Lady Cestina, who might otherwise have been quite beautiful had her face not been a picture of fear, with smudged blue maschiera paints running from her eyes down to her chin, her long blonde hair wet where it stuck to her cheeks, accepted the Margrave’s hand.
“No, my Lord,” she whispered, “the accusations are false. I wish nothing more than to be your wife.”
“You see?” Evidalle said, turning back to the Greatcoat as if expecting her to agree that the matter had been amicably resolved. When she glared at him instead, he nodded sagely. “Ah, but of course the lovely Cestina might simply be saying this out of fear for her sister’s well-being, no?” He turned back to his bride. “My dear, would you kiss me?”
“Of . . . of course, my Lord.” Lady Cestina leaned in toward the Margrave and kissed him. Everyone could see her lips were trembling.
Evidalle shook his head in mock dismay. “That won’t do at all, my darling. I fear our Lady Greatcoat will think you are simply pretending to love me—you must do better.”
The Lady Cestina looked around anxiously before kissing Evidalle again, this time pressing her lips hard against his, keeping them there a long time.
“Better,” Evidalle said, pulling away to smile at the audience, who gave a smattering of applause. He held up a hand to quiet them. “I think we can improve on it, though.” His gaze returned to Cestina. “This time, use your tongue,” he ordered, then asked sweetly, “Would you like that?”
The fear was joined by humiliation playing across her face. Her eyes were those of a rabbit caught in a trap. “Yes, my Lord . . . I would . . .” Tentatively, she opened her mouth and extended her tongue to his lips.
Evidalle grinned and leaned back a bit, making her reach for him, to the ribald laughter of the crowd. After a moment, he opened his mouth to receive her tongue.
“Enough!” the Greatcoat shouted. “Leave her be, damn you!”
Evidalle kept the peculiar kiss going a while longer before pulling away. “Enough?” he asked the Greatcoat. “You do realize she’s going to be my wife, don’t you? We’ll soon be doing a great deal more than kissing. But perhaps you’re right . . .”
He turned back to the wedding guests. “My Lords and Ladies, has this demonstration of our love been enough for you, or do you require more evidence?”
For a moment, the guests looked at each other in confusion, unsure of what response was expected. Evidalle stared at them and finally someone shouted, “Er . . . more—?”
At the Margrave’s approving nod this soon grew into a rousing chant, “Give us more! Give us more!”
The clerics stood placid and unmoving, the hems of their robes flapping in the breeze—all but the monk at the back, who had his eyes fixed on the guardsmen; he appeared to be examining each one in turn. The servants were doing their best to feign ignorance of what was going on, save one refilling a flagon of wine, who paused to scowl at the cook’s assistant who had stopped turning the spit but was still slicing pieces of chicken for himself.
The chanting grew in volume. “Give us more! Give us more!”
Evidalle gazed lovingly into his young bride’s eyes. “It seems our guests demand a grander gesture from us, Lady Cestina. We must provide them with a more . . . ah, complete demonstration of our love.”
The young woman’s eyes went wide as she finally worked out what was to come. Her lips parted and a single word came out, silent as a whisper to all but those nearby. “Please,” she said. “Please—”
Margrave Evidalle laughed. “You see? She’s begging for it!” He turned back to her. “Take off your dress.”
“Please, no, not here,” the Lady said, even as her hands, as though no longer under her control, began to undo the laces fastening the bodice of her wedding gown. “Please,” she said again, each repetition carrying more trepidation, more desperation.
The curve of Evidalle’s lips remained the same, yet his smile grew dark, ugly, his eyes more intense. “Faster,” he said, a hand already reaching out for her.
“Touch her even once,” Chalmers warned, her voice thick with rage, “and I swear by Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears, those tits will be the last thing your fingers ever feel.”
“Isn’t Saint Zaghev one of the dead ones?” Evidalle asked, his expression turning from desire to mild annoyance. “I doubt he’ll do you much good now.”
The Greatcoat gave out a shout and swung her broken cutlass at the leg of the guardsman closest to her. The tip of the lightly curved blade was missing but the jagged end remained sharp enough that it gashed the man’s thigh, sending him tumbling onto his backside. Chalmers had already brought her blade back up in front of her and was swinging it wildly at the faces of the men nearest her, forcing them back. For a brief moment it almost looked like the young woman’s ferocity might break their line—until a long-limbed guard reached over her and struck the back of her head with the pommel of his sword. Two other guardsmen grabbed her arms and held on tight, rendering her as helpless as the woman she’d come to save.
The man whose leg Chalmers had cut got back on his feet, ripped the blade from her hand and tossed it to the deck. He drew his own thin-bladed dagger and pressed it against her throat.
The Margrave gave a small cough and the guard froze. He dropped to his knees immediately. “Forgive me, my Lord. I was—”
“It’s perfectly understandable,” Evidalle said, waving him away. “At times like these one can sympathize with the overwhelming desire for immediate . . . gratification.” Evidalle signaled to the musicians to resume their tune as he took over the unlacing of Lady Cestina’s gown.
Chalmers howled in frustration as she struggled in vain to pull free from her captors. The man she’d injured used this as an excuse to strike her across the face, but to her credit, the Greatcoat didn’t beg or plead or moan, but shouted, “Kill me then, you dogs, but know that a reckoning comes to Tristia. Retribution rides on a fast horse and wields a sharp blade. So go ahead, you foul-breathed bastards, slit my throat if you dare.”
Evidalle sighed. “Are you just about done, Lady Greatcoat?” He removed his fingers from the laces on the front of Lady Cestina’s wedding dress. “Forgive me, my love, but I fear that the Greatcoat’s caterwauling is making me lose my enthusiasm for our little performance.”
Her reply was oddly plaintive. “You mustn’t stop now, my dear.”
All eyes turned to stare in surprise at the young bride. Beneath the tears and smudged maschiera paints, Lady Cestina’s expression had changed; the mask of fear and sorrow had been replaced by what looked suspiciously like a self-satisfied grin. Eyes bright with mischief, she added, “We’re just getting to the best part.”
Very slowly, like a dancer taking her first few steps onto the stage, Lady Cestina walked over and extended a hand to caress the chin of her deeply confused would-be rescuer.
“My valiant Greatcoat, I must apologize. You see, I’m afraid this really is a wedding play . . . only you were never meant to perform the part of the daring hero. You’re here to play the villain.”
CHAPTER TWO