Ambrose had thought many times of Noyes’s men torturing his sister, the pain and the insults she must have endured, and yet she stood tall at the end. He was so proud of her. Her intelligence and independence inspired him, though most lords wouldn’t see those as good things. Anne had been extraordinary for a Brigantine woman—even for a man she would have been unusual. She had traveled widely, to Pitoria and beyond. She spoke several languages and had helped Ambrose and Tarquin to learn Pitorian. Ambrose remembered the lessons fondly as she encouraged him, saying, “No, make it more guttural, from the back of the throat,” and to Tarquin, “Don’t stand so stiffly. Your hands and your body speak too.”
And her own hands, which had signed so swiftly and so well, at the end were broken, that quick tongue cut out, those smiling lips sewn shut forever. What must she have been thinking, as they did it to her? Would she have just wanted to die as quickly as possible? Probably. She’d been captive for three weeks before her execution. Every day they would have tormented her. She was so thin at the execution. And all he could do was watch—and denounce her too.
Ambrose felt Tarquin’s embrace and only then realized he was crying again. He spoke quietly, still facing the wall. “I don’t believe she was guilty. I mean, I can believe she killed the soldier, but she would only do that to protect herself. But I don’t believe she and Sir Oswald were lovers. They were friends since childhood; he encouraged her to learn. She admired him and valued him as a friend. And, anyway, since when is the king bothered who has a lover? Half the court would be in his dungeons if that was the case. Though what they were doing way over in the west, I don’t know. That’s never been explained properly. Something else was going on; I’m sure of that.”
Tarquin replied almost in a whisper, “I don’t believe we know the true story either, Ambrose, but I’m not foolish enough to say that to anyone but you.”
“I’m a fool, do you think?”
“You’re honorable and true, Ambrose. And I admire you for your virtue.”
Ambrose smiled through his tears. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Tarquin was serious, though. “None of us really know what happened to Anne or Sir Oswald, but, whatever it was, it was against the king. I’ve just lost my sister; I don’t want to lose my brother too. I know you found it almost impossible to denounce Anne, but it was obvious you didn’t mean what you said. Small details like that can be enough to bring a man down when they’re against the king. Loyalty is all he wants and expects. Total loyalty.”
“And loyalty to my sister? That counts for nothing?”
“Aloysius believes he comes first, you know that.”
“So you think I’m doomed?”
Tarquin shook his head. “No, but I think it’s dangerous for you here in Brigane now.”
“It’s dangerous everywhere now.”
“That’s not true. But we’re not welcome here. At court hardly anyone meets Father’s eye and even fewer talk with him. He’s been invited to dine with no one since our arrival, and no one has accepted his invitations to call on us; they’re all suddenly very busy with other engagements.”
“Father should count himself lucky. They’re all two-faced rats. I wouldn’t trust any of them.”
“Being ostracized isn’t a positive thing, Ambrose. With no allies at court, we’re weak. Back home, among our people, we’ll be safer.” Tarquin took a deep breath. “Father and I are returning north to Norwend tomorrow. Why don’t you come with us? At home you’ll be away from the Royal Guard, the court, and from the king.”
“My work is with the Royal Guard. I swore an oath to protect the princess. I’m not going to run away.”
Tarquin sighed. “Your work is another thing that’s dangerous, brother. I saw that look you shared with the princess at the execution. You show your feelings so plainly on your face, Ambrose. Noyes and Prince Boris will have noticed too. Noyes notices everything.”
“So now I can’t even look at someone without them seeing a crime?”
And all he did was look at Princess Catherine. He had to look at her. Her father and Boris appeared triumphant, but Catherine was different. She was so sad but calm too. Looking at her had helped him bear the sadness and pain.
Ambrose saw Catherine most days as he stood guard outside her chambers, rode with her, occasionally spoke with her. Ambrose loved the way she smiled and laughed. He loved how she answered Boris back, with wit and spirit and intelligence. He loved how she took on different personas, provoking Boris by being outrageous, but only with Ambrose would she be sweet and gentle and thoughtful. At least as far as he knew, only with him—and was it wrong that it irked him to think she might be sweet and gentle to other men? He loved the way she slid her slim foot into the stirrup and how she sat so strong and upright in the saddle and yet how, that hot day at the end of last summer, she’d ridden her horse into the sea with a look of such freedom and wildness, and jumped off, laughing, and swam around his own horse. He despaired when Boris heard of it and for two weeks she wasn’t permitted to ride at all and had never swum again. He despaired that somehow they’d ruin Catherine as they’d ruined Anne. And yet somehow, so far, she wasn’t ruined by them; she was as strong as them.
Tarquin nudged him. “As I said, you show your feelings on your face, and I’d call that look ‘love.’”
“Admiration, respect, and, I admit, a certain level of fondness, are what you see on my face.” Ambrose nudged Tarquin back, though he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
“Well, make sure that’s all anyone sees. And make it a lower level of fondness too.”
“Take comfort, brother. This look of fondness will soon be replaced with a look of utter boredom: Princess Catherine leaves for Pitoria in a week to be married to a prince and I’ll remain here, a lowly soldier and guard.”
“Still, you need to take care, Ambrose. Noyes was watching you closely.”
“Stop worrying! Even Noyes can’t persecute me for a look.”
MARCH
CALIA, CALIDOR
MARCH STOOD still and silent by the drinks table. He was supposed to look straight ahead at the wall opposite, but if he angled his head slightly to the right he could see as much as he needed.
Lord Regan sat with Prince Thelonius in the bay window at the far end of the room. The prince was leaning forward to Regan, almost looking up at him, almost asking rather than commanding. Regan rubbed his face with one hand and gave a short nod. The prince leaned back and said loudly, “Good. My thanks.” March had angled his head back to look at the wall as the prince called, “Refreshments!”
March picked up the carafe of wine and the silver platter of grapes and moved toward the two men. He could feel the difference in mood. The prince was still looking tired; he’d aged ten years in the few weeks since his wife and young sons had died. However, his eyes now appeared not so empty; he was almost smiling. Prince Thelonius had seen few visitors, and even Regan had been kept away since their tempestuous meeting after the funeral, but in the last few days things had changed. The prince had woken earlier, dressed, bathed, talked lucidly, and last night he had demanded Regan be sent for.
March poured the wine. Since his wife died, the prince had started drinking during the day. Not much, but every day, and that didn’t look to be changing.
“Water for me,” Regan said.
March put the grapes down and walked deftly back to his position. He picked up the water pitcher and selected the wooden bowl of hazelnuts rather than the plate of dried apples, which looked unappetizing. He returned slowly, studying the two men again as he approached.
While the prince’s demeanor had improved, Lord Regan’s certainly had not. Regan, the trusted, closest, oldest friend of the prince, was typical of the lords of Calidor: attractive in the way of the rich, powerful, strong and healthy. He wore a frown now. It suited him no less than his smile. But then everything suited him. Today he wore a gold-colored velvet jacket that glistened when it caught the sun. It emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, as did the finely plaited brown leather straps that crisscrossed from his chest down to his hips, the straps holding his knives. Regan was the only man permitted to be armed in the presence of the prince; the only man able to frown while the prince smiled.
March put the bowl down carefully, moved the grape platter a little to the side, adjusted the bowl of nuts a final time.
“Your barbarian boy seems determined to be slow today,” Regan growled.