In Verlaine once she had been one against all the might of Fulk, with no friend within that sea-pounded pile. Here she was one against many again. If she did not feel so sick and dizzy she could think more clearly! But to move made the floor under her dusty riding boots heave and roll as had the deck of the coaster.
The door opened and a flare of a hand lamp struck at her through the dusk, blinding her so that she must squint up at those who stood there. Three of them, two in the livery of ducal servants, one holding the lamp, the other a tray of covered dishes. But the third, that slender figure with a scarf about head and shoulders in masking concealment—Putting down lamp and tray on the table the serving women left, closing the door behind them. Only when they had gone did that other come into the full light, twitch aside her veiling to view Loyse eye to eye.
She stood taller than the heiress of Verlaine, and her figure had a delicate grace Loyse could not claim. She wore her fair hair looped in intricate plaiting, the whole snooded in a gem-spangled net. And there were more jewels at her throat, her girdle, braceleting her arms above the tight fabric of her sleeves, ringing each finger. As if she had set out the wealth of her gem caskets with purpose to overawe the beholder. Yet, looking beyond all that glitter to her calm eyes, her serene expression, Loyse thought such a gesture could only be a screen. The wearer of that wealth might do it because it was expected of her, not because she needed support of her treasures at this meeting.
Now her hand, with its glinting burden, advanced and she picked up the lamp to hold it higher, facing Loyse with a measuring look which stung, but under which the girl sat unmoving. She could not match the other’s beauty. Where this one was golden-haired, Loyse was bleached to fading; where this one was all grace, not studied but instinctive, Loyse was awkward angularity. Nor could she pride herself as to wit, for the Lady Aldis was noted for her astute moves in the murky waters of Yvian’s court.
“You must have more to you than appears,” Aldis broke the silence first. “But that lies far buried, my lady duchess.” The sober appraisal of that speech became mockery at its close.
Lamp still in hand, Aldis swept a curtsy which made her skirts swing in a graceful swirl not one woman in a hundred could have equaled. “My lady duchess, you are served—pray partake. Doubtless the fare upon which you were forced to break your fast of late has not been of the best.”
She returned the lamp to the table and drew up a stool, her manners a subtly contemptuous counterfeit of a servant’s deference. When Loyse neither moved nor answered, Aldis set forefinger to lip as if puzzled, and then smiled.
“Ah—I have not been named to your fair grace, have I? My name is Aldis, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to this, your city of Kars where you have long been awaited. Now, does it please you to dine, my lady duchess?”
“Is it not rather your city of Kars?” Loyse put no inflection into that question, it was as simply asked as a child might do. She knew not what role might aid her now, but to have Yvian’s mistress underrate his unwilling wife seemed a good move.
Aldis’ smile grew brighter. “Ill-natured tittle-tattle, gossip, such as should never have reached your ears, my lady duchess. When the chatelaine is missing, then there needs must be someone to see that all is done mannerly, as our lord duke would wish. I flatter myself in believing that you shall find little here, your fair grace, that must be changed.”
A threat—a warning? Yet if either, most lightly delivered in a tone which gave no emphasis. But Loyse believed that Aldis had no intention of yielding what power she had here to a wife married for reasons of state.
“The report of your death was a sad blow to our lord duke,” Aldis continued. “Where he was prepared to welcome a bride, came instead an account of an open tower window, a piece of torn robe, and the sea beneath—as if those waves were more welcome than his arms! A most upsetting thought to haunt our lord duke’s pillow by night. And how greatly relieved he was when came that other report—that Loyse of Verlaine had been bewitched out of her senses by those hags of the north, taken by them as hostage. But now all is well again, is it not? You are in Kars with a hundred hundred swords to keep a safe wall between you and the enemy. So eat, my lady duchess, and then rest The hour is not far off when you must look your best to ravish the eyes of your bridegroom.” The mockery was no longer light—cat-claws unsheathed to tear the deeper.
Aldis lifted the covers from the dishes on the tray and the odor of the food turned Loyse’s emptiness into a sudden pain. This was no time for pride or defiance.
She smeared her hand across her eyes as might a child who is come to the end of a crying bout, and got to her feet, clutching at the bed post to steady her steps. A lurch brought her to the table edge and she worked her way along the board to drop onto the stool.
“Poor child! You are indeed foredone—” But Aldis made no move to approach her and for that Loyse was thankful. A small part of her resented fiercely that the other watched while she had to use both hands to bring a goblet to her lips; her weakness was a betrayal.
But Aldis did not matter now. What did was restoring the wavering strength of her body, clearing her head. That Aldis had come here might in turn lead to something. Though Loyse could not yet see the advantage in the visit.
Warmth from the liquid she swallowed spread through her; the surface fear ebbed. Loyse put down the goblet. She did not want a wine-born muzziness clouding her thoughts. Now she pulled a bowl of soup to her and began to spoon it up, the savor of it reaching her. Duke Yvian was well served by his cooks. Against her will Loyse relaxed, relished her supper.
“Boar in red wine,” Aldis commented brightly. “A dish you shall find often before you, lady; since our gracious lord relishes it. Jappon, the chief cook, has a master hand for it. My lord duke expects us to mark his likes and dislikes and be attentive to them.”
Loyse took another sip of wine. “Vintage of a good year,” she commented, striving to hold her voice to the same even lightness. “It would seem that this lord duke of yours has also a palate. I would have believed tavern wine more to his taste, since his first man draughts came from such casks—”
Aldis smiled more sweetly. “Our lord duke does not mind allusions to his somewhat—shall we say—irregular beginnings. That he won Karsten by the might of his sword arm—”
“And the backing of his blank-shields,” Loyse cut in blandly.
“And the loyalty of his followers,” Aldis agreed. “He feels pride in that fact and often speaks of it in company.”
“One who climbs to heights must beware of the footing,” Loyse broke a slice of the nut-flour bread in twain and nibbled its crust.
“One who rises to heights makes very sure that the footing on that height is smoothed,” Aldis countered. “He has learned not to leave aught to chance, for Fortune is fickle.”
“And wisdom must balance all swords,” Loyse replied with a hill proverb. The food had drawn her out of her misery. But—no overconfidence. Yvian was no stupid sword swinger, easily befooled. He had won Karsten by wits as well as fighting. And this Aldis— Walk softly, Loyse, walk softly, beware of every leaf rustle.
“Our lord duke is paramount in all things, with sword, in the council chamber and—in bed. Nor is his body misshapen—”