Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “I’m a lowborn guard. I can’t ever be a knight.”

  “I think you’re a knight. At least what a knight should be. I’ve actually known several real knights. They all look the same without their armor. None of them have ever been noble.”

  She took his face in her hands, leaned in, and kissed him. She was gentle. A light touch. Her lips the softest thing he’d ever felt. Her fingers drifted down from his cheek along the length of his neck. Pulling away just enough to speak, still so close he felt her words, she said, “If you don’t want to dirty your new uniform, we can fold it up and set it on the other straw bale.”

  “Rose,” he said, not certain where the air to speak came from, as she had just stolen every bit he had. He gained a moment by taking hold of her hands. “I can’t.”

  “It’s your first day. How upset will they be if you’re a little late?”

  “It’s not that. It’s … not right.”

  She smiled, trying not to laugh. “No, it’s okay. Honestly. This is the first time I’ve ever really wanted to. And I’ll be able to sleep afterward—it will help. Really.”

  She kissed him again, and he pulled back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I really can’t.”

  “If you’re afraid—if it’s your first time—that’s okay. I like that. I’ll get to feel special.”

  “That’s just it. This would be special, and that’s why I can’t.”

  She stared at him, confused; then slowly she pulled back, letting her hands fall to her sides, an understanding dawning on her face. “She must be an amazing woman.”

  “She is.”

  “How long have you been in love with her?”

  “All my life, although I only met her three years ago,” he said, realizing he’d never told that to another living soul.

  Rose looked down and he thought she might start crying again. Instead she sucked in a breath and forced a stiff smile. “You’re a good kisser. Did she teach you that?”

  “No, but thank you.”

  Rose reached out and let her fingers brush along his cheek. She had a sad, wistful look in her eyes. “I hope she knows how lucky she is.”

  Reuben looked away, closed his eyes, and bit the inside of his mouth.

  How much of a fool am I?

  Reuben came out of the dungeons into the whirl of celebration. Like surfacing after a dive, reality felt too bright, too loud. Lights were everywhere—illuminated pumpkins carved with faces, lanterns, torches, and candles that sat on shelves, hung from the ceiling, or were mounted on poles. The sound of flutes and fiddles rang through the stone corridors, being muffled by the patter of shoes as hosts rushed, guests arrived, and servants trotted.

  Such a marvelous world. Such sights and sounds. Such beauty that they kept locked away, hidden from those who chummed with horses on cold winter nights. Reuben paused at the entrance for a moment, looking through the sweep and majesty of gowns and cloaks, wondering if he would see her. What would she be wearing for such a grand event? What might she think of his new uniform? Would he be suddenly dashing in her eyes too?

  He knew the truth of it. If the princess saw him now, she wouldn’t notice. Her sight would glance off him as if he were the surface of a still pond. He was just another guard—as interesting as a table or pillar.

  He turned and walked toward the big doors. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want to prove himself right—not after speaking with Rose. What would she have thought if he had told her? What might she have said? How could he explain? No one could ever understand; even he struggled at times.

  There was almost as much commotion out in the courtyard as inside. Servants with buckets and bundles ran with their deliveries. For years Reuben had watched the parties from the roof of the woodshed, or in winter from the windows of the stable. In the shadows he would sit for hours marveling at the capes, hats, walking sticks, feathers, and furs. All the parties started like a parade, a traveling show put on just for him. That day, however, he was working the parade.

  “You’re late!” Lieutenant Wylin was at the front gate along with Grisham and Bale. Bale looked irritated and gave him a reproachful stare. “You can take your leave now, Bale.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bale said, still glaring at Reuben. “ ’Bout bloody time.”

  “When you fail to do your job properly, Hilfred,” Wylin spoke sternly, “your fellows suffer. Remember that. You’re part of a team now. Trust me, you don’t want to be the weak link in this chain. The castle guard has a way of solving its own problems.”

  Reuben found it strange that Wylin called him by his surname. He never had before, and it sounded odd, as if he were speaking to his father.

  “Grisham here will show you what’s to be done. Do as he says, and I’ll be back later.” He paused and then almost as if reading his mind added, “Your father spent many years attaching respect and dignity to the name of Hilfred. Watch yourself, do your duty with honor and courage, fulfill your vow to protect His Majesty and his family, and you’ll make your father proud. Then perhaps one day you’ll find yourself as a sergeant at arms like him.”

  Wylin nodded briskly at Grisham and then marched off.

  “So what do I do?” Reuben asked.

  “Nothing,” Grisham replied. “Think you can handle that?”

  “Then why was it so important that I get here on time?”

  “ ’Cause Bale’s feet hurt, and he was hungry. You’re gonna stand in that spot for six hours. You’ll see.”

  “I really just stand here?”

  “That’s the outgoing side,” Grisham said, then pointed across the bridge at the central square of the Gentry Quarter, where a long line of coaches waited, wrapping in a circle around the statue of Tolin Essendon. “See the carriages? They come up on my side. I check their invitations and wave them through. Then they roll to the front door, drop off the guests, and the driver goes back out on your side. The king don’t care about empty coaches leaving his castle. So you just stand there and wave them through. Even you ought to be able to handle that, right?”

  “What if they don’t have an invitation?”

  “Then we tell them to leave.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  Grisham smiled. “We never get that lucky. The only fun we ever have is watching the drunks at night. Sometimes they get surly and if they’re merchants, you can give them a kick to the backside. But be sure you aren’t kicking a noble. If they’re really drunk, they might not remember, but if they do, you’ll lose that foot.”

  A pair of trumpets played a fanfare from the battlements and the lead carriage rolled forward. On top was the typical driver in heavy black robes and the traditional soft hat. He pulled the pair of mismatched black and white horses to a stop.

  “Invitation, please.” He heard Grisham’s voice on the far side.

  A boy in a high-collared doublet and fur hat looked out the window at Reuben with an expression of disdain. He rotated a silver dagger with a handle shaped like a dragon through his fingers like a coin trick.

  “Welcome to Essendon Castle,” Grisham announced a minute or two later, and the carriage rolled in.

  As it did, another pulled up in its place. Across the bridge, Reuben watched the line move and more carriages appeared in Gentry Square from various side streets. Most were open coaches, many of which looked identical to one another. These each had candle-lanterns mounted on the four corners hanging from ornamental iron arms that curled like vines near the top. He wondered if all the identical carriages were hired from the city liveries, as all of those were pulled by a single horse and came equipped with the same retractable top, which could be unfurled like a lady’s fan. That night, being clear and not yet cold, few had them up. Reuben guessed it was just as important to be seen visiting the castle as it was to get invited in the first place. Some of the carriages were drawn by pairs of horses. The more horses the more money, Reuben guessed. The truly rich had no need for hired carriages, and each of the
irs was unique, larger, and well decorated. Reuben noticed that Grisham passed these through the gate faster and with more formality.

  After the bulk of the parade had passed, as gaps began to form and the flood slowed to a drip, Grisham called him over.

  “You take the next one. I may need to piss at some point.”

  They switched sides and Reuben waited as the next carriage rolled up. It was one of the open-tops, pulled by a single horse. Riding in back were two men dressed in high-collared cloaks—one heavy, one thin.

  The carriage halted at the gate. “Invitation, please,” Reuben asked in the same monotone voice he had heard Grisham use.

  The heavy man handed over a folded parchment with white-gloved hands.

  Reuben opened it and glanced at the contents. He had no idea what it said—he couldn’t read. He was fairly certain Grisham couldn’t either. Still, it was the same-looking document that all the others had, and the royal seal was all he was really looking for. This was the first time he saw the writing, however, and he marveled at the beautiful lines.

  He handed the invitation back. “And your invitation, sir?” He reached out to the thin man.

  “This is Viscount Albert Winslow,” the heavy man said. “He is my guest this evening.”

  Dozens of carriages had passed the gate and none ever said this. Reuben began to sweat as he wondered what he should do. Feeling foolish, knowing he failed, Reuben took a step to the side to make eye contact with Grisham.

  The older guard nodded.

  “Ah … thank you. Welcome to Essendon Castle,” Reuben said, then waved them through.

  Grisham chuckled as they switched sides again but didn’t say anything.

  Soon the carriages stopped coming and Grisham had him close the little gates, swinging the iron bars around and locking them in place with the big crank. This gave them something to lean on, but Grisham warned not to get caught doing so. The sergeants might let it slide, but Wylin and Lawrence didn’t like it, and after the unexpected death of Sergeant Barnes, who used to supervise the guards at the front gate, Wylin would be by more likely to check on them.

  “The easy work is done,” Grisham told him. “Now comes the long hours of boredom. We just stand here and open the gate when people leave.”

  “Won’t the carriages return?”

  “Yeah, but they have to park out on the street for now. There’s no room for all of them in the yard.” Grisham looked up at the castle and then back out at the city. “Okay, I’ve got to hit the privy. It might take me a while—things been backed up, if you know what I mean. You all right to just stand here and not get both of us in trouble?”

  Reuben nodded.

  “Nothing should happen for the next few hours anyhow. Not out here. Just try not to stab anyone or let an enemy army in, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good boy.” Grisham walked off toward the barracks.

  Reuben stared out of the gate across the bridge at the city, but he wasn’t seeing it. Instead he was remembering the feel of Rose’s hands on his arm, the shift of her hips as she moved against him, and the look of her face. No one had ever looked at him like that before. There was admiration, even awe in those wide eyes, as if he were someone important. It felt dishonest to let her look at him that way, to allow her to think he was something other than what he was. Reuben wondered what it was like for her. How awful must it be to sleep with men for money? Part of him was angry. He wanted to protect her. To save her from what he imagined was a horror. She should not be doing that. Whores were supposed to be ugly, dirty, vile women with no morals, no kindness—they were not Rose. This got him thinking that maybe he had no idea about anything. She was a whore, and he was a new castle guard, but in the broader scope of things, Rose was more worthy of respect. She had seen the world and survived on her own. She was free to do what she wanted and as such he imagined she had experienced much more. He admired her and supposed she would be surprised to learn that.

  Still, it was nice to be looked at that way—to be noticed, to be seen as something more than a tree, or a door, or a pair of hands. It was outright thrilling to be thought of as a man. That title he was certain was premature, but it sounded wonderful coming from those soft lips. There was more to it than that, more than simple recognition. When she had congratulated him on his success, he felt both happy and empty. Never having known such admiration, or even the support of a real friend, it was as if he’d only realized he was hungry after smelling food.

  He liked Rose. Yes, he did.

  The idea settled in his head as if it had been flying around the corners of his sight. When he actually bothered to really look, the idea gained substance and became unmistakably solid. He liked Rose a lot. She felt like a friend. Having never had one before, he wasn’t completely sure, but he couldn’t imagine her giving him a helmet and then beating him with wooden swords or getting drunk and punching his face. She was better than that—better than them. When he first spotted her coming out of that window, he thought she was a ghost, but now he thought that perhaps he was the ghost—a ghost that only she could see.

  Rose. Is it just a coincidence that she has my mother’s name? That she climbed out of that same window?

  “Hilfred!”

  Reuben looked up to see the prince and the Pickerings riding horses toward him.

  “Hurry. Get the gate open.”

  Reuben did not bother with the bow. He grabbed the hand crank and lifted the catch until he could swing the gate back out of the way.

  The prince was dressed in heavy wool, a thick cloak with his hood up. Mauvin and Fanen followed suit, each appearing as night riders or mounted monks. They had packs that bulged—a picnic stolen from the castle kitchens or the party tables, perhaps? Reuben wondered how long they planned to stay out and hoped they wouldn’t be as long as their bags suggested. If anything did happen to them, how could he excuse it? And if the sun came up and they weren’t back, what then?

  “Back to Edgar’s Swamp?” he asked. Best to be certain he knew where to send the search party before they dragged him to the gallows.

  “Yeah, it’s getting cold. Tonight might be my last chance to beat Mauvin and become the new frog-hunting champ so we plan to spend the whole night. When snows set in, we’ll be able to hold races in the castle. Maybe sucker the squires into doing a little betting. Now remember, don’t tell anyone we left. Even if they beat you with whips or set hot tongs to your feet.”

  “Yeah, with all that’s going on, they’ll think we’re just off in some remote part of the castle doing something stupid,” Mauvin said.

  “Not like chasing frogs in a wet pond in the middle of a cold autumn night,” Fanen said with a smirk.

  “Right!” Mauvin grinned.

  “Wish you could come, Hilfred,” the prince said.

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  “C’mon, slowpokes!” Alric jabbed his heels into the sides of his horse and raced out into the Gentry Quarter followed by the two brothers, their horses’ hooves clattering on the brick.

  Reuben closed the gate once more and watched them go, wishing he were with them, disappearing into the night with frog bags flapping.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE AUTUMN GALA

  What is taking so long, woman?” the king roared at the queen.

  “I’m brushing your daughter’s hair.”

  Amrath entered the bedroom.

  Arista sat on a stool facing Ann’s swan mirror, while his wife stood behind peering over her shoulder. They both stared into the mirror’s depths as if watching a riveting battle through a window. The two were dressed in gala finery. Ann had on her infamous silver silk gown. He should never have allowed her that dress; he had lost too many arguments on its account. The delicate silk that so perfectly, and strategically, adorned her body turned out to be more formidable than any armor.

  The king leaned against the doorframe and folded his big arms across his chest.

  The queen l
ooked up. “Why the rush?”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “Oh, you aren’t going to get drunk tonight, are you?”

  “It’s a party, isn’t it?”

  “But you don’t have to…” She sighed. “Do whatever you want.”

  The king frowned. He’d been looking forward to a night of revelry, to getting soaked with Leo and possibly introducing the new chancellor to the wonderful world of hard cider. Everyone should make a fool of themselves once in a while, and he wanted to see the proper young gentleman from Maranon fall on his ass. But with that one sigh, his plans were foiled.

  “What?” Ann asked.

  “Nothing.”

  She was still as lovely as the day they had wed, which was also the day they met. He had lucked out there. Leo had had the luxury of meeting Belinda Lanaklin ahead of time. His friend knew what he was getting into. Amrath’s future had been dictated by his father, Eric, and Ann’s father, Llewellyn. Or was it old Clovis who had decided who his granddaughter would marry? Who she would love.

  Does she love me? He had asked himself that question dozens of times over the years, never certain why it was so hard to believe. A lot had to do with being an arrangement. She never had the chance to say no. Anyone would make the best of a situation they couldn’t escape by pretending happiness and hoping that one day it would be true.

  When his father informed Amrath of the agreement he had reached with Clovis Ethelred for his granddaughter Ann to marry him, the first thing Amrath had asked was what she looked like.

  “Look like?” His father squinted at him, puzzled.

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Ahhh…” He appeared pained. “Hard to say. I don’t remember.”

  “You … don’t remember?”

  “The last time I saw her was years ago. She was only a child.”

  His heart had stopped at that admission. He recalled standing before his father, running all the ghastly girls he’d ever seen through his mind and, yes, he was fairly certain his heart had stopped, if only for a second. He didn’t even know how old she was. Clovis was ancient, so his granddaughter might have been some old maid of thirty or more. This sent new images through Amrath’s head of the rat-haired witch who made the bread, and his great-aunt Margaret who had a face that sprouted warts that had then grown hair. “She could be monstrous. Some vicious badger-like thing.”