by Karen Miller
“How so sure, my lord?”
“Because they’ll want to.”
Half-blind with nausea, Roric knocked his foster-lord’s hand from his shoulder and turned aside. “Humbert—”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” said Humbert, pitiless. “Show me one lord who doesn’t want this misery put behind us. Then tell me the peace of Clemen isn’t worth such a trifle.”
He spun round. “The truth is no trifle!”
“Roric, you’re a fool if you think a one of them will shed a tear for that dead babe.”
Staring at Humbert, he felt a different grief welling. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. “All the more reason for me to care.”
“You don’t have the luxury of caring! Not like that. What kind of shepherd kills his whole flock for the pity of one sick sheep?”
“We’re not talking about sheep!”
“I know what we’re talking about, boy! Do you?”
His legs were shaking, worse than when he’d faced his first run at the ring in the tilt yard. His first blade unsheathed against him in anger. Humbert, his second father, was suddenly a stranger.
“You’re glad Liam’s dead.”
Humbert fisted his blunt hands on his hips. “I’m glad he’ll not grow to be a rallying point for traitors. And like it or not, boy, we both know that was always a danger.”
Perhaps, but it didn’t make the nursery bloodshed any easier to stomach. Or his foster-lord’s pragmatism any less brutal. Exhausted, all the pains in his body clamouring louder than ever, Roric took a deep breath and made himself stand straight.
“Fine. We’ll do this your way. For now. But I still think someone betrayed me tonight, Humbert. And you know I can’t rest till I know the man’s name.”
“And I think you’re mistaken. But I’ll look into it. You have my word.” Softening, Humbert sighed. “Roric… we knew from the outset this would be hard.”
Hard? He’d been ready for hard. Not for a moment had he thought Harald would let go of his duchy easily. But never in his deepest doubtings had he thought so much blood would be spilled. Loving Humbert, and in this stark moment thoroughly disliking him, he shook his head.
“What’s happened tonight is an ill omen.”
“No,” said Humbert, and pointed a finger. “Roric, I give you fair warning. Don’t you start with any superstitious shite.”
“It is an ill omen,” he insisted. “And its shadow will stain me for ever. Harald dead. Argante dead. And innocent Liam…”
Humbert thrust his bristled beard close. “Vidar killed Argante, and with good reason. The bitch was mad with grief. As for Harald, it was his choice to pick up a sword. No one can blame you for defending yourself.”
For all he was a man grown, and blooded in the Marches, that look in Humbert’s eye could make him quail as though he were seven years old again and caught in mischief. Was it the same for all men who yet had a father living? If so, then he should envy Vidar.
“And Liam?”
“I said it,” Humbert replied, his jaw tight. “Babes die. Harald’s brat could as easily have perished of plague. Now come, Your Grace. Steady yourself. There’s much to be done before we can ride home to Eaglerock.”
Your Grace.
Feeling anything but graceful, feeling sore and sorrowful and soiled, Roric surrendered. “Yes, my lord.”
“And first of our tasks,” said Humbert, in the voice that allowed no argument, “is deciding what tale we tell those lords milled about downstairs…”
Waiting for Roric and Humbert to return, Vidar tried to ignore the cacophany of pains wracking his flesh and bones. Since his ruination in the Marches–and it would be four years gone come Summer Rise, time running so fast, as he no longer could–not a day had passed without some kind of pain in it. At first he’d thought he must lose his wits. He’d not imagined any man could live with such constant, cruel suffering. But it turned out the leech treating him hadn’t been an arrant liar after all. After a few months the scarlet screaming dimmed to a pale whisper, mostly, and mostly he’d learned how to ignore it. He took powdered willow bark on the whispery days, oil of lantrin when he had no choice, and was careful not to demand more from his scarred, half-butchered body than it could give. Well. Usually he was careful. But the hard ride to Heartsong couldn’t be avoided. It had punished him, and thrusting a sword through Argante had only made the pain worse.
If he’d been alone he might’ve succumbed to the torment and groaned out loud. Swallowed more lantrin than was safe and endured the mad fever-dreams that followed. But he wasn’t alone, and revealing the extent of his weakness before the men his foolish father had affronted was akin to cutting his own throat.
So, to distract himself, he watched Clemen’s anxious northern lords and their quietly weeping wives without seeming to pay them any attention at all. One of his father’s neat tricks, that. A pity Godebert had forgotten it, or else grown careless in its use. If he’d been sharper in his wits he might still be alive. The old fulmet.
He let his vaguely roaming gaze touch on the cooling corpse of Godebert’s murderer. Harald had fought well, but Roric had fought better. For all his protestations of wanting to keep the bastard alive, he’d shoved a sword through the poxed mongrel neatly enough… which meant he could be ruthless if he had to. A point worth remembering. And likely it meant he’d not mourn Harald over-long. Or Argante. Or the babe.
Thought of Liam tripped his heart, set it beating a little faster. He was beginning to regret not dealing with Harald’s son himself. The man he’d bribed to his service, sworn to Humbert but soured over an old slighting, had seemed safe enough. But with the deed done, niggling doubt was creeping in. Was the fear of a fearful death enough to keep the spiteful man-at-arms honestly suborned? Was the coin he’d paid the man, coin he couldn’t easily part with, sufficiently purse-heavy that greed wouldn’t tempt him to a little black dealing?
Because if he’d misjudged the bastard…
On the far side of the hall, Aistan stood deep in murmured conversation with the lords Hankin, Morholt and Farland. Clemen’s mighty southern barons hadn’t invited him to join their huddle. It seemed that till Roric said otherwise, Harald’s tainting of him would hold true. His heart tripped again, thinking on it. Roric’s promise he’d be restored to his inheritance was why he’d risked his life in this dangerous venture. Not even the chance to avenge his dead father had counted more than his hope of claiming the woman he lived for. Breathed for. Lindara. He had no chance of winning Humbert’s daughter without first being washed clean of Godebert’s enduring stain. And achieving his absolution had meant helping Roric rid Clemen of Harald. Yes, and ridding it of Harald’s innocent son, too.
Now the thing was done, never to be undone. Clemen was saved from a tyrant and civil war, and Lindara was his. At last.
The thought almost had him smiling, despite the pain. He pinched his lips to kill it. He’d be thought most odd, smiling in the midst of blood and death. Then hidden joy gave way to surprise, as Aistan left his brother barons and crossed the hall towards him. A moment’s hesitation as he passed by Ercole, sat on the tiled floor with his half-sister’s body draped over his knees. Was the little shite’s tear-stained grief genuine? Perhaps. Or perhaps Ercole wept for his purse, which would empty soon enough without Argante’s influence to keep it filled.
“My lord,” Vidar said, as Aistan joined him.
Aistan nodded. “Vidar.” Dispassionate, he looked at dead Harald, neatly composed at their feet. “So,” he murmured. “The whole rotten family cut down, root and stock. A good night’s work, yes?”
“I doubt Roric thinks so.”
“Roric has a tender heart.”
“Not a fatal flaw, surely?”
“You think so?” Aistan’s heavy brows lowered. “A tender heart beats most usefully in a woman’s breast, Vidar. Not a man’s.”
“True,” he agreed. “But you’ll not fault our new duke for a little regret. Family is family, my lord. Even when it strays.�
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A brief quirk of his lips showed Aistan understood, perhaps appreciated, the veiled reference to Godebert. “Anyone who regrets Harald’s death is a fool. Argante’s too. She was a vain, greedy bitch.”
“They were indeed well-matched, my lord. But it’s a shame about the babe.”
“The babe was trouble, delayed,” Aistan said sharply. “Clemen’s safer with it dead.”
Vidar nodded. “Yes, my lord. It is.”
Which was why he’d risked his hope of Lindara to make sure the child died. For the sake of their sons yet unborn and the Clemen those sons would inherit, knowing Roric wouldn’t do it, he’d taken it upon himself to stain his hands with innocent blood. Assuming, of course, that any child born of Harald and Argante could be innocent.
Still… he was guilt-pricked. And he hoped, in truth, that Liam had died without pain.
“Did you know,” said Aistan, watching him carefully, “that Roric threatened to withdraw from claiming Clemen if Harald, Argante and the child were denied safe passage out of the duchy, and money to keep them in exile?”
“No, my lord, I didn’t,” he said. “But I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s because Roric’s not Harald that we’re content to make him our duke. Isn’t it?”
Aistan grunted. “Bastard or not, he’s Berold’s grandson. There could be no other choice.”
Not one that wouldn’t lead to bitter conflict. Clemen’s people set great store by bloodlines, its lords no less than any common man in a cow byre. Too many lived who remembered beloved Berold for any of Clemen’s barons to step over Roric in pursuit of the ducal crown. That was why Roric’s bastard birth would be winked at.
Aistan’s mail chinked as he shifted his stance and glanced upwards. “Roric and Humbert are taking their time.”
“Do you wonder?” Vidar said, shrugging. “I might’ve been barred from court but my ears weren’t stopped to gossip. I’m told Roric loved Liam. He’ll be deep in grief.”
Aistan grunted again, unmoved. Then he turned a little, his gaze narrow. “It was wrong that Godebert died as he did. I counselled Harald against execution. But even so, Vidar? Your father was guilty of stealing coin from Clemen’s coffers.”
“I know that, my lord. And I’m guilty of being his son.” He stared at Aistan steadily. “But not a single coin Godebert stole ever found its way into my purse.”
“Harald thought otherwise.”
“And you, my lord? What do you think?”
“Rolling his shoulders, Aistan frowned at Harald’s bloodstained corpse. “I think that in a few hours the sun will rise upon a different Clemen. I understand Roric’s sworn to reinstate you.”
“He has, my lord. Do you and your brother barons object?”
“I don’t speak for them, Vidar. For myself, I’d call it justice. There was no proof you ever were part of Godebert’s dishonourable scheme.”
“Fie, my lord,” Vidar said, temper rising. “You’ll turn my head with such heaping praise.”
“With your inheritance restored,” said Aistan, choosing to ignore the pricking words, “you’ll doubtless be seeking a wife to give you sons. Have you made a choice, or does your eye still wander?”
He’d served a difficult apprenticeship in the guarding of emotion, these last four years. Had emerged from it a master in hiding his heart. Hiding it now, Vidar favoured Aistan with his blandest of smiles.
“In truth, my lord, I’ve not dared to give that hope wings. Let Roric keep his word and then I’ll dare to hope for sons.”
“You’re prudent,” said Aistan, approving. “And more than once before tonight you’ve proven yourself a man of courage. I have a daughter, Vidar, whom I love. Kennise. My youngest. Like you she’s been hurt. I’d think that would mean you’d deal with her kindly.”
Kennise was the daughter Harald debauched. So what was this? A great lord seeking to dispose of an inconvenient nuisance? Did Aistan think that a physically ruined man, one shadow-tainted by a treasonous sire, might well struggle to find a father willing to bestow upon him a pristine child? That being in his own way as debauched as this Kennise, he’d fall to his knees in gratitude and humbly take Harald’s leavings?”
“You astonish me, Lord Aistan,” Vidar said, still smiling. The effort that took nearly shattered his spine. “I lack the words to express how I feel. As I say, I can’t hope to hope for anything just now. But when I can, I’ll give your generous offer all the consideration it deserves.”
Aistan’s dark, forbidding face lightened. For a moment he looked almost vulnerable, nothing like the man who’d confronted Harald.
“She’s a sweet girl, Vidar. I don’t offer her lightly. But she should have a chance at happiness, and—”
A stirring in the hall cut short his protestation. Roric and Humbert were coming down the stairs. Roric’s face was a picture of resolute authority, but beneath the determined mask Vidar saw smothered shock, and grief. Treading the stone staircase behind him came Humbert, his expression impassive behind that grizzled beard.
“My lords,” said Roric, halting beside the Great Hall’s dais. Not touching Harald’s overturned and splintered ducal chair. Only standing near enough to it that no one present could miss the hint. “It’s with great sorrow I must tell you that my late cousin’s child is indeed perished. Lord Humbert and I have close-inspected the scene of his unwanted and deeply regretted death and we are both satisfied that the babe died by a sorry mischance.”
Aistan stepped forward. “Can you elaborate, my lord?”
“We can,” said Humbert firmly. “For one of our men-at-arms had a few breaths of life left in him. Dying, he told us what happened. Hearing our men approach, the babe’s wet nurse panicked. One of Harald’s men, alerted by her shrieking, foolishly refused to surrender his sword when told. There was an affray–and in the mayhem all were cut down and a fire started. No one survived.”
Still huddled on the floor, Ercole lifted his tear-soaked face. “Liar. Murderer.” Wild-eyed, he stared around the hall. “Will none of you speak? Will none of you condemn this upstart bastard who killed my poor sister and her child?”
“Leave him be,” said Roric, as Humbert opened his mouth to chide. “Lord Morholt? See the lord Ercole to his chamber and sit with him till he’s more composed. My lords and ladies of the court—” His gaze swept around the hall. Lingered a moment on the childish pages, who’d collapsed by the cooling fireplace and drooped over each other like wilting daisies. “My friends. This has been a tumultuous night…”
Letting Roric’s soothing words wash over him, Vidar smoothed his face to blankness. So, did this mean he was safe? If the man he’d suborned was indeed dead then surely he was safe. Unless Ercole was right to call Roric a liar, and even now something sinister brewed for a private bubbling over. His heart was tripping again, the pulse in his throat throbbing like a wound. What a fool he’d been, to trust the brat’s necessary killing to any hand but his own.
Now all he could do was trust that the dice had fallen in his favour.
His soothing speech ended, Roric bade Harald’s guests to remain within Heartsong until the morning. As the stunned court began to withdraw from the hall, Vidar snatched Roric’s attention.
“Let me be useful, my lord. I’ll account for our men-at-arms while you attend to weightier matters.”
Roric shook his head. “No need, Vidar. Humbert will do it.”
But Humbert was tangled with Morholt, both men trying to persuade a distraught Ercole to let go of Argante’s body. He’d started keening. A terrible sound.
“Go, then,” said Roric, distracted. “Tell Belden to hold his men in the guards’ chamber and shackle any who might think to oppose us. Our men you can bring back here. And locate the castle’s steward. Bid him secure himself and the servants in their quarters till they’re sent for.”
“My lord,” he said, and left Roric to help deal with Ercole before he changed his mind.
Almost breathless with pain, he searched the castl
e. Heartsong’s steward, a sweating wreck who babbled nonsense about a heart-spasmed old cook, was swiftly dealt with. The servants too. Belden, unharmed and near to tears, eagerly promised his men’s obedience. That left only Roric’s men… and his own particular problem.
But though he looked in every chamber, he couldn’t find the man-at-arms he’d bribed to rid the world of Harald’s brat. Which meant either the man was one of those foul, charred bodies in the nursery–or else fear had encouraged Liam’s killer to flee under cover of confusion.
It made little difference. Either way, the deed could not touch him.
Light-headed with relief, almost able to forget the torment in his hip, he led what remained of Roric’s makeshift, borrowed army back to the hall. Ercole was gone. So were Harald and Argante. Their blood remained though, dried and dark red on the tiles. While Humbert and Aistan and the other lords wrangled before the freshly fed fire, Roric stood apart and stared at the place where his cousin fell.
“Wait here,” Vidar told the men-at-arms, and crossed to him.
Arms folded, chin lowered, Roric didn’t look up. “You saved my life, Vidar. I’ll not forget it.”
“Return what’s mine, Roric, and I’ll ask for nothing more.”
Roric’s sideways glance was sharp. “I said I would, and I will. You’d doubt my word? Now?”
“No, my lord. Of course not.”
“Good.” Sighing, turning, Roric lifted his head. “You’re weary, Vidar. You should seek a bed.”
“Before you?” He let his anger show. “I don’t think so.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Roric, kindly enough. “You hide it well, but it’s clear to me you’re in pain. Go. There’s nothing more you can do tonight. The rest of this is council business.”
“And no concern of mine.”
Roric nodded. “As you say.”
“Very well, then. I’ll withdraw.”
“I’ll be starting back for Eaglerock tomorrow,” Roric added. “I’d have you ride with me, if you think you can. We must discuss the details of your inheritance.”
Vidar swallowed the hot words crowding his tongue. He would be a fool if he let a thoughtless insult imperil his future. “Thank you.”
