Authors: Margaret Weis
Ermintrude grasped hold of her son’s arm, a clutching grasp, desperate and
keeping.
“What is wrong, Mother?” he said, startled. “Your hands are like ice!”
Not only her hands, but her heart, chilled to stillness.
Ermintrude knew the woman crossing the courtyard in the rain with her long,
determined strides. Knew her well, though Ermintrude had never before seen her.
Perhaps it was the description Edward had given of her, though he’d caught only
a fleeting glimpse of her, seated astride her horse, drawing back the
bowstring, loosing the arrow. Perhaps it was instinct. A mother’s instinct. Or
perhaps it was the fear that had festered in Ermintrude’s heart from the moment
Gunderson had laid the tiny, squalling newborn babe in her arms.
Fear that someday, this woman would come to claim Melisande’s child.
“Mother,” said Marcus, chafing her hands to warm them. “Please don’t be
upset with me. I’ll think about what you said, Mother. I truly will. It’s just
that. . . the magic is a part of me . . .”
Ermintrude managed a smile for him, though not the dimples. “I know, dear. I
should not have said anything. You are so precious to me. So precious.” She was
rattling. She felt herself starting to lose control.
“I don’t dare send up another servant,” she added, hearing her voice and not
recognizing it, hoping he didn’t notice. “Pick up the pieces of the pitcher,
will you, dear? Toss them in the dustbin. I’ll send . . . someone ... to fetch
it.”
She hastened to the door, her hooped skirts swinging, the trailing hem
sweeping up bits of broken crockery and carrying them after her, scraping
across the floor. Impatiently, she caught hold of her skirt, shook the bits
free.
“There’s a love,” she said, and was gone before he could say a word. She shut
the door so quickly that she nearly caught her skirts in it.
He stared after her, bemused, then glanced down at the shattered crockery
that was now strewn all over the room. He grinned again at the memory of the
dust motes. The grin vanished in a twinge of conscience.
“I love her best of anyone in the world,” he said to the rain, remorseful. “Yet
I hurt her more. I don’t mean to. I just do.”
Mentally pummeling himself, he swept up the pieces,
threw them away, and then flung himself down at the desk, intending to perform
penance by going back to raise the ashy verbs from the dead, thinking gloomily
that they were starting to take on vam-piric life, sucking his soul dry.
“This woman won’t give you her name,” said Edward, looking up from the text
he was reading. “She won’t tell you why she is here. And yet you say that I
should give her an audience.”
“Yes, Sire, I do,” said Gunderson steadily.
“In the name of salvation, why?” Edward demanded irritably.
He was in his solar, in a comfortable chair before a crackling fire, a cup
of mulled wine at his hand, and a new book on astrology, with what were said to
be revolutionary theories about the orbital paths of the planets, open on the
reading stand before him.
Gunderson sucked on his lip a moment before answering. “Because I’ve seen
her before, Sire.”
Edward tensed, wary and alert. “Where?”
“In the house, Sire”—Gunderson paused—”where your son was born.”
Edward closed the book, rose to his feet.
“You said she would not say why she had come. Then how did she manage to
enter the palace grounds? She must have said something to somebody.”
“She told the guards that she was here to see you on urgent business.
Dressed as she is—and she is a sight, Sire,” Gunderson added, shaking his head—”they
would have turned her away, but she told them that if you did not see her, you
would be sorry. She said that on purpose, Sire, because she knew she would be
arrested and brought to the palace dungeon. When I saw her, I knew her. When
she saw me, she knew me.” He shrugged.
“And you truly advise me to see her?” Edward asked.
“It’s not her sword that worries me, Sire. It’s her tongue. She has a tale
to tell, if she was of a mind to tell it.”
“Who would believe her?”
“Your enemies, Sire,” said Gunderson.
Edward looked away, looked back at the book. His fingers absently traced the
raised gilt letters on the leather binding.
“Weinmauer, you mean. I—My dear,” he added, turning to see Ermintrude
standing in the doorway. “This is not a good time—”
“You must see her, Ned,” said Ermintrude emphatically, sweeping into the
room, her hooped skirts swirling around her, making her the eye of a silken
storm. “She is here to take our son. I know it. You must not let her!”
Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, pleading. She clutched her missal in
her hand, as if keeping fast hold of God.
“Talk to her, Ned,” Ermintrude urged. “Tell her she cannot have him. Tell
her!”
“No one will take him, Wife.” Edward put his arm around her, felt her
trembling. “No one will take Marcus. I promise you that. I will see her,
Gunderson. Bring her here to this chamber. Dismiss the servants.”
Gunderson bowed and made his way out. He moved slowly these days, for his
knees pained him, especially in wet weather, and he was gone some time. Neither
Edward nor Ermintrude spoke. She slipped out of his embrace to stand before the
fire, holding tight to the missal, once bringing it to her lips to kiss it in
silent supplication.
Edward stared into the memories that were rushing at him like foes on the
attack, memories that knocked him from his saddle, rode him down, jabbed at him
with their spears, drawing blood. He started to take a drink of wine, feared he
could not swallow, and set the cup back down.
The door opened. Gunderson entered, followed by the woman. He shut the door
behind him and placed his back against it. Outside the rain fell. The gargoyles
drank it up and spit it out into the courtyard. The woman was wet to the bone,
her leather vest giving off an unpleasant, animal odor.
“She says her name is Bellona,” announced Gunderson.
She stood straight, her shoulders back, her chin high, for she had been a
soldier and a leader of soldiers, and she was not intimidated by kings, she who
had loved a high priestess.
“He knows who I am,” Bellona said.
“I do, as a matter of fact,” Edward returned, determined to keep his voice
steady, his demeanor calm. “The last time I saw you, you were aiming an arrow
at Melisande, trying to kill her.”
If he hoped to gain some advantage, he failed. The woman accepted the
accusation with nothing more than a slight inclination of her head. Her eyes
went to Ermintrude, then nicked away, returned to the king.
“Melisande died in my arms,” Bellona said. “She died moments after the birth
of your son. Did he tell you the story?”
“Did Gunderson tell me? No—” Edward began.
“Not him.” Her voice was scornful. “He came too late to do anything except
take away the child. I mean the other one who served you. Draconas.”
Edward shook his head. “He told me nothing.”
“Did you even ask?” Bellona’s lip curled.
“No, I did not,” Edward replied, adding with quiet dignity, “Melisande made
it a condition that I never try to find out. She made me swear it, as a holy
vow, in return for allowing me to take and raise our child. I have kept my
promise to her.”
His voice hardened. “What do you want, Bellona? Why are you here? Do you
want money—”
He might have struck her. Her face went livid, her eyes flared. Her hand
grasped spasmodically at her empty scabbard and though the guards had taken her
weapon, she burned with such a fierce, pale light that Gunderson half drew his
sword. At a glance from Edward, Gunderson slid the weapon back into its
scabbard. But he kept his hand upon it.
“I do want something,” said Bellona in a voice that was tight, squeezed by
her anger. “But not money. I want to talk to Melisande’s son.”
“Out of the question,” said Edward brusquely.
“He has a right to know his mother!” Bellona cried, her hands clenching.
“He knows his mother,” Edward returned. He held out his hand to Ermintrude,
who moved slowly to stand beside him, but did not take hold of his hand. She
kept fast hold of the missal, her gaze on Bellona. “He has no need to know the
story of his birth. It would do no good and might do great harm. I think you
had better leave, Mistress Bellona.”
He gave a nod to Gunderson, who reached out his hand to take hold of her
arm.
She shook loose, pulled back. “I will not leave until I have seen him and
talked to him.”
“Then I will have no choice but to have you thrown into the cells, Mistress,”
said Edward.
Bellona crossed her arms over her chest. “Then that is what you had better
do.”
Edward made an impatient gesture. “Take her to prison, Gunderson, if that is
what she wants.”
“Edward, perhaps—” Ermintrude began.
He rounded on her, his face a face she did not know, had never before seen. “No,
Ermintrude. This time I will
not
be persuaded. This woman will go to
prison and stay there until she rots.”
He stalked out of the room. Gunderson again laid his hand on Bellona’s arm
and this time she did not shake him off. She looked intently at Ermintrude. Two
women, utterly different. One soft and plump, shored up with steel bands sewn
into the fabric of a corset, bulwarked by velvet and silk, jewels and lace. The
other sinew and muscle, bone and skin and leather. Neither could ever
understand the other’s life. Yet, in that moment, something passed between
them.
Unspoken, simple, basic, not found in everyone, but once found,
recognized—the knowledge of what is right.
Gunderson gave Bellona a none-too-gentle tug and dragged her off. Bellona
did not defy him, though her head turned as she stumbled after him, her gaze
still fixed on Ermintrude. Until she was removed from the room, Bellona looked
nowhere else, and even after she had gone, Ermintrude still saw the woman’s
eyes.
Ermintrude stood in front of the fire, holding fast to the missal. She did
not pray. She knew what she had to do and so did God. No need running after
Him, tugging on His sleeve, when He had so many other worries. She might have
begged Him to spare Edward from hurt, but it was too late for that. The hurt
had happened. For years, the wound had festered. Either this would help heal
it, or he would hate her forever.
The possibility of his hatred grieved her, for she loved him dearly. But
before her was right alongside wrong and if she turned from right, she was not
worthy of anyone’s love or trust, whether he ever understood that or not.
Ermintrude wriggled her bulk around inside the corset,
adjusting the stays so that they did not pinch her—or rather, pinched less. She
grasped the missal, clasped her hands over her stomacher, drew in a breath, and
advanced.
BELLONA PACED THE SMALL PRISON CELL THREE STEPS IN each direction, her feet
scattering the straw that had been strewn over the floor. The cell, located far
below ground level, was as dark and cold as the sixteen-year-long night of her
grief. The cell door had a small grate for the use of the jailer, who could
open it, peer through it to make certain that the prisoner had not hanged
herself, then close it again, shutting off the light. The prison was
rat-infested, but then so was the palace. Vermin were a fact of life. Bellona
paid the rats no attention, except to kick one that got in her way.
She paced because she had to be doing something. If she had been at home,
she would have been mending clothes or making arrowheads or sharpening knives.
As it was, she had nothing to do with her hands and so she occupied her feet.
She did not doubt that the young man would come. She only wondered when. She
trusted it would be soon. A fortnight had passed since she had lost Ven and she
had to face the fact that more time would pass before she could start searching
for him. Still she felt keenly each moment that slipped away.
Voices—barely heard, muffled—came from somewhere in the distance, echoing
among the stone corridors.
Bellona halted, listened tensely.
The grate slid open. Light flared, blinding Bellona. She raised her hand to
block it, trying to see. The cell went dark; the jailer’s bulk momentarily
blotting out the light. A moment’s silence, and then the key rattled in the
lock. The heavy door swung open, pushed inward. Light flared again, and cast
the shadow of a man onto the floor at Bellona’s feet. She could not see his
face, which was in darkness, but she could feel his wonder.
“I am Marcus, prince of Idlyswylde. My mother said I am supposed to talk to
you.”
He remained standing in the doorway, his shadow touching the tips of her
boots. Melisande’s son.
“Alone,” she intoned.
The young man hesitated, then turned to the jailer. “Leave us. Wait at the
end of the corridor. I will call out if there is need. You have the queen’s
command in writing. And the queen’s gold in your pocket,” he added wryly.
This argument carried the day. The jailer thrust the flaring torch into an
iron sconce on the wall of the cell, lit another torch for himself, then
departed, shutting the door behind him and locking it. They heard him walk
away, his footfalls loud in the silence that stood between them. The torch
light flickered. The cell was alive with shadows. Bellona saw Melisande in
every part of the young man and her heart ached so that she could not speak.
“What do you want with me?” Marcus asked finally.
“To make amends,” Bellona answered in a low voice.
He stared. “For what?”
“For your father and for myself. We have both failed her.”
“Failed? Who did you fail?” He was perplexed, bewildered.
“Your mother.”
No need to say which mother. He knew. He flinched.
Bellona swallowed, went on. “I swore to do something and I failed. I didn’t
keep my vow because I was afraid. Afraid of losing him.”