Chapter Forty-Two The Maiden and the Minstrel #2
They waited long enough that a former neighbour offered Master Engus a bed in his home. Engus refused, but Caracalla saw the tired lines around his eyes and the way his gaze moved to her. She knew why he refused, and why she must not allow it.
“You should go. These people need you. There’s a place for you here, and my family can no longer offer you a position.”
Engus studied her face. “I don’t wish to slow you down, but I hate the thought of leaving you alone in your grief, Caracalla.”
Master Engus couldn’t wear mourning like family did after experiencing a loss. They had never spoken of what Master Engus and her mother were to each other. As far as the world was concerned, they were nothing to each other at all.
If the world ever found out any different, if Marius ever found out, then her mother’s memory would be stained.
“You have been a… a faithful servant.” Caracalla raised her chin. “But I am already alone in my grief.”
Engus left, then. She watched his chair wheel away, leaving tracks in the grubby wood shavings on the floor and in the dust. She wanted to run after him and say better last words at their parting.
Perhaps there were never any good last words.
She noticed the Cobra’s eyes fixed on her, meditative and tender.
When the minstrel was done singing and his supper laid before him, the Cobra rose from the bench.
“I think I made a mistake, earlier. I meant to say, I have contacts across the country who report back to me on promising talents. I sincerely believe your gifts will make you the most famous minstrel in court.”
Merel glanced up from his bowl of stew, far more meagre than theirs. He seemed startled. “Mm. Well, I thank you for your belief in me.”
The Cobra leaned against the wall by the hearth, where firelight picked out the subtle gold embroidery running through his clothes as though tongues of flame licked up the lean length of his body. “Everybody needs someone to believe in them.”
Even bandits succumbed to the Cobra’s wiles. Caracalla herself had fallen headlong in love at a glance. The minstrel had lasted some time: Caracalla commended him for his strong will.
When Merel relented and smiled, it transformed him completely, as if his whole face became a mirror to reflect light.
“I do intend to come to court one day. Perhaps I may find some success there. But I will not come while war with the raiders threatens. War is no good for the arts. I wish they would make haste to finish the whole messy affair. Count Torhell Merac of the ice raiders need only storm the castle, carry off their fair princess, marry her and take her back to their home across the seas. That would make an excellent song, an ice bridge melting beneath the lovers’ very feet as they race across an abyss of flame.
Metaphorically, of course. I wish he’d cease inconveniencing everybody and get on with it.
The count appears slow in deed and wit.”
It appeared that the minstrel dared to be insolent about many of high rank.
“I hear the princess is not so very fair,” ventured Ink.
Sweet Great Goddess. Caracalla was truly appalled. Did all members of the lower classes speak disrespectfully of nobles behind their backs?
Merel smiled. “All princesses are beautiful in songs, you know.”
The Cobra must have met Princess Vasilisa at court. Caracalla was about to ask if he considered the princess beautiful, but bit her lip. There was no need to tell everybody in the inn who he was.
Merel continued his analysis of politics as ingredients for art.
“The disappointing count aside, the war has produced a great deal of material for songs. Love songs with three points always go over extremely well with audiences. People say they don’t like them, but nothing fastens their attention more.
The all-powerful god-Emperor is betrothed to the lady of snow and flame, who may be oracle or witch…
or a spy for the coldly brilliant Ice King. ”
The Cobra made a face. “I’m sure Lady Rahela isn’t a spy. I know a spy when I see one.”
“Even if she isn’t a spy, she may still be trying to seduce him. She seems a lady interested in power. And the king of the ice court has his flying dragon.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Cobra. “He has a what?”
“So you don’t know everything,” observed Merel the minstrel, with a wry twist to his mouth.
The Cobra laughed.
“You’re not the only one who knows things,” added Merel. “A minstrel collects a piece of news in every town, and ends up the only one with every piece.”
“Let me know if you want a job.” The Cobra sounded absent-minded, squinting as if he were reading and trying to make out words so small they were nigh invisible. “Seriously, the dragon flies now? My… spies said the dragon would never fly. Dragons. Shit. We are epically screwed.”
Caracalla didn’t see how a dragon could be more fearsome than any other beast. One of her ancestors had single-handedly killed a wyvern and put its head up on the wall.
The wyvern’s head was ashes now, too.
The innkeep bustled over. “My lord, I prepared a pallet in the stables for your boy, and a fine chamber for you and your lady.”
“I need two chambers.”
“There is only one chamber,” said the innkeep, “and, I fear—”
“Only one bed,” the Cobra and the innkeep chanted together. The Cobra’s tone was fatalistic.
“Only one bed,” whispered Ink, sounding horror-struck.
Caracalla didn’t know why everybody was suddenly counting beds. There was one.
“I see,” remarked the Cobra. “Only one bed. Well, there’s no getting out of that dilemma! Except there is. Go to bed, Caracalla, you’re exhausted. I’ll buy this minstrel a drink for his song.”
Did the Cobra imagine Caracalla was trying to trap him into marriage? The idea was insulting. Caracalla had seen enough of what marriage was like, if you didn’t wish to be married to each other.
But he was right. She was exhausted, and she didn’t care what he thought of her any longer.
She trailed upstairs to the much-discussed bed.
It was a well-appointed bedroom, though a faint scent slipping in through the gaps of the closed windows told Caracalla the room was situated above the stables.
She was certain the chamber was the innkeep’s own, but he had been paid handsomely enough to surrender it.
Caracalla had a large, silken bed all to herself, and she had ached with exhaustion every weary step from Ancilley Manor. When she lay down, she expected to fall asleep instantly. Except she kept seeing her mother’s face, turning towards the fire, and her brother’s face, turning towards the war.
Even cradled in silk and on feathers, she couldn’t sleep.
Perhaps a drink would help. Mama’s friend Lady Servilia always said a little nightcap was a fine thing. The Cobra could buy her one, as well as the minstrel.
Caracalla rose, and padded barefoot into the gallery.
There was a landing above, wrapped with wooden rails, with tables and chairs set for customers to drink and eat at.
At this hour the landing was deserted. Peeping over the rail, Caracalla saw the main chamber of the inn was empty, too, save for the Cobra and the minstrel.
They sat close together upon the same bench.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she heard the Cobra say. “I was hoping I would, one day. If we both find our way to the capital again, I’ll sponsor you and bring you into fashion. But even if I don’t make it back, trust me. You will succeed.”
“Is where you’re going dangerous?” asked Merel.
“We go to visit the Oracle. Prophecy is never safe.”
Caracalla was shocked by the Cobra’s lack of discretion! He might have read of this minstrel in his spies’ reports, but he didn’t really know him. It was foolish to act as though he did.
Merel shrugged. “I’m no stranger to peril. A visit to the Oracle of Eyam would make a fine song. I think I’ll follow you. I cannot make my way to court at present, and if I stay here, the innkeep might hit me again. That situation could quickly become unpleasant.”
He shook his head so the dull, dyed-lifeless locks lifted like black straw in a breeze.
The Cobra paused to consider. “If my friends agree, I’d be happy for you to join us. I always welcome a song.”
Merel drummed his long fingers on the table. “And… me? Myself?”
“Of course.” The Cobra’s golden, easy assurance remained unshaken. “I know all about you.”
That confidence seemed impenetrable one moment, only to be destroyed the very next.
When Merel the minstrel murmured, “Do you welcome me?’ he added a further clarification.
He leaned in by the light of the dying hearth fire, and kissed the Cobra upon the mouth.
Caracalla clapped both hands over her own mouth to prevent a startled cry from escaping.
Even the all-knowing Marquis of Popenjoy let out a soft, surprised sound when Merel leaned back.
Caracalla couldn’t see the Cobra’s expression, but she saw his shoulders tense and heard his voice go urgent.
“The job offer isn’t contingent on favours of any kind.
You can come with us to the Oracle. I will help you in the capital.
You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to.
I don’t want you to feel under any undue pressure. ”
“I don’t, my lord the Marquis.” Merel sounded amused. “Perhaps you should. After all, you have no bed for the night… and I have one big enough to share. I’ve already accepted your invitation. Will you accept mine?”
The Cobra huffed a little laugh, sounding half ironic, half amazed. Then he reached out across the space between them, beringed hand closing on the exposed nape of Merel’s pale neck, and drew the minstrel in for a slow kiss.