The Laurentine Spy (19 page)

She pushed back the bedclothes and stood. It took effort to walk to the fireplace, to take the cloth the maid held out and dip it in the basin, to wash her face.

She walked through the morning as stiffly as a puppet.
It’s what I am: a puppet.
Her strings pulled by the Guardian.

It will take a minute or two
, she told herself as she sat in the Ladies’ Hall and made neat stitches with silk thread.
Five minutes at most.
But she’d had sleepless hours to think about it and the act had grown more unendurable, not less. Lord Ivo would see her, and worse than that, he’d touch her. His hands would be on her skin. And worse than that—far worse—he’d be inside her. His seed would be in her body.

What if he makes me with child?

That was worse than everything else—than being touched and seen and having Lord Ivo in her bed. It made her breath short with panic.

A child. His child.

A child that might have the Eye.

There won’t be a child. Not the first time. It won’t happen.

But deep inside herself she was afraid.

“Come and have something to eat,” Marta said, holding out her hand.

Everything she did was automatic: putting aside the embroidery, standing, taking Marta’s hand. She didn’t see the sofas and the side tables, the heavy arch of the doorway.
Two or three minutes. Five at the most.

Marta squeezed her fingers as they passed into the chamber where luncheon was laid out. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered.

Saliel’s eyes focused. She saw Marta’s concern, pinching her mouth and furrowing her brow.

She made herself smile.

Marta’s face relaxed.

Saliel forced herself to eat, to respond to Marta’s comments. Every movement, every word she uttered, was automatic.
A puppet.

The Consort watched her with something close to approval in her gaze.
I will not
cry
, Saliel told the woman silently.
You have no cause to worry.
She was too cold inside for tears, too frozen.

She walked through the afternoon stiffly. Eating, embroidering two leaves and a flower, bathing. Her vision was gray at the edges.

She dressed in the wedding clothes as dusk darkened the sky. The minutes were as long as hours. The maid fussed, plucking at the laces, pulling them tighter, smoothing the seams. Her hair was re-braided, the plaits intricately looped on top of her head.

Marta came. She took hold of Saliel’s hand. “Come! See your new suite!”

Saliel walked beside her, her arms and legs as unbending as a doll’s.

“What do you think?”

Saliel turned her head, looking but not seeing. Dark walls, dark tapestries, dark furniture.

Other ladies from the court came. They brought gifts: handkerchiefs trimmed with lace, embroidered cushions and delicate vases, a side table inlaid with marquetry. Saliel listened to the words without truly hearing them. She smiled and opened her mouth and said what was expected. They mistook her frozenness for calmness, composure.

Such a lovely gown.

Thank you.

A little gift, a silver candlestick for your bedchamber.

Thank you. It’s beautiful.
Nodding, smiling.
Thank you. So kind. Thank you.

It was time. Something rustled through the room. Not excitement; briskness, duty, a sense of bracing, of spines stiffening—and beneath that an undercurrent of compassion. Ladies squeezed her fingers, kissed her cheek.

It’s time.

The ceremony was in the Great Hall. The vaulted ceiling towered above her, black. She was as small as a doll, a puppet. The voices of her audience were faint scratchings at the edge of her hearing, the noises of insects.
A dream. This is a dream.

The hall shrank when the Royal Consort began to speak. Saliel felt herself growing, becoming human not doll. Panic swelled beneath her breastbone.

The Consort’s eyes, cold and black, steadied her.
Do this or die
, they told her. The panic shriveled in on itself, becoming a hard knot in her belly.

Lord Ivo stood beside her. She spoke the words that bound her to him. They were sharp-edged in her mouth. In her mind they were as hard as pieces of ice. They fell to the floor and splintered at her feet.
I pledge to be a dutiful wife. I pledge to honour and obey my husband and to bow to his wisdom in all matters.

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. Wisdom?

She felt the urge to open her mouth and scream until the audience covered their ears, to turn and run from the Hall, pushing through the lords and ladies, shoving them aside with hands and elbows until she burst out into sunlight and fresh air.

Beside her Lord Ivo shifted his weight. He seemed to stifle a yawn.

Sunlight? It was dark outside, cold. And there was no escape from this nightmare.

Lord Ivo began to speak, repeating the Consort’s words. Saliel didn’t listen as his voice droned dully. It was a struggle to inhale, to exhale.
Don’t faint. Breathe.

Lord Ivo turned to her. Silver glinted in his hand: the key to his estate in Haast, the key to the strongboxes that held his wealth. The keys that sealed their marriage.

He touched her. His hands were at her waist, removing the blank betrothal keys and fastening the bridal keys in their place. The urge to jerk away from those fumbling fingers was deep and instinctive, strong.

Saliel squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then forced them open.
You have to do this
, she told herself.
You have to.

Lord Ivo stopped touching her. The Consort was speaking again. Saliel watched her mouth open and close, but the words were lost beneath the sound of the scream inside her.

The Consort stopped speaking.

It’s done. I’m wed to him.

She curtseyed to the woman, her knees almost too stiff to bend. Lord Ivo bowed and took her hand, helping her to rise.

Sound swelled in the Great Hall: clapping.

It became harder to breathe after that, even though Lord Ivo released her hand. She didn’t feel the flagstones beneath her feet as she walked to the banquet hall. It was as if her silk slippers didn’t quite touch the floor. Her vision was gray, leached of color.

The evening slid away. She didn’t taste the food on her plate. The music in the ballroom was no louder than the hum of insects. She was aware of faces and voices. Words came automatically from her mouth:
Thank you. Thank you. You’re most kind.

“Lady Petra.”

The ballroom snapped into clarity: glittering chandeliers and dark shadows, the sheen of satin and velvet. Moonlight-pale eyes.

Saliel swallowed. “Lord Grigor.”

The Spycatcher bowed. “May I congratulate you on your marriage?”

“Thank you.”

“You must be very happy.” His mouth smiled at her; his eyes didn’t. “Aren’t you?”

No
, those eyes urged her to say.

For an instant her mind was blank and she didn’t know whether to lie or not. Panic kicked in her chest.

Give him the answer he expects.

She opened her mouth, aware of Lord Ivo standing alongside her and the sharp expectancy in the Spycatcher’s gaze.

“No, no.” The Spycatcher laughed lightly. “Don’t answer that question, my dear.” He patted her hand. “I know the answer.”

He plays games
. Realization came as the man turned to Lord Ivo.
He knows I can’t stand Lord Ivo. My distress amuses him
.

The Spycatcher bowed. “May I offer my congratulations, Donkey?”

“Thank you, Grebber.”

The Spycatcher’s mouth tightened. “Grigor.”

A look of mild confusion crossed Lord Ivo’s face. “Is it? My apologies.”

“You’re a lucky man.” The Spycatcher’s voice was smooth, his smile wide, but malice gleamed in his eyes. “The Consort chose well for you. Didn’t she, Donkey?”

Lord Ivo hesitated for a moment before answering. “Of all the noble ladies in the Citadel, I could wish for no other bride.” It was the truth; his heavy-lidded eyes were caught by the Spycatcher’s gaze.

Lord Grigor laughed, a delighted sound. “How charming,” he said.

He likes Lord Ivo no more than I do.

Lord Ivo didn’t notice the man was mocking him. He nodded and grinned amiably.

“Good evening.” The Spycatcher bowed. As he straightened, his gaze flicked from her to Lord Ivo and back again. His mouth smirked slightly.
He’s thinking of Lord Ivo bedding me.
“And once again, my congratulations on your marriage.”

Saliel didn’t watch the man walk away. She stared down at the floor, at the red and black squares of stone.
A whore lifting her skirts in an alley. That’s what I am.

She raised her head and looked at Lord Ivo. “If you will excuse me, my lord.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

S
ALIEL WAS NUMB
as she opened the door to her new suite, numb as she stood and allowed the maid to undo the laces and buttons that fastened her into the wedding gown, numb as the woman dressed her in a nightgown with a high neck and long sleeves and seed pearls stitched onto the yoke and cuffs.

The maid undid the intricate plaits and rebraided her hair into a single, long plait. She brought hot water and a cloth and a cup of warm, honeyed milk. Saliel washed her face automatically. “No,” she said when the maid curtseyed low, offering the milk. Her voice seemed to come from someone else’s mouth, distant. “Not tonight.”

The maid curtseyed again and left. She was alone in the bedchamber.
A whore lifting her skirts.

Saliel turned towards the bed, numb.

Spread your legs
, the Guardian had said, spitting the words at her.
And earn the money Laurent pays you
.

He had watched her in her old bedchamber. Was he watching her in this one?

The numbness vanished. The room came into sharp focus: the wide bed, the dark tapestries on the walls, the armchair beside the fireplace.

There’s a peephole somewhere in this room.

Was the Guardian already on the other side of the wall, checking to see that she obeyed him? Did he intend to watch while Lord Ivo bedded her?

Her horror was so great that everything stood still: the fire in the grate, the candle flames, the shadows in the corners of the room. Her heart didn’t beat. She couldn’t breathe.
I can’t do it if he watches.

The ability to move returned. Her urgency was almost panic.
Think!
Where was the peephole?
Where?

The eastern wall, the Guardian had said, but the blocks of black stone all looked the same. Which dark mark was a hole and which merely a flaw in the rock?

Saliel hunted frantically, crouching low, stretching to reach as high as she could, feeling cracks and tiny cavities beneath her fingertips. How much time did she have? How long before Lord Ivo came?

Hurry. Hurry.

Was the Guardian laughing at her as she searched? Did he find her panic amusing?

There.

Saliel reached up and placed her fingertip over the hole. Her body trembled. Each breath was almost a sob. She glanced at the closed door. How long until Lord Ivo came?

Perhaps an hour. Perhaps a minute.

She needed something dark to block the hole—a strip of fabric cut from one of her mourning gowns, one of the black tassels hanging from the tapestry by the door—but she couldn’t make herself walk away.
What if Lord Ivo comes now?

Lace trimmed the cuffs of her nightgown. It tore easily, the threads parting with a sharp, ripping sound.

Saliel rolled the scrap of fabric with shaking fingers.
Calm
, she told herself, but her breath came in gulps. Her ears caught the sound of a door opening and closing, her maid’s deferential voice—and a man’s baritone answering. Lord Ivo.

Saliel froze.

Spread your legs
. She heard the Guardian’s words as clearly as if he hissed them through the wall.
Earn the money Laurent is paying you.

Her fingers no longer shook. She bunched the lace and stood on tiptoe and shoved it into the hole. Her chest was tight as she stepped away from the wall.

The maid scratched on the door and opened it. “Noble lady? Your husband is here.”

Saliel swallowed. “He may enter.”

Lord Ivo stepped into the doorway, so tall his head almost brushed the lintel. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his mouth half-open, slack.

The maid withdrew.

Saliel’s throat closed. She couldn’t breathe. There was something wrong with her heartbeat: too high beneath her breastbone, too fast, too jerky.