep.

  Chapter 7

  The Mirror

  She woke to find his face inches from hers. It should have alarmed her, but instead it felt like the continuation of a dream. Not that she ever dreamt.

  It was dim, the light from the fire filtering through the yellow bed curtains. A servant must have come and gone, lighting the fire and withdrawing discreetly. Robert seemed to be deep in sleep and she was only half awake, which she sleepily decided was a very agreeable state of affairs.

  “Robert.”

  She meant to say it sharply, to see if he was close to waking, but her voice was husky with sleep. He did not stir in the least, so she allowed her eyes roam over his face and take in all the tiny details she had determinedly ignored. His lips were full – like a woman’s, she used to tease him – and his nose a perfectly straight line. Those features were exactly the same, but the rest of him had changed with the years. A spray of lines radiated from the corners of his eyes, carved deep by smiles and sun. There were flecks of silver in the hair at his temples, and his skin was a little darker, the flesh not as tight across his cheekbones. She had thought it impossible that the beauty of his youth could have faded into something even more attractive, but the truth was undeniable: he was one of those men who was more handsome with age.

  “Robert!” She managed it louder this time.

  He answered her with a loud snore. It pulled a smile from her, because it made her world unrecognizable in the most laughable way. There was a man in her bed, for the first time in more than a decade, snoring. And it was Robert, who above all men was never supposed to be there. She found herself leaning into the smell of stale drink that hung around him, breathing deep. She let herself imagine what it would feel like to wrap her legs around him, to press the heat that grew between her legs against him, how he would awaken and respond.

  The rising lust woke her fully. Her mind was dizzy with the sudden welter of feelings. It was too much all at once, the heat and the hunger and the nearness of him. She must have reason, or she would drown in it. She closed her eyes against the sight of him and forced herself to think. Clarity was key. Think. She must not hide from herself, not if she wanted to succeed. She wanted him, yes. She wanted him even in the foulness of his morning breath and his drunken snoring, which meant that her old infatuation was not as dead as she had thought. It was not dead at all. It coursed through her, a terrible longing in every beat of her heart. Simple lust was nothing next to that.

  Poison, she reminded herself, the blade, an accident. She had a purpose, and old infatuations would only hinder her. She dwelt on the thought of Roger Mortimer’s many offenses. She imagined him dead until her mind was calm and clear again.

  Then she opened her eyes and saw the tip of her braid clutched between Robert’s fingers, and all calm and clarity was lost. There was only an unbearable sweetness, a giddiness that swirled through her, an impossible hope leaping up in her. She remembered this feeling. God save her, she had missed it.

  She pressed the tip of her finger gently to the slight cleft in his chin. She looked at his mouth, remembered the sight of it kissing her belly as the sunlight filtered through the trees above them.

  “Robin,” she whispered, “my Robin.” All the transgressions she had committed in her life, all the things that might send her soul to Hell, flitted through her mind. She had confessed them all, except for him. “You were my favorite sin.”

  She might have kissed him then, because the little scratch of his morning beard was so tempting against her finger, but she looked up to find he had woken.

  His eyes hadn’t changed either, brown and liquid, fixed on her. For a moment, she saw only the sleepy surprise in them. But a look of comprehension came into his face, and she did not know if it was because he had heard her words or because she was touching him. She looked away from his eyes, to her finger at his chin. Slowly, she pulled her hand away. When his lips parted as though to speak, she turned away and sat up, pushing the bed curtains apart and bringing her feet to the floor, and started to walk away.

  But he still held her braid. She felt the pull of it, of him, as she stood on the floor with her back to their bed. The air she stood in was cold, all the warmth behind her.

  “Let me go, Robert,” she said softly.

  He did not. She resisted a shiver, holding herself rigid against the tension in her braid as she listened to his breathing and waited. Let go let go, she thought, praying that he would not say anything. She feared she might be cruel, if he did – and she did not want to be cruel to him. But finally, after a long moment
, she felt the braid swing free and come to rest against her back.

  She pushed away the thought of him and stepped further into the cold chamber, considering how vulnerable was a man in bed, and how that might be the surest way to murder Mortimer.

  Isabella Mortimer was tall and stately, easy to find in the small crowd of of ladies despite her subdued dress. She wore very little jewelry and seemed nearly as indifferent to the talk of the ladies as she was to the needlework in her hand. Eluned could not help being reminded of her own daughter. Save that Isabella was much older, it might be Gwenllian sitting there bored, a head taller than all the other women. Except that Gwenllian would not be able to hide her irritation, and would never look so at ease in a dress.

  Or perhaps Eluned was wrong. It struck her again, with force, that her daughter was no longer the girl of her memories. Even now, Gwenllian undoubtedly sat among her own ladies, heavy with child and quite happy to wear a dress. The fierce warrior was gone, replaced with a docile wife. One more loss.

  “How happy I am to find you here, Isabella,” she said pleasantly when the moment was right. “And grown so much since last I saw you.”

  Eluned watched a crease of confusion appear between Isabella’s eyes, but she did not say more. She preferred to let Isabella feel a moment’s disadvantage.

  “I fear I must confess I do not know you, my lady.”

  There was something in Isabella’s expression – or perhaps a lack of something. Eluned could not identify it, though it felt familiar.

  “It would be a wonder, did you remember me. I was barely more than a child myself, when I came to your wedding. I am Eluned de Lascaux, who was the lady of Ruardean.”

  “Oh. Oh yes.” Isabella reached out her hands as though to embrace her, then remembered herself. “How glad I am to meet you.”

  Eluned schooled her face to show none of the immediate suspicion she felt. There was no reason for Isabella Mortimer to be eager to meet her. Yet there was an absolute sincerity in her. If it was an act, then Isabella was a very great actor. Considering the family she came from, it was more than possible that she was unusually deceptive. But Eluned decided it would be most expedient to respond in kind with warmth and eagerness.

  They took a place near the fire together and talked, while the other women of lesser rank gave them space and privacy. No doubt they were all desperately trying to hear every word, but it only took a wave of the hand and a meaningful look at the musician, who repositioned himself strategically and interfered with any attempts to overhear them. They exchanged the obvious pleasantries, and it was plain Isabella was not inclined to the kind of empty chatter that was so common to court ladies. Eluned was glad to move straight to a more interesting subject.

  “You will know that Christopher Manton is like a brother to my husband, and so must I count him as my friend,” she began. “Will you tell me, then, how fares his son in your care?”

  “He does very well, and so he has told his father and mother in his letters to them.” She was polite, but a hardness crept into her voice. “The boy is treated with honor.”

  “To be sure, and never would I doubt it from a house as great as Mortimer.” It was marvelous, how perfectly she said it. She almost convinced herself. “Yet his father fears the boy is away from his own family too long. You know that my son was sent to foster with Lancaster when he was even younger?”

  “I know it.”

  “And he did not forget me, or his father. So I have said to Manton and he has heard me. Still I think he fears the boy will be gone so long that he will grow to manhood in isolation.”

  “His fate is not in my hands. That responsibility belongs to my brother.”

  Now Eluned knew what she had seen in Isabella’s face, so plainly did it show when she spoke of her brother’s authority. Bitterness. Resentment. The gall of it, of having the reins wrested from her hands.

  “Your father put the boy in your charge, I was told,” she murmured, and watched the telltale flex of a tiny muscle in Isabella’s face that told her the other woman was gritting her teeth.

  “He did. For years he gave our stronghold at Wigmore into my keeping, and everything in it, including what hostages we held. But on his death last summer, my brother Edmund took control of all. Decisions about such matters as hostages were never mine to make. Now I am not even consulted.”

  She clearly regretted that last admission, so Eluned was content to pretend she had not heard it. Eluned flicked a glance toward where the other ladies sat, all of them watching Isabella’s tense face.

  “It is a rare man who will gladly let a woman rule in his stead.” Eluned let a smile curl her lips as she spoke. “Or a mad one.”

  She was rewarded with quick huff of amusement, and an answering wry smile. She had not given much thought to Isabella Mortimer at all over the years, except to consider her one more in this clan of cutthroats. But their castle at Wigmore had been of critical importance in the campaign to conquer Wales, sending food and weapons to the English as they fought for years. If Isabella had truly ruled there, then she should be Eluned’s enemy.

  She did not feel like an enemy.

  “You had the keeping of Ruardean for many more years than I held Wigmore.”

  Eluned nodded. “To any other I would say it was God’s will, who commanded my husband to serve elsewhere. But to you I will say it was the will of men. A weak man left it in my care, and his strong son now comes to take it back.” She shrugged. “But it is men who are meant to defend fortresses, not women.”

  “Do you say that is God’s will too?”

  “I say it is what men call God’s will, and so long as men rule on earth and God in Heaven, then what you or I think matters very little to either of them. I also say a woman is wise to step gracefully out of their way as they lurch along the paths to power.”

  That gained her a real smile, and the first twinge of shame in her breast. Would she befriend this woman, only to slay her brother? In her mind she tried to weigh the possibilities and outcomes in her usual way, but no clear answer came. Befriend Isabella, gain valuable information about the Mortimers, insights that would help her in her plan – maybe even help Kit, a good and worthy man. But also: befriend Isabella, deceive her daily, hide lethal intentions behind a friendly face, and then perhaps one day watch her learn of Eluned’s betrayal.

  She watched as Isabella changed the subject, talking at ease now about her falcon and wondering if the weather would be temperate enough to fly it tomorrow. It struck her that they were not so very different. Isabella was but a few years younger. She too had been widowed, though it was many years ago – a decade or more without a husband. She had also held a great stronghold for years, only to have that power taken from her. The fighting between England and Wales killed her father, just as it had killed Uncle Rhys.

  She is loyal to Edward; she aided in the fight against the Welsh, Eluned reminded herself. But how could she condemn her for being loyal to her family? For performing the duties that fell to her, which were given into her hands by the men who held her fate in theirs? It was no more than Eluned had done. And she saw, now, that Isabella too held herself at a careful distance, the hint of calculation in nearly everything she said.

  This was why she felt so familiar: they had both been shaped in the same way, by the same forces. And at the end of it all, here they both sat, discarded, among the ladies embroidering at Edward’s court.

  “Come,” Eluned said. “Let us walk out to the hawk house now and I will see your falcon. It is not too cold outside, and I grow weary of these walls.”

  She would be careful. She would acquaint herself enough with Isabella to learn a little of her thoughts on her brother Roger, but not so friendly that it would feel like a betrayal. Perhaps she would be lucky, and find that Isabella had no love for her brothers after all.

  It was as they walked through the brisk air past the stables that she saw a flush come up in Isabella’s face. She was quickening her step, her face turn
ed down to the ground, but Eluned saw the flick of her eyes toward a man who stood with a horse before the stables. He was transfixed, staring at Isabella’s rapidly retreating form.

  Eluned waited until they had entered the hawk house and she had said a few admiring words about the bird before asking.

  “Who was that man who caused your step to hurry?” Isabella was no green girl, and yet she twisted her hands together in agitation. Eluned shook her head lightly. “I would not pry, Isabella, nor would I ask confidences of you. I only saw that you were not best pleased to see him, and would be sure you have no cause to fear him.”

  “No,” she answered. “I do not fear him. He is no one of importance, and hardly a villain. He was friend to my father for many years. I only did not wish to speak to him now.”

  The blush was returned to her face, making her quite pretty despite the haughty look of indifference she wore. So it was love, then.

  “Will you walk with me again tomorrow?” Eluned asked her. “If the weather holds, we can fly this lovely bird.”

  “Yes,” said Isabella, visibly relaxing. “Yes, that is much more agreeable to me than any other entertainment the court can offer, I think.” She paused a moment, burrowing her hands into the thick wool of the cloak she wore. “I would have my nephew come with us. He has a passion for falcons.”

  Eluned caught her breath, then hid the tiny sound of surprise by bringing her cold hands to her lips and blowing on them. She spoke lightly, taking care not to seem too curious. “Nephew? I did not know your brothers had children.”

  “As they are neither of them married yet, you may say they should not have them.” Isabella smiled and turned to watch an austringer return a goshawk to its perch. “Three nephews, all baseborn, one of Edmund and two of Roger. Edmund’s boy has traveled with me.”

  “It is good of them, to admit to their bastards and bring them up as Mortimers.”