by Karen Miller
“How?”
“I don’t know,” he said, after a squirmy moment. “But I have to. I promised Ellyn.”
“Willem…” Benedikt bit his lip. “I believe ye, I do, but…”
“I can prove it. There were a Clemen duke named Berold. He was my great-granda, and I’ve got his ring.”
“Where?”
“It be hidden. I’ll show ye, by and by.” He stared at his brother. “Ye do believe me? Truly?”
Slowly, Benedikt nodded. “I do. I promise. And I won’t peep a word.”
There was a girl living in Clemen’s Marcher lands who was ready to drop her husband’s first son. Knowing Izusa as a fine healer, the woodsman had parted with coin he could ill afford, to be sure the birth was sweet. But his wife was badly built for breeding and he was a brute. His rutting had half-ruined the girl already and his child was set to do the rest. Having seen in the stones what must come to pass, and when, and needing a fresh baby’s head, Izusa had taken the man’s money and promised to do all she could.
Returned from healing Liam at the Pig Whistle, and knowing the girl’s time had almost come, she set wards around her cottage that would turn away every seeker of her help–save Molly, because of Liam, and anyone sent by the pregnant girl’s husband, and Balfre, of course. He must never be turned away. Then, protected, she sank herself into a trance… and waited.
A day later, the girl went into labour.
Summoned, Izusa saddled the fine horse Balfre had given her after the old nag died of colic, and rode hard to the woodsman’s cottage. The girl’s cause was hopeless, as she’d always known. Herbs eased her pain but nothing could save her. She died swiftly, in a gushing of blood. Holding the barely breathing baby, Izusa showed a sympathetic face to the stunned and silent husband.
“I grieve with you, Syme,” she said softly, capturing his will with her steady gaze. “But you’re young yet. You can sire another son. Now, I’ll be taking the child. You don’t want to see the poor mite. Bury your wife quickly, and say it’s with her.”
She tucked the dying baby into her herbary bag and rode back to her cottage. Safe inside, with doors and windows once more warded, she unwrapped the failing child and settled with it in a chair. No larger than a rabbit, pale as fresh candle wax beneath the dried birthing blood, it lay limply in her arms and faded a little more with each weak breath. An eyelid flickered. A curled nostril flared. The tiny ribs, frail as leaf stems, struggled to rise and fall. She watched, feeling nothing. Anxious only for Salimbene.
At last, with a twisting shudder, the newborn baby died.
It was a brisk business, discarding the old head and making ready the new. A single stroke of her dagger cut through the infant’s neck. There was very little blood, another reason for preferring a newborn. With the old head crumbled to ash at a word, she rubbed its smoky remains into the new head’s pale, fresh skin. Placed it ready in its wooden box. Chanted the sorcery that would bring it to life. And then, while she waited, disposed of the baby’s headless body and put dried pease to soak on the hob, after.
“Izusa. Izusa.”
She ran to the baby’s head in its box. “I’m here, Salimbene.”
“A fresh conduit. Most pleasing.”
“Newborn. It will last a goodly while.”
“What news, Izusa?”
He made no comment as she spoke of the simmering tensions between Harcia and Clemen, the whispers of plague, of Vidar’s unhappiness, and the trespassing family Balfre had slaughtered. Only when she spoke of Liam did the dead baby’s lips move.
“The boy is unharmed?”
His rage made the cottage’s candles flare and smoke. “I’ve broken his fever, and the welts will soon fade.”
“The innkeep is a menace. She has endangered the boy twice.”
“She was trying to save him.”
“Kill her, Izusa. Before she kills him.”
“Not yet. Salimbene, Liam still needs her.”
Silence. The candle flames shivered. Izusa held her breath.
“Then let her live. For now. But if you are wrong, Izusa, you will pay a heavy price.”
She bowed her head. “I am yours, Salimbene, always, to do with as you will.”
“I know.” The baby’s lips curved briefly, a cruel, mocking smile. Then its closed eyes tightened. “And who is that?”
A fist banging on her cottage door. A familiar voice calling her name.
“Balfre. He’s here to fuck.”
A whispery chuckle. “Fuck him well, Izusa. The Harcian is dear to my heart.”
Another chuckle, and he was gone.
“Izusa!” Balfre bellowed. “Are you there? Open this fucking door!”
She covered the box with its runed cloth that kept it hidden from unwanted gaze, then unwarded the cottage door and opened it.
“Balfre,” she said, smiling. “Come in, my lord. I was just thinking of you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Goat-hunting, Grefin? You’d take Jorin goat-hunting?” Mazelina stared, hands fisted on her hips. “On Lamphill Moor?”
Grefin shrugged. “It’s where the goats are, my love.”
“I think it’s a goat I’m looking at now!” she retorted. “Lamphill Moor is treacherous. It’s no better than a graveyard. This past year alone four lords’ promising sons have perished there. No, Grefin. You go if you must, if you can’t bring yourself to deny Terriel his routish pleasures. But I won’t have you taking Jorin. What need has our son to risk himself so?”
They faced each other across a straggle of trailing pale yellow bas-blossom in the formal garden of their Green Isle castle, Steward’s Keep. Overhead, the pale blue sky was scudded with grey-tinged cloud, promising stormy weather to echo their own personal storm. Carried to them from the tilt yard on the cool, fitful breeze, a clashing of swords and the shouting of men as they trained for battle. Jorin was one of them. Kerric, another. And were it possible, their daughter, Ullia, would be staggering about in mail and a leather jerkin with them. As it was she insisted on prancing to and fro behind the tilt yard’s railing, brandishing a wooden sword.
“Mazelina…” He shook his head. “Don’t. I gave way to you and kept Jorin home instead of sending him to be fostered. Kerric, too. But you can’t think I’ll soften further than that. Would you have him mocked behind his back by the very men he now trains to lead?”
“I would have him safe, Grefin! Why does that desire make me a villain?”
“It doesn’t, he said, skirting the flower bed to reach her, and take her hands in his. “Not the desire. Don’t you think I share it? But if I let you persuade me to leave Jorin behind…”
He tugged her with him across the short, vividly green grass to stand atop the hillrise overlooking the tilt yard. Below them, the men-at-arms Balfre recently sent him from the Marches danced their deadly way through a drill with the Green Isle men who served in the Steward’s Guard. Dolyn, his hard-bitten castle serjeant, had them paired off and facing each other with daggers. To be disarmed was to be defeated. A time-tested exercise, this one. Watching Jorin and Kerric warily circling, feinting, memory stirred. He almost smiled. How many times had he and Balfre faced each other in Tamwell castle’s tilt yard, dancing the same dance under Ambrose’s unforgiving eye? He’d lost count. Before that, when he was still too young to risk at sword play, he’d watched Balfre dagger-dance with Malcolm. The memory pricked. Odd, how he could go for months and months without thinking of his dead brother… and then suddenly feel the pain of his loss, as fresh as though they’d entombed him only the day before.
Sometimes Kerric reminded him of Malcolm. With a head tilt. A crooked smile. The way he’d frog-leap over his horse’s rump and into the saddle. The little quirks of family. Blood ties echoing down through the years.
A laughing shout of triumph, as Jorin feinted past his brother’s guard. Seized his wrist and neatly twisted his dagger from his grasp. Cursing, Kerric dropped to one knee then held up his other hand in recognition of defeat. Not
content with one victory Jorin, grinning fiercely, spun round to challenge a Marcher man who’d just disarmed his Green Isle opponent.
Pleased, Grefin nodded. That was well done. If Kerric held echoes of Malcolm, then Jorin put him in mind of a young Aimery–and Balfre.
“I’m not a fool,” Mazelina said, her voice tight. “I know our sons must train for bloodshed. And confirm the good opinion of the Green Isle’s lords and their men with their prowess. But Grefin…” She slipped her hand from his to fold her arms across her chest. “Despite all your misgivings, and Aimery’s–yes, and mine–Balfre has kept the peace in the Marches. Whatever Roric’s natural belligerence, he’s safely contained. And yet you and Terriel and the other great barons do little more than prepare for war.”
Not shifting his gaze from his eldest son in the tiltyard, Grefin slid an arm around Mazelina’s tense shoulders. “We must. Since Harald’s fall, little has gone right in Clemen. The duchy is full of unhappy people, ruled by an even unhappier duke. Let Roric for one moment think us weak and he might well decide to lift his spirits with plunder.”
“I know you and Aimery and Balfre think so,” she said, unconvinced. “But be honest. Roric hasn’t so much as hinted that’s his plan. Never once since the Harcian kingdom was sundered has Clemen attempted to force its way through the Marches and lay waste to this duchy.”
“It only takes once,” he said grimly. “My love, Clemen is near beaten to its knees. The little we have, compared to their riches, used to make us feel poor. And now…”
“I understand that. But it doesn’t reconcile me to Lamphill Moor. If you and Terriel must hone your skills hunting game, can’t you find somewhere else to—”
“No, my love, because—”
“Because Lamphill Moor is where the goats are,” she snapped. “I know.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment. “I don’t like to distress you.”
“You may not like it, but you’ll do it.”
“For Harcia?” He nodded. “Yes, my love. I will. After so many years of marriage, please don’t pretend you’re surprised.”
Down in the tilt yard, Dolyn called a halt to dagger play and ordered his men-at-arms to the quintain, where a rough-hewn wooden trolley waited. So. Not horseback training this time. Instead the men would take turns standing on the trolley with a lance held hard to their ribs, being pushed towards their target. First they’d have the use of both hands, both legs, and unrestricted vision. Then, run by run, they’d face greater disadvantage. One arm tied behind their backs. One leg bound behind them. A slit-eyed helmet so they could scarcely see. Warfare was bloody, blinding and dangerous. Make training for it kindly and men were trained to do little more than die.
“Will you stay long with Terriel?” Mazelina asked, breaking the silence.
“A few days. He’s been hinting at unrest among the Green Isle’s eastern barons. While I’m at Tangallon I’ll summon them. Nip their discontent in the bud. I won’t have them disturbing Aimery.”
She turned to him, lingering resentment vanished in concern for his father. “Why? Is there bad news come from the leech?”
“No,” he said swiftly. “He promises me Aimery travels well, for a man of his age. But I’ll not take that for granted.”
“So the goat-hunting is an excuse? A way of meeting with the eastern barons without stirring their resentments?”
“Not entirely. The castle must be provisioned. But what could be more natural than Terriel hosting a feast after? And once those cantankerous lords are stuffed with good food and wine I’ll have an easier time of it, rapping their knuckles.” Grefin tucked a tendril of hair behind his wife’s ear. “I’d have Jorin beside me for that, so he can watch and learn.”
Mazelina bit her lip. “You think there’s a chance he’ll be Steward after you.”
“I think it’s plain, that Balfre will never get a son from Jancis. And even if he were made duke tomorrow, and married elsewhere the day after, and a year after that was dandling a boy-child on his knee—”
“Jorin would still be Steward. If something happened to you.”
“But it won’t,” he added, reaching for her, because her eyes were full of distress. “We’re safe here, my love. I promise.”
“Even with Lamphill Moor?” she said, muffled against his chest.
He laughed. “Yes, Mazelina. Even with Lamphill Moor.”
To no one’s surprise, Jorin was jubilant at the thought of hunting wild goats on Lamphill Moor. Just as unsurprising, Kerric protested at being left behind. So did Ullia, who persisted in the fantasy that she was as much a boy as her brothers.
“Don’t gloat,” Grefin advised his eldest son, under cover of Kerric and Ullia’s heated bickering at dinner. “’Tis unbecoming. You’re my first born by chance, Jorin, not design. It could as easily be Kerric chosen and you the one slighted.”
Jorin had his mother’s quick wits and Aimery’s sense of fair play. Balfre’s fiery temper he’d been taught early to control. He glanced at his squabbling siblings, then nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good.” Grefin tousled his son’s hair. Wondered, a little ruefully, what Jorin had inherited from him–apart from a love of music, which had little use save at a dance. “We’ll leave at dawn, be at Tangallon castle by sunset. Doubtless there’ll be a feast to honour us. I’ll warn you now–be sparing with the wine. You’ve a man’s heart but a boy’s stomach. Keep your hands off the serving wenches. And be courteous to Lord Terriel, no matter what he says.”
“Like you, my lord?” Jorin said, grinning.
He grinned back. For all that he and Terriel were fast friends these days, the road to amity had not been smooth, and even now they could roar at each other. But there was no harm in it. Terriel’s loyalty was like rock.
“Yes, my son. Just like me.”
As the sun rose next morning behind Steward’s Keep, Mazelina, Kerric and Ullia waved them goodbye. They trotted out briskly, a token escort of two men-at-arms and one pack-horse at their heels, confident of clear weather and an untroubled day’s journey to Tangallon.
After reaching Terriel’s castle a breath before dusk, they were indeed feasted to celebrate their arrival. Like a good son, Jorin was polite to blustery Terriel and only fondled the castle’s serving wenches once or twice. They rose from their beds early the next morning, dressed in plain huntsman’s leathers, washed down cold beef with tankards of ale, then assembled in Tangallon’s bailey for the hunt on Lamphill Moor. Riding with them and Terriel was the lord’s grown son, Alard, his three rambunctious nephews and four men-at-ams–Grefin’s two, and two belonging to Tangallon. No need for hounds in this hunt, since the moor was open ground with nowhere for the dogs to bail up their game, but Terriel’s kennel-man and his boys were set to follow behind the hunters with a horse and open cart so they could bring home the kill.
The moor’s wild goats were wily and fleet. From the moment they spied the hunters’ horses they scattered, bucking and leaping as they tried to escape.
“After them!” Terriel bellowed. “Every man ’ware himself!”
Then there was nothing but the drumming of hooves on the flower-pocked moor, the singing of arrows, and the panicked bleating of goats as they were brought down.
Exhilerating madness. Sweat and blood and danger. A startled shout as one horse stumbled. Looking, Grefin saw a man pitch out of his saddle and crash to the turf. His heart stopped. Then he saw it was one of Terriel’s nephews. Not Jorin. Cursing, Robion staggered to his feet and snatched at his horse’s reins. Cursed again as the animal lifted a foreleg, dead lame.
Nothing to be done for him. He’d have to limp home. The hunt hunted on and only came to a tattered end when the last goat was felled and the rest were scattered too far for slaughter.
Running sweat, heaving for breath, Grefin looked around for Jorin. There he was, not crushed beneath a falling horse or drowned in a moor bog like those other lords’ sons, but laughing, clouting Terriel’s heir Alar
d on the knee. Never mind the quiet man was a dozen years his senior.
“Jorin!” he called, his belly clutched with relief. “With me. We’ve work to do yet.”
Not every arrow killed cleanly, and a good hunter left no beast to suffer if he could help it. Leaving their horses to stand, and the other men to wait, they ended the wounded goats’ suffering with the mercy of a blade.
“That’s it,” Grefin said, when the last goat within reach was dead. “Terriel’s kennel-man will get the rest.” He slapped Jorin’s shoulder. “You did well.”
His son’s smile was almost shy. “You taught me well, my lord.”
“Boast a little to your brother, if you like,” he added. “But if I were you I’d say naught to your mother and sister. Women, you know, are apt to be squeamish.”
Jorin hooted. “Not Ullia! She told me to bring home a goat’s tail for good luck!”
“Ullia did? That girl is—”
“Grefin!”
Startled, he turned. Terriel was pointing. A horseman, riding fast towards them over the moor’s greenish-brown tussocked turf. A small distance behind him, Terriel’s kennel-master and his goat-laden cart.
“Mount up,” he told Jorin. “This looks like strife.”
“My lord Steward!” the horseman gasped, reaching them. It was Tangallon’s serjeant-at-arms, Revel. “My lord Terriel. Word’s reached the castle. Potterstown’s besieged by raiders.”
Lean, weathered Terriel cursed, then began to retie the leather strip on the end of his braided, silver-streaked hair. Alard and Kierron, the nephew who’d not been unhorsed, sat straighter in their saddles, the joy of the goat-hunt doused. The four men-at-arms turned to counting what arrows they had left. Grefin glanced at Jorin. His son’s face had paled beneath its dirt and dried sweat.
“Raiders,” he said to Revel. “Are you sure?”
Revel’s eyes were white-rimmed. “The boy who rode to warn us foundered his pony reaching the castle. My lord, I believe him.”
Raiders. Murdering bastards. Seeking coin and plate and jewellery, spoils easy to run with, they’d burst upon the Green Isle’s north coast at the tail-end of summer. In and out so quickly, without warning, there’d been no time to react. Their swift, narrow boats pierced the coastal creeks like needles, stitching ruin and drawing blood, leaving widows and orphans and butchered men in their wake. Not a soul knew how they could navigate the Green Isle’s dangerous waters, with their shifting sandbars and rips and treacherous tides. Not when every other ship that made the attempt drowned.
