Chapter 6 – The Place of White Stones #2
“No one does,” Miche sighed. He had a taste of the wine himself, decided it wasn’t bad, and had a little more.
One bottle wasn’t enough to get either of them drunk, but it was enough to soften the edges, and possibly keep them from freezing to death.
“You can’t punish Ophele for what her mother did. ”
“I know. I won’t.”
“She would have been young,” Miche offered, more quietly. “Lady Pavot was young when all this happened, the same age Ophele is now. And you can bet they threatened her family, and her baby.”
“I know.” The lines in Remin’s face hardened. And there was not much more to say, after that.
“You had to go outside tonight,” Miche said loudly as they were leaving, over the howling of the wind. It was actual work to haul the stable door shut.
“It’s not that cold,” Remin scoffed, though he did hurry his steps up the road, and soon they were skidding over the icy mud as they came to the corner of the house. Miche was glad to deposit him at the front door and then hurry back to his own cottage in the cold.
The conversation he had overheard had rocked him as badly as it had Remin.
Alone in the dark, his smile faded. His hands moved through the familiar routine: taking off his snowy boots, lighting candles, building a fire, sunk in gloom.
He had been too late, again. Always, it seemed he was one step behind: too little, too late, arriving long after the worst of the damage had been done. One failure after another.
But then, he had accepted long ago that Miche of Harnost was a worthless man.
The cottage was small enough to warm up quickly with a fire in the hearth, and he was just pulling off his cloak when there was a soft rapping on his door.
“Sir knight?” asked a feminine voice.
Miche paused. Perhaps he should not answer that.
“Pardon me for disturbing you…” The voice went on after a moment, soft and breathy, beginning to be cold. But the woman out there would not have chilled yet, no; the other cottages were only steps away and her body would be a marvel of soft warmth, and so hot inside…
And Miche was so cold.
He hesitated, and opened the door.
“You have the advantage of me,” he said with automatic charm, smiling down at a cute little brunette with cute little freckles on her cute little nose.
The light of the fire glowed on her face, and he could see the small gap between her front teeth as she smiled.
“You are one of the laundresses, aren’t you?
You’re not required to work after supper. ”
“Oh, I want to,” she said, opening her eyes wide. “I am Masilie. I was just collecting the washing for tomorrow, if you have any. Do you? Have any clothes you would like…removed?”
He had sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to do this.
This was Rem’s home, the home he had worked so hard to build, and it took a long time to bring servants to the valley.
But the rawness of the night was thick in his throat and when she stepped closer, her cloak parted to reveal the curves of pale breasts and a heat in her eyes that promised the sweetest oblivion.
There was nothing like the touch of a woman to wipe everything else away.
“You should not be out so late,” Miche said, wavering.
“I hope you will forgive me for disturbing you.” Her fingers plucked at his shirt, then his belt. “I heard you had been long away, sir knight, and perhaps you would like someone to ease you…”
All by itself, his hand lifted to curve around her neck, his fingers slipping into her curly hair, his thumb gliding along the ridge of her jaw. He could feel her little gasp against his palm, her lips parting. He knew just how it would feel if that mouth was wrapped around him.
“You want to help me?” he whispered, bending his head so his lips tantalized hers without ever touching. It made her yearn after him, even rising on her toes as he lifted his head just out of reach. His mouth curved, cruelly beguiling.
“Yes, sir knight,” she breathed, and he stepped backward to pull her into his cottage, his eyes filled with a hot, hard light. He was angry with her for tempting him, and angry with himself for yielding. But soon enough he wouldn’t have to think of anything at all.
As his door closed, the one in the next cottage cracked open, and in the flickering light was the slender silhouette of Lady Mionet Verr, who had heard those soft sounds of seduction.
* * *
When Remin opened the door of his bedchamber, Ophele was waiting.
“Remin…” She rose from her chair, but did not approach, her fingers moving through their familiar anxious dance.
But for a long moment, he just let her fill his eyes.
She looked so beautiful by firelight. Her fine skin, those large, expressive eyes, the gentle curves of her face.
She had changed for the night into a pretty chemise and matching robe, red velvet lined in fur and trimmed in lace, and it made her look so…
In two strides he swept her up and found her every bit as warm and soft as she looked, and Remin buried his face in her and held on, reassuring himself that she was really there.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “Oh, Remin, that was so dreadful, I’m so, so sorry…”
“It’s not your fault,” he said huskily, and drew his chair up to the fire to sit with her. It felt better just to be there, with her in his lap, especially when she reached for a blanket to pull over them both and then nestled into him like some small, portable warming device.
“She always told me, there are some things you can’t ever take back,” Ophele murmured. “That I should be careful what I said. I know it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fix anything. But she was always sorry.”
It didn’t matter. Regret would not bring his family back. But Remin thought about it.
“I am glad…she was sorry,” he said, low. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to speak of her, ever again. He wished Ophele was anyone else’s child. He sighed. “You can tell Azelma that I might want to talk to her again. And so will Juste. It will probably not be a comfortable conversation.”
Remin let his head rest against hers, feeling a little sorry for the elderly cook. She did seem like a nice woman, and he was grateful that she had been there for Ophele, all those years. But it was not enough to win his trust.
“His family was there, too, weren’t they?” Ophele asked quietly.
“Yes. His father and both his sisters.”
The fire crackled in the quiet.
“Do you want me to read to you?” she asked at length, and when he nodded, she went to fetch one of the books Miche had brought back from Aldeburke, a story about the wood-folk of Illus.
Ophele had been reading it to him whenever there was time, with the air of introducing him to a dear friend.
It was good speaking practice for her to read aloud, and he could prop his chin on her shoulder, close his eyes, and empty his mind.
He never knew whether it was the wine or the conversation with Miche or Ophele herself, curled up against him all night long. But that night, if he dreamed, he did not remember it.
In the morning, it was snowing again.
“I have never seen so much snow,” Ophele said, awed as she looked out the windows of the solar. Remin trailed behind her, scrubbing his eyes. He really had not wanted to get out of bed.
“The roads will need shoveling again,” said Juste, setting breakfast on the table. His nose and ears were red with cold. Miche wandered in a few minutes later, his long blond hair loose on his shoulders, looking like a maned Noreveni lion as he yawned with all his teeth.
“We’re going to need bigger shovels,” he said, pulling Ophele’s chair out for her like a gentleman and then repeating the courtesy for Lady Verr. “Sim and Jaose had to clear the walkways around the house three times yesterday.”
“Let me know if you need help,” Remin said, poking at his eggs with a fork rather than eating them. They looked singularly unappetizing this morning.
It was the first blizzard of the winter and he was already tired of snow.
Pulling his cloak up over his shoulders, Remin kissed Ophele good-bye and went out into the cold, where Jaose was sweeping off the portico at the front of the house and Sim was clearing the path to the stable with a resigned expression.
At least the snow had tapered off a little; when Remin drew Lancer up at the top of the hill, he could see all of Tresingale spread below him under a blanket of white, with smoke rising from many chimneys.
He did not like to think of Huber and his men trudging through that, along with who knew how many refugees.
Miche would be leaving shortly with several hundred men to go and search for them, equipped with sledges, snowshoes, and heavy clothing, and enough spares to outfit all of Huber’s men and half of Isigne besides.
But travel in winter was dangerous. It was easy to get lost with half the landmarks buried in snow, and sometimes the Andelin blizzards were so fierce, a man could get lost between his house and his stable.
He would have to have a word with the folk in the cottages about that, just in case.
But his first stop of the morning was Genon’s infirmary, which had been filling up over the past few days with patients suffering both frostbite and flu, especially the night guardsmen, who were not taking their winter clothing seriously.
“Layers. Layers,” Genon enunciated as he examined the purple nose of a grimacing soldier.
“Don’t take His Grace as your model, I beg, and think you’ve done enough to acquire a fur cloak.
Ospret himself said that we have a little fire in us all, but it only helps if you bank the flames.
Your Grace,” he said, rolling one yellow eye toward Remin. “We were just talking about you.”
“And without proper reverence,” Remin agreed, though his glare lacked conviction. “That’s what I was coming to check, Gen. Any casualties?”