The Black Prince: Part II (25 page)

“It means
strong wolf
. Rudolph is a Southerner, like you.”

She stopped. “You don’t
seem
different.”

Hart stopped, too. A guardsman passed them, but said nothing. Neither did the servant girl scrubbing the stairs. She just dipped her sponge into her basin, wrung it out, and kept on. It was the truest expression of the social contract: servant and master, living atop one another, privy to all each others’ secrets, and yet pretending at the same time that the other did not exist.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, “you don’t breathe fire. Or have horns. Or walk around with your cock hanging out.”

“Where did you learn such a word?”

“From the kitchens. But I mean…the stories. About Northmen. You’re all naked all the time and you paint yourselves blue. At least, that’s what my nurse told me. And my sister.” For a minute, Aveline colored. Then she recovered herself. “But you look and talk and act just like any other men. Mostly. So they’re all lies. Except the ones about the giants. Since there
are
giants.”

“Arvid is a tribesman,” Hart corrected. “Arvid, Son of Audun, from Clan Hálogi. Hálogi means land of flame, in his people’s tongue.”

“But he speaks like us.”

“He speaks several languages. He is educated. He is…to the Southern mind he would be a gentleman. But there are no kings, no inheritances, among the tribes. Each man, regardless of his father’s name, or his father’s achievements, is judged on his own merits.”

“But he looks different.”

This child’s education had been woefully lacking. “The Gods might form each man’s body from a different plot of soil, but they give them souls all the same. Remember, you look as different to him as he does to you. To him, all Southerners are short.”

Aveline giggled.

Hart resumed his progress.

“Does Rudolph have the plague?”

Aveline sounded a little too excited. “No, child.”

“Then isn’t he up and about?”

“He was injured.”

“Is he sad?”

“Yes.”

“When I’m sad, I like it when people tell me stories.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“No one ever tells me stories, though. Not anymore.” Aveline sighed, but without melodrama. She just sounded sad now. “My mother used to. But she died. Last winter. It was so cold.” She stopped again. Her eyes were back on Hart’s. “What will happen to me? Will I live with you and my sister?” She chewed her lip. “Will you be my father, now?”

His answering expression was just as serious. “No, child. You are entitled to your own name. Your own place of origin. I would never take that from you, nor sever you from your ancestors. For, regardless of what you may think of them, now, or later, they are the reason for your existence.” He considered a moment. “What would you like to do, now?”

“I don’t know.”

They once again resumed their journey.

“I’m certain that Rudolph would enjoy a story. What’s your favorite one to tell?”

“The one about the woman who opens her door to witches.” This without hesitation.

At long last, they arrived. There was a guard on Rudolph’s door, who opened it for them. All knew Hart by sight.

Aveline skipped in ahead of him and then stopped, suddenly shy. She waited for Hart to come in, and for the door to shut behind them. She was chewing her lip again.

Rudolph was lying in bed, looking much the same as he had when Hart had last seen him. Hart thought that, perhaps, his color was a little better. But it was difficult to judge. He certainly wasn’t well enough to get out of bed. Bossard had been right to dose him.

At first, Hart thought Rudolph asleep. But no, there was that glitter. Amused-seeming and somehow warm. It was just difficult to spot, amidst so much swelling. Which now looked ten times worse, now that Rudolph’s bruises had had time to mature. His face was a mask of yellow and purple.

He gestured faintly at Aveline. “And who’s this?”

His question was directed to her as well, and she smiled. “I am Aveline,” she said formally. “Aveline d’Ecouis.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Aveline. Rarely is a knight done the honor of meeting with such a beautiful lady.”

The girl beamed with pleasure. She sat down on the stool. Hart sat down on the edge of the bed. He placed the tray down on the coverlet and took the cover off. Bread and butter, a few pieces of duck even though Rudolph’s surgeon would undoubtedly confiscate it for being too rich. A medlar tart. Medlars were a Southern fruit, and Hart knew Rudolph had missed them. Sort of like a cross between an apple and a rosehip, they were ripe when hard and green but not actually edible then. Rather, after plucking, they had to be left to rot. And then, once suitably brown and soft and revolting, they were made into a variety of equally revolting tarts.

“Walnuts and medlars!” Rudolph smiled slightly, and then winced.

“I hate medlars.” Aveline made a sour face.

“All the more for me.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

The question was certainly direct. But if Rudolph minded, he gave no sign. Hart didn’t think that, in Rudolph’s shoes, he would. Honesty was refreshing. Ignoring Rudolph’s lost eye, as half the castle seemed intent on doing, wouldn’t bring it back.

“I was injured in the fighting.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like duck?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I could help you eat it.”

Rudolph considered. And then, “I would be honored, dear lady.”

The man was nothing if not chivalrous. Even with a child. Hart had been right to appoint him sheriff and fortunate that Rudolph was in the market for a position. He watched, bemused, as Aveline at times nearly force fed her knight, picking up small particles and raising them to his lips. It took her awhile to get the hang of the operation, especially the part where she waited for Rudolph to chew, but he was patient as well.

Aveline offered Rudolph some water, which he drank in small sips. Then she began telling him her story. Which, at least at the beginning, seemed mainly to involve descriptions of everyone’s outfits. Aveline deemed it vitally important that Rudolph understand, not just that the rich woman carding wool was wearing red but that it was a red the color of currants.
Not
rose hips, rose hips were too orange and not with the fiery luster of currants, which looked like little drops of fresh blood.

Hart stopped listening. He thought instead about the events of the past few days. About the heads, which decorated the battlements. A placard hung beneath each, announcing the nature of the man’s crime in life. Let all understand the price of treason. Of rape. Of breaching the king’s peace.

This grizzly display had been the castle’s only ornament, for the wedding. Hart supposed that Solene must have seen them; surely everyone who’d joined them after had. But it couldn’t be helped.

Entrenched as she was in her church, she’d been brought up to see the body as a sacred relic rather than the discarded vessel that it was. Whatever indignities had been visited upon her father and brother, Hart at least knew that their souls had fled. He would have liked to discuss the matter with her; perhaps that would have begun to mend things between them. Or at least grant her some measure of peace, in her own heart. But she saw him, not as the instrument of inevitable justice but as someone who bore her family specific ill will. Who’d come to this place with no other purpose than to ruin her life. Which of course wasn’t the case. Women, or some women at least, might see men as free to do as they pleased but they weren’t. He was no more free in this than her. He, too, would have preferred for his life to continue on as it was.

What she didn’t understand, he supposed couldn’t, was that if it wasn’t him it would have been another. He wasn’t the king; he was a soldier. And the king had other soldiers. If she wanted to hate anyone, then she should hate Maeve.

As it was, he was saddled for the rest of his life with a woman who couldn’t even bear to look at him.

“Did you lose your eye?”

“Yes.”

Aveline considered for a few minutes. “Well,” she said finally, “I think scars make a man handsome. They prove he isn’t a coward.
I’d
marry you, except you’re too old. Which isn’t to say you’re old,” she corrected, sounding for all the world like a white-haired priestess dispensing the wisdom of the ages, “I don’t think you’re old, mind you. But I have to have at least sixteen winters before I marry, and right now I only have eight. And in another eight winters, you
might
be old.”

Hart laughed. “Rudolph is of an age with me.”

“And you are old,” Aveline said, perfectly seriously.

“My sister’s husband is eleven winters her senior.”

Aveline made a face. “That is old enough to be my father. That is old enough almost to be
her
father.”

Not quite, with regard to Isla. “He has a son only slightly older than you.” Asher had now, what? Twelve winters? Hart was old enough to be his father, as well. A thought that struck him as strange.

“Not with your sister, then. Unless they are both
very
old.”

“No. Asher is a natural child.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Aveline displayed none of the animosities of her sister. And eight was not too young. That she hadn’t, apparently, received much attention over the last year might turn out to be a good thing. For her. Moreover, to Hart at least, her revelation about her mother’s death explained a great deal. The only person capable of caring for her, or at least interested enough to try, had died.

How different would Isla’s life have been, if she’d been rescued at that point?

“Does he like your sister?”

After a moment, Hart nodded. “Yes.”

Rudolph spoke. “The…things went well?”

“Yes.” As well as could be expected.

Hart was sure that Rudolph would have asked more, save for their little guest. But then she spoke. “I don’t like my sister.” She seemed perfectly comfortable revealing this information. “I think it’s very good of you to marry her.” This to Hart. “But I warn you, she can be mean. Sometimes she calls me names. And she hits.”

“Hard?”

“No, not hard. She hates it when I get into her trunks and try on her clothes. But, I mean, she’s not wearing them.”

This reference to Solene’s wardrobe served as an uncomfortable reminder to Hart that he had somewhere else to be. He’d given orders that the process of moving Solene’s things begin as soon as she left for the chapel. Her numerous trunks, boxes, and who knew what else should all be in their shared rooms by this point. Along with, presumably, Solene. But who knew.

Hart had no intention of feeding into her ridiculous behavior. Aveline was less childish. At least in part, Hart suspected, because Aveline had not had her tantrums catered to. That Solene expected her flouncing and her rude comments, even in front of guests, to be somehow rewarded was apparent. But she was his wife now and she’d learn, regardless of whether she deigned to actually hold a conversation, what he expected.

He hadn’t been making idle threats, when he’d suggested that she might spend her wedding night on her knees rather than in the bed beside him.

Indeed, if she continued on as she was, then the use of her own bed—on any night—might become a privilege she’d have to earn back.

As it was, this was her first punishment. For making public their marital discord, and for very nearly causing what might have been mortal offense to the masons, she could leave her own wedding feast alone. She’d made it clear that she had no wish for even the most rudimentary of pleasantries to be extended. Fine then. Let her get her wish. Let all see what her husband thought of her. There would be no playing at martyrdom in his house; if she was this keen on suffering, then let her suffer.

He’d return to her in his own good time and, when he did, for her sake she’d better be waiting. Or he’d have his men drag her in, kicking and screaming if they had to. He had absolutely no intention of hushing up her antics. Now or ever. They reflected poorly only on her.

She’d either learn to behave or she wouldn’t.

He let Aveline tell them another story.

H
e didn’t return to his own chambers until full dark.

He hadn’t been idle; there was much to do, and much on which his opinion was wanted. After leaving Rudolph to rest, Aveline curled up on the window seat and sound asleep, he’d gone downstairs and then outside. Across the courtyard first to the stables, and then to the garrison for a surprise inspection of its main quarters. Let him see how they kept their bunks tidy on what might be the one day of the year—of all their lives—when they were truly not expecting him.

He wasn’t disappointed with what he found. Although he gave no sign of this. There were, in this garrison and every other, always matters needing attention. He focused on those. Should the earl’s men return, with or without Maeve, he had no intention of history repeating itself. Discipline was all and discipline began, not in the practice yard but in how one folded one’s coverlet, and otherwise cared for one’s environment. In how one cared for one’s weapons, and other possessions. In how one cared for oneself. A man whose discipline was only to impress others, had none.