Gwydion felt the air around him go dry, no doubt the dragon in Ashe’s blood bristling in ire at the insult, but the Lord Cymrian merely took another sip from his tankard and said nothing.
“And where is Rhapsody this evening?” the Lord Roland asked, oblivious of Ashe’s annoyance.
“To bed,” Ashe replied. “Tired from the day’s revels, as we all are. I intend to join her shortly.”
Tristan’s cheeks glowed red in the light of the bonfires. “Glad to hear it. I do have a gift of sorts for you—though it is on loan.” He signaled to his retinue, and three women came forward, clad in the attire of the house servants of Bethany, Tristan’s seat of power as regent of Roland. One of the women was elderly, the second of middling youth, and the last of tender years, perhaps twenty.
Ashe’s brows knit together. “I don’t understand.”
Tristan smiled and put out his hand to the eldest of the women, who came to his side immediately.
“Renalla was my wife’s nanny, and a very much beloved member of the household of her father, Cedric Canderre. Madeleine sent for her when our son Malcolm was expected, and she has served as nanny for him as well. She is without peer as a governess, and wonderful with children. I have brought her to you so that you might make use of her skills when Rhapsody delivers your child.” He pointed to the next oldest woman. “Amity is a wet nurse, and as you’ve seen, Malcolm has grown healthy and strong on her supply.” He glanced over his shoulder at the last, the youngest woman. “And Portia is a chambermaid.”
Ashe looked uncomfortably at the three women. “Ladies, please sup; the ox is carved, and you have traveled a long way today,” he said, dismissing them to the feast. Once they were out of earshot, he turned back to the Lord Roland. “I thank you, Tristan, but I can’t imagine that we will need any of their services. Rhapsody plans to nurse the baby herself, especially given the rareness of its bloodline—we don’t know what to expect of a wyrmkin child born of a Lirin and human mother. I’m certain if she needs any help with caring for the baby, she will want to select the nanny herself as well. And we have no end to chambermaids at Haguefort.”
“Undeniably,” said Tristan idly, watching a magician who was mixing colorful powders into the enormous bonfire and setting off brightly hued explosions that formed pictures that hovered in the night air, to the delight of the crowd. “But you will be moving to Highmeadow soon, and I thought, perhaps foolishly, that you might appreciate experienced servants to help ease the tremendous load of Rhapsody’s transition there. My mistake.”
Ashe held out his tankard to the waitservant who had offered a pitcher.
“That is very kind of you,” he said awkwardly. “I apologize if I seemed ungrateful. I will consult with Rhapsody in the morning and see what she thinks.”
“Why don’t I just leave them in the custody of your household until the baby arrives?” Tristan suggested. “It’s impossible to know right now just how truly demanding and all-consuming an infant—even a royal infant—can be. Wait and see if you need any or all of them then, and if not, send them back to Bethany with the guarded caravan. Otherwise keep them as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” Ashe said, draining the glass and putting it back on the servant’s tray. “I appreciate your kindness. Now, I bid you good night. Enjoy the feast.”
“Indeed,” remarked Tristan as the Lord Cymrian hurried away from the festivities toward his wife’s bedchambers. “You enjoy the feast as well.”
Contrary to Ashe’s beliefs, Rhapsody was not asleep, but was in fact sharing her bedchamber with another man.
Young master Cedric Andrew Montmorcery Canderre, known to his family as Bobo, the three-year-old grandson of Cedric Canderre, was gleefully tearing through her rooms, playing in her closets, pulling all the pillows from the chairs, hiding amid the bedcurtains, and giving spirited chase to the panicked tabby cat, causing his widowed young mother, Lady Jecelyn Canderre, supreme embarrassment and the Lady Cymrian great amusement.
“I’m terribly sorry, m’lady,” Jecelyn said, struggling to catch up with the energetic tyke. She grasped him in midstride and swung him up over her shoulder, amid howls of angry protest. “He slept in the carriage all the way from Canderre, and now has enough energy to run all the way home. He was keeping all the rest of the guests in your quarters awake.”
“I am delighted to see him,” Rhapsody said, reaching for the struggling toddler. “I’ve missed him terribly. And besides, if there are that many guests sleeping already, we surely are not putting on a very good carnival.” She reached into a box on the bedside table as Jecelyn set the child on the bed beside her, pulled forth a ginger biscuit, and held it up for his mother’s approval. Jecelyn nodded, and Bobo immediately came into her lap, seized the biscuit, and consumed it forthwith, scattering crumbs over the bedsheets.
Rhapsody ran a hand over his glossy black curls, the same curls his father Andrew had sported, and quietly hummed a song of calming as he sat in her lap and ate. She patted the bed next to her for Jecelyn to sit down; the weary young mother sighed and dropped onto the mattress in relief.
“There will be many fun things for you to do tomorrow,” Rhapsody said to Bobo, who nodded and dove for the biscuit box. The two women laughed, and Rhapsody handed it to him, restraining him from falling head-first off the bed. “These are really quite wonderful concoctions,” she said, filching two of the biscuits and handing one to Jecelyn. “They make them in Tyrian; ginger is an herb that offsets nausea. They are the only thing that I can eat first thing in the morning.”
“I remember those days,” said Jecelyn wistfully. Her eyes darkened, and Rhapsody took her hand. Her husband Andrew had died when she was early in her pregnancy; he had never seen his son. After a moment Jecelyn rose and went to the tower window, where the gleaming torchlight from the two carillon towers that stood before Haguefort’s front gate could be seen, lighting the dark night and the silvery snow that still fell in gentle sheets on the wind. “Are those the towers where he fell?”
“Yes,” Rhapsody said, running her fingers through Bobo’s hair. “Rebuilt now.”
Jecelyn turned to her. “Which one was it?”
“The rightmost, I believe,” the Lady Cymrian said gently. “I’m not certain—I was not here during that last carnival.”
“Yes, it was the rightmost,” said Ashe, who had just entered the room. He crossed to the bed, bent and kissed his wife’s cheek, then snatched the munching youngster from her lap and lifted him high in the air. He tilted him upside down, eliciting squeals of glee from the boy and glances of consternation from the women. He held Bobo by his feet and swung him between his own legs, brushing the silk carpet with the child’s inverted curls, then pulled him back up onto his hip and came to the tower window with Jecelyn.
“I was not here at the time, either, but I have read the reports carefully. He and Dunstin Baldasarre saw the attack coming—they were past the gate—and they each ran for a tower, knowing if they could sound the bells of the carillon they could warn Stephen and the others on the fields beyond. Dunstin took the left tower, Andrew the right. Dunstin’s tower was felled by fire from a catapult just as he reached it, but Andrew was faster, and managed to ring the alarm before—before he, too, fell.” Ashe took Jecelyn’s hand and looked into her face; he understood the need to have the questions answered, the pieces of the puzzle filled in.
Lady Jecelyn nodded, then took her son into her arms. “Thank you,” she said. “It helps to see, to understand a little. Well, we have disrupted your evening enough. Thank you, Rhapsody, for the biscuits and for your patience. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Jecelyn. Good night, Bobo,” Rhapsody called as they disappeared into the hallway, Bobo’s wails of protest echoing off the rosy stone walls of Haguefort.
As the shrieks died down in the distance, the lord and lady burst into laughter.
“See what we have to look forward to?” Rhapsody said as Ashe unlaced his shirt, still chu
ckling.
“It’s a joyful noise,” he replied, sliding out of his clothing and into the bed beside her. “It’s been good to hear such noise around here today; the place is filled with the sort of music Stephen loved, the music of laughter and merriment and good-natured argument. I know he is watching from wherever he is. I hope the ceremony tomorrow makes him proud.”
“He was always proud of Gwydion and Melisande, Sam,” Rhapsody said, opening her arms and welcoming him into the warmth of the bedsheets, running her hands over his shoulders to loosen the muscles. “I hope tomorrow is sufficient to make Gwydion proud of himself.”
“It should. The ceremony will be dignified, modest, and, above all, brief, both for his comfort and for yours. Then we will get back to the festivities.” Ashe put out the candle and pulled the covers up around them, settling down in the darkness, exhaling as he took his wife into his arms. For a moment there was only the sound of rustling blankets in the darkness. Then a shudder rose in the night, audible over the snowy wind and the distant noise of revelry below.
“What?” Rhapsody asked.
From the depth of the blankets came two words.
“Biscuit crumbs.”
The fire on the hearth in the royal guest chamber crackled and leapt in time with the whine of the winter wind outside the tall panes of glass in the windows overlooking the festival grounds, where the revelry had died down into sleep and calm celebration among the most hearty of merrymakers.
Tristan Steward heard the door open quietly. He smiled, and took another sip from the heavy crystal glass into which some excellent Canderian brandy had been decanted.
“About time you arrived,” he said without looking behind him. “I was wondering how long you could maintain your demure demeanor.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” The woman’s voice behind him had a throaty chuckle in it.
That chuckle never failed to inspire a rush of warmth through Tristan. He set the glass down on the table before him and stood, turning around slowly to let the fire warm his back.
Backlit by the lanternlight of the hallway, the woman’s form was half obscured in the shadow that stretched forward toward him. She turned and closed the guest-chamber door behind her, then ambled over to where the Lord Roland stood and stopped before him, smiling up insolently at him.
“Are you enjoying the revels, Portia?” Tristan inquired, stroking the porcelain cheek of the chambermaid.
The young woman shrugged. “It’s very different from what I expected.”
“Oh? How so?”
The woman’s dark brown eyes sparkled wickedly. “From what you had described, I was looking forward to wild drunkenness and public debauchery. It’s all very much more tame than I had hoped.”
“It’s early yet,” said Tristan, pulling the white chambermaid’s kerchief from her head and dropping it to the floor. “This is still First Night; most years this day was more for settling in than anything else. The real revelry begins tomorrow. But you are correct; there is a rather dull pall over this festival, no doubt owing to the horror that it sustained the last time a few years back. The Lord Cymrian has clamped down on the size and scope of the festival; I imagine we will have to settle for debauching in private.”
Portia’s lovely face contorted in a mock pout. “Now, what fun is that?” she said humorously. “We could have stayed in Bethany if that is all there is to be had.”
“Now, you know better,” said Tristan, unlacing the stays of her sedate bodice and untying the ribbons of her apron. “You have work to do here after I leave—and it’s very important to me that you accomplish your task well.”
Portia brushed his hands away from her breasts. “Don’t I always?” she said, her eyes flashing with amusement. “M’lord?”
Tristan inhaled deeply. Portia’s impudence was what he liked best about her, the ability to appear as demure and proper as any peasant chambermaid in his household’s employ in public, while rising to a dominance and brashness of spirit behind closed doors. Doubtless her fiery nature would not have been appreciated by a lesser man, but Tristan had a weakness for strong women.
Her rude teasing and domineering sexual proclivities reminded him of an old paramour, now dead, whom he had loved more than he had realized while she was still alive. Prudence and he had been born in the same castle on the same day, minutes apart, he the oldest son of Lord Malcolm Steward, she the daughter of his father’s favorite concubine and serving wench. They had been inseparable friends; she was his first lover and tireless confidant, willing to call him on his bad behavior and failings while never ceasing to love him unquestioningly. Her death had devastated him, but he had moved on, grimacing through a loveless marriage to Madeleine, the Beast of Canderre, as well as countless trysts with female servants.
And an unrequited obsession with the wife of his childhood friend, Gwydion of Manosse, the Lord Cymrian.
Portia had been his favorite bed partner for a while. Her wild spirit and willingness to fornicate on a moment’s notice, barely hidden in public places where the possibility of detection added fuel to their passion, had gone a long way to sating the emptiness he had felt in recent years. It was, at its best, stimulating and emotionless sexual satisfaction. At its worst, it was better than nothing.
And anything was better than Madeleine’s cold and formal submission to wifely duties.
“Stand still,” he ordered, turning her around again. Portia’s eyebrow arched in surprise, but she allowed the Lord Roland to pull her back to him.
“Now, tell me, Portia, how you plan to accomplish what I’ve asked of you,” he said, untying the laces from the back of her skirts, then pulling her free of them with an impatient tug which implied an intensity that had not been in his eyes the moment before.
Portia shrugged as his hands slid over her breasts again, unrebuffed this time, pulling her completely free of the last remnants of clothing.
“The same way I accomplished it when you were the prize,” she said nonchalantly, though the unexpected fire in her lord’s voice was beginning to excite her. “One must first be an unobtrusive and extremely useful servant, so as not to attract the notice or ire of the house’s lady. After that, it’s only a matter of time. When the wife is bloated with child, it makes it all the more simple.”
“You have not seen his wife,” said Tristan Steward, his hands moving lower. “Even on her worst day, she is a hundred times more beautiful than you ever dreamt to be on your best day. There is a magic to her that is indescribable; I wonder how you will compete with that.”
Portia turned suddenly, her eyes blazing violently.
“Tell me about her scent,” she said hoarsely, struggling to keep the ire from her voice and losing.
Tristan thought for a moment, oblivious of the gleaming naked woman standing before him.
“Like vanilla, and spiced soap,” he said finally. “The faintest scent of flowers. And the sharp odor of sandalwood smoke.”
Portia smiled. She leaned against the Lord Roland and pressed her lips to his, sliding her arms around his neck. Suddenly, in his nostrils was the scent of vanilla and clean, sweet spice, with an undertone of fire in it. Though not exactly the same as Rhapsody’s, it was close enough to make his hands shake. He pushed away in surprise.
“How—how did you do that?” he asked haltingly.
The black eyes danced with laughter.
“There is much you do not know about me, m’lord,” she said, her voice silky with an undertone of threat. “I have not even seen her yet. But mark my words; you will not be disappointed.” She pushed him back, and set about undoing the laces of his trousers while he stood still in shock. “Have you ever been?”
Numbly Tristan shook his head. There was something suddenly terrifying in Portia’s aspect, something cruel and dark and deeper than he could fathom that he had never seen before. He did not recognize it at first, aroused as he was, but later, when he was alone in his bed, he realized that what he felt in t
he presence of this woman, this servant he had had his way with countless times, was fear.
She pushed him to the floor, covering his mouth, and then his body, with her own, his fully clothed, hers utterly naked; sliding him inside of her, riding him ruthlessly. He began to tremble, wondering what it was he had set in motion.
And as the tall windows mirrored the writhing dance of their bodies commingling on the floor of the guest chamber, he realized that, even in the traditional role of master and servant, he was helpless to stop it now.
The dragon was growing impatient.
All around her the earth was cooling, falling into dormancy, cold beneath a blanket of snow that she could sense above, even in the southlands through which she traveled. As the world fell asleep, the ground became thicker, harder to pass through, deadening the sound of her name that she was following.
Let me pass, she thought angrily, struggling through the clay of the Earth’s crust. Do not hinder me.
The beating heart of the Earth was slowing; it flickered at her ire, but then settled down again. She felt its answer in her mind, or at least imagined she did.
This cycle is older than you are old, the Earth seemed to say. Take your time; it is unending.
No, the dragon insisted, flailing about in the clay and the layers of rock. Help me!
But the earth merely settled back, thickening, making the way more difficult.
In the darkness of the crust of the world, the dragon’s gleaming blue eyes narrowed, shining like lanterns in the blackness.
I may be waylaid, she thought in slowly building fury, but I will not be denied.
And when I finally arrive, even the Earth will suffer.
21
HAGUEFORT, NAVARNE
When she entered Haguefort’s garden in the gray light of foredawn the following morning to prepare for her aubades, Rhapsody thought she caught sight of a thin shadow at the edges of her vision. She turned as quickly as she could without losing her balance, but saw nothing except the gray haze that was thinning in the advent of sunrise.