Chapter Five
She was shivering. She was supposed to be his responsibility, and her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering, even though she sailed the icy seas, and her shack-like shop was wood, not stone.
Too many hours in the cold, face uncovered, sitting still, wind blowing over her. “I am sorry. I should have had a carriage bring you.”
“I’m f-fine. Couldn’t you put me down?”
“This will keep you warmer.”
“People are going to see me if you s-send all those servants scurrying for food and whatever it is a Master of the Wardrobe brings.”
“Loyal people. Cole will know who to send, and the Master of the Wardrobe was a great personal friend of my mother’s—not my stepmother. He will be thrilled you are here, Lady Jocasta.”
“I’m only Jocasta, you know. Jocasta Waterman.”
“You are going to be Lady Jocasta of Tundra Springs, a title given by the King for aid rendered. That is how you will be announced at the ball.”
“But—”
“It will make things easier if you have a title in your own right.”
“But I don’t! You are giving it to me, like a gift.”
“Then you can have another title, one you earn if you prefer it. The Master of Holdings and Titles can go through a list of titles bestowed all the way back to Caledon’s creation. “
“That I have to earn?” Jocasta looked ill, worse than she had already. “This wasn’t part of your bargain, sire.”
He carried her up the back passageways until a flight of wide-flagged stairs opened into a hall that looked like something more regal. Harsh, but regal. White and blue hangings. Shields. Tapestries. Plush carpets.
Jocasta gasped.
“When we are alone, please just call me Girion. An alliance is one thing, but a wife... Well, that should be the highest sort of alliance. I was only hoping that if you had a title, even one I bestow, it would make things easier. A titled guest is an expectation of a king.”
“And a common girl from a fishing village, not so much?”
He looked at her when he put her on her feet, steadying her lest she fall again. “A woman. Most uncommon.”
By everything cold, I wish my voice hadn’t done that. Gotten so soft and... wistful. I’m not soft! She must not think that I’m so easily controlled, so easily won. This only works if we are equally at an advantage—or disadvantage.
“I only wanted to make things easier,” Girion informed her, clearing his throat.
“Easier for you, or me?” Jocasta challenged, one eyebrow arching.
Oooh. That fighting temper was something he should not like. It wouldn’t make things simple. A king should be obeyed, not questioned. And yet, it was a good question.
“Easier for you. I thought... I thought it might be more comfortable for you, might help you ‘fit in’ with the others in my court, such as it is. Mind you, I don’t fit in, either.
Or rather, I keep those around me who I choose, who I can tolerate, and vice versa.
The ‘court’ is assembled as little as possible.
There will be a ball, which I mentioned.
” He pushed open the door to what had been his mother’s room, the Queen’s Suite.
It was the only delicate place in the palace, and yet it was still somehow formidable.
Like his mother.
Like Jocasta.
“You mentioned, yes,” Jocasta murmured, her eyes widening at the sight of the beautiful, elegant room.
“I believe it will be stuffed with nobles and advisors who think I will announce my engagement to Lady Renata, the Archduke of Wynwood’s daughter.”
Jocasta turned in surprise, a spark of anger in her eyes. “But you will slip me in, instead? A pawn to anger your fine lady?”
He laughed, loud and harsh, head thrown back.
“Oh, by the snow, no! I cannot stand her, I do not want to be her husband, nor to have her rule any part of Caledon, not even a single icicle. I wish to present you.” He bowed to Jocasta and watched her blush and quickly work out a curtsey, grappling with her layers of robes and cloaks.
“I wish to dance with you, looking so utterly enchanted that no one will question why I sit beside you all night, head close to yours, talking and gazing at you as if Lady Renata is a slug in my turnip stew. And at the end of the night, I will make an announcement that you are to be my queen. That our wedding will be the following week, and that all are invited. There will be feasting, and the land will heal and flourish as it did years ago.”
His eyes were glowing with excitement, and he loved that it was mirrored in hers.
“That will put this fair lady’s nose out of joint?” she queried.
His voice dropped to something low and sneaky. “I cannot lie to you, my future bride, my greatest ally. I am very much looking forward to ripping the crown out from under her grasping claws. I do not like to be maneuvered and managed. I liked to be—”
“Consulted. Bartered with. You like to make treaties. Warrior king,” she declared, a smile growing on her face.
“That is just how it is,” he agreed.
“I believe I can manage that. And... And will it not further put the lady’s nose out of joint and teach her—and all those who wish to ‘manage’ your affairs—that you cannot be so maneuvered if you present your bride-to-be, the commoner, as opposed to some new member of the nobility?”
Girion considered. “You are right.”
“Good God, it is a miracle,” Cole cried.
Girion and Jocasta whirled. A positive regiment of servants was trooping down the hall.
Servants with bowls and tureens, with goblets and flagons, with blankets and firewood, and leading the way was Cole and an excited-looking human with a massive gold key around his neck, the Master of the Wardrobe, and a small fleet of seamstresses and assistants bearing bolts of cloth and armloads of leathers and furs.
“What is a miracle?” Girion demanded crossly. He had rather liked talking to Jocasta alone. If he let his guard down, he would confess that he thought she enjoyed it, too.
“Girion the Great, who ought to be called Girion, He Who Thinks He Knows All, admits another is right. Surely,” Cole’s voice dropped, and he bowed to Jocasta again, speaking low, with his head bent, “this must be Caledon’s future queen.”
Girion growled.
Jocasta did that comely trick with her eyebrow once more. “Well, he’s right, isn’t he?” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“No one knows that until Saturday,” he whispered back.
“That’s what you think,” Cole joined in, and earned a much louder snarl. The guard fell silent.
“Faithful members of the household. This is Jocasta, the greatest mage of our times, and my most honored guest. See that she has everything she needs, and then everything she wants.” Girion’s voice boomed and ordered.
Guardsmen jerked their heads in agreement.
Palace servants bowed more deeply, older, more refined—trained as faithful, loyal retainers under his parents.
Back when this place had style. More magic. The weather was warmer, and there were snowball fights with the children of courtiers and generals.
And his mother was always there, walking with her ladies-in-waiting, dark blue velvet cloak with silver fastenings and white fur all along the hem.
Underneath, she always wore white and blue, her silvery blonde hair in ringlets, her smile so wide in a thin face as she walked in the snow, smiling at her only son.
His father always made time to come out and greet her if he was in the palace.
“I want the Queen’s cloaks and gowns given to her, altered as little as possible.”
The Master of the Wardrobe blinked and patted the key around his neck. “Your mother’s things, sire?”
“Of course.”
Jocasta’s mouth opened, then closed, settling into a firm line.
“Your mother was much taller, and erm, more slender, sire.”
Jocasta made a huffy noise. “I’m wearing layers!” she snapped, hands on her sturdy hips.
Girion swallowed a laugh and realized he was staring at the place where her waist met her hips. He studied the distance between her waist and bust. The way she braced her legs.
So small compared to him, but strong and shapely. His thoughts suddenly went to a night far in the future, when an heir was needed, and his larger body burrowed into hers, hearing her groans of pleasure in his ear, feeling her legs lock over the back of his thighs.
“Jocasta, you will send Herrick to me if you need anything, and I will come at once.” Girion pointed to Cole’s first lieutenant, the customary member of the guard chosen to watch over the queen.
If eyebrows went up around the room, he ignored them, addressing only Jocasta.
“I will let you eat and dress, and these fine people will procure all you want and need. If you want to see me once you’re refreshed, you’ve only to say.
I have to—I have to attend to things. Come, Cole.
” Another bow, another look that he shouldn’t have permitted to occur, and he was gone.
“Coward,” Cole whispered, daring to grab his back.
“What?” Girion wanted to pummel his oldest friend and most trusted warrior.
“You are leaving her alone, in this strange place?”
“She is not alone! There must be ten people in that room!”
“Shouldn’t one of them be you? Isn’t she going to be your wife?”
Girion nodded, then moved closer to his Captain of the Guard. “In name only, at least until an heir is necessary.”
Cole’s eyes opened wide. “I thought that nonsense would leave your head when you saw her, sire.”
Girion grunted. “I am not governed by lusts; I am governed by needs. The kingdom needs fresh magic in the royal line.”
“And your body needs a warm little thing like the mage in—”
Girion found his arm transforming into something clawed and furry, his clothes becoming too tight as his Bearfolk form unleashed, snarling head, deep, cavernous voice, and knife-like claws suddenly on his friend’s chest. “Don’t talk about her like that. She is my ally. Nothing more.”
Cole’s eyebrows raised and held their position. He didn’t flinch as jaws snapped and roared close to his face. “Touched a nerve, have I?”