and night, in her chambers, sat there and wept.”
The memory choked off her words and she had to pause, curling her toes in their thin leather slippers, concentrating on the feeling of the marble floor to distract her. Her palms were sweating. She felt Roland take her arm again.
She shook him off. “I knew what was being said, Sire. I knew what people were thinking. I knew he had no more awareness in him than a babe. He was just existing, not living. Not understanding. I had to try to save him.”
“So you ran away,” mused Henry, staring at the fire.
“I couldn’t let him die like that, for something he didn’t do. I couldn’t allow that.”
“Yet,” said Henry softly, “he
is
dead, my Rosemead.”
“Yes,” she replied. “My
father
.”
He didn’t say anything to this for a while, just continued his study of the flames. The men in the corners of the room never moved now, never breathed, it seemed to Kyla. Only Roland was real beside her. How odd she should be grateful for him now.
“Tell Us how he died,” Henry ordered.
“A fever, Majesty. He was not well after the discovery of my mother.” Kyla made herself let go of her skirts, laced her fingers together to form a graceful cup in front of her. “He did not recover from that, I think. He died just a few weeks out of London. It was bitter cold, and he kept giving his blankets to my brother and me while we slept.”
She didn’t want to think of this, didn’t want to lose her composure now, in front of these sickly eager men. She would not give them that satisfaction. She had not cried over her father’s death, there had been no time for that. She was not going to cry now.
“My brother and I continued up to Glencarson, as you know, Sire. My father wanted us to go to my mother’s brother.”
“MacAlister,” said the king, still pondering the fire, not looking at anyone.
“He took us in.”
She didn’t want to say the rest of it, it was still too raw, the uncertain hope that Malcolm had embodied, which had come tumbling down around their ears with the arrival of Roland and his men.
Surrender the Warwicks
.
If they had searched for more provocative words to incite Malcolm they could not have found them. She would not now give them the satisfaction of knowing they picked out the singular glaring weakness of the man who had represented their shelter and survival.
Nothing she had said, nothing she had done could have changed Malcolm’s mind, she realized that now. He had thrown his fate to the battle and cared nothing for all the good people he would drag down with him.
If God wills it, so be it
.
And, she supposed, God had so willed it, for so it became.
What could she tell these fine court men about that day when he had locked her in that room, taking Alister with him?
She had screamed and cried, begging and demanding and threatening until her voice was thin and hoarse, getting nothing but silence from the other side of the door because they were all gone then, gone to the battle, and maybe she was the only sane person left in this whole wide world.
From the distance she had heard the war cries, and each one cut her to pieces, each one could have been Alister or the man who would kill him, and she was helpless to do anything about it.
Eventually the battle sounds had stopped.
Then came the fire.
Part of her wanted the end then, considered how easy it would be to lie down on the pallet and simply breathe in the acrid smoke, let it wrap around her lungs until there was nothing else.
But of course her body would not obey this half-hearted will, and it had reacted by taking a blanket off the pallet and covering her fist with it, pounding on the heavy glass window high in the little room.
It took forever to break, forever standing up on a chair, coughing, blind with tears, pounding and pounding until her fist was raw and she couldn’t see the window any longer through the smoke.
Finally it had broken, but she almost couldn’t
The memory choked off her words and she had to pause, curling her toes in their thin leather slippers, concentrating on the feeling of the marble floor to distract her. Her palms were sweating. She felt Roland take her arm again.
She shook him off. “I knew what was being said, Sire. I knew what people were thinking. I knew he had no more awareness in him than a babe. He was just existing, not living. Not understanding. I had to try to save him.”
“So you ran away,” mused Henry, staring at the fire.
“I couldn’t let him die like that, for something he didn’t do. I couldn’t allow that.”
“Yet,” said Henry softly, “he
is
dead, my Rosemead.”
“Yes,” she replied. “My
father
.”
He didn’t say anything to this for a while, just continued his study of the flames. The men in the corners of the room never moved now, never breathed, it seemed to Kyla. Only Roland was real beside her. How odd she should be grateful for him now.
“Tell Us how he died,” Henry ordered.
“A fever, Majesty. He was not well after the discovery of my mother.” Kyla made herself let go of her skirts, laced her fingers together to form a graceful cup in front of her. “He did not recover from that, I think. He died just a few weeks out of London. It was bitter cold, and he kept giving his blankets to my brother and me while we slept.”
She didn’t want to think of this, didn’t want to lose her composure now, in front of these sickly eager men. She would not give them that satisfaction. She had not cried over her father’s death, there had been no time for that. She was not going to cry now.
“My brother and I continued up to Glencarson, as you know, Sire. My father wanted us to go to my mother’s brother.”
“MacAlister,” said the king, still pondering the fire, not looking at anyone.
“He took us in.”
She didn’t want to say the rest of it, it was still too raw, the uncertain hope that Malcolm had embodied, which had come tumbling down around their ears with the arrival of Roland and his men.
Surrender the Warwicks
.
If they had searched for more provocative words to incite Malcolm they could not have found them. She would not now give them the satisfaction of knowing they picked out the singular glaring weakness of the man who had represented their shelter and survival.
Nothing she had said, nothing she had done could have changed Malcolm’s mind, she realized that now. He had thrown his fate to the battle and cared nothing for all the good people he would drag down with him.
If God wills it, so be it
.
And, she supposed, God had so willed it, for so it became.
What could she tell these fine court men about that day when he had locked her in that room, taking Alister with him?
She had screamed and cried, begging and demanding and threatening until her voice was thin and hoarse, getting nothing but silence from the other side of the door because they were all gone then, gone to the battle, and maybe she was the only sane person left in this whole wide world.
From the distance she had heard the war cries, and each one cut her to pieces, each one could have been Alister or the man who would kill him, and she was helpless to do anything about it.
Eventually the battle sounds had stopped.
Then came the fire.
Part of her wanted the end then, considered how easy it would be to lie down on the pallet and simply breathe in the acrid smoke, let it wrap around her lungs until there was nothing else.
But of course her body would not obey this half-hearted will, and it had reacted by taking a blanket off the pallet and covering her fist with it, pounding on the heavy glass window high in the little room.
It took forever to break, forever standing up on a chair, coughing, blind with tears, pounding and pounding until her fist was raw and she couldn’t see the window any longer through the smoke.
Finally it had broken, but she almost couldn’t
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