And perhaps it would never be known, at least not by Agnes, for, unlike the other solicitors, Vauquelin did not invite Liuprand to his keep, Pelekys. He only gave his honors again and then departed to the table where he sat with two retainers, the sole men who had joined him on his jeopardous quest. They wore light, loose-fitting tunics, and their sole adornments were heavy, hammered disks of bronze hanging around their throats and their wrists. They had the same white paint as their master on their faces, which made them look both freakish and austere. Their appearance intrigued Agnes, who had never directly spoken to anyone from the House of Flesh before, but she did not have long to ponder it—two figures were approaching the dais.
They walked, as they seemed always to do, hand in hand. Lord Rabanus and his beloved wife, Perpetua, of the House of Hearts. Their garb was velvet, soft pinks and tenderest reds, the same colors that bedecked their banners. Perpetua wore a rather impressive divided hennin, her airy veil fluttering with her movements. The Master of Hearts bowed, and his lady wife curtsied, and Liuprand looked upon them with more fondness than she had seen him regard any previous solicitors. It was the fondness of familiarity. Agnes sat up straighter in her seat.
“My dear prince,” Lord Rabanus said, “we have been absent from each other for too long.”
“Far too long,” Liuprand agreed. “I hope it has not been trouble that has kept you away.”
“No, my prince, all is well,” Rabanus replied. “We have merely been arranging the betrothal of our own eldest daughter, and we hoped that tonight you might offer your blessing.”
Rabanus gestured toward one of the tables, where his retinue sat. Among them was a doe-eyed maiden of no more than twenty, wearing a hennin that matched her mother’s, its veil a gauzy, gossamer shade of rose.
“Rosalynde,” Liuprand said, smiling brightly. “It seems like yesterday she was only a child, clinging to her mother’s skirts.”
“She was only fearful in your father’s presence, my prince,”Perpetua said, her brow arching. “Otherwise she was a bold and clever girl, and remains endowed of these traits as a woman.”
“I would expect nothing less, from a daughter of your house. And I expect, as is your custom, that her betrothal is one born of love, not duty.”
“Of course,” said Rabanus. “We wish for all of our children to be as joyous in their matrimony as we are.”
A marriage for love was as aberrant on Drepane as the customs of the House of Teeth under her grandmother’s regime. Agnes could have grieved, again, for what she would never have, but curiously she did not feel her own deprivation in that moment. She only felt the happiness that Lord Rabanus and Lady Perpetua seemed to impart upon her. It pulsed from them, like the aura of golden light that radiated always from Liuprand. Agnes reveled in its glow, basking like a lizard on sun-warmed stones. She was—at least for the moment—content with the order of the world.
As though he could sense this stirring of sentiment in her, Liuprand placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Agnes could not remember the last time he had touched her with another’s eyes upon them. To Rabanus and Perpetua, he said, “I do not believe you have yet had the privilege to meet the lady Agnes, Mistress of Teeth.”
“It is an honor,” Agnes said, with a dip of her head.
“Likewise,” said Lady Perpetua. “And your masque was a great privilege to witness.” She paused, gaze flickering briefly to Liuprand and back again, and then went on, “I am deeply heartened to know that the prince enjoys the companionship of such a gifted and virtuous lady.”
Alarm bolted through Agnes, but Liuprand answered swiftly and calmly, “Yes, we have become good friends over the years.”
And there seemed to be no subterfuge on the faces of Rabanus and Perpetua, at least none that Agnes could discern. They both smiled back uninhibitedly, their eyes made bright by the lambent glow of the candles, the rings on their joined hands gleaming.
“Perpetua was my mother’s childhood companion,” Liuprand said, turning to Agnes. “She was a lady-in-wait here at Castle Crudele. Shecould only be persuaded to part from my mother’s side when she became enamored of Lord Rabanus, and he with her.”
“It was no easy choice to leave,” Perpetua said. Her fingers, still dovetailed with her husband’s, clenched ever so slightly, knuckles whitening. “I did not relish being absent from my oldest and dearest friend. I had always thought we would raise our children together, that we would grow old…” A shadow passed over her face. “But fate does not always arrange itself to our wishes.”
“Fate,” murmured Lord Rabanus. He gave a brisk shake of his head. “It was not fate that stole away these dreams, my love. It was a far baser and more mundane depravity. The barbaric malice of a man who yet draws breath in these halls.”
Agnes felt the words go through her with a chill. The king had long since departed, but to utter such calumnies against him, in his own castle—throats had been slit in this very chamber for less.
Perpetua squeezed her husband’s hand, a gesture of both comfort and warning. “Please know, my dear prince, that the loyalty of our house is to you, always to you.”
Liuprand dipped his head. “The Crown is most grateful for such unbending devotion.”
“No, my prince, you misunderstand,” Perpetua said. Her voice was soft and low but not without conviction. “It is not the Crown to which we offer our honors tonight, nor our pledge of loyalty. It is toyou.Liuprand the Just, prince of Drepane, son of the brave and unjustly slain Queen Philomel. You have our hearts and our steel. It is to the benefit of all that our king is a sagacious ruler, fair and gracious and valiant. You will be such a king. And the House of Hearts will do all that is in our power to make it so.”
XIV
With Barbaric Luster
Liuprand ordered chairs to be brought up so that Rabanus and Perpetua could join them at the high table for drinks and for merriment. In their circle of four, there was much laughter, loud and uninhibited, and wine imbibed to coax it out. Agnes had not ever seen Liuprand carouse in this manner, and it gladdened her that for once he could shed the prince’s stiff restraint and revel like an ordinary man.
They spoke of times that had passed, and the wine seemed to embellish even the moments of grief, making them into a fable of sorts, safely confining them to the realm of stories half remembered and ancient, distant dreams. Agnes even recalled tales of Adele-Blanche and managed to imbue them with humor, making her grandmother into a whimsical figure, stripping her of all her cruelties and her legendary coldness. She found that she could indeed smile at the memories that had once caused her so much anguish. They were now so distant from her, in this moment of flushed elation and artless passion, that they seemed almost as if they had happened to another girl, another woman, not Lady Agnes, Mistress of Teeth and secret consort of the soon-to-be king.
So many of her idle fears slipped away in the haze of drink. When Liuprand laid a hand on her arm, she did not stiffen with the panic that they would be found out, that someone clever and perceptive would see what lay beneath the seemingly innocent touch. There was only the lady Perpetua, and the lord Rabanus, kind, gentle souls of humor and sympathy.
It was duty that stole away this moment of unbridled happiness.Two figures were approaching the dais, one familiar to Agnes, and the other not.
“Lord Thrasamund,” said Liuprand, lifting his gaze. “Good evening.”
