Closer to the Heart (9 page)

“Well, to get back to the subject you
asked
about, my love, I do have some ideas,” said Dia, and began relating them. Despite Mags' relative disinterest in such things, he had to admit that Dia's ideas were interesting, surprisingly practical, and would not require all that much of the two purported principals.

After a pleasant candlemark or so, Lord Jorthun excused himself—after first giving Mags carte blanche to contact him at any time—giving the three Heralds a graceful way of taking their leave. As if by magic, they found the three Companions, saddled and bridled and with three escorts attentively waiting beside them, at the front door. The three of them rode out of the front gate with Mags still feeling somewhat bemused.

“Did Lor' Jorthun mean thet?” Mags asked, falling back into somewhat less formal speech with a feeling of relief at not having to think over every single word he said. “'Bout callin' on 'im at any time, I mean.”

“Oh, definitely. And with Dia in charge of your alleged wedding, you'll have all the excuses you need to do so.” Nikolas patted Evory's neck, as they rode alongside the wall around the Palace complex, heading for a side entrance. “Plus, some evening when you're free, I'll show you the
special
way to get into his place. It's one method you are very familiar with, and much better at than I am.”

“Ah. Roof-runnin'. Thet makes sense.” Mags nodded.

“There's a tree that grows very near the walls, an entire grove of truly ancient goldenoaks at the rear of the house that come right up to the back and provide shade for the east-
facing bedrooms, and an access to Jorthun's private study attached to his bedroom,” Nikolas told him. “I'll give you the key.”

:How long have you known about this?:
Mags asked Dallen.

:Always. It was not my secret to share,:
Dallen replied. And then, the Companion relented a little.
:If there had ever come a time when you desperately needed help and could not get it from the Heralds, I would have told you.:

Well . . . Mags couldn't fault his Companion for that. What was the old saying?
Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.
He wondered how Jorthun had managed to be the Royal spymaster for what must have been
decades
without anyone catching on to his dual identity.

Money and rank had certainly made it possible.

“Jorthun was very much a rakehell in his youth,” Nikolas said, in a lazy tone that told Mags that he was speaking not only to satisfy Mags' curiosity, but in case there was anyone within listening distance. “The only thing he was not reckless with was his father's money. That, he had a magic touch with. Anything he invested in prospered. Which, of course, caused his father to overlook his other failings.”

“Wasn't there a wife before Dia?” Amily asked. “And children?”

“Yes, and they were none too happy about Jorthun marrying her, even though she came with a substantial dower of her own,” Nikolas told them. “They still aren't happy, but there is nothing they can do about it. From time to time one of them will make a complaint to the Crown that Dia is spending his money recklessly, and Jorthun's steward will show up with the documentation that proves that the money she is spending is her own, and that is that. Jorthun has guided her to some excellent investments. By the time she is a widow, she'll be ridiculously wealthy.” He snorted a little. “And if his own
children would stop throwing temper tantrums and come to their father for advice, they will be more than ridiculously wealthy.”

“Sense flies out th' winder when greed flies in,” Mags said, philosophically.

:I must admit I am glad Jorthun chose to reveal himself before I have to hare off on the King's business again.:
Nikolas told him, as they all entered one of the side gates to the Palace complex. The Guardsman at the gate just nodded and let them through without comment; their Companions were identification enough—and no Guardsman here at the Palace was ever likely to mistake an ordinary white horse for a Companion.

:Me too,:
Mags replied.

“I
deally,” Amily said, her brown head close to Dia's raven tresses as the two of them bent over a list of names and attributes, “we want orphans.” It was too bad that she, Dia, and Miana had to work today. Dia's study was perhaps one of the most comfortable rooms Amily had ever been in. It was so tightly built that not even a hint of draft from the bitter, damp wind outside got in to make the candle flames waver, and the fire in the fireplace not only kept the room wonderfully warm, but also scented it.

Dia nodded. “The fewer ties, the better.” She made a little tick against another name on their list.

This morning, Dia had made her “request” of Lydia, during one of Lydia's personal open Court sessions. As the fourth in rank in the Royal hierarchy, Lydia was viewed as “important” by those who were power-seekers only insofar as she had unlimited access to Sedric, and through Sedric, to the King. And she was well known as someone who never tried to
persuade Sedric to hear a petitioner due to flattery or presents, so the people who were “political” seldom or never attended more than three or four of these gatherings every season. Lydia's Courts served two purposes; for those who were there for social attention, and those who hoped their petitions would attract her sympathy. These were often people who had causes to espouse, for Lydia was very well known for her charitable works. There were none of the charitable sort in attendance that morning. Instead, the gathering had been as light-hearted and light-minded as a Royal Court session of any sort could get. So when Dia had made her carefully crafted speech about how unfortunate it was that there were so many highborn, yet disadvantaged ladies who were left languishing for lack of anything they were fit for, and that she proposed to train them, and as
what
she proposed to train them
,
the eager whispers started immediately. The more Dia spoke, describing loyal, skilled companions, more trustworthy than a servant, someone that could be confided in, like “my own Miana,” the more the whispers strengthened. Everyone knew Miana. Every woman of rank
wanted
someone like Miana. A lady's personal maidservant was all well and good, and many of them were highly skilled in grooming and assisting their mistresses with their hair and wardrobe. But . . . one didn't give confidences to one's maid. Not unless one wanted those confidences spoken of down in the servant's hall.

And if one wished a conspirator in the matter of an extra-marital affair, one
certainly
didn't look for such a conspirator among the maidservants.

Oh, of course, a great many ladies did have handmaidens already, picked out from amongst their own poor relations, but often these were . . . unsatisfactory. And they often came with divided loyalties.

But this idea proposed by Lady Dia meant that one could
apply
for someone who came with few or no family ties at all,
and there were many ways, not all of them monetary, by which one could buy that precious loyalty.

Lydia, who knew exactly what was going on, of course, became quite enthusiastic, proposed that she fund it out of her household monies, and that it be called “The Queen's Handmaidens” in honor of her mother-in-law. And that she herself would see to placing the young ladies when they were deemed skilled enough to look for appointments.

That only increased the buzz of excitement. What lady with any Court ambitions at all
wouldn't
want one of her attendants to be from this elite, prestigious, and exquisitely skillful, group? Why settle for taking on some needy, untrained, bumpkin from your cousins in the country, when you could have a poised, cultured, amusing, infinitely resourceful and always helpful creature like Lady Dia's factotum? Having a Miana of one's own meant different things to every lady in the Court that morning, but every one of those purposes was one that currently was going unfulfilled, or only partly met, for most of them.

Miana made the third of the party bent over papers; in Miana's case, she was perusing what Dia rudely called the “studbook”; the painstakingly created and updated book documenting every highborn family in the country. Amusingly enough, in other countries, it was the duty of “heralds,” in the sense of that corps of glorified secretaries in charge of the arms and genealogies of noble families, who were responsible for such documents. Not here, of course. Here, that was the duty of the Chroniclers—who themselves were a combination of historian and glorified secretary. Additions were made to the book by the Royal Chroniclers every year in the form of new pages sent out right after Midwinter, which was why it was more of a loose-leaf folio rather than a book. It was the job of one's secretary or Chronicler—if you had one—to keep the thing under control. If you didn't have one, well, it was
generally the job of whatever hanger-on or family member was of a scholarly and detail-oriented bent.

Dia
and
her husband each had a personal secretary, and the household had a Chronicler as well. Though Jorthun often joked that he did so little that he could have shared his Chronicler with three or four other Houses and not had anything go amiss.

Every so often, Miana would nod, and add another name to the list that Dia and Amily were going over.

Their interesting task was interrupted by one of the footmen, who tapped politely on the doorframe of the open door, and waited.

“What is it, Liam?” Dia asked immediately, looking up. She knew most of her servants by name, and never kept her servants waiting.
It's rude,
she'd told Amily once.
And aside from the fact that it's stupid to be rude, there is the fact that if you are rude to them to their faces, they are going to be rude to you behind your back. And how can you have a happy and disciplined staff if everyone holds their master and mistress in contempt?

“My lady, a young person wishes to speak with you. Keira Tremainet, daughter of the late Sir Halcon Tremainet and his late wife Maonie. Her parents were remote cousins of House Holberk.” Liam paused. “I would not have ventured to interrupt you and the King's Own, but she seemed somewhat urgent and a trifle agitated. I asked her to wait in the lesser antechamber.” Liam bowed a trifle as he finished speaking.

“Quite right Liam,” said Dia. “Wait just a moment will you? Hopefully a moment or two will allow our visitor to compose herself, rather than increasing her agitation.” She turned to Amily and Miana. “I could swear that name is familiar. . . .”

“It is,” Miana said instantly. “She's right here, under
Possible, but questions.
I believe there was some sort of rumor?
Nothing approaching a scandal, but . . . the faint suggestion there might have been one?”

“Well.” Amily replied. “If she's here, I can't think of any reason for her to
be
here except to petition you for a place in the Handmaidens.”

Dia blinked thoughtfully. “If so, and there was some sort of scandal, that alone makes me interested.” She paused. “Given what I know about Brendan Keteline, I can easily guess what may have happened, and . . . it's possible that the lady might be exactly what we are looking for. Let's just see what she's made of, shall we?” She looked over at the footman, still waiting patiently. “What do you make of her, Liam?”

“A very forthright young woman, my lady. The sort to seize a scandal by the throat and deal with it, in my reckoning.” He coughed. “If you don't mind my saying so.”

“Not at all. I find your observations of visitors to be universally cogent, Liam. That is why I asked you. Please bring her up.” Dia shuffled the papers into a neat pile, and the three of them turned in their seats to await the young woman's arrival.

Lady Dia's personal study was a bright, well-lit room that was as organized as the King's Seneschal's—and probably contained quite as much information. Dia could put her hand on every bit of information on any member of her household in an instant, from the little boys who were the gardener's assistants to Miana. She could also put her hand on every bit of commonly known information about every highborn member of Court as well as those wealthy enough to be seen at Court on a regular basis.

It could be said,
Amily thought,
that knowing all these things about the people of the Court is her job. Just like it is Lydia's.
And, just as it would be hers. . . .

The study contained relatively little furniture; like the library downstairs, every possible scrap of wall was lined with bookshelves or beautifully made document boxes. What
wasn't wood, was upholstered in lambskin suede in a dark buff, which matched heavy curtains that could be pulled over the windows at need. There were six comfortable chairs, Lady Dia's desk, plenty of lighting—although the sun streaming in the windows meant there was no need for that—and a species of reclining couch Lady Dia confessed to using when she had a lot to read.

But the entrance of the young lady in question put an end to idle thoughts.

Keira Tremainet was
beautiful.

I can see why there was scandal. . . .

Sky-blue eyes, blond hair the color of wildflower honey, a perfect heart-shaped face, full lips, flawless complexion, and a figure to match the face. The rest of her, however, clearly reflected her fortune—which clearly wasn't much. Only a very practiced eye would have discerned that she was anything other than a shopkeeper or a superior servant. Her gown was several years out of fashion, plain, the natural color of brown wool, unrelieved by any trimming except some hand-embroidery at the neck, and to Amily's practiced eye, had been turned twice, at least. She had no jewels except the sort of garnet pendant in the shape of a flower that the average daughter of a prosperous craftsman might own. Her chemise was equally plain, linen with no lace or ribbon trimming; her shoes were sturdy things of the sort people wore in the country, that would last for years and years, and then could be resoled, not the sort of dainty embroidered slippers Dia was wearing. Her cloak was plain black wool, also untrimmed, and lined with more wool rather than even rabbit fur.

Daughter of a poor knight with no lands of his own.
In the normal course of things, if she had shown no Bardic or Healer talent, no academic brilliance, and did not find the gumption to join the Guard on her own, she would probably have married. And married someone very like her father, or perhaps a
moderately well off farmer with the sort of large house he styled a “manor.” But without parents to arrange this sort of thing for her, she'd been thrown on the hands of her nearest relatives, who had, without a doubt, taken her in only because leaving her in the lurch to fend for herself would have reflected badly on them.

“Lady Dia,” the young woman said—in a voice that was low and sweet, and very pleasant to listen to. “I was hoping you would consider me for a position in the Queen's Handmaidens. What little obligations I have can be instantly discharged, and no one in the household I am in at present would begrudge me this opportunity, should you grant it.”

Dia steepled her fingers and looked bland. “Lady Keira, I will be frank with you. There are some . . . awkward difficulties, regarding that.”

They all waited, with Amily holding her breath, to see what Keira would make of that.

Keira visibly straightened her back. “Ah, so you heard the rumors. Then I will be frank with you, Lady Dia,” Keira replied. “I believe that I know precisely why this group is being put together. The King would like eyes and ears in dubious households, and who better than young women? If they are plain, they are regarded with about as much consideration as the kitchen cat, and if they are handsome, they are boasted to . . . or hear much across a pillow.”

All three of the ladies exchanged a startled look. Dia cleared her throat slightly. “Even if that were true, Lady Keira . . . that does not negate the rumors concerning you, which might make placing you problematic.”

“I think that you can turn that to your advantage,” the young woman replied immediately, taking several steps nearer, until she stood within arm's length of them. At this distance, although she appeared calm, Amily could tell that she had clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking.
“Firstly, there are not many who know me by sight, and I am related to all of them. Secondly, sooner or later, you are going to want someone who is willing to climb into someone's bed. I have nothing to lose.”

“My goodness,” Lady Dia said mildly. “You certainly do not believe in beating around the bush.”

“My lady, I cannot afford to,” Keira said, and to Amily's surprise, there was very little bitterness in her tone. “I have very little time to make use of my looks. Before my cousin seduced me, there was a chance I could use them to make a decent marriage. Now? I am certain that my dear cousins would make certain that rumors followed me so that any hope of
that
would be ruined. No one will take me as her companion except perhaps a bitter old woman who will use my foolishness to bully me at every turn. And what else am I fit for? I can't farm, I can't cook, and I loathe children—and that's if anyone would take me for any of those things that didn't also plan on using me for his pleasure. We both know how unlikely that is.”