Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 9

He seems so unlike himself. A different man from the one I married. How long has it been? A week? No more than two, for certain. Still, it all seems like a lifetime ago. Just as my husband before me appears. Then again, how well can I say I really know him?

The carriage hit a particularly large bump in the road, sending Taresa up in her seat. Not that carriage rides were ever comfortable, but notwithstanding their jarring nature, when they hit a divot or rise of considerable note, all felt it. Nataliya would giggle, even in the presence of her elders, while Ermesinda would shift in her seat, acting unfazed though every jolt threatened to upend the contents of her stomach. Their mother would huff and sigh, often adding a comment about the tribulations of country travel. Taresa hadn't a clue how the road affected her father, for he always rode alone, save for the rare instances when he allowed a minister or duke of renown to join him. However, she did know his attendants always supplied a collection of snuff boxes, each with a different strain of crushed tobacco. On particularly rough trips, she would catch him handing an empty snuff box through the window curtain of his carriage, where a servant hanging from his side railing would take it. On some occasions, he would pass several outside. Why he could not bear to have an empty container in his presence stood among many oddities Taresa noted of her father.

Another dip bumped Taresa from her seat; only this time, she heard a crack. The noise resonated beyond the interior of her carriage as well, for within moments, Jameson parted the curtain with his sheathed sword to glance inside.

"Are you well?" he inquired.

Taresa smiled. "Never better."

Jameson frowned. He shouted to the coachman. "Hey, you there! You call this a King's Road? I've seen rock-strewn hillocks flatter than this path."

Taresa blushed, embarrassed. She could only assume the royal driver fumed at the slight. "Dear, I don't believe the coachman understands you. He doesn't speak Marlish."

"Oh, he knows. Marlish or not, he comprehends what I'm saying."

Taresa sat back in her seat. So imprudent. She considered offering another word to her husband. Before she could, he rode ahead, nary looking back.

She reclined in silence, spreading her hands on her lap to keep from fidgeting. Usually, she welcomed the opportunity to ride in a carriage by herself, away from the bickering and idle talk of her mother, sisters, or ladies of the court. Those rare occasions offered her the chance to settle her mind, to peek out the window and admire the countryside without commentary from another, save her own wandering monologue.

The present excursion turned out to be an exception. Not that the road had anything to do with her sudden distaste for solitude. She didn't mind the bumps and bounces. No, the discomfort came from riding apart from her husband. Not that she expected him to accompany her within, for few men in their prime, whether Marlish or Ibian, rode in carriages with women, be it their wives, daughters, or other kin. Still, ever since the night of their wedding – when all hell broke loose – she found herself without his companionship, as every baron, knight, captain, and even her father required his attention. Conferences in the War Hall, attending sessions of court, private meals with generals and barons to converse on matters of security – those were but some of the events which occupied Jameson's long days. Taresa had no place in any of them, except when they permitted her to stand or sit in some far corner to watch.

She had accepted the constraints of court her entire life, biding her time through her maidenhood, all the while waiting for the opportunity to broaden her behavior. She thought her betrothal to Prince Denisot would have allowed her more liberty, but with their brief espousal soon dissolved, she never experienced anything beyond scrutiny in the form of hushed whispers at court. Then came her next Promised, Prince Jameson, a regal she believed different from all the rest of the suitors. Indeed, in Arcporte, he had demonstrated himself to be a man of skill and authority, evidenced by his deeds during her first visit to the island. Even in all the formalities of their union ceremony, she held out hope he would be a king apart, a true soul to whom she could finally reveal her true self. But ever since the night of their wedding – with the attack on his men and the royal castle – he had become aloof. Distant even. Every hour and day since, he sullied her faith in him by way of his many responsibilities and meetings. The rare instances when she found herself alone with her spouse hadn't helped, for he often turned in early, having exhausted himself beyond the point of offering more than a grunt or a nod to her until sleep overcame him. She realized the duties of the Throne weighed heavily on him, as did the sudden death of his father, and now their present circumstances. She wasn't naïve of any of it. Still . . . she considered, fighting the urge to entertain her grievances. He could try more at this marriage.