“No, you’re the blind one. Of course she was eyeing you with lust. You’re beautiful. No matter what else Sira is, she enjoys a handsome man when she sees one. You’re very unlike my father. He’s black haired and dark skinned, just like me, and you’re golden and beautiful. Aye, she enjoys looking at handsome men, she—”
“Be quiet and go away. You’re wrong and your dislike of her is making you sightless and stubborn. I’m left with a mystery I don’t much like. Didn’t your father tell you to keep to your sewing? What the devil are you doing wielding a knife with such enthusiasm and talent?” He thought of Kiri, the most skilled five-year-old girl child with a knife that he knew of. By all the gods, he didn’t want her to follow in this damned girl’s footsteps.
“I thought he would crush you to death. Would you prefer that I shriek and faint?”
“In this case, aye. Go away now, Chessa, I must think about this.”
“I saw someone hiding near the edge of those trees, watching and waiting to see what happened.”
Not only had she rushed to save him, she’d perhaps even seen the man who’d hired the assassin to kill him “Who?”
“It wasn’t a man. I don’t know who she was. She wore a cloak and hood pulled up tightly around her head. But I know it wasn’t a man.”
Cleve could but stare at her. He wasn’t at all certain he believed her.
3
“MY DAUGHTER TELLSme you were very nearly killed last night. An assassin, she said.”
Cleve said in his low, smooth voice, “Just a thief, sire, or perhaps the man believed me to be someone else.”
“But what were you doing there, Cleve? Thieves and outlaws abound in that area.”
Cleve merely shrugged, saying nothing. He had no intention of telling the king that he’d received a message, telling him to come to that dank, filthy alley. Nor did he tell the king that his daughter had followed him there. He didn’t imagine that she had told her father anything, just that he, Cleve, had spoken to her about what had happened. So she trusted him not to betray her. He probably should have told the truth then. Her father should have more control over her. Still, he kept his mouth shut, his lie stark and bare for the king to chew on. The king knew it was a lie, Cleve saw it in his dark, clever eyes.
“I don’t think it was just a common thief,” King Sitric said, stroking his jaw, a strong jaw, not an old man’s jaw. Cleve thought again of the stories he’d heard of the magician Hormuze who’d renewed the old king, making him a vigorous man in his prime.
“I will assign one of my men to accompany you whenever you leave my palace. I don’t want Duke Rollo’s emissary to die whilst he is dealing with me.”
“As you will, though I hardly believe it necessary. A one-time attack, nothing more.” Actually, Cleve wanted another attack. He wanted to know who was behind it. And he didn’t want the king’s daughter in the way the next time.
“Now, back to our negotiations. Duke Rollo wants my daughter, Chessa, to marry his son, the future heir to the dukedom of Normandy.”
“Yes, his wife died in childbed some two years ago. William is in need not only of a wife but of a strong father-in-law, to use as leverage when the French king bares his fangs, which his nobles force him to do with great regularity. In return, you will dower your daughter only modestly, for your wisdom and the magic of your reign are held in deep respect by Rollo. It is the blood of your blood that he wishes to have.”
King Sitric drummed his fingertips on the chair posts of his throne. The king looked particularly fine this morning, in his white robe, belted with stout linen embroidered with diamonds and emeralds. His lustrous black hair was clubbed back and tied with a black woven strip of linen. Cleve said nothing, merely waited for the king to speak. He’d had nearly this same conversation with the king for the two previous days. They’d discussed the state of the Norman duchy, the power gains made by the French king, Charles III, the fact that Charles wanted Chessa to marry his nephew, Louis. But Sitric didn’t trust King Charles, something he hadn’t said exactly, though Cleve was practiced at observing.
They’d come to agreement on all details surrounding the marriage. Many things they’d spoken of, yet the king had for the third time asked Cleve to repeat Duke Rollo’s request. He said at last, “It is an offer that interests me. How old is William?”
“He is nearing his thirtieth year.”
“It’s good he isn’t older.”
“Aye, to your daughter perhaps it is preferable. But what matter? A man can father children until he greets death at his doorstep. That is all that is important. With your daughter and all your sons, I’d believed you to be an ancient, but here you are in your prime. It surprised me, sire.”
Cleve waited in vain but King Sitric didn’t take the bait. He said only, “We will speak this evening, Cleve of Malverne. Would you care to dine with my family again? Perhaps my daughter will mind her tongue tonight. Perhaps my queen will show restraint, though it is not in her character, truth be told.”
“For your daughter, sire, a possibility,” Cleve said. “For your queen, I know not.”
Sitric sighed. “I do know,” he said, and sighed again.
That evening Cleve was again ushered into the king’s presence by Cullic, the king’s personal bodyguard. Cullic was beautiful and dark and as cold as the moon at the winter solstice. It was said he came from Spain. He said nothing now, just pointed Cleve toward his chair at the long, narrow linen-covered table. There were platters of broiled mutton and roasted geese, the birds’ heads and necks propped up with slender golden sticks, making them look quite alive, thoughtful even. There were dishes filled with peas, stewed onions, and cabbage. Fresh loaves of rye bread piled high in baskets sat beside each plate. These were no simple wooden plates for the king of Ireland. They were of the finest glass from the Rhineland, pale blue all over with gold threads shot throughout. The drinking glasses were the same precious blue and filled with sweet wine that the king’s subjects would likely never taste unless they stole it. The knives and spoons were of polished reindeer bone with handles of carved obsidian. The previous evening, there had been pale green glasses and dishes from beyond the mountains to the south of France. This king was wealthy and he looked young. Cleve would give a good deal to know the truth of his reign. King Sitric was dark skinned, his eyes black as the night at the winter solstice, his hair the same pure black as his daughter’s. He looked oddly foreign this evening, but perhaps it was just the light of the soft oil-wick bowls that sat on the table and rush torches on the walls of the chamber that gave his face an exotic cast.
“Ah, I see you don’t readily identify that dish, Cleve,” Chessa said, rising. “’Tis a mixture ofglaileyfish and eggs. Quite tasty, really.”
As before, she was looking straight at him, her head cocked slightly to one side. She wore her hair differently this evening: green ribbons twisted through her braids which were in turn wrapped around her head. Her hair was the deepest black imaginable, with no hint of red. He looked away. In the beginning Sarla had looked at him the way Chessa looked at him now, with no revulsion in her face, no repugnance in her eyes. No, he wouldn’t let that happen to him again. Ever. He had Kiri. She was all he wanted.
He was here to negotiate the princess’s wedding to William Longsword, son of Duke Rollo of Normandy. William was a good man, a powerful man, a man Cleve respected and admired, a man not too old for Chessa to be content with him. “I have never heard ofglaileyfish before,” he said, trying to make polite conversation with this strange girl who failed to wince when she looked at his face.
