The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (35 page)

Technically, urinating into the fireplace was only permissible in formal society during those times when the weather didn’t permit a trip to the latrines, but no one stood much on formality in the West. The Highlands were, as Tristan had often informed her, the ends of the earth. She wondered how much they’d changed, since his youth—if at all. The hound sighed in contentment. The rushes, Isla noted, needed to be changed.

A high-pitched, vaguely musical sound issued from the minstrel’s gallery, a small and poorly maintained balcony above the main door to the great hall. There was a pause, during which the volume of conversation increased, and then another dance was struck. Contrary to what the peasants thought, most of whom seemed to picture their aristocratic betters dancing until dawn, most feasts actually took place during daylight hours. Men of all ranks had only so much stamina and after a certain amount of eating and drinking most tended to fall asleep. Commencing festivities earlier greatly increased the chances of everyone reaching the end of the feast in a more or less alert state.

Moreover, Isla thought sourly, it greatly
decreased
the chances of having to offer drunken guests accommodation.

Rowena was a vision in gray, her cornflower blue eyes picking up the tone in the smoky air. Her hair shone like spun silk, and she laughed frequently and genuinely. To see her now, one should never have guessed at the harridan she’d been the night before. She couldn’t have gotten more than a few hours’ sleep before rousing herself to begin her extensive toilette, and yet she looked like she hadn’t a care in the world. No dark marks ringed her eyes, like they did Isla’s; no frown of worry marred her brow.

Father Justin’s death had been the end of dinner. Isla, for one, was relieved in the extreme. Her own father having forgotten about her, Tristan saw her up to her room and left her at her door. Rowena glared at him from across the hall, as though daring him to do something wicked. Isla almost hoped he’d turn into a bat, or a toad, but all he did was wish her goodnight.

And then she’d found herself alone in her room and more afraid than ever. Alice had forgotten to set a fire—was probably off with some man—and the air felt as frigid as that of a tomb. It smelled like a tomb, too, of minerals and dust from the stone walls that stretched up around her into gloom. Enclosing her. She sat down on her hearth bench, staring into the barren hole of the fireplace and wondering what to do.

Some time later—who knew how long—her door had flown open, hitting the wall with a bang as Rowena rushed in. Isla started, shocked and fearful. If Rowena noticed, she gave no sign. “Father Justin was murdered!” she’d announced, her hands balled up at her sides as she stared at Isla in wide-eyed horror. “Murdered!”

Isla spent the next few hours listening to Rowena’s thoughts on the subject: how frightened she’d been, how terrible it was that a priest had died under their roof and even worse by mischief and how surely the Gods would curse them. How fortunate she’d been that dear, brave, handsome Rudolph had been there to protect her, and so forth. Isla groaned, burying her face in her pillow and wishing that Rowena would leave.

She wondered if Rudolph was planning on protecting her sister with his codpiece or his rapier wit, thought of asking, and decided that Rowena might not appreciate her humor.

She’d fallen asleep to the sound of Rowena first complaining about how her night had been ruined and that they were surely all cursed, alternating between the two as being equally upsetting, and then holding forth on the subject of how much she hated the duke. She’d chosen to forget, evidently, that she’d all but hurled herself at him earlier that same evening.

Isla could have laughed. Even though she didn’t feel like laughing; she saw no humor in the situation and couldn’t remember having ever been so lonely, even on the night her mother died. At least then, she’d felt like she had other people to rely on. Rowena, meanwhile, continued her rant. Isla wondered if Rowena was oblivious to her pain, or simply didn’t care. “I’m certain that Father Justin’s death wasn’t natural and that
that man
is involved! I’m sure,” she’d added self-importantly, “that he naturally hates all representatives of the church as they stand for the light and he the dark. Which reminds me, did you know…

Isla, too exhausted to care what it was that Rowena knew, sank gratefully into the oblivion of sleep.

At her feet, the hound grunted and shifted to give her foot a better angle for belly rubbing.

Isla disliked feasts at the best of times, mostly because she had no one to talk to during them. No one she
wished
to talk to, at any rate. She mainly sat in the corner as she was doing now, until called on by her sister to act as lady’s maid. She didn’t mind, not really. She just found the whole exercise boring.

Moreover, concerning the present event, she found her father’s decision to move forward with the feast literally on the heels of Father Justin’s death distasteful in the extreme. The feast, of course, was to celebrate Rowena’s engagement. And, she supposed, her own. As an afterthought. The proper thing would have been to postpone festivities at least until Father Justin was in the ground, but as the earl pointed out feasts were expensive and the preparations had already been made. If he backed out now, he’d still have to pay his creditors.

So here they were, celebrating.

Father Justin, meanwhile, waited on a slab in the dairy until an emissary from the Earl of Strathearn could be summoned to retrieve him. Isla wondered if her father would tire of waiting and accept Tristan’s offer to pay for the burial. There was, after all, a great deal of cheese to be made and cheese was one of the estate’s main sources of income. At the thought of making cheese
now
and, even worse, attempting to pass it off as edible, Isla smiled. She only contained herself with great effort, and thoughts of all the toasts she’d have to sit through later that evening.

“The weather is, if unseasonable, not cold enough.” The mellifluous voice in her ear belonged to Tristan. She startled. She hadn’t heard him approach and thought she was alone. “Ah, Maximus,” he said, greeting the hound more pleasantly than he did the average human being. “I see you’ve found someone willing to indulge you.”

“Men like to be the center of attention,” Isla said primly.

Tristan chuckled dryly. “Perhaps.” He handed her a cup of mulled wine.

She looked up at him. His choice of attire was as subdued as ever, but where Rudolph would have looked underdressed in such simple robes, Tristan looked regal. He needed no ornament to indicate his position. Isla was curious about the rings he wore, but hadn’t yet found the courage to ask about their significance. She hardly dared ask him anything, partly because of how he’d reacted the last time she’d indicated an interest in his true nature and partly because she was afraid of what she might learn.

He gazed back at her, his black eyes unreadable as always. His hair was neat and trim, so unlike the red and yellow manes of the highlanders. Isla had seen men of the tribes who prided themselves on actually being able to keep live creatures housed in their matted tangles. A local chieftain who paid homage to her father had come for dinner once and some sort of mouse-like creature had peeped right out, demanding bread.

“Things are…different in the capital,” he said. “And at Caer Addanc.”

“How do you do it?” she asked, thinking of his comment just now and of the one he’d made minutes before. “How do you read my mind?” He’d exhibited this alarming ability to know what she was thinking several times, now, and each time she felt a thrill of fear.

“Not your mind,” he corrected. “Your face.” When she only stared, confused, he continued. “You’ve yet to learn the art of schooling your expression,” he explained. “To one who knows you, the indications are all there.” Then no one must know her very well, she concluded, since she was considered by most in her household to be as inscrutable as her betrothed.

“Please tell me you don’t dance,” she said.

“No.” A faint moue of disgust twisted his lip and was gone.

She smiled slightly at this shared moment between them. Overhead in the gallery, the minstrels broke into another tune. One was barely distinguishable from another, but Rowena seemed happy. She beamed at her guests, many of whom stood as audience, as Rudolph led her around the room. He, too, seemed to have recovered some of his enthusiasm.

“I like Maximus,” Isla told Tristan, sipping her wine. It was nigh on undrinkable, as always. Maximus looked up at hearing his name, still smiling his lazy, doggy smile. His tongue lolled out. His stumpy tail padded the floor, briefly. He, at least, didn’t mind the smell of the over-used rushes—probably loved it, in fact. The worse the smell, the more their own hounds wanted to roll around in its source.

“Although,” Tristan mused, his tone thoughtful, “there are certain things I’d like to know.”

About her? She colored, flustered. “What?” she asked, her voice small.

But before Tristan could answer, they were joined by a fat, jovial personage of short stature who in his crimson robes looked like nothing so much as Father Winter. He smiled broadly, making a surprisingly graceful bow over his paunch. “Hullo!” he cried, in a voice that sounded exactly like his son’s. “It’s not often that we’re graced by such an august presence as yours, Your Grace! Welcome to Ewesdale!”

Tristan nodded in acknowledgment, the barest movement of his head. “The Most Honorable Baron of Ahearn, I presume?”

Rudolph’s father laughed. “Indeed! Where are my manners?” He transferred his apparently genuine smile to Isla briefly, and then back to Tristan. “But please, do call me Jacob!” Every word out of the man’s mouth seemed to be an exclamation, and all made with equal fervor. “Considering as how we’re family, now!”

Tristan’s face was a blank as he absorbed this announcement. Clearly, he lacked Jacob’s enthusiasm for the operation. “Indeed,” he said stiffly.

“Well I think it’s wonderful,” Isla said determinedly.

Rudolph’s mother appeared. She was a thin, spare woman with a hawk nose over which unpleasant eyes glittered. A white streak ran through her dark hair. The smile she turned on her husband was thin-lipped and icy. He wilted. This, Isla knew immediately, was the power behind the throne. She’d often wondered how Rudolph’s family’s estates managed to do so well. She’d met Rudolph’s father before, but never his mother. Now she had her answer.

Madam Bengough greeted Tristan with surprising warmth, pressing her hand into his and letting it linger there. If Tristan’s lack of response disappointed her, she gave no sign. Beside her, her husband grinned happily. Isla wondered if this would be Rowena, a middle aged witch of a woman clinging desperately to what beauty she still possessed. Flirting with others as her husband looked on; as Rudolph himself had done the other night. Jacob, like his son, had probably been quite the catch in his time. She thought back, suddenly, to her father’s advice that she, and not Rowena, might end up with the better end of the bargain. That conversation seemed like a long time ago now. A very long time ago.

“And of course you’re acquainted with my betrothed,” Tristan said.

Rudolph’s mother withdrew her hand. “Hello, child.” She sniffed.

The hours passed in a blur as Isla found herself drawn into conversation, first with her sister’s new in-laws and then with one successive person after another. Tristan made her leave the comfort of her corner, leading her around as though she were a trained pet like Maximus. Once or twice, she thought she saw a glint of humor in his eye at her discomfort.

She heard about failing crops and strange weather patterns and the king’s failure to produce an heir. Until he did so—and there was every belief that he would, he’d only been married a short time—his brother was his appointed successor. A position in which Tristan seemed to have no interest. He deflected some rather pointed questions about his brother’s sex life with ease, showing none of the discomfort that Isla would have in his position.

Eventually, almost in self-defense, she started participating.

She offered her own opinions about the effect of wheat blight on meat prices—bad—and the effect of so much rain on woad—good. Moreover, if their immediate neighbor across the channel, the Most August Kingdom of Chad,
did
decide to run a blockade as a possible precursor to war then prices for domestically produced indigo and other luxury materials would only go up. Not merely due to lack of trade with the East but because
other
kingdoms, those to the west, would trade with Morven rather than risk losing their merchant cogs to state-sponsored piracy. She could almost hope that Chad
did
run the blockade, but for the possible loss of life in Morven.

Whether Isla’s fellow conversationalists were impressed with her logic or simply stunned by the idea that a woman might possess some, she seemed to make a rather good impression. Several men—none of whom she knew, really, or had spoken with on any sort of intimate terms before—congratulated Tristan on his good fortune in finding such a capable bride. Which Isla found singularly annoying. What, precisely, was
Tristan
doing to earn praise and congratulations? The notion that the
man
might have to prove himself in any fashion—beyond proving that he could ride a horse, swing a sword and sheathe
his
sword in whatever happened along—was utterly alien to Morvish society.

Isla forced herself to smile. The expression felt false and uncomfortable on her face, stretching her muscles and making them ache. She’d had too much wine again, terrible as it was, and her head was beginning to swim. She hadn’t eaten much, either; food hadn’t held much savor for her since the…incident.

“And now,” Tristan said, nodding slightly to the man they were with, “if you’ll be so kind as to excuse us.”

He turned and, without waiting for a response, led her through the great hall. The minstrels still played and many still danced, including Rowena. Her high, crystalline laugh echoed behind them as they passed under the arched door and into the central hall that bisected the manor.