Chapter 4 – A Cheerful Busybody #2
Was he dreaming because there was something he’d missed? Some vulnerability, some obvious measure against the Emperor? In his mind, Remin ticked through each of his men and the orders they had been given, wondering if there was someone else he might send, some angle he had not yet considered.
He would have been less worried if he had just been planning to march his army to the capital.
After dreams like that one, he wondered if he shouldn’t do exactly that.
This was not a problem he had anticipated, when he married Ophele.
Back then, he had only been concerned for himself: his safety, his heirs, his line, the burden of ancestors that stood behind him, counting on him to survive for their sake.
He feared death more than he feared anything else, but not for himself.
Death meant the extinction of his whole family, forever.
Ultimate victory for the Emperor. A complete and utter defeat that could never be undone.
But then he had come to love Ophele, and discovered whole new realms of terror.
He thought of Edemir. He thought of Bram. He thought of Juste, and the latest reports from Darri in Segoile. He thought of his army, filled with good men, loyal men. He thought of Leonin and Davi, more devoted than he had dared to hope.
When you have done all you can, go to sleep, Duke Ereguil used to tell him, in the early years of the war when Remin’s insomnia had been staggering. It was good advice. The solutions to one’s problems were rarely found at three in the morning.
And Remin thought of Miche, who would be back tomorrow, and always knew how to laugh Remin’s fears down to manageable size. Nothing was going to happen to Ophele between now and then.
That was sufficient comfort to let him drift off, and at dawn he roused her again to reassure himself that she was really there, his lips moving over the rosy blotches on her neck and shoulders with a mixture of guilt and desire. It gave him a possessive thrill to set his mark on her.
“Again?” she asked fuzzily, and moaned as he pushed her thighs apart and inserted himself between them.
“As often as we can, as long as you want me,” he said, and her slow smile was all the answer he needed.
Remin felt much better as they stood together on the quay to watch the ferry come in, with the cold air off the water slapping his face. Ophele was bundled up beside him in a heavy cloak and a pretty blue gown, with a scarf wound up to her ears.
“Is that him?” she asked excitedly, craning her neck as the ferry scudded over the river, and a tall man with bright golden hair came into view in the prow of the small ship, lifting a hand in greeting. “Oh, Miche! Miche! Welcome home!”
He was the first off the boat as soon as the gangplank was lowered, coming up the dock with his hands out to take theirs, bright and fearless, if a little scruffy.
“I was worried you might have closed down the ferry for the winter, I half killed the horses,” he said, offering an extravagant bow over Ophele’s hand and a hard squeeze of Remin’s. “You both look well. I’m glad to see the place is still standing.”
“It wasn’t too long a journey, was it?” Ophele asked, her tawny eyes going over him anxiously. “You needn’t have gone at all, really…”
“It was just as well that I did, as you will soon see. No trouble at all except for one bit of baggage,” Miche said, with drawling good humor. “There she is. Now, you’ll both have to keep your wits about you, for I’ve brought a lady home.”
“A—you did?” Ophele’s voice squeaked in surprise as she looked first at Miche, and then at Remin, watching with consternation as Miche went to retrieve his lady.
“I didn’t think he was ever…serious about ladies,” she whispered as Miche helped the small woman down the gangplank.
She was so well-wrapped in furs, it seemed she would have to feel her way down with her feet.
“It would be a first,” Remin muttered, trying not to scowl. He would have welcomed anyone for Miche’s sake, if she had come from anywhere but Aldeburke. A woman who had watched Ophele’s abuse and done nothing would never have his favor.
But suddenly Ophele gave a cry and leaped forward, her hood flying back from her hair.
“Azelma?” she cried. “Azelma, you came! Whatever are you doing here, oh, how wonderful!”
At the end of the dock, the woman was pulling away her cloak and muffler to reveal the gray-haired cook from Aldeburke, holding out her arms to catch Ophele in a rapturous hug.
“My stars, Princess, look at you!” she exclaimed, pushing Ophele back long enough to admire her, and then the two women embraced again. Remin watched, the frown lines drawing deep in his face.
Of all possible people, Miche had elected to bring back the fucking cook.
“I ransacked that place,” Miche was saying as he came to stand beside Remin.
His beard was as golden and luxuriant as a lion’s mane after weeks on the road, his hair caught back in a ponytail with a bit of twine.
“Took two-thirds of the horses, wagons, carriages, you’ll be ferrying it across the river for a week.
Sorry I couldn’t give you more warning.”
“I don’t care about the horses and carriages,” Remin growled. “We spent a year investigating my servants, and now you put a stranger in my house? From Aldeburke?”
“She’s not a stranger,” Miche replied, without taking his eyes from the two women. “She’s the only one Ophele wrote to from that place, Rem. The only one that protected her.”
Perhaps that was so, Remin thought, biting his tongue on a snarling response. But that did not answer for Lady Rache Pavot, who had died young after a long illness, which spoke of nothing to him but poison.
* * *
Miche would have sworn he’d been gone two years rather than two months.
Seated atop a placid bay horse named Brambles, he and Remin kept pace with one of the carriages he had stolen from Aldeburke, an open-topped buggy that Adelan Cruce was managing capably.
Miche could tell at a glance that Remin would’ve been happier seated inside, ideally with his body between Ophele and Azelma, as if the old lady might at any moment go for her throat.
Ophele looked decidedly better, dressed in a rich blue brocade with jewels on the bodice and fur on the sleeves, a style that he didn’t recognize.
Far more important than splendid clothing or the elegant coif of her hair, she looked happy, and quite a bit rounder in the cheek and chin than she’d been when he left.
Remin, however, was a bit worse, to Miche’s experienced eye. Hollow in the eyes and very, very worried, though that only showed in the sharp cut of his jaw, clenched taut with tension.
After weeks in the saddle, Miche would have liked nothing so much as a bath and a stationary chair, but as the wagon trundled up the hillside from the harbor, he drew Brambles alongside Ophele.
“You’ve been busy in town, I see,” he said, nodding in the direction of the market, which had been a large stone rectangle when he left.
“Oh, would you like to see?” Ophele lit up, looking between him and Azelma. “Unless you’re too tired…”
“Not a bit, Your Highness. Why, it’s quite built up, isn’t it?” asked the old lady, craning her neck to look over the carriage horses toward town, where smoke was rising from many chimneys.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Miche drawled, before Remin could refuse.
“So many people have come since you’ve been away, the public house is open now and Master Tiffen arrived last week, he’s the tailor, he made this dress, Azelma, isn’t it lovely?
And that’s Master Peltier ahead, he’s the potter, he has his sash from the Court of Artisans.
Good morning, Master Peltier!” Ophele called, hailing this stoop-shouldered gentleman, whose donkey was hauling a wagonload of white Brede clay.
“Morning, my lady! Your Grace,” he called back, doffing his cap. He had an impressive set of eyebrows.
She was shouting. She was chatting. Miche exchanged a startled glance with Azelma and sat back on Brambles, wondering if the world could contain any further wonders.
There were many, even in so short a time.
After seven years of war camps, it was bizarre to see so many women about, but the market square was full of them, fetching water from the huge fountain, going in and out of their houses as they did their morning chores.
And there were actual children too, a half dozen racing around and shrieking as they pelted each other with slush.
The sun was melting the patchy remains of snow.
“…and we’ve a baker now, too, which is good or the Tregues would be run off their feet, feeding everyone,” Ophele went on, pointing out one of the many signs that identified each establishment.
The folk of Tresingale were skipping the village stage of development altogether; the main street might have been lifted straight out of Segoile, with Noreveni glass covering the display windows of Guian’s General Goods and what must be the cobbler’s shop.
“How fine it all looks,” marveled Azelma. “I am glad of it, you know all we heard about the Andelin was about those terrible devil creatures. But I see His Grace has matters well in hand.”
“Everyone worked hard this year,” Remin said stiffly.
“He’s not exaggerating, Mistress Bessin,” Miche said, smiling. “Had me digging ditches all summer, I still dream of my shovel. How are the walls coming along, my lord?”
“Done,” Remin said, brightening a little, and they caught a glimpse of them as they reached the east road, a line of white to the east, looming nearer as they headed toward the North Gate.
“The people from Meinhem are mostly there,” Ophele explained.
“Oh, and that’s Amalie and her brother! Amalie!
Don’t you look well! They’re from Nandre,” she added with an eloquent flick of her eyes to Miche.
Azelma would not understand what this meant, but Miche had been there during the planning to rescue what remained of Remin’s villagers.