by Karen Miller
“Indeed, my lord,” she replied. “But perhaps—”
Still smiling, he tightened his hold. “There, lady Morda. You hear my son’s mother. And now we are done. Return to the nursery and think no more of my son’s wet nurse.”
No curtsey from Morda, only a stiff-necked nod. “Your Grace.”
He would accept the implied insult, this last time. And in the morning he’d dismiss her. Let Argante pout. Did he not pour food, wine and coin into the open cesspit that was Ercole? For a half-brother, he’d do it. But not for the dried-up old bitch withdrawing in offended silence from his presence. The pages were still snickering, even as they continued serving their betters. Who did they belong to? Ah, yes. Meriet and Udo. He must devise a particular punishment, then. Sending to his court sons with no more breeding than a mucked hog.
Argante was yet to move, her hand still prisoned within his fingers. She knew better than to pull free, with so many eyes upon them. “Harald…”
She might sound pleading, she might have gasped a little when his hand took hers, but in truth she didn’t fear him. The first two women he’d made his duchess had feared him. He could break them with a look. Water in their veins, not blood. Argante was full of blood. Full of temper and life. The kind of woman to breed strong sons.
“Harald,” she said, “shall we enjoy another dance?”
He was weary. His chest hurt. But she was right, they should dance again. They should show the court that Clemen’s duke and his duchess were as one in all things. There were no Harcian merchants here to send tales home to Duke Aimery and his ill-mannered heir, but Clemen tongues wagged too. And not even he could cut them all out.
He stood. “A slow measure, yes. So I might savour your beauty.”
“And I your strength,” Argante replied, her smile brilliant. No other man in the room would know, as he knew, that behind the smile were surrender… and forged steel. She knew she’d lost Morda. And he knew she’d find a way to make him pay for that loss. It was the dance between them that did not end.
At his signal, the minstrels in their gallery shifted to playing a chibinay. And because he and Argante were dancing, everyone danced, and the pages were left to stand adrift and watch and not touch the uneaten morsels of food they held, on pain of losing their fingers.
Without warning, the music stopped.
As the patterns of the chibinay fell apart, Harald released Argante and stepped back. Tipping his face to the minstrels’ gallery, he glared.
“I gave no command for you to cease your playing! Begin again or forfeit your coins! Forfeit your supper also, and the comfort you find beneath my roof!”
Still no music. A stifled gasp turned his head to the confusion of lords and ladies milling in the hall. Then a clatter, as one of the pages dropped his silver tray to the flagstones. Eggs in aspic burst wetly, scenting the air with expensive spices.
“Foolish, wasteful boy!” Argante snapped. “Think you too highly bred for whipping? I’ll choose the birch myself and—”
“Whip a child for a moment of fright?” someone demanded. “For shame, Argante. Will you whip your son the same?”
The tangle of lords and ladies parted, hushed and staring.
“Roric?” Frowning, Harald watched his cousin’s slow, steady approach. He was flanked by Humbert and crippled Vidar, some half-pace behind. In the stunned silence, Vidar’s halting footsteps sounded loud. All three of them wore mail, held naked swords, looked warlike. “Roric, what means this? Is it the Marches? Or does unprovoked Harcia bare its rotten teeth?”
Roric’s unfashionably close-clipped dark hair was dirty. Smears of dried mud marred the high cheekbones gifted him by Guimar, and his deep-set brown eyes, the eyes every man could see in a painting of their grandsire, Duke Berold, were clear and cold. Unfriendly. He halted, mail coat chinking, the unsheathed sword a threat in his hand.
“No, Your Grace,” he said softly. “Harcia doesn’t threaten us, though we both know their duke is often sore provoked.”
Even as he felt a prickle of warning across the back of his neck, Harald lifted his chin. “Cousin, you talk in riddles. Speak plainly. Is there trouble, or not?”
“Yes, Harald. There’s trouble,” said Roric, his face so grim. “And we’ve come to discuss it. No–no, don’t bother to call the serjeant. Belden knows his duty and has done it. Your rule of Clemen is ended.”
Disbelief, then a surge of crushing pain. Half-blinded, Harald fought to hide it as Argante stepped forward.
“Ended?” she echoed, her beauty twisted into rage. “It is not ended, you bastard, nor will it ever be. Harald was born your duke and will die so. This is treason! And before the sun rises Harald will see every one of you dead!”
“–have softened His Grace, girl, but be warned! My cousin Argante knows you for what you are, and I know you! We’ll be rid of you soon enough!”
Ellyn waited for Lady Morda’s closet door to bang shut behind her, then pulled a hideous face. “Miserable old cow,” she muttered. “His Grace will cast you out before he sends me away.”
In her arms, Liam heaved a huge sigh. Ellyn glanced down at him and breathed out her own sigh. Praise the spirits, he was sleeping at last. With all that milk in his belly, with luck he’d sleep until daylight so she could drowse a while herself. Stealthily she eased out of the nursing chair, then settled Liam in his cradle. He didn’t stir, not even when she tucked his scarlet blanket around him. Looking into his innocent face she felt a love so fierce it was like a pain.
As she did every night when it was only the two of them, no Morda to carp, she dropped to a crouch and whispered her way, one by one, around the charms strung onto her precious lamb’s cradle.
“For health… for happiness… for keen eyes… for strong heart… for strength in battle… for wisdom… for love…”
With each whisper she kissed her fingertip and touched it to a gold disc, calling on its purpose and power for Liam. Trusting more to the old, half-forsaken ways than ever she would to what the Exarch’s prosing priests said. It was Harald who put the charms on the cradle. Just one more reason to love the duke.
Last of all she touched the heavy gold ring, set with rarest tiger-eye from Agribia. Not a proper charm, not really. But it was the great Duke Berold’s ring, his name written on the inside of the band. So that was a charm too, in its way.
When she was done, the spirits reminded of their duty to Liam, she fetched the nursery pot and pissed out the ale she’d drunk, grateful she didn’t have to freeze her arse in the wintercold garderobe, like Emun. Then she curled up on her straw pallet, and closed her eyes to sleep.
Roric had to admire Argante’s fluent fury. A torrent of abuse and she’d hardly paused to draw breath. Where had she learned such inventive curses? From Harald? Certainly he didn’t seem surprised to hear the foul words tumbling from his youthful wife’s tongue. Nor did he seem inclined to speak for himself. To the casual eye he was relaxed as he stood before them. A man who didn’t know better might think him amused.
“Roric.”
And that was Humbert, his prompting spat from the corner of his mouth. He was right, of course. Argante’s spittled tirade had lasted long enough.
“Have conduct, cousin! You sound like a bawd. Clemen’s court is owed meeker manners than that.”
Stumbled to silence, Argante stared. “I am not your cousin, I am the Duchess of Clemen,” she snarled, recovering. “And I won’t be schooled in manners by a snivelling, treacherous bastard.”
“No?” Roric shrugged. “Then find someone acceptable to teach you, Argante, for you’re as much a disgrace as your husband.”
She leapt at him. Fending off her clawed fingers with one raised arm, he captured her wrist and swung her about.
“Control your wife, Harald. She’s spoiled and unlovely, but I’d not have her hurt.”
“Argante.” Harald held out his hand. “To me.”
Writhing against restraint, Argante hissed like a cat. “Harald! Wh
y do you stand there like a bodkin? Summon the serjeant! I want this bastard knave chopped head from neck from knees! He dares touch me, he—”
“Argante.”
A flinch ran through her slight, velvet-clad body, then she stilled. Roric opened his fingers and watched her rejoin her husband, slowly, a falcon shamed to have lost its kill. He could feel Humbert and Vidar on either side of him, taut with purpose now that Argante was subdued. Around them, the heart-stopped court was a blur of shocked faces. Some stared at him, some at Harald, and the rest up at the minstrels’ gallery where a double-handful of his borrowed men-at-arms stood to advantage, their drawn swords on show.
“So,” said Harald, stirring. “Cousin Roric.” The hall’s warm light revealed a sheen of sweat, broke sudden upon his forehead. Buried deep within his steady voice, a tremor. But was it fear or rage? There was no way to tell. “I should’ve expected this. A wise man knows that sooner or later a cur dog will bite the feeding hand. But love closed my eyes. And now here you are, betraying what little noble blood you possess that’s not tainted rotten by the whore who whelped you.”
Humbert muttered a curse. “Roric, don’t—”
“Peace, my lord,” he said mildly, though his heart pounded. “My mother is dead a score of years. Harald’s slighting words can’t hurt her. Or me.”
Harald laughed. “No? Roric, I have more ways to hurt you than there are spines on a hedgehog and I’ll enjoy showing you each and every one.”
“Be quiet, Harald,” said Vidar, stepping forward. “We’re not here for a taunting, but to—”
“To disrupt the gaiety of my court!” Harald said, his voice sharply risen. “And I promise you, I am mightily displeased!”
“Ho, are you?” Humbert retorted, scowling. “Well, so are we displeased, Harald, with far more grievous cause than you. Now, marry your teeth together a time and hear what’s to be done with Berold’s duchy, that you held in trust and have treated worse than a poxed drab.”
Still holding Argante’s slender hand, drawing her with him, Harald retreated to an ornate chair placed nearby upon a dais. With Argante haughty beside him, her fingers fiercely clasping his, he sat.
“Humbert…” A sorrow-filled sigh. “What faithless Roric has promised you for this, I can’t think. Nor you, Vidar. Vidar. So you lost your honour with your eye, did you? How sad. And now, like your unlovely sire, Godebert, you’ll burn beneath a blue sky.” His gaze swept around the silent hall. “Along with Humbert and Roric and every man standing with you. How your families will weep before I turn them out of their fine homes in rags, to wander friendless until they die starved to skin and bone in a rank, shit-filled ditch.”
“You would say so,” said Vidar. No sly humour in him now, only freezing disdain. “And you’d do it, given the chance. If any part of you wonders what’s brought us here, Harald, know that is why. Humbert’s poxed drab would rule Clemen better than you.”
Releasing Argante, Harald stood. “I am not Harald to dross, Vidar. Son of a dead traitor and now traitor in his own right. I am Your Grace. I am your duke.”
“You were, Harald,” said Humbert, his voice heavy with impatient regret. “But no more. As your chief councillor, I—”
“You were!” Harald shouted. “But no more. Your authority in this duchy is forfeit, my lord. Scarwid, step forth!”
“Scarwid?” Argante stared at her husband. “You’d raise Scarwid to head of the council? A nothing lord from the north? Why? Scarwid’s no more than a nodding arse in a chair. This honour belongs to Ercole.”
Harald’s eyes were dangerous. “Ercole?”
“Yes. You said you’d see my family gilded. You said you’d—”
He slapped her. “Shut your mouth! You do not chew my private words before the court!”
“Enough, Harald!” Roric said, watching the white handprint on Argante’s cheek swiftly blush red. “Your bullying days are done with. Accept your fate, and set aside the ducal crown.”
“Or what?” Harald spat. “You’ll set it aside for me, still clasping my severed head?” Turning, he spread his arms wide in appeal to his silently watching court. “My lords! Will you bear this? Will you not speak against such naked treachery? If I am so assaulted, who among you is safe? Scarwid! I have named you my chief councillor, have I not? Then come, my lord. Step forward, and be heard in defence of your duke!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Scarwid, unmoving, cleared his throat. “Alas, Your Grace, I must defer to Lord Humbert. He is head of Clemen’s council.”
Clemen’s council. Not Harald’s. Roric felt his blood leap. The lines of loyalty were drawn, and not in his cousin’s favour. Humbert had promised he’d deliver them, the lords of Clemen who’d not joined in this storming of Heartsong. Humbert with his rough charm and wide respect, the authority bred in him that had no need of threats or violence.
As the blurred hall resolved itself, as he considered Harald’s other noble guests–Udo, Gaspar, Gerbod, Sagard and Vasey the most prominent–he saw in their faces the same resolution that hardened Scarwid. Only Ercole looked uncertain, and Ercole was of no account. Seated on the council to keep Argante quiet, he’d long since exhausted what meagre good will he owed to the blood he shared with his half-sister.
Harald saw it too, his lords’ refusal to aid him as he might expect. Demand. A heartbeat’s hesitation, then he sat again in his fine chair. Smiled, magnanimous.
“My lord Humbert, you’ve taken me unawares. You of all men know the proper way of things. We are far from Eaglerock, where it’s custom for us to speak of weighty matters. ’Tis not meet that—”
“Yes, it is, Harald,” said Roric, swiftly. “How many times have you told us that where you are, there is the rightful authority of Clemen? You are the court, and the law. Isn’t that what you say?”
Harald’s jaw tightened. Roric met him stare for stare, feeling his own muscles tense. Beneath the fury in his cousin’s eyes there was hurt. But wasn’t that to be expected? Harald had been generous in the past. Denied him the hope of marriage and children, yes, but made up for the loss with lavish gifts and favours.
Still. No gift, however grand, could excuse his crimes.
Seeing him resolute, Harald shifted his stare. Wiped him from his heart as a wave upon wet sand wiped away a seagull’s tiny claw marks.
It shouldn’t have stung… but it did.
“Lord Humbert,” said Harald, a sounding bell of rediscovered reason. “You’ve served me twelve years, with your blood and your honour. In return I’ve shown you much favour. Yet now you come to me packed to the gills full of grievances?”
“Sore grievances, aye,” said Humbert, his eyes slitted. “But they’re not mine alone. The quarrels I have with you are shared.” He jerked his bearded chin. “By them.”
Shifting, Harald lifted his gaze to the minstrels’ gallery where Aistan, Hankin, Morholt and Farland had silently gathered and now stared down, their faces stony cold, their hands ominously resting on the hilts of their half-unsheathed swords. Four of Clemen’s greatest lords, and only Hankin not been seen frequently at Eaglerock’s court. Aistan and Farland had seats on the council. Harald’s face, blotched with emotion, drained pale.
“You see?” Vidar’s voice rang with contempt. “This is a mighty chorus, Harald. Not a thin, forlorn piping.”
“A chorus that sounds throughout the duchy,” Humbert added. “You’ll find unhappy lords not only here, in your pretty castle, but throughout the length and breadth of Clemen.”
Instead of answering, Harald looked once more to Aistan and the other nobles. “You perch high, my lords, like brooding carrion birds. Come down. Face me. Or do I ask too much?”
“Always, Harald,” Aistan retorted, his voice raised and carrying. “But I’ll face you. And whatever I say, you can trust I speak for us all.”
“Trust?” Harald’s face spasmed. “A turdish word, on your lips.” He snapped his fingers. “Very well. Join us.”
As Aistan stepped b
ack from the gallery’s half-wall, Argante took hold of her husband’s arm. “Harald—”
“No,” he said, and seared her to silence with a look.
Aistan’s tread on the stone stairs leading down to the hall sounded loud in the smothering hush. Waiting, no one spoke. It seemed they hardly breathed. One of the pages was weeping, the leg of his green hose stained with piss. And when Aistan finally appeared, tall and broad and dour, the bleakest enmity in his eyes, Roric heard more than one gasp.
“Aistan,” said Harald, fingers tight upon the arms of his chair, “I can scarce believe your dagger’s buried in my back.”
“No?” Aistan laughed. His sword was returned to its scabbard, but anyone who knew him knew how swiftly that could change. “But why would you believe it, when you could believe a man would stand by and do nothing to avenge his ruined family. Truly, you’re surprised?” He swept a gesturing arm up to the gallery, then around the hall. “When the great men of Clemen you’ve not wronged can be counted on the fingers of a blind butcher’s hand?”
Harald shook his head, sorrowful. “Your accusations confound me, Aistan, though I see you think them true. Therefore, though we be leagues distant from Eaglerock, we shall call this a council, summoned in surprise–and do what we can to untangle this unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Your Grace!” Trembling, Argante glared. She was as pale as her husband, but that came from the powdered chalk fashionably dusted from wide brow to pointed chin. Beneath that pretended pallor, her cheeks burned. “You let unnatural kindness defeat natural rancour. These rough men are traitors, burst upon us with ill intent. Worse, they’ve turned the hearts of others against you. You cannot—”
“Cannot?” Harald said softly. “Argante. Was such a word ever spoke in Berold’s hearing?”
