Hearts in Cups (37 page)

"He'll
learn," Niall assured her grimly, though she was uncertain as to whether
he spoke of their son or his general.

"I've been meaning
to ask you," Niall continued, and a calculating note crept into his voice.
"Have you spoken to any of the mage masters concerning our cause? They
would make valuable allies when our time comes."

She shook her head
discouragingly. "Do not look to them for help, Niall. You know that they
hold themselves neutral from internal politics. They will not aid any acts of
destruction." This was something of a sore subject between them. Niall
felt that since she had been trained as an arcane adept and now was the duchess
of a Great House she should be able to call upon those who wielded the most
potent arcane powers to do her bidding. She found it increasingly annoying to
have to explain over and over again her exact relationship with the mage
masters to one who held the power of a Great House.

"You know as well
as I that arcane energies will come into play in the coming confrontation. It
is inevitable, and we must be as prepared with those weapons as we are with
swords and shields." He sounded petulant.

"We will fill that
need when the time comes, my dear," she soothed him, controlling her
vexation. Slithering across the pile of cushions, she knelt behind him and
began to gently knead the tired muscles of his neck and shoulders. As he gave
in and relaxed against her, she spoke quietly into his ear. "Between the
two of us, we shall be able to generate a sufficient arsenal of power to do all
that we need to do." A smile played on her lips and a fire began to
smolder in the dark recesses of her eyes. There were founts of power that he,
in the arrogance of his own innate powers, did not even suspect. But she, who
had spent a lifetime acquiring arcane knowledge and putting her learning to her
own uses, had discovered those energies and was beginning to harness them to
her own will. Someday her husband might find that she had powers at her command
that rivaled or even surpassed his.

Far away to the north,
in the deep pine forests that cloaked the northern provinces of Tuenth, the
duke's eldest son and heir woke up to find himself a branded and hunted
criminal. Hywell had been stunned at the news of his father's death, but that
shock was nothing compared to what he felt when he discovered that he was
charged and convicted, in abstensia, of the murder. His first reaction was to
ride back to Rengard immediately and plead his own case. But as the evidence
against him grew, he was dissuaded by the friends whom he had sought when he
left Rengard that night in a black mood. The reports and rumours became so
damning to him that even those whom he counted as close friends began to look
at him askance.

At last, his host,
Squire Corbie, whose daughter Ardith had been the object of contention between
Hywell and his father that night, felt compelled to ask Hywell to take refuge
elsewhere. It was not that he believed Hywell to have committed the crime, but
the severity of the crime with which Hywell was charged, coupled with the
upheaval it was causing at the ducal court, made it prudent for him not to be
found harbouring an accused parricide. Hywell was aware of the danger his
presence was putting his hosts in, and agreed to find another place to stay
until he had resolved this issue. A relieved squire supplied him with food and
gave him a few minutes alone with his daughter to say his farewells. After all,
if Hywell could eventually clear his name, he would still be the ducal heir,
and the squire was willing to keep all of his options open. The squire's daughter,
though distressed at sending her suitor to fend for himself, understood her
father's point of view. Their overlord was a reasonably fair man but tended to
inflict harsh penalties on those who crossed him or broke the law.

Chapter 17

Lord Ian de Medicat,
Duke Regent of Langstraad, sat with a shuttered face at the table of his host
and future father-in-law, the Duke of Creon, and listened politely as his
grandsire and Lord Branwilde relived old memories. The ladies had long since
retired, leaving only a coterie of confederates to sit talking and drinking
into the night. It was the third day following the arrival of the bridegroom's
party to Gwenth. Ian found himself expected to rise late, eat a large meal,
spend the afternoon hunting or hawking with his host and various other guests
and return at dusk to continue feasting and drinking into the early hours of
morning. It was a routine that Ian was becoming heartily bored with. He had
come to be wed, planning to return to Castle Lir within a few days. Instead, he
found himself detained by the rules of sociability and his grandsire's
conception of a good time. Ian poured himself another glass of heavy red wine
and stared into the candle on the table before him.

Their arrival had been
met with a long ceremony in which he and his prospective bride had been
presented to one another. There had been much exchanging of gifts and speeches,
followed by a formal banquet. During this time the bride had been flanked by
her mother and her grandmother, and had not raised her eyes to her prospective
bridegroom once. In the subsequent days when he had seen her, she was always
well-chaperoned in the midst of a covey of female relatives. With down-cast
eyes, she presented such a generally wretched appearance Ian was beginning to
have strong reservations about this course of action.

Ian was pulled out of
his reverie by a slap on the shoulder and his grandfather's boisterous voice.
"Now what has you looking so glum my boy? Drink up! Drink up! It's not
everyday that a man be wed." He favoured his grandson with a broad wink.

Looking around Ian
noticed that everyone had left the table or was passed out on the floor except
himself, his grandfather and the Duke of Creon. The duke was favouring him with
a long, slow look that had less drink in it than he would have credited after
this evening's bout.

"You look not
entirely happy," the duke stated without preamble.

"Just thinking,
your grace," he replied easily, adopting a casual air.

"Are you getting
cold feet?" The question was far blunter than Ian would ever have expected
and he began to reassess how much drink was affecting the duke.

Ian answered obliquely.
"Your daughter has seemed less than enthusiastic about our coming
marriage."

The duke continued to
stare at him for several minutes and then, coming to some internal decision,
sighed. "Do not be put off by her welcome, young man. She is a rather shy
and reserved creature by nature. I think she worries about leaving her home and
the new responsibilities that face her; but believe me," and his face
became a serious mask, "she is quite willing for this marriage to take
place." Ian dropped his own eyes before the intensity of the older man's.
Branwilde continued in a more convivial tone. "Please do not mistake
modesty for reluctance."

The man was hiding
something, Ian realized suddenly. Possibly the girl was shy and overly modest,
but Ian had the feeling that more was involved. He wondered, briefly, if
something wasn't being put over on him, and then shrugged it away. He had gone
too far with this to be able to give it up without a loss of face and the
possible incurment of enmity. If there was something wrong with the girl, he
would have to bear with it for the sake of his duchy's future. Thinking back on
the visit he had made here much earlier in the year, he could not remember any
great deformation of the girl's mind or body.

"Don't fret
yourself, m'boy," he heard his grandfather say and realized that the old
man had been talking while he had been following his own thoughts. With an
effort, he tried to appear to be listening to the old man's ramblings.
"Take it from me, all women play this reluctant virgin game but it comes
out all right in the bedchamber."

Ian looked quickly at
the duke, for his reaction to his old friend's less than delicate speech.
Luckily, the duke had retired to his own thoughts and was paying the baron no
heed. To salvage the situation from a potential embarassment , Ian stood and
offered his grandfather his arm. "The hour grows late sir, let me see you
to your rooms," he said with forced solicitude.

"So early?"
Sir Alister peered around the empty room with a surprised expression in his
bleary eyes. "Well, maybe you're right," he mumbled. "Fine time,
Branwilde. Wonderful food and drink. Best be getting to my bed now
though..."

"What?" The
duke was caught off-guard in his own reflections and wrenched himself back with
some effort. "Oh yes, I'm glad you are enjoying yourself, Alister."
The duke stood and clapped his hands for servants. "The time has grown
quite late, I fear. Good rest to you both; we shall meet again in the
morning." A servant appeared with a lamp to guide Ian and his grandfather
to their rooms. As Ian sketched a quick bow, and while helping his grandfather
to his feet the duke said again to him, "Have no fear, Angharad knows
quite well what she is doing and has no objections to it."

Ian merely nodded,
finding less comfort in those words than if the duke had forborne to say anything
more. With his grandfather leaning on his arm, Ian ushered him out of the
banquet hall in the wake of the servant with the light. As he prepared to leave
him at his own chamber door, his grandfather spoke again. "Trust me my
boy, once you're between a woman's legs..." Ian hastily bid the old man
good-night and sought what little comfort was available to him in his own room.

Before the end of the
week the wedding ceremony took place. Those nobles and vassals who had been
invited and were able to attend filled the castle to capacity and spilled out
into the town. There were people everywhere and, while everyone chatted openly
and congenially about the approaching nuptials, in private the talk was of the
empty throne and the Duke of Mirvanovir. There had been no overt moves from the
southernmost duchy but in the atmosphere was the tension before the breaking of
a storm.

On the wedding day,
pennants and streamers flew from the windows in the castle and garlands of
flowers were hung in all of the doorways. In her room, Angharad waited in a
cold sweat for servants, under the direction of Lady Varenna, to come and dress
her for the actual ceremony.  If the week had been a trial for Ian, it had
been the living of a nightmare for Angharad.  Attempting to block out the
reality of what was happening around her, she made herself stand and sit when
so instructed. Food held no interest for her, and when she lay down to rest her
dreams were haunted by her unhappiness. At no time was she left alone with the
young lord; he was but a vague face and form that swam in and out of the
periphery of her vision. She had come to focus entirely inward and was
beginning to let her own fears and angers consume her. Those around her had
lost their humanity and become symbols of torture for her.

Since agreeing to be
married off at her parent's behest Angharad had tried to think as little as
possible about the future. Her grandmother had been kind and encouraging, but
Angharad hid behind a barrier of silence. Like a large doll she had allowed
herself to be measured for wedding clothes and apathetically condoned all
choices made for her. The nursery beyond her room filled itself with boxes and
trunks of clothing, along with the personal luxuries deemed necessary to her
future life. Try as she would to ignore it, time moved inexorably forwards
until the day that she stood captive between her mother and grandmother,
watching as the Duke Regent of Langstraad and his wedding party rode into
Gwenth.

A knock at her door
announced Varenna's arrival with four other personal attendants. Her eyebrows
raised and her mouth narrowed into a thin line as she surveyed the future
bride's appearance. With an undaunted gleam in her eye she set about ordering
what needed to be done to alleviate the impression of dejection and gloom the
girl presented. The girl would be representing the majesty of House Creon today
and Varenna was determined to make the girl as worthy an ambassador as
possible, despite the girl's objections. Angharad soon found herself being bathed
and perfumed, her hair cleaned and brushed, dressed with absolute attention to
detail and fussed over to a maddening degree. If she had hoped to be left alone
before the actual ceremony she was to be disappointed, because as soon as
Varenna saw that her task had been accomplished and went to ready herself a
herd of younger female relations were let in to entertain the hapless bride
until she was summoned.

It was mid-afternoon
when trumpets were sounded throughout the castle and everyone fortunate enough
to attend crowded into the ducal audience chamber. Upon a raised platform,
beneath an enormous arras of Creon's golden boar, sat the Duke and Duchess of
Creon dressed in their full court regalia. Severely beautiful in her black gown
copiously edged with gold lace and sewn with hundreds of seed pearls, Dierdre
surveyed the hall with manifest pleasure, nodding with gracious acknowledgment
as well-wishers filed into the room. Just to the left of the duke was his
mother, the dowager duchess, looking both anxious and eager, and behind their
parents stood the bride's two brothers, Lords Owen and Gereth, stiff with
importance in the black and gold colours of their House. Near the ducal family
were seated Lord Aidan Ravenspur of the Minor House of Thurin and his wife Lady
Caitlan, Dierdre's sister, who had fostered Angharad as a child. Three trumpets
were sounded in unison and the bridegroom's party entered and crossed the hall
with a measured pace.