Thirteen

A WEDDED WOMAN

Dorian and I exchanged our vows in the Royal Chapel, with the king and queen as witnesses. Queen Lenore gave me a new dress for the occasion, made of a deep red velvet chosen to complement my brown hair and eyes, and insisted I borrow the gold floral necklace she had received as a wedding gift from her mother, the necklace that would one day be passed down to Rose. Dorian grinned with satisfaction when he saw me standing in the chapel entry. He looked utterly self-assured, as if this ceremony were a joust or a hunting excursion, a diverting escapade rather than a life-changing event. I followed him silently to the altar, still astounded that this striking, rugged knight had chosen me as his wife. The sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window lit him with a burnished aura as I followed the prompting of the priest, promising to obey my husband and put his cares above my own. It was not until I said the words aloud that I truly understood the consequences of my actions. As Dorian slid a gleaming gold band along my finger, the finality of the gesture made my hand tremble. Had I relinquished my freedom too easily?

After the ceremony we were given a feast in the Great Hall. King Ranolf presented Dorian with his wedding gift, a hunting dagger whose blade jutted from a handle inlaid with precious gems. Dorian’s fellow knights exchanged envious glances at this extravagant proof of the king’s favor, just as their wives shared looks of silent disapproval when I took a seat among them. Rose ran over and threw her arms around me, bubbling with congratulations, and I was further discomfited by this unexpected flouting of castle etiquette. To judge by the expressions of my table companions, my sudden rise in status was scarcely believable to them as well. Throughout the rest of the meal, I stared modestly at my plate to spare them the awkwardness of my attention.

Dorian alone appeared unaffected. He was his usual jovial self throughout the meal, trading jokes about his prowess as a lover with the knights who sat at our table. He ruffled my hair and kissed my hands, proud to publicly claim possession. As the hour for us to retire grew closer, I grew steadily more nervous. We had shared many passionate kisses since our engagement, but time and again I had stopped his wandering hands, determined that the consummation wait until our wedding night. But now that the moment was upon us, I feared disappointing him. I was ignorant in the ways a woman pleases a man, and Dorian had enjoyed a wide array of female companionship. Would I bore him?

After dinner and a series of rambling, drunken toasts, a group of Dorian’s friends escorted us from the hall, taunting my new husband about the great test before him. Although I knew that such jests were a matter of course for a wedding night, they fueled my unease. I quickened my pace, hearing the voices fade in the distance behind me, and walked into Dorian’s bedroom. I had seen it for the first time earlier that day, when I’d accompanied the porter who carried my meager possessions downstairs. Accustomed as I was to the expansiveness of the queen’s rooms, the space looked woefully cramped and dark. A simple bed stood in the center, with posts at each corner but no canopy. Two chairs sat under a small window, which looked out over the stables. A plain wooden cross on one wall was the only attempt at adornment. Such a spare room bore little witness to the character of the man who slept there.

I paced between the bed and the chairs, the only part of the room with space to walk. I heard footsteps and looked up, preparing myself for further mockery. Dorian entered, alone, and closed the door behind him.

“Don’t tell me those fools upset you?”

He carried himself as if this were any other night, walking past me as he pushed his coat off his shoulders and tossed it onto one of the chairs. His boots were cast aside in a similarly careless manner. Was I expected to disrobe with the same indifference? Dorian turned to stand before me, the form of his broad chest visible through his thin linen shirt. Gently, he removed my headdress and pulled my curls loose from their fastenings, sending tingles across my scalp. His hands moved down to my shoulders, along my arms, and to my back, where they expertly undid the laces that cinched my dress. The supple velvet slid to the floor, and I was left in my shift, shivering with nerves. Dorian leisurely took in the sight of me as I stared at the floor, unsure how to proceed. Then, suddenly, I was in his arms, lowered back onto the bed, trapped by the weight of his body.

“You have no idea how I’ve waited for this moment,” he said, his voice a gruff whisper, as his hands pushed up my skirt and ran up and down my legs. My heart pounded so strongly it seemed the rhythm passed through us both.

“You’ll do as I say, will you, wife?” he asked teasingly.

“I will obey you,” I said, echoing the vows I had said a few hours before.

I thought his body an unknown land to be explored warily, but he treated mine as territory to be conquered. Guiding me through the motions that bind husband to wife, he issued commands like a soldier, but the words were uttered with the warmth of lovers’ talk; the forcefulness of his callused hands might have been threatening had I not felt so protected in his powerful embrace. For he had a skill I imagine few men do: the ability to temper danger with tenderness.

In that shadowy bed, illuminated by the flame of a single candle, my nervousness fled under Dorian’s assured fingers. When he unbuttoned my shift with a grin and pushed it down from my shoulders, I blushed as my nakedness was revealed. But the feel of his skin against mine as our limbs intertwined soon swept me into a realm of pure pleasure. With his delighted encouragement, my hands roamed from the tight muscles of his legs, hardened by years of riding, to the surprisingly soft skin at the base of his neck; when I reached up to kiss him there, he quivered with delight, and I reveled in my power to affect him so. Yearning for more, I followed as he urged me here, then there, tasting his musky skin with ever-increasing hunger. When his final assault made me gasp with a sudden, sharp pain, he pressed his face against mine and whispered reassurance, holding me tight as he shuddered to his conclusion.

Stroking my arm as he rolled to lie beside me, he said, “I was right to put trust in your virtue. A fine wedding gift to your husband.”

He kissed me lightly on the forehead, then turned away; before long his breathing rumbled into snores. After so many years spent sleeping alone, I knew not how to position my body beside him. I lay rigid and alert, feeling the heat emanate from his skin, exhausted yet unable to sleep.

Marriage had transformed me from the queen’s maid to a knight’s wife. Queen Lenore took on a new personal attendant, an amiable young girl named Heva, and I became the newest of her ladies-in-waiting. Rather than stand to the side in the queen’s sitting room waiting to be summoned, I was entitled to a seat among women of noble birth and permitted to speak as an equal. Though I continued to treat them with deference, the queen’s ladies did not welcome me into their ranks. On more than one occasion, I walked toward a knot of them huddled in whispered conversation only to have all sound cease at my approach. One asked impertinently if I was with child, as if that were the only way the castle’s most notorious bachelor could have been enticed into marriage. No doubt a few had fancied Dorian for themselves.

The occasional disapproving stare was a small price to pay for the advantages of my new position. I was no longer awake at dawn to serve another; I could now greet the morning at my leisure, hovering between sleep and wakefulness in my new husband’s arms. The days were mine to spend as I pleased, for the queen’s ladies could come and go at will. In truth, after so many years of service and with no friends of my own rank to help pass the time, I found it difficult to fill the empty hours that greeted me at the start of each day. Out of habit and affection for the queen, I continued to spend much of my time in her apartments, which were a welcome escape from the cold, masculine rooms Sir Walthur and Dorian shared.

Rose, one of the few who reveled in my new position, became my closest companion. In her younger years, she had enjoyed a certain measure of freedom, escaping the castle’s fortifications for rides with her father in the countryside or visits to nearby estates. Given the growing threats to her safety, such excursions now were denied her, as was the company of girls her own age, for most noble families raised their children away from court. Desperate for diversion, with no other friends to turn to, Rose came to me for conversation and guidance. Not long after I said my vows, she asked whether the wedding night had been as I expected.

“Do you mean after the feast?” I considered carefully how to phrase the words. “The consummation?”

“I heard the men making jests with Dorian, but I did not understand their meaning.”

“Hasn’t your mother spoken to you of such things?” I asked.

She shook her head. “She told me only that a wife must perform certain duties. The rest could wait until I was older.”

Given my rustic upbringing, I could not imagine reaching the age of fourteen with no knowledge of how men and women lay together. From as early as I could remember, I had seen sheep rut in the field and heard my father grunt against my mother in the darkness of our hovel. I did not think it my place to educate Rose, yet I was touched she trusted me with such questions.

“I must respect your mother’s wishes,” I said. “I promise, I will tell you all you need to know when the arrangements for your marriage are made.”

“You are happy with Dorian, are you not?”

Such a simple question, yet so difficult to answer truthfully.

“Of course,” I said with great assurance.

“I hope to be happy with Sir Hugill.” Rose had yet to meet her future husband, though she often pored over a small portrait he had sent. “I know nothing of his character or temperament, yet I am to be bound to him for life. Does that not strike you as cruel?”

“It is the way things are done,” I said warily. No good could come of questioning her lot in life, and I would not be accused of encouraging such sentiments.

“I am more prisoner than princess. Never consulted for my thoughts or opinions, only informed of what I must do. Not once has my mother spoken of love when it comes to my marriage. How I envy you.”

Rose, alas, was too young to remember when her parents had stared adoringly at each other before the whole court or read poetry aloud in Queen Lenore’s sitting room. Now they were little more than figureheads, a king and queen who lived largely separate lives. Her father passed his days fixated on real or imagined threats, while her mother took solace in the teachings of her newest favored adviser, a traveling monk named Father Gabriel who could expound for hours on the sins of human vanity. Tall and ascetic, with a gangly, thin frame that called to mind a crane, he took pride in sleeping on the floor of the kitchens, rolled only in his cloak. With such a saintly presence hovering in the queen’s rooms, I could hardly blame the king for seeking amusement elsewhere; according to Heva he no longer shared his wife’s bed. It was little wonder that Rose considered my marriage a love match, compared to that of her parents.

Was my marriage happy? I could not say. Our vastly different natures often put us at odds; during rides in the country Dorian fretted at my slow pace, while his attempts to explain the intricacies of joust tactics left me yawning. Amused rather than impressed by Flora’s tutelage, he referred to the collection of bottles and jars I stored in a corner of our room as witches’ brews, though he was happy enough when I applied one of my salves on his sore muscles. Married or not, he would not relinquish the role of entertainer, and he sought the admiration of both women and men. In his eternal quest to amuse and be amused, Dorian enjoyed making me a topic of fun, lamenting his lost freedom or complaining of his wife’s sharp tongue, when we both knew I had never spoken a word against him. When I told him that such complaints hurt my feelings, he rolled his eyes and said marriage had dulled my appetite for humor, thereby proving his point.

How, then, can I explain the way he enthralled me in private? On the nights I turned from him in irritation, frustrated by a thoughtless remark or gesture made earlier, he would run his fingers through my hair or kiss my chest along the neckline of my gown, until my body betrayed me by responding to his touch. Unlike so many men, who take what they need from a woman to suit their own tastes, Dorian took pleasure in giving pleasure. The fact that I was known throughout the castle for my discretion and modesty only heightened his wish to see me undone. I revealed a side of myself to Dorian that no one else had ever seen, and the knowledge of such secret selves can bind a couple in matrimony more sturdily than can their church vows.

I did not expect Dorian to be faithful to me, and he was not. I accepted it as the price paid to spend my days as I pleased, for he put few demands on me during daylight hours. Dorian could be coarse and arrogant but also generous and charming, unintentionally insulting but never purposefully cruel. My own parents had shown me that a wife’s lot could be far worse. I hoped fatherhood might tame his wandering eyes and juvenile ways, yet a year, and then two, passed with no change to my cycle.

Fears for my own possible barrenness did not blind me to the looming dangers facing the kingdom. A seeming victory—the capture of the youngest deRauley brother—revealed itself in time as a further spur to the rebels. The young man’s trial for treason was a sham, for he had little knowledge of his older brothers’ scheming, and the cruelty of his execution, dragged out for maximum suffering, only hardened the hearts of those already disposed against the king. Sir Walthur spent his days closed off with the Royal Council, debating whether additional troops should be sent north, where talk of Prince Bowen’s taking over the throne was now commonplace. Though Bowen himself eluded the king’s spies, it was clear he was actively plotting in the area, stirring up discontent with his brother’s rule.

Dorian spent his days on horseback, practicing battle formations with the other knights, overgrown boys playing at war until the real thing came along. In the privacy of our room, he taught me how to wield the jeweled dagger that had become his most prized possession, standing with his chest pressed against my back, clutching my hand as he demonstrated a thrust or a cut. It was the closest I had ever come to understanding the lure of soldiering, for my very bones seemed to take on the weight of that steel, filling me with unaccustomed strength. The undercurrent of danger proved exhilarating, and such encounters invariably ended with the dagger dropped to the floor as we reached for each other instead.

Though Dorian proclaimed himself eager to fight, the king and his advisers believed it was in their power to cow the rebels without resorting to a full invasion. It is only hindsight that makes a war inevitable. For months—years—we set our hopes on other resolutions. The eldest deRauley brothers might be captured, putting an end to their conspiracy, or Prince Bowen’s arrogance might drive away his followers. The king invested great effort into building a network of allies that would make his hold on power unshakeable. The rulers of neighboring lands had every reason to support King Ranolf, for any upheaval in our country might spill over into theirs. The cornerstone of this strategy was Hirathion, the land that bordered us to the north and therefore was the most likely to be affected by possible bloodshed.

Were Hirathion’s king to publicly stand with us, the rebels’ stronghold would be encircled by territory loyal to King Ranolf, dealing a mortal blow to the northerners’ conspiracy. So it seemed a most auspicious sign when the king of Hirathion sent word that a representative would be visiting the castle to discuss a formal alliance.

I did not see the delegation from Hirathion arrive; the men disappeared into the Council Chamber almost immediately to confer with the king. However, the news soon spread that the visiting party consisted of only a few officials, led by an ambassador whose name was unfamiliar to Sir Walthur. Dorian strode into our room, filthy and exhausted from a week of military exercises in the western region of the kingdom, and complained that the ambassador’s youth proved Hirathion’s indifference to our affairs.

Still, among the ladies of the castle any change to our usual routine was cause for excitement. A great feast had been prepared for his first night, and even Queen Lenore rose to the occasion, adorning herself in the precious jewels she usually forswore. I wore the red gown made for my wedding, which elicited a lecherous grin from Dorian when I emerged from our bedroom. All the members of court were present in the Great Hall when the men from Hirathion arrived, ushered by a hum of curious whispers. They were led by a dark-featured young man who moved with a dignity beyond his years. His eyes darted swiftly across the room, and I sensed immediately an intense curiosity, an eagerness to observe and remember all he saw. This, Dorian whispered to me, was Joffrey Oberliss, the ambassador on whom our fates might depend.

I noted his lack of title—further proof of his relative unimportance—yet he comported himself with the grace of one accustomed to aristocratic circles and was granted a seat of honor at the queen’s side. Throughout the meal my eyes were drawn to him as he engaged Queen Lenore in conversation, listening to her answers with attentive concentration. Rose, separated from the guest of honor by both her parents, leaned forward repeatedly to catch his words, her expression openly enthralled. I shot her a disapproving glance, but I could not fault her for finding our visitor compelling. Joffrey exhibited a refinement and a thoughtfulness that were rare among the hardy, boisterous knights of King Ranolf’s circle.

After the plates were cleared and a series of flowery toasts had been offered, the king signaled the musicians to begin. The younger courtiers rose from their seats and gathered in the middle of the room, arranging themselves in rows facing one another to dance. I had learned the steps only recently, after my marriage, and firmly declined Dorian’s entreaties to join him; I would not risk tripping over my feet at such a formal affair.

As the musicians sounded out their first tune, Rose turned to her father and touched his arm. I could not hear her words, but the king stood and signaled for silence.

“One moment!” he announced. “My Beauty would like to join the company, but only if our guest serves as her partner.”

He turned to Joffrey with a playful smile, delighting in the young man’s surprise. A look of alarm passed across Queen Lenore’s face, so quickly that few would have noticed, to be replaced with her customary polite smile. Rose’s forwardness in requesting a dance with a man of drastically lower rank was a considerable breach of etiquette. But if King Ranolf had chosen to encourage his daughter’s youthful high spirits, Queen Lenore could not be seen to disagree.

Rose had moved to the floor by the time Joffrey got up from his seat. Befitting her position, she stood at the head of the line of ladies, where she would be on full display to the surrounding guests. I wondered if Joffrey would be able to follow the steps; not all young men have a talent for movement, and his gait appeared hesitant as he took his place.

They stood opposite each other, his eyes staring directly into hers, for Rose at sixteen had spurted to above-average height. The music began, and Rose took two dainty steps forward, then slid smoothly past and around her partner, as if wrapping him in an invisible net. The warmth of her smile melted Joffrey’s cautious reserve, and he succumbed further with each movement, his eyes following every dip and turn, lips parting with pleasure as he matched Rose’s steps. When their hands met briefly at the end, his palm stayed too long against hers, and she pulled away with a delighted laugh.

We all saw it. The ambassador was so besotted by Rose that he did not care if the whole court noticed. They danced another round, then another. The king, who should have put a stop to such favoritism, was caught up in conversation with his courtiers; Queen Lenore, always deferential to her husband’s wishes, made no move to admonish her daughter. A woman’s honor is her most prized possession, and I feared that Rose was wearing hers too lightly.

During the next pause in the music, I stood and made my way toward the edge of the dancers. I saw Rose stare at Joffrey with raised eyebrows, daring him to flout etiquette and request her hand yet again. Moving into her line of sight, I shook my head slowly, hoping the darkness of my expression would compound the warning. Rose’s smile dropped, along with her flirtatious manner, and she introduced me to her guest with formal politeness.

“May I request the honor?” he asked, extending his hand toward me. Flushed from the dancing, giving me the full force of his attention, he was even handsomer than he had appeared from a distance. It was no wonder that Rose had been dazzled.

I shook my head. “I must decline, with the greatest respect. Unfortunately, I am a poor dancer.”

“As was I, until tonight.”

His flash of wit disarmed me, and I found myself grinning along with Rose. Then, aware of all the eyes upon us, I discreetly nudged Rose back toward her table. “Time to take your place,” I whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Rose murmured, then raised her voice to include Joffrey in our conversation. “I would find some cold cider quite refreshing. There’s nothing like dancing to awake a thirst.”

“I’ll have some sent,” I said, searching the hall in vain for a serving maid. As usual, most had disappeared once the music had started, no doubt to indulge in their own revelry downstairs. I slipped through the doorway behind the dais that led to the Receiving Room, remembering how I had made this same escape years before, on the day of Rose’s baptism. Here I had huddled with the king and Flora as Queen Lenore recounted the grisly tale of Millicent’s dark powers. On this night the room was empty and still, and I moved through the dark space quickly, averting my eyes from the shadows that shifted as I passed. Alone, I climbed down the narrow staircase that led to the Lower Hall, shivering when the damp walls rubbed against my arm. The noise and gaiety of the feast had been left behind; the only sound was the tap of my shoes against the slabs underfoot. Despite the many years I had lived at the castle, I had never lost my discomfort walking these passages alone, secretly fearing that one wrong turn might lead me into a tunnel or dungeon from which I would never return.

Once downstairs, I accosted a half-drunk footman and charged him with bringing pitchers of fresh cider to the king’s table. I darted back up the stairs, so distracted that I did not see the dark figure blocking my way out until I ran headlong into the solid mass of his body. His arms imprisoned me, pressing my face against his chest and muffling my scream with his shirt. His fingers spread across the nape of my neck and up through my hair before gently pulling my head back so that I could look at him. It was Dorian.

“I am sorry I frightened you,” he said in hushed voice. “’Twas all in fun.”

Fun? Furious, I twisted away from his grasp. He reached out for my hand and clasped it with unexpected tenderness, bringing my fingers up to his lips for a kiss. The sweetness of the gesture was enough to halt my steps, and Dorian drew closer, sliding his hands along my sleeves, up to my shoulders.

“How you torment me,” he whispered, running his mouth along the arch of my neck. “It seems forever since I touched you. It was torture, watching you tonight, being denied this.” His hand slid smoothly down my side to my thigh. I felt the skin of my calves prickle in the clammy air as he pulled up my skirt.

“What would you have me do, wife, with the blood risen up in me?” One hand pressed against the curve of my bottom to keep me in place; the other began a steady stroke along my inner thigh.

“I cannot stay,” I said, my languid voice at odds with my words.

“Please.”

The ache in his voice took me by surprise. Dorian’s mouth moved from my lips to my cheeks, my forehead, my ears, desperate movements driven by a need he could not master. I grabbed his hips with my hands, pressing him against me until I could feel the hardness of his desire. His fingers moved between my legs, stoking my own hunger for what came next.

Suddenly I heard the distant crash of a falling pot, followed by faint laughter. Roused from a momentary madness, I remembered we were at the top of the servants’ stairs, in full view of whoever might ascend. Terrified, I froze and stared at Dorian. He grinned devilishly and pulled my skirt almost to my waist. His boldness spurred on my own desire; I could not stop, not now. I reached under his tunic, fear of discovery hurrying my fingers. Dorian pushed me against the wall, taking me as we stood, grinding into me with a force that left me breathless. Even after he was spent, he held me there, lost in the moment, unwilling to see it past.

For those few, silent minutes, I held him. Though we had come together in a frenzy of lust, I felt an unexpected tenderness for my husband. Dorian had revealed a chink in his armor, a need of me I had never suspected. Perhaps, deep down, he even loved me.

Belatedly remembering my obligations, I pulled away and hastily smoothed out my dress. Dorian watched, amused, while I hid all trace of debauchery. As we walked out into the Receiving Room, I was surprised, then panicked, to see two figures hovering in the doorway opposite me. Who were they? What had they heard?

As I hesitantly walked closer, I saw that it was Rose and Joffrey, deep in conversation. Whatever sounds Dorian and I had made had not traveled this far, for they both startled at my approach and stepped backward to increase the distance between them. While Joffrey was abashed enough to avoid meeting my eyes, Rose addressed Dorian and me in her usual bright manner.

“I have been showing our visitor the tapestries.”

“A challenge indeed, in this dim light,” Dorian noted with mock concern.

I shot him a look and gave Rose’s shoulder a firm push. “There will be time enough to see the sights tomorrow. Come, sir. It won’t do to have our guest of honor go missing.”

As we reentered the Great Hall, I was relieved to see that our appearance did not cause much stir. While Rose and Joffrey’s absence could not have passed unnoticed, my presence as chaperone made their brief outing respectable. Only I knew that they had been together alone, unobserved, a blunder that could have stained Rose’s reputation forever. Rose and Joffrey rejoined the king and queen, while Dorian and I made our way back to our table. He flung one arm possessively around my waist and leaned in close.

“If only they knew what you’ve been up to,” he murmured, then laughed suggestively.

His breath tickled my neck, and my face flushed. I glanced around, hoping my husband’s words had not been overheard. The buzz of conversation surrounding us continued, uninterrupted, but I was suddenly aware of a gaze fixed upon me. I saw a tall figure looming in the doorway, standing utterly still with arms crossed, his very posture a stiff rebuke to the revelry before him. It was Father Gabriel.

I was surprised, then concerned. He often boasted of his indifference to worldly matters; why, then, should he make an appearance this evening? And why was his disdainful gaze directed at me? He could not possibly know of my encounter with Dorian in the stairway, yet I sensed that something in my posture, in my husband’s easy, possessive touch, had given us away. Excusing myself hurriedly from Dorian, I walked over to the monk and greeted him with what I hoped was an innocent expression.

“I did not think I would see you here tonight, Father,” I said. “Did you wish to speak to me?”

“According to the servants’ gossip, Princess Rose made quite a spectacle of herself in the dancing.” He sniffed. “Now I find you escorting her from a private meeting with the ambassador. I had not expected such permissiveness, from you or the queen.”

“It is her father who indulges Rose,” I said with a wry smile. “But I see no harm in her charming our guest. It may even bring the king of Hirathion to our side.”

Father Gabriel’s tight-lipped expression of disapproval did not change. “It’s time that girl was married. She needs a firm hand.”

His words in themselves were not shocking, but I was taken aback by the vehemence of his tone. His role at court was to tend to the queen’s spiritual needs, not the princess’s personal affairs. Was he using his influence with the queen to meddle in matters of state? Of course not, I quickly admonished myself, for I had seen no such signs. Chaste men of God, I have found, have little sympathy for young women of a flirtatious disposition, and I could not deny that Father Gabriel’s censure was earned: Rose never should have been allowed to take such liberties.

When I asked Rose later what had transpired in the Receiving Room, she blushed and would not say. I could not tell whether her reticence was intended to cover behavior I would have disapproved of or to hide her disappointment that Joffrey had not attempted such behavior.

The following morning, irritable with frustration, Dorian told me Joffrey had made vague assurances of support but admitted that the king of Hirathion would send no soldiers to aid our cause. The king, furious, had hurled accusations of deception, and the delegation had quit the castle abruptly, without the customary formal farewells.

“We’re on our own,” Dorian muttered.

Sir Walthur had joined us in the family’s sitting room. The hours of fruitless talks had brought dark shadows to his eyes, and his usual sternness was softened by exhaustion. “Hirathion remains an ally,” he said solemnly.

“We are defending the rights of a noble family. A fellow king should find that a cause worth fighting for.”

“You must consider his position. If he sends soldiers here, he’ll be leaving his own lands sparsely defended.”

“Hang all of them,” Dorian said.

Sir Walthur sucked in his breath at his son’s irreverence. I sat silent, as I usually did when father and son argued affairs of state. A woman’s opinion was of no import to either man.

“King Ranolf commands the finest forces these lands have ever seen,” Dorian continued. “It’s time we proved ourselves.”

Sir Walthur shook his head sadly. Then he turned to me.

“There is one matter I must address with you, Elise. When the men from Hirathion departed this morning, I accompanied them to the courtyard to see them off. As they were riding out, their ambassador, Joffrey, swerved aside to speak to someone who was standing by the gates. The person was wrapped in a dark cloak, and I would have paid the encounter little mind had the wind not shifted and blown at the hood. It was Rose. I knew her hair instantly.”

I was surprised, but not shocked. I should have guessed that Rose would seek out a last dramatic farewell with the man who had so fascinated her. I only hoped none of Joffrey’s men had witnessed her impetuous gesture.

“Did anyone else see?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. Thank God. But I believe it my duty to notify the king.”

“No, no, please don’t,” I begged. “I will speak to her.”

Sir Walthur sat like an old man, his shoulders stooped and his arms flat and lifeless upon the table. “The young give no thought for consequences. Like those who yearn for battle.” He looked at Dorian. “When word gets out that we have no reinforcements to call on, I don’t see how war can be avoided.”

“I welcome it,” said Dorian, defiant, and I was momentarily chilled by his single-minded craving for bloodshed. As Sir Walthur had noted, his son was relentless in pursuit of his desires, no matter the cost. Just as Rose refused to admit fault when I chided her for running after Joffrey like a loose woman. When I appealed to her good sense, saying it was dangerous to hover so near the castle gates, she smirked.

“More dangerous than walking through St. Elsip?” she asked. “For I have done so and returned quite unharmed.”

“You have gone out?” I asked, horrified. “Alone?”

“No one spares a second glance for a girl in a chambermaid’s dress.”

I understood that she struggled with the constraints of her position, but I had never imagined she would go to such lengths to escape them. I begged her not to slip out again and knew even as she said the words that she would not honor her promise. Yet I never told her parents or asked her maid to report to me on Rose’s movements. I took no actions to stop her. Rose’s outings beyond the walls fed a vital piece of her soul. If I did not tacitly support her furtive attempts at independence, I risked losing her trust—and her love—forever.

Sir Walthur’s fears of war proved prophetic. It was not two weeks after Joffrey and his men had departed that we received devastating news. The fortress of Embriss, once the seat of the deRauley family but controlled for the past decade by soldiers loyal to the king, had been overtaken. I was in the front courtyard with Dorian when the rider arrived, breathless and terrified, his exhausted horse barely able to put one foot before the other. Dorian shouted to one of the stableboys to take the reins. The person who dismounted was little more than a youth, but his eyes were those of one who has seen misery far beyond his years.

Dorian half dragged the messenger to the Council Chamber, where the king was gathered with Sir Walthur and his other advisers. Though it was not my place, I followed at a discreet distance, accompanied by other members of court who sensed the importance of this sudden arrival.

The king bade the young man enter and say his piece. Lingering in the hall, I could only catch glimpses of the men inside, but I heard the boy’s terrible tale clearly. Two days before, marauders had attacked Embriss without warning, storming through the gates like a pack of wolves, eager for blood. Their actions had been swift and ruthless. Bodies had been tossed from turrets and flames devoured the walls as the boy watched in horror from a nearby hill.

“Could you see the attackers?” the king demanded.

“The men leading the charge carried the standard of the deRauleys, three bear heads on a field of yellow,” said the youngster. “One rode a black horse, the largest I’ve ever seen.”

“Marl,” the king said, his voice almost a whisper. Tales of the oldest deRauley brother had taken on the flavor of legend: He was reputed to stand a head taller than any other man and to ride a massive black beast that was more bull than horse. If Marl himself had made the attack, it was an act of war.

Yet how could such a mighty stronghold fall so quickly? Later, when the messenger was dismissed, I offered to take him to the Lower Hall to see he was fed.

“You saw the riders approach the castle?” I asked him.

The boy nodded.

“How did they enter? Surely the walls were well defended?”

“I could not see the gates from where I stood. But it seemed that no time passed before I heard screams from inside.”

There had been no attack, no siege. A traitor had opened Embriss to its enemies, further proof that the king’s hold on his people had grown slack with time. Dorian and his friends may have fancied themselves the bravest soldiers in the land, but swordsmanship is no defense against betrayal.

After years of whispered rumors and uncertain threats, making plans for war brought a cathartic relief to the king and his men. Commanders put soldiers through their paces on the vast tournament field to the south of the castle walls, and hoofbeats thundered through the air. The bellows in the castle armory stayed lit well into the night; I lay in bed listening to the clink of metal. Queen Lenore spent her days at prayer in the chapel, Father Gabriel at her side. She would rule in the king’s name during his absence, and I feared that the weight of such duty would hang heavy upon her. Yet she faced the prospect of her husband’s departure with serene acceptance, for which I grudgingly credited Father Gabriel’s ministrations. I could forgive his aloof manner toward me and the rest of the court as long as his prayers gave strength to the queen.

Beyond the royal apartments, the days leading up to the army’s departure saw an outbreak of lusty couplings, as many young women who had denied their suitors certain favors suddenly put aside their qualms. Any man in armor was much swooned over, his faults overlooked and his bravery praised. Even I found myself clinging to Dorian in a way much contrary to my usual reserve during the few hours he was not out training his men.

The night before the army was to march off, Dorian stomped into our room long past nightfall. Drained by the day’s events, he collapsed onto the bed with a grunt of satisfaction. I fetched the water pitcher and washed off his grimy face as he lay back, eyes closed, worn out from his exertions. Gently, I pushed his disheveled hair back from his forehead, listening to his slow, even breathing. Just when I thought he had fallen asleep, he reached up and drew me tight against his chest. I did not speak when he pulled off my dress, nor when I eased his tunic up over his shoulders. We came together silently, his rough soldier’s hands stroking my delicate skin as if he could preserve memories by touch.

I expected Dorian to fall asleep afterward, as was his habit, but his impending departure sparked an uncharacteristic tenderness. He lay on his side, facing me, twisting his fingers through my curls.

“The thought of lingering with you is almost enough to make me regret the coming of war.”

There was no teasing smile, no lighthearted laughter. For that brief moment, I saw us as we could have been, had we learned to speak honestly and openly to each other. Perhaps it was still possible for us to forge a true partnership when the war had passed.

“Linger a while longer, then,” I murmured, rubbing my palms against his chest.

Flush with affection, I considered telling him the secret I had been holding for some weeks. Missing one monthly course was hardly sure proof that I was with child, and I was fearful of raising his hopes and mine until more time had passed. Would it be better to wait, I wondered, and present him with a full belly on his return? I envisioned a weary and mud-spattered Dorian riding home from battle, myself waiting at the castle gates to share the news.

“I shall miss these soft hands when I’m bedded down in a field with a horde of filthy soldiers,” Dorian said.

“You won’t have time for such remembrances,” I said, teasing. “You will be too busy boasting.”

“You know me too well,” he said with a wry smile. “I cannot deny it, I am ready to fight. Ready to see this settled.”

Already Dorian’s thoughts were on those northern battlegrounds. Drawing his attention to other matters would be no kindness, and I decided to say nothing of my condition. If I were wrong and this monthly interruption was no more than woman’s trouble, he need never know of it.

I fell asleep with Dorian’s arms around me, cocooned in the sturdiness of his body. Awakened at dawn by a gentle kiss, I opened my eyes and saw Dorian standing beside the bed, already dressed.

“I’m off to muster the men.”

“So soon?” I asked, groggy.

“There is much to be done.” Then, softening, he said, “Will you be seeing me off?”

“Of course,” I said.

Dorian hesitated, looking at my bare shoulders, the curve of my breasts beneath the cover tempting him to return for a final embrace. I ached with longing. He had not even left the castle, yet I already missed his warm, solid presence.

“I will look for you,” he said at last, bowing his head in farewell. The husband who had whispered to me in the night was gone; Dorian was now a warrior, ready to face his destiny.

The soldiers departed with great ceremony from the front courtyard. A raised platform had been erected so the queen and her ladies could take leave of their men on horseback face-to-face. The walls were ringed with a crush of people; it seemed every inhabitant of the castle, noble or servant, had gathered to watch. Queen Lenore carried herself with dignity, as always, surveying the commotion impassively from her gilded chair. Only her dark eyes revealed the melancholy that had taken an ever-increasing hold over her. Rose sat beside me, but she could not keep her body still; her feet tapped under the front of her skirt, and her eyes moved restlessly across the scene.

The sharp call of bugles rang out from the back courtyard, where the army was gathering. Voices hummed with anticipation, and Rose’s fidgeting stirred up my own nerves. The heralds were the first to march through the archway, their steps keeping time with the rhythm of their horns. They were followed by the flag bearers, walking six abreast, each proudly brandishing the king’s coat of arms. Dorian had told me that these standards were of great importance during a battle, as they marked the position of each commander during the fighting. Dorian would be leading the king’s cavalry, and I wondered which of these bearers would ride alongside him.

With clanging armor and stomping footsteps, row after row of soldiers in full battle dress emerged before us. The courtyard echoed with rapturous cheers. A few of the men waved and shouted out ribald suggestions to girls who caught their eye, but most marched solemnly and wordlessly past us and out the castle gates. I saw many faces I recognized, footmen and craftsmen who had asked to take up arms in the king’s service. Some I had known since they were boys. And others, so many others, from loyal families who had traveled from throughout the kingdom to join our cause. Crowds lined the path that led into town, and their shouts soared up to join ours as the army paraded past them. Beside me, Rose’s voice grew husky with cheering; only Queen Lenore remained silent.

Last to emerge were the king and his knights. They rode the finest horses from the royal stables, bred for speed and strength, draped this day in the royal colors. The animals jerked at their reins impatiently as the men steered them toward the viewing platform. These were the favored few who would be leading the charges, urging on others with their own bravery. Their servants followed behind, as ready to tend to their masters on a muddied field as in a bedchamber.

Only a few locks of Dorian’s deep gold hair escaped from the front of his helmet, but I would have known his broad frame even if his back had been turned. Upon sighting me he flashed an elated smile. At last he found himself in the position he had trained for his whole life. My heart swelled with pride. Never had I been happier to call him my husband.

The king rode up to Queen Lenore and pulled his horse to a stop. She rose and presented him with a handkerchief embroidered with her family seal. He touched the cloth to his lips before tucking it under the front of his saddle. Then, breaking with the formality of the proceedings, he clutched his wife’s hands and kissed them. A deafening roar broke out from the crowd; no doubt a similar sound had been heard when King Ranolf first embraced his beautiful new bride so long ago. Queen Lenore’s eyes welled up with tears, obscuring what might be her last view of the man she had once loved so deeply. Years of threats had sapped them both, and that moment gave me hope that some remnant of their old affection still remained.

The king turned to Rose, who threw herself into his arms. He allowed his face to fall into his daughter’s auburn hair, and his hands cradled her back. It recalled an image of heartbreaking clarity: those same hands cupping her tiny body on the day she was born, smiling with gratitude when other men would have been raging against fate. Gradually, gently, he pulled away from Rose’s grasp and lowered the front of his helmet. This signal of resolve sent observers into another round of cheers, but I wondered if it was done to hide his expression after such a leave-taking.

The king’s followers moved to take their places behind him at the gates. Dorian suddenly veered off and pulled his horse in my direction.

“Elise.”

Surprised to be singled out, I walked to the very edge of the platform, so he would not have to shout his words.

Dorian’s face softened into the same pensive expression I had glimpsed the night before. Stripped of his jaunty self-confidence, he appeared older, yet also more at peace.

“You’ve been a better wife to me than I deserve,” he said. “I may have given you cause to regret your vows, but I have never regretted mine.”

Flustered, I shook my head quickly, suddenly wishing I had thought to give him a token of my favor.

“When this is over, I’ll do better,” he said. “I don’t expect you to believe a change will come easy, but I will make myself worthy of you.”

I waited for the guffaw that would signal an elaborate joke at my expense. It did not come. Dorian took hold of my sleeve and drew me toward him, brashly kissing me on the lips before everyone. My face flushed with both shame and pleasure, and I buried my head in the curve of his neck, as I had so often in the privacy of our room.

How I wish I had told him! What joy it would have given Dorian to know he had fathered a child. Instead, noting the scandalized glances of the other ladies-in-waiting, I looked downward modestly and said nothing. Rose quickly turned her face forward in a vain attempt to deny her eavesdropping. The horns sounded as King Ranolf took his place before his men at the gates. Dorian dug his feet into his stirrups and urged his horse toward the men whose lives he commanded.

And so I watched my husband brace himself for bloodshed, praying with my whole heart for his safe return. For all his failings, he would be a proud, affectionate father, and I wanted my son or daughter to have what I never did.

Sheer numbers assured a certain victory for our troops, we told ourselves that summer. Sir Hugill, Rose’s future husband, had raised an army of hundreds from his lands, and other nobles from throughout the kingdom joined up in support. On an open field of battle, the size of our forces would have had the clear advantage. But the reports we received told of skirmishes and teases, for the deRauleys and their followers were wise enough to avoid direct engagement. They tricked the king’s lookouts into reporting false positions, then robbed the army’s supply train while the troops were mustering elsewhere. They preferred to do their killing in stealth, without honor. Messages to and from the soldiers were delivered only occasionally, but the few lines I received from Dorian were sobering.

“Two of my men cut down by arrows today,” he wrote in a rough, uneven scrawl. “I have yet to see the enemy I came to fight.” The letter ended with promises of victory, not love, but I had not been so foolish as to expect such declarations. That he had taken the time to write at all was a mark of his affection.

It was easy for dark thoughts to take hold in those days. The grand rooms and wide passageways sat eerily empty without the shouts and heavy footfalls of the men who had gone off to fight, and I retired each night to a bedroom that felt hollow and lifeless without Dorian’s boisterous presence. The uncertain times dampened Rose’s willfulness, and she no longer complained of boredom or begged for dancing after dinner. Dutifully, she consulted Sir Walthur for news of the war and requested a map be drawn up so she could follow the army’s progress. But she had not entirely abandoned her secret wanderings. One day when I pointed out mud on the hem of her skirt, she admitted she had been to St. Elsip’s harbor. I scolded her on the dangers of mingling among the unsavory characters who frequented the wharves, but she waved away my concerns.

“I felt drawn to the water, Elise,” she said. “Perhaps it was the sight of all those boats, so full of possibility. Can you imagine sailing off for a land you have never seen? The thrill of not knowing where you will be next month—or next year?”

“I sleep better knowing exactly where I will be next month,” I said tartly. “In my own comfortable bed.”

She laughed, yet a certain melancholy hovered over Rose in the following days. As is so often the case, I did not recognize the depth of her discontent until I looked at her life through an outsider’s eyes. Some months after the troops had marched northward, my niece, Prielle, came to the castle bearing the news of my aunt Agna’s death. It was not unexpected—she had been in poor health for some time—yet I took the news hard. Another tie between me and my mother had been severed, and though Aunt Agna was not of an effusive nature, she had welcomed me in at a time when I had nothing, and for that I would always be grateful.

I ushered Prielle into the Receiving Room, though it was usually reserved for visitors of higher rank. She gave an account of Aunt Agna’s last hours, and when I asked how her mother was coping, Prielle grew unusually evasive. Gently, gradually, I drew out the truth: The family’s cloth trade had been badly damaged by the closing of routes through the north, and relations between her parents had grown as strained as their finances. I had long suspected that my cousin Damilla’s husband was one of those men who consider wife beating a necessity rather than a choice, and I feared that a fall in the family’s fortune would only shorten his temper. But what could I do? Prielle was only sixteen, still a ward of her parents, and I was hardly in a position to take over her care.

“You are so lucky, Elise.”

I remembered hearing those same words from Rose, long ago, when she spoke of my marrying Dorian for love. “My father was a difficult man,” I told Prielle now. “I know what it is to cower in a corner during a fight.”

“No, I mean I envy your life here. Surrounded by such lovely things.” Prielle’s eyes gazed in wonder at the tapestries and the gilded furniture, sights I had long since taken for granted. “I would give anything to live as Princess Rose does.”

And she would give anything for your freedom, I thought. At that moment it seemed a cruel trick of fate that these two young women should have been born in circumstances so contrary to their natures: Rose, with her quick mind and strong opinions, would have made a splendid merchant’s daughter, while Prielle’s gentle manner and appreciation of beauty would have been prized in any royal family.

“Her life is not as easy as you imagine,” I said carefully. “We must all do what we can with the position we have been granted.” These, too, were words I had once said to Rose, though Prielle was more likely to heed them. “I hope you will remember that I am here as your friend, should you need me.”

Prielle squeezed my hand in gratitude, and I offered a tour of the Great Hall and the castle garden to distract her from weightier topics. But I could not look at Prielle—that sweet, innocent girl—and not fear for her future. Without Aunt Agna’s stern presence, her parents’ enmity would be given free rein. I was helpless, however, to affect any change in Prielle’s circumstances. My influence at court, such as it was, could not be wielded in her favor; she was of too humble a family to serve as a lady-in-waiting yet too educated and refined to be hired on as a servant.

I hugged her fiercely as we bade each other farewell, hoping the press of my fingers might instill some of my strength into her delicate body.

“We must not allow fear to quash our spirits,” I said.

I said it as much for myself as for her. Concern for Prielle had now been added to my worry for Queen Lenore, and Dorian, and all the soldiers who served with him. Prielle smiled tentatively, an action that revealed a burgeoning loveliness. Her still-immature body had the angularity that comes with rapid growth, but once her face and figure filled out, she would be quite beautiful. Perhaps that would be enough to win her a good marriage, despite her family’s precarious situation.

I attempted to greet each day with hope rather than dread, yet the same could not be said for Queen Lenore. Charged with ruling the kingdom in her husband’s absence, she increasingly sought guidance through prayer with Father Gabriel rather than in conversation with the king’s advisers. Sir Walthur muttered in frustration that the monk might as well be given a seat in the Council Chamber, and he stealthily managed most affairs himself, without the queen’s knowledge. Hoping to effect a reconciliation between them, I urged Queen Lenore to attend a meeting of the council.

“The people look to you for leadership,” I said. “It would be a great boost to their spirits if you were seen tending to state business.”

“No, no,” she protested. “Sir Walthur and the others care only for worldly matters. I must serve my subjects through prayer.”

“A worthy mission,” I said. “Yet a queen cannot remove herself from the world completely, can she?”

I said the words gently, with a smile, but she reacted as if I had slapped her.

“How can you not understand?” she asked, stricken. “We are steeped in sin, every one of us. Our very souls are in peril.” For all her increasing interest in religious matters, I had never heard her speak of her beliefs in such stark terms.

“My lady, God shows mercy to those who repent, does he not? Whatever transgressions you may have committed have long since been forgiven.”

She began to cry, crumpling into racking sobs that shook her frail shoulders. To see the woman I had so long admired undone by such misery was profoundly shocking, and for a moment I was at a loss as to what to do. Cautiously, I wrapped my arms around her and comforted her in the way I would a small child, with murmured assurances that all would be well. I do not know if she heard me, consumed as she was by grief. In time her cries softened into whimpers. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her gown and looked up at me warily. Her dark, expressive eyes, still beautiful, still mesmerizing, stared at me with desperate intensity.

“Do you really believe I will be forgiven?”

“I do.”

“To receive forgiveness one must offer it. That is what Father Gabriel says.”

A burst of jealousy swelled within me, and I flashed back to my earliest days as Queen Lenore’s attendant, to the envy I felt when she and Isla would laugh together in their native tongue. Once again I felt myself pushed aside in favor of another.

Or perhaps not, for I had a secret that could forge a new bond between us. Swallowing down my childish envy, I said, “I will defer to Father Gabriel in spiritual matters. But I must ask you to add someone new to your prayer list.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then delight, as I told her of the child growing within me. It was still early days—I had not yet felt the baby move—but I rightly suspected that it would distract the queen from her gloomy state. I asked her to tell no one else at present, even Rose, and she savored the secret as a precious gift, an offering of hope for the future.

As the heat mounted, our ambitions dwindled, and the summer days passed in a lethargic stupor. I walked in the garden, toiled over needlework with the other ladies-in-waiting, and attempted to plow my way through one of Sir Walthur’s dry books of philosophy. I visited Flora most days, sometimes with Rose, whose vivaciousness sparked a long-lost twinkle of joy in the old woman’s eyes. Most girls of Rose’s age are unsettled by signs of the body’s decline, but she never flinched at the sight of Flora’s toothless gums or the touch of her gnarled fingers. She sat patiently through her great-aunt’s rambling stories of times past, even as certain anecdotes were retold word for word from one day to the next. I waited anxiously for tales of Millicent to surface; Rose knew only that Flora’s sister had left the castle in disgrace years before, and I dreaded facing her questions. Despite my fears, Flora never mentioned Millicent’s name. It was as if she had never existed.

Most of our evenings passed quietly, with all the ladies retiring shortly after supper, but one night will forever stand out in my memories of that time. A group of traveling nuns took shelter at the castle, having heard of the queen’s warm hospitality to religious pilgrims, and after we shared a meal, the eldest offered to play her harp. Music was a gift from the Lord, she told Queen Lenore, and playing for his glory was her form of prayer. I felt the presence of the divine as the woman coaxed notes from the strings, plucking with a delicacy and speed that could only have been the result of holy intervention. The peaceful spirit lingered even after I had returned to my room, and I went to sleep lulled by my memory of the music surrounding me.

I awoke in the middle of the night, troubled by a dream that I was drowning in a bath. I shifted back and forth, trying to shake the sensation, before I realized that the wetness against my legs was no illusion. By the faint, dying embers of the fire, I saw dark crimson staining the sheets. I cried out then, a desperate, horrified wail. I will never forget Sir Walthur’s face when he stormed in, clutching a candle, disgust crumpling his features at the sight before him. He backed away, muttering that he would summon a maid.

“Mrs. Tewkes!” I begged. “Please, fetch Mrs. Tewkes!”

I lay there some minutes before she came. By the time she bustled in, her eyes weighted with sleep but concerned, I did not need her to tell me. I had lost the baby.

She had confronted such heartbreaking scenes before. With brisk ease she pulled the stained linens from the bed and eased my shift off my shoulders. As I shuddered, naked, she wiped the blood from my legs with water so cold it turned my skin to ice. She swaddled my legs in clean cloths before pulling a fresh nightdress over me.

“Anika will be here soon with blankets,” she said. “I’ll have her relight the fire.”

I could not stop trembling. Mrs. Tewkes lay on the bed next to me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

“Shall I stay until you sleep?” she murmured.

I did not see how sleep could ever claim me again. Mrs. Tewkes held me in her embrace as I cried, my body heaving with such force that the howls threatened to break through my chest. Then my voice fell to an exhausted moan and my eyes, drained of tears, closed. Before I knew it, morning had come, and I awoke in my marriage bed, alone.