THE WHITE MOUNT ROSE AT THE APEX OF THE SOI ern and eastern walls. It was smaller than either Og’s or Mag’s Hill, bi commanded a good view of the river and the surrounding countryside.
A nelia drew nearer, she could see that the wall’s eastern foundations w advanced as those of the southern wall. Brutus will be pleased, she the and then shivered with pleasure at how much more pleased he would be she told him their news.
When Cornelia reached the foot of the White Mount she looked up, pa to catch her breath for the climb, and could clearly see that there was, in building work going on atop the mound. She began to climb the slope strong, confident strides, avoiding as much mud as she could, and findin; eral remaining grassy tussocks to speed her on her way.
When she was but ten or twelve paces from the top, and had the low i walls of the building in sight, she heard Brutus’ voice floating down to hi It was light, and laughing, and made Cornelia laugh herself in anticip;
She scrambled the final few paces, breathing heavily, and paused to < her bearings. The top of the mount had been covered with the foundatio a large building—the palace. It was much smaller than the Mesopotamiai ace Cornelia had been raised in, but the very fact of its existence, and Brutus thought enough of her to build her a fine palace atop an airy hill, i Cornelia forget all her fears.
If he had not made love to her in weeks, then it was only because he been weary.
If he had appeared callous and uncaring, then that was because he weighed down with the cares of construction.
O
O All the time, this had been rising.
Cornelia halted, then jumped slightly.
Brutus, a faint shadow, had moved through a half-completed doorway into a chamber that was surely meant to be the megaron. The walls of this chamber were almost complete, and already wooden beams stretched across its roof space.
It would be finished within weeks.
Smiling, Cornelia ran through the building, disregarding the mud or the curses of the builders she jostled. The chamber Brutus had vanished into lay just ahead of her and, when the doorway loomed before her, Cornelia ran straight through it, looking only at Brutus standing at the far end.
‘Brutus!” She stopped halfway down the chamber, and raised her hand.
He jumped, then turned to stare at Cornelia, a frown marring his features.
Cornelia’s smile faltered a little, and she dropped her hand, but then, re-composed, she picked her way across the stone floor toward him. “Brutus,” she said, coming to a halt before him.
‘What do you here?” he said.
‘I… I came to bring you good tidings.” Cornelia took the final step that closed the distance between them, took his hand, and placed it on her belly. “I am with child again. A daughter.”
‘A child?”
‘Yes! Are you not happy?”
‘It is well enough, I suppose.”
‘Well enough? Do you not care?” Her smile had gone now, and her shoulders had tensed.
He pulled his hand away from her. “Cornelia. I am tired. If I am not as enthusiastic as you wish, well, then I am sorry for that. But this”—he glanced at her belly—”this is a bad time for you to conceive, and—”
‘This is not something I did alone!”
His expression hardened. “Did ,’ have much say in that night?”
‘I carry our daughter , Brutus.”
Brutus had no idea why she kept stressing the sex of the child. Did she expect him to do a dance of pleasure at the idea of a daughter? “What use have I for daughters, Cornelia? I need sons.” His voice hardened into overt annoyance. “And what do you here? This is no place for a woman. Go back to the house, where you will not be in the way.”
Tears glistened in Cornelia’s eyes. “Do you not want to show me my palace while I am here?”
” Your palace? Cornelia… it is possible… that you won’t… that this won’t be…”
‘You’re going to share this with Genvissa ?”
‘Cornelia, listen to me. I am a Kingman and my future rests with the Mistress of the Labyrinth, not with you. I’m sorry. I shall build you a house close—”
‘I am your wife! What is all this talk of Kingmen and Mistresses? ,’ am your wife !”
He took her shoulders between his hands, and his face finally gentled. “Cornelia, I should have spoken of this to you long before, and for that I apologize. You and I are patently not a good match, we—”
‘You said that we should make what we could of our marriage! You said that we would try—”
‘Then I did not know of Genvissa. Cornelia.” Brutus paused, wondering how he could put this gently, and then deciding there was no possible means of doing that. “What Genvissa and I are is fated, together we are much more than you and I could ever be. Ours will be a union of power and sexuality and majesty. You and I were never… could never… oh, Cornelia, I should never have taken you as wife in your father’s megaron. Never.”
Brutus meant to say more, that he would look after Cornelia, that she would enjoy status and privilege in the new city, that their children would have everything they could possibly need or desire, but the look in her eyes stopped him. He lifted his hands from her shoulders and took a step back, hating the guilt that coursed through him.
She put a hand to her mouth, the tears finally breaking free to run down her cheeks. They locked eyes, each unable to speak, then she turned on her heel, stumbled, caught herself, and ran from the building site.
As she went, Genvissa stepped out from beyond the wall just behind Brutus.
‘She says she is with child,” he said.
Genvissa’s eyes followed the distant figure of Cornelia making her way down the mound. “It does not matter,” she said, then turned her stunning face to Brutus. “Besides,” she said, her expression sorrowful,
“perhaps the child is not yours.”
“What?”
She gave a small, indifferent shrug. “Take no meaning from my words, Brutus.” She smiled, leaned close, and laid her mouth to his, knowing she spoke Cornelia’s death. “I am but a jealous woman. I am sure I speak but a silly rumor. Forget I said the words.”
He kissed her, hard, but when she snuggled into him, kissing his neck and ear, he turned his face, and watched as Cornelia disappeared from sight.
LATER THAT NIGHT, SITTING ON THE AS-YET unfinished steps leading into the palace, Brutus sat and regretted again the brutality of his words to Cornelia. But what else could he have done?
The news of the child had truly shocked him—although he couldn’t quite pinpoint the “why” of that shock, Brutus assumed it was merely the surprise. He just hadn’t expected another child from a woman he had, if he was honest with himself, been distancing himself from ever since he’d arrived at Llanbank and met, finally, Genvissa.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Thank the gods that Genvissa had been so understanding.
He hadn’t expected it, and the fact of it had made him stunningly grateful.
At least Genvissa didn’t stamp her foot and sob whenever life didn’t turn out quite the way she’d hoped.
Brutus looked over the building site, watching several guards pick their way carefully through the rubble and chaos.
What had Genvissa meant, that the child might not be his?
He drew in a deep breath, remembering the dream, thinking that he’d barely seen Cornelia for days on end, weeks on end sometimes, during the past months.
There’d been too much to do.
What had she been doing during that time? Perhaps he should ask Ae-thylla…
If the child was not his, then whose’ ?
Brutus sat there, the stars spinning slowly above him, not noticing the cold, remembering.
Not Corineus. Corineus had either been traveling down to Totnes, or constantly with Brutus. Besides, Corineus had ceased to be Cornelia’s champion that terrible moment he’d realized she’d known of the manner of Siangan’s death and not told him.
Who, then?
Coel. It could be no one but Coel.
Images and memories tumbled over in Brutus’ mind.
The way Coel looked at Cornelia. The longing in his eyes for all to see.
The way Cornelia had looked over the fire at Coel that night traveling north.
That long space of time they’d both been missing when Cornelia was bathing in the rock pool.
And the numbers of times that Cornelia and Coel had opportunity to be together, alone, since their arrival in Llanbank.
No… surely not. She wouldn’t do that to him… would she? Not after everything else she’d done to him, kept from him, said to him.
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