Only the Valiant

by Morgan Rice

  “This horse will go a lot faster than a canter,” Royce promised, still holding out the reins. “Take the horse, ride ahead of them for a while, and then let it go when they can’t see you. They’ll never know that it was you on the horse, and they will still be looking for me.”

  Royce was certain that it would work. If the swineherd kept ahead of the foe, then he would be safe the moment they lost sight of him.

  “And that’s all I would have to do?” the swineherd asked. Royce could see that he was considering it.

  “Just lead them away from any of the villages,” he said. “I need to get back to mine, and you can return to yours the moment you’ve lost them.”

  “So you’re just looking for a way to get away with murder?” the boy asked.

  Royce understood. The swineherd wouldn’t want to help with anything so callous as that. It wasn’t just that though. It hadn’t been, even in the moment when he’d flung the spear.

  “They oppress us in every way they can,” Royce said. “They take and they take, and they never give anything back. The duke took the woman I loved and gave her to his son. He imprisoned me on an island where I saw boys my age slaughtered. I had to fight to the death in a pit! It’s time that we changed things. It’s time that we made things better.”

  He could see the boy considering it.

  “If I don’t get back to my village, a lot of people will die,” Royce said. “But if I go and they follow, even more will. I need your help.”

  The swineherd took a step forward. “Will I be paid for this?”

  Royce spread his hands. He didn’t have anything. “If I can find you again afterward, I’ll find a way to pay you back. How do I find you?”

  “I’m Berwick, from Upper Lesham.”

  Royce nodded, and that seemed to be enough for the swineherd. He took Royce’s horse and mounted it, heeling it forward and setting off through the trees in a direction that had nothing to do with any of the villages Royce knew. Royce breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was short lived. He still needed to get out of sight. He moved back among the trees, finding a spot among the foliage where he could crouch down in the shadow of a trunk, surrounded by fronds of holly.

  He crouched there, perfectly still, barely daring to breathe as he waited. Around him, the pigs continued to forage, and one of them got closer to him, nuzzling at the patch of foliage where he hid.

  “Get away,” Royce whispered, willing the creature to move on. He fell into silence as he heard the sounds of hooves approaching.

  Men came into view, all armored and armed, all looking even angrier than they had in the first flush of the chase. Royce truly hoped that he hadn’t put the swineherd in too much danger by making him a part of his escape.

  The pig continued to move too close to him. Royce thought he could see one of the men there watching it, and he froze so still that he didn’t even risk blinking. If the pig reacted to his presence at all, he felt sure that the men would fall on him and kill him.

  Then the man looked away, and the soldiers surged forward once again.

  “Quickly now!” one of them called. “He can’t have gotten far!”

  The soldiers thundered off, following the path that the swineherd had taken, presumably following his tracks. Even when they went, Royce held still, clutching the grip of his sword, making sure it wasn’t some kind of trap designed to lure him out.

  Finally, he dared to move, emerging into the clearing and pushing the pigs away from him. He took a moment to look around, trying to get a sense of which direction his village lay in. The deception had bought him some time, but even so, he had to act fast.

  He needed to get home before the duke’s men killed everyone there.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Genevieve could only stand silently in the castle’s great hall as her husband raged. In the moments when he wasn’t angry, Altfor was actually quite good looking, with longish, wavy brown hair, aquiline features, and deep, dark eyes. Genevieve always found herself picturing him like this, though, red-faced and furious, as if this was the real him, not the other.

  She didn’t dare to move, didn’t dare to attract his ire, and she clearly wasn’t the only one. Around her, the erstwhile duke’s servants and hangers-on stood quietly, not wanting to be the first to attract his attention. Even Moira seemed to be hanging back, although she was still right there where Genevieve could see her, closer to Genevieve’s husband than she was, in every sense.

  “My father is dead!” Altfor yelled out, as if there was anyone there who wouldn’t know by now what had happened in the fighting pit. “First my brother, and now my father stand murdered by a traitor, and none of you seem to have answers for me.”

  This anger felt dangerous to Genevieve, too wild and undirected, lashing out in the absence of Royce, trying to find someone to blame. She found herself wishing that Royce were there and grateful that he was not, all at once.

  Worse, she felt her heart aching at his absence, wishing that she’d been able to do something other than stand alongside her husband and watch him from the side of the pit. A part of her longed to be with Royce right then, and Genevieve knew that she couldn’t let Altfor see that. Altfor was angry enough, and she had felt all too clearly just how easily that anger could be directed at her.

  “Will no one deal with this situation?” Altfor demanded.

  “That is just what I was going to ask, nephew,” a voice said, his voice hard.

  The man who walked into the room made Genevieve want to pull back at least as much as Altfor did. With Altfor, she wanted to shy away from the heat of his rage, but with this man, there was something cold about him, something that seemed to be made of ice. He was older than Altfor by about twenty years, with thinning hair and a slender frame. He walked with what seemed at first glance to be a stick, but then Genevieve saw the hilt sticking out from a scabbard and realized that it was a longsword, still in its sheath. Something about the way he leaned on it said to Genevieve that it was injury, not age, that made him do it.

  “Uncle Alistair,” Altfor said. “We were… we were not expecting you.”

  Altfor actually sounded worried by the presence of the newcomer, and that came as a surprise to Genevieve. He had always seemed so perfectly in control before, but this man’s presence seemed to fluster him completely.

  “Clearly not,” the slender man said. His hand strayed over the longsword he leaned on. “The part where you did not invite me to your wedding probably had you thinking that I would stay in my estates, avoid the town, and leave you to make a mess of things in the wake of my brother’s death.” He looked around to Genevieve, his gaze picking her out of the crowd as sharply as a hawk’s. “Congratulations on your marriage, girl. I see that my nephew has a taste for the vacuous.”

  “I… you will not speak to me like that,” Altfor said. It seemed to take him a moment to remember that he should stand up on Genevieve’s behalf. “Or to my wife. I am the duke!”

  Alistair stepped over to Genevieve, and now his sword cleared its sheath, looking light in his hands, broad and razor sharp. Genevieve froze in place, barely daring to breathe as Altfor’s uncle held the blade an inch from her throat.

  “I could cut this girl’s throat, and not one of your men would lift a finger to stop me,” Alistair said. “You certainly would not.”

  Genevieve didn’t have to look across to Altfor to know that it was the truth. He wasn’t the kind of husband who would care enough to try to defend her. None of the courtiers would help her, and Moira… Moira was staring at her as if she half hoped that Alistair would do it.

  Genevieve would have to save herself. “Why would you stab me, my lord?” she asked.

  “Why should I not?” he said. “I mean yes, you are pretty: blonde hair, green eyes, slender, what man would not want you? But peasant girls are hardly difficult to replace.”

  “I was under the impression that my marriage made me more than that,” Genevieve said, trying to keep her voi
ce steady in spite of the presence of the blade. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “I do not know, girl; have you?” he demanded, and his eyes seemed to be searching Genevieve’s for something. “There was a message sent, revealing the direction that the boy who murdered my brother went in, yet it did not reach me or anyone else until it was far too late. Do you know anything about that?”

  Genevieve knew everything about that, since it had been she herself who delayed the message. It had been all she had been able to do, and yet it still hadn’t felt like enough given all that she felt for Royce. Even so, she managed to school her face to stillness, pretending innocence because that was literally the only defense she had right then.

  “My lord, I don’t understand,” she said. “You said yourself that I am just a peasant girl; how could I do anything to stop a message like that?”

  On instinct, she dropped to her knees, moving slowly so that there was no chance of impaling herself upon the blade.

  “I have been honored by your family,” she said. “I have been chosen by your nephew, the duke. I have been made into his wife, and so raised in status. I live as I could never have hoped to before. Why would I jeopardize that? If you truly believe me to be a traitor, then strike, my lord. Strike.”

  Genevieve wore her innocence like a shield, and she just hoped that it would be enough of one to turn aside the sword blow that might otherwise come. She hoped it, and she didn’t hope it, because right then maybe a thrust to the heart would have matched everything she felt given how badly things had gone with Royce. She looked up into the eyes of Altfor’s uncle, and she refused to look away, refused to give any hint of what she had done. He pulled back the sword as if he might make that fatal thrust… then lowered his blade.

  “It seems, Altfor, that your wife has more steel in her than you.”

  Genevieve managed to breathe again, and rose back to her feet while her husband stalked forward.

  “Uncle, enough of these games. I am the duke here, and my father—”

  “My brother was fool enough to pass on an estate to you, but let’s not pretend that makes you a real duke,” Alistair said. “That requires leadership, discipline, and the respect of your men. You have none of those.”

  “I could order my men to drag you to a dungeon,” Altfor snapped.

  “And I could order them to do the same,” Alistair retorted. “Tell me, which of us do you think they would obey? My brother’s least favorite son, or the brother who has commanded armies? The one who lost his killer, or the one who held the killing wall at Haldermark? A boy, or a man?”

  Genevieve could guess the answer to that question, and she didn’t like the way it might turn out. Like it or not, she was Altfor’s wife, and if his uncle decided to get rid of him, she had no illusions about what might happen to her. Quickly, she moved across to her husband, putting a hand on his arm in what probably looked like a gesture of support, even as she tried to remind him to hold back.

  “This duchy has been run into the ground,” Alistair said. “My brother made mistakes, and until they are corrected, I will see to it that things are run properly. Does any man here wish to dispute my right to do it?”

  Genevieve couldn’t help noticing that his blade was still in his hand, obviously waiting for the first man to say something. Of course, that had to be Altfor.

  “You expect me to swear fealty to you?” Altfor said. “You expect me to kneel before you when my father made me the duke?”

  “Two things can make a duke,” Alistair snapped. “The command of the ruler, or the power to take it. Do you have either, nephew? Or will you kneel?”

  Genevieve knelt before her husband did, tugging on his arm to pull him down beside her. It wasn’t that she cared about Altfor’s safety, not after all he’d done, but right then, she knew that his safety was hers.

  “Very well, Uncle,” Altfor said, through obviously gritted teeth. “I will obey. It seems I have no choice.”

  “No,” Lord Alistair agreed. “You don’t have.”

  His eyes swept around the room, and one by one, the people there knelt. Genevieve saw courtiers do it, and servants. She even saw Moira fall to her knees, and a small, angry part of her wondered if her so-called friend would try her luck seducing Altfor’s uncle as well as Altfor.

  “Better,” Lord Alistair said. “Now, I want more men out finding the boy who killed my brother. An example will be made. No games this time, just the death he deserves.”

  A messenger ran in, wearing the livery of the household. Genevieve could see him looking back and forth between Altfor and Lord Alistair, obviously trying to decide to whom he should deliver his message. Finally, he made what Genevieve thought was the obvious choice, and turned to Altfor’s uncle.

  “My lord, forgive me,” he said, “but there is rioting in the streets below. People are rising up throughout the former duke’s holdings. We need you.”

  “To put down peasants?” Lord Alistair said, with a snort. “Very well. Gather such men as we can spare from the search, and have them meet me in the courtyard. We will show this rabble what a true duke can do!”

  He marched from the room, leaning again on his sheathed longsword. Genevieve dared to breathe a sigh of relief as he went, but it was short lived. Altfor was already getting back to his feet, and his anger was palpable.

  “Get out, all of you!” he yelled to the assembled courtiers. “Out, and help my uncle put down this revolt, or help in the search for the traitor, but do not be here for me to ask it again!”

  They began to leave, and Genevieve started to rise to go with them, but she felt Altfor’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down.

  “Not you, wife.”

  As Genevieve waited, the hall emptied, leaving only her, a couple of guards, and worse, Moira watching from the corner, with a look that wasn’t even trying to pretend sympathy now.

  “You,” Altfor said, “need to tell me what role you played in Royce getting away.”

  “I… don’t know what you mean,” Genevieve said. “I have been here the whole time. How could I—”

  “Be quiet,” Altfor snapped. “If it wouldn’t make me look like a man who can’t control you, I would beat you for thinking me that stupid. Of course you did something; no one else who cares about that traitor is anywhere near here.”

  “There are whole crowds in the streets who might prove otherwise,” Genevieve said, pushing herself to her feet. She wasn’t scared of Altfor the way she was of his uncle.

  No, that wasn’t true. She was scared of him, but it was a different kind of fear. With Altfor, it was a fear of sudden violence and cruelty, but appearing to submit would do nothing to deflect it.

  “The crowds?” Altfor said. “You’re going to taunt me with mobs now? I thought you had learned your lesson about crossing me, but obviously not.”

  Now fear did come back to Genevieve, because the look in Altfor’s eye was one that promised something far worse than violence toward her.

  “You think that you’re so safe because I will not harm my wife,” Altfor said. “But I told you the things that would happen if you disobeyed me. Your beloved Royce will be found, and he will be killed, if I have anything to do with it, far more slowly than anything my uncle might have in mind.”

  That part didn’t scare Genevieve, although the thought of any harm coming to Royce hurt her like a physical blow. The fact was that he was gone from Altfor’s grip; she had already seen to that. There was no way now that he or Lord Alistair would be able to catch him.

  “Then there are his brothers,” Altfor said, and Genevieve’s breath caught.

  “You told me you wouldn’t kill them if I married you,” she said.

  “But now you are my wife, and you are a disobedient one,” Altfor countered. “Already, the three are on their way to their place of execution, there to sit in a gibbet on the killing hill and starve until they are devoured by beasts.”

  “No,” Genevieve said. “You pr
omised.”

  “And you promised to be a faithful wife!” Altfor shouted back at her. “Instead, you continue to help the boy you should have put aside all thoughts for!”

  “You… I didn’t do anything,” Genevieve insisted, knowing that admitting it would only make things worse. Altfor was a noble, and he couldn’t do anything to her directly, not without proof, and a trial, and more.

  “Oh, you still want to play these games,” Altfor said. “Then the price for your betrayal has gone up. You have too many distractions in the outside world, so I will take them from you.”

  “What… what do you mean?” Genevieve asked.

  “Your sister was an amusement for a brief moment the first time you disobeyed me. Now she will die for what you have done. So will your parents, and everyone else in the hovel you called home.”

  “No!” Genevieve shrieked, grabbing for the small eating knife that she wore. In that moment, all sense of restraint or need to be careful fled from her, driven out by the horror of what her husband was about to do. She would do anything to protect her sister. Anything.

  Altfor was faster though, his hand closing over hers and dragging it away. He shoved her back to land heavily on the floor, standing over her. He glared down at her, and only Moira’s touch pulled him away from doing more.

  “Remember that while she is your wife she is noble,” Moira whispered. “Harm her and you would be treated as a criminal.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what to do,” Altfor snapped at Moira, who leaned in even closer.

  “I am not telling, merely suggesting, my lord, my duke. With a wife, and in time an heir, and the law on your side, you will manage to take that all back.”

  “And why does that matter to you?” Altfor asked, looking over at her.

  If Moira was hurt by that, she didn’t show it. If anything, she looked triumphant as she looked over to where Genevieve lay.

  “Because your brother, my husband, is gone, and I would rather continue to be the lover of a powerful man than a woman without power,” Moira said. “And you… you are the most powerful man I have met.”