Chapter 20
TWENTY
Once, it did not matter that our gods had different names,
our stories different heroes.
They were the same gods, and the same stories,
shared by the same fire.
Now, they banish our gods
and forbid our stories.
A land does not die in a day,
but through the slow exsanguination
of its soul.
Blood in the Sky: The Five-Hundred-Year Slaughter,
H. M
TWENTY
One morning, Meilyr was provided with a pouch of small black seeds: fox’s tears. Faint but healthy; they needed somewhere sheltered and moist, with occasional sunshine.
The tower-top would not do, so Osian came to help select the spot, Blythe and Pedr accompanying. Nelda – the bubbling Keeper of the Grounds – led the way, humbly suggesting places whilst nodding enthusiastically at Meilyr’s input. They settled on two spots, and she called over her assistant.
Haydn stepped out from behind a bursting-yellow forsythia and strode calmly towards them.
Meilyr tensed on Osian’s arm.
Haydn bowed, low and formal. ‘Highness. Your Majesty.’
‘My Prince,’ Meilyr began. There was nothing else for it. ‘This is Haydn Sayer, he—’
‘We were neighbours,’ Haydn cut in. ‘For a time.’
Meilyr imagined stuffing his gardening glove into his mouth.
‘I see.’ Osian was perfectly cordial, thumb still smoothing Meilyr’s hand where they held each other. ‘Near Gorsedd Arian?’
‘Yes, the very same.’
Haydn’s words were silky as always, but with thistles beneath.
Osian noticed, but meant it when he turned to Meilyr and said, ‘I am glad you have someone familiar here. With the both of you and Nelda, the gardens are in expert hands.’
‘They are, Majesty,’ Haydn affirmed.
They looked at one another, the tension thick enough Meilyr could have bottled it.
‘Majesty, forgive me.’ It was Harlan, crunching along the gravel path of the terrace above them. ‘Your sister has requested your input for something about the tournament. It seemed theoretically urgent.’
‘Thank you, Harlan.’ Osian nodded to Haydn. ‘It was good to meet you, Haydn Sayer.’
Haydn bowed. ‘Majesty.’
Osian drew Meilyr’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. ‘Until later, then.’
He climbed easily up the terrace with Blythe, who shot a glance over her shoulder before falling in.
‘Highness,’ Haydn said. ‘Might I request your eye on the allysum? Nelda, I am sure Ser Pedr would be more than adequate help to begin.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Nelda eyed the knight appreciatively. ‘You must have a green thumb; I see it in your eyes. Fret not, the allysum is just there – you won’t be slacking on your duty.’
Poor Pedr was half dragged towards the verge, protests unheard. Meilyr should have rescued them, but Haydn clearly wanted to talk. He followed him towards the sharp red cover of the photinia hedging, near the allysum in question.
As they reached it, Haydn glanced behind, grabbed Meilyr’s arm and shoved him behind the hedge.
‘What are you doing?’ Meilyr hissed.
‘What did Celyn do?’
‘What?’
‘Celyn. That oaf of a bond-brother of yours, always so delightful, remember him?’
Panic made Meilyr falter before he managed, ‘What about him?’
‘Yesterday was my day off. I stopped by the apothecary, mostly to see if I could, and there was Heulwen – actually charming, that one – do you know what happened? She asked me if you were all right, as though she was afraid for your very life. Obviously that confused me, until she told me Celyn did something. Apparently you’ve sounded fine in your letters, but Celyn is walking around as though he condemned you to death.
She wanted my reassurance that you’re fine.
What happened, Meilyr? Why is she so worried about you? What in the hells—’
Meilyr covered Haydn’s mouth with his hand. ‘All right, stop, let me explain.’
After a moment, he let him go. Much quieter, Haydn said, ‘When I asked if you were all right, this is what I meant. What is happening?’
Lying would only make things worse, so Meilyr cursed silently and told Haydn the rough shape of everything.
Haydn ran his hands raggedly through his dark hair, stunned. ‘Gods. But you two look – you seemed happy. Gods!’
‘Swear you won’t tell anyone. If—’
‘If anyone finds out, Celyn is dead and probably you too, I understand. Your secret is safe with me. But, what now? You stay on the prince’s arm forever?’
‘Until after the coronation.’
‘So, probably forever.’
Defensiveness sprouted. ‘He told the truth.’
‘You’re so sure?’
Meilyr bit his lip. He could not explain it the way he had to Celyn – Haydn did not know what Meilyr was. ‘I know he told the truth; he’s honest.’
‘Mm. And he owns you, now.’
‘It is not like that.’
Haydn went to argue, then took Meilyr’s face in his hands, overflowing with concern. ‘Has he hurt you?’
‘No – no, I’m fine—’
‘Highness Cadogan?’
Pedr. Close.
Meilyr pulled away as Haydn let him go. ‘Please do not tell anyone. Please.’
Haydn nodded, taut and withdrawn. His worry was deep, coiled with a rage and a protectiveness Meilyr neither needed nor deserved.
He had no choice but to stride back onto the path and let Pedr find him.
As full summer arrived through sheets of rain, the Crown hosted the
coronation tournament.
At the specially built site on the hills west of Eascild, the precipitation had abated for the better part of the events of the first day: a clamour of voices, and drums that rattled the chest; horses, hounds, falcons, and the snapping of thousands of white, gold and blue banners in the hissing wind.
Meilyr sat at the prince’s side, smiled and applauded. Assisted in accepting pennants and offering prizes. Talked idly with members of the court and sipped sweet mead and sparkling wine.
This was his most public outing as consort. The stands for townsfolk were filled to bursting, and there had been applause – cheering – when he had been heralded. A good deal of the spectators were Khaimfolc settled in Eascild, but there had to be a measure of Cyngaleg peoples too.
The reception was surprising. Was Celyn amongst them? Meilyr did not have to guess what he would think of all this. Was Heulwen here? He tried not to scan the crowd, afraid of what he might find.
‘These strawberries!’ Faina grasped the air in joy. She sat in the box below the royal one and turned in her seat to look at him. ‘Highness, you have to try some. Here, proper Cyngaleg strawberries.’
‘Faina, dear.’ Demelza held back laughter at his side. ‘We have them up here too. Though, Highness Cadogan should certainly try one.’
‘But look at the size of this one!’ Faina touted the fruit, cored and ready, the reserved Master of Falcons ducking obligingly out of the way beside her without a hint of chagrin.
Meilyr’s cheeks hurt. Moments like this were genuine respites from the strain, and he was not sure if he could have managed without the two of them.
‘If I throw, will you catch?’ Faina wiggled the strawberry threateningly.
‘Wait!’ He made a shield with his hands.
‘Lady Faina, please—’
Faina popped the strawberry in her mouth, beaming. ‘You should see your faces,’ she managed, chewing.
Demelza released a laugh. Meilyr lowered his hands.
Faina threw the second, concealed strawberry without remorse or hesitation.
Meilyr startled, and—
Osian caught the offending fruit with a calm, easy movement.
Faina clapped her hands over her mouth.
The prince presented the startled fruit to his startled consort, and Meilyr’s impolitic heart dared stumble. The sun caught the gold of Osian’s hair and the band about his head, a flicker of even purer light in his gaze.
He was amused.
Meilyr took the strawberry, tamping down whatever budded in the wake of his own mirth. The prince’s eyes were very striking with that warmth in them.
‘Your Majesties! All good peoples gathered!’
He jumped – again. But it was only the herald, announcing the next event: archery. He had been looking forward to this.
As the contestants presented themselves to the royal box, he studied the strawberry before taking a bite. It was delicious, filling his mouth with sweetness, somehow undamaged by its journey.
He looked out in time to catch Kenelm Radnor’s eye. The young Marcher heir bowed exquisitely, holding Meilyr’s gaze as he straightened. The pennant he set down bore a wrapping of Bran’s alder.
The taste in Meilyr’s mouth soured.
‘I will win for you, Highness.’
Murmurs, behind hands and fans.
So, this was his angle. Kenelm Radnor had approached Meilyr twice since their talk beside the tree, had presented himself as a shoulder to lean on, a confidant. But he only sought to garner information and sow doubt, exploit potential cracks in a marriage he had a vested interest in breaking apart.
Did he hope for rumours? Scandal, to cast doubt?
He would do anything for his family.
Lord Gelens sat further down the royal box, beside Prince Wystan. Had they planned this together?
The contestants set up before their targets. Arrows flew and struck, and the buzz of applause grew more eager.
Meilyr glanced at Osian. Had Pedr told him about their interactions?
Radnor made a very fine first shot. The applause thickened. Meilyr clapped because he had to, his stomach protesting that the odd smatterings of fruit and wine were not the best combination.
The archer beside Radnor matched his shot. She dipped a flourishing bow to the royal box as the applause rebounded, then winked at Radnor.
On Osian’s other side, Aldreda barked a laugh.
‘Armiger Kynaston,’ Osian said to Meilyr. ‘The favourite.’
She became Meilyr’s favourite, sailing one point ahead of Radnor and into the lead as the contestants reached their third and final round of arrows.
Radnor would shoot first. Though he exuded calm, he drew the arrow to full knock – and slowly drew down again. Shook his head and blinked as though the sun were in his eyes.
‘He’s nervous,’ Faina whispered excitedly, not quietly.
Radnor drew, visible tension in his form. His hands shook. He drew down yet again, clearing his throat.
‘Is he well?’ Demelza murmured.
Faina giggled. ‘Probably something stuck in his throat.’
Radnor drew back his bow sharply, frustratedly.
‘You know,’ Faina continued, behind her hand, ‘from sucking too much—’
Radnor shot wide – into the stands. The arrow punched hard into someone’s shoulder.
Uproar. Half the royal table rose, including Osian. Demelza grabbed Meilyr’s arm in shock, motion and noise expanding as—
Armiger Kynaston screamed in utter, bloodless terror.
Kenelm Radnor’s mouth had erupted in a font of verdant, red-green leaves and blood-soaked little flowers that should have been white. His eyes peeled in horror, and he stumbled as if to escape, even as more leaves tore loose. From his mouth, his nostrils, his ears. His eyes.
He sank to the compacted earth, barbs blooming from the thin skin of his throat, his wrists, his stomach.
The suspended instant of petrified shock snapped. People screamed and shoved and fell and ran. The stands descended into chaos.
‘Hold!’ Osian shouted. ‘No one leaves! Do not use force!’
But dozens fled. More. The crownsworn could not hope to halt them all; people spilled from all sides, even the boxes. It was utter, unsalvageable disorder.
Meilyr could only stare at the still-flowering mess that had been Kenelm Radnor.
Little white flowers and sturdy, unmistakeable leaves.
Bran’s alder.