The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (14 page)

Flipping through the book, she rechecked ages and dates. Even accounting for a second marriage…except no, what she was seeing
still
wasn’t possible. There was just no way…

She’d found Tristan, eventually. Or
a
Tristan. The only Tristan listed as having been born to House Mountbatten. Ever. Since Gideon the Conqueror first stepped ashore from his longboat and waded through the retreating tide while proclaiming his kingship over Morven.

Tristan Mountbatten had been born to Borin Mountbatten and his wife Sienna in the year 1217. Which would make him almost 140 years old.
That
Tristan—it couldn’t possibly be the same Tristan, next unicorns would be landing on the roof—would be the….

She figured on her fingers. The great-great-great uncle of Piers Mountbatten. Tristan—Tristan, son of Borin—had been the older brother of Morin, who’d gone on to marry and produce Spencer. There was no record of Tristan marrying, or producing any children. Legitimate or otherwise.

Or dying.

Tristan, indeed, seemed to have disappeared from the face of the world.

Until now.

Isla, feeling as though her brain were breaking apart into a million fragments that she couldn’t quite hold together, sat amongst the swirling dust motes in the silence of the library and tried to figure out a logical explanation. Someone else, someone not related to the king, had set himself up as the king’s brother. With the king’s cooperation. Had backed him in a palace coup and provided financing for the reconstruction that followed. Or, more likely—to the extent that any of this was
likely
—Tristan was the illegitimate son of John by some mother other than Celine and Piers had adopted him as a full brother when he’d taken the throne. When he’d started to fight for it, rather; Tristan had been in the picture as long as Isla remembered. At ten years her senior, he’d been fighting since before she’d begun braiding her hair.

Ten years her senior?

A hundred and twenty nine
years her senior? More? Her calculation of his age—if indeed this was the same man, which it obviously wasn’t—had been more of a rough estimate. She’d only rounded up to each decade as she’d counted, scarcely believing what she was doing even as she did it. What lunacy was she indulging in, here?

Piers was thirty-two. Tristan was—supposedly—twenty-nine. Some said twenty-seven. That no one seemed entirely clear on how many winters the man had no longer surprised her in the least.

If he
was
this old…she didn’t let herself complete the thought.

If he was this old, then he wasn’t human. As simple as that. And the idea that the man she’d pledged to marry wasn’t human…was impossible. Despite, she realized now, all the rather obvious evidence to the contrary.

She’d refused to consider the rumors about him as anything more than at worst ridiculous and at best exaggeration. The products of overheated minds, people jealous of the king. And, Isla had reasoned, there was logic enough in calling a man who’d murdered two wives
monster
. She had no difficulty in believing that he worshipped the Dark One, either—but many a flesh and blood man did that as well. There was, sadly enough, nothing especially unusual about evil. The potential for it lurked in the hearts of all men, and she didn’t need to believe in the supernatural to see the truth of the world’s fallen state all around her. Men who beat their wives, men—and women—who beat and even murdered their own children. Starvation. Disease. Poverty. Those, she’d always thought, were the true demons; the others were nothing more than a collective effort to explain the unexplainable. Why people—regular, mortal people—did such terrible things.

And yet…?

Isla stood up, pushing her bench back and, after a minute, reaching for the book to reshelve it. Her first and strongest impulse had been to leave the now evil-seeming tome where it lay and quit the room as fast as she could, but a more rational part of her wanted to hide the evidence. From whom, she didn’t know. Gritting her teeth against the wave of revulsion that swept through her, she restored the book to its spot on the shelf and pushed the bench back into position. Would that she could sprinkle some dust over the worn spine.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, and thought. She needed help. And there was only one person capable of giving her the kind of help she needed.

S
he saddled her horse, Piper, with jerky movements as she glanced constantly at the door. She was terrified of who she might see framed in the rectangle of light. Strong noontime light, now; she’d been at her research longer than she’d thought, and had little time left to complete her other task. Not that, if she stayed out all night, she’d mind—or give a fig for the consequences.

All that mattered, at this moment, was getting out of here without being detected. The stable yard wasn’t busy, which was a small blessing. A few flies droned over stalls that hadn’t been mucked, the boy responsible for the task asleep in the loft above. His friend, who should have been helping Isla saddle her horse, was outside on a bench in the weak sun. He’d half-raised his hand in a desultory wave when she passed him.

She checked Piper’s girth, giving the strap a quick tug. Horses had a tendency to puff themselves out when they were being saddled, to keep the straps loose. They were smart animals and some, like Piper, had a nasty sense of humor.

A few of the other horses watched interestedly from the shadows, their boredom making them jealous. Most of the stalls were empty, this being a workday. The duke’s evil-looking destrier was gone, which gave Isla some hope that he wasn’t about to appear. Unless, of course, he’d gone out for an early morning ride and decided to return here for lunch.

Isla wore a fitted gray coat over red divided riding skirts. She swung herself into the saddle in a single fluid motion, her ease of mounting the result of long practice. Her skirts hung down on either side of her. Rowena and Apple, being more traditional ladies, rode side-saddle. Isla refused; the gait was all wrong and riding at much beyond a sedate trot was dangerous. Then again, proper ladies weren’t supposed to actually
go anywhere
. Real travel necessitated the use of a coach.

Which, after a particularly obnoxious hand of cards, the earl had lost to Rudolph’s father.

Rowena had been taught to ride by some put-upon groom. Isla had been taught to ride by Hart. She didn’t miss their lost carriage; she’d never liked riding cooped up in a box in the first place. She wanted to see the countryside, to experience everything there was to experience of her journey—however long or short. And since she’d been a child, she’d roamed over most of their domains at one time or another. She loved looking down on the rolling fields, or moving quietly through the glades, or lying on her back by the side of a burbling stream and staring up at the sky while Piper chewed placidly beside her.

Piper was a spirited but fond mare, and almost four years old. She’d been a gift from Hart, herself won in a card game. Normally, such a fine specimen would have been beyond their budget but Piper’s previous owner hadn’t known her worth when he’d put her up to cover his bets and Hart possessed a keen eye for horseflesh. He’d accepted the wager readily, knowing that whether at home or on the auction block Piper was worth easily triple what the young lordling owed.

And because Hart knew how to count cards.

Which was, alas, a skill that the earl had never learned. He considered such tactics beneath him. Despite Hart’s argument that no dishonesty was involved, merely the ability to figure. Figuring, the earl had replied archly, was unchivalrous. As were a great many things, apparently, especially if they gave one any sort of advantage. The earl was firmly of the camp that taught, even despite a series of grievous defeats, that the use of tactics on the battlefield was frowned on by the Gods. A true knight never sought advantage; riding out onto the battlefield, he chose the spot least commodious to himself and then blew a trumpet to announce his presence.

All this coming out of trees, as Piers had done, was wrong. Piers had, famously, won one battle by having his men build twice as many campfires as they needed and then quit the campsite altogether—leaving them lit. When the enemy came into investigate, in the dead of night but still blowing their trumpets, Piers and his men swept in from behind and massacred the whole lot. The earl, reading about the battle in a dispatch—he’d sent men to fight, as his oath of fealty required, but for the wrong side—had declared Piers to be of the devil.

The unchivalrous Piers had, after ascending the throne, offered pardons to those who’d opposed him. Another move that the earl declared vile. A true knight wouldn’t be so flexible in his principles! A true knight, the earl insisted, accepting his pardon, would have killed the lot of them to prove a point.

The duke was right. Chivalry was stupid. Finding herself agreeing with that man on anything made Isla’s blood run cold, and she quickly dismissed the thought. She was tired, was all. She’d had another difficult night, tossing and turning and unable to clear her mind of a thousand and one unwanted thoughts about everything she’d ever done wrong and everything that ever had
gone
wrong and—him. She wished, now, that she’d never agreed….

Except Rowena was so
happy
. Isla instantly hated herself. She’d walked into this with eyes open; who was she to renege? If Hart were called to war, he’d go; could Isla, the great champion of equal rights, do any less, simply because she was afraid? Equal rights meant equal responsibilities, she lectured herself. Hart had confided to her, once, that he’d been afraid before the few occasions when he’d been called to fight. Once or twice, their father being useless, he’d gathered a group of men together and gone after the worst of the brigands plaguing Ewesdale.

I can do this
, Isla told herself.

And she was on her way to get help, besides. She cantered down the beaten track that served as their main road, a mostly straight shot through the practice yards and some of the smellier work sheds—she passed the tanning sheds on her right, positioned over a small stream that carried away the worst of the refuse—and out the front gate. There was no especial reason that Isla
shouldn’t
leave; she was a grown woman, free to come and go as she chose. Her father had never refused her that right. Isla’s own paranoia was what made her heart beat faster. Her fear was that this time, when she
needed
to leave, something would stop her. Simply because she
did
need to leave.

On her left, the flat expanse of the parade ground had been set up with targets for the archers to practice. The duke’s men were among her father’s own; he’d brought an enormous retinue. Isla studied them now, openly, for the first time. No one was paying her the slightest attention. The earl’s men were a decent lot, if on the older side, as many had left to seek their fortunes elsewhere. That, Isla supposed, might change. Peregrine Cavendish would remain Lord of Enzie, of course, but only in name.

The duke’s men were far younger, for the most part, and far better equipped. And even though they laughed and joked together like any soldiers, Isla saw clearly that they were also far more disciplined. Their clothing was all in shades of green, ranging from a true loden green to a green so dark it seemed like night. Attached to their overtunics, the bowmen wore the broad hoods of longbowmen. Their breeches appeared well-fitting, suggesting that even if these were standard issue uniforms a competent tailor had seen to their alteration. Their boots were of exceptionally high quality, although currently caked with mud.

And they all did have longbows, she saw; unlike her father’s men, many of whom still carried the less efficient crossbow. Less efficient, but in some hands more practical. A longbow was expensive to produce and difficult to use, requiring tremendous skill on the part of both bowyer and archer. Most longbows were made of yew, although some were made of ash or even elm. Elm produced the heaviest draw weight and, therefore, the longest range. But few men, however fit, were capable of its use. Typically, a yew bow had a draw weight of anywhere between sixty and ninety pounds. Elm had a draw weight of a hundred pounds or more. She’d heard rumors that the duke’s bow had a draw weight of fully 125 pounds and stood near as high as he.

Hart’s bow, which was yew, had a draw weight of 85 pounds—and that was, by most, considered impressive. To learn the longbow, one had to begin training at a very young age. Before six was preferable; after eight or nine or so, training was considered impossible. One’s muscles had to be schooled virtually from birth, accommodating the demands of the bow as they grew. A boy, if his parents had sufficient funds to support such training, had his bows brought to him according to his age and strength and, as he increased in each, new bows were made.

The change in musculature effected was more or less permanent, and a real bowman was easily recognizable by his strong shoulders and trunk-like arms. His upper arms might be enormous, but what separated the bowman from the swordsman was the fact that he possessed such strength in his forearms as well. His wrists, too, were always very strong and his fingers often bore calluses from where he held the bowstring. The classic
fuck you
gesture, the first two fingers splayed outward and turned around, was a reference to this phenomenon—and to the vital importance of those digits to the bowman. A classic, and needless to say unchivalrous move during wartime was to sever a captured bowman’s fingers before ransoming him. He might live, but he’d never fight again.