by Karen Miller
Leaving Roric’s lords to bicker, Humbert broke the wax seal on the document and swiftly scanned it. What he read left him sickened. He’d never believe Ercole’s careless accusation of rampant harbour corruption, but it seemed Vidar’s assertion was true. Or true enough that the council would need to probe the matter further, and officially. At the very best there’d been mistakes made. And at worst…
But Scarwid was right. Why would the exarchites bring ruin upon themselves? Unless Vidar was right–which meant someone was playing a deeper game. But was Clemen the purpose? Or only a pawn?
He looked up. “Vidar. Where are they now, these self-confessed rancid leeches?”
“I have them,” said Aistan. “They were taken into custody upon my authority and are being held under guard till they can be more strictly questioned. Here, of course. In Eaglerock ’s dungeons.”
Silence, as the rest of the council stared. Feeling a slow prickle of sweat beneath his sober doublet and robe, Humbert deliberately relaxed his hold on Vidar’s proof before his fingers crushed it.
“Taken into your custody when?”
“Last night.” Aistan spread his hands. “I did try to advise you, Humbert, but you were nowhere to be found.”
“Under the circumstances,” Vidar added, “we thought a little presumption preferable to these sorry miscreants leaping aboard some outward-bound ship and making their escape before we could bring them to account. Though perhaps…” He raised his unscarred eyebrow. “You disagree?”
“I don’t,” Ercole muttered, close to a snigger.
“And I do,” Scarwid said. “In His Grace’s absence Lord Humbert is the council’s highest authority. We cannot—”
Aistan frowned at him. “We can and we must, Scarwid, if Humbert is also absent and the matter is urgent. Or do you recommend that as Clemen’s councillors we sit on our hands and do nothing, though we see the duchy in danger?”
“In danger? From two animal leeches? My lord, you—”
“Clap tongue, Scarwid!” Tossing the leeches’ confessions onto the floor, Humbert stood. “I don’t care for Aistan’s high-handed approach–nor Vidar’s–but it’s Clemen that matters most. We’d do better to solve this knotty problem than waste our breath in more bickering.”
“I don’t call it bickering to challenge this challenge to your authority,” Scarwid retorted. “When Harald offered me the chance to undermine you, Humbert, I refused him. I’d made you a promise and I honour that promise yet.” He spared Aistan and Vidar an angry glance. “We northern lords are constant. We don’t blow in the breeze.”
“But do you fart in it?” Ercole wondered. “For that would be expedient, Scarwid, to hide a noisome act within another act not of your making. Isn’t that how you’ve climbed so high? As I recall you stood back and let Harald be—”
Humbert turned on him. “Not another word, Ercole. There’s been enough mischief out of you for one day.” He looked sideways. “See what you’ve wrought, Aistan? Is this what you wanted?”
“What I want,” said Aistan, “is for Roric to take his rightful place in this chamber. Clemen has no need of an absent duke.” Defiant, he swept his gaze around his fellow councillors. “Is that not so, my lords?”
All of them, even Scarwid, nodded and muttered their assent.
“You see?” Aistan was glaring. “And you can be sure, Humbert, that if Farland were here he’d say he felt the same. We are none of us content with this inconstant state of affairs!”
“There’s no state of affairs, Aistan,” Humbert retorted, feeling fresh sweat prickle and slide down his spine. “Inconstant or otherwise. How many times d’you need to hear it? Roric’s unwell, and when he’s mended he’ll return. And who are you to question that? Since when does a subject lord demand explanation of his duke?”
“Since that subject lord and his friends gave him his crown,” said Vidar. “Something it seems you’ve forgotten, Humbert.”
Another stark silence. Glaring at Lindara’s lover, the treacherous cockshite, Humbert found it hard to breathe. Rage was in him, burning his vision red with blood. A good thing there was no sword to hand, else Vidar would be spitted as once he’d spitted a woman crazed with grief.
Scarwid was on his feet. “My lords, let us collect ourselves, I implore you! We do Clemen a grave disservice to let temper sway us from proper—”
A fisted thudding on the council-chamber door. They all turned at the sound. Then the door swung open to reveal Roric’s most trusted steward, Naythn, neat in Eaglerock livery and out of breath from running. Crowding behind him, a travelstained, grim-faced man-at-arms.
Humbert felt his heart sink. “What’s amiss, man?”
“My lord, forgive the intrusion,” Nathyn said, offering a curt bow. “But I’ve a man here sent by Lord Wido, in the Marches. Inskip.” He urged the man-at-arms forward. “Tell Lord Humbert and the council your news.”
Stubble-cheeked Inskip, his build wiry, his skin seasoned like old leather beneath his chain mail and padded doublet, touched dirty fingers to his widow’s-peaked forehead in salute.
“My lords. There’s been a murder, and more blood spilled on account of it. Lord Wido sends me for to tell you the duke must convene a Crown Court, no delay.”
“A Crown Court?” Humbert echoed. “That’s a drastic request, man. Why can’t Wido and Jacott settle this themselves? They have the authority. Indeed, ’tis their purpose.”
The man-at-arms shook his head. “My lord, ever since that black day Lord Wido’s tried reasoning with Harcia, but he has no joy in it. Their Marcher lords cry innocent, they claim they’re the ones wronged, and Aimery drags his heels. In truth, I think he waits for Clemen’s response.”
“Who’s murdered?” said Aistan, rancor forgotten in the face of fresh disaster.
“The wife to one of Clemen’s Marcher woodsmen, my lord. Bayard of Harcia’s men did come across her lonesome, and thought to make sport of her, against her will. Me and a handful more of Lord Wido’s men, we heard her screaming.” Inskip looked down, his face dark with memory. “But we were too late, my lords. And caught bloody-handed with their britches down and their cocks waving, Bayard’s men did their best to keep themselves from justice.”
“And succeeded?” Vidar said sharply. “For shame.”
Inskip’s head jerked up. “Two of us were killed trying to take them, my lord. Three of them died, resisting. The other three, wounded, did flee. Me and Lord Wido’s other man left breathing, we dursn’t go after them. By law Clemen can’t set foot in the Harcian Marches without leave, as your lordships must know.”
“Yet these Harcian ruffians did not fear to accost a Clemen woman on our soil?”
“My lord, they accosted the woodsman’s wife along Marches Way, as is counted no-man’s-land and open to all.”
“Open to all brazen butchery!” Scarwid said, visibly moved. “And rape! Lord Humbert, these are pernicious tidings! Surely we must—”
Humbert jabbed a pointed finger. “Clap tongue, Scarwid. Nathyn—”
Nathyn stepped forward. “My lord?”
“Show Wido’s man-at-arms to food and comfort. As for you, Inskip—”
The man touched fingers to forehead again. “Iss, my lord?”
“Go with His Grace’s steward and hold yourself ready. You’ll be wanted again soon enough.”
“Iss, my lord.”
As the two men withdrew, Humbert stamped across the flagstoned floor to the chamber’s narrow, iron-barred window. He needed his back to Aistan and the others. Couldn’t afford to show them his face, else they see every murderous thought rioting in his skull.
Peace with Harcia, Roric? Go begging to Aimery for help? Trust those bastards because they sent you sweet, wooing words and an old ring? Not till I’ve taken my last breath, I swear.
“Humbert…” Heavy footsteps behind him, as Aistan approached. “Megrimed or not, and no matter your leech’s advice, Roric must come back to Eaglerock. He must formally convene a Cro
wn Court so this bloody business can be dealt with.”
He looked down at his clenched fists. Felt his heart clench in his chest. “Aistan—”
“No, Humbert!” Aistan took his shoulder. Pulled him about. “These murders demand justice, and there can be no delay. You heard what Inskip said. Aimery is watching. If we show timid, Harcia will grow bold.”
“I know that,” he said, staring past Aistan’s angry face to look at the faces of their fellow councillors. Every man was alarmed. Even Ercole had stirred out of habitual peevishness and spite. “But a Crown Court is no trifling matter. Before distressing Roric with this news we should learn more of these murders, then ponder the pitfalls of any action and—”
“Humbert, are you gone mad?” Vidar demanded. “You’re not this duchy’s regent, to play at being duke. Roric must be told of this, so he can act swiftly and decisively to put Harcia in its place. You’ve no authority to pronounce yea or nay on that, or decide what Roric should or shouldn’t know.”
“I have every authority!” he said, chin jutting. “Given me by Roric himself. And I say—”
“You’ve no authority to usurp him! Did he lie senseless somewhere, or dead, perhaps you might—” A sharply indrawn breath, as Vidar’s one good eye widened. “Fuck. Humbert–where is Roric?”
“What?” said Scarwid, the word a strangled yelp. “Vidar? What are you saying?”
With his twisting limp, Vidar came closer. “Humbert knows what I’m saying. Don’t you, Humbert.”
“Answer Vidar, my lord,” said Aistan, the lines in his face carved deeper now with cold suspicion. “Where is our duke?”
Like a cornered stag, he had nowhere to run. He and the boy had agreed that, should it be needful, he’d tell the council the truth of their duke’s whereabouts. But not in his wildest dreaming had he thought it would come to this.
Curse Aimery. Curse Bayard. Curse every Harcian born.
“Where’s Roric?” he roared. “Not deposed by foul means, by me, if that’s what you’re thinking!”
Hands on hips, meanly triumphant, Ercole swaggered forward. “But he’s not unwell, either. Is he?”
“He is not,” Humbert admitted, knowing to his chagrin that he’d flushed red. “Roric’s gone to Cassinia. He pleads Clemen’s plight with the prince’s regents, in hopes to secure better terms for the duchy’s merchants and the right to trade again in Ardenn.”
“Cassinia?” Incredulous, Aistan looked to Vidar, then the others. “He’s in Cassinia?”
“That’s what I said, Aistan. It’s good to know you’re not deaf.”
“But–Cassinia?”
“Well, I suppose he could’ve gone to Danetto, but since the regents aren’t to be found in Danetto, I—”
“Who travels with him? Surely he doesn’t risk himself alone?”
Humbert tugged at his beard. That was another argument he’d had with stubborn Roric. One he’d as good as lost. But he wasn’t about to confess as much to Aistan.
“No,” he said, repressive. “His Grace is not alone. And more than that I’m not permitted to say.”
Vidar’s face was tight with temper. “Whose idea was this, Humbert? Yours?”
“No, it was not. Believe what you want of me, all of you, only believe this while you’re about it. I did not favour Roric bending his knee to Cassinia’s regents. I think it a fool’s errand and so I told him. But he would go and he is the duke and I am his loyal councillor, not his father to deny him permission!”
Shaking his head, Aistan turned aside. “You’re right. I don’t like it, but you’re right. Roric is Clemen’s duke. He may speak for his duchy however he sees fit.”
“Without so much as a passing thought for our advice?” said Ercole, bristling. “I find that offensive.”
“And I find you offensive, Ercole, but there you have it,” Aistan snapped. “We’re both of us limed fast in what can’t be changed. Besides. The spirits know we’re in desperate need of a remedy in Cassinia. If Roric can soften the regents’ hearts to us…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I pray he can, for all our sakes. But–Humbert, when do you expect him to return?”
“I can’t say, Aistan,” he sighed. “But I’d hazard he’ll be gone another two weeks. At least.”
Despite the tension sprung up between them, their eyes met in alarmed understanding. Matters involving Harcia could swiftly tumble into calamity. They both bore the scars of desperate skirmishes in the Marches, where together they’d served Berold as younger, wilder men.
“That’s no good,” Aistan said softly. “This business with the woodsman’s wife can’t wait.”
No, it surely couldn’t. Unchecked trouble in the Marches might easily, swiftly, spill over into Clemen. They had no choice. On Roric’s behalf the council must declare a Crown Court.
And if Roric doesn’t like it, if he fears it might risk the chance of friendship with Aimery? Well. Won’t that teach the boy not to jaunt off on a whim.
“Very well,” he said briskly. “We’ll send Inskip back to Wido with instructions to inform Harcia’s Marcher lords they’re to prepare for a Crown Court, and that he and Jacott should do likewise.”
“And who’ll preside there for Clemen?” said Ercole. “You, Humbert?”
“Of course,” said Scarwid, for once not hiding his mislike of the little shite. “Lacking His Grace, who else? Certainly not you, Ercole.”
As they fell into fresh squabbling, Humbert was struck with a notion almost blinding in its clarity. Letting his gaze shift surreptitious to Vidar, he came near to laughing out loud. For in her sad misfortune, the woodsman’s wife had done him a grand good turn. Had given him the perfect chance to rid Roric of his secret enemy and remove Lindara from temptation without any man at court being privy to his purpose.
“My lords!” he said, and clapped his hands. “Must I send you to bed without your supper?”
Scarwid and Ercole turned away from each other like chastened brats. Paying them no heed, Aistan fingered his chin. “You can’t preside at a Crown Court alone, Humbert. For Clemen’s dignity, if no other reason. I can—”
He punched a light fist to Aistan’s shoulder. “My thanks, but no, old friend. I’d have you learn the truth of those corrupted animal leeches you saw fit to arrest.”
“But you must have—”
“I’ll take Vidar with me,” he said. “For, like us, he’s experienced in the Marches, and knows too well the taste of Harcia’s treachery. Isn’t that so, Vidar?”
Vidar bowed, the scars on his face hiding whatever he was thinking… or feeling. “Indeed, my lord.”
“Then we’re agreed?” Humbert spread his arms wide. “Vidar and I will seek justice for Clemen in a Crown Court. In my absence, Aistan will oversee whatever daily matters that arise. And this council shall continue its good shepherding of the duchy till Roric returns from Cassinia… with good news, spirits willing.”
Exchanged glances. Then a murmuring of agreement.
“Excellent,” he said, nodding. “Then I declare our business here done.” He offered Vidar the blandest of smiles. “Come, my lord. There is much to do and discuss ere we leave for the Marches.”
Cassinia’s duchy of Rebbai grew green and prosperous and sweetly scented beneath a gentle sun. As he rode a succession of carefully purchased horses hard across its rolling countryside, lavishly patchworked with barley and oats and rye, and past vineyards drunk with ripening grapes, Roric thought of bewildered Clemen–here parched, there sodden–and was dismayed. When his horse’s drumming hooves stirred fat brindled cattle and black-faced sheep in their lush pastures to eye-rolling alarm, he remembered the bonfires his people made of Clemen’s butchered, blistermouthed ewes and rams. How for days at a time his duchy’s air stank of charred meat and bones and burned fleece. How the stench had woken nightmares of Heartsong, leaving him sweaty and reluctant to sleep. And he remembered what the man Bellows, who Master Blane insisted must ride with him on this mad venture, had told him as
they sailed from Eaglerock harbour to Gevez, Rebbai’s main seafaring port. Most folk he knew, Bellows glumly confided, were feeding their families pigs’ feet and ox tail and little more nourishing than that, besides eggs. And the eggs only two or three, no more than thrice a week.
The fear in Bellows’ eyes–and worse, the hope–had left him clumsily speechless. But it also hardened his resolve to wring concessions from Cassinia’s regents. The principality was so rich. It could afford mercy, and generosity. And since it seemed the regents had forgotten that, it was his task to remind them.
It rained twice and stormed once on the long ride from the coast to the Prince’s Isle. Undeterred, Roric pushed on. Coming to Cassinia in this fashion was a fearful risk. He couldn’t afford to shrink from a little rain or lightning. Bellows, a good man, didn’t complain. Only pulled his oiled-leather cloak’s hood lower, and joked that at least the foul weather would keep the brigands indoors.
But in a good sign, they were never held to ransom by troublemakers. That was thanks to Bellows, who knew Rebbai’s byways and bridle tracks better than a native, and made sure to keep them well off the traders’ routes. Their horses stayed sound. The inns they slept in didn’t rob them. And they were accosted by the duke of Rebbai’s men-at-arms just once–as they skirted the duchy’s sprawling capital to rejoin the main road leading to the Prince’s Isle. Even then, their luck held. Master Blane was known and respected. His travel papers and his personal letter of authority for his men were accepted without dispute.
Roric made sure to express his appreciation with a generous gift of coin.
They passed out of Rebbai and into the Prince’s Isle with no trouble. Long ago, the Isle’s royal territories had encompassed vast tracts of Cassinia. In those dead days the dukes had been under-thumb, no more than timid, obedient vassals to the crown. But as the fortunes of the royal house ebbed, like a slow tide, so did Cassinia’s dukes grow bold and crafty. One by one, little by little, they challenged the weakening royal authority. Castle by castle, year by year, and prince after hapless prince, they amassed their own power. And what they took they held, and never gave back. The Prince’s Isle shrank steadily, till what had been a great realm became a mere memory of greatness.
