Authors: Lindsey S. Johnson
A Ragged Magic (24 page)
“Now, Connor,” Hugh holds out his hands helplessly, “these are our prince’s orders. She’s his … concern.”
I wince. This won’t go well.
Connor’s pacing stops abruptly. When I open my eyes Connor stands in front of Hugh, his face hardening to stone and his hands twitching.
I flinch before the shouting begins. “Another? He sent another girl —”
“Now, Connor, you know how Alex is in a battle. And she’s young, and pretty. I’m sure he only meant to comfort her, and —”
“And he’s married to your sister! That rotten —! And how can you be so callous to Julianna?”
“How can either of you be so callous to Mora?” I ask through clenched teeth. “Here she stands while you talk as if she isn’t in the room!”
The men stare, disconcerted.
I realize I’m almost shouting, and my stomach boils: I want to throw something. “Mora, come with me. We’ll get you settled for the night in Connor’s rooms.”
Connor stands straighter. “What?”
“You can just spend the night here arguing with Hugh. You will anyway. And she’s not sleeping seven months pregnant on a couch!”
Hugh backs from my thrusting chin.
“And if you do continue arguing, I suggest you shield the room, your Grace. I’m surprised they can’t hear you in Jervaulx!”
I sweep toward the door, Mora in tow.
“I’d let her have the bed,” Hugh says, bemused.
“It would make more sense for her to stay here,” Connor snaps, irritated. “I suppose we are passing her off as Hugh’s lover. She should stay here.”
I look at Mora, who is shaking and starting to cry.
I spin to face him, Mora scampering behind me. “The pair of you are completely heartless. Can’t you tell when you’re upsetting someone? Don’t you dare come back to your rooms before morning, my lord. This woman will be resting and you can be the one to sleep on Hugh’s couch!”
I spin back around, hearing muffled snorts of disbelief — to find Julianna standing in the doorway.
“Why are we passing this young woman off as Hugh’s lover?” she asks quietly.
I freeze where I am for a moment, remembering only when Julianna glances at me tug Mora into a curtsey with me.
“Your Highness,” I murmur.
Julianna is not one for such formality, but her gaze demands it now. I glance at Mora, and see her face has gone a little gray. When I look over at Hugh and Connor, both of them look ill, as well.
“She just needs a place to stay, Juli,” Hugh says, his voice quiet and placating. “She’s very young, and made a mistake. You can’t hold that against her.”
Julianna’s expression, when I meet her eyes, bodes ill for us all. “Young and blonde, and very pretty. How far along are you.” She isn’t asking.
“S-s-s-, your Highness, I beg— I—” Mora’s voice quavers into nothing and I take pity.
“She’s seven months along, your Highness.”
“So many? It is a comfort he found companionship so soon after reaching the border. And she’s staying here for her confinement.”
Hugh takes a breath. “Juli, pet, we can’t let Alex’s child just disappear somewhere. I thought it best if —”
“You thought it best? Did you really? Or did Alexander ask you too sweetly to be denied, yet again? Might I remind you who his wife is, brother dear. He didn’t marry you.”
Hugh’s face drains entirely at her vicious tone, and he spins on his heel and stalks to his bedroom without another word, slamming the door behind him.
Julianna lifts her chin and leaves, closing the door quite carefully. Connor, Mora and I stand still, afraid of explosions.
Connor’s face seems carved out of rock, and I can feel the rage roiling in him. It overwhelms me for a moment, and I can See his desire to strangle his cousin, the crown prince, with his bare hands. The vision of Prince Alexander growing purple under Connor’s grip isn’t pleasant for either of us. Connor releases a breath, and I fall out of the vision.
Mora whimpers: I realize I’m crushing her hand. “I’m so sorry, dear. Let’s — let’s get you settled somewhere …” I trail off, no longer sanguine about taking her to Connor’s rooms. He looks at us both, and sighs again.
“I will arrange for a room to be prepared at the end of the hall. Wait here.” He strides past us and out the door.
Mora and I both sag a little in relief once he’s gone. I realize the girl is weeping silently. One hand on her lower back, her head lolls on her shoulders, and tears leak down her neck and drip onto her bodice.
I help her to the couch and sit next to her, patting her hand. “They’re not always like that,” I tell her. “I’m sure His Grace will find you somewhere inconspicuous, and you can start over.” I don’t know why I’m being so kind to her, except she seems so young and lost, and I know how that feels. Aside from the pregnant by the crown prince part.
When she breaks down and sobs, I understand why she feels so familiar. “Da is dead, and Mum died last winter, and I have no family. I have nowhere to go if His Grace turns me away. And I miss, I miss my mum. I miss her so much,” she sobs into my shoulder. I find myself starting to weep, too.
“I know how you feel,” I say. “I’m sorry,” I say. And I see a vision of Mum, smiling at me, that almost feels like the Sight, like she’s right here, and tears drip down my face, too. I haven’t been missing her, or Da. I’ve been trying not to. But a wave of loneliness sweeps over me, and I long for home.
But there isn’t any home any more. And when Linnet and I go there tomorrow, Mum and Da won’t be there, humming or arguing or scolding me for slouching too much. I know this, but it hits me again. I let us both weep while we wait for Connor.
～
When Connor returns, we are quiet, but a bit soggy. He blinks at us both, but is solicitous in helping to settle Mora into the south boudoir, at the end of the hall. When we step out of the room and leave her to herself, I catch Connor’s hand as he turns away. “Thank you for helping me,” I say.
He looks down at our hands, and I snatch mine away. He takes a breath. “I’m sorry if I was insensitive, earlier. I lost my temper.”
“I know,” I say.
His mouth quirks, fighting a smile. I stare at his mouth for a moment, thinking, I kissed the king’s nephew. The Duke of Torrence’s son. I kissed him. That’s probably some sort of treason of its own. His almost-smile widens, and I look up blushing. “Will they turn her away?” I gesture to the door.
Connor shakes his head, not smiling now. “Hers won’t be the first child said to be Hugh’s bastard, nor the last. One or two of them are even his. She will be cared for.”
I nod, glad she won’t be as lost as she fears.
Connor turns to leave.
“And Or—, um, about your errand?”
He looks back, nods his head. “The package is safe for now.” He gazes at me moment longer, then turns away.
I watch him walk down the hall to his own rooms in the flickering dark. Shivering, with a dark spinning in my stomach, I turn to the stairs to head to my own room, and Julianna. There are more storms to soothe tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A
s I stayed up till nearly dawn with Hugh, working on spells, I feel entirely justified sleeping in today. Linnet makes noises getting up and dressed, but I ignore her and turn over toward the wall. I will let her deal with everyone’s chancy moods this morning. I’m not up for it.
Linnet wakes me in the afternoon. I groan, lift myself off of my side. My body aches from magic and sleeplessness, and I anticipate worse before the day is through.
She holds a lunch tray. “Her Highness wants you to attend her when Montmoore comes. So hurry up, you’re going to be late.”
“All right, all right, I’m getting up.”
She swipes bread from the tray and snacks as I pull myself upright. I smile a little, happy to see her snacking, and shove myself out of bed to wash from the pitcher. The cold water shocks my head to throbbing.
The heavy air tells me, correctly, that there’s a muggy and threatening sky. The trees in the garden outside shake their leaves in a sullen breeze.
I check my reflection in the mirror: my hair corkscrews and tangles in knots that stand up from my head. Sighing, I work my comb through snarls with little patience, missing the weight of my long hair. The tangles weren’t better, but it stood straight up a lot less.
Linnet leads me to the great hall. When I walk in, the head table is covered in packages and jars, and Duchess Marguerite and her ladies are packing chests and rolling bandages.
“Good, Rhia, you’re here. Help me over here with the jars.” Julianna smiles and beckons me over.
Connor stands just below the dais, directing castle guards and servants to fetch full chests away. Hugh stands at the head of the table, speaking with the captain of his guard. I hear him say the chests are to be delivered to the hospice as soon as the carts are full.
Hugh and Julianna are pointedly not looking at one another. Connor’s stiff stance and everyone’s curious looks tell me that it hasn’t gone unnoticed. I sigh and stand at Julianna’s side.
I help pack simples into smaller chests, the stoppered jars cushioned by the rolled bandages and items of clothing the other ladies are rolling together. It seems a lot of bandages, but perhaps there is a higher need for them than I know. Sailors get in a lot of accidents.
When Montmoore arrives with Gantry, the bustle has reached its height. But everyone slows a little and lowers their voices when the kirche guard marches in, Montmoore and Gantry in their midst.
The archbishop is a medium man: his build is medium, as is his height and his coloring, but for gray in his brown hair. He’s not dark- or light-skinned, not skinny or fat: entirely unremarkable, but for the intelligence and watchfulness behind his eyes. His energy is all power and respect, as he strides into the great hall in his golden robes of office.
The kirche guards march smartly ahead and behind him in scarlet and black. Gantry beside him is an overgrown crow, his head cocking and twitching as he tries to see all the people in the room.
I let a little of my magic brush Gantry’s mind. A whirlwind of anger and madness beats at me, and I retreat, afraid to See further right now. Curious, I test the edges of Montmoore’s mind, but his is a steel trap, and I leap back before he catches me in it. I hold tight to the table to keep the leap from being physical as well as mental, and keep my gaze down, but I feel his eyes sweep across all of us, looking for the source of that brush. I hope my sweating isn’t too obvious.
“Ah, your Grace, so good of you to come,” Hugh says with a distracted and affable air. “I’m sorry we’re in a bit of a mess here. These are just a few things we’re delivering to the hospice. I know they run low so quickly these days.”
“Your Graces,” Montmoore says, his mouth pinching sour. His voice is a pleasant baritone. He nods to Hugh and Duchess Marguerite. “Your Highness, a pleasure to see you again. I offer you congratulations on your happy news.”
“Thank you, your Grace,” Julianna says.
Montmoore smiles in a pitying way. “My very best wishes for a happier outcome this time.”
Julianna’s smile is a parody of her usual warmth, and I feel her anger spike.
Duchess Marguerite steps in front of the table, blocking Julianna from the delegation. “Such kind concern, Your Grace, for my child. And my grandchild.” Her voice is a low burr of warning.
Montmoore’s smile does nothing to ease the tension. “I have great concern for all the people of the realm, of course.”
“Is that so, your Grace? Because you don’t seem to show it for all my people here in Haverston.”
“To what can you be referring, your Grace?”
“To my hospice, your Grace. Where my people are dying. So many more sick than even a month ago, yet you will not allow other Healers to help.”
“Ah, my dear Marguerite, you would force this discussion now?”
“It seems appropriate, Richard.”
I blink at the sudden drop in honorifics. The chill in the room deepens. Gantry takes a deep breath to speak, but Montmoore puts his hand on his arm, preventing him.
“I will not debate kirche doctrine with you … your Grace.”
“It is not kirche doctrine, Richard Montmoore, it is rank greed, and you know it. That hospice belongs to this duchy, my duchy, opened with monies brought in by my people. If your priests turn one more person away, I will see every monastery in this duchy closed and your monks and priests turned out, and your bishop, as well.
“I’ve heard more tales from my people of their treatment at the hands of yours. And several of yours have come to me in despair, because they actually want to Heal. So do not speak to me of the kirche, or of Holy writ. I demand much more concern — your Grace — than you’ve so far shown for any people.
“I demand that you show a reckoning to us, in the form of money, and also in the form of returning our hospice, and allow oversight from our own Healers and physicians. This kind of hypocrisy cannot be allowed to stand.”
Montmoore’s face grows mottled as Marguerite speaks, although he doesn’t try to interrupt. Gantry seems ready to explode into rage, but Montmoore’s grip on his arm is an effective leash.
“Is this you speaking for your son, the duke?” Montmoore asks, his voice quiet.
“I agree entirely with my mother on this, your Grace. She is, as usual, completely right.”
“That is unfortunate, your Graces. I do not dispute some in this bishropic have acted rashly, and without proper guidance. But it has been the declaration of our prophet Ashere that Healing is a holy magic, and must be therefore a holy right. I cannot allow your lay Healers to profane the will of the Star Lord.
“You do have my word I will look most carefully into the hospices, and who has been running them so poorly. No deserving person should be turned away.”
All movement in the ballroom has stopped. No one even pretends to be working. Most of us stare avidly at the ground or table in front of us, glancing up from time to time, hoping to stay unnoticed. I am too frightened to venture the Sight around this man. I keep my mind locked tight.
“Are these the medicines from those trader ships — from Indranah, weren’t they?”
Julianna answers, her voice bored. “Some are, yes. We arranged for their shipment, as Indranah grows herbs we can’t, that have worked on some plagues such as the Wasting for their own people. But to return to your last remark — who exactly is deserving, your Grace? And deserving of what, precisely? Because if you are implying that any of our citizens deserves to be ill and die, I will have to take great exception to that. As will my husband, and the king. That is not the doctrine we were raised with.”
“You were raised as heretics by that blaspheming, pox-ridden —”
Montmoore turns slightly to Gantry and looks him in the eye. “That’s enough, Theodore.”
Duchess Marguerite regards them both with distaste. “I don’t believe this bishropic is the right place for you, my Lord Bishop. I don’t think you would be happy here. I expect you will find it far more comfortable in Corat, or perhaps your home county.” She turns her back and walks behind the table. “Do find your way out, my Lord, your Grace. And find your way home again, quite soon.”
“Do not overreach, Marguerite,” Montmoore begins, but Julianna cuts him off.
“What overreach, your Grace? I am sure, very sure, that you do not mean to threaten a duchess? I would think the other nobles would feel so distressed to hear of that. And kirche lands are so very attractive, aren’t they? And so rich, and yield a good income. Of course, they aren’t your lands, are they?
“It would be so terribly distressing if the nobles all decided they couldn’t trust kirche promises all at once, and called your rents due. And so very many of your lands belong to, well, us. To my brother, to the king. I don’t think you would be so impolitic to push a bishop on a duchy for which he is quite unsuited.”
“You dare —” Gantry’s face is nearly purple, but Montmoore’s grip on his does not ease.
“I would not be too sure of yourselves, your Highness, your Graces. But we will take our leave, and return to this — discussion — at another time.” The kirche guards have been stepping closer to them, and surround them as they turn to sweep out.
Which they must do between a full phalanx of castle and royal guards, who have been entering and standing at attention in twos and threes for the past little while.
The essential truth of Haverston is: everyone loves the duchess. Most of us love her in a distant, doting way. But we do not take kindly to anyone acting the bully toward her. Not even the kirche. The guards and servants and minor nobles make sure these kirche gentlemen know it, glaring them out.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. When we hear the great doors thud shut, everyone slumps a little.
Hugh turns to his mother. “That did not go precisely as planned.”
She shakes her head and sighs. “No. That man always did make me angry. But he’s a fool if he thinks the court will support him on this, or his other plans.”
“Mother,” Julianna says, warning her off.
Duchess Marguerite shakes her head again, shoots a look at her daughter. “Let’s get this finished up, shall we?”
Everyone gets back to work packing chests. My hands shake. I know that whatever else happens, it will be open war from Archbishop Montmoore from now on.
The packing finishes with alacrity. Several guards mill by the stairs while Connor speaks to them. I brush at my skirt and run my hands through my hair as I walk slowly over. I try to lie to myself that I’m not nervous to speak to him.
“Spread the word,” he tells them, “all kirche guards and persons are kept out until further notice. The gate is to be closed and guarded at all times. Tell captain Tand that I have business this evening, but when I return I will check in with him.”
“Yes, my lord,” the woman in front says, and bows. They turn and leave, and I stand behind Connor, my feet twisting in my shoes. I try to think of how to start.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “Good day, cousin.”
“Good day.”
He waits for me to say something else, but my mind races in circles while he stares. He sighs and offers me his arm. “Allow me to escort you to your rooms,” he says.
I accept his arm, and we head toward Julianna’s chambers.
“What did you want to say?” His voice is calm, but distant.
“About the package,” I say.
“Ah. I told you,”
“I know. Safe for now. But where is it?”
He shakes his head. “Not far, but I won’t tell you more. There are plans to move it tomorrow or the day after, to somewhere safer. You have other things to concentrate on. Don’t think about the package. I’ll give you information when I can.” He stops at the door and looks at me, but doesn’t release my arm. “About last night,” he starts, and stops. “I …”
I shrug and smile a little. “Apology accepted.”
That startles a laugh from him, and I step away and through the door, shutting it behind me. I try not to fret about Orrin for now, and focus on Connor’s assurances. Tonight will be long, and I have preparations to make.