Summers at Castle Auburn (42 page)

“I meant,” I interrupted. “This marriage. Does Kent know about it? How will he take the news?”

She was silent a moment. “He might know. It is hard to tell,” she said. “He knew I was coming to see you—he knew who my escort was—and I told him I planned to marry. In some ways, I think it was a relief to him to see me go.”

“A relief! But he—but you have always been such close friends! And now—with Bryan gone—I just assumed that you and he would marry. And surely Kent assumed so, too.”

“Matthew did, I know. But Kent—I don't think Kent ever wanted to marry me.” Even in the dark, I heard the smile in her voice. “Even when he proposed to me last summer. To save me from Bryan. No, I do not think Kent will be sorry that I am gone.”

I doubted it. Nothing would convince me that the serious, kindly new prince had not always loved my sister. But that was a tangle between them, and not one I had any hope of unraveling now. Against my will, I yawned mightily.

“And Bryan's death?” I said, with all the urgency I could summon at this hour. “Matthew never asked—never wondered—”

“As far as Matthew knows, as far as anyone knows, Bryan died of a fever. Giselda never even hinted otherwise.”

“And Lord Goff? Did he recover?”

“Yes, but slowly.”

I fought to keep my eyes open. “And no one muttered the word ‘poison'?”

“No one but you.”

“But it was poison,” I said sleepily, and felt myself drifting away.

I heard her whisper, “I know.”

But she did not say how she knew.

I had even less chance to speak with Roderick, who was always off with the village men on those mysterious male pursuits—hunting, dicing, drinking, or discussing one of the three. I finally caught up with him late in the evening of his wedding day, as he was laughingly refusing a challenge to down an outsized stein of beer in one swallow.

“Beer makes a man lusty,” his new friend boasted.

Roderick chuckled. “Beer makes a man—” He saw me and obviously changed the word he was going to use. “Sleepy,” he said. “This is a night I wish to stay wide awake.”

I stepped forward and took the mug from the man's hand. “Let me,” I said, and gulped the whole thing down successfully if somewhat messily. There were cheers and catcalls all around me as I laid the mug back on the table and was unable to repress a couple of coughs. Roderick grinned and pounded me on the back.

“And to think I was ruing the fact that Elisandra had no brothers,” he said admiringly. “But who needs them when she's got you?”

I coughed once more and then looked up at him with as much dignity as I could muster. “Good. Then you understood me,” I said.

He nodded. “You're tough enough to protect her if I do her wrong.”

“Though I have to say I think you're less likely to harm her than her previous husband.”

“Far less likely,” he said dryly. He glanced down at me, hesitated, then spoke. “What nobody seems to realize is that Elisandra is tough enough to take care of herself.”

“I do realize it,” I said, “but it took me a while.”

He smiled lazily, that old familiar smile that made him so attractive. “But she seems happy now, does she not? Everyone will tell you she chose foolishly, but it's a wise girl who knows what will make her content.”

I glanced over at Elisandra, accepting a posy of dried flowers from a five-year-old village girl. She was flushed and smiling; her dark hair, which she always wore pulled back in a severe style, was loose and tumbling about her shoulders. In my refurbished gown, which was just a touch too small for her, she looked a little awkward, a little tentative, completely unsophisticated.

“Oh, yes,” I agreed softly. “She has never looked better.”

 

T
WO DAYS LATER
, the whole village turned out once more to see the newlyweds on their way. Everyone shouted and waved and tossed handfuls of rose petals at them. Indeed, I began to think even the court had not mustered so much excitement for Elisandra's first wedding. I had hugged Elisandra so often that I was afraid I would break her bones if I took her in my arms one more time, and still I did not want to let her go.

“Come to Halsing Manor,” she repeated. “As soon as you can. We'll be settled in no time. Come soon and stay as long as you like.”

“I will—soon. I will—goodbye, goodbye, goodbye—”

I watched them ride out of sight, then retired to the back of the tavern and burst into tears. Darbwin's wife found me there an hour later when she came in to begin cooking the evening meal. She offered no comments or condolences, just handed me an apron and said she thought a few of the back tables needed to be wiped down. I was grateful for her unspoken kindness and the chance at a distraction. For the rest of the day, I worked as hard as I ever had.

I was less depressed the next day and actually cheerful by week's end. After all, what was there to mourn? Elisandra was happy and I could see her whenever I wished. She was not married to the man I had expected to see her wed, but perhaps she had chosen for herself more wisely than I would have chosen for her. She was, as Roderick had pointed out, very well able to care for herself.

Villagers were still talking about the event, as I assumed they would until the world itself came to an end. Even Darbwin, harder than most to overawe, would now and then make some reference to the wedding and its participants.

“Nice young man, that Roderick,” he said more than once. And now and then: “Very open, for such a noble lady. Very friendly. We'd all have a higher opinion of the gentry if the rest of them behaved so well.” And once, toward the end of that week: “So, it'll be your turn next, will it?”

I had not been listening closely. It was late, and I was counting receipts, and I was tired. “My turn for what?” I asked absently.

“To wed.”

That did catch my attention. I looked up at him in surprise. “Who exactly do you think I would be marrying?”

Darbwin shrugged. He was sitting across the table from me, checking inventory logs. “I suppose you're the one who'd know the answer to that. But that nice young man, he said you had a beau yourself.”

“
Roderick
said that? What beau?”

“Well, he wasn't rude enough to name names,” Darbwin said with an assumption of hurt dignity. As if he hadn't pried for every bit of information he could get. “He just said I'd best be looking for a new barmaid because he thought you'd be marrying soon.”

I could not for the life of me guess who Roderick thought I would be pairing up with. Shorro, perhaps, with whom he had seen me dance at Cloate's wedding? Ordinal of Wirsten? Surely he realized I had put myself beyond the pale of the gentry by releasing all the aliora into the wild. Or maybe it was that romantic streak that a wedding seemed to wake in all people, and he merely desired to see me as happy as he undoubtedly was himself.

I went back to my receipts and tallied up numbers again. “I don't think you'll have to worry about it,” I said shortly. “I see myself staying here for a long time.”

The next few weeks passed in a swift blur of work, sunshine, and easy contentment. The only exciting word that spread throughout the provinces was news of King Kentley's approaching coronation. I could imagine the feasts and jousts and balls that would be held to commemorate this grand event. I was just a little sorry that I would not be there to witness it. (Banned for life from the castle. No chance of sneaking back for this.) I debated sending Kent a small gift of congratulations, then decided against it, then changed my mind. I bought a small silver incense ball from a peddlar and filled it with a compilation of herbs. Luck, courage, wisdom, patience, mercy. Bryan had had none of these. I sewed a purple velvet bag to hold it, and covered the bag with gold thread and silver lace. Then I boxed the whole thing up and sent it to him anonymously. Perhaps I needed an herbal dose of courage for myself.

Descriptions of the coronation filtered back to us in the usual way, through the stories of merchants, soldiers, and other travelers. I, of course, waited impatiently for Angela's letter, which would give me the truest and most interesting account of the proceedings. It came five days after the new king was crowned.

Kent looked
quite
splendid, much more regal than I'd ever thought he could look, though he frowned through the whole ceremony as if he were imagining the direst circumstances. Now, if
I'd
just been crowned queen, I would have been laughing and dancing and blowing kisses, I would be so happy. But Kent does not show much lightheartedness these days. Matthew stood beside him and looked so smug that I wanted to hit him, but, of course, I did not. Oh, and the funniest thing! Greta was not treated at all
as a member of the royal family, but relegated to a seat in the back of the chapel, just like any visiting noblewoman. But I think that was Matthew's doing, not Kent's, for Kent made a point of speaking with her ten whole minutes at the reception afterward. That was more time than he gave to anyone, even Megan. . . .

Who
nobody
could help noticing, because she was dressed in the brightest yellow gown trimmed with violets. Everyone stared at her anytime she crossed the room. Marian said the color looked hideous on her. But
I
think she wore it as a foil for Kent, who dressed in royal purple and gold—and indeed, when they stood side by side or when they danced (
which
they did three times that night) they made quite a striking combination. . . .

Oh, I could not read such letters, could not learn such news. I folded the pages tightly together and promised myself I would finish the letter in the morning. But I did not. I left it in the drawer and told myself I had forgotten it.

 

T
WO WEEKS AFTER
the coronation we had a spring fete in the village—an affair I had always missed, since I had always, by this time, been on my way to Castle Auburn. It was a grand market as much as a celebration of the season. Dozens of villagers rented stalls for selling cakes and pies and needlework, and peddlars came from miles around to vend their wares. Milette and my grandmother set up a booth on the village square and sold potions, and my landlady made a small fortune off the lacework she'd made during the long dark winter nights.

At the tavern, we were absolutely swamped with business, and Darbwin hired two more girls to work on a temporary basis. They were pretty but stupid, and spent more time flirting than waiting on customers. Both Darbwin's wife and I wanted to wring their long, thin necks.

“And that one girl—the blond one—oh, I could slap her senseless,” Darbwin's wife muttered to me as we passed each other in the kitchen.

“Too late,” I said.

She laughed tiredly. “Well, she's supposed to be waiting on the back tables
and
the booths. But there's a new customer at the last booth, and I know she hasn't said a word to him. So, could you—”

I picked up my damp rag so I could wipe down the table. “Right away,” I said, and headed back out into the warm, noisy, cheerful bar. I dodged past outflung arms and answered greetings and made my way as quickly as I could to the final booth in the back of the tavern, where a lone man sat studying his menu.

“Sorry to take so long, sir, we've been busy,” I said, cleaning the crumbs from the table. “What will you have? The cider's the best in the eight provinces and the stew is better than your own mother makes, though we're running low. However, the chicken pie is excellent.”

“Stew, if you've got it,” he said, in Kent's voice. “But I've no objection to pie.”

I dropped my rag and stared at him. Kent grinned back at me. He was dressed in plain dark clothes—though finer than you'd see on the backs of most yeoman this far into the country—and he appeared perfectly at ease. His face seemed thinner—etched with finer lines and much older than one year should have made it—but he did not, at this moment, look particularly burdened by care. In fact, he was smiling at me quite broadly.

“And a glass of cider,” he added. “I'd like to try the best in all the kingdom.”

My knees would not hold me and so, even though one should not sit uninvited in the presence of the king, I dropped into the seat across from him. “What are
you
doing here?” I demanded.

“Looking for you.”

“But you—but why—but how did you
find
me?” was my next fabulously intelligent question.

He seemed amused. “I've been writing you letters for almost a year, or hadn't you noticed? I knew your address. And I had your map.”

Which made no sense. “My map?” I repeated.

He reached into a pocket of his dark coat and pulled out a
much-folded and antique drawing of the road from Castle Auburn to Southey Village in Cotteswold. I felt my face burn with mortification.

“I was fourteen when I drew that,” I said.

He carefully refolded it and slipped it back into his pocket. “I know. I've kept it all this time, thinking someday it might prove useful. And you see, it has.”