official. “The Duke is not aware of his bastard. Nor does his wife wish him to know. Her Grace has mentioned, quietly, that she would find that distracting.”
“But, Lenguin—”
“She is aware of your position in his old life, but now that His Grace is married she will brook no affairs to complicate her life and bring scandal to her court. Lenguin has grown into his legacy, now, and no longer has time for such . . . foolishness.”
“Perhaps if I met with her,” Amandice proposed, “spoke with her face to face—“
The laughter that interrupted her was painful and mocking. “You still do not understand, you stupid little bird. You are not welcome at the palace any more. Nor does the Duchess feel you have any right to be at court with her. Not with the reputation you now enjoy. Not with the threat to her marriage that you pose. Surely you can understand that , my dear?” she asked, coldly.
Soon after that dreadful meeting, before she could act on the impulse to find a way to meet with her lover, Duke Lenguin was called away south to mediate a private war between two vassals, pledging to join the Duchess in Falas after the season.
Amandice lost all hope. She was exiled from court, denied her lover, and left with a brat to raise by herself on her diminishing savings while the Duchess had a palace and servants and plenty of money. As bitterness set in, so did resentment. But Amandice was not helpless. When Gydion was seven years of age, she called upon an old favor and had him sent to southern Castal as the page to a tournament knight, along with enough to purchase horse and armor, when he was knighted. Then she returned to her dashed dreams and vowed to knit them together.
As the years went by, she continued to scheme and plot. She continued to take lovers of wealth, title, and reputation, though there were fewer of them each year. She continued to attend what palace events there were available to her, and cultivated a circle of other ladies similarly unwelcome at court. Regardless of what they did, however, the unofficial ban stood. Amandice was not welcome in court, as the mistress of the Duke or in any other capacity. Her bearing of a bastard was known to all but Lenguin, and the topic of conversation during dull moments for years.
Over time, the resentment Amandice felt became harder and harder to bear. Rumors of a string of younger mistresses floating through Lenguin’s private chambers crushed her, even while she delighted in the Duchess being embarrassed so. Eventually, even her own scandal ceased to be of any interest amongst the jaded courtiers. She was all but forgotten, a remnant of a more pleasant age left to fend for herself at the margins of society.
Then Lenguin came to Vorone again, his own children growing into adulthood. Amandice remembered standing near to the street that year, just for the barest sight of her former lover. Once again she strove to catch Lenguin’s eye, but once again he was distracted, or did not recognize her.
Determined not to be ignored again, she had made a complicated series of plans to get her into the palace, into Lenguin’s proximity. But, tragically, before she could execute them, His Grace was persuaded to lead his Wilderlords to war to stop the goblin invasion . . . a battle from which he had never returned. The next time Amandice saw her lover, he was lying in state at the Temple of Orvatas.
Since then, her life had descended further and further into despair. The sudden loss of the ducal family and the kidnapping of Lenguin’s heir by Castal plunged Vorone into an economic depression. Waves of ignorant, poor refugees from the north inundated the town, and the appointment of an unpopular steward by a foreign duke over the capital grated on everyone.
There was very little left of her life in Vorone the day Amandice looked out of her balcony and made a decision that would affect the lives of all
“But, Lenguin—”
“She is aware of your position in his old life, but now that His Grace is married she will brook no affairs to complicate her life and bring scandal to her court. Lenguin has grown into his legacy, now, and no longer has time for such . . . foolishness.”
“Perhaps if I met with her,” Amandice proposed, “spoke with her face to face—“
The laughter that interrupted her was painful and mocking. “You still do not understand, you stupid little bird. You are not welcome at the palace any more. Nor does the Duchess feel you have any right to be at court with her. Not with the reputation you now enjoy. Not with the threat to her marriage that you pose. Surely you can understand that , my dear?” she asked, coldly.
Soon after that dreadful meeting, before she could act on the impulse to find a way to meet with her lover, Duke Lenguin was called away south to mediate a private war between two vassals, pledging to join the Duchess in Falas after the season.
Amandice lost all hope. She was exiled from court, denied her lover, and left with a brat to raise by herself on her diminishing savings while the Duchess had a palace and servants and plenty of money. As bitterness set in, so did resentment. But Amandice was not helpless. When Gydion was seven years of age, she called upon an old favor and had him sent to southern Castal as the page to a tournament knight, along with enough to purchase horse and armor, when he was knighted. Then she returned to her dashed dreams and vowed to knit them together.
As the years went by, she continued to scheme and plot. She continued to take lovers of wealth, title, and reputation, though there were fewer of them each year. She continued to attend what palace events there were available to her, and cultivated a circle of other ladies similarly unwelcome at court. Regardless of what they did, however, the unofficial ban stood. Amandice was not welcome in court, as the mistress of the Duke or in any other capacity. Her bearing of a bastard was known to all but Lenguin, and the topic of conversation during dull moments for years.
Over time, the resentment Amandice felt became harder and harder to bear. Rumors of a string of younger mistresses floating through Lenguin’s private chambers crushed her, even while she delighted in the Duchess being embarrassed so. Eventually, even her own scandal ceased to be of any interest amongst the jaded courtiers. She was all but forgotten, a remnant of a more pleasant age left to fend for herself at the margins of society.
Then Lenguin came to Vorone again, his own children growing into adulthood. Amandice remembered standing near to the street that year, just for the barest sight of her former lover. Once again she strove to catch Lenguin’s eye, but once again he was distracted, or did not recognize her.
Determined not to be ignored again, she had made a complicated series of plans to get her into the palace, into Lenguin’s proximity. But, tragically, before she could execute them, His Grace was persuaded to lead his Wilderlords to war to stop the goblin invasion . . . a battle from which he had never returned. The next time Amandice saw her lover, he was lying in state at the Temple of Orvatas.
Since then, her life had descended further and further into despair. The sudden loss of the ducal family and the kidnapping of Lenguin’s heir by Castal plunged Vorone into an economic depression. Waves of ignorant, poor refugees from the north inundated the town, and the appointment of an unpopular steward by a foreign duke over the capital grated on everyone.
There was very little left of her life in Vorone the day Amandice looked out of her balcony and made a decision that would affect the lives of all
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