Voice Of The Demon (Book 2) (20 page)

‘By the gods, why aren’t you here when I need you?’ he moaned into the silent night. ‘Why did you force me to stand against you? Why won’t you swallow your damned pride and come back to Marsay?’

But there was no answer in the darkness. Just an empty silence.

He’d said he wouldn’t return. He’d stood downstairs in the council chamber and told Selar that he would never come back to Marsay. And then he’d gone.

Selar hadn’t stopped him. Selar hadn’t believed him. But he should have known. Robert never made a vow he didn’t intend to keep.

Then, one after another, the years had gone by and even though he was back in the country, he made no attempt to come to court – even unofficially. Was his condemnation so great that he could not even bring himself to look upon his old friend? Or was it something else? Fear, perhaps.

No. Not that. If only it had been that – but Robert had never been afraid of Selar. Not even afraid of his power, the
power he wielded over the country Robert loved so deeply. The country he’d sold his honour to serve.

And there’d been no fear in his eyes on the bloody field of Seluth in the aftermath of the battle. Just a moment of surprise as he recognized the man he’d dragged from the river only hours before. He’d stood there, bloody and exhausted, beside the body of his father. Surrounded by the last of his Dunlorn men, Sir Owen Fitzallen crouched at his feet, seriously wounded. Sir Alexander Deverin, massively tall and solid, stood just behind him. Robert had held his father’s sword in his hand, still covered in gore from the fighting.

Selar had said nothing – but those green eyes still gazed at him steadily, waiting for the victor to move first. Then, abruptly, as though the idea had just occurred to him, Robert moved forward, landing on his knee before Selar. Without breaking the gaze, he lifted up the sword and offered it hilt-first to Selar. A surrender of sorts. By every movement, every defiant line of his body, Robert Douglas, newly made Earl of Dunlorn, had offered up his sword like a man who expected execution.

It was the greatest of double-bluffs. Selar couldn’t execute this young man, this boy of fifteen or so – not after he’d saved Selar’s life in the river.

And the boy knew it.

So he’d sent them away. Had Robert and his men escorted back to Dunlorn. Kept Robert prisoner for two years until he decided what to do with him.

Perhaps Selar should have executed him after all. Then he would have had no idea what it felt like not to be alone.

A knock on the door shattered Selar’s memories. He glanced up briefly to find Forb’ez bringing bottles of wine into the room. He placed them down on the table and left. Selar stared at the wine for a long time, then, feeling ancient and overused, he got to his feet and picked up the first bottle.

*

It was the voices in the hall outside that first warned Rosalind. Before she could even get out of bed, there was a crash, breaking glass and a deafening bellow. She threw the
covers back and jumped out on to the wooden floor. At that moment, the door banged open and Selar stood there, his eyes glazed, his shirt askew and stained with wine. Behind him stood two guards. He waved his hand, sending them away, then kicked the door shut, his eyes burning into Rosalind.

‘Good evening, madam.’ Selar lurched into the room, banging against the small table by the door. He looked at it, then swung his hand and sent it flying.

Rosalind flinched and took a step back.

‘What’s wrong, wife?’ Selar spat contemptuously. ‘You’re not afraid of me too, are you? I would have thought such a feeling beneath your mighty pride.’

Rosalind didn’t dare answer. Instead, she kept her ground and watched him warily.

‘What are you standing there for? Fetch me some wine, woman!’

Wine, yes. Give him more wine and with luck, he might just collapse and sleep it off. Rosalind grabbed the nearest flask and held it out. He snatched it and took a deep draught. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and took another step towards her. His eyes running up and down her nightgown, he sneered and said, ‘Where’s your sister?’

‘In bed, my lord.’ Rosalind tried to keep her voice steady, but it was impossible. A trembling began at her knees, worked its way up to her hands, her throat.

‘Is she alone?’ Selar leered, then burst out laughing. ‘Your family are all the same. So high and mighty. So bloody proud of your pathetic history, and what have you got left, eh? Your brother, the puling Duke, thin and weedy, a weakling if ever I saw one. Then his lovely twin, your dear sister Samah, destined for the Church – or so she thinks.’

Rosalind stepped back as Selar came around the bed, sat on the side.

‘You won’t even ask what I mean, will you?’ Selar swallowed more wine and belched. ‘You should. Yes, the sweet sister, Samah. I would have taken her myself, but I have other plans for her.’

‘Plans, my lord?’ The trembling was worse now, much worse.

‘She thinks to leave us soon to take her final vows, doesn’t she? Well, I have to tell you, dear wife, that I have requested Bishop Brome for a dispensation of her postulate’s vows so that she might marry.’

‘What . . .’

Selar snapped to his feet. ‘Don’t whine, woman! Do you think I can allow her to bury herself in a nunnery? She’s the sister of the Queen, aunt to my heir. She’s far too valuable for me to let her run off like that. With beauty like hers I can buy the loyalty of a whole army. Just be glad I’m buying the loyalty of one man only. He will marry her right and proper, be sure of it. I should think you’d be pleased, having her around more. But no, you aren’t pleased, are you?’

‘My lord, please, do not do this?’

‘It’s already done. She marries Eachern in a fortnight.’ Selar waved his hands, dismissing the subject completely.

Rosalind fell to her knees, reached out her hands. ‘Sire, I beg you. My sister has a vocation, she has been called to the gods. She must marry no mortal man. You must not force her—’

‘I can do whatever I like, and damn the gods!’ He swept up his arm and pushed her away. ‘Look at you, weak and snivelling. Just like this hopeless country of yours. You lie there weeping and wailing and do nothing!’

‘What can I do, my lord?’

But he wasn’t finished. He threw the flask to one side and fell to his knees in front of her, his face coming close to hers. ‘Nothing. That’s your lot in life. To do nothing. It’s all you’re good for. Serin’s blood, I only married you to get an heir. Then you give me nothing but a girl! What use have I for a girl? Two years I had to wait for my son. Two years! But what blood has he in him, eh? A weak, snivelling pathetic mother from a weak, snivelling pathetic family. Why, even your father was quick to be rid of you. But I have your measure, madam. I saw the way you cosseted my boy during Blair’s execution. You would have him just as weak, to do your bidding, not mine. You would have him be kind and
generous and sweet to your carping, mindless country. But you’re wrong. Very wrong indeed.’

Rosalind lifted her head, afraid to look at him. Instead, he snatched her hands, dragged her upright. Frozen with fear, she now could not take her eyes from his face.

Selar nodded slowly, a smile ugly and vicious growing. ‘You don’t think I know, do you? Young George? His attentions to you? My cousin treats you like a lady, panders to your sense of nobility. Makes you feel like you’re worth your crown. Yes, I know all about it. But he wouldn’t touch you, would he? No, no real courage in that one. But then, he didn’t have my father to help in his education.’

Words, forced, urgent, desperate came out of her mouth. ‘No! My lord, your father was—’

‘Wrong? Hell, I know that!’ Selar spat, dragging her closer to him so she could smell his breath, his sweat. ‘My father was a monster. All my life he made me believe I was his favourite. My sickly brother Tirone looked like he wouldn’t survive, so for twenty years my father taught me, trained me, put me through all the trials of a warrior until I was fit enough to succeed him. And then, Tirone began to grow stronger – and I was dropped, just like that. Dropped as though I was worthless. It didn’t matter that Tirone wasn’t fit enough to rule Mayenne, it didn’t matter that his arms were barely strong enough to hold a sword. It didn’t matter that he knew nothing of battle tactics, of diplomacy, of history. No. All that mattered was that he was the oldest and he would become King. I was relegated to the background. My father, successful teacher in the end, had made me in his own image. Ruthless, ambitious, determined. Such wonderful gifts for a son to have of his father. Who could ask for more? Me. And what I wanted was the crown. A crown that was my due.’

He stared at her for a moment then shook her, like a doll. ‘Don’t look at me like that, wife! I mean to do it and you’ll not stop me. I will have that crown from my brother if it costs me my life! And I’ll give it to my son. Yes, the son you gave me in all your innocence. Do you think I give a damn about your pathetic country? You must have known that I
only wanted her armies, her riches, in order to take back what was rightfully mine. Don’t look so shocked. You’ve known it all along, tried to thwart me at every turn. But no more.’

Rosalind pulled against his grip. ‘My lord, I’ve done nothing to harm you! I have done all you have bidden, given you two children of whom you can be proud.’

‘You’ve given me a girl I can only marry off and a boy you would coddle and protect. I had thought to get rid of the girl at the end of the year. I’ve already arranged her betrothal. Now I think she’ll go at the end of the month. Yes. Out of your reach, madam.’

‘No, Sire . . .’ Tears streamed down Rosalind’s face, her throat constricted so she could hardly breathe. His grip on her hands tightened as his smile grew.

‘And as for my son? He’ll move out of your nursery. It’s time he was trained properly to succeed me. After all, he’ll have two crowns to wear by the time I’m gone. You should be proud. Fear not, you will still see him from time to time, but only in public – where you can’t suborn him. Don’t doubt that I know how to make a King out of him. He already worships me.’

Rosalind struggled against his hold. Drunk as he was, his grip slipped and she jumped back, looking for something to use as a weapon. Suddenly his eyes flared with rage and he swung his arm, his hand hitting her head so hard she fell sideways against the bed, her senses reeling. Before she could recover, he was dragging her up again, holding her hands, swearing at her.

He hit her again, harder this time, on the face. Her lip began to bleed as she scrambled away from him, desperate to cry for help, but knowing it would do no good. Selar laughed, enjoying her helplessness, enjoying his rage.

‘You can’t get away from me, you Lusaran whore! I’m the King. There’s not a man in this castle, this city, who wouldn’t run a sword through you at my command.’ He grabbed her again and with a grunt, threw her back on the bed, held her down, his hand over her mouth. ‘Yes, you are good for
something. I still have only one heir. I could do with another, should something happen to my boy.’

In vain she struggled again, but his answer was another blow. Her head spinning, she felt his hands rip her shift apart and the weight of him on top of her. Gasping for air, she closed her eyes and screamed silently.

No one heard. No one but the gods.

*

‘I’m sorry, my lord, but the Queen is not receiving visitors today.’

George frowned down at the girl standing in his way, trying to see through the crack left open in the doorway. ‘The Queen is well, I hope.’

‘She is well enough, my lord, but asks to see nobody today. I will tell her you came.’ The girl fidgeted – and tried not to. Something was amiss. Rosalind had never refused visitors in her life – she received too few of them.

‘Then I’ll see her for just a moment, long enough to assure the court that she is well.’ Without waiting, he reached over the girl and pushed the door open. Before she could stop him, he was in the room and looking around for Rosalind.

She was seated by the window, as far from the door as she could get in her meagre apartments. She started at his approach, glanced in his direction, then quickly away. But he had seen enough. He ran to her side, fell to his knees. ‘My lady, what has happened? Who has done this to you?’

With her hands clasped firmly on her lap, Rosalind kept her eyes averted, her voice a steady murmur. ‘It does not matter, my lord. Please go and leave me in peace.’

‘I will go, of course, but only when I know that you are well.’ She said nothing more, but George already knew what had happened. Only one man would dare hit the Queen and get away with it. ‘The King did this? To you?’

In answer, Rosalind dropped her head. ‘Please, go. It’s not safe for you here.’

George glanced over his shoulder, but the serving girl had gone for the moment, though she was probably close by, perhaps even listening. He dropped his voice to a whisper.
‘Please, Rosalind, let me help you. I don’t care if it’s not safe. He cannot be allowed to mistreat you so.’

Now she looked at him and he saw the bruises, the cuts on her face, the red marks on her wrists. Her eyes were steady. No tears, no shadow, no weakness. Just a calm that took his breath away. ‘Would you really help me? Even when you know the King did this?’

Taking his courage by the throat, George reached out and touched her hand. ‘You must know I love you, my lady. And loving you, I have no choice but to help you.’

She glanced down a moment at his hand on hers, then back to his face. She searched it for a moment, looking for something. Then she said, ‘Even if it cost you your life?’

‘My life is yours, my lady. I would do anything for you.’

At this, she smiled, lighting her injured face with a beauty he’d never seen before. ‘Very well then, my lord. I accept your offer.’

*

Osbert waited in the council chamber along with the others. His supper sat heavily in his stomach; eating quickly like that always gave him a pain. But when Selar called a council meeting, everyone must obey. It was a pity Selar couldn’t bring himself to have these meetings in the morning, like he used to.

Osbert glanced across the table where Vaughn sat chatting with Chancellor Ingram. The Proctor almost looked happy – and why not? Hadn’t Selar promised him his pogrom?