CW: This chapter touches upon some of the less romantic versions of politically arranged marriages. There is also an incident of sexual harassment.
Interim II: Emma
Hendonne, Chene, Summer 1541
The night before Emma's wedding, Julian came to find her. She was in the uppermost gallery of the house. From here you could see for miles down the sprawling acres of garden which bore a carpet of crocuses in the springtime and bowers of fragrant Italian roses in the summer. They stretched right to the gleaming waters of Lake Lyn, which were lapping calm and sweet almost as far as the eye could see. From higher upstairs at Hendonne you could even see to the silvery stone of Bellgate, on the far opposite curve of the bay, where the Blackthorns lived. Of an evening, you could watch the candles of Bellgate's upper floors flicker to life from Emma's window.
The house beneath her was her true home, it was the house she'd been born in and the house her parents cherished. After tomorrow, Emma would finally be mistress of it again. This house and the lands and title which came with it were always intended to be hers. This was to be her great homecoming and yet, as the final hours of her girlhood ticked by, she couldn't resist straining for a final glance at the house she dared never call home again. Not even to herself. Bellgate belonged to the Blackthorns and come tomorrow morning it was final- she'd never be a Blackthorn. She'd be a Verlac. There was no shame in that. The Verlacs were another long, proud Idrisian line with their own traditions and histories; it was just that Emma didn't know them yet.
It was in this, her moment of greatest uncertainty, that Julian came to her.
"I have a present for you. I want you to have it before he- before they all get here. This might be the last time I have you to myself." Julian said it lightly, but Emma could hear the strain behind his voice. He too was nervous.
"Jules, you need not buy me anything! I told you not to. You swore to me there'd be no costly wedding presents."
He smiled softly but stayed unrelenting. The new weight he carried and all the ways he'd so abruptly grown up of late were still there, but there was a glimmer of the old playmate who'd often shared in her mischief in Julian's smile, "I didn't. I keep my word, Em." He reached into his doublet and pulled a small gold band from within. He held it out to the light, revealing a modest, but beautiful ring- a small, square cut ruby, nestled in a bed of pearls. Even in the dusk, it's depths flared and called upon the light.
He was blushing, Emma noticed with surprise. Her Julian, ever so unflappable of late, who was always so careful with his looks and with his words now that he was Duke of Lyn. In name, anyway. Jules was still in his minority and so the King had no use for the one they called the Boy Duke at court. Nor did he call upon Uncle Arthur, the supposed acting-Duke, thankfully. Yet, no one could look at or listen to Julian and believe him free of all responsibility. No one could look at Julian and see a child. He stood a clear head taller than her and had to look down to meet her gaze.
He passed over the ring with steady hands and a sombre voice, even as spots of colour bloomed on each cheek, "It belonged to my mother." He flipped it over so she might see the engraving on the inside: EB. Eleanor Blackthorn, of course, but that wasn't the only reason he wished to gift it to her.
Had things played out differently and Emma and Julian permitted to stay children a little longer, this ring would have come to her in time, and that engraving would suit her own initials.
"It is beautiful." She told him earnestly. She ought to still refuse him. Emma should tell him to keep the ring for the girl he did wed.
As ever, Jules heard all Emma didn't say.
"It's yours." He insisted. Julian caught her hand and turned it over, prising her palm open with gentle but firm fingers. He pressed the ring into it. "I would like for you to have it. So, you have some way to remember me."
Emma was determined to be brave, to keep smiling as each day passed and her wedding drew nearer. And she'd succeeded, by concentrating on the logistics of the wedding to be planned and on deciding which of her things she would pack to remove to her new marital home in Burchetten. All of this to distract from the fact she would soon belong to a man she did not know very well. This moment, today, was the closest she had come to giving ground to any of her fears, facing the one that she did know well. Better, even, than she sometimes knew herself. The hot, heavy warning of tears rose in the back of her throat. Emma swallowed them down, "I am not going away forever Julian. We will still see each other, and often, I would hope. I will be back at Hendonne, soon."
"Yes, but things will be different from now on. I will not see you every day and when I do see you…" Julian trailed off, elaboration unnecessary.
Of course, things would change. They would always be friends, but soon Emma would be respectably married while Julian would remain as he was: a young man of marriageable age who was not her brother. It would not be appropriate to be as they were now, so familiar and so intimate- even though it was wholly innocent. From tomorrow, such closeness would be improper. It would be disrespectful to Emma's husband.
That did not mean Julian would not still occupy a firm place in her heart. It would not erase him from being the person who kept her going, all these years when she would otherwise have been wretchedly, despairingly alone. It would not prevent him being her dearest confidante, the other half of herself. The better half of herself. He could read her thoughts in a look or a light touch to the back of the hand and Julian understood her completely. From him alone she did not have to hide her hurt, or her fears, her thoughts and her plans.
You couldn't remove Emma from Julian any more than you could cut her heart or her lungs out and still expect her to be whole.
In another world, Julian would have put this ring on her finger himself in front of a priest and promised himself to her, in the way she had always expected he would. And she would have sworn herself back, without trepidation, and secure in the knowledge that she wholeheartedly meant all she promised.
Defiantly, Emma slid Julian's ring on. She put the Duchess of Lyn's ruby onto the fourth finger on her left hand.
It slipped on easily over the knuckle and nestled into place. As though it had always belonged to her.
This promise she could make to him; she would not forget him, and some part of her, private but never insignificant, would always belong to him. However little of herself Emma was free to give, it was Julian's. In this secret regard they would always belong together. This quiet claiming, this perpetual pledge to one another could cause no disrespect, for they alone in this world would know of it, and what it meant.
And they alone would be plagued, in sleepless nights for years to come, over what else that ring might have meant.
-000000000000000-
On the day of Emma Carstairs's wedding the weather was perfect. The sun beamed down and the light of it was tossed back to the heavens off the surface of all the dozens of small lakes that studded the landscape in this province. Only the faintest, most listless of breezes stirred the hedgerows, disturbing pollen laden bees where they buzzed and the more delicate, haphazard flutter of the red butterfly, his wings trimmed with black.
The bride also wore crimson, her golden locks tumbling free down her back, woven through with yellow roses from her mother's garden. She walked to her surly bridegroom on long strides, a serene smile on her face. Sebastian was clad in russet silks and a huge, feathered cap which would, at least, offer some relief from the glare of the sun, even at the cost of making him look like a misplaced exotic bird. He seemed pale, though perhaps he was just hungover. Mayhap he was nervous as any consummate cad was like to be at the looming commitment.
Emma Carstairs walked alone to claim the groom chosen for her. Though, she was not little anymore, and hadn't been for quite some time. She was a young woman now, tall and graceful, wearing the perfect smile she'd honed as a child among Valentine's court. She and Sebastian, two grossly unsuited in every way, were joined together before an audience of the realm's most esteemed personages. The King was guest of honour, an impressive figure in brown and gold, with Queen Jocelyn in dark yellow beside him. Although the nuptials were his doing, Prince Jonathan was the only member of the royal family who had declined to attend. Seldom did he grace the royal court with his presence of late.
However, the King's daughter was in attendance, the spring green of her gown laced flat to her stomach as tight as her smile. The Duke of Broceland, predictably, stood beside her and also fought for a smile.
As she faced Sebastian Verlac, Emma reached deep for hope. Where Jonathan was cruel, his oldest friend was just foolish, and easily led. With a wife to check him and to balance him, there was no reason the lord of Burchetten wouldn't make good. That Jonathan was not here could be a good thing. Without the cloud of his influence, Sebastian might be better inclined to behave himself. He might become the better man his new wife wanted of him.
As they newly weds walked away from the church steps together, Emma caught the Duke of Broceland's eye. He looked guilty and sternly protective. Capable and confident she may be, Emma supposed Jace remembered her when she was twelve. He'd intimated to her before he felt he ought to have better protected her and should not have thought her beyond harm at Bellgate, though she'd filled her letters to Clary to a kind of contentment. Emma gave Jace the smallest shake of her head. She would not protest the match to Verlac, because Emma knew it would make little difference if she did. She was the King's ward, and he would do as he pleased with her. And she had seen for herself, during those dreadful days she had spent in the Gard while her parents perished, what became of those who defied Valentine.
Emma Carstairs learned many hard lessons young.
Prince Jonathan didn't need to make an appearance to make his presence felt. On this wedding day he showed the kingdom that it paid well to show the Prince loyalty. After today, Sebastian Verlac would be among the richest men in Idris. Perhaps even the richest. Certainly richer than Jace, though he would still outrank Sebastian in title as a duke.
As the day progressed, the heat only climbed.
Though Emma had never officially been her ward, the Dowager Duchess of Lyn had taken the liberty of planning the wedding celebrations.
Diana saw to it the great hall of Hendonne was dusted off and fit for purpose. She saw the floors scattered with sweet herbs and the rafters dusted. Under her direction garlands of summer flowers were strung everywhere, many from her own gardens at Bellgate. Lady Diana did her best to ply the guests with sweet fruit juices and urge them into patches of shade. She was sombre, still in her widow's black, but she smiled down on Emma, who had neither mother nor sister to speak for her today. Diana strove to fulfil the former of the roles to the best of her ability, the Duchess of Broceland the latter. Clary embraced Emma warmly after the wedding mass, kissed her on each cheek and declared she looked beautiful. Emma towered over Clary now, but she had beamed back, and returned the hug with enthusiasm.
Morning slid into afternoon and the heat climbed higher still. Every window was opened, their panes pushed as far out as they could go, yet hardly a breath stole in. The laughter and feasting continued, albeit subdued. Sweating musicians played spritely jigs from the gallery, though no one had the death wish of dancing in this heat.
Besides, there were other curiosities to behold at Hendonne. The occasion called for a rare appearance of 'the Boy Duke.' Emma often resented the nickname on Jules's behalf, for it suggested a round faced, high voiced little prig. Julian Blackthorn wasn't any of these things. He was almost a match for Jace in height, wearing an intense expression on his face and a shadow of stubble on his jaw. Until Julian turned eighteen, the even more elusive Arthur Blackthorn was to be caretaker of Lyn's ancestral lands. That guardian had elected not to make an appearance today, so it was up to Julian and his siblings to carry the family side. Emma felt it must be odd, to be not quite a man, to grieve and shoulder his father's title at the same time, having a grand title and none of its power yet.
Emma noticed Julian in the way she instinctively always took stock of where Julian was in a room and what he was doing, even now, when she was so careful not to look to him for fear of how it might be construed by her new spouse. Jules kept out of the rings of conversation. He had a handful of grapes in his hand, though gave the impression he were swallowing hot coals. Though Emma carefully balanced her looks so they didn't fall on him too oft, Julian tracked of the bride's every movement, as though he were primed to leap in front of a poisoned dart for her at any moment.
The other, younger Duke of the realm was finally distracted by his brother. Ty was almost as tall as Julian but darker in his features. Julian caught at his sleeve and began murmuring in his ear intently, eyes sparking concern. Emma knew without turning that while Julian spoke to Ty, his expression softened. He kept his heart firmly chained, did Julian, except from his family.
The court sweated on, until the fervour of the summer heat cooled into a balmy, lavender scented night. The more civil climate allowed for some dancing at last.
Emma partnered her new husband shyly, while Sebastian still avoided her gaze. As soon as the final note ended, he dropped her hand like a hot brick and shot off the floor as a bat shaken from a belfry. Though Emma had been the picture of placid composure and good manners all day, she struggled not to appear palpably crestfallen at the snub. She'd sense enough not to look on this as a love match, but she must have expected her new spouse would at least deign to be pleasant to her. That he might at least smile for the occasion.
In that moment, she failed to be the lady of the manor and appeared exactly as she was. A very young woman who had been abandoned quite publicly in the middle of a celebration that was supposed to be all about her. It was her house, her day, and no one should have been permitted to leave her like that, alone and embarrassed. No one should have the power to make her feel small in her own home.
Jace Herondale appeared before her in the glaring space Sebastian left, stepping in so smoothly to plaster the crack.
"May I have the next dance, my lady?"
Emma glanced back up at him, and at the encouragement in Jace's face she managed to put her best courtier's smile back on. "It would be an honour, Your Grace."
Her long, nimble fingers slid between his, and they began the practised motion of the pavane. Emma was a well-trained dancer, poised and intuitive. She easily matched Jace's rhythm and pace.
"I am sorry you have not seen more of me." He did not just mean today. Her father had been his first friend at this court, and for a while his only one.
"Worry not. I know the King and Council keep you busy."
"It keeps us all busy. That is no excuse. I know Clary writes to you, mayhap I should have too. I feared it would not help you much, the association." The last time Jonathan saw them together, he'd had Emma's parents killed soon after. "But I served you not at all from Alicante. I should have at least visited."
Emma chuckled gently under her breath. She shot him a sideways glance, from those eyes that were the same steady brown as John' two might both be long legged and fair haired, but that was not their only similarity. They each knew what it was to be orphans. They each knew what it was to make hard decisions to keep a step ahead as best one could, to survive in these power games. To keep your head above water. They'd learned the injustice of the rules and the terrible stakes too young.
"Bellgate is very far from Alicante." Emma reasoned.
"You will not be so far away anymore." Jace pointed out. "Only an hour or so from Chatton."
Emma brightened, "True. We shall be neighbours again. You must indeed visit."
"As must you."
The dancers turned, and for a heartbeat she was close enough that Jace could drop to a murmur, "I know this is not what your father would have wanted Emma but-"
"My father would have wanted me to have Hendonne." She corrected through him with conviction, "He would want me to have my Earldom."
My Earldom. It slipped off Emma's tongue before she could stop it. The Chene name had been in the Carstairs family for two centuries, it was hers, though under law Emma would never hold it on her own. The title might be her blood right, a woman would never be an Earl. Sebastian would wear her Earldom too, and she'd be his Countess, twice over- Burchetten and Chene. She caught herself, "I am glad to be home."
Jace nodded, and their eyes slid away. "Then I am glad for you." The music was winding down, they had almost paced the length of the hall.
"He would be proud of you."
Emma's eyes shone, for she knew who he meant. Her father, the man who should have been here to protect her interests, to lead her to the chapel on his arm, though he'd have wished for a different groom. Everything would be different if her father were here. But he wasn't. Prince Jonathan saw to it, and then he'd felled the Duke of Lyn soon after. He'd served Emma up to his old ally on a gold platter and not even had the decency to come to the feast. The Prince hadn't regarded Emma at all. She wasn't worthy of his attention. One day, she'd show him otherwise. Jonathan was as much Emma's enemy as he was Brocelands.
Their cases were so similar, Jace's and Emma's, the shadows on their souls were so alike. The song ended and the dancing partners bowed to one another. Jace caught Emma's hand and kissed the back of her knuckles lightly before he let her go. "You are doing so well." He told her fervently, "You have played it so well."
She had. She never let the ignominy of her parents' downfall lower her head for a second while she carried their loss on her heart. She kept smiling, as she had done all day today, even while her new husband ignored her. The past few years at Bellgate had not blunted her wits, and only whetted her strength. Emma would have need of both in the new life awaiting her at the centre of Valentine's court. At the centre of Jonathan's world.
"I haven't forgotten all you have done for me. I owe you Emma Carstairs. I will not forget it." Emma lifted her hand from the Duke's to politely applaud the band. She looked over to where her guests and sulking husband awaited her.
"I think it would do little good if you were to start writing and calling upon me now. Though I appreciate the offer, I fear Sebastian would not like it, and it will be easier if I can make him like me. I do thank you. You taught me more than verb conjugations, Jace. Lessons I have much use of. And Clary was the only one who was unashamedly kind to me after my parents died. I have not forgotten that either."
"You were a better player than most by the time you were thirteen years old." Jace reminded her. She came out of the fires stronger, a blade reforged. Emma knew what it meant to be without a protector, in this world. You either let the wolves devour you, or you found your own teeth.
When Emma next smiled at him it was real one. "I learned from the best."
-000000000000000-
Princewater Palace, Winter 1542
The coldest winter for years held the palace tight in its grip. Gales clawed at the brickwork and ice packed the sills even in the afternoons. Chunks of the Princewater river froze and it snowed almost every night of the week leading up to Christmas.
Within the King's halls, the cold didn't stall much of the festive merry making. There was feasting and dancing, a cockfight and a grand masque. The latter was the cause of most anticipation. Magnus Bane arranged for a mock castle to be erected, complete with faux battlements from which the dancers within could rain down flower petals on those players who would storm it. The gentlemen of the court would be among those leading the charge, each in the role of courageous knight. The most beautiful and accomplished ladies of King Valentine's court were selected by the Queen to participate as damsels of the besieged tower, each to play the embodiment a feminine virtue. The King's daughter danced as Devotion. The other Princess, her sister by marriage, as Perseverance.
While all others fussed and bickered around her in the excitement, the young Countess of Chene and Burchetten scrutinised herself glumly in the looking glass. She'd visited this court many times with her parents. The halls and intrigues of Princewater were a second home to Emma, and always had been. Even before it became obvious she'd be her father's only heir, John never believed her sex to be an adequate reason to lock Emma up at Hendonne until she was married. He'd wanted her to get a taste of the world and his work, he'd encouraged her to voice her opinions and ask questions. She knew now what rare man her father was. Emma's husband complained often that she talked too much, that it was irksome, and Sebastian went to lengths to enforce upon Emma that nobody cared what she thought. He certainly did not. His mother, whom he still considered the true mistress of his houses and estates, cared what Emma thought even less so.
Even before Sebastian, Emma lived in the palace for brief stints, most notably during her final, fateful time among the Brocelands' household, during that last season she'd been truly happy.
"They've given me Beauty," Helen Blackthorn complained, not long returned from Adamant where she now spent most of her days merrily with its new Countess, "Helen playing beauty. How they must have exhausted their imaginations."
"Think of it as a compliment," Aline urged, reaching over to fix Helen's hair with an unmistakable tenderness.
"Easy for you to say, they've given you Wisdom."
"I cannot take mine to be a compliment at all!" Julie Beauvale trilled shrilly, "They've given me Chastity. Does that mean none can fathom desiring me?"
They all fell about teasing and laughing her, while Emma's eyes remained on the spotted edge of the glass. Her chin was propped up in her hand, the left one she favoured, despite her childhood tutors' despair. From their insistence, she could write as well with her right- the more decent, less ill-favoured hand- but using her left would forever feel more natural.
The Duchess of Broceland drew nearer, twiddling with the flowers already gathered into her arms. The light dress for the performance clung to her figure like a chemise, and it was impossible not to notice the small but discernible rounded bump of her belly.
"You dislike your part that much too?"
Emma startled at the sound of Clary's kindly voice, her fingers catching on the ruby ring they always did when she was uneasy.
For her dearest and oldest friend here, the young Countess conjured a smile.
"I hadn't given it much thought," she admitted. The banner pinned to her sleeve bore the virtue Temperance.
Clary reached over and plucked it free, "We can do much better than that for you." Emma despaired the fuss because she didn't care what part she danced tonight, not at all, but Clary's eyes had sparked and she was on a mission now. She wished to do a small something, to offer slight, temporary recompense for the many sorrows Emma carried on slim shoulders.
She returned a short time later with an alternative she'd wrangled or traded or demanded off another of the court's ladies, Emma knew not whom.
"There. That's a better fit, I think."
Emma found a brighter, warmer smile as Clary carefully tucked it into place. She smoothed over Emma's cheek, precisely where tears might land if the Countess ever let them fall. "Much better."
Patience.
-00000000000000-
Hendonne, Summer 1543
"Well," Jonathan Morgenstern rocked back on his chair, his heels swinging to the floor. "Though his good sense left much to be desired, you cannot deny that John Carstairs had taste."
He looked around the parlour- which had so tenderly been decorated by Emma's mother as a scared space for their family- as though he owned it. Which, Emma supposed, he might as well. For this house and everything in it belonged to Sebastian now, and Jonathan owned Sebastian.
Emma had spent countless hours in here; her head in her mother's lap and the late Countess's fingers stroking through her hair while her father read aloud to them in his deep, thoughtful voice. If Emma were to close her eyes, she could still feel the brush of her mother's hands correcting her hold on a needle and hear her father calling for her to come listen to a new treatise he'd acquired.
Her parents always regarded Emma as her own person, as one capable of making sense of the world for herself, capable of forming her own thoughts and beliefs. Her parents had never allowed for her to feel insignificant. Not even as a child when really, in the grand scheme of things, Emma had been.
For years this parlour had been a place where she had been free to laugh, to cry, to think and to speak her mind.
Now Sebastian and Jonathan drank and gambled in it every evening.
Yet Emma could not disagree with Jonathan entirely. Not in this one instance. For Hendonne was beautiful. Her father had made sure of it: ordering the glass for the casements from the finest glassmakers in Venice, purchasing the expensive carpets from a Turkish spice merchant and commissioning the table and chairs artfully crafted from a local gleaming, russet cherry wood.
Whatever Emma lacked in her husband's eyes, her house had proved ample compensation. Sebastian had fallen in love with the red brick manor house, at least. The Verlac family manor in Burchetten was unquestionably the realm of Sebastian's harpy of a widowed mother. Emma sometimes wondered if Sebastian's father died so young simply to get away from her. Emma always resented the firm hold the Dowager Countess would keep over Anadder Place and tried to retain over her son, but now he was a married man, Sebastian did crave his own household and less maternal supervision. To that end, Hendonne became his new favourite residence, where the weather was better and the wine richer. He left the Dowager Countess to reign over the Burchetten estates with as much tyranny as she wished so he could do the same in kind at Hendonne.
Unfortunately, this now meant Prince Jonathan spent more and more time here, too; their most esteemed guest of honour whom they'd never invited and dared not ask to leave.
The royal family had always carried its internal, broiling tensions. Since the death of the baby prince in the spring just past, the ruling House of Morgenstern split visibly down the middle. Both the King's children left court after the pitiful little funeral, neither showing much inclination to return anytime soon. In the wake of the tragedy, Jonathan also quarrelled terribly with his wife. Emma liked her greatly, the proud and brazen Princess whom, for all her riches, did not have an easy life. Yes, Isabelle was Jonathan's wife, but Emma was reluctant to tar her with the same brush. She of all people appreciated that women were not the same as their husbands.
It cannot be easy to be Jonathan's wife. It wasn't easy being Sebastian's, and Jonathan was worse.
At Hendonne Jonathan stewed, drank the cellars dry, and demolished every morsel in the larder. Emma and the domestic staff sweated every day trying to keep up with the demand: drawing fish from the lake, hares from the woods and plundering the chicken coops. The Prince's appetite was insatiable.
That much, though testing, Emma could live with.
But come the evening, he would fill his cups and start casting his eye over the serving girls as though they too were hunks of meat carefully tendered for his consumption. In the kitchens, the girls started drawing lots for who would have to wait on him. Upon learning of this, Emma stepped in. To the staff's palpable relief, she now took it upon herself to play the diligent hostess and serve the table with her own hand. After all, there was no use skulking at key holes and nudging doors ajar when she could march right up to Jonathan's shoulder.
Alas, whatever intimacies she had hoped she might hear proved non-existent. Instead, she listened to the men get progressively drunker, laugh at their own terrible jokes and tell the same bawdy stories over and over.
Still, Emma circled the table every night. While they ignored her, she listened and she waited. One night, surely, Jonathan would have enough to drink that his tongue would loosen and some confidence would come spilling out and make all this worth her while.
And so, every time Jonathan lowered an empty glass to the table, Emma Verlac personally moved to pour.
Until one night, just as she tilted forward and began to bend at the waist, the Prince's hand stole up her skirt. She jerked backward an inch, startled, before her limbs locked up entirely. Emma's mind blared blank. She watched the wine jug drop downward with her shock, a splash of ruby liquid lilting over the lip and slapping onto the tablecloth.
When she came back to herself and his hand remained where it was, she wanted to seize up the carving knife and put it through his eye, or at least, slap him away with all ferocity. In that moment, she could not do any of these things. She could not think properly, and she could not move. Emma was as good as a fish hooked on a line. She was in a room full of men, and this one their leader. The alpha of the pack. What good would her flapping do? She was frozen in place, Jonathan's hand a hot brand on her leg.
Unperturbed by her tension, Jonathan's fingers curled around the back of her thigh, either unable to fathom that his touch would be unwanted or entirely uncaring what she did or did not want. Emma Verlac, his subject, might live and breathe and think, but she was just another thing he owned.
Around the table the other men played on obliviously, guffawing into their cups.
Emma could feel the warmth of his breath as he leaned to murmur. "Sebastian says it's like fucking a corpse, with you. That you just lie there." His left hand rose to brush the pearl earring, dangling from her ear. He brushed the soft skin behind her lobe.
Emma shuddered; a signal Jonathan wilfully misread.
"That tells me he hasn't shown you how to enjoy it yet."
She'd been a fool. She'd assumed being Sebastian's wife would be good for something, that it afforded her a respectability, an immunity. There, Emma had made the mistake of presuming Jonathan Morgenstern might have scruples. She thought he might at least see her as better than a serving wench, or some neglected knight's wife desperate for the attention. She'd thought Jonathan her husband's friend, the best he had for a friend. She'd expected Jonathan may have some limits, some decency. That he might repay Sebastian's loyalty with some slither of his own. At least enough not to grope Sebastian's wife under his nose.
Sebastian, after all, was mere feet away. His head was buried in his cards, he'd been laughing a moment ago, but surely even Sebastian would look askance at another man getting so close to his wife. Surely even he would notice that?
The propriety fingers under Emma's petticoats squeezed, then started to slip higher still and Emma still could not move, could not breathe, could not speak-
"Emma," Sebastian's voice finally cut through. "Fetch the pork cracklings, will you? Trouncing these knaves at backgammon is hungry work."
The rest of the table whooped their laughter, as though Sebastian was the great wit of the age.
To her relief, to her shame, Jonathan released her to play his next hand, and Emma fled the room.
She could hear the bray of Jonathan's laughter behind her. "Oh, Sebastian. She runs circles around you, does your little wife."
-000000000000000-
Emma never returned to the parlour. Still in a state of shock she withdrew upstairs for the night, where she ordered a pail of water drawn and scrubbed at her face and her hands until they were bright red. When she'd scoured her skin as much as it could take, Emma took down her hair and combed it out with equally ruthless swathes of the comb. Then she re-plaited it again, this time laying one braid over each shoulder, before she returned to her bedchamber.
She started at the figure sitting on her bed, awaiting her. Then, as her heart clattered like a tossed penny, she composed herself. It was only Sebastian.
Still, it was unusual for him to wait here for her. In this, their own house, they had separate quarters. After the first year of their marriage, Sebastian's limited interest in Emma and hopes she might quickly give him an heir waned. Their nights together had become more and more infrequent. Emma's only sense of gratitude for their guests was that her husband much preferred drinking until the small hours with them and had left her alone for weeks.
He'd stripped to his shirt and breeches, his knees bouncing, shoulders slouched. One of his bootlaces had come unlaced and straggled along the floorboards. There was a thin sheen of sweat to his skin, the front fringe of his hair stuck to his brow. It was, she granted him, a clammy night.
However, despite his state of undress, Sebastian's expression suggested he was not here for the marital duties. Reading her husband was not an art that required much practice. He was, for the most part, a very open book; the kind of face you might start a young child off on, to learn the language of bodies and silent expressions. Within a week of their being married, Emma mastered it.
He mocked her often for thinking she was clever and was twice as vicious on occasions he thought she was laughing at him. Emma felt herself moderately well read, she felt her times among Valentine's court had equipped her with dozens of useful skills, but she did not flatter herself greatly clever. To the allegation she thought herself smarter than Sebastian however, she carried some guilt. That was no great accomplishment, though. There were horses in the stable brighter than Sebastian.
Even after loving her husband proved impossible, Emma strove endlessly to find something to respect in him. These past two years, her search yielded nothing. The more time went by, the more Emma looked at Sebastian and felt only the coldest of contempt for him.
One look at Sebastian tonight, at his refusal to meet her eye and his lack of usual swagger, was all she required.
He saw. At the table. Or heard.
Emma's mouth slipped open. Either to defend herself, or to ask Sebastian to defend her-
He cut her off before she could start. "You're to keep out of the way, from now on. From first light tomorrow, unless I send for you, I don't want to see you. Do you understand? If you mislike it or create further trouble, I'll send you back to Mother at Anadder." With that pronouncement he got to his feet, wandering over to toy with a small box that Emma kept her spare pen nibs in.
She gasped, "Make more trouble? What on earth are you saying?" Her voice rose with her astonishment, "The Prince-"
"Has no plans to depart here." Sebastian flipped the lid up and then dropped it shut again, his thick thumbs fumbling absentmindedly with the open latch. "So you'll behave. Try being useful for once. Or I'll send you somewhere I think you will be useful."
Emma paused, scrambling for a response. Sebastian did not seem to expect one. Behind them, the fire spluttered to itself.
"This is not a house for wives," Sebastian decided, without looking at her.
This was her house. Hers. It had been her grandfather's, then her father's and now it was Emma's. She should not be run out of it by some lecher. She didn't care if he stood to inherit a crown.
"Can you not…" Emma began, tight-throated- Say something, do something? "You are supposed to be lord here." He was supposed to her lord, her guardian and protector. "You should not let him disrespect us in it." Emma'swords fizzled away.
Sebastian's very limited patience had sapped dry. His impotent rage levelled on her. "Well mayhap if you weren't so intent on prancing around before us all each evening, there'd be no chance of it."
Even as her insides chilled, Emma felt redness climb into her face, "Are you blaming me?"
Sebastian slapped the lid of the box down, "I am lord here. And I'm telling you to stay out of the way." Still, would not look at her. He was embarrassed. But at what? For whom? It was most likely, Emma had to admit, Sebastian was thinking about the only person he was capable of thinking of. Himself, and how this injured his pride. Never mind Emma's honour or safety. Sebastian dared not challenge a Prince, even on what was a very reasonable ground of complaint. He could do nothing, except kick downwards and save face. His shoelace rattled on the floorboards behind him, as he half-stumbled through the door.
This was the problem with men like Jonathan Morgenstern. They thought themselves all powerful because no one ever challenged them. They could do as they pleased to anyone they pleased, while everyone else just looked on, or looked the other way, thinking only of their own pride and the safety of their own position. Utterly reluctant to create anything of a disturbance.
Sebastian Verlac was a coward. Emma had long suspected it. Now she knew for certain. It was not the first time her spouse disappointed her, but it was the first time she had felt that disappointment so keenly. Even if Jonathan had no limits, surely Sebastian had his own? He would not sit idle while Jonathan had his way with a woman that was supposed to belong to him, surely?
She was shaking, Emma realised, and dangerously close to tears. After everything she'd given, and after all that had been taken from her and been sacrificed, she was still no closer to levelling the scales or calling in her debts. Jonathan was as powerful as ever. He could still do as he pleased with her.
Of all the indignities she'd suffered, tonight…She snapped down on the thought, as promptly as Sebastian had snapped down that lid.
Emma couldn't take Jonathan's hands back off her, nor Sebastian's. She couldn't prevent either of them putting their hands on her again. What she would do, Emma swore to herself, stashing it down where all her hot anger from the other indignities lived, she'd make them sorry they ever had.
How was it that men ruled this world when so many of them were so small?
-00000000000000-
Hendonne, Winter 1543
Snow rarely fell in the southern provinces, even to the northern shore of the greatest lake in Chene. Here, it never lay.
Occasionally, a few wet flakes would try. They'd land on the stones or the grass and almost instantly dissipate, whisked right out of existence in a mere blink. In an hour, Emma imagined it would surrender to rain proper. It was not enough to dissuade her from her usual walk to where the waves of Lyn lapped the shore, even while the waters were steely in colour and choppy in the fitful winter gusts.
Ever since she was small she'd gathered stones in interesting and appealing shapes. At Bellgate, she gathered chips and shards of what she called 'waterglass'- a strange blue-hued stone not quite glass proper, but yielded up from the sandy lakebed and cast upon the shore. Jules used to make it into jewellery for her. Bracelets, mostly, because they were easier to craft, but he'd also set it into plating for earrings before.
Though this wouldn't be rendered into any piece of jewellery, Emma still felt compelled to collect and retain the best bits she found, simply for herself. On the afternoon which mattered most, she was up in the upper gallery sorting through her finds and comparing new acquisitions to stones already in her possession.
It was hardly a scintillating pastime, but it got her out of the house as far as she could go on foot and it bothered nobody. It kept her suitably out of the way- neither Sebastian nor any of his guests were likely to be out of bed until noon.
As she arranged her wares on a shelf no one else touched or cared for, Emma sang softly to herself a version of a song she'd often heard the fisherfolk sing as they tended to their nets.
Bronze of your hair and gold for ring
Making merry of little, as the caged bird doth sing
We'll feast on soft cheeses and dance the night long
Though I've no love tokens for thee save my song
The percussive beat of her song was supplemented by the rapid hoofbeats on the road to Hendonne.
Emma heard the commotion of the rider's arrival, but she stayed where she was, seeing out her song and staying out of the way, as expected. She could do little down there on their level anyway. Up here she could see plenty.
Come away now poor maiden, an ill wind is sent
Twice the moon hath waned, now your lover lies rent
There was a coarser version of the song she'd heard, in which the love lay 'spent' but Emma wouldn't sing it in her father's hall.
Through winter and summer, as apples of green do turn red
The brass headed lass scorns her white maiden bed
Night upon night still she sings by the shore,
Come find me bold Jonny, hence I'll cry no more
It was a man in Morgenstern livery, climbing down of an exhausted, shivering horse and stumbling right up to the house on unsteady feet.
The urgency was such that they'd braved his wrath and roused Jonathan early after all. Out in the front of Emma's house, under the naked apple blossom tree, the Prince strode out to receive his messenger.
I've had much of your words, soon I'll have thee in deeds
I've waited a heartsore, when shall I thee wed?
Away now poor maiden, trade bridal bowers for weeds
For the cold earth dust hath settled on a bridegroom who's -
The word withered on Emma's tongue, the idea blinked away as swiftly as the drifts of weak snow.
For she saw plainly for herself the grave messenger did not bow to a Prince. Panting, he fell on his knees before a King.
-0000000000000000-