Fair, Bright, and Terrible

by Kingston, Elizabeth

  “Ever has that been your favorite jest. You spend your life at it, and say it is only jest.” Simon pushed Robert’s hand of his shoulder and stepped back, still a little unsteady from the drink. His voice rose. “But you act on it. The consequence of it matters. You jest, you…laugh. You are the only one who is amused.”

  “Simon–”

  “Father does not laugh, I do not laugh.” He was well and truly drunk. He looked as if he was close to tears, but Robert could not say if they were tears of rage or sorrow. Maybe it was only the excess of drink that caused such emotion. Or maybe it had been there all along and the drink only uncovered it. “All he wanted was to build something of worth, but you worked against him at every turn.”

  “Simon, I have made the French estate–”

  “I know you have! In spite of his plans you succeed, in the manner of your choosing. And he loves you for it. Never will he say it but the pride in him…” Simon looked away, and Robert could see the shadow of a sullen boy in his posture. “Is not enough, you know. God alone knows what would satisfy him. He will be no more happy with you, now you have finally been made to do his bidding. I have done it all along, and willingly. It is not enough.”

  Robert was not sure if this was meant as complaint or warning. He was not sure what to think at all, except that while he had whiled away the years in France, happily defying his father, he had given no thought at all to his brother. If ever he had thought of Simon in all those years, it had been as his father’s creature, the good son. He barely remembered him as a boy. Younger by almost a decade, eager to please and anxious at every harsh word, Simon had been easy to disregard.

  “It pains you,” he said now, beginning to understand a little. “You only want there to be peace between us, between father and me.”

  Simon shrugged. “Mayhap I did want it, but I see it is too late now. It is too much a habit between you, the strife. He will not live much longer, anyway.”

  Poor wretched Simon, who had spent his life in obedience and love for their sour old father. When he was sober, Robert resolved to tell him what he had understood long, long ago: that when you will be found wanting no matter your course, it is better to do as you please.

  But for now, he put an arm across his brother’s shoulders and leaned against the wall beside him. “Take comfort in knowing that in the end, there is no strife between us. I have done as he wished. For once, it was what I wanted too.”

  “You wanted to leave France?”

  “I wanted to marry Eluned,” he said.

  After a long silence, Simon spoke.

  “But it was not the marriage and the promise of a lordship that lured you away. It never would have. He knew that.”

  Robert watched as Simon dragged a hand over his face, a sudden sense of foreboding growing in him. It was true. His father could never have known that only saying Eluned’s name would be enough. No, he would have asked Robert to return to take a wife and gain a title, and would have reasonably expect to be refused.

  It was the news of Kit’s son that had brought Robert to England, and had kept him here in the hopes of finding a resolution.

  He recognized it now, the feeling that was coming in waves off of Simon. It was guilt. Look you to learn who would whisper poison against your friend, young William had said. And: Your brother is the kind of man who might know.

  Robert stared at his brother’s downturned face. His limbs felt heavy, his whole body wooden. He told himself it should not cut so deep, yet it did. Pain welled up, a dark and terrible hurt bubbling up beneath a frozen surface, and his mind improbably served him a vision of Eluned. Cold as the frozen sea.

  His arm would not obey his command, and stayed around his brother’s shoulders. Finally Simon, overwhelmed by conscience or dizzy with wine, sank to the floor and sat there with his back braced against the wall. He said nothing, and so Robert roused himself to speak.

  “What did you tell Mortimer?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Simon, who sounded as miserable as Robert felt.

  “What lies did you give Mortimer about Kit?”

  “Not lies. I only...” He raised his head and looked around the deserted corridor. He seemed to have sobered up rapidly. “I played on their doubts. They were fighting the campaign in Wales. They worried their lands would be threatened while their attention was turned. Old Mortimer was vigilant, you know? Jealous and greedy. He said once that there was a corner of his land much disputed.”

  “What luck that his dispute was with my friend.”

  Robert took a step away from his brother. He felt like sinking to the floor himself, but had no wish to be near Simon, who waved a hand in dismissal.

  “Mortimer has disputes with half the men who own land in England. A thousand suspicions, and I fed one of them.”

  “So you were sure to make them wary of Kit. And when he crossed into Mortimer land–”

  “That was the luck, for me. I did not have to push your friend into the trap, so eagerly did he rush into it. Then Mortimer demanded the son as surety. It might have been resolved in a week, but that was not time enough. Not enough time to get you here. So I advised them to hold the boy. Indefinitely.”

  Robert almost asked what other reward there was for all this effort, for surely luring him to England was not enough reason to go to so much trouble. But as he looked down at his brother, he remembered where they were. This court where Simon had operated for so long was held together by alliances, favors, whispers. The trust and esteem of a Mortimer was reward enough. And, of course, it would please their father. Simon did love to please their father.

  Robert leaned on the wall opposite Simon, as happy now to put a little distance between them as he had been to embrace his brother minutes ago. Perhaps he should not be surprised that his father would manipulate him in this way. But he was surprised, and aggrieved. Under it all, he had always thought his father cared for him. There was anger and frustration and disappointment – always that. But he had not thought there was malice.

  “He knew how well I love Kit’s son.”

  Simon nodded. “He thought… He said you only needed one more reason, a good one, to leave France. The fighting done, and the king ready to give a reward – Father said you only needed to be asked to come. If he asked it, you would refuse, so he…” Simon stopped and pushed his hands through his hair. He looked as though he wished he had brought the wine on this little walk. “I called it a poor plan. But then you came. At first word from your friend, you came. You stayed in France and refused marriage for years. And then when you thought it might help the boy–”

  “Of course. Kit is like a brother to me.”

  “Yet if your true brother had asked you, would you have come?”

  Simon looked fixedly at the floor as he asked it, and Robert was glad he did. All the times over the years that Simon had hinted at it, without ever saying it, came to him now. Every message he had sent, and in his brief visit to France years ago, Simon had hoped his brother would come to England. He never asked it outright, but he never failed to express the wish. Yet Robert had barely even heard it. He had paid it no mind at all.

  His father knew him all too well. If the plea had come from anyone but Kit, Robert would have refused. He would have refused only because his father wanted it, and Robert loved to spite his father.

  “See how much of yourself you have given for this friend you call brother. And for his son who you say is like your own.” Now Simon looked up at him. “Do you even know my son’s name? Any of them?” He dropped his hands to the floor and pushed himself up, leaning against the wall for support. There seemed to be no anger in him, only resignation. “I am not proud of it. But you need not wonder why it was so easy for me to agree to the scheme.”

  They stood for a very long time in silence as Robert considered. He looked at the fur that trimmed Simon’s tunic and remembered what Kit had said – that Simon, too, would benefit from Robert’s advancement. That he craved Robert’s approval at le
ast as much as that advancement.

  “Do you hate me, brother?”

  A sound like a laugh came from Simon. He shook his head in denial. “Were there true hatred in me, I would not have spent these many weeks in persuading Mortimer to release the boy.” He actually grinned a little. “But I have said you gave your word that he has nothing to fear of Kit Manton, and to mistrust Kit is to mistrust you, and he should be wary of giving such offense to someone so favored by the king. Roger Mortimer envies you, you know.”

  “Me? Why would Roger Mortimer envy me?”

  “There are few enough men to whom Edward would give a Marcher lordship. And even fewer whose worth as battle commander is as valued as Roger Mortimer.”

  Now it was Robert who laughed. “Had I known protecting the Aquitaine would gain me so great a reputation, I might not have done it.”

  Simon gave an assenting grunt. He looked and sounded exactly like their father as he said, “God forbid you knowingly do something worthy with your life.” He pushed away from the wall. “My room is not far from here, and I would take myself there while I can still stand.”

  Robert watched him take a few careful steps down the corridor, and wondered if it was wise to trust his brother. Plotting and planning, two years at least of maneuvering and lying. What kind of man did that, and to his own blood? Yet it was the same man who had confessed it, unprompted.

  “Your oldest boy,” he called to Simon, who paused in his step but did not turn. “His name is Adam.”

  He knew it, remembered it, because it had been the name of his twin.

  Simon nodded. “The younger is John, and David the youngest,” he said, and walked on.

  Outside the door to his chambers, Robert paused. The hour was late yet if he strained to hear it, there was faint music still drifting from the hall where the revels continued. It lent a dream-like air, the perfect accompaniment to his mood.

  Too long had he lived enslaved to a memory. That was what Kit, best of friends, had told him only weeks ago. Robert had thought it only meant he had held too long to his love for Eluned. Now he saw how much more was in it. Now he saw that he had lived so much in memory that he had failed to see the present. For years and years he had looked steadfastly at the past, as if that one moment in time, that one summer with her, was the only thing in his life that deserved such attention and devotion.

  He leaned his head against the doorframe, his hand on the hasp. She might be there, on the other side of this door. For the first time since she had fled his bed, he wanted her to be there. These past few days had seen them avoiding and ignoring each other, and every night he had stood at this door and hoped she was asleep so he would not have to pretend indifference to her presence. But tonight he wished she was there, and awake, sitting at her place before the window. Because he was a great fool who, even as he recognized that his devotion to a memory was weakness and folly, still needed her.

  If she was now who she had been before… But no. There was the sticking point, the thing he could not make himself disbelieve. That was the hell of it, his absolute certainty that she was still the woman he had known and loved. If she would let herself be again what she was – that was it. If she would let herself be the Eluned of old, then he could sit next to her and confide it all. Then he would enter this room and take her hand. She would listen with furrowed brow as he described what his father had done, and he would ask her why it still had the power to wound him. He would tell her about Simon, the look in his face when he had confessed it and the terrible sinking feeling it had caused in him. He would wonder aloud how he could have closed his eyes to so much for so long, and she would say…something. The right thing. The memory of her always said the right thing.

  He opened the door on darkness and knew she was not within. He crossed to the fire, bent to the glowing embers and rose with a dim rushlight that carried him in fading hope to the place she had made her bed. She was not there. There was only the neatly folded blanket in the corner and her ivory box on the cushion.

  How fitting, that he should hope for her and find instead a locked box, cool and hard and beautiful.

  In his own bed, their half-empty marriage bed, he pulled the blankets tight around him. It was cold, the present world. No wonder he had resisted it so long.

  Chapter 11

  The Choosing

  Eluned stood frozen in disbelief before Ranulf Ombrier, lord of Morency, devoted servant of the king, renowned murderer, and her barely tolerated son-in-law. The first coherent thought that broke through her amazement was that he could only be here at King Edward’s bidding. Which would mean that Edward knew her plans, or suspected her, and that made so little sense that she cast about for some other explanation. She could think of no other reason for Ranulf to come to court except that the king had summoned him.

  Unless he had come to bring news of Gwenllian.

  The sound she made must have been terrible, for he looked up so swiftly and so sharply that she was forced to focus on his face. His eyes were clear of grief, no madness or rage or despair in them. After a long and panicked moment, relief crashed through her. If any evil had befallen her daughter, she would see it in his face. And it was not there.

  “Gwenllian is well,” she said, and found she was breathing hard, her fists gripping his tunic. He had dropped the torch to the bare stone floor, but made no move to retrieve it. “The child came? They are both in good health?”

  He nodded, and for a brief and dazzling moment she loved him like a son, would happily have embraced him – only because he told her Gwenllian was well. His hand came up to cover hers, a gesture of reassurance so unlikely that she could only stare at his fingers on hers.

  “And if I said they were not?” he asked.

  If her daughter were not well, then she would beg him to plunge the knife into her breast. But Gwenllian lived. Eluned uncurled her fists and, as she pulled her hands away from him, felt the forgotten phial of poison falling from her fingers. She caught it, closed her hand around it again and held it against her skirt as she sagged against the wall.

  “You would not be here if they were not,” she answered.

  He picked up the torch again. His eyes, dark blue and assessing, moved over her face. “Nor would I be here had she given me any other choice.”

  She waited for him to explain his words, but he did not elaborate. Instead, he took two long strides away from her and through an open chamber door that she had not seen until now. Before she had gathered her wits to wonder what he was about, he stepped back into the corridor to grasp her arm and jerk her inside the little room.

  Still he said nothing. He only pulled the wooden door closed behind her and returned his attention to the dagger in his hand, tilting it so the light slid along the blade. The torch now sat in the little bracket on the wall, lighting the tiny room which held only two small beds piled with blankets, some well-worn baggage in a corner, and clothes hanging on wall hooks. Some minor lords lodged here, likely. She wondered vaguely if he knew whose room it was, then returned to wondering why he was here.

  “How did you know to find me here?” she asked at last.

  “I followed you from the hall. I had barely arrived and seen you there when you slipped out.” He kept his eyes on the blade in his hands, passing a thumb lightly over the quillon. “It was a boy, if you care to know it. Another son,” he said, his expression unreadable. “We named him Madog.”

  The name flooded her chest with emotion. She wanted to snatch the weapon back from him, and would have done it if she had not known it for a foolish impulse. He was Ranulf of Morency and he held a blade in his hand. If he wished it, the steel would be at her throat before she had moved an inch. She stared at the etching on the dagger’s pommel instead. We were true friends, Madog had said. And longer ago, solemnly, on his knees: I swear fealty to Gwenllian ferch Eluned. Long before Morency had entered their lives, there had been Madog’s protection and loyalty and love. His blade did not belong in this man’s hand. />
  “In truth, she named the boy.” Ranulf smiled faintly to himself before his expression turned grim. “I could not spare a thought for his naming, so busy was I in persuading her she must not rise from childbed the instant he was born to travel the winter road. Naught would do but that she must come to her lady mother, and force you to break your silence.”

  She held his hard gaze, gritting her teeth and feeling her lips pinch together. Twice had Gwenllian sent letters to her since Madog’s death, and Eluned had answered only once, briefly and formally. Her replies were impersonal, dictated to the scribe and ignoring nearly every question posed to her. Her daughter asked how the men of Ruardean fared in the face of Madog’s death, asked why Eluned had agreed to marriage to a stranger, invited her to come to Morency, wondered if she grieved Walter’s passing or the loss of Ruardean’s rule – all things that Eluned could not bring herself to answer. She could not even bring herself to think of those things, or of Gwenllian’s concern.

  And now it was Gwenllian’s husband she must deal with, standing over her with narrowed eyes, dagger in hand.

  “Come, lady mother,” he said, taking a step closer until he towered over her. “Surely there is something you would say for yourself.”

  She kept her eyes level with his chest, felt her breath grow thinner and quicker as he seemed to grow impossibly taller. She bore it for a moment, and then something in her snapped. Her hands came up and pushed him away, a peevish gesture as she stepped back from him and said, exasperated, “Oh, stop looming.”

  There was a smirk on his lips, of course, but it did not provoke her as it should. There was something comfortable about it, the natural response to a woman’s harmless scold. God save her, that she must count this man as family now.

  “I confess I never thought to find you on the threshold of murder. Tell me,” he said with a thoughtful little flip of the dagger in his palm. “Why Roger Mortimer?”