Widow's Pique (13 page)

Can you ever, ever forgive me?

Mazares, he will stop at nothing.

Raspor had been silenced to stop Claudia passing on to the King any details of murders that had been designed to look like accidents. But what killings? What accidents?

She wound her way back to the King's house, barely aware of the sumptuous carvings, the exquisite wall paintings, the elegant rugs on the floor. But once inside her bedroom, she took great care to lock the door and then heave a chest in front for added protection.

First - she ticked them off on her fingers - there was the late King, known as Dol the Just, who had, in Mazares's words, died 'suitably young'.

His successor and oldest son, Brac, was dead a mere three days before his twentieth birthday - but hold on, she owed it to herself and to others to be objective in her appraisal. Fever was no respecter of standing or status, though she made a mental note to find out what had killed Dol and also

what exactly ailed the present incumbent of the Histrian throne.

Who else? Well, number three, the King's only son was killed in a hunting accident, and recently, too.

Also, the King was a widower.

Whose only other child, a daughter, drowned not so long ago, when she was twelve.

Then there was the matter of the royal physician. Would a man in such an elevated position really run off with a male lover? The same man, moreover, who was uncle to the child who claimed to have seen Nosferatu? Coincidence could not be ruled out, but there was a limit to how far it stretched, and when you take Dol, Brae, the King's son, the King's wife and his daughter, who had all died before their allotted span, the disappearance of a boat builder and the royal physician seemed highly suspicious. Especially in view of the boat builder's traumatized niece. Add on Raspor's death and, Croesus, we're already up to eight - and these are only the ones I know about!

Like an icy blast from the Arctic, the enormity of the situation slammed home.

No wonder Raspor was terrified. He'd uncovered a campaign to get rid, not just of the King, but to eliminate his entire bloodline.

A campaign so cunning, so stealthy, so utterly cold-blooded in its execution that the conspirators were prepared to wait years to achieve their target,
because this way it would not come to Rome's ears.

Hugging her arms tight to her chest, Claudia wondered whether Mazares was in this alone or whether he had allies among the others? His dashing younger brother, for example, or the high priest? And what stand did Pavan take in this matter? Also, there was one more possibility. That they were all in it together. Every last one.

In which case . . .

She waited until darkness settled over the island, then dressed in the darkest garment she owned. A tunic of Tyrian

purple. It was also the most expensive, but this was no time to worry about snagging or rips. Mazares might be keeping her alive as bait to lure the King, who's to say Pavan was of the same persuasion?

Scooping Drusilla under her arm, Claudia pulled her veil over her head and slipped silently out of the house. No door opened behind her. No footsteps rang out in the blackness. Still, she waited outside in the alley, but the only sounds to echo down Rovin's dark streets were an owl hooting from one of the pines and a snore from an open window above. Keeping to the shadows, she ducked this way then that as she worked her way down to the ferry. Between the gems in her pouch and the knife in her hand, Claudia had every confidence in persuading the ferryman to make an out-of-hours trip to the mainland, where this morning's expedition had revealed the location of Salome's stables.

By tomorrow morning, she would be in Pula.

By tomorrow night, the conspirators would be in irons!

Her heart was thumping louder than Perun's thunderbolts when she finally reached the ferry landing, but she need not have worried.

No one was following.

Nobody cared that she'd slipped out of the house.

The ferry's ropes had been cut.

With a contented smile, Nosferatu turned over in bed.

'What a stupendous honour, my dear! Truly, I am so pleased for you!'

Depositing herself with such force that the chair's life expectancy instantly halved, Rosmerta pushed her nose in front of Claudia's. The cosmetics had been applied with a steady, if somewhat generous, hand, but sadly they'd been applied in all the wrong places. She really needed the antimony here, here and here to open her eyes up, and the wine lees on her cheeks should have been extended further along, up and out. As it stood, she resembled a painted doll who'd been running too hard. 'Don't get me wrong, Lady Claudia.'

Rosmerta fluffed out the cuff of her sleeve.

'I've nothing against the way they celebrate Zeltane here, one should always recognize the need for steam to be let off, but I do feel that your being guest of honour will endow the festivities with the dignity and decorum that has been noticeable in the past by its absence.'

Lady Claudia was taking breakfast in the dining hall and trying to come to terms with sitting at a table to eat, rather than reclining sensibly on a couch, when Rosmerta plonked herself down beside her. Lady Claudia pulled off a chunk of warm cheese bread and chewed thoughtfully.

'What's that commotion outside?' she asked.

'Tsk.' Rosmerta helped herself to a honey cake. 'You'd never believe it, but vandals cut our ferry ropes in the night.'

When she shook her head, the wig wobbled so precariously that Claudia primed herself to catch it.

'Mindless it is, absolutely mindless. I mean, what were they
thinking
of, knowing people will be flooding in from all over for the Spring Festival? Who can
possibly
think that is amusing?'

Another honey cake disappeared without trace.

'I blame the parents, you know. Children today aren't disciplined enough, and we're starting to see the result of letting the little buggers run wild.'

Claudia glanced across to the courtyard, where Marek and Mir were tormenting a puppy by tossing it back and forth in the air between them, and mused upon pots calling the kettle black.

'That's a very attractive hairstyle,' she said, lining up a walnut on the table.

'Do you think so?' Rosmerta almost purred in delight. 'My wig maker tells me it's all the fashion in Rome.'

'Your wig maker's right.'

Unfortunately, it was a fashion adopted by far younger women.

'Only, I feel it's terribly important for a woman in my position to be stylish, don't you?'

Distracted by her own flounces and frills, Rosmerta missed the walnut pinging off into the courtyard. She caught only her son's yelp as something hit him hard on the ear, and didn't even notice the puppy drop from his hands and run like the wind for cover.

'Put an onion on it, darling,' she called. And get the men to check there isn't a nest nearby, one can never tell with a hornet.'

She turned back and sighed.

'Forgive me, Lady Claudia, but I'd better go. Make sure they get the sting out, and all that. Mustn't have it infecting my baby boy, must we?'

What irony, Claudia thought. The one person she could confide in on this godforsaken island was the last person she ever would . . .

'Godda margen
.'

Apple cheeks flushed pink from working out in the gymnasium poked themselves round the door.

'Has the old trout gone?' Vani mouthed.

Claudia nodded. 'A hornet made an unprovoked attack on your husband -' (brother-in-law?) - 'and Rosmerta's playing nursemaid.'

'Personally, I can't stand the old cow,' Vani said, perching on the edge of the table and swinging one long, muscular leg. 'But you have to hand it to old Fossil Face there, no one keeps a closer watch on her family. Trust me, cornered vixens couldn't be more protective, and I'm not just talking about her precious cubs.'

She selected a pear from the display on the table, then swapped it for a shiny green apple.

'The slightest sniffle and she's got Kazan wrapped up in bed, and I tell you, if I'd kept all the potions she'd given me to help me conceive, there'd be no room for the bloody bed in the room. Self-defeating or what?'

The sound of Vani's strong teeth crunching into the apple was the only sound in the dining hall and Claudia took advantage of the silence to study the exquisitely executed works of art on the walls, whose significance she was slowly beginning to understand.

Take the scene showing the High Priest hurling a sword into the lake. In this painting, he was surrounded by wailing women and mourners and that's because the spirit of every Histrian warrior is imbued in his weapon while it's being forged. It fell upon Drilo to consign this spirit to the gods after death. Another painting showed the God of the Fields arguing with the god who protects beasts of burden, reflecting the Histri's struggle to balance cruelty with output. But in each of the paintings little fat Varil scampered, either in the form of a goat or, more commonly, as himself. God of Lust and Fertility. In other words, whatever happened in the lives of these people, procreation was paramount.

'You've been trying for babies?' Claudia murmured.

Vani took careful aim before lobbing her apple core into the fountain with a perfect bullseye.

'For that, pumpkin, it takes two, and maybe if my husband spent more time in his wife's bed than with his bloody mastiffs, we'd have a better chance, though frankly, with his miserable performance, I rather doubt it. Mollycoddle them too much and everything goes soft.'

No wonder she found Kazan so attractive. A seasoned womanizer with that oh-so-essential ingredient, charm, he was that archetype of all lovers. The broad hunk with the slow hand. Claudia tried to think of a way to steer Kazan into the conversation.

'It was good of you to look in on me after my fall.'

'Don't be silly, it was the least I could do! I mean, honestly, fit as I am, even
I
don't take stairs twelve at a time. Dammit, woman, you put me to shame!' Vani shot her a sheepish grin. 'Mind, I thought you were asleep. I suppose you . . . well, I suppose you saw me kissing Kazan . . . ?'

'Either that, or I dreamed about limpets.'

Vani eased herself off the table and bridged her back on the floor.

'It's only sex. '

Her back arched like a bow.

'The thing is, I signed up for this marriage and I've no intention of leaving my husband, but - well, Kazan's fun.'

She contorted into another gymnastic position.

And we do
try
to be discreet. Well, discreet-isA/ It's not easy when there are so few opportunities, so when that old battleaxe insisted Kazan remained in your room to keep watch—'

'Rosmerta did?'

'I told you.' Vani was in danger of tying herself in a knot. 'She doesn't look the motherly type, but tigresses could learn from that woman. As far as she's concerned, you're Histri now, pumpkin, and even though she's Illyrian born, she's Histri by marriage and that makes her one herself

'A dozen more stairs and I would have been history in every sense,' Claudia quipped.

Another performance like that, my girl, and I'm in danger of losing my crown for the Milk Race!'

'Milk Race?'

'Sorry, pumpkin, I'm forgetting you're a stranger to these shores.' Muscular legs performed the splits. 'See her?'

Vani pointed to a stone cat curled in the corner.

'That's Kikimora, Goddess of Plenty, and on the day of her festival, libations of milk are poured, rather than wine. Also, since Kikimora stands for contentment, her day is a public holiday with foot races, boxing competitions, wrestling, discus, you name it, hence the term Milk Race. Like the Greeks, though, our men compete naked, and the following day, of course, it's the marriage announcements.'

She straightened up and grinned impishly.

'That way, we girls know what we're getting.'

Although principally a fishing community that served every farm and village in the close proximity, the town of Rovin was still that: a town. A thriving, bustling town to be precise, where bankers set up stalls outside the temples, street sweepers kept the cobbles clean and masons hammered dawn till dusk, sculpting the island's bright, white stone. Since the Histri were self-sufficient in every sense, many trades were absent, such as weavers, barrel makers, basket makers, bone whittlers and dyers, and with no funds for luxury goods, there were no ivory carvers on the island, either, no perfume sellers, glassblowers or spice merchants, which would proliferate in the streets of Pula.

Barber shops were missing, too, the Histri having a strong attachment to their hair, whether on the head, on the face or on the body, a sentiment that sadly applied every bit to women as to men. It seemed odd, not having chariots trying to mow people down every ten seconds, for astrologers not to be touting their charts to read your fortune and viper tamers piping over their menacing charges. But Rovin still resounded

to the clack of cobblers bent over their lasts, to the grinding of grain and the sawing of timber, and thirsts were still quenched in the many taverns whose stools spilled out into the shade.