CRELLA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Crella, how pleasing to see you again.”

Crella had waited at the door while a pair of lady servants fetched the man of the estate. He was dressed in the richest of cloth; a thick velvet in deep hues of royal blue and purple constructed his doublet and matching trousers. Crella found herself wondering how someone would be able to remain cool under such extravagant and unnecessary luxury, but quickly scolded herself for thinking the way her husband would. I am a highborn Adeltian. Of that I must not forget.

A glance around the anteroom made her almost cringe at the gaudy display of opulence. Pleated fabric covered walls framed with molding bound in tooled leather, above which the ceiling portrayed idyllic scenes engraved into hardwood. The room feels not unlike a coffin, she thought, also noticing that the pleasant outdoor chill had been replaced by a stuffy heat.

It was a mystery to her how these Adeltian nobles seemed to live so much more lavishly than her, when it was she who married the conqueror, and they who were the conquered. Crella had no misgivings about King Lyell. He was a cruel and terrible man who had thrown her aunt from the heights of the Throne, but as she stared at the display before her, she could not help but wonder why it was that he did not take for himself all that she saw. Lyell is either the most astute or idiotic of conquerors to have allowed the Adeltian nobles to retain so much of their wealth.

“How long has it been since we last saw each other?” the man continued.

He was Lord Junton. Although stripped of his title after Lyell’s conquest, those of the Adeltian elite still appreciated the former viscount as such.

“Far too long,” Crella said, unconvinced by her own words. She had never really known the man, just spoken with him briefly at banquets and the like, but he had reached out to her several times to extend friendship over the past decade, an offer she had neither rejected nor accepted. He had an air to him similar to Cassen which bothered her. Surely that which offends me in him is not that which I project myself. She tried to put the troubling notion out of her mind. Her husband had had her second-guessing herself ever since the unexpected night they’d shared with the tea.

“I pray your husband is recovering well?” Junton motioned for her to walk beside him as they made their way down a corridor. He was a gaunt man with skin aged beyond his years. Though by no means attractive, plenty a young maiden had swooned over him due to his wealth and presumed power.

“Yes, he is a resilient man,” Crella said. “And your wife, Lady Beyla. Is she well?”

Crella had expected to meet Beyla at the door of their home, as it was Adeltian custom to be first welcomed by the lady of an estate. Crella remembered her to have been a young woman of great beauty years prior, when she had married the far older Junton, and Crella was eager to see if time had been kind to her.

“That she is.” Junton led her through a doorway into a massive room. “Your son has been a most-welcome guest at our estate these past few days,” he continued, seeming eager to change the topic. Junton turned toward his left, profiling a thin curving nose, almost comical in appearance, past which Crella saw Stephon crouched at the hearth. Her son was busy poking at the burning embers with an iron rod, making sparks fly from the disturbance.

The boy loves anything with the capacity to destroy. It was an observation she had made before, but she allowed herself to believe it a positive trait for one who must someday rule.

“I am pleased to hear that, Lord Junton,” she said. She hesitated before including his phantom title, as it was somewhat treasonous to refer to him as such, but after all he had done for her and Stephon it was the least she could do to show her appreciation and respect. “It is with regret then, that, as I am sure Stephon has told you, we must be leaving for Westport on the morrow.” The date had been pushed back given Alther’s injury, but both he and Crella were eager to leave at this point. It was unavoidable, and further delay might upset the king.

Stephon tossed the iron poker carelessly toward a corner, making a clamor and depositing more ash on the already-dirtied stone floor. Crella was appalled by the display, wondering how her son could have forgotten so quickly that he was a guest here. Junton did not seem the least bit offended, however—if anything he appeared pleased. Stephon stood, brushed off clothing that Crella did not recognize as his own, and approached her with an autocratic stride.

“I will not be leaving, Mother.” Stephon spoke with all the dignity of a king addressing a servant.

Not wishing to make a scene in front of their host, Crella merely frowned at her son.

“I will leave you two in private to discuss. It has been a pleasure seeing you again, Crella. You and yours are always welcome at our estate.” After his words, Junton exited as promised.

After a moment the two were alone in a room that seemed Stephon was far more comfortable in than was Crella. “What exactly do you mean, Stephon? And you should act with more civility when a guest in someone’s home.” She spoke with caution in case anyone might be eavesdropping through closed doors.

“I will not be leaving for Westport. The place is a slum not fit for the heir to the Adeltian Throne. You’ve said so yourself. Cassen has arranged for me—”

“Cassen?” Crella interrupted. “I told you to stay away from that man. He is not to be trusted.”

Stephon gave her a conceited snort. “Mother, please. I would hardly call him a man, and believe me when I tell you, the duchess is no more immune to my charms than are any of the flippant girls that compete for my affection.” The shrewd smirk Stephon wore appalled her. It was true, Stephon was received quite well by the young women at balls and events, but what else could be expected from the only boy with both Adeltian blood and a claim to the throne? As for the prospect of him charming Cassen, the thought revolted her to the point of losing control.

Crella’s palm met Stephon’s cheek with a crack, and she waited for him to retreat like he always did and submit to her will. But this time he did not. Without moving his head from the way it had been turned from the slap, Stephon slowly raised a pointed finger, pausing dramatically. He still did not look at her while he addressed her, as if his doing so might provoke him to violence.

“Mother, I will forgive you that, your final assault upon me. You are a woman, and as such are given to rash bouts of stupidity and childishness not befitting your advanced age.” Now his eyes met hers, and she saw his fury. “But I warn you, should you attempt to strike me again, you will not enjoy the consequences.”

Crella was too taken aback to respond. She studied her son, desperate for some sign of the little boy she once knew. She flashed to the memory of the time she had first noticed his behavior changing from pure innocence to questionable morality. Crella had a fondness for bantam wolves, a breed of stunted dog that grew to the size and likeness of a wolf pup and no larger. As a child, she had always had two or three of the long-haired canines in her care, and that had continued until Stephon was a boy of six years. He’d come to her swearing vengeance on one of her pets, promising to skin it for nipping his hand. Crella tried to explain to him, not for the first time, that no animal likes to have its tail yanked, but in looking in Stephon’s eyes she knew her words had no effect. She decided it would be best to give away her pets rather than risk the inevitable escalation.

“Cassen has spoken to the king and arranged for me to remain in Eastport as his apprentice. I will learn to do what Alther cannot, manage a city. I will no doubt teach Cassen a great many things as well, but I will not be fool enough to show him all my tricks. Lyell was quick to agree, knowing full and well that left with Alther, I would learn nothing.” Stephon paused a moment as if to ponder the depths of his own intellect. “I may have done our kingdom a disservice by not striking him with something more substantial than a vase. I understand your desire to not look a harlot, but continuing to pretend that he is my father is unforgivable.”

Crella could not bring herself to comprehend Stephon’s comments. How he was able to so nonchalantly accuse her of adultery and speak of murdering his father, she could not understand. She had never before known Stephon to wish to injure Alther and had believed her son had only attacked him in her defense. Cassen, Junton, or both were likely manipulating the boy to best suit their own schemes. I should never have sent him here. She wanted to slap him into sense, but she now truly feared his retaliation.

“And on the subject of Redrivers men, are you aware of what His Grace—that disgusting old man—did at the most recent ball? To my half-sister, your daughter?” Stephon spat the question as if his mother had somehow been complicit.

Crella had heard of it and was equally disgusted; however, she saw no reason to push her son further down this destructive line of thought. “He merely danced with the girl, as fathers often do with daught—”

“How dare you make excuses for that deviant,” Stephon interrupted, raging. “Blood relation or not, that is his granddaughter, and he made advances upon her as would any suitor. It is repugnant. I would not blame the Adeltian masses, should they revolt in reaction to a deed so poorly done.”

There were ears everywhere, and her son was openly speaking treason—a thing normally best dealt with by turning heel and distancing oneself from the speaker. Crella still could see the face of her servant executed for the same crime, her expression frozen in despair, her eyes forever accusing Crella of being her informer. How much more gruesome a sight would it have been had she seen it in actuality and not only in her imagining? Would she force herself to witness Stephon’s impalement?

Crella drove the thoughts off, along with her fears of his potential for reprisal. “You do not know what you are saying. Your words are not your own. You have been made to believe things—”

“I have been made to believe things? Is your hypocrisy boundless?” Stephon now had a dangerous mirth mixed with his fury that threatened assault.

“Your grandfather is the king,” she said, meeting his fury with her own. Strike me if you must, but you will hear my words. “And you will respect and obey him so long as he is as such.”

A mischievous and sinister smile spread across Stephon’s face. “I would not expect that old man to rule for so long as you might think, Mother. I know a great deal that you do not.”

Just as he’d finished his statement, Crella heard a heavy pounding at the door punctuated with authoritative shouting.