The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Thank you,” Havant said, to Hark. He pushed Roxanne gently towards the flap. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Hark waited until the flap was closed, then leaned forward. “I am sure she will be a good bride.”

  “She comes with a significant dowry,” Havant said, bluntly. He might have pledged himself to the faith, but he didn’t have to listen to sarcastic remarks. The Red Monks were his agents and advisors, not his masters. “What do you want?”

  “Her father will inevitably betray you,” Hark said. His voice was toneless. “You must take some of her blood.”

  The world seemed to blur, again. For a moment, Havant thought he saw the future. A hundred events, a hundred moments where things could go either way ... all centred on Earl Goldenrod. And a betrayal at the worst possible moment would be the end. He’d been so focused on combining the two earldoms that it hadn’t occurred to him that the marriage made Earl Goldenrod heir to the Hereford Lands. No wonder he’d agreed so quickly.

  “I will,” he promised. He had a wife. He didn’t need her father. Once he had a son, he could quietly dispose of the older man before he was assassinated himself. “And you can use it.”

  And then he turned and walked into the tent.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “That was ... an interesting set of discussions,” Caen said.

  Reginald nodded, tightly. Earl Oxley was terrifyingly fond of his own voice. He’d debated everything, from the precise level of homage he should pay to Reginald for his lands to the exact number of troops he should supply to the army. And he’d dropped dozens of little hints about a marriage between Reginald and his oldest daughter, or a betrothal between Reginald and one of his younger daughters. Reginald didn’t really blame him for wanting to establish himself high up the food chain, but it was annoying. Oxley was already too powerful – and too well established – for Reginald’s peace of mind.

  And everyone else’s too, Reginald thought. He’d hoped to carve up Oxley’s lands and parcel them out, but Oxley’s swift submission had made that impossible. I’ll have to go north, sooner rather than later.

  He looked up at Caen. “Have the terms of the submission written out, then checked,” he said, through a yawn. It had been a very long day. “And then get some sleep yourself.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Caen said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He hurried out of the door, leaving Reginald alone. Reginald rose and glanced around the chambers, shaking his head in amusement. King Edwin might have ruled a poor kingdom, but he hadn’t skimped on his comforts. The bed was large enough for five or six people; the closet was full of fancy clothes; the bathroom housing a gold-edged bathtub that could easily hold two or three bathers. But there was no running water, of course, and the chamberpot was distressingly primitive. No one had bothered to give the castle piped water, let alone drains.

  And now it’s mine, he thought, as he slowly undid his leathers. He’d discarded the armour as a show of good faith, but he hadn’t been entirely defenceless. It’s just a shame I won’t have time to enjoy it.

  He shook his head, slowly. There were too many things to do. He had to accept homage from his new vassals, he had to sort out trade between Allenstown, Racal’s Bay and Humber, he had to decide on a policy towards noblemen who were reluctant to bend the knee ... that, at least, was simple. They had a week to submit and then their lands would be forfeit. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if they all submitted. He’d be unable to pay his mercenaries and reward his followers if he couldn’t confiscate lands from short-sighted noblemen.

  Perhaps I’ll just have to push them into rebellion, he thought. He yawned again. It might solve one of my problems.

  Something moved, behind him. He snatched the dagger from his belt and spun around, bracing himself for attack. If someone had managed to get into his chambers and catch him with his pants down ... he stared in disbelief. Emetine stood there, raising her hands in surrender. Her silken nightgown made it absolutely clear that she wasn’t concealing any weapons. Reginald couldn’t help staring. Even whores didn’t wear such translucent garments. He could see every curve of her body, from the swell of her breasts to the patch of dark hair between her legs. It was hard, so hard, to raise his eyes and look at her face.

  “I thought we should talk, privately,” Emetine said. Her voice was light and breathy. It was hard to catch her words. “And perhaps reach a better understanding.”

  Reginald’s mouth was suddenly dry. He couldn’t think clearly. He’d never seen anything like her, not even when he’d seduced a pair of noblewomen in his teens. There had been brief conquests and long affairs, moments of pleasure and long relationships that he’d known wouldn’t go anywhere, but ... but he’d always been in charge. Now ... he felt weak, helpless to resist. His heart was pounding like the beat of a drum, so loudly that he thought he could hear it.

  “How ...?” Reginald swallowed and started again. “How did you get in here?”

  Emetine smiled at him. It transformed her face. He’d never thought of her as particularly pretty, but ... her smile made her light up like the sun. She was pretty. He found it hard to believe that King Edwin had never touched her. They’d been man and wife. Surely, he’d found her impossible to resist.

  His eyes dipped. He could see the outline of her breasts – and her hard nipples, pressing against the silk. He was suddenly achingly hard. He wanted her, desperately. She stepped forward and it was all he could do to keep from reaching for her. It would be easy, so easy, to grab her and throw her onto the bed, to tear away the nightgown and feast his eyes on her naked body. And yet ... it was hard, so hard, to think clearly. He couldn’t look away.

  “My brothers are dead,” Emetine said. “I’m all that’s left of the Herefords.”

  That might not be true, Reginald thought. He’d hoped to find the body of the third Hereford sibling, but an extensive search of the battlefield had turned up nothing. Reginald wanted to believe that Havant Hereford was dead, yet common sense forced him to doubt it. Havant had had plenty of time to make his escape before it was too late. He might be out there somewhere.

  “And I can’t hold land in my own right,” Emetine said. She took another step closer. “I need a protector.”

  “I am your new guardian,” Reginald reminded her. He managed to lift his gaze. Her lips were suddenly very tempting. He could kiss her. He wanted to kiss her. “I ... I’ll see that you are protected.”

  “Marry me,” Emetine said. She was almost touching him now. “Marry me and you get the lands ...”

  Reginald tried to force himself to think. Cold logic warned that it would be a very bad idea. He would get the lands, if Emetine was truly the last of her family, but they’d come with a price. He wanted her – by all the gods, he wanted her – yet he knew she hadn’t had children with her previous husband. What if she was barren? What if ... what if he married her and they couldn’t have children? He would be deprived of a legitimate heir. His father would not be pleased if he committed himself to a woman who might be barren.

  And yet, cold logic felt as insubstantial as a puff of wind.

  She was standing right in front of him, her breasts almost touching his shirt. He felt nervous, as nervous as a virgin who was about to have sex for the very first time. His hand crept upwards, almost against his will, and brushed against her breast. She let out a moan and leaned closer, prolonging the contact. Sparks seemed to dance between them as she pressed herself against him, drawing him onwards. He was no longer aware of anything, but her.

  His hands moved to the clasp and undid it. Her nightgown fell to the ground, pooling around her feet. She smelt ... she smelt wonderful. He tried to take a step back, but his legs refused to move. She was suddenly stronger, looming over him ... he felt a flicker of panic, which vanished almost as soon as it appeared. Something was wrong ...

  Emetine was speaking. But he couldn’t make out the words.

  ***

  Isabella
sat bolt upright in bed, an instant before her mind caught up with her. She grabbed for the dagger she kept under the pillow, half-expecting an intruder intent on forcing himself on her. It had happened several times, during her stint as a mercenary. Some drunken idiot would become convinced that she wanted him and stumble into her sleeping quarters ... But there was no one lurking in the darkness. She muttered a spell, illuminating the chamber with pearly white light. She was alone.

  Something is wrong, she thought, as she swung her legs over the bed and stood. But what?

  She clutched her dagger in one hand as she reached for her leathers. Thankfully, she’d slept in her shirt and trousers rather than risk sleeping naked. She’d known there was a chance she might be forced to wake in a hurry. And her instincts wouldn’t have yanked her out of deep sleep for nothing. But ... she reached out with her senses, testing the wards. They were intact ... no, one of them wasn’t intact. The ward hadn’t snapped, it hadn’t even been subverted. It was just gone.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “That’s Prince Reginald’s chamber!”

  She grabbed her sword and wand, then ran for the door. Prince Reginald was guarded heavily, but anyone who could take out a ward could presumably take out a handful of guards too. She ran up the corridor, slowing as she approached the chamber. The guards seemed alert, but they were completely unresponsive when she called out to them. They were entranced. Isabella bit off a curse, then tested the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked.

  Summoning her magic, she blasted the door as hard as she could. It disintegrated. Isabella ran inside, looking around for the threat. Prince Reginald was lying on the floor, staring up at nothing; Emetine was standing over him, surrounded by a haze of something. He was naked, his manhood clearly visible. Isabella wasn’t sure if Emetine was trying to seduce the prince or kill him. There was something fundamentally wrong about the whole scene.

  “Get away from him,” she snapped.

  Emetine turned. Her face ... her face looked different. It flickered, as if she was casting and recasting glamours over herself. Isabella could see things moving under Emetine’s skin, as if ... as if they were on the verge of exploding out of her. And the haze ... Isabella took a breath and regretted it, instantly, as she felt a hot flush of pure arousal. A love potion ... no, not quite a love potion, but something that worked along the same lines. It was a rapist’s dream.

  Rage boiled through her. How dare she? Isabella reached for her magic and lashed out, hoping to stun the older woman. It was clear that Emetine was far from helpless ... whatever she was, she was far from helpless. And yet, what was she? The magic struck ... and splintered, fading into nothingness. Emetine smirked at her, the haze surrounding them growing stronger. Isabella tried to cast a filtering spell, but the magic seemed to vanish almost as soon as she summoned it.

  Damn it, she thought.

  She hurled herself forward. Emetine’s eyes – so human and yet so ... inhuman – widened with surprise, an instant before Isabella crashed her fist into Emetine’s jaw. The woman gasped in pain and stumbled, falling to the ground. Isabella bent down and hit her again, harder this time. Emetine stared at her for a moment, her face completely uncomprehending, then blacked out. Isabella frowned – Emetine hadn’t looked that tough – then looked up. The haze was already fading away.

  Reginald groaned. Isabella hurried to his side. His eyes were dazed, as if he’d been drugged. He had been drugged. There was a reason love potions were banned. But then, it wasn’t that hard to find a love potion or a recipe on the black market. Perhaps Emetine had had enough magic to brew one for herself. It was vaguely possible that she might have managed to brew a potion with just a hint of magic.

  Or something else happened, she thought, as she half-dragged Reginald towards the bathroom. My spells didn’t work on her either.

  The guards, snapping out of their trances and belatedly realising that something was wrong, came storming into the chamber. Isabella gritted her teeth. If they caught a whiff of whatever was left of the potion – or whatever it had been – she was going to be in real trouble if her spells were no longer reliable. And Emetine would be in trouble too ...

  “I have the situation under control,” she snapped. “Get out, then seal off the corridor at both ends.”

  Thankfully, the guards obeyed without question. Isabella breathed a sigh of relief, then finished hauling Prince Reginald into the bathroom. A large tub of water sat in one corner. She took a bucket, filled it to the brim and then splashed water over the prince. He gasped and coughed, shivering frantically as his eyes slowly returned to normal. Isabella wondered, vaguely, just what had happened before she’d arrived. Emetine ... had been on the verge of controlling him. Or worse.

  “I ...” Prince Reginald coughed, loudly. “I ... what happened?”

  “Emetine tried to enchant you,” Isabella said. She patted his naked shoulder. “Stay here a moment, please. I’ll deal with her.”

  The prince didn’t argue. That worried her more than she cared to admit. Love potions could have nasty long-term effects, even if the original compulsion was overridden or retargeted on something harmless. And he’d been rendered helpless by a woman ... that would probably grate on him too. She shook her head in annoyance – too many women had been rendered helpless by men – and then stepped back into the bedroom. Emetine was still unconscious, but Isabella took no chances. She searched the woman roughly, inspected her face – it was normal now – and bound her hand and feet. And, just to be sure, she shoved a gag in Emetine’s mouth.

  I’ll have to take her to the cells, she thought, grimly. She knew what the guards would do, if presented with something that looked young, female and helpless. And she had a nasty feeling that Emetine would take full advantage of it. If she has the same powers as the Red Monks, she might be able to escape with ease.

  She dumped Emetine in a corner, then walked back to the washroom. Prince Reginald was trying to stand, even though his legs were too wobbly to support him. He brushed aside her hand when she offered it, concentrating on standing under his own power. She didn’t really blame him for trying. He couldn’t afford to show weakness now he’d won the first round of the war. It would convince his enemies that further resistance wasn’t futile.

  “Ouch,” he said, followed by a string of curses. “What happened?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me,” Isabella said. She tried to ignore the prince’s nakedness. He hadn’t set out to expose himself to her, after all. “What did she do?”

  Prince Reginald flinched. “I ...”

  He closed his eyes, then told her the entire story. Isabella listened, nodding to herself. It hadn’t just been a seduction, then. She’d been right. Emetine had been trying to control him, using her body – and her strange powers – to plant hooks in his mind. If Isabella hadn’t come to the rescue ...

  “You should have her executed, after we interrogate her,” Isabella said, when the prince had finished. “She should not be left alive.”

  “We’ll keep her in jail,” Prince Reginald said. “I don’t want to shed female blood.”

  Isabella fought down a hot flash of pure anger. It was late, she was tired ... she didn’t have time for aristocratic stupidity. And she was too tired to care about the consequences of telling the prince the truth.

  “How many women do you think have died in your father’s wars?” Her voice was bitingly cold. “How many women and girls do you think have been raped? How many are going to starve to death or be forced into unhappy marriages because your armies killed their husbands and fathers and brothers? How many women have suffered because you decided you wanted the Summer Isle for yourself?”

  Prince Reginald flinched, again. “I ...”

  “She tried to rape you,” Isabella snapped. “And she used ... she used strange powers to do it. And you’re trying to forgive her because you think she’s a woman? How helpless do you think she is? How helpless do you think I am?”

  She took a long breath, c
alming herself. Prince Reginald was hardly the only offender. He’d even done everything in his power to ensure that the locals were treated decently, although his ability to keep his troops from committing atrocities was limited. She’d met mercenary captains who’d gloried in atrocity and noblemen who’d liked to spend their days hunting peasants for sport. Prince Reginald was better than most ... not perfect, but better. She didn’t really want to walk away.

  “I’ll take you back to my room,” she decided. She could hide the prince from passing eyes, at least for a few hours. “That’ll give this room time to vent.”

  And time for him to recover himself, she added, privately. He’s in no state to talk to anyone right now.

  She found him a robe, then cast a concealment spell around him. The guards didn’t see him as Isabella led him out of the chamber and down the corridor. They were too busy milling around, speculating on what had happened and trying to decide how best to avoid blame for the whole affair. Isabella didn’t blame them for being worried. No one would believe that Emetine had managed to walk past them and into the prince’s chambers without being seen.

  They’ll assume the guards were bribed, she thought, as she entered her room. And if I hadn’t seen them entranced, I would believe it too.

  She helped Prince Reginald to the bed and went back to the prince’s chambers. The guards were eager to help her move Emetine to a cell, then seal off the royal bedchamber for a few hours. The maids would clean up the mess in the morning, once the remnants of the potion had faded away. They’d have to wash the chamber from top to bottom.

  And I have to pray the prince doesn’t suffer any ill-effects, she thought, as she spread a blanket on the floor. If he does, we may be in some trouble.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Here’s how it’s going to be,” Isabella said, as she stepped into the cell and glared at Emetine. The older woman was lying on the stone floor, bound and gagged, but her eyes were alight with anger and malice. And, perhaps, a hint of madness. “If you cooperate, you’ll be unharmed; if you make a fuss, I’ll hurt you. Do you understand me?”