Annatrice of Cayborne (9 page)

“Yeah, what do you want?” Annatrice amused herself with her most common of inquiries, her gruffness a warning for all to see.

“Apologies my lady if I have offended thee, I sought only to bask in the radiance of beauty. I shall retire if that is your wish?”

Annatrice looked up at the man who was clearly distressed at being rebuked in such harsh terms. She smiled and once again amused herself at the situation. Male company was so lacking yet she had almost spurned the opportunity to analyse what it is to be a noble man in Tragian's kingdom. Looking down at the array of cuisine, she plucked a small egg from an intricately carved wooden bowl and shoved it into man's unsuspecting maw.

“What do you think?” She asked brusquely as the noble chewed quickly to clear his mouth before he replied.

“A delightful morsel my lady, and all the better for being delivered by your fair hand.”

The noble bent down and grasped Annatrice's fingers as if to offer a kiss. Annatrice pulled her hand away abruptly.

“Personally, I believe it to be a little on the round side.” Annatrice remarked, a serious and thoughtful look upon her face.

“Why of course, I was just thinking the very thing. The finest eggs should not be so profoundly rotund in their design; a more ovular shape would suit thy ladies palate?”

Annatrice sighed at this fools weakness for a young woman and his steadfast attempts to be agreeable at all costs.

“Indeed. I should like to one day find an egg with corners, I should think that such a fine fellow should be able to acquire the like?”

“Such beauty and grace deserves only the finest fayre. I would comb the land and task every farmer in my province to find such an article if it would curry your favour.” The noble once again sought to grasp Annatrice's hand but with little success. It came as quite a surprise to Annatrice the mentality of this man, who obviously held riches and considerable respect. It intrigued Annatrice how she could manipulate him. It seemed that a beautiful woman could command great power over a weak willed man no matter what their social standing. She longed to understand what drove this person to make such a fool of himself when he was clearly an educated fellow.

“So who are you then?” She continued with a sharp tone. She wanted to continue her analysis but did not want to encourage him.

“My lady, I am Charleroux of Noxleigh, seventh Earl of Shearwater at your service.” For a third time, Charleroux sought the hand of the lady in order to deliver a protocol driven kiss. For a third time, Annatrice promptly denied him, her hand brought to her face to scratch a well timed itch.

“Never heard of it.” Annatrice remarked, knowing full well that this was a most discourteous comment.

“Why my lady, that is surprising. My lands are to the far west, by the seas and bordering Suleyman.”

Interesting for Annatrice, she wondered if it would be appropriate to discuss a little politics.

“Then you should be quite aware of the recent negotiations, they say Deo Canthi is massing an army in readiness?”

Charleroux's face suddenly revealed he furrows of his brow.

“Why my lady is too fair to be troubled by such trivial matters. May I offer you a delicious taste which I discovered earlier, a rare and most unctuous broth from the shores of Lake Dorridge?”

Charleroux turned towards the large spread and began to wave his finger as if it were a wand as he looked for the aforementioned soup. Annatrice noticed how he had quickly dismissed her question. Was it his contempt for the role of women in the affairs of the land or possibly something more? Annatrice longed to find out; the man albeit grating on her nerves was quite a fascinating specimen. Charleroux clattered about spooning up a small serving of the broth whilst jostling for position at the table with other hungry revellers. Annatrice took the opportunity to pick up a small serving knife which accompanied a board of cheeses and concealed it up her long flared sleeve. Charleroux returned and with a daring yet nervous smile, held out the dripping spoon of brown liquid as if for Annatrice to suck the contents off at his pleasure. Being no stranger to poor etiquette, Annatrice raised her eyebrows and slurped the broth until the spoon was clean, the prominent gurgling noise bringing her to the attention of other revellers.

“Hmm, delicious.” Annatrice said through gritted teeth. The broth tasted of sweet aniseed, an acquired taste.

“Tell me Sire, tell me...everything.”

Charleroux at first thought he had misheard Annatrice's unusual request and paused for a moment to find an appropriate answer. Annatrice had wasted no time and with a subtle movement of her wrist, she prodded the tip of the cheese knife into the soft flesh of her forearm. The fleeting but intense pain caused her to wince and close her eyes. Charleroux's head fell to the side a little as he wondered what had afflicted the less than charming beauty. His mind was curiously distracted, his concentration lapsed, time seemed to pass him by momentarily and when he seemed to regain his senses, he once again addressed the engaging woman.

“Apologies my lady, I...I'm not quite sure what to tell you?”

“No, no that is quite alright. You have told me enough.”

Annatrice smiled, it was not a pained expression for the pleasure of her suitor. It was a genuine smile of great satisfaction. Looking around to see if anyone was regarding her and ensuring there was nobody present within earshot, Annatrice leant forward as if to whisper in Charleroux's ear, her voice was urgent and her words precise.

“Now listen to me and mark my words for I have no time for questions or pompous small talk. We both know that Deo Canthi is in league with half of the nobility of Araman and that a plot is ripe to depose Tragian. We both know you have received sums of coin and the promise of land in exchange for your loyalty to the Deo Canthi who intends to take the throne.”

Charleroux stood up straight, his informality suddenly replaced with a serious and distinctly unimpressed visage.

“This is not the truth. I should have you put to death for such a slur.”

Annatrice raised an eyebrow with contempt.

“Save your empty threats, I do not seek to expose you. I am in a position to aid your quest. I am effectively a prisoner within these walls. Once the offensive is in place, I will be able to assist you but only under certain conditions.”

Charleroux held his pose, his mind racing. He looked about himself cautiously for what he was discussing amounted to treason.

“What are your terms and how could you possibly assist?”

Annatrice felt ill at ease pushing the issue but there was never a more pertinent time to ensure Tragian's downfall. She did not know much about Deo Canthi, but his reputation was not that of a rogue and the people of his land fared as well as any other.

“My terms are simple. Tragian's end must result in as little bloodshed as possible. His people do not share the same lust for power or his thirst for war. No Suleyman army must set foot on Araman soil before the King is displaced.”

Charleroux almost laughed out loud, the absurdity of Annatrice's request was obvious.

“And how do you propose such a feat?” He asked, curious however, Annatrice's calm and calculating demeanour engendered a certain amount of credibility.

“If I am able to free myself of my bondage, I will show you.”

Charleroux did not deal in promises that could not be kept. It seemed more likely that this treacherous young woman would see her freedom then be off in the darkness of the night never to return.

“I believe it is within my power to have you released into my custody, but this will come at a price. You will be taken as my wife in order to do so. T'is a high price to pay for a promise of aid which seems so devoid of substance.”

Annatrice inhaled deeply, sacrifices would have to be made in order to fulfil her vengeance. Once again pressing the concealed knife into her flesh, she drew dark and viscous eddies of hot blood from her arm which began to drip to the floor via her long slender fingers. She recoiled as she once again invaded his thoughts and desires.

“Your second name is Androsh, bequeathed to you in memory of your grandfather who died in battle from a cut to the neck. Your first wife Easobel drowned on the shores of Ferhus Cove five years ago, you never knew how or why. Your favourite colour is green as it reminds you of the tree which stood outside your bedroom as a child, a tree that you climbed and fell from in your tenth year causing a severe cut to your lower back, the scar still visible to this day. You have ambitions to take the throne for yourself but do not have the courage to take on Deo Canthi whom you believe to be too old and frail to rule. You fear spiders and flying insects and have regular nightmares involving your abusive uncle who molested you as a child but most of all you fear rejection due to your obsessive concerns about your unusually small manhood.”

Charleroux's face was as white as a sheet and he swallowed hard, his face a mixture of rage, shame and utter embarrassment.

“My, you are a witch of that I have no doubt.” He hissed, she had uncovered his most sacred memories and fears, her power was quite evident to see but even more difficult to bear.

“Go now, your face fills me with horror. I shall not see it again until you are betrothed to me. May the Gods protect me if that should ever transpire.”

Charleroux turned and walked away, even in his stunted gait, Annatrice could tell she had made her mark. She could not but feel a pang of guilt as he sloped off to re-evaluate his life. She had torn into him with vigour, it was little wonder he regarded her as a witch. The abuse of her powers could, if not restrained become the makings of her. Annatrice was not the sort to intentionally hurt another however, it seemed that in order to get her way, some may have to fall at her feet for her vengeance to be fully realised.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Annatrice was sent for the very next day, she knew that Charleroux in his desperation to perhaps appease his new paymaster had pulled the necessary strings. Marianne stood over Annatrice as she fixed her clothing and brushed her hair. Annatrice could sense she was curious and fearful of what the summons was about.

“Have you been stoking the fire Annatrice, this is very sudden.” The old woman asked as she helped tighten Annatrice's bodice.

“I'm sorry Marianne. It is time; I can no longer wait in such blissful ignorance.”

Marianne remained silent as she contemplated her own future.

“Do you know who it is?” Marianne asked as she finished and her cherished daughter turned to face her.

“Charleroux of Noxleigh. A pompous peacock but not the worst husband one suspects.”

“He has taken a shine to you? I sometimes wondered if Tragian would ever let you go.” Marianne was clearly upset at the impending departure of her most promising student.

“Only Tragian could be so arrogant as to believe that a mere girl could be of any danger to his throne. He will pay for his mistake; I will make sure of it.”

Marianne sighed; she had hoped that the prospect of a new life beyond the castle gates would help her forget her blood quest.

“When you return and it seems that you will, you must come and find me...if I am still around.”

Marianne's face began to contort and the emotions tell. Annatrice embraced her.

“I'll not forget what you have done for me and I'll not let anything happen to you. I promise.”

Marianne shuddered and spluttered, her face buried in Annatrice's shining black hair.

“You're no longer the child I took in all that time ago. You're a proper young lady, fit to be a queen.”

Annatrice pulled her head away and looked into Marianne's eyes.

“A queen...who would possibly want to rule? I'd rather sup the swine’s slurry.” Annatrice jested. It reminded Marianne that Annatrice's departure should be celebrated. She was finally to be free and although she did not know of this noble that would become her lord, she had the feeling that it would be her that would lead the way.

Annatrice was escorted to a small chamber lower down in the keep, an administrative place which appeared to be filled from head to toe in parchment. A small desk occupied an official of the court as he scribbled away with studious care. Awaiting there was Charleroux, again in the most immaculate attire, making light with the King who oddly looked tired and haggard. On her arrival, they turned to address her, a contemptuous look upon Tragian's face, and a sheepish look on Charleroux's.

“So, this is it.” The King announced.

“It is time to...spread you wings.” Tragian had never been so civil to Annatrice; his performance was befitting the stage.

“Lord Charleroux of Noxleigh has asked for your servitude and I have accepted...and that is it.” Tragian looked distinctly uncomfortable and he shuffled out of the room with not even an acknowledgement of gratitude for the young woman who had suffered so profoundly in his service. Charleroux raised his eyebrows with surprise at the briefness of the exchange and offered a nervous smile to his bride to be.

“Make your mark here.” The official said as he pushed the manuscript towards the noble. Annatrice laughed, the marriage was to be completed with a stroke of ink and if the indignity was already complete, Annatrice's consent was not even considered.