Traitor's Masque (4 page)

“Thank you,” she said instead, looking at the brothers in turn, wondering what else she could possibly say. “I didn’t realize anyone remembered. I didn’t expect… you shouldn’t have, you know… but I really…” Words failed her yet again.

As if recognizing her dilemma, Andrei reached over and handed her Theron’s reins.

“Have a pleasant day, m’lady,” Alexei said

“Had you considered the Kingswood, m’lady?” Andrei asked. “You’d have time to ride to the Tree today.” Trystan swiveled slightly to face him with her mouth hanging open.

“How could you have known about that?” she asked him incredulously. “It was such a long time ago. And I never told anyone.”

It had been six years. Six interminable years since she and her father had picnicked under the King’s Tree for her birthday. Just the two of them together. The last outing they shared before Malisse had come between them.

“You were happy that day.” Alexei’s voice brought her out of that train of unpleasant memories. “Perhaps if you went back, you’d remember.” Trystan met his eyes and was staggered by what she saw. Sadness. And compassion. For her, of all people.

“Thank you,” she whispered. For the third time in one morning. This time, perhaps, she meant it the most deeply.

Compelled to look away before she broke down completely, Trystan cleared her throat and fumbled with the reins. Both men replaced their caps and Andrei busied himself with checking Theron’s girth. As soon as he nodded that all was ready, Trystan led Theron out of the stable and over to the mounting block in the yard. She had best leave before anyone else contrived to surprise her; she wasn’t sure she could bear any more thoughtfulness.

It was the work of moments to swing into the saddle, secure her saddlebag, and set her feet in the irons. Glancing back, Trystan saw Andrei standing in the stable doorway. He smiled at her, and touched his cap in farewell as she gathered the reins and trotted off alone into the foggy spring morning.

The Kingswood was a broad, well-tended forest that stretched miles to the south and east of Colbourne Manor. The forest lay on Crown lands, and was tended by the king’s foresters, but had always been freely used by the nobility for parties and excursions. No one suspected the rich of poaching deer.

Near the center of the wood, in the midst of a quiet glade, was a vast oak known as the King’s Tree. No one knew how old it was, or how it came to be there, but it was a strangely peaceful place. The way had seemed long, when she was a child, but Trystan's memory placed it well within the reach of a day’s ride. She could eat her lunch at the Tree, and still return before dinner.

It was strange how swiftly a day’s outlook could be altered. Trystan had begun the morning feeling lost and forgotten, and yet here she was, hacking briskly through the cool, morning air, embarking on an adventure that bore all the markings of a conspiracy. One involving more than just a few people.

Vianne’s involvement made sense. The cook had always looked out for her welfare to a certain degree. Andrei and Alexei she had thought somewhat fond of her, but only because she loved the horses as much as they did. The few other servants who had known her since childhood reserved more warmth of manner for Trystan than they did for her stepmother, but she had supposed it to be out of habit, rather than any true affection. She had certainly never suspected them of harboring deeper feelings.

Even Trystan could admit that she had not been an easy person to like.

She felt a twinge of conscience as she bent to open the last gate, the one that marked the edge of her father's estate. Beyond it lay a rutted lane, which ran between low stone walls. In one direction lay Colbourne village, in the other, the wide Crown road which led all the way to Evenleigh and beyond.

She was interested in neither. Roads begat traffic, which Trystan studiously avoided. Her path lay a mile or more across the fields, where the edge of the Kingswood butted up against seldom-used pastureland. It was a direction she had taken many times while hunting, during a time when all had been right with her world and no one’s wishes were more important than her own.

Everything had changed after the wedding. It had all gone so very wrong. Her father’s affections began to grow distant and vague and Trystan had been forced to wonder if she had made a mistake by shutting other people out of her life. But she had still not really tried to make friends. She had been too pre-occupied by her anger at the disruption of her perfect world, too busy trying to set it right. She had only wanted her father back. Until that terrible day he returned from his journey sick and shivering and never left his bed again.

It still ached. Even three years later, those memories filled Trystan with the familiar leaden drag of loss.

As she urged Theron into a brisk trot across the damp, fog-shrouded field, a bitter echo of the same useless questions kept time with the drum of his hooves. Why her? Why him? How could he die and leave her alone?

Caught up in her recollections, Trystan realized how tense she had become only when Theron's head tossed uncomfortably and he began to jig beneath her. She slackened her grip on the reins and released the rigidity in her legs until he subsided. If only her own troubles could have been so easily resolved.

Once the funeral was past, by the time her anger and grief had diminished, and by the time she realized she had no power against Malisse, it had been too late. Between her own pride and her stepmother’s restrictions, she was left utterly alone.

Or so she had always thought. She was beginning to suspect she had been entirely mistaken.

When the eaves of the forest finally appeared through the mist on the far side of the field, Trystan urged Theron into a canter, eager to leave the familiar fields behind. She had thoroughly explored the pastures around Colbourne years ago, but avoided the woods since her father's death. There had never been enough time, and it would have felt strange to go there without him. But Alexei was right. She needed to go back. Perhaps it would help her find a way to move forward.

The edge of the field was marked by a brush fence, thick and tangled, which Theron hurdled with ease, though it was much more difficult to convince him to pull up afterwards. He had not yet had a chance to expend much energy, and did not appreciate being forced to walk until they found their way through the brush to the nearest of the forest paths.

Once they pressed through the edges of the wood, it proved more pleasant, due to the efforts of royal foresters to keep the paths and the underbrush cleared. Their vigilance provided a shady haunt for picnics or royal hunts, which Trystan knew occurred primarily during the long summer months, when bored nobility descended in droves on the nearby court at Evenleigh. Fortunately, she was unlikely to have much company on such a cool spring morning, especially at an hour which fashionable society considered closer to bedtime than breakfast.

Trystan's memory proved adequate to the task of finding her way into the wood, but, sadly, it failed miserably in the matter of navigation within. Where her mind recalled broad, open paths laid out in a neat pattern, she found instead a maze of narrow trails, none of which seemed to lead in a predictable direction.

It was a pleasant enough place to be lost, unless one wanted to be elsewhere and was mounted on a horse that had decided to be silly about trees. The farther they went, the more nervous Theron seemed, blowing anxiously and flicking his ears at every sound.

The sun rose higher, filtering sporadically through the foliage overhead, indicating to Trystan that she had perhaps been unforgivably foolish. She had simply assumed her memories would guide her, but it had been too long, and no doubt the forest trails had changed.

Inwardly cursing her failure to consider this probability before attempting such an unwise expedition, Trystan was on the verge of returning the way she had come when she heard the improbable sound of hoofbeats. She pulled Theron to a stop and listened, hoping they had been an echo, but they continued.

Trystan had no desire to discover what sort of person besides herself had a taste for cold morning rides. While the frequent presence of green-clad king’s foresters made criminal activity unlikely, even an innocent rider could prove disastrous for her.

Turning Theron’s head, Trystan quickly left the trail behind, moving deeper into the wood at as fast a pace as caution would allow. After a brief period of ducking under low-hanging branches and hopping over the occasional downed tree, she slowed and listened, certain the other rider would have remained on the path. To her surprise and dismay, she heard hoofbeats again, and turned to find the rider just coming into view between the trees.

Trystan felt intolerably stupid. She should have stayed closer to home. Not risked her anonymity on such a chancy venture. There were no good reasons for another rider to follow her, and precious little she could do now except run.

Clinging close to Theron’s neck, she spurred him on faster, choosing paths that led through thicker brush and changing direction without warning. Despite the cool air, she began to sweat beneath her voluminous coat, while her stomach clenched apprehensively each time she turned to look and found the other rider far closer than she'd hoped.

Just when Trystan was nearly convinced that her worst fears would be realized, the trees began to thin. The light broke through and the brush parted as they finally reached the edge of the forest. A steep, grassy hillside rose up in front of them, unfamiliar but welcome, and Trystan found herself grinning with fiercely relieved anticipation.

Within moments, they gained the top of the hill, revealing only rolling downs ahead, green and rippling in the morning sun. It was perfect. On open ground, Theron would leave the encroaching rider in the dust, wishing his horse had wings. Trystan gave Theron his head, shifted her weight and tapped him with her heels. He needed no further encouragement, but shot forward, as if eager to leave the forest behind.

Caught up in the glory of sun and speed, Trystan’s first warning of danger was Theron’s ears, pinned tightly to his head. Glancing back, she received an unwelcome shock. The other rider was no more than ten lengths behind and gaining. He was also clearly male and intent upon catching her.

A thrill of fear shot through her chest. Whether he meant her any personal harm or not, she must not be caught! It became a race in earnest, and Trystan used any advantage she could. Theron was unmatched in the hunt, so she took every opportunity to lead the breathless chase over stone walls, brush hedges, even once a narrow brook, but with little success.

When it became evident that her horse could go no farther, Trystan pulled Theron back to a trot, and then a stumbling walk. His sides were lathered and heaving, and her own legs were trembling with weariness. There would be no outrunning the trouble she was in this time. All she could do was pray she'd be able talk her way out of it instead.

Sliding gracelessly from the saddle, Trystan was forced for the first time in years to steady herself against Theron’s shoulder. She caught up his reins and kept walking, pretending to ignore the horseman who drew up on her left, determined not to acknowledge her unease at his proximity. His horse, she noted with some satisfaction, was also sweating and breathing hard, only marginally better off than Theron.

“What the devil was that?” her pursuer demanded, clearly too angry to bother with conventional social niceties. No ‘good morning’ or ‘how do you do.’ The arrogant clod actually thought he had a right to question her. Irritation overwhelmed instinct, and Trystan stopped to glare up at him in spite of herself.

The man appeared perfectly ordinary. He was perhaps a few years older than herself and of middling height, with a square-shouldered, workmanlike build. Trystan noted that he carried himself well in the saddle, with a good seat and light hands. Short, wind-tousled brown hair and direct gray eyes dominated what might have been a rather nice face, had it not been hard and set with anger. She could not immediately identify his station, at least not by his dress. His clothes were not so dissimilar from hers, of simple cloth and cut, in an unremarkable color. Probably not a forester.

It occurred to her at some point during her perusal that the man was returning her scrutiny. An expression of surprised uncertainty dawned across his features as he studied her. Trystan felt an unwanted blush spread across her cheeks as she realized that he was far too close to be fooled by her attire. Some of the anger faded from the man's eyes, though he still looked piqued.

“Were you trying to kill a perfectly good horse or just break your neck?” More reproof than question, his words stung Trystan into making a reply.

“I don’t know you and I don’t care for your company,” she answered coldly, returning her gaze to the landscape with what she hoped was evident disdain. “How I choose to care for my horse is my own affair, which I’ll thank you to stay out of.”

Silence was the only immediate reply. Trystan discovered an irrational urge to know whether the man felt appropriately reprimanded, but refused to give him the satisfaction of appearing to expect a response.