Fourteen

THE BURDENS OF LOSS

The sorrow was mine alone to carry. The servant girl Anika brought a bowl of broth soon after I woke, saying Mrs. Tewkes had told her I had fallen ill and would be spending the day resting in bed. I drifted in and out of sleep, rising once to change the blood-soaked cloth between my legs as my chest shuddered with withheld sobs. My dreams brought relief, but the knowledge of my loss struck with fresh force on each awakening. Awash in grief, I was thankful I had held my secret close. The sight of my own devastation reflected in others’ eyes might have blinded me.

I kept to myself for two days. Sir Walthur must have guessed the nature of the incident that bloodied my sheets, but he did not impose upon my isolation, for which I was grateful. The unnerving silence of the room heightened my despair, and I might have plummeted still further into misery had Queen Lenore not paid me an unexpected visit. Throughout my years at the castle, I had taken pride in my self-reliance, but I clung to her like a child as the last barriers between us crumbled. She was no longer my ruler or mistress; she was my friend, come to offer a lifeline of hope. My mother’s face had grown indistinct over the years, but I could remember vividly how it felt to be held thus, to be comforted by someone who loved me.

The winter storms came early that year, and the ladies of the castle hovered before their hearths, the only place one could shake off the chill emanating from the stone walls. The unexpected cold dealt a more significant blow to the king’s army, leaving them trapped on the far side of the avalanche-prone northern mountains. Denied a return to St. Elsip to wait out the winter, they dug in to shelters in remote villages as the rebels withdrew to their forts. A few valiant messengers braved the icy peaks to bring us news of our army’s fate: The king’s soldiers were forced to scavenge for food, these weary men told us, but their spirits were high and their taste for battle unquenched.

Given the uncertain times, Rose’s seventeenth birthday was celebrated with little ceremony, yet she used the occasion to strike a blow for independence that shocked us all. From the time she was a baby, she had slept in a bedchamber adjoining her mother’s sitting room; now she declared her intention to move to the North Tower. Queen Lenore, appalled, said she would hear of no such thing, but in the end she wearily succumbed to her daughter’s tearful pleas.

When I expressed my surprise at her sudden change of heart, the queen said, “How can I deny my daughter some small measure of happiness? She has had precious little reason to smile in these bleak times. And Father Gabriel assures me that she may well benefit from a certain degree of independence.”

The monk stood at her side, basking in his role as the queen’s most trusted counselor. I did not think it at all wise to let Rose loose in an all-but-deserted section of the castle, out of earshot of the royal apartments, but I knew it was fruitless to go against his wishes. I nodded in a manner intended to be gracious, but Father Gabriel must have noted the grim set of my mouth, for his cold stare offered a silent challenge. I had been acknowledged as a rival, and I would be dealt with accordingly.

When Rose dragged me off to see the rooms she had chosen at the top of the tower, I could not help admitting to their charm. The main door opened into a semicircular receiving room, formed by the round turret walls, and the bedchamber lay through an arch embellished with engravings of twisted vines. Rose had brought in embroidered tapestries and covered the bed with purple velvet hangings to mark the place as her own. Despite the gray skies, the rooms felt bright and airy, with windows that were taller and wider than those elsewhere in the building.

Rose waved a hand toward the landscape outside. “Do you understand now, Elise?”

While most windows in the castle’s upper levels looked out onto St. Elsip or the busy courtyards, Rose’s view was of the open tournament field where her father and his knights so often competed, with grassy, rolling hills extending into the distance beyond. It was the countryside where she had learned to ride, where she had ventured with her mother on balmy summer days, stopping to enjoy a meal in the shade of an oak tree.

“Do you know how many times I dreamed of riding off toward that horizon? I thought I could keep going and going, until I arrived at a place where I was merely Rose, not a royal princess.” Her voice sank to little more than a whisper. “A foolish fancy.”

I could understand the lure of that vista, but for me the price to obtain it was too high. How could Rose tolerate the oppressive quiet of the North Tower, much less welcome it? I suspected that the change in quarters had been prompted by her impending marriage: a last chance to fashion a private retreat, where she could do as she pleased before submitting to the duties expected of a wife and ruler. But if claiming this section of the castle was a gesture of defiance, it was also an acknowledgment of her own isolation. She had no real friends, no one of her own age she could speak to freely. Rose and her maid, Besslin, did not share the trust that had bonded me to Queen Lenore, and the other young women who lived at the castle owed their living to the king; none would risk offending Rose’s family by speaking their mind. It was, in many ways, a lonely existence.

Rose turned from the window, her expression solemn. “Elise, there is something I wish to ask you. I fear that my mother is sparing me the truth of the war’s progress. Is it true the army has been greatly weakened by the winter?”

“You must not allow every little rumor to upset you,” I admonished, smoothing the linens of her bed. Like many women who had spent their lives in service, I found the work done by anyone younger severely lacking, and Besslin appeared particularly lax in her duties.

“It upsets me if my father is close to defeat.”

I turned and spoke in a sharp tone I would never have used with another of her station. “How can you say such a thing?”

“It’s growing warmer. The snow in the mountains must be melting. Why have we heard nothing of our troops advancing?”

I had wondered the same thing. As it often did in times of trouble, my mind returned to Millicent’s curse, her promise to take Rose at the height of her beauty. Was this the form Millicent’s revenge would take, with Prince Bowen victorious and Rose dead at his hand, a sacrifice to his terrible lust for power? The very thought sickened me, but I feared he would not hold back from such atrocities.

“War is unpredictable by nature,” I said. “Your father’s men are the best-trained in the kingdom. They will prevail.”

“They must.” Rose stared at me with passionate intensity. She was not ready to rule, far from it, and I ached in that moment for all she had lost. Her mind should be taken up with thoughts of suitors and gowns, not the possible death of her father. “If all men had the strength of your husband, I would not doubt our chances of victory.” She sat on the bed and ran her fingers along the curved embroidery of the bedspread. “Do you miss him?”

“Dorian? Yes, at times. But I cannot begrudge him a chance to serve in battle. He’s longed for it his whole life.”

Rose cast her eyes downward, suddenly shy. “Was it as you expected? Marriage?”

The wariness of her request, as if she were bracing herself for bad news, took me by surprise. I had never spoken of my true feelings for Dorian to anyone. And what were my feelings? They changed from day to day.

I considered my words carefully. “I had resigned myself to life as a spinster. Yet marriage suits me more than I expected.”

“Ah, but you married for love,” Rose said.

I smiled, amused. Love had played no part in Dorian’s matrimonial plans, or mine. Whatever bond had formed between us had begun with sheer physical lust. Then I remembered the way Dorian had kissed me in the courtyard, in full view of the crowd. The promise he had made to be a better husband. Why do such things, if not for love?

“Affection can blossom with time,” I assured her. “Sir Hugill is a good man, from all accounts.” Those same accounts had also painted him as stern and humorless, hardly appealing qualities to one of Rose’s temperament.

“I am sure he is worthy of my respect,” Rose said dutifully. “It is only—” She looked away, hesitating over her next words. “I had hoped for more.”

With the instant understanding that comes to faithful servants, I knew she was thinking of Joffrey. I remembered his dark eyes glinting with pleasure as Rose danced gracefully before him. It could never be more than a youthful diversion: Even if the king could extract Rose from the contract with Sir Hugill, she would never be allowed to marry someone who did not hail from a royal family. But what was the harm in mooning over a handsome young man? I welcomed any distraction from the dismal mood at court.

“I would not be surprised if a certain ambassador returned to dance with you as soon as the war is over,” I said. “Mind you, he’ll have to fight Sir Hugill for your favor. I imagine it will be quite a battle.”

“Oh, really?” she asked playfully. “And who would be the victor?”

“Well, Joffrey has the advantage of youth. But we must not discount Sir Hugill’s raging passion, which comes through so clearly in his letters.”

Rose laughed and turned from the window. “Bless you, Elise. You know how to lighten my spirits.”

“And you mine,” I replied. Together we relived the night of Joffrey’s visit, when Rose had first felt the stirrings of what could become love. He was the first man from outside the kingdom she had ever conversed with, and it was clear that she was taken by his tales of travel and exotic lands. She would not tell me what they had spoken of during their time in the Receiving Room; she took pleasure in keeping that one moment private, to be savored alone. Just as I savored my memories of Dorian as I lay in bed that night, imagining his homecoming and how we might celebrate.

The spring thaw on which our army had set its hopes was accompanied by torrential rains, creating impassable mud-soaked bogs. It was as if nature itself had taken the rebels’ side. The weather dealt a further blow to the merchants of St. Elsip, whose businesses were already suffering due to the war, and my visits to Damilla and Prielle were overshadowed by a pervading sense of gloom. When I took Prielle aside and asked how she fared, she told me she suspected that her father was dipping into her dowry in order to pay the family’s creditors.

“With no dowry what will become of me?” she asked.

I wanted to shake her parents out of their shortsighted selfishness. Could they not see that their daughter was their most precious possession, the thing they should cherish and protect above all? But Prielle begged me to say nothing, and I feared that her father would take his anger out on her if I spoke up.

“I’ll see you married well,” I promised. “Dorian has plenty of money. He will be happy to pay for your dowry if need be.”

Prielle leaned into me as I wrapped my arms around her narrow shoulders. “Everything is changing, Elise,” she said sadly. “I no longer know what my future holds.”

“Nor can any of us,” I said. “But you will not face it alone. I promise.”

I hoped to present an image of strength to my frightened young cousin, but, in truth, recent events at the castle had shaken my own faith that all would be well once the war was over. The burden of leading without her husband’s guidance for almost a year had devastated Queen Lenore’s already precarious mental state, and I found it impossible to recapture the easy manner in which we once conversed. According to her maid, Heva, the queen rarely slept more than a few hours a night, rising well before dawn to begin her daily prayers. Even more worrisome, Heva had noted disturbing red marks on the queen’s back, which she recognized as signs of the flagellation indulged in by the most fervent religious mystics. Sickened at the thought of such self-abuse, I marched off to confront Father Gabriel. Queen Lenore would never do such a thing without his encouragement.

To my surprise, he listened to my concerns with sympathy. However, he claimed himself powerless to control her actions.

“I am no more the queen’s master than you are,” he said, hands clasped before him. I noted the dirt ringing his fingernails, the stink of his grimy robe. How had the queen, known for her love of beauty, become entranced by such a character? “If she feels moved by the Holy Spirit to mortify her flesh, then she will do so.”

There was only one event in Queen Lenore’s otherwise blameless life that could bring on such self-loathing. Had she told Father Gabriel of the oath she had sworn at Millicent’s urging? If so, then his hold over her was complete.

“How can the queen’s disfigurement be pleasing to the Lord?” I asked.

“Do you presume to know the ways of our Father?” he retorted. “The queen is following her own path to redemption, and I believe she will find it, sooner than you think.”

And who will declare her redeemed? I came close to demanding. You, when it serves your purpose? For all his pious talk, Father Gabriel had revealed an all-too-human satisfaction in besting me. I wondered again, as I had before, what kept him among us. Genuine spiritual concern for the queen? Or the opportunity to sway a noblewoman of unsound mind? Despite my suspicions, Father Gabriel showed no signs of corruption; he had accumulated no possessions during his months at the castle, and Mrs. Tewkes told me he had received no payments from the household accounts. He even refused Queen Lenore’s repeated offers of a bedroom, preferring to remain in his sleeping corner in the kitchen. Still, I vowed to keep a closer eye on his dealings with the queen. If she showed further signs of decline, I would put the blame firmly at Father Gabriel’s feet, no matter what the consequences.

Sir Walthur’s increasing dejection was another cause for concern. Our daily interactions were brief and formal; unlike other men of stature, he did not make conversation for the pleasure of hearing his own voice. He spent most evenings in front of the crackling fireplace in our sitting room, lost in thought, and I rarely disturbed his solitude. But one night he sat with his shoulders more hunched than usual, his face creased in worry, and my stomach lurched with a premonition of disaster.

I blurted out, “Has there been word from Dorian?”

Sir Walthur turned to me in surprise and shook his head. “No, none.”

“I am sorry,” I apologized. “I thought you might have received news.”

Sir Walthur shot me a glare I took at first for irritation. Then I realized his eyes were fixed upon me intently, curious.

“What have you heard?” he asked urgently.

“Nothing,” I protested. “I speak only as a wife who wishes to see her husband safely home.”

Sir Walthur grunted. He put down his spoon and placed his hands flat on the table. “If it sets your mind at ease, I learned something that may turn the tide in our favor.”

He watched as the meaning of his words settled across my face. “You know when to keep your mouth shut, unlike most other women. That is the only reason I speak of this. If I hear you have whispered of this to another person . . .”

“I would never betray a confidence,” I countered smoothly.

“Very well.” Sir Walthur pushed his empty bowl away and took a sip of his wine. He gripped the stem of the glass with his fist, an inelegant grasp that marked him instantly as a man of humble birth. Despite all his years at court, he had never mastered the manners of the aristocracy. Either he did not care or he took a perverse pride in flaunting his lack of pretension.

“I received word today that the Brithnians may be induced to join our cause,” he said.

Given their fierce reputation, the Brithnians would be welcome partners on the battlefield. But did the need for such an alliance mean that our soldiers could not win the war on their own?

“Dorian told me our men could easily defeat the deRauleys,” I said carefully.

“It appeared so. Even the king boasted they would return victorious in a matter of weeks. But nine months have passed and we have yet to fight a battle. Our adversaries appear intent on bringing us down with cunning. They attack at night, in secret, killing two here, three there, before disappearing into the darkness. Our losses are mounting, and we are no closer to rooting them out of their mountain hideaways.”

The fragments of news passed around the castle had told otherwise, of frightened rebels on the run. Had such stories arisen from wishful thinking, or had they been purposely created to keep our hopes alive?

“Our men remain determined,” Sir Walthur reassured me, “and they will prevail in the end. But our army has been weakened, much more than we expected. If the king returns with Marl deRauley’s head but only half his knights, would it still be cause for celebration?”

Half his knights? It was not possible. The leaders of that army were Dorian’s childhood friends, the husbands of women I spoke to every day. Such a bleak outlook meant Dorian was in greater danger than I imagined.

“And if the Brithnians take our side?” I asked.

“Victory would be ours,” Sir Walthur said. “The Brithnians bring a certain ruthlessness our men lack. It comes of living in that miserable land, I suppose. Death is so common a feature of their lives that they do not fear it and they fight to the bitter end. Whether they can be trusted is another matter. Most likely Bowen is haggling for their services as well. In that, at least, we have the upper hand. Our treasury is far more persuasive than the meager fortune of the deRauleys.”

“The Brithnian king would never take up arms against us!” I argued. “He has sworn himself a friend to King Ranolf.”

Sir Walthur laughed, a bitter sound with no trace of amusement. “You have heard too many of the queen’s sentimental tales. Money, not fellowship, is what forges alliances on the battlefield.”

I knew that armies were often bought and sold for bags of gold. But Sir Walthur’s offhand acceptance of such arrangements struck me as a betrayal of his own son’s beliefs. Dorian enjoyed luxurious clothing and fine food, but he was not driven by the pursuit of riches. He fought because he had the soul of a soldier, proud to shed blood in the service of a greater good. Not all warriors seek battle as a way to line their pockets.

Sir Walthur pushed back his chair with an abrupt clatter and stood. “I must return to the Council Chamber,” he said, reaching for one of the candles that lit our table. “We are sending an offer to the Brithnians in the morning. Only a few hours remain to calculate what we are willing to pay for victory.”

He approached my side of the table and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You have served my son well,” he said quietly. “I will do whatever I can to bring him home.”

Sir Walthur was not one for emotional confidences, and I knew that this was the closest he would come to acknowledging that he had developed a certain affection for me. And if I had given Dorian an heir? How much would he value me then? An ache spread through my empty womb.

Sir Walthur’s footsteps echoed down the hall, and I finished my supper alone by the dim light of the remaining candle. I had no knowledge of the kingdom’s finances, but there must be gold enough to ensure the Brithnians’ loyalty. Queen Lenore would empty the treasury if it meant the king’s safe return.

Sir Walthur’s pleas for discretion were well heeded, for I heard nothing of the Brithnians in the following days. It was only some weeks later that their appearance on the battlefield was announced, news hailed as if it were tidings of victory itself. Where the Brithnians had been scorned for years as dangerous, ill-kempt scoundrels, they were now praised as brave warriors, with much talk of the fond feelings between their king and ours. Whatever payments went to Brithnia were handed over in secret.

The news of the Brithnian reinforcements was the last we heard from the north for some time. I remember an endless succession of days, all spent waiting for word that never came. Additional guards were posted on the castle walls, each hoping to be the first to spot a messenger bearing the royal standard. In town the Easter festival passed with quiet prayers and reflection, the maypoles and dancing of past years eschewed. Queen Lenore froze whenever the door to her apartments opened, then slumped with disappointment when the visitor was revealed to be Lady Wintermale or a servant inquiring on a household matter. Rose sought distraction through literature, escaping to her room for hours at a time to write a poem in celebration of her father’s victory. Thankful she had found a way to occupy herself during her ever-restless nights, I slipped her a few extra candles so her maid would not report to the queen how often Rose sat awake scribbling.

It was during those endless, expectant days that Flora entered her final decline. Though she lay unresponsive, barely conscious, I kept vigil by her bed, not wanting her to pass her final hours alone. At times I sat quietly, holding her hand; at other moments I was moved to pray. I do not know what provoked me to sing on that last night. Flora had told me Lorenz taught her the simple folk song during their brief courtship—perhaps I thought it would bring a final remembrance of past happiness.

“Mother.”

I had to lean closer to make sure I had heard. Her eyes remained closed, as if she were dreaming.

“Mother. He is gone.”

Flora’s weak voice still had the inflections of a young woman shattered by heartbreak. I rubbed her hand, wishing I could find words to ease her anguish.

“Why? Why did he leave me?”

I could not bear to hear her relive Lorenz’s suicide, his death casting a shadow over her own. Sometimes the truth is not ours to know, and her last moments should not be spent agonizing over events so long in the past. She deserved a peaceful end.

“He is waiting,” I whispered. “Go to him.”

Flora’s breathing slowed. I watched the laborious intake and outgo of air. Then, hesitantly, she croaked, “Elise.”

Caught by surprise, I leaned forward, until my face was almost pressed against hers.

“Yes, I am here.”

“I am so sorry.”

I shook my head, anxious to reassure her. “Hush. You have no amends to make with me.”

Each sound was an effort, coming out through ragged breaths, as she summoned the will to utter a final warning.

“She is coming. I cannot stop her.”