A Man Betrayed (27 page)

Catherine was
talking with the man on her right, so Maybor took the chance of broaching the
subject that was on everyone's mind, but on no one's lips. "Tell me, Lord
Cravin, how is Bren taking the news of Kylock's sovereignty?"

Lord Cravin
cleaned the sauce from his fingers with meticulous care. Although he was
looking down, Maybor got the uncanny feeling that he was checking every man in
the room to see where their attentions lay, listening for the sound of bated
breath. The lord reached over for a flagon of wine and spoke, his words an
expertly fired arrow with Maybor as the only target, "Not bad
enough."

The possibility of
intrigue opened like a rare and seductive bloom. Maybor was heady with its
scent.
Careful, must be careful,
he warned himself. Quick to learn, he
mimicked Lord Cravin's nonchalance by plucking the feathers from what remained
of the peacock. "Things will go as planned, then?"

"Unless
someone is bold enough to change their course." Cravin handed Maybor a
platter of spiced eels. "We must meet some time to discuss our-"
Maybor noticed Catherine was no longer talking to the man at her side.

"Discontent,"
said Cravin, stepping in, "with the eels?"

"Yes,"
Maybor said. "They are not as slippery as I like them."

"Then let me
wet them a little for you," said Catherine. She took up a silver tureen
and poured cameline sauce into the dish. "I trust they'll slip down your
throat more easily now, Lord Maybor."

Maybor studied the
girl and could find nothing but innocent concern on her face. His attentions
were suddenly distracted by Baralis standing up, goblet in hand.

"Ladies and
gentlemen of the court," he said, the subtle power in his voice silencing
the room in an instant. "May I propose a toast to the fairest and most
gracious maiden in the whole of the Northern Territories: Catherine of
Bren."

The crowd had no
choice but to second him. They raised their glasses and shouted
"Aye!"

Baralis hadn't
finished. "A second toast to the greatest of leaders and the most inspired
of generals: the duke of Bren." Once again the crowd backed him.

He was leading
them along as surely as a shepherd guides his sheep. Maybor guessed what was
coming next. The man was a master of manipulation.

"And a final
toast," said Baralis. "To a union more glorious, more noble, and more
magnificent than any joining in the history of the Known Lands: the marriage of
Kylock, sovereign of the Four Kingdoms, and Catherine of Bren."

The crowd rose to
meet him. Shouting and banging, their enthusiasm was so contagious that even
Maybor found his foot tapping along. Baralis had done a fine job; he had taken
a court that was reluctant and whipped them into a frenzy of
self-congratulation. Who, looking around this room now, could honestly say that
Bren was against the marriage?

Those who looked
closely at the duke's face, perhaps. His hand was a little stiff as he raised
his glass, his smile a tad reluctant. The man did not enjoy watching his court
being manipulated. Maybor rubbed his stubbled chin. There were possibilities
here. Chinks that could be made into breaches. The betrothal would
stick-Baralis had made sure of that tonight-but the marriage was a long way off.
Much might happen over the coming months. For one thing, Kylock could win the
war with the Halcus, that would certainly make everyone nervous. The duke might
change his mind, for another. And then there was the latest development:
intrigue.

Maybor glanced
toward Lord Cravin. The man was cheering along with all the gusto of a
well-polished actor. A wise move, and one he could learn by. It was best to
seem in favor of the match for the time being. The most effective strike was an
unexpected one. Maybor took up his cup and toasted the betrothal. If the wine
was a little bitter on his tongue, he let no one know it.

Catherine of Bren
unpinned the pearl circlet from her hair and slipped the pearl earrings from
her lobes. She looked at herself in the mirror and her lips curved to half a
smile. It had been an interesting evening.

Sitting between
two fools-one boring, one vain.

The king's envoy
had failed to impress her. He'd passed the time spitting, plucking feathers,
and flirting, but the king's chancellor ... Catherine's smile spread ... now
there was a man to be reckoned with. Until yesterday it was Lord Baralis, not
Lord Maybor, who she was due to sit next to at the banquet. Apparently her
father was punishing him for something, Could Lord Baralis help it that the old
and doddering King Lesketh had finally popped off?

Yes, an
interesting evening. She'd played the part of dumb female well: her guests'
cups were never empty, their vanities constantly flattered, and their meats
well moistened with sauce. Catherine began to untie the lacings on her dress.
Lord Cravin had so discreetly let his displeasure be known, hoping to find an
ally in Lord Maybor. It wasn't important; there was nothing they could do to
halt the match. Just seeing how cleverly Lord Baralis had handled the court
made her confident of that.

She would be a
queen not of one but two countries.

A timid knock was
heard upon her door. "Go away, Stasia, I will undress myself. Do not
disturb me till morning." Catherine hooked her hands beneath the neckline
of her dress and pulled the heavily brocaded silk away from her body. Next came
the linen shift beneath. As she drew it over her head, the material caught
against the belt. The shift ripped in two. "Damn!" she muttered,
cursing the iron monstrosity that rested upon her hips: her maiden's belt.

Molded from two
ribbons of iron, dull and heavy, yet snake-close to her body, it was the bane
of her existence. Made to her exact and most intimate measurements, it combined
the skills of a craftsman with the guile of an armorer. Like the very palace
itself, she was alluring on the outside, but impregnable within. The belt
rubbed against her belly and buttocks constantly, raising welts and
chafe-sores. The first year of wearing it she'd nearly died of an infection, so
it had been sent back to the forge to be made anew. What emerged was something
more delicate, yet just as monstrous.

Five years she'd
endured it. Five years of not being able to bathe or relieve herself properly.
Five years of sweat, rust, and humiliation.

No one wore them
anymore-if indeed anyone ever had-they were a thing of the past, read about in
stories, giggled about whilst embroidering. Still, here she was, the
highest-ranking female in the greatest court in the Known Lands, trussed up as
surely as a felon in the stocks. Her father was keen on keeping up the
traditions of his ancestors, traditions that warned of the weak nature and
insatiable sexual appetites of the women of Bren. She would never forgive him
for it.

Though it did have
its advantages. As long as she wore it she was above suspicion. Catherine
gently caressed the metal. Ancient runes of warding were etched upon the curve.

She had learned
long ago that they had no power to guard. She began to concentrate upon the
point where lock and solder met, gently warming the join. She could taste the
metal on her tongue. It excited her. Nausea threatened, but she ignored it. The
tiny pinpoint of metal shifted and grew pliable with the heat. Catherine drew a
little more. All of the belt was now warm to the touch. The heat between her
legs excited her further.

Instinctively, she
knew the exact moment when the solder would give. She pulled upon the hinge and
the belt opened enough for her to slip it over her hips and step from it. 'Twas
a foolish man who thought his valuables were safe just because he locked the
door.

Her legs were
weak, threatening to give way beneath her. She stumbled to her bed, feeling
triumphant and lighthearted. Where was Blayze? She wanted him now.

Pouring herself a
glass of red, she settled back to wait. The duke had done her a service by
forcing the maiden's belt upon her: she had been obliged to learn sorcery to
escape from it. Her handmaiden Stasia had an aunt who had knowledge of such
things. Of course, Catherine hid her real intent, saying she was interested in
metals because her jewelry so often broke. A weak excuse, but who would dare
contradict the duke's daughter? Especially an old woman who was breaking
ancient laws by practicing sorcery.

At first the woman
had told her she had no talent, that it was passed down in the blood and that
the house of Bren had been gifted with real power, not magic. There was a
little there, though. Probably from her mother's side. Not much, just a trace,
but sufficient to work with. So she had learned enough to weaken the solder and
a few other tricks that were useful to know. The old crow had died a few months
back and Catherine had found herself a little restless since. She missed the
thrill of new knowledge and the danger of discovery.

Running her hands
down her thighs, she admired the smoothness of her body. Such long legs, such
pale, unblemished skin. The only thing that marred the length was the small
birthmark that rested just above her ankle. The sign of the hawk, bome by all men
and women of the house of Bren. It marked her as her father's daughter. An
irrefutable sign of her lineage-and she wore it with pride.

A triple knock
upon the shutter. About time. She didn't bother to cover her nakedness as she
crossed over to the window, Unhooking the latch, she stood back and watched as
the duke's champion climbed through the gap.

"Where have
you been?" she demanded. Blayze reached out to kiss her, but she pulled
away. There was ale on his breath.

"Arranging a
few things." His eyes were upon her breasts. Catherine covered them with
her hands.

"What
things?"

"My fight
with the yellow-haired stranger from out of town." He walked over to the
trestle table and poured himself a glass of wine. He stood for a moment,
perfectly aware that he cut a fine figure in a new tunic and with glass in
hand. "Everything went well. It's on for next week."

"My father
will be glad to hear it. He was hoping to entertain his guests with a
spectacle."

"Then he'll
get one." Blayze seemed rather pleased with himself. He sat on the bed and
slapped his thigh, beckoning her to join him. Another time she might have held
out, but the sorcery still ran hot in her blood. She came over and sat on his
lap. He was strong and well muscled; a fighter, not a courtier.

"So tell me
about your challenger," she said.

"A loser. A
fallen knight who's been lucky in his choice of opponents. I can't understand
what all the fuss is about."

"So you're
sure to win?"

"I nearly
killed him where he stood. We met outside the palace by the three
fountains," said Blayze. "The man went for my throat."

Catherine thought
for a moment. "You can't afford to lose this fight," she said.

"No chance of
that."

"But I've
heard that all of Bren is talking about him." Blayze pushed her away.
"Then they're talking about someone who's not worthy of their
breath."

Catherine moved
toward him, offering her breasts to be kissed. He was angry, so he was rough,
and that was the way she wanted it. Their lovemaking was fierce, a wrestling
match of tumbles and holds. Blayze pinned her to the bed whilst his tongue
traced the red marks left by the maiden's belt. His saliva stung the
still-tender flesh, but it made her desire him all the more.

Later, when the
candles guttered in the remains of the wax, and when they lay exhausted on the
bed, Catherine sought out Blayze's hand. She felt tender toward him. She would
soon go on and marry someone else. A glorious future was hers, but Blayze had
nothing except his title as duke's champion. Such an honor, dependent solely
upon physical prowess, was by its very nature purely transitory.

"You will
win, won't you?" she said.

Blayze was
affectionate, kissing her wrists. "Of course I will, my love. There's no
need to worry."

"But I do
worry. What if this man lands a lucky blow?" She thought for a moment that
she'd pushed too far. Blayze stood up and started getting dressed. "I'm
sorry, I didn't mean to offend you,"

He turned toward
her and said softly, "Catherine, do you really think I would leave
something as important as this to chance?"

The words thrilled
her. "What have you planned?"

"I can beat
this lance blindfolded, but as you said, there's always the chance of a lucky
blow." Blayze paused and Catherine nodded her encouragement. "So I
had a quiet word with the landlady of the inn he's staying at-though inn might
be too generous a description."

"The woman
runs a brothel?"

Blayze nodded.
"Aye, so she knows the value of the duke's own coinage. Anyway, she's
going to poison his food. He'll have slowed down quite considerably by the
night of the contest."

Catherine stood up
and put her arms around Blayze. Kissing him full on the lips, she used her
tongue as a lure: she wanted him again. Men were always more interesting when
they used their wits as well as their muscle.

It was early
morning in the cottage. Tarissa was busy stoking the fire and Magra was at the
table peeling turnips. Rovas, silent and moody for some days now, had gone out
an hour earlier, muttering that he wouldn't be back before nightfall. Jack was
glad; the place was more peaceful without him. It was nice just to sit and
enjoy the pleasures of mulled holk while taking in the sounds and smells of the
beginning of the day.

Broth was slowly
warming, its delicate fragrance competing with the cinnamon from the holk.
Long-dried herbs hung from the rafters and the warmth from the fire sweetened
their smell. Brushing and scraping, chopping and mixing; the sounds of the
kitchen were a familiar comfort. The women had smiled at him earlier when he'd
taken up a knife and started slicing onions. He didn't see anything unusual
about it; in the kitchens at Castle Harvell, a boy who was idle was asking for
a beating.