The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [2]
“They weren’t so strong when your grandfather drove them out of Crotheny,” Muriele noted.
Robert wagged a finger at her. “But they were strong when they took the throne away from your Lierish ancestors.”
“That was a long time ago.”
Again he shrugged. “Hansa is mightier now than it was then. It’s all a great dance, Muriele, a red duchess pavane. The emperor of Crotheny was Lierish, then Hansan; now he’s of Virgenyan descent. But wherever his blood comes from, he is the emperor of Crotheny. The throne remains.”
“What are you suggesting, Robert?”
He leaned onto his elbows and regarded her with an almost comically serious expression.
“We stand on the brink of chaos, Muriele. Monsters from our darkest Black Marys roam freely across our countryside, terrorizing our villages. Nations gird for war, and our throne, seeming weak, presents a target few can ignore. The Church sees heresy everywhere and hangs whole villages—which seems hardly productive to me, but they are, after all, among our few allies.”
“Nevertheless, you are not going to give the throne over to Marcomir of Hansa,” Muriele asserted confidently. “You’ve worked too hard to steal it for yourself.”
“Yes, that would be silly, wouldn’t it?” he agreed. “No. But I shall do what kings often do to secure their power. I shall marry.
“And so, dear sister-in-law, shall you,” he added.
“I’ve made myself quite clear,” Muriele replied. “Murder me if you want, but I will not marry you.”
He shrugged and shrugged again, as if trying to shake something off his back. “No, indeed,” he said wryly. “I can see that you won’t do that. The knife you thrust into my heart was a distinct clue that you didn’t take kindly to my proposal.”
“How fortunate for you it no longer beats, your heart.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Must you always quibble about such things?” he said. “Who is alive, who is dead? You think you are better off merely because you have a beating heart. How pretentious of you.
“And—if I must say it—how ungenerous.”
“You are entirely mad,” Muriele opined.
Robert grinned and opened his eyes again.
“That, at least, is a familiar complaint. But please allow me to return to my original point, won’t you. In fact, I wasn’t renewing my own proposition—one stabbing from you is quite enough for me. No, you shall marry Berimund Fram Reiksbaurg, the heir to the throne of Hansa. And I shall marry his sister Alfswan. Between us, we will secure my throne.”
Muriele laughed bitterly.
“I think not, Robert,” she said. “I’ve rejected Berimund’s offer once already.”
“Not really,” Robert pointed out. “Actually, your son Charles rejected that proposal because, after all, he was king at the time and the prerogative fell solely to him. Of course, Charles is a half-wit, and you were entirely in control of his actions.
“But he isn’t king any longer,” Robert continued. “I am. And as per my prerogative, I have given your hand to Berimund. The wedding will take place in a month’s time.”
The air seemed denser suddenly—almost like water. Muriele fought the urge to lift her head above the floodline.
Robert could do this thing. He would do it, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about that.
“It will never happen,” she finally managed, hoping she still sounded defiant.
“Well, we shall see,” Robert responded cheerfully. Then he turned. “Lady Berrye, is something the matter?”
Muriele followed Robert’s gaze and noticed that Alis did look suddenly pale. Her eyes—no, her pupils—seemed very large.
“It’s nothing,” Alis averred.
“I forgot to ask,” Robert said, turning his wrist to include them both. “Have you had a chance to reflect upon the musical performance we were subjected to last wihnaht? The lustspell presented by our dear Cavaor Ackenzal?”
Muriele forced a smile.
“How that must