Page 107 of The Court of Venus

Once we had docked in the city, I guiltily manipulated the man’s memory of us, clouding it so we looked like an old tradesman and his wife.

Even as it faded in the sky, the Moon didn’t release its grip on me. I managed to turn Roland back into himself with several stops and starts, but I kept his hair the same dirty blond as Edward’s and his eyes a warm brown, so we wouldn’t stand out more than we already did. And so we slipped unknown into the city, the streets tightening around us. A woman on a stoop smiled at Roland, lifted her skirts. Roland pulled my hand. He knew where he was going, guiding us through the winding alleys until we stood before a rowdy alehouse with a thatched roof.

The alehouse was a swarm of men—cobblers and tanners, fresh-eyed university students in feathered caps, a few soldiers, a few brutes.

Roland called up to the second-floor window. “Elizabeth!”

A pretty girl with rouge on her cheeks and loose curls leaned out. Her expression brightened at his beauty, then soured when she saw me tucked under his arm. “Who’s asking for Liz? If you’re that Cavendish fellow, she’s done with you. Says to scram. Even crowning her queen herself wouldn’t change her mind.”

Roland shook his head. “I’m not Cavendish. I’m her son.”

Elizabeth Daymour sat on a green velvet chair, decked in pearls and jewels. She wore a crescent hood over her graying hair, cinched tight against her scalp.

She told Roland she was now the mistress to a wealthy merchant, who brought her all the finest things from Lionesse. She did not ask how he was, and she must have noted his blond hair, but said nothing of it.

With one glance at me, she assumed he was here for money.

“We need a place to stay tonight,” Roland said. “Do you have a room?”

She inclined her head. “Who is she?”

“My wife.” His tone was so assured, his mother’s lips thinned.

Color gathered in my cheeks. I must have looked disheveled in the overlarge gown, my hair an unbound rat’s nest. “Is she someone important?” Elizabeth asked. When neither of us replied, she frowned. “You could have had anyone, I thought. Rise high enough and you could have had whoever you wanted. Such a beautiful boy you were. You could have had the queen of Lionesse one day, I thought.”

Roland laid a gentle hand on my arm. “It is good to see you, Mother. May we speak in private? My wife—” He fought a smile. “—would like to rest.”

The girl from the window handed me a brass key to our room, and while they spoke, I dragged myself up the rickety stairs. Moans resounded through the walls. The place was lopsided, the bed pushed against windows that hung over the streets below.

I lit a candle and, hunched over the writing desk, scratched out two letters. In the din of the alehouse downstairs, I found a boy to deliver them for me.

When I returned, Roland was there, one eye cracking open as I shut the door behind me. The sheets beneath him were red—the wounds on his shoulders and back opened up. I ripped fabric from my gown and soaked it in the small washing basin, gesturing for him to turn on his side. He grimaced as I pressed it against each of his cuts in turn, the rag turning a soft pink.

“Have you tried healing these, like you did for your face?”

“I have no energy for it after your arm. At twilight, I’ll handle them.”

I felt entirely helpless. “What can I do? Do you want me to put you to sleep? Or soothe your mind?”

“Soothe me by coming closer.” His strong arms wrapped around my waist, tugging me onto the bed. I’d thought I would never touch him like this again. So I pressed my nose to his throat and breathed him in.

He fiddled with my hair, combing out knots. “My mother thinks you’re with child and I’m penniless.”

“What of the truth?”

“She would tell the entire alehouse her son was lord chancellor, and we’d be found.”

“Is.”

“Was,” he corrected. “The arrest warrant was rather inventive.” He snorted. “Apparently, I used magic to make Cecily’s dog prefer me to her, when the dog was a special gift from the king. Apparently, such a crime was an attempted theft of the queen’s property. There were fifty charges in all.”

“That dog does prefer you to Cecily.”

“I know,” he sighed.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Mmm?” he murmured, brushing his nose along my collarbone. “As the crown was lowered onto Cecily’s head, as she held the scepter and orb, the Guildfords were practically shaking with triumph. Oh, to know what was in their insignificant heads was torturous.” He pinched his voice to mimic them. “‘I want a dukedom. I want a larger estate.’”