The Black Prince: Part I (38 page)

T
he guests stood as the bride and groom departed the chapel. The happy couple would pause just outside the door to greet those same guests as they exited, and then follow them to the feast. Isla and Tristan would arrive last, thus saving any dawdlers from the faux pas of coming in after them.

“I thought that was quite romantic,” Hart said, before taking his leave and vanishing into the milling crowd.

“You would,” Isla mouthed to herself.

“I liked the part about the curse.” This from Asher.

The priestess came forward and bowed low before Isla and Tristan.

Tristan nodded the barest fraction in response. “Thank you for your service. You may rise.”

“I’m certain,” Isla added, “that Rowena is pleased.”

“The service was quite nontraditional.”

“Oh?”

“Usually, supplicants within my sect marry unclothed.”

“That would have been an improvement for Rudolph.” The words were out before Isla could stop them.

“You are joining us for the feast?” Tristan inquired.

“I would be honored.”

That a priestess dined with her supplicants was tradition. She had, in performing the ritual, done them all a great service. Now that Isla had the chance to study her up close, she saw that this priestess was indeed a beautiful woman. And not as old as Isla had first assumed. She merely had a gravity about her that, when experienced from a distance, gave her the impression of age. But, in truth, she looked to have only a handful of winters on Isla. Tall and lithe, she had an energy about her that spoke of strength both physical and mental. The sort of person that, in another life, Isla would have chosen for a friend.

She found herself thinking, uncomfortably, of Cariad.

Hart reappeared beside Isla and, seeing him, the priestess’ eyes widened. Her bow to him was, if anything, deeper than that she’d given to Tristan. “Lord.”

Hart was no lord yet, but there was talk of that changing.

“Mystical one. You may dine with me, if you wish.”

“I would be honored.” The priestess still hadn’t raised her eyes.

Tristan offered his arm to Isla. “Shall we?”

She slipped her fingers into the crook of his elbow. Her husband, her lover. She felt the pull of his presence as much as she had that first night, and the nights thereafter that had begun their courtship. Before she’d admitted, even to herself, that she was falling in love.

“You,” Tristan told her, in a voice pitched for her alone, “are mine.”

“For which I’m grateful.”

“Had I married your sister, she would be dead right now. And then I would have returned for you regardless.” He stroked a single claw along her chin, his lips near hers and his dark gaze laden with promise, before straightening and leading her out into the sunlight.

Seeing Isla, Rowena forced a smile back onto her face.

“Felicitations,” came Tristan’s sibilant hiss.

“Where is Apple?”

“She chose to remain with father.” Who was too ill to attend.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Rudolph, at least, was not so rude as to ignore their host and patron. “We are grateful for your assistance in helping us wed.”

“If we
are
wed.”

“I, ah, yes well.” Rudolph subsided into silence.

“Oh,” Tristan’s voice held a dangerous tone. “You are.”

Rudolph cleared his throat. “Well. Excellent then.” He turned to Isla, as if for assistance. “How does the line go? The truest expression of man’s keenest desire.”

“Is stoking the flames of her womanly fire,” Hart finished. “A bit inappropriate, don’t you think? I’m not certain that now is the time to proposition my sister, given that her husband is beside her.”

Rudolph paled. Hart was teasing him, but Rudolph didn’t know that. And Hart’s teasing, besides, was never wholly innocent. He played with his companions like Mica played with mice. And both sessions often ended similarly.

“Isla is otherwise occupied.” Tristan stroked her arm as he studied the unfortunate bridegroom. “I, on the other hand, would be pleased to initiate you. Just know that I insist on being on top.”

Hart threw back his head and laughed. Isla thought Rudolph might dissolve into tears. Only Rowena, the true target, remained unaffected. She stood with her chin tilted, as though demonstrating just how she looked down on all of them. She and Rudolph were not touching. Hadn’t touched, throughout the ceremony, except when forced. What an auspicious start to a marriage. Although, giving them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps they were just nervous. Rowena, at least, had never so much as kissed a man, despite pretending to expert knowledge on the subject of relationships.

“Please.” Tristan’s gesture was elegant. “Lead us into the feast.”

Isla leaned against Tristan as they walked, grateful for his presence. Asher darted off the wide cobblestone path, newfound dignity temporarily forgotten as he tried to catch a cat. “He has his father’s instincts,” she remarked.

“I believe he…intends to keep it as a pet.”

And then the sun was gone as they were swallowed by the great shadows cast by the keep.

Isla shivered, but whether from the cold or a dark premonition, she did not know.

Inside, however, the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different: a thousand candles blazed, lighting up the great hall like Bragi’s own. Tables had been laid out, enough for all the guests and more, and already groaned under the weight of numerous dishes and tankards of ale. Minstrels played in the gallery, although no one paid attention. The focus was on food, and drink, and laughter. And, now, on the arrival of the duke.

All stood.

Tristan, Isla at his side, seemed to hover over the slate rather than truly walk upon it. Ascending to the principal dais, he helped Isla to sit and then took his place in the great throne. A throne he’d only vacate for his brother, the king. He waited until Asher was ensconced, and the other guests at his table, before raising his hand slightly and motioning that the other guests could sit.

Rowena looked right, and then left, as though surprised.

“Yes, my turtledove?” She and Rudolph were sharing a plate, although no food was yet on it.

She turned to him. “Shouldn’t that have been
our
job?”

“What do you mean?”

“We are the guests of honor.”

Rowena’s tablemates wisely let that remark pass. Quinn was telling some story about his betrothed, a woman he clearly adored if the look on his face when he spoke her name was any indicator, and Arvid was very thoroughly investigating the contents of his tankard.

“Where is the mead?”

“What?” Rudolph looked concerned. More concerned than he had a right to.

“Mead makes babies! Every newlywed couple should share a cup, at least one, at dinner for the first full moon after they’re wed. Although,” he added, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and turning his gaze to Isla, “the mead in this home seems not to work.”

Isla blushed furiously.

“When are you having babies?” As though the subject of his concern needed clarification.

“Soon.” This from Tristan.

Well, that was good to know.

“Is an announcement forthcoming?”

“Not at another man’s wedding.”

“Well I know
they’re
not having babies.” Arvid jabbed his thumb at the newlyweds.

Rowena looked scandalized. “Certainly not!”

“You have to have sex to make babies.” Arvid made a helpfully illustrative gesture.

“Yes,” Isla agreed. “Thank you, Arvid.”

“When Sigrid and I—”

“Perhaps,” Hart cut in, “you’d like to give a toast.”

Arvid waved his tankard about for more ale. “Here’s to the king!” He slurped a long draught. “What king? The king of fuc-king!” And then he burped, a serene look on his face.

Isla sighed. “Oh dear.”

“Where is the mulled wine?” Rowena asked.

“It’s a morning wedding.”

“And where is the capon in orange sauce? And where is the malardis?”

But everyone ignored her. Isla wasn’t as easily confused with a maid anymore, at least not to anyone save Rowena, and Asher was the duke’s heir. Hart was deep in conversation with the priestess. Rudolph alone seemed interested in Rowena’s concerns and he she ignored entirely. He served various bites onto their plate and urged her to try them, while she ceaselessly complained that every dish was offered to Tristan first.

“Congratulations.” This from the chief of the mason’s guild, who was perhaps attempting to make up for Arvid’s…unusual offering. “You’re joining a fine family.”

Rowena preened, until she realized that the compliment was directed at Rudolph.

“It’s not every man, who can claim kinship with the king.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Rowena looked at Hart, at Isla. “That’s all anyone said outside, congratulations on being related to the king. Blah, blah, blah. Not a single person congratulated
me
on being married to Rudolph.”

“He is….” The older man was struggling. “I’m sure a fine specimen.”

“He’s very important!”

Quinn cut in, addressing Rudolph. “You are related to someone?”

“I, ah…no, not especially.”

“He’s the son of the Right Honorable the Lord Addams, Baron of Keith.”

Everyone heard the capitals.

“Ah. And where is Keith?”

“Keith,” Isla offered, “is in the Highlands. Keith pays homage to Strathearn.”

“But doesn’t Strathearn,” Quinn asked, “pay homage to Enzie?”

“I think it’s wonderful how, in these modern times, youngsters aren’t so hidebound by convention.” The guild master smiled. “In my time, rare was the woman who felt comfortable marrying her servant. Fear of talk, you know. That she’d forced him into it.”

“No,” Rowena grated, “it does not.”

The company might have left something to be desired but the food itself, despite missing a number of dishes found only within the upper echelons of the Chadian court and rarely even then, was delicious. Isla even managed to eat some. Beside her, Tristan was cool and serene. What were Rowena’s antics to him? That she existed on his sufferance and yet seemed so blissfully unaware of that fact seemed only to amuse him.

“Fear not, darling,” he whispered in her ear. “Nothing lasts forever.”

I
sla stood alone, again, in the darkness.

She was watching Hart.

She’d melted into the shadows of the garden and he didn’t see her, standing on the gravel path mere paces distant. His attention was elsewhere. On a woman. The priestess.

They’d enjoyed each other’s company at dinner; that he’d wanted her had been obvious and seeing such blatant desire in her own brother’s eyes had made Isla feel uncomfortable. Although why, she couldn’t have said. She knew perfectly well that he was no virgin.

“I want to worship you, dark one.” Her words were breathless, and sincere.

Hart’s response, in turn, was measured. “We worship the same God, and I would not have you blaspheme Him for my cause.” There was silence. And then, “lady, my heart belongs to another, wholly and completely. She will never share ownership. I would not ask that of her, even had I more to give. But my body, tonight, is free to your usage.”

“That proposition, I accept.”

Isla felt a cold hand on the back of her neck and jumped.

Tristan.

He, too, was watching the couple.

Isla had known that there must be a woman, but still it was strange to hear him speak of her. She wondered who the woman was. The daughter of a merchant, maybe; someone whose father wouldn’t smile on the match. Or a woman already married. If so, she wouldn’t be the first. Still, Isla hoped for Hart’s sake that that wasn’t the case.

She watched them disappear into the night together.

“Your brother has chosen his path.” Tristan’s voice was the rustling of leaves across stone. Dry and dead. A sound to make one think of tombs and other empty places. Empty, and yet not. “Just as I chose mine.”

But was he happy?
Happy
meant nothing to Tristan. Nor, Isla suspected, to Hart. Had it ever? How well had she ever known her brother?

“You are not,” came her husband’s sibilant hiss, “his keeper. Nor your sister’s.”

No, but a lifetime of being told that she was responsible for others’ happiness was hard to just ignore. She started to explain this, but he stopped her with a kiss. His lips were cool. Firm. His touch assured. She felt the old fire stir within her, along with a continual amazement that this creature should be hers. Should want her, above all others.

“Come with me.”

And she did.

The tension built within her as he led her deeper into the woods. She hadn’t been down this path before, and knew only that eventually they’d reach the cliffs. The island on which the castle was built was larger, substantially larger, than it appeared and there were hidden pockets all over. The mouths of Caer Addanc’s escape tunnels, too. Or so the rumor went.

No words passed between them.

Eventually, they stood in what Isla at first mistook for a circle of small hills. And then realized, with a shiver, were barrows. Stone fronted the entrances to a dozen caves. Some were in better repair than others; some had their doors missing while others were collapsing back into the earth. There was a presence about the place, as though even the trees were holding their collective breath.