The Black Prince: Part II (52 page)

She shuddered.

“The question,” Tristan said, his arms still about her, “is why she’s here.”

“Maeve?”

“Would be my guess. Although,” he continued, “what troubles me is that, with all of us so focused on Maeve, and the clear threat she presents, we might have overlooked another threat. Like the man who spends the night guarding the front door from brigands, only to be stabbed by the jealous neighbor who climbs in through the window.”

A terrifying thought. That there might be two separate and wholly unrelated threats to their home. To their family. To their son.

“Rowena knew Cariad,” he pointed out. “Just like you. It’s possible, although improbable, that she and Cariad hatched some plan for revenge entirely on their own. Both consider themselves jilted; both consider themselves to be the the blameless victims of a cruel fate.”

“What should we do?”

“Wait.”

Isla looked up, meeting his gaze. “What about Asher?”

Tristan’s gaze turned hard. She’d seen him like that before, but not often. The first time had been when Rowena went after Asher, during the hunt. “When I was a child,” he said, referring to his human childhood, “I was exploring the woods when I caught a tick. I pulled it free, or thought I had. Later on, after I’d come home, I told my father what had happened.

“He examined my hand and then, very carefully, held a candle to it while ordering me to be still. The flame singed my skin but the worse sensation was that of the still living tick, crawling around inside. For you see,” he explained, “pulling the tick only removes its superficial head.”

“The greater threat remains.”

“Yes. Revealing ourselves to Rowena only removes one part of the threat; my guess would, based on what I know of her general acumen, be the smallest part. Unless and until we discover what Cariad is up to, and whether or not this all somehow links to Maeve, we cannot declare ourselves safe.”

“But—Asher!”

His grip on her tightened. “I know. Darling, I know. But for him, we must be strong. He deserves to inherit a kingdom, as king or as subject, free from this plague.”

“I’m so scared.”

“We will watch him. Between my eyes and yours, he will never be alone.”

And, came the unspoken conclusion, they would do what needed to be done. For Tristan was right: their son did deserve a world safe from Maeve, and from her endless campaigning. A world where he could grow to maturity facing only the normal problems that dogged a man’s footsteps throughout his life.

Oh, to imagine such a world. Isla scarcely could. She’d never experienced other than the ever present sense of alert. It was grating. Numbing. Knowing that at any time a raiding party might crash through the dilapidated walls. Or that the coals of war, once banked, might flare again into full on conflagration at any moment. Even their peace, such as it was, had never been peace. Only respite, while each side regrouped.

What mother prayed for her son to know only heartache? Accident? The vagaries of the flesh? But those things were better than to be ripped apart by war. To see his family ripped apart by war. To be forced into a marriage, like Hart, with someone he despised and who despised him in return.

She wanted to give him a life.

Badly enough that she’d risk everything, potentially, to do so.

T
hat night, nothing happened.

The following morning dawned warm and damp, ground mist rising like so many spirits. Asher, who’d been allowed out of bed, if only for meals and short walks, chatted away happily. Quentin felt, he’d explained, that some degree of movement would be beneficial. So long as he lifted nothing heavier than his eating knife, therefore, and advanced no faster than a walk in any particular direction, he could do as he pleased.

No excursions to the barrows, though. No excursions further than the garden wall. Isla couched this in terms of concern for his health but the truth was, she was terrified that he’d run into Maeve. And that she’d finish what she’d started.

Still, as the morning wore on, she began to question herself.

Asher, for one, seemed content to spend the hour after breakfast in the gallery with her, reading a book. He was still seriously injured, mobile or not. He complained, at one point, of lightheadedness after drinking too much of the tonic that Quentin had prepared for him, wine mixed with ground up willow bark and various spices. He said he thought he might take a nap. But instead of going to his room, he ended up falling asleep on the couch. While Isla, who’d tried and failed to concentrate on her own book, sat and watched him breathe.

Were they doing the right thing?

Was Asher truly in danger, still? There had been no word on whether Hart and his men had found the tunnel. Several of the barrows were layers deep, forming webs of catacombs that stretched down into the living rock. But even if Asher had been allowed to wander the island freely, Isla doubted very much that he could have. Simply dressing and eating breakfast had exhausted him.

She’d tried the potion herself before giving it to him. She trusted Quentin but she didn’t trust everyone in the castle. And…nothing. Wine was a potent sedative all on its own, especially for a child. And willow bark was a common remedy for pain of all kinds, whether chewed or suspended in some sort of preparation. Cinnamon and ginger eased swelling. The overall taste of these things, combined, might not be pleasant but neither had the flask been poisoned by some unseen hand.

Either Asher was safe, now, because the castle walls surrounded them or nowhere he could go would be safe. The threat could very well be in the next room, polishing the pewter. Maeve had eyes and ears everywhere. And hands, as she’d said so herself. And Isla had no means of identifying their more immediate owners. Unless and until they struck.

She tried to read again. Couldn’t, and put the book down. She wanted to tell herself that she was overreacting. She’d done her best, since returning home with Tristan the afternoon before, to banish her memories of that cave of an office. Of her flight to it. Of what she’d heard, and seen, before.

And she even managed to, for a few moments at a time. Before once again her mind’s eye filled with visions of Cariad. Cariad, who’d never been her protector. Cariad, who’d never been her friend.

When
had
she gotten to know Rowena? Had theirs been a recent communion or had they been in league all along? The idea that, even while Isla was pouring her heart out to Cariad about Tristan, Rowena had been cackling in the background was truly sickening. And she had to wonder, too, why Cariad had ever befriended her—or seemingly befriended her—in the first place. They’d known each other for years before Tristan entered the picture. And Isla, for all that time, had had nothing to give. Nothing except her friendship, which Cariad had clearly never valued.

It all made exactly no sense.

She found herself looking at everyone with suspicion. Was Rowena the only traitor? What if Tristan was right and Rowena’s plot—Cariad’s plot—was entirely unrelated to Maeve’s?

The serving girl who brought in breakfast: was she who Apple had seen? Was Apple herself in league with Maeve? Apple had been acting quite strangely, lately. What about Rudolph? His parents, and brother, had long been rumored to support Maeve. And their opinion of the king had never been high, a fact they’d scarcely hidden. He’d spent most of his time, since his return, in Barghast. Ostensibly recruiting men for the journey South. But what if he was secretly meeting with their enemies? What if he planned to take back with him, not men to protect Chilperic but to recapture it?

She didn’t want to believe it. Of anyone. But there had been so much, over the last year, that she hadn’t wanted to believe. Still, if her own father could turn on her, then anyone could. And she had enemies. Other enemies. And Tristan had enemies. Known…and unknown. People wore masks, masks you couldn’t see, even when you loved them.

Asher stirred. He was lying on his good side, his knees drawn up against his chest. Like a much younger child might sleep. His eyes opened. Such a startling blue and so much like his father’s must have been, in life. At least, so Isla imagined. There were no portraits of Tristan hanging in the castle. For obvious reasons.

“How do you feel.”

He yawned, and winced. “Alright.” Sitting up, he glanced at the window. The weather hadn’t improved much, but that never seemed to matter to boys. “Can we go outside?”

Isla wanted to tell him no. Wanted to lock him in his room and never let him out. As she was certain that all mothers did, even on the best of days. But that was no way to raise a child. To instill the same fear in him that she felt, until he no longer wanted to leave his room.

She stood up. “Of course.”

He smiled wanly.

“Do you need help?”

“No.” He stood up, and winced again. “I think I can manage.”

“Let me know. I don’t have to help you, you know. We can find John, or Elias.”

“Elias needs the arm he has!”

Isla laughed. “Fair enough.”

They began their trip downstairs.

“Where is Aveline?” Asher asked. Trying very hard to sound nonchalant.

“She’s having her lessons. As you should be.”

He considered for a moment. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Isla pretended that she’d had no idea why he was asking.

“But it’s the afternoon.”

“Girls don’t have sword practice.”

“But they might want—never mind.”

“What?”

“Well.” Asher sounded defensive. “They might want to watch.”

“Indeed.” They reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m certain that if you asked Aveline, she’d come.”

“No! I mean…I didn’t mean for me. I just meant in general. Like maybe Greta might like to watch Rudolph. He still uses a sword. And well, too. Father is impressed.”

Isla couldn’t suppress her smile. “Greta doesn’t have lessons.”

Asher colored.

The guard stationed at the door to the gardens opened it for them, and they stepped outside.

Everything was gray. Soon, Isla supposed, the mist surrounding them would coalesce into rain. But Asher seemed happy, which was what mattered.

They made their way over to the ornamental pond at the center of the gardens and sat down on one of the benches. The stone was damp. Half a dozen ducks were swimming around in circles, quacking to each other. They, of course, loved this weather. They loved the ornamental pond, too, as they were often fed there. Isla wished she’d thought to bring some bread.

Green-headed and with a white body capped by black ridges on their wings, the males were quite a bit more attractive than the females. Who shared the same dusty brown color as field mice. It seemed to be so in every species: the males had more to show off, and more desire, indeed, to show it off. They were forever preening and prancing.

“What are you thinking about?” Asher asked.

“That the average woman isn’t entirely comfortable with being the center of attention.”

“Oh,” said a voice, “I entirely disagree.”

Rowena.

Isla tensed. Asher glanced up at his aunt but said nothing, only returned his gaze after a moment to the ducks. One of whom was attempting to dive for something, and not succeeding. Its fleshy rump bobbed back and forth, like a buoy.

Rowena sat down on the far end of the bench, on the other side of Asher. “I brought bread,” she said.

Asher’s eyes lit up. Seeing that, Isla didn’t have the heart to tell Rowena to leave. And it seemed like a harmless enough activity.

Asher took the proffered loaf and, pinching a piece off, tossed it into the pond.

A duck, quacking, dove for it. Soon the others began quacking as well. One really brave duck hopped up onto the edge of the pond, which had been built to resemble a large quatrefoil, hopped down onto the peastone, and waddled over. It fixed its beady eyes on Asher and quacked. Asher laughed, delighted. He was even more pleased when, a few minutes later, the other ducks began to follow.

“I always loved feeding the ducks, when I was little.”

That, at least, was true. Rowena had been fond of animals, back then. She’d begged Isla to take her to the barn, to watch the cows being milked. To help her feed the chickens. To catch one of the seemingly thousands of cats that roamed their manor, so she could take it back to her room and convince it to be her pet.

“But we, of course, didn’t have anything so nice as this. Just a cow pond.”

“I bet the ducks liked that better,” Isla pointed out.

Rowena didn’t contradict her.

Asher was, by this point, about half done with the bread.

“Would you like to go inside soon?”

Asher shook his head. “No.”

And she could hardly force him. She didn’t want to scare him, or alert Rowena that she was under suspicion. Gods, she hated this waiting. She hated feeling like she was using her own son as some sort of sacrificial lamb. Which of course she wasn’t; intellectually she knew that. But for parents especially, she’d come to realize that the mind and the heart were rarely in agreement. What her heart wanted, she kept having to remind herself, wouldn’t see Asher into adulthood.