The Witchwood Crown

  Again he tried to push the memory away, but this time it would not be dismissed; it rose like some fierce, toothy thing sliding up through the water lilies in the deepest part of the Hayholt’s moat—a flash from the shadows, and then it had him.

  • • •

  It had been a very strange day, one of the strangest of his life, and only a fortnight or so after the disturbing Midsummer’s Eve when his father had caught him in the Granary Tower. First he had fallen out of the Festival Oak, where he apparently should not have been climbing for some reason he could never understand, since it was the finest climbing tree in the Inner Bailey. One knee and both elbows badly bloodied and aching, Morgan had limped into the residence, trailed by several worried chambermaids who, because he would not let them touch him, could only wipe up the red drops and smears he left behind, whispering and clucking like pigeons. His mother, interrupted in conversation with several court ladies, took one look at him and waved him off with a grand shudder, ordering her maid to take him to Lord Tiamak to be made well.

  Later, after the little Wrannaman had cleaned and carefully covered the weals with lint and linen, he had given Morgan a sip of something from a small glass jar. It was sweet but strange. Tiamak said it would help him to rest easier.

  The maid brought him back, and now that he was cleaned and his wounds hidden, his mother consented to let him lie on a little bed at the side of her retiring room if he kept quiet. The pain of his injuries began to retreat, only reaching out now and then to poke him and remind him not to move too much. Morgan slept a little, then woke, then slept again as his mother and her ladies spoke in quiet tones, but the second time he rose to wakefulness the retiring room was noisier. Someone was looking for John Josua, the prince was needed, Lord Tiamak was looking for him. Something about one of the chambermaids. Morgan wondered idly whether it had something to do with him, but for once he could not remember any guilty act. In any case, the bed was warm and he did not want to sit up and ask. After a bit, he drifted back down into comfortable absence.

  He woke up, or half-woke, to see his father standing over him with eyes as wide and stricken as one of the martyrs on the chapel windows. This appearance was so sudden and unexpected that Morgan tried to cry out, but sleep still clung, and he made only a gasping noise. Even more astonishing, his father bent and kissed him on the side of the head and whispered into Morgan’s ear, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

  As his heart sped at this strange confidence, and he came more fully awake, Morgan heard his mother saying, “And you came here? Are you mad, John? Did you touch her? What if some contagion is on you?”

  “No, I did not go near her,” his father said. “But Tiamak and others did.”

  “Sweet Elysia! I shall not let any of them near me.”

  “The little Wrannaman is no fool. He said it was something else. He said it was poison.”

  “Oh, my dear God, protect us.”

  “An accident.” But Morgan thought his father’s voice sounded unsteady. “Bitten by a snake, perhaps.” With an effort, as if he wished to change what was being discussed, his father said, “And why are you so frightened, Idela? People die here from all manner of things. Death is all around. It is God’s way.”

  “Because I am with child,” his mother said. Morgan heard what might have been triumph and anger in her voice. He was now completely awake, his heart beating swiftly, but he kept his eyes closed because his father still stood over him.

  “You are . . .”

  “I am carrying a child. I know it is true, and the midwives agree. Do you wonder that I take fright?”

  “A child.” He said it as he might have said, “a chair” or “a stone”.

  “Yes. But why are you so cold, John? Is this not what we wanted, another son to protect the succession?”

  “I . . . I am sorry.” John Josua was holding himself rigid, but his leg trembled against the bed where Morgan lay miming sleep. “It is thinking of that chambermaid—they said she vomited black bile . . .”

  “John! Are you mad?”

  “Oh, Lord help me. I am not myself, wife. Again, I beg your pardon.”

  “Give me your blessing, John. We will pray that he or she will be born safely. Hurry, John—God must think us ungrateful.”

  “Of course,” he said, but the strange edge in his voice remained. “I pray that God will bless us all, and bless the child.”

  Idela kneeled in front of a picture of the Sacred Mother Elysia and began to pray, asking God’s forgiveness for speaking of evil things when He had showered them with such good fortune, and would doubtless watch over all of them, and the boy would be raised as a good Aedonite—or the girl would be, of course, if it was a girl, but his mother didn’t want God to think that another boy would be a burden. As she enumerated all the things she hoped God would do to protect her family, Morgan heard his father say just above him, in a low voice that he doubtless thought no other mortal could hear, “And I pray that God will be just and the child is born dead.”

  Morgan lay in horrified, rigid silence as his father went out. He could hear his mother praying—she hardly even noticed her husband’s departure. Morgan wanted to cry, but couldn’t, wouldn’t, because it would give him away, as though he himself had done some terrible thing simply by listening.

  When she finished praying, his mother rose to admit her ladies-in-waiting, who had been waiting patiently in the antechamber. They swept in like a cloud of birdsong, their voices light and sweet, talking of the beauty of the summer day beyond the windows. Morgan rolled over and pulled a blanket over his head, wishing it was something thicker, heavier, like clay or even stone, wishing he could bury himself in the earth and not hear anything again. Eventually, after a very long time, he fell back into sleep.

  • • •

  “Are you awake, Highness? Would you like company?”

  Morgan sat up, startled to find himself in the middle of the forest instead of the bed in his mother’s retiring room, and saw Sir Porto standing a short distance away. The old knight raised his hand in greeting, although none too steadily. He had stayed drinking with the soldiers longer than Morgan, which in itself told much about the prince’s current mood. “Awake, yes,” Morgan said. “As for company, though, I’m not certain . . .”

  Missing the hint entirely, Porto seated himself on a rock nearby. “I know that look you wear, my prince.”

  “You do?”

  “Aye, yes. I left home when I was young myself to fight against the White Foxes. Left my family behind.”

  “Very sad,” he said, hoping that by agreeing quickly he might cut short another recitation of how the old knight had single-handedly saved the mortal race from extinction at the hands of the Norns. “They must have missed you. Your mother, all of them.”

  But Morgan’s words seemed to startle the old man, and when he spoke again, it was to say something the prince had never heard before, as if Porto had been jolted out of one rut and into another, like a carriage wheel. “My mother?” the old man said. “No, no. My mother was long dead. I speak of my wife and child.”

  Morgan was surprised, and it made the memory of his father’s words wriggle again just at the surface of his thoughts, making unpleasant ripples. “You have children? You’ve never spoken of children before. Or a wife, as far as I can recall.”

  “It is not a happy tale, Highness. That is why you have not heard it. I left them behind on Perdruin, which is where I was born. When I first went to war, following Prince Josua and the rest in hopes of making my fortune, my wife Sida and our little one stayed behind in her parents’ house. Now, I have spoken once or twice of the Battle of Nakkiga Gate—nay, please do not make such a face, my prince, I know I have told the tale before. Astrian has chided me for it enough times. So you know I was dubbed a knight on the field of battle by Duke Isgrimnur himself.”

  Along with a few other men, Mor
gan had heard, which made it a little less impressive than it sounded, but this time he felt no urge to interrupt.

  “And after I returned south, I was given a land holding by the new king and queen for my service, a parcel in Sudshire with rents worth several gold imperators every year! Not bad. More than I ever had from my own family. But when I returned to Perdruin, I found that Sida and our son had both died in the terrible sweating illness that struck there and in Nabban and in much of the south that year. You would not know, but many called it the Norn Fever, and said it was revenge for their defeat. My little boy—we called him Portinio, which means ‘Little Porto’—was not even two years old. They had already been buried a month by the time I returned. I didn’t even get to kiss them.” His voice became hard to make out. “I never said a proper farewell . . .”

  After a long silence, Morgan said, “I didn’t see my father before he died, either. They wouldn’t let me.”

  Porto looked at him but said nothing, still mired in his own grief.

  “They said I shouldn’t see him that way,” Morgan said. “My mother said so. My grandfather and grandmother were with him . . .” He hated thinking about it, but it only took a single reminder to bring it all back in a rush.

  The stairs had been wet because, a short while earlier, a maid had carried up a cloth and a sloshing bowl. Morgan had wondered why a servant was allowed in but he wasn’t. He had been standing on the stairs, and Countess Rhona held his hand so tightly he could not get free, and his mother barred the stairway, her face angry. She was furious at him for trying to get past her, and the two women had stopped him and then held him like a prisoner—like a criminal—and in that moment, the door at the top of the landing, where two armored Erkynguards stood sentry, had seemed as unreachable as a mountaintop fortress. Then Tiamak had emerged from his father’s chamber with a face so grave that his mother had cried out, and Morgan had instantly burst into tears at the sound.

  He forced the memories away. Pointless. Foolish. He was angry at himself for speaking of it. “Tell me the rest,” he said.

  Porto looked up, a little startled. “What? I beg your pardon, Highness.”

  “What happened after you found out? About your family, I mean.”

  The old knight sighed. “So long ago! It’s a curse to remember, sire, I tell you true. In any case, there I was with nothing left. I returned to Erkynland, but I soon sold the land I had been given there and drank the profits. Had I not fallen in with Astrian and Olveris, I suspect I would be dead now.” Porto shook his head. “They have always given me a roof . . . or at least a place to huddle and be warm with them.”

  It had never occurred to Morgan, except in a general way, that Porto must have lived a great deal of life before he had met him. He had seen the old knight as a gentle, drunken clown without wondering what might have made him that way.

  “Did you love your wife very much?” he said, although he was not entirely sure why he asked it.

  “Did I what now?” Porto’s thoughts had apparently wandered again. “Oh, yes, I imagine so. But it is hard to say, so many years later. Sometimes I can scarcely remember what either of them looked like. I had a miniature of her in a locket, but that was lost somewhere.” He shook his head again. “Somewhere . . .”

  “I hope you forget someday,” Morgan said. “So the pain goes away.”

  “Oh, no.” The old man shook his head. “I beg your pardon, Highness, but I pray it never happens. That is all I have of them.” Porto levered himself upright. “Speaking of pain, my prince, the cold is creeping into my bones and making them ache. I shall set up a bit nearer the fire. Do not fret overmuch, Highness. You are a most important young man and the things that happen to others will not happen to you, I think. All those who love you will be safe and sound when you return—and you will return in glory, of that I am also sure. Trust me, the old can see things that youth cannot.”

  Morgan was silent as he watched the ancient knight pick his way unsteadily between the camping places of the others, like a shorebird fording a rising tide in deep mud.

  “Oh, my lord Pasevalles, I am so glad you remembered!” the dowager princess said, rising as one of her serving girls showed him into her retiring room. She spread her hands as if about to receive a gift.

  “How could I possibly forget such a flattering invitation, Your Highness?” The lord chancellor could not help noticing that Princess Idela had not exactly set the room ablaze with light, which would have been a more sensible approach for inspecting old books. Instead, the candles had been put out so sparingly that for some moments he did not notice the straight-backed old woman sitting on a chair in the corner, sewing.

  “Lady Wilona,” he said when his eyes could finally make out her face. “What a pleasure to see you, too.”

  The Lord Chancellor was relieved but slightly confused by the older woman’s presence. Wilona was the wife of Sir Evoric of Haestall, a baron of no great family lineage or holdings, who had discovered there was more gold to be made in trade than in farming. Through a series of fortunate connections to Perdruinese relatives, Evoric had become one of the leading importers of dyed cloth from the south, and was now reputed to be richer than almost anyone. He and his wife were also great favorites of Osric, Princess Idela’s father.

  Lady Wilona looked up from her sewing, squinting. “Ah, it’s you Lord Chancellor. Forgive me for not rising—I have an ache in my legs today that is tasking me fiercely.”

  “Nothing to forgive, my good lady.”

  “Now, what will you have to eat, Lord Pasevalles?” Princess Idela asked, then answered herself. “Meat, of course. You men!” Her smile was sweetly winning, an amused, maternal appreciation of what scamps the stronger sex could be, but Pasevalles admired Idela’s skills and knew only a fool believed the artifices that attractive face could display. “I will send a servant down to the kitchens this moment,” she said. “I think there must be some of that joint left from the afternoon—it was very nice and will serve admirably even cold. And we will wash down our feast with a bottle of this yellow Sandarian I have saved for just such a happy occasion.”

  Pasevalles could not resist poking just a little, if only to take the measure of the evening’s weather. “Oh, but Princess, you were concerned for your husband’s books. Should we not attend to that first, before we indulge ourselves?”

  She waved a white hand at him. “Silly. We will do much better labor with full stomachs. A hard-working man like your lordship must know that.”

  “I bow to my lady’s wisdom.”

  “As you should.” Again the smile—flirtatious, promising. In truth, Pasevalles was not much surprised by Idela’s willingness to skip past the boring business of the books. It had been quite plain to him that she cared little about the matter of her husband’s library, and meant instead to reinforce her siege of Pasevalles’ honor, and perhaps even finally to overthrow it. Pasevalles was by no means immune to the feelings that her pretty face, slim figure, and the pale cleft of her bosom would engender in any man, but he stood this moment in a princess’s retiring room and with a lordship to his name precisely because he had negotiated each such crossroad with careful thought. He would not change that now, when the distance to fall was so much greater than it had ever been.

  The servant girl returned with a platter of sliced cold meat, some cheese, several small hand loaves, and a bowl of pickled ramps. Princess Idela scolded her gently for not having brought back a sweet as well, then dismissed her. The girl disappeared into one of the other rooms of the princess’s chambers.

  Lady Wilona took a plate for herself and ate in her chair while the princess and the lord chancellor sat across from each other at the small table. As they ate, Idela talked animatedly of small things, events of such little matter that Pasevalles knew she was working her way toward something of greater import. At last, as he poured a second goblet of the sweet, amber Sandarian for both o
f them, she rounded to her point.

  “I cannot tell you how much I enjoy having your company this evening, Lord Chancellor.”

  “Please, Princess. You must call me Pasevalles. I cannot stand on my title here, of all places.”

  “Very well, then, I shall do my best to call you by your Aedonite name. But you must not be naughty yourself and put me at a disadvantage. For tonight, we shall both shed our titles. I will be ‘Idela.’”

  “As you wish . . . Idela.”

  She clapped her hands. “Ah, just your man’s voice is a pleasure to my ears.” She leaned forward as though imparting a great secret of state, coincidentally showing him a great deal of her pale, smooth bosom. “I confess that I tire sometimes of the shrill sound of women’s voices. That is all I hear! Is it any wonder I miss my son so much?”

  Considering that Prince Morgan had been gone less than a sennight, and that the princess had never been known as a doting mother to either of her children, Pasevalles recognized the opening of a new gambit and generously played along. “It must have been very difficult for you, seeing him off.”

  “Terribly. Shatteringly.” She shook her head. “I cried myself to sleep the first night.”

  “I am sorry for your pain, my dear lady.”

  She darted a glance toward Lady Wilona, who was chewing determinedly on a slice of bread and seemed to be paying them no attention at all. Idela lowered her voice again. “It is not only the fright of seeing him go off into the wild world and wondering whether he will come back—”

  “He will, Idela. Count Eolair and the others will make sure of that. Eolair is as good a man as the High Ward has to show.”

  She made a little impatient mouth—the lord steward was not what she wanted to talk about. “It is not only the fright of seeing him ride off. I know I am a mother and will always feel my son’s absence as a terrible loss. It is that I fear that growing up without a father will . . . will hinder him on that day when he must take the crown.” She made the sign of the Tree. “Which we hope will be many, many years from now, of course.”