Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Let it be declared that His Majesty Prince Osian
Arden-Draca,
Prince of Cyngalon and Duke of the Splintered Sea,
has wed His Highness Meilyr Cadogan of the Denelands.
The House of Arden-Draca and all of the Isles of Mhrydain send their
blessings, and good fortunes to the union.
Missive given to all heralds of the Isles of Mhrydain,
signed by Heir Apparent Her Majesty Aldreda Arden-Draca.
713 A.S.
EIGHTEEN
Drizzle worked steadily at the windows, bruised with morning light. Osian returned from his duties and drew out a small letter. ‘This was with one of my knights.’
It was a missive, with Meilyr’s name inked on the top: a hand and paper he recognised instantly. His fingers shook as he opened it, reading quickly. ‘Thank you.’ He tried not to clutch the paper. ‘Thank you, Majesty.’ He followed him to the desk.
The missive was from Heulwen, on paper from their apothecary. The contents were careful and brief: thankful he was well and hoping that continued. Hoping he was adjusting to life at court. Hoping to hear from him soon, if possible.
Careful, vague confirmation of Celyn’s return.
Heulwen was safe, and able to make contact with him. His chest swelled with unsteady warmth. ‘May I reply?’
The prince gestured to the prepared desk and watched as Meilyr sat and looked over the list Heulwen had written. ‘There may come a time when I can have her escorted here, or you to her. However, at the moment…’
‘Of course,’ Meilyr agreed, unreservedly. It was far better for Heulwen not to be anywhere near the court, and far better not to give Celyn more reasons to fret or act rashly. ‘Thank you – thank you, Majesty.’
He hesitated as he reached for the ink. There was still a voice in the back of his mind that worried for Heulwen.
She had been a comfort in his life since his first visits to Eascild, not yet in his teen years, to see the workings of Lowri’s apothecary.
Lowri, his foster-aunt: his teacher and confidant.
Heulwen’s nose pressed against the windows of the shop, misting them: a wild, always-laughing child of a neighbour, inquisitive and bright.
He wanted her safe, and it felt as though the prince wanted the same. Even if it was just to protect their facade, perhaps that was enough.
He set about replying.
‘If there is anything you need,’ Osian said, ‘please say.’
Meilyr drew the list closer, speaking as he wrote, distracting himself from the feeling of the prince at his shoulder.
They both wore their collars fully fastened this morning, but there was no denying the small but colourful purple-red welt that had met Meilyr in the mirror, just above his collarbone.
‘Thank you. She has asked for advice – I keep notes on our patrons, but they are usually in shorthand. When someone has a new issue, it can be confusing.’
Osian watched him carefully. ‘You do not require your notes to reply?’
‘Not for these, thankfully.’
Wade Bevan’s summer rash had returned, and Meilyr’s notes said ‘the usual’, which needed clarification.
Alys Lowe had broken her arm but could neither take the medicine prescribed by the physician nor what Heulwen had suggested, as she was heavily pregnant and allergic.
Gwyneth Prosser’s twins still had stomach-aches, and Heulwen had tried everything she knew.
Gwyneth was now very concerned and very upset, and only wanted Meilyr’s advice.
Meilyr replied carefully. Added a key for shorthands Heulwen might find in his notes. Circled back to Gwyneth’s problem.
‘Majesty?’ The prince had allowed this, but would more be too much? ‘There are a great many unusual plants in the gardens.’ He had mentally inventoried most of them. ‘I wonder, would you happen to know if something called fox’s tears is present?’
‘Fox’s tears?’
‘It is a small dark plant, with russet-green leaves.’
‘I recognise the name, but I am not certain.’
Meilyr steadied himself and asked, ‘There is a chance one patron’s children have come into contact with a toxin. I have suggested an alternative, as fox’s tears themselves are poisonous but can be used as a last resort to clear the system of others. I… Is there any chance…?’
‘I will have it asked of Nelda, the Keeper of the Grounds. If the plant is not present, perhaps it can be procured.’
‘It is rather rare. There are other things that can be used.’
‘I will see what can be done.’
The tension eased out of his chest. ‘Thank you, truly.’
‘Of course. I will have this sent as soon as it is ready.’
‘Thank you, Majesty.’
Surely he did not have to be this accommodating.
The next weeks would be filled with continued pomp and ceremony,
assuming Meilyr was not accused of murder or discovered by the king’s
Ectheid adviser.
A pre-coronation tournament was to take place in purpose-built structures on the western hills, cleared earlier that spring. Demelza asked Meilyr to help her oversee things, as befitted his title. He would rather have hidden away, but at least it meant he was busy, and away from Lord Gelens.
Gelens, who had to be avoided without drawing suspicion. No small feat, since the king’s adviser was a facet of every court event, allowed everywhere, their eyes tracing Meilyr with that small, self-satisfied smile, as if anticipating a secret no one else could fathom.
It made his skin crawl, in a very different way to Lord Leighton’s previous stares.
Beyond the coming tournament, there was something else to occupy his time: both a risk and a relief. Deryn injured her hand, and Meilyr suggested a specific salve to aid healing. Parr overheard, and the next afternoon sheepishly asked if he knew anything about horses.
With the bay stallion’s leg seen to and the ebony foal’s cough on the mend, word spread from the stables like fire through hay. It was only when yet another formerly unknown member of staff approached him with a request for an ailment that he realised what had happened.
At least Lord Gelens and the others already knew he was an apothecary.
Still, it soothed the nettle-itch to do something, every time he offered advice.
Every tonic he mixed or ointment he strained was its own balm, after Osian confirmed he could work as he pleased in his rooms. The prince even had burners brought from somewhere, as well as a mortar and pestle, jars and scales, twine and more papers and inks.
Even a beautiful leather-bound notebook, embossed with his three oak leaves and fastened with soft midnight-blue ribbon.
Osian presented it to him humbly as Deryn and Parr pretended not to watch.
‘He’s so gentle with you,’ Parr remarked fondly after the prince left. ‘Absolutely smitten, melts my heart.’
No, Osian was just very good at playing the part.
Only a few more months, then he would be crowned. They would annul their union, and Meilyr would return to his old life. He repeated that silently, over and over, crushing agapanthus petals, and the treacherous bloom of warmth in his chest.
One grey morning, he and Osian were summoned to Aldreda’s solar.
Captain Radnor stood with one of his higher-ranking crownsworn – Lord
Gelens, Prince Wystan, Lady Demelza and the Heir Apparent herself also
present.
‘It was this or the garrison,’ Aldreda explained, reclined in her favourite chair. ‘Believe me, I’m not exactly enamoured with the use of my solar for… whatever this is, Captain.’
Radnor regarded Osian. ‘It has been confirmed from Gorsedd Arian that two children were raised around the correct time, by the Howells. Two boys.’
Meilyr kept his expression as levelled as possible. Lord Gelens watched him.
‘And?’ Osian asked. ‘The last I heard, it was not illegal or damning to have a sibling.’
‘Sometimes damning,’ Aldreda corrected.
‘Sometimes damning.’
‘There was no mention of it,’ Radnor continued. There was a scar across his eyebrow that tensed when he was annoyed, as he was now. ‘A sibling should be listed in the notes I was provided. Either this was an unforgiveable accident, or a deliberate falsehood.’
‘Careful, Captain,’ Osian said. ‘Do not accuse the Crown of lying without evidence.’
‘The evidence—’
‘He has a bond-brother, yes. As they are not blood relatives, I fail to see how this pertains to the killing of Lord Leighton.’
Meilyr was both glad and terrified that Celyn had been released, and that Osian had the apothecary watched.
‘I agree with His Majesty,’ said Lord Gelens, stunning everyone, their voice honey-smooth. ‘It seems you have all the information you require at this moment, Captain. I would leave innocents out of this, or risk disturbing the populace, which is the last thing any of us want.’
Spoken like the truth, even as it stirred the hairs at the back of Meilyr’s neck.
Aldreda raised her eyebrows and cast a subtle sideways glance at Osian.
‘We have an isolated incident,’ Lord Gelens continued, ‘likely perpetrated by someone holding a personal grudge against Lord Leighton, perhaps even from his own March. I trust you have drawn an extensive list of suspects, Captain?’
The captain turned his martially perfect stance towards Lord Gelens. ‘Given the prince consort’s proximity at the time of the killing, and that we have all but ruled out a rogue member of the populace—’
‘Oh, have we? I must have missed that. To me, it sounds as though a meagre search was performed of the area, seeking an individual who almost certainly was not working alone. I am afraid you might be a little too close to this, Captain. Perhaps your personal feelings about the Denelander populace are clouding your judgement?’
The scar above Radnor’s eye constricted. ‘If the Lord Adviser believes so.’
‘No need for that,’ Lord Gelens dismissed. ‘I am merely here to ensure all avenues are thoroughly investigated.’ They looked at Meilyr and Osian, expression serene. ‘Apologies for having you both summoned so early. That will be all for now, Majesty. Highness.’
Osian touched Meilyr’s elbow as they left the solar. In the insular corridor beyond, as Ser Pedr and Ser Blythe fell into step behind, the unease refused to unlatch itself from Meilyr’s skin. Why had Lord Gelens moved the investigation so readily away from Celyn?
As they neared a staircase, Lady Faina was coming down it, coughing. She had been coughing at dinner the previous night as well, trying to cover it.
She startled as she saw them, clutching the banister. ‘Ah, Majesty. Highness. Please excuse me, I forgot something.’
She disappeared back upstairs, a single cough echoing before her footsteps faded.
‘My Prince,’ Meilyr asked in the stillness, ‘might I walk the gardens?’
‘You do not have to ask. All I request is that Pedr remain with you.’
Of course. Ser Pedr had been assigned to him, a constant presence. The knight saluted with their hand to their chest in fealty, and Osian kissed Meilyr’s hand before they parted.
A break in the rain was not quite enough to populate the gardens with courtiers and nobles, so Meilyr moved with purpose. Ser Pedr remained watchful as he went about ducking down in his fine tunics to pluck shoots, leaves and petals from here and there.
He was almost done when he and Haydn spotted each other, and Meilyr’s chest did a little thump of worry and relief. Haydn’s face lit up as though the sun had risen for the first time all year.
Ser Pedr followed at a watchful distance. Which was fine, nothing was happening.
‘Ordinary prince consort activities?’ Haydn asked, noting Meilyr’s handful of plant matter.
‘The most ordinary. I wonder, is there any more nettle?’
‘Of course. If you’ll follow me, Highness.’
There was a secret swathe of them, towards the low coastal wall where some of the larger trees grew. Meilyr knelt, and Haydn caught his wrist. ‘Wait.’
Meilyr felt Ser Pedr’s glare, but Haydn merely drew out a kerchief from his belt and handed it to him. ‘So you aren’t stung,’ Haydn explained.
He lingered as Meilyr plucked several handfuls of the immensely useful little irritants, then helped adjust the kerchief so it held all the plants, cupping Meilyr’s hands when it was not quite necessary. ‘Keep it,’ he said when it was done, and helped Meilyr to his feet.
‘Thank you,’ Meilyr managed, somewhat taken back. Somewhat flushed from Haydn’s pointed intentions, which had passed to him with every brush of their skin.
Things between them had ended poorly. It had been a surprise not to face bitterness, or even resentment. Instead, there was affection in Haydn’s hands: unchanged, despite time and heartache.
It took Meilyr back to the cluttered hedgerows and bunched gardens of Gorsedd Arian. Haydn close and tall, reaching the berries Meilyr could not, smug and teasing as he presented them like the village boys presented flowers.
The exhilarating, certain dependency of his companionship. His uncomplicated fondness the first time he tucked cherry blossoms into Meilyr’s hair: the first time he leaned in and kissed him.
‘Anything you need,’ Haydn reminded him, there in the grounds of Eascild Castle.
Mild discomfort rose, and Meilyr excused himself.