The Princess

by Elizabeth Elliott

  Aye, it was my duty. Sir Roland had been the captain of the English guard, and therefore the highest ranked of my father’s soldiers here at Ashland. The questions were slow to form in my sleep-fogged brain. “How did he die?”

  “The soldiers are not certain,” Hilda said. “There does not seem to be a mark upon the body, but he was found holding his throat, as if he had been strangled.”

  I remembered again the persistent cough that had plagued him this past week. “He is not a young man. Indeed, Sir Roland is…was…much older than my father. ’Tis likely consumption. He has been ill all week.”

  My ladies exchanged another look.

  “What?” I demanded.

  Gretchen leaned closer, her voice almost a whisper. “The soldiers reported that he bled from his ears and nose, and even from his eyes. You know what that means.”

  A sudden shiver went through me. There was one cause of death that claimed far too many noble lives, one we were all bred to fear. “Poison?”

  “Surely that is the reason Gerhardt summoned Lord Dante so quickly,” Hilda said. Her hands were gripped together so tightly her knuckles were white. “Lord Dante is an expert in such matters, yes?”

  “He is an expert,” I confirmed, hoping to quell further speculation. According to my father, poison was Dante Chiavari’s specialty, along with throat cutting and a few other murderous skills. We were living under the same roof with a notorious poisoner, and now one of my men had been poisoned. Coincidence? I wondered.

  Not that I would voice my doubts to Gretchen and Hilda. Poison found those closest to a noble as often as it found its mark, although it seemed odd that Sir Roland would receive a poison meant for me. Still, my suspicions could be wrong.

  I shook my head. It was all speculation. I tossed the covers back and rose from my bed. “Bring me a gown, and then tell me everything you know about this death.”

  * * *

  —

  MY LADIES HAD little information to share, which was another reason I hurried through my ablutions. I wanted to see the body and make my own judgment. Perhaps the soldiers had been mistaken about the poison. Sir Roland had been sick. He was old. Not all sick old men died peacefully.

  The great hall was the heart of Ashland Palace, a vast vaulted room built to accommodate hundreds of soldiers and courtiers at wide benches and tables. The hall and kitchens stretched along the southern wing of the palace, with a row of windows near the ceiling to let in light and draw out smoke from the two massive fireplaces at each end of the hall.

  The room was still cast in shadows when I arrived, but servants were busy lighting torches that were set into the walls and braces of candles around the head table. Dozens of English soldiers milled about the room, with more arriving by the moment. Almost everyone in the palace would soon be gathered here to break their fast, regardless of this tragedy, but few people filed to their seats this morning. Everyone faced toward the west side of the room and spoke in hushed voices. I followed the direction of their gazes.

  Sir Roland was laid out on a table near one of the fireplaces. As Chiavari pulled the edge of a blanket up over the dead knight’s face, my gaze went to Sir Roland’s bared arms that showed beneath the narrow blanket. I knew the proud old knight would not like to be put on display this way, but what I could see of him did not look quite real. His flesh was the color of tallow, a waxen figure instead of a man. I tried to find something about the body that seemed familiar. My gaze moved to the flow of wavy, iron-gray hair that spilled from beneath the blanket and over the edge of the table. Then I noticed dark streaks in his hair. Blood.

  Gerhardt intercepted me by standing directly in my path. “You do not need to see any more of him than this, Princess. His face is…”

  “His face is what?” I demanded.

  “The agony of Sir Roland’s passing is apparent in his death mask,” Gerhardt murmured. His eyes were somber, his jaw tight.

  I glanced again at the dead knight and couldn’t prevent the shudder that traveled up my spine. Sir Roland had not looked well yesterday in my solar. His skin had a grayish tinge to it and he had coughed even more than usual. I should have sent for a physician. He was my responsibility as much as Gerhardt or my other soldiers. This should not have happened. I should have recognized that he was sick.

  My gaze moved from Sir Roland to Chiavari. Dante Chiavari was our host and the current owner of this palace, a tall man with dark hair. His Italian ancestors were evident in his face, his features similar to the marble busts of ancient Roman emperors that I had viewed years ago on a pilgrimage to Rome. Something about him reminded me of the gyrfalcons in Rheinbaden, his eyes cold and assessing, the unemotional gaze of a predator that was constantly scanning its environment. Not for looking for danger, but searching for prey.

  Few knew his true identity, but many in England feared him. His was the last face that scores of my father’s enemies had looked upon. If not for Avalene, I would have thought him immune to any bouts of humanity. She had an almost magical effect on the man, but a quick glance around the hall confirmed that she was not in attendance. I would have to face him alone.

  Chiavari’s startling green eyes were hooded now as he gave instructions of some sort to his steward. Our gazes met briefly as he walked to the head table and took his seat. He began to wash his hands in a basin of lemon water that a servant had placed next to him.

  “I had nothing to do with his death,” Chiavari said in a quiet voice as I walked toward the table. “I can see the accusation in your eyes, Princess, but I am not the cause of this loss.”

  “Then he was not poisoned?” I asked, even as I straightened my spine. It would not do to look cowardly. One did not act like prey in the company of a predator.

  “Oh, he was poisoned,” Chiavari said, “but I did not do it.”

  I studied his face as he continued his ablutions, but I found nothing reflected there that would convince me of his innocence. “If not you, then who?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “That question might be easier to answer if we learn how he was poisoned. Our best hope will be if someone saw something unusual take place. I intend to learn how the doses were delivered, and then trace the poison back to its source.”

  “Was the poison in something he ate or drank, or is there a mark that indicates a poisoned blade?”

  “There are no wounds,” he said. “If my suspicions are correct, the poison that causes this type of death is a slow one, most often introduced in food over the course of several days or weeks. If it is what I suspect, the poison gradually turns the blood into an acid that eats through the body from the inside out.” He pressed his lips together, apparently aware—too late—that I did not need that much detail. He said in a softer tone, “If we can find more of the poisoned food, perhaps we can trace the poison to its source.”

  “I see.” The poison sounded ghastly. Then again, was there a good poison?

  “Sir Roland’s soldiers told me that no one else is ill,” Chiavari went on. “No one recalls him eating foods from a particular public house or street hawker, or purchasing anything from the markets to bring back to the palace.”

  “My men are searching Sir Roland’s chamber and the stables,” Gerhardt said as he walked up behind me. He spoke in a measured voice, as he spoke French for our host’s benefit. “Sir Roland rode every day. Perhaps we will find something in his tack.”

  I nodded to agree with his reasoning, but my attention was drawn back to Sir Roland’s body. I watched Chiavari’s steward direct four soldiers to each take a corner of the table he was laid upon, and then they carried the body from the hall.

  “They will take him to All Hallows,” Chiavari said. “According to his lieutenants, he has a daughter in London. I sent a messenger to notify her of Sir Roland’s death, and the body will then be taken to the church of her choosing.”

&
nbsp; A surge of guilt flooded through me. In all my worries about a poisoner, I had not given a single thought to Sir Roland’s family. I did not realize he even had a family. Then again, I had known him little more than a month. We were cordial, but still, I should have known more about his personal life.

  “Send one of our men with the weregild when the body is delivered,” I told Gerhardt. “Better yet, take it yourself. The daughter will not speak German, and I do not trust anyone else to make the proper explanation.”

  “What is there to explain?” Gerhardt retorted, just as Chiavari asked,

  “What is a weregild?”

  “The payment for her father’s death,” I answered. “Sir Roland was the captain of my English guard, therefore his death is my responsibility. I must pay the price for his murder.”

  “Ah, blood money,” Chiavari murmured. “You realize that your father is responsible for his knights and he will most certainly give the daughter Sir Roland’s pension?”

  I lifted my shoulders. “That is his right. This is mine.”

  “I will see it done,” Gerhardt said. His upper lip curled as his gaze went again to Chiavari. “Your palace is not as safe as you claimed, assassin.”

  “Mordecai made the claims, not me,” Chiavari said. His tone was mild, but I had already learned that Chiavari was at his most dangerous when he was quiet. “If I had been consulted before King Edward issued the princess an invitation to move into my home, I might have reminded the king that danger tends to follow me.”

  “A man is dead,” I reminded them. “I would like to know how we find those responsible for the crime.”

  Chiavari gave Gerhardt one more look through narrowed eyes before answering. “You know that I will not be in England much longer, but if you have a poisoner in your midst, I can tell you the signs to watch for. If I leave before the culprit is found, you would do well to ask for Mordecai’s help. He taught me much of what I know about poisons and the manners of their use.”

  His advice reminded me that Chiavari had once been Mordecai’s apprentice, and the magician had trained him to be an assassin. My childhood had not been particularly pleasant, but I would not wish Chiavari’s childhood upon anyone.

  I watched his gaze move to the far side of the hall and he sat up straighter, even as his expression softened. I did not need to turn around to know that Avalene had come into the hall. My presence was forgotten as Chiavari rose from his seat and walked across the hall to greet his betrothed. He lifted both of her hands to his lips. “Buongiorno, cara.”

  While the two lovers cooed over each other, I looked around and realized my ladies had already seated themselves at their usual places. I took my seat next to Avalene’s at the head table. Being one seat away from a creature like Chiavari was not quite so unnerving with Avalene between us as a buffer.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your captain,” Avalene told me as she settled onto her chair. She drew her blond braid over one shoulder to let it coil in her lap, and then she smoothed the skirts of her bloodred gown. She looked to Dante and then back to me, her blue eyes wide with concern. “Was it poison, then?”

  “Aye,” I said. “At least, that is what Chiavari believes.”

  “Oh, he would know,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. The look she gave him was filled with pride. “Poisons are Dante’s specialty.”

  “Aye, well…” What did one say to that boast? “We are all thankful for his expertise.”

  Avalene beamed at Chiavari, and I could have sworn he blushed. He then proceeded to give Avalene a summary of all that had happened since he left their chambers, and he had her mostly up-to-date when two of my soldiers entered the great hall. One of them carried a saddlebag that they brought to Gerhardt. Gerhardt looked inside one of the leather bags, closed the flap, and then walked toward us. He placed the bag on the table in front of Chiavari.

  “There are sweetmeats inside,” Gerhardt said. He began to tip the bag as if to empty the contents onto the table, but Chiavari reached over and snatched the bag from Gerhardt’s grasp.

  “Fool! Do not foul the table where my wife breaks her bread.” Chiavari opened the bag and peered inside, and then leaned closer and took a deep breath. “This is the source of the poison. Tell your men to wash their hands if they handled the sweetmeats. They are in no danger of dying, but it could make them ill. I will accompany you to check his quarters to see what was found, and interview the English soldiers to see if they know where Sir Roland came by these sweetmeats.”

  Gerhardt left to relay the message to my soldiers. Chiavari turned and cradled Avalene’s hand between his as if it were a treasure. “You will forgive me for calling you ‘wife’ before the church gives me that right?”

  A small sound came out of Avalene that I assumed was a giggle. “I liked it.”

  The smile Chiavari gave Avalene was almost frightening in its intensity. He was like a man possessed. He did not like it when another man so much as looked at Avalene. Frankly, I was surprised that Chiavari had allowed Faulke to live after Faulke announced his intentions to wed Avalene. I also began to wonder if Faulke realized his life would have been drastically shortened if he had not renounced his claim. Now Chiavari was free to wed Avalene, and Faulke was free to wed his consolation prize. Lucky, lucky me.

  “I must leave you to investigate this death,” Chiavari said. He murmured something else in Italian that made her blush. I turned away from the happy couple and looked at my ladies. Gretchen and Hilda both smiled behind their hands when I rolled my eyes.

  Avalene sighed again when Chiavari took his leave, and the light in her eyes dimmed a little when he disappeared into one of the hallways with Gerhardt a pace behind him.

  “Do you truly mean all that you say to him?” I asked. It was a rude question, but I had discovered early in our friendship that I could ask much ruder questions and get answers. Avalene had never encountered royalty before she met me. Apparently she thought there was some rule that said my rank meant she had to answer any question I posed to her.

  “I mean more than I can say with mere words,” she murmured. “He is my life, my reason for being.”

  I shook my head. “I cannot imagine it.”

  She gave me an odd look. “Did you not come to love Prince Hartman?”

  That, too, was a rude question, but I let it pass. Love played little role in the planning of noble marriages, but it sometimes developed over time. On my wedding day, I would have answered, “With all my heart.” Now I realized that much of what I had once felt for Hartman had been infatuation rather than love, a young girl’s first foray into romance.

  “I was just six years old when I arrived in Rheinbaden, and twelve when I wed,” I said in a rare moment of candor. “Hartman was five years my senior. Before our marriage, I made a nuisance of myself to attract as much of his attention as possible. I did not care how much trouble I caused, as long as he saw me, spoke to me, and somehow acknowledged my presence. In my eyes, Hartman was everything that was manly and heroic.”

  I did not add that in his eyes I was a bothersome child. A child blinded to her hero’s many faults.

  “I did not mean to pry,” Avalene whispered, bringing me back to the present. “Forgive me, Princess.”

  I made an effort to smile. “I was happy in my marriage.”

  She gave me a doubtful look. Even I had to admit there was no real ring of truth to the claim. My happiness had been that of a child who thought someone finally wanted her. No one had ever loved me the way Chiavari so obviously loved Avalene.

  I made a great show of washing my hands in the bowl of lemon water placed next to me, hoping she would take the hint that I no longer wanted to talk about my marriage.

  “Did you see Faulke Segrave and his cousin when they were here yesterday?” I asked. “By the time Mordecai departed, it was too late to seek your company. This is
the first chance I’ve had to speak with you about my first meeting with the Segraves.”

  “Dante would not allow me anywhere near the Segraves,” she said. “I doubt his feelings on that subject will change until we are wed. Perhaps not even then.”

  “No, I suppose not,” I murmured. A line of servants entered the great hall bearing trays and bowls that held our morning meal.

  “What do you think of them?” she asked.

  It took me a moment to realize she was talking about the Segraves, rather than the servants. My stomach growled as the morning meal came closer. “Faulke was not what I expected from your descriptions. Actually, both men were caked with mud from head to toe, and their beards looked as if they had muddy bushes glued to their faces. They both smelled like a bog.”

  Avalene giggled, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Forgive me, Princess! I did not mean to imply that there is anything laughable about your betrothed.”

  No, there was nothing laughable about Faulke Segrave. I waved my hand to dismiss the matter. “What did they look like when you saw them last?”

  “Hm.” Avalene lifted her gaze and stroked her fingertips along her throat as she recalled her last encounter with the Segraves. “When I saw them, their beards were not so fearsome as you describe, but that was weeks ago. I suppose they could look very fierce by now. Did they frighten you?”

  “Hardly.” I gave a snort of laughter. It was amazing how convincing my lies could sound when I put my mind to the matter. “I have faced far worse than the Segraves, my dear.”

  Avalene lowered her gaze. Then I recalled that she had also faced a man I deemed a worse prospect than Faulke Segrave…and she fell in love with him. I was such a coward.

  I cleared my throat. “Do you think Faulke murdered his wives?”

  Her mouth became a straight line. “I can only relay the rumors, my lady. I cannot judge the truth of them.”

  “Everyone is entitled to their opinion,” I said. “What is yours?”