“Calm down, Archie,” Saldur said.
“Stop calling me that. My name is Archibald!” Spit flew from his lips. “You’re both so smug and arrogant, but I’m no pawn. One word from me and Breckton will turn his army and march on Aquesta.” The earl pointed toward the still open door. “They’re loyal to him, you know—every last one of the miserable cretins. They will do whatever he says, and as you can see, he worships me.”
He clenched his fists and advanced, maddened that his soft heels did not have the same audible impact as Breckton’s.
“I could get King Alric to throw his support behind me as well. I could return his precious Melengar in exchange for the rest of Avryn. I could beat you at your own little game. I’d have the Northern Imperial Army in my right hand and what remains of the Royalists in my left. I could crush both of you in less than a month. So don’t tell me to calm down, Sauly! I’ve had it with your condescending tone and your holier-than-thou attitude. You’re as much a worm as Ethelred. You’re both in this together, weaving your webs and plotting against me. You just may have caught your own selves in your sticky trap this time!”
He headed for the door.
“Archi—I mean, Archibald!” Ethelred called after him.
The earl did not pause as he swept past Chancellor Biddings, who was just outside the throne room and gave the earl a concerned look. Servants scattered before Archibald as he marched in a fury through the doorway to the inner ward. Bursting into the brilliant sunshine reflected by the courtyard’s snow, he discovered he was unsure where to go from there. After a few moments, Archibald decided that it did not matter. It felt good just to move, to burn off energy, to get away. He considered calling for his horse. A long ride over hard ground seemed like just the thing he needed, but it was cold out. Archibald did not want to end up miles from shelter freezing, tired, and hungry. Instead, he settled for pacing back and forth, creating a shallow trench in the new snow.
Frustration turned to pleasure as he recalled his little speech. He liked the look it had put on both of their faces. They had not expected such a bold response from him. The delight ate up most of the burning anger, and the pacing dissipated the rest. Taking a seat on an upturned bucket, he stomped the snow from his boots.
Would Breckton turn his forces against Aquesta? Could I become the new emperor and have Modina for my own with just a single order?
The answer formed almost as quickly as the question had. The thought was an appealing dream but nothing more. Breckton would never agree and would refuse the order. For all the knight’s loyal bravado, everything that man did was subservient to some inscrutable code.
The entire House of Belstrad had been that way. Archibald recalled his father complaining about their ethics. The Ballentynes believed that knights should take orders without question in exchange for wealth and power. The Belstrads believed differently. They clung to an outdated ideal that the ruler—appointed by Maribor—must act within His will to earn a knight’s loyalty. Archibald was certain Breckton would not consider civil war to be Maribor’s will. Apparently, nothing Archibald ever really wanted fit that category.
Still, he had rocked the regents on their heels, and they would treat him better. He would finally have respect now that they realized just how important he was. The regents would have no clue that he could not deliver on his threats, so they would try to placate him with a larger prize. In the end, Archibald would have Melengar and perhaps more.
CHAPTER 4
WEDDING PLANS
The Duchess of Rochelle was a large woman in more than just girth. Her husband matched her, as they were both rotund people with thick necks, short pudgy fingers, and cheeks that jiggled when they laughed, which in the case of the lady was often and loud. They were like bookends to each other. A male and female version, cut from the same cloth in every way except temperament. While the duke was quiet, Lady Genevieve was anything but.
Amilia always knew when the duchess was coming, as the lady heralded her own arrival with a trumpetlike voice that echoed through the palace halls. She greeted everyone, regardless of class, with a hearty “Hullo! How are you?” in her brassy voice, which boomed off the dull stone. She would hug servants, guards, and even the huntsman’s hound if he crossed her path.
Amilia had met the duke and duchess when they first arrived. Saldur was there and had made the mistake of trying to explain why an audience with the empress was not possible. Amilia had been able to excuse herself, but she was certain Saldur had not been so lucky and probably was delayed for hours. Since then, Amilia had been avoiding the duchess, as the woman was not one to take no for an answer, and she did not want to repeat Saldur’s mistake. After three days Amilia’s luck finally ran out, when she was leaving the chapel.
“Amilia, darling!” the duchess shouted, rushing forward with her elegant gown billowing behind her. When she reached Amilia, two huge arms surrounded the imperial secretary in a crushing embrace. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Every time I inquire, I’m told you are busy. They must work you to death!”
The duchess released her grip. “You poor thing. Let me look at you.” She took Amilia’s hands and spread her arms wide. “Oh my, how lovely you are. But, darling, please tell me this is a washday and your servants are behind. No, don’t bother. I am certain that is the case. Still, I hope you won’t mind if I have Lois, my seamstress, whip you up something. I do so love giving gifts and it’s Wintertide, after all. By the look of you, it will hardly take any material or time. Lois will be thrilled.”
Lady Genevieve took Amilia’s arm and walked her down the hall. “You really are a treasure, you know, but I can tell they treat you poorly. What can you expect with men like Ethelred and Saldur running the show? Everything will be fine, though, now that I’m here.”
They rounded a corner and Amilia was amazed by the woman’s ability to talk so quickly without seeming to take a breath.
“Oh! I just loved the invitation you sent me, and yes, I know it was all your doing. It’s all been your doing, hasn’t it? They have you planning the whole wedding, don’t they? No wonder you are so busy. How insensitive. How cruel! But don’t worry. As I said, I’m here to help you. I’ve fashioned many weddings in my day and they’ve all been wonderful. What you need is an experienced planner—a wizard of wonder. We aristocrats expect panache and dazzle at these events and we hate to be disappointed. Being that this is the wedding of the empress, it must be larger, grander, and more amazing than anything that has come before. Nothing less will suffice.”