Then came a whirl of images: settling into his guest quarters, touring the city and its environs, meeting the many scholars he’d corresponded with, visiting booksellers with as many as a hundred volumes in their collections.
Then a moment of clarity from that time returned: I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life, he had realized suddenly one day, letting a heavy volume in his lap fall closed. I don’t want to go home, to settle suits over cows and count the arrows in the storerooms and talk of crops and hunting and weather, pointless patrols along a border Kesh rarely troubles, instructing captains to set to sea to chase pirates out ofDurbin. I wish I could stay here, for all my days, among the learned and wise, among those who understand the value of knowledge . . .!
Stop, the old man’s lips said silently, as his hands plucked at the coverlets. Tears squeezed out from beneath the thin wrinkled lids of his eyes. Oh, please, stop now.
Bernarr took his hands from between his liege’s and rose, looking up into the careworn face. He was close enough to smell the cinnamon-and-cloves scent of spiced wine on the older man’s breath, and to see the slight dark circles of worry beneath his eyes. The court was a blaze of colour around them.
The ceremony was quickly over. King Rodric the Third, a tired, anxious-looking man, offered a few words to the new baron, then Bernarr was hustled quickly away by court functionaries: there were others behind him and the King had many men to greet. Somehow he knew he would never again see this king, and that soon after leaving Rillanon, Bernarr would receive word that the King had died, and his son, likewise named Rodric, would assume the crown.
Receptions and audiences, a brief encounter with Prince Rodric, and the days flew. The provincial baron was viewed with indifference by most of the resident courtiers, though a few showed envy at the Prince’s interest in the scholarly young noble from the west. Alone of those in court only Lady Lisabeth, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, showed a personal interest in Bernarr, but her stout figure and lecherous demeanour repulsed him. She didn’t want him; she wanted any man with a title; even a country noble like Bernarr could see that.
The memory that was a dream was vivid. Bernarr almost jumped a foot when Lisabeth popped out of the bushes as he made his way to the centre of the maze, intending to read in solitude amid the pleasant smell of green and growing things. The tinkle of the fountain would be his only company. He quickly adjusted his expression to an indifferent mask. ‘My lady,’ he said coolly, with a slight bow. Then, clutching his book, he moved on.
She begged his attention, and balancing between being polite and curt, he attempted to disengage from her grasp as he explained he sought solitude, not company. He saw her lips move and remembered fragments of the conversation, but it blurred a moment, then came suddenly into focus as a peal of merry laughter was followed by a voice: ‘Oh, Lisabeth, let the gentleman get on with his studies and come away with me, do. We need another to play at cards and we would welcome your company.’ Bernarr turned his attention away from the unpleasant visage of Lady Lisabeth to find himself confronted by a vision in a plain green gown.
No! The old man’s voice keened through the dark closeness of his bedchamber. Not this! Please, not this! Let me wake, let me wake!
It was as though someone had taken his book and clubbed him over the head with it. All he could see was the young woman’s sparkling green eyes and the lush fall of her dark hair, the white column of her throat and that sweet, sweet smile. Birds with plumed tails and rings of silver on their claws walked about her, and the trumpet-vines behind her trembled purple and crimson in the breeze that moved wisps of her hair. His heart leapt at sight of her.
The Lady Lisabeth appeared momentarily annoyed at the interruption. Then she glanced at Bernarr and threw up her hands. ‘I see that you are right, Elaine,’ she said and moved toward her friend. ‘The Baron has no time for me.’
As they prepared to move away, Bernarr came to life again, feeling a wrenching sorrow he could not name, one that squeezed his heart and chest like the shadow of future grief. ‘My Lady Lisabeth,’ he said breathlessly, ‘will you not introduce me to your friend?’
Although an angry flush appeared in her cheek, Lisabeth was not in a position to refuse an introduction to a baron. ‘My lord, may I present the Lady Elaine du Benton.’ Her tone and manner were perfunctory. ‘Her family has a small estate outside Timons.’ Lisabeth took evil delight in stressing the word small.
‘Enchanted,’ he said, softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
It is no courtly flattery, he thought, for she has cast a spell over me with but one smile.
Elaine curtseyed, her eyes downcast, she did not rise.
Lisabeth rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘My lady Elaine, I have the honour to present Lord Bernarr, Baron of Land’s End.’
Elaine rose with a radiant smile and offered her hand to him. He took it gently and kissed it, suddenly, painfully aware of the ink-stains on his long fingers.