by Sean Stewart
“Sorry will I be to see the ancient structures go,” Valerian sighed. “They have a history to them not found elsewhere in the kingdom.”
Duke Richard nodded. “Yes. Architecture is a hobby for you, is it not?”
Gail threw Mark a look of such merriment that he grinned broadly into his wine, hiding his smile behind his goblet. Richard shook his head at Valerian. “No sir, history is a plague upon my valley at the moment. I must put the past in quarantine, and wipe it out before it spreads.”
Mark nodded. “Where I grew up we had Deadman’s Howe. Nowt wrong with it for grazing, but the shepherds stayed clear. They said the Ghosts had mustered on it, when the war spilled across our land in the Time of Troubles. I spent a few nights there getting used to being scared.” He grinned. “I figured it would be a good test for the Ghostwood: I reckoned I oughtn’t mess wi’ the bull if I couldn’t throw the calf.”
Duke Richard laughed. “Gentlemen and ladies: here is a man well used to getting what he wants! Do not underestimate him. His father may have given him a shield, but perhaps one day he’ll give his son a crown!”
Flattered, Mark tried to hide his pleasure. By God I think I could like this hard-handed Duke…
Eh? Every face here smiling at those words but my so-called friends. Gail’s about as pleased as a cat i’ the rain. What could be wrong in what Duke Richard said?
Lissa smiled and dabbed her napkin needlessly at her mouth. “An excellent repast. I should like to see your gardens, Duke. The garth of High Holt ever was my favourite part.”
“Of course. Terrina’s Tam will guide you,” Richard said, summoning a servant.
Valerian rose hastily, offering his arm. “Would you care…that is to say, if it would not trouble you, I too would like a wander in the gardens. May I dare your company?” Lissa nodded, and they left together.
Gone, thank God. Good spot, gardens. Who knows, maybe Val can find a way to thaw her out…Warm night, new moon, spring among the cherry blossoms: sly dog. Good luck to him.
He’ll need it.
“Charming,” Richard murmured, watching Lissa and Valerian leave. “We are so blessed, to have a touch of true Court style to grace our rough old backwater.” He turned back to Gail with a pleasant smile. “She was wearing Master Civet’s best, I think. Exquisite.”
Uh oh.
Gail had the decency to blush.
The next morning dawned clear. Richard’s plan was to ride quickly to the Old Pension where his father lived, near the duchy’s western border. For two days they would “beat the bounds,” making sure they both agreed on where the boundaries were between the duchies of High Holt and Borders. “You say the King has sent his architect to restore your seat. I would be honoured should you stay in High Holt until the renovations at Borders are complete.”
“Thank you,” Mark said gratefully, “but I think I’ll go on just the same. I hate to trust any man wi’ my building. I mean to see it all, right down to the timber in my walls and the stones in my road.”
Duke Richard laughed. “I admire a man who’s not afraid to soil himself.”
Mark’s smile wavered. Steady on, lad. He didn’t mean it like that. Of course he didn’t mean it like that. In a moment he was sure of it, and laughed along with the Duke of High Holt, but for some reason the scar on his right palm began to ache fiercely. The pain did not ease for the length of their ride to the Old Pension.
The trip took longer than Richard had anticipated, for Mark had never ridden before. His balance was good and he wasn’t afraid of falling, which helped, but he couldn’t keep up any kind of speed without his horse jumping into a gallop.
Like a father teaching his son, Richard showed Mark how to sit a horse, how to direct it and control it. As many times as Mark thanked him, he graciously demurred. “We sit our beasts through no virtues native to ourselves, Mark. An accident of breeding only came between you and your horsemanship. Now, try you again, and see if we can get those knees in place…You know, you are a natural. You are a gifted athlete, and a smart one, Mark; in very little time you will be able to impersonate a gentleman.”
Mark shrugged. “You flatter me.”
Richard waved his hand. “Not at all,” he said, smiling easily. “I do not mean to flatter you at all.”
Mark had always wanted to ride, and he liked learning, especially as Duke Richard said that he was good at it. His body didn’t let him down. If he felt uncomfortable all day long, he told himself, it was only that he was too impatient. There’s a lot to learn, to be a Duke. That’s what you bought into lad. It’s what you asked for.
But he was used to being good at things. He’d always been handy, clever, shrewd. But who cared that he could fix a threshing wheel with a wood peg and a length of wire? He could not quote from Aredwyth the Sage, as Valerian could. His tongue clogged like a wad of felt when he tried to imitate Lissa’s polished sentences. Even Gail with her cherished bow was more use in a hunt than he, who’d hunted only turnips and tomatoes. He had been the terror of his county with a sword; but he would not last three heartbeats with Sir William.
You’re like a mole in a world of foxes, Shielder’s Mark: blind and slow and dirty.
He didn’t like the feeling much.
He talked little, fearing the moment when Sir Richard would smile and gently correct him. Mark hated these times. “The way Gail winces: that’s what gets me,” he confided to Valerian.
It was afternoon on their second day out; they weren’t far, Richard had assured them, from the Pension, and rest. The Duke rode ahead, talking merrily with Gail. Lissa rode just behind her mistress, and a little to the side.
“Do not let it worry you,” Val said quietly. “The Princess is like a pond: her surface ruffles easily, but her deeps are steady.”
“And what if she thinks to find another pond to ruffle around with?” Mark asked glumly. “Swans don’t swim wi’ ducks forever. I can’t speak Court tongue, nor wear Court clothes, nor even ride a bloody horse.” He clamped his knees around his placid grey mare; she slowed and eyed the grass beside the road.
“But Gail is sick of swans,” Valerian said, pushing his spectacles back into place with one white-gloved finger. “Duke Richard’s barbs are not such thorns as will make her balk.”
“Barbs!” Mark spat. “You lot really have your knives out for him. But ever since we came, he’s been a truer gentleman than the King ever was.”
Valerian nodded unwillingly. “He certainly has shown us every attention.” Ahead, Richard and Gail were laughing, riding so close together that their horses’ shoulders almost touched. He was dressed in dull red; she in a gold cloak that touched fire in her eyes.
Pain stabbed through Mark’s right hand. He clenched it into a fist. “Richard’s hands have been open and his tongue soft: which is more than I could say for some.”
Valerian peered at him suspiciously. “Lissa, you mean?”
“She’s been acting like a flea-blown bitch for days.”
“Don’t judge what you don’t understand, Mark.”
“Stop telling me what I don’t understand!” The grey mare jumped forward as Mark’s knees dug into its side.
Valerian trotted up and grabbed Mark’s reins, bringing both horses to a halt. “Lissa knows the political world as a swallow knows the sky. Do you? Duke Richard she has watched from the time that she was three. Have you? The King and Queen have sacrificed her life to the service of their daughter, Gail. This sacrifice she nobly made, but now her cross is twice as great, for now another witless babe is added to her charge: you. Lissa serves as best she can; but services too fine for country eyes to see, you reward with foul words and contempt.”
“I see your tongue stands up for her as quickly as your dick,” Mark snapped.
Valerian’s breath went out in a hiss.
Mark’s right hand ached with frost. “You think I’m so stupid, you Court bastards. But I’m not so deaf I can’t hear a cock crow in your pants. Not that you’d ever dare to touch the ice quee
n. Or am I being common again?”
“Not common. Contemptible,” Valerian said softly. “Anyone can be that, no matter who their father was, Shielder’s Mark.” He let go of Mark’s reins. “No, I haven’t touched her, Mark. Perhaps I am too great a coward. But in love am I the commoner, honoured Duke. I must work to woo my women. My wife will have to want to wed me: for unlike you, I cannot make her do it.”
Mark’s horse champed, shifted, fell still.
Bull’s-eye.
The pain came stabbing into his palm again, like a needle of ice. “T’others will be wondering where we’ve been,” he mumbled. Together they trotted forward, Mark swearing and holding onto the reins with his left hand.
“The same pain?”
“Mm.”
“…I’m sorry, Mark.”
“No, I’m—…” Mark laughed, not pleasantly. “I think you’re all too nice to know a man like me. I’m quick to anger and I play rough and I don’t like losing.”
“Then watch your temper like your sword!” Val snapped. “That much is your duty as a man. There are not so many hands that reach to help you, Mark. Be careful you don’t lop them off.”
“…Aye.”
After another time Valerian said, “Did you never stop to wonder that Duke Richard had prepared for us so noble a reception?”
Mark frowned.
“He could not know our coming, unless he had placed sentries on the road,” Val continued. His voice was soft and careful.
“Aye.”
“So we must agree that he had time to give us any welcome that he chose. Why not let us slink within his gates with little fuss, and show us to his townspeople at dinner? Then would we in clean array appear, with our buckles bright and our cloaks agleam, fit objects for all ceremonial pomp.”
“You’d make a kind man alm for greed, wi’ this thinking.”
“Why?” Valerian hurried on. “Because Richard knew that as a light is brighter in the darkness, so would the lustre of his generosity shine better on the backing of our filthiness. His wit is sharper as we are dull, his stride more youthful matched against our plodding, his dinner more delicious to our empty stomachs.”
“He never called us ragged, or made jokes about us stinking,” Mark said.
“Of course not. Richard is a shrewder man than you or I. He need not be petty. He knows that we are watching him for any sign of choler after Gail’s surprising marriage, which struck a grievous blow to his ambitions at the Crown. He must remain in Astin’s favour; the King owes him, and he will not game away that debt by careless incivility. Richard will not show his rage, but that does not mean he doesn’t feel it. Do you understand? Lissa does not trust the man.”
“She doesn’t trust anybody,” Mark objected. “I’ve known wasps wi’ more charity.”
“Suspicion is her duty, and in it she excels.” Valerian sighed, nodding up at Gail. “Princesses need a deal of looking after, Mark. Gail may not even know it, but for many years the King and Queen have made Lissa know her life is serving Gail. Not befriending her, though friends they are, but serving her, at whatever cost.
“Try to see how this world works, Mark! The night that we arrived, why do you think that Lissa sent the salad back?”
“Bitchiness?”
“No, no! In that one stroke she changed the moral of Duke Richard’s play. When Lissa sent the salad back, his every act thenceforth must be not special generosity, but only that obeisance that a subject owes the Crown. You and Gail were perfect, if a little rude: embarrassed for your servant, gracious, easily pleased, anxious that the little folk not feel chagrined. Your shadows Lissa drew upon herself, so Duke Mark and Princess Gail could walk more fully in the sun.”
Mark flexed his hand and sighed, head buzzing. “Shite…Well, maybe that were Lissa’s thought, but can there be two such twisty folk? What if Richard was nowt but what he seemed?”
Valerian shrugged. “Perhaps. But he grew up in her world, Mark, not yours, and in that twisty world Duke Richard has excelled. If by his creatures you can judge a man, remember that Lord Peridot is High Holt’s voice at Court.”
Mark shuddered. “Peridot’s good at his job, and you don’t keep a watchdog to be friendly, after all. I’m sure the Duke’s a nicer fellow than his lackey.”
“You mean he shows to some advantage when you take the two together?” Valerian asked with a little smile. “As if Lord Peridot had drawn his master’s shadow to himself?”
“…Oh.” Mark was rapidly getting a headache. “I’m feeling stupid again. I hate that.”
“I know the feeling. Believe me, Mark: you alone have less aptitude for politics than I. I only ask you to be slower in your judgements. I think, where Lissa is concerned, you find it hard to value what you cannot understand.”
“That’s funny,” Mark said. “I’ve thought the same thing about you not liking Richard.”
Valerian laughed. “You may be right. I hope so.”
For a time they trotted on in silence. The track they were on crested a ridge and began to slope down. On their left, lichen-covered rocks bulged from the steep hillside; a field of grass and blue-trimmed heather swept down upon their right. Far below, the road wound among a garth of apple trees, foaming with white blossoms. Beyond the orchard was the Pension; Mark could just see a stable-hand bringing a horse in from pasture. Overhead, clouds quarrelled with the sun, sending waves of shadow rushing across the vale.
Val brought out his telescope and looked around. The copper barrel lingered last upon the women ahead of them, then slowly sank to his side. “She loved Gail, you know.”
“Lissa?”
“Not just like…sisters, you know. Loved her like…Was in love. With Gail.”
Far down the track they were: Richard and Gail ahead; Lissa, as always, a little behind. Her hair was bound in a heavy yellow plait that swayed as her horse moved. Mark remembered it, hanging loose and thick over Gail’s arm, their eyes turned away from him, sitting together on the bed, each long slow delicate brush stroke one of a thousand, a thousand thousand that had gone before, that were still to come. He remembered the looks that went between them, full with their two tangled lifetimes. He remembered his sure heart-knowing, that Lissa had touched things in Gail that he would never know.
So Lissa had loved her. Loved her. “I believe it,” Mark said. He glanced at his friend. “That doesn’t mean she won’t love a lad too, you know.”
“We were talking, in the garden at High Holt. I knew not what to say. I babbled on about the properties of licorice, and the seven kinds of elder. God, what magic is in women that simply sitting by them can turn a man into an ass?” He looked at Mark, all his wisdom fled, leaving his grey eyes baffled, blinking behind his spectacles. “You think she could love a man?”
“Mmm.” Mark wisely let the grey mare pick her own way calmly down the slope. “I think so. Men look to cleave apart, women to cleave together. That’s what Smith’s George used to say.”
Val blinked and sighed. “Who ever could imagine I might feel jealous of the Princess!”
Ahead of them, Gail laughed, a clear, ringing, merry laugh that carried faint and clean as far-off bells. Duke Richard had made a joke; Mark saw his dull red hat bend in mirth until it seemed to brush Gail’s own. “O, I can imagine it. Feeling jealous of the Princess doesn’t seem hard at all.”
8
Grandfather Days
Ostlers were rubbing down the other horses by the time Mark and Val trotted through the Pension’s high gate. Richard, Gail and Lissa were talking to a thin old man with hair and eyes the colour of steel. Richard presented them, saying, “This worthy is Valerian, Sir Owen’s son, and this is Duke Mark, the storied hero of whom you must have heard.”
“I hear no tales but what you send me,” the old man said sharply. “How pray you could the world’s news float up to my cell? Do you think the eagles whisper in my ear?” He turned, standing with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his long grey tunic, and eyed Mar
k’s clumsy dismount. “I am Gregor’s Henry’s Violet’s Stargad’s Deron’s Marleth’s Parker’s Jervis—and of course my son’s ghost until I die.”
“My father,” said Richard curtly. “He maintains an eccentric reputation, which, as you can see, it amuses him to reinforce at every opportunity.”
For an instant their eyes met, father and son, steel on stone.
The old man’s gaze dropped, and the moment passed. With a shrug he turned inside. “Well then follow me,” he said. “You might as well be fed, and welcome.”
Dinner was quickly served and swiftly eaten. Duke Richard and his father, sitting at each end of the table, both proved to be pleasing hosts, as long as they spoke only to their guests. When addressing one another, their words ranged from the coldly civil to the warmly rude: Mark could only guess what they would have been like without company present.
He was glad when it was time for bed. He bade their servant good night, closed the door behind Gail, and sighed with relief. They were alone.
At the same moment they saw there was only one bed.
“Ah,” they said.
“Very well,” Gail added, a moment after. “I’ll take the far side and you can have the near.”
“Would you like me to, uh…Should I swear not to, to…?”
Gail laughed. “Don’t be stupid. I’d break your face if you tried anything.” She flopped down on the edge of the bed and tugged at her shiny riding boots.
Mark gasped as he sat beside her.
“Feel like your butt’s been caught in a mill-wheel?” Gail said sympathetically. “The second day of riding is always the worst. You learn fast, though! Richard’s right about that.”
“Is it true Lissa doesn’t—ugh!—trust him?” Mark asked, pulling off his right boot.
“Lissa doesn’t trust anybody.”
“That’s just what I said! Valerian said that was her job, and I should shut up and follow her lead.”
Gail laughed and rolled over to the left side of the bed. She lay on her back and wiggled her black-stockinged toes.
God she’s beautiful.
