Retribution (27 page)

Here was the obvious way out. “They won’t
dare,” I said. Dominic’s reputation for swordsmanship was known
throughout the ‘Graven Realms. “So that’s solved.”

“By the balls of Erebos!” Dominic was
becoming enraged again. “This is one fight no man backs down from.
I know Niall laid it all out for you. You’re being deliberately
obtuse. Niall will spend the rest of his life under a cloud for
running away as he did.”

A fond smile broke through the scowl on
Dominic’s face as he saw, through the communion, Niall castigating
himself for wanting, as he had said, to live like a boy rather than
die like a man.
He has sense
, Dominic thought.
He knew
not to sacrifice himself over an anomaly.
“He did it for my
sake, and his parents’. But if I go to Galloway and confront him
he’ll have no choice. He’ll fight, and he won’t hold back.”

I was, indeed, being deliberately obtuse. It
was the only way to force Dominic to talk about these things, the
only way to find a solution—asking a lot of annoying questions.
“Suppose,” I said, “you go to Galloway, let Niall, or his father,
or whoever, challenge you, and go easy? Treat it like a lesson at
the Military Academy. Hold him off, give him a slight wound to
satisfy your precious honor, and—”

“Once we fight, it’s to the death. This is an
affair of honor, not a scuffle over a careless word in a tavern or
a jostle in the street.” Dominic’s eyes clouded over as his mind
followed the path of honor to its inevitable destination. “If I
were to kill Niall, I’d kill myself next. Or would you prefer I
just stand there and let him kill me?”

I turned my face away, tears welling up. It
seems we had been buried by the avalanche after all.

Dominic kissed my cheek. “I’m sorry, Amalie.
But I’ve lost him. I know that. It’s hard enough for me to accept
it, without you holding on to your feminine, romantic hopes.”

I returned the kiss carefully, on Dominic’s
ear, hoping not to have my head bitten off. “It’s not feminine or
romantic to think that Niall might be able to forgive you. He loves
you, Dominic.” I felt surer of myself here, remembering that last
talk with Niall, his jealousy so strong despite everything Dominic
had done.

Perhaps he does
, Dominic answered in
thought.
He was always unrestrained, generous in his love.
“But I’ve lost him. There’s no point in brooding on it forever. I’m
only thankful I didn’t lose you too.”

We didn’t make it downstairs for supper.
Acknowledging the wreck of our happy home, bringing Dominic’s real
thoughts and feelings to the surface, sapped our strength, undercut
the return of trust we had begun in reestablishing our communion.
We lay as before, although now linked in a shared despondency,
until Magali brought in a cold supper.

It was as if we had been forgotten by the
rest of the household, although I think it was only the fear, the
respect for the power of ‘Graven. Without our requests or commands
they could not guess at our wishes, did not all have Isobel’s
courage, the excuse of the children, to knock on the door to the
Margrave’s bedroom.

We ate our meal and drifted to sleep, our
spirits lifting in spite of ourselves as we slept. The communion
supported us through the night so that by morning, with no
conscious effort on our part, we were restored to strength and
hope, with the resolution to accomplish what lay ahead.

T
he morning dawned fresh and
clear. Dominic wakes naturally at this hour, brought me from deep
sleep to drowsiness with a kiss and a touch of his hand. He rose
and dressed in old, worn clothes while I sat up and forced myself
not to sink back into the pillows, then stumbled to the
bathroom.

Back in the bedroom, I examined the clothes
Isobel had left. I put the shirt over my head. It was a good fit,
the sleeves too long, but they could be rolled up. I sat down again
to work my way into the tight breeches. The button fly—the polished
pieces of bone and the facing row of buttonholes that met the wrong
way around, all covered by a flap—defeated me. Dominic came over at
my curses and stood pressing close into my back, reaching around to
help. His mouth grazed on my neck, his breath whispered in my ear.
His fingers strayed into crevices where they didn’t belong, not at
this hour. “Don’t,” I said, pulling his hand out, while his other
hand took its place.

“You can’t go downstairs with your fly open,”
he said. “You’ll look like a castrato whore soliciting trade on a
slow day.”

“And I take it you know what that looks
like.”

“I know,” Dominic said.

Between us we got the buttons fastened. The
breeches were tight and uncomfortable. So long as I didn’t split
them, I supposed I could bear them for one day.

I twirled in front of Dominic. “What do you
think? Do I pass inspection?”

“Not regulation at all,” he said, attempting
to make light of his discomfort, his visceral aversion to a woman
wearing men’s clothes.
He is vir
, I told myself.
He wants
a man’s body in a man’s clothes, not a woman’s wide hips and
swelling breasts
.

“When all this is over,” I said, “I will put
on something you like better.”

Dominic received the image I sent, of me in
my formal gown.
Much better
, he thought.

We went down to breakfast, where Ranulf was
waiting for us. He made no comment on my attire and kept his eyes
averted from me. During that entire day he never looked at me
directly. The three of us huddled alone in the breakfast room where
a small version of the usual lavish buffet had been laid out for
us. The rest of the household was apparently taking the morning
meal in the kitchen or the great hall, leaving us to our virtuous
solitude. It was a disgusting, filthy, degrading job we were
undertaking, something we could not possibly ask any servant to do.
The household expressed its gratitude with typical mountain
restraint.

The sun was shining through the high windows
as we finished our meal. It was a beautiful day, the kind of autumn
weather that brings the last remnants of summer, clear sky and
little wind. Descending to such a pit of death seemed all the more
painful. Ranulf had collected pitchforks and shovels, a heavy sheet
of canvas and ropes. We used triple layers of fine cheesecloth as
masks, soaking them with vinegar and antiseptic before tying them
over mouth and nose. As we reached the lowest level the stink was
almost unbearable.

The faster we worked, the sooner we would be
out of it. I helped lay the canvas sheet out flat in the corridor.
Dominic and Ranulf used pitchfork and shovel to lift the rotting
remains from the cell floor and dump them on the sheet. Not
everything came in one scoop. I used a smaller shovel to pick up
the lumps of flesh, the bone or two that had become separated from
the mass. I was sure I would vomit up my breakfast but I fought the
urge, pressing my gloved hand hard against the cloth over my lips
and swallowing many times until I could keep it down.

My love
, Dominic thought to me.
It
is my fault you are doing what no lady should ever have to know
about.

I shook my head, unable to speak or think. It
was no more Dominic’s fault than mine that Reynaldo’s Aranyi
heritage had given him power over us.
Let’s just finish
, I
said.

Ranulf held a lamp as Dominic and I waded
into the sludge on the cell floor, stirring it with our boots,
poking with shovel and fork, searching for any remaining scraps of
clothing or flesh, hair or bone. When what appeared to be
everything of the bandit had been transferred to the sheet, Dominic
and Ranulf wrapped it around, folding it over, tucked it in at the
ends and tied it with the ropes. The package was surprisingly small
considering it contained what had once been a man of average height
and weight. Dominic and Ranulf hefted it easily between them and
maneuvered it up the steep stairs to the third cellar.

Once through the trap door Dominic led us
away from the main stairs, toward the sections of the foundation
that were built into the side of the mountain. There was a secret
tunnel running underground a long way, rising slowly until it
opened onto the far edge of the clearing at the rear of the castle.
“For use in war, during sieges,” Dominic explained to me, the same
kind of tunnel Dominic and the miners had found at the bandits’
stronghold and used to rescue me. We could carry our foul burden
through this tunnel and emerge outside, without further polluting
our house.

It was a long airless walk through the
tunnel, breaking through endless cobwebs, raising clouds of dust
that had lain undisturbed for generations. At the end there was a
wooden door secured by a rusty bar and latch, the bolts sagging
loose from the crumbling stones. Dominic and Ranulf laid their
burden down, lifted the bar, and pushed their shoulders against the
door. The ancient timbers groaned and creaked. The men pushed
again. There was a tearing sound as the vines and brush that had
grown over the hidden doorway snapped and gave way. We were out, in
the clean morning light.

I ripped off my mask and breathed deeply,
wiping away tears as my inner eyelids descended with the sudden
brightness. It was difficult to reconcile the benign, wholesome
daylight with the nature of the burden we carried and the job we
were about to do.

Dominic made one last argument for the vault.
“He was my father’s son.”

Ranulf and I stood firm. “Dominic,” I said,
“I would say the same thing even if he had been your own son. You
and I will be entombed in the Aranyi vault, to rest forever with
your ancestors. And although I believe that when we are dead there
is nothing more we can feel or perceive, nevertheless I refuse to
spend eternity lying beside this scum who wanted to kill you, and
me, and our children. If that’s what you want—”

“You know it’s not what I want.” Dominic cut
me off. “But it goes against ‘Graven tradition to burn the body.
We’re taught to treat all ‘Graven dead with respect, to give them
honorable rest in death, regardless of their life.”

“And you’re also taught not to kidnap and
murder, aren’t you?” I said.

Dominic stood staring at the high walls of
the castle that loomed over us. The trees that ringed our little
clearing rustled in the slight breeze. Birds called overhead. A man
on his way to an upper pasture sang a bawdy song, loud and off key,
unaware of his little audience. Death seemed far away, despite the
evidence literally under our noses.

Ranulf cleared his throat, spoke low in
Dominic’s ear. “If he had not had the good luck to capture such a
prize, he would have died eventually and been disposed of like the
garbage he was. He would have had a worse funeral than we’re giving
him.” Reynaldo’s followers would no doubt have treated his body as
they did any other—thrown it on their midden when they moved to
another hideout, or dumped it in the woods.

Dominic shook himself at Ranulf’s words.
“Don’t worry, old friend,” he said. “We won’t waste all your
careful preparations.” He spoke sarcastically, but Ranulf and I
knew there was a genuine sensibility underlying his words. It had
taken this final push for Dominic to allow himself to do what he
had wanted all along.

Ranulf had prepared well. There were pack
animals staked out nearby, loaded with bundles of dry wood and bags
of charcoal. Dominic’s old hunting horse, past his prime now but
good for today’s walking pace, my little mare, and Ranulf’s sturdy
mount were saddled and waiting with the rest of the convoy,
cropping the thin grass while we debated.

Dominic, having at last accepted our act of
disrespect, stepped in willingly to accomplish it. He and Ranulf
tied the sad package to a shaggy mountain pony. Dominic helped me
up on my mare and I eased into the saddle, listening for the sound
of ripping fabric across my rear. The seam stretched but held.

Not such a pleasant outing for you, old
fellow
, Dominic thought to his horse as he mounted.
We won’t
be chasing any game today. But it’s better than the boredom of the
exercise ring.
The old hunter lifted its head and neighed
loudly at Dominic’s thoughts, seeming to accept its master’s
practical comfort with good cheer.

We rode a steep trail that worked its way
diagonally through the Aranyi pastureland, up and across the
mountains. It was the quickest route to the edge of the tree line,
the safest place to light an outdoor fire. When we reached a
stretch of flat rock, a natural plateau carved by wind and rain out
of the mountainside, we dismounted and unloaded our burdens.
Dominic and Ranulf constructed a fireplace of loose stones and
lined it with charcoal. They used some of the wood they had brought
to build a pyre and laid the package on top. Ranulf produced tinder
from his box, bits of twigs and string, and looked to Dominic.

“Will you do the honors, my lord?” he asked,
as sarcastically as Dominic had spoken earlier.

Dominic turned to me and bowed. “My lady
wife,” he said, addressing me in formal speech, “may I beseech the
pleasure of your company in opening this ceremony?”

I had had enough of such foolishness, was not
feeling glamorous in my breeches and shirt, or regretful at the end
of such a detestable life. “My lord husband,” I said in everyday
speech, so that the words sounded artificial and vaguely insulting,
“may I request—” I had been about to say something in Terran,
something along the lines of “let’s cut the crap,” when the
communion Dominic and I had maintained saved me from this fatal
error.

Dominic’s ritual language was his way of
coping with a painful human predicament. For me and the children to
have been captured by bandits could be seen as bad luck. Having the
ringleader turn out to be Dominic’s brother changed a random
disaster into a deliberate attempt on my life, and my husband’s.
The wish of most people, to know that the misfortunes they suffer
are not the chance occurrences of an indifferent universe but part
of a plan, had been granted to us. And it’s not a comforting
feeling after all, to have been singled out for catastrophe.