Widow's Pique (29 page)

Fast.

'My dear Claudia, you don't have to apologize to me. It was a perfectly honest mistake.'

There had been no chance to talk in the dining hall, and quite right, too. The banquet was to honour the winners of today's games, and to deny them even one small moment of their hour of triumph would have been shallow and lacking in respect. So Claudia had sat at the top table alongside Mazares and, as garlands of violas and parsley, symbolizing victory and strength, were hung around the necks of each champion, she had smiled and applauded, and all the time reflected on the man sitting beside her.

A man who had, with one short revelation, suddenly turned into a stranger. She had thought she knew Mazares, but she didn't. She didn't know a damn thing about him.

The King's greatest strength is that he trusts people,
Drilo had said,
and perversely his greatest weakness is also that he trusts people.

He had talked of the innate sense of justice, too, of the

integrity and responsibility that weighed heavily on the King's shoulders. Of a refusal to delegate, taking on everything himself, and yet she had seen so many examples of that, even to pitching in at the ferry when the ropes had been cut, and not realized.

His Majesty has only one aim,
Drilo had added,
and that is for his people to prosper.

Whereas she had only seen him as a pirate, selfish and exploiting, killing for his own vile ends . . .

If you look at the King, see how he's sacrificed his own happiness in the name of duty, you can see why I steer clear of politics,
Kazan had said just this morning in the graveyard.

Obviously Claudia hadn't realized he'd been referring to his own brother, but, piece by piece, a new Mazares began to emerge.

It's wearing him out,
Drilo had confided.
Slowly, his pride is killing him.

And it was true. From the age of sixteen, when, still stricken by grief, he'd been forced to marry his brother's widow, right through the current political tug-of-war that kept Histria a kingdom of two separate halves, Mazares had relinquished all hopes of a normal life. No act could be spontaneous any more. Everything had to be thought through. He had been propelled to a life of public scrutiny, to juggling responsibilities, setting priorities, meting justice, and all the while having to continually look over his shoulder. No wonder he lost himself in the affection of his Molossan hounds. Dogs are loyal, obedient and totally without cunning. With his children cold in their graves, Elki and Saber's was the only unconditional love he would get.

Who could blame him for turning everything he did into an act?

How else could he hope to survive?

Claudia rubbed at the throbbing at her temples. Sweet Janus, it was Histria that was the puppet-master, not Mazares. Mazares was the most subservient puppet of all.

So now, with the honours and the speeches delivered and after a meal at which Elki and Saber had eaten everything their master had had on his plate, the King and his bride-to-be retired from the festivities to the quiet of his private office, where, perched on the edge of his desk, swinging one long, booted leg with what she now knew to be studied nonchalance, he was telling her that there was no need to apologize, it was a perfectly honest mistake.

'After all,' he added, stroking his beard, 'dozens of people must receive missives from royalty every day and not bother to read them, just skip through to the end.'

Ouch.

'Did I really call you a pompous old windbag?'

'Several times,' he said, laughing, 'though if there's one lesson I've learned, it's to abandon all attempts at diplomacy.'

'I embarrassed you in front of the tavern keeper.'

'My Lady, you sell yourself short,' he drawled, his catkin-green eyes twinkling. 'I beg you not to confine yourself to single figures on that score.'

Double ouch.

Suddenly, he jumped off the table, clicked his heels and bowed.

'I'm sorry, too,' he said crisply. 'It was the poorest of manners to keep the joke rolling so long, but once I realized you hadn't read my request properly, I felt it better you should learn about Histria from the outside, rather than by anything I might say to colour your judgement.'

'Then we've both learned lessons about diplomacy the hard way.'

Indeed, the bruises would last far longer than those she'd sustained from her fall.

'As for the tavern keeper, seriously, Claudia, you must realize by now that I'm a man of my people, and the only way I can fully understand them is to mingle among them, be part of them, and listen to what they have to say. Hand on my heart, My Lady, you have not offended me once.'

He was lying. Now that she knew him better, understood

more of this strange and complicated man, she knew this was just one more act. Maybe on the surface it was true - that she hadn't caused actual offence. But Claudia knew in her heart she had hurt him, and a small piece of her died at that moment.

'Claudia.'

He drew a deep breath, held it for a beat of three, then exhaled. He looked older, she thought. Lined. And that terrible pallor on his face . . .

We 're tired of burning rapists around here,
he had said on the night he bumped into Salome.

It's wearing him out,
Drilo had told her.
Slowly, his pride is killing him.

Oh, Mazares. Wolves are supposed to be strong . . .

'Claudia, you know that tomorrow we hold the annual marriage auctions?'

The job was burning him out and now he wasn't eating properly and . . .

And . . .

'What did you say?'

'An ancient tradition, quite barbarous, I agree, with girls of marriageable age gathering in a group and the men circled around. The auctioneer calls the prettiest to stand up and the richest men start to bid for her hand, then the second prettiest goes under the hammer and so on.'

Incredibly, that wasn't the worst.

'Peasants consider themselves to have no use for looks in a wife, so they hang around, because often they're paid by the fathers to take the ugly ones that nobody wants and, finally, the crippled - or, as we say here, misshapen - girls are offered to whoever will take them. However, we do have some scruples. No man can take a girl home without a backer to guarantee his intentions and it's illegal for a father to marry his daughter to anyone he happens to fancy, and I know what you're thinking, but my people won't hear of any other system,' he said shrugging.

'Auction?'

'Yes, Marcus did warn me that you might, shall we say, heat up at the prospect.'

Heat?

'Mazares, you could smelt gold on me at the moment.'

'I tried to prepare the ground the day the ferry rope broke, but then, when I found I was needed, I passed the buck to Pavan, and not, I might add -' there was a twitch beneath that swirling moustache - 'without a certain amount of relief.'

'This is indefensible, you know that?'

'Actually, My Lady, I beg to differ.'

He plucked a stylus from his desk and began tapping it against the palm of his hand.

'Histria has witnessed huge changes over recent years and my people are adapting, believe me. But marriage auctions go back centuries, and you find them from here to Liburnia, right over Illyria and all the way down Dalmatia, Pannonia . . .'

'Mazares, you aren't seriously telling me that you, Mr Upright and Conscientious himself, stand by while women are sold to the highest bidder like . . . like goats?'

This has to be another wind-up.

'That once a year the Histri send their women to
market?'

'I didn't say I condone it, only that I am powerless to change it. Claudia, Rome has stripped our lands from us and foreigners are farming our soil with slave labour instead of giving employment to local people.'

The passion in his voice was rising.

'We pay taxes to Rome, we live by Roman decrees, we are slaves in our own bloody land.'

'We?'

'Yes, Claudia,
we!'

He hurled the stylus into the corner.

'Whatever my personal opinions, remember that I represent the Histrian people. I cannot, and will not, force them to change at a pace they are unable to cope with, and if that means once a year having to preside over a bunch of grown

men squabbling over women like drunks at a cockfight, then it's just one more unpalatable job among many, but, goddammit, someone has to do it and that someone is me.'

The throbbing behind her eyes intensified. At a time when metalled roads stretched to every outpost, no matter how far-flung, and literally hundreds of miles of aqueducts fetched sweet water to wherever it was needed most, and when ramshackle towns were rebuilt all the way round the world in marble and stone and ships can navigate every sea, Histria was still bogged down in this monstrous archaic ritual?

'My people have been pushed quite far enough,' he maintained. 'Even your Emperor is wise enough to keep out of this—'

'My Emperor?'

'Very well,
our
Emperor, now, dammit, woman, will you ever stop breaking my balls?'

Mazares turned his fiery green eyes on her and she watched as they softened. Several seconds passed before he finally took a deep breath and stepped towards her. He smelled of cool mountain forests, perhaps a hint of wine, and something sweet that she couldn't identify.

'Marcus said you had fire in your belly,' he said. 'He was a little loose on the amount, I grant you, but... I do desperately need an heir.'

Claudia thought about the faithless Kazan, his feckless sons waiting in line, and nodded.

'Yes, you do,' she replied, and something lurched under her ribcage.

'This kingdom needs fresh blood in its veins,' he said quietly. 'We can't keep intermarrying among neighbouring tribesmen, but more than that, Claudia. More than that, I want children who can stand up for themselves. Who can stand up for Histria. Children who are able to fight their corner against Rome, but equally against their own people, children who are free-thinkers, freewheelers, who are unburdened by old conventions and hidebound traditions. You possess those

qualities, Claudia, and tomorrow all new marriages will be announced, so I need to know.'

Catkin-green eyes bored into hers as he enveloped her hands in his.

'Will you marry me?'

Would
she? Croesus, this was everything she'd ever wanted!

Claudia resisted the urge to punch the air with her fist and dipped into what she hoped was a suitably reverent curtsy. Originally, she'd hoped to put sons in the Senate, an ambition that died with her husband, since he'd left her childless. Now, though, those sons would be princes! Governing a whole country, not just casting one paltry vote among hundreds! And god knows, it might be a loveless marriage, but it would not be one without passion! Also, it wasn't as though neither of them had any idea what they were in for.

Mazares hadn't loved Delmi, but he had done right by her.

Claudia hadn't loved Gaius, but she had done right by him.

Each would fulfil their side of the bargain, and in exchange for the healthy, strong-willed heirs he was so desperate for, a girl from the slums would be crowned Queen, showered with riches beyond imagination
and,
goddammit, have her sons on the Histrian throne!

'Mazares.'

It was as though the sun had suddenly risen over the landscape, shining light where light had never shone. Bringing warmth where there had only been coldness.

'I know you needed to ask the question formally,' she said, and there was a wobble to her voice, which was only natural, because her heart was bucking like a stallion inside a horsebox. 'But I'm pretty sure you know the answer.'

There was a flash of something in his eyes, but the emotion was fleeting and he bowed deeply to cover it.

'You are . . . certain?'

'Absolutely.'

Smoky eyes held hers for what seemed like eternity, and

she wondered if he could actually hear her knees knocking. Finally, he spoke.

'So the answer is no, then?'

'It is,' she replied. 'The answer is no.' And she whirled out of the office before she changed her damned mind.

Out across the hills, Dawn rose from her slumbers, draped her crimson nightshift over the horizon and slipped naked into the bed of her husband, the Sun God. As bats folded their wings and badgers skulked back to their setts, the joy of this celestial union was celebrated in song in a million tree tops while, below, coneys scampered out of their burrows, their white tails bobbing over the lush, dew-covered grass as vees of cormorants flapped over the waters towards their feeding grounds. Claudia saw none of these things.

Face down on her pillow and still fully dressed, she saw only triumphant frescoes painted on an office wall. A helmet perched on a stand. Scrolls piled knee-deep in a corner. Inkstands. Quills. A plate of food left untouched. And a man's lined, grey-pallored face. She saw the hunting trophies that surrounded his desk, or, more accurately, hunting
atrophies,
because, from the mounted boar's head to the bearskin spread over the floor, every exhibit was moth-eaten and dry, dating back to a time when a young prince in jaunty tunic would jog off into the woods with his brothers, his friends and his dogs, a quiver on his back and a dagger in his belt, his aureole of glossy curls shining in the sun and without so much as a care in the world. That joyous young hunter was long gone. A quarter of a century on, he had turned into a grief-stricken monarch, bent by the weight of responsibility and reduced to hiding his rebellious emotions, since the only happiness he had ever known came from two children who lay dead in their graves . . .