THIRTY FIVE
He was careful to deny any suggestion of peakiness the next day, though his head ached abominably and his mouth was desert dry until teatime. Dorix made a show of raising his voice whenever he came within range, but as the day wore on and the truncheons stopped beating inside his skull, Drinian found the strength to retaliate in kind.
It was gratifying to see his comrades were no more immune to the effect of potent liquor than he, even if they were spared annoying quips about their imagined virtue.
"As well our shipmate can be trusted to conduct himself like a gentleman," Ram remarked on reading the royal decree awaiting him in Barwell at their cruise's end. "Their Royal Highnesses cordially invite His Grace of Etinsmere to their sixteenth birthday ball at Anvard next week, and I'd as lief see the fleet represented by an officer of unimpeachable discretion. Oh! Had I not mentioned your impending promotion, Drinian?"
"Perhaps I misheard, Sir." A lusty cheer went up from the maindeck, stopped by a sharp slice of Drinian's hand. Ram grabbed it and shook vigorously.
"You've the authority aboard already, young man: all you lack is the gold button on your tunic. I dare say His Majesty will draw notice to it at the ball, unless your aunt persuades you to appear in landsmen's clothes."
Drinian might have shuddered at the prospect of being turned into a courtier, but so proud was the Lady of Westerwood to watch Lord Gurin fasten the badge of his new rank to his collar that any disappointment in seeing her nephew in the staid grey woollen naval tunic at court was quite overcome. Surrounded by the denizens of Anvard in peacock splendour, he cut a strikingly restrained figure more admired, Aunt opined, than he should have been in the crimson and dark green she had long preferred to set off the dark colouring common to their family.
"Proves I'm making myself useful in exile, Madam; more than can be said for many o' the native guests hereabout." Prowling the pleasant chambers allocated for their stay, he traced a skein of gold silk woven through the wall hangings. "What does Hastin's grandson do, save maunder about the castle penning dire poems for the Princess? Or that puffed-up absurdity Nerix? Too old for the schoolroom and too useless for the King's service, it seems to me."
"His Majesty is fond of both." Her thin lips pursed, Katharina Westerwood leaned against the outer door, blocking the keyhole with her hip. "And do moderate your voice, Drinian! I knew sending you to sea so young was a mistake – you're turned into another loud, common seaman like your uncle."
"And my father?" Guilt flashed across her face, a match for the piercing pain in his chest.
"My brother was sufficiently powerful – and high enough in his master's favour – for his tactless ways to be applauded," she said stiffly. "At least so long as his friend held the throne! You are reliant on the charity of Archenland, and – I hope – wise enough to trim your sails accordingly."
"Yes, Aunt." The rebuke did not bring hot tears to his eyes so much as the truth behind it. "I'll simper and sigh as prettily Horstin if I must: only don't expect me to linger!"
"I know it humiliates you." The tension drained from her, leaving her powdered cheeks to sag with age and wear. "I hoped the pain of exile would fade when you found activity to your taste, but…"
"It doesn't hurt." The lie was sour on his tongue. Thrusting his fingers through his neatly combed hair, Drinian threw himself onto a convenient couch, expelling a mirthless laugh. "So long as I don't think, at least! I wish people would stop talking of Narnia, and Miraz falling and my being free to go home, Aunt! It shan't happen; this is my home now, and the sooner I accept it, the better!"
"You are your father's son, and Tirian was apt to rail against aught he could not control." She ghosted to brush a kiss against his crown. "Etinsmere's your home, and so long as you've breath you will never be free of it. Now, sit up and comb your hair again! While you must preen and prance for a foreigner's court, we'll ensure none can do it more becomingly!"
King Nain had gathered every noble family in the kingdom to celebrate their birthday, and Drinian was astonished to find at least one of the official hosts even less enamoured of the event than himself. "It's humiliating!" Anelia exclaimed, brushing out her gold silk kirtle with fierce strokes that snagged her painted nails. "Corin! Stop capering like an infant, this is supposed to mark our maturity, whatever the stuffed toys and the stilt-walkers on the stairs might suggest!"
"I thought you would have delighted in all the attention," Drinian murmured, concealing the words in his formal greeting bow. The Princess shot him a vicious look even while elegantly extending her other hand for his kiss.
"Two hundred people squalling in the ballroom; the food all gone stale because it was set out before everyone arrived; father telling everyone how we ended in a heap as infants while dancing for Uncle Caspian's ambassadors… ugh, and my Lord Nerix, how kind of you to come, and my Lord and Lady Riverglade! You know the Lord Drinian of Etinsmere, of course? Oh, a poem for my birthday, how charming! Horstin, did you know Nerix writes verse too? Please, do fetch drinks, I believe you'll find Corin at the buffet table."
With the stuttering of her admirer in his ears, Drinian escaped into the gaudy ballroom, ducking his lofty head to avoid the streamers and garlands tumbling from the roof beams. Anelia's false trill rang out above the hubbub of too many trivial conversations, the gracious hostess personified: so long, he thought, as one didn't look too deep into her unresponsive eyes.
Prince Corin, on the other hand, positively overflowed with party spirit, particularly in the presence of the Countess of Lionswood (whose elderly husband, having a tendency to gastric discomfort, had been advised to forego the late hours and rich food on offer) a statuesque blonde with amber-gold eyes and the flattest, most somnolent speaking voice Drinian had ever heard. "Won't you have another salmon pastry, Reginala?" he volunteered, slightly breathless from an energetic spin to the whistles of the court musicians. "I say! Have you seen the new button on Drinian's tunic? He's an Officer of the Fleet now – splendid! Father says I'm to have a uniform soon, and an honorary Admiral's rank. Does that mean you'll have to salute me?"
"I assumed I was supposed to in any event, Your Highness." Suiting the action to the word, Drinian snapped a hand to his brow. Lady Lionwood whined her monotone laugh.
"A pity your uniform must be such a sad grey colour," she droned. "Would not Lord Drinian better suit green or dark blue, my Prince?"
"Dashed annoying that he suits every thing!" Corin cawed, slapping his friend lustily on the back. "Ah! The Lionswood March! In your husband's absence, Reginala, may I have the honour?"
"The honour is mine, my dear Highness."
The tips of Corin's ears turned pink. Seizing her hand lest any other dare steal her from him, he hurried his trophy to the head of a forming crocodile of dancers.
"Are you going to laugh at Corin or dance yourself, my Lord?" The subtle hum of her voice close to his ear made him start. Gamely, Drinian presented his hand to the smirking Princess.
"If Your Grace will be my partner, I'll try to remember Aunt's strictures about not thumping about," he drawled. Anelia's high chortle turned a score of heads their way.
He rather thought she meant it to.
Having once grasped his hand, she showed no great willingness to release it. "I'm hiding," she explained, leaning closer than the dance required in passing halfway down the line, so her breast feathered his chest. "Horstin's sighing and Nerix trots at my heels like a drowned pup. Corin thinks them comical."
"As funny as he is fawning over Lady Lionswood?"
"Ha! That is funny. At least my suitors are near in age, even if Nerix does look thirteen at best."
"Twelve, surely?"
"Brute!"
"What better can you expect of a rough sailor?"
"Who dances as lightly as a prince." The music stilled with them in the centre of a clapping circle, their fingers twined and matching mischievous smiles curving their lips. "Would you not appreciate a breath of air, my Lord?"
"I see the doors to the rose garden have been opened, if Your Highness would care to join me?"
Her long eyelashes fluttered ridiculously. "Delighted, my Lord."
The tranquillity of the garden caught him off-balance after the clamour indoors. "Do you wish yourself a dozen leagues out from Barwell?" his companion wondered.
"At this instant – no." He grinned down into her fine-boned oval face, gilded silver by moonlight. "Three minutes ago - a hundred leagues would have suited better."
"Aye." Their wandering – aimless, he thought – brought them to a halt behind a tall yew hedge, screening them from the castle. Anelia sighed deeply and he glanced down again.
Swift as a striking snake she brought both hands to his nape and tugged. Before his lips could part in protest, hers were crushed against them, and thoughts of objecting flew from his head.
How many seconds passed before he reeled back, lips tingling and eyes popped, Drinian was never sure. "Wha' – Anelia!" he spluttered, longing for the sturdy balance he enjoyed at sea. Pressing her fingers to her mouth, she arched delicate brows at him.
"Why! Has a lady never kissed you so before, my Lord of Etinsmere?" High and giddy, his title ended on a giggle.
"Have you ever kissed a gentleman so?"
Wayward glee exploded in a gusty chortle. "When the only gentleman under forty in the castle is my brother? Hateful thought!"
"Not the only one, surely, though Aunt would be flattered to hear I qualify for the name." He traced the outline of his bottom lip experimentally with his tongue, acutely aware of her watchful stare. "What of Nerix, or Horstin? Or the ushers?"
"Ushers are men, not gentlemen. Nerix – did you estimate twelve? He's eighteen, but no one would believe it. As to Horstin, that would be like kissing a raincloud! You're not going to complain to Father?"
With the strange, sweet taste of her mouth still on his and his head still spinning? Drinian brought her hand up for a courtier's kiss. "Not unless you intend telling tales to my aunt. But we ought to go in, before anyone notices we're gone."
"I dare say such practicality is useful at sea." The proud dame who objected to stuffed toys at her party skittered like a carefree child toward the castle. "Hurry up, Drinian! We cut the cakes at midnight, and mine is strawberry sponge!"