by Karen Miller
Berardine squeezed her daughter’s hand. “I know what’s done in other noble families. But you have my word I’ll never force you. Women are granted few enough freedoms in this world.”
“Mama…” Catrain wrinkled her nose. “I think you’re speaking of marriage.”
Pain and pride stabbed, sharply. For Baldwin to have his way she must lose this extraordinary child to a stranger. “I am, Catrain.”
Her daughter seemed more intrigued than alarmed. “And who would you have me marry?”
“You know our history, Catrain. How long ago it was nobles of Cassinia, many of the best of them from Ardenn, who tamed the wild men across the Moat and—”
“And birthed the Kingdom of Harcia,” Catrain finished, impatient. “Yes, Mama. I do remember my lessons.”
“Minx,” she said, but without heat. “Attend me. There has been some trouble in Clemen of late. Harald, who sadly was not a good duke, is no more. His cousin Roric will soon be acclaimed duke in his place.”
“How frightening for Clemen’s people,” Catrain said softly. “Not to have the comfort of a good ruler.”
Ah, but her daughter had a kind heart. She would make an excellent duchess. “Yes, child. Most frightening.”
“So, it’s this new duke Roric who’s in want of a wife?”
“Indeed he is.”
A stretch of wind-whipped silence, as Catrain considered this. At last she released her breath in a long, slow sigh. Let her hood fall back, and turned her bold face to the water and the wind and to distant, night-shrouded Clemen. Her pretty lips curved in a knowing smile, so like her father’s that the world almost stopped turning.
“Then, Mama, we shall give him one,” she said. “The lucky, lucky man.”
“Lord Humbert! A word!”
Biting back an oath, for he had peculiar news to tell Roric and wanted no delay, Humbert turned and waited for Vidar to fight his way through the visitors passing to and fro beneath Eaglerock castle’s portcullised outer gate. Heralds, town messengers, scholars, merchants, scribes, servants, a few minor nobles and even a brace of grey-clad exarchites, they jostled together in a noisy throng. With the changes thrust upon Clemen it seemed every man and his dog were eager to make themselves known to the officials of Roric’s unofficial, fledgling court. The gatekeeper and his junior bailiff were hard put to sort wheat from chaff. As for Vidar, he elbowed his way past them without stopping, his frown a dare to challenge him.
The castle’s red granite entry road, forbidden to horses, sloped steeply upwards from the outer gate. Halted halfway to the main forecourt, watching lame Vidar approach, seeing him gift the amblers in his path with a one-eyed glare fit to freeze the marrow, Humbert felt a grudging admiration. The man came on nimbly enough, though the odd hitch-and-twist in his gait lent him the look of a drunken sailor. That much could be said for him, he never once took to a litter and had himself carried about like a perfumed Sassanine. ’Twas a pity he wasn’t as amenable in other ways. An even greater pity that Lindara held him in such esteem.
“Lord Humbert,” Vidar said with a scant nod, on reaching him. “Do you go to meet with Roric?”
Humbert stared Vidar up and down, taking note of the shabby claret-coloured velvet and dimmed gold thread of his doublet. His undershirt was finest linen, but aged now, its lace trim about neck and cuffs looking tired. It was an open secret, how Vidar’s circumstances daily grew more straitened. He must be perilously close to beggared, these days.
“I do, my lord.”
Vidar was glaring again. “Then speak to him, sternly. He should’ve been acclaimed duke days ago. What’s the matter with him? He threatens the duchy’s calm with this dallying!”
Humbert waited for two messengers and a herald to hurry by. When they were safely past, with no one else close enough to eavesdrop, he raised a warning finger.
“Honest opinion or no, Vidar, you’ll keep from offering it in public.”
Vidar’s lips pinched. “Yes, my lord. But do you deny I’m right?”
Instead of answering, he started again up the sloping roadway. Vidar hesitated, then followed until they reached the castle’s wide, granite-paved forecourt. There, a little winded by the climb, Humbert puffed his way to the half-wall that bordered the sheer cliff side protecting Eaglerock’s western flank. Looking over it, a man sweeping his gaze across the heart-stopping view could see busy Eaglerock township far below, and the boat-crowded harbour with docks and warehouses lining it both sides. Those long, high buildings were crammed floor to rafter with goods to be sent out into the world from Clemen, and goods brought in from as near as Ardenn and as far as Agribia and Ardebenia. Clemen’s lifeblood, the flow of steady trade filling its coffers with gold from sales and taxes and tariffs and imposts. And all of it at risk now, thanks to Roric’s dithering.
But he’d eat a month-dead weasel before admitting as much to Godebert’s haughty heir.
Instead, he jutted his chin. “When the last king of Harcia died, and when the foolish sons who survived him were done tearing his kingdom apart, who survived best? Clemen. We survived, and even thrived, despite famine and drought and the great pestilences of 1140, 1219 and 1392. We even surived Harald, the spirits be thanked. And now you say Roric would put the duchy in danger?”
Vidar pushed a strand of breeze-blown hair out of his face. “Not on purpose. But it seems he’s reluctant to claim the throne he took from Harald, and you can’t deny that’s making Clemen nervous.”
He snorted. “I deny you’ve wit enough to fill a sucking babe’s milk cup. Now come with me.”
The men-at-arms with their killing-sharp halberds, standing duty at the castle’s entrance, knew him for Clemen’s chief councillor and nodded without challenge. Humbert stamped his way across the entrance hall’s tiled floor, leaving Vidar to toil in his wake as best he could, and took the first narrow staircase on the right past the enormous green marble sculpture of Paharan, Clemen’s abandoned god of war. Eaglerock’s exarchites were for ever on about having it hammered to dust but Harald, to his meagre credit, had always refused. He expected Roric would do the same, to remind the Exarch who was duke in Clemen and who wasn’t.
Provided we can get his arse officially sat on the Falcon Throne.
He’d chosen this staircase because it was narrow and seldom travelled, meant for the use of men-at-arms defending the castle. There was a cramped landing at its first bend, with an arrow-loop spilling a thin shaft of light. Humbert pushed his robed bulk onto it and waited. A few moments later Vidar caught up to him, his scarred face tight with anger and pain.
“My lord Humbert, I must—”
“Hold your tongue,” he said. “For I’ll have the rest of my say first.”
Vidar pinched his lips so tight they disappeared. “My lord.”
“Good, then. Now, Vidar. Don’t you take me for a fool. I know why you’re so eager for Roric to formally claim his title–and I can’t say I blame you. But if you think I’ll bully him into rushing ahead for your sake, you’re thrice the knothead I ever thought you might be.”
Vidar’s scarred face flushed, then paled. “He promised me restitution.”
“And you’ll have it! Roric’s word is good. You know that. But he’s juggling more balls than a score of acrobats. Would you have him drop them all, and Clemen’s future, for the sake of one man?”
“An easy question for you to ask, my lord,” Vidar retorted with heat. “With a full purse in your doublet and no taint upon your name!”
Humbert sighed. He had no great love for this man, but the natural justice of his claim couldn’t be denied. “Roric values your friendship, and your patience, Vidar. If you think he’d slight you when you stood by him at the risk of your own life, and took a life in defence of him, you don’t know him at all.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Vidar said stiffly. “But I judge men by what they do, not what they say. For weeks, all I’ve received from Roric is words. When it comes to deeds my purse is empty.”
“It won’t remain so. You’ll have your name and your lands returned to you.”
“When? He made it plain I’d have nothing till he was officially named duke. What stays his hand, Humbert? Why is he not yet acclaimed?”
Chewing his lip, Humbert scowled at the worn flagstones beneath their feet. It went against all instinct and honour to confide in Vidar… but keeping his counsel would only make matters worse. Feed the man’s sense of grievance beyond any hope of placation.
“My lord…” He offered Vidar his most fatherly smile. “You’re feeling hard done by, and were I in your shoes I’d doubtless feel no different. I know few men who’d willingly swallow the same injustice twice.”
Vidar’s expression darkened. “More words.”
“Aye, more words, but with a purpose, I fancy. If you’d have the truth of it, Vidar, our friend Roric yet grieves the loss of Harald’s babe. Putting it bluntly, his conscience pricks him.”
“His conscience?” Vidar stared. “How so?”
Shrugging, Humbert hid his own growing irritation behind a mask of indulgent sorrow. “If the child lived safe in exile I doubt he’d give it any thought. But it perished, and so he finds fault with himself.”
“The fault’s not his. The brat died by mischance. Roric’s a fool to shoulder the blame.”
He shook his head, making sure his features were well-schooled. Not by any slipshod hint could he tip Vidar to the notion that Roric remained convinced there was foul play behind the death of Harald’s son.
“I know it, my lord, as well as you. And I’ve turned my face blue comforting Roric, trying to convince him he’s innocent of any wrong.” Humbert spread his hands wide. “But there it is. The babe was his own blood. Can you wonder at his dismay?”
“No,” Vidar said, grudging. “But I can wonder at him dwelling so long and heavy on what won’t be changed by a river’s worth of tears. Harald is dead, and his line with him. Roric lives, and must live as Clemen’s duke. And as this duchy’s chief counsellor, and his foster-lord, it’s your duty to see it done.”
Humbert swallowed a vexed sigh. It gave him wind, agreeing with Vidar. “I know.”
“I don’t say this for my sake,” Vidar added. “But for Clemen’s. I trust you know that too, my lord.”
“I do, I do. Yes.”
Glowering, he stared out of the arrow-loop beside him, down to Eaglerock’s bailey. A host of riders was milling about, newly arrived it seemed. He squinted, trying to make out colours and badges. Eventually he recognised them.
“Ha,” he said, turning. “The Marcher lords are here, all four, with twice more men-at-arms than they need.” He snorted. “Foppets, to a man.”
Vidar raised his unscarred eyebrow. “Roric summoned them?”
“He did. I told you, Vidar. He might not dance to the tune you’d play him, but make no mistake. He means to rule.”
Relief washed away the surprise in Vidar’s face. Then came a familiar, cynical glint of amusement. “So. The Marcher lords of Clemen and Harcia travelled here together without hacking each other to pieces? Perhaps there’s something to the Exarch’s doctrine of miracles after all.”
Humbert snorted, then tugged at his beard. After a night of contentious deliberations, during which very little was agreed upon, Roric had dismissed Clemen’s council. Its lords remained in Eaglerock township, ready to reconvene when called. Prepared to grant Roric a trifle more leeway, as their unacclaimed duke came to grips with matters as they were and not how he wished them to be.
But only because I near twisted their arms off when his back was turned. Vidar is right, curse him. I’ve indulged the boy long enough.
“Do me a courtesy, Vidar.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Hie yourself down to the bailey. Greet the Marcher lords with all courtesy, especially those bastards from Harcia, see they’re halfway presentable then escort them to Heartsong’s constable. In the meantime I’ll tell Roric they’ve come.”
“My lord,” Vidar said, bowing. “It will be my pleasure.”
Humbert banged a fist to his chest and belched, his swiftly souring temper no friend. “I’m obliged.”
Halfway down the narrow staircase, Vidar halted and looked back. “For Roric’s sake I’m sorry that Harald’s brat died. But it was for the best, my lord. What hope can Clemen have, without first the old book is burned and the new book opened to an unwritten page?”
The distinctive drag-and-thud of his footsteps faded as he made his way down to Eaglerock’s entrance hall. Staring after him, Humbert felt a prickle across his skin. Could Vidar be the one who… But then he shook his head. No. For all his faults, Godebert’s son didn’t lack honour. Why, hadn’t he been prepared to consider the man as husband for his only daughter? He had, and were it not for Roric he’d say yes to the match. For his child’s sake, he would. He could’ve learned to live with wind.
But Clemen came first. Though the boy didn’t know it yet, Roric needed Lindara more than Vidar ever would.
I’m an old fool, is what I am. Vidar wouldn’t pledge loyalty to us, then betray us at the first chance. Nor would Aistan or any other lord. It’s as I held from the outset. Harald’s brat died by mischance.
And there that terrible night must end. Roric had to accept it, and announce the day and time of his acclamation, and take a wife, and breed a son… and let his promise flower, to the good of all Clemen.
Eaglerock castle’s largest and most splended audience chamber was a lofty, intimidating room. Its floor was diamond-tiled in scarlet and black, its stone walls panelled in gleaming white ash inlaid with cherrywood, and its ceiling was a frescoed blue sky chased with white clouds and stooping falcons. One enormous stained-glass window behind the ducal throne admitted the chamber’s only natural light. An unhooded falcon ruled the intricately designed glass, perched arrogant upon a steel-gauntleted fist. The cherrywood throne itself stood on a white ash dais, with talons for feet and outstretched falcon’s pinions on either side.
Roric touched the throne’s carved arm hesitantly, as though the polished, ancient timber might sear him for temerity.
“It won’t bite,” said Humbert behind him, sounding impatient. “Though I tell you, boy, I might if you don’t soon sit your arse in the curs’t thing.”
Resentment pricked. He let his hand fall to his side. “Boy?”
“Well, it’s a sham to call you Your Grace, isn’t it, when you won’t let the council acclaim you.”
“How many times must I say it, my lord? I still have unanswered questions about—”
“Enough, Roric! You’re as answered as you’ll ever be!”
Turning, he watched Humbert stamp his familiar, belligerent way toward him from the chamber’s open doors. One of the guarding men-at-arms discreetly closed them, so they could bellow at each other in private. When they were face to face, his foster-lord thumped to a halt and fisted both hands on his soberly robed hips.
“D’you hear me?” Humbert demanded, flushed. “Liam’s dead. Let him lie. And for Clemen’s sake let us here and now pick the time of your acclamation!”
“For Clemen’s sake, Humbert, how can I?” he said, keeping reasonable with some effort. “How can the duchy acclaim me, honour me, when—”
“Clemen honours strength, Roric! Not this womanish beating of your breast. It honours purpose and duty and men of their word!”
He stared. “What does that mean?”
“It means my ears are still ringing from Vidar’s angry complaints. And Roric, he’s in the right of it. You made him a promise.”
“Which I will keep!”
“Before his arse starts hanging out of his threadbare hose, or after? I tell you plain, boy, he’s so short of coin now he’ll soon be eating his horse. And if you think Aistan and the others haven’t noticed then you’re tipped in the skull.”
“If Vidar’s short of coin he can come to me. I’ll—”
“Why should he? It’s not charity he deserves,
boy, it’s a duke who keeps his word!”
Struggling to hold his temper in check, Roric began to pace the gaudy floor. “I can’t help Vidar till I’m legally acclaimed duke and I can’t be acclaimed duke till Liam is avenged. For I know in my heart he was murdered and—”
“Are you truly such a lackwit?” Humbert roared. “Is this how I raised you? How Guimar before me raised you? Does Berold’s blood flow through your body or has there been a mistake?”
Brought up short, Roric swallowed. “Humbert—”
“You know in your heart?” Humbert’s fisted hands lifted, shaking. “What cat’s piss is that?”
“My lord, you taught me to trust my instincts. And my instincts—”
“I taught you to be a man your father would be proud of!” Humbert spat. “At least, I thought I did. But it seems I was wrong. It seems you’re more like Harald than I knew.”
“You’re unfair!”
“What’s unfair is that poor crippled bastard Vidar, limping to me one-eyed, with his hand out, begging for what he’s rightfully owed!”
He made himself meet Humbert’s furious glare. “All I want is justice for Liam.”
“Well, you’ll not have it!” Humbert retorted. “A fart on your instincts, Roric. You’ve no proof of murder and no way of finding it now. All you’re going to get is more bloodshed, because with every day you delay you give Harcia more reason to think Clemen’s a lone lamb without its shepherd. Get it through your head, boy. The brat’s death is a blessing!”
Humbert’s words struck him like a hammer blow to his heart. “What?”
“You were right about me, that night at Heartsong,” said Humbert, savage. “I am glad Harald’s son is dead. Clemen’s best served with a clean page, unwritten. Heartsong’s in the past. Accept it.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then Clemen will fall into chaos, making you more of a villain than curs’t Harald ever was.”
Not a hammer blow, this time, but a long, thin blade neatly slid between his ribs. He could feel the blood flowing from his bruised and battered heart. His eyes were dry, though, all his tears wept out for Liam.
