A Man Betrayed (56 page)

"Melliandra,
since my wife died twelve years ago, I have kept women from my life. Yes, I
took comfort-I would hardly be a man if I did not, but I only sought pleasure,
not company." The duke turned to face her. "Until now. You have not
been out of my thoughts since the day we met. Your pride and wit are matchless;
you infuriate and beguile all in one. My wife was the last woman who challenged
me so, and I had long forgotten what it was like to be with a woman who was my
equal."

Melli was reeling.
The last thing she had expected was such a magnificent declaration. My
equal,
he said. For the first time in her life, Melli knew what it was like to be
valued for herself, not for her title, or her beauty, or the greatness of her
father's wealth. But for what was inside. For what formed her words and shaped
her actions and made her who she was. This man before her wasn't wooing
Maybor's daughter, he was wooing a girl with no money and no prospects, yet he
was treating her like a peer. Melli was thrilled.

The duke stood,
waiting upon her response.

She was unsure
what to say. Quickly she tested a few sentences in her head, but nothing seemed
right. "You have caught me by surprise, Your Grace."

"I am not
displeased." The duke smiled sharply, skin stretched over the hook of his
nose. "But I am concerned lest I tire you. The physicians advise me you
need rest."

"I feel
fine." Melli was reluctant to let him go. "Though I'm worried about
the horse. What became of him?"

"He is dead.
He died by my own hand: a lame horse is no use to me."

Melli felt
ashamed. Her pride, which moments earlier the duke had praised her for, had
been the cause of the horse's death. "I am sorry," she said.

The duke nodded
gently. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a package wrapped in silk.
"I have something I would give you."

It was the pig
farmer's knife, she was sure of it. With trembling hands she took the bundle
from him.

"Open
it."

Melli unraveled
the silk and something heavy glinted and then fell onto the bed. It was a
knife, but not hers: an exquisitely carved blade worked in silver and gold,
with rubies and sapphires studding the hilt. It was the most beautiful thing
she had ever seen.

"Do you like
it? I thought perhaps you would need a new one, seeing as you bent the last one
out of shape." Melli searched for warning in his voice, but could find
only irony. She took the knife in her hand and it fit like a glove. The jewels
danced with the sun, sending colors flying like sparks.

"It is a
lady's blade, wrought five hundred years ago for a beautiful empress in the Far
South. 'Tis rumored she only wielded it once, to kill her husband's
mistress." The duke began to make his way to the door. "Tomorrow I
will bring you a scabbard, then you will have no excuse for keeping it close to
your chest." One quick shrewd look, one curt soldierly bow, and he was
off, leaving the room larger by his absence.

Melli drew the
knife across the bedsheets, slicing them clean apart. She was confused,
excited, disappointed that he'd gone.

Garon, Duke of
Bren, known as the Hawk by his enemies, walked down the long corridor and into
the small chambers that were temporarily his own. He was anxious for his sword.
He missed its reassuring weight around his waist and the coolness of the blade
down his thigh. A newly purchased maiden waited in a state of undress. He had
requested her presence earlier and now found he had no taste for lovemaking. He
dismissed the girl with a single wave of his arm. She scurried away like a rat,
a tiny cry of disappointment escaping from her lips. The duke barely heard it.

His visit with
Melliandra had gone well. Very well. The unusual thing was, that at some point
during his seduction, he had actually begun to believe what he said. She
had
captured his interest: her tongue was quick and her spirit was lively. She
was an exceptional woman indeed.

He poured himself
a half cup of wine and, after checking to ensure that his manservant was not in
the room, he drank it. The idea of giving Melliandra a jeweled dagger had been
inspired. He must remember to thank Bailor for the suggestion. The head of his
household was a perceptive man. He had guessed that broaches and earrings would
not have caught the lady's interest. And he was right: Lord Maybor's daughter
could have any adornment she chose and a few trinkets more would fail to
impress. Of course, the question was what she was doing with a knife stuffed
down her bodice in the first place. The duke was inclined to look upon it
kindly, perhaps even admiringly. She was a lady prepared to actively defend her
honor.

He rubbed his
hands across his chin. The beginnings of stubble caught the rough skin on his
fingers. It was almost time for his second shave of the day. The duke went over
to the table, picked up his sword, and hooked it on its loop. No scabbard for
him; he liked his blade naked. Not only was it more threatening, but it also
forced him to think before he made a move. The need to prevent a gash to leg or
hand kept his reflexes well honed.

As he rubbed a
soft cloth across the blade, his thoughts were with Melliandra. A beautiful new
wife was just what he needed. And a bouncing baby boy for his heir.

He would marry
Melliandra and she would provide him with an heir. It was a brilliant plan.
Perfect in every way. At this point in time Catherine was committed to marrying
Kylock; the betrothal had been settled by proxy, so it was as good as set in
stone. The problem-and Lord Baralis knew this very well, though he wasn't about
to admit it-was that Kylock seemed set to conquer Halcus. This would not only
make Annis and Highwall very nervous, but it would eventually lead to war. The
crux of the matter was that Catherine was-his only child, so on his death
Bren's leadership would pass to her, and by implication her husband as well. The
duke did not like this fact one little bit. It had kept him awake at nights,
especially after he received news of Kylock's successful invasion of Halcus.

To back down from
the marriage at this point would be disastrous. It could lead to another war in
itself, as the kingdoms would take it as a grievous insult. To make matters
worse, there was currently some rumor that Catherine's wedding dress had been
seized and then burned by a coalition of southern forces. So now it was almost
a matter of pride that the wedding go ahead; he wouldn't let the southerners
think they had intimidated him into backing down. The duke drew the polishing
cloth taut against the blade. The Hawk backed down for no one.

The whole
situation was too dangerous. His alliance with Tyren and the knighthood had
long worried the south, but they had been content to leave matters well alone
until the announcement of the union between Bren and the kingdoms. He knew what
everyone was frightened of: the emergence of a single power that encompassed
the north. Anchored by the kingdoms in the west and Bren in the east, it would
be an empire the likes of which had not been seen in centuries. That was what
Kylock and Baralis wanted. Oh, Baralis was ever the diplomat, denying and then
minimizing the threat, but he had his eye on the prize, and a very clever and
calculating eye it was. The duke began to pace around the room. By taking a
wife himself and fathering a legitimate male heir, he would confound the plans
of Baralis and Kylock, diffuse the growing tension in the north, and still
appear resolute to the south.

It was nothing
short of magnificent. By fathering a son, Catherine would no longer be his
heir, so the union between her and Kylock would not be seen as a threatening
coupling of might, but rather a traditional royal marriage sealed with bonds of
friendship and trade. The wedding would no longer have a sting.

Let Kylock do what
he would with Halcus; as soon as Melliandra was with child, it would not be
Bren's concern. He would go to Annis and Highwall and promise neutrality.

That would ensure
the war didn't escalate, for there was no way the kingdoms could take on the
might of Highwall alone. Even now, that city with the infamous granite
battlements was preparing for war. The duke received daily reports from
Highwall, and its leaders were taking the situation seriously. Just last week
they passed a law stating that every man must practice archery for twenty hours
a week, and that a fifth of all income was to be contributed for defense.

The duke sat down
at his desk. In the half hour he'd been away, more reports had arrived. Briefly
he read one. Kylock had taken the town of Nolton, a strategic gain, for it lay
halfway between the border and the capital, Helch. Five thousand women had been
slaughtered in its sacking. There was no death count given for the men.
Brushing his hands over his shortly cropped hair, the duke wondered exactly
what Kylock was up to. Killing women was simply uncalled for. The duke was a
military man; he'd taken many towns and villages over the past twenty years and
never once had he ordered women killed. Of course, it was a hazard of war that
some would die and many be raped, but there was no benefit to be gained by
actively pursuing them. In fact, killing of innocents usually had the effect of
hardening enemy resolve.

Whatever his
motives, Kylock was certainly doing something right. He'd cut through the
Halcus defense as easily as if it were butter. He was actively recruiting
mercenaries, too. Four days ago a whole battalion of them had crossed through
the Bren pass on the way to the front. The duke stood up again; he was
restless. He needed to be in the city. Events had to be monitored closely and
he felt cut off here in the hunting lodge.

The ironic thing
was that his plans required that he be here. Melliandra couldn't be moved at
the moment, and he needed to woo her fast. The marriage had to be announced
before everything got out of hand. And judging by the rate Kylock was
thundering through Halcus, that wouldn't be long at all.

Melliandra's
safety was another consideration. As soon as Baralis learned of his imminent
marriage, he would be furious. It would be a bludgeon to his plans. His first
instinct would be to murder the bride-to-be, or the groom. The duke was not
worried about himself, but Melliandra would need watching day and night. He was
already happier knowing that Tawl would be guarding her. He had a good feeling
about the knight. A man like that would lay down his life to protect a lady.
Still it wasn't wise to underestimate Baralis. He was a silken viper with
poison on his tongue. He craved power on the grandest of scales and was not the
sort to sit and watch quietly whilst it was stolen from under his nose.

Things would have
been so different if old King Lesketh hadn't taken it into his head to drop
dead before the marriage had taken place. It was a blessing, really, for it had
given the duke a chance to realize he was making a huge mistake. Kylock did not
want a bride, he wanted Bren. Sitting himself down in front of a small silver
mirror, the duke took out his knife and began to shave. He enjoyed the
twice-daily ritual. He would let no manservant with soap or pig lard near him.
He preferred to shave dry and alone. The blade was so sharp it cut without
pressure, skimming over his flesh like a calm-water skiff. Not once in ten
years had he drawn blood.

He would stay here
tonight and depart at midmorning. That should give him at least one more chance
to talk with Melliandra. He had to be so careful with the girl. Bailor was
right: she was playing a game of her own. A game called: "I can do fine
without my father's name or wealth." She had to be flattered, but not in
the traditional way; poetry and compliments would have little effect. What he
had said earlier about equal partners seemed to please her, so he would give
her more of that. His long-dead shrew of a wife had finally come in useful,
too, adding a pleasing air of tragedy to the whole proceedings. Well, in a way,
their relationship had, been tragic: she had certainly done her best to put him
off marriage for life.

The duke nearly
ruined his ten-year record by smiling at a crucial moment. His hands were
quick, though, and the skin remained unbroken.

Yes, Melliandra
would need a quick but subtle courtship. He would not reveal to her what he
knew of her identity, best to let her think he was in love with Luff's bastard
daughter, that way she would be wanted for herself alone. He supposed he could
marry any one of a number of women at court, but he hadn't avoided a second
marriage for twelve years to jump quickly into a wedding with politics as his
only motive: Melliandra was the only woman who had engaged the interest of his
mind as well as his loins. Besides, by taking a girl from Castle Harvell for
his bride, he just might retain the goodwill of the kingdoms.

Of course, he
would never have dreamed of marrying her if she hadn't been Maybor's daughter.
As it was, it had all worked out beautifully; he would gain a powerful friend
in Lord Maybor, neutralize the marriage of Catherine and Kylock, and nip the
threat of an empire in the bud. Perhaps as a dowry he would ask for the stretch
of land west of the River Nestor. That would please his people greatly, as
eight hundred years before the same ground had belonged to the king who ruled
Bren's territories. It would be most satisfying, not to mention profitable, to
have it back within the fold.

Shaving finished,
he rapped the knife against the table to clean it. The amount of hair that fell
from the blade was barely visible; another man would not have bothered for such
a tiny crop. The duke did because he knew that discipline and ritual mattered.

Baralis brought a
fingertip to his lips and tasted the bead of honey upon it. A sweet stinging
that owed little to the bee. In the background, Crope moved a sturdy chair
close to the fire and then raked the coals to make them dance. This time when
he left his body behind he would not come back to find it as cold as a stone.