“It is not Lord Gamelyn alone who steers her fate,” Pliny cut in. A rare thing for him—he was nothing if not always courteous, rigidly observant of etiquette. “He did not wish for this. That much I could read on his face. What man wants a bride who was not so long ago weaned from her mother’s breast? She is closer to an infant than to a woman. His disgust showed itself openly.”
Waltrude drew a breath.
“Will he be cruel to her for that? Perhaps. I am no longer given to know what occurs within the halls of the House of Blood. His father, the late Lord Unruoching, was a coarse and barbarous man, all the more cruel for his stupidity. Yet his grandfather, the late Lord Fredegar, was just and kind, possessing every virtue that a man in his position ought. Has Gamelyn drunk the poison of his father? Or sipped the nectar of his grandfather? I confess I cannot say.”
“You said that Gamelyn alone does not steer the girl’s fate,” Waltrude reminded him. She had to suppress a shiver. “How do you mean?”
The leech shifted, leaning forward over the table and resting his chin in his folded hands. His soberness could almost be felt, like an emanation of chill air.
“I mean,” he said lowly, “that this matter was settled at the Crown’s discretion. The House of Berengar is still preeminent in all things. The king may be gone to madness and gluttony, but the prince knows the truth of this arrangement: not a marriage, but a treaty. Not a bride, but a hostage. The girl is a pawn in her father’s game for peace. So if thereis sympathy between the House of Blood and the Crown, Meriope will be treated accordingly. And if relations sour, she will pay the price for it.”
All along Waltrude had known this. How could she not? She had seen the tortures inflicted upon women for the crimes of men. Even queens were not exempt. And the princess in the tower knew this, too. For all her grief, her mind was sharp, her teeth sharper still.
“The prince, then,” she said thickly. “Pliny…what has he done?”
“He has sacrificed his daughter for his love. He has wrecked his honor for his heart. And he has lost the sympathy of two great houses. A crime committed in the haze of drunkenness, in the fever of passion. I did not think him capable of such an act. I must see it only as a lapse. A mistake that will not be repeated, not a true reflection of his character. Else I would…”
Pliny’s voice faded into silence.
“You are wise to arrest yourself before treason, Your Scrupulousness,” Waltrude bit out. “No man is without fault, even such a one as our prince. What is this terrible act, which you cannot bear to even put to words? If you are even half as old as I am, surely you have seen worse. What transpired in your old master’s halls—”
“The blackest and bitterest tragedy, yes,” Pliny cut in. “The anguish of Lord Fredegar’s death has not worn thin. Yet that crime was already repaid twice over, with Unruoching’s blood, and now with the young girl’s maidenhead. The prince has taken more than was his right.”
“To the minds of some men,” Waltrude murmured, “everything that a prince takes is his right.”
“And those men will continue to swear for the House of Berengar. Rabanus, Master of Hearts, and Amycus, Master of Bones—their loyalty is unshakable. I have seen it affirmed myself. Vauquelin’s lands are too distant for anyone to know his mind, but his influence is as paltry as the crop yield at Pelekys. Hartwig is vain enough that flattery will sway him to a new cause each moment. But the House of Eyes and the House of Blood? Their faith has been lost. It has been trampled upon. Its throat has been savagely cut.”
All this and still Pliny would not speak plainly of Liuprand’s crime. Perhaps he meant for her mind to conjure its own monsters. But in the silence, behind her eyes, Waltrude saw only Philomel’s broken body in the sheets. She blinked and saw the princess, her daughter, clutching her skirts. She blinked once more and saw—
Lady Agnes. She pushed open the door and led Tisander by his hand into the chamber.
The boy ran first to her, throwing his arms around her waist, and then to Pliny, clambering into the old leech’s lap. Impressively, Pliny seemed to shed his gloom at once, and he smiled at Tisander without inhibition.
“Lady,” he said, rising to his feet, the child propped on his hip. “I was to meet you in the library.”
“No,” Agnes said, “it is best that Tisander have his lessons here today.”
Waltrude’s head snapped up in shock. Her voice—a low, rattling wheeze, like the wind through a hollow reed. She was further shocked to see that the lady wore a high-necked gown of gray, its lace collar buttoned primly to her chin, her hair held high on her head with a pearl clasp. An old gown, it must have been, for the healthy swell of her breasts and hips made the fabric strain at its seams. Waltrude had not seen her dress in this manner for years. She had not seen the lady’s hair bound in at least as much time.
“I did tell you, lady,” Pliny said softly, “that you should try not to speak.”
“It cannot be helped,” Agnes rasped. “There is much to communicate, and writing will not suffice.”
Waltrude, who had forgotten a moment her courtesy, rose to her feet and greeted the lady with an unacknowledged nod. Her face was the color of cold porridge, and her eyes were rimmed in red. It was a ghoulish sight that made Waltrude’s stomach queasy.
“Very well,” said Pliny. “I will give the princeling his lesson in his chambers. And—should you like it—I have another poultice for your throat.”
Agnes fell to silence for a moment. Her lashes fluttered over her bloodshot eyes, and she looked very weary.
“Not yet,” she croaked. “I must have words with you first. I am in need of your counsel.”
At last, her gaze slid to Waltrude. Other than tiredness, the wet nurse could discern no emotion from her visage. The lady swallowed, winced, and then said, “Occupy Tisander for the moment. Pliny and I will speak in my chambers.”
“Yes, my lady,” Waltrude replied. Turning to Tisander, she held out her arms. “Come here, my sweet dove.”
Pliny transferred the child to her, but Tisander whined and squirmed, and in another moment won his release. His legs carried him unsteadily across the room to where Agnes stood, and he fell against her, burying his face lovingly in her skirts. His tiny fists gripped the gray silk.
“No,” he whined, “I don’t want you to go.”
