Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 28
Talbot looked as if he wanted to take any excuse he could think of to escape from any such thing—but then just gave an exasperated shrug. “I’d rather find my cousins and go beat that whelp of a Raeylen, but . . .” The interruption had accomplished exactly what Mags wanted; it had taken the wind out of Talbot’s sails. The young man let out his breath in a long sigh. “. . . my uncle has expressly forbidden me to do that, and you’ve never seen him in a temper. He might look like a kindly old man, but he rules our House with a grip of iron, and no one, I mean no one, contradicts him, much less goes against his direct orders.”
They both took seats at either end of the window-seat, which was long enough for four or five people to sit side by side. Mags put the goblets down on the wooden seat between them and poured. “Here. Have a drink, it sounds as if you need one. Listen, if that whelp of a Raeylen violates the hospitality of the House, it’ll be the servants that beat him and throw him out, right?” Mags reminded Talbot. “That’s infinitely more humiliating than you doing it. Plus, if the servants do it, that will be them acting on Lord Leverance’s orders. And if the Raeylen boy doesn’t act like a boor, well, why should you make yourself into the villain here by picking a quarrel with him?”
Talbot looked sour, but nodded. “Give me that goblet and keep pouring. What’s your problem and how can I help?” He picked up the goblet nearest him and drank down the contents in a single gulp, holding it out for more.
“Not a problem as such . . . more like information. I need an expert on swords,” said Mags, and proceeded to involve Talbot in a discussion of exactly the right sort of sword to give to his purported uncle for a distant birthday. He knew enough about Talbot to know that this actually was something that Talbot was vitally interested in. The selection of a sword was not a minor matter among the highborn, for whom the proper sword meant a very great deal indeed. If you merely went out and bought any old thing with a fancy hilt, no matter how much gilding and ornamentation there was, no matter how impressive the pommel-jewel, if the blade itself was inferior . . . that reflected extremely badly on you. It also reflected badly on you if you presented the wrong sort of sword. Where the Heralds trained in a little bit of every fighting style and were generalists, the highborn—at least those who didn’t actually lead their men into real war—were specialists. Talbot was a rapier-man; he preferred to be armored as lightly as possible, or not at all, and count on his quickness to get him out of trouble. But Mags’ supposed “uncle” was trained in broadsword, an entirely different blade.
Fortunately, as Mags well knew, Talbot knew just about everything there was to know about the swords themselves, knew who all the good smiths in Haven were—and for some distance outside Haven as well—and was always ready to display his knowledge. Mags kept pouring, and Talbot kept talking, until Talbot was just tipsy enough that even at his most angry, Mags knew he would never challenge Brand, because even a beginner would defeat him, and Brand was no novice when it came to sword-work. And Talbot knew it too. He carefully put the goblet down at his feet and passed his hand over his face.
“I’m . . . fuddled,” he said, enunciating every word with great care. “And I’m man enough to admit when I’m fuddled. I hope I’ve given you everything you need to know for that present, Magnus, but I think I am going to have to get to my bed before a servant has to carry me there.”
“You’ve been amazingly helpful, Talbot, and I’m no end grateful to you.” Mags stood up first and offered his arm. And after one attempt to stand, Talbot was not too proud to make use of it, though once up, he was steady enough on his feet to walk with a little assistance from the wall.
He waved Mags off and staggered off in the direction of a staircase. When Mags was absolutely certain that he was actually going to do what he said, he retrieved his mask and went looking for Brand.
He found Morin, who told him that Brand had already left. “He didn’t stay long. Just one dance, some wine, and then he said he needed to get back to our original fete before his father found out we’d slipped out.”
Well that’s a relief. Sensible too. He bade Morin goodnight got his cloak, and followed Brand’s example. :I’m coming home,: he told Dallen. :Meet me between here and there. It’s been a long night.:
—
Violetta floated back to her room, feeling so lighthearted she was almost tipsy. And yet, she had drunk very little; her state was due entirely to her happiness.
Her sisters were still dancing, and the party was still going on, but she wanted to be by herself to savor those few moments with Brand. No one else was back in their rooms; the distant music and murmur of conversation was all that was to be heard as she opened the door to her little room, and once the door closed, even that was cut off. She waved off the maidservants after they helped her out of her beautiful dress and into her shift and told Nurse to go to bed. Since Nurse was . . . well . . . rather drunk, and clearly wanted to get back to whatever little drinking party she and some of the other servants were having, Violetta had no trouble persuading her to leave. The little dog Star was not allowed to be in her room anymore at night, since accidentally being shut in and making a mess he couldn’t help. Now he slept in a special basket on the hearth in the solar, where he could get himself to the door the cats used in the kitchen if he needed to go out.
She stuffed a handkerchief in the keyhole to muffle the last of the noise. Then she wrapped a warm shawl around herself and flung open the window; the air in her little room was too close, too still, and she was feeling stifled.
The night was clear and beautiful, and the moon shone down on the snow-covered gardens unimpeded by any clouds. She took deep breaths of the cold air and it tasted better than wine.
And then, as she gazed up at the stars, she heard someone below call her name.
Startled she looked down.
It was Brand. She could see him clearly in the moonlight, smiling up at her.
“Brand!” she said, in as loud a whisper as she dared. “What—how did you get into the garden? Never mind—you shouldn’t be there!” She peered down all around the area near her window, now terrified lest someone from the household be within hearing or seeing distance of him. “If anyone here sees you, they’ll kill you!”
“I cannot care, so long as I can see you,” Brand replied, gazing upward. “Walls and swords are no barrier to one who loves. I told you that I would see you again sooner than you thought!”
“And do you love me?” she asked, hardly daring to phrase the question. “Oh—no! Please do not answer that! What if you lie? Would you lie? Oh—”
“Now how am I to answer that in a way that you’d believe?” Brand asked, with a low laugh that made her shiver with delight. “Should I say that anyone who sees you must love you? Should I swear that I love you by my faith, my honor, or by the gods?”
“By your faith?” she replied, her heart pounding and her mouth dry. “But what if you are faithless? By your honor—I do not know enough of you to know! I believe in your honor, for you have kept the secret of my letter, and yet I am too confused, I cannot tell . . . if what I believe be true. And by what gods will you swear? At the lies of lovers, they say the gods laugh!”
“I will swear by any thing you desire,” Brand declared. Down below her, his face looked strange, white in the moonlight—the visage of a mask, or a corpse . . . she shuddered and thrust the thought away. “Whatever will satisfy you, that, I will swear by!”
“Those who give oaths so easily seldom keep them . . .” Her heart was in her throat. She wanted this, so very badly, and yet . . . could she believe him? Dared she?
“How then can I satisfy you?” he asked reasonably.
“Tell me your purpose!” she replied. “It is not enough to swear you love, for so does any man who wishes anything of any maid! I have often heard my father’s men and even my cousins swear they loved, only to prove false once their purpose was ac
hieved!”
“I would not harm you for all the world and all the crowns of all the nations in it,” he said. “My purpose is to be your love; was that not what you asked of me?”
She couldn’t argue with that . . . it was what had been in her very own letter, after all.
“But let me show you—” he said, and a moment later was climbing up the rough stone wall like a squirrel! She gasped, and backed away from the window as he pulled himself up over the sill and dropped down inside. “There you are, my lady,” he said with a little bow. “Now you need not fear my being seen, or us being overheard.” And with that, he prudently turned and closed the window, pulling the draperies shut.
She backed up again, but there was not much space in her tiny room, and she found her back against the door. He approached her, slowly, smiling. “Do I frighten you, little dove?” he asked, and reached out to stroke one finger down her cheek. “I would not frighten you for all the world.”
His touch left a trail of fire down her cheek, and she gasped in a swift intake of breath. This was the nearest she had ever been to a man who was not related to her. And . . . it was certainly the least clothed she had been around any man . . . “You should not be here,” she said, faintly. “You should not be . . . so close to me.”
“I do many things I should not do. Don’t you?” he asked, and took her into his arms. She could not resist, and truth to tell, she didn’t want to. His arms around her were hot on her cold skin. “You should. Life is much more exciting when you do things you are not supposed to do. Here. Let me show you.”
She shivered at his touch which gave her strange sensations in unfamiliar places all over her body. He held her closer, tilted her head up with one finger under her chin and kissed her.
She went hot, then cold, then hot again, and the shawl slipped from her shoulders to pool at her feet. With one hand he held her against his body as he kissed her, as his other traced patterns on her bare shoulder. Then his hand slipped down off her shoulder and he cupped her breast, his thumb making circles around her nipple, and her knees went so weak she would have fallen, if he had not been holding her up.
Her mouth opened involuntarily beneath his insistent kissing, and then it was much more than just kissing, he was doing things with his mouth and tongue and teeth that, together with his caresses, had her fainting with desire for him.
I shouldn’t—
But it was too late for second thoughts; he had somehow gotten her onto her bed, and pulled her chemise up and she wasn’t thinking anymore at all; her world was composed of strange sensations and things she had never experienced before. He moved his kisses down her body until he was doing something down there that convulsed her with waves of unbelievable pleasure and made her bite the pillow to keep from crying out. When she had finished shuddering with reaction, she opened her eyes to see that he had stripped his tunic and hose off and . . .
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, and then he was making her go all hot and cold and tingling again before he did what she had gotten a glimpse of some of the servants doing out in the stables or in dark corners. And it hurt, and this time she bit the pillow to keep from crying in pain.
But then he made it better again, whispering comforting things and apologies for hurting her. When he was done, they lay together in her little narrow bed and she fell asleep.
Only to wake and find him gone and the gray light of an overcast morning coming in the uncurtained window.
For one moment she was confused. And then, she remembered.
Suddenly she felt all muddle-headed and bereft. Then she wanted to weep. She wanted to run about laughing like a lunatic. She wanted to cry out into the garden, howl like a dog whose mate was gone. Why had he left her?
Because if it would be bad for him to be caught in the garden, how much worse if he was caught in your bed? she scolded herself.
But he loved her. He would never have dared to do anything like that, dared to enter the garden, dared to climb to her room, if he didn’t love her! They must be lifebonded soul-mates, surely nothing less could have driven him to risk his very life to come to her last night.
She moved, and felt the sore place inside her, and then threw back the covers to stare in panic at the blood on the sheets and her chemise. Stark evidence of her guilt, right there and impossible to hide. Oh gods—what am I—what do I do? What do I do?
Before she could even think to do anything, the door opened and in came Nurse, with the little dog Star at Nurse’s heels. “Time to wake up poppet!” the old woman said, far too loudly. And then she stopped and stared for a moment at the bedclothes, and at Violetta.
And then . . . she tsked. “Too much excitement last night, and started your courses two days early, then did you! I might have guessed you would. Well, let’s get you out of that mess and get it all cleaned up.”
She felt weak with relief. She didn’t even have to think of something. She was safe. He was safe. Their secret was safe.
“I’m feeling a little sick, Nurse,” Violetta said, knowing that the Nurse would let her stay in bed and sleep or read until afternoon if she thought that Violetta was having female trouble.
“Well then! Let’s get you comfortable, and I’ll bring you something for breakfast and a hot brick for your toes and make your excuses to your lady mother,” the old woman said, bustling about in her sober brown gown and tabard, stripping the bed and remaking it, bringing Violetta an ewer of warm water, a basin and a sponge to clean off with, and a clean chemise and clout to put on.
Before the sun had gotten much higher, she was tucked up in bed again, clean and with a warm brick at her feet, porridge with cream and honey, and chamomile tea with more honey in it, for her to break her fast with. And when she was done, and everything was cleared away, she leaned back into her pillows and tried to relive everything that Brand had done with her last night.
She knew she should be feeling ashamed for giving herself to him—and they weren’t even betrothed, much less married. Her father—what he would do to her didn’t bear thinking about. All those terrible things Lady Dia had threatened if he’d discovered the letter would be nothing compared to what he would do if he knew she had slept with Brand. She knew she should be feeling ashamed for consorting so with the son of her father’s terrible enemy. She knew she should be worried about a thousand things that could go wrong with this liaison—and she should be contemplating the terrible consequences if they were discovered.
But the gods had brought them together and protected them last night, and she could not help but think that they would continue to do so. This was Destiny! Just like in the great poems! Everything had conspired to mate them, at last, and everything would go right on conspiring to keep them together. He knew it too! Hadn’t he said as much? She felt so . . . amazing, so dazzled, that she couldn’t think of anything else but this. If he comes tonight, how can I manage to leave the party early so I can be here when he does?
—
Amily awoke to the scent of bacon, hotcakes and honey, and cracked one eye open to find Mags sitting on the edge of the bed, one plate on his knees as he ate, another waiting on the stand next to the bed for her. It had been a long night, she had been so busy keeping track of Violetta and the guests that she hadn’t done more than sip at a little wine, and she was ravenous. “Good gracious,” she said sleepily, “What’s the occasion?”
Breakfast in bed . . . what a luxury. She hadn’t enjoyed a non-working breakfast once since she became King’s Own, much less one in bed and with Mags. She smiled at him, turned on her side, and started to reach for the plate. More and more she appreciated having the quarters that they did. Being able to cook simple things for themselves and not have to traipse through the snow to the dining hall at Herald’s Collegium was lovely.
Perhaps one day when the expansion here at Healers goes in, there will be a dining hall here, too . . .
“I’m hopin’ to sweeten your temper so you don’ murder me this morning,” Mags said, in between bites. “Brand was one’f the maskers that turned up at th’ Chendlar do last night.”
She almost overset the plate, and him, she sat up so quickly. “What?”
“’Tis all right!” he said, making a placating motion with his fork. “Th’ old Lord allowed as how if he behaved, he could stay. Talbot tried t’start somethin’, an’ th’ ol’ man ran ’im inter a wall.” Mags shook his head. “I’d no notion th’ ol’ man was so strong. Then I managed t’ grab Talbot an’ get ’im talkin’ an’ drinkin’, mostly drinkin’, till ’e decided ’e had t’get t’bed ’fore ’e fell over.” He chuckled, which did not mollify Amily at all. “Even Talbot knows if ’e challenged some’un drunk, ’e’s gonna get beat.”
She pushed her hair out of her face with one hand and picked up her fork with the other. She paused for a moment to savor a bite of bacon with a little honey on it. “Yes but . . . I know Talbot Chendlar, and he’s going to take this as an insult to House Chendlar. He’s going to be looking for an excuse to get at Brand, now.”
“So?” Mags seemed unimpressed. “I stick to Brand. I see Talbot ’bout to make trouble, me’n’Dallen call fer help.”
That was all very well. Except that she was afraid the help might not get there in time before someone was murdered. Or Mags might get himself hurt trying to prevent a murder. She tried to remind herself that Mags was not only an excellent fighter, but he had the memory-reflexes of his cousin . . . but that was no comfort, thinking of him facing off against Talbot. She’d heard reports from the Weaponsmaster of how good Talbot was in practice, and she had the feeling he wasn’t showing everything he had in public.
And she couldn’t exactly keep an eye on Talbot.