The Widow and the King Read Free

could hear nothing.
    Witchcraft. Raymonde had been coming here, with that book in his hands. What had he done?
    And – and why was
she
here – she of all people, who had disappeared from the world ten years ago?
    He bit his lip, and wondered if he was still dreaming. No, it truly was her: Phaedra, the bride of Tarceny, after all this time. Her skin, which he remembered as olive-coloured, seemed very pale under the moon. Her long dark hair was hidden within a hood, but the arch of her brow was clear upon her face: clear, and soft as a cold kiss.
    She was still listening – listening for something moving beyond the wall. No sounds came. At last she sat back with a slight sigh, and the cloud of her breath silvered in the moonlight.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. His voice was hoarse.
    ‘I have been here since I left Tarceny,’ she said.
    Ten years – here? What kind of living could she have had here, scraping her keep from these rocky hillsides? After what she had done to bring down Tarceny, she could have been Queen. Or she could have been his own lady. And if she had chosen that, he would have pushed every damned obstacle out of the way to make it so. Instead she had come here.
    Why
here
?
    ‘Sometimes,’ she continued, ‘when the winters wererough, we would go down to the plains. I still have good friends at Chatterfall, you may remember.’
    Remember? Yes he did. But …
    ‘We?’
    ‘My son Ambrose and I,’ she said. ‘You knew I had a son, Aun.’
    He had known, of course, but he had forgotten. Perhaps he had forgotten deliberately. That
she
should have had a son – the son of the Count of Tarceny!
    His fingers had begun to fidget in his lap.
    ‘And you, Aun. Is it well with you?’
    What could he say?
    ‘No.’
    ‘You came here looking for someone,’ she murmured.
    He put his head in his hands and grunted, briefly.
    ‘He has been here?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    When? How long ago? Why didn't she say? ‘He has read the book, Aun,’ she said.
    Such a gentle reproach, for what had happened in his house! But he had not yet spoken about Varens. He did not want to.
    ‘Do you know what was in it?’ she asked.
    ‘You know I cannot read.’
    ‘But he can.’
    ‘I came – I came to stop him.’
    He could not tell her what he was planning to do. ‘It is too late, Aun.’
    ‘Too late?’
    ‘Listen.’
    For a long moment they sat side by side. Then he heardthe noise again. Out on the hillside, below the low wall that bounded the courtyard, something was moving: something that slithered across the rocks. It was a heartless sound. It made him think of blind evil under the moon.
    He half-rose to his feet, but her hand on his arm stopped him. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper.
    ‘I had bound them, Aun. I came here and trapped them and their master near this place, after Tarceny died. I lived and raised my child here, so that I could be sure they could not escape. But your son read of them in the book. That is why he came …’
    She hesitated. The knight looked sharply at her. For a moment he thought she must have begun to weep.
    But no, she was not weeping. She was frowning; and concentrating, as though for some reason her words had begun to give her difficulty.
    After a moment she said: ‘Tarceny had written of them. That is why your son came …’
    She was repeating herself. Did she think he hadn't heard?
    He knew he was awake, now – fully awake; and she was there and solid beside him. She looked as clear and collected as ever he remembered her. And yet there was something very dream-like about this. She had begun to force her words, still in an undertone, but at the same time as if she feared he was not hearing her properly.
    What was this?’
    ‘It was a week ago,’ she was saying. ‘Maybe it was more. I find it – hard to count time, now. He came up the path. He spoke well …’ She seemed to smile, briefly. ‘He would not say why he had come. But I was pleased to seehim,