Stayne did not move, but his narrowed eyes followed me as I stepped around him. And then his eyes made a slow, thoughtful, deliberate track to Amalie on her couch, and fastened on the girdle-belt and its pearls, lying on his wife’s brocaded gown.
“Ah,” he said. “I thought I knew it.”
“Your lordship has a good eye,” I said, inwardly cursing that eye.
Stayne took a step closer to Amalie, viewing the girdle-belt thoughtfully. “I don’t recall having seen that girdle, madam,” he said. “Where did you acquire it?”
“It was a gift,” Amalie said. I could hear the tension cloaked in her languid tones.
Stayne’s voice was soft, barely to be heard over the buzz of the room. “It is a striking piece. Who gave it you?”
I could see that Amalie was struggling to answer the question, so I answered it myself.
“I presented it to her ladyship,” I said. “I wished to thank her for having me to one of her afternoons here at your house, and having seen her at court, I knew her liking for pearls, and I thought this piece would complement well one of her ladyship’s gowns. Truth to tell,” I added, all offhand, “I have been somewhat free with Sir Basil’s possessions, for that girdle-belt came also from the outlaw hoard, and from it I have made many presents to my friends. . . .”
Stayne’s eyes moved from the girdle-belt to my own waist, to the gift’s jetty twin. His voice was still soft, pitched so that only I could hear it. “You have given my wife a valuable gift, it seems.” His eyes lifted to mine. “I must take care to repay the debt.”
“Your lordship need not be so scrupulous,” said I.
“I have always maintained that it behooves a man of high birth to be punctilious in matters of honor and dignity.” Still spoken in that soft, toneless voice. His mild eyes held mine, reflecting perhaps a slight curiosity, with no obvious hint of malice. Yet I felt the malevolence flowing from him, felt the chill oppression and weight of his thought. He turned back to Amalie.
“I fear you are fatigued, madam,” he said. “Perhaps we should bid our guests adieu, and go to bed.”
I bade them both good-even, and made my way to the door. My imagination filled with fantasies of Stayne taking his revenge on Amalie, of oppression and brute violence, poisoning and private murder, and I could think of no way to protect her. I had no standing in the household, or in law; and even if I somehow broke into the house and rescued her, we could not fly far, for she was heavy with child, and would soon be in childbed. Sea-Holly was carrying supplies to Longfirth, and there was no easy way to escape by sea. My anxiety for Amalie had me clammy with sweat before I left the house.
Night had fallen as we feasted, and as I stepped through the door, I saw row of carriages lining the road before the house, their lamps glimmering. The walk was full of footmen waiting to guide the guests to their carriages, many of them accompanied by link-boys with torches, and as I looked out from the front steps, I saw the silhouettes of Fork-Beard and Slope-Shoulder outlined by torchlight, the two still huddled together, and probably plotting some mischief against me.
I walked quickly out of the gate, turned away from them, and then marched along with great strides of my long legs, dodging between the parting guests and the throngs of footmen. It was a few moments before the two conspirators saw me, and then they scurried after. I waited for them to get within five or six paces, and then I opened the door to one of the carriages and jumped inside. I crossed the empty carriage and left by the opposite door, stranding the two hapless cumberworlds on the other side. By the time they realized I was not in the carriage, and had ducked around the horses in pursuit, I had vanished into the dark, and was on the way to my rooms.
I spent a night sleepless with worry, and afterward walked armed, carrying my dagger, and with Sir Basil’s pocket pistol hidden in my overcoat. Yet I did not often leave my rooms, for I remained in hope that Amalie might somehow get a message to me.
That message did not come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The herald arrived on a horse splendid with royal livery, and was accompanied by a mounted trumpeter. The breath of the horses steamed in the morning air. After a lively sennet by the trumpeter, the crier stepped forward to announce the engagement of Queen Berlauda to Priscus, Prince of Raverro, Duke of Myrdana and Inner Trace, and heir to King Henrico of Loretto.
As part of the marriage contract, the crier announced, Priscus had agreed to lead an army over the passes in the spring, and attack Clayborne in the rear.
“He can keep his army!” shouted one of the onlookers. “Just send the ransom he owes us for his uncle!”
The herald ignored the voice and called for cheers, which were duly given though I detected no great enthusiasm for the match. The trumpeter blew another sennet, and he and the crier rode off to the next square to repeat the announcement.
“It is the surest way for her majesty to secure her throne,” said the duke that afternoon. “I have urged marriage myself, as has everyone on the Council. Once her majesty produces an heir, she will be unassailable.”
I had been invited to the Roundsilver Palace for an afternoon of poetry, Blackwell and a half dozen others reading their latest verses while their audience sipped sherry and sampled cheese and lacy, delicate cakes. Their graces were kind enough to invite me to gatherings involving music, songs, poetry, and the mechanical arts, perhaps because they viewed me as a superior species of mechanical, apt for killing a stag, planning a naval battle, butchering a goat, or singing a song. These events usually took place in a room they called the Odeon, which was arranged like a small theater, with an elevated stage, rows of seats for an audience, and sometimes a lectern.
At this moment, we were between poets, having risen from our stiff, creaking chairs to the comforts of the sideboard. The poets gathered in a corner and murmured among themselves, no doubt judging the audience much as we judged their verses.
“Must it be the heir to Loretto?” I asked.
“That was her majesty’s preference,” said the duke. “It must be said that Loretto’s ambassador is a handsome young gentleman of great tact and charm, and his eloquence in detailing the advantages of the match was quite unparalleled.” Leaving unsaid, I thought, the question of whether Berlauda would have preferred the ambassador to his master.
“So, now we are to have an army of Loretto march across our borders?” asked I. “Will this not unite all Duisland behind Clayborne, and against our traditional enemy?”
“The army will not fly the flag of Loretto,” said the duke. “It will fly Berlauda’s banner, and Priscus will fly his personal ensign, but not that of his nation, or his father. There will also be loyal Duislanders in the prince’s entourage, to negotiate with Clayborne’s officers and secure their surrender. For now even Clayborne’s most loyal followers must admit they have no hope.”
“Indeed, the odds lie heavy against them. I don’t know why they aren’t besieging Longfirth, and I assume it is because they cannot.”
The duke smiled. “Clayborne’s calling of the Estates did not go well. I have heard from my lord the Chancellor that Clayborne failed to force his will upon them.”