Chapter 11 – Try #2
Not when he took her from her home without so much as a chance to pack a bag.
Not when he forced her to marry him. Not when he hurt her on their wedding night and dragged her straight into the saddle the next morning.
Not when, fresh from their lovemaking, he had all but accused her of trying to have him assassinated.
Not even after he gave her too much wine and she had been so sick, sobbing into the blankets until Remin wished someone would take him off and hang him.
She had endured it all without a word of protest. Why? Why would anyone do that? Was it just because she was timid? Was she that afraid of him?
Outside, it grew dark, and he rose to light a lamp and set it on the trunk beside the bed, illuminating the sleeping girl.
Her delicate face, the eyes that saw and showed so much.
He remembered every cruel word he had spoken, every time he had snapped at her, every time he had driven her into flinching, bewildered retreat.
All those times she had fallen silent, her words trailing away inaudibly.
More times than he could count.
This was not pointless self-flagellation.
Remin was thinking. He had done nothing to earn her loyalty, and a great deal to make her hate him.
That had not been his objective, but it didn’t matter.
The more he thought about it, the more he thought he wouldn’t blame her if she did try to have him killed.
“Rem,” said a voice outside, and he opened the door to find Miche with his supper and a small pot of honey. “Gen said she would live?”
“Looks that way.”
Miche closed his eyes. “Thank the stars. The masons brought Master Eugene up to the stable. When she wakes up, she’ll likely ask. He’s been fed and I brushed him out myself. Is there anything I can do?”
“No.” Remin forced himself to meet the other man’s eyes. Miche had warned him, again and again. “But thank you.”
“I’ll be here,” Miche assured him, gripping his shoulder. “Right outside. All you have to do is call. It’s all right. You can make this right.”
“I can. I know.” Remin took it in like air. Of course, Miche would be there. Miche had always been there, since Remin was ten. No matter what, Miche was always there.
Closing the door, Remin put the food on the table and forgot about it. He heard the shrieking cackle of a strangler in the distance, a sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. In her sleep, the princess twitched, and he sat down beside the bed, gripping her small hand.
He was doing sums. For example: how many miles had she been walking every day, this girl who had never gone further than the gates of Aldeburke?
How many thousands of pounds of water had she hauled from the wells?
Just one barrel was two hundred and fifty pounds, almost triple her weight. A ton of water. Per day. By herself.
He touched the blisters on her palms, blisters she had hidden under gloves, because he certainly would have seen them otherwise. Wouldn’t he?
If he had taken even a moment to think about it, he would never have let her do it.
It was hard work, hauling water. At first, it hadn’t been too much; the well was nearby and the work crew small.
But no one had thought, when they gave her a donkey and a wagon, that it was still one undersized woman filling all those barrels.
He would have hesitated to put one of his squires to the task, and they were training to be knights.
“I don’t understand you,” he said aloud, to cover the noise of the devils outside. “I don’t understand why you did it. You owe me nothing. What has it been? Four months…”
No matter how he turned it around in his mind, it didn’t make sense.
Why would anyone work so hard, without a single word of complaint, for someone who neglected them so?
What possible scheme could involve silently working until she dropped?
Even if she wasn’t a pawn of the Emperor, it made no sense.
Unless her plan was to drop dead beside Eugene and let it be known to the world that Remin Grimjaw could not be trusted with a wife.
Which wasn’t a bad idea, in terms of lasting vengeance; Remin would never forgive himself if she died. But that was a rather costly victory from her point of view.
“Prin—Ophele,” he whispered. The name felt strange on his tongue.
All this time, he had called her Princess so he would never forget whose daughter she was.
But Wen was right. She wasn’t a princess anymore.
She was a duchess, his duchess, and had been since the day they were married.
He ran the wet cloth over her breasts, tracing the shameful hollow of her belly.
“Ophele. Wife. You’re nothing like what I expected.
I thought you’d be a noble lady like I saw in the capital, but you’ve never even been there, have you?
For some reason, I keep thinking you have. ”
He could hear the sounds of ghouls outside, and the distant hunting howl of a demon wolf, and kept talking, hoping a human voice would be better than the noises of devils, even if it was his.
“They call them the Roses of Segoile,” he murmured.
“Because of the thorns. I never had much to do with women. They made me a squire when I was twelve, and sent me off to war with Valleth. Sometimes I went back to Ereguil for a few months, here and there, and I liked the duchess, and the ladies in the castle and the…the girls in the village.” His mind shied away from that.
“But I didn’t really talk to women until the war was over, and I went to Segoile.
I don’t know what to say. I keep upsetting you, even when I don’t mean to.
I’m sorry for that. I don’t always know what I’m doing wrong, or how to fix it. ”
His voice went on, circling, wondering, trying to understand how it had gone this badly wrong. He could only hope that she could hear him, that the sound of his voice would make her think, fill her eyes with thoughts. This time, he would ask what they were. He had always wanted to know.
“And those women were terrifying,” he said, trying to lighten his tone.
“Not like you at all. Miche and Tounot had to teach me how to dodge, or I’d probably still be fighting marriage duels for outraging the honor of some woman I never even met.
Duchess Ereguil said that in Dulcia and Capricia, the challenge is getting your daughter married off by the end of the season.
But in Segoile it’s all a man can do to get out of it alive. ”
He had to remember to tell her that again, when she woke up. She wouldn’t know that, would she? She wouldn’t know anything about the capital at all.
“That’s what I thought you’d be like. I kept trying to treat you as if you were, but you aren’t.
” Crossing his arms on the mattress, Remin rested his head on them, brushing her hair back from her face with his fingertips.
He had tried over and over to paint the Emperor’s features onto that small face, but she looked nothing like her father.
“I keep looking for thorns,” he whispered. “And there just aren’t any.”
Her skin was cool. He was afraid to touch her beyond that, afraid that even the warm pads of his fingertips might do her some harm. Instead, he ran his fingers through her river of hair, still damp from the Brede.
“When you wake up, we’ll start fattening you up. Pudding, if you want it, no matter what Wen says. A dozen puddings a day. Don’t ladies like sweet things? My mother’s favorite was pudding with custard and strawberries. It’ll be different when you wake up, I promise.”
But the thought of different made his mouth go dry, and Remin fell silent.
He had been pushing her away for a reason.
She was one of the Emperor’s poisoned gifts.
The sweetest and most beguiling poison, a poison so seductive that it was almost enough to make him forget all the hard lessons he had learned and just gulp it down.
Let it happen, whatever it was. Give up.
Give in. Drown. The sweetness would be worth it.
“It’ll be different,” he repeated, trying to ignore the painful thumping of his heart. “I’ll take care of you from now on. No more work, you’ve done en—”
“But…I want to help…”
The words were so soft, at first he thought his ears were playing tricks on him. Remin looked up to find her eyes were slitted open, the faintest glint of tawny hazel gleaming under her thick lashes. Her face was turned toward him.
“Why?” he whispered back, so relieved that his hand shook as he reached to touch her cool forehead.
“My father…” The words made his blood run cold. She licked her lips. “…my father. Because of what he did. Your House. Your family…”
“You want to help because of what your father did?” he repeated stupidly.
She nodded, tears sliding from the corners of her eyes.
“Sorry. I wanted to tell you…so many times. And Sir Justenin. His family, too…I know. And Tressin. That’s why Tresingale, right? I know your family was innocent. My mother told me. I wanted to help. I wanted to give it all back.”
Sweet poison. Such sweet poison. It hurt so much to hear it, words that he would have given anything to hear over the years.
To the rest of the Empire, his parents were traitors, deserving of their public execution.
She was the last person he ever would have expected to say unequivocally that she knew they had been innocent.
Could he believe her? Could it really be true?
For a long moment, they just looked at each other, and it seemed as if everything that had passed between them could be forgotten, for a time, in the forgiving shadows.
“That’s why you said you wanted to work,” he said quietly. “You never argued. You never complained.”
“Yes.” Her eyes squinted against the faint light, a crease between her eyebrows that reminded him of his duty.