‘Your father died at the hands of a Charynite,’ Alda hissed. ‘Shame on you.’
She walked out with her sons in tow.
‘Give him a chance,’ Yael called out. He was Jory’s father and regardless of what was said tonight, Lucian knew Jory would have his ears boxed by both his ma and fa when he got home.
‘We’ve given him enough chances,’ Pitts the cobbler said. ‘What has he done to keep the enemy from the foot of our mountain? Nothing! He can’t even find the culprit behind Orly’s bull going missing every night. How hard is that, Lucian? It’s a bull with more brains than you have.’
Lucian’s eyes met
He swallowed hard. ‘I stand by what I say. I don’t care what you think of them. I didn’t think I cared what I thought of them. I still don’t. But I care what I think of us and when one of their men gave me a lesson on how they would like their women treated … well, it shamed me. And it made me realise that I did care and that Saro would be horrified,’ his eyes met Jory’s, ‘and disappointed that our lads would treat the women of any kingdom in such a way. You may say shame on me for believing what the enemy says, but I say shame on all of us if we condone the behaviour of our lads.’
There was silence a moment.
‘The lads do not enter the valley,’ he said firmly. ‘And if any of you have issue with my ruling, I will send a message to beloved Isaboe and have this mountain put on curfew.’
He pushed past the crowd and left the courtyard.
Phaedra of Alonso sat by the stream that evening and wrote a letter to Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands. It had been a week since a horse and cart arrived from the village of Sennington with a letter and a gift.
Phaedra had read the letter to Kasabian and Cora as they studied the object at the back of the cart.
‘What does it all mean?’ Kasabian asked.
‘Well, here in her letter, Lady Beatriss writes that she used to cook for her village, but she no longer needs it and I should put it to good use.’
It was an oversized clay pot, which took three men to remove from the cart and place on the ground.
‘There,’ she said, pointing where a campfire was set up beside the stream.
‘What are we going to do with it?’ Cora asked.
Phaedra thought a moment. ‘I think we’ll make pumpkin soup.’ She looked up at the caves where some of the camp dwellers were staring down at them. ‘And invite the whole village.’
Later that day, Phaedra crossed the stream with a bowl of soup in her hands and held it out to Tesadora, who sat with the girls cooking trout over an open fire. Tesadora studied it.
‘I don’t eat orange food.’
‘That’s silly,’ Phaedra said, wondering where she got the courage to call Tesadora silly. ‘You eat green food and red food.’
‘Orange is a ridiculous colour for food, I say.’
‘I’ll have a taste,’ the Mont girl named Constance said. Somehow Tesadora had inherited two Mont girls who had come down one day with Phaedra’s Mont husband and never returned home. ‘I’m sick and tired of fish.’
Phaedra held out the spoon and the girl slurped it, making a face. ‘Something is missing.’
Constance jumped up from where she sat and searched around their herb garden before coming back with a small leaf that she began to shred, stirring it into her soup. Constance tasted it again and nodded with approval, handing it to Japhra.
‘Strange,’ Japhra said. She didn’t speak much. Phaedra had heard someone say she had a gift when it came to cures, but that the Charynite soldiers had broken her inside.
Japhra held it out to Tesadora. ‘I’ve seen you eat carrots,’ she teased. ‘They’re orange.’
Tesadora took a spoonful of the soup and swallowed. ‘Tomorrow we’ll show you how a soup is made,’ was all she said.
The next night, even Rafuel’s mysterious men had left their cave and Tesadora’s herbs gave a fragrance to the soup that had the more reserved Charynites coming back for seconds.
‘You’re sure I’m not poisoning you?’ Tesadora called out to one of the camp dwellers who had refused to see her. ‘Because if I’m not poisoning your food perhaps you can come and see me about that open sore on your arm.’
The night after that they made a fish stock that caused much flatulence and even more laughter.
And so it was that Lady Beatriss’s boiling pot became the reason the cave dwellers came out in the open and began to speak to their neighbours. Phaedra drew up a roster and each night it was a different person’s turn to cook and sometimes she’d see them venture over the stream to speak to the Lumaterans about recipes. Later, Phaedra completed her letter and showed it to Cora.
‘Ask her if she has any need for her bread oven,’ Cora demanded.
But Phaedra did no such thing and it was only after she sent the letter through her Mont husband that she wondered what had possibly happened to Lady Beatriss’s village that would mean she no longer had use for the pot.
Lady Beatriss read Phaedra’s letter in the palace village three days later. She was there with Vestie collecting some fabric for a dress she promised to make her for Princess Jasmina’s second birthday. She could see outside the shop to where Vestie was speaking to some of the children, but the next moment Vestie was running off and Beatriss looked out to see her daughter fly into Trevanion’s arms. He was with two of his Guard.
Beatriss went outside and she took a moment before she approached and acknowledged them all politely.
‘We’ll speak later,’ Trevanion said to his men, dismissing them. Her eyes caught his and he looked away, his attention on Vestie. But Beatriss had seen the dark flash of desire she recognised from their years together.
‘Is the cart close by?’ he asked quietly, taking Vestie’s hand.
‘Just at the smithy,’ Beatriss said.
‘I’ll walk you there.’
Beatriss didn’t have the strength to argue.
‘A piggyback,’ Vestie pleaded, and he bent down so she could climb on.
As they walked alongside each other Beatriss felt the coarseness of his arm beside hers.
‘You don’t seem yourself,’ he said and she heard regret in his voice.
‘I’m not quite sure I know who myself is anymore,’ she said sadly. Who was Beatriss of the Flatlands without her village? Without her sorrow? Without Trevanion of the River?
When they reached the buggy, he lifted her up to the seat of the cart and she felt her lips against his throat, heard his ragged breath. She would have given anything to hold on a moment longer. When she was settled, he hugged Vestie to him and placed her beside Beatriss.
‘The Queen speaks of having Vestie come stay and help with Jasmina. She’s becoming a handful.’
‘It’s the age,’ she said quietly. ‘Tell the Queen we’ll speak of it soon.’
She rode away, all too aware of how long he stood waiting. Vestie waved until her arm was weary, but was quiet for most of the journey.
‘Is there something wrong?’ Beatriss asked, staring out at the village of Sayles where a plow team was at work preparing one of the fields for planting. Even the awful smell of cow dung in the air was progress. A richly fertilised field would produce a good crop and Beatriss could not help comparing the emptiness of her village to this one.
‘Mama?’
‘Yes, my love.’
‘What’s an abon … abobination?’
‘A what?’ Beatriss said, looking down at her daughter. Sometimes Beatriss thought she’d never see anything so magical as her child’s face. It made her think of the poor cursed Charynites. How strange it was to feel pity for a people who had been the enemy for so long.
‘Abobination.’
‘You mean abomination. Why?’
‘Kie, son of Makli of the Flatlands, called me one today. He said … he said I don’t have a father and that I’m an abob … abomination.’
