by Karen Miller
Caught unawares, Humbert banged his chest, coughing. “Not in love?”
Roric’s cool gaze narrowed. “You’ve dropped a leech, Humbert.”
“I’ll drop you, boy!” he said, still wheezing. Refusing to look at the gorged and bloated bloodsucker plopped from his cheek to the floor at his stinking feet. “Not in love? What mumfoolery is this?”
“It’s not unheard of, that a man should love his wife,” said Roric, defensive.
“It’s unheard of he should think of love first instead of last! Especially when that man is a duke!”
Still defensive, and resentful with it, Roric took to pacing. Kicked a box of bones in passing, and cursed.
“Mind your temper,” Humbert growled. “Arthgallo sets great store by his leechcraft.”
Roric’s withering glare scorched him head to toe. “I can tell.”
Another blood-fattened leech lost its hold and plummeted. He wrestled with the urge to pulp it under heel. “Roric…” Wheedling now, because the boy was curdled and needed a light touch. “Is it you’ve got some misgivings about the notion of matrimony?”
“Of course I do!” Roric snapped, goaded. “When I take a wife it’ll be to sire sons upon her, no better reason. The least woman in Clemen deserves more kindness than that.”
“You think you won’t be kind? Don’t be a fool, Roric. You’re no Harald. Guimar and I between us raised you more knightly than that.”
“Yes, you did.” Sighing, Roric fetched up at the leech’s work bench and leaned his hip against it. “But…” He pressed thumb-and-fingertip against his closed eyes. “For all the pitfalls in wedding with Ardenn, I think there are as many to dance around when choosing a homegrown wife. Past plagues have winnowed Clemen of its daughters.”
Yes, and its sons. As if he needed reminding, with both his boys lost to the last ravaging foul pestilence. Ailred and Collyn. The lack of them was a never-healed ache in his heart.
Roric blinked at him, belatedly remembering. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to–all I meant was that it’s meagre pickings among our best houses.” Disconsolate, he slumped. “I might do better casting a wider net.”
“Ha!” Humbert flicked a third sluggishly wriggling leech from his flesh. “Like Harald did, in catching Argante? No, Roric. Be taught by your bastard of a cousin in this. What man in his right mind puts his best warhorse to a common carting mare, even if her hide is glossy? You can’t do it. One Ercole at court is enough.”
Roric grimaced. “True.”
And now they’d come to it. Mouth suddenly dry, and not because of the heat and stink, Humbert scratched under his armpit, where Arthgallo’s congealing slop prickled his skin. But there was no use beating about the bush. Best simply to say it, in the voice of authority that Roric had obeyed since he was seven years old.
“There’s only one answer to this puzzle, boy. You’ll marry Lindara.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Lindara?” Roric slid his hip off the bench. “Humbert, are you touched? Should I summon the leech?”
Chin jutting, beard bristled, Humbert slitted his eyes. “D’you tell me there’s a girl better bred anywhere in Clemen? You can’t, for you’ll not find one. And she’s comely enough, if I say it myself. Takes after her mother, spirits be thanked. Why not wed with Lindara, when your heart’s not given elsewhere?”
“Why not? I’ve just told you! I must be careful to put some distance between us or turn the other lords sour!” Roric dragged a hand down his face. “You should find another leech, Humbert. Arthgallo’s cures are addling your wits.”
“Fine,” he said, hands fisted. “Marry Lindara and I’ll step down from the council. Will that answer? Make my daughter your duchess and I’ll not set foot in Eaglerock again.”
All the temper in Roric’s eyes cooled. “What?”
“You heard aright. Name Aistan your chief counsellor and pasture me like an old nag. Or if Aistan chafes, name someone else. Anyone save Ercole. I’ll go lambish, Roric, my vow on it. Only wed with Lindara.”
“Humbert, I don’t want you to go lambish, or naglike, or in any animal fashion! What use to me will you be cooped up in Larkspur castle? I need you in Eaglerock.”
Touched by Roric’s heartfelt dismay, Humbert pretended interest in the sole of his foot. Arthgallo’s muck had dried hard, and was itching.
“Didn’t you just say I’m a cause of trouble to you, boy? Surely you’ll be better off if I’m not here for you to stumble over.”
“That wasn’t my meaning! I can’t have Clemen’s nobles think you lead me round by the nose, but of course I need your counsel. How else can I be duke?”
“You can be duke however you choose,” he said. “And wherever I am, boy, you’ll still be duke. This time tomorrow, or by the end of next week, I could be dead from my weight of years. One day I will be. D’you tell me you mean to stop being Clemen’s duke when I die?”
“Don’t talk rumption, Humbert,” Roric snapped.
He salted his foster-son with a glare. “There’s no rumption in plain truth. And I’d die a happy man if my Lindara was your wife.”
Groaning, Roric again slumped his hip to Arthgallo’s bench. “Does Lindara know you’re offering her to me?”
“She knows it’s her duty to marry. And she knows the obedience owed her father.”
“Ha! You mean she doesn’t.”
“Never you fret about Lindara.” He raised a warning finger. “Listen well, Roric. You must wed. Soon. Before those lords who do have eligible daughters start dangling them in front of you. If you’re promised before ever they raise their hopes you’ll save all of us much grief.”
“Perhaps,” Roric said after a moment, reluctant.
“For certain! Tell me, what happens if Aistan thinks to thrust his youngest girl into your path?”
“Kennise? The daughter Harald—”
“The same. What if Aistan decides he’s owed recompense for Harald’s debauching of her? What if he says marriage with his ruined daughter is the price of his support?”
“Aistan wouldn’t,” Roric said, disconcerted. “He’s an honourable man.”
“An honourable man whose pride was deeply wounded by your cousin. Would you wound him afresh by spurning his child?”
Roric was shaking his head. “What Harald did to Kennise was wicked. She bears no blame. But even so, Aistan knows I could never wed with—”
“Never?” Humbert rolled his eyes. “Before we took down Harald, boy, all of Clemen knew a bastard could never be made duke. Yet there you stand. The girl was a virgin. She’s not pregnant, and she’s been kept in seclusion since Harald had her. As for her bloodlines, they’re near as good as Lindara’s. What grounds would you have to refuse Aistan’s offer?”
“Why can’t I simply say no?”
“He’d want a reason, Roric. And whatever reason you gave him, no matter how crafty, he’d take offence at it. Aistan’s a good man, but pricklesome when it comes to his family.”
“Most men are.”
“And there you make my point!” he said, itching to shake Roric until the boy saw sense. “Every lord of Clemen whose daughter you reject will want a reason. And every reason you give is bound to raise hackles. You’ll be surrounded by offended nobles. Is that how you want to start your rule?”
“Humbert, even if you’re right…” Roric rubbed a hand over his face, then started pacing afresh. “You can’t deny Aistan and the rest of the council are watching how close you and I stand.”
“Keep them sweet with honours and prestigious tasks and watching is all they’ll do.”
“So you say,” Roric muttered, stepping round a toppled pile of dried batwings. “But depend on it–they’ll say I seek to enrich your house at the expense of every other great noble’s family.”
“I have no house,” he said roughly. “It died with my boys. You know that, Roric. You stood beside me as it fell. The day these ageing bones of mine are buried, my name will be buried with them.
In giving you Lindara I look to secure her future. What dutiful father leaves his only child undefended? As for Aistan, I—”
“Don’t tell me again to send you from Eaglerock, Humbert, for I won’t!”
“Then stand your ground. Show Clemen’s lords your teeth. Aistan and the rest, they might not want another Harald but they do want a man who’ll snarl at Harcia when he needs to. Snarl at them first and prove you can.” He shrugged, shaking the leeches still bloating themselves on his blood. “And if you must, claim you’re lovelorn for Lindara.”
Roric threw him a look. “But I’m not.”
“Then lie,” he said, brutal. “Clemen’s future is worth a lie. Besides, you like her well enough. Or did my eyes deceive me as you grew to manhood under my roof?”
Another glowering look. “Liking isn’t loving, Humbert. You don’t think she deserves love?”
Humbert thought of Vidar. There was love there, and it would lead to nowhere but disaster. “Love isn’t everything, Roric. Most times it isn’t anything at all.”
“You’re harsh,” Roric whispered, halting, his back turned. “Humbert, she’s your daughter.”
“All the more reason for you to have her.”
“My lord…” Slowly, Roric turned. “What if I can’t make her happy? I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want her to hate me.”
“Hate you?” Humbert scoffed. “My fortunate daughter will kiss your feet.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“D’you think I’ve not lost nights of sleep over this?” His arms spread wide in appeal. “Ever since Harald’s first son died in its cradle our duchy has danced on daggerpoint. Now you must settle Clemen’s nerves by giving it your undoubted heir. And the woman who’ll cause the least roilery in that is Lindara. She’s impeccably bred, she’s not foreign, and there’ll be no question you’re the sire of the sons she’ll bear you.”
“Even so…” Fists on his hips, Roric breathed out sharply. “I’d speak with her first.”
He could easily have plucked the leeches from his chest and thrown them at the boy. “To what end? Clemen’s noble daughters wed their father’s choice, and that’s that.”
“And if Lindara’s heart is given elsewhere?”
Vidar. Curse the inconvenient bastard. With an effort Humbert kept his face blank, because Roric knew him too well. “Lindara’s heart is in my keeping. She trusts I’ll give it to a worthy man. And you are worthy, Roric. How else could I love you like my own flesh and blood?”
Roric’s obdurate expression softened. “And I you, my lord.”
“Then we’re agreed? You’ll wed her?”
Still, Roric hesitated. “Humbert…”
“Then name me another girl, any girl, you’d make your duchess in Lindara’s place!”
Silence, as Roric stared at the leechery floor. From the outer chamber, the faint sound of voices as Arthgallo tormented other suffering souls.
“You can’t, can you?” Humbert demanded, when he’d waited long enough. “You know I’m right.”
On a sigh, Roric lifted his head. “It seems you are.”
“Then it’s done,” he said, scalded with relief. “But you’ll let me tell Lindara. As her father, that’s my task. Now, Your Grace, you’d best be on your way. Arthgallo’s not finished with me and I’ve some shreds of dignity left.”
Half-smiling, Roric looked him up and down. “You do?”
Humbert threw a leech at him.
After some time spent poking and prodding his patient, followed by much pulling of his pendulous lower lip, Arthgallo at last decreed there should be another round of bleeding.
“For caution is a comely thing, my lord Humbert, and leeches are not hard to find!”
With the second bleeding endured, then there was the swallowing of a foul concoction, upon insistence.
“I know, my lord,” said Arthgallo, leavening cheer with a smidgin of sympathy. “It seems the gods of healing are blessed with a poor sense of humour, when that which succours us would make us heave our guts upon our boots.”
Belly protesting and tongue shrivelled, Humbert glowered at the leech. “Enough of that pagan shammery, man. Now, are we done? Or have you more misery in mind for me?”
No, they were done. Plucked free of bloodsuckers, sponged clean and dressed again, Humbert paid Arthgallo four silver ducats then took his leave. Ah, the relief of breathing fresh air again! Well. Fresh after the stink of the leechery. Much cheered by it, and by the easing of gripe in his guts, he made his way out of the alley and onto wider Leech Street, which was thronged with townsfolk on foot and on horseback.
Few of Clemen’s nobles troubled to walk about the duchy’s towns and villages. What they needed was fetched for them, given into their hands by merchants and traders and servants. Most of Clemen’s great lords and their ladies kept to themselves, disdaining the dust and mud of the streets. When forced to stir, they went on horseback. For himself, he never found it demeaning to rub shoulders with the ordinary people. No, he deemed it important. Like a hunting hound he scented the air, seeking the smallest hint of danger, of blood on the brink of being spilled. In the days following Harald’s violent passing, he’d smelled that kind of trouble. Then he’d hourly expected the clarion-call of disaster. Had held his breath and pinched his thumbs and prayed the peace would hold. A dark time, that in his darkest moments he feared might not pass.
But it did. He could smell no danger now. Only the everyday stinks to be found in any busy township–horse dung, ox dung, puddled piss, wood smoke, baking bread, roasting meats, the distant sear of the tannery and the iron tang of the forge. Blowing through all of it, fresh salt from the harbour laced with the wetness of fish. And still, lightly lingering, an exotic memory of burned spice.
Walking crosswise from Leech Street down to the merchant district, because he wanted to quietly see for himself how the repairs to Ardenn’s ruined warehouses progressed, Humbert nodded at the few who recognised him without the help of his house badge, the antlered stag, stitched to his russet brocade doublet. At the top of Bakers Way he paused, to see who the gathered crowd was jeering. Ah. Some fool of a baker who’d been caught adding chalk or gravel or even wadded cobwebs to his loaves. Pegged into a pillory, the dishonest man was weeping as his furious victims hurled dead rats and rotten eggs and sloppy stinking cow shit into his face.
Humbert snorted, and moved on. Serve the jackanapes rogue baker right. Shit in his eyes and perhaps a broken nose for good measure would teach him not to fartle with Eaglerock’s bakers’ beadle, with his heavy stick and dour opinion of those who’d flout the baking laws.
After Bakers Way came Salt Street, and after Salt Street the rabbit warren known as Chandlers Square. That tipped him into steeply sloping Anchor Road, running all the way to the harbour, cutting the merchant district in half.
With every step he took he could feel Eaglerock castle looming behind him. Feel the weight of knowing how much he’d asked of Roric, and still asked, and would yet ask, pressing down on him like a great hand, threatening his breath and his bones.
But he’ll not fail me. And he’ll not fail Clemen. If I thought he would, or could, I’d never have started this.
Upon reaching the site of the warehouse fires, Humbert found an unobtrusive shadow to stand in. Work on the gutted buildings had started just after sunrise. Now, with the sun sliding towards the horizon, that work was well underway. The din of hammers and wood saws, of stonemasons and blade-grinders, rang raucous in his ears and drowned the wider noise of harbour and township, as nearly a score of men laboured to rebuild what had been lost to the flames. He caught sight of Ardenn’s trading factor, Tihomir, red-faced and dishevelled, trying to bully two Eaglerock clerks sent by Roric to keep an account of the damages. Whatever Berardine’s man was demanding, the clerks appeared disinclined to agree. Not so much as a flinch, as the widow’s lickspittle brandished a fist beneath their intransigent noses. Good. Offer Ardenn a pared fingernail and it would take a man�
�s arm all the way to his shoulder.
Imagining Clemen married into Cassinia, Humbert felt his guts grind and gripe anew. But then he mastered himself. Only a fool wasted time dwelling on what might have been… and he was no fool. That danger was knocked aside like an inexpert sword thrust. Clumsy Berardine was ordered home, and she’d not be coming back. All that remained of the sorry business was the need for him to tell Lindara she’d soon be wed, and so made Clemen’s duchess.
Lindara.
“A pox on it,” he muttered uneasily, rubbing his brocade-covered belly. “And spirits save me. For she’ll see herself ill-used, I know it, though I’m giving her the moon.”
Because preserving lemons was a way to keep her dead mother close, Lindara never let her father’s cook near the task. Working in the townhouse’s citrus-scented small kitchen, her hair wrapped in a coif, her plain linen dress swathed in an apron and her needle-pricked fingers stinging from spilled juice, she smiled through misty tears as she remembered how she and her mother had preserved winter’s end lemons together. Salt in the bottom of a pottery jar. Sharp knife slicing through each plump fruit, exposing the firm, pale yellow flesh. A hearty salt rub, inside and out. Then squash the salted lemon into the jar. When the jar was full, add more juice then seal it with a cork stopper and a generous slather of warm wax.
She could still feel the press of her mother’s lips to her childish cheek in reward for a task well done. Hear her mother saying “Never stint on the salt, Lindara. It’s the key to a good preserve.” That was why she insisted on purchasing Evran salt from Cassinia. That had been her mother’s first choice. Let Humbert grumble at the cost, so long as he paid it.
Oh, it made her heart ache, how much she missed her mother.
“My lady,” said Eunise, from the kitchen doorway. “Lord Humbert has returned from the town, and sends me to fetch you.”
Not looking up, she eased her paring knife through a new lemon’s thick rind. “You may tell my father I’m occupied, and will come to him by and by.”
“My lady,” said Eunise, disapproving. “He bids you come at once.”
