Season notes: violence, death, attempted murder, accusation of sexual assault
Mattin moved at a quick trot through the manor and out toward the stables. If the schedule hadn’t changed too much with all the disruptions, Jaffrey should… His timing was good—Jaffrey had just left the stables, heading for dinner.
“Mattin?” Jaffrey’s face brightened, “Does the mistress need something?”
Mattin shook his head, and Jaffrey’s face fell. “She didn’t send me.” Mattin took a deep breath. “I need to talk with you.”
Jaffrey blinked, then nodded, chewing on his lip. “Alright. I’ll get some food and meet you in the hayloft.”
“Thank you.” Mattin swayed on his feet, weak-kneed with relief.
“Go.” Jaffrey gave him a little shove towards the stables before continuing towards the manor.
The stables themselves were empty of people. Normally, the Stablemistress tried to keep someone in the stables at all times. But one of the latest accidents had old Losel laid up with a broken leg. So Mattin and Jaffrey could talk in private.
It was soothing to spend a few minutes in the dark, horse-scented room. Mattin said hello to some of the mares and geldings he’d come to know. He stayed a prudent distance away from the stallion, who kicked the stall and trumpeted as he walked by.
Jaffrey returned with food and a jug of Cook’s latest fruit concoction. They climbed into the hayloft and settled in. Neither said anything for several long minutes while they made most of the generous meal disappear.
Mattin sat back with a sigh. “I’ve missed this.”
“You aren’t the only one. But you didn’t come here for a meal.”
“No.” And Mattin laid out everything he’d seen and thought regarding Jahlene’s perilous mental state.
Jaffrey said nothing for a long moment. Mattin, recalling his friend’s odd silences, picked at the straw and waited.
“Byst, you wouldn’t have said anything if you didn’t have an idea.” he took a long drink from the jug. “And you wouldn’t be breaking orders to talk with me if I didn’t factor in somehow. You’re… thinking she needs glamourhai.”
Mattin snorted. “Brit and Parlen have been trying to convince her for a month to take one of you in there. She won’t, but all her reasons sound like excuses.”
“Believe me, we’ve noticed.”
“I thought… if…” He swallowed. This was the hard part. “None of her excuses would… apply to me.”
Jaffrey’s eyes widened, and he said nothing for a long moment.
Mattin, tongue tripping over itself, tried to explain, or apologize, or…
“Do it,” Jaffrey said, “You’ll shock her enough she might listen. And if she won’t take what she needs from us, I promise we won’t be angry if she turns to you. Bloody Mare, if you can get her to relax, maybe we’ll start getting what we need.”
A sigh of relief escaped Mattin, and he stared hard at his pie, “Thank you, I…”
Whatever he would have said got swallowed up when Jaffrey grabbed him in a bear hug. Awkwardly, Mattin returned the embrace. “I’ve missed you, my friend,” Jaffrey said, “And I would never be angry with you for doing anything you could to help the mistress—or get yourself what you need.”
As much as Mattin wanted to deny that last, he was honest enough—with himself at least—not to try.
Walking back into the manor, Mattin breathed a prayer that the next conversation would go half as well. He slipped back into Jahlene’s office and removed the tray with its mostly full plates. Rather than run the untouched food to the kitchen (and deal with Cook’s reaction) he set the tray on Parlen’s desk.
Then he went to Jahlene’s desk and knelt beside her. “Mattin, what—dear Dannu I know you’ve been on edge about something, Mattin, but I really can’t deal with anything else today.”
“Lady, I know you are exhausted. And yes, I have… a favor to ask, but please… please let me speak.”
She threw down her pen and leaned back in her chair, “That bloody serious? Very well, cut the court nonsense and tell me what it is.”
He had, he reminded himself, Jaffrey’s support. He still had to swallow—twice—before he could speak. “Lady… I know I have been foolish in the past, but I’ve learned a lot over the past months. And you know how… important you are to me. I am worried about you. Lady—Mistress—let me serve you in glamourhai, so you can heal yourself.”
She stared at him for a long moment, wonder and shock chasing each other across her face. For a moment, he hoped. Then her face closed against him. Her brows lowered, and she barked a laugh, “Just what do you take me for? I know full well, Mattin Brenson, that my ‘degenerate’ pastimes are of no interest to you. I have lived with your revulsion eating at my mind for months. And now you would have me believe that you wish to be… how did you put it… ‘used as a thing with no purpose other than fulfilling my immoral pleasures’?”
She stood towering over him. The force of her contempt was a slap. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, overwhelmed by grief and shame. The words hurt—more than he believed possible—but what hurt most was knowing he had failed her, again. That because of his past failings, he would not be permitted to help her in her time of need.
“You were forbidden—specifically, clearly, totally forbidden—from ever saying anything about my pleasures. Once more you violate my trust.”
He tried to speak, but his throat closed around his words. And anyway, what could he say? What would she hear? Nothing. In her broken state, the healing draught he had hoped to offer was poison, re-opening old wounds and damaging her further. Anything he said would only make it worse. Silently, he prostrated himself before her and waited for her will.
“Get out. Get out and do not return to my presence unless I summon you. Brit will have your new assignment by morning. You will never again need to concern yourself with my wellbeing… or my pleasures.”
Mattin stumbled to his feet. He wanted to plead with her, but the words withered in his throat. Certain he would never be permitted in her presence again, he bowed and backed out of the room. At the door, he paused, saying, “I am sorry, Mistress.” The word was bitter-sweet on his tongue. He had finally managed to allow her to fill her proper place in his life—to claim her as his own. And it was meaningless. As meaningless as his love for her.
Cook rounded on Brit as soon as he walked in the doors. “By God and Dannu, not today, Steward! I am not in the mood to humor your temper!”
Brit froze. Anger, already overflowing, fisted his hands and demanded he show the cook what he was in the mood for. But the walk down to the kitchens had given him time to think. And he didn’t like what he was thinking.
He should have gone to Jahlene, but she wasn’t thinking clearly and couldn’t handle another problem. Or Mattin or Parlen, but both of them, for different reasons, were too close to Marta. Cook was absolutely the worst person to come to about this… except for all the other options.
“Who has been in the kitchen today?” he asked.
“What?”
“You heard me.” They’d had years to get to know one another, and Brie had long again learned that Cook always looked to the left when he was lying.
“Just the usual. Toerff and the pages. Jaffrey took a meal to the stables. Mattin fetched Jahlene’s meals. I’m expecting him back with her dinner tray any moment.” Cook glared at Brit as he spoke, clearly angry at being questioned. But his eyes never looked left, not even a flicker. “Why?”
“I just had an interesting chat with Marta.” He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Apparently, she was terrified into near-incoherence when you grabbed her earlier. Apparently, you’ve been… reluctant to take no for an answer. Apparently, you have been lying to the mistress—somehow—over exactly how powerful your tiny bit of glamour is. She was very interested in my reaction to these events.”
Cook turned white. The half-fae knew how the steward would react to those accusations. “What! Why I haven’t seen her in a week! And the chit is a guest! We’ve had our differences, Steward, but what, by the Hoof, do you take me for?”
Brit scratched his chin, not looking at the fae. “Which is what you would say, if you had done what she claims.”
He didn’t see what Cook threw into the wall, but the sound of shattering crockery echoed in the quiet kitchen. “You honestly think—”
Brit looked directly at the fae, and rage burned in his eyes. Cook froze. “Of course, the steward, who hates fae more than anything, would take the word of an escaped human over a damn bastard fae. Of course, the steward, who has been looking to get you tossed out on your ass at every opportunity, would latch onto such a charge. Of course, the steward is a damned fool to be led around by the nose by a girl half my age. Of course, the steward will, without question, accept these charges from a girl who waylays me in a back hall that no one else ever uses this time of night, who watches my reaction and changes her tone, and words, and mood to suit.” A vicious grin stretched Brit’s face, and he asked, “What, by the Hoof, do you take me for?”
Cook sat down. “I see.”
“What I do not see is the point. Does she have a specific problem with you, or is it something deeper?”
“I don’t know of any issue the girl has with me, Brit. Aside from acting like she expects me to attack her every time she enters the kitchen. After three months, I’d expect her to be at least a little more comfortable.”
Brit nodded. “So, if she has some grudge, she’s kept it well hidden.”
“You think it’s more, though. Why come to me?”
“There’s no one else. Parlen is besotted with the girl. Housekeeper is run ragged and too close to the problems here. I can’t go to the mistress in her state with nothing more than vague suspicions.”
“Alright.” Cook swept the table clear and sat down. “Tell me what you suspect.”
Stumbling down the hall, Mattin vividly remembered the last time he had been banished. Then, as now, his body felt like it was not under his own control. But where before control had been forcibly taken from him, now there was no control. No purpose or meaning to his movements, just a desperate need to go somewhere, anywhere, away from here.
He was in such a daze, he didn’t notice Marta emerge from a storage room next to Jahlene’s office and follow him.
The connection between his last disgrace and this… fiasco had one benefit. The cabin should be well stocked and would provide privacy, drink, and a chance to think—three things he was much in need of. The distance, far enough that the mistress couldn’t taste him, sounded very good right then.
He wanted to disappear—but sooner or later Brit, or Cook, or someone would come looking for him. As much as he wanted to be alone, he didn’t want them to worry. On the way out, he waved to the current door guard—Kethrie, her name was. “If Brit comes looking for me, I’m at the cabin.”
“Ah… the mistress…”
“Has made it clear she won’t be needing me.”
Kethrie, wisely, said nothing further.
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