The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [77]
“Well, I’ll kill him, too, for good measure,” Artwair said. “Meantime—ho, what’s this?”
Leoff watched as Artwair picked up a shawl from the carpet.
“You’ve been making a few acquaintances, auy?” Artwair said, winking. “The sort that gets comfortable enough to leave things lying about?”
Leoff smiled. “Not of the sort you mean, I’m afraid. Mery must have left that.”
“Mery?”
“One of my students. Lady Gramme’s daughter.”
Artwair stared at him, then gave a low whistle. “That is interesting company,” Artwair commented.
“Yes, I got that reaction from the queen, as well,” Leoff said.
“I should think so.”
“But she’s a delightful child,” Leoff said, “and an excellent student.”
Artwair’s eyes widened. “You don’t know who she is?”
“Yes, I just told you—Ambria Gramme’s daughter.”
“Auy, but do you know who she is?”
Leoff had a sudden sinking feeling. “Well—no, not exactly,” he said.
“You are pleasantly naÏve, Leovigild Ackenzal,” the duke said.
“A role I’m growing tired of.”
“Then you might ask a few questions, now and then. The lady Gramme is the girl’s mother, yes. I might better say, she is the daughter of Ambria Gramme and the late King William the Second.”
Leoff was silent for a moment. “Oh,” he finally said.
“Yes. You’ve made friends with one of the king’s bastards—not a popular person with the queen, right now.”
“The poor girl can’t help her birth.”
“No, of course not. But Lady Gramme is one of many who have visions of a crown in her future, and she isn’t afraid to try anything that might bring that vision to pass. She’s the queen’s bitter enemy. Mery’s lucky she hasn’t met with some sort of . . . accident.”
Leoff straightened indignantly. “I can’t believe the queen would imagine doing such a thing.”
“A year ago, I might have agreed with you,” Artwair replied. Now—well, I wouldn’t get too attached to little Mery.”
Leoff glanced off down the hall, hoping the girl wasn’t within earshot.
“Ah,” Artwair said. “It’s too late for that, I see.” He walked over and rested his hand on Leoff’s shoulder. “The court is a dangerous place, just now,” he said. “You’ve got to watch what sort of friends you make. If the queen ever suspected you had been drawn into Gramme’s snares—well, then I’d be worried about you experiencing a bad fall.” He lifted his hand. “Take me seriously,” he said. “Keep away from Gramme. Don’t attract her attention.” He showed his teeth. “And wish me luck. If things go well, I’ll be back before Yule.”
“Best of luck, Artwair,” Leoff said. “I’ll ask the saints to keep you safe.”
“Auy. But if they don’t, no bloody requiems, please? They’re damn depressing.”
Leoff watched the duke leave, his heart sinking further. Artwair was the only adult he really knew in Eslen, certainly the only one he might call a friend. After him, there was only Mery.
And as for that, and Ambria Gramme—Artwair’s warning had come a few hours too late. He had already attracted her attention.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRUST
WHEN CAZIO BURST INTO the courtyard, Anne was huddled near the cookfire, patching a shawl. The nights had grown cooler, and she had no money for a new wrap.
She smiled thinly at Cazio, who seemed—as usual—very pleased with himself.
“I’ve got a present for you,” he announced.
“What sort of present?”
“Ask me nicely, and I’ll tell you.”
“What sort of present, please?” she said impatiently.
He frowned. “Is that as nicely as you can manage? I was hoping for something more in the way of a kiss.”
“Yes, well, without hope, we’d have little to drive us on, would we? If I gave you that kiss, what would you have left to hope for?”
“Oh, I can imagine a thing or two,” he leered.
“Yes, but you could never truly hope for them,” she said. Then she sniffed. “Never mind. Unless your present is a new shawl, or a warmer suit of clothes, I doubt that I’ve any need of it.”
“Oh, no? How does passage on a ship sound?”
Anne dropped her darning needle. Then she frowned and picked it back up. “Don’t tease,” she said irritably.
“A fine