by Karen Miller
“He wasn’t a boy when he killed Black Hughe,” Aimery said, with an emphatic jab of the wine bottle. “And what he believed then, Grefin, about crushing Clemen and restoring the old kingdom of Harcia? He still believes it. Depend on that.”
“Has he said so? In your hearing?”
“He doesn’t have to. I know him. He’s my son.”
“And you’re his father. Talk to him. Bring him into your confidence. He’ll listen, I know he will. He—”
“Don’t, Grefin,” said Aimery, his face twisting. “False hope is the poison that kills good men. The cause of peace is too important to risk entrusting to your brother. If Harcia and Clemen can find a way to break with the past, chart a new and more prosperous future together, then it must be found while I am living, and still Harcia’s duke.”
“And if you succeed, my lord? Without Balfre? If you’re right about his ambitions, what will stop him from burning the treaty the moment a physick pronounces you dead?”
Aimery smiled. “You’ll stop him, Grefin.”
“I will?” He wanted to flee the cool wine cellar and forget he’d ever agreed to this madness. “My lord, your confidence is flattering but likely misplaced. I doubt Balfre will—”
“Fuck your doubts!” Aimery bellowed, dashing the bottle of sunwine to the flagstoned floor. Smashing it to glass shards, splashing the grey granite red. “And fuck you. Can I now trust that walking cane there more than my own son? Do you abandon me, Grefin? When I am at my weakest, feeling death’s icy breath on the back of my neck, desperate to give this duchy the greatest gift it’s ever known, do you turn your back? Do you?”
Grefin scrambled to his feet. “No! And fuck you for even asking! Whatever storms the future holds, I know we’re best served if Harcia and Clemen weather them as friends. And more than that, I know the thought of what Balfre might do once you’re dead and he’s duke freezes your heart. For fuck’s sake, if I thought for a moment he’d not outgrown his childish dreams my heart would freeze too! But I don’t think that, Father! For six years Balfre’s served you, been your eyes and ears and strong right arm in this duchy. He’s earned your trust, my lord. Please. You must trust him.”
Breathing heavily, Aimery got to his feet. There were tears in his eyes. On his cheeks. “Don’t you think I want to? Can’t you see it wounds me, to speak of my heir like this? But better I be wounded than I slay Harcia–and Clemen–for love. You and I alone must forge an alliance with Roric, and soon. So that when I die, and Balfre is made duke, we’ll have travelled Harcia too far down the path of friendship with Clemen for your brother to turn us back.”
Staring at his father, seeing the tremors running through him, the chalky pallor of his face, Grefin knew he was beaten. “All right.”
“All right,” Aimery echoed, once he’d mastered himself. “If you hear nothing out of Pikebank fair, it could be that Roric mistrusts your first letter, thinks it some kind of trap. So if you must, send to him again. Will you do that, Grefin?”
Heartsick, he nodded. “Yes, my lord. I will.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Standing with Mazelina in his old Tamwell castle bedchamber, watching their candlelit children sleep like peas-in-a-pod in his old bed, Grefin felt such a wave of love crash over him that for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“They grow so fast,” he murmured, his arm tight about his wife’s slender waist. “It was only yesterday that I saw Kerric born. Last week, when Ullia cut her first tooth. And Jorin. How can Jorin be nigh on seven?”
Mazelina kissed his cheek. “Are you feeling your age, my lord Steward?”
“Before we left the Isle, Terriel asked me if I’d given thought to where Jorin will be fostered.”
“I hope you slapped him for his insolence. Jorin’s too young to be a page.”
“You know he’s not. Malcolm was but a few months older.”
“Malcolm was Aimery’s heir!” she said hotly. “Grefin, I won’t have it. What Jorin should know, you can teach him. We don’t need to send him away.”
In the bed, their children stirred. Ullia, though she was a girl and younger than Jorin, threw a protective arm over her brother. Little Kerric cuddled close.
Grefin smiled. “She’s like you. A tigress.”
“And if you don’t wish to feel my claws you’ll abandon any thought of fostering Jorin with Terriel.”
“Mazelina…” Sighing, he stroked her unbound hair. “I’m tired. Let’s not fight. We can decide Jorin’s future later.”
“All right,” she agreed. “What did Aimery want?”
He released her. “I said let’s not fight.”
“Balfre.”
He knew much of her disdain rose out of pity for Jancis. And that she resented his brother bitterly for refusing to forgive him the Green Isle. It was useless asking her not to take sides. Her love was fierce, her loyalty unyielding. So long as Balfre hurt him she would never give his brother the benefit of any doubt.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand. “I’d not say more in front of the children.”
Safely private in their own tapestried chamber, seated before the fire the castle needed, even in summer, they stared into the leaping flames and wondered who would speak first.
“I think it’s time you told me what egg you and Aimery are hatching,” Mazelina said at last. She never could abide uncomfortable silence. “And if you love me, Grefin, don’t tell me there’s no egg.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I don’t like being kept in the dark.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Aimery doesn’t mean to name you his heir instead of Balfre, does he?”
“No! Of course not! Why would you—”
“Because he doesn’t trust your brother. And why would he? Balfre’s sly.”
First his father, now his wife. Why did they keep forcing him to pick up a cudgel in Balfre’s defence?
“That’s unfair, Mazelina. He’s angry, not sly. And who can blame him? I looked him in the eye and swore I’d serve on the Green Isle for a year. No more. But six years later I’m still its Steward and—”
“That’s Aimery’s doing. Balfre shouldn’t blame you for it!”
“Except he does,” he muttered. “And there we are.”
She slapped his arm. “Oh, Grefin. Don’t you see? His festering resentment is dangerous! What will happen when he’s made duke?”
“Well, he’s not going to slaughter us, if that’s what you fear. He may be angry but he’s still my brother.”
“So you say.”
He could feel his temper fraying. “D’you want to know Aimery’s purpose, or not?”
Her turn to sigh. “Fine.”
She kept silent as he unburdened himself of his burdensome secret. And when he was done, laced his fingers with hers and kissed them.
“I’ve disobeyed him, telling you,” he said. “You can’t so much as hint that you know.”
She kissed him again. “I won’t.”
The relief of sharing the truth with her made him feel light-headed. “And now that you know, what do you think?”
“I agree with Aimery,” she said at last, frowning into the fire. “Clemen must be dealt with before he dies. But Grefin… I fear you and your father haven’t properly thought this through.”
“We have!” he protested. “How can you—”
“No, listen. All this time, and Roric has yet to sire a son. Or even a daughter. After Harald’s trouble begetting an heir, how much longer will Clemen wait? Its lords have already deposed one duke for another. It could happen again. They must be thinking by now they could’ve found a better man.”
“There was no better man. Berold’s bloodline ends with Roric.”
She scoffed. “D’you tell me there’s not a lord in Clemen who fancies his own house a match for Berold’s?”
Spirits save him. “I wish I could.”
“And that means any treaty signed between Harcia and Cle
men might well come to nothing, should Roric be pulled down for lacking an heir.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “Of course, it’s more likely Balfre will spoil things before ever that comes to pass.”
“Enough, Mazelina!” He shoved her off him. “Must we spend the whole night talking about my brother?”
Tousled, she smiled, slowly. “I hope not.”
Beyond the castle’s stone walls, dusk had fallen. With Aimery fatigued and early in his bed, like the children, and Balfre not yet returned, there was no feasting or dancing. And he’d had more than his fill of intrigue and argument for one day. So what was a man with a beautiful wife to do?
“Wench,” he growled, and reached for her. “Let’s see that hope come true!”
Because there was no getting rid of the man–at least, not yet–Balfre greeted his father’s steward with a friendly nod.
“Curteis. You’re up early. First light’s not yet broken. I hope all’s well with His Grace?”
The steward bowed. “Quite well, my lord. But he was concerned you hadn’t returned yet, so posted runners along the road. I had good warning of your approach.” He bowed again, to Joben and the others, standing at a discreet distance in the castle’s magnificently appointed entrance hall. “My lords. Welcome again to Tamwell.”
“My brother and his family, Curteis,” he said. “They’re safely arrived?”
“Indeed, my lord. Two days ago.”
And there was a criticism, wrapped in a smile. Insolent bastard. “Good. But I’d not disturb them, or my father, till I’m more presentable. We’ve ridden hard for many leagues, and we’re tired and famished. Find my cousin and dear friends a chamber each, and be certain the kitchens send us food. Oh, and plentiful hot water for bathing. In case you hadn’t noticed, we stink.”
“Guest chambers are already prepared, my lord,” said Curteis. “But as I say, His Grace has been worried. I think you should—”
“No,” he said flatly. “When you see my father, you may say I’ll join him later today. My brother, too.”
The steward bowed again. “As you wish, my lord.”
Idiot. Turning, Balfre smiled at his weary, travel-stained companions. “Go with Curteis. He’ll see you settled.”
“My lords,” said Curteis, one arm sweeping towards the impressive oak staircase that led, eventually, to the South Tower’s fifth floor. “If you’ll follow me?”
Listening to the fading footsteps as Curteis led Joben and the others to their rest, Balfre looked around the hall, with its rich tapestries and old swords, the mounted stag antlers, the costly glazed pots from Agribia, and in the iron-shuttered windows panes of stained-glass, awaiting sunrise. By the spirits, he loved this castle. So much history. The home of Harcia’s kings. The day couldn’t come soon enough that it would be his.
Though he was a tough man, muscles and sinews hardened by years of training in the tilt yard, of more jousts and hunts than he could remember, still his legs protested as he climbed the stairs to his own apartments.
Safe behind his closed bedchamber door, he sat with a groan on the edge of his bearskin-covered bed and pulled from inside his leather doublet the only one of Culpyn’s letters he’d not burned on the way home.
He’d read the fucking thing so many times now, the cheap, flimsy rush-paper was close to falling apart. He unfolded it yet again and looked at it, even though blindfolded he could recite every carefully crafted, treacherous word.
Cousin–for so I’d call you, though we have never met. It’s my father’s belief that our two great families, so long estranged, should seek to leave the past in the past and join hands in present friendship. I know, and he knows, that this is easier said than done. But I ask you to think on what such a friendship might mean to both of us. And I beseech you, cousin, on bended knee, that you do take this proffering of friendship as honest coin, for so it is. There is no deceit here, and nothing but the truth. And to prove myself I do enclose this ring. I think you will know it.
Balfre touched his grimy fingertips to the single name, flourishingly added. Grefin. Not that he needed it. He knew his brother’s quaint penmanship as well as his own. As for the ring, Grefin’s cryptic hint suggested their father had sacrificed his favourite cabachon emerald. How touching.
He turned the fragile rush-paper over.
Cousin, Roric had replied. I return this letter to you not in rejection, but so you’d know I did receive it, and the ring, and believe your offer to be no more or less than what it seems. Tell your father I take his words to heart. I have no answer for him yet, save to say I will consider well what you’ve said–and that I too believe there is much to be gained from friendship.
A more cautious man, Roric had chosen not to sign his name. But of course the letter came from him. It could’ve come from no one else.
The urge to rip the rush-paper to tatters, piss it to sludge, was so strong he had to toss it aside and walk to the window. Not caring that he’d squander the heat granted him by the braziers left to burn in his room, he unbarred the shutters and pulled them wide.
Spread below him was the river, and the sleepy township of Cater’s Tamwell. Far beyond them lay the Marches and beyond the Marches… Clemen. A duchy of thieves. A maggotry of bandits. Living fat and prosperous on the spoils stolen from Harcia.
And my father would be friends with them. My brother would, with his own hands, plunge Roric’s dagger into our hearts.
Revolted, his belly roiled. Bending over, he vomited bile onto the oak-beamed floor. And then, as he waited for the sickness to pass, he blinked back tears of fury and weakness.
The Exarch claims there is one god in the world, one power. Perhaps he’s right. By what chance did I discover Grefin’s letter to Clemen? No chance, surely. That finding was meant. There are powers in the world that will aid the right man.
But even if it was mere chance, did it matter? The letter was his. The advantage his. Aimery and Grefin had tried to hide their treachery from him, and they’d failed.
And before I’m finished they will rue their fucking betrayal.
On the letter’s outer wrapping, which had been sealed with cheap green wax, someone had scrawled a name he’d not recognised. Some nobody, a Master Belchet, to be found at an alehouse in Glasson, three days’ onward ride from Pikebank. He’d burned the wrapping with the other letters, but would remember the name–for all the good it would do him. Master Belchet, even if the name wasn’t a cockstory, would likely not be found within twenty leagues of Glasson.
A knock on the chamber’s door returned him to the bed. There he slipped the letter beneath the bearskin, commanded the servant to enter and bade the man to leave his tray of food on the sideboard.
Alone again he ate, ravenous, like a starved wolf. Then he closed and barred the shutters, stripped off his stained and stinking clothes and crawled into bed… to dream of vengeance, and spite.
The sun was pulling down shadows as Molly slid the last of the night’s first-batch pies into the oven. With a pleased nod she thudded its heavy iron door shut, then pressed her hands into the small of her back. The aching eased, she set about lighting more kitchen lamps to fight the dark. Through the unshuttered window she could see Iddo, puffing as he rolled a fresh barrel of ale out of the cellar. On the grass nearby, too close for her comfort, Benedikt and Willem squealed and chased each other like puppies.
“Iddo!” she shouted. “Mind them boys! Drat it, where be Alys?”
“Penning the hens!” Iddo shouted back. “Breathe easy, Moll. I b’aint fool enough to roll a barrel over yer precious tadpoles.”
She snorted. Breathe easy, he said. What a man. He’d never say it if he were the one to push Benedikt out of his pain-wracked body. Ah, Benedikt. A prince of mischief, her son, and that Alys’s hot-footed brother no better. For all the girl’s chestnut-haired Willem was the younger boy, it seemed to make no difference. Not a day went by that he and Benedikt didn’t dare each other into trouble. Climbing trees on the crossroa
d at the Pig Whistle’s front door. Plucking long feathers from the cockerel’s tail. Teasing the guard dog on its iron chain, the brute Iddo bullied her to get on account of the latest troubles between the Marcher lords.
Turn her back, it seemed, and before she could hiccup one of those boys was leaping both of them into strife.
Seeing Alys trudging up from the hen coop, she braced her hand on the window frame and leaned out. “Look lively, girl! I want them scamps damp-clothed clean and fed before we fill to the rafters, d’ye hear? Or ye’ll be the one sent to yer bed with no supper!”
“Yes, Molly!” the girl replied, and stirred herself to a stumbling run.
Benedikt and Willem rushed towards her, clamouring for play. Molly watched, approving, as the girl swept them along with her, saying no, but keeping them sweet. Not a bad lass, that Alys. A good worker, and doting on both boys. Not a strumpet like that Tossie. Came to a bad end, her, and no surprise there. The man she’d danced off with wrung her neck soon after, and didn’t that serve the little lightskirt right.
Alys bustled the boys into the warm, pie-scented kitchen, and set about smearing them cleanish with a soapy rag. Hiding a smile at their moaning, as though shifting dirt was kin to killing them, Molly ladled steaming mutton stew into earthenware bowls, buttered bread, fetched two apples and two spoons, and set the food on the old wooden table.
“Eat up, ye forest imps. And then it’s to bed.”
Beneath its tousled crown of black hair, Benedikt’s small, handsome face collapsed in dismay. “Bed, Ma?” he wailed. “But—”
He looked so much like his father, it was a pain to deny him a thing. But spoiled boys grew into spoiled men, and then she’d be ashamed. Or heartbroke, if he strifed himself into the kind of mischief that ended with a noose.
“One more word, I’ll break a wooden spoon agin yer arse,” she said, rapping her knuckles on the top of his head. “There be men riding to the Whistle this night as don’t care for rompish boys.”
