“I was not here at the time, either, but I have read the reports carefully. He and Dunstin Baldasarre saw the attack coming—they were past the gate—and they each ran for a tower, knowing if they could sound the bells of the carillon they could warn Stephen and the others on the fields beyond. Dunstin took the left tower, Andrew the right. Dunstin’s tower was felled by fire from a catapult just as he reached it, but Andrew was faster, and managed to ring the alarm before—before he, too, fell.” Ashe took Jecelyn’s hand and looked into her face; he understood the need to have the questions answered, the pieces of the puzzle filled in.
Lady Jecelyn nodded, then took her son into her arms. “Thank you,” she said. “It helps to see, to understand a little. Well, we have disrupted your evening enough. Thank you, Rhapsody, for the biscuits and for your patience. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Jecelyn. Good night, Bobo,” Rhapsody called as they disappeared into the hallway, Bobo’s wails of protest echoing off the rosy stone walls of Haguefort.
As the shrieks died down in the distance, the lord and lady burst into laughter.
“See what we have to look forward to?” Rhapsody said as Ashe unlaced his shirt, still chuckling.
“It’s a joyful noise,” he replied, sliding out of his clothing and into the bed beside her. “It’s been good to hear such noise around here today; the place is filled with the sort of music Stephen loved, the music of laughter and merriment and good-natured argument. I know he is watching from wherever he is. I hope the ceremony tomorrow makes him proud.”
“He was always proud of Gwydion and Melisande, Sam,” Rhapsody said, opening her arms and welcoming him into the warmth of the bedsheets, running her hands over his shoulders to loosen the muscles. “I hope tomorrow is sufficient to make Gwydion proud of himself.”
“It should. The ceremony will be dignified, modest, and, above all, brief, both for his comfort and for yours. Then we will get back to the festivities.” Ashe put out the candle and pulled the covers up around them, settling down in the darkness, exhaling as he took his wife into his arms. For a moment there was only the sound of rustling blankets in the darkness. Then a shudder rose in the night, audible over the snowy wind and the distant noise of revelry below.
“What?” Rhapsody asked.
From the depth of the blankets came two words.
“Biscuit crumbs.”
The fire on the hearth in the royal guest chamber crackled and leapt in time with the whine of the winter wind outside the tall panes of glass in the windows overlooking the festival grounds, where the revelry had died down into sleep and calm celebration among the most hearty of merrymakers.
Tristan Steward heard the door open quietly. He smiled, and took another sip from the heavy crystal glass into which some excellent Canderian brandy had been decanted.
“About time you arrived,” he said without looking behind him. “I was wondering how long you could maintain your demure demeanor.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” The woman’s voice behind him had a throaty chuckle in it.
That chuckle never failed to inspire a rush of warmth through Tristan. He set the glass down on the table before him and stood, turning around slowly to let the fire warm his back.
Backlit by the lanternlight of the hallway, the woman’s form was half obscured in the shadow that stretched forward toward him. She turned and closed the guest-chamber door behind her, then ambled over to where the Lord Roland stood and stopped before him, smiling up insolently at him.
“Are you enjoying the revels, Portia?” Tristan inquired, stroking the porcelain cheek of the chambermaid.
The young woman shrugged. “It’s very different from what I expected.”
“Oh? How so?”
The woman’s dark brown eyes sparkled wickedly. “From what you had described, I was looking forward to wild drunkenness and public debauchery. It’s all very much more tame than I had hoped.”
“It’s early yet,” said Tristan, pulling the white chambermaid’s kerchief from her head and dropping it to the floor. “This is still First Night; most years this day was more for settling in than anything else. The real revelry begins tomorrow. But you are correct; there is a rather dull pall over this festival, no doubt owing to the horror that it sustained the last time a few years back. The Lord Cymrian has clamped down on the size and scope of the festival; I imagine we will have to settle for debauching in private.”
Portia’s lovely face contorted in a mock pout. “Now, what fun is that?” she said humorously. “We could have stayed in Bethany if that is all there is to be had.”
“Now, you know better,” said Tristan, unlacing the stays of her sedate bodice and untying the ribbons of her apron. “You have work to do here after I leave—and it’s very important to me that you accomplish your task well.”
Portia brushed his hands away from her breasts. “Don’t I always?” she said, her eyes flashing with amusement. “M’lord?”
Tristan inhaled deeply. Portia’s impudence was what he liked best about her, the ability to appear as demure and proper as any peasant chambermaid in his household’s employ in public, while rising to a dominance and brashness of spirit behind closed doors. Doubtless her fiery nature would not have been appreciated by a lesser man, but Tristan had a weakness for strong women.
Her rude teasing and domineering sexual proclivities reminded him of an old paramour, now dead, whom he had loved more than he had realized while she was still alive. Prudence and he had been born in the same castle on the same day, minutes apart, he the oldest son of Lord Malcolm Steward, she the daughter of his father’s favorite concubine and serving wench. They had been inseparable friends; she was his first lover and tireless confidant, willing to call him on his bad behavior and failings while never ceasing to love him unquestioningly. Her death had devastated him, but he had moved on, grimacing through a loveless marriage to Madeleine, the Beast of Canderre, as well as countless trysts with female servants.
And an unrequited obsession with the wife of his childhood friend, Gwydion of Manosse, the Lord Cymrian.
Portia had been his favorite bed partner for a while. Her wild spirit and willingness to fornicate on a moment’s notice, barely hidden in public places where the possibility of detection added fuel to their passion, had gone a long way to sating the emptiness he had felt in recent years. It was, at its best, stimulating and emotionless sexual satisfaction. At its worst, it was better than nothing.
And anything was better than Madeleine’s cold and formal submission to wifely duties.
“Stand still,” he ordered, turning her around again. Portia’s eyebrow arched in surprise, but she allowed the Lord Roland to pull her back to him.
“Now, tell me, Portia, how you plan to accomplish what I’ve asked of you,” he said, untying the laces from the back of her skirts, then pulling her free of them with an impatient tug which implied an intensity that had not been in his eyes the moment before.
Portia shrugged as his hands slid over her breasts again, unrebuffed this time, pulling her completely free of the last remnants of clothing.
“The same way I accomplished it when you were the prize,” she said nonchalantly, though the unexpected fire in her lord’s voice was beginning to excite her. “One must first be an unobtrusive and extremely useful servant, so as not to attract the notice or ire of the house’s lady. After that, it’s only a matter of time. When the wife is bloated with child, it makes it all the more simple.”