The third and fourth day did not provide as much excitement but several more caves were found and the litters dispatched. Not even as cubs were the barguas appealing.
For those keeping track of “finds” and “kills,” Esphanian hunters gave the better account but, modestly, Prince Jamas reminded King Egdril that his people were hunting in hills they knew well and so had a slight advantage.
“The point you wished to make, my Prince, has been accepted,” Grenejon told Jamas as they reviewed the excursion. “Are they all coming back to the castle with us?”
“Only Egdril and the girls, it seems,” Jamas said. His smile broadened as he saw Grenejon’s eager expression. “Just the minimum of an honor guard and the necessary servitors. The lads,” and he chuckled at the very idea of calling stalwart Geroge and Mavron ‘lads,’ “will go back to Mauritia with the rest. Egdril didn’t wish to strain our hospitality.”
“Ha!” The exclamation burst from Grenejon’s lips. “What a backhander that is! Or is Egdril enjoying a little joke?”
“I think he must be,” Jamas said, his smile fading. “I can’t think that he wouldn’t know how much older Castle Esphania is than his principal seat in Mauritia. I’ve sent Arfo on ahead to apprise Frenery. He’ll do what’s proper.”
As indeed Frenery did, though as the secretary bustled about the palace, he, too, missed Mangan, who would have organized everything in a scant hour. He was up half the night with the chatelaine, the head chef, and the equerries who had not gone on the hunting expedition.
The baroness and the Ladies Willow and Laurel were back on their pale horses for the journey to Esphania City. King Egdril was in great good humor as they set out, almost as if he had transferred all the cares of state to his sons. Apart from his honor guard, he brought only two nobles with him, plus his valet and the one maid of his wards who had been willing to accompany them on a hunting expedition.
Egdril was an amusing traveler, asking intelligent questions—if occasionally shrewdly inquisitive—as they made a more leisurely journey back.
He did indeed savor the wines at the hostelry where they partook a light luncheon. The Inn of the Seven Feathers—and, of course, the landlord had to tell that tale which made good listening for the man was a skilled storyteller—was most felicitously placed on the tongue of land that jutted out into the Thuler River, wide at this point as it meandered through the lush flat valley. Spring blossoms still hung on the fruit trees, and the air was loud with industrious bees and other pollinators. They sat at tables on the pleasant court under the spreading paulonia trees, enjoying the sunny weather.
“The very time of year to be out and about,” Egdril said when they were again on their way. “Fine wine, that white. Are your vineyards to the north?”
So Jamas launched into that subject, borrowing heavily from Mangan’s frequent discourses on the horticulture closest to his heart.
“You must sample more from the wine cellar,” Jamas suggested. “And take home cases of what pleases you.”
“A truly royal gift, my young friend.”
Behind Jamas, in her saddlebag, Niffy made an odd noise and Jamas realized that Egdril’s casual phrase might be considered a portent.
“Of course, since vines do best on south-facing rocky soils, they are inconvenient to access. One must ride onagers to get to most, the trails being winding and dangerous. In fact, if I remember correctly, there’s only the one good road to the majority, and nothing more than tracks leading to the vineyards. Still, the caves provide plenty of space for storing the young wines and keep the steady temperature necessary for proper fermentation. Perhaps we can arrange a trip sometime.”
Egdril’s expression was cheerfully bland as he smiled at Jamas.
“Hmm, yes, sometime.”
Salinah took that moment to urge her dainty horse into a race against Grenejon’s big bay. Egdril’s mount chafed at restraint, and when Willow and Laurel decided to join the race, Jamas did not restrain his stallion, and they all galloped down the track, only pulling up when the city came in sight around the Devil’s Elbow. The River Thuler, no longer a placid stream, rushed over its rocky bed in white-watered energy. Of course, the river was responsible for the Elbow in the first place, having carved it from the softer rock.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jamas saw Egdril’s shrewd appraisal of that natural fortification. Quite likely the captain of his honor guard was viewing the military aspects of the scenery as closely. Anyone with a modicum of military training could easily see that a dozen men could hold the pass indefinitely. And indeed had done so on quite a few occasions, though the twin forts were now manned only by ceremonial guards. These, resplendent in full dress, lined up on the battlements as the royal party passed. A proper salute was fired, reverberating through the rocky defile—and, incidentally, giving fair warning to the valley beyond.
As often as he approached from this side, Jamas enjoyed the look of Castle Esphania, especially now that the afternoon sun warmed to a golden glow the Esphanian granite. Whereas the castle climbed up the side of the cliff, almost to its summit (which was also fortified), the city spread out past the original walls and down toward the River Thuler.
“You have a truly beautiful city, Prince Jamas,” Salinah said beside him.
All the riders pulled their horses back to a walk now. Though the wide road had been beautifully engineered a century before, complete with a stone wall to prevent anyone falling into the river gorge, the sharp cliffs on either side dwarfed its span. The sounds of the horses’ hoofs echoed back and forth.
“Clever that,” Egdril added, pointing his riding stick up to the heavy nets that kept rocks from tumbling down onto the road.
“Hmm, yes. My great-grandfather designed them,” Jamas said, “as he was nearly killed in a rock slide. Things were a little unsettled in those days, too, you may remember, when the empire was dying and some nobles thought to take over the more prosperous of the principalities. Never have used it.” Then Jamas added hastily, “But it’s regularly checked. Don’t wish to have visitors unexpectedly mashed to a pulp.” He grinned ingenuously at Egdril, who raised a heavy eyebrow.
Jamas had not sent word that an appropriate official welcome should be laid on, so they entered a city going about its ordinary daily routine. Men saluted him and women curtsied but went on about their business as the royal party made its way up the zigzag roadway to the castle entrance.
By the time they reached the second inner court where Frenery and other courtiers awaited them, Jamas was reasonably sure that Egdril had given up any eagerness for a less friendly visit to Esphania. Or perhaps Jamas misjudged the situation, for the man had brought three very eligible young women with him and there was no doubt that a marital alliance would serve his purpose as well And, if Egdril was allowing Jamas a choice, the prince was not averse to the subtlety. He did want to be able to spend some time with Lady Willow. And as little as possible with Salinah.
Looking around as he dismounted, Jamas caught the almost proprietary look which Salinah was giving the inner court, with its baskets of flowers and ornamental trees.
“Meh!” Niffy said in a definitive tone of voice and extricated herself from the saddlebag.
Mindful of her healing leg, Jamas gently lifted her down, and she streaked away, past the servitors filing out of the side door to attend to horses, luggage and direct the honor guard to their quarters.
Frenery and three only of Jamas’ ministerial councillors had assembled and were now introduced. The whole party was ushered into the smallest of the front reception rooms where beverages and light snacks were being served while luggage was being hurried up to the various bedchambers and apartments.
Then Jamas ushered Egdril to the great Blue Suite, entirely appropriate for a regal visitor, while the chatelaine escorted the girls to the Yellow Rooms. Jamas was amused: those would be more suited to the two brunettes than Salinah. There was, after all, more than one way to deal with such a singleminded youn
g woman.
All in all, I think it’s going splendidly, Jamie,” Grenejon said when they met again in the prince’s apartments. Niffy was already there, lounging in the sun as if she hadn’t moved a muscle in days.
“Hmmm. I…think I agree.”
“Only think?” Grenejon stretched out in his favorite chair, long legs crossed at his booted ankles, though he had taken off his spurs which he idly jangled in his free hand. He had poured wine for both of them. Jamas was slowly pacing, head down until he required another sip of his wine. “We’ve established a good relationship with him and his ‘lads’, and proved ourselves the better hunters…”
“Hunters, yes…”
“I shouldn’t worry about the rest,” Grenejon said with a wave of his spurs. “Not if you agree to marry one of the girls. Have you chosen?”
Jamas gave Grenejon a stern look. Then he hooked his thumb at Niffy. “We’ll see.”
A state visit would have offered less opportunity for Jamas to get to know the three girls. The evening dinner party, therefore, consisted of Egdril, his nobles and wards, and sufficient Esphanians to make up a proper disposition of men and women. The widowed Duchess of Insaphar, a handsome woman who often acted as Jamas’ official hostess, was seated next to King Egdril and could be counted on to entertain him appropriately. Jamas had Grenejon seated next to Salinah while two of Moxtell’s sons were seconded to Ladies Willow and Laurel.
However, Jamas planned to have dance music as well as entertainment—the troupe of players was still in the city— after dinner.
He danced with Salinah first, because she required precedence. Then Lady Laurel, who was certainly as skilled a dancer as she was a hunter and made light conversation. Although, later, recalling some odd and ironic comments, Jamas wasn’t so certain the conversation was as “light” as it appeared.
Then he allowed himself the indulgence of dancing with Willow. The moment they took hands in the first set, attraction sprang anew between them.
“Please don’t, Prince,” Willow said, inexplicably distressed. She was smiling up at him, her expression belying her words although the anxiety in her eyes was so intense she was close to tears. “He means you to marry one of us and it will cause your death.”
“My lady, how can it? Did he not bring you three lovely ladies along with him for that express purpose? And do we not feel a mutual attraction? Stronger than I have ever felt with any other woman.” He tightened his arm about her waist, feeling the lissomeness of her slender body—and thinking thoughts no well-bred man should have of a lady he is dancing with.
“Oh, I do. I do, Jamas. That is why I must warn you. Oh, smile at me, quickly. He’s watching.”
Jamas complied, laughing lightly as if Willow had said something witty.
“He means to have Esphania through such a marriage, and I do not want to be part of it.”
“Come now, Willow. He can’t be such a schemer.”
“Oh, he is not, but the queen is!” Through his arms, he could feel her convulsive shudder and saw the haunted look of terror in her eyes. “And if she has a son this time, I worry for my cousins.”
Right then, he decided that he would remove that look from her eyes forever.
“I fear my father was murdered for his lands,” she said, her mouth smiling as she looked up with anxious eyes at Jamas. “He was too experienced a horseman and an experienced hunter to have misjudged such a critical distance. I would not want the same fate to befall you. Besides,” she went on, “surely you were betrothed in your cradle to a northern princess?”
Jamas shook his head. “I am however forewarned, and that is forearmed, dear Lady Willow, for I mean to marry you and remove such fear from your life.”
“No, never! I couldn’t marry you. I like you too much!” she cried, twisting out of his grasp and whirling away and off the dance floor.
“I love you, too, Lady Willow,” he said in a loud enough voice to stop the music and cause everyone to stare at him.
Salinah, partnered with one of the Moxtell sons, glared furiously after Willow’s disappearing figure. Egdril beamed and started forward, hand outstretched, evidently all too eager to acknowledge a relationship. Grenejon looked flabbergasted, the duchess surprised, Moxtell amazed, and all the others merely gawked. It was the white face and haunted eyes of Laurel which caught Jamas’ gaze: it confirmed what Willow had said.
Then Jamas had to apologize to Egdril for his presumption, but the king dismissed it, beaming with delight that one of his “girls” had so captured the prince’s interest. A sparkling wine was ordered and there was much drinking of toasts, and healths, and— ironically, under the circumstances—long happy lives.
The duchess went to fetch Willow from the walled garden to which she had fled. She had no escape, either, from the public announcement of his love for her. Laurel, still pale, with lips closed over her own sentiments, sat close by her sister, Jamas on the other side. Frenery was sent for and apprised of the engagement. Though initially astounded, the old secretary expressed the proper sentiments and promised to have a betrothal document drawn up by the morrow.
If the newly betrothed lady seemed stunned and kept very quiet, the prospective groom was voluble enough for both. He kept his lady’s hand firmly in his.
They danced again and again until Lady Willow pleaded a headache and was allowed to retire with her sister.
The rest of the small party continued to celebrate until well into the new day.
“So, my prince?” Grenejon asked when he firmly closed the door to make them private in Jamas’ apartments, “why does the blushing bride look as if she is going to her death rather than her wedding?”
“Not her death, mine,” Jamas said, sighing with relief as he loosened the collar of his formal tunic. He succinctly repeated what Willow had told him.
“You’re mad, Jamie,” and Grenejon collapsed into a chair, his face as pale as Willow’s had been, “walking right into such a trap. Did not Mangan teach you better? And don’t tell me you’re madly in love or some such nonsense. Argh!”
Niffy bounded into the room, looking from one to the other, before she leaped to her prince’s shoulder and stroked his cheek.
“Niffy approves.”
“Niffy?” Grenejon dismissed approval from that quarter. “Now, that’s adding folly to stupidity!”
“Don’t be so patronizing, Gren. I’m going to rely heavily on Niffy’s special sensitivities.”
“On the cat’s?” Niffy said a distinct “Meh!” in Grenejon’s direction, and he blinked. “Saving you from a barguas is quite a different matter to saving you from the connivance of an ambitious and murderous queen.”
“Ah, but forearmed is forewarned, Gren, and you shall discover as discreetly as possible how these various nobles met their untimely ends.”
“As if that would prevent yours! I mean, Willow’s a lovely girl, but there are many lovely girls…”
“She has more than beauty, Grenejon,” Jamas said stiffly, flexing hands that remembered the exciting touch of her. “She likes cats, and Niffy approves. Don’t you?” He turned his face into the cat’s fur and heard the loud rumble of her purr.
“You are mad, Jamas!” Grenejon repeated, rising to his feet. “Mad, mad, mad!”
“Yes, I am. Mad that my Willow should be put in such a position. And I wouldn’t marry Salinah were I you. Your estate could be neatly absorbed into Egdril’s kingdom, you know.”
“Oh, I’ve already decided the Baroness Salinah wouldn’t give me much connubial bliss!” Grenejon said, flinging those hands over his head in an expansive gesture as he paced in front of Jamas. “She would possibly accept a prince, but not a baron. She’s infected with the same ambitions as her step-aunt. But you…you’re the ruler of Esphania. We need you alive!”
“I’ll live. I assure you.” Jamas stroked Niffy, pleased at the fervor of his friend’s concern.
Grenejon kept up his arguments even after the betrothal agreement was signed. Wi
thout mentioning it to his prospective uncle-in-law, Prince Jamas also signed a succession document, copies of which were lodged with his General of the Army, all his ministers, Moxtell, Earl of Oria, the Duke of Insaphar, and the Fennells. They couldn’t object to his second cousin, since the youngster was young enough to be moulded, as he had been, for the princedom.
Egdril was further delighted when Prince Jamas insisted on a short engagement and asked for the wedding to be scheduled as soon as feasible.
A brief impasse occurred when Egdril said that he preferred the nuptials to take place in Mauritia.
“Ah, I wish I could concede to that point,” Jamas said with a heavy sigh, “but I am prince of Esphania and owe my own citizens the pleasure of such a fine occasion.”
Egdril marshalled quite a few arguments for Mauritia, most based on the fact that the wedding party—if it included all who must, or should, be invited—might tax Esphania’s facilities.
Jamas laughed merrily, while Frenery and Grenejon hastily cleared their throats. As the men were seated in one of the smaller reception rooms—which could easily accommodate a full orchestra and two hundred dancing couples plus attendants—the contention had little merit.
“I shall allot the west wing to your majesty’s immediate relations,” Jamas said, with an airy wave of his hand towards that massive annex, “and I think we can comfortably house a few extra hundred without putting a strain on my resources.”
Afterwards, Grenejon taxed Jamas with that bit of bravado.
“He’ll want Castle Esphania even more now.”
“Let him ‘want’ away,” Jamas said, still elated at having had his way on what he considered major issues.
The next morning King Egdril eagerly prepared to set off for home, though messengers had carried the glad tidings to Mauritia the morning after that auspicious evening. Jamas and Willow didn’t get much time together, and he had occupied the stolen moments in loving attentions which indeed she accepted and returned in spite of her fears. Jamas was rather pleased with his effect on her. Not to mention hers on him. Egdril was still doing more planning for the wedding than Jamas wanted done. But it was wise to allow Egdril to rattle on about country estates and dower provisions. Jamas knew how far he intended to go in this regard and would not be moved. Mangan had instructed him well in the art of negotiation.
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