Fair, Bright, and Terrible

by Kingston, Elizabeth

  “Their care, too, has been entrusted to me.” Isabella slipped her arm through Eluned’s as they left the hawk house, a gesture of familiarity that might be sincere fondness or pure manipulation. “Roger is especially fond of his sons, and it has put him in a temper that I allowed his boys to stay at Wigmore to pass the season with Robin Manton. My nephews are great friends with him.”

  Eluned’s smile was automatic, but it took her a few moments to formulate a response. “His father will be happy to learn his son has companions. And he will know of your kind solicitude as well. He has heard a rumor that the boy would be given into Roger’s care.”

  “It is my intention to ask Roger to allow him to remain in my care, for there is no lady of equal rank in his household. By Mary, there are no ladies at all – nor even a household, if truth is told. Better he waits until he has made one before he takes on the education of children.”

  She said no more, and Eluned bit her tongue against enquiring further. So many questions, so many possibilities – but there was time enough to learn it all. For now, it was enough to know Roger Mortimer’s sister did not want him to take custody of the boy. It was a great deal more than enough to know he had children he loved. That was a great gift indeed.

  In the hall, she caught sight of Robert immediately. It was chance that every time she stepped into a place where he was, no matter how crowded, her eyes found him. It must be chance. Or maybe her eyes had learned the trick all those years ago, and had never unlearned it. When he noticed her, she quickly looked to Kit Manton who stood next to him, and then her gaze moved restlessly over the scattering of people around the hall.

  It was late in the afternoon, and servants were setting up tables in preparation for the evening meal. Robert and Kit were near one of the hearths, each holding two cups of wine. She made her way to them.

  “Do my lords have such a great thirst?” she asked.

  Kit held a cup out to her. “We make a study of all the wines on offer in England’s finest household. Will you give us your opinion? I say there are none that match the quality of Robert’s wine.”

  She took the cup and looked into the deep red liquid as she addressed Robert. “But what think you, my lord de Lascaux? Surely it is your opinion that carries most weight in this matter.”

  When he did not answer, she looked up at him with raised brows. There was that soft look there, as though she had said something he found endearing. She could feel herself grow warm in response, thinking of how they had parted this morning. The edge of hostility that had been in him since their wedding night was gone entirely.

  “It is your opinion we seek,” said Robert easily, holding one of his cups out to her. She took it, and was glad of the excuse it gave her to look down at her hands once more. “You hold what we have deemed the two finest wines in Edward’s stores.”

  “Excepting your own,” Kit interjected.

  “Excepting the de Lascaux wine, yes, which my lady has already tasted.” He inclined his head to her. “So you will make an excellent judge. In your left hand is a wine whose cost is only a little less than ours.”

  She took a swallow of it and found it too tart for her liking. “It is unfair to serve it without spices,” she told them. “The taste suffers for the lack of them.”

  The men looked at each other a moment, and then back to her. Robert gave an impatient wave, urging her to sample the other wine. She brought it to her lips to sip, and found herself taking another, deeper swallow. It was delicious.

  “You see, she may try to spare my pride, but her face tells the truth.” Robert was grinning now, a boyish satisfaction in his face.

  “Do you say it is better than Robert’s wine, lady?” Kit asked her, a challenge in his voice.

  It was clear her opinion would settle a dispute between them. She thought Kit Manton was more proud of the de Lascaux wines than even Robert was. Clearly she must endeavor to be both honest and careful with her words, for such a very grave question.

  “I will not say that it is better, but I will say that if you told me it came from Robert’s vineyards, I would believe you. The flavor is different, though.” They both still looked at her, expecting more. She wanted to laugh at them, they were so like boys who waited to be told which of them had won a great prize. But she had no prize, nor had she ready words to describe the difference between wines. She shrugged. “It is so rich. It is heavy on the tongue, but not too strong.”

  Robert nodded. “It is a better flavor.”

  “It is not,” Kit was insistent.

  “It is from Spain,” Robert was saying to Eluned, ignoring Kit. “Not far across the mountains from–”

  “It is not better!” Kit’s words overrode whatever Robert would say, and they began to talk over each other, quarrelling about it. She was put in mind of her cousins when they were young boys, and almost thought the men would resort to a wrestle in the dirt until one cried mercy. She watched them a while, and was considering asking them how much of the wine they had drunk to have reached such a state of absurdity when a laugh escaped her. She bit her lips against it, but it was too late. They had stopped their arguing to look at her.

  She turned to Kit. “Verily, sir, my lord husband has the right of it.” She was unable to stop the smile that unfurled across her face at his dismayed look. “The first you gave me is a wine whose flavor is so tart it needs a wealth of spices to make it agreeable. It is inferior to Robert’s wine, which needs no such correction. But this Spanish wine is so rich it overwhelms the senses.” She turned back to Robert, pleased in spite of herself at understanding where his friend did not. “You have done it a-purpose. By Mary, I did not think you to have a mind so given to commerce, my lord.”

  He gave a little bow of acknowledgement, delight in his eyes. “I did not think to see the dimple in your cheek again in this life, lady.”

  She turned her face down, flustered, glad she held a cup in each hand and so could not twist them together as Isabella had done. If it would cool her cheeks, she might drink down more of the wine only to cover the confusion in her. “There will be no lack of buyers for Robert’s wine,” she said quickly to Kit, explaining.

  “Yet you say the Spanish is better?” he asked, still confused.

  “A better flavor,” corrected Eluned. “It is a wine to savor on the tongue, in slow and small mouthfuls, for very important occasions or guests. But Robert’s wine is the better to sell in great quantities to wealthy households, because the taste is far superior to other common wines yet it can be drunk as easily as any ale and served with any food. I would gladly stock the buttery with it, and not the Spanish wine.”

  Robert gave her that crooked little smile again, lines creasing the corners of his eyes. “And I will gladly give my lady wife a very good price on it. Haps I might even give it at no cost, if she will smile so again.”

  He was trying to flirt with her. She pressed her lips together, unsure if it was a laugh or a sob she was suppressing. Robert de Lascaux was flirting with her.

  It took only a moment, one quick breath, until she could turn to Kit again and say, “But I agree with you. If I must say one wine is better, I will say it is the de Lascaux wine. Flavor is but one consideration, and not the most important. I am more mercenary than that.”

  Kit Manton was scrutinizing her as closely as she felt sure Robert was. Whatever might be said next was lost in the appearance of Robert’s brother Simon, who indicated he wished to speak to Robert alone. When they had walked off a little way, leaving Eluned alone with Kit, she set both cups of wine down on a bench nearby and spent a moment looking down into the ruby liquid.

  It would make Robert very wealthy, this wine he had produced. Likely he would never admit to it, but she was sure he had spent years in the planning of it: cultivating the crops, finding the perfect blend of grapes, improving the yields until he could be sure of adequate quantities to import here. And now it would be served at the king’s own Christmas court, where half the noble households o
f England would taste it. She wondered if his friend even knew the extent of his hopes.

  But she did not ask his friend about wine. Instead, she said, “I have spoken with Isabella Mortimer about your son.”

  Then she told him everything she had learned of how the boy was cared for, how Edmund Mortimer would make any decisions about his release, how Isabella wished the boy to stay in her care. The urge to question Kit more closely about his dealings with the Mortimers pulled at her, but she resisted it. It seemed to her an ill omen, how very often in her life the ambitions of that family had thwarted her own. It was better that Kit Manton try his luck against them without her interference.

  Even as she thought it, Kit asked, “Will you not ask her why I am still so suspect they will hold my son? If I could but know the reason–”

  “She will give you the truth of it sooner than she gives it to me,” she said, not sorry for the brusqueness of her tone. “Nor do I think she knows any truth, but only guesses at her brother’s aims. This is men’s work, all of it. Taking him, holding him, releasing him – it is all done by the hands of the men, not the sister.”

  He did not take offense. He only looked at her, thoughtful, until she saw him decide she was not lying or hiding anything. In the same moment, she realized she was in fact hiding something from him. Not by intent, but by instinct. If she were honest with herself and with him, the simplest way to gain the advantage was to have Robert confront Roger Mortimer about all this in the presence of the king, where a straightforward answer must be given. It would force the Mortimers’ hand, deprive them of whatever game they were playing.

  But it would anger them, and their spite would fall on Robert. The thought of it chilled her blood.

  “It is better you deal directly with the Mortimer brothers,” she said to Kit now, forcing her lips to form the words through the dread that had clenched her jaw tight. “Assure them they have naught to fear of you, that you act only in good faith with them. I can give you no better counsel than you waste no time at this.”

  Kit’s gaze shifted to just over her shoulder, something catching his interest behind her.

  “Let us call it a fair sign, then, that Roger is arrived even as you say the words, and earlier than expected.”

  She turned, the sound of greetings filling the air around her. At the entrance to the hall stood Roger Mortimer, tall and barrel-chested.

  She had thought the sight of him would fill her with emotion. With fear or hatred, or perhaps even doubt. Instead she felt only a strange calm as he raised a hand to hail someone across the hall, as he reached for the ale brought to him by a serving girl. She only wondered distantly, even as he leered at the girl, if he had entered this same way more than a year ago, with Llewellyn’s head in his arms. Did he gloat of his treachery? Did he present it with ceremony to his king, or did he let it dangle from one hand as he reached, laughing, for his cup?

  Now he was putting out an arm, grasping at the serving girl. A spike of alarm pierced the numb as she watched the girl twist to avoid his hands. She was too young to see what Eluned saw: that running would only make him determined to catch her. But then some men approached, calling his name, drawing his attention and allowing the girl to slip away. She was a smart little mouse, darting into the shadows and putting a fair distance between herself and his hands.

  The blade, Eluned decided. Poison if she could not get close. An accident would be her last choice. But she hoped, watching the girl scurry away, that it could be the blade.

  The thought, as ever, soothed her. She turned to the bench where she had set the wine, trying to remember which was which, choosing one at random.

  “I think Simon has been too modest,” Kit was saying, his eyes still on the group of men surrounding Roger Mortimer. “Of course he would know Mortimer, but they look to me like near companions. He never said so.”

  Eluned turned to see Mortimer’s hand out, grasping Robert’s in greeting, both of them smiling, talking. Beside them stood William, her son. The venom rose up in her, quick and sharp. She would rend him to pieces with her own hands here and now, with hate choking her and the foul breath of fear hot on her neck.

  “My lady.”

  Kit’s hand was on her wrist, a sudden move to hold her hand steady as he tried to pull the cup away from her tight fist. The wine had spilled, splashing onto her skirt. She made her fingers loosen the grip, made herself mumble an apology for her clumsiness. She looked across the hall to watch the men speaking pleasantly to each other, and was reminded in a flash of who they were.

  They were Norman. Robert and William were Norman lords, favorites of the king. She need not fear for them. Mortimer was not their rival nor their enemy.

  Even as the realization flooded her with relief, she felt an urgent need to be away from them, alone. It had come over her so quickly, the murderous intent. Her mind was now filled with images of Roger Mortimer laid out before a jeering crowd, his face as the axe fell, hacking him into quarters. It was not horror that she felt at the image, but a keen hunger.

  I am become vile, she thought, with a sinking in the pit of her stomach.

  “I must find a fresh gown,” she said to Kit, turning away. “And so must you find dry shoes.” For the wine had soaked his feet, she now saw.

  He gave a warm smile, so kind and alive. He had probably never thirsted for blood in his life.

  “Aye, I would be more presentable before I meet this man I must make friend,” Kit agreed. He gave a little frown of concern and asked, “Are you well, lady?”

  She could not pretend she was, so she did not try. “My stomach is unsettled. I will… I should rest.”

  He steered her around the small puddle of wine she had made, leading her out of the hall. They passed a small knot of courtiers who lingered near the stairs to the minstrels’ gallery. The man that Isabella had blushed at was there, asking a boy with a lute if he knew any love songs from Andalusia. She waited until they were well past him, then paused in her step.

  “Do you know that man?” she asked Kit.

  “In the green cloak? Aye, he has some little land to the east of mine. He is Robert de Hastang.”

  She thought of Isabella, hands twisting, her mouth tight as she hurried away from this handsome man.

  “She has a Robert too,” she murmured.

  She became aware of Kit’s scrutiny as she stood there, rooted to the spot. Finally, she looked to him and said, “You would do well to make a friend of him, I think.” Then she swept past him and made her way to her rooms.

  In the wide seat below the window casing, she curled with her uncle’s psalter. She did not eat the meat or bread her ladies brought to her, nor drink the wine. She had them pour out some mead, which she sipped slowly to ease the sickness that had settled in her belly. Though the night was mild and the wind low, she did not pull the tapestry away from the window so that she may have a glimpse of the stars.

  Instead she looked down at the prayer book, occasionally opening it to scan the words written there. The way of the wicked will perish, it read. There was no comfort for her in the painted pages. It was left to her to contemplate what she was becoming, what stain the sorrow was leaving on her soul and how helpless she was in the face of its spread. She thought of her uncle’s hands holding this book in prayer. She remembered Madog’s face, the light in his eyes and the smile on his lips when she had asked him about his love.

  It was late when Robert came into the room. She had changed into her warmest night robe and pulled the heavy, fur-lined blanket up to her shoulders as she sat in the window seat, intending to make it her bed. He said nothing, only crossed the room to pause at her side. She did not look up.

  After a silent moment he put out a hand and picked up the end of her braid, brushing the hairs against his thumb. He waited like that, a light and questioning hold that she answered with her stillness, her refusal to look up. Then he walked into the bedroom, leaving her alone. She heard him climb into the bed.

  This
is how it would be, she knew. He would wait patiently for her. He had seen her desire for him, the places where her resistance began to erode away, but he would not take her. As he had done once before, he would wait for her to reach for him. He thought she was emerging from a darkness, that she would turn naturally from it. He would wait for her heart to slip into his hands again, because he still believed that her heart was whole and uncorrupted.

  Chapter 8

  The Ashes

  “De Vere was a close friend to my father,” William said, “and my father’s brother has said he gives good counsel.”

  Robert and William were in the gallery above the hall where a knot of men were gathered around a large and rough map of England spread out on a large table. These many lords were advising their king where it would be best to build fortifications around Wales. It had been William’s suggestion that he and Robert observe it from a distance, not hiding but not participating unless they were asked. So they stood above and assessed the great lords and advisors assembled below. Robert tried not to think of it as gossip. It was useful, if he was to become one of them, to know who may be trusted. Having been raised in Lancaster’s household, William was well acquainted with all of them, and was glad to share his opinions.

  But it was no great insight to observe a fair amount of doubt in the boy when he spoke of de Vere, so Robert lowered his voice and asked the obvious question. “Think you that your uncle tells you wrong?”

  “I do not think it malicious. In faith, I would be surprised if my uncle is capable of malicious intent.” William gave a smile. His mother’s smile, with a twist of mischief. “Richard is a fool.”

  “So you disbelieve him on principle.”

  “Nay, I have reason to think de Vere cannot be entirely trusted. My sister has told me he cares more for his own fortunes than he does his alliance with Ruardean.” William nodded toward another of the men who stood around Edward in the hall below. “She has said Bohun, though, is a man who cannot conceal a thing, and I agree with her. Gwenllian likes him for it, even when what he fails to conceal is a contempt for her.”