Griffin's Daughter Page 6

  “Humph,” Claudia rumbled, tapping a stout finger against her jawline thoughtfully. “That neck of yours needs summat to set it off. It be too bare…Ay! O’ course! I’ve got just the thing!” Jelena watched with growing curiosity as her foster mother went over to the large wooden chest at the foot of her bed and began rummaging through its contents. After much digging, she brought forth, with a small crow of triumph, a little box made of cedar.

  “I want you to have this, my love. It’ll go just perfect with the dress,” Claudia said as she pressed the box into Jelena’s hands.

  Jelena sighed with wonder. The box was exquisitely crafted, with an inlay of different colored woods forming an interlocking pattern of vines upon its lid. Jelena had never seen the box before and had no idea Claudia even owned such a fine object. She lifted the lid.

  Nestled within its lining of black velvet rested a strand of blue beads.

  Jelena carefully lifted the necklace free and held it in her hands as if it were made of the most precious of sapphires. In truth, the beads were fashioned of blue Kara glass; although not as costly as sapphires, still, a servant like Claudia would never have been able to afford such a piece of jewelry.

  Claudia must have seen the question in Jelena’s eyes. “This was a gift, given t’ me by the late Duchess Julia, may the gods bless an’ keep her soul. As good an’ kind a mistress as anyone could want, she was. She gave me this necklace as a token of her thanks, after I seen her through the birthing of young Lord Magnes. Ay, what a hard birth that was! The poor duchess suffered the pains of Hell, she did, but it was worth it, for she gave your uncle his Heir. Now, turn ‘round an’ I’ll fasten it on.”

  With the necklace now encircling her neck, there remained one last task to be completed before Jelena could make her way to the great hall for the feast.

  After a great deal of vigorous brushing and the judicious application of almond oil, Jelena’s hair was subdued enough to allow Claudia to place the silver circlet upon her foster daughter’s head and adjust it so that it sat correctly. She then clapped her hands together and let out a great sigh.

  “Well, girl, off you go now.”

  Jelena threw her arms around her foster mother and laid her head on Claudia’s shoulder. She could feel Claudia’s love enfold her like a warm, comforting blanket, and her own intense feelings momentarily threatened to overwhelm her.

  Claudia held her close, clucking softly like an old contented hen. “You don’t want to be late, my lamb. Won’t do, keepin’ the family waitin’.”

  “No, it won’t,” Jelena agreed. She laughed and wiped the unshed tears from her eyes. “I guess I’m just a little nervous. After all, I’ve never been allowed to eat with the nobles before. I’ll have to be especially careful not to let them see that I’m really just a kitchen maid.”

  Claudia shook her head. “There’ll be none in that room who’ll mistake you for anythin’ but what you are…a true Preseren.”

  My mother may have been a Preseren, but that doesn’t matter to anyone but Magnes,Jelena thought. All they’ll see is the mark of my father’s blood on me. That’s all they’ve ever seen.

  “Don’t wait up!” Jelena said airily as she swept through the door. She didn’t want Claudia to see how scared she really was.

  The wooden stairs squeaked like indignant mice as Jelena made her way down, mindful of the full skirt, which she had partially gathered up in her hands. The rustling of the silks seemed preternaturally loud in the close, narrow stairwell. She reached the bottom landing and pushed open the door leading to the yard.

  Twilight had fallen, but the yard glowed with the light of lanterns and torches. The public feast was in full swing.

  Jelena paused for a moment to take in the scene, a riotous conglomeration of colors, noise, and aromas.

  The common folk of the district looked forward all winter to the Sansa public feast held on the castle grounds, and it seemed to Jelena that the whole lot of them had come here tonight, dressed in their holiday finery. Servants scurried back and forth from the kitchen, bearing great platters of steaming roast beef and pork. There were heaps of meat pies, baskets of bread, boiled turnips, onions, and carrots, wheels of hard, brown cheese, red and yellow apples, and, to slake the crowds’ insatiable thirst, endless flagons of beer and famous Amsara hard cider.

  Children and dogs were everywhere, rolling underfoot and chasing each other with wild abandon. Jelena recognized the words and melodies to several different and equally lewd drinking songs, all of which added to the general cacophony.

  She had no trouble slipping by in the shadows, unnoticed, and she reached the doorway to the great hall without incident. The heavy oak double doors stood open and light from the many lamps within formed a golden pool upon the paving stones without. Jelena paused, just outside of the circle of light, and gazed inward.

  No one will mistake you for anything other than what you are!

  Claudia’s words echoed softly in Jelena’s mind. With shaking hands she pulled at the borrowed gown, then checked one last time to make sure that her ears were hidden. Drawing in a lungful of the scent-charged air, she stepped into the doorway.

  Chapter 4

  A Veiled Proposition

  At first glance, the scene within the great hall seemed not much different from that of the yard. Jelena saw trestle tables and benches full of eating, drinking people; however, they were fewer in number and much more richly dressed than those outside. Torches burning in sconces affixed to the support posts illuminated the high-ceilinged chamber, and dozens of beeswax tapers in candelabra lit each table. The aroma of the burning candles added a sweet note to the mingled smells of roasted meat, beer, wine, and wood smoke that filled the air. Heraldic banners hung suspended from the heavy ceiling beams, and a series of faded tapestries depicting bucolic hunting scenes decorated the walls.

  At the far end of the hall, a proper table and chairs stood upon a raised platform. At the high table sat her uncle. Beside him on his right sat another man whom Jelena had never seen before. She assumed that he must be someone very important to her uncle. Next to this special guest sat Thessalina, looking like she’d just smelled something extremely distasteful. Magnes was seated to his father’s left, and next to him sat a young girl with pale blonde hair, dressed in dusky rose.

  The man Magnes had identified up on the battlements earlier that day as Duke Sebastianus Lucien occupied a chair one place beyond the blonde girl. There were several other men and women seated at Duke Teodorus’s table, all of whom had to be persons of high rank to merit such an honor.

  Feeling a little like a rabbit walking into a den of foxes, Jelena stepped through the door, gathered up her skirts, and began walking down the center aisle towards the high table. The rushes strewn over the flagstones beneath her borrowed slippers made a crunching noise as she walked. At first, no one seemed to notice, but as she drew closer, the buzz of conversation trailed off into a charged silence. Her uncle sat coolly, regarding her over the edge of his wine goblet. Thessalina stared, expressionless. Jelena faltered for a moment, then stopped, poised on the knife-edge of panic.

  Magnes must have sensed her fear; his instinct to protect her galvanized him into action. “Cousin! You’re here at last. Come and join us,” he said. His words were spoken at normal volume, yet they seemed to ring out like a trumpet call in the tense stillness of the hall, bolstering Jelena’s failing courage.

  “Uncle,” she murmured, dropping into a deep curtsy.

  She heard a sharp little giggle as she rose and saw the blonde girl raise a pale hand to her mouth, her blue eyes fastened on Jelena and twinkling with amusement. Magnes glanced at her and frowned.

  “Yes, yes,” Duke Teodorus growled, beckoning to her with a curt wave of his hand. “Come on up here and sit down, so we can get back to the food. Magnes, help her.”

  Magnes was by her side almost before the duke had finished speaking. He placed her hand in the fold of his elbow and led her up onto the dais and t
o the empty chair next to Duke Sebastianus. He made a great show of pulling it out for her, as if by demonstrating his commitment to her, he could turn the tide of prejudice.

  The guests turned their attentions back to their food and conversation. A small musical ensemble, which had fallen silent at Jelena’s entrance, once again took up their instruments, and soon the room filled with the sounds of music and feasting.

  Jelena was acutely aware of the many pairs of eyes that watched her, some surreptitiously, others openly. She quickly scanned the faces of the crowd, and saw expressions ranging from mild curiosity to frank disgust. There could be no hiding who or what she was, not in this place. She had never in her life felt so naked, so utterly and completely exposed.

  How am I ever going to get through this?

  “Have some wine, my lady.”

  Jelena started a little in her seat. She had never before been addressed with any sort of honorific, and it shocked her. Every nerve in her body was stretched taut and jangling, as if at any moment, she would fly apart into a thousand bloody pieces. She turned to look at the man seated to her right.

  Duke Sebastianus of Veii was not a handsome man, but neither was he ugly. Rather, he had the kind of face that was like a mask—calm on the surface, but hiding something underneath. He held a ewer in his hand, poised to pour.

  Jelena could only nod in mute consent. The duke smoothly filled her goblet to the brim then topped off his own. He lifted the cup to his lips and regarded her with enigmatic eyes.

  “My lord, this is my cousin, Jelena,” Magnes said, leaning forward to look past the girl seated next to him, who seemed not to notice that Magnes was intentionally ignoring her. Her attention was focused on Jelena, vapid face alight with malicious glee.

  “Yes, I know,” the duke replied. Something in his tone made Jelena shiver.

  “What would you like to eat?” Magnes asked.

  “Maybe she’d like a cup of blood, or some raw meat. She won’t bite, will she?” the blonde girl purred, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly.

  “Be quiet,” Magnes retorted, his voice low and tight with anger. The girl sank back into her chair, her full pink lips set in a pout.

  Jelena’s stomach roiled with suppressed rage and fear.

  “Your uncle sets a very fine table,” Duke Sebastianus said. “It all looks quite delicious.” He once again turned his peculiarly intense gaze upon Jelena.

  There were a great variety of dishes to choose from, all of them familiar to Jelena from her years of working in the kitchen. She saw several of her favorites—rabbit and fruit pie, cold fish in aspic, game stew with turnips and carrots. It all might as well be rocks and wood, for she felt certain that if she tried to eat anything, her stomach would immediately rebel.

  Praying that no one would see her hand trembling, Jelena reached for her wine goblet and brought the brimming cup slowly to her lips. She took several deep swallows and immediately regretted it. The dry, woodsy vintage, unhindered by any food that could absorb and slow its intoxicating effects, blew straight into her head. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. From somewhere further down the table, she heard the porcine snort of a man’s laughter.

  “Ah, let me take that from you, my lady, before you spill it.” The pleasant baritone of Duke Sebastianus’s voice so close to her ear startled Jelena. Before she realized it, he had the cup and her hand firmly in his grasp and was gazing intently into her face, as if to memorize every detail of its topography. His dark eyes seized upon hers and held them, relentlessly, burning straight through into her innermost core. She felt trapped like a mouse under a cat’s paw.

  The duke gently pried Jelena’s fingers from around the goblet and set it back on the table. “You had better eat something, or I fear the wine will go to your head,” he said. “What may I serve you?”

  “Some of the cold fish, and a little of the rabbit pie, Your Grace,” Jelena replied, finding her voice at last. She watched silently as the duke served her plate with his own hand, acutely aware that many others were watching as well. She thanked him and began eating, taking the smallest of bites, afraid that, if she tried eating any more, she would choke.

  “Your uncle described you to me in great detail, Jelena. I must say, though, that his description did not do you justice.”

  Jelena kept her eyes lowered, studiously avoiding the duke’s gaze. “I was not aware that my uncle cared enough about me to describe me to anyone, let alone to a person of your high station, my lord,” she replied softly.

  “Your uncle has sent me several correspondences concerning you, Jelena. It has been almost a year since my wife died. I’ve lived the monastic life for long enough and now it’s time to move forward.”

  Jelena felt awash in confusion. Why would Duke Teodorus write to one of his noble peers about her, his half-breed bastard niece whom he barely acknowledged? It just didn’t make any sense. “I…I don’t understand, Your Grace. I count for little or nothing in my uncle’s eyes. Why would he wish to bring me to your attention?”

  “You really have no idea why I’ve come to Amsara, do you?” Duke Sebastianus asked, his voice more thoughtful than puzzled.

  Why do I feel like I’m walking through quicksand, and any moment, I’ll be swallowed up whole?Jelena wondered.

  “The Sansa Feast, of course. Other than that, I know of no other reason you might have to come here, my lord.”

  The duke leaned back in his chair, silently stroking his close-cropped, gray-shot beard. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but at that exact moment, the Sansa Cake arrived, to a tumultuous response.

  Cheers, clapping, and raucous shouts accompanied the magnificent confection as it made its way up the center aisle, borne on a pallet hoisted upon the burly shoulders of four male kitchen drudges. It wasn’t so much a cake as an edible sculpture. It was molded to look like a large basket filled up with fruits, nuts and grains—a promise of the harvest to come, if the goddess San bestowed her blessings on the spring plantings. Sheathed in gold leaf, the cake gleamed softly in the lamplight. Common folk jammed the door of the great hall, pushing and shoving each other in an effort to catch a glimpse of the beautiful creation.

  Duke Teodorus stood up from his chair as the drudges set the cake down at the center of the high table. The room fell silent in anticipation of the duke’s invocation. Even the common folk in the door quieted down to listen.

  “Gentle San, goddess of renewal, new life, new beginnings, bestow your blessings upon us, your children. We ask that you quicken our fields, orchards, our livestock, and our women, so that the cycle of life may continue. Amen.”

  The muted response rippled through the crowd, followed by loud shouts for more beer and wine.

  “Happy Sansa, Cousin,” Magnes said brightly, but the melancholia Jelena could sense in him belied the cheerful smile on his lips.

  Several tables were moved aside to clear an area for dancing. The musicians struck up a high-spirited country tune, and the floor filled with happy revelers, skipping and spinning to the melodic notes of harp, lute, and recorder. The Sansa cake would sit for a while on display before being cut and served. The festivities were only just beginning.

  This was the time, in years past, when Claudia brought out a little Sansa cake for Jelena and her to share. They would find a corner somewhere, either in the kitchen or the pantry, and eagerly gobble down the special treat. It was not the cake that mattered to Jelena, although she certainly looked forward to it. It was the special quiet time she’d shared with Claudia, a time when they could just be mother and daughter, sharing a cake together in perfect love and trust.

  How I wish I were with you now, Heartmother,Jelena thought. She dared to sneak a look at Duke Sebastianus. He sat watching the dancing with hooded eyes, his face unreadable. Abruptly, she had had enough.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up. Magnes, who had been having a rather tense, but muted, conversation with his father, turned in his chair and looked up at her. “You�
�re not leaving already, are you, Jelena?” he asked. His eyes seemed to beg her to stay. “The cake hasn’t even been cut yet. You’ll miss out on the best part of the feast.”

  “Yes, Jelena, do stay awhile longer,” Duke Sebastianus drawled. The hunger in his eyes now was unmistakable, and it had nothing to do with food.

  “Perhaps she’s tired of trying to fit in where she doesn’t belong,” the blonde girl said. “Someone should have told her that dress is all wrong.”

  “Jelena, don’t listen to her. Please stay,” Magnes pleaded. The girl shot him a venomous look.

  “I’m sorry. I suddenly don’t feel well. I must go.” She dropped a short curtsy to the duke. As she turned to leave, he reached out and grabbed her hand. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips and palm—put there, no doubt, by many hours of sword practice.

  “We will see each other again, my lady,” he said, his voice full of unfathomable implications.

  Jelena pulled her hand free and bolted.

  “Where is she going? Tell her to get back here this instant!”

  Her uncle’s angry voice carried well over the noise of the reveling, but Jelena had no intention of returning. She had to get as far away as she could from Duke Sebastianus and his dark, hungry eyes. She pushed her way through the dancers, curses and insults following in her wake. The last thing she heard as she fled through the open doorway into the yard was the throaty, arrogant laughter of Thessalina.