The Banished of Muirwood (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Lady Deorwynn

M
aia fidgeted with excitement, unable to keep from smoothing the front of her gown as she watched Pent Tower loom ever closer. The carriage wheels clacked and clattered on the rounded cobblestones, and though its progress was slowed by all the activity in the street, a mounted escort bearing the tunics of Comoros helped move things along. It had been almost four years since she had seen the castle, had been home, and her heart churned with excitement. She had mastered the language of the Pry-rians during her stay in Bridgestow and was looking forward to demonstrating her knowledge to her father. She was nearly thirteen and had grown physically as well as mentally during her long absence from her father’s court. She understood the workings of a Privy Council. She valued the advice of wise leaders and had listened diligently to their tutoring. Some of her decisions had been controversial, but her father had never countermanded her. She secretly hoped he would be proud of her accomplishments.

The time away from her mother had been difficult. Because women were not permitted to write, Maia had only received verbal messages from her mother or notes dictated to scribes and then read to her, whereas she had received various writs, commands, and notes from her father. Though, by necessity, she pretended she could not read them when others were around, she had kept several of the documents in her chests. When she was alone, she delighted in reading them and tracing the ink scribbles with her finger.

The sun crowned the keep as the carriage rumbled across the vast drawbridge, and she nearly leaped from her seat when it finally came to a halt. In the courtyard, amidst the dismounting knight-mastons who had escorted her, she saw the black cassock and wild hair of Chancellor Walraven, but he was also wearing a fur cloak that was brown and speckled with jewels, as well as the ceremonial stole of his office. He smiled as she waved through the opening of the carriage. A footman from the wall of onlookers briskly carried over a pedestal to help her descend.

“Prevaylee, pria hospia, cheru Marciana,”
the chancellor greeted her, bowing fully at the waist.

“Prevaylee, Chancellor,”
Maia replied with a deep curtsy. “If you believe I have forgotten my mother tongue, you need not fear it.”

The chancellor beamed at her with pride. “You are old enough to dance around the maypole. Look at you!” She felt her cheeks grow warm at the sight of the affection in his eyes. “You are nearly a woman grown. The reports I have from your sojourn in Pry-Ree do you credit and justice. Your lord father is proud of you, child. You must believe that. He sent me to greet you in person and escort you to him in his solar.”

“Thank you, Chancellor,” Maia replied. “I have missed seeing you.”

He smiled at the compliment and extended his arm. She smoothed her tailored gown again before taking it, and then started across the inner courtyard. As they passed, she noticed the groomsmen emerge from the shadows to take care of the mounts and unharness the carriage. She nodded to them and smiled, winning surprised looks from several of the men. She had learned in Pry-Ree that attending to even the lowliest of servants would win her great esteem and improve the diligence of the servants’ work by making them feel acknowledged.

After crossing the threshold of the keep with the chancellor, Maia’s eyes began to adjust to the dark. There were a few Leerings posted nearby to offer light, and she admired the ancient carved faces that, though pitted and worn, still showed smiling expressions. The sights and sounds of Comoros satisfied a deep hunger within her, and she longed to touch even the wooden doorposts and wainscoting. The palace was immaculately decorated, for her father was a fastidious man who tolerated nothing unkempt or slovenly. She swallowed her nerves.

“You have returned home during difficult times, Lady Maia,” the chancellor whispered to her. He was careful to pitch his voice low to prevent others from eavesdropping. “I am afraid you will soon learn of it, but let me prepare you as best I can.”

“What has happened?” Maia asked, her pulse starting to race. Nothing in the summons home that she’d received had alarmed her.

“Things happen by degrees, my lady. Such is the way of the world. Unpleasantness grows like mold on cheese. I fear that the extent of it will be startling to you. Relations between your parents have . . . deteriorated since you left for Bridgestow.”

“How so, Chancellor?”

“The castle is used to their arguments now, but it was quite shocking at first, especially when they turned on each other in the great hall. I persuaded them to refrain from arguing in public places, and they try to heed me. Child, their marriage is failing.”

Maia stopped in her tracks and stared up at the chancellor with wide eyes as sickness bloomed deep in her stomach. “What?” she whispered hoarsely.

The chancellor patted her arm and urged her to move on. Passersby had taken notice of her reaction, she realized, and the glances of sympathy she received told her they knew she was coming home to disaster.

“Come, Maia. Do not linger.”

Somehow she made her legs begin to move again. The swish of her skirts was distracting, even chafing, and she felt emotions bubbling up inside her like a kettle poised over too hot a fire.

“My parents were married by irrevocare sigil,” Maia whispered through half-clenched teeth.

“Yes, I am aware of the maston custom,” the chancellor said. “It makes this situation more painful, to be sure. Your parents have come to loathe each other. Your mother seeks to mend the rift, but your father will have none of it. He shames her publicly. His tongue is quite acid, I tell you. Steel your heart, child. You must prepare for this meeting. Do you still forswear weeping? Your father has often praised you for not weeping as other children do.”

Maia clenched her free hand into a fist, feeling the dark, terrible swirl of emotions settle in her gut. “I never cry in front of others, Chancellor. It is a sign of weakness. What will happen?”

“I have said more than I should. I wanted you to know before seeing your father. He is angry oftentimes. I know you love him. I know you will probably fear him. Stand firm, Maia. Steel your heart.”

“Thank you for warning me, Chancellor,” Maia replied, her throat thick. They mounted the steps to the solar together, moving side by side. She would have loved to run her hand over the cool stone edges of the walls; instead she clasped her stomach in an attempt to protect herself from the nausea that threatened to weaken her. Her throat was dry, but she mounted each step as if it did not take an uncommon strength of will. At the top, fragrant floor rushes awaited them, crunching under their boots with sweet scents as they trod over them toward the solar.

There was a woman in the hall ahead, pacing. As they drew closer, the woman’s head shot up to look at them. Maia recognized the woman, Lady Deorwynn of Chester Hundred. She had long golden hair, eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, and a charming smile. Maia was not quite as tall as her yet, but she recognized Lady Deorwynn as one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting. She had two daughters who were close to Maia’s age. Their names were Murer and Jolecia. Maia’s memory had always been exceptional, but she did not see either daughter nearby. Instead, there was a little boy half hidden by his mother’s skirts.

“Welcome back to Comoros, Lady Marciana,” said Lady Deorwynn sweetly. Something flashed in her eyes, a look so confusing that Maia could not, in her limited experience, interpret it. It was the look of someone who hated her but did so with a sumptuous smile. The woman flicked some of her golden hair over her shoulder and approached them, looking down her nose at Maia. “You have grown taller, I should think. My girls are taller, of course, but you do look handsome. I have always adored your eyes, Marciana. My Hundred, Chester, is so near the sea, and your eyes look like they were fashioned out of seawater. I am quite envious.” She reached out and pinched Maia’s chin, tilting her head one way and then another. The possessiveness of her touch was humiliating. Maia wanted to shove her hand away, but she felt a palpable threat coming from Lady Deorwynn’s eyes.

“Thank you, Lady Deorwynn,” Maia said.

“Mama, make her go,” said the little boy. He was barely visible from around the woman’s skirts, but she could see part of his face and . . . it made her blood run with ice.

“Do not fret, Edmon,” she replied, tousling his hair. “This is Lady Marciana returned from Pry-Ree. Our Hundred borders Pry-Ree as well. Is not she pretty?”

The little boy peered at Maia, his eyes wary and distrusting. Her throat caught at the sight of his little face. It was like staring at her father as a young boy. The shape of his nose, the same shade of sandy-brown hair. Even his eyes matched her father’s—and her own.

“How . . . old are you, little Edmon?” Maia managed, her voice faltering a little. She struggled to steel herself, willing her eyes to stay dry, her voice to harden.

He scowled at her, refusing to speak.

“The duckling is almost four,” Lady Deorwynn said, playing with his hair. Her eyes were filled with an unspoken challenge when they met Maia’s, as if she were daring her to speak what was so obvious. When she did not, she leaned over and kissed the boy lightly on the head. “He has a little brother as well,” she added like a knife thrust.

“The king is expecting to see his daughter,” Chancellor Walraven said disdainfully. “I would not like to keep him waiting.”

She gazed at the chancellor, her eyes flashing. “Of course. I would not wish to detain you. Welcome home, Marciana.” The words were innocuous, but there was venom on her breath.

Chancellor Walraven escorted her to the door of the solar. The thick oaken door had a multitude of carved squares on it, many of them offset with other squares—the maston symbols. Her heart lurched as she glanced back once at the little boy and his mother, both gazing at her with persecuting eyes.

When she entered the room, Maia saw her father pacing, hands clenched behind his back. She had always thought her father the most handsome man in all the world. He was fit and trim, with the body of a hunter and sportsman. He had the reputation of being an excellent swordsman, diplomat, and ruler. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he saw her, and a genuine smile lit his face, but there were smudges above his cheekbones, shadows that had not been there before, and a subtle fringe of gray lined the edges of his hair. He wore his hair cropped close, in the southern fashion. His smile was so handsome it melted her heart, but she could see that his delight was suffused with discomfort . . . suffering.

“Maia,” he breathed, throwing wide his arms.

She wanted to run to him, just as she had as a little girl. She wanted him to sweep her up, to soothe her with kisses and promises and dispel the awful dream that had suddenly plunged her soul into darkness.

The chancellor released her arm and she approached her father, dropping to a formal curtsy in front of him.

“What is this nonsense?” he asked, his eyes suddenly stern. “Maia, you are home! I am grateful to see you. I want your embrace, not formality. Come here!”

She choked down her feelings and came into his arms. There was a smell about him. Not the scent of cinnamon or some contrived odor. Just the smell of his skin, his breath, and she felt a surge of girlish emotions that threatened to ruin her composure. It almost made her forget her disgraced mother, and little Edmon who shared her father’s eyes. Almost.

“That is better,” he said, giving her a hearty squeeze. He held her away from him by the shoulders, gazing down at her with obvious pleasure. “You are quite beautiful, Maia, though must not all fathers think that about their daughters? Look at her, Walraven. She is a beauty.”

“She is, Your Majesty. And she has fulfilled her charge remarkably well for one so young. You could trust her with any errand. She is loyal.”

“I know,” he replied, pinching her chin just as Lady Deorwynn had done. The gesture made her flinch. He gazed at her lovingly, but there was that bit of something in his gaze . . . it smelled of guilt and shame. “I commend your tailor. What fetching colors on you. I like the style. Though you have traveled for quite some time, you arrived here neat and clean. I respect that. Tell me, Maia, are you still as sober a child as you once were? The Pry-rians can be a giddy bunch. Their ways do not seem to have changed you. I see no marks of it anyway.”

“No, Father,” she replied humbly. “I am grateful to be home. Where is Mother? I thought I would find her here with you?”

She had struck a nerve and a blow at the same time, not realizing it until it was too late. Her father flinched noticeably. “Ah yes, well . . . there is all that.” He began to pace away from her, gathering his thoughts, sorting through his words as if trying to determine the best ones to use. “Your mother is no longer here.”

Maia felt a jab of pain in her ribs. “I see.” She swallowed.

He let out a pent-up breath. “It would be best to get this said and done.” He turned and looked at her sternly again, his eyes narrowing coldly. “I have banished your mother.”