"You can think whatever you wish of me," she said instead calmly, "but I do love him-"
"You always have," Duke Kalas replied. "And do not misunderstand me, for I'll say nothing to King Danube to change his mind or his course, nor do I consider that course ill for Honce-the-Bear."
"You judge me," Constance accused, "but I do love him, with all of my heart."
"And he?"
Constance looked away, then shook her head. "He does not love me," she admitted. "He'll not even share my bed any longer, though he proclaims that we remain friends-and indeed, he treats me well."
"He asked you to ride today," Duke Kalas said, and his voice took on a different, sympathetic tone.
"Danube has always held me dear as a friend," Constance said. "But he does not love me. Never that. He loves the memory of Vivian. He loves…"
"That woman," Kalas finished, his voice low. "The hero."
His obvious enmity surprised Constance. She was no friend of Jilseponie Wyndon's, of course, but it seemed from Duke Kalas' tone that he cared for the woman even less than she. Wounded pride, Constance figured, for hadn't Jilseponie refused his advances in Palmaris?
But then Kalas surprised her even more.
"Pity the kingdom if King Danube finds his love," he said.
Constance stared at him curiously,
"The marriage of Church and Crown," Kalas said dryly, "the end of the world."
"If you feel that way, then it is good that you do not oppose me," Constance said after a long and considering pause. She gave a little snicker and started away. "A pity that you have no connections in Vanguard," came Kalas' voice behind her, and she stopped and turned on him suspiciously. "Else you could eliminate the last barrier to your glory."
Duke Kalas bowed again and wisely ran away.
His remark had been said in jest, Constance knew, but still, she could not help but retrace the actions that had brought her to this point. She was not without guilt, but that was only a minor twinge against the reality of her current situation. The kingdom was better off for her deliberate course, and now Constance had insinuated her bloodline, her children, into the royal line. Even if neither of her sons actually got to the throne, their children would remain in the line of ascent, and so on throughout the coming generations.
One day in the future, near or far, Constance Pemblebury would be remembered as the Queen Mother of Honce-the-Bear.
Chapter 33
He looked at his lover and blamed himself. There was no avoiding it. Dainsey had wanted to come back to Palmaris for a visit-the plague had arrived in all force in Caer Tinella, anyway-but Roger had argued against the course.
But he hadn't argued strenuously enough, and the two had traveled south. Now, less than a month later, Dainsey stood beside him on wobbly legs, her eyes sunken and listless, her brow beaded with the sweat of a fever, her body marked by rosy splotches ringed in white-though Roger had taken great pains to cover the woman enough to hide those telltale marks before venturing here to St. Precious.
Still, it would not be enough, he knew, to get them through the gatehouse. They had been admitted over the tussie-mussie bed immediately, for Abbot Braumin's invitation to them remained in force. However, inside the gatehouse came a second test, where several monks, trained with soul stones, sent out their spirits to inspect any who would cross into the abbey.
With that uncomfortable scrutiny ended, Roger now could only wait and hope.
The minutes stretched on and on, and Roger understood that if the monks had failed to detect the illness, they would have already let them in. No, they knew the truth of it, he realized, and had gone to speak with Abbot Braumin.
Roger knew what was coming even as the small panel slid away at the end of the narrow gatehouse corridor, and the grim face of a brother appeared beyond.
"You may enter, but the woman cannot," came the voice-a voice that Roger recognized.
"She is my heart and my soul, Brother Castinagis," Roger argued.
"She is thick with plague," came the reply, firm but somewhat tempered by compassion. "She cannot enter St. Precious. I am sorry, my friend."
"I want to speak with Abbot Braumin." "Then come in."
Roger looked at Dainsey. "What of her?" he asked.
"She cannot enter," Castinagis said again. "Nor can she remain within the gatehouse. Send her back out, beyond the flower bed."
Roger considered the course. Things beyond that flower bed were not pretty, with plague victims milling about and-since the town guard would come nowhere near them-lawlessness abundant. He had to take Dainsey back to their rented room at The Giant's Bones, he knew.
"Tell Abbot Braumin that I will soon return," he said to Castinagis, lowering his voice to show his anger. "Alone."
"If you go back beyond the flower bed, then you will be subjected to another spiritual inspection before you are allowed to enter the abbey," came Castinagis' unyielding response.
"I will be gone but a few minutes," Roger argued.
"A few seconds would be too long a time," came the answer, and the panel at the end of the corridor slammed shut.
Roger's heart sank with that sound. He had hoped that he, as a personal friend of Braumin's, would find some assistance here, some of the compassion that St. Precious was not lending to those other unfortunate victims. He had hoped that his connections with the powerful churchmen would save Dainsey.
But now, even though he hadn't yet uttered one word to Braumin, Roger was being forced to face the truth, the fact that not Braumin, not Viscenti, not any of them, would do anything at all to help Dainsey, that her affliction would bring to her the same end as everyone else so diseased.
It took Roger a long while to find enough strength to lead his dear Dainsey back out of St. Precious. Never in his life, not even when he had been caught by Kos-kosio Begulne of the powries, had he felt so helpless and so wretched.
"There's not many goin' into the city o' late," the ferry pilot said to the leader of the curious group of men as they neared the Palmaris wharf. They wore robes like those of Abellican monks, except that theirs were black with red hoods instead of the normal brown on brown. "Den o' sickness, it is!" the pilot said ironically with a cough.
"Do you think you can hide from it?" the leader of the group, Marcalo De'Unnero, said to the man, his voice a tantalizing whisper. "The rosy plague is a punishment from God, and God sees all. If you are a sinner, my friend, then the plague will find you, no matter how deep a hole you find to climb in."
The pilot, obviously shaken, waved his hands and shook his head. " Not a sinner, I ain't!" he cried. "But I'm not wantin' to hear ye no more."
"But hear me you must!" De'Unnero said, grabbing the man by the front of his dirty tunic and lifting him up to his tiptoes. "There is no place for you to hide, friend. Salvation lies only in repentance!" he finished loudly, and all the hundred red-hooded men behind him, the Brothers Repentanttheir numbers swollen by the rush of eager townsfolk to join their ranks, for they, after all, by De'Unnero's own words, held the secret to healthcheered wildly.
"Repent!" De'Unnero yelled, and he drove the man to his knees.
"I will, I will!" the terrified pilot replied.
De'Unnero lifted his other hand, which was now the paw of a tiger, so that the pilot could see it clearly. "Swear fealty to the Church!" he demanded. "The true Church of St. Abelle, the Church of the Brothers Repentant."
Eyes wide at the sight of the deadly appendage, the poor pilot began to tremble and cry, and he even kissed De'Unnero's hand.
Behind De'Unnero, the Brothers Repentant howled for blood. They began jumping so violently that the ferry rocked dangerously. They began punching each other; several stripped off their black robes and walked through the rest of the gathering, accepting slap after slap so that their bare skin reddened.