The Black Prince: Part I (50 page)

She parted the curtain slightly with a single hand, staring out into the world without seeing it.

And then they arrived.

The cemetery was a good enough size, and square, bounded on all sides by a low stone wall. There was a small chapel, a Northern architect’s attempt at recreating something of the South. Its gray stone was bleak against the gray sky. There were a few headstones close to it, some cut from the same stone but mostly made from wood.

A thin dusting of green covered the mud, and peeked out from the still remaining snow drifts. Isla found herself thinking that was surprised that the ground had thawed enough for her father to be buried. She’d found herself thinking a number of strange things, this morning. While thinking, all the while, that she’d rather be somewhere else and hating herself for that.

She felt Tristan’s arm around her.

The priest waited for them under a small tent, which had been erected for the purpose. Isla heard Rowena’s voice, ringing out. Softly, slowly, the mist around them began to gather into rain.

Rowena followed Callas, who was garbed in his formal robes, over to where they were standing. Isla wished that Callas could perform the service. At least he was someone she knew. But Callas himself was barely welcome here, a representative of gods that the church considered devils.

Still, he was resplendent in all black and gathered an aura of power to him, simply by standing there beside her, that the priest did not have. The priest who glared at Callas from under his bushy brows. He was a short, squat man, a Southerner by both coloring and attitude. Isla wondered how he’d ended up here.

Rowena certainly thought Callas was handsome, smiling up at him as though they were at a feast.

He looked down at her. He was a good head taller, and broad-shouldered. Just the sort of figure she read about in her stories, with his black-gloved hands and his sword at his side. Piercing eyes, a strong jaw, and an aquiline nose. That was what they all had, the princes of fairy tales. Wasn’t it?

“Are you cold?” he asked, as though attempting to discern the reason for her interest.

“Oh.” She giggled. “Only a little.”

But instead of offering her his cloak, as she’d no doubt intended, the sorcerer only returned to studying the pit.

The coffin was unloaded, and brought forth. Again by guardsmen. Because even had he died on his native soil, the earl had had no friends.

The priest began.

The droplets intensified into steady rain.

The priest droned on, with no particular feeling, about how some famous bishop in the church had decreed that all men be buried so that their heads lay to the west and their feet to the east and how this was right and good and in accordance with the Mediator’s teachings. “For thus,” he explained in that same dull tone, “does he pray by his very position that the sun might rise and all life begin again, in accordance with the will of the church.”

Looking around, Isla saw that the markers had been laid in a circle around the church. Her father had no marker yet, although one would be carved in time. And eventually that marker would fall, and be removed, a new hole dug and her father’s resting place reused. Because by then, everyone who’d remembered that he’d ever lived would be dead.

And there were always more dead to bury.

Now the priest was giving thanks for the Mediator’s victory over sin and death, a victory of which Isla could see no sign. She was surrounded on all sides by both. The priest reminded them, moreover, that the true purpose of a funeral wasn’t to grieve therefore but to give thanks. If comfort was needed, then comfort should be taken from the proclamation of the great mystery that was the union of the Gods with the Mediator and of His central purpose to the lives of all things.

Her father’s body was lifted from the coffin and placed into the earth.

Moments later, the first shovelful landed.

T
he Hamels’ oldest son was getting married and he and his new bride would, after the ceremony, be moving back in with them until such time as they could complete work on their own house. It would be small, at first, just a central wing that could be added onto in time. Growing along with their family, and their wealth. As his parents’ house had done.

Master Hamel’s gift to them had been the land. Thomasina’s was linens, and Lissa had been helping her with them for days. Being drafted into the project had made her happy; she liked feeling useful. And she enjoyed the work, too. Thomasina claimed that her hands, as small as they were, were perfect for the fine work of embroidering pillowcases.

At the moment, Lissa was on her third. This one featured a repeating pattern of curls, gold on cream. Next, she thought she might try her hand at the purse design that Thomasina had been urging on her. A pretty little thing, for a lady to carry.

She hadn’t met the girl yet, but would that evening. Liam was bringing her over for dinner. And Thomasina had insisted, in no uncertain terms, that Lissa attend. Lissa had, heretofore, avoided these sorts of events. Assuming, as she considered only rational, that she’d be unwelcome. She wasn’t a member of the family, after all; she occupied the Hamels’ guest quarters on sufferance. And she was a whore, besides. But Thomasina had disabused her of that notion, and a bit forcibly, after the truth had finally come out. Which it had, after Thomasina had demanded to know why Lissa was keeping to her bed like an invalid and was it because Hart had said something mean to her.

Because if he had, Thomasina had continued, her voice firm, she’d grown up on a farm. She knew how to castrate things. Lissa, in turn, had immediately begun to sob.

Which had led to the realization that, as Thomasina had put it, certain things were better aired in the open.

From that afternoon forward, Lissa had been a required presence at all family meals.

Hart had been gone now for mere weeks, but it felt like an eternity. Sitting in the window seat as she was, for the sunlight, she couldn’t help but glance up now and then at the road. As though she’d see him approaching. Once or twice, particularly over the past few days, she could have almost sworn she had. For a fraction of a heartbeat, each time, and then she’d realized that, no, that man was too short. Or that horse dun, instead of black. Or of course he wasn’t here, he couldn’t be.

She didn’t dare tell Thomasina of these visions, for fear of what she’d hear they meant. For fear of seeing pity in the other woman’s eyes. In her village, growing up, these kinds of spectral glimpses portended death. She didn’t know if, in the educated world of Barghast, they meant the same and didn’t want to know.

She thought she could face anything—with him. But the one thing she could not face was life without him. Not now. Not after knowing what it was like, finally, after all this time, to be wanted. To be loved.

She sighed.

“What?” Thomasina looked up. “You seem pale. Out of sorts. You’re not with child, are you?”

Lissa shook her head.

“Too bad. And now he’s gone. And that,” she added, “is not the kind of thing you can surprise a man with while he’s at war. Not like a nice new bed, or pretty serving girls.” She laughed at her own joke, and went back to sewing.

Lissa did the same.

Tad was playing stick ball with two friends of his in the front courtyard.

“Men are never around when we need them, always around when we don’t.”

Lissa looked up. “How…should I introduce myself?”

Thomasina put down her own project, a sheet that she was edging. “Well first,” she replied, “you are a lady. Master Hamel will do the introducing for you. You are our foster daughter, and as your—betrothed, I suppose we should call him, until he presents us with another and more suitable title—is off fighting for the king you’re staying with us. Which is as it should be,” she continued, “it’s really not suitable for a woman to live on her own. Not because she can’t, you understand,” Thomasina said, waving her needle for emphasis, “but because too many others can’t abide that she can.”

It took Lissa a minute to work that out.

“We can’t call him your lover. That implies a lack of permanence. And you may come to be glad, in time, that he’s not your husband. A married woman lacks the same freedoms.”

Thomasina continued to debate the topic of semantics with herself, but Lissa was no longer listening.

“I’ve only met the girl once myself….” Thomasina had changed topic again, and was back to sewing. “Her father is a miller. Liam apparently met her way back at the harvest festival, and has been wooing her ever since. Although he certainly didn’t tell us. Parents are always the last to know. And, speaking of which, are you
certain
you’re not with child?”

Lissa was certain.

“You seem so pale. Perhaps you need more meat. Or a blood tonic; I can send Master Hamel to the butcher for some boar’s blood, and brew it with raisins.”

Which sounded absolutely vile. Thomasina, after many years of marriage, still referred to her husband as Master Hamel. Not just to Lissa. To everyone. And she was always, too, dreaming up new and exciting errands for him to undertake. Like fetching the ingredients for any one of her numerous home-brewed remedies. Elderberry syrup suspended in wine for colds, heather boiled in water to cure a headache, nettles mixed with the white of an egg to cure insomnia. Lissa was fairly certain that that last one worked because eight or so hours of feigning sleep was preferable to eating nettles—with anything.

Powdered almonds, again mixed with egg whites, apparently also lightened freckles. Which Lissa didn’t have and which Thomasina was always warning her not to get. Why, Lissa didn’t know. Thomasina’s beauty advice, of which there was volumes, also included gaining weight—for Lissa, at least—and to eat plenty of eggs, whites and otherwise, as these generated lust. But to avoid cucumbers, as they dampened it. And also to apply poultices of violets to one’s lady parts.

She wondered if Thomasina’s future daughter in law knew about the blood tonic. And if she should tell her about it. Or if, rather, she’d prefer a surprise.

“Chickpeas treat impotence, you know.”

“Oh.” She turned. “Is Liam impotent?”

Thomasina burst out laughing.

Tad shouted a greeting. Lissa’s heart skipped a beat. There was someone at the gate.

Tall. Blond. Broad-shouldered.

But not Hart.

“He’s coming back, you know. Men like him always do. They’re too miserable to die.”

Tad accepted a package, and ran back toward the house. Moments later, he stood in the door. “Lissa! Lissa! You got a present!”

“Well go on then, give it to her.”

Tad brought it over, handed it to her, and stood there. Waiting for her to open it. Thomasina joined them. Lissa looked up. “Who brought it?” Who was it from? What was it?

“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” Tad offered.

Lissa smiled slightly. The box was simply but beautifully made from pieces of walnut bound at the corners by exposed finger joints. A high polish brought out the swirls and whorls in the wood. It even smelled pleasant, of beeswax and that strange, low, forest scent that cut walnut seemed to give off.

“Well,” Tad pushed, “aren’t you going to open it?”

“Girls don’t get presents every day,” his mother informed him in a mock-stern tone. “Even though they should. Let her take her time.”

But Lissa was curious, too. Carefully, she lifted the lid off the box. Inside, it was divided up into twelve thin sections. And each of those sections held a knife.

She held one aloft. An eating knife, the blade forged from the highest quality steel. Its folds upon folds shimmered in the light. But the handle was the true glory: carved from ivory, with an etched pattern near the rounded base of their two initials intertwined. Hers and Hart’s. The thin, trailing letters, which had undoubtedly been designed and executed by a master, had been rubbed with ink.

And this miracle of artistry had been replicated twelve times. Perfectly. Exactly.

“How lovely,” Thomasina exclaimed.

There was a note, too. A piece of paper, folded and sealed. With a wax, and a ring, that Lissa recognized. Her heart beat faster.

“There’s a note!” Tad cried, echoing her own thoughts. “And you can read that now!”

The pride in his voice was evident.

She broke the seal. There was only one line, but she recognized Hart’s strong hand. The same hand that had purchased her and then, later, purchased her freedom.

Master Bonel sends his regards. With love. H.

“Who is Master Bonel?” Tad wondered aloud.

“He must be the craftsman. Lissa, is this someone you know?”

But Lissa only smiled.

THE END OF BOOK THREE: PART I

The story continues in the SECOND HALF of BOOK THREE of
The Black Prince Trilogy
, THE BLACK PRINCE: PART II. Look for
The Black Prince: Part II
, available NOW from Evil Toad Press. In the meantime, P.J. Fox welcomes visitors to her website, pjfoxwrites.com, and her Facebook page, facebook.com/pjfoxwrites, where they can learn the latest updates on her characters as well as on what she herself is doing (and writing). She encourages fans to contact her, and welcomes questions and comments of all kinds.