Chapter 24
Ash
Ash dragged his leaden legs up the wide staircase to his chambers, head ringing. Roland was a good man, but God above, he could talk.
And drink too, Ash thought ruefully as he reached the top of the stairs. Matching the speed with which Roland imbued wine may have been a mistake.
The storm had done little to ease either the swirl of alcohol in his gut or his feeling of bone-deep exhaustion. Roland had offered him a room for the night, but Ash had refused. He wanted to be home.
There was a slice of yellow light beneath the door to his chamber. Olly must have kept the fire burning for him. That thought buoyed him, at least. Olly’s closeness was a constant reassurance, one that he’d gone without for far too long.
He heaved the door open, expecting to be met by warmth and the soft sound of Olly sleeping, but instead was hit with the sound of … of laughing.
In front of him, buried beneath his covers with faces red from laughter, were Olly and Agnes. A dark little thought somewhere in the back of his head stirred. Blinked. And then – dissipated.
I should be jealous, he thought blandly. But … but I am not.
Olly noticed him first, his expression lighting up even more when he spotted him standing there, mouth open.
‘Ash!’ He spoke too loud, bursting into further peals of laughter. ‘You look as if you have been drowned. Agnes has been telling me about how you met.’
Ash could only blink. Beside Olly, with a mug in her hands, Agnes’s laughter had died away. Unlike Olly, she looked up at Ash with wide eyes and a worried expression – as if, he realised, she was waiting for him to start shouting at them.
Olly’s new lute rested across his lap. He quickly lowered it to the floor, then patted the space in between him and Agnes.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘There’s room for another.’
Ash was so tired. And his head was reeling – although now he could not tell if that was because of the wine or because he had found his wife and his lover in the same bed.
Exhaustion won out. He kicked off his boots, tugged off his damp tunic, clambered over Olly – who made absolutely no attempts to move for him – and slid into the empty space between them.
Despite his soaking hair and the chill still permeating his skin, he was red-hot, as if his face were aflame.
‘So …’ he said, trying to make sense of it all. ‘What—’
‘We are waiting out the storm,’ Agnes said.
‘And waiting for you,’ Olly added, on his other side.
Ash remembered Olly’s fear of storms. It had plagued him even when they were young – cowering beneath the covers of his bed, gripping Ash tight enough to bruise, waiting for it to pass. He was glad that Agnes had been there in his stead.
‘Oh …’ Ash wasn’t sure what else there was to say. ‘I take it you found a way to distract yourselves in my absence?’
‘We took a walk of the grounds before the storm began,’ said Agnes. ‘I had intended to hunt, but the weather won out, so we played chess.’
‘And we kissed.’
Ash twisted around beneath the covers. Olly watched him with a glint in his eye.
‘Oliver!’ Agnes snapped, hauling herself up to look at him.
‘What?’ Olly asked innocently. ‘Surely you did not intend to keep it from him?’
‘Of course not,’ Agnes shot back. ‘But I had planned to tell him at a more appropriate time!’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as when he is not drunk!’
‘Now may be the best time, if he is drunk.’
‘Oliver—’
‘Please, call me Olly.’
‘You—’
‘Enough!’ Ash shouted over them. They both fell quiet. ‘You kissed?’
There was that odd prickle in the back of his head again. He should have felt jealous. Perhaps he did, although not in the way he expected.
His mind conjured an image, bright and vibrant across the back of his already furred skull: Olly and Agnes, tangled beneath the furs of the bed, their lips locked, the air around them full of heat and sighs.
He blinked it away. Olly was watching him closely.
‘We did.’ Agnes sighed. ‘Truly, Ash, I was going to tell you.’
‘… Why?’
It seemed, as soon as it had passed his lips, a truly stupid question. It was easy enough to guess at why. They were alone, and bored, and Olly was the singularly most handsome man Ash had ever seen, and Agnes—
He had been trying not to think on it too hard, but Agnes was especially striking, with sharp, pleasing features. Ash could see why Olly would find her a suitable partner for kissing – amongst the other things trying to force themselves into his head.
‘It was a wager,’ Agnes said, slumping back against the pillows.
That had not been what Ash was expecting. ‘A wager?’
‘I challenged him to chess,’ Agnes explained, ‘and he decided it would be more interesting if we included a wager.’
That certainly sounded very much like Olly. As a youth, he had enjoyed making preposterous bets – coin and services from his friends and family, kisses and favours from Ash.
‘If I won, she was to give me a kiss,’ Olly said smugly.
‘I may have been overconfident,’ Agnes conceded. ‘After all, I have grown used to a less experienced partner. I had assumed that he would be equally poor at the game. I realised my mistake as soon as he had made his second move. Although it was not an easy win for him.’
‘It was a win, though.’
‘It was. And so, I had to maintain my end of the bargain. A kiss for a fair win.’
‘I suppose that is only right,’ Ash managed. ‘It sounds as if you have had an … interesting day.’
‘Very interesting!’ Olly agreed, with a sharp laugh. ‘I found Agnes hiding in the gardens this morning, and I knew it would not do.’
Agnes’s laughing expression faded. ‘I was not hiding. I was simply spending some time alone.’
‘You certainly seemed bothered by something,’ Olly pressed. ‘I am glad I could bring some levity to your day, that is all.’
Agnes looked sombre.
‘Agnes?’ Ash said, growing concerned. Finally, Olly noticed too.
‘I apologise,’ he stuttered. ‘I did not mean to offend you.’
‘It is nothing,’ Agnes said quickly. She was gripping the blanket in her hands.
Ash turned back to her. Her knuckles were turning pale. Ash placed his hand atop hers. She snatched it away.
‘I … I must confess something,’ Agnes said at last. ‘To both of you.’
‘Whatever is it?’
Agnes looked distraught. ‘Do not hate me. You will hate me. God’s teeth, I did not mean to—’
‘To what?’
Olly sat up too, staring at her across Ash. Her eyes darted between them like a frightened animal, her face bright red.
‘I saw you,’ she whispered at last.
Ash was baffled. ‘What?’
‘I saw you,’ Agnes spoke louder, now. More desperately. ‘Together. After the wedding.’
There was a leaden feeling in Ash’s stomach. Agnes gestured towards the door of the servant’s quarters.
‘I was wondering what use I could put the servant’s room to, but the door caught behind me and I could not open it. I did not even realise what was happening until it was too late. And then—’ Her voice croaked into silence.
‘And then?’ Olly pressed closer to Ash’s side.
‘And then I heard a noise. I realised it was you both, and thought perhaps you would be able to help me open the door, so I …’
Ash realised what she had done. ‘So you looked.’
Her hands went still. ‘So I looked.’
There was a dull ringing in Ash’s head. Agnes had seen them, seen them together, seen him at his most vulnerable. She had seen Olly take him apart.
The first thought: horror. The horror of a lifetime hiding himself, decades of caution, even when he and Olly were at the height of their relationship. The horror of their cove of safety, carefully carved and kept, being broken into, being discovered, being invaded.
But this was Agnes. Agnes who had asked if he and Olly were lovers. Agnes who had not cared when he answered with the affirmative: who had encouraged him.
He had nothing to fear from a secret already spilled.
And something else, something beneath it. Wanting to know more. Wanting to know what she had seen, and how much: if it really had been the whole sordid, sweaty affair. If she had watched Olly prepare him and take him, if she had seen him on his knees.
He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t find a way through the tangle of emotions.
But Olly could. ‘What did you see?’
Ash tried to stop him. ‘Olly—’
‘I am curious! You cannot chastise me for curiosity.’
‘You should be furious,’ Agnes cried. ‘You should throw me from the keep or refuse to ever speak to me again.’
Ash swallowed. ‘I will not do either of those things.’
Agnes’s wobbly smile was telling; she did not believe him.
‘If you will not allow me to ask what you saw,’ Olly said, his tone growing keener in a way that Ash had learned not to trust, ‘then may I ask you something else?’
‘I am in no position to refuse anything you ask of me.’
‘You will regret saying that,’ Ash muttered. Olly ignored him, speaking quickly.
‘Why did you look?’
Agnes frowned. ‘I heard a noise—’
‘And went to see what it was, yes. But clearly you took more than a glance. I would be willing to bet that you saw … something. Everything, perhaps. Would I be correct?’
Agnes was chewing on her lip. Her cheeks flushed. ‘I … Yes.’
‘Well!’ Olly sat back, triumphant. ‘My question stands! Why did you look for long enough to see such things? Why not run as soon as you realised what you had stumbled into? Why not entreat us for help, as you had intended to do?’
Agnes’s mouth opened and shut wordlessly. Olly watched her with an intent expression, leaning against Ash’s arm. Ash would be lying if he denied that he, too, wanted to know what had caused Agnes to linger so long.
He thought of it again: of her watching them, of her knees to the floor and her face pressed to the ancient door. Something stirred within him: the same beast that had stirred when he considered her and Olly in his bed, the things they could have been doing in his absence.
‘I do not know,’ she said quietly.
Had she stayed there for long? Had she watched, intent? Perhaps it had been shock and revulsion freezing her to the spot, forcing her to watch.
Perhaps it had not.