Chapter Fourteen - The Amber Knight
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Amber Knight
ROSAMUND GRASPED OSRIC’S arm tightly as they appeared in front of the russet doors of the Ironhold.
The forge district blazed in the night. The heat was overwhelming, combined with the recent teleport, it nearly had her bringing back the sandwiches that Mrs Hawthorn had insisted she eat that afternoon as she was getting ready.
“I wouldn’t touch a thing they offer you in that place,” said the old housekeeper, “she’s the worst of the lot, and I wouldn’t put it past her to poison you.”
Neither did Rosamund, so she had scoffed the sandwiches, partly out of hunger, partly to at least have some before Gnash snatched the rest. She regretted it now as the dizziness caused her stomach to turn.
Though, it wasn’t just the heat and the travel.
Her eye had not failed to catch the tall Onyx tower that loomed over the fort.
The tower where her brothers were kept. Prince Cedric’s home was a stones throw from the Iron Keep.
My brothers prison.
She felt a hand on her back and turned to see Osric giving her a worried expression, “you’re not going to throw up, are you? Only, these shoes are new.”
She huffed a laugh, held a hand to her mouth and then shook her head, “no, I think I’m fine.”
He looked relieved and dropped her arm.
“It was kind of you to come and get me,” she said, once she was certain she really wasn’t going to throw up.
Osric looked down to where he was picking at a nail, “well, I was coming here anyway.”
“Of course, Marianne will be here,” she said with a polite smile.
He looked up at her then, and stepped closer, “will you, I mean, can you,” he struggled to find the right words, “she’s shy, and Lavinia is…”
“Awful,” suggested Rosamund, cursing herself internally for her honesty.
But Osric only smiled and said, “exactly.”
She had enough on her plate this evening than agreeing to look out for the girl that had been terrified of her last time.
No doubt Lavinia was going to pull out all her tricks this evening to trip her up.
The last thing she needed was someone else to look out for.
However, Osric looked at her so earnestly, she nodded, “I’ll see what I can do. ”
Again he looked relieved, “thank you,” he turned serious, “I would owe you.”
“And I’ll hold you to it,” she said, meaning it as a joke, but the way he nodded in acknowledgement before disappearing, she wondered if there was some deeper meaning to it.
Alone, she approached the large doors, lifting the voluminous amber silk skirts just a little so it would not trail along the ground.
The black velvet bodice felt like it was sticking to her in the heat, and she was beginning to regret insisting that Fabricio gave it long sleeves.
The amber stone inlaid in the black choker around her neck felt like it was weighing her down as she stepped through the gates.
In Elswyth’s drawing room, she had swished the skirts back and forth, remarking that it made it look like she was on fire.
Now it felt like it.
A servant, dressed only in a pair of black breeches, and nothing else, led her down a bright orange corridor towards Lavinia’s receiving room.
Rosamund was not sure where she was supposed to look, the servants back and chest had been oiled, his thick black hair plastered to his skin.
He was handsome, and something about his paleness reminded her of another man who favoured wearing black.
Heat rose to her cheeks and she quickly pushed an unbidden thought of what he would look like oiled up and followed the servant.
He led her to another set of iron doors which swung open to reveal a room beyond with similarly near naked people.
The room was bathed in firelight and torches.
Flames and shadows alike dancing across the exposed skin as lords and ladies lounged on chaises or cushions scattered on the floor, most of them in a state of undress.
They had arranged themselves around a large pyre in the middle of the room, built up so far that the flames would have kissed the ceiling, were it not for a large circular hole that allowed the smoke to billow out towards the night sky.
The air was thick with woodsmoke, mixed with cinnamon.
It made for a heady and overwhelming smell.
Alongside it she could identify the unmistakable scent of Umber, a plant she knew well.
Often used for healing to ease pain, here it was used to excess to create a high for Lavinia’s guests.
A group of musicians playing stringed instruments played low sultry music that filled the room.
It was still audible over the many chattering voices, which did not cease even as the servant announced her arrival.
Beyond the flickering of the flames she saw a figure rise languidly from one of the couches, and heard Lavinia’s nasal voice carry to her, “Rosamund, you made it.”
The chatter quickly descended to a hissed whisper as Rosamund made her way towards Lavinia.
She stepped carefully around those lost to the Umber or lost in touching each other’s bodies.
The red headed woman watched her closely, dressed in an orange gauze dress that clung to her body and left nothing to the imagination.
She stood in centre of a raised dais, a black throne behind her that had glowing orange cracks in it, as if it had only just been removed from a forge.
Men and women alike crowded around, all of them in sheer black outfits.
Rosamund had never seen so much flesh exposed.
Far from turning away from it she found herself gawking at the various bodies and the sweat glistening on their skin.
Her eyes eventually met Lavinia’s, and she forced herself to smile.
The red head wanted her to flush; to be embarrassed.
“And properly attired too,” said Lavinia smugly, though as her eyes latched on to the velvet she scrunched her nose, “well, almost. It gets a little hot in here, feel free to divest yourself of any unnecessary layers.”
“How kind of you, your highness,” said Rosamund smoothly as she could feel beads of sweat gathering at her temples, “perhaps in a little while. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Well I wanted to see how Elswyth’s little pet was coming along,” she said sweetly,
Lavinia resumed her position on the throne, one long thin leg delicately crossed over the other.
The black clad individuals draped themselves around her, hanging on her arm rest or lounging at her feet.
She gestured to a grey velvet chaise where Marianne was sat.
The young woman’s back was as straight as one of the pokers that a half-dressed servant was using to stoke the pyre.
Her hazel eyes were fixed on the ground, her hand wrapped up in the silvery grey skirts of her long tulle dress.
It fell to the ground in the same movements as her husband’s mists, the same whispering grey.
Rosamund smiled warmly at her as she took the place beside her, remembering Osric’s words, but the young woman did not seem to notice her.
“You know, you could have come to me,” drawled Lavinia as a handsome servant passed her a goblet, “I would have been happy to teach you our ways like I have dear Marianne,” She gestured to the young woman whose face flushed and Rosamund saw that she clutched the fabric of her skirt tighter, “I would have been a lot more fun.”
“I have no doubt your highness,” croaked Rosamund, the heat of the room drying her mouth out, “though, I suspect we would have got a lot less done.”
There was silence where she felt the tickling sensation of sweat rolling down her face. Eventually, Lavinia barked a laugh that put Rosamund in mind of one of those yapping lap dogs, “oh very good Rosamund. Glad you haven’t been wasting your lessons.”
She snapped her fingers and another servant stepped forwards with a tray of silver goblets filled with a rich amber liquid.
Rosamund took one, the metal cool in her hands.
She resisted holding it up to her chest to cool herself down.
She also suppressed the urge to thank the servant, who stepped back into place against the wall.
Lavinia raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she took a long drink from her own goblet.
Mrs Hawthorn had urged her not to drink or eat anything in Ironhold, but the air had been so dry. If she did not drink something, then she was not going to be able to speak without coughing the rest of the evening.
Perhaps that’s the point, she thought, no voice to be heard except Lavinia’s.
She would not put it past her.
“Unlike Marianne here,” said Lavinia with a sour look to the brunette, who wilted under her glare, “The country bumpkin is putting you to shame,” she looked back at Rosamund, “she even scrubs up well.”
No thanks to you.
“Thank you, you’re highness,” said Rosamund, biting back the rising retort and turned to look at Marianne, “but I do love Princess Marianne’s dress.”
The girls eyes finally flicked up from the floor to meet hers, and Rosamund gave her an encouraging smile, even as Lavinia and the ladies around her broke out in a mocking laugh.
“Oh Rosamund, you of course can be forgiven for not having any style, but Marianne should know better,” Lavinia leaned forward in her chair, “we’ve talked about this Marianne. If you showed a little more cleavage that milksop husband of yours might finally take an interest.”
Rosamund could see the tears welling up in Marianne’s eyes, “oh I don’t know. I’ve always found less is more when it comes to interest.”
Lavinia snapped her attention back to Rosamund, as Marianne looked round at her, a brief glance of gratitude before she turned her gaze back to the floor.
“And how would you know?” said Lavinia with a sneer, “have you been naughty Rosamund,” she tutted, “you’re not even married yet. And from what I hear, a touch from your husband feels like death.”