The walls were not bare of shadows, but nothing of the fae was in the manor. Nothing, that is, except for me.
I could not help but gawk. Everything loomed enormous, magnificent, meant to intimidate and impress. It was an honor to be in such lavish surroundings, to be welcomed into the baron’s presence.
It was a misery to face it alone.
Thomas Shepherd sat upon a raised dais at the far end of the hall, sharing a plate with Margaret of Roxburgh and a table with his father, the Baron de Lyne himself.
He and his father were in the same room for the first time in at least nine years.
The baron sat at the center of it all, a baldachin of blue silk draped above him, framing the entire ensemble but most particularly drawing attention to him. He stood tall, silver streaking the dark curls he shared with Thomas, which had thinned somewhat from age. From this distance, his resemblance to the shepherd king was apparent, but I found no sign in him of the shepherd’s merriment, nor any indication there ever had been. And why should there be?
The seat at the end of the table, wherein the lady baroness no doubt normally sat, was empty.
I did not know the story of the baron and his wife. Whether they loved each other, either at first or coming to do so over time. If the baron had loved Thomas’s mother and saw his wife as the force that ripped him from her arms, a reluctant but necessary alliance. But he carried himself as if the festive air around him was all illusion, no more real than shadows on the wall.
As for Thomas, I had never seen him so splendid. Nay, I had never seen him clad in such splendor, for Thomas in his braies, splashing about in the water I had fetched him to bathe in was all the splendor my shepherd king needed. Now he wore a deep-blue cotehardie, well-fitted and snug to the waist. His curls had been combed smooth but sprung up defiantly, and his legs were encased in snug hose. He looked every inch the baron’s son. I saw little of my shepherd king in him at all.
And he did feed Margaret of Roxburgh from his plate and took great care that none of the food should spill on her elegant, two-colored dress.
Why should he feed her? I am the one who cannot lift the spoon to my lips, cannot touch these steel knives to cut my meat.But I sat among the servants, far from the baron’s table, constantly bumped and jostled by rowdy men.
I drank from my wooden cup and held it so tight my fingerprints were seared into the wood.
The hall was crowded, warm and stifling for a late summer evening, with little room to move. I sat far from Thomas, far too from the minstrel whose strumming harp did accompany the festivities and fell too faint upon my ears. We fae love music, love musicians even more, but I could not enjoy it. Not without my shepherd king by my side.
When the festivities ended, I would be put away in the attic, like a tapestry in need of mending.
Nay.These mortals shall not disrespect me. Tomorrow I shall see the baroness and I will cure her. The baron will certainly see I have more appropriate quarters after that.
Unless they were beside Thomas, it hardly seemed worth it at all.
Twenty-One
The Baroness de Lyne didnot sleep with her husband, never had, I was given to know, not past the earliest days of their marriage. Their chambers adjoined, that they might discreetly pass between them for conjugal relations, yet they had only the one son. I did not know whether they had tried for any others, and if they had, whether the bairns had survived infancy or no. Mortal children are such fragile beings, and after their mothers struggle and risk so much to bring them into the world. If these are their God’s favored people, he has a funny way of showing it.
So too did Queen Una lose her child and life in the giving of birth. Not even Mairi Grieve was able to save her, or her child.
Baron de Lyne was hardly even willing to let me look in upon his wife. He had not invited me to the manor, after all; he had brought university-educated doctors of physic to tend to her, as well as several priests who stood at her bedside, praying their rosaries day and night. Even beyond my fae revulsion, this seemed counterproductive, for how then was she to get the rest she needed to recover?
But I had not been consulted, after all.
’Twas Sunday morning when I came to her quarters; the priests were performing mass, and all able-bodied inhabitants of the castle attended service. ’Twas fortunate for me then to be so overlooked, for no one could wonder why I did not go to chapel myself. The baroness’s bedchamber was all but empty, only a single chambermaid attending her in her convalescence. Should she prove contagious, this was an excellent idea indeed.
The girl sat on a stool beside the baroness’s bed, muttering foul prayers under her breath. She looked up as I entered, pausing in her utterances, thank Auberon. Yet even in the silence, something toxic hung in the air, making my nose twitch.
“Incense?” I asked the girl, for compounds of cinnamon, cassia, and cloves were often used to cleanse the sickroom of its odors.
She shook her head. “Naught but holy water, miss. Lest she...” She trailed off, not wanting to tempt fate, apparently, and made the sign of the cross before her chest.
I knew what the chambermaid was trying not to say.Lest the baroness should die.From what I knew of these doctors of physic, whom Mairi had ever grumbled about, it was their way to give the patient as much hope as possible while telling the family to expect the worst. That way, they might be credited with the miraculous when she recovered.
Ifshe recovered, that was.
Well, she would, if I had anything to do with it. I sniffed and glanced around the room.
’Twas spacious, given it was meant to house only the baroness herself, and for her maidservant to sleep on the floor. The room was fitted with its own fireplace, and the walls hung with tapestries: garden scenes of knights and ladies, one for every season of the year. A tiny table stood beside the baroness’s bed, upon which was lain a breviary or devotional for the priests to read from. Yet another item I must avoid at all costs. It was truly tiresome. For one of even half-fae nature, the manor house was as a deadly trap.
And for one who was meant to rule the fae, it is an insult that cannot be forgiven.
