by Karen Miller
“Then I’d do it. Without question.”
He hid a smile. “Even though your hands may be stained with blood? Harcian, as well as Clemen?”
“Anything,” Waymon said, vehement, his mud-brown stare intense. “Name it.”
“Ah, Waymon.” Balfre embraced him. “I knew I could count on you.”
Waymon hesitated, then returned the embrace. As though they were brothers. “Always. Never doubt it. I’m your man till the day I die.”
To his surprise, the declaration touched him. If only Grefin possessed even a thimbleful of Waymon’s loyalty. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back. Shook off unwelcome melancholy. “And I’m yours.”
“What is it you need me to do, my lord?”
“Nothing. Not yet,” he said. “Matters are still unsettled. All I know for certain is I’ll be riding to the Marches, soon. And when I go, Waymon, I want you by my side.”
“Me?” Waymon frowned. “Not Joben? Or Paithan?”
Never. His cousin and Black Hughe’s brother were useful, but neither man was what he needed. Waymon might dress like a popinjay but on the inside, where it counted, Ferran’s son was a rabid wolf.
He smiled, gently. “Not this time. To prevail in the Marches, I’ll need you.” He thumped a fist to Waymon’s gaudy saffron-and-crimson striped chest. “Now come. We should return to Tamwell before we’re missed. And remember–not a word to anyone. Harcia’s future depends on your silence.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Harsh grunts. Rank sweat. The desperate, degrading thrust of flesh into flesh. There’d been pleasure in it, once. Desire and revenge entangled, feeding upon each other, swelling into a furious, endless burst of joy. Once there was laughter. A long time ago, delight.
Wearily, Vidar felt his straining body empty. Felt Lindara’s weak shudder in response. She winced when he pulled himself out of her. Sighed as she fumbled her heavy green velvet skirts over her hips. Then she reached for her sleeves, set carefully aside with her elaborate emerald chain on the spiralled stone steps beside them. Her face was pale in the mean rushlight, no lingering flush of fulfilment.
“Help me lace them up.”
Once, three years ago–a moment ago, a lifetime–they’d torn her gown’s bodice in their haste to disrobe. She’d had to lie to her lady’s maid after, then find plausible reason to dismiss the woman to make certain she’d never cause strife. They’d taken more care since. Even now, with passion perfunctory, they made certain not to repeat that dangerous mistake.
Black hose rucked down to his knees, cock limp and deflated below the edge of his black velvet doublet, he laced her blue-and-gold striped sleeves to her bodice. Three years ago she’d stripped almost naked, and maiding her had made him smile. Gave him reason to fondle her breasts one last time beneath soft, rose-scented linen, and whisper scandalous things in her ear.
Three years later they removed only her sleeves. And met to fuck quickly, in empty stairwells and chance closets, no more lingering in moonlight, entwined in gold-embroidered sheets, fucking at their leisure while Roric was absent from Eaglerock.
Lindara flicked him a cursory look as she made sure of her pinned hair. “You look ridiculous. Dress yourself, for pity’s sake.”
There’d been a time when she’d laughed to see him so foolish. A time when she’d coax his limp, naked cock back to rampant life. When a single caress would make him iron again, and invincible. He dreamed those times now. Dreams were all he had left.
Pulling up his hose, lacing the points, tidying his shirt and doublet, he gritted his teeth against the grinding ache in his ruined hip. It hurt like shite to fuck standing, in a stairwell. But since Lindara decided where they’d meet, and even Humbert’s pet leech Arthgallo couldn’t undo his body’s damage, he had to live with it. At least the leech’s draught of poppy and yasfar dulled the worst of his pain.
“By Damikah’s reckoning I’ve one more day fertile,” she said, fastening the emerald chain about her neck. “So we should fuck again tomorrow. But not here. Perhaps in the wine cellar. Or the tapestry storeroom. I’ll leave a note in the usual place by nine bells, once I decide.”
Abruptly exhausted, he looked at her. “Fuck again to what end?”
“What do you mean?” she said, staring.
She was brittle, and so was he. Both of them thinned to breaking point. But he was tired of holding his tongue. Tired of pretending all was well when they both knew it wasn’t.
“You set great store by your witch.”
“And why wouldn’t I? She keeps Roric a gelding.”
“So you say.”
“And what do you say? That she’s lying?”
“Or nowhere near the witch she claims to be. All this time fucking, Lindara, and you’ve still not borne my son. Or even my daughter.” He felt his breath hitch. “You’ve never even miscarried.”
Trembling, Lindara folded her arms. The fine lines time had etched round her eyes deepened as she frowned. “Then you do blame me.”
Perhaps he did. But how would it help to say so? “Your witch promised us a healthy son.”
“She also warned it might take time.”
“How much time? What we dreamed of six years ago, that we’ve schemed and lied and fucked for ever since? It hasn’t happened. Would you have us fucking in secret for another six years?”
“And what if I would, Vidar?” she demanded. “I’m not leaving Eaglerock. Are you?”
He hesitated. He’d intended to talk of it, but not like this. Not in a stairwell.
“Vidar?” she said slowly. “Are you leaving?”
Trapped, reluctant, he looked into her accusing face. “No. But I stand at a crossroad. There is a choice I have to make.”
“What crossroad? What choice?”
She sounded genuinely baffled. “Lindara,” he said, feeling lost. How could she know him, love him, yet fail to understand? “My title and estates were restored to me years ago, and still I haven’t married. Surely you’ve heard the whispers?”
He watched her consider his question. Saw her eyes narrow as she realised what he was trying to say.
“Really?” Her cold stare raked him. “You think people wonder why you’re unwed?”
And that hurt, as she’d intended. “Don’t,” he said roughly. “And don’t pretend you can’t see the danger we’re in. Every week that passes, every time we meet like this, we—”
“Danger?” She laughed, scornful. “Trust me, Vidar, we’re in no danger. Roric suspects nothing. All he can think of is Clemen and its woes.”
“Your childless state being one of them!”
Her eyes glittered in the meagre candlelight. “Roric forgives me that. So who are you to chide?”
“If he knew the reason for it he’d not forgive you.”
“Do you want to stop?” she said, stepping closer, hands fisted by her sides. “Is that it? Because this is proving more difficult than we thought, do you want to abandon our revenge? Does it no longer matter to you, offend you, that every time he fucks me it feels like a rape? Do you no longer love me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“No,” he protested. “But—”
“Or perhaps you think it isn’t rape,” she said, as though he’d not spoken. “Because he doesn’t use me violently. Because I’m not some peasant woman plundered on the battlefield as a reward for bloody slaughter.”
She was twisting his words, twisting him. “I don’t think that. You’re unfair.”
“Unfair?” she spat. “What do you know of unfair? You, a man, who’ll never be treated as property or a witless doll. You think yourself hard done by because Humbert married me to someone else? You arrogant shite. Until you know what it feels like to be the one who’s bartered, who must play the compliant whore and smile and smile and smile with every fucking, don’t you dare stand there and moan to me about unfair.”
Did she know she was weeping? He thought she didn’t. Her rage was too hot. Risking further fury, he pulled her clos
e to his chest.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should’ve killed him in Bingham forest.”
“And claimed what, after?” she retorted, her tear-stained voice muffled against him. “That he tripped over a tree-root and fell on his own sword?”
“Stranger things have happened. In Cassinia. Or so I’m told.”
“Fool.” On a shaky, indrawn breath she elbowed out of his arms. “There was no hope ever of killing Roric. And I never wanted you to try.”
“Not then. But now?”
Even in despair, she was beautiful. “Not even now. For nothing’s changed. Clemen must have a duke… and despite his failings, Roric has the people’s love.”
“They could learn to love another.”
Her eyes hardened. “They will love our son.”
“If we have one.”
“We will!” Breathing harshly, she glared at him. Repinned her loosened hair. “So. You want to marry. Have you a woman in mind?”
“Aistan’s youngest daughter.”
“Kennise?” Surprised, Lindara raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t she bury herself alive in that exarchite women’s house you failed to talk Roric out of permitting?”
A failure that still rankled, and Lindara knew it. She sought to punish him. “Aistan has coaxed her back into the world.”
“So you can wed her? Why her?”
There was no point now in the keeping of secrets. “He offered her to me at Heartsong, the night Harald died,” he said, weary. “I made excuses. I thought I’d be marrying you. And then–it was too late.”
“Kennise,” she said, tasting the name as though it were something sour. “You can do better.”
“I doubt it. She’s impeccably bred. And marrying into Aistan’s influence can do me no harm.”
“Kennise,” she said again, with such disdain. Then she smirked. “I wonder what Godebert would say to you wedding and bedding Harald’s soiled leavings?”
She could be the cruellest woman. More cruel even than Argante. “So I’m to feel pity only if the raped woman is you?”
“Kennise is old,” she said, refusing to admit her fault.
“She was barely fourteen when Harald had her. She’s younger than you.”
Lindara flinched. It pleased him to see it. “I don’t understand, Vidar,” she whispered, turning away. “Not once have you ever talked of wanting to marry. After so long… why now?”
“Oh, Lindara!” He wanted to shake her. “Did you truly think any son I sired on you would be the only son I’d ever want? I have a duty to my dead father. I’m thirty-five next month! If I should die without a legitimate heir then Godebert’s line ends. The thought of that fills me with shame, and fear.” He felt a stab of bitter pride. “And though I may be scarred, lame and half-blind, Aistan says Kennise will have me. But she won’t wait for ever… and neither can I.”
Silence. Then the faintest of sighs. “Do you love her?”
“I’ve never met her.”
Lindara glanced over her shoulder. “And yet you’d wed her.”
“If not her, then someone else.”
“And us, Vidar? What of us?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean!” she said, spinning to face him. There was fear in her eyes. “Wife or no wife, nothing can change. You swore you’d help me revenge myself on Roric, and on Humbert. I won’t let you break your word.”
Fuck. He was so tired. And his hip was on fire. If he didn’t sit down soon, he’d fall. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Damikah insists I’m not mismade,” she said, as though he’d not spoken. “We will have a son, Vidar, and he will be Roric’s heir. I can give him stronger potions. I can take them myself. There are charms and incantations, too. Damikah knows.”
He reached for her again. “Sorcery? No. I forbid it.”
“The choice is mine,” she said, trying to twist her shoulders free. “You can’t stop me.”
This time he did shake her. “You know I can. You know I will. No revenge is worth your life.”
Lips trembling, she stared up at him. “Then you do still love me.”
“Lindara.” He framed her face with his hands. “Sweet fool. I never stopped.”
Her beautiful eyes were full of tears. “Prove it.”
“I’ll see your witch,” he said, after a moment. “There must be a potion I can take.”
“You don’t need one.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” she said, her smile wry. “Or did you think I’d not find out about the bastard on your estate?”
Shocked, he watched her retreat to the arrow loop in the stairwell wall and breathe in cold, fresh night air.
“That’s why I must risk Damikah’s strongest elixirs,” she said, her back to him. “And dabble in questionable magics. Because despite what she tells me, I fear the fault here is mine.”
And now his heart was burning. “It’s true, I’ve one bastard born at Coldspring. But I’ve fucked more than one woman there. It could be I’m to blame. Arrange for me to see your witch. I’ll swallow whatever foul concoctions she thinks will help.”
“All right,” she said, reluctant. “But even swallowing them… you’ll still wed?”
“Lindara—”
She pressed her hands to her face. “I know. I know. You must.”
“But not tomorrow,” he said, closing the terrible distance between them. Taking her in his arms again, and gentling her cheek to his chest. “We still have time.”
“How much?”
“Enough,” he said, and kissed her. “Don’t you know, Lindara? I’d steal time from the spirits for you.”
“Vidar…” Her clever fingers reached for him. “I was hateful. Forgive me.”
Pleasure drowned his fiery pain. As his ruined vision blurred, he gasped. “But won’t Roric—”
“Roric’s busy,” she murmured, unlacing him. Sliding down him to her knees. “Talking politics with Humbert. Don’t think of him. Think of me, and the son we’ll make.”
It was madness to stay. To risk all for another hasty fuck. But her fingers were a torment, and so was her tongue. Panting, he surrendered. Groaned, and moaned her name. So what if she was sometimes hateful?
She was Lindara. She was his life.
“… sorry, Your Grace. It pains me to say so, but I lack a simple answer where Cassinia’s concerned.”
Glowering, because it was late and his joints were aching, Humbert rapped his knuckles to the arm of his chair. “Come, come, Master Blane. No need to be a mimbly waddler. Speak plainly to His Grace. He’s not Harald. You won’t suffer for it.”
“Humbert.” Roric flicked him a warning glance, then smiled at the merchant. “Don’t take his lordship’s scold to heart, Blane. With you so recently returned from nearly four months of merchant trading he’s anxious, as I am, to hear what you have to say about our cousins across the Moat.” He gestured at the goblet on the small table beside the merchant’s chair. “But before we talk in earnest, would you care for more wine?”
“More–well, indeed, that’s very kind, Your Grace,” Blane said, then stared, bemused, as Clemen’s duke rose from his own chair and played servant to pour it.
Humbert rolled his eyes. Spirits save him. He’d lost count of the times he’d told the boy not to lower his dignity in such a fashion, but did Roric listen? He did not. Neither did he pay heed to sound advice regarding the proper way to conduct this kind of meeting. They should be formal, in one of Eaglerock’s grandly appointed audience chambers, where no man was allowed to forget the weight of ducal might. Instead here they were, in Roric’s shabbily comfortable privy closet, with a cheerful fire burning and the boy playing host as though they were three cosy friends. It was ridiculous. Especially when the treasury owed wealthy Master Blane, head of Clemen’s Merchants’ Guild, a great deal of coin.
“More wine, Humbert?” said Roric, after refilling the merchant’s goblet.
He covered
his own with the flat of his hand. Lowered his brows. “No.”
“So, Blane,” said Roric, ignoring his pique, and sitting again. “Paint me a picture of Cassinia as it stood when you left. And then tell me honestly how it seems to you we stand there–and don’t think to spare my feelings.”
Hastily swallowing, Blane set his goblet aside. The rich wine had stained his neatly barbered flaxen beard dark red about the chin. “Then I won’t. Alas, Your Grace, when it comes to Cassinia I fear we’re kneeling, not standing. That curs’t principality’s naught more than a cauldron of simmering strife. It bubbles up, spills over, and blights everything it touches. Like poison.”
Which was precisely what Aistan and Vidar had told the council earlier that week. The same sobering report from two different, reliable sources. And now here was a third.
Unhappily thoughtful, Roric picked at a loose thread in his fine grey wool sleeve. “And?” he said at last. “I’d know the worst.”
“The worst, Your Grace?” Blane shook his head. “I doubt we’ve seen the worst, though what I’ve seen is bad enough.” He snatched up his goblet again and drank like a man in need of courage. “Though we’re still barred from Ardenn, with the restoration of our trading rights in Cassinia’s other duchies I did for a time think we were looking at better days. But I fear I hoped too soon.”
From the careful corner of his eye, Humbert saw Roric’s face tighten at the mention of Berardine’s duchy. Berardine. Curse the meddling bitch. In offering her daughter to Roric she’d given Cassinia’s regents a blade that had been pressed to Clemen’s throat ever since. The duchy’s slow decay had started the moment she set foot in Eaglerock.
And still the boy felt pity for her. As though she weren’t the scribe of her own miserable fate.
“Ardenn’s duchess,” Roric said, abruptly. “How does she fare? Do you know?”
“Berardine?” Blane blinked. “Why, she’s still prisoned in her own duchy, Your Grace, but no worse than that. At least I heard no ill rumour to suggest otherwise.”
“And her daughter? Catrain?”
“Ah.” Blane swallowed more wine. “She’s dead, Your Grace.”
