Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 14

When Meya left her room late in the evening, she knew that she was being followed. Nerogun didn’t usually bother setting spies on her: he had no interest in what happened in the kitchens or how she supervised the maidservants. But now, since her second meeting with Huldarion, things were different.

She was well aware of who and where the spies might be. Supervising the servants had its advantages, and she was good at pretending not to overhear. That footman busy trimming lamps along the purple corridor was there for a reason.

Well, she was only doing what was expected – even if the bride-to-be wasn’t normally the one expected to initiate it. The Post-Regent could hardly complain when it was reported back to him that she had visited Huldarion’s quarters.

If it had been his daughter whom Huldarion had chosen, she wondered, would Nerogun have set his spies on her? Though Meya couldn’t imagine Gaelera in anybody’s bed. And none of the other women would have taken the initiative as she herself was now doing; except perhaps Janeya. For an intelligent girl, Janeya was independently minded – too independently, especially on that one disastrous point…

Meya sighed and turned her mind back to Huldarion. She had briefly pondered how far down his body the scars extended. Not that it bothered her, except in how it might affect his comfort: her late husband had been badly scarred down one leg from a wound in battle. Inigun had been a reticent, stiff, proper man who came most fully alive when discussing military history with her father, the great General Borovin. She had respected Inigun but had not loved him. She had thought that she would never love, until her daughter changed her mind. Aliya filled her heart.

She did not expect that any man might come to do the same. If she could respect Huldarion, that would be sufficient for her. At least he had no airs and graces, and spoke well enough. That was as much as she could tell. That, and a fleeting attempt at a kind smile. He was said to be stern and strong in battle, but weren’t they all?

The Vonn had ancient lineage. That mattered to her, but less than the fact that marriage to Huldarion would give her some self-determination. It would mean that Aliya, living in the country, as was the norm for the young children of the castle, would never have to come back to this place. Meya had survived her life in Kelvha Castle relatively unscathed, thanks to her father’s status and her own thick skin; but she was aware that many girls did not.

But she was still surprised that Huldarion had offered for her. Now she wanted to make sure of him before he could change his mind. Hence tonight’s walk through the castle to his rooms: the pre-nuptial consummation would happen sooner rather than later. She would make sure that Huldarion enjoyed himself. She would bind him to her. She knew she had the advantage over the younger girls in experience, if in little else, and was confident that she could please him unless he had very wayward tastes. Although she felt some nervousness, she told herself that it was only natural, and therefore irrelevant. Ignore it and do what was necessary.

Now she nodded to the guards outside his door and said majestically, “Announce me, please.”

She was duly announced. Huldarion sat in his sumptuous quarters alone, reading a document by lamplight. He put it down upon the table and stood up to greet her. He showed no surprise although he could not have anticipated this.

She gave him a deep curtsey and he bowed. The men left and closed the door.

“My Lady Meya,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

She was slightly thrown out. Surely he could guess? Matters must have been explained to him even if he had not expected her to appear tonight. With a heart-thud of apprehension she prayed that he would not turn her away.

“I thought you might like some company,” she said with a smile.

“Your company is always welcome.”

He did not invite her to sit down. Instead he walked over to her and took her hand to kiss it. Then he moved in to kiss her face.

Fast work, she thought, taken aback. But he whispered close to her ear, “Are we watched?”

He knew, then. How had he found out? “Almost certainly,” she murmured.

“Where from?”

“Above the bed.” She did not glance up at the ornately carved wooden ceiling, but she knew the spyholes were there. Two of them. The room above was, in theory, merely for linen storage: but her housekeeping duties had allowed her to surreptitiously explore there as well as in many other places.

He bent his head as if to nuzzle at her neck.

“And are we listened to?”

“Not so much. If we speak quietly we cannot be heard. Only loud voices will be audible.”

He stepped back from her, still holding her hand. “Do you know if any other of my Riders will have been spied on?” His voice was so low that she could only just make it out.

She hesitated, wondering how much to say. It occurred to her that Huldarion might well have his own spies here, possibly of long standing, for the Vonn were not entirely new to Kelvha. There was that harsh-featured woman staying in Melegan’s house: she had some connection to the Vonn, did she not? And Melegan would know about the spyholes, although he would be unlikely to authorise their use. That was most likely to be done only by Nerogun; it would be very rash for anyone to use them without the Post-Regent’s permission.

But since Huldarion knew about them, there was no point in prevaricating. Best to tell the truth. “Not to my knowledge,” she murmured. “But my knowledge is very limited. I have no say in such matters and would not be told.”

“But you think it likely?”

“Yes. I think it certain.” As she spoke she had a disconcerting sense of stepping aside from Kelvha; of a distance opening up between her homeland and herself.

Huldarion did not seem to be annoyed. Despite the scar his face seemed alive with interest. Maybe it was just the flickering lamplight. He turned and snuffed out the lamp upon the table, leaving only the one beside the bed.

“Shall I escort you?” He led her to the bed. This was all happening very fast. Her heart was thumping again. She had expected more preamble.

“I appreciate your coming here,” he said, speaking more loudly and clearly now. “I was unsure how to ask you. I imagine that, like me, you see no advantage in waiting.”

“You are right.” Any flowery attempt at wooing would have repelled her, given the circumstances. This was a marriage of convenience, and she needed no pretence at romance.

All the same she had expected some pretence. She did not know quite what to make of this practical approach. Would he be as quick and taciturn as her husband had always been? Was this merely a formality for him? She would see to it that it wasn’t. She would make it memorable.

But she didn’t care for the idea of being watched, and had been relying on the bedclothes to cover her. Now she eyed the heavy embroidered bedcover with dismay. She hadn’t realised that this regal counterpane had been unearthed from some dusty trunk and laid upon the bed. With that weighing down on top of her, she would barely be able to move, let alone do what she had planned.

“I prefer darkness,” said Huldarion. “May I shield the light?”

“Please do.”

He rotated a shield on the lantern by the bed so that only the wall was lit, and that by the mere faintest glimmer. He must have brought the lantern with him. It showed a disconcerting foresight. There was just enough light for her to see where he was, but little detail could be discerned.

“Is that all right for you?”

“Yes, I thank you.” Nevertheless she was slightly put out. Now there was no point in the graceful partial undressing she had designed; but on second thoughts she was glad not to be performing it for Nerogun or whatever watchers he had installed. So in the dark she pulled off the minimum of clothing without ceremony, leaving her petticoat on.

He was without ceremony too. When he approached her again she could just see that he was fully naked.

“One thing I must ask,” he said very quietly. “Do you fear becoming pregnant? Because I can take that into account.”

She was surprised at his frankness, but decided to answer in the same spirit. “I do not fear it. I have access to callaret.”

“I wasn’t sure if it was available to the ladies of the castle.”

“It is to me,” said Meya. She had long ago befriended the herb-mistress – a low-born but knowledgeable woman – and made sure that callaret was provided to the chambermaids who might not get a choice about being bedded if a nobleman took a fancy to them. That was the way of the castle: Meya did not like it, but she could not change it.

“Good. Then, what is your preference for these proceedings?” he murmured. “I do not wish to do anything that you would not like.” He had good manners, that was something; although she placed no reliance on his sincerity.

“Why don’t you just lie back on the bed?” she suggested.

So he threw back the embroidered bedcover and lay down, and when she discovered that he was ready – one job less for her, at least – she manoeuvred herself on top of him, sitting straight and upright. She didn’t need the covers to conceal her after all, thankfully, since the room was in near-darkness.

This was what she had planned beforehand, although she had never tried it this way with her husband, who would have been appalled at the idea. Being on top was something prostitutes did, by all accounts: again she was indebted to the kitchen staff for their unwitting revelations. It was apparently supposed to be a great treat for the man although she couldn’t imagine why. It seemed bizarre to her that a woman could only go on top if the man was paying her; until reflection told her that it was probably a clever ploy by the prostitutes to make sure that they stayed in control. That was its advantage for her too – along with the assumption that it might mean less pressure on Huldarion’s scars.

“I hope this is comfortable for you,” she said. She didn’t want him yelping with pain half way through.

“That is very pleasant for me, thank you.” His hands were on her hips. She was conscious of how wide those hips were, but then thought, who cares? My body has served me well, and will again.

She sighed long and low as if it gave her pleasure too. Women weren’t supposed to enjoy the act of love, but they were supposed to pretend to. Placing her hands upon his chest, she unexpectedly felt the scarring. But she kept her presence of mind and behaved as if it wasn’t there. As she ran her hands up and down his torso, which was lean and muscled, she found that the scarred tissue extended all down one side. Possibly past his hip and down his left leg as well, although she wasn’t about to get off to investigate.

Instead she began to move a little faster, still sighing from time to time as a signal of enjoyment. In fact she felt almost nothing at all, and had not expected to. Anything she did feel, she ignored. This was business. A task to be done. Let’s make it quick, she thought, and moved and sighed a little faster.

But he said, “Wait a minute.” She paused, and he undid the ribbon lacing of her petticoat bodice and pulled it down to her waist. Then he began gently to caress her breast. Meya was annoyed, because now she did feel something, and it was slightly harder to ignore. She had not intended to feel any pleasure. Her husband had never given her any, and this man was no different. It wasn’t as if it would lead to anything but frustration.

So she moved again until she felt him grip her hips and push; and he was done. Good. She waited a decent amount of time before she lifted herself off and lay down beside him, on the unscarred side so that she would not embarrass him. It would not do to run away too fast. And he might want to do it a second time. That was all right. She could put up with that if necessary.

“That was remarkably pleasant,” he said, so loudly that it could only be for the benefit of any listeners. “Lady Meya, you are a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you,” she said, although she was thinking, Hah! one in the eye for you, Nerogun. For only that morning the Post-Regent had commented to her with a sneer, “It seems he likes his women well-upholstered.” She had calmly replied, “If by that you mean shapely, my lord, then I am sure that you are right.”

So she appreciated Huldarion’s remark, and as a reward even offered him a kiss, which he took but did not exploit. His hand was on her breast again now, caressing it in a way which seemed to be intended as much for her pleasure as his own. She began to wish he wouldn’t. It was creating more of those sensations which she did not wish to have.

“Tell me if I do anything you do not like,” he said, very quietly again. “Perhaps better not to shout stop. But you could exclaim Oh, sir! and I will get the message.”

That made her almost laugh, so that she relaxed a little. She rehearsed “Oh, sir!” in her head but did not say it.

The caresses continued. After a little while he raised himself on one elbow.

“Allow me to make you more comfortable,” he said, and moved her without apparent effort towards the centre of the bed. Then he removed her petticoat entirely, and began to gently kiss her breasts.

Here we go, thought Meya. Second time around. She had prepared herself to take his weight when she realised that instead of moving upward his mouth was moving downward.

It took her a moment to understand what he was doing. Her husband had never done this. If any noble husbands did, their wives kept very quiet about it, although she had heard such things mentioned by the scullery maids. She drew in her breath sharply; but then thought, if this made him happy, let him do it. So she refrained from saying “Oh, sir!”

But she could not refrain from everything. He was very careful, very deliberate, and after a while she realised what was going to happen. It had only ever happened when she was alone, and had always seemed half-finished. It had never happened with her husband.

So she decided to go along with it, since he seemed to like it, and there was no denying that she liked it too, very much now, it was like being carried down a river, through the rapids, faster and faster, to the point where she took his head in her hands – that scar again, it didn’t matter – and then gripped his hand and placed it where she wanted on her breast. And the river hurtled over some cliff in a long shower of light and ended up in the sea.

She lay back gasping and smiled at her own analogy. But it was better than thinking about the man between her thighs, about the nature of the political transaction being sealed by their bodies. He raised himself again and rested on his elbows over her.

“May I?” he said.

“Of course.” It was part of the transaction. Again he was very deliberate, very careful, and as he entered her body seemed to be positioning himself in a particular way. Which worked. As she felt him move she realised with a leap of joyous panic that the river had not lost itself in the sea at all, it was still there, still flowing through her but more strongly, deeper now, or rather that the sea was in her and was with her, flooding in a great unstoppable tide that filled her senses up and flowed right through her and washed her over, down and over and left her floating in some great green ocean, rocking her gently towards a shore. When she opened her eyes to the dark she could not remember where she was.

“Your body feels wonderful,” said Huldarion quietly. She remembered him. “It has been a long time for me. But that was like a homecoming. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she said, automatically.

“I’m glad you didn’t say, Oh sir.”

“So am I.” For a while she lay next to his scarred side and traced the full length of the tightened skin with her fingers. It continued down his thigh. She felt quite relaxed: almost weak. She thought she wouldn’t mind doing it again.

“We had probably better stop there,” said Huldarion, “or Nerogun will think we are enjoying ourselves too much.”

She nodded. “I suppose that will do for now.” Then she wondered at herself, already contemplating when that tide might come again and wash her away.

In a louder voice, he announced, “I look forward to my next time with you, my Lady Meya, very much.”

“Oh, sir!” she said, and then could not help a stifled giggle.

“Let me help you on with your petticoat,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice too. Yet once she was clothed sufficiently for him to unshield the lamp again, the smile could not be seen on his still face.

She felt self-conscious as she finished dressing in the lamplight. He was wearing some embroidered dressing-gown covered in the Kelvhan insignia. It was a hideous thing and she made a mental vow to get it thrown out and replaced.

He bent and kissed her hand: now he was once more the formal, stern, impassive Huldarion that she had first seen on his arrival at the castle. She curtsied equally formally and after checking her dress stalked out of the door, imperiously ignoring the guards. She sensed the follower somewhere behind her and ignored him too. She was careful to betray no emotion in her walk. Although she was tempted to give a little skip and jump, her enjoyment was not something that she wanted Nerogun to know about.

But she was content in mind, and very content in her body, which seemed still to tremble and throb in memory, like the long slow ripples in a pool.

Forget her body. That was not important. She had fulfilled her task; and had fulfilled it well. She had achieved what she had planned.

And so had Huldarion. She almost stopped in mid-stride for a moment, as she realised what he had just done. Deliberately and carefully, he had bound her to him, so that she would not consider trying to escape.