The Black Prince: Part I (32 page)

L
issa walked alone, under the shadows of Barghast’s tall buildings.

She was draped from head to foot in gray wool, a heavy weight that barely moved as the wind whipped around her. The hood of her cloak was pulled forward, demurely covering her hair and leaving her face in shadow. Her hands were warm, snugged deep inside a padded roll of fur. On her heart line finger, she wore the ring of a married woman. Although she wasn’t married. But she was taken.

She could have brought her maid along for the trip, but she preferred to go alone. She liked her space and, after so long, regarded it as a luxury. Even before coming to Barghast, she wasn’t sure that she’d ever really experienced true privacy. Not outside of the occasional snatched moment, for which she usually got in trouble. She’d had chores, and however many she did there were always more. All of which had irritated her greatly until they’d lost their farm; for the next few years, she’d looked back on struggling out to the barn in darkness to milk the cows as a halcyon time of freedom.

At the inn, when she wasn’t servicing some man she was doing chores. Sewing dresses for the other girls or pouring candles. Marcus was, he’d liked to remind them, generously providing them with food and shelter. Some food, and little shelter. But they owed him.

It wasn’t that Lissa minded, precisely. She’d never shied away from hard work. What bothered her wasn’t the chores themselves but the fact that they meant nothing to her. She didn’t get to keep the fruits of her labor; didn’t benefit from them in any way.

She wanted someone to be proud of her for making the best candles, and the most of them in the shortest amount of time. For figuring out how to scent them with lavender, and honeysuckle, so the inn’rooms smelled fresh even in the dead of winter. She would have liked to have kept a candle for herself, to use at her bedside.

Now she was free.

As free as she’d ever been. More. Hart had filed her papers; she was a citizen of Morven, a freely sworn subject of the king just like those walking the streets beside her, and she could come and go as she pleased. She could sleep when she wanted, eat what she wanted. Wear what she wanted. Hart visited her, and expected her full attention during those times, but her life outside of them was her own.

He wanted her loyalty, not her servitude. A fact that still amazed her, every time she considered it. As did the existence of her maid. The maid had come with the suite of rooms that Hart had rented, as fine a city dwelling as she’d ever heard described. She was a little thing, and terrified of Hart. Of Lissa, too, although that at least seemed to be changing. If slowly.

A sharp gust cut the air. It was warming now, but spring was still a harsh time in this place. Lissa was deeply grateful for her cloak, and her muff, and for the clothes beneath them. She’d never had clothes that were warm before, first because her family couldn’t afford them and then, later, because Marcus had expected a certain style of dress from his girls. But now Lissa didn’t have to entice anyone but Hart and, when he’d first given her a purse and told her to go shopping, he’d made it clear that he expected her to dress modestly. She’d given no response, accepting this iteration of his views in silence. But secretly she’d been pleased.

That he felt possessive of her. That it mattered to him, whether other men’s eyes rested on her charms. Some women she’d known had left the inn, to live in private houses. But mostly to continue on as they had before: dressing, living, and acting like playthings, to entertain the man in question and usually also his friends. Some, she knew, hadn’t wanted that but some had. They liked the feeling of power it gave them, touring the streets half naked as objects of lust. Convincing themselves that they were controlling men with their wiles when, in truth, they were being controlled.

Lissa might have lived in Barghast now for several years but she was still a farm girl. She was conservative. She wanted to be conservative. Growing up, she’d had no other dream but to marry a man who cared for her and bear his children.

She didn’t know if, if she’d met him back then, she would have married Hart. Of course she’d been too young to marry anybody, despite her mother’s claims to the contrary. But, whatever her age, she didn’t know if she would have appreciated him. She would have been terrified. But she was, still, at times, terrified now. She wouldn’t, though, she thought, have seen through to what was underneath. Wouldn’t have understood on the same instinctual level that he was a deeply flawed man, cruel at times, but still a man who laughed and wanted and dreamed. And needed.

She could care for his needs, such as they were, and even if he never grew to feel for her as she’d come, so quickly, to feel for him…that was enough. Not because of the rooms, or the clothes, or his seemingly unlimited store of funds but because he was
hers
. The first thing in her life that was. She’d have been equally as content if he’d been a fisherman, living in one of those tiny crofts at the edge of the lake. Because he was hers.

She opened the door to the shop. A sign above proclaimed that this was Barghast’s finest scent shop, with words and a painted carving of a hand-blown glass bottle containing some sort of amber liquid. Lissa couldn’t read the longer words, but she was starting to sound some of the shorter ones out.

The proprietor sat behind the counter, an enormous thing built upon rows and rows of tiny drawers. Each of which, Lissa saw, had a tiny pull. Carved bone. And, beneath that, more words. The shelves on all four walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with various bottles and jars and boxes. Weak light filtered in through the single window, and dust motes danced in the beam.

Lissa shut the door, shutting out the wind.

“Good afternoon.”

There was one other shopper, attempting to discern the difference between two boxes. Judging from her pose, she’d been at the task for some time. She looked up at Lissa’s entrance, as did the proprietor. Both were women, also, but older.

“My Lady.”

Lissa still hadn’t gotten used to being addressed as such. It was only a formality, of course; she wasn’t a lady. But societal conventions tended to dictate that one be addressed as one appeared. And, of course, it was always best to err on the side of caution.

Lissa, lowering her hood, favored the woman with a quick smile. As happy as she was to be free of Marcus, she was still getting used to her new life. And notoriety.

People knew who she was. Or, rather, knew who she was connected to. Mostly it just got her quick service at the butcher’s stall. The butcher was convinced that, if Lissa was displeased, Hart would put a hex on him. Hart’s supposed powers, like his reputation, grew in the telling. And, truthfully, Lissa didn’t know how much of it she believed. She only knew what other people believed, and saw the fear in their eyes. And, sometimes, the derision. As they whispered behind raised hands.

Lissa tried to tell herself that she was used to it. That it didn’t matter. Even in a society as tolerant as theirs, there were limits. And a whore, for the most part, existed outside of those limits. She’d never be a lady and she didn’t want to be one. But she did want to be accepted. To be the same nondescript girl she’d been before.

“She’s no lady.” The other shopper turned, still holding the boxes.

“You’re right.” Lissa spoke quietly, but clearly. “I’m not.”

Her antagonist was pale, with her equally pale hair skinned back in a bun. She seemed taken aback by Lissa’s acceptance, but recovered herself quickly enough. “So you admit it.”

Lissa shrugged, a slight shift of the shoulders. “Of course.”

The other shopper turned to the proprietor. “Well?”

“Well what?” The older woman’s tone was bland.

“You’re not going to let her shop here, are you?”

The proprietor shrugged.

“That’s the Viper’s woman.”

The loathing in those words made Lissa recoil a little, inside.

“Aye, that’s so. And her coins weigh as much as any woman’s.”

“But she’s
disgusting
. He’s disgusting.” That last was added almost as an afterthought. “She’s nobody.” People criticized Lissa, she supposed, because they didn’t dare criticize Hart. Lissa wouldn’t slit their throats. “She’s a whore.”

“Aye.” But something had crept into the proprietor’s eyes. “I’ll wager, though, that she knows the duke better than you do.”

The other customer’s jaw dropped.

“The duke’s loyal to the king, and so’s me and my husband. We’re a good king’s family. So I’ll put my faith where he does, thank you very much. The duke’s the king’s brother and the Viper’s one of the duke’s favorite. And all the realm knows it. And anyone whom the duke favors and anyone that person calls kin is welcome here. I’m honored to have their custom.” She nodded at the boxes. “You can get those down the street, at Flossie’s shop. With the green and white out front.”

And with that, Lissa’s detractor was dismissed.

A long minute later, after an indignant noise, she took the hint and left.

Lissa sighed, feeling the tension drain out of her. “Thank you.”
You have no idea how much.
Words were simply inadequate.

“Happens to you often, doesn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“Aye well.”

Lissa found herself studying the dust motes.

“If the name ‘wife’ seems more sacred and more sound,” the proprietor began to recite in a soft voice, “sweeter to me always is the word ‘mistress’ or, if it does not offend you, concubine or whore, so that the more I humbled myself for your sake, more I would win your gratitude.”

“That’s…lovely.” And very, very strange. “But what does it mean, exactly?”

“It’s from a letter to her lover, penned by the Abbess Eloise.”

“Lover?” Lissa frowned. “Abbess?”

“Well yes. Just because you’re not supposed to doesn’t mean you don’t.”

This was true.

“She fell in love with her confessor. And what she’s saying is that, ultimately, it’s friendship she wants. Not material advantage or, indeed, worldly reputation.”

“She just wants him.”

“Yes.”

That, Lissa understood. Eloise’s love was pure. So pure and so strong that it, in and of itself, was enough to sustain her. Which it had to be if Eloise, like so many others, was denied marriage and family. Lissa wondered how she’d come to be a nun, if she so obviously didn’t want to be one. Probably, she concluded, by a similar route to how Lissa herself had become a whore. There was little enough place in the world for a woman on her own.

“I was my husband’s lover for twenty years before his wife finally died and he married me.”

And in the proprietor’s sudden grin Lissa saw sunshine. She saw how the woman, old now, must have looked when she was younger. How she must have looked when she met her husband, and how she must have looked at him. And Lissa’s answering smile was genuine.

“Now. What can I help you find?”

Lissa wanted tincture of tansy for use against flies, lavender oil for use against moths, and camphor for the chamber pots. Wormwood would kill rats, which were a plague in any city, and nigella to mix with honey for the kitchens, so the flies that came to investigate her stores would taste it and drop dead.

“You’re knowledgeable about herbs,” the proprietor remarked.

“I’m the daughter of a farmer.”

“Still, it’s not he who learned you the lore.”

Lissa shrugged. No, it hadn’t been. But still.

“Can you read?”

Lissa opened her mouth to answer and stopped, realizing that she didn’t know how to. A long moment later, “a little.”

“Enough for me to label the jars?” The proprietor looked up from her wax tablet, shrewd eyes meeting Lissa’s.

Lissa nodded.

“Good. And now that we’ve dealt with the house, what can we get for you?”

For her? Lissa hadn’t considered this. She had no idea.

Taking matters into her own hands, Lissa’s new friend began rummaging around her shop. Soon, she’d produced a wealth of items, describing each one as she placed it on the counter for Lissa to inspect. Pastilles for smoldering in braziers and in the fireplace: sandalwood, frankincense, rosewood, myrrh and cloves. Cinnamon. Rose oil for scenting baths.

And then even more expensive things: perfume of sweet flag, which smelled almost like violets. Orange oil. Cologne for Hart, as well. One, that Lissa smelled, was a blend of tobacco flower, sweet grass and moss from the East that promised to be a powerful sexual attractant. Not that, Lissa thought, Hart needed much help in that department. But it did smell good and she decided to get it for him. Along with another that mixed violet, cardamom, cumin and peppercorn.

“That’s one’s also quite appealing to the ladies.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

And suddenly they both were laughing.

“Sophisticated, seething sexuality” the older woman read from the label.

“I’d hate to accidentally purchase him something called eau de eunuch.”

“I can see why he likes you. It’s rare for a woman to have a sense of humor, especially these days.” She was beginning to put things in boxes. “Should I have these delivered?”

“Yes, um. That would be nice.” Lissa had never had anything delivered before.

“And the name for the delivery?” She was scratching on that wax tablet again. “Yours?”

“Yes. Lissa Snow.” She’d taken the surname when she was freed. She wanted no connection to her past. “Blue Boar Street, the last house before the garden. I live above Master and Goodwife Hamel. Their son will accept a package.” Hart had thought that, given that Lissa was a woman living alone—her maid, to him, evidently did not count despite his having hired her—it would be safest to live above a family. Master Hamel was a bladesmith with five sons and a dozen apprentices following in his footsteps. All good, strong boys. All of whom knew how to wield a sword.

He seemed to know Hart, and both he and his wife had been welcoming to Lissa. Lissa’s time was her own and her life completely separate from that of her landlord’s, although Goodwife Hamel did invite her to dine with them on those nights when Hart was absent. Lissa felt odd accepting, although she had on occasion. But she had to admit that sometimes, particularly in the small hours when she heard noises in the street below, she was grateful for knowing that she wasn’t truly alone.