Chapter 13 – Greater than Fear #3
“I won’t,” she said, as if she had a habit of roving the countryside in the heat of the day. It didn’t make any sense. If he didn’t like her, why did he look at her that way? So many times, he would forget himself and laugh, or his eyes would get so warm, and then when he touched her…
But it wasn’t only his touch. As she watched him gather his things, Ophele considered and rejected the possibility that this was a purely physical phenomenon, or, contrariwise, a matter of simple obligation.
By now, their nights together seemed almost a romantic dream, a chance encounter with a mysterious stranger that would never happen again.
But she had never forgotten that kindling between them, and she had come to know Remin better, since then.
The man that listened and explained, patient and persistent, a brave man that tried even when he didn’t know how to do things.
She liked this man. She liked him very much.
And he had already told her that he didn’t know how to do this.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said as he ducked out the door, and Ophele nodded, her eyes watchful.
“Be careful.”
Take care of His Grace. That was what Sir Huber had told her, when they were dancing together the night of the banquet. And of course, she had agreed; that was what a wife was supposed to do, even if the husband was Remin Grimjaw and the wife was manifestly unqualified to take care of anything.
But Remin’s men all seemed to think he needed care, and Ophele quietly picked over the evidence.
She knew little of the world and nothing of men, but when she put forth the proposition that he didn’t care for her, the weight of evidence did not seem to support it.
His observed behavior flatly contradicted it.
If he had wanted only to be rid of her, he would have seized this chance with both hands.
Which meant there was something else troubling him, and as Ophele’s eyes drifted toward the door he had closed so gently behind him, she understood that this was a puzzle, of a kind she had never attempted before.
* * *
I need to speak to you privately, please.
The note was scrawled on a small scrap of paper, rolled up in a tight scroll and hidden under the edge of his dinner plate.
It was hardly the first time that Sir Miche of Harnost had received such an invitation.
Automatically, he transferred the note to his lap, noting the messy, childish handwriting. Really, that was sufficient all by itself to identify the guilty party, but his eyes went to the small woman some distance down the supper table, who was doing her best to pretend he didn’t exist.
Ophele’s ears were scarlet.
You can find me in the stable before supper, read the rest of the message, and Miche flicked it into his sleeve, amused.
Of course, he was ever the obedient slave of a lady, but it wasn’t going to be easy to have a private word with the Duchess of Andelin.
Not even for Miche of Harnost, who modestly considered himself the cleverest man in the valley.
In the first place, everyone was busy from sunup to sundown.
Having discovered that his destiny lay in ditch digging, Miche was loathe to stop, especially since that troll Jinmin had suddenly decided he wanted to be Master Earthmover.
Miche would be damned if some upstart would best him, even if he was eight feet tall and built like a drawbridge.
Miche had charge of the east side diggers, Jinmin was on the west, and by the stars, they’d see who made it to the gatehouse first.
The lady was hardly less occupied, for all that she no longer worked at the wall.
Ophele had become a fixture in front of Remin on his big black horse, poking her small nose into all the business of the valley and offering her hands to anyone who had a use for them.
It did Miche’s heart good to see her so happy.
She had been a silent, solemn little shadow for so long, and he bitterly reproached himself that he had not intervened sooner.
This clumsy invitation meant she had grown brave enough to set her hands to the levers of the world.
How could he refuse her?
“…give us a hand at the gatehouse tomorrow?” Bram was saying beside him, and Miche made some rapid mental calculations.
“Yes,” he said, with such a dazzling smile that the other man bristled in instinctive alarm.
It was a perfect opportunity.
Miche spent the next day arranging matters to his satisfaction and wondering what she wanted. The problem seemed obvious to him, but he wouldn’t have blamed Ophele for being confused; it would be a thorny challenge for any young woman, let alone the Exile Princess, and Remin was just lost.
He had kept his word. He was trying. Stars, he was succeeding, there were few endeavors in the world more warmly received by their beneficiary.
It had upset Miche terribly to realize it, but Ophele did not expect to be treated kindly.
Every gesture, no matter how small, was received with touching surprise, and she paid them back with smiles and thanks and little gifts of her own.
She and Remin were both being so careful around each other, tiptoeing forward with each new offering as if they were asking, is this all right?
Are we all right? Is this what you want?
It was a vicious cycle that threatened to make them deliriously happy, and in the process was making Rem so wretched that Miche couldn’t believe no one else saw it.
But then, he knew Remin very well. When Tounot had been barred from even writing to his former liege lord and boyhood friend, Miche had been the one to tell Remin the news.
While Juste was tending sheep in his monastery in the mountains, Miche had been tasting Remin’s food for poison.
And when old Duke Ereguil decreed it was time for his foster son to learn how to stand a watch, Miche was the one who stayed up all night to teach him how.
Rem was very good at hiding his feelings. But sometimes, when he looked at Ophele, there was something so trapped and desperate in his eyes that it made Miche’s blood run cold. He knew that look. It was not a good thing when Remin Grimjaw felt trapped.
Miche went to the stables that evening to find Ophele grooming Master Eugene, a task she would not allow anyone else to perform.
Normally, Rem would already have been there with her, but through a series of minor manipulations, His Grace had been needed out at the wall.
Jinmin and his boys had run into a little trouble.
“…and your ears,” she was saying as Miche entered the stable, a contented little burble of chatter that made him suspect she was used to talking to herself. “I wonder if long ears are a sign of beauty among donkeys. In Daitia, they go half naked except for these amazing hats—”
“How scandalous,” Miche drawled, making her turn with a start. He grinned. “Evening, my lady. Please tell me more about these hats.”
“You creep about like a cat,” she said frankly, but she was smiling. “They have a language of hats, in Daitia. If you saw someone with a gray hat and gold trim, it might mean, I am sad and rich.”
That made him laugh, and he sat down on a convenient hay bale, laying his sword over his knee. He was filthy and sweaty from the day’s digging and made a face as hay dust whiffed upward to stick to his bare arms.
“I wonder if we could adopt the custom,” he said, entertained by the idea. “Rem seems to be cannibalizing architecture and customs from half the nations in the known world.”
“No, you wouldn’t want to wear some of these hats.” Mischief lurked in her eyes, a shy humor that she was just beginning to share. “They have punishment hats. People have to wear them for thievery or bribery or shirking work.”
“I will have you know that the east side crew has already surpassed yesterday’s digging.” The subtle jibe made him smirk. “We’ll have the north wall done before winter, you’ll see.”
“I know His Grace will be relieved.” Her hands worked smoothly, brushing the donkey’s fuzzy gray flank. “Sir Miche, I have been wondering, is there anything…troubling him?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“He seems so to me,” she said, frowning. “I wondered if it might be something to do with my…my father. He wouldn’t tell me if there was, I guess, but everyone is being so careful to guard him, I thought maybe—”
“Everyone is always careful, my lady,” Miche said somberly. “There are many measures in place. Rem’s never alone, even if it looks like he is.”
“I never thought about how complicated it must be,” she admitted, exchanging her brush for a curry comb.
Miche had never seen a donkey so well-groomed as Master Eugene.
“But when I wanted to buy tea from Mr. Guian, I thought, how can I tell if the tea is safe? Sir Tounot said Mr. Guian could be trusted, so I bought it, and then I thought, how can I keep it safe? No one’s in the cottage most of the day.
If I left the tea there, how could I be sure someone didn’t sneak in and do something?
I had to ask Master Wen to keep it for me.
If we want tea, I go get it from him, one pinch at a time. ”
Miche was actually impressed that she had thought it through so far. And surprised that Wen had consented to be the Keeper of Tea.
“And Rem drinks it?” he asked curiously.
She glanced at him, her forehead crinkling.
“Yes…” She said slowly. “I saw him sip. He wouldn’t pretend to drink, would he?”
“He would.” Even though he had come here to have precisely this conversation with her, Miche was still sorry to see her face fall. “He’s good at it. He likely spills a little while your back is turned. Does he empty the cup?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I thought he would like it. I was so careful to make sure no one could get to it. Or is it because…”
She cut the words off, but Miche could read what she was thinking well enough. Is it because I gave it to him?