Traitor's Masque (38 page)

“I do not attempt to deny my guilt,” she began more calmly, “only to say that I am not guilty of what you think. I knew nothing of Elaine until last night.”

That was almost preposterous enough to be true, Ramsey thought. Only an idiot would have tried to convince him of it. But there was more.

“I chanced to overhear a conversation between Lady Isaura Westerby and her confederate, Lord Victor Fellton. They confirmed a number of things, but the most important are these: they have attempted to poison the king, they intended to murder Elaine, and they planned to disqualify you from ruling by tricking you into marrying me.” She paused. “They also appeared to believe that their actions enjoyed the full knowledge and support of Prince Rowan, whom they are determined to see crowned in your place.”

Trystan sounded much calmer than she felt. She still shook with the effort of standing this close to Donevan, bearing the weight of his anger. But even so, she was relieved, by the knowledge that she had passed the responsibility for her information on to him. Knowing full well that he would probably never believe her, she watched Ramsey’s face. It was still and emotionless now, watching her in the near dark.

“Tell me then,” he said finally, with deadly calm. “What guilt
will
you claim? You say that these others have plotted against me without your knowledge. Very well. Of what am I allowed to accuse you? Attempting to trick me into marrying you?”

It was the worst question he could have asked. But Trystan was ready for it. She had already answered it for herself. “I am guilty of not caring enough,” she answered quietly. “Of being blind to needs that were not my own. Of saying yes when I should have said no. They offered me the prize I desired above all others and I shut my eyes to the consequences. No…” She held up a hand to silence him when he would have begun to speak. “It was not a crown I sought. I had no thought of marriage when I came here three nights ago.” She drew a deep breath.

“They offered me my freedom. And I was so anxious to grasp it, that I chose to be blind to all else.” Her voice broke a little with regret. “They did not tell me what they intended. Or why they chose me. I had not the smallest idea there were lives at stake. Not His Majesty’s, not Elaine's. I did not know there
was
an Elaine. But I was pleased to be ignorant, so that I could tell myself my actions did not matter, and for that, I consider myself guilty.” There was silence. Long and tense.

“And now?” Ramsey asked, his voice rough with some suppressed emotion. “Do you know why they used you?”

Trystan’s reply was heavy with self-loathing. “Because I was unknown and unwise. They told me they wished me to carry a message. Because I would not be suspected. And because I cared nothing for society or politics. Even the message was a lie. The paper your brother gave me was blank. A ruse, to gain access to the palace, so they could poison your father.”

“And the marriage?”

“Again, they knew what I did not.” Though how they had known when Malisse had not she could scarcely imagine. “My father was never married to my mother. It seems,” she added bitterly, “I am twice the bastard.”

“Well,” said a coldly mocking voice, “at least on one point we are agreed.”

Ramsey could have sworn for a moment that the voice was Rowan’s. They were certainly Rowan’s words. He was appalled and ashamed when he realized a moment later that the voice, and the words, had been his own.

He wanted so desperately to punish her. To make her bear a part of his pain at hearing the truth she had offered. But he was forced at last to silence by his own traitorous logic. So many little things, words, accidents, and coincidences, etched in his memory, began to fall into place. His brother’s conspicuous absences. The growing complaints by the guilds. The Caelani ship off the coast. Larissa Fellton’s artless disclosure of her father’s involvement in illegal trade. And now Victor Fellton’s name again, in conjunction with treason and his father’s suspicious “illness.” As the picture grew more ominous with each moment it also pointed to one other unavoidable fact—the girl was probably innocent. Oh, not entirely. But Ramsey was astonished by the discovery that he was beginning to believe her. His memory turned traitor and reminded him of the night of the ball. Of her behavior, towards him and towards Kyril. Entirely at odds with the scheming opportunist he so badly wanted her to be. She had been nothing if not honest, that evening. Even tried to avoid his invitation the next day. She could not have counted on being asked to return.

It galled him, but if it was true, he had no time to waste in considering her further. Whatever her petty crimes, they paled beside what he now faced. His brother was not simply the charming, infuriating wastrel they had assumed, but a willing party to the death of his own father. It seemed obvious in hindsight that Rowan had not been the cheerfully unwilling object of the support and admiration of the guilds, but an active participant. He had the loyalty of much of the merchant nobility. Could he have gained the loyalty of others as well? Of the servants? Of the guards?

He looked back at the girl who had come to warn him. She was watching him, he could tell, from under her deep hood. She looked smaller now, her anger spent. Defeated. Awaiting judgment. But she waited, and for that he felt a rush of grudging admiration. He utterly ignored the voice that suggested he might owe her an apology.

“I will not thank you,” he told her, compelled by her courage to give her that much. “I cannot begin to be certain of either your innocence or your honesty. But I find myself, against my better judgment, inclined to believe you.” He closed his eyes against the pain. “And because I believe you, I have no time to decide what to do with you.” His lips twisted. “My captain would insist on death or the dungeon. But I’ve no wish to deal out death, and our dungeon, it seems, may soon be filled with much worse than you. It would appear I have little choice but to let you go.”

She made not a sound, either of thanks or protest, only bowed her head and turned towards the steps in retreat.

“Wait!” he called after her in spite of himself. She stopped, but barely, standing poised on the top stair, still facing away from him. “Give me a name. You owe me that much.”

Her shoulders bowed as she turned towards him a fraction. “Please,” she begged, her voice trembling and hoarse. “Don’t ask me that. I beg you, not that.”

“Why not? I have pledged to let you go. You are free, and believe me when I say that I have no wish to see you again. But I need a name, if you expect me to convince anyone of your story.”

She was crying, he realized. Shaking her head. Her small, white hands fisted at her sides.

“No,” she cried out, anguished. “I cannot.” And, like a frightened deer, she fled into the dark. Within moments, the night had swallowed her up as though she had never been.

 
Chapter 14
 

Trystan ran. How she found her way out of the garden, away from Evenburg, and through the streets of town with tears blurring her vision she would never know. By the time she reached the far edge of Evenleigh, every breath was painful and her feet were already sore. She dropped to a faltering walk as the lights of town fell behind. Even in the dark, the road would take her… Where? Colbourne? If she wanted it to. She could hardly return to Westhaven. What she wanted, what she needed, was comfort and familiarity. A haven from guilt and memories. Which Colbourne Manor could never be, not while Malisse was still there and still herself. What Trystan truly longed for was home, and she found as she stumbled down the uneven road, her feet blistered by the unfamiliar chafing of boots unsuited for the task, that she still had no idea where that was.

It was past midnight when the road finally led her to the head of Colbourne Manor’s long drive. Most of the lights were out. The house would be asleep, even the butler and the footmen. She could wake them, but Trystan had realized several miles ago that she had no desire to play the penitent, returning to beg forgiveness and a pallet in the kitchen. Nor could she assume that her own window would have been unbarred since her precipitous departure to Westhaven.

Instead, her steps turned away and continued down the road another mile, to the village. She had never once visited anyone there. Neither her father nor Malisse would have permitted it, though they knew nearly all the inhabitants by name. But despite their strictures, Trystan knew who lived in the quiet thatched house at the end of a lane, easily found by the light of a rising moon.

It was too late to be assured of welcome, but she was very sure of a scolding if she simply sat on the doorstep and waited for dawn. So she knocked. Quietly. No one would thank her for waking the neighbors. A few moments passed in silence, so Trystan knocked again, hugging herself nervously as she waited. Finally she heard stirring and muttering from inside, and through the window saw the sudden flare of a lit candle. Someone fumbled with the latch and swung the door open.

Trystan had known her since infancy, and she was certain she had never seen Vianne’s face change expression quite so swiftly. It went from scowling irritation to surprised relief to disapproval and back again in the time it took Trystan to whisper a hesitant greeting. Vianne said nothing, only looked back up the lane, grabbed Trystan’s arm and nearly yanked her inside. Only once the door had been closed and firmly latched did the older woman turn to consider Trystan, her face returned to its usual bland expression.

Silence ruled for a considerable period. About the time Trystan had begun to wonder whether she had made a mistake in coming, Vianne spoke.

“Do I even want to know, child?”

Trystan thought about the question. About what Vianne was really asking. About how swiftly her life had become so very complicated. Starting, she realized, the day of her eighteenth birthday. In the end, the answer was a simple one.

“No.” And then, of course, because she was exhausted, overwhelmed, and crushed by regret, she did the last thing in the world she would have chosen to do in front of Vianne. Trystan began to cry.

She might have been surprised by Vianne’s response if she had not been so busy trying to stifle the sobs that seemed to shake her entire body. The older woman quietly removed her cloak and drew her into a chair, pulled off her abused and soiled boots and began to build up the fire. By the time Trystan’s tears began to ebb, she had been given both a handkerchief and a cup of hot tea, but no further words had passed between them. Until Vianne spoke again.