No Greater Pleasure

  Saradin stood in front of the door, Dane hiding behind her. Tears had streaked his face. His clothes were stained. From her place in the front room arch, Quilla could see his hands were black, as though from soot, or ink.

  “I will shield him as I wish!” Saradin cried.

  “He has been warned to stay out of my workspace time and again, and he ignored it yet again! He has gone and made a ruin of it, not to mention how much he has set back my work!”

  Quilla had thought she’d seen Gabriel angry, but no harsh words could compare to the fury on his face as he paced back and forth. If Gabriel had been a storm, he’d have had lightning sparking from his every step and thunder booming with his words.

  Saradin sneered. “Your work. Oh, yes. Your precious work.”

  “My work that provides you with those pretty dresses you wear, and the food you eat.”

  His voice dipped low. Dangerous. Shouting would have been less ominous, but Saradin either did not notice or did not care.

  Dane peeked around from behind his mother, though she tried to push him back. His bravery touched Quilla’s heart, for facing his father’s wrath had to be daunting.

  “I wanted to see the animals,” he said. “I’m sorry, Papa. I wanted to see the animals you keep in cages.”

  “And you needed to stop and mess with the soot bucket on the way?” Gabriel fixed his gaze on the little boy’s. “I found ash strewn all over my floor. Black handprints on my walls and on my chair. I found ink spilled on my desk, Dane! My notes have been ruined!”

  Dane’s lower lip quivered. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  “My workshop is not a playground.”

  Quilla watched Gabriel interacting with his son, and something else became clear to her. He meant to forgive the boy.

  Saradin ruined it in the next moment. “You leave him alone, Gabriel. He’s a lad!”

  Gabriel looked at her. “He has done wrong and needs to be punished.”

  “No! You will not! I will not allow it!”

  Dane seemed better able to accept his fate than his mother, for the lad stepped forward, only to be yanked back by her hand.

  “Mama—”

  “No.” Saradin tossed her head and fixed Gabriel with a glare of contempt. “He won’t touch you.”

  The woman played a game. A power game. For what prize?

  “Dane, come here.”

  Saradin kept her grip on him, tight. Quilla felt someone brush against her, and she turned to find Florentine watching also from the shadow of the arch. The chatelaine shook her head.

  “Such drama.”

  “The boy made a mess in his father’s workspace, so I gather.”

  “And the mother will not hear of him being taken to task for it.” Florentine shook her head again.

  “You have seen this played before?”

  “Oh, and aye.” Florentine shrugged. “Watch her.”

  “He will be punished, Saradin. Do not defy me on this.”

  “You won’t touch him!”

  “And here it comes,” murmured Florentine.

  Saradin put a hand over her heart and staggered, eyes fluttering. The performance smacked of exaggeration to Quilla, but Dane reacted as any small boy would at the sight of his mother seemingly in pain. He cried out and ran to put an arm around her waist.

  “Now they ring for Allora Walles.”

  “I need Allora,” gasped Mistress Delessan, sinking onto the bench along the wall.

  Whatever else one might say about Allora, Quilla thought, she knew her mistress, for she appeared almost before the words had left Saradin’s lips. The maid put her arm around Saradin’s other side.

  Gabriel watched the scene without expression, and Quilla watched Gabriel. Guilt made him indulgent, she had seen that already. Now she saw something else. Love made him tolerant. Guilt and love, all tied together so he likely knew not the difference between them any longer.

  And she understood him a bit better.

  He turned on his heel and went up the stairs, leaving his weeping son and prevaricating wife behind. Quilla followed, reaching his rooms mere seconds after he did. The sound of crashing and cursing reached her before she got through the door.

  She found him standing in the middle of the room, fists clenched, staring at the destruction one small boy had made and which had been made just a bit worse by his father.

  “ ’Tis not so terrible,” Quilla said as she came up behind him. “Nothing a bucket and mop can’t fix.”

  He didn’t look at her. He kicked an overturned basket, sending it flying. He swept the rest of the glass from a table, and it shattered. “He has been warned, repeatedly, not to come in here!”

  “And so he should listen,” she said. “But small ears have a way of not hearing what they ought, and small minds not retaining.”

  “You would excuse him, too?” He turned on her, as though she had accused him of a crime. “You would think me overharsh to punish him?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “No?” He calmed at last, running a hand through his hair and seeming to take forcible control of himself.

  She shook her head. “The lad needs structure and boundaries. Needs to learn respect. Aside from that, your workspace is dangerous. He could have been hurt.”

  “And yet my lady wife—”

  “Your lady wife loves her son as much as you do. She simply does not love him in the same manner. Your son does need chastisement, my lord. But might I suggest an alternative?”

  He had seen Waiting, Readiness and Waiting, Remorse. Now she turned her back to him and went to her knees, not sinking back on her heels and resting her hands on her lap, but linking the fingers together behind her neck. This was called Waiting, Submission.

  His boot heels thudded as he stepped back, and his voice rasped. “What are you doing?”

  “My back is strong. If you should feel the need to beat someone—”

  “Sinder’s Arrow, no!”

  He sounded so appalled she turned her head to look at him. His eyes had gone wide, his cheeks paled from their normal tawny glow to the color of white cheese. “My lord?”

  His expression had turned so disgusted she put down her hands and got to her feet. “I plead your mercy, my lord.”

  He shook his head. “What do you think of me, that I would take a strap to your back because my wife refuses to allow me to punish my son?”

  She had truly distressed him, and his caused her own. She went to him and took him by the sleeve, leading him toward his chair in front of the fire. A sign of his consternation was that he allowed her to lead him, and to push him gently into the seat, and to Wait at his feet with her head against his thigh. He was shaking.

  “My lord, I plead your mercy. I did not know ’twould upset you so.”

  “Is that what you think of me? That I am a violent man? That I gain pleasure from hurting others? Have you had other patrons who took their enjoyment at the expense of your back?”

  She put her arms around his calves and held him tight. “I have had some, yes, who have needed the release of giving pain.”

  “My father used to use a strap on me when I stepped out of line. My father seemed to think I often stepped out of line.”

  She looked up at him, but he was not looking at her. His eyes stayed locked on the fire, and the flames danced in the dark depths, creating the illusion of fire in his eyes.

  “And you think beating your son with a strap is your duty as a father? Or do you believe a beating would hasten a change in his behavior?”

  His head snapped around to glare at her. “And what if my answer is both? Will you judge me overharsh then?”

  “Perhaps your father felt ’twas the only way to be a father.”

  “To create fear in one who has never done aught but love him?” Gabriel sneered. “I vowed I would never be like him. A stupid, blind fool. Blind to the fact his wife had made him a cuckold, blind to the fact that his son did not need the back of his fist to love him. I vowed I
would never raise my hand to someone weaker than I, Handmaiden. I would never have to look into the face of someone and know they feared me.”

  “I plead your mercy, my lord. I did not know. I will not offer it again.”

  He looked down at her, and his hand hovered over her head as though he meant to stroke her hair, but he did not. His fingers curled into a fist, and he settled it on the arm of his chair, instead. “You claim to know what I need before I know I need it. What made you believe I needed that?”

  It had been something in his eyes, but she did not want to tell him that when it was clearly an abomination to him. “I misjudged.”

  “Even Handmaidens are not omniscient?”

  “No, my lord. We are not.”

  Then his hand did come down to rest briefly upon her hair, the heat of his fingers like five tiny stars against her head before he took them away. “I would like some tea.”

  So she made it for him, and he drank it, and they spoke no more of Dane that evening.

  Chapter 5

  You act like you’ve never been to a marketplace before.” This came from Florentine, who thumped the roof of the carriage to make the driver stop.

  Quilla peered out through the carriage’s window. “And I suppose knowledge of something should always lead to lack of joy in it?”

  “Familiarity does breed ennui, or so the saying goes, and for good reason.” Florentine jiggled the door handle and shouted out the window, “Billy! Get your arse down here and open up this door!”

  Florentine had gone all out for market day. Fresh gown only a season or two out of fashion. Gray curls brushed and held off her face with a scarf. Even a hat tied securely beneath her wobbling chin with two long ribbons.

  Quilla had made little concession for the market, donning the same dark plum gown she’d brought with her. The ones Delessan had provided were fine enough, but her own clothes fit better. She hoped to find some cloth in the market to make a new dress. New stockings, as well, warmer against the winter draughts. Perhaps a new pair of boots that would come to the knee and protect her legs against the snow she’d heard fell soft and deep in these parts.

  Billy tugged open the door with a grumble. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, your ladyshipness. I’m coming.”

  Florentine sniffed and held out her hand for Billy to help her down. “Once a week, Billy, is all you’re asked to do. Try to be a little less a pain in the arse about it.”

  Billy took Florentine’s hand and kissed it, running his lips lasciviously over the back and waggling his brows when he looked up at her. “And once a week just ain’t enough.”

  Florentine jerked her hand out of his grasp and slapped his face, but fondly. If a slap could be called fond, Quilla thought, watching them.

  “Get out of my way, you great bloody fool, else I turn you on your arse in the street.”

  Billy grinned and held out his hand for her to take again. “Promises, promises.”

  Florentine sniffed but let him help her down. “Come on, Quilla. Don’t let this bloke scare you off.”

  Quilla took the hand that Billy offered, not expecting to get the flirtatious treatment from him and not disappointed, either. Billy held her hand with respect bordering on reverence, or awe. He wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

  “Thank you, Billy,” Quilla said as her feet hit the street.

  He mumbled a response and received a rap on the skull from Florentine for his troubles. “Answer the lady when she speaks to you, imbecile!”

  “Welcome,” he mumbled, rubbing his head and scowling.

  “No worries.” Quilla rolled her eyes at Florentine. “Really, Florentine. You’re going to give him a headache.”

  “Well deserved,” Florentine said with another haughty sniff. “Take the carriage round to the stable and meet us back here at the sixchime.”

  Billy nodded, gave Florentine a wink and Quilla a nod, then hopped back up to the driver’s seat and clucked to the horses.

  Florentine didn’t bother watching him go, just hoisted her market basket over her shoulder and moved off into the throng. “This way.”

  Quilla had to step lively to keep up. “I think Billy likes you.”

  “Billy is an idiot.”

  “Because he likes you?”

  Florentine turned to look at Quilla as she walked. “Among other things.”

  Quilla dodged a threesome of well-dressed, chattering ladies who didn’t bother to watch where they were walking. “You don’t like his attention?”

  “Billy Felton is interested in sating the little man between his legs, naught else.” Florentine shouldered her way past a group gathered round a man with a dancing monki on the end of a leash. “Believe me, it’s no great flattering thing to get his attention.”

  Quilla lifted her skirts to keep the hem from dragging in a puddle of ale leaking from a cask in front of a booth. “He didn’t lick my hand. He does discriminate.”

  Florentine stopped, turning her bulk and disregarding the way the basket on her shoulder smacked a tradesman in the head while she did. Giving him a quick “Bugger off,” which made him grumble but sent him away, Florentine gave her attention to Quilla. “He’d be on you like a fly to shite if you weren’t the master’s. Mark my words.”

  “How flattering a comparison of my desirability.” Quilla laughed. “And I’m not so sure. He seemed quite enamored of you.”

  Florentine made a sour face as she turned toward the booth behind her and slapped down two coins. She lifted two tins of fruit preserves and put them in her basket, haggling only a moment over the price. “I spent long enough living as a lad to know how they think, Quilla Caden. Billy is not interested in courting, only fucking.”

  “And you’re not interested in that?”

  Florentine looked over. “Not interested in either, Miss Hoity-Toity. Thought you understood. I don’t take my pleasure that way.”

  “Ah.” Quilla nodded, following Florentine on her journey through the market. “It’s not my business, really.”

  “No, ’tisn’t, Miss Nose-in-My-Basket.”

  Quilla smiled at Florentine. “I wonder, then, why you’ve dressed so tidily today, and taken such pains with your hair. If not to impress poor Billy, then who?”

  Florentine stopped in front of another booth, this time to put some fruit in her basket, which she paid for without much further quibbling. She fixed Quilla with a steely glare. “Who says I has to have a reason to wear nice clothes?”

  Quilla shrugged. “No reason. I just thought—”

  “Not all of us is ruled by what’s betwixt our legs.”

  “I know that.” Quilla decided to stop teasing the other woman. “I just thought to be glad for you, that’s all. If you had someone special.”

  Florentine let out a guffaw so loud it turned heads. She yanked Quilla into an alley, out of the flow of traffic. “I don’t need you to be glad for me, Handmaiden. And would you only be glad for me if you knew I had a lover, is that it? Can I not have a good life without a fuck partner?”

  “No, of course not,” Quilla soothed. “I didn’t mean that at all.”

  Florentine straightened her shirtwaist and smoothed her skirt, visibly regaining her temper. “If I have a lover, ’tis none of your concern.”

  “Of course not.”

  Florentine sniffed. “As it happens, I do have plans to meet a friend of mine.”

  “Not that ’tis any of my concern.”

  “That’s right.” Florentine sniffed again. “And as a matter of fact, Miss Full-of-Herself, we are also here today to retrieve the other lord Delessan. He’s arrived and will be at the Foxglove Inn. It doesn’t do to represent our master looking as though I came right from the kitchens, does it?”

  Quilla shook her head. “I suppose not. Where shall we meet the infamous Jericho Delessan, then?”

  “At the fivechime we’ll go and pick him up, with plenty of time to do our marketing before then.” Florentine hiked her basket higher on her shoulder “
Now, I’m off, and don’t think you can follow me round like a stray dog. I’ve got business of mine own to attend. You find your own amusements, hear me?”

  “I hear you.” Quilla gave a mock pout. “Though I am so disappointed I won’t get to spend the day in your company, Florentine. ’Tis always so pleasant an acquaintance.”

  Florentine’s grin seemed reluctant, but she gave one, anyway. “Get on with you, ya great prat.”

  Quilla laughed. “I’ve business of my own, as well. I’ve money jingling in my purse and an entire day in which to spend it.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. I don’t need to tell you there’s thieves in this market as well as honest merchants.”

  “I believe I can take care of myself.”

  Florentine shrugged. “Don’t come crying to me when your purse is empty and your hands emptier.” She looked Quilla up and down. “What are you planning to buy?”

  Quilla smiled and winked. “Now who’s being a Nose-in-the-Basket?” she called over her shoulder as she ducked out of the alley-way and back into the crowd.

  Quilla walked for a while, looking at all there was to see. She stopped at many of the booths to look at the goods and chat with the merchants. Most of them were thrilled to talk about the quality and perfection of their wares, and she played them as she did her patrons, flattering and listening with all the right responses. Consequently, most of them smiled and talked with her without getting irritated when she didn’t stop to buy.

  There were a few who saw her Handmaiden’s attire as a badge of shame, something to be commented upon. She nodded and smiled at their indiscreet insults and moved on. More people didn’t notice, or didn’t bother to comment.

  She stopped to run her fingers along several bolts of fine linen, flaxen, and silk, all woven in vivid shades of red, purple, green, and gold. The material was expensive, exorbitantly so. She had enough money to purchase a piece the size of a head scarf, and even that would have taken all the cash in her purse.

  “It’s absolutely lovely,” she told the wizened merchant as she held up a length of the silk to her sleeve to see the drape of it. Exquisite. “But far too expensive, I’m afraid.”