The White Mists of Power (26 page)

She stood, knowing she had to leave the room before she took Geoffry’s silent invitation. “I’ll keep your secret, sir bard. But don’t expect me to keep it at my own expense.”

He gazed at her over his shoulder. “I never expect more from people than they are capable of.”

Alma longed to smack him with her whip and wipe the confident expression from his face. Instead she let herself out of the room and slammed the door behind her. She hurried down the corridor, afraid that she was already late.

Geoffry knew too much. He was a gatherer of information as she was, and that made him dangerous. He knew so much about her, and she knew nothing of him. It was time she learned.

The stables were at the back of the palace, near the forest that housed the Cache and the whistle-wood trees. Alma opened the side door leading to the stables. The wind was strong, the air cool. Her braids slapped against her face, and her skirts twisted around her ankles. The groomsmen held two mounts. Lords Boton and Ewehl already sat on theirs, as did Lord Kensington. Alma smiled at him, unaware that he was at the palace and angry that she hadn’t known it. Geoffry had known. He had warned her about Kensington.

“Lord Kensington,” she said. “You didn’t join us at dinner last night.”

“I arrived late, milady.”

She took one of the groomsmen’s hands and swung into the sidesaddle, arranging her skirts so that they flowed along the horse. He probably had arrived as quickly as he could after he found out about the king’s announcement. Should the king die without an heir, Kensington would inherit the throne.

In the distance a wail rose and echoed. A shiver ran down Alma’s back. She had heard the whistle-wood trees before, but they always frightened her. “Where is his highness?”

“Here, Alma.” The king emerged from the stable. His breeches were too tight, revealing every roll of fat in his thighs. She thought of Geoffry’s legs, tight and muscular, and forced herself to concentrate on something else. “I’m pleased that you could join us this morning.”

A group of five dogs, barking and yipping, ran from the stable, following the same path as the fox. The men clucked at their horses and the mounts galloped after the dogs. Alma did the same, her mare barely able to keep up. She didn’t mind. The sport sickened her. If people were going to kill something, they should get their own hands bloody, rather than letting animals do the work for them.

The king glanced back at her once and waved. She waved too and smiled as prettily as she could. The forest was dark, and the whistle-wood moaned, as if in sympathy for the poor fox. Brambles grew in the underbrush, and Alma steered her mare beside the trees, hoping that her skirt would catch. It took more than one try, but finally she heard a small ripping sound.

“Highness,” she called, but the king didn’t notice. Gallant old fool, she thought to herself. At least the groomsmen would see the rip and support her reason for leaving the chase. She leaned forward on the sidesaddle, gripping her horse with one hand and trying to free her skirt with another.

She heard the sound of a single horse galloping back toward her. A fat, bejeweled hand flipped her skirt free. She looked up, expecting to thank the king, and saw Lord Boton smiling at her.

“I’m not used to riding in such an enclosed area. The Jelwra land isn’t as wild.” The tree moan grew higher, almost a shriek. Alma took her skirt from Lord Boton’s hands.

“And a system that provided you with more lands than you can manage. I have watched you, milord. You pretend to advise the king, but the interests you watch out for are your own. Of course you will oppose me. I’m too strong for you.”

“You’re not as powerful as you think you are, milady.”

“And neither are you, Lord Boton.” Alma clucked at her horse and galloped toward the stables, leaving the lord behind her. She smiled, feeling the game begin. Power was the sport she enjoyed. And Lord Boton would make the sport interesting, and so would Lord Ewehl. She was smarter than both of them, and she knew more about them than they knew about her.

As she got closer to the palace, she heard shouts coming from the side gate. She swung her horse around to see what was causing the noise.

Several guards had gathered in a small alcove near the stables. They held an old, large peasant man. He wore a ripped shirt and tattered pants. His face was fleshy and jowled. Geoffry stood on the steps leading into the palace, watching the fat man as if he were about to kill him.

“You have no right to hold me!” the fat man shouted. He twisted against the guards’ arms, glanced around for help, and finally saw Alma. “Help me, lady! I came here for assistance and that man won’t let me see the king.”

Alma glanced at Geoffry. He hadn’t moved. He didn’t seem to notice her. “He decides who is worthy of seeing the king,” she said. “I have no jurisdiction in this matter.”

“You have some jurisdiction, milady,” one of the guards said. “He drew a knife on the bard, and the bard refuses to do anything about it.”

“Is that true?” Alma asked. Geoffry still hadn’t looked at her, but the man spoke:

“He insulted me.”

“That’s no reason to attack a representative of the king. What had you planned to do about this, Byron?” She could not get the edge of irony out of her voice when she said his name.

Geoffry finally looked at her. A long, bloody gash ran down his left cheek. “The peasant is no threat to me. Let him continue his wretched life away from the palace.”

Something else had happened here, something she didn’t understand. A peasant who attacked the gentry–or a representative of the gentry–had to be imprisoned or executed to show others that such behavior was forbidden. Perhaps Geoffry didn’t know that. “Arrest the man,” Alma said. “Let the king decide what to do with him.”

“But, lady, you haven’t heard my case!”

Alma brought her horse up close to him and looked down at him. His face was florid, his eyes piggy. He smelled of ale, onions, and stale sweat. “I heard enough. You wanted to let the king decide your fate. He will.”

“Bitch!” the man screamed. The guards dragged him off. Alma dismounted and gave her reins to one of the guards. Then she sent another for an herb witch. She climbed the stairs to Geoffry and touched the blood on his face. The whistle-woods moaned.

“I wish you hadn’t done that, lady,” he said.

“And why not? Peasants do not threaten gentry. It is the law and it keeps us safe.”

“I am trying to establish among the lower classes that the king believes in justice for everyone. If someone comes here with a petition and gets arrested, where’s the justice?”

“They have to know they can’t attack you.”

“He wasn’t held properly.”

Alma wiped the blood on her skirt. “Then ask the king to release him.” She turned, but Geoffry grabbed her arm. His grip was so tight that it hurt.

“Milady,” he said. “I think you of all people should realize that sometimes power is best served by not being exercised.”

“Where did you learn about power, bard?”

“The powerless always know about power.” He scanned her face, his gaze finally stopping at her lips. He wanted to kiss her, she could feel it. She leaned into him, wanting to kiss him too, then remembered Lord Boton at the stables.

“If the powerless know that much, then the peasant should understand why I arrested him,” she said. She wrenched her arm free and ran up the stairs. He was distracting her and she didn’t need distractions. She had to concentrate on the king. The king, not Geoffry.

v

To the Lady Kerry:

Dasvid refused to accompany the king on a hunt this morning, preferring instead to hear petitions. He is a good listener usually, letting most who come leave feeling as if they were heard. This morning, however, a man entered who angered Dasvid almost immediately. The man introduced himself as Rogren, an innkeeper. Dasvid’s entire manner became rigid. He asked the man to state his complaint. The man said he had stable boys who had run away and were seen heading to the palace. He wanted permission to search for them. Dasvid asked what the man would do if the boys were returned to him. The man said he would whip them. Dasvid said that he had heard that the man had whipped his boys unnecessarily. The man denied it. Dasvid also accused him of not letting a healer treat the whipped boys, even though the man lived with a healer. Again the man denied it. Then Dasvid asked the man how many boys had run away from him over the years. The man claimed a dozen or more. Dasvid denied the man’s petition, citing that the man’s treatment of his stable boys was cruel. The man offered to change his behavior. Dasvid ordered him to hire new boys and to have the boys report to Dasvid in three months. The man claimed Dasvid was being unfair. Dasvid asked the man to leave.

The man pulled a knife from his tunic and flung it at Dasvid. The knife grazed Dasvid’s cheek. He stood up and told the man that his petition was permanently denied. The man ran toward Dasvid, but the guards caught the man and dragged him outside. Dasvid followed. The Lady Jelwra was returning from a hunt, saw the incident, and demanded the man’s arrest. Her actions angered Dasvid.

I found this affair curious, milady. Dasvid knew of this Rogren and clearly hated him. I will see if I can get permission to go into the palace dungeon to see what this man knows of Dasvid.

Also this morning, Dasvid met the Lady Jelwra in the performing closet that he uses as an office. They were in there for some time. The door was too thick to listen through, and I could not find a nearby chamber. The lady did leave disheveled and angry. Shall I warn her about the fate of Dasvid’s lovers?

Like you, no one here has heard of Geoffry of Kinsmail. But the Lady Jelwra did anger Dasvid this morning by referring to him as Geoffry. Have the Kinsmails any connection with your family? Is there some reason why a lordling pretender to Lord Dakin’s lands would kill the Ladylee Diana?

Vonda

vi

The king’s gardens smelled of roses. Red, yellow, white, and pink roses decorated the walkway, hidden by high hedges. Benches lined the path. Alma didn’t have to be told that roses were the Lady Constance’s favorite flower.

The king led Alma to a bench in the center of the garden. Huge hedges surrounded them and roses twined at their feet. Here in the small alcove, the smell of roses and pine were almost overwhelming.

She did, but she wanted him to be clear about what he meant. She leaned over, grabbed the edge of a half-opened rose, and inhaled its fragrance. “I’m not certain, sire.”

He sighed. “I’m going to choose you as my consort, even though Boton and Ewehl do not want me to. They believe you are too strong. I think you are just strong enough. You are like the bard said you are, eager for lands and power. I probably won’t live to see our child to adulthood, and I need someone strong to guard him. I believe that most, if not all of my children, were murdered. You will be ruthless enough to protect the child’s land and power. You can do what I could not.”

“Not the most flattering reasons for being chosen as consort,” Alma said. She smiled. “But I do understand, and I am glad there will be no pretense between us. I know of your love for the Lady Constance, and I will respect it. I will also guard any children we have as ruthlessly as I guard everything I own.”

The king squeezed her hand. “That is all that we need,” he said. “So, will you go along with this charade for another week, and then become my consort? We need each other, Alma.”

His eyes were half shaded with fatigue and his skin was full of lines. He seemed almost gray. For the first time Alma saw the strain he worked under, and she was pleased that she would be able to ease it. “Yes,” she said. “I will wait.”

The king slipped his arms around her and hugged her to him. His arms were soft, his hold gentle. She found, to her surprise, that the crook of his shoulder was a comfortable place to be. Being his consort would not be as bad a task as she had feared.

She ran her hand along his cheek and stood. She hadn’t realized before what a gentle man the king was. She would make this easy for him. She would be the strong one. “I will see you at dinner, my liege,” she said.