The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (57 page)

T
he herald had, indeed, done as instructed and delivered Isla safely back to her room. Recovering from his embarrassment, he’d been the soul of courtesy. In retrospect, Isla thought that his revival had been motivated in no small part by his discovery that she was a lady. Why it should be less embarrassing for the herald to stumble upon his master’s brother with an earl’s daughter than with a blacksmith’s Isla had no idea but as Tristan clearly saw no wrong in the situation neither did he. And so, taking up his new duties with enthusiasm, he’d treated her not as a woman of her station but as one several stations higher.

Which only proved, as Isla had long suspected, that people were sheep.

Even so, she’d been grateful for his company on the short walk back to her room. What ill could possibly befall her in such a short span of steps, she couldn’t fathom. But, perhaps due to the power of suggestion, the world outside of Tristan’s room seemed cold and wreathed with shadows. They danced against the walls as the torches flickered in their brackets, torches kept burning even despite the cost because if, Gods forbid, the manor were attacked then those responsible for its protection would need to see where they were going. That the light gave Isla powers of navigation was merely a casual benefit.

Their world wasn’t a kind one. The manor might be just that—a manor, built for pleasure in a time of peace—but peace hadn’t afflicted the kingdom for a very long time. From cottagers to merchants to earls, everyone burned torches at night and everyone posted a watch. In the morning, they got up and checked the fences. Far too often for comfort, there were signs of attempted intrusion. Even the meanest crofter wasn’t immune from attack, and woe to the householder who made himself an easy target by letting his vigilance slacken. Women were raped and killed, or dragged off into the night as forest wives; food and tools were stolen.

Enzie Hall’s defenses weren’t the best, but the walls were solidly built and made of stone and that gave its inhabitants a measure of protection. And no one who lived in Ewesdale cherished any illusions. If one of the tribes attacked the coast in their longships, or if the world exploded into war again, the manor would be the only place to shelter. So those responsible for its maintenance kept it safe. They might not scrub the floors or muck the stables like they were supposed to, or plow the furrows in the fields as deeply as they should be, but they kept the torches burning.

Reaching the door to her room, Isla had bid the herald goodnight. He, taking his cue, had bowed deeply and departed. Standing alone just inside her door, Isla had found herself both charmed and bemused. She wasn’t often the target of such courtly conduct. What passed for
courtly
in Ewesdale was Rudolph spinning lines about removable teeth. Or sometimes men made free with flattery, in the hopes of making free with something else. But the simple gestures of a city-bred man, without expectation and most certainly without sexual interest, represented a new experience entirely. Was this, Isla wondered, what her life would be like from now on? People being so…polite?

She’d undressed slowly, lost in thought and barely aware of the gooseflesh on her exposed skin. And then she’d crawled into bed and lain there awake for a very long time, her mind filled with visions of drowning and rending flesh and being buried alive. She’d fallen down a deep, dark hole and she was still falling.

“I should take a bath,” Isla protested weakly, holding the stockings out in a half-gesture of supplication.

She’d wrenched herself back to the present moment only with great difficulty, but as much as she wanted to crawl back into bed and lose herself in the oblivion of sleep she couldn’t let Tristan see her dirty. She hadn’t looked at herself, but she doubted that she presented much of a vision in her current state of dishabille. “And I don’t like that dress,” she added. The dun color washed her out; she was pale enough as it was.

“Why?” Rose tossed her the thin flax chemise that she wore under her gowns. It was difficult to wash most gowns, with their delicate fabrics and embroidery; water fresh enough to clean rather than stain and the right kind of detergent were both precious commodities, as well as the time to spend on something so frivolous as freshening a garment that but for sweat stains was otherwise wearable. So most women wore some sort of undergarment under their clothes and washed that instead. The undyed flax could be soaked and then scrubbed with lye, without getting ruined.

“Well….” Isla bit her lip.

“It’s not like there’s anyone to impress.”

“What?”

Rose stopped mid-movement. “His Grace, your lover, left at first light. Rode out of here on that demon beast of his as fast as lightning. I saw him, myself. He left most of his men behind, though. They’re outside, banging sticks in the practice yard or some such nonsense. And I’ll never hear no end of pain about that Chadian well.”

“He…left?” Isla stared dumbly.

It took a moment for the words to register and even after they had, she didn’t fully comprehend them. Tristan had
left?
Without her? How could such a thing be possible? And after—what had happened—last night? An almost unbearably sharp pain stabbed at her heart as she felt her world crumbling in on her.
Left
. The word kept repeating, over and over, inside her head.

He’d left. Left her. “Did he leave word?”

Rose shrugged. “No, not that I’m aware.” She might be a kind woman, but she wasn’t a sensitive one and Isla’s stunned reaction had gone unnoticed. To Rose, love was for storybooks. The realities of marriage weren’t about love, and she’d never so much as suspected that Isla might love Tristan. That there might be some partiality, yes; as she’d pointed out often enough, Tristan was easy on the eyes and she’d tup him, too. To which Isla had said nothing. She supposed it was better than other women finding him ugly. And besides, Rose was harmless. She might harbor her own secret romantic fancies but unlike Alice she had no illusions that she’d wind up “forced” into service in some lord’s bedchamber.

“Oh.” Isla stared down at the stockings she still clutched.

“I’m sure it had something to do with that messenger,” Rose continued, still in the same matter of fact tone. “He came downstairs before first light, bolted his breakfast and ran.”

“Oh.”

Finally, Rose turned. “What’s got into you?”

“Nothing I—I’m just surprised, is all.”

Rose nodded sagely, thinking she understood. “Isn’t it just like a man, to bed and run. Well, you’ll see him at the wedding regardless and I suppose that’s soon enough.” She gestured meaningfully at the stockings. “My advice, and no mistake, is to enjoy your freedom while you have it. You think it’s fun, now, a little slap and tickle, but lying with the same man night after night gets old.” Isla, absorbing this wisdom, began pulling on her stockings: a fine cable knit in the brownish maroon of dried blood that she’d knitted herself.

“Once you’ve been married a month, you’ll be begging him to leave.”

Would
they be married? Isla didn’t know. He’d said nothing to her about leaving and nothing to her about setting a date. He’d left no word, just…vanished.

He’d told her that he wanted her often enough but she found his words so hard to believe. He acted so
strangely
. And maybe, after last night…maybe she’d done something to upset him, or displease him. She tried to banish the thought. Rationally, she knew she hadn’t. He was the king’s brother; he was an important man at court.
The
most important man at court, after the king himself. He’d been waiting for a message and that message had arrived; his departure, however sudden and whatever its timing, had had nothing to do with her.

And yet….

“I think,” she said, forcing herself to stand, “that I need some fresh air.”

She finished dressing hurriedly and left without touching her breakfast. Rose, in her usual direct fashion, took Isla’s place and began helping herself. Isla didn’t care; she didn’t care about anything. She wanted to be outside, to escape, to run until she ran out of breath and collapsed in some field. She’d never felt so confined, so suffocated by this place in her life. She could literally
feel
the iron bands tightening around her lungs, forcing the air out.

She stopped under the tree in the chapel’s small enclosure, leaning her forehead against its rough bark and wondering how she’d gotten there. She hadn’t intended to go there, hadn’t
intended
to go anywhere. Sweat beaded along her hairline, despite the chill air. Her heart thudded painfully in a chest still constricted by anxiety. She had so many pent up emotions, so many conflicting wants and beliefs and ideas, that she felt like she might explode. And, over and over again…
what was she doing?

Gradually, her breathing returned to normal and the iron bands began to ease. As she calmed down, she became aware of the world around her: of that same damned crow croaking, of children laughing somewhere off to the left. Of the world continuing on as if nothing was wrong. And maybe nothing was—for everyone else. But she was alone and had never felt so alone in her life. Someone was burning a pile of leaves and the sharp, acrid scent assailed her nostrils. She heard crackling as they burned. She wanted the small, ill-formed pile to be a pyre and she wanted to throw herself on it and end this.

“What,” Hart asked, “did that poor tree ever do to you?”

Isla hadn’t even heard Hart come up behind her. She turned. “Oh, I’m just…”

“Just nothing.” Hart handed her an apple. He produced a second apple from an inside pocket and began polishing it on his jerkin. “You women are all alike. All strong one minute and all fragile the next. It’s confusing, to a man; offer to take care of you and you’re offended. Let you be independent, which is what you all claim to want, and you weep about how he’s not treating you like the delicate flower you are.” He bit into his apple, the juice welling out at the corners of his mouth. “Well?” he asked, chewing. “Are you knights in shining armor or delicate flowers?” He wiped his mouth casually on a coat sleeve.

Isla crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re both.”

Hart clapped her on the shoulder. “There you go, there’s some spirit.”

Isla glared, chagrined at being talked to like a child. Hart was acting like nothing was wrong. He grinned cheerfully, exposing square white teeth. She wanted to knock them back down his throat. “You don’t understand,” she said. And he didn’t. He was an idiot and she hated him. Except not really. She just wanted to cut his cock off and feed it to him.

“Then explain it to me.” He refused to be put off; he was the same affable oaf as always, waiting patiently for her to get a hold of herself. Like she was two, and having a tantrum. “Walk over to the orchard with me and stop molesting that tree. You can tell me about it on the way.” He turned, just assuming that she’d follow him. “There’s been a, well, John explained it as
a spot of bother
about some new fertilization technique the overseer wants us to try. I’m sure they’ll all have killed each other by the time we arrive but I think it’s worth a shot all the same. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll arrive in time to swab up the mess.”

He gestured impatiently, already on the path. “Come on!”

Reluctantly, Isla followed him. He slowed, to let her catch up.

Wet, marsh-tasting wind buffeted her face. She brushed her hair back from her face, trying to return her braided bun to some semblance of order, and then resumed her cross-armed stance. While walking, it lost some of its effectiveness. She felt and looked ridiculous.

“You don’t understand,” she said again, but more quietly.

“No, of course I don’t.” Hart took his last bite of apple and pitched the core into the verge. “I’m a man,” he said, as though that statement alone were self-explanatory. “I don’t have feelings.” Which sounded entirely too much like what Tristan had said. Isla’s lower lip began to tremble. Seeing this, Hart rolled his eyes. “Oh, hell, don’t go getting all upset on me. I just meant that men don’t, you know, over-think things.”

“They don’t think about them at all!” Isla exploded.

“This is obviously about Tristan.” At Isla’s startled expression, Hart made a face. “Oh, come on, I might not be the world’s most brilliant man but how stupid do you think I am? I’ve seen girls mooning over men before and the entire household knows that he left this morning. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. He’s left—and on important business, I’m sure—and you’re mooning about like a motherless calf because you’re taking it personally.” At Isla’s outraged protest, he held up a hand. “And all I’m saying is that men are…straightforward. If a man tells you he likes you, he does. And by that same token, if a man tells you he hates you, hide.” He shook his head. They walked on in silence and it was another minute or two before he spoke. Around them, life went on as usual. The manor was preparing for winter, and winter was hard.

There would be no food but what they preserved, no fuel but what they gathered. If the food spoiled, people would starve. If the fuel ran out, they’d freeze. Life in the Highlands, and everywhere else Isla supposed, marched to the seasons. Spring was about preparing the ground for the crops that would see them through the winter, and shearing the wool. Summer was about growing the crops that would see them through the winter, and combing and carding and weaving the wool. Fall was about harvesting the crops that would see them through the winter, and slaughtering the animals that would feed them, and selling the wool in exchange for what they couldn’t produce themselves: the salt they needed to preserve the food that would see them through the winter.

And winter was about survival.

Everything in life was about winter. Everything.

“Listen, Isla,” Hart said in a softer tone, “I’m a fighter. Not a thinker. But even a brilliant man like Tristan is still a man and at heart, all men are the same.” Except Tristan wasn’t a man and had no heart. But Isla said nothing. “He cares for you, that much is obvious. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t spend so much time with you—or any at all, for that matter. He doesn’t have to. It’s not like he has to woo you.”