Chapter XXIX Mistress of Teeth
XXIX
Mistress of Teeth
Someone had scrubbed the floors of the great hall very solicitously, for there was no blood to be seen or smelled in the air.
Agnes was filled with wonderment at how they had managed to banish even the scent so quickly.
The stench of blood had seemed overwhelming, infinite and total, the running of it as thick as tar.
But as she approached the dais with Marozia, Agnes was given to understand: The table was not the same table.
The one she had bled upon had been replaced.
Chopped to pieces, she figured, and then burned.
The only evidence of her torment was the bandaged hand she kept clutched to her breast.
But there were subtler signs, which Agnes only noticed as the room began to fill.
There were no leeches in attendance, and there ought to have been, for it was their task to copy down and disseminate all royal pronouncements.
The Most Esteemed Surgeon was absent, as were Truss and Mordaunt.
More peculiarly, there was a single member of the Dolorous Guard present, who seemed only there to help the king to his throne atop the dais.
Bearing Nicephorus’s weight alone must have been a toil; his armor creaked and squealed with effort.
But then when the king was seated, he waved the guard away.
Something had shifted in the foundation of Castle Crudele last night while Agnes had thrashed within the dark waters of her dreams. She did not yet know what.
Liuprand stood before the dais, in his doublet of midnight blue.
His bruise was faded now, but his face was otherwise a great tragedy: the violet circles of sleeplessness ringing his eyes, the alarming paleness of his cheeks, devoid of their natural golden glow.
His hair was mussed, a lock of it falling down across his forehead.
And then there was the sword at his hip.
Agnes had never seen him with a sword before, nor a weapon of any kind.
He kept one hand resting upon its hilt, and the other curled into a fist at his side.
Agnes looked for any kind of redness upon his hands—I heard he tore apart his room in a fury—and found it.
A rosy hue, like dawn breaking over the white cliffs of his knuckles.
She saw something else there, clutched between his fingers. A scrap of parchment.
Liuprand lifted his head and met her gaze without hesitation, without contrition. He unclenched his fingers, just briefly, yet long enough for her to see the words scrawled upon the paper, her words. Thank you.
They were the first true words she had communicated to him, and he held them like they were the most precious thing.
The scrap of parchment was so small that no one else would notice, and even if they did, it was so innocuous they would never think to inquire about it.
They would look but they would not see. Agnes glanced down at her ring, which shone so brightly to her, but to no one else within the room. No one but Liuprand.
Their gaze was broken as Marozia stepped between them, nearing the very foot of the dais.
She curtsied to the king, low and deep, and after a moment, Agnes did the same.
From beneath the fringe of her lashes, Agnes stared up at the king, at his many chins, at his bulbous and broken nose, at his small, watery eyes, which held so little within them. No light, but no shadow, either.
Agnes would have hated him less if he had looked upon her with contempt, with revulsion. Yet she seemed to almost pass beneath his attention. And as she rose, a lusty hatred rose with her.
“You seem hardly worse for the wear, Lady Agnes,” he said, amusement lifting the corner of his unappeasable mouth. “Someone has seen to your wounds.”
This time, Liuprand would let nothing lie; not a word from his father would go unchallenged. He stepped forward, hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Yes,” he said. “I sent Waltrude to her. And if there is truly so little damage done, then she is lucky.”
The king’s gaze flickered mildly to his son. “Your compassion for the lady is stirring.”
There was a very small sound from Marozia beside her. Just the faintest catch of her breath. Agnes glanced over at her cousin and saw her bite down on her lower lip. It pleased Agnes, in a slick, pitiless way. How easily this sentiment occurred to her was frightening. She tucked it away in a hurry.
“Stirring, too, is your commitment to resolving the matter with the House of Blood through diplomacy.” The king raised his voice and looked out upon the small gathered audience. “Perhaps I was too easily seduced by the proposition of violence. I believe there is another way forward.”
Liuprand’s eyes narrowed. “And what way is that?”
The king leaned forward in his seat, steepling his hands over his enormous stomach. Another smile played at the corner of his wormy lips. And then, slowly, horribly, he dragged his gaze across the room toward Agnes.
“You claimed yourself, my son, that there is no stronger bond than a betrothal,” he said. “What better salve for bitter wounds than love?”
Agnes merely stared at the king, uncomprehending. And Liuprand’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“In the late hours of the night I devised a solution,” Nicephorus went on. “A solution I believe will greatly please both aggrieved parties. Lady Agnes will wed the Master of Blood.”
Silence reigned across the hall. It reigned cruelly and coldly. Its frigid grasp was so powerful that Agnes could not even think; her mind emptied instantly into a slippery black pit. Her only thought was that perhaps she had misheard the king. Perhaps she misunderstood.
It was Marozia who spoke, before Liuprand could find his voice.
“But please, Your Majesty,” she said, “Agnes does not speak.”
The king guffawed. “What does she need to speak for? Many husbands would prefer their wives be silent. And there are better uses for a woman’s mouth.”
“Don’t,” Liuprand broke in. “I will not allow you another vulgar word.”
There were storm clouds on Liuprand’s face, and the fury in his voice was barely checked. But the king merely regarded his son with a bland sort of amusement.
“Is the truth a vulgar thing to you? A silent wife would appeal greatly to most men, and you know the reason why. Had your mother been silent—”
“Keep her name out of your mouth,” Liuprand said blackly.
Yet the king pressed on. “It has been decided, Liuprand. It is my royal decree. The Master of Blood has been alone since the death of his wife many years ago. He will be pleased and more than pleased to have a new woman to warm his bed.”
Still Agnes could not think. The words slipped in through the shell of her ear, but they could not sink themselves into her brain.
Nicephorus looked down at her beneficently, as if he had bestowed upon her some great gift.
So many idiotic details captured her focus: the way his yellowed teeth were wedged together in his mouth, like stones built upon stones; the way grease from breakfast painted a sheen on his chin.
There was a sensation of standing at the edge of a very tall cliff, and she felt the height in the soles of her feet.
To her surprise, it was again Marozia who spoke.
“Your Majesty,” she said, in a tremulous voice.
“I do not mean to question your wisdom, your judgment—but I fear that the Master of Blood may not think this an act of goodwill. My cousin is a lady of the House of Teeth, yes, though—forgive me—she is not otherwise a lady of great esteem. She has no title. The Master of Blood may feel you have merely sent him a hostage or a bedslave. Not a wife.”
And then, to her even more momentous surprise, the king fell silent. He leaned forward and rested his chin upon his steepled hands. Contemplation danced through his dull eyes.
“You speak sagely, Princess,” he said at last. “It is true: Your cousin has no title of her own. Though—did you not say that she is the elder?”
Marozia hesitated. Her gaze was uncertain. “By five days, Your Majesty. But her mother—”
“Then I do not see why she was passed over for the title Mistress of Teeth.”
Silence rose like a white-headed wave and drenched the throne room. Agnes heard Marozia’s breath catch again, yet this time, her hand went to her throat; to the necklace that circled it.
“That is not the way of our house,” Marozia managed. “My mother was the elder, and so I am the heiress. Adele-Blanche—”
“Is dead,” the king cut in. “Expired. Extinct. Forever gone. And now her blood has been woven inextricably with my own royal line. The strange ways of her house must die with her. You are the princess; you will birth the heir to Drepane’s throne, so should you not follow the customs of the land?
The other houses will wish it so. Your subjects will wish it so. When you are queen.”
At that, Marozia could no longer speak. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, making no sound.
Nicephorus’s eyes flickered to Liuprand. “Do you not think this wise, my son?”
Liuprand’s teeth were gritted, and a muscle feathered in his tautly clenched jaw. His own eyes searched his father’s face, as if hoping he might find some chink in the armor. The king so rarely spoke with this cool, remote reasoning, and when confronted with it, Liuprand seemed to flounder.
“I think you should take care when suspending the traditions of Drepane’s noble houses,” he replied after a moment. “The other masters may not be so pleased to see such a precedent set.”
“Liuprand the Heedful. Always you seek the path of appeasement. But what is the purpose of being king, if not to set the laws of the kingdom and see that they are followed?”