The Princess of Cortova (11 page)

18

The Loving Cup

ALARIC SAT ALONE IN
his chamber. His audience with the royal family had been set for that afternoon, and he felt that what he was about to do deserved a few more minutes of quiet reflection.

He got up, opened the large wooden chest in the corner, and took out a handsome ebony box. He set this on his writing table, then went back to the chest for another, larger package: a round leather case lined with plum-colored velvet that pulled together at the top like a drawstring bag.

Alaric sat down again, the leather case in his lap; but he didn’t open it right away. He just waited for a while, as though gathering his courage. Finally, he released the bow and pulled the velvet bag open to reveal an exquisite antique silver bowl.

Many years before, it had been a gift from the king of Austlind to the king of Westria on the occasion of the longed-for birth of a son and heir. The bowl was famous, one of Westria’s great treasures, and had been proudly displayed at court on countless high occasions over the course of three generations.

Now, once again, it would serve as a gift from one royal house to another. And Gonzalo, being a man of refined tastes, would appreciate it for what it was: a masterpiece, an heirloom, and a priceless work of art. He would also know that it had originally been given by Reynard’s parents in honor of Alaric’s father. And now Alaric had quite publicly given it away.

Reynard was sure to be offended by this. And since Gonzalo was already stirring up antipathy between the two cousins, the bowl would be just one more weapon to use in his nasty little campaign. He’d bring it out before every dinner, forcing Reynard to wash his hands over it. And if somehow Reynard failed to recognize the thing, Gonzalo would call it to his attention. “See here, Reynard,” he’d say, “look at this a handsome piece of silver young Alaric gave to me. Now, isn’t it a wonder?”

None of this had been planned, of course. Alaric couldn’t have known that Reynard would be there. He’d decided to give the bowl to Gonzalo because it was lavish and sure to please, it would save him the expense of buying something new, and most of all because he wanted the hateful thing out of his sight. Even now he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. For this bowl, the great silver handbasin of Westria, had caused the death Alaric’s entire family.

His grandfather, old King Mortimer, had been the first to die; he’d been snake-bit in wintertime, when serpents lie dormant in burrows and caves and never bite anyone. Much later, Alaric’s father, King Godfrey the Lame, had been gored by a monstrous creature, a thing of such hideous deformity as was never seen before by human eyes. Then Prince Matthias, Alaric’s oldest brother and the heir to the throne, had been strangled by a vine while hunting; it had appeared out of nowhere, dropping down like a hangman’s noose as he rode by. And finally, on that terrible night just eighteen months past, a pack of demon wolves had entered the great hall of Dethemere Castle to finish off the rest: Alaric’s mother; his sister, Elinor; and his brother, King Edmund the Fair.

Then the wolves had gone in search of Alaric and had found him on the stairs, quite unaware of what was happening below. Had it not been for Molly and Tobias, he’d have died along with the others, and the royal line of Westria would have come to an end.

This was such a spectacular, heartbreaking tale of woe—with its royal setting and many gruesome details—that people talked of it everywhere, the general opinion being that the House of Westria had been cursed by evil magic. This was true. But only a very few knew who had laid that curse and why.

Reynard, as it happened, was one of them.

He’d heard it first from Alaric and had laughed it off. Then he’d heard it from his mother, and this time he’d believed. Because she was the one who’d commissioned the great handbasin, then forced the silversmith to fill it with a hundred curses. She’d admitted this to his face.

Reynard had seen for himself what those curses could do that night in King Edmund’s hall. And he would have noted—well, everyone had once they’d left off screaming and running for their lives—how precisely they’d gone about their slaughter, harming no one but the royal family of Westria.

And therein lay another wonderful stroke of blind luck. For when Gonzalo brought out the silver bowl, it would do more than just offend Reynard. It would serve as a reminder that if he were to take Alaric’s throne—whether by murder or through force of arms—
he
,
Reynard, would become the head of the House of Westria,
and those very particular curses would then come after him—and his wife and his sons.

At least that’s what Reynard would believe, since he didn’t know that Molly (as usual, with the help of Tobias) had destroyed the last of the curses, so the bowl was completely harmless now. Alaric smiled as he pulled the drawstring closed and set the leather case aside. Now he took up the ebony box.

He removed the lid and peeled off the many layers of silk that protected the Loving Cup. He hefted the weight of it in his hands, turning it to admire its elaborate base. With its filigree and bright beading, ornaments raised and incised, and the many delicate enamels, dark against gleaming gold, it was an astonishing work of the silversmith’s art. In contrast to the base and stem, the bowl of the cup was perfect simplicity: beaten silver on the outside, plated with gold on the inside. It caught the light streaming in through the windows and glowed like the very sun.

Just holding it, Alaric could feel its latent power—pulsing, eager, impatient to work out its purpose: to unite two people in a perfect love that would last as long as they lived and would thereafter bless their children, and their children’s children, for generations to come.

“It’s very powerful, Alaric,” Molly had warned when she’d given him the cup. “The bond it forms can never be broken.” (As if he hadn’t already known that he was playing with fire!) When she’d added that he should use it wisely, he’d snapped at her.

“That has always been my intention.”

“Good,” she’d replied, locking eyes with him so fiercely that he hadn’t been able to look away. “Because once the princess sets her lips to the cup, there’s no turning back.”

But Alaric’s decision was firm now—formed over the course of a year and more by the careful weighing of help against harm, his duty as king against his private wishes, the greater good against the lesser need. Now nothing remained that he hadn’t yet considered. It was never going to get any easier. He could stop thinking now.

The chairs where Gonzalo and Alaric had sat together that morning, and where he’d likewise sat with Reynard that afternoon—grinding them down with his ever-escalating, outrageous demands, dropping the occasional wounding insult disguised as pleasant conversation—had been cleared away, along with the table, the bowl of fruit, and the glasses of chilled white wine. Now the room was empty, as a reception hall should be; and the king was seated on his throne, the prince and princess on either side of him. All three were wearing crowns.

“We welcome you, my lord king of Westria,” Gonzalo said, adopting the formal manner common on such occasions.

“I thank you for receiving me,” Alaric replied with a slight bow such as one ruler gives to another.

He’d brought with him six of his knights. One carried the bowl in its round leather case, another the ebony box, and a third had a falcon perched on his fist, which was sheathed in a sturdy leather glove.

“I have brought gifts for you, my lord king of Cortova, and for your family. Will you receive them?”

“With great pleasure. You do us honor.”

At Alaric’s signal, two knights stepped forward. One held the leather case while the other loosened the drawstring and drew back the velvet covering. Then together they tilted it toward the king so he could admire the glittering bowl.

“This handbasin has been in my family since the reign of King Mortimer. I offer it to you now as a gesture of my esteem.”

Gonzalo leaned forward and studied it for a moment, then sat back and smiled at Alaric. “Very handsome,” he said, quite rosy with pleasure. “Most generous indeed. I thank you, my lord King Alaric.”

The knights now stepped back, still holding the presentation case open and tilted, while the next gift was presented.

“For your son and heir, Prince Castor of Cortova, I wish to present this fine young falcon, trained in our royal mews.”

The prince, who had heretofore looked bored, was suddenly wild with interest. “Take off the hood! Take off the hood!” he cried, jumping up from his seat. “I want to see him.”

Gonzalo reached out, as cool as a winter breeze, grabbed Castor by the arm, and pulled him back into his chair. He did this without the slightest change of expression, as if his hand wasn’t actually a part of him but some servant who did his bidding.

“I thank you on behalf of my son, Prince Castor,” he said. “I will see that he is properly trained in the sport of hawking. But for now I believe we had best keep the hood on so as not to startle —”

“But,
Father
!” the prince interrupted, straining against the king’s grip, which only grew tighter. “Ow! Stop it! Ow!”

The knight holding the falcon went to stand beside the ones holding the bowl, and the last of the gifts was brought forward.

“And for your daughter, Princess Anna Maria Elizabetta of Cortova, I would like to present this small token of my great admiration.”

The princess, who seemed to have an infinite number of faces (all of them beautiful), had worn her regal face today. She sat very still, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes fixed squarely on the king of Westria—as they had been since the moment he’d entered the room. Now as Alaric took the ebony case from his gentleman knight and offered it to her himself—removing the lid, tilting the box so she could see the cup—she let a smile creep onto her lips.

“I thank you most sincerely,” Gonzalo said, “on behalf of my daughter, for this exceptional gift. You are too generous.”

“Not at all, my lord King Gonzalo. It is my great pleasure. But I wonder if you might grant me one very small favor.”

“A favor?” He squinted, suspicious now.

“Yes, my lord king—a very small one, I promise. As I have come to Cortova to ask for the lady’s hand in marriage, I would be most honored if she would consent to drink a toast with this cup—a toast to friendship, nothing more. I perfectly understand that no promises are being made. But it would please me enormously if she would.”

Gonzalo hesitated for just the briefest moment, still wondering if there was a catch somewhere, a trap, a trick. But apparently he couldn’t find one.

“Why not?” he said at last. “A toast to friendship. Where’s the harm?”

“Thank you, my lord king, for indulging my little whim.”

A bottle of Westria’s finest vintage was brought out and opened by one of the knights, who handed it to the king, who poured a little into the beautiful cup and offered it to the princess with a courtly bow.

“My lord King Alaric,” she said, “I also wish to thank you for this beautiful cup.” Her eyes sparkled as she held the cup aloft. “To everlasting friendship between our two kingdoms,” she said. “And between ourselves.”

Then she drank from the cup.

And it was done.

Day Five

19

On the Ragged Edge

REYNARD WAS NEAR THE
breaking point. If he grew any angrier, he feared he might burst into flames.
Blast and double blast!
May the king of Cortova die a long and hideous death! May he rot from within and be forced to watch as his bowels were eaten by worms!

Reynard stopped raging and took a deep breath. This was not constructive.

But by everything that was sacred, it was an outrage: demanding that Reynard sign a paper agreeing to terms that were only half considered and still under discussion, while Gonzalo had to promise nothing—
nothing
—and still might form an alliance with Alaric in the end. Yes, yes, he’d put in a clause about that. But really, what was the point? First you discuss, then you agree—then and
only then
do you put it in writing. That’s how things were done.

Had he gotten Alaric to sign a contract, too? Probably. Gonzalo was locking in each and every gain, so there’d be no going back later. And as the talks progressed, with yet more desperate concessions, there’d be
another
temporary contract, and another one after that.

God’s blood, but the man was a monster! Really, there was no good outcome whether Reynard won or lost. There had to be a better way.

He now thought for the thousandth time about what his son had seen. Granted, Rupert wasn’t famous for his brilliance, but he wasn’t a complete loss, either; and the scene he’d described did seem to lead to the conclusions he had drawn. Of course there might be some other explanation, but Reynard couldn’t think what it might be. So just for the sake of argument, what if the boy was right for the first time in his life, and Gonzalo wasn’t as rich as he appeared?

It was worth exploring.

First, as Gonzalo himself had pointed out, he’d never wanted an alliance before because it would be bad for business. So why did he want one now? Point one for Rupert.

Second, Gonzalo had made a conspicuous display of his great wealth: Midas of the Peninsula, Colossus of the Southern Sea! Yet he hadn’t paid the bloody entertainers.

Once again, Rupert had hit the mark by noting that Gonzalo already
had
the silver plates, the antique cups, the candlesticks, and all the rest. They’d been hanging around the palace for generations. That didn’t mean he was rich now.

And yet another astute question his son had raised: Why hadn’t he given a second banquet in Alaric’s honor? Was it possible that he’d planned his spectacle for both of them; but the party from Westria had come a day late, and he
couldn’t afford to repeat it
?

If so then he’d lured both kings into signing documents agreeing to hand over great piles of gold in exchange for—nothing! Yet he couldn’t walk away because, if he was wrong, Alaric would get everything and Austlind would be lost.

A devil of a situation!
Blast and double blast!

At least one thing was certain: he’d have to stop discounting that boy of his. With a little more attention and a firmer hand, young Rupert might grow up to be a half-intelligent human being. Certainly he’d put his finger on the problem and come up with the only real solution.

Except that Reynard didn’t think he could bring himself to kill his cousin, however much was at stake. He was a king, not a murderer.

Now, if it came to war between Austlind and Westria and he and Alaric should meet on the battlefield, that would be an entirely different matter. Reynard wouldn’t hesitate to cut down the boy—even knowing in his heart that it wasn’t a fair fight, that Alaric was young and untested and hadn’t even finished his training. Reynard would do it because they were at war, and he was fighting for the life’s blood of Austlind.

Was it really so different now?

No. It was exactly the same.

But then—by the saints, was there no end to the complications?—there was that bloody silver bowl. Was it really cursed? Those wolves at the banquet had been pretty damned convincing. Yet no harm had come to Alaric since, so maybe . . .

Oh, blast it all, his brain was tired. How was he supposed to make a decision when he didn’t have all the facts? Well, he’d just have to make his best judgment and hope that it was right.

That was, after all, what being a king was all about.