Chapter 5

  Isabeau closed her eyes and bit her lip hard as the Duchess of Urgonde took Martha by the arm and in a gesture a little more rough than necessary, escorted her into the crowd. Isabeau clasped her hands together and intertwined her fingers tightly, to keep them from forming fists or looking too hostile in the face of someone clearly being coerced into something they didn’t want to do. She wanted to get Martha out of there, but as her grandmother was of such status and power, hardly anything could be done unless it was more careful than Isabeau knew she was capable of being. She heard Sir Tancred clearing his throat by her side.

  “Isabeau,” she heard his deep voice beside her, “I know this must be difficult for you to watch. I want you to know that you are doing a fine job keeping yourself under control.”

  “Thank you,” she sighed, “but you didn’t tell that Duchess that I like olives, did you?”

  “No,” he replied, looking almost taken aback, “I did not. I told her specifically not to bring them your way because you dislike them.”

  “Well that sure worked,” Isabeau grumbled. “I had to gag one of those nasty things down in front of her to be nice.”

  “I am…very sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, Sir Tancred, she’s just a bi—uh, a burdened grandmother who I’m sure was stressed and tired from planning this wonderful banquet and ceremony for all of us.”

  Isabeau and Tancred watched as the first meeting between Blaise and Martha got underway. Bows and curtsies were exchanged between the parental figures, and like a proper gentleman, Blaise got down on one knee and kissed Martha’s hand. Then, with hardly a word exchanged between the future couple, the groom’s parents and the bride’s grandmother got in between them again and resumed talking, or scheming, or whatever it was they were doing, Isabeau couldn’t quite tell.

  “Look at that,” Isabeau muttered, “they hardly got two words between each other. It’s all about the parents.”

  “Not atypical for this sort of occasion,” said Sir Tancred, “but your observation is a keen one. Sir Blaise should get some time to talk to Lady Martha alone, so if you would try to strike up some conversation with Blaise’s parents, I will” —He gulped nauseously— “turn Her Grace’s attention unto myself.”

  In perfect coordination, Isabeau and Tancred left the corner of the room they were sulking in and strode past the banquet tables all laid out with entremets, approaching the main family members of the event. As Isabeau approached Blaise’s parents, she had to weave her way past a son of the Baultains and a diplomat of Pryvdan in his clan tartan in a rather intense conversation.

  “This is disgraceful,” the son of the Duchess growled. He was a bit short, with shoulder-length dark hair and a velvet cap. “Mother didn’t give my wedding this much ceremony.”

  “Well, Lord Oscar,” the diplomat chuckled, “Your mother does have a bit of foresight for this sort of thing. Considering how your first marriage played out…”

  Lord Oscar laughed heartily, causing a little bit of the wine in his goblet to spill over the edge.

  “Indeed, my northern friend. Perhaps Mother already knew I’d throw that strumpet to rot in a dungeon if she ever spoke ill of her.”

  If Blaise does go through with this marriage somehow, Isabeau thought, I better make sure to tell him to never leave Martha alone with whoever that relative of hers is. Ring above.

  Isabeau caught the diplomat looking awkwardly in her direction, and they exchanged looks of sympathy for one another. Isabeau left Martha’s uncle and the diplomat as far behind her as possible and made her way to Lady Dragoul, who she deemed to be more approachable and easier to converse with than Blaise’s stern father. The middle-aged noblewoman appeared to hear Isabeau’s approach and turned around, smiling at her.

  “Good evening, Isabeau,” she said, her ringlets of golden hair shining in the candlelight. “Blaise has spoken highly of you on days he’s returned to the castle.”

  “Glad to know, Lady Dragoul,” Isabeau replied.

  “Emilia,” the Castellan interjected, “my love, we can talk with our son’s friend later.”

  “Lord Dragoul,” Isabeau greeted Blaise’s father, reaching over and interlocking both of her arms so she had a parent on either side of her. “I haven’t seen either Blaise’s sister or his brother here. Could they not make it?”

  “It appears not,” Blaise’s father replied. “I did not necessarily expect Genevieve to make it, as I’ve heard there’s been some bad weather and worse alchemical creatures out there to impede her travels, but Benedit is in the royal capital and the King and Queen could have lent him a horse out of that death trap at the very least!” Bertran huffed and folded his arms; Isabeau raised an eyebrow at him addressing the city of Gripantour as such and kept listening. “He was supposed to be the priest officiating this wedding, but just a day ago we received news that he couldn’t be here and that the details would be provided at a later time. I guess there is some unrest going on in the royal capital but I do not understand why that is keeping him from, you know, leaving the dangerous place and coming here.”

  “Could just be some peasants rioting or something, I guess,” Isabeau reassured him.

  “I suppose,” muttered Lord Dragoul, fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. “Still…it seems odd to me that we’re being asked to sit and wait through these refreshments before Blaise and Martha are wed. Last we talked, the Duchess seemed as if she was nearly about to rush us into the ceremony.”

  “I don’t know,” Isabeau replied, “maybe things are done differently in this land compared to how we do them.” She tried to think of something to brighten the mood and perhaps get Blaise’s father to talk more about the circumstances of the wedding. “I wouldn’t worry about it, so long as you already know that your children are safe. Blaise had Loren and I read your letter, by the way. You’re a fine writer.” She nudged the Castellan and his wife along, leading them away from the crowd.

  Appealing to the man’s ego worked just a little too well, and he seemed to forget about the potentially perilous situation at hand and Isabeau’s lack of addressing him with honorifics. Instead, he took the opportunity to boast—truly his son’s father.

  “I was tutored in penmanship by one of the finest scribes of Saint Ragonde’s Abbey,” he declared, a slight smile on his face after getting over the shock of Isabeau dragging him along.

  Isabeau looked over her shoulder. She saw Sir Tancred taking the Duchess by the hand and escorting her away, and Blaise looking over to her in the same way Redsleeves sometimes did when he was confused as a puppy.

  “Ask her about the painting,” Isabeau mouthed to her friend as she led his parents away to talk.

  “But that letter,” Isabeau stated, returning her attention back to the parents of the groom, “the way you let Blaise have it had me and Loren laughing for days.”

  “I did not intend for that to come across as funny,” Lord Bertran huffed as Isabeau took a goblet and helped herself to the cask of wine —Tancred’s own, a gift for the occasion and perhaps the source of some loose-lipped confessions— before setting the goblet into his own hands.

  “I was most serious,” he continued, taking a sip and very obviously liking what he tasted. “My son may look the part of the chiseled, manly knight of fables, but his mannerisms have always been…do you understand what I mean to imply?”

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  “Uh huh,” Isabeau replied, giving another goblet to the Castellan’s wife. “Blaise is fussy, he’s particular about what he wears, sparkles follow him wherever he goes…”

  “Well,” Bertran grumbled, “what if he cannot express enough interest in Lady Martha to produce an heir?”

  “We will still always love him,” said Lady Dragoul, rubbing her exasperated husband’s back.

  “Of course,” sighed Lord Dragoul.

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, anyway,” said Isabeau. “I mean, he did admit to me and Loren that he does like men, but he said he’s had women he admires too. So as long as he and Martha get along well, he might not have a hard time giving you a grandchild at all.”

  Blaise’s father was silent for an uncomfortable moment but let out the breath he was holding in and gave a nod.

  “You are right, Homunculus, and all the good things my son has said about you appear true indeed. We have always taken our faith seriously in our family, and so I never expected to find out that Blaise had found a friend of alchemical origins. It pleases me to know that at least in your case, that the Miracle of Saint Mirelha rings true.” Lord Dragoul lowered his head and pressed his palms together in a gesture of prayer.

  “So,” Isabeau asked the ruler of Castle Dragoul after he had a little more to drink, “if I’m understanding this right, your brother and the Countess have no heirs, so if they don’t make one, the title of Count will pass onto you and then Blaise.”

  “That is correct,” Lady Dragoul spoke up, as her husband’s lips were to his goblet. “Please don’t go repeating this outside of this hall, but…an heir on Ubert’s part seems unlikely. I’ve talked with the Countess’s courtiers here and there, and one of them admitted to me that my brother-in-law…”

  Isabeau cocked an eyebrow in interest, a subtle but sly smile emerging.

  “…I will just say it’s no small rumor that he doesn’t visit her chamber as often as he perhaps should,” Emilia admitted.

  I guess that’s why Sir Grygor “takes care” of the Countess while the Count’s off on business, Isabeau thought.

  “Honestly,” Isabeau replied, “I understand. I’m not well-read, but anyone can see that shit goes to hell when who the throne’s going to isn’t clear.”

  “This will sound harsh,” Bertran spoke, the beginning of a slur in his words revealing him to be a bit more of a lightweight than Isabeau could have imagined, “but my brother never wanted to be Count. He wants to be marshal to our King in Gelova, and though I love Ubert dearly, our county cannot rely on someone who’s always out on campaign and a Countess who isn’t of the most noble repute. I do hope that following this marriage, I can perhaps convince my brother to stay in Gelova and allow me to be regent until Blaise is ready to take my place.”

  Isabeau couldn’t give an immediate reply; Bertran was right, his plan was harsh and perhaps even a bit of a betrayal to his own brother, but his reasoning wasn’t wrong, either. Isabeau knew that being Countess inflicted a lot of stress onto her old friend Regine, more stress than when the Countess had been her caretaker when they lived with Baron’s gang and nobody could know for sure when Baron would get bored of Regine and discard her like an old, ratty jerkin.

  “I didn’t have the best relationship with my own brother,” Isabeau said after a pause, “so you won’t get any judgment from me on whatever your motives are for marrying Blaise to Martha. You just want what’s best for your son, right?”

  “We do,” said Lady Dragoul, taking the Castellan’s hand.

  “The best we can do for him,” said Lord Dragoul. “I would have liked to have spoken to my brother alone, but I cannot do that when we still have no idea where in Agenoria he is. What I do know for sure is that our castle guards would not be enough to hold the line in any crisis in the future, and to our luck the Baultains were willing to provide me extra security in exchange for the marriage.”

  “Uh huh,” Isabeau muttered dryly. She’d heard enough of this security business talking with the Countess for the past season.

  ***

  Confronted with the sight of his would-be bride for the first time, Blaise couldn’t find the words to start the conversation. Isabeau had even told him how to start, but even if she and Sir Tancred had orchestrated a situation for him and Martha to speak alone, he wasn’t truly alone. It was just like being at Castle Dragoul, where even in the privacy of his bedroom, there was a guard standing just outside his door. In this case, it was the party guests. He’d seen his fair share of these occasions, being of the status he was, and knew all too well that any word he said reaching the wrong ears could spread to every court in the land. Still, standing awkwardly in the middle of this hall did him no favors in potentially escaping this marriage forced upon him.

  “Lady Martha,” he addressed the young woman standing across from him, “I grow tired of the prying eyes and ears all around. Do you know somewhere we could go to speak more privately?”

  She hesitated to answer him, but from what Blaise could tell, Martha didn’t seem quite as nervous as she’d initially let on. In fact, her eyes narrowed and her gaze darkened in a way that suggested that she too was not thrilled with what was to come.

  “Let me talk to Sir Geoffroi, first,” said Martha, giving a short bow. Blaise watched as his potential bride went over to the knight and began to speak to him; to his surprise, the body language on her end seemed a bit flirtier than he’d expected.

  He said he was her guardian, right? Blaise thought, hoping the conclusions he was reaching had no chance to be true.

  Martha returned, satisfaction clear in her expression as Sir Geoffroi cried out for the guests to make a toast to the Duchess in thanks for her hospitality. The Duchess parted from whatever lascivious conversation she appeared to be having with Sir Tancred, feigned some humility, and curtsied to her guests.

  “We’ll slip out back to the courtyard,” she said. “Then we can talk business.”

  Blaise followed Martha down an ornate hallway displaying more paintings, its walls and columns further displaying the grandeur of the family of his betrothed. He watched as Martha appeared to bribe a guard at the large, engraved oak door and played along when she took him by the hand and led him outside. The courtyard had a fountain in the center, adorned with a statue of a swan so intricately carved that Blaise would have been fooled to know its feathers weren’t in fact as soft as in real life. Meticulously shaped bushes bearing their first leaves of autumn color remained composed in the light breeze, but what truly caught Blaise’s eye were the peacocks strutting around. They were golden peacocks, specifically fed grain laced with citrinitas as chicks to encourage their feathers to turn a bright yellow. Their color was even more dazzling in the light of the ring above.

  “Why hello, there,” Blaise addressed a peahen, kneeling as she approached.

  “A friend to animals, are you?” asked Martha, smoothing out her dress.

  “Why of course,” Blaise replied as he returned to standing upright. “I have a horse I’m quite fond of back home, and a colony of ochre geckos I keep as pest control around the castle.”

  “I’m not much a fan of reptiles,” said Martha, “but I do agree that pests and insects are far more unpleasant. I’ve heard you view this marriage arrangement with the same displeasure I have when I see a locust or a roach.”

  Blaise carefully studied Martha’s expression but found no obvious cues that she was upset or insulted by his previous condemnations of their possible union. He decided to tell her the truth.

  “I am sure you heard about what happened with your painting,” said Blaise. “What you may know of I and Sir Grygor throwing darts at it, I am sorry to say that such a thing indeed happened. It’s hanging in the Leaky Cleaver, and we still throw darts at it from time to time.”

  Blaise thought that Martha would possibly be enraged, especially if the painting was indeed hers. Instead, Martha laughed.

  “Incredible,” she exclaimed. “If I come to Talerno sometime, I must see it.”

  Blaise just stood there, unable at first to come up with a reply. He didn’t remember picking the bird up but somehow, that peahen had ended up under his arm and he was stroking her under her beak. He recalled a time when Loren had poked fun at him for being so excited to see the dogs at the vineyard that he’d forgotten to give his greetings to Sir Tancred.

  “Y-you’re not upset that I disrespected your hard work?” Blaise stammered.

  “Hardly. That portrait was meant to get that reaction out of you. I’d painted a real one, too, so Grandmother wouldn’t suspect anything, and switched it out with the one I sent you before it was delivered.”

  “Oh,” Blaise chuckled awkwardly, “that’s quite a trick you pulled, Lady Martha. You’re a woman of wit.”

  “You don’t have to flatter me,” said Martha, resting a hand over her heart. “I painted that portrait as a cry for help, of sorts. I put my grandmother’s face on it instead of mine as a subtle way to inform you of who, in a way, you’d really be marrying.”

  Blaise’s mouth fell open.

  “Wait until I tell Isabeau.”

  “Well you can tell Isabeau this,” Martha stated firmly, taking a step closer to Blaise. “I don’t want to marry you.”

  “I would have guessed that was the case,” said Blaise. “I saw how you were chatting with Sir Geoffroi, and…”

  “Oh, there is nothing going on between Sir Geoffroi and I,” Martha replied, chuckling. “He’s like a father to me. I just act cute around him so he does what I want him to.” She looked over her shoulder. “Listen… I will pay you, Isabeau, and Sir Tancred good silver to help me escape from this prison of a castle. I will do what I can to protect your family—”

  Protect them…from what?

  Blaise nearly demanded to know more, but he watched Martha freeze in place and immediately go silent as the courtyard doors swung open. A tall, sturdy-looking man with a sharp nose and an amulet bearing a symbol of a rose dangling from his neck inserted himself into the conversation.

  “Sir Blaise,” he said, “I apologize for the interruption, but the Duchess is about to bring out the next round of entremets. Following that, you and Lady Martha shall be wed.”

  “Oh! Of course,” said Martha, switching back to her persona of an obedient granddaughter. Thank you, Sir Abramo.”

  Blaise eyed Sir Abramo carefully as he turned to lead him and Martha back to the keep’s main hall. That rose medallion around the man’s neck appeared familiar; it had surely come up in Blaise’s studies of theology and the saints of the Ringist faith. Unfortunately he couldn’t dwell on it for long, for further festivities awaited indoors. He hoped that if Martha did intend to escape tonight, that her plan was as clever as her ruse with the portrait.