EIGHT

I DON’T KNOW how long I lay there. I only remember flashes of consciousness – glancing at the fire now and then, waking at one point to find myself lying on my side, another time poking half-heartedly at the embers, then shoving too much kindling on them and snuffing them.

When I wasn’t sleeping I was crying, dredging up yet more tears long after salt had scoured my eyes and cheeks raw. There were lulls when I thought myself spent – only to find the tears rising once more.

Sometime in the pre-dawn the grey night became too cold to withstand any longer. Every joint creaked as I levered myself upright from the frigid floor, my shoulder aching. The fire was dead, the hearthstones cold. Dieter’s tray lay abandoned nearby, the brush stiff with dried ink, the ink crusted on the surface of its bowl. Surely there must be a way to reverse his arcana? I thought wildly.

If there is, he’ll not have trusted you with it, came Grandmother’s voice. Whatever help you need, you won’t find it in last night’s discarded workings.

Stiff and aching, I struggled to my feet, leaving the tray where it lay. First I needed to wash. I hobbled to the door on an ankle protesting any movement, my feet prickling with pins and needles. The guards turned sharp-eyed faces towards me as I cracked open the door.

‘Fetch me a tub and washwater.’ I pitched it as a command, pulling back into the room and latching the door before they could reply in the negative. If I wanted to establish a habit of obedience, best to start as I meant to go on.

It worked. Within half an hour I had a tub and water, hauled in by a soldier who cast me speculative glances when he dared. I’d used the intervening time to find fresh clothes, an unadorned kirtle and gown that Grandmother had favoured for those rare hours when all her official duties were done and she was free to relax. Though they didn’t fit well – she had a stouter build than I – the shabbiness was comforting.

One task at a time, I used the daily rituals of living to block out my grief. Afterwards I waited, braced for changes, prepared for some further disaster, for Dieter to return or his sister to arrive – for it all to be over. But I knew what Grandmother would say, dead though she might be: There’s a difference between biding your time and cowering in a closet. A Duethin doesn’t cower, Matilde.

Even if she’d given her crown to keep her life? I asked silently. Even if she’d been bound and branded by her husband?

But I knew what answer the formidable Beata would have made: Even so.

I set myself to the task of hiding Dieter’s brand. It was bad enough I’d wed him and publicly acknowledged his power – there was no need to sport his mark as if I were livestock.

A suitable length of linen was easy enough to find, and soon I had a makeshift veil covering my head and brow and knotted at my nape. It wasn’t a high-born image I presented, my head bound like a common field thrall, but the marks didn’t show through the stiff, creamy fabric.

I headed towards the doors, pausing to wipe my palms on my skirts before stepping out. The guards swung towards me, faces as bland as the flat of a blade.

‘My lady is going somewhere?’ one asked. He had hooded eyes, one more heavily lidded than the other, and he leant on his stave as if it were supporting him. A streak of white from temple to crown spoke of an old scalp wound.

‘Astute,’ I said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Mathis, my lady.’ If his tone hadn’t been so phlegmatic, I might have suspected him of laughing at me. ‘His is Gunther.’

‘Well, Mathis, I’m going to inspect the palace.’ I wouldn’t escape an escort, I knew that much. Lies now would only cause trouble later. ‘I need to know what damage has been done.’

His left eyelid twitched. ‘My lord’s men did not pillage or plunder,’ he said.

An image of the soldier pawing Helena for trinkets flashed into my mind.

‘More than halls and mortar can be damaged, and more than sculptures and idols can be plundered,’ I replied.

He acknowledged this point with another twitch. ‘The palace is secure, my lady, but it’s not necessarily safe to wander about.’

I fixed him with my best imitation of Grandmother’s stare. ‘If I were in the habit of avoiding dangerous pastimes, I would not now be your lord’s wife.’

‘Very well,’ he said, shifting his grip on his stave.

They fell in on either side of me, barely a half-pace behind – prisoners were accorded more space. It didn’t matter, I reminded myself. All the better to maintain the ruse of my defeat.

As it transpired, Mathis had spoken truly. Barring an occasional spill of blood, and nicks and chips in the facing of the walls at odd spots in the corridors, the Turholm was physically intact. The idols stood undisturbed in their niches. Even the various statues of Tamor had suffered no damage – surprising given Amalia’s vehemence, which Dieter’s men might reasonably be expected to share. In fact, judging by the petals and cut glass gathered at the various statues’ feet, they’d received further prayers overnight. All the daughters of Turas had received devotions, but the ravens in particular, their eyes of jet alive in the carved ebony figures, stood over a tumbled hoard of offerings.

When death stalked the corridors and spared you, it paid to be grateful.

The offerings were the first hint of the emotional damage wrought by the violence. All the rooms in the living quarters stood open, most of them featuring shifted furniture and wardrobe doors hanging open – the result of a search for concealed exits, or perhaps seeking those in hiding. Thralls still crept about their duties, but they wore a haunted and hunched look. Not a one failed to scowl, turn away, or spit at the sight of me.

Soldiers in Dieter’s blank livery were everywhere: the living quarters, the rooms of state, the courtyards, the stables, even the sties and fields sported a handful of the plain steel-grey tunics. Their unfamiliar faces, flat and wary, sapped any sense of home I might otherwise have found in the subdued and depopulated palace.

Stopping in a window embrasure, I watched those at practice with staves in the courtyard. It was no wonder he’d overrun us with ease. But how had he gathered such a number of swords? There were too many possible answers. Some of the men might be mercenaries. Maybe Gerlach had bought them – the man was not a normal soldier, with the light of learning in his eye and his presterly past. Or perhaps Dieter had acquired troops from wherever he’d learnt his arcana.

At every turn, the reality of foreigners conquering the Turholm increased. What I could do about it was another, more frustrating matter. Pondering it, an idea dawned slowly. The kitchen chimneys stood still and smokeless against the sky. Organisation is a form of power, child, Grandmother whispered. Pushing away from the window, I made my way to the kitchen, braving the upper courtyard and its sparring soldiers.

Mathis stopped me at the door. ‘If we’re to venture outside, you’ll need a larger guard,’ he said.

‘We’re not venturing outside,’ I replied. ‘We’re going to the kitchen. If a courtyard full of your men can’t keep me safe while I cross it, a legion can’t either. Let’s go.’

He didn’t argue. It was probably the promise of food.

The clack and clatter of the soldiers’ practice stuttered to a halt as I walked past, feeling self-conscious with every over-loud step. Fixing my gaze on the kitchen doors, which stood ominously closed, I fought the urge to run.

If the lack of smoke and the closed doors hadn’t been warning enough, the cold flagstones before the doors would have surprised me. Pushing inside, I found the great stone hearths cold, grey and dead, the benches and stoves empty, the cavernous room deserted.

I rounded on Mathis. ‘What did you do, kill all the kitchen staff as a matter of priority?’

That opened his heavy-lidded eyes sure enough. ‘We’ve had greater concerns than the running of the kitchen, my lady.’

‘More like you didn’t dare let the staff back in for fear of a revolution,’ I retorted. ‘Go on, fetch them here, all you can find. You can’t run a palace on army rations.’

Mathis didn’t move, though Gunther watched him the way a dog watches the master holding him from the hunt. The impulse was there; all I had to do was needle him into acceding.

‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you hungry? I can’t cook for the whole palace by myself, and I’m certainly not cooking for you two,’ I said, before turning to survey the kitchen and its stores. ‘What, you think I’ll crawl up the chimney to escape?’

When Mathis finally relented, Gunther turned and fled as if he’d not eaten in days. The prospect of real food could do that, especially after travel rations.

Mathis remained, glaring at my left shoulder as I savoured my small victory. Rationalise it as he might, deny it as he tried, I had given him an order and he had obeyed. True, it had been a simple order, both logical and innocuous, but habit was as good a base for authority as any.

I’d use what resources were available – even if it meant building an army from the kitchen staff.

By the time Gunther brought back a handful of kitchen thralls and bread-maids, I’d sorted through the stores, the simple task soothing my ragged spirits. Only a little had perished from lack of care. More worrying was the depletion wrought by winter and the Aestival and wedding feasts. Still, there were ham hocks for flavour, and vegetables aplenty, including potatoes, carrots, beans, onions, turnips, cauliflower and pumpkin. Together with some barley, it would make a more than creditable stew.

One look at me – chopping vegetables, heating water and worrying at one of the pork haunches for meat – and the kitchen thralls dispersed throughout the room to their familiar tasks. Within minutes they had the ovens lit, bellows blowing to rekindle the guttering furnace. Doors banged and knives flashed, subdued chatter overtaking the room.

A slab-handed woman took her place beside me. ‘You’ve no need to muck your fine fingers in this, y’grace,’ she said quietly, though her tone and bearing were hard as a rock face.

‘I don’t mind,’ I replied, hitching a shoulder to indicate Mathis and Gunther. ‘It’s better than sitting locked up in my suite.’

‘You got marital problems, that’s between you and your bound,’ she grunted, taking up a knife and attacking a stack of carrots. But she didn’t order me out, which was more than I’d expected given the snakelike glances the others were sending my way.

I bent my head over the bench. The rhythmic slide and slice of cutting, the chatter and bustle, and the gasp of the ovens behind me left no room for any other worries.

We worked until we’d cooked enough to feed the whole of the Turholm. It wouldn’t be a feast, but there would be stew and fresh black bread for all. The pumpernickel would take longer, but it would be fresh for tomorrow’s meal. In the meantime there was ale steeped in oak barrels to wash the meal down. Only when afternoon fell into evening, and all the breads for the next day were safely baking, did anyone speak to me.

‘Enough,’ said the slab-handed woman, whose name was Leise. Not that she’d bothered to introduce herself. I’d caught her name in snippets of conversation throughout the day. ‘You’re not a scullery maid. You’ve done enough.’

‘For now,’ I agreed. ‘What about tomorrow?’

Her gaze made me want to squirm. ‘You figure to hide down here forever?’

‘We all need to eat,’ I said, allowing anger to edge my voice. ‘Anything which returns me my palace, even if only for an hour, is worth my attention.’

She sniffed, and turned back to the rabbit carcase she was shredding. ‘It’s always about power with your type.’

I gaped. ‘I’ve just spent hours cooking for the entire palace –’

‘Because it needed doing?’ she interrupted. ‘No. You did it because you saw an opportunity to grab the reins.’

It was all I could do to stop myself throwing the closest chopping board at her flat-eyed face.

‘My entire family was cut down not two days ago,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Yesterday I married the man who had them killed. Last night …’ My throat closed over the words last night he hexed me.

She scraped a handful of the shredded rabbit meat into a small wooden bowl and fixed me with a sharp eye. ‘My family were wiped out by your mother’s people. Mind, this was after your father, ravens rest him, had settled the borders. What do you think he did about it? Why, nothing. Foreign armies meant more to him than a few dead peasants. Do you see me wailing over my misfortunes?’

Angry heat prickled my cheeks. ‘I’m sure when I’ve had forty-odd years to get over it, I might be more sanguine too.’

‘When you’ve sold your family to death, you’ve no call to cry pitiable if you don’t like the bargain,’ she said, poking me hard in the chest.

‘I didn’t –’ I hissed.

‘Careful, gosling,’ she said, cutting me off. She was breaking dark bread into crumbs now, adding it to the bowl. ‘You don’t want to throw away what you’ve salvaged, do you? Now, maybe you didn’t plan this from the outset. It doesn’t matter. You’ve struck a bargain, and you’ve to live with it, and live within it.’

She thrust the bowl at me, fierce enough to spill some of its contents.

‘For the critters,’ she said, jerking her head towards a far corner. ‘They survived.’

I stared at the bowl in confusion. First the woman insulted me and walled me out, then she remembered how I loved the ferrets. When I looked up, she was wearing her bluff-as-rock expression again.

‘Yes,’ I said, not without spite, ‘by hiding.’

To my surprise, a smile cracked her face. ‘Now you’re learning.’