Blackveil
Page 200
“You see?” Richmont said to Adolind. “I can give the queen your request straightaway.”
Adolind half-bowed, deeply gratified. That was how Richmont wanted it—Sacoridia’s powerful indebted and bowing to him. He strolled through the castle corridors at his ease, not hastening his steps, though he was curious to know what Estora wanted with him. He would not give her the satisfaction, however, of answering her summons like an eager dog.
When finally he reached the royal apartments he was ushered directly into Zachary’s chamber. He absently took in a mender touching Zachary’s forehead and a servant on her knees sweeping up ashes at the hearth.
A Weapon stood just within the door, and another on the balcony outside the glass doors looking for trouble from without. Estora stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of her, attired in a creamy gown and resembling one of the classical sculptures decorating the more important rooms in the castle, even with the mourning shawl she still wore over her shoulders. She gave the slightest nod of dismissal and the mender removed himself from the room. The Weapon stepped just outside the door.
Interesting, Richmont thought. It was to be a private meeting.
“You sent for me?” Richmont asked.
“I did.”
“Is it the king? Is he failing?” Richmont could not conceal the eagerness in his voice.
“He is holding his own.”
Richmont stepped closer, a smile curling his lips. “No more reenactments of the rite of consummation?”
“That is between my husband and myself.”
Richmont took yet another step closer, closer than propriety permitted. “Anything,” he said very quietly, but distinctly, “that pertains to you and your royal marriage shall be known to me. All the intimate details, everything, should I wish it. As you know, I can acquire anything I like whether you tell me or not.”
“Because of your informants,” Estora said, “because of those you’ve bribed or threatened.”
Richmont had expected the coldness in her voice, but the rest of her remained composed, oddly relaxed. He felt a warming in his loins at her defiance, rather a surprise since he had not entertained fantasies about using her body for his pleasure since she was a child. Perhaps he was seduced by the power Estora had married into and aroused by the thought of breaking that defiant streak in her, of breaking her. He’d stayed away from her and her sisters to retain his good standing with Lord Coutre, but Lord Coutre was dead and gone and of no use to him now.
Swiftly he calculated the advantages and disadvantages of various possibilities.
“I asked you here,” Estora said, “hoping you would recant all that you said to me that night, and that you would gracefully resign yourself from your self-ascribed position as my advisor. I wish you removed from my court.”
Richmont laughed. How courageously, how naively she spoke. How he would enjoy the breaking of her, savor it. “After all I told you about what I could do to your reign, how I could bring down your sister in Coutre and ruin your father’s name? After all my work you expect me to gracefully bow away without my due reward?”
He grabbed her wrist and drew her close. She did not fight him. He wished she would. “You are no more than a whore,” he told her in a harsh whisper, “used to breed the new king. You shall not be rid of me. In fact, I see an even greater future for myself. For instance, if the king’s condition should take a change for the worse.”
“What are you saying?”
“It would be easy enough to arrange, and with whom would you replace him? Oh yes, the queen would need a suitable husband.”
“Are you suggesting—”
“Suggesting? No, my dear, I’m telling you that I would be your husband. I would be king.”
“I’ve heard enough,” came a voice from the bed.
Richmont’s heart thudded. He dropped Estora’s wrist and stepped away. “W-what? My lord? Did you speak?”
Zachary rose up onto his elbows, his cheeks hollow, but his gaze stern. “You heard me.” His voice was not at all weak.
Blood drained from Richmont’s face as he thought furiously of what to say, what to do. How much had Zachary heard? How long had he been awake? Estora did not look the least bit surprised by his wakefulness. She must have known and kept his true condition a secret from him. But how was this managed? It was a trap, yes, a trap.
“This is a most wonderful surprise, Your Majesty,” Richmont said. “To see you looking so well.”
“An unhappy surprise for you since you were indicating you’d prefer my demise,” the king said. “I heard every word, and have been told even more.”
“Then you know what will happen if you do anything to me. It’ll be the downfall of your reign.”
“What I know,” Zachary said forcefully, “is that I hereby strip you of all titles and privileges, and that shall be the least of my judgments upon you.”
Rage, blinding as a stroke of lightning, surged through Richmont. He would tear Zachary down, Estora would become his slave, and all of Sacoridia his plaything. He drew a dagger from beneath his cloak. He would show them, but before he could more than imagine plunging the blade into Zachary’s gut, someone grabbed his wrist and his fingers went numb. The dagger dropped to the carpet. Gray ash dust drifted from the hand that held him.
The servant? His mind reeled. He’d dismissed her existence, forgotten her presence as one always did with servants, but this one did not have the meek demeanor of a serving woman. She wrenched his arm behind his back.
Adolind half-bowed, deeply gratified. That was how Richmont wanted it—Sacoridia’s powerful indebted and bowing to him. He strolled through the castle corridors at his ease, not hastening his steps, though he was curious to know what Estora wanted with him. He would not give her the satisfaction, however, of answering her summons like an eager dog.
When finally he reached the royal apartments he was ushered directly into Zachary’s chamber. He absently took in a mender touching Zachary’s forehead and a servant on her knees sweeping up ashes at the hearth.
A Weapon stood just within the door, and another on the balcony outside the glass doors looking for trouble from without. Estora stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of her, attired in a creamy gown and resembling one of the classical sculptures decorating the more important rooms in the castle, even with the mourning shawl she still wore over her shoulders. She gave the slightest nod of dismissal and the mender removed himself from the room. The Weapon stepped just outside the door.
Interesting, Richmont thought. It was to be a private meeting.
“You sent for me?” Richmont asked.
“I did.”
“Is it the king? Is he failing?” Richmont could not conceal the eagerness in his voice.
“He is holding his own.”
Richmont stepped closer, a smile curling his lips. “No more reenactments of the rite of consummation?”
“That is between my husband and myself.”
Richmont took yet another step closer, closer than propriety permitted. “Anything,” he said very quietly, but distinctly, “that pertains to you and your royal marriage shall be known to me. All the intimate details, everything, should I wish it. As you know, I can acquire anything I like whether you tell me or not.”
“Because of your informants,” Estora said, “because of those you’ve bribed or threatened.”
Richmont had expected the coldness in her voice, but the rest of her remained composed, oddly relaxed. He felt a warming in his loins at her defiance, rather a surprise since he had not entertained fantasies about using her body for his pleasure since she was a child. Perhaps he was seduced by the power Estora had married into and aroused by the thought of breaking that defiant streak in her, of breaking her. He’d stayed away from her and her sisters to retain his good standing with Lord Coutre, but Lord Coutre was dead and gone and of no use to him now.
Swiftly he calculated the advantages and disadvantages of various possibilities.
“I asked you here,” Estora said, “hoping you would recant all that you said to me that night, and that you would gracefully resign yourself from your self-ascribed position as my advisor. I wish you removed from my court.”
Richmont laughed. How courageously, how naively she spoke. How he would enjoy the breaking of her, savor it. “After all I told you about what I could do to your reign, how I could bring down your sister in Coutre and ruin your father’s name? After all my work you expect me to gracefully bow away without my due reward?”
He grabbed her wrist and drew her close. She did not fight him. He wished she would. “You are no more than a whore,” he told her in a harsh whisper, “used to breed the new king. You shall not be rid of me. In fact, I see an even greater future for myself. For instance, if the king’s condition should take a change for the worse.”
“What are you saying?”
“It would be easy enough to arrange, and with whom would you replace him? Oh yes, the queen would need a suitable husband.”
“Are you suggesting—”
“Suggesting? No, my dear, I’m telling you that I would be your husband. I would be king.”
“I’ve heard enough,” came a voice from the bed.
Richmont’s heart thudded. He dropped Estora’s wrist and stepped away. “W-what? My lord? Did you speak?”
Zachary rose up onto his elbows, his cheeks hollow, but his gaze stern. “You heard me.” His voice was not at all weak.
Blood drained from Richmont’s face as he thought furiously of what to say, what to do. How much had Zachary heard? How long had he been awake? Estora did not look the least bit surprised by his wakefulness. She must have known and kept his true condition a secret from him. But how was this managed? It was a trap, yes, a trap.
“This is a most wonderful surprise, Your Majesty,” Richmont said. “To see you looking so well.”
“An unhappy surprise for you since you were indicating you’d prefer my demise,” the king said. “I heard every word, and have been told even more.”
“Then you know what will happen if you do anything to me. It’ll be the downfall of your reign.”
“What I know,” Zachary said forcefully, “is that I hereby strip you of all titles and privileges, and that shall be the least of my judgments upon you.”
Rage, blinding as a stroke of lightning, surged through Richmont. He would tear Zachary down, Estora would become his slave, and all of Sacoridia his plaything. He drew a dagger from beneath his cloak. He would show them, but before he could more than imagine plunging the blade into Zachary’s gut, someone grabbed his wrist and his fingers went numb. The dagger dropped to the carpet. Gray ash dust drifted from the hand that held him.
The servant? His mind reeled. He’d dismissed her existence, forgotten her presence as one always did with servants, but this one did not have the meek demeanor of a serving woman. She wrenched his arm behind his back.
