“I shall at least make you regret them. Is that yes to my suit? Or shall we commit venial sin?”
“Sir, —”
“I said I was not chaste.”
She escaped a few paces, around the edge of the table. “As regards the defense at Emwy—” “Yes?”
“Caswyddian is dead, or most of his men are, by whatever means—I think so, at least.”
“Your fortified camp is well thought. But undermanned.”
“What else can I do?”
“Send more men. I’ll lend them.”
“Guelenfolk? Alongside Elwynim?”
“Amefin. A Bryalt priest, if I can pry one out of sanctuary—at least in hopes a priest is worth something. There’s too much wizardry loose. He might be more use than a squad of cavalry. But you aren’t going.” “I command my own troops!”
“Gods, it seems the fashion of late. Listen to me, m’lady. These are very brave men who came with your father, if I understand accounts, and I believe I do. These are men who had determined to stand by their oaths and give their lives for your father; who are prepared to give them for you—but best for them if the Regent stays safe and lets these good men do what they can, until my men are ready to carry an assault. If the bridge is decked, they will dismantle that decking. If they bring more timbers, the camp as we’ll set it up will have a garrison sufficient to hold that bridge against any force attempting to cross out of Elwynor. We’ll have watches on all the other crossings, including those that might be made by boat. And if we are to go to war, my gracious and wise lady, I command all the forces, unless you can tell me on what fields you have fought, and prove that one of your men has experience to order your forces without me. Otherwise, leave matters to me.
I’ll be accommodating of your command in civil matters. Not in this, and not where a novice’s mistake can expose other forces to danger.”
She did listen. He saw comprehension, however unwilling, in her eyes.
“Are we to be married?” she asked. “! would marry you.”
“I am still willing.”
“Willing?” Clearly that was not enough.
“I said yes, my lady. What more do you want?”
A faint, a diffident voice: “A nicer yes.”
He saw that there was here no exact rationality—nor one called for.
She was alone. She was uncertain at best. He came around the end of the table and took her hand.
“Yes,” he said, and in lieu of kissing the hand, snatched her by it into his arms and kissed her, long and soundly, until with her fists she began to pound his shoulder.
She did not find words immediately. She was searching after breath.
Finally: “You are a scandal, sir!”
“I would not have you in doubt, my lady. And would not marry a statue. I don’t think you are a statue. You give no evidence of being. And I think you know that I am none.”
She was breathing quite hard, still, and again put the table between them. “You must not do that,” she said, “until there is ink, sir, abundant ink. And agreements sworn and written down.”
“I don’t think you could list the points of negotiation. I know I should miss a few.”
“If we are to be married,” she said, between breaths, “we should be betrothed immediately—before my folk go. I have no one here but them.
And I would like them to be present.” “Shall we be betrothed, then?”
“Yes.”
“Soon?”
“Yes, good gods. Give me peace.” She set herself all the way around the table, for safety. “I have put on mourning. But my father would well understand what I do. I have no hesitation on that account. Have you, sir?”
“None. Our custom is against mourning.”
“I shall try to love you. I think I would like you—if we met by chance.
I do wish to love you. But do me the grace of courtship. I should like to be courted—a little, sir.”
There were tears, at least a glistening in her eyes; it was not an extravagant request, nor, he thought, false: she was very young, and still possessed of romantic notions.
So, he admitted to himself, was he.
“My lady, marriage is my duty and yours. But a little courtship—that, I have no difficulty to promise, an extravagantly scandalous courtship, which—” he said, “I do count on winning. But for now, my hand, my respectful attention.” Wherewith he offered his hand, and she was about to take it, when:
“You have not,” she said, “—not mentioned the lord of Ynefel.”
“Tristen? What of Tristen?”
“The succession.”
“Ah.”
“And I insist we shall not merge our kingdoms! I shall be sovereign over Elwynor, and through me, there will be one child to inherit Ylesuin, one for Elwynor.”
“Hardly something we can achieve holding hands, my lady.”
“And if Tristen—if Tristen is our King—”
“Tristen is happiest as he is.”
“He is your friend. Is he not your friend? You cannot dismiss his rights—you would not, would you? We should settle that question in the nuptials.”
“Tristen would not wish it. Believe me.” He walked around the table and took her not unwilling hand. “Ask him if you like. His concerns are elsewhere. But if he reaches a point that he wishes to declare himself, then I trust that he will do that and I shall free him from any oath that stands in his way. One does not prevent or protect Tristen from what he decides to do, gods save us all. You will discover that first of all things you know about him.”
The tailor had entered collapse—the oath-taking for tomorrow and a royal betrothal this evening: to save his reason, the King promised him a coronation to come; and the coat, if not the cloak, was ready. And even a king did not need to outshine his bride—who had come with her jewels, he was informed by a distraught Margolis, but not a betrothal gown. The tailor had risen triumphantly to the occasion, declared he knew where was the very shade of velvet, and gods only knew how, in details the King decided were far beyond his competency, Margolis had turned up a score of petticoats and the jewels had turned up stitched, the tailor interrupted his work to say, to sleeves and bodice, as a veritable army of Amefin ladies had invaded and barricaded the lesser hall to stitch and stitch and stitch for the lady Regent.
Somehow, another miracle of the gods, or the Amefin ladies, the tailor personally turned up with the King’s sleeves, beautiful work, Cefwyn had to admit, of Marhanen red, with the Dragon arms in stitchery at least on the right sleeve, and the King would accordingly set a fashion tomorrow, of a cloak skewed and draped down the left arm.
It was all too much. But there was arranged a set of trumpeters—gods hope they managed, for the honor of Ylesuin, to start together: Annas had his doubts. There was arranged—not such a banquet as Guelemara would put on, but at least a selection of meats and pies and breads, which, the King was given by the cook to understand, were being done in ovens all among the Amefin nobles about the hill and in two bakeries, if the captain at the gate would let the food be brought in from the town.
Cook had arranged it, the plans were about to fall apart an hour before the event, and the King had to intervene with a written order on behalf of a cart full of cheeses, let alone the meat pies—” Good gods,” he said, “if they’re to poison us, they’ll poison the whole court. Just bring mine and the bride’s from this kitchen, and the hell with it!”
There were barrels of ale brought up to the courtyard, and tables set up for the commons in the lower town. That, the household managed on prior experience. There were musicians. There were entertainers for the courtyard. There was a man who offered to bring a trained bear, but in the crowded condition of the hall, Annas and Idrys alike thought this folly and the King agreed.
The King, nerving himself and trying to numb the leg with a prior cup of strong willow-tea chased with a cup of wine, was in the main trying to decide whether he should use the stick getting down the stairs or, if he must use it, exactly where he could abandon it, and how long he might have to stand during the ceremony.