Reign of the eagle, p.147
Reign of the Eagle, page 147
“I said you were the only sensible member of your family.” Muriel winked. “And I think subsequent events have proven me right.”
Chuckling to herself, she wandered away, swirling the wine in her glass.
Chapter 43
“Are you done with my boots, yet?” Sir Halvor poked his head into Timothy’s tiny room.
“Yes, sir.” Timothy set the black riding boots on the floor. They hadn’t been this clean and smooth since Halvor had bought them.
Halvor looked them over, frowning, and pronounced them, “Good enough.” Then he told Timothy to polish his sword belt, while he sharpened the blade.
The big knight wanted everything perfect. He was tremendously proud of the fact that he had been invited to the royal wedding. Granted, practically everyone had been invited, but Halvor had expected to be excluded, so he was consequently more grateful to have been remembered.
“I think the king understands my value now,” he said. “Did I tell you that I spoke to my father about estates in Keneshire?”
“No, sir.”
“As a condition of their pardon, Duchess Flora and Duke Hugh are going to surrender some of their estates to the crown. My father indicated that I might, perhaps, receive one.” Halvor looked at his reflection in his gleaming blade. “What do you think of that, Tim? How would you feel about watching over a manor house?”
“I have done the work before, sir.”
“That’s true.” Halvor took the sword belt and put it on. “Now go enjoy yourself. There is supposed to be some sort of entertainment for the servants down in the storerooms.”
In truth, Timothy would just as soon have stayed up in his room. He was pretty sure Sir Halvor was the only person in Dunharvin Castle who was happy to be at this wedding. The Gramirens still hated the Byrnes; the Byrnes still hated the Gramirens. The servants below stairs held tenaciously to their masters’ political views and were less practiced in the sort of polite lies that kept things civil. It wouldn’t take much to start a servants’ brawl, and Timothy didn’t want to be there when it happened.
But he was also famished, and a knight’s valet couldn’t send down to the kitchens to have supper served in his rooms. So he had to go down to the servants’ party, if only for a few minutes, to find something to eat.
He went to the buttery, got a plate of sausage and cheese, along with a flagon of ale, and then found himself a quiet corner where he could be alone. But no sooner had he sat down, than he spotted Milo Malleus, the handsome Immani servant, chatting to some housemaids. Milo saw Timothy, too, and gave him a very slight nod of recognition.
Timothy loved that nod, and the smooth, practiced ease in the big Immani man’s movements. He seemed so totally in control of his body. As he talked, he never fidgeted or looked nervously away for an escape, the way Timothy often did when he was around women.
A minute or two later, after Milo had finished talking to the girls and picked up his own drink, he came and slouched against the wall next to Timothy. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“The ale is good,” said Timothy. “But other than that, this party is dreadful.”
“Then how would you feel about getting some more ale and going somewhere else?”
Timothy felt a stirring in his trousers. “What did you have in mind?”
“Maybe go sit by the river? It’s a nice night.” He helped Timothy to his feet, and as they left the buttery, Milo’s hand rested lightly at the small of Timothy’s back. There was nothing explicitly sexual about the gesture, but Timothy couldn’t think when he’d found someone’s touch so instantly arousing.
They went out on the docks below Dunharvin Castle, and it was, indeed, a beautiful evening. The trouble was that everyone else thought so, too, and a dozen young couples walked in the moonlight or sat huddled together on the steps. Milo stopped in the deep shadows of an ancient archway and put his arms around Timothy’s shoulders. They kissed, but Timothy pulled back, looking around at the couples on the nearby steps.
“You’re going to be self-conscious if we stay here, aren’t you?” said Milo, shaking his head.
“Sorry. There has to be a room in the castle where we can be alone.”
Milo seemed a bit put out. Had he honestly expected that they would take things further out here on the steps, in front of everyone? Maybe people did things like that in the Empire, but that was frowned upon in Myrcia.
“Listen, the legate has an entire floor,” Milo eventually said, “there has to be a room up there we could use. They’re all down in the great hall.”
Unfortunately, when they got up to the legate’s rooms, they discovered that Dorea Talia had started her own little side party for some of the younger people. They were all a bit tipsy, and alcohol had dissolved much of the uneasiness between the rival families. Which was all well and good for them, but it meant that Timothy and Milo were going to have to find somewhere else to go.
“Sir Halvor’s room,” whispered Timothy, as they retreated back up the hallway.
The bed was far bigger than it should have been for such a small bedroom—it nearly touched three of the walls. Timothy carefully set aside Halvor’s nightshirt so it wouldn’t get wrinkled. Then he turned around, sank to his knees, and opened Milo’s trousers.
Timothy had always thought he was pretty good at this. Boys had told him so, anyway. But he found himself unexpectedly self-conscious with this Immani man. All the world’s art forms—including this one—had been developed and perfected in the Empire. It stood to reason that Milo must have had dozens of lovers, each one vastly more experienced than Timothy.
He tried to overcome this deficit in experience with sheer enthusiasm. After a minute, Milo put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Easy. Go slow and steady. It’s not a race.”
Now he had it right, and he could tell. With his hand on Milo’s abdomen, he could feel the breath deepen and the pulse quicken.
And then, horribly, he heard the door unlatch, and a second later, Sir Halvor said, “Well, well. Sorry to interrupt, lads.”
Timothy jumped away from Milo, nearly bouncing off the bed and into the wall. Milo, white faced, stuffed himself back into his trousers.
“You’re the legate’s manservant, aren’t you?” Halvor asked.
Milo nodded his head.
“Sir, I’m sorry.” Timothy tried to think of some excuse. There really wasn’t one.
“I don’t suppose anyone told you what the penalty for this sort of thing is in Myrcia.”
Milo shook his head, but judging by his nervousness, he had a pretty good idea.
“Now in contrast,” said Halvor, “do you know what the penalty is in my mother’s homeland? Nothing at all. It’s not a crime.” He shrugged. “A more sensible kind of place, in many ways.” He stood aside, opening the way to the door. “Run along, now. And if you boys want to do this again, try to find someplace a bit more private. Or at least lock the fucking door.”
Milo stopped in the hall and looked back expectantly. Timothy moved to join him, but Halvor put up a hand. “Not you, Tim. I need a quick word.” He grinned. “Not to worry. You’ll still have plenty of time with your handsome young friend here.” Turning to Milo, he said, “Tim will meet you down in the Noon Court.” Then he shut the door in Milo’s face.
Timothy stood at the end of the bed, rubbing his arms nervously and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“So.” Halvor tilted his head to the side, studying Timothy like some kind of exotic specimen. “So, you’re ‘Thessalian,’ are you? I thought I knew everything about you, Tim, but somehow, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, sir. I really am sorry, sir.”
Halvor rolled his massive shoulders. “I couldn’t care less where you stick your cock. As I say, I grew up in Krigadam, and I don’t get offended by these things the way your Ivich preosts and priesters do. Have you been seeing that fellow long?”
“No, sir. I mean, we’ve met before, but this is...the first time we did anything...like that.”
“As it happens, I’m quite curious about what the Immani are doing here. My father is, too. We’re wondering what their game is, and who is pulling the strings back in the Empire.” Halvor moved closer and rested one of his huge arms around Timothy’s shoulders. “I don’t suppose you could help me find out, could you?”
It wasn’t hard to see what Halvor meant. “You want me to spy, sir? Using Milo?” Timothy shook his head. “I’d really rather not.”
Halvor’s biceps contracted, forcing Timothy to hunch over slightly.
“I would rather not have to tell anyone what I know about you. Especially not your family. I feel like I know them so well now. I’d hate to have to send them a letter explaining why I can’t have you in my service anymore. Why, I bet that would break your poor mother’s heart.”
“Fine,” said Timothy. “Fine, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Good boy.” Halvor let him go. “Now when you see your friend later—Milo, is that his name? When you see him, I want you to find out if he knows anything about any secret betrothals for Dorea Talia. My father and I have plans, and we don’t want her upsetting them, you see.”
“Plans, sir?”
“Indeed.” Halvor laughed. “I can’t tell you everything, of course, but let’s say that my little sister Penny might finally become useful for the first time in her life.”
Chapter 44
Nothing could possibly have been more uncomfortable than sitting at the high table after the wedding. Tradition demanded that the happy couple be joined by all their immediate family. So less than two months after trying to kill each other on the battlefield, and only a few weeks after the king and queen had forced the Duke and Duchess of Keneburg into a humiliating surrender, the Gramirens and Byrnes were sitting together, trying to make small talk. The only one spared was Morwen, because tradition said a nun couldn’t be a member of a wedding party. She was seated a few tables away, and Lauren had never envied her eldest sister more.
Almost the first thing the queen had done, when she sat down, was to look pointedly at Lauren, Donella, and Duchess Flora. “Why look at all of us here,” she said with a grin. “It’s almost like a whole gemot of ladies.”
Lauren wanted to crawl under the table and die.
Donella and Andras were pleased, though. That was something. Lauren was thrilled for them. They had waited so long for this, and now they were really married. Donella kept looking like she was going to explode from happiness. Donella had loved Andras for years, though it had taken her some time to realize it. Andras had...well, he’d been a bit wild in his youth. It had taken some time for him to realize that Donella was the perfect woman for him. That magysk ring of hers certainly hadn’t hurt, in that regard. Lauren wished them both years and years of all the weirdest and most perverted sex.
Of course, that was all well and good for them; they would be leaving on their honeymoon in a few hours, going off together to consummate a marriage that was already very, very well consummated. But Lauren was going to have to stay here, trying to keep a conversation going between her parents and Donella’s.
“That’s a lovely dress, your majesty,” she tried. “Isn’t it a lovely dress, Mother?”
Her mother glared at Queen Muriel’s dress as if hoping she could set it on fire by sheer will. “Yes,” she snapped. “It’s very nice.”
“Thank you,” said the queen, with a slight smile. “The silk was very expensive, though. You’ll have to learn economy in your clothes, Lauren. You and your mother, both. When you lose the income from those extra estates, I’m afraid belts will have to be tightened somewhere.”
“Sometimes the simpler things are best,” said Lauren. Her mother didn’t answer, but instead ground her teeth and played with the handle of her bread knife.
“Indeed,” said the queen. She looked around the great hall, as if seeing it for the first time. “You know, it occurs to me that this place must be shockingly expensive to maintain. Perhaps Andras and Donella could live here—with a stipend from the crown, of course—while you go into a long-deserved retirement, Flora.”
Lauren’s mother picked up the knife, then carefully set it back down and pushed it away. It wasn’t very sharp. “Retirement?” she said in a low voice.
The queen watched the little drama with the bread knife with undisguised glee. “Yes, retirement, my dear Flora. At your age, it would be such a comfort not to have the strain of public life, wouldn’t it? Andras could administer this castle, and you could leave the rest of your diminished estates in the hands of Pedr.”
If Lauren hadn’t been making such an effort at being polite, she would have said something quite rude at this point. This was uncalled-for. Her parents had submitted to the crown and been pardoned. They had accepted humiliating conditions, like her mother letting her famous red hair go white, for Earstien’s sake. But that wasn’t enough for the queen. She wanted Flora Byrne completely crushed.
“I’m not dead, yet,” said Lauren’s mother. “And I’m not stepping aside while I’m still in good health and in full command of my faculties.”
“Alas, it’s so often the aged person himself who’s the last to know,” said the queen. “I had a great uncle in Annenstruk who refused to go into retirement. Eventually the family had to do something when he started leaving home without his trousers.”
“Ah, Viscount Amund Holt-Hummel,” said Prince Broderick, jumping desperately into the conversation. “I never knew him, of course, but he had the most marvelous hunting park.” He leaned forward to address Lauren’s father. “Your grace, have you ever hunted red deer in Annenstruk?”
The duke, who had clearly been trying to stay out of the fight between his wife and the queen, saw the chance the prince had offered and seized it gratefully. “No, your royal highness. I hear the deer are smaller and more agile, so therefore more of a challenge. Perhaps even more difficult than a snow leopard, or so I have heard.”
“Well, speaking of snow leopards,” said the king, who also seemed eager to end the argument, “I shot one north of Keelweard this past winter, and it was a good eight-and-a-half feet from nose to the tip of the tail.”
“Amazing,” said Andras. “I’ve never seen one that large, your majesty.”
“It’s true,” said the prince. “I measured the hide myself.”
“Remarkable,” said the duke. “They usually don’t grow much past seven feet in that area.”
The queen left the table to speak with some of her ladies, content with her limited victory. Lauren’s mother, a keen huntress herself, was eventually drawn into the conversation by the prince, once she had calmed down a bit.
After a few minutes, Donella excused herself so the men could sit closer together, and she came over to join Lauren. “Thank Earstien for hunting,” she said, smiling, as she took a seat.
“I was going to try talking about the weather,” said Lauren. “I should have remembered that hunting always works, too.”
“It’s amazing, really. When we write our stories, we spend all this time trying to come up with witty and fascinating dialogue for our characters, but in real life, conversation is always so banal.”
“Hunting, dresses, and weather,” agreed Lauren. “I bet that’s what three quarters of the people in this hall are talking about right now.”
“Next time I’m struggling to come up with something for my hero to tell his fair lady, I’ll have him say, ‘Can I show you my eight-and-a-half...foot snow leopard?’”
Lauren snickered. “And she can reply, ‘I’ve never seen one so large in that area!’”
Both girls laughed until they got reproving looks from their respective mothers. They decided a bit of a walk would be best, so they each took a crystal tankard of mead, and they went out into the Court of Honor, where dozens of knights and ladies danced around two roaring bonfires.
“I wanted to ask you something before I left on the honeymoon,” said Donella, suddenly serious. “My mother says I’ll be allowed to have my own ladies at court. I was...sort-of hoping maybe you’d like to be one of them.”
“Me? Come to court?”
“Yes!” said Donella, turning and taking her hand. “Wouldn’t it be marvelous? It’s been ages since we got to see each other regularly. I’ve got stacks and stacks of stories you haven’t even seen. I only ever sent you the best, you understand, but there are some of the rejects I’m pretty sure I can turn into something good on revision with your help.”
Lauren had never particularly wanted a position as a court lady. And she still didn’t particularly want it now. But Donella was right—it would be such fun to be around each other every day again. Lauren could finally finish those stories she’d been working on for ages. She could start a new series. She and Donella might start work on the collaborative epic about Edmund Dryhten, first King of Myrcia, that they always said they wanted to write.
Two problems immediately occurred to Lauren, though. The first was something she didn’t think she could ever explain, at least not without hurting her friend’s feelings. But the truth was that, much though she loved Donella, their parents were enemies. The queen hated Lauren’s mother and was bent on humiliating her further. If Lauren went to court, it would seem as if she approved of that. People would think she had abandoned her mother and the rest of her family.
The other problem, of course, was Wallace. “Donella,” she said, “I’d love to come to Formacaster, but I have to be where my husband is.”
Donella’s face fell. “Oh, that’s true. I guess I thought.... I guess I wasn’t thinking, was I?”
“Unless there’s some possibility of a court position for him,” said Lauren, knowing there probably wasn’t.
“I could ask my brother and my father, but...I don’t think that’s going to happen.” Donella looked like she was on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry.”
Lauren gave her a hug. “It’s alright. I’m sorry, too. I feel like a terrible friend. And a terrible wife, too. I should be on my knees, begging you to help advance my husband’s career.”
