Once In a Blue Moon (37 page)

“He seems . . . pleasant enough,” said Catherine.

“You positively encouraged him!” said Gertrude.

“Handsome enough, I suppose,” said Catherine.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” said Gertrude.

“I’m still not marrying him.”

“Princess!”

“I know, I know . . . He’s no Malcolm. My lovely Malcolm. But things could have been worse. I suppose.”

“Oh, they’re all smiles and charm
before
the wedding. Wait till he doesn’t have to be polite,” said Gertrude darkly.

“You’re not about to give me a lecture on secrets of the bedroom, are you?” said Catherine. “I know all about sex. Or at least I’ve read every book I could find on the subject. I could probably teach him a few tricks . . . Why are you looking at me like that?”

•   •   •

O
ne of the small but real pleasures of having so many empty rooms in Forest Castle was that it was always possible to (very quietly) appropriate one of the unused rooms for your own personal purposes. And provided you were (very) careful about it, no one need ever notice. Prince Richard, Peter the soldier, and Clarence the would-be minstrel had set up their very own private drinking den in a room way off the main paths, and spruced it up with all the comforts and luxuries that young men desire. Basically, comfortable chairs and lots of booze. They all felt the need for somewhere private, where they could just be themselves, and say and do all the things they weren’t supposed to say and do in public. Somewhere Richard could relax and get totally rat-arsed without having to worry about letting the side down. Peter and Clarence were only too happy to keep their friend company, not least because the Prince had access to some of the finest wines in the world in the Castle cellars. Some of those incredibly dusty bottles had been laid down so long ago that the very maps had changed since then.

The room was simply but comfortably furnished, with all the usual trappings, a lot of them quietly moved over from adjoining rooms. More than enough to lend the place an air of ease and smug satisfaction. None of the three young men ever dusted, or cleaned up anything, as a point of principle. They were young men together, and they had a reputation to live down to. The door was always kept very firmly locked, and since no one knew about the room, they were never bothered by the outside world. The perfect place for the three of them to avoid their duties and responsibilities, forget about all the things they should be doing, and just put their feet up. Peter hustled all kinds of good food up out of the kitchens, because one of the under-cooks fancied him, and Clarence would bring his guitar and sing rousing songs of quite extraordinary rudeness. He had a pretty good singing voice, and a masterful touch on the guitar. As long as he stuck to the traditional songs he was fine, and if he did occasionally try out one of his original compositions on Richard and Peter . . . well, that’s what friends are for.

“So,” said Peter, already halfway through his first bottle, slumped down in his chair with his legs stretched out. “Princess Catherine . . . What do you think, Richard?”

“She’s definitely a looker,” said Richard, pouring himself another glass with a steady hand. “Strong character, too. I could have done worse, I suppose.”

“He likes her!” said Clarence, giggling. He was drinking a magnificent vintage straight from the bottle, in the mistaken belief that it made him appear more manly. He always sat up very straight in his chair, but with one leg flung over the arm, to show how informal he was being.

“Just as well,” said Peter.

“Even so,” said Richard firmly, “I am not marrying her.”

“Be strong,” Peter said briskly. “No way back. Got to be done. Do you like her?”

“I don’t know!” said Richard. “Maybe.”

“Courtly love is supposed to be one of the most refined emotions,” Clarence began, and then stopped as the others hooted at him.

“Don’t you start,” Peter said darkly. “If war ballads are as wrong about war as love ballads are about love . . .”

“Songs about the joys of wine and carousing are usually pretty damned accurate,” said Richard.

“True,” said Clarence. “You can’t beat a good carouse. Are there any of those little sausages left?”

“You do know they’re made from horse’s ring-pieces?” said Peter.

“I only met her for a short while,” said Richard, oblivious. “Can’t say I know her at all. For all I know she eats garlic with every meal, doesn’t bathe nearly often enough, and is always bright and cheerful first thing in the morning. I can’t stand people like that. The number of servants I went through, to find a few that were properly surly and gloomy first thing, like me. Breakfast is a meal that should only ever be eaten in silence. There ought to be a law; and when I become King there almost certainly will be.”

“Oh, how you’ve suffered!” said Peter. “Servants to make your breakfast, and cut your toast into little slices. Probably follow you into the bathroom and shake the last few drops off for you.”

“I can’t believe you really went for the bearded-servant routine,” said Clarence. “And if I’ve heard the story, you can bet the Princess will hear. You’ve been reading too many novels, Richard.”

“Has she realised yet?” said Peter.

“Don’t think so,” said Richard.

Peter nodded approvingly. “Dumb blonde. With a title. And money of her own. Best kind . . .”

“Someone’s bound to tell her,” said Clarence. “You know how servants love to gossip.”

“Someone change the subject,” said Richard. “No? All right then, I’ll change the subject. Have any of you met the dreaded Sombre Warrior yet? I have. He’s big—and I mean really big. And he’s the real deal, you know. Not a story or a legend; just a bloody big soldier who’s killed so many people he’s probably lost count.”

“I bumped into him. Briefly,” said Peter. “Impressive. Definitely impressive. Looks like he could punch a horse through a wall, if the mood took him. And there’s something about that creepy white mask that gives me the shudders.”

“You have to wonder,” said Clarence, “just what there is under that mask. Or what’s left, to put it more succinctly. I mean, how bad can it be? That no one ever gets to have a look at it? We’ve all seen soldiers back from the wars. With scars, without eyes or ears . . .”

“They say his face was cut apart, and then set fire to,” said Peter. “Who would do something like that? We all saw all kinds of blood and gore out on the border, but it was all just . . . fighting. And it’s supposedly men from our side that did it; but we never saw any of that kind of thing!”

“There’s always someone . . . ,” said Clarence darkly.

“Had to be personal,” said Richard. “Some kind of revenge attack.”

“The way he speaks,” Peter said slowly. “There’s something not quite right about it. Too flat, too certain, even to have an accent. And sometimes it sounds mushy, distorted . . . could part of his mouth be missing? Or even burned right back to the teeth?”

“Stop it!” said Clarence, very firmly. “You are getting ghoulish now, and putting me off my drink. Which is an insult to a really good vintage.”

“Why send him here?” said Richard, suddenly thoughtful. “Why send one of Redhart’s greatest and most honoured soldiers into permanent exile, as the Princess’ escort and bodyguard? He’s a soldier, not a diplomat . . . Did he do something, say something, to King William? Or did they just think his best fighting days were over, and this was some kind of reward? A cushy retirement?”

“Hardly,” said Peter. “Being her bodyguard will be a full-time job. You did hear about the attack on her carriage on the way here? Can you believe that? An open attack, by Redhart forces, on Forest territory! Still, the Sombre Warrior did well enough, by all accounts. The old killing skills are still there.”

“Pity he killed all of the attackers, though,” said Richard slowly. “Who knows what they might have been persuaded to say about their masters?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “A pity he couldn’t manage even a single prisoner . . .”

Richard and Peter looked at each other.

“The Princess is going to need a really good bodyguard,” said Clarence, just a bit owlishly. “And so will you, Richard. Be grateful you’ve got us.”

“Oh, I am,” said Richard. “Really. You have no idea.”

“I want to know what’s under that mask,” said Peter. “You know, we could always . . .”

“No, we couldn’t,” said Richard.

“Or we could . . . ,” said Clarence.

“No, we couldn’t,” said Richard very firmly. “You leave that man alone. One, because he’d kill you. And two, because he’s suffered enough. He has a right to keep his dignity. That’s an order, mind. Royal decree.”

Peter and Clarence both hooted him sarcastically, but Richard knew they’d follow his orders on this. He didn’t pull rank often, but when he did, his friends knew he meant it. Richard liked to be able to put aside his title in their company, but they all knew there were times when he couldn’t. Not that they ever discussed it, of course. It was just understood. Some things had to remain unsaid, if they were to be friends.

They sat together, easy in one another’s company, eating, drinking, thinking. And Richard wondered why he hadn’t told Peter and Clarence about his encounter with the Lady of the Lake. It was odd. He usually told them everything. But not this time . . . He didn’t know why. He could trust them. He’d trusted them with so many other things . . . But he hadn’t even mentioned the Lady of the Lake to the Seneschal, or to his father, the King. And they had a right to know, if anyone did. But he hadn’t talked about it to anyone, because . . . it was his. His moment with a story and a legend and a Power in the Land. And some secrets . . . should stay secret.

•   •   •

T
he Sombre Warrior sat in the single stiff-backed chair provided and looked about the room they’d given him. Not a suite, but still a large and reasonably comfortable room of his own. Just down the corridor from the Princess. Better accommodations than his men, who were having to bunk down in the Castle barracks, with the other guards. The Sombre Warrior hoped there wouldn’t be any unpleasantness towards his men, just for coming from Redhart—because his men could be exceedingly unpleasant if provoked. He rather wished he could be there, with his men, to share the easy banter and camaraderie of soldiers together, but he knew that wasn’t possible. For many reasons, of which the mask was only one.

The room he’d been given was actually a good deal larger and more comfortable than the one he was used to back at Castle Midnight. A big bed with a deep mattress, a window with a proper view, and his very own piss pot to empty out of it. Luxury. Still, if there was one thing Forest Castle had, it was room. Room to lounge around, and stretch out in.

He’d already unpacked his belongings. It hadn’t taken him long. First rule of a soldier: travel light and travel fast. And there hadn’t been much he wanted to bring with him. His various weapons and pieces of armour lay scattered around the room, all within easy reach. So that even at his most relaxed, he was never far from steel. He had no treasures, no mementos, because the Sombre Warrior had no past. He levered himself up out of his chair and went to stand before the single gilt-edged mirror hanging on the wall. He looked into it, and the porcelain mask looked back. Cold and unyielding, like a presentiment of death. The false face he’d worn for so very long now.

There was a sudden heaviness to the air, a feeling of something approaching, and then the chalk white mask disappeared from the mirror, as the Sombre Warrior’s reflection was replaced by an entirely different face. Peregrine de Woodville, First Minister of the Forest Land, stared coldly out of the glass. The Sombre Warrior nodded, briefly. He’d been expecting his secret spy master to make contact ever since he’d arrived. They’d always talked to each other through mirrors; it meant no one else could listen in. Or so the Sombre Warrior had always been assured. He’d never cared to understand the workings of magic.

“Do it,” Peregrine said bluntly. “Take it off. I need to be sure it’s really you under the mask.”

The Sombre Warrior raised both hands to either side of the chalk white porcelain, carefully undid the leather straps, and removed the mask. To reveal a face entirely untouched by any kind of damage. A little paler than most, perhaps, but really only another ordinary, everyday soldier’s face. The Sombre Warrior was just a story, a mask to hide behind, for the First Minister’s most secret spy inside Redhart. He never was a Redhart soldier, just a Forest soldier who seized an opportunity. He covered his face, claimed to be a loyal son of Redhart come back from the wars horribly disfigured . . . and everyone just took him at his word. He’d been feeding the First Minister inside information on Redhart for years. Peregrine nodded briefly.

“You’re sure your identity remains unchallenged? No one suspects?”

“I had to kill a few young fools the other day who plotted to remove my mask,” said the Sombre Warrior. “There’s always someone . . . I wasn’t even challenged over the killings. Everyone at Redhart has been very understanding. They weren’t bad sorts, just young sparks acting on a dare. But I had to kill them to warn off the others. I don’t know why it bothers me. I have done far worse things in your name, down the years.”

“I saved you from the gallows to be my man,” Peregrine said flatly. “You damned your soul long before you met me. I own you. I know your past, and your secrets, and I hold your life in my hands. Don’t you ever forget that. You’ll do what I tell you to do, betray who I tell you to, and kill who I tell you to. And let us not forget, you have been very well paid for your secret services.”

“Of course,” said the Sombre Warrior. “Maybe I’ll finally get to spend some of it, now I’m home again.”

“You volunteered for this!”

“So I did. I was so much more afraid of death, then. How much longer do I have to wear this mask? How long before I can put it down and leave the Sombre Warrior behind, and be myself again?”

“You’re mine for as long as I need you. I didn’t pull all those strings to get you attached to the Princess Catherine as her bodyguard just so you could come home. You can still be useful to me.”