Summers at Castle Auburn (39 page)

His hand tightened. I expected to have a series of bruises down my arm tomorrow morning from where everyone had clutched at me. “I will make my father reverse his decision,” he said.

I almost laughed. “I doubt it.”

“Elisandra cannot get by without you. She will need you more than ever during this tragedy.”

“Elisandra,” I said, “will not need me at all now.”

“I need you,” he said.

That did bring the surprise to my face, but I did not reply.

“When I am named king,” he added. “I will need your advice. Your common sense.”

“My peasant's perspective,” I said, recovering a little.

“Your good heart.”

“You will have your father. You will have countless other advisors. You will not need any words of mine.”

“I will need you for more than words,” he said.

Behind us, as if a herd of stampeding horses was thundering down the great stairwell, we heard a great rushing commotion of
feet.
“Kentley!”
Lord Matthew's voice boomed behind us. “Put her in that carriage
now
!”

“Say goodbye,” I said, “before he kills us both.”

“Goodbye,” Kent said, and bent down and kissed me on the mouth.

That was a shock like no other I had received in my life. My body stung with amazement, every inch of my skin exposed to the eyes of the watching crowd. My blood ran through its heated corridors and painted red banners on my face. The kiss was as brief as a chuckle and as long as a sleepless night. When he straightened again, he was smiling.

“When I am named king, we will have more to talk about,” he said, handing me into the coach. He folded my fingers over a small, bulky package, nodded at me once in the coolest manner imaginable, and slammed the door while I was still staring at him. I heard his father's furious questioning mingle with the driver's cry and the single sharp crack of the whip. The coach lurched forward, and we were on our way.

Out past the formal gate. Down the first few miles of paved road. Through the lazy green countryside of Auburn. On my way back home.

For good.

I was not sure I would ever be able to stop crying.

It was a good ten miles before I had the strength to unclench my hand and see what Kent had given me in those final seconds. Whatever it was had been wrapped in a fine lawn handkerchief embroidered with the initial
K
and the twining arms of the House of Ouvrelet. I unrolled the object slowly until, finally free of the cloth, it dropped into my open palm.

A heavy gold ring set with a sapphire and bearing on either side of the gem the carved patterns of the House of Ouvrelet and the royal stamp of Auburn. It was a ring I had seen Kent wear every day of his life.

I felt the heat flood back along my cheekbones and skitter through every vein in my body. I tried to come up with reasons he
would have honored me with such a gift. It was a gesture of friendship, a token of faith. A reparation for his father's harshness, a replacement for the wealth and gaiety I was leaving behind, forever, at the court. Nothing more significant than that. Nothing more personal.

I leaned my head back against the thin padding of the seat. I was tired, tearful, hungry, alone, and just a little afraid. My skin felt scratchy and dirty, since I had not had a chance to truly clean up that morning, and I knew my unwashed hair would make me crazy before the day was half over. I hoped Matthew or Kent had made provisions for us to stop for the night at a decent inn. I hoped that the trip would not seem as long and tedious as it usually did. I hoped that my grandmother would be pleased—or at least, willing—to see me again.

I hoped that, despite everything, my heart did not truly break.

F
all came late that year as though summer, idle intransigent girl that she was, could not summon the golden strength to rise from her bed along our hills and meadows and go sauntering off to some more southern site. When it did come, autumn was glorious, a fiery riot of colors spilling down over every hillside with a wanton display of fervor. The harvest was spectacular, and spirits in the village were high. Good profits tucked inside hidden purses, good seeds stored up for next spring, good ales brewed right in one's back room, good meals served up on every table. And good weather to bolster everyone's mood still more.

I had taken a room in the village with the seamstress and her daughter, and hired on as a barmaid at the largest tavern. The rent was not high and the work was not hard—and besides, I was able to make a little money on the side selling cures and potions. I had bought a fairly comprehensive supply of herbs from my grandmother, who was always delighted to sell anything to anyone; and I had discreetly told a few acquaintances in town that I could help them out if they ever had certain problems. I thought Milette might be a little miffed at losing the business I diverted, but my grandmother did not seem to mind. There were plenty of old-timers who would still insist on making the trek out to the cottage to see the
real
wise
woman, the herbalist who had practiced her craft for decades. Those who came to me wanted only small favors, simple tonics, something they would trust to an amateur. This suited me just fine.

It had been clear to me that I could have made my home with my grandmother for as long as I chose, though it would have been an unpleasant home since Milette had grown sulky and self-assured during my most recent absence. My grandmother, I was happy to see, was not willing to choose her apprentice over me—but then again, she was not willing to choose me over Milette, and the house almost immediately began to seem too small. But my tiny room in the village, barely large enough to contain a bed and a small chest of drawers, seemed just right. I liked my landlady and I liked my job, and I thought I could settle in here for a good long while.

Or until I decided what I wanted to do with my life. Suddenly that was less clear than ever. But I would work for a year, think about it for a year, and then move forward on the strength of my savings and my intuition.

In the two months that I had been gone from court, news had filtered back to me slowly, sometimes in the form of ordinary gossip brought in by merchants and other travelers, sometimes in letters sent by my friends back at court. The news of Prince Bryan's death was brought by the candlemaker's son, who ran a carting business from the southern provinces to the northern and spent most of his life on the road. Official word came three days later as the regent sent criers throughout the eight provinces to bawl out the shocking tidings in every market square. Everyone in our village, or what seemed like everyone, gathered on the green to hear the proclamation.

“If Prince Bryan is dead,” someone shouted back to the official messenger, “who will rule in his place?”

The messenger had obviously answered this question many times already. “Lord Matthew Ouvrelet continues as regent until Prince Kentley Ouvrelet can be crowned.”

“Kentley Ouvrelet? What, Prince Bryan's cousin?”

“Yes, the regent's son.”

“And what's he like?”

“He is fit to be king,” the crier answered coldly.

“Aye, but what is he
like?
”

The messenger fielded that and a dozen questions like it with the stone-faced diplomacy you might expect. I, at least, was convinced Kent would make a far better king than Bryan ever would have. Not something I wanted to leap in front of the crowd and declaim, however. I found it strange—on that first day and in the weeks that followed—to hear Kent referred to as the prince. Even more odd was to think of him as the king. He had never seemed so majestic as all that. Thoughtful, intelligent, evenhanded, kind, but not majestic.

But then, Bryan had never seemed very regal, either. Romantic, not regal. I supposed one brought to the table whatever traits one had, and then did the best one could to grow into the role one was given.

More intimate news arrived in my hands via letters that came sporadically, depending on the time available to the authors and the availability of couriers coming my way. Elisandra wrote immediately and often, though her tone was guarded; I wondered more than once if Greta, or Matthew, was censoring her correspondence.

Her first missive told me of Bryan's death, which had occurred two days after my abrupt departure.
All I could be grateful for was that, as he got sicker, he seemed to suffer less,
she had written.
He had been in great distress when he first fell ill, but as the days passed, he seemed to grow calmer and less sensate. Giselda said she did not think he was in any pain at all when he died. That was a comfort to Lord Matthew as well as to me.

I skimmed the descriptions of the mourning and the burial ceremony; all eight provinces had shared in the public displays of grief, draping black banners over city gates and flying black flags from the public buildings. Some of the more romantic young girls had dressed in mourning from which they refused to emerge for weeks on end, but most of the villagers had no real cause to grieve for the prince. They had never met him; they neither loved him nor hated him; the politics and personalities at court held very little real significance in their daily lives. The prince was dead and the new prince
would soon step forward. The realm remained whole and united. That was all they cared to know.

What I really wanted to know was what would become of Elisandra next, and in a later paragraph, she addressed that very issue.
It seems strange to think I am a widow when I have scarcely been a bride,
she wrote.
Lord Matthew does not seem to know what to do with me, though I am sure he will come up with some sort of plan. Kent assures me that I have inherited Bryan's personal fortune, although, of course, I will not have access to the royal jewels and coffers. Matthew has hinted that I shall need to wed again. As for myself, I think, “I have had one disastrous marriage. Let me wait awhile before I embark upon another.”

I looked up from the page I was reading. Of course.
Halsing women have always provided the brides for the royal house.
Elisandra was a Halsing woman, and Kent was now the last living descendent of the Ouvrelet royal house. Even from hundreds of miles away, I could sense Matthew's brain engaged in its usual plotting. Decency required him to wait a short interval before handing Elisandra over to the new prince, but decency was not a consideration that had long tied Matthew's hands in the past. Soon enough, we would be hearing news of Elisandra's betrothal to the new prince.

It was what I had hoped for and tried to bring about for so long. I couldn't imagine why the thought depressed me so much now.

From Angela, I received much more gossipy letters describing the emotional flux at the court in the days following Bryan's death. Megan of Tregonia had had to be confined to her room, sedated, because of the strength of her despair. Three of the other young ladies, all of whom had seemed to be insanely attached to Bryan, had been sent home even before the funeral, because they had disrupted meals and councils with their hysterical sobbing.

The visiting noblemen, on the other hand, had not seemed quite so dismayed,
and the half-secret political meetings that took place
the very day of Bryan's death
were occurring in rooms all over the castle. I never saw poor Kent look so grim and harried, for, of course, everyone
instantly
wanted to call him friend. He is too polite to treat anyone with rudeness, so he allowed himself to be cornered every five minutes by some backwater lord who fancied a position at court. I must say he handled himself well
enough, except for looking so tired. Even Elisandra, who has worries enough on her own, has grown concerned about him. Just yesterday she insisted that he come to the dinner table for a meal, since he had missed both breakfast and lunch.

The question now appears to be when exactly Kent will be crowned. Since he is over twenty-one, there is no need to name him “prince,” so when he ascends the throne, it will be as king. (King Kentley, is that not divine? It makes him sound so much more
impressive
than our sweet, grave Kent.) Everyone says that Matthew has delayed in setting the date because he wants a smooth transition from regency to royal, but I myself wonder if Matthew is not quite so eager to hand over all his power at once—and to his son.

No one was editing Angela's letters, that was obvious. I loved to receive them, and I wrote back faithfully so that she would not forget me. I had less to tell, of course, though I tried to make my stories amusing. I described the wild dance at the fall festival, and the traveling monkey show that had come to town. I also told her about some of the more outlandish requests I had received from the villagers who sought my professional advice
(Goodwife Janey, who's sixty if she's a day, came to ask for help conceiving a child. . . . Red Brotton, as he's called, wanted to know if I had any spells for increasing the size of his—well, he called it his “manfinger,” so I suppose I should do the same. . . .”).

To Elisandra I sent back shorter, more personal letters, asking about her health, reassuring her about mine, and expressing hope that I could see her again, somehow, soon. Into the folds of each of these letters, I sprinkled grains of nariander and stiffelbane, herbs that would lift her spirits and keep her serene. She seemed well enough, but with Elisandra, you never knew; and it was a simple thing to do and gave me great comfort.

My other correspondent this fall was a new one: Kent. He had never, in the twelve years I had visited at Auburn Castle, sent me so much as a solstice greeting when I was back at my grandmother's cottage. Indeed, the first time a letter arrived at the seamstress's house, I did not recognize the handwriting. I had to pry off the seal and turn to the signature before I could identify the author. I could not believe it when I saw Kent's name.

But the letter itself held nothing that should have sent my heart skidding so precipitously against my ribs. In fact, it was fairly short:
Corie—The carriage returned empty and the guards were all alive, so I presume you made it safely to your grandmother's cottage. There has been much chaos here, as I'm sure you can imagine. My father and I have been in endless conversation with the viceroys and their advisors as everyone looks on the prince's death as an opportunity to test and restructure old alliances. I am not used to having so many people ask my opinion, and I have been cautious about the replies that I have made, but I find that I usually have decided ideas about every topic that is brought up and I am convinced that my way is usually the most reasonable. The makings of a despot, don't you think? Nonetheless, I have mastered the art of listening with a serious, intent look upon my face. Even when I am not actually listening, I have managed to maintain the look. I expect this new trick will come in handy more and more often as the days progress.

Other than that, we are all well here. Elisandra is quiet but does not seem unhappy. I have less time to spend with her than I would like. My father, who first seemed stricken at Bryan's death, now seems revitalized by the challenge of turning me into a king. On some days I am excited, on other days a little frightened, but most of the time I am just tired. I do miss you. Kent

Not “Kentley,” I was glad to see. And he missed me. I sent him back a note even shorter than his own, but I did not say I missed him. I did not thank him for the ring. But I did dust the letter with a variety of crushed seeds, designed to endow him with wisdom and patience and strength. He would not notice the gesture, but it cheered me, and I sent the letter off with a light heart.

 

M
Y LIFE DID
not consist solely of gossipy letters recounting court intrigue. My job at the tavern perfectly suited my personal schedule, for I went in during the early evening, worked till midnight or later, than came home to read herbal books and mix up experimental potions. I went to bed sometime after three and slept till noon the next day. And I loved the tavern work. I loved the simple routine
of waiting on customers, flirting harmlessly with the men, sympathizing with the women, and bringing everybody food. When I noticed patrons who were ill or in trouble, I was not above seasoning their beer with restorative herbs, once I had managed to learn exactly what their problems were. Consequently most repeat customers were a healthy, happy lot who associated the tavern with thoughts of ease and renewal. This meant business picked up significantly with every passing week.

Darbwin, the barkeeper, noticed the trend. “Everybody likes you,” he observed late one night as we closed up. “Days you're not here, they ask about you. Days you are here, they stay longer and order more.”

“I guess you'll have to give me a raise, then,” I said, grinning. I was counting the day's take, which was substantial. Darbwin was the richest man in town.

“That or marry you,” he said. I looked up. He laughed. “No, in my experience, a good barmaid makes a lousy wife.”

I laughed. He had not had as much experience as Ordinal, it was true, but he had been married twice. His first wife had died young, the second had run off, and he had shown no inclination to replace her. Both of them, if I remembered right, had started out as his employees. “From what I hear, you're a better boss than husband,” I retorted. “So, thank you very kindly, but I think I'll just take your money.”