As Gwydion stood talking to Ashe while the roasted oxen were being carved and the ale being passed, Tristan Steward, the Lord Roland and his cousin once removed, sidled up to them both and greeted them pleasantly, his auburn hair gleaming in the light of the open fire.
“A splendid beginning, young Navarne,” Tristan said, saluting Gwydion with his glass. “I confess at first when I heard of your godfather’s intention to hold the carnival again, I thought it in poor taste at best, and foolhardy at worst. But it seems to have worked out well, so far at least.”
Gwydion felt the air around him go dry, no doubt the dragon in Ashe’s blood bristling in ire at the insult, but the Lord Cymrian merely took another sip from his tankard and said nothing.
“And where is Rhapsody this evening?” the Lord Roland asked, oblivious of Ashe’s annoyance.
“To bed,” Ashe replied. “Tired from the day’s revels, as we all are. I intend to join her shortly.”
Tristan’s cheeks glowed red in the light of the bonfires. “Glad to hear it. I do have a gift of sorts for you—though it is on loan.” He signaled to his retinue, and three women came forward, clad in the attire of the house servants of Bethany, Tristan’s seat of power as regent of Roland. One of the women was elderly, the second of middling youth, and the last of tender years, perhaps twenty.
Ashe’s brows knit together. “I don’t understand.”
Tristan smiled and put out his hand to the eldest of the women, who came to his side immediately.
“Renalla was my wife’s nanny, and a very much beloved member of the household of her father, Cedric Canderre. Madeleine sent for her when our son Malcolm was expected, and she has served as nanny for him as well. She is without peer as a governess, and wonderful with children. I have brought her to you so that you might make use of her skills when Rhapsody delivers your child.” He pointed to the next oldest woman. “Amity is a wet nurse, and as you’ve seen, Malcolm has grown healthy and strong on her supply.” He glanced over his shoulder at the last, the youngest woman. “And Portia is a chambermaid.”
Ashe looked uncomfortably at the three women. “Ladies, please sup; the ox is carved, and you have traveled a long way today,” he said, dismissing them to the feast. Once they were out of earshot, he turned back to the Lord Roland. “I thank you, Tristan, but I can’t imagine that we will need any of their services. Rhapsody plans to nurse the baby herself, especially given the rareness of its bloodline—we don’t know what to expect of a wyrmkin child born of a Lirin and human mother. I’m certain if she needs any help with caring for the baby, she will want to select the nanny herself as well. And we have no end to chambermaids at Haguefort.”
“Undeniably,” said Tristan idly, watching a magician who was mixing colorful powders into the enormous bonfire and setting off brightly hued explosions that formed pictures that hovered in the night air, to the delight of the crowd. “But you will be moving to Highmeadow soon, and I thought, perhaps foolishly, that you might appreciate experienced servants to help ease the tremendous load of Rhapsody’s transition there. My mistake.”
Ashe held out his tankard to the waitservant who had offered a pitcher.
“That is very kind of you,” he said awkwardly. “I apologize if I seemed ungrateful. I will consult with Rhapsody in the morning and see what she thinks.”
“Why don’t I just leave them in the custody of your household until the baby arrives?” Tristan suggested. “It’s impossible to know right now just how truly demanding and all-consuming an infant—even a royal infant—can be. Wait and see if you need any or all of them then, and if not, send them back to Bethany with the guarded caravan. Otherwise keep them as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” Ashe said, draining the glass and putting it back on the servant’s tray. “I appreciate your kindness. Now, I bid you good night. Enjoy the feast.”
“Indeed,” remarked Tristan as the Lord Cymrian hurried away from the festivities toward his wife’s bedchambers. “You enjoy the feast as well.”
Contrary to Ashe’s beliefs, Rhapsody was not asleep, but was in fact sharing her bedchamber with another man.
Young master Cedric Andrew Montmorcery Canderre, known to his family as Bobo, the three-year-old grandson of Cedric Canderre, was gleefully tearing through her rooms, playing in her closets, pulling all the pillows from the chairs, hiding amid the bedcurtains, and giving spirited chase to the panicked tabby cat, causing his widowed young mother, Lady Jecelyn Canderre, supreme embarrassment and the Lady Cymrian great amusement.
“I’m terribly sorry, m’lady,” Jecelyn said, struggling to catch up with the energetic tyke. She grasped him in midstride and swung him up over her shoulder, amid howls of angry protest. “He slept in the carriage all the way from Canderre, and now has enough energy to run all the way home. He was keeping all the rest of the guests in your quarters awake.”
“I am delighted to see him,” Rhapsody said, reaching for the struggling toddler. “I’ve missed him terribly. And besides, if there are that many guests sleeping already, we surely are not putting on a very good carnival.” She reached into a box on the bedside table as Jecelyn set the child on the bed beside her, pulled forth a ginger biscuit, and held it up for his mother’s approval. Jecelyn nodded, and Bobo immediately came into her lap, seized the biscuit, and consumed it forthwith, scattering crumbs over the bedsheets.
Rhapsody ran a hand over his glossy black curls, the same curls his father Andrew had sported, and quietly hummed a song of calming as he sat in her lap and ate. She patted the bed next to her for Jecelyn to sit down; the weary young mother sighed and dropped onto the mattress in relief.
“There will be many fun things for you to do tomorrow,” Rhapsody said to Bobo, who nodded and dove for the biscuit box. The two women laughed, and Rhapsody handed it to him, restraining him from falling head-first off the bed. “These are really quite wonderful concoctions,” she said, filching two of the biscuits and handing one to Jecelyn. “They make them in Tyrian; ginger is an herb that offsets nausea. They are the only thing that I can eat first thing in the morning.”
“I remember those days,” said Jecelyn wistfully. Her eyes darkened, and Rhapsody took her hand. Her husband Andrew had died when she was early in her pregnancy; he had never seen his son. After a moment Jecelyn rose and went to the tower window, where the gleaming torchlight from the two carillon towers that stood before Haguefort’s front gate could be seen, lighting the dark night and the silvery snow that still fell in gentle sheets on the wind. “Are those the towers where he fell?”
“Yes,” Rhapsody said, running her fingers through Bobo’s hair. “Rebuilt now.”
Jecelyn turned to her. “Which one was it?”
“The rightmost, I believe,” the Lady Cymrian said gently. “I’m not certain—I was not here during that last carnival.”
“Yes, it was the rightmost,” said Ashe, who had just entered the room. He crossed to the bed, bent and kissed his wife’s cheek, then snatched the munching youngster from her lap and lifted him high in the air. He tilted him upside down, eliciting squeals of glee from the boy and glances of consternation from the women. He held Bobo by his feet and swung him between his own legs, brushing the silk carpet with the child’s inverted curls, then pulled him back up onto his hip and came to the tower window with Jecelyn.