0857664360

by Susan Murray

  “Greetings, fellow travellers. May your roads be clear and the water pure.” He raised his right hand to his left shoulder and bowed his head. He ran his eyes over the group, pausing briefly on Alwenna then halting at Weaver, who responded with the same gesture, albeit a more perfunctory version.

  “And so may your road be blessed.”

  “Weaver, my brother in arms.” The freemerchant smiled. “The Hunter has indeed watched over you. This, I take it, is the Lady Alwenna.”

  Weaver performed the necessary introduction, punctiliously polite. Alwenna responded as she had been taught, with courtly dignity.

  The freemerchant, Marten, inclined his head again. “We will be honoured by your presence among us, my lady. I am delighted to be able to escort you for the rest of the journey. If we ride on now we can expect to reach our destination before the worst of the afternoon heat is upon us. You will be able to rest in the shade of your family home.”

  Again that stirring of apprehension. Alwenna nodded politely. “That will be most welcome.”

  Marten smiled, then turned his horse about to lead the group, signalling Weaver to ride at his side. Weaver had not so much as a glance to spare for Alwenna as he took his place alongside the freemerchant. She was left in no doubt Weaver actively distrusted Marten. This must have been what he’d been trying to warn her of the night before, though she couldn’t fathom why he’d found it so difficult to speak up. It was clear she, too, had to be cautious unless she wanted their secret redistributed to the kingdom at large for the freemerchant’s gain.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  They reached the summer palace by mid-afternoon. It was as unlike Highkell as Alwenna could have imagined. The site was surrounded by a high wall with a robust gatehouse and watch towers along the length of it, but it was not designed to withstand serious attack. As Alwenna rode in beneath the gatehouse there were no glimmerings of recognition. The sight stirred, lazy as rolling mist, although for once she was able to see the real world through it and she knew this place featured in Gwydion’s store of knowledge. But that was not what she needed to know. The sight subsided. That had happened more of late – was she finally learning to control the visions?

  Beyond the gatehouse lay a second, lesser gate. This led into a cloistered courtyard, colonnades running along either side to a three-storey building across the head of the yard. A flight of stone steps led up to an ornately carved entrance door with tall columns either side supporting a portico. Now this was familiar. The carving on the door was an elegant tracery of grape vines, stems entwined in symmetrical profusion. As a child she’d set out to count all the grapes, many times, but had always been hampered by her lack of height.

  A steward hurried down the steps, clapping his hands to call forth servants from doors either side of the steps at basement level to take the horses.

  Weaver dismounted quickly and came to Alwenna’s side, ostensibly to help her dismount. He leaned close, speaking in a low voice that would not be overheard. “Have caution around this man, he plays some deep game of his own. You must know I am sworn to his service. I would have told you sooner, but… He claims to have–”

  A servant arrived to take her horse and Weaver handed her the walking stick and stepped back with a deferential bow, his eyes directed to the ground. Alwenna had a thousand questions she might have asked, but she was obliged to remain silent.

  Marten approached, the steward following a couple of paces behind, and bowed to Alwenna, smiling. “My lady, let me offer you my arm.”

  She had no choice but to acquiesce. For a few precious hours following her rescue she had been nobody, with nothing to worry about other than being. Now she was being pitched back into the world of court. But Weaver needn’t have troubled to warn her: she knew how to play this game. She’d been bred for it and raised according to its rules. Marten walked with her past planters filled with scented lavender and helped her climb the steps. The air about them shimmered, but she couldn’t tell whether it was the sight warning her of danger ahead or simply an effect of the afternoon heat. She was obliged to lean on Marten’s arm more heavily than she would have chosen. But that might be to the good: let him believe her to be weaker than she was. Let him believe her a hapless, witless thing. Everything would be easier that way.

  Up close the ornate doors were coated in dust which blackened the tops of the grapes she’d tried so hard to count in the past. The dust was ingrained, the accumulation of years of harsh sun and drifting sand, refusing to be dislodged by the pressure of her fingertip. The doors she remembered had glistened, giving off the scent of beeswax. Inside, the summer palace was shady and cool. It had the air of a place waking from long slumber, still struggling to catch up with a changing world. And woken too fast. Everywhere were telltale traces of hasty preparation: grime in corners that had escaped the mop, pitted dust in the deep relief of carved wood, spots of mould on ceilings. This was the home of Alwenna’s early childhood, and yet it wasn’t. The changes were there to be seen, overlying her recognition of once-familiar things. They were subtle. And dark.

  Once inside, the party were divided, the men being led to a room at the front of the atrium, while Alwenna and Erin were escorted by a servant to a room at the back. Tepid water was provided in bowls for them to wash off the worst dust of their journey.

  Erin prowled round the small room, peering out of the window. “This is not what’s due to a lady like yourself, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

  “Perhaps our host doesn’t believe I’m any such thing.” Alwenna crossed to the glazed window. It overlooked a stable yard. Weeds grew between the cobbles, while the roof of the single-storey stables was gappy and uneven. Broken roof tiles lay on the ground where they had fallen. Could their host be one of her uncles? Stian was dead long ago, of course, at Weaver’s hand. It seemed unlikely he would be in their employ now. So who?

  “The summer palace has been shut up for many years. This may be the best our host can offer.”

  “Perhaps, my lady.” The girl’s expression was sombre, as it had been at Highkell.

  “This would be a good time to ask, Erin: what is your wish in all this? We brought you with us from Highkell, but you are free to choose – you need not remain here if you do not wish to.”

  “I must serve you, my lady.” The girl’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I would have fallen to my death at Highkell, had you not saved me. It is the will of the Goddess.” There was no joy in the girl’s expression. She would do her duty as she perceived it. Alwenna knew how that worked.

  “I will be grateful of your service, but if you wish to leave I will release you – at any time, you have only to speak up.”

  The girl curtseyed. “Thank you, my lady. But the Goddess still has work for us.” She hesitated. “Brother Drew told me. On the way to Brigholm, while I was nursing him. He said a great many things while he was ill.”

  “Might that not simply have been his fever?”

  The girl frowned. “I don’t think so, my lady. He talked the way you often do in your sleep. He was Goddess-touched.”

  The girl appeared to believe implicitly in every word she’d spoken.

  “I didn’t realise you were such a devout follower.”

  “I’m not, my lady. Leastwise I wasn’t before your wedding.”

  “You don’t think it was just the rain washing out the foundations?”

  “It wasn’t rain made that priest do what he did.” Erin hesitated. “If the Goddess has some purpose for me I’ll not flout her will. Not after what I saw that day.”

  Alwenna was spared the need to answer by a knock at the door. A maidservant stepped into the room, bobbing a hesitant curtsey. “You’re both to come with me, if it please my lady.”

  And if it didn’t please her, what then? Alwenna took one last look out of the window at the run-down stable yard. That was no answer to send this girl away with. “Very well.” It was time to learn what she faced.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
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br />   Weaver and the others were already waiting in the antechamber with the freemerchant when Alwenna and Erin joined them. This room, at least, tallied with her memories. The smell of beeswax filled the air. The walls were panelled with hardwood which had been buffed to a high sheen. Beyond lay the great chamber which had been used for special occasions. Those had involved a great deal of dull talking on the part of the grown-ups. Since her presence hadn’t enhanced such occasions, she’d spent little time there.

  Marten bowed. Of all their party he was clad most like a courtier, but she recognised the distinctive loose-fitting freemerchant tunic, re-fashioned in more elaborate style. “My lady, now our party is complete it is time I presented you to our host.”

  Alwenna felt at a distinct disadvantage in her travel-stained gown of common weave, but she smiled and nodded and said what was proper.

  Marten returned her smile. “Your arrival has been most eagerly awaited, I can assure you.”

  “You are too kind.” She couldn’t see how that was possible, for she’d still been at Highkell when the freemerchant had set out with Weaver. Weaver had told her how they’d turned back when Drew brought the news. She could see him standing stiffly beyond the freemerchant, jaw clenched. She’d seen him in many moods – ranging from boredom through annoyance to outright anger – but this was the first time she’d seen him look apprehensive.

  Marten held out his arm. “Permit me to support you.”

  “I cannot impose on your kindness, sir. I must lean more heavily on my stick than you would find comfortable or seemly.”

  The freemerchant closed his heavy-lidded eyes momentarily. “As you wish, my lady. I shall walk at your side.”

  As they passed Weaver he avoided meeting her eyes, but he took his place behind them.

  The great double doors, as ornately carved as those at the main entrance, swung open before them. On the dais at the head of the room stood a man. The light of the afternoon sun streamed through the great window behind him, so his features were in shadow.

  Marten moved sedately forward, matching his pace to Alwenna’s. She was aware that the others followed behind, but she made no attempt to hasten her steps. This entrance was ungainly enough without hobbling any faster. Her stick made hollow clacking sounds on the stone floor as they progressed between the long tables that ran down either side of the room. Alwenna concentrated on placing her stick securely on the ground with each step, keeping her eyes lowered so she wasn’t dazzled by the sunlight.

  They’d travelled almost the length of the room when a cloud passed over the sun. Alwenna raised her eyes to the figure on the dais and came to an abrupt halt.

  There before the window, hands clasped behind his back as he watched her approach, stood Tresilian, her dead husband.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  This was not possible. Alwenna had seen Tresilian’s death with her own eyes… But no, she hadn’t. She’d dreamed of it. That wasn’t the same thing. Not at all. And there he stood before her, tall as ever, if a little leaner.

  Tresilian’s face was gaunt, and his cheeks hollow, but when he smiled it was the familiar lopsided smile she’d known since childhood. It might have been her imagination that it lacked the usual warmth.

  “My lady wife. You join us at last.” His eyes moved to those standing behind her. “And Weaver, too. I hear you have been busy.” The smile tightened.

  Alwenna’s stomach knotted. How could he possibly know? She stared at her husband. It was him, there could be no doubt. An awful silence stretched out until Weaver stepped forward to stand alongside her.

  Weaver bowed low before his king. “Your highness. We heard that Vasic killed you.”

  Again that lopsided curl of Tresilian’s lips. Alwenna suppressed a shiver.

  Tresilian turned his eyes to her, as if he had heard her movement. “I am not so easily killed – as you can see.” He spread his arms wide, smiling now, truly smiling. This was the old Tresilian, delighted at catching them out with his joke. Some of her tension dissipated. This was her husband standing before them. She ought never have set so much store by the visions. Yet the visions had perfectly shown her other things she knew to be true, such as the ambush on Weaver… And now she understood Weaver’s reluctance to meet her gaze earlier. Had he already known Tresilian was alive? Nonetheless, he appeared as stunned as her to see Tresilian.

  Finally she found her voice. “You have been alive all this time, yet never sent word?”

  Tresilian raised an eyebrow. “My spies have kept me well informed. They could not have done so if I used them as errand boys. If they’d been running hither and thither at my beck and call our enemies would have removed them long ago.”

  “Everyone believed you dead.” Alwenna could think of nothing else to say.

  “Dear wife, I might almost think you were disappointed to find me alive and well.” Still he smiled, hands clasped behind his back once more, entirely at his ease.

  “It is something of a shock. Our old tutor’s lessons somehow failed to prepare me for this.” Tresilian knew how bitterly she’d complained of the never-ending etiquette lessons. As she waited for his reply she caught a glimpse of movement at the back of the dais. There was a door there, that led – if she was not mistaken – to private quarters beyond. Tresilian didn’t turn his head as he continued to study Alwenna, but gestured for the new arrival to sit on a bench set against the wall.

  The figure stepped out from the shadow of the corner and was revealed to be a slight young woman with long, fair hair, dressed in the robes of a priestess. She carried her hands clasped together in front of her, as if in prayer, her head bowed submissively as she moved over to the bench and sat down. She looked up and met Alwenna’s gaze then. The girl had large eyes, with pale lashes. And even at that distance that was enough.

  Those were the same eyes Alwenna had seen night after night as the unknown lovers sated their passion. And now they seemed to gaze into Alwenna’s very soul, until she had to look away or risk yielding up every secret she had ever held – or so it felt at that moment. Alwenna drew in her breath and risked glancing towards the young priestess again. The girl now sat in meek pose, eyes fixed on some point on the floor, her lips curled in the hint of a secretive smile.

  Alwenna looked up to find Tresilian still watching her.

  “We have much to discuss, lady wife, and so we shall this evening. But first I am persuaded you would rest awhile, to recover from your journey.”

  “That would be welcome.” It wasn’t the journey throwing her into confusion – it was the damned shock of finding her dead husband not only alive and well, but apparently one of the mysterious lovers who had occupied her mind these past nights. And if the sight had shared that truth with her, over and over, how could it have misled her into thinking he was dead?

  He appeared substantial enough as he smiled, and completely untroubled by any trace of guilt. “Then rest well. We will dine at sunset. You have been allotted suitable rooms in the west wing. My steward will ensure you are provided with the necessary servants. And, perhaps, a change of clothing.”

  Alwenna told herself she was foolish to imagine his comment was barbed. “Thank you, your highness.” Alwenna followed the steward from the hall, signalling for Erin to go with them, while Tresilian turned his attention to the men who remained there. She couldn’t catch much of what he said, but he seemed to be thanking one of them. The door closed behind them with a waft of beeswax polish, and the rest of his words were lost to them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  Weaver kept his eyes fixed on Tresilian as the Lady Alwenna limped from the hall. It really was him, there could be no doubt. He could see the tiny scar just below his right eye from the battle when a pike had shattered, sending splinters flying everywhere.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Tresilian favoured them all with a sweeping glance. “It appears my thanks are in order. You have joined me here in exile and restored my lady wife to me. I could scarcely ask for greater pr
oof of loyalty.” His eyes lingered on Weaver. “There are questions I must ask in the fullness of time. But first – to business. I have need of more loyal King’s Men and would appoint Curtis as such. You have served me well, and well again. You will wear my livery henceforth.”

  It was Curtis’ turn to bow. “Highness, you grant me a great honour.”

  “I reward loyalty such as yours.” Tresilian’s eyes flicked to Weaver again. “Blaine, I would appoint you to the household guard. We are few in number here in The Marches, but that will change soon.” Tresilian gestured to a servant who waited nearby. “Marten, you, too have proved your loyalty and I have here the first part of the reward we discussed.”

  The servant hurried forward, carrying a heavy bag of what looked and sounded like coin. This he passed to Marten, who bowed with grace.

  “Your highness, I thank you on behalf of all my people.”

  Tresilian looked down at the men who knelt before him. “We will speak again presently, Marten. For now you three are dismissed. My new guards will report to the barracks.” Tresilian paused. “You, Weaver, will stay where you are. I wish to speak with you further.”

  Here it was. Tresilian had already been told of Weaver’s confession. Or he was about to demand an explanation as to how Alwenna had fallen into Vasic’s hands after all. Whichever concerned him most, the outlook was bleak.

  They waited in silence until the others had left the chamber. Tresilian signalled with his hand and the guards at the doors at either end of the room withdrew.

  With a clunk the last door shut and the two of them were alone in the chamber together for the first time since Tresilian had instructed Weaver to take Alwenna from Highkell.