Page 76 of The Truth of Our Past: Unframed Art MM Romance

YEAR 794 OF THE DIVINE THE HOUSE OF AGNEPHUS

At Starfall in Segoile, there were many palaces.

Two were designated for an Empress.

Gentian Palace was the smaller of the two, a shining marble construct covered in carved, painted flowers. It had been built by Emperor Viotin Agnephus III, who had dearly loved his Empress, and surrounded her with dreaming blue gentians and fountains made of lapis and crystal. It was an annex to the Emperor’s own residence, and no one but the Emperor and his lady were permitted inside its central chamber. But stories told of the great crystal dome open to the stars, and the enormous round bed where white moonflowers climbed the walls to perfume the air.

When Emperor Bastin Agnephus was married in the spring of 794, that was not where he installed his Empress.

The Palace of the Distant Star was larger and further away, a grand complex with its own gardens, stables, and administrative buildings. It was situated on a hilltop on the western side of Starfall, with a high crystal tower that glowed even by starlight. Built by Emperor Deverin Agnephus, who had not loved his Empress, it was as far as it was possible to be from the Emperor’s residence while still being within the walls of the sacred city .

Empress Esmene had not had everything her way. The wedding ceremony had been held, but it was a week before she came to Starfall, in an open carriage that proclaimed the arrival of the new mistress of the Empire and with no acknowledgement whatsoever from Bastin. The week’s delay had been due to House Melun’s attempt to have her installed in Gentian Palace, but Bastin would sooner have burned it to the ground. This was not something they could force him to do. If she wanted to live in Starfall, it would be in the Palace of the Distant Star, or not at all.

It was said that the sight of that palace’s crystal tower, a tiny gleam as if from one of the fainter stars, had soothed Deverin Agnephus, as if his Empress had been located in some faraway galaxy. It was a mild comfort to Bastin Agnephus to know that he was not the first Emperor to loathe his wife, but the fact that that Melun woman resided within Starfall at all was like knowing there was a snake in his chamber. Somewhere.

“Nothing to be done about it now, Divinity,” Laud Ereguil counseled sensibly. “Might be best to come to terms with her.”

“Like you have with your betrothed?” Bastin inquired waspishly. Everyone was talking about how Laud Ereguil, young, wealthy, and the highest-ranking unwed noble in the Empire, had been ensnared by one of Segoile’s most infamous Roses. It was perilously easy for an unwary man to be maneuvered into compromising a maiden, even if he was a duke. The only recourse for an honorable man was to propose.

Laud’s face darkened.

“I’ll hear her out, at least,” he growled, though he didn’t look pleased with the idea. “But yours is not the first political marriage in history, Radiance. As my sister has been reminding me, one party is almost always reluctant in these situations.”

“I’m surprised the lady caught you,” Bastin remarked, giving his friend an opening to talk about his troubles, if he wanted to. Bastin was deeply sympathetic to anyone who was forced to marry.

“They’re always wanting mercenaries in Rendeva,” Laud replied, and won a wan smile.

It was true, though, that his was not the first political marriage in history, and he was certainly not the first Emperor who had been forced into one. Maybe it would have been possible to make peace with it, in time. If Esmene had come to him herself, he might have found a way to deal with her. If he could have separated her from House Melun and its demands, it might have been more bearable. Or even if they had just left him in peace to get used to the idea, perhaps…

“I regret that the Temple has also expressed concern,” said Duke Dardot Melun, head of House Melun and father of Esmene. He had been pressing for an audience with the Emperor for over a month, and Bastin had only granted it when Melun threatened to call in the House of Agnephus’s considerable debts.

“If the Temple is concerned, they can come say so themselves,” Bastin replied, seated at his desk and pretending to focus on one of the many papers there.

“I would be reluctant to involve them in any formal way, especially in a matter that involves my own divine son-in-law…” Melun trailed off, letting the implication linger.

For all the divine blood in Bastin’s veins, both of them knew who held the power here. Dardot Melun had a great many strings he could pull: financial, religious, political, and—if Bastin was truly willing to make it a contest—perhaps he would even use the Court of War, which had long been in Melun hands. The Empire’s finances were in ruins after the failed campaigns in the Andelin, the position of the Temple was very clear on the necessity of consummating a marriage, and the Court of Nobility had already made its ruling on the validity of Bastin’s betrothal.

But it wasn’t enough for House Melun to place their daughter on the throne. No, no. They wanted the succession, without delay. Bastin set down his quill and met his father-in-law’s eyes, cold and flat.

“Does your daughter know you’re here?”

This was probably the last chance for peace.

“A maiden, even an Empress, cannot press such a delicate matter for herself,” said Melun, with a smile that confirmed that this was in fact at her request, and it felt as if something in Bastin’s chest solidified into ice.

“You may leave.” He was so angry, he could barely speak the words. And not just with his bitch of a wife or her bastard father. Bastin hated his own father with such venom, he ordered all the busts and portraits of the man removed from Starfall that same day. His father was responsible for this. He had bankrupted the House of Agnephus with futile wars, then sold his son to pay for it .

The next day, he went to the Palace of the Distant Star.

The Empress was prepared to receive him. Tea and a light meal were ready in her solar, already so perfectly appointed, it looked as if she had resided there for years. She was an accomplished socialite and scarcely needed his participation to hold a conversation. Her long, slender fingers were ever busy, serving him food, pouring his tea, arranging the table as she told him how well she was settling into her new home.

“I have assigned my Mistress of Robes, as well as my ladies of the Wardrobe, the Bath, and the Salon,” she said, sipping her tea. She took it strong, with no sugar. “Duke Pomeret was good enough to begin introducing me to your ministers.”

“That was kind of him.” And daring of her, to confess her alliances before him. So House Pomeret had declared for Melun.

“I am anxious to assume my duties, Divinity,” she replied. “The delegation from Daitia should be greeted with all courtesy. I will do my utmost as Empress to ensure the negotiations proceed well.”

The threat was concealed in sweet words and spoken in an exquisitely trained voice, every syllable melodious and perfectly enunciated. She was pushing him. Demanding that he acknowledge her as his wife and Empress in every way.

Fine.

“Come,” he said flatly, setting his untouched tea aside and rising from his chair. “Let’s get this over with.”

She was so very eager to be acknowledged.

Her ladies were still busy putting the finishing touches on her bedchamber, but Bastin barely noticed as they curtsied and hastily departed. Tugging at the buttons and laces of his doublet, he let it fall on the floor, then sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. He was uninterested in the details of both this bedchamber and his bride. After today, he never intended to visit either again.

Esmene followed him. She was wearing a light silk gown that laced up the sides rather than the back, easily removed by herself or a man unaccustomed to fripperies. For the first time, she actually looked a little uncertain as she moved toward the bed. Her hands lifted to her hair, tugging out pins and ribbons to let the pale blonde mass fall in streamers around her face .

Bastin measured her from the corner of his eye. She might have been three years older, but she was a maiden still, and would rarely have seen a man without his shirt, let alone anything more. And he had hardly saved himself for marriage. His first sexual experience had been with a pretty chambermaid when he was seventeen, and the girl had been more than happy to educate the handsome young Emperor. He was not shy about sex.

Rising, he shoved his breeches off and stepped out of them. He took a certain pleasure in watching Esmene flinch and look quickly away at the sight of his unexcited penis.

“Take off your clothes,” he said flatly, stretching out on the bed. He had no intention of making this easy for her. He would not pretend affection. She was forcing him to do this against his will and he would never forgive her for it. Bastin stared into the middle distance as she slipped out of her gown and then slid onto the bed beside him. She was very long and slender, tall for a woman, only three or four inches shorter than himself. He could smell something cool and flowery on her skin, like tuberoses.

Kneeling beside him on the bed, she waited, two spots of hot color burning in her cheeks. Bastin waited just long enough for the silence to be uncomfortable before he looked at her contemptuously.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked. “You’re the one that wanted this so badly. Go ahead.”

The sight of her eyes widening and the wash of furious color through her face was a balm to his spirit. But she had already come this far, and she was a daughter of House Melun; she would not back down easily. After a moment to get over the worst of her anger and embarrassment, she sat up straight and made herself look at him again, eying the strangeness of his male body as if he were a new musical instrument she was abruptly obliged to play.

“Do not kiss me,” he warned, turning his head away as her face lowered toward him. “Ever.”

It was painful for both of them. She was still unready when she forced him inside herself, and she had to bite her lip to stifle a cry, tears springing to her eyes. It hurt him too, especially when she inexpertly began to move, and her eyes flicked to his face resentfully, as if he were being cruel. Had she thought he would help her with this? Did she really expect him to pity her?

He would give her nothing. As she took him into herself, his hate was so great that he wanted to deny her every other conceivable satisfaction. He wanted to slap her hands off him. He could have endured it without making a single sound, and he wanted to deny her that, too, refuse even the most minimal participation in this act. But as he moved painfully in and out of her, he thought of something better that he could deny her.

She would never have his child.

Bastin grunted. A quiver ran through his body, the muscles of his thighs flexing. He hated it, but this was the lesser of the available evils. Slowly, believably, he let her force sounds from him, and his responses stimulated her enough to give them both a bit of merciful moisture. She was drenched with sweat by the time he groaned and pretended to orgasm, thrusting upward inside her several times.

“Get off me,” he spat when it was over, before she could realize that he was still hard. He doubted her bridal lessons had included these finer points of sexual activity. When he pulled out of her, he was reddened with her blood.

Silently, he dressed, keeping his back to her. When he got back to his own palace, he was going to scrub the stench of tuberoses from his body and then find a woman to wipe away all memory of that loathsome touch.

“I will invite you to my bed again, husband,” Esmene said behind him, the words perfect, melodious, and bearing an underlying steel.

It was a challenge that would set the course of an empire.

* * *

“Cruce Adelan, Your Grace.”

“Jaose Thiraman, Your Grace.”

“Emiset of Giry, my lady. Please call me Emi, if you like.”

“Peritenn Emberoy, my lady. Oh, and you can call me Peri.”

“Sim Gedot, m’lady.”

Ranged in a tidy row, each bowed or curtsied in turn, making Ophele feel as if she were facing a very polite army. These were the first of what eventually would be a small army: the massive staff necessary to keep a ducal estate humming. As soon as she had received word they had arrived, she had dropped everything to come and welcome them, anxious to do her duty as the mistress of Remin’s house.

The day of judgment had come at last.

“I’m Samin,” piped the last one, a little boy who would have charge of the household’s boots.

“He is my nephew, Your Grace,” said Adelan, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Adelan could be no one but the butler, a short and tidy man with cropped gray hair and surprising bottle-green eyes. “He will not trouble you.”

“I am sure he’s no trouble,” Ophele said, a little overwhelmed as she looked up at them all and trying not to show it. “I’m very pleased to meet all of you.”

The six of them had arrived on the ferry that morning and paused just long enough to deposit their belongings in the cottages by the manor and have a wash before they sent their greetings to their new lady. It was only when she was halfway up the hill that Ophele realized she ought to have summoned them to her rather than scurried off to greet them herself, but with both Lady Verr and Sir Leonin at her back, she was terrified to admit the error.

“The h-house isn’t finished yet,” she continued, feeling a prickling burn of embarrassment sear up the back of her neck. Peri and Emi made her particularly anxious. The two maids looked very sturdy and capable, and Ophele was sure they would see through her in a way a man would not. “I have spoken with Master Didion, and he said soon it will be ready to move in. He’s the architect. We have already ordered some furniture, including th-things for your rooms…”

She stopped as her tongue tangled and felt her face redden.

“The cottages are quite comfortable, Your Grace,” the butler assured her. “Duke Ereguil explained that we might find things in flux, as it were. We have some suggestions about how we might be of assistance in the meantime, though of course we would not dream of disrupting your schedule.”

“Oh, you’re not,” she said, her hands fluttering. “I also—these are my guards, and my lady. Lady Verr. And Sir Leonin of Breuyir, and Sir Davi Gosse. You will see each other often, I expect.”

It was a stupid thing to say, of course they would see each other often. Emi and Peri exchanged glances as they made their courtesies, and Ophele cringed inside, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt.

“My lady, Wen will still be serving luncheon,” Sir Leonin bent his head to murmur the suggestion, recalling her to her duty.

“All of you must be hungry,” she said. “It will be a little bit of a walk, I’m afraid, but I can show you where things are…”

Maybe she should have asked Sir Miche to steal a carriage after all. Everywhere was a bit of a walk from the manor, but at least it was easier to speak when she didn’t have to look at all of them at once. Ophele pointed out the inlet where much of Tresingale’s laundry was still done, heartily recommended the bathhouses, and looked down the long stretch of Market Street with renewed trepidation. A cobbler, a chandler, and the new weaver were all due to arrive in town shortly, but it was a two-mile walk to the market square.

“But most of the supplies are there,” she went on, indicating the storehouse. The servants had ranged themselves behind her, but Adelan strolled beside her with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, absorbing every word. “Sir Justenin has been acting as His Grace’s steward, especially regarding the house, so I’m sure you’ll want to speak to him.”

“I have corresponded with Sir Justenin a little, Your Grace,” Adelan replied, nodding. “I would like to begin work as soon as possible.”

That was good. The tasks belonging to a boot boy, footman, or maid were fairly straightforward, but she wasn’t at all sure how the responsibilities might be divided up between herself, Adelan, and Sir Justenin. If she was lucky, the two men would sort it out for themselves, and she would just do whatever was left over.

At the cookhouse, Emi volunteered to go see about luncheon while Ophele settled everyone else at a table inside.

“Will there be no cook at the manor, my lady?” Adelan inquired, lifting little Samin onto the bench. The boy could not be older than seven.

“Not yet,” she replied apologetically. “His Grace is very particular about food, so we will likely depend on Master Wen through the wi—wo…oh. Bother. Emi.”

Shoving her chair back, Ophele was off like a shot, with Sir Leonin and Sir Davi right on her heels and Lady Verr exclaiming behind her. Her skirts flew as she raced around the cookhouse toward the back. She heard the explosion almost as soon as she turned the corner.

“What the bleeding fuck are ye doing in my kitchen?! ”

Ophele ran faster. If Emi replied, she couldn’t hear it; she wrenched open the kitchen door and threw herself bodily between the maid and the cook, her arms flung out as if Wen might start slinging cleavers.

“Wen. Wen. Master Wen!” She had to shout to be heard over the profane epic he was extemporizing. Emi was going to be back on the ferry before suppertime. “She’s one of the new house maids! I didn’t tell her, it’s my fault!”

From the doorway, Sir Davi tactfully extracted Emi, whose eyes were like saucers.

“Then warn the rest of those domesticated blighters, too,” Wen snarled. “Walking into me larder like the Princess of the Pantry, I won’t have it, I will not!”

“I know, I know,” Ophele agreed, placating. “I will tell them. I really am sorry. And would you mind terribly heating something up? They’ve just come across the river today, and that beef stew you make with tarragon is so good, with the little potatoes?”

She added a little sweet entreaty to her voice. His lip curled.

“It’s lucky ye are that I’m a kind-hearted soul,” he growled. His knife spun in his fingers and impaled a haunch of something before he stalked away. “With the little potatoes, she says. Tarragon. Didn’t I say it would come to tarragon? Loyse! Fetch me a bleeding pot!”

“I do apologize,” Ophele said to Emi as they walked back to the dining area of the cookhouse. The girl was medium height and sturdy-looking, but it took a resolute soul to face Wen. “Master Wen is very protective of the kitchen. If you stay behind the white line, he won’t mind you, and there’s always food in the cupboards.”

“Yes, my lady,” Emi replied. There was still a little too much white showing in her eyes.

Walking back into the cookhouse was excruciating. Ophele couldn’t bring herself to meet anyone’s eyes as she repeated the warning, aware that she hadn’t lasted an hour before she had completely obliterated the fiction that she was any sort of lady, let alone a duchess. What must they think of her? Lady Hurrell wouldn’t have budged from a stately glide if the house were aflame. Taking her seat, her hands knotted in her lap. They were all looking at her.

She had to do this. She was Remin’s lady. She could not disappoint him or shame him. Ophele gulped and tried again.

“I’m so sorry. That’s really the only place you ought to be cautious. The kitchen.” The words emerged in small, breathless bursts, but she raised her eyes to Adelan and tried to pretend he was the only one at the table. “And the barracks. You ought not to go there. And the bridge gatehouse. Sir Bram requires a pass. To get out, I mean. And the mason’s camp…”

The mention of the gatehouse had made her think of the mason’s camp, which made her think of the prostitutes, that forbidden subject floating upward like a bubble moments from bursting. Oh, stars, she wasn’t going to say that word, was she? Was she?

Ophele slammed her mouth shut and swallowed. Again, she tried to do as Remin suggested and frame what she wanted to say in her mind first.

“It’s best to stay away from the builders’ camps,” she said, shaky but at least coherent. “There isn’t much p-privacy for them.”

“That is understandable, Your Grace,” Adelan replied, without the least sign he had noticed anything amiss. “I am sure there are many introductions to be made about camp. We have discussed the matter amongst ourselves, and we would like to begin with general introductions, perhaps at supper, and an inventory of the household supplies. I am given to understand they will either be in the storehouse you showed us, or the warehouses down by the harbor.”

“Yes. Master Didion ordered some things. For the house,” she said. “The architect.”

“Ah. I believe I might have seen him. I will be sure to give him proper greetings. And my lady, I beg that you should not feel responsible for these introductions,” he added. “I feel we have imposed upon you quite enough already.”

He offered a small, seated bow, but Ophele wondered if it was a roundabout way of saying that it was inappropriate for her to be taking such an interest. She was sitting to eat with them right now; such a thing would be unheard of in Aldeburke. A lady did not dine with servants. But she could hardly leave, could she? Or go sit by herself at another table? Almost, she turned to Lady Verr, expecting to find Lady Hurrell’s contemptuous stare.

Mercifully, Wen took the decision out of her hands a few minutes later when he appeared with the stew and fresh bread. She felt less frightened when everyone’s eyes were on their food rather than her, and Adelan questioned her about her habits, routines, and preferences, as well as Remin’s. The servants would need to know all of it in minute detail.

“I don’t need much, at present,” she said hesitantly. “I am well enough in the cottage, and Wen manages all our meals, and…oh, is there someone that might help with the laundry? His Grace was helping me, but it has been…difficult.”

“His Grace did laundry, my lady?” It was the first time the butler had shown real surprise.

“There was no one else,” she replied, bristling a little. Yes, it was work no other nobleman in the entire Empire would condescend to do, and Remin had ruined two of her dresses, five chemises, and a breast binding, but it wasn’t his fault he didn’t know how to wash delicate fabrics. “His Grace’s first care is that the work is done. Even if he has to do it himself.”

“Yes, of course,” Adelan said, recovering quickly. “I will inquire with Sir Justenin about a laundress, Your Grace, and we will attend in the meantime. Please, continue. Are you early risers?”

“Yes, we both get up at dawn. When he’s home, that is. His Grace likes to fetch breakfast himself, and—oh, he won’t like it if any of you touch his food or drink,” she added, alerted to another hazard. “If he wants tea, I will make it for him, please don’t touch it yourselves. I will also manage his clothing until the valet arrives. The fewer people handle his things, the better.”

“We are all aware of His Grace’s…circumstances, my lady,” Adelan said, with a glance that included everyone down to seven year-old Samin. “My brother is the head footman at Rospalme and knew His Grace as a child. We will leave it to you to determine your comfort, and strictly abide by any security measures you deem necessary. Typically, a gentleman’s wardrobe is locked, as it contains many valuable items. Once his things are moved up to the manor, you might wish to secure them, and keep the keys in your possession.”

“That would be best,” Ophele agreed. “Are all of you from Ereguil?”

She knew that Duke Ereguil had had all of them extensively investigated and would never have sent them if he had any doubts, but it was so hard to be sure. Once Remin came home, they would all be living with him in his house, under his roof, and her already-fertile imagination was augmented with the dozens of creative assassinations she had read in books. There were so many ways a determined person might do him harm, and even if these servants could be trusted, there were still more coming, and there would be guests in the house, and once the offices were complete, people would be coming and going all day.

Maybe she would just keep the doors to their chambers locked altogether.

Her mind was occupied with the problem as she led them to the cottage, so Adelan might see what furnishings would need to be relocated. But as they trooped up the street together, gradually it began to dawn on her how very small everything was. The cottages could not be anything but humble, their yards muddy, and compared to a grand estate like Ereguil, it was a very rough and shabby place indeed.

“There is very little furniture,” she said awkwardly as she stepped into the cottage, feeling suddenly defensive. With Adelan and Davi inside, there was scarcely room for anyone else, and the room looked dusty and dim as the other servants crowded into the doorway. What had looked like cheerful notes to her—the flowers, the glass bear, the blue-patterned teacups—now just looked pathetic.

“You will…want to bring these things with you?” Adelan asked, turning in place to examine the washstand.

“Yes. We have no replacements for most of it yet.” Except for the new bed, which was currently sitting in the warehouse by the harbor. Remin had already shown it to her several times, like a warning. “And there are some basins and tubs around the side of the house…”

They were good servants. They knew how to manage their expressions. But having grown up with the scorn of the Aldeburke servants, Ophele was exquisitely sensitive to it now, and she could read the shock and dismay under those polite smiles. Really, she couldn’t blame them. Who ever heard of a duke living in a place like this? Doing his own laundry? And Ophele herself was no credit to him, a stammering mouse in a gown so plain, she might be taken for a scullery maid. What sort of duke was this?

The thought was written in their eyes, if not their faces. And it put her back up.

“When His Grace first came here,” she began, knotting her hands together to keep them from trembling as she confronted all those curious eyes, “there wasn’t anything. There weren’t any cottages, or a cookhouse, or roads. They only finished the bathhouses last month. And there weren’t any walls, even, to keep out the devils. This isn’t like anyplace else. You’re here for the beginning. Please…keep that in mind.”

“We will, Your Grace,” Adelan replied, after a moment of surprised silence. And then he bowed, the proper polite bow of a serving man, with one arm behind him and his other hand pressed to his heart. Behind him, the other servants followed. “It is…a privilege.”

* * *