“You have certainly made Cnothan your own,” Henry says, helping himself to a trencher. He pulls the swan closer, plucks out a few feathers and digs a spoon into the pie beneath, piling chunks of meat and gravy onto the bread.
“I am well contented here,” she replies. She makes herself dig into her own selection as heartily as she usually would. No fear of a man, king or otherwise, is going to keep her from good food and a full stomach.
“My people tell me you do not stay much in contact with your family back in Ezzonid.”
And there it is: the opening gambit. She grins. “I am flattered. I did not think your people would bother themselves about me.”
Henry grins back. They are two wolves, baring their teeth at each other. “It is my duty as king to be informed of all that happens in my country, is it not?”
“I merely wonder at your care over my letter-writing when you have so many other concerns to occupy you.”
“What concerns might those be?” he asks.
He observes her as he chews. A challenge: will she admit to knowing that his rule is the weakest it has ever been? Oh, she can play that game.
“Well, I imagine you must be concerned about the crones. I know that I am. They have killed several dozen of my prized sheep these last moons.”
There – the shield of her eccentricity is raised. All she has to concern herself with are her animals. Henry laughs. The sound rolls around the hall.
“Yes, wife, I am very concerned with crones.”
He darts her a nasty little glance that sends prickles up her arms.
“Is that why you decided to visit me now, so soon after your wedding, husband? I would have thought you would have wanted to be near to your new bride.”
Henry makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I come on your account, wife. There is some news that I wished to share with you. I wished to be here to grieve with you.”
Ice settles in Cleves’s stomach, but all she says is, “Oh? And what is that?”
“One of your old ladies-in-waiting passed away recently. She left me a letter in her will.”
“Hardly a meet inheritance for a King of Elben, I would think, but I am sorry to hear it. Which lady died, for I have heard nothing of the matter?”
Medren’s power sparks across Henry’s jaw, lending his words an extra sting. “Why, your closest lady, from what I have heard. The Lady Paston.”
And suddenly, Cleves knows just what the letter contained, and why Henry is here. She recalls another letter, sitting in a locked drawer in her study, waiting, waiting for a reply.
Your Majesty,
I have something of a cough at present, and have been forced to take to my bed. I find my mind wandering to the past as I lie here …
Lady Paston was the mistress who bedded Henry on their wedding night, without his knowledge, and the letter, she is in no doubt, contains the truth of her lie. She had meant to respond to the woman weeks ago, but in the midst of Johana’s arrival and Seymour’s rescue, she neglected her correspondence. She has barely had time to keep Cnothan running. She can imagine what happened: Paston, receiving no word of reassurance from Cleves that their deceit did not affect the bordweal’s strength, confessed all to Henry from her deathbed.
Fruisch.Idiot.
Six years ago, she staked her wits on being able to become a Queen of Elben without ever knowing a man carnally, and now both of those things are in jeopardy. For if Henry has realised that he has never topped her – more than that, if he has realised that she never intended him to do so and that she is, in fact, desirable – well, that is a humiliation which only one kind of control can remedy.
“Truly, you look very ill at this news,” Henry says, taking another bite of his swan.
Cleves could easily continue the conversation in this manner, batting insults disguised as compliments. But what would be the point? He has laid out his hand, and all she can do is play her best cards in return. The trick will lie in wording it in such a way that she can deny all knowledge if she needs to in the future, just as she did when discussing rebellion with Seymour at their first meeting. She bites the head off an asparagus and crunches on it as she considers her next play. Now the true dance must begin. She must get every footstep right, or forfeit her crown, her castle, her body.
“I grieve for her, of course, sir. And I understand the purpose of your visit. Now that you know the truth, you have come to show your gratitude, no?”
One side of his mouth curls. “Gratitude? At a deceit?”
She stares at him, wide-eyed. “But I believed I was acting on your own wishes,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
