by Karen Miller
Killed for him, did she? Well. And so did I.
“No, no,” Willem hiccuped, clutching the girl’s lifeless hand, his face hidden against her breast. “Don’t be dead. Ye can’t be dead.”
Remembering how she’d grieved for Diggin, Molly pressed trembling fingers to her lips. She wanted to weep too, though Iddo was dry-eyed. But she’d not whip herself. She’d done what she’d done and she couldn’t undo it. Wouldn’t if she could. Willem was her family, just like Benedikt and Iddo. She’d never beg pardon for keeping her family safe.
But kneeling there, in the lamplight, battered by Willem’s stormy grief… she was sorry to have hurt him. Still, he was just a little boy. Time would pass, and he’d forget this night and its cruel pain.
Forget Ellyn. Forget Liam. And forget he was a duke.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Standing before the window in Wido’s oak-pannelled library, feeling the sharp ache in his daggered arm, Humbert stared across the mole-pocked lawn to the straggling woodland that fringed the manor’s unkempt grounds. Summer in the Marches started late and lived a short life. Wood burned in the fireplace, flames crackling loud and smoky. The chimney wouldn’t draw cleanly. Poor household management. But that was Wido, wasn’t it? Half-arsed. No proper judgement. Scant wonder the man was dead and order in the Marches lying in ruins around his corpse.
Almost he could wish Wido’s crime had been enriching himself at Roric’s expense. But no. The shite had spent his trusted time in the Marches squabbling with Harcia’s Bayard and Egbert, pursuing petty vendettas against them and their Marcher men while turning a blind eye to his own men’s misconduct. Within a day of his arrival here, he’d sniffed out Wido’s failings. Yes, and Jacott’s too. A pair of rotten peas in the same fucking pod.
And we in Eaglerock were fool enough, complacent enough, to take Wido and Jacott’s reports at face value and dismiss Harcian complaints as shite-stirring. But no more.
Brooding, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. It sat ill to reward Vidar when the bastard deserved beheading. But try as he might he could think of no better remedy. Clemen was already precarious. Its brittle nerve could never withstand Lindara’s wicked plot coming to light. No. He’d brought Vidar with him intending to leave the cockshite behind in exile, as punishment for daring to touch Roric’s wife. He must stay his course. So long as he kept a close watch on Godebert’s son–and he’d already sent for Egann to be his eyes and ears here–all would be well.
The library door opened. He heard the limping cockshite and his walking cane tap-and-drag into the room. Heard the door shut, then Vidar clear his throat.
“You wanted to see me?”
He turned. Vidar was leaning heavily on his cane, his one-eyed gaze wary. Not a knife-mark did he carry from the bloody debacle at the Pig Whistle, but the herb-woman who’d done her best for Clemen’s wounded, and then come to the manor house that morning to see how they were faring, claimed Vidar was badly knocked about, his damaged hip hurt again. And true enough, he did look to be walking worse than ever. But looks could be deceiving. Vidar’s looks most of all.
Six years on the council, nodding and smiling. Six years pretending he had Roric’s interests at heart. And all that time…
Humbert clenched his jaw. Every time he believed his rage conquered it woke again, and he wanted to knock Vidar to the floor and beat the shite to death with his bare fists.
“Humbert?”
“Tell me, Vidar,” he said, jutting his chin, “how long have you been fucking my daughter?”
The look on Vidar’s face was an admission of guilt. Not that there was any doubt.
“Answer me. You’re crippled, not deaf.”
Too late, Vidar tried to pretend. “If that’s a jest, it’s a poor one.”
“Jest? Vidar, you cockshite, it’s treason. How long?”
“I admit nothing!” Vidar said hotly. “Who accuses me, my lord?”
“No man. You accused yourself. When you danced with Lindara at your betrothal feast. So many people betrayed in one afternoon. Like father, like son. Godebert would be proud.”
The amethysts gold-stitched to Vidar’s dark blue doublet shivered light as his breathing changed. A muscle leapt along his tight jaw. Under his spoiled eye, a nervous tic.
Glowering, Humbert raised a warning finger. “Don’t waste your breath denying this. I know. I have confessions. Lindara. Her maid. And the witch.”
Instead of protesting he knew nothing of any witch, Vidar swallowed. “You’d see your daughter ruined by the taint of sorcery?”
“Ah.” He breathed out, slowly. “So you knew the woman she used to ruin Roric was foul.”
His one eye glittering, Vidar eased his bad hip. Seemed prepared to go on blustering… then abruptly surrendered. “Not till recently. I thought she was—” He sighed. “But I doubt you care what I thought. Or believe that I’d have kept Lindara from her, had I known.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
“You think me a traitor.”
“Think?” The urge to beat and batter rose again, blinding. “You pissing whoreson! She’s the wife of your duke!”
“An unwilling wife!” Vidar’s voice was shaking. “Wed to a man who never deserved her. Who never cared for her, not truly. Not like I do.”
Humbert stared, disbelieving. “What womanish drivel is this? Have you never heard of honour?”
“You think Roric has honour? He married Lindara knowing I loved her. Thinking I held my love so cheap that I could be bought with dirt and grass and a seat on his council.”
“And you were bought!” Sweating, Humbert clutched at a nearby straight-backed chair. “Like a two-copper whore you took what Roric offered–then you turned traitor and spat in his face. You planned to put your bastard son on the Falcon Throne!”
Vidar straightened, the effort blanching his unscarred cheek. “Fine. I’m a traitor. But we both know I’m not the only one.”
“What?”
“You think I don’t know how you threatened Lindara, to make her wed with Roric against her will?” Vidar’s face twisted with contempt. “What man who loves his daughter would treat her like that?”
“And what man with a daughter would see her wed with the likes of you?”
“Aistan.”
Humbert snorted. “To his everlasting shame.”
They glared at each other, the air between them thick with loathing. A faint splattering sound, as rain began to spit against the window.
“So?” Vidar said harshly. “What now? For as much as we both know you want to kick my corpse, you can’t afford to call my life forfeit. Not when you’re desperate to keep this matter close.”
Jaw tightened to breaking point, he scowled. “Don’t be too sure.”
“But I am sure,” Vidar retorted. “You love Roric too much to let it come to light. You love yourself even more. What a shame you didn’t think to kill me yesterday. You could’ve blamed my death on a Harcian and no one would ever know.”
“Believe me, I was tempted.”
But with Vidar dead he’d never trust Lindara to keep her mouth shut. Godebert’s son breathing was his only way to keep her tame.
“Come, Humbert,” Vidar said, near to taunting. His old self again. “Don’t play coy. I’d know my fate.”
Humbert released his hold on the chair. “As soon as Jacott can travel, if he doesn’t die, I’ll be leaving for Eaglerock with him, and Wido’s body, and their families. You’ll stay behind. I’m giving you Clemen’s Marches, Vidar. And your life will depend on you keeping the peace.”
“You’re mad,” Vidar said, after a choked silence. “You expect me to rot in this forsaken place? For how long?”
“You’ll not limp back into Eaglerock before Lindara’s given Roric two healthy sons. At least. Clemen will have its future, and you’re no part of that. You failed, Vidar, you and my daughter and that whore of a witch you found.”
Despite the fire, the room was chilly…
but a bead of sweat rolled down the side of Vidar’s face. It almost looked like a tear.
“You have no right,” he whispered. “Roric is duke in Clemen. Not you. If he—”
“Roric’s been guided by me since he was seven. If I tell him you’re best suited here, then here is where you’ll stay.”
A short, bitter laugh. “And you call me a cockshite. Humbert—” Vidar’s fingers were white on his walking cane. “I saved your life yesterday. Is this how you’d thank me?”
“You’re not owed thanks. You’ve been fucking your duke’s wife.”
Vidar took a lurching step forward. “My wife, Humbert. In my heart, she’s my wife.”
More sentimental slop. Some faery had addled the bastard’s wits. “In your heart and nowhere else, Vidar. Stop thinking you can sway me. Lindara is lost to you. And I swear, if you fight me on this I’ll see that she suffers for the rest of her life. Then I’ll have your head for a paperweight and take my chances after.”
Vidar knew him well enough to know that was no idle threat. He seemed to shrink, his confidence shrivelling. In his face a stark and genuine grief. Seeing it, Humbert felt an unwanted pang of sympathy.
“Godebert was ever a weak and profligate lord,” he said roughly. “Watching you grow from boy to man, Vidar, I had hopes you’d redeem him. And you did, somewhat. In your early years. For certain you’ve never lacked physical courage. I can admire you for that much.”
“High praise,” Vidar said, savagely sarcastic.
“No. A brute beast has physical courage. More is asked of a man.”
Silence, as Vidar contemplated his fate. “And so I’m disposed of,” he murmured, at last. “Out of sight… and out of mind.”
“And it’s more than you deserve. Though I’ll say this. Despite what you’ve done, I know you love Clemen. Your treachery is personal. Born of weak, slighted feeling.”
“Does that mean I keep Coldspring? And my other estates?”
He had to leave the man with some hope, else risk him doing something worse. “If you behave yourself. If you make it plain to Roric that serving him here is your heart’s desire and serve him well, then yes, you’ll keep your property. And because I’m not a cruel man, I’ll let you have Aistan’s spoiled daughter to wife.” He shook his head, wearied with disgust. “Get a son of your own on her, Vidar. You owe that to Clemen, if not Godebert. Our duchy needs all the strong sons it can breed. Keep peace in the Marches. As close as my eye will be on you, keep yours close on Harcia. What Aimery does next will decide if it’s to be peace between us, or war.”
Vidar hesitated, then cleared his throat. “And yesterday’s bloodshed? The letter, and the man who brought it? His murder by Balfre’s man?”
“Never you mind on that,” said Humbert. “You can leave that to me.”
Crushed with disappointment, Aimery fingered the torn letter Balfre had given him. There was dried mud on it. Dried blood. But though some of the words were obscured, he could read enough to know they spelled the death of any hope he’d had for peace with Clemen.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Balfre said, subdued. “I wish I came with better news.”
“There’s no doubt Roric wrote this?”
“None. Humbert confirmed it is his hand.”
“And he killed Bayard?”
“Yes.”
“And Vidar slaughtered Egbert?”
“I saw it.”
He frowned. “Vidar’s a cripple.”
“That didn’t stop him from trying to slit my throat.” Balfre retorted, and pulled down his shirt.
Aimery stared at the scabbed dagger-cut in his son’s flesh. “You never said you were wounded.”
“I bled a little. That’s all.”
“All?” said Grefin, standing with his back to the privy chamber’s unshuttered window. “You nearly died.”
His face was disciplined, but Aimery knew his younger son. Grefin was anguished by Roric’s duplicity.
As I am. I offered him peace and friendship. He answered me with slaughter.
Both his Marcher lords murdered, and all of their men. His lax hand trembled on the arm of his chair.
“Your Grace—” Balfre dropped to one knee. “May I speak plainly?”
In the face of dire provocation, this reckless son had conducted himself with remarkable restraint. There was hope for him after all… and cause for pride.
He nodded. “You may.”
“I know you dream of a lasting peace with Clemen. Harald made it impossible, but I think you felt there could be a fresh start with Roric.”
“I did, Balfre,” he said, fighting the urge to look at Grefin. “A wise ruler seeks peace.”
“Yes. But he must be careful where he places his trust. Roric has proven that base blood will out. He’s a festering thorn and must be plucked from Harcia’s flesh before he poisons us all.”
Aimery watched the muddied, bloodied letter slip out of his grasp. Flutter like an autumn leaf to the floor. “You want war.”
“Want?” Balfre clenched his fists. “Never. But Clemen has butchered two of our lords. Would you have Roric think he can kill us without consequence? Have Harcia’s lords think you’ll see them buried unavenged?”
“You hope to insult me into warfare?”
Balfre stood. “No, my lord. But you—”
“I share your anger, Balfre,” Grefin said quietly. “But there’s blame here on both sides. Bayard and Egbert were often contentious with Wido and Jacott. And our Marcher men followed their lords’ poor example.”
Balfre snatched up the fallen letter and brandished it at both of them. “So you’d discard proof in Roric’s own hand that he’d deal falsely with Harcia? Father—” Tumultuous, Balfre dropped to his knee again. “Must the proof be written in your blood before I have leave to act?”
Moved by his angry fear, Aimery rested a hand on his son’s head. “Before we make countless Harcian widows? Yes, Balfre. It must. But keeping my sword sheathed is not the same as trusting Roric. I will never trust Clemen’s duke again.”
“Nor should you, my lord. The bastard played you false.” Balfre sighed. “Father… I’d make a suggestion. For on the ride home from the Marches I gave our dilemma much thought.”
Aimery sat back. “What would you have me do?”
“Thanks to Grefin, we have order in the Green Isle. Let me bring that same order to the Marches. Grant me the authority to uphold the law in your name. Make me your Marcher lord.”
Aimery tapped a finger to his chin. “A moment ago you were urging me to war. Yet a Marcher lord’s first duty is keeping the peace.”
“That’s true,” Balfre admitted. “But a weak peace is no strength. A weak peace leads to bloodshed. I can uphold Marcher law and give Clemen reason to think twice before spilling any more Harcian blood.”
“It’s not a bad idea, Father,” said Grefin. “As your heir, Balfre’s authority is unassailable. I doubt Roric would dare test him.”
What treacherous Roric would do, he could no longer imagine. “Perhaps,” he said, frowning. “But Balfre–a Marcher lord must be concerned with every man’s welfare. Could you deal fairly with Clemen if a man of Harcia was found in the wrong?”
“Yes, my lord,” Balfre said, still kneeling. Not humble, for he could never be that, but with his natural arrogance tempered, at last. “Which I think you know, or you wouldn’t have sent me to speak for you at the Crown Court.”
No, he’d sent Balfre to the Crown Court to prove himself trustworthy.
And when he could’ve slaughtered Humbert, slaughtered Vidar, wreaked his vengeance upon Clemen, he stayed his hand and came home to seek my guidance.
What else should Balfre do to prove himself worthy of trust?
“You’d need another lord to aid you. The Marches are too big for one man.”
“I’d take Waymon, Your Grace.”
“Not Joben? Or Lowis? Or even Paithan?”
“No,” Balfre said, regretful. “Harcia nee
ds Joben’s voice on the council. Lowis’s health is uncertain. And with Herewart growing feeble, Paithan should be close at hand. His father will need him far more than I.”
“Waymon,” said Grefin, uneasy. “I know he’s your friend, Balfre, and I’d not smear him, but…”
“He can be wild,” Balfre said, looking at his brother. “But he saved my life in the Marches. In time he’ll season. If he’s given the chance.” He almost smiled. “As I have.”
Aimery pinched the bridge of his nose. Waymon wouldn’t be his choice, either. But Balfre had earned the right to decide. Just as he’d earned the right to rule the Marches.
“Very well, Balfre. You are my Marcher lord.”
Balfre leapt up, brilliantly smiling. “Thank you, Your Grace. I swear on my honour, I’ll not disappoint.”
“I know.” He released an unsteady breath. “Now, you’ve come to me straight from the road, weary and travel-stained after much hard riding, and though you keep close counsel I know you’re heartsore over Bayard and Egbert and our slaughtered men. Eat, sleep, and put aside sorrow for a time.”
“Your Grace,” said Balfre, and turned. “Grefin.”
Grefin crossed to his brother, folded him into an embrace. “I’m proud of you, Balfre. I doubt I’d have kept my head, if I’d been there.”
As Balfre departed, Aimery let himself slump. His weakened body was trembling, and grief threatened to break free.
Grefin reached for him. “Father—”
“Don’t, Grefin,” he said harshly. “There’s nothing you can say. Balfre is right. Clemen has ever been greedy and deceitful. Shame on me for thinking that could change.”
“Not shame,” said Grefin, his voice thick. “Never shame. There can’t be shame in an honest seeking after peace.”
He shuddered. “Say as much to Bayard and Egbert. See if they agree.”
“Father—”
“No, Grefin.” He raised a defensive hand. “You mean well, and I’m glad you badgered me into letting you stay in Cater’s Tamwell till Balfre returned. But I’d be alone. Go and play with your children. They’ll be grown and you’ll be an old man, soon enough.”
