Chapter III Lavender and Wax
III
Lavender and Wax
Pliny the leech was such a creature who did not mind overmuch the passage of time.
As he walked, hand in hand with Tisander, to the small boy’s chambers, he allowed his thoughts to stretch back to the first moment he had stepped through the barbican of Castle Crudele, still raw from the death of his former master.
All that blood. The stench had remained with him for days, for weeks, and grew tangier whenever he was near the lady Agnes.
He saw her and tasted copper on his tongue.
Now such sentiments were embarrassing to contemplate.
He was glad that time had made him a more stoic being, not so moved by the passions that did not befit a leech.
It helped, of course, that everything around him had changed a great deal in these past six years, even the structure of Castle Crudele itself.
Pliny had the opportunity to glimpse some of these rather unfortunate changes as he led Tisander along the parapets and felt the whisking of the sea’s salt air.
It ruffled Tisander’s golden curls, and the boy turned his face into the wind, closing his eyes and smiling in a serene way that did not at all befit a boy his age.
In Pliny’s experience children were wriggling, impatient, impulsive things—more like the little princess Meriope, who, admittedly, Pliny rarely had the occasion to see.
They came to a corner, and here was one of the rather unfortunate changes to the castle: a bit of the stone floor was beginning to crumble, the lashing of wind and rain and the slow spread of rot making this length of the parapet treacherous.
Pliny had to press himself and Tisander close to the castle wall and inch along it carefully to avoid stepping on this undependable stone.
Luckily, Tisander was such a patient and self-possessed child that he never gave Pliny any reason to fear a sudden movement, a reckless lurch. They crossed safely.
If Nicephorus was aware of this new deficiency, he kept his feelings secret. There was not much that could rouse the king to action these days. Pliny might have said that the years had not been kind to Nicephorus, but in truth, it was not time that was to blame.
When they at last reached the princeling’s chambers, Waltrude was waiting for them. Tisander let go of Pliny’s hand and ran into his wet nurse’s embrace.
Waltrude swung him up into her arms, though not without difficulty, her thin limbs trembling like saplings in the wind. Who could blame her? By Pliny’s estimation, she was entering the ninety-first year of her life. It would have been stranger to see her lift the boy without trouble.
“Here for your lessons, my little lord?” she asked, as though every day were not the same.
Eagerly, Tisander nodded. “I have learned all my letters.”
“And soon you shall be wiser than a great horned owl.”
Tisander laughed, a high and tinkly sound.
He slid from Waltrude’s grasp and went to the table where all of Pliny’s books and papers were arranged, ink still drying on his quill-tips.
As Tisander pulled himself up into the chair, Pliny was, against his will, assaulted by an arrow-volley of memories.
Each one struck him, and the accompanying pain left him momentarily breathless.
He saw, in the gaze of his mind, his old lord Fredegar sitting before him in place of Tisander. Fredegar’s hair had been dark and his eyes a nondescript hazel, but he had had the same serious face as the young prince, showing a queer wisdom beyond his years.
The memory rippled and shifted, and Unruoching sat there instead, indolent and distracted, picking at his nose.
It had taken Pliny the better part of a year to teach him his letters.
He had protested their meetings; he had raged at his mother’s bedside—poor, dying Eupraxia.
And half the time he had snuck off to play cruel tricks on the stable boys or bait the cats in the kitchen.
With one last ripple, the memory changed once more: Pliny saw Gamelyn perched at the table.
He had not been a much more biddable pupil than his father, though for different reasons entirely.
He did not complain or fight, but he jostled endlessly in his seat, eyes darting, his body never at ease.
He was a clever boy and learned his letters fast enough.
But it was clear that his inclination was not toward any cerebral pursuit.
He belonged in the tiltyard, not the schoolroom.
The memories were sucked away like a whirlpool with the sound of Waltrude’s voice. “My leech,” she said, “your lord is waiting.”
Tisander, with his mature mind and consummate focus, completed his lesson within the hour, when the purple haze of evening settled over Castle Crudele.
The boy yawned and rubbed his eyes, and Waltrude, as she did every night, set about dressing him for bed.
Pliny, meanwhile, rested in his chair. Tiredness was upon him like a heavy old cloak.
In these moments, he felt his age, the sagging of his skin and the wasting of his bones.
His blood seemed to run colder and more sluggishly even by the moment.
If the rest of his days followed as this one had, Pliny decided, he would be content.
Waltrude left Tisander’s bedside and came to him, carrying only a candle. Its dim orange light filled all the lines on her face, like molten steel poured into a mold. In a soft voice, she asked, “Did you have occasion to see the lady today?”
“Briefly,” Pliny replied, “in the library. She was reading to the boy as she always does.”
“No.” Waltrude shook her head. “The other lady. The lady in the tower.”
“The princess?”
Waltrude stared at him unblinkingly.
“No one sees her,” Pliny said. “She does not leave her chambers—nor does that girl of hers, Ninian, but for some handmaiden’s errands. I wonder if her daughter could even name the color of the sky.”
Waltrude bristled. It was strange to see this old porcupine put up her ancient quills. She said, “A fox run to ground still has its sharp teeth.”
Yet before Pliny could reply, the door to the chamber opened, and Liuprand entered.
He nodded once, fondly, at each Pliny and Waltrude, and then strode in silence to his son’s bedside.
He sat on the edge, leaning over, and pressed a kiss to Tisander’s temple.
Low, soft words were spoken, each to each.
Pliny could not hear them at this distance, though he marveled, as he always did, at the impressive size of the prince, his hand so large beside his son’s very small head, large enough, Pliny felt, that he could crush his skull to dust. He did not know why the thought occurred to him, why such an image rose, for there was nothing but tenderness between father and son.
With one last kiss, Liuprand rose—the bed creaking with his weight—and came to Pliny and Waltrude.
“Good evening, my prince,” Waltrude said. And Pliny echoed: “Good evening.”
“Tisander is well,” Liuprand said. “He is happy. In his life he has never known a moment of grief.”
It took both Pliny and Waltrude a moment to realize that this was not a statement but a question. When he did understand, Pliny nodded fervently, and said, “Yes, Your Highness. He has joy and no sorrow. And he is deeply loved.”
Liuprand smiled, a truly breathtaking thing.
His Seraphine beauty was immense, its gloriousness infinite, and when he was pleased, it showed itself best. Pliny felt as if he were standing in the path of a strong beam of sunlight, and he was lucky to be there, lucky to feel the warmth on his skin.
Such was the soft power of Seraph’s superior people.
“Relieve yourself for the night, Waltrude,” Liuprand said. “I should like to sleep with my son.”
Waltrude dipped her head. “Of course, my prince.”
She turned to go, and Pliny, assuming his own dismissal, followed. But he did not reach the door before Liuprand’s voice rang out, calling after him: “Pliny, stay a moment.”
Pliny turned back. As he approached the prince, in the incomplete darkness, his senses were suddenly assaulted: He smelled lavender and wax.
It wafted from Liuprand’s body like a strong perfume, and the closer Pliny got, the stronger the scent.
By the time he was at the prince’s feet, he nearly choked on it.
That was how Pliny knew, beyond all doubt, that he had been with the lady Agnes.
He had come directly from their tryst. He and Waltrude alone had been given to witness their secret love; Pliny himself had performed their clandestine marriage rite.
And in these intervening years they had kept this love hidden to great success.
Pliny was impressed by how they were able to conceal such passions.
He had seen, with his own eyes, just how fervent these passions were.
Fortuitous that there could be no fruit produced from their unions, no matter how much they were in love.
Fortuitous that the lady’s body prevented such a terrible and ruinous crime as a bastard child would be.
Liuprand leaned close to him, bending down so that their eyes were level. The lavender and candle-wax scent was as thick as incense.
“I need you to perform a task for me,” Liuprand said. “It is of the utmost importance and the utmost secrecy.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Pliny replied. And then he leaned even closer, to hear what treasons the prince whispered.