Chapter Fourteen - The Amber Knight #2
There were accompanied mummers of agreement amongst the crowd.
Rosamund could not prevent the shiver as she thought of Dorian’s power.
The feel of decay rushing through her. Death.
She had been so busy trying to survive the court, she had not considered what awaited her following her wedding.
She tried not to let it show, and thankfully Lavinia did not notice how hard she gripped the goblet as she took a drink.
The act was somewhat ruined when she began to cough at the harsh liquor that burned her throat.
Lavinia and her chorus of toadies broke out in fresh laughter.
Well at least she isn’t bullying Marianne, she thought as the coughing continued.
“Our whisky a little too strong for you, Rosie,” mocked Lavinia.
She cleared her throat and forced her mouth into a smile, “it is a little strong your highness, but” she took another sip, desperately trying to ignore the burn, “delicious.”
“Hmm,” said Lavinia, a touch disappointed as she sat back in her chair, “well indulge yourself this evening. Who knows how long you have left.”
Lavinia snapped her fingers and one of the other lords approached her.
He bowed low as she bit her bottom lip coquettishly at him.
As he removed his hat, Rosamund realised that she recognised him.
He had once come to the Valehart estate, a friend of her brothers, she was sure of it.
Now here bowing to worst of the Mordane wives.
There was more than just the bitterness of the liquor in her mouth.
So many of their old friends had turned on them.
One of them had betrayed her father and told the King of his plans.
Was it this man? This ‘friend’ of her brothers who now took Lavinia’s hand and kissed the back of it.
Cool fingers reached out to touch the back of her hand.
She looked round to see Marianne glance to a set of glass doors before getting to her feet.
She watched as the brunette moved towards them and revealed a wide balcony beyond.
Rosamund looked to Lavinia, but the redhead was staring up at the lord with wide eyes as he perched on the arm of her chair.
She feigned taking another sip from her goblet and rose to her feet with the intent of following Marianne.
She got a few steps when someone else she recognised blocked her way.
“Well done,” said the man with a grin, “you handled that expertly.”
His dark curled hair had been oiled, giving it a healthy shine in the red glow.
His almond skin looked redder in the light.
More of it was on show under the black corseted waistcoat he wore, with no shirt underneath.
His amber eyes twinkled with mischief as he stood in front of her, one hand holding a silver goblet, the other tucked into the back pocket of the tight leather trousers he was wearing.
He inclined his head to her, not quite the same bow for a princess, but respectful, nonetheless. She returned it and, “thank you” she hesitated, “my lord?”
He laughed, light like the crackle of the fire, “just a lowly knight my lady.”
She regarded the man in front of her, shorter even than her, with an even slighter frame. Knight was not the image this man conjured, and going by his widening grin, he knew it.
“Sir Emrys Thorne,” he said raising his goblet to her, “Knight of the Summer Plains, at your service.”
“Lady Rosamund,” she said, mimicking his action, “of…”
They had not covered this in her lessons.
Of where? The Valehart estates were long gone; she could not claim them now.
She was not married to Dorian yet so she could not claim his estates either.
She did not want to think of that dark place as home, even as she knew deep down that in some strange way it was becoming something akin to it. Who was she?
Emrys waited expectantly. She smiled and finished, “late of the grey chaise.”
He chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially, “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”
“A bit hot,” she said with scrunched up nose and he giggled again.
“So you’re the one they’re all talking about,” he said, the glint in his eye sparkling, “I have to say you’re not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
“Oh a backwards hayseed with ratty hair and a snaggle tooth, with no more manners than a dog,” he said teasingly.
She laughed, though a surge of annoyance coursed through her. She had not been that bad at Celeste’s salon, “well, I’ve been taking lessons.”
“I can see that,” he said approvingly, “How is the Lady Elswyth? Has she finally slipped loose of the wretched husband that’s gambling away her fortune?”
Rosamund’s eyes widened at his candidness.
He was only voicing what she had thought, but to do so here in a room filled with others was unthinkable.
She looked around but no one paid them any attention.
Except, an older gentleman who was watching them closely.
He was the only one in the room that was fully dressed, his brow caked in sweat and his rounded, lined face ruddy.
There was something familiar about the man, but she realised that Emrys was awaiting her response and she snapped her attention back to him.
“You mean Prince Bastian?” Rosamund said sweetly as images of Elswyth’s bruised arms passed through her mind, “I rarely see him during my visits.”
The way Emrys looked at her, it was like he could see the memories her mind conjured. The way he looked at her, the tiniest flinch of his expression, she couldn’t help but feel he had read every thought.
“Probably for the best,” said Emrys as he took another sip from his goblet, “not a man you want to be caught alone in a room with.”
Again she looked around for fear someone had heard him and he grinned, “don’t mind anyone else, we’re fine.”
“I’m just, not sure we should be talking about the royal family in public this way,” she said quietly, unable to keep a little of the worry from her tone.
He laughed, “ah but we are not talking about them. I am talking about them. And I hold something of a unique position in that family.”
That piqued her curiosity, she narrowed her eyes a little and grinned, “the family jester?”
He laughed again, bright and full of genuine mirth, “something like that.”
His laughter put her at ease. He was right, no one was listening, lost in the Umber, in each other’s bodies and gazing at Lavinia.
The flow of their conversation felt easy.
It wasn’t like with Lavinia where she had to choose each word carefully.
It was more like with Elswyth, comfortable, though she endeavoured to remind herself of her surroundings and not to become complacent.
“I like what you did for Lady Marianne,” he said, his smile never dropping but a little line of seriousness entering his expression.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Rosamund, feigning innocence.
The smile widened again, “You stole my job,” at Rosamund’s confused expression he continued, “I enjoy a good roast as much as the next person, but I can’t abide cruelty.”
There was something in his expression, a deliberate slip of his mask.
Everyone in court wore a mask, that was what Elswyth had told her.
It was important to cultivate it, to never let it slip, to never let anyone see the real face underneath.
Even in her own twisted way, this vile sneering Lavinia was a mask to hide something else.
But here, in this moment, Emrys let his fall away.
She considered that it might be a trick, a way of seeing if she would drop her own and tensed a little.
“Though,” he said quietly, offering her a true, genuine smile, “I wasn’t here for her.”
“Oh?” said Rosamund quietly, “who were you here for?”
“I was here for a lady that I heard stumbled over her words, thanked the servants and dressed highly inappropriately,” he looked Rosamund up and down and grinned, “but she doesn’t seem to be here.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh I’m not disappointed, I am delighted. Lady Isolde will be glad.”
Isolde. She had sent him. Of course. The man was some childhood friend of her husband.
She had seen them, heads bent together at her Betrothal Ceremony.
Was this Isolde’s way of helping? Sending this knight?
To do what? Elswyth had explained why Isolde could not help her, but still it had hurt, the woman had been so kind to her and then only silence. And yet, she had sent Emrys.
“Emrys!” called out Lavinia snapping her fingers at him, “come away from the other peasants. You’re much too pretty to be down amongst the filth.”
“But it’s where the prettiest flowers grow your highness,” replied Emrys in smooth tones.
He bowed to Rosamund, mask back in place by the time he turned to Lavinia and skipped towards her.
She watched as he perched on the arm of her chair and whispered in her ear.
She let out another cackle of a laugh before she turned back to the lord on her other side.
Emrys looked back to Rosamund and winked before his eyes flicked to the doors that Marianne had left through.
With Lavinia distracted, Rosamund made her way to the glass doors, and the young princess.