Page 48 of The Court of Venus

I nearly spit wine back into my cup. Across the table, Roland’s eyes met mine. Just days ago, I’d wondered if I’d ever see that rousing spark in them again. I’m desperate to speak with the lord chancellor, I thought. He smiled into his plate.

Once Tom climbed off the table, Cecily clapped her hands, gathering our attention. “My husband the king and I wish for Roland to dance for us. We’re so grateful he’s recovered his health.”

The court banged their cups against the table.

Roland held his hands up in surrender, as if they’d backed him against a wall, but he was grinning. “And who shall my partner be?”

“How about my brother?”

The king agreed it was a wonderful idea. Tom and Roland, the two most beautiful men at court.

They circled each other playfully, the animosity of the joust forgotten. Roland placed his arm around Tom’s waist, lifting him high every few beats or so. Each time they released each other, they staggered about for a moment before coming together again, heads thrown back in roaring laughter. I couldn’t help indulging in Roland’s grace: his delicate, long limbs, his coiled-up strength.

More courtiers joined in when the music slowed to a grim pavane. The swan in the center of the table, one of Roland’s symbols, now mysteriously headless. Someone had stolen it during the dance, a warning from Fulke Roet or the Guildfords. The king only chuckled at it, a wad of food on his tongue, and Cecily pretended not to be disgusted by him.

His enemies must have hoped Roland would die in his sickbed. But the color had returned to his cheeks, and his eyes were bright. He flitted amongst the courtiers, laughed with them. Kitty craned her neck to see around the twirling dancers.

When Roland passed her seat, acknowledging her with a nod, Kitty tried to appear disinterested. “Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head. “So good to see you well.”

“Thank you,” came his low murmur. Close enough now that I could hear the vibration in it.

He took his time sweeping around my wing of the table. His hand extended slowly, just as his lance had. I accepted it. His fingers grazed my wrist as he led me to the floor.

Something between us had deepened when he lay in my arms. I wondered what the thread between us looked like to him now. Was it thick and vibrant? Frayed from lack of trust, from the years apart? He’d told me that fellowship appeared to him too. That often, bonds between friends were more enduring than those between lovers.

We lined up for the next dance. The king brandished his recorder and made a show of playing it, but was entirely off tune.

“Good to see you,” Roland finally said as our palms met. He spoke very fast and quiet, barely moving his mouth.

I did the same. “And you.”

The quick step of the dance tore us away from each other. Over his shoulder, he said, “I had hoped you’d visit me. I waited.”

He spun me around to his other side. If I told him how afraid I’d truly been, how I’d rocked back and forth with him in my lap in the great hall, he’d only tease me. “I was turned away every time. Are you feeling—Are you well?”

“Yes, I’m well.” He sighed, struggling with his smile. He finally managed it. “Don’t I look well?”

“You do,” I admitted. As my hand extended for a spin, he watched me, his eyes heavy. They moved the way his fingertips trailed over furniture: a slow, torturous drag. Missing nothing. I felt their weight across my turned cheek, across the curve of my bodice.

“The middle of a dance is the best place to plot. And I’ve rather missed plotting,” he said.

“As have I.”

We both grinned as we marched forward, my hand resting over his. “Does Guildford suspect we were in his rooms?”

“I’m not sure. They haven’t met in days.”

“I may need to send my little spy out again,” he said. “The furry, white one.”

“Your spy?”

His mouth brushed my cheek as he leaned down to whisper. “The spy is quite handy. She’s better than all of mine put together.”

The music drew to a close, the last pluck of the lute hovering in the air. Cecily hot with jealousy, Kitty Seton quietly seething. I shut both of them out, because each time I felt Roland’s effect on others, my palms began to sweat and color flared in my cheeks. The boundary between their minds and mine fraying, their lust for him tipping over into me.

Back at the table, I dug into cuts of meat and sweet pies. Oliver groaned and rubbed circles over his stomach, offering me the rest of his plate. Butter melted on my tongue, and I already wanted more before I’d swallowed. Perhaps if I stayed here long enough, my capacity for greed would expand. Perhaps I would never know satisfaction again. Perhaps Ambrose, Saturn rest him, was right about courts favoring their ruling magician. Roland’s court was desirous. Lunging for another serving, another goblet. A hand on my waist for just a moment longer. The grip I imagined at first was familiar and calloused, and then, the hands on me glistened with jewels. With the king’s signet ring.

My attention returned to the feast—to reason. Wyatt Francis stood and cleared his throat, and after the chatter had faded, he invited all the competing magicians to gather. The three of us remaining had all locked our beast in their cage. Oliver, Roland, and I lined up, side by side, before the king.