The Briar Crown, page 11
“I always know how to get him.” He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to put his weight on his bad leg, causing him to curse and hop about on the healthy one like a court tumbler. Roslyn rolled her eyes as he came to a stop, the foppish grin creeping back onto his lips.
“Wipe that smile off your face,” she said pointedly. “If I have to get you walking in three days, you are going to have a lot of hard work, too, not just me. Healers and patients work together... which is what you wanted, isn’t it? A Domovnian and Oderberg working together? Well, now is your chance. So, have you stopped sulking over whatever reason made you take to your bed?”
Frederik shrugged and pursed his lips. “I can see how my mood these past days has not helped the situation and I apologise for that. I am susceptible to bouts of melancholia, especially when hope seems hard to find.” He sighed. “Your tale made me realise how far we have to go.” He held out a hand as a peace offering. “Are we friends again?”
Roslyn scoffed and swept past him, calling over her shoulder. “I didn’t know we were friends to begin with.” She launched into her healer’s spiel before he’d even managed so much as to turn around in the door frame. “Now. You are to walk, hobble—or even crawl, for all I care—up and down these apartments with...” she looked around and then spied the object she was searching for tucked away behind the door. “This.”
She held up a finely carved and gilded walking stick. It was the finest specimen she’d ever seen, and she knew plenty of elderly gentlemen back in her village that would have given their right arm to have it.
“You cannot be serious?” Prince Frederik groaned as she thrust it into his hands.
Roslyn nodded, eyes wide, expression sweet with a hint of acid. “Yes, up and down these apartments for two hours each day. They don’t have to be all at once, but for two hours for the next three days. You will do this, if you don’t want to be known as Prince Limp.”
The prince glowered and set the stick in his left hand, tapping it pointedly on the stone floor with each step he took. He grumbled and cursed under his breath with each painful step as he started on the new regime.
Chapter 13
Roslyn’s back was aching after bending over the bench in the apothecary, preparing the prince’s medicines, when Gruber walked in, cloak billowing after him. His eyes scanned the room and narrowed when they rested on her. Her stomach clenched and she swallowed as he made straight for her.
“You,” he hissed, his voice twisted in malice.
“Yes, Apothecary Gruber?” She tried to make her voice light as the usual hubbub of the cavern stilled.
“Who gave you the right? Who said you could treat my patients?” He leaned in, forcing her to crane her neck backwards or their noses would soon be touching.
“I am only treating the prince, as was commanded. I don’t know who else you’re talking about?” Her voice wavered slightly under the steeliness of his gaze, but she would not allow herself to be cowed. She took one step back, suddenly thankful the table was between them and placed her hands on her hips.
“You have no idea, do you? Then why is that crackpot old woman refusing to take her medicine, hmm? She says you gave her a tea which did her bowels more good than any of my remedies and she will have nothing else. Curse the Mountain!”
Roslyn pressed her lips together to stop her smirking. “She was indisposed on the road. If you have spent any time in her noxious presence then I’m sure you can understand that giving her a purgative was as much for my benefit as it was hers!” She paused and let her hands fall to her side. “But I am sorry if I overstepped.”
Gruber leered. “Damn right you’ll be sorry, because you’ll be seeing the old crone much more often. She, like her great nephew, will have no other prepare her teas... and just so you know, she hasn’t shit in a week.”
Roslyn grimaced but nodded. She stepped round the side of the table to fetch the ingredients she needed when the blue-robed man stepped in her way. He was so close, she could smell the stale garlic on his breath as he snarled down at her. “Is it my job you’re after, Miss Pleveli? Well, you’ll not have it, that I swear on Hoff’s hammer... but you will have your comeuppance, that you will.”
A shiver ran down her spine at his words. She didn’t doubt he would think of some way to discredit her. She snatched her satchel up from the floor; there was no way she would leave it out of her sight now. She raised her chin and met his rheumy eyes with her own bright ones before pushing past him.
“If you’ll excuse me then, I have a patient to see.”
The Lady Margitte’s quarters weren’t far from Frederik’s own, but they were simpler in comparison. The doors were uncarved and the furniture practical but comfortable, even if there was an overwhelming number of lace doilies on every surface including the edges of the fat, armed sofa. Roslyn waited in the reception room as the middle-aged maid spoke with her mistress.
“She was lucid earlier, but it seems the memory fog has returned. It often does, this late in the day. I tell you, it’s a miracle she didn’t have an episode while you were on the road. They wouldn’t let me come.” The woman’s tone was curt but not unkind. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “We find it’s easier to play along and not mind the things she says. If you contradict her, you’ll only upset her.” She cocked her head and pointed a stern finger, “and I don’t want that right before bedtime, you understand.”
Roslyn nodded. “How long has she been afflicted with the memory fog?”
The maid, who Roslyn now realised was in fact the old woman’s nurse, crossed her hands under her ample bosom. “A couple of years now. It’s slow to progress though, thank the Mountain, yet we all know that won’t always be the case. Call me when she’s drunk the tea. I’ll fetch the commode chair.”
She said no more and walked into a small backroom, probably her own chambers to rest. Roslyn couldn’t blame her; she’d seen those afflicted with memory fog before and the strain it took on their families. She hitched her satchel on her shoulder and walked towards the open door.
Lady Margitte was sat in a cushioned armchair, staring into the crackling fire and ignoring the book in her lap. Roslyn coughed to announce her arrival and the old woman turned to the newcomer. Instead of the sharp, piercing gaze that had scrutinised her on the carriage ride, wide and innocent eyes looked up at her. Then the wrinkled face creased even more as her thin lips rose in a smile.
“Ouna?” The delight in her face was unrestrained. “What are you doing here? School doesn’t start up again for another month!” She reached out a frail, liver-spotted hand for Roslyn to take.
Who was Ouna? Just play along, that’s what the nursemaid had said. Roslyn stepped forward, smiled and took the noblewoman’s hand.
“I was told you were sick, and I thought I’d bring you something to make you feel better.” She set her satchel by the fire and set about pulling out the ingredients.
“It’s only a cold, Ouna, you needn’t have come all this way, but I am very glad you did. It’s been a dull, cold winter and I can’t wait to return south with you. What’s that you’re making... a tea?”
Roslyn looked over her shoulder and nodded. “Yes, just the thing for a cold.”
Lady Margitte made a face and crossed her arms over her chest before a sly smile made her eyes twinkle. “Haven’t you got anything stronger?”
Roslyn chuckled. “I’ll raid the cellars later.”
Margitte clapped her hands in delight. “Have you seen my brother, yet?”
Roslyn shook her head as she set the kettle on the fire hook to boil. “Um... no... not yet.”
“Oh, well as soon as he knows you’re here, you won’t be able to get away. You made quite the impression on him at Dumka...” She left the statement hanging in a way that gossips had, trying to eke out more information.
Roslyn turned away to hide her confusion and embarrassment. “I don’t think I did...”
“Well, of course, I told him.” Margitte batted her comment away and leaned forward with a sudden renewal of energy. “As a Domonov princess, you must wed a descendant of the naiads, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Roslyn’s heart turned to ice. This Ouna had been a Domonov princess? Lady Margitte thought Roslyn was this woman? The mind fog was obviously worse than she thought. Margitte had most likely seen the shimmer on her skin and her confused brain had made the link. Unless...the fog was unveiling some secret long buried by the conscious mind. The ridiculous notion made her tut at her overactive imagination. She was a nobody.
“Speaking of which, have you met your intended yet? Oh, kettle!”
“What?” Margitte’s question roused her from her thoughts.
“The kettle’s boiling.” She pointed to the copper pot, which did indeed have steam pouring from its spout. Roslyn hurried to take it off the hook and poured it into the teapot to infuse the herbs. They needed to steep awhile, so she sat in the opposite chair. By the Tree, it was soft!
“I said, have you met your intended yet? Is he a Zabim or a Glaucan? I hear they are ever so handsome. The Mountain forbid they’ve pawned you off on a Krostak!”
Roslyn hadn’t the faintest idea what the old woman was talking about, the terms unfamiliar to her, so she shook her head. “No, not yet. What about you?”
Margitte slouched in her seat and pouted with all the vigour of a teenage girl. “It’s a toss-up between the Duke of Tetmedlum—”
“A Summerlander? That would be nice!” Roslyn interrupted. Surely a young girl from the frozen wasteland that was Bergam would have been thrilled at the prospect of moving to Tokaveror, the land of eternal summer and plenty?
“A Summerlander who is older than my father!” the old woman hissed. “The other suitor is some distant cousin, Magnus, I think his name is. At least he’s young.”
The pair fell silent and the old woman returned her gaze to the fire. “Oh what it is to be the daughter of a king...”
Roslyn let her sit in her memories, a pang of pity pulling at her heart. It can’t have been easy for Margitte or this Princess Ouna not able to love who they wanted, married off to strangers for the sake of a political alliance. She stirred the tisane and stood to pour it into the delicate china teacup on the doily-laden table between them.
Suddenly Lady Margitte’s head snapped up and her eyes were wide with fear. “Who are you?”
The fog had changed its course in her mind. Roslyn would have to take care not to agitate her. She bobbed into a curtsy.
“I’ve brought you the tea you asked for, milady.”
Lady Margitte shrank into the back of her chair, weariness etched into her wrinkles but she nodded. “Very well, set it there.”
Roslyn did as she asked, but noticed how the woman stared at the tea like it was poison.
“You may go.”
She bobbed again and set the teapot back on the table and stooped to collect her things.
“I said you may go!” Agitation laced the old woman’s voice and Roslyn hurried her fingers, shoving everything into the bag and slinging it over her shoulder. As she scurried for the door, Lady Margitte’s voice turned shrill. “Charlotta! Charlotta, where are you?”
Roslyn nearly crashed into the buxom maid who bustled through the door. She knelt by her mistress and reached up to stroke her hair. “It’s alright, I’m here. I just went to the privy.”
Her shushing seemed to still the noblewoman enough for her to place the cup and saucer in her hands. “Drink your tea now and then we’ll get you to bed.”
Charlotta looked up and caught Roslyn’s eye. She suddenly felt like she was intruding on a very intimate moment and her cheeks burnt with shame. She bowed her head and backed silently out of the room.
Chapter 14
Frederik gripped her hand so tightly she saw the white of his knuckles through his flesh. His strength failed and his leg gave way beneath him.
“For the love of Hoff! I never thought walking one length of the apartment would be so hard!” he cursed, trying to smile, but panting too much with effort and pain to make it convincing.
“Lean on me,” Roslyn insisted, threading her hand around his waist. “Take a break.”
She planted her feet as he transitioned more of his weight onto her shoulders, sighing with visible release. They were pressed against each other closely, his arm resting on the ridge of her shoulders, snaking past the bare skin of her neck where the hairs stood on end at his touch.
Her own shoulder was pressed into the hollow under his arm, soaking in the moisture the exertion had forced from his body. Her nostrils were flooded with his expensive perfume, heady and rich, making her head swim and underneath that, something else, something more primitive—his own natural scent. As she breathed it in, her throat went dry and a heat pulsed between her legs. She tried to swallow as her body betrayed reason; she could not feel this way for the enemy.
He shook a little as he got his breath back and wiped sweat from his brow with a ridiculously flounced sleeve. “I apologise; I am making you wet.”
Roslyn nearly choked on her own breath. By the Tree, if he had any idea! She shook her head, her lips pressed into a closed mouthed smile. “Think nothing of it. You need to regain your stamina.”
“Aye,” Frederik agreed, his hot breath moving stray strands of hair across her forehead.
“When we walk back, remember to use the cane. You were trying to do too much on your own, too soon.” Roslyn focused on the task at hand rather than the bead of sweat rolling down his neck that had caught her eye. It left a shiny wet trail on his porcelain skin before disappearing in the vee of his shirt.
“Hoff’s hammer! I forgot I had to walk back.”
Roslyn laughed, pointing at his couch through the two doorways they had stumbled through. “Well, I can’t very well carry you all that way... I suppose I could drag you.”
Frederik straightened with a roll of his athletic shoulders and dropped his hand from her back. She felt suddenly cold without it. “No one drags a prince... But it is a fucking long way.”
“Use your cane,” Roslyn reminded, pleased to see that he shifted his weight on the side of his bad leg over to it. “You just need something to take your mind off it; think of something else.”
Frederik grunted as he took his first step. “Like what?”
“Well, you could tell me who Hoff is? You keep talking about him, invoking his name, so... enlighten me. If you are to learn about my people, I suppose I should learn about yours. Who is he?” She clasped her hands behind her back and looked up at him in the poise of the attentive student.
The prince rolled his eyes. “You really want to know?”
“I do.”
“Very well then.” He took another pained step and then lifted his head from the invisible line he had been following on the floor, cocking it to the side to think. “Well, to know who Hoff is, you need to know about Verketteberg, the Chained Mountain.”
His pronunciation of the name of Oderberg’s holy mountain made Roslyn’s stomach flip. On the lips of the soldiers and servants, the Bergams’ clipped accent was harsh, but when Frederik spoke it was soft and enticing, especially as his words were already breathy with the effort of walking.
“I’ll tell you the tale exactly as my nursemaid told me.” He cleared his throat and assumed the role of a bard, changing his words to suit the tale. “Long ago, Frier, an ice giant sought to hold the land of Bergam in an eternal winter. When the snows should have melted, they remained; when crops should have flourished, the icicles grew longer and the winds howled. By the time of the harvest, when the people should have been living off the fat of the land, they were starving. Something had to be done. One day, a young serf, Olaf, was lost in a snow storm. He was cold, frail and on death’s door when he saw a light. Someone had lit a fire in a nearby cave and he could smell the scent of roasting rabbit on the wind. When he stumbled into the cave, he was met by a man and a woman huddled by the fire. They welcomed him, shared their supper with him.”
His nursemaid must have told the tale a thousand times the way he recited the story as if reading from a book. Roslyn could almost imagine him sat on the edge of his bed as a chubby cheeked, golden haired child, staring up at the women with wonder.
“Overcome with thanks, Olaf asked what he could do to repay them. The man and the woman looked at each other and then the man pulled out an enormous chain. ‘Take this. Not far from here, there is a tall mountain and, in that mountain, there is a deep, dark cave. In that cave, you will find the giant Frier. Use this to bind him. But do not stop there—he is strong and will break free unless you chain him to the very mountain he sleeps in. Wrap it around the peaks, the gullies, the rock faces and clifftops. Wrap it tight.’”
Roslyn couldn’t help but snort.
“What!”
“I’m sorry, but one man carried a chain large enough to encircle a mountain and trap a fierce ice giant? Come on!”
Frederik stopped and looked down at her with raised eyebrows. “I listened to you and your stories of living trees and horny gods...”
She pursed her lips and nodded slowly. “Not without interruptions, but continue.”
The prince huffed. “Well, needless to say Olaf accomplished his task, which allowed the couple he had met to complete their own task. The man was the god Hoff, and it is with his hammer, forged from the fires in the centre of the earth, that he smashes winter’s ice each year. His partner, Veel, takes the water from the ice melt to nourish the land, bringing summer and plenty. But every winter Frier’s lover Isapf returns, trying to strengthen his powers and turning the world to winter once again. It’s an eternal struggle that never ends, until the end of days where Isapf will free her lover from the chains of Verketteberg and life will be obliterated.”
They trudged on in silence for a few steps, the tap of the prince’s cane echoing. Roslyn pulled a face.
“Cheerful lot, aren’t you? And what of the serf, Olaf? What happened to him?”
