by Robin Hardy
He raised up again when the guard departed. Testing his injured shoulder, he found it sore, but mobile. He looked down at the murky water and drew a long, fortifying breath. “Lord . . .” he murmured as he backed up. Then he ran at top speed and flung himself in a headlong dive into the moat.
Two strong strokes brought him immediately to the other side, but not before he felt a nip on his thigh. While he was struggling up the muddy bank of the moat, powerful teeth punctured his boot leather and pricked his heel. His other foot stepped on something black and slippery, and he fell under the shadow of the wall just as the guard came running back around to investigate the splash.
Roman pressed against the wall while the guard watched the water. If he had raised his eyes only degrees, he would have seen the black thing thrashing from Roman’s heel. However, he was watching the ripples fade and the water grow quiet again. Satisfied that the moat had done its job, the guard continued his rounds.
Roman slumped down, watching the creature twitch on his foot. Cautiously, he grasped its head and squeezed, dislodging the teeth from his boot. Then he tossed it, injured, back into the moat. The water instantly churned again, then subsided.
Dripping, Roman crouched next to the stone wall and waited for the draw-bridge to open to Deirdre.
Effie, Oweda, and Mathias rode in the clattering cart toward Short Street, passing sections of the fair, all lit and lively. Effie was almost incoherent in the excitement of retelling Oweda in greater detail what had happened with Roman while observing the fair all at once. She had never imagined, much less seen, so many treasures displayed together, so her narrative was going something like this: “. . . and then I finally got the bleeding to stop, but oh, he looked like he was dead—actually, it was still trickling when Pax came home and—oh! Look at the beautiful cloth! Anyway, Pax came home and I had to leave him—Roman—all night without knowing whether he was dead or alive, then in the morning I went in and—Look at the dolls!”
Effie was brought to a speechless gaze by the sight of the dollmaker’s booth, crowded with lovely little things in genteel little clothes. Oweda cocked her head, smiling, and Mathias stopped the cart. “Look at that,” he nodded. A train of soldiers and officials stood in the street outside the booth as if waiting. Effie was so entranced she did not see them, but in an instant she had slipped from the cart into the booth for a closer look at the dolls. There was only one customer inside with the dollmaker—a beautiful woman in rich attire who was lovingly caressing a doll.
Then Effie glimpsed a white figure hiding in the door flap of the booth, and heard it whisper clearly, “Surchataine . . . Deirdre.”
The woman turned to look at Effie. “Did you speak to me?”
Effie gaped in dumb terror. It was her! This was the Surchataine, standing right here, thinking this dirty peasant girl had the audacity to address her—!
Deirdre was frowning. “Did you have something you wanted to tell me?” She did not see the silent white figure on the edge of the tent.
Yes! Effie opened her mouth, but nothing would come out, and she wanted to run for embarrassment. Deirdre turned her back on the girl in momentary impatience, then smiled over her shoulder. “Do you like dolls, too?”
“Surchatain Roman is alive!” Effie blurted out her bottled-up message. “He wanted me to tell you he was wounded but healing. He said he has been humbled under a mighty hand, but from now on he will listen to Basil!”
Deirdre dropped the doll. The dollmaker hastily picked it up, brushing it off. Before the stunned Surchataine could say anything, the white figure stepped into clear view, lowering his hood. “It is the truth, Surchataine. He is alive.”
“Nihl!” Deirdre gasped. She threw her arms around him, leper’s clothes and all.
“Are you the girl who tended him?” Nihl asked Effie.
“Yes!” she answered, a thrill rising up from her toes. “Yes, it was me! I saved his life. And because he was grateful, he brought me here to meet Oweda.”
“Roman—is—here?” Deirdre croaked, choking on her heart in her throat.
“Yes,” Effie said importantly, gratified by their expressions. “He is looking for you.”
Deirdre turned to Nihl, whom she still grasped. “Nihl, what shall I do? I’m to meet with Caspar!”
“Go meet with him,” Nihl answered calmly. “Roman will certainly come to the palace.”
“But I don’t know that Caspar will receive him!” she said, panic tingeing her voice.
“I’ll wager Roman would guess that,” Nihl replied with a half-smile.
“Nihl—come with me!” Deirdre urged.
He paused. “I should find the Surchatain first.”
“Please, Nihl!” she begged. “You said he would come to the palace, and I need you until he does. I need someone near me I can trust!”
“Very well. I can hardly refuse you on that ground.”
Deirdre turned to Effie. “And how can I repay you?”
Effie took in with one glance her rich clothes, her jewels, the dolls surrounding them. But then she remembered at what great cost to himself Roman had foregone the throne to bring her here, as he had promised.
Looking the Surchataine in the eye with a dignity and maturity matching hers, Effie said, “I have been repaid.” Deirdre nodded wonderingly and Effie left, filled with the thrill of having done right and done it well.
Meanwhile, Deirdre and Nihl rejoined the royal train, with Nihl casually removing the leper’s shroud amid startled exclamations. “What is he doing? Who is that?” demanded Virl.
“This is Commander Nihl. He is accompanying me into the palace,” Deirdre sweetly explained. The Lystrans behind her looked suddenly confused.
“Surchataine, this ruse was unnecessary; you are well protected,” Virl argued faintly.
“Are you countering my order again?” Deirdre asked in mock exasperation. “I wonder how your Surchatain could really consider the wishes of his lady when even his emissaries do not.”
“Graciousness, forbid! You may take anyone you wish into the palace,” Virl corrected himself hastily. Deirdre smiled on him. I certainly will, and more than you realize.
Chapter 32
Roman watched from the cover of a protruding corner tower as the great drawbridge was lowered groaning to the ground and Deirdre’s party crossed over. In the waning light, torches carried by palace servants enabled him to pick her out at once, and, to his shock, Nihl beside her. “What—?” His thoughts leaped ahead in angry confusion. What is he doing here with her, when his own men are rebelling? An insidious suspicion crept in as he recalled Nihl’s confession of his feelings for Deirdre. But before his suspicions could rise out of control, Roman checked them with a conscious, willful decision to trust his Commander. He had to. He needed Nihl.
The last man crossed the bridge, and it began to rise on screeching chains. Roman darted to the closing crevice and jumped up on the bridge. He rolled down it, falling to the side. One of the drawmen caught the movement in the sparsely lit bay and came closer to the door to look, but Roman had slid out of sight behind the lower pulley. After watching the door close securely, the drawman locked the chains and left.
Once given the opportunity to wash up, Deirdre and Nihl, along with the emissary Virl, were ushered into a foyer glowing with colored fabrics and warm wood. Deirdre paused before a likeness of Caspar painted on the wall, and she wondered how closely the attractive image mirrored its model. She did not well remember his features.
“Deirdre.” Turning, she saw that it was a good likeness. Wearing a short military cape that swirled with each stride, Surchatain Caspar crossed the room to her. “Thank you for coming.” He took her hands in his and kissed them warmly.
All at once she was confused and jittery. He was the same Caspar—sincere, intelligent, but now older and seasoned.
“I am sorry to hear of your husband’s death,” he said softly. “Roman’s victories were known even here. But . . . I have been waiting a long
time for this meeting, Deirdre.”
She opened her mouth slowly, trying to think of a rational response. How could he be so honest and appealing? It would be so much easier if he were an ogre! Nihl was watching her. “I’m glad to see you also, Caspar,” she said evenly. “And I have something to tell you—”
“Tell me in the banquet hall, over wine and pomegranates,” he said. Placing an arm around her shoulder, he steered her to a private room, leaving Nihl and Virl behind. The Commander started to follow, but as Deirdre did not indicate he was to come, he was prevented by a Callean guard. All he could do was watch the two disappear down a corridor while Virl stood smiling. Then the emissary nodded toward Nihl and growled, “Get him out of here.” Two guards took Nihl’s arms to forcefully lead him away.
Deirdre reclined on satin cushions beside a low table set with fruit, cheeses, and wine. Caspar leaned likewise on a pillow near her and reached out to fill her goblet, then his. There was no one else in the room, not even servants. “Deirdre, I have so much to tell you, and so much to offer you,” he began earnestly.
Feeling anxious to slow his rapid advance, Deirdre asked, “Caspar, how is Laska?” This was his sister and her girlhood friend.
He offered a bitter smile. “Laska is Surchataine of an inconsequential little province in the northern regions. She has been sending us spies disguised as emissaries for years now, and recently sent a raiding party to try to disrupt the fair. We chased them into the Poison Greens, and I don’t believe they came out again.”
Dismayed, Deirdre began to make hasty excuses for her friend, but Caspar interrupted, “Forget her. I want to talk about you and me. Deirdre, I’ve already lost four years with you. I’ll not lose a moment more.”
“Caspar, I—”
He shifted closer, his voice lower: “Don’t you realize I have loved you all this time? Even after I heard of your marriage, I still took no one. I chose to wait, to see if some day you would be free again. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me, Deirdre. I am the one who was meant for you from the beginning.”
Utterly confounded, she gazed at his earnest, handsome face. He chose that moment to cross the vast inches to her lips and kiss her. Against all reason, she found herself responding, to the point of sinking back on the downy pillows.
A nagging began at the back of her brain. Roman was not dead. Caspar was not for her. The one meant for her was the one she had sworn vows to—
“Quiet down,” she murmured, and Caspar rose up laughing, “What?” Con-fused, she blushed and fanned her face. Then they heard a commotion outside the door. There were muffled shouts, a kick on the door, and scuffling sounds.
Caspar jumped up and opened the door, with Deirdre standing fearfully behind him. Outside they saw Nihl wrestling with two guards. “Stop!” ordered Caspar, and the three let off, winded. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Tell him, Surchataine,” panted Nihl. Deirdre stared in mute distress, too embarrassed to utter a word. Nihl’s eyes grew wide. “Tell him, Deirdre!”
“Look you, whoever you are, you certainly will not address the Surchataine in that manner!” Caspar declared angrily. “Escort him out of the palace!”
“No, please, Caspar,” Deirdre said. “He’s a good friend—he means well.” She dare not look at Nihl’s face.
“Very well, then, if you say so. Guards, take our—our guest to a room for the night,” Caspar instructed coolly. Nihl did not resist when they took his arms, but Deirdre would not meet his eyes. As they led him away, Caspar whispered to a guard, “And lock him in.” He did not know who this “good friend” was, only that he would not interfere again with his wooing of Deirdre.
“Now then.” Caspar turned back to her, taking her hand. “Shall we return to more pleasant matters?”
Deirdre’s guilty conscience spurred in her a desire to talk, and she deliberately stalled returning to the private dining room. “Caspar . . . tell me . . . tell me what happened after your father was killed.”
“What happened? What could happen? I became ruler of a wasteland. We had nothing but half a summer harvest to start over with. There were times when I was out in the fields working with my own hands. We filled up the granaries and leased out farmland to anyone willing to work it. The craftsmen returned, then the merchants and moneylenders. . . .” As he talked, he reached out to stroke her hair, and became so caught up in what he saw that he quite forgot what he was saying.
“Deirdre, you need never go back to Westford, if you wish. I would give everything I have to make you my lady.”
“Caspar, I have to—” she gulped. “I have to go to bed now,” she mumbled.
He smiled faintly. “We have all the time there is. I will persuade you yet.” He motioned to a guard, who escorted her upstairs to sumptuous quarters. Once within the colorful, candlelit walls of her sleeping chamber, she dismissed the housemaids and nervously paced the room.
“What am I doing?” she moaned, beating her forehead. “Why didn’t I tell him right away that I can’t marry him?” Even while asking the question, she knew the answer: She enjoyed being courted by him again. She was awed that he had waited so long for her, and she wanted to milk his anticipation for as long as she could.
Facing the ugly truth squarely made her flinch. Not only that, but every moment that she delayed telling him the truth made it harder to ever say it, until she was forced to. Roman would no doubt appear soon, and she trembled to think what would happen if he showed up before she was able to set matters aright.
She took a deep breath. “Time to come out of your fantasy, my dear,” she told herself. Opening the door into the corridor, she told a nearby guard, “Take me to Caspar.”
His sideways smile in response did not register immediately, but then she began to grow uncomfortable walking to the Surchatain’s suite. Before a crisis of state erupted, everyone here needed to know she was still a married woman.
She glanced behind her as a movement caught her eye. There was nothing in the corridor behind them. But a moment later she saw something again, and turned full around. When she stopped, the guard looked back, but no one was there.
They came to Caspar’s door; the guard tapped on it and swung it open into the corridor. Deirdre entered hesitantly, not having heard permission granted. The door was shut behind her. Caspar, naked from the waist up, turned from a marble washbasin and Deirdre blushed, feebly covering her eyes.
He came up so close that her back was against the door. “Something you wanted?” he asked softly.
“I have something I must tell you.” She inhaled; he waited. “Caspar, I—”
The rest of her confession was lost as the door flew open and she fell backward into Roman’s arms. His right hand held a long skinning knife, which came flashing toward Caspar’s throat. The guard lay wounded in the corridor.
Caspar jumped back, wrapping a shirt around his forearm and seizing an ornamental sword from the wall. “No!” Deirdre cried, attempting to run between them, but Roman flung her behind him. The bloodless determination in his face frightened her.
“Who are you?” Caspar breathed, maneuvering to defend himself.
“I am Roman, and I am going to kill you for taking my wife,” he said.
Caspar’s astonishment was so immediate and real that Roman paused. “That’s impossible!” Caspar exclaimed. “My own scouts watched your funeral barge being put to sea!”
“Someone was mistaken,” Roman replied.
Caspar looked in bewilderment to Deirdre. “Is this your husband?”
“Yes, Caspar; it is,” she whispered.
“Deirdre did not know I was alive,” Roman said, drawing her to his side. She lowered her eyes as Caspar glanced from Roman to Deirdre and back to Roman.
“Nor did I know,” Caspar said cautiously, although something in his manner told Deirdre he now knew what she wanted to say. “I would never take a living man’s wife.”
Roman lowered his weapon, reconsidering. “Then may we
leave in peace?”
“If you wish. But I would urge you to accept lodging here overnight and attend the fair tomorrow. My original invitation was to both of you,” Caspar replied. In spite of his calm exterior he kept glancing at Roman’s knife.
Roman fidgeted with it, looking rather sheepish. “I suppose, then, it would be unseemly to kill you.”
“It is quite unnecessary,” Caspar assured him. “Though I would be interested to know how you got in.” Deirdre was still staring at the stone floor.
Roman said, “That’s a long story, best left for tomorrow. Perhaps we could take your offer of lodging . . . ?” He was unconsciously stroking Deirdre’s back.
“Certainly.” Expressionless, Caspar returned the ornamental sword to its place and moved past them into the corridor to summon a guard.
Roman asked Deirdre, “Where is Nihl?”
“In guest chambers—I hope,” Deirdre murmured.
When Caspar reentered with their escort, Roman added, “I would like to speak with my Commander, also.”
“Your Commander?” Caspar startled.
Deirdre flinched. “My—good friend whom you escorted to chambers,” she explained in a whisper.
Caspar and Roman both stared at her momentarily before Caspar said, “I myself will take you to him.”
They strode down the corridor with Deirdre between them. Her breathing grew deeper and more erratic until finally she stopped and requested, “Caspar, please excuse us. I need to speak with Roman.”
“I suppose you do,” he nodded, walking on ahead.
Roman faced her tensely. “You look neither surprised nor glad to see me.”
“Roman—my love—I am glad. So glad! You don’t know how I grieved when I thought you were dead,” she pleaded, placing her hands on his chest. “But I was not surprised because I found out earlier today that you were alive. The girl who took care of you told me.” She paused, and he waited to hear more. “I didn’t tell Caspar at first because I feared what he would do. But then I saw I had to tell him, and went to his chambers to do so—”