by Karen Miller
“The duke knows that, Arthgallo,” said Humbert. “And he’s agreed to a proper leeching. Isn’t that so, Your Grace?”
“A proper leeching?” Arthgallo was staring at Humbert, his wild eyebrows lowered. “Purges too? Blood cleansing? A balancing of the humours and restoration of the male parts?”
Humbert was staring too. He looked like he wanted to tug his beard. “Didn’t I say a proper leeching? Clean the wax from your ears, Arthgallo.”
“My lord Humbert—”
“Clap tongue, man! We agreed to this!”
“Wait,” said Roric, looking from the leech to his foster-lord. Male parts? He wants to purge my male parts? “You’ve been deciding for me in my absence? Humbert—”
“And you clap tongue too, boy!” Humbert said, close to snarling. “You agreed, not an hour ago. Your health is Clemen’s health and I’ll do what I must to see both in proper mettle. So you’ll swallow what pills and potions you’re given, no mimbling and no questions–unless you’d see every curs’t hope we’ve worked and bled for come to naught.”
A gentle touch to his arm. “Your Grace,” Arthgallo said softly, “all I want is for you to be well.”
“And Lindara? Can you promise me she’ll be well?”
“Promise, Your Grace? Leechery is no place for promises. But I’m confident. Yes. I’ll say that.”
Looking into the leech’s gaunt face, Roric could see only earnest good intent. But he was coming to learn, painfully, that he was a man who could be fooled.
“The herbs my wife took, Arthgallo, that have made her so sick. Where did she get them?”
Arthgallo met his gaze without flinching. “Not from me, Your Grace.”
“Then where?”
“I told you!” said Humbert. “She trusted some travelling herbary woman. Heard a foolish maid babbling of wondrous cures. The woman’s gone now. Forget her. Arthgallo—”
The leech turned. “Yes, my lord. The body remains intact. Barely. Even with my best efforts it—”
“Body?” Roric frowned. “What body?”
Arthgallo gestured towards the leechery’s rear chamber. “This way, Your Grace.”
There was, indeed, a body. Rotting and rank. Naked. Crammed into a wooden box packed with damp sawdust and blocks of softening ice. Not even Arthgallo’s most pungent remedies, or the bunches of fresh herbs hung from the ceiling beams, or the sacks and barrels of dried herbs crowding the room, could disguise the stench.
Halted in front of the trestle bearing the stinking corpse, Roric pressed his forearm to his nose and mouth. “By the spirits, Humbert. That’s foul.”
“Everything about this is foul.” Humbert nodded at Arthgallo. “Amuse yourself elsewhere. We’ll call you when we’re done.”
“Of course, my lord,” said Arthgallo. “Take your time. I shall prepare a strengthening tincture for His Grace.”
As the door closed behind the leech, Humbert jerked his chin at the body. “Look at his face, Roric. D’you know him?”
“What face? Humbert—”
“Curse it, Roric. Look at him! Is he yours?”
Breathing shallowly, he stared at the monstrosity that once had been a man. “I need more light.”
Humbert snatched up a glowing horn lamp from a nearby crowded bench and held it over the corpse. “Well?”
“Why would you think he’s mine?” he said, looking more closely.
“He was wearing a falcon badge when he died.”
The dead man was of medium height. Medium build. Thin before the bloating, and stringy with muscle. Cropped brown hair, crusted with dried blood. A long, narrow face. A pointed chin. Perhaps the nose had been hooked, once. But so much of that face was dagger-slashed and boot-crushed, lips half-torn off, teeth broken. He doubted the dead man’s mother would know him. But even so…
He stepped back. “He’s not mine.”
“You’re certain?”
Abruptly, patience deserted him. “Enough mystery, Humbert! What is this about?”
Instead of answering, Humbert thumped the lamp on the trestle beside the corpse and turned away. Fingers tugging at his beard, he muttered something under his breath. Then he swung round, his eyes glittering.
“Did you write to me from Cassinia?”
“Write to you?” he said, bewildered. “No.”
“You sent no letter, ordering me to seek the death of Harcia’s Marcher men. To abandon any hope of justice in a Crown Court, or friendship with Harcia’s duke.”
Roric felt a chill of dread run through him. “I wrote you no letter. And falcon badge or not, I don’t know this man. And now you’ll answer me, Humbert. What the fuck is going on?”
Beard tucked in, his gaze distant, Humbert was tapping calloused fingers to his chest. “There was a letter. This butchered man, wearing a falcon badge, carried it. And I’d have sworn your hand held the pen that wrote it. Vidar agreed. But—”
“Show it to me.”
Humbert shook his head. “I can’t. I looked for it after that curs’t skirmish, but the road was shambled to a slop of blood and mud. The letter’s lost. As it was I nearly didn’t retrieve the body.” He tugged at his beard. “Fuck.”
A spike of pain was pounding through his skull. “What?”
“My life on it, Roric.” Humbert was near to spitting, his face reddened with rage. “This is Balfre’s doing. It was his man Waymon claimed he was attacked, by him—” He jerked a thumb at the corpse. “—unprovoked. And it was Waymon daggered the life out of him and dropped him dead at our feet and afterwards tried to stop me claiming the corpse. If he’d not fainted from loss of blood…” His fists were clenched, his jaw working. “They were trying to start trouble and couldn’t afford him being questioned–or you seeing his murdered body.”
“So you think all of this was Balfre’s doing? He forged a letter in my name, killed a man, to cause strife?”
“Yes.”
“But Humbert…” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Murder, I’ll grant you. I’d believe Balfre capable of that. But forgery? How could he? I never wrote to him.”
Humbert’s eyes narrowed. “You wrote to his brother.”
“You’re saying Balfre and Grefin conspired together. With Aimery too, I suppose. My lord, this is—”
“Who else, Roric? If not Aimery and his cockshite sons, who else?”
No. No. What Humbert was suggesting? No. Because if his foster-lord was right then he really was no more than a blind fool, a gullible child, tricked by Harcia’s duke into believing a lie.
“Whoever it was betrayed Clemen to Cassinia’s regents.”
“What?” Humbert choked. “You’d accuse one of us? Roric—”
“No, Humbert, listen!” he said, desperate to be heard. “I was right. The regents’ steward all but told me. Our miseries in Cassinia are the fault of—”
“Who?” Humbert spat, his disbelief like acid. “Did this steward give you a name?”
“No. But—”
“But nothing!” Humbert banged a fist to the corpse’s trestle. “That treachery belonged to one of the widow’s people. This treachery belongs to Aimery, Balfre and Grefin. A one-eyed mule could see it! But not you. You look for one of your own lords to blame. What the fuck’s gone awry with you, boy?”
Red and black spots, dancing before his eyes. In his ears a distant roaring. The stinking chamber spun like a plate atop a jongler’s stick.
“Enough, Humbert! You forget yourself. I might not be Harald, wanting every man to bow and scrape, but—”
The spinning room spun harder. His mouth dried. His lungs emptied. All he could smell was death. He felt his eyes roll back and started to fall.
A strong arm caught him.
“There now, there now,” Humbert murmured, guiding him to the stone floor. “Worn to rags, you are, just like Arthgallo said, and what a fool I am to ignore it. Head down. Breathe deep.” A moment, then a handful of dried meadowsweet was pressed against his face. “This’ll e
ase the stink. Breathe, boy. And lean on me.”
Shivering, humiliated, Roric let himself slump against Humbert’s broad, robed chest. Felt Humbert cradle the back of his neck. He’d fallen like this when he was told Guimar was dead. Humbert had held him then, too. Been his bulwark to lean on, his shelter in the storm. He drew in a shuddering, scented breath, then pushed aside his foster-lord’s herb-filled hand.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Humbert retorted. “Be still. And tell me what happened in Cassinia.”
The last thing he wanted to talk of was Cassinia. But like an arrow in flesh, the truth had to be plucked out.
“I failed, Humbert. The prince’s regents won’t bend. They wouldn’t even see me. I went all that way for nothing.”
Silence. Then Humbert sighed. “Not for nothing. The loss of false hope isn’t nothing. And it was a false hope, Roric, to think Cassinia’s regents would save us.”
“Like forging peace with Harcia was a false hope?”
“You know the saying. If it’s peace you want, prepare for war.”
“Humbert…”
“Harcia covets Clemen, Roric. It always has. That won’t change.”
“But I wanted it to,” he whispered. “And I thought–Humbert, I honestly thought—”
“I know you did, boy. You were wrong.”
“About everything, it seems.” He rubbed the heel of his hand across his burning eyes. “Berold’s blood runs thin in me.”
Humbert cuffed him. “Clap tongue on that.”
The time-smoothed granite flagstones beneath him were chilly. Despite his leather leggings, the cold was seeping into his bones. And he was Clemen’s duke. He couldn’t sit here like a child for the rest of the night. With a warning shrug, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. Humbert let him go.
“So, my lord,” he said, forcing himself to calm indifference. “Is it to be open warfare between Clemen and Harcia?”
Some pained grunting, as Humbert stood. “Perhaps. Much will depend on what you do next.”
“Here’s what I won’t do. I won’t pour oil on the fire Aimery has lit. If he’s so desperate for war let him be the one to start it, in the open, without any provocation from us.”
Humbert glanced up from dusting his hands free of dried meadowsweet. “And if he does?”
“Then I’ll do what I must to protect Clemen. But only if Aimery–or his sons–strike first. We have troubles enough to contend with as it is.” He rubbed his eyes again. “Who killed Harcia’s Marcher lords? Do you know?”
“I don’t.” Humbert’s face tightened with bleak memory. “It was a bloody rout, Roric. We were fighting for our lives. I saw Balfre’s man Waymon slaughter Wido. Tried to reach him, but…”
“And Jacott?”
“I didn’t see who gutted him. And he doesn’t recall. But does it matter which Harcian hand held the dagger?”
“I suppose not.” Turning, Roric frowned at the corpse on the trestle. “Still. I wish I knew—”
Humbert jabbed a pointed finger. “We know enough.”
Yes. They did. And now here he stood amidst the ruins of his childish, faery-fed dreams, soaked in the stench of death.
“You did well, Humbert,” he said, trying to smile. “However bad it was, if you’d not been there…” He shivered. “I don’t want to think of it. Only—”
“What?” Humbert prompted.
“Why name Vidar as Marcher lord?”
“Because we have no man better suited to the task,” said Humbert, beard bristling. “Vidar knows the law. He knows the Marches. Crippled and half-blind, he held his own against Harcia. He saved my life. Our Marcher men have seen he’s not to be trifled with. What’s more, Harcia has seen it. And he wants to serve.”
“Even so. Surely Aistan, or Scarwid, or—”
“They’d go if you commanded it, but not willingly. They have their established lives and they serve a purpose on the council. Roric…” Humbert smoothed his beard. “If you must know, Vidar’s not happy in Eaglerock.”
Wilfully forgotten guilt stirred. “Because of Lindara?”
“What? Humbert blinked at him, startled. “No. That was a trifling fancy, long dead. No. Roric, too many still see Vidar as Godebert’s son. It may not be just, but the stain of his father’s misdoings has never washed clean. He knows it. He feels it. In the Marches he’ll be his own man. He’ll be judged by what he does, not what his dead father did. He’ll thrive there, you’ll see. He’s to wed Aistan’s daughter. The one Harald—” He frowned. “You know. It’s a fresh start for him. He’s earned it. And he’ll keep Clemen safe. Remember how well he served you at Heartsong? Trust me, Vidar will keep that cockshite Balfre in line.”
Surprised by Humbert’s praise, he frowned. “All right. If you truly think he’s the best man to serve me, I’ll confirm Vidar’s appointment. But I’d not leave him there alone.”
“He’s not alone. Egann’s with him.”
Egann. Humbert’s canny, uncorruptible, iron-forged man. Though he was weary to the point of physical pain, Roric laughed. “You’re a crafty old fox, my lord.”
“That I am,” Humbert agreed, grinning. Then his amusement faded. “Roric. There is one more thing.”
Of course. Swallowing a groan, he braced himself. “Tell me.”
“The council knows you went to Cassinia. I’m sorry, boy. I had to tell them.”
Because of the Marches. He grimaced. “They were always going to find out.”
“They won’t like the outcome.”
“No. But like me, they must learn to live with disappointment. Humbert—” His legs wanted to fold again. “Are we done? I want to sit with Lindara.”
A muscle leapt in Humbert’s cheek. “We’re done. Go. Be with your wife. I’ll stay. Arthgallo and I will see to disposing of the corpse.”
Reluctant, Roric looked at the almost-faceless dead man on the trestle. “I wonder who he was. D’you think we’ll ever know?”
“I don’t,” said Humbert. “But never fret, Roric. Clemen will avenge him all the same.”
Brooding over the corpse he’d brought home with him from the Pig Whistle, Humbert heard the small chamber’s door open again, then close, as Arthgallo came in. He waited for the leech to say something. Waited. Waited.
“What?” he demanded. “Out with it, man.”
“You know what, my lord,” Arthgallo said quietly. “I am troubled, and you know why.”
“You’ve nothing to fear. This falls on my head. Not yours.”
“So you say. I doubt His Grace would agree.”
“His Grace will never know.”
“You hope.”
Humbert turned. “He’ll never know.”
“My lord…” Arthgallo came closer, his spindly fingers clasped before him like an exarchite at prayer. His brown eyes, flecked green and gold, were wide with distress. “We should tell him the truth. It’s not too late. If we—”
“The truth would ruin him! You said it yourself, man, he’s strained to breaking already. Should he learn of my daughter’s betrayal, I fear—” Hearing his voice crack, Humbert paused. Breathed hard. “Roric is like my own flesh and blood. I won’t do that to him, Arthgallo. Say what you like, I won’t.”
Arthgallo’s distress turned to disapproval. “I understand your feelings, my lord. But he is more than a son to you. He is your duke. He is my duke. In withholding the truth from him, I commit treason.”
“D’you tell me you’ve never prevaricated with a sick man? Never lulled him a little because telling the truth would do more harm than good?”
“No, my lord. I have done so. Not often, but—”
“Well, then.”
“But this is not—”
“Yes, it is!” Taking hold of the leech’s bony shoulders, Humbert shook him. “If you confess all to Roric, you’ll set Clemen on fire. You’ll open the floodgates to Harcia and the duchy will be destroyed. That’s treason, Arthgallo. What you and I do? ’Tis
an act of loyalty. Of love. There is no treason in protecting our duke.” He stepped back. “Now. When can you start to purge Roric of the witch’s filth my daughter fed him?”
Arthgallo sighed. “On the morrow, my lord. Provided he passes an easy night.”
“Good. That’s good. Now—” With a reassuring smile, hiding his own trepidation, Humbert gestured at the burdened trestle. “Let’s see about laying this poor bastard to rest.”
Come the morning, after a difficult night beside unwaking Lindara, Roric summoned his council. Because he knew precisely what he’d be facing, he chose to meet with his lords in the Falcon Throne audience chamber. Where he might sit, and they must stand, and he could remind them who ruled as Clemen’s duke. Likewise he took immense care with his clothing. As a rule he was most comfortable in a serviceable leather doublet and huntsman’s leggings. He rarely wore his coronet. He disdained ostentatious jewels. Peacocking was for Harald and lesser men like Ercole. A man should be judged by what he did, not what he wore. He’d always believed that, and proudly lived as he thought.
But he could no longer afford to be, self-effacing and modest. The Roric who took Clemen from his cousin not because he wanted it, but because there was no one else. The Roric who could be tricked by Harcia and treated with contempt by Cassinia because they saw him as weak. Because he was weak. Because, in his heart, falling prey to self-loathing, he’d never forgiven himself for Liam’s death.
That Roric had to die.
So instead of his favourite leathers, he dressed himself in rich black velvet. Placed his coronet on his head. Pinned diamonds to his doublet and pricked a ruby through his ear. Rubies on his fingers. Gold buckles on his shoes. Wearing the wealth of Clemen, he went forth to claim his throne.
“My lords,” he said, cordial, as the council warily entered his presence. “Welcome. I won’t keep you long.”
They exchanged cautious glances: Aistan, Humbert, Farland, Scarwid and Ercole. The chamber’s doors were closed behind them. Still wary, they approached.
