Milady’s Wiles             by: Brandy Dewinter, with the invaluable assistance of P.J. Wright

 

Chapter 17 - ‘Tis Better To Give Than To Receive

It was so late it was early when we finally retired to bed. After the trial and the discussions afterward that had no doubt included more groupings than our own, no one rose until mid-morning at least. Part of the reason, or excuse, for that was the lack of sunshine. Our good weather had broken and while there was no new snow, dark, heavy clouds hung low over Stalwart Guard and its surrounding fields.

Even at noon it was still unbearably gloomy. Or perhaps that was just the mood in the castle. I knew I needed to escape it in any event. Taking my hooded cloak and gloves, I went to my high balcony to find it isolated from the world by an icy cloud. And to find it already occupied.

"My Princess," came a quiet voice from the shifting fog.

Even the cloud could not disguise the voice, however much it hid the man that produced it.

"Milord Regent," I said, trying to keep any guilt from my voice.

"I’m sorry," he said.

"For what, Milord?" my voice still stiffly controlled.

"For the shame of my countryman."

It was a good thing that he was still standing too far away to see my face, for the shame I felt must have been all too apparent. I couldn’t speak. I just leaned against the frigid stones of the ledge and tried to get myself under control.

He must have taken my silence, my stiffness, for anger. I sensed as much as heard a sigh, and a settling back against the ledge at his own position.

Even in the gloom his proximity was enough to set my heart racing, to set my mind careening down memories of the feel of his arms around me, of his . . .

It was too much. I turned to escape back down the stairs. A part of me wanted desperately for him to call me back, for him to make things right between us. But they could never be right between us. We were enemies in a war he thought was over. We were incompatible in even more inescapable ways. We were . . .

He said nothing, though. I fled back to my rooms and spent the evening working on my paintings. I even sent for a light supper rather than go to the dining hall.

As a result, I missed out on the excitement until finally Minah found me and told me the news. Reynal had indeed escaped. In a sur-prising display of incompetence, his guards (coincidentally Achaieans) had allowed him to slip out of their grasp while moving him to a cell with better light at the request of Lyonidas. Before they could recapture him, he had locked a door behind himself . . . with them on the wrong side. The near-anonymity of High Canyon warriors had provided disguise enough with his features concealed behind the usual hood. The only giveaway had been his selection of his own horse from the stables. The guard at the drawbridge had been reluctant to fire his crossbow on so little justification and in minutes Reynal was out of sight. The alarm was raised of course, but the Captain of the guards was in his turn reluctant to set out without proper provisions for his men, with a storm so obviously threatening.

The threat was realized during the night. When we arose the next morning we were greeted with snow falling more thickly than the previous day’s fog. By evening, the new blanket was near to the belly of a horse and clearly impassable.

Mother was proven right once again, for with Reynal’s escape the sense of gloom was raised from the castle. Without his constant presence, known even if unseen, the tension between High Canyonite and Achaiean had no focus and soon dissipated.

Except between Lyonidas and myself. I wished a thousand times I had not chanced upon him during the period before Reynal’s escape. Per-haps without that particular focus our own tension could have dissipated. But it did exist. He thought I held him responsible for Reynal’s shame-ful act, yet I knew that it was my own people who were truly to blame for the false accusation. I kept much to myself, or would have.

Mother would not allow it. Our Winterfair feast had actually been a few days before Christmas and when the day we celebrated the birth of our Savior arrived, Mother demanded that I take on at least the outward signs of joy in respect for the occasion. She had me dress in a gown much too lively for gloom, gaily festooned with lace and ribbons and bright colors.

As so often happens, pretending to be happy brought the reality on its heels. Julia was bubbling with her usual energy. Amity was so much improved in temper that I thought she might give our whole conspiracy away but Mother’s serene confidence dispelled even that fear. By now I had come to love wearing pretty clothes as much as anyone, and my new dress was so beautifully feminine that I couldn’t be unhappy when I wore it.

The only note of gloom was the absence of Lyonidas. With the depar-ture of Reynal he had become almost isolated. No High Canyon nobles remained. In addition, this was not an occasion his people celebrated so he did not appear as we laughed and nibbled on traditional pastries. Each of us had small gifts for each other, actually several for it was our custom to exchange things throughout the day at unexpected times. As the afternoon wore on though, I stood to leave the table in the dining hall where we had been holding our festivities.

"Where are you going, dear?" Mother asked.

"I have a, um, gift to give someone," I tried to smile back, but I’m sure my worry showed. That was clue enough for whom the gift was in-tended.

"It will be fine, Cherysse. Trust yourself," she advised.

I merely nodded, but my heart was in my throat as I went to my room to get the gift I had prepared in the long sessions in my chamber. At least, one of them. A few steps that had never seemed so long and I was down the hallway to another room. The room that seemed to hold only quiet.

My knock, though, was responded to immediately.

"Who is it?"

I swallowed to get my voice to work, then tried as hard as I could to sound casual when I answered, "Your Princess."

Then my voice went away again as I squeaked when the door was flung open. I hadn’t heard a sound of movement to give me warning, but with a magic of his own Lyonidas was standing there before me. I almost dropped the package I carried in favor of using my arms to clutch at him, but I managed to hold it up instead.

"Merry Christmas, My Prince."

Then the package slipped to the floor unheeded as he swept me up into his arms and crushed my lips with a kiss so passionate it was almost painful. But dear God, what sweet, sweet pain!

Whatever had passed before had no more meaning than time itself while I was suspended in his arms. I don’t know whether it was moments or days before he slowly let my feet return to the floor. Surely my racing heartbeat was no accurate measure of time. But eventually my toes touched the package I had brought, making the wrapping rustle softly.

Moving my feet to avoid the package must have seemed to Lyonidas like a wiggle of complaint at my so tight bondage within his embrace. He quickly lowered me the rest of the way to the floor and stepped back.

"I’m sorry, m.. uh, Princess," he said.

The good humor that had returned to me with our party carried me past the guilt that had earlier seemed so oppressive, so I teased him rather than retreat into equivalent formality.

With a heavy, artificial sigh and a pout that was a deliberate re-minder, I said, "So quickly you tire of me, that after only a few times you come to regret kissing me."

The twinkle in my eyes must have given me away because he didn’t rise to the bait with any defense.

Or perhaps he did, because in the next heartbeat his lips were again pressed to mine, and then again, and then again, and then again.

His hand was in my hair once more and I surrendered to the sensuous touch while his breath whispered in my ear, "My Cherysse, I only thought you were angry with me."

My answer was smothered, but none the less clear for all that.

As though it were the chaperone my steel prison made unnecessary, the package once again rustled as someone’s foot touched it.

This time I did wiggle to be let out of his embrace and bent to retrieve the nagging distraction. Lyonidas reached for it before I could get my stiffly-corseted body into position, and held it out to me.

"No, My Prince, that is for you."

"What is it?"

"Now I suspect you’re smart enough to figure out how to determine that," I laughed.

He gave me an artificial little frown before grinning himself. "You know that we of High Canyon do not celebrate your Christmas. This is not necessary."

"It is never necessary, My Prince. It is a joy to honor our God with a small reflection of his gift to us of a Savior. Accept the gift for the pleasure it gives me, if there is none for yourself."

Opening the package he found first a set of leggings like those I had worn as Deacon so long ago. Well, not exactly like, these were quite a bit bigger. In addition there was a shirt, and a tunic, and a wide belt. What made them special though, was their color. The leggings were black, of course. That was traditional. And the shirt was tan in honor of his homeland. But the tunic was richly red, embroidered with black and white and silver and blue as befitted a festive occasion. It was an outfit such as a man of Achaiea would wear for a Christmas feast, not the loose tan shirt and trousers of High Canyon.

"Would you honor me by wearing these, My Prince?"

He nodded, then stepped to the chest at the foot of his bed.

"Would you honor me by wearing these, My Princess?" he said as he handed me a small package, not as big as my fist.

In it was a pair of gleaming gold earrings such as a noblewoman of High Canyon might wear. Simple loops, since their styles did not include much ornamentation, yet the rings were smooth and shining with rich depth. I knew of the styles of High Canyon of course, just as I knew of the styles of Verdantland, and of the ancient Empire, but I never expected to have the occasion to wear such beautiful treasures.

Then the problem of how to wear them came to me. "My, um, Lyonidas, I can’t wear these."

His face fell as though I had slapped him in the face.

"No, My Prince, it’s not that I don’t want to. I can’t. These require that I have holes in my ears as High Canyon women do," I ex-plained as I removed the spring clip that was part of my jewelry for the day.

"Oh," his face was not much less despairing, "I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do that."

"Well, um, maybe," and it was as though I had a string of my own attached to the corners of his lips, pulling it upward, "but I have heard very, um, unsettling rumors of disease that results from the, uh, punctures?"

"Not if you do the anointing," he declared.

"Anointing?"

"Yes. When a noblewoman of High Canyon adopts the rings, her ears are anointed twice a day for two weeks with fine wine. It wards off sickness."

"Pouring wine on my ears will ward off sickness?" I snorted.

"Well, you don’t really pour it on, you just sort of dampen your ear with a wine-soaked cloth. But it works. My mother wears the rings, and she had no trouble, nor any other noblewoman that I know."

Well. When I brought Lyonidas his Achaiean outfit, I never expected to be asked to become a High Canyon woman. Part of me wanted to flee from this strange . . . perversion. But I could seldom tell Lyonidas no when he was so close to me, with such longing in his deep dark eyes, and on his so warm lips and . . . I found myself nodding my head.

One of the pins I had worked into my hair provided the puncturing tool. Lyonidas insisted on purifying it in a candle flame, at least the part that would touch my ears, as part of the ritual. It didn’t hurt . . . much . . . though the immediate application of a few drops of wine stung a bit. The earrings were themselves anointed before he placed them in my ears. They felt quite strange. I couldn’t tell if it was because of the weight, they were quite heavy, or because of some magical aspect of the ritual. I found myself tilting my head from side to side to feel the tug on my ears. The motion caught a reflection from one of the candles that flashed at me from the small looking glass near Lyonidas’ bed.

"They are beautiful!" I cried happily.

"They are nothing beside your own beauty," my prince answered.

That earned him a chance to examine them from closer range. Very close range. I flung my arms around his neck and started kissing him like a barroom strumpet, but I had never received such a personal gift in my life. No one could take these away from me. They were now part of my very body.

"Now, My Prince, you need to wear your new gifts," I demanded. Some time later.

"Very well, my Cherysse. Will you wait for me in your chambers?"

"Maybe I should just wait here," I suggested with that smile I had learned from Mother. The one that could heat the castle.

I swear, he hunched over just a little. I had a feeling I had all too good an idea of what pain had caused his grimace. It embarrassed me with the recognition that I had once again lost track of who I really was. I was going to have to talk to Mother about reducing the compulsion of her persona.

Someday.

But for that day I just grinned at him and turned away in a swirl of delicate lace.

When I returned to the dining hall, Lyonidas accompanied me. At our entrance a wave of silence flowed out over the room as people recognized Lyonidas in his new attire. Then murmuring flowed in behind it like a reflected wave. I never knew who it was that started the applause, though I suspected that Hugh of Sandars had something to do with it. Still, once started it grew until there were cheering children and beaming adults in all corners of the large hall. I saw a flush flow up from Lyonidas’ neck but he nodded with good grace and escorted me to my seat.

"That looks very good on you, Milord Regent," Mother said.

"Thank you, Majesty. It is surprisingly comfortable. I can see why men of Achaiea like the style."

"They like the style because the women of Achaiea like the style," Julia laughed. "You have good looking legs, Milord Regent."

That brought a new flush to his neck, along with a rueful grin, but the agreement that followed on the heels of Julia’s pronouncement covered any protest he might make. I was laughing along with the others when Julia noticed my own new gifts.

"Cherysse! What have you done?"

Now it was my turn to blush, a good thing because I was doing about as good a job of it as I could, my turn or not. In our tradition Lyoni-das may have claimed me by kissing me in public, but marking me as his with rings inserted into my ears was hardly a matter of tradition. It was a clear statement.

Mother looked at me as well but she said nothing. I could see con-cern in her eyes, though not anger. Well, sometimes you just have to make decisions by yourself, based on what seems right at the time. I was prepared to defend myself to her if need be. Though perhaps I should say I was prepared to answer to her if need be because I wasn’t entirely sure why I had allowed Lyonidas to put his rings in me, so how could I defend myself?

Julia was not angry either. Once again I saw hurt and disap-pointment and confusion in her eyes. I would have changed them all for pure anger that might burn clean rather than see her pain. She left the table to flee to her own rooms.

Mother moved to follow her, but this time I held her arm to make her stay in her position. With a brief glance of reassurance to Lyoni-das, I went after Julia myself.

Instead of going directly to her room though, I went by my own quar-ters first. I had made a special present for her as well and hoped it would act to bridge the gulf that had suddenly opened between us. But when I knocked on her door I received no answer.

"Julia, please let me in," I called.

"Go away!"

For the first time in many months, I used a voice that was not full of music and light energy. I spoke as Deacon.

"Julia, let me in."

I heard the bolt withdraw, though without voice to confirm the invi-tation. Nonetheless, I opened the door and moved into the room. She was standing on the far side of her room, looking out the window.

It was a struggle to maintain "my" voice, but I spoke again as Dea-con, "Julia, will you give me a chance to explain?"

She just stood at her window, looking out in to the darkness. Taking her continued silence for as much consent as I was going to get, I let my voice relax into its now-normal tones.

"Julia. I’m sorry. When I am with Lyonidas, I can refuse him al-most nothing. If I did not wear my maiden’s lover, he would have found out my secret, for on the night of Reynal’s supposed attack I allowed him to undress me. Yet, when he is not near me my thoughts are always and only of you. I swear this to be true, but know I cannot prove it to you. Will you take this gift from me, if not as proof then at least as evi-dence of how I feel about you?"

"Why shouldn’t he undress you? He owns you. You wear his mark in your flesh." Well, at least she was speaking to me. Sort of.

"And I wear your mark in my heart, where no one can see it but me.

It is the one that never leaves me, though."

"Hah! It leaves you soon enough if Lyonidas is around."

"Then perhaps I should have said that I wear your mark in my soul. For though Lyonidas can indeed excite my heart, only you have ever touched my soul."

"Hmmph," she grunted, but I could see questions in her eyes though they were still mostly turned away.

"It is true. In all the time since Tamor died and I saw you in a different way, no other person has ever caused me the, um, discomfort that you see evidence of every time we bathe." I began to move closer to her as I spoke, "No other person has ever been in my dreams when I wake up at night, and every morning. No other person has filled my mind with visions of beauty beyond the fairest flower, beyond the brightest sunrise, beyond the clearest sky."

"Let me show you how I see you," I pleaded softly, not as a beggar but as a lover. There, I said it to myself. Would she believe me if I said it to her?

The gift I had prepared for her was a painting, a portrait of her. It was almost childishly emotional. Julia was my angel, floating near the sun with widespread wings and a glowing smile that I had worked on forever. Her smile was full of life, of real humor, yet full of warmth and compassion. It was hers, but it was more than hers, it was mine as well, mine to cherish until I captured it in pigments I had had to mix myself. The painting was not sexual. After all, it was an angel. Others might find it nearly blasphemous, but not sexual. Still, the shape under the robes of the angel was hers and just clear enough to reflect an image burned into my memory.

It got her attention. She turned fully away from the window and moved over to where I held the painting near the light.

"How did you do this? I never posed for you."

"My, uh, Julia, I remember everything about you. Whenever I am not under the influence of Lyonidas, I think only of you. I have memorized every curve of your face, every color, every shadow."

"Not only the curves of my face, it would seem," she said, but I could see pleasure in her face, hear it in her voice.

"Not only the curves of your face," I agreed. I set the painting up on her dresser, and took her face gently between my hands.

Now or never, I decided. I took as deep a breath as my hidden tor-mentor would allow and said, "Julia. I love you. I love you with all my soul, and with all of my heart, my own heart, however buried that sometimes seems. You know as well as I do what part I have to play. Please believe me when I tell you it is only a part, not a true reflec-tion of my feelings."

Her answer was a slow movement toward me. I moved just as slowly toward her, wanting desperately for the kiss that seemed now possible yet afraid to frighten away the fragile peace within us.

It did not escape. The fragility of the peace was transformed into tenderness as her soft, full lips sought out my own. My hands slipped from her cheeks to her flaming halo of hair even as I felt her own hands come up to caress my golden tresses. I cannot conceive of a more sensual moment than when we shared caresses while we shared kisses. I have never enjoyed a more tender moment than that moment when I told her of my love.

"Oh, Deacon, what are we to do?" she sighed.

"For the first thing, you better not call me Deacon," I smiled sadly. "But I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to hear you say my name."

"Oh, my love, I know it is you under there. Like you reminded me, I see the evidence each time we bathe. Yet, sometimes it seems so hard to watch while you give yourself to Lyonidas."

She called me ‘love’! She doesn’t hate me. I was too happy to share the worry she expressed.

"Oh, don’t worry about that. I could not do it without the persona impressed on me by Mother. But when it is in force, I cannot hold back, either. It doesn’t mean anything unless he’s in the room."

"Did you really undress for him?" she giggled, suddenly remembering my earlier claim.

"Well," I giggled to her, "he did most of the work. I was a bit, um, incapacitated at the time."

"Then what happened?" she asked.

"I fell."

"You fell? Where?"

"In his room," I remembered with another sigh.

"No, dummy, I mean how did you fall? What happened?"

"I got tangled in all the material of my gown and just tripped. I ended up on my nose with my chemise up around my armpits." Now I was laughing. A lot of things are funny long after they’re over.

"So he saw your maiden’s lover?"

"Yes. He was horrified. He accused Achaieans of being more cruel than High Canyon."

"He’s probably right," she snickered. "I certainly would have agreed at the end of our trip to North Vale."

"Don’t remind me," I snorted in a most unladylike way.

"We better get back to the party," I cautioned.

"Not quite yet," Julia disagreed. "I have something for you as well."

Her manner suddenly grew somber as she went to a chest and pulled out a package. As she returned to me she said, "I had these made when we returned from North Vale. Afterward, I wasn’t sure if you would be interested."

She opened up her package to reveal two identical hair adornments, combs with delicate pearls arranged in a small circle. She handed me one and took the other for herself.

"Julia, are you sure about this?" I asked, tears forming in my eyes.

"Yes, my love. Very sure. It was you that seemed distracted."

The combs were the symbol of betrothal for Achaiean maidens. It was, of course, unique for me to have one. Typically only the girl wears one in her hair as a sign of her commitment. But I wore the combs and pins of an Achaiean Princess rather than the coat of arms of a prince so this would be my appropriate sign of commitment as well.

Or maybe not. "I’m not sure I should wear this. If Lyonidas finds out what it means, he’ll be suspicious."

"Of what? He’ll be flattered. Maybe that’s what the rings in your ears mean to him already."

"No! Really? Do you think so?"

"No, but we better look into it," Julia suggested.

"You’re right. I’ll have Minah find out. In the meantime, I’ll cherish this pin, but neither of us better wear one. Oh Julia, I’m so happy! I love you. When this is all over, I’ll find out a way to show you. I promise!"

She smiled and held me. "The only promise I want is the promise of our love."

"That you have, now and forever. Or at least, when Lyonidas is not in the room," I grinned. That was probably dangerous, but I had to make sure things were settled.

"You just remember who I am when he’s not in the room," she laughed as she poked me in my armored waist. "You never know, I might have to play a part too, before this is done."

She laughed when she said it, but it was to prove all too prophetic.

 

(continued in Part 18)

 

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Milady's Wiles © 1998 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.