Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Read online

  By that alone, it was fairly easy to intuit that it was Talbot who was the cause of the debacle, and Talbot who Father was shouting at. Only Talbot dared to push the limits of Father’s edicts.

  Whatever Talbot had done, it was clear he was in a great deal of trouble. There was no doubt he’d transgressed far past his ordinary behavior, when Violetta had ventured down to get something to eat from the kitchen. That was when she got the sketchy details that there had been fighting, and heard that he had been sent packing, with only his horse and what his horse could carry, back to the estate.

  By this point, Mother was weeping hysterically in the Great Hall as Father raged at the rest of the cousins, so Violetta had just taken what the cook would give her and fled back to her room. The cook was thoroughly rattled, and had just pressed things into her hands, shaking the entire time. It had been a very odd meal. A bowl of stewed, dried fruit, half a small loaf of bread, a sausage, and an entire pan of double-cream.

  She had hidden up there, until just now, when Father had sent servants for them all and lined them up in his study. Mother’s face was still streaked with tears. Brigette and Aleniel sat like a pair of statues. Violetta didn’t know what to think, but as a precaution, she had locked Star in her room. Having to clean up an “accident” on the floor would be better than trying to protect her dog from Father in a rage. Just because he treated her indulgently, it did not follow that he would spare her his anger. She had discovered that quite young.

  Finally, he stopped pacing, and abruptly turned to face them all.

  He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. His face was quite red. This did not bode well.

  “That damned puppy, Talbot, has managed to destroy nearly everything I have worked for,” he growled. “I told him to leave the Raeylen whelp alone, but no. He’d have none of that. So we had fighting in the streets, and not just the servants, who we could dismiss as being stupid clods who didn’t know any better, oh no. This was a gang of the cousins, led by Talbot, acting like a damned lot of street bravos, and not down in Haven, but up here, on the Hill, where the King could damned well not ignore it! Gods be my witness, I’ve owned geese with more sense!”

  Violetta felt the blood drain from her face, and clutched the arms of her chair in sudden faintness. The Raeylen whelp? That could only be Brand! And cousin Talbot had gone for him—Talbot, the best swordsman she had ever seen, Talbot, who had left more than one man for dead—

  Her vision darkened. She wanted to cry out, to beg her father to tell her how Brand was—was he hurt? Was he dying? Was he dead? But the words stuck in her throat as she tried to keep from fainting. And her father kept right on with his tirade, oblivious to her reaction.

  “So! The Prince was sent to sort us out according to the Royal whim, and everything I have been working for the entire time we have been here is in shambles!” The anger in his voice made it harsh and grating. “Everything! Gone! And I am left to try and make something in the ruins!”

  She fought through her faintness until her vision cleared. When she could see again, her father had turned toward her sisters.

  “You—” he continued, stabbing a finger at a startled Aleniel “—are ordered to be betrothed to that Raeylen whelp in seven days’ time by the Prince himself, Gods save me!”

  Relief washed over her—he’s alive! He’s all right!—followed by bewilderment. What? Aleniel? Marrying my Brand? How—why? No! This isn’t possible! This can’t be! She put one hand to her temple, feeling as if she had been struck a terrible blow and her senses had all been set askew. This could not be happening! Surely she had heard this wrong!

  “And never mind that the ink’s not yet dry on the contract to Lord Peramir!” Father shouted. “Hell’s Pits! The match of a lifetime, and . . .” he sputtered for a moment, then got control of himself. “Not to mention a violated contract! He could claim your dower, girl, for the insult, and never mind it was the Prince that ordered it!”

  “But my lord—he did not—” Mother ventured, and Father calmed himself somewhat. “Lord Peramir has graciously said he understands that a Royal Command is not to be disobeyed, and you should tell the girls how I have arranged matters.”

  “No, my lord is a reasonable man,” Father growled, “And since Aleniel is being given lands and a manor of her own with her marriage to the Raeylen pup, I am not obliged to give one single copper of Chendlar dower into that skinflint bastard Kaltar’s hands, and I have no intention of doing so.”

  Now Father turned to her, and Violetta was still so stunned she could not think, could only stare at him, stricken to the heart. Brand! My Brand! Given to Aleniel!

  “Lord Peramir has graciously agreed to take you, Violetta, in your sister’s place, even though you’ve none of her talents that make her so valuable to someone like him, and I’ll be able to settle what would have been Aleniel’s dower on you.” Father stared at her as she sat dumb in her chair. “So, you’ll be marrying one of the highest lords in the land. You’ll be ahead of even the Lady Dia. What do you have to say for yourself, child?”

  She stared up at him, stricken with horror. She had only seen Lord Peramir once, but there could not have been a human being who was less like Brand in all of Valdemar. He was tall, thin, old, old, old, with a face set in a permanent expression of disapproval, and cold, pebble-like eyes. He didn’t dance. He didn’t converse. He probably disapproved of poetry. He would expect her to care for him, make medicines and potions to soothe him . . . and be in his bed, with his terrible, old body next to hers, doing things—doing things to her that only Brand should do! I’d rather die! she thought frantically. I’d rather die! His skin was like old parchment, his breath stank, he probably had awful things wrong with him—

  And he wasn’t Brand!

  Finally, she shook off her paralysis. “No!” she cried out, and flung herself at Father’s feet, weeping. She clutched his shoes with both hands, sobbing hysterically. “No, no, no! Oh Father, please, do not ask this of me! I cannot wed—I am too young—I cannot wed—”

  “What? Ask this of you?” he thundered, grabbing her by the back of her neck and pulling her to her feet. “By all the gods, I am not asking you, mistress, I am telling you! You are my daughter, you are my property, in law and under the gods! You will be wed to this good man, and you will thank me for it!”

  “I cannot!” she cried, and tried to drop to her knees, but could not, because of the painful hold he had on her. She hung in his hands like a rabbit in the jaws of his mastiff. “Oh Father, good Father, I pray you! I cannot wed this man! I am not worthy! I cannot wed him! I cannot love him! Pray you, pray pardon me! Give him to Brigette, and let me stay unwed! Please, please spare me!” Tears poured from her eyes, which blurred so much that she could not see. Her chest constricted painfully, and she pawed weakly at his chest in entreaty.

  “Pray me not! Rather pray to the gods I do not strangle you as is my right!” His face was practically purple with rage. “You thankless tart! You miserable viper! You will go to marry his Lordship with a smile on your face, or by all that is holy I shall drag you there myself by the hair! No!” he interrupted her, as she was about to choke something out, her entire body convulsing with shivering sobs. “Say nothing! Not one word will I hear! You will wed him, or by my right hand I will throw you into the street, or sell you to a bawdy house myself, you vile little brat!”

  “My Lord!” Mother gasped out, white as her linen chemise.

  “Am I Lord of this house or no?” he roared, and let Violetta go; she dropped groveling and weeping, at his feet. “I say I am Lord of this House, and my word is law!”

  She looked up at him through eyes streaming with tears; she hardly recognized him, he was so changed by rage.

  “By the gods, this is driving me mad!” he howled, stamping one foot and narrowly missing her hand. “It has been all my work to wed my girls worthily. Talbot undoes the half of that work, and wh
en I come to salvage what remains, and present to you, ungrateful little bitch-dog, a fine man, a worthy man, a man of higher estate than ever you could have looked to, what do you do? Do you thank me with tears in your eyes, that he is willing to take you despite the fact that you are nothing more than a feckless, talentless child, unfit to care for him in his old age? No! It is I will not wed and I cannot wed, and I cannot love and pray pardon me! Well, I’ll not pardon you! I’ve over-indulged you, I see! I’ve two good, dutiful daughters who know that obedience is due to their father, and will wed where he tells them! I do not need you! I tell you now, you will wed Lord Peramir before Midwinter Season is over, or I will turn you out of the house into the snow in your shift and you will never more call me Father!”

  He turned on the others, as Violetta lay in a weeping, hysterical heap on the stone floor. “Leave her! Maybe she will come to her senses! And if she does not, she’s no child of mine!”

  And with that, he drove Mother and her sisters out before him, and slammed the door behind him, leaving her in the dark.

  Somehow Violetta had gotten herself to her room, let her puppy out, and locked the door behind her again. She didn’t remember any of it—not getting to her feet, not leaving Father’s study, not climbing the stair. She came to herself standing with her back to the locked door, tears still streaming down her face, neck and shoulder aching with bruises, her mind in a whirl of horror. Once safely locked inside, she flung herself into her bed, weeping, weeping, and that was where Brand found her when he came in through her bedroom window.

  She only knew he was there when he sat down beside her, and gently pulled her up to rest her head on his shoulder. “Shhh,” he said. “Hush now, sweeting. Why all these tears? Can’t you be happy that I managed to survive your murderous cousin?” He chuckled. “The gods themselves know he tried hard enough to kill me, but it is he that is on the road to the country, and I who am still here, unscathed.” His arms around her were warm; she sank into them as if they were a haven, and yet, she wept because the haven was so soon to be taken from her.

  “You live—but you wed my sister!” she sobbed. “And I am to marry that hideous old man she was betrothed to! I hate him! I hate him! He is old, and cold, and ugly!”

  “Well, that is the Prince’s decree,” he agreed, and held her even closer than before. “But am I not a clever fellow? And don’t you think I have been considering this from the moment the words came from his mouth? And don’t you think I have hit upon a solution that will make your evil old man vanish like snow in the spring?”

  His calm reply stopped her tears for the moment, and she gulped, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “You have?” She moved her head to peer up at him, but her vision was so blurry she could not make out his face.

  He tilted her chin up with one hand, and kissed her. “Of course I have. And the first thing you have to understand is that, the truth is, the Prince really doesn’t care which Chendlar daughter I marry, as long as I marry one of you. But!” He stilled her with one finger on her lips. “He’s said it must be the eldest, and a Prince cannot be gainsaid. His word is his word, and even if I went to him and explained. . . .” He shook his head. “He would tell me he had given his word. Your father would rail and rage, because even if he was going to be able to give that ugly old man the wife he wanted, the very fact that I asked for something different would make him oppose me. And no one would ask your preference. Besides, if I went and pled our case to the Prince, there would be . . . questions. And certain examinations. And the result of those would be disastrous for you.”

  “Then I am lost!” she sobbed, looking up into his face, feeling tears scalding her cheeks again, and her heart burning with pain inside her.

  He put his hand on her lips, silencing her. “So, I minded me of what I heard an old Guardsman once say, It is better and easier to ask forgiveness than get permission, and a brilliant plan came to me, all at once. You and I shall hoodwink them all.”

  Hope rose in her again. “We will?” she faltered.

  “And here is how. First, you will tell your father that you will marry. You will go to him, and beg his forgiveness, and tell him that you were afraid, terrified that Lord Whatever would come to despise you quickly, and that you are afraid, wedding so great a man, that you cannot manage his household, that his servants will be contemptuous of you, and never obey you, and he will leave you in some remote, leaking old tower somewhere all alone.” He nodded as she bit her lip. She could all too easily imagine just that happening. Even if I had not had Brand . . . She thought of Lord Peramir, and shuddered.

  He held her tighter. “You can do this. I know you can. Because it will be for us, little sweeting! It will be to ensure our future!”

  “For that . . .” she gulped. “For that, I can do this.”

  “Good. Now listen to the rest, for here is where I am terribly clever.” She held her breath. “There will be a great betrothal feast, of course; the Prince said the Crown is paying for it, so you may be sure it will be as large as your father can arrange on such short notice.”

  “But . . . if I am to see you and Aleniel . . .” Her voice broke. “I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!”

  He laughed. “You will not have to. You, my love, will stay here at home, saying you are not well. And I am sure that no one will care that you remain here. Why should they? It will not matter, you are not the intended bride, after all. Your sister is probably jealous of how young and pretty you are, and will be glad you are not there to rival her.”

  “But I do not see—” she began.

  “Let me finish,” he admonished, and she flushed. “Once they are all merry and have drunk too much of the bridal wine, I will make my excuses and slip away. And I will come for you, and you and I will make our way to a priest I know who will marry us, and once we are wed, we will present ourselves to the King the first thing in the morning and beg forgiveness.” His eyes were shining in the darkness, and she listened to him, awestruck at his audacity and cleverness. “Oh, I shall be so eloquent! I will tell him of your beautiful letter, how it moved me, how I was in love with you before I even met you, and when I met you, I was so smitten I knew that it must be a lifebond! Not even the King himself would gainsay a lifebond, now, would he, my little violet?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. . . .” she said, hesitantly.

  “So there you are.” His voice was full of self-satisfaction. “The King will be satisfied, because he will have our Houses bound. The Prince will be moved by our tale of true love. Your father may be angry with you, but what of it? We will have our own lands, and the lands of Raeylen when my father dies. My father is already angry, and at the Prince, not at us; at worst, this will tickle him because it will be tweaking the nose of the Prince and your father. Your sister will have that cold old man that she wanted in the first place, and I wish her joy of him.” He laughed. “There. Now tell me, am I not the cleverest fellow in all of the Kingdom?”

  She nearly flung herself at him with joy. “You are!” she exclaimed. “Oh! You are!”

  “Then why don’t you show me how much you appreciate me,” he said, and began to untie her laces.

  —

  Lady Dia had taken one look at the theater and declared that it was the perfect venue for the betrothal feast. The acting troupe was perfectly willing to give up their theater, when Mags was able to make arrangements with one of the biggest inns in Haven for them to continue their performances in the central courtyard. With Lady Leverance pretty much giving over complete control of the entire ceremony to her, Dia was able to work at what to Amily seemed to be an insane speed. She arranged for fancy charcoal braziers, fabric to drape the walls, wood to be laid down to form a solid floor, many-branched candlesticks and oil lamps to provide light, cooks and bakers to supply the feast . . . in short, everything that could possibly be needed.

  This left Amily to actually d
o her job. Which was a relief. The Leverance household was in an uproar; a betrothal gown had to be fitted to Aleniel at short notice, Brigette was sulking because Lord Leverance had not simply handed the plum potential husband down to her, but had bestowed Lord Peramir on Violetta. Instead, it appeared Brigette was going to get Guildmaster Harl Kenton, unless something went drastically wrong, but for now, everything other than the betrothal of Brand and Aleniel was on hold.

  Violetta was . . . well, definitely not herself. She was spending most of her time in her room, although no one seemed to notice because they were all so busy preparing for Aleniel’s betrothal.

  Was she still obsessed, or at least, infatuated with Brand?

  I would give it an absolute certainty, she thought, watching Violetta leaf listlessly through a book, looking thinner and paler than Amily had ever seen her look before. And now . . . she is watching her sister make off with the boy she wanted, and the poor little thing is going to be shackled to an old, cold man who was looking for a nurse, not a wife. Poor little thing. Amily wanted to somehow reach the girl and give her a hug. Not that this would help in the least.

  :She is no worse off than most young women, you know, and much better off than most,: Rolan mused. :He can’t live more than ten years, she will still be young when he dies, rich, and with a lofty title—:

  :Rolan, ten years is more than half her current lifespan,: Amily reminded her Companion tartly. :You might think of it from that perspective.:

  Rolan sighed in her mind. :She could be poor. She could be starving. She could be married to a man who will beat her. The world is not kind to so many people in it—but we both know if you try to point these things out to her, it will mean nothing in the face of the pain she is feeling.:

  There was no good answer. The world was not kind to far too many people.