by Karen Miller
“Those are forfeit, Culpyn. Now go, you ignorant shit, before I run my sword through those mangy beasts of yours and through you for good measure.
Wisely, Culpyn held his tongue. Collected his useless travel bond, then the mules’ tether reins, clambered grunting into his saddle and rode away slump-shouldered from Pikebank, back the way he’d come, in the direction of the Marches.
Waymon nodded at the jumble on the grass. “You don’t want any of that?”
“The jewellery,” he said, shrugging. “If it’s still any good. And the spices. You can ride the rest to rags.”
“Balfre,” Joben said quietly, holding back while the others continued their sport. “Those letters. What are you thinking?”
Yes. The letters. He could feel them tucked between his velvet doublet and linen shirt. “I’m thinking they’re my concern, cousin. Not yours.”
Joben rubbed a gloved finger over his lips. “I beg to differ. You might be Aimery’s heir, but I sit on the council.”
“As do I. Your meaning, Joben?”
“If those letters somehow pose a threat to Harcia—”
“What threat?” he said lightly, smiling as Waymon leaned half out of his saddle to piss on a tangled twist of green and blue silk. “You heard the trader. They’re full of Marcher peasants’ gossip.”
“If you believed that, he’d still have them. And since he doesn’t…”
Balfre looked sideways, one eyebrow lifted. “It means nothing. I’m a malicious fuck, Joben. Didn’t you know?”
“You’re a suspicious fuck,” Joben retorted. “Balfre, if there’s danger to Harcia in those letters then—”
“Then I’ll tell Aimery. But it’s more likely I’ll be wiping my arse on them in the garderobe.” He lifted his reins, frowning. “And speaking of the good duke… we should be on our way, cousin. Doubtless my father is roaming Tamwell castle in a temper because I’ve not returned to make a hue and cry over Grefin’s return.”
“Grefin.” Joben pulled a face. “And how long does our celebrated Steward of the Green Isle plan to stay in Cater’s Tamwell this time?”
Too long, most likely. Grefin was loved best when loved from afar. “Who can say?” he said, shrugging. “It’s Aimery’s castle. He’ll decide. Paithan! Waymon! Lowis! Enough of that. I want to ride.”
Obedient, his companions abandoned their destruction of the trader’s wares, handed over the rescued jewellery and spices then fell behind him, in their accustomed place.
Wheeling about, the packet of letters heavy against his ribs, Balfre spurred his stallion towards home.
It seemed as though every man, woman and child in Cater’s Tamwell and its surrounding villages had turned out to cheer the Green Isle’s Steward and his family. Riding up from the river, where their galley was docked, with Mazelina laughing and smiling and waving by his side, and the excited children in the flower-decked pony cart trundling behind, Grefin smiled and waved too, hiding his hurt. Knowing his father had grown frail, he’d not expected to see Aimery waiting to greet him at Tamwell Landing. But he’d hoped, half-expected, that Balfre would be there.
Which only goes to show I’m a fool.
The river Tam formed a large, lazy loop around Cater’s Tamwell, the duchy’s largest and most prosperous township. In older days, Balfre’s dead and dreaming time, the king’s seat in his kingdom of Harcia. Usually a visitor come by galley to Tamwell castle would moor at Castle Landing and enter its high-walled grounds through the river gate. But since this was no usual occasion, instead the start of a three-day celebration for Aimery’s landmark birthday, the Steward of the Green Isle, his family and his attendants were making a grand entrance. The township’s high street was lined four deep with excited Harcian folk on both sides, everyone whistling and shaking rattles and throwing barley-seeds dyed yellow and red. Though he was worried for his father, Grefin couldn’t help feeling touched.
But on second thought, it’s probably best Balfre’s not here to see the fuss. He’d only ferment the barley into more bitter ale.
Nothing had been the same between them since that dreadful council meeting six years ago, when Balfre had abased himself and their father stepped over him as though he were driftwood… or a dead dog. For himself, he’d given up saying he was sorry. Perhaps Balfre’s forgivness would come, one day. But the more he asked for it, the more he showed how much it mattered, the longer Balfre would deny him. Like it or not–and he didn’t–that was his brother.
“My love, you’ve stopped waving,” said Mazelina, riding so close that their knees touched. “Have you broken your arm?”
He looked at her, startled. Splendid in green velvet and cloth-of-gold and pearls the size of walnuts, her brow clasped by a gold circlet studded with emeralds that matched her leaf-green eyes, she was everything he could ever desire. Nearly eight years married, and her beauty still stopped his heart.
“What?” he said. “No. I was just thinking.”
“About Balfre.” She wrinkled her nose. “You really shouldn’t, Grefin. You’ll get heartburn.”
That made him laugh. “Hush. Wait until we’re behind castle walls before you disparage Aimery’s heir.”
Mazelina shrugged, indifferent. “Wave, my lord Steward,” she suggested. “Or you’ll leave hurt feelings in your wake.”
She was right, of course. But that was nothing new. So he waved at the cheering, delighted people of Cater’s Tamwell and its surrounding villages as he rode beside Mazelina along the length of the high street and up the winding approach to Tamwell castle, which stood atop a weathered granite outcrop commanding a sweeping view of the township and the river.
Aimery was waiting for them in the castle bailey, smothered in a furlined robe though the day was summer warm, and relying on a gold-fretted ebony cane to keep him steady.
“He’s grown so thin,” Mazelina murmured, as they halted their horses. “And his hair is all turned white. Oh, Grefin. I never thought to see Aimery of Harcia look old.”
“Hush,” he said again, glancing behind them at the pony cart. “The children might hear you.”
More than a year had passed since he’d last seen his father, soon after the palsy felled him. Before they left the Green Isle this time Curteis had written to warn of Aimery’s changes, so there’d be no shock at their first sight of the duke. A kind, clever gesture. But even so, he was shocked. Oblivious to the bustling as servants rushed to take charge of the horses, the children, the Steward’s attendants, Grefin slid out of his saddle and threaded his way through the crowd. Halting before his father, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
“Your Grace.”
“My lord Steward,” said his father. His voice had grown reedy, like the rest of him. “Welcome home.”
Grefin felt Aimery’s hand come to rest lightly on his head. Blinking back the sting of tears, he looked up. “I’m most happy to be here.”
“Prove it and embrace me,” said Aimery, his own eyes wet. “Or I’ll think you naught but a flattering knave.”
They embraced, laughing, even though it was awkward thanks to Aimery’s cane. Holding his father tight, Grefin felt through the bulky robe just how much flesh Harcia’s duke had lost, how much muscle and strength. The discovery killed laughter. Made it hard for him to breathe.
“Peace, Grefin,” his father whispered into his ear. “I’m not dead yet.” Then, letting go, he stepped sideways and held out his arm. “Behold the fair Mazelina, who grows more radiant with every passing year. Come, daughter, and kiss me. You’ve been too long from my sight! And you children too! Let me see how much you’ve grown!”
Feeling someone approach behind him, Grefin turned as Mazelina and their excited sons and daughter greeted the duke. Curteis. His father’s faithful steward was more careworn than when they’d last met, but his smile was as wryly self-contained as ever.
“My lord Grefin.”
“Curteis. You’re well?”
A respectful half-bow. “Well enough, my
lord.”
“And Duke Aimery? The truth, mind. I’m not a babe seeking sugar suckets.”
“His Grace… is His Grace,” said Curteis, after a moment. “A lord of infinite dedication.”
“In other words he’s working too hard, and won’t listen to you or his physicks or any sensible man.”
“Indeed, my lord.” The steward’s lips quirked, hinting a smile. “Though you did not hear me say so.”
“Of course I didn’t,” he agreed. “And Balfre? Tell me, is my brother even here?”
Curteis’s confiding expression cooled. “No, my lord. Your noble brother is elsewhere about the duchy. But His Grace anticipates his heir’s imminent return.”
“Ah. And what of our travel chests?”
“Safely arrived from the dock, my lord, and taken up to your apartments.”
Grefin clapped him on the shoulder. “Truly, Curteis, you’re a marvel of efficiency. I—”
“Curteis!”
“Your Grace?” said Curteis, smoothly stepping forward, an illuminated illustration of the perfect courtier.
Aimery’s sickly pallor was suffused now with faint colour, his faded eyes alight with pleasure. “Curteis, see my gooddaughter and her brood within the castle, to their apartments. Have the kitchens bring them food. I’d steal some privy time with my Steward.”
“Your Grace.”
Leaving Mazelina and their chattering gaggle of offspring in Curteis’s capable care, Grefin followed his father out of the emptying bailey.
“My lord? Where are we going?”
“To the wine cellar,” said Aimery. “I can’t so much as look at an empty goblet indoors these days, without Curteis near frowning me into a spasm.”
“And you think I won’t frown? When the goblet’s full?”
Aimery’s fleeting smile was full of well-remembered mischief. “I think you’ll grin like a giddycrake if it means I’ll share my last bottle of Lambardi sunwine.”
Grefin laughed, delighted, feeling his gathered tensions abruptly ease. “Your Grace, I have missed you.”
“Not as much as I’ve missed you, Grefin.”
The castle’s wine cellar sat next to the buttery, where muscular milkmaids skimmed cream, churned butter, and made cheeses both soft and hard. Their energetic voices carried through the high, open window and into the bailey. Comforted by their simple cheer, Grefin unbarred the cellar’s heavy oak door, lit the oil lantern that hung on the hook beside it, then stood back so his father could make his way down the steep stone stairs before them. To go first himself would be to offer insult.
He didn’t breathe easily until they both safely reached the last stair.
“Here,” said his father, handing over the lantern. “Make yourself useful.”
The cellar was cool and caverny, its stone walls limewashed stark white, its floor unevenly flagstoned with Harcian granite. Lantern shadows leapt floor to ceiling like pagan dancers as they made their way past neat rows of oak barrels, bloated with drunken promise. At the rear of the cellar, just beyond the last barrel, they came to a rickety cupboard and an old three-legged stool.
Aimery rested his cane against the wall. “Wine’s in there. There’s just the one chair, so you’ll need to set your arse on the floor. Won’t do your young bones any harm.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Grefin rested the lantern on top of the cupboard, then pulled its doors open to reveal a dusty, cork-sealed bottle and a dull pewter goblet. “If you’ll take the throne, I’ll do the honours.”
Snorting with amusement, his father lowered himself stiffly onto the stool. “The goblet’s yours. I’ll keep hold of the bottle.”
After Aimery had poured him a generous splash of rare, expensive sunwine, Grefin arranged himself cross-legged on the cold floor. Met his father’s gaze with a hinting smile.
“A toast. To you, Your Grace.”
Aimery tapped bottle to goblet. “To your mother. And Malcolm.”
“The spirits keep them,” he said, and drank. The wine was exceptional. He wondered if Balfre knew it was here, and decided not to ask his father. Or ever mention it. Not even to Mazelina.
“Grefin.”
He looked up. “My lord?”
“You continue doing fine work on the Green Isle.” Aimery’s eyes were warm with approval. “I hear nothing but good of you from every lord. Even that rogue Terriel thinks you shit rainbows–and if that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is. You’ve made me proud. You make Harcia proud.”
Praise from his father came rarely. “Thank you, Father. I’ve enjoyed myself a great deal on the Isle and count many of its lords as friends. But…” He rubbed at a stain on the goblet. “Perhaps it’s time you brought me home. Balfre must be ready to—”
“No.” Lowering his raised hand, Aimery frowned. Daring argument. “You’ll stay the Steward. I need your brother here, under my eye, where I can watch him.”
“You still don’t trust him? After all this time?”
His father took another swallow of wine. Coughed a little, and wiped his mouth on his blue woollen sleeve. “Balfre’s behaving himself well enough, it’s true. Does what I ask, what the council asks, without complaint or shirking.”
“Then what more do you want?”
“He needs more seasoning.”
Swallowing a sigh, Grefin pulled his knees close to his chest. This was why his brother refused to forgive him. If their father would soften, even a little, for even a moment, then Balfre would be able to let go of his grudge. But until that happened…
“Is he still whisper-close with Joben?”
“He is,” said Aimery, fingers drumming his knee. “And of late, not only with your cousin. He’s boon companions with Reimond’s heir, Lowis, these days. And Ferran’s loutish oldest son.”
Waymon. Grefin felt a tug of unease. Since leaving the mainland he’d heard some startling stories. If even half of them were true, it seemed Waymon had learned nothing since that nonsense with the wild boars. What was Balfre thinking, keeping a man like that close? No wonder Aimery hesitated to loose him on the Isle.
“You knew already?” said Aimery, closely watching.
“Jancis wrote as much to Mazelina, and Mazelina told me.”
Aimery pursed his lips at the mention of Balfre’s unproductive wife. “And did Balfre’s little rabbit tell Mazelina he’s also riding with old Herewart’s heir?”
“With Paithan? But Paithan hates Balfre.”
“Not any more,” said Aimery, eyebrows lowered.
“And this worries you? I’d think you’d be pleased. For when Balfre is…” He stared at the floor, unable to continue. “What I meant was—”
“Untie your tongue, Grefin,” his father said dryly. “You’re no Osfahr witch, to hasten my death by speaking of it. And you’re right. When Balfre is Duke of Harcia he’ll need the friendship of his lords.”
“Then—”
“But no lord can take the place of a brother,” Aimery continued, implacable. “And until I see Balfre turn towards you, not away, you’ll be my Steward of the Green Isle. Not him. Now pass me your goblet.”
Grefin sighed as his father poured him more wine. “You’re angry because he’s not here. It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Another silence. They both drank, moodily. Then Aimery cleared his throat. “And that’s enough talk of Balfre. Where do we stand with Clemen?”
Another contentious subject. “Nowhere yet,” he said, guarded. “I’ve sent Roric word, as you wanted, and now I wait for his reply.”
“Sent word how?”
“Carefully. I have a man who knows a man who knows another man who—” Grefin made a rolling gesture. “You know how it goes. Whispers in alehouses. Not-so-chance meetings in this alley, and that one. Coin dropped in the pocket of the right trader at the right time.”
Aimery didn’t look pleased. “Sounds havey-cavey to me.”
“Perhaps, my lord, but this is a havey-cavey busi
ness.” With an effort he soothed his stirring temper. “I’m told I might receive answer through someone at Pikebank fair, but I shouldn’t wager more than a copper nib on it. What can I say?” he added, as his father glared, unimpressed. “When we can’t speak in the open, when we must sneak like thieves through little holes in the wall, then—”
“If I could approach Roric openly I would,” his father retorted, still glowering. “But Harcia and Clemen are so belligerently bound by generations of old scars and half-healed wounds, there’s no easy way of starting afresh. Look at the Marches. Every other month, a new squabble to quash. No, Grefin. First let Roric prove himself the man I hope he is. Then will I speak up. But until I can trust him I must trust you to break new ground in my name. Another reason to keep you as my Steward. On the Green Isle you’re free to act in this unobserved. Here, in the court’s glare, you’ve no chance of that.”
“I know,” he sighed.
“But?” his father said, challenging.
“But I think you’re wrong to keep this from Balfre. As your heir, he’s the one who should be reaching out to—”
“Don’t be a fool! Balfre can know none of this until a binding treaty between Harcia and Clemen is signed!”
“And if you think he’ll not take monstrous offence at that, then—”
“I don’t care what he takes, Grefin! Don’t you understand?” Aimery was near to shouting, his brow suddenly stippled with unhealthy sweat. The lantern’s glow reflected fire in his bloodshot eyes. “Roric is mired. He can’t see past his own troubles. His every waking thought is consumed by Clemen’s woes. I’ve waited six years for him to look up and see your dangerous brother. I can’t wait any longer! I might not be at death’s door yet but my candle is burning low. I should’ve approached Clemen’s duke long since, but like a fool I thought I had all the time in the world. I don’t. And I’ll not die leaving Harcia prey to Balfre’s misplaced ambitions.”
“Really, Father?” He swallowed a groan. “You still believe Balfre dreams of uniting the two duchies beneath his rule?”
Aimery stared. “You don’t?”
“I believe he has the right to answer the accusation! Instead you’ve convicted him as a man for the things he said when he was a boy!”
