Chapter Seven - Blackthorn Hall
CHAPTER SEVEN
Blackthorn Hall
THE REVELLERS DEPARTED for the feasting hall. Only a smattering stuck around, their whispers carrying across the courtyard to where Rosamund remained kneeling on the cobblestones.
Dorian had long since left the square with her cousin’s body, but Rosamund couldn’t bring herself to stand.
The tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched the servants remove any evidence of the execution that had taken place.
One climbed the tree to remove the remainder of the broken rope, another was rolling the barrel, clattering it along the stones to be used again. The last mopped the ground.
She heard the muffled sobs of her Aunt Beatrice as her Aunt Cecily held her, offering soothing words to her sister, “It was quick Bea, at least it was quick.”
What did he do to the rope?
There had been something wrong with it. Frayed edges.
The sound of the snap repeated in her mind.
Her cousin should have dangled longer. But it had been over in seconds.
Was this the mercy he had granted her cousin?
With one action Dorian had fulfilled his father’s wishes but had denied Bastian his torture.
And her? What had he given her? A quick death for her cousin?
Where has he taken him? Where is my cousin?
A pair of hands rested on her shoulders as someone crouched down beside her. They were soft, warm, comforting. Someone brought their lips close to her ear and whispered, “You need to stand up Rosamund, don’t let them see you cry. Never let them see you cry.”
The voice warmed her, a woman’s voice.
Mother, she thought, I need you.
She looked around expecting to see the blue eyes of her mother and seeing only the dark brown eyes of Elswyth.
Behind her, standing further off she saw Aurelian and Isolde, arms still intertwined, looking at her with concern.
No. Pity. She remembered them all, standing there. Watching. Doing nothing.
He’s gone.
She let Elswyth pull her to her feet. Every movement felt heavy, even as she allowed Elswyth to guide her. Isolde took a step forwards, but Elswyth gave a small shake of her head. The redheaded Princess and her husband headed towards the feasting hall.
“I should go too,” said Rosamund, she did not know what to do.
It was right, wasn’t it? She was the guest of honour; she should take her place at the table. That was her duty. That was all she had left.
“I think your evening is over Lady Rosamund,” said Elswyth gently as she guided Rosamund away from the doors.
They crossed the courtyard and saw the sandy haired knight pick up her Aunt Beatrice in his arms. Limp and as lifeless as the son she lost, she did not fight back.
She had lost her cousin; she would not lose her aunts. She brushed Elswyth’s hands away and strode towards them, “Where are you taking her?”
“To my estate in the Umbral.”
A chill ran through her as she heard Dorian’s rumbling voice.
Slowly, she turned to look at him as he crossed the courtyard, coatless, his high-necked silk shirt clinging to him.
A fire surged through her at the sight of him.
The numbness burning away. She rushed towards him, fists flying as she beat against his large chest, “What have you done with him? What did you do?”
He grabbed her wrists in a firm grasp and loomed down at her.
“Todric wasn’t a traitor,” she spat at him, hot tears welling her eyes, “he was a kind boy, he did nothing wrong. What have you done with him? What did you do?”
His cold ivory eyes only stared down at her. The tension left her arms as he slowly lowered them. Holding her gaze he replied, “I did only as you asked.”
She looked away. Her own words floated back to haunt her, ‘short rope’. He had rotted the rope. A quick death.
Letting go of her wrists he brushed past her towards where the knight stood with her aunts. He looked between them and turned to Aunt Cecily, “I do not know if this evening was his majesty’s intention, but I shall endeavour to discover the truth of it. When I do, you will be informed.”
Rosamund turned to see a range of emotions cross her Aunt Cecily’s face, no doubt a reflection of her own; conflict between anger and grief. “Thank you,” she said eventually, exhaustion creeping in to her normally clipped, firm tone.
“You and your sister will retire to my estate in the Umbral,” said Dorian, his voice matter of fact and cold.
“Thank you, but we will return to-,” Dorian held up a hand.
“It is not a suggestion Lady Cecily, Sir Wulf will take you there now.”
The sandy haired knight, who still held Aunt Beatrice in his arms, inclined his head to Aunt Cecily with respect. Cecily, who Rosamund knew would have normally bristled at this command, nodded her head, defeated.
“Go now, and I will ensure that your nephew’s body is returned to you unmolested.”
Cecily looked surprised as she looked up at the prince, “They will not take his head?”
Dorian said nothing, and once again Aunt Cecily nodded her head in that unnaturally tired way, “Come along Rosamund.”
Rosamund moved to follow her aunt when Dorian said, “I am afraid not,” they spun round to face the prince, “Lady Rosamund must remain in Aurelmere until the wedding. After which, we will join you in the Umbral.”
Aunt Cecily looked to her, a pained expression on her face and reached out to take Rosamund’s hand, “We’ve just lost my nephew. We cannot lose her.”
“You won’t,” said Dorian, firmly, “I will keep her safe. You have my word.”
Rosamund looked up into the face of the prince and saw no deception.
He was resolute. This man who had as good as killed her cousin had promised to keep her safe.
She could see the same disbelief on her Aunt Cecily’s face, but there was nothing she could do, there was nothing either of them could do.
“Then, your highness, might I have a moment to say goodbye,” asked Aunt Cecily.
For a moment she thought that Prince Dorian might object, but he gave a sharp nod of his head and moved to speak with Sir Wulf once more. Aunt Cecily grasped her hand tighter and pulled her in for an embrace, her thin arms wrapping around her.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for all of this,” she whispered in Rosamund’s ear.
Rosamund held her tightly, “You didn’t know.”
But they did know. Deep down. They knew. House Mordane would not stop until every Valehart died a traitor’s death. Like her father. Her brother. Her cousin.
“Be careful my girl,” whispered her aunt, “trust none of them. Especially him.”
Rosamund said nothing. There was nothing left to say so she held her aunt tighter before finally pulling away.
With one last squeeze to her hand, Aunt Cecily let go and limped off after Sir Wulf towards a waiting black carriage.
She watched as the knight carefully placed her Aunt Beatrice onto one of the seats, still unmoving, before turning to help Aunt Cecily.
The carriage trundled off out of the courtyard, only to be replaced with another of the same style.
The driver, wrapped in a thick brown leather coat, opened the door, turning to face her expectantly.
She should run. She should leave this place.
She would not make it to the gate, but maybe that was preferable to climbing into that dark carriage with the Prince of Death.
What was left now? Everyone was gone. What did she have left?
Roland. Tristan.
Someone placed a hand on her lower back, and she jumped at the touch.
Elswyth nodded to her and gently guided her towards the carriage.
She said nothing, her feet going through the motions, her mind lost in the emptiness again as the fire in her began to fade.
Tiredness beginning to settle. When she reached the carriage, Elswyth that held out her hand to help her climb in to sit opposite Dorian.
The princess gave her hand one last squeeze before the driver closed the door.
Rosamund caught a final glimpse of the woman, a tear rolling down her cheek, as the carriage was plunged into darkness.
With a hiss the Wytchfyre lamps ignited, bathing the inside of the carriage and her betrothed in an eerie green light.
The seats on either side were made of smooth black leather, the walls a dark emerald.
Thick black shutters had been placed over each of the windows so that no one could see in, or out.
Dorian knocked on the ceiling of the carriage, and it began to glide along the cobbled path out of the courtyard.
She gave herself over to the gentle rocking, her eyes fixed on the clasped hands in her lap, refusing to look at the man opposite her.
She could feel his eyes on her, boring into her, daring her to look up, but she refused.
She dug her nails into the back of her hand.
She needed to feel something, this numbness, this nothingness was torture.
She tried to call upon that spark, that rage that had roiled in her when she saw him again, but there was nothing. Just emptiness.
“What happens now?” she asked quietly.
She thought he had not heard her, and was about to ask again when he replied, “We return to The Veil. You prepare for the wedding, and once we are wed, we go to my estate in Umbral.”
“Where are we going now?”
“The Veil,” he said in the same cold tone, “my district in Aurelmere.”
That explained the shutters. The Veil was the only district in Aurelmere that was contained within a secondary wall. The rumour was that once a person stepped foot past the bone white walls of The Veil, they could never return. Fodder for the Prince of Death’s mines.
She had nowhere else to go.
Silence filled the carriage and she could feel her eyes beginning to close. She was ready to let the oblivion of sleep take her.
“If you are to survive this family Lady Rosamund then you will need to learn to play their game,” he said quietly, “they will take every mistake, every weakness and use it for their own gain. They will dry your tears with one hand and drive a knife into your back with the other.”