Chapter 7 – Lady of the Household #4
“Marriage is like a treaty,” he said slowly.
It was an analogy that made sense to him.
“I guess that’s what our wedding was, wasn’t it?
If two sides agree that a patch of land belongs to someone, and they get up in front of everyone and announce that it does, and give everyone a chance to object if they have a problem with it, then it’s settled.
That’s why it’s grounds for war if someone tries to take it afterward. ”
“We did do that,” Ophele agreed, looking intrigued. “I didn’t think about the objection part.”
“And prostitutes are poachers. Or can be, if the man’s married.”
“But men choose to go to them,” she pointed out.
“It takes two to break a marriage oath.” Remin waved this away.
He had no strong opinion on the issue; his view of prostitutes was utilitarian, but he reserved a special loathing for oath-breakers.
“But that’s why they’re looked down on, generally.
I’m your patch of land, wife. You don’t want anyone poaching me. ”
“Well, I don’t,” she said, with a slow curving of her lips. This kind of idea entertained her. “I think you’d be a mountainous patch of land.”
“Oh?”
“Tall. Inaccessible,” she said, a pretty flush coloring her cheeks. “And…a beautiful view.”
Against his will, Remin felt his neck heat.
“You’ve been listening to Tounot too much,” he grumbled, nudging his horse over to her.
There was no one nearby as he caught her, tangling his fingers in her hair and pulling her face to his.
“I am yours, though,” he said, willing her to believe it.
“Forever. And you’re a garden to me. I would go to war, if anyone tried to take you away. ”
“I love you,” she whispered, her soft lips moving against his, and it was only the irritated sidling of Remin’s horse that broke them apart.
But the shadow was still there in her eyes as they rode back to the stable, lingering like a malign spell.
* * *
This place was a dump.
A mire. A midden. A fish-scented prison at the far end of nowhere, a backwater to which she was arriving by literal boat.
Lady Mionet Verr, twenty-seven and widowed, stood near the prow of the ferry with her gloved hands neatly folded and endeavored not to touch anything.
A slender woman with auburn hair and gray eyes, her blue brocade gown was an object lesson on the importance of a good tailor and was still absolutely spotless, despite the long journey through rough country.
Her gloves were unblemished white; her hair was drawn up in a perfect, graceful knot, and if she had a few loose curls at her temples, it was because she had allowed them to escape.
The Roses of Segoile, sharp-eyed and even sharper-tongued, could not have identified a single flaw in her appearance or manner.
Indeed, Mionet was a veteran of those feminine wars.
And she was not quitting that battlefield, she told herself for the thousandth time, lifting her chin. This was merely a tactical retreat.
“Handle those carefully, if you please,” she said to the first porter that approached her luggage, a heap of matching trunks, hatboxes, and bandboxes that were as pristine now as they had been at the beginning of her journey.
Beside them were several immense crates that had been in her care all the way from Ereguil, directed to Duke Remin Andelin and no one else.
She would be glad to have them off her hands.
At the foot of the gangplank, a bald man was waiting politely for her, clearly some sort of authority in this benighted place, as he was not covered in dirt.
“My lady,” said the bald man, with a bow. “I am Master Gibel. You are Lady Verr from Ereguil?”
“You are the dockmaster? I was sent by the duchess, yes.” Reaching into her satchel, she produced her pass, stamped with the seal of Duke Ereguil. “I sent a message this morning. I believe there should be a wagon waiting?”
“Yes, my lady. That’s it over there,” said the bald man, waving toward the long row of warehouses where a box on wheels was waiting. “We’ll have some men load it up for you, if you’d like to rest in the shade.”
“Thank you,” she said, retrieving her pass and dismissing the suggestion in a single gesture.
“Please have a messenger sent to His Grace to let him know I have arrived, as well as the items from Ereguil. His Grace will have been expecting them. I am placing them in your care. He will not thank you if they are in any way damaged.”
The mingling of herself with the precious items would ensure prompt attention.
And she had no notion of letting the porters handle her luggage unsupervised.
Beckoning them after her, she shepherded them toward the wagon to ensure the boxes were arranged in such a way that rough roads wouldn’t bounce them back out.
“Lady Verr,” said the driver of the wagon, dropping from the box with a quick jerk of his head. He looked little better than a porter in his dusty trousers, but moved with a martial bearing she instantly recognized. “I am Justenin of Tresingale. Welcome.”
“Sir knight,” Mionet replied, offering him her hand.
She might have had a commoner mother, but Lady Mionet Verr was the daughter of a nobleman and had been duly presented to society at sixteen, with her name written in the Empress’s book.
The only people that outranked her in this city were the Duke and Duchess of Andelin, Lord Edemir of Trecht, and Lord Leonin of Breuyir, the fifth son of a Tries bannerman.
Everyone knew that Tounot of Belleme had been disowned by his father.
“A pleasure,” said Sir Justenin. “I am to convey you to the manor, and ask you to forgive the rustic accommodation. Duke Ereguil said you were acquainted with our circumstances.”
“I am,” Mionet agreed, allowing him to boost her into the wagon. “Have Their Graces been moved up to the manor?”
“Next week. But it will be some time for the rest of us,” he warned, leaping lightly into the wagon.
Mionet knew Sir Justenin by reputation, but would have been warned to tread carefully by those placid pale eyes.
“Master Didion and the builders are to begin work on the west wing once the family quarters are complete. In the meantime, we will occupy cottages nearby…”
With the ease of long practice, Mionet listened with half an ear and murmured the correct responses, but her eyes were on the town as they turned onto what was no doubt the only road.
It was every bit as backward as she had expected, little better than the dusty cow hole where she had been born, as if all her life had been leading her to the furthest forest of the Empire, so she could putter about with mushrooms like her mother.
And this far forest must be ruled by a suitably rustic lord and lady, of no real significance or influence in spite of their lofty titles.
It was some consolation that soon—perhaps even today—she would get to meet Princess Ophele in the flesh.
The Exile Princess was the subject of frothing curiosity in the capital, and Mionet Verr would be the first to find out whether she was the simpleton they said she was.
Carefully, of course. Those same gossips made Remin Grimjaw quite the brute.
“Please be careful,” she said again when they arrived on the hilltop, and Sir Justenin dragged her baggage over one shoulder.
The whole top of the hill was a construction site, with the great shell of the manor house on the western peak and rows of cottages beside it.
Was this what was meant by wattle and daub?
She had heard of it, but had never in her life expected to see it with her own eyes.
Even the peasants in her father’s cow hole built with stone.
“If you would like to settle in and refresh yourself, Lady Verr, I will send a message to Her Grace informing her of your arrival,” Sir Justenin said, pushing open a door in the first row of cottages.
“No, that is quite all right, I have already sent a message,” she said, resisting the urge to poke at the daub with a gloved fingertip. “Where will you be, in case I need you?”
“For the next hour, in my quarters,” he said, pointing out the cottage at the end of the row.
“We have two stable lads living in that one, nearest the barn, and they won’t mind helping you with water and firewood until the other servants arrive.
I took the liberty of bringing up some refreshments from the kitchen, but I will caution you against keeping food uncovered. It will attract mice.”
“Very good,” Mionet said politely, and went into her cottage and shut the door.
There was no point in unpacking. There was nothing to unpack into.
In less than an hour, Mionet had washed, changed into a fresh gown of coppery watered silk, acquired paper, quill, and ink, and presented a list of essential items to Sir Justenin, which began with a mirror and ended with a promise that someone would come to collect her chamber pot.
Really, it was ridiculous that a lady should even have to contemplate such crudities.
The invitation from Duchess Andelin came even more promptly than she had hoped. Mionet was just finishing a light tea when the duchess’s messenger arrived in the unlikely form of a small girl.
“Yes?” Mionet said in the door of her hovel, directing her attention downward.
“Hello, my lady is in the cookhouse and says you can come see her there now if you feel like it,” the girl said, proud of having delivered this in a single breath.
“And who are you?”
“I’m her page,” the girl said, puffing visibly.
“Your name, child,” Mionet said, with exaggerated patience and wondering if this was some prank.
“Oh. Elodie. Elodie Conbour of Tresingale, I said the oath to His Grace.”
“Elodie Conbour, my lady,” Mionet corrected. “Have you not learned your courtesies? Frechard! Do you know this child?”
“Oh, yes, m’lady,” said Frechard. The stableboy had been fetching the promised load of firewood. “Hi, Elodie. Her Grace send you?”