by Karen Miller
“Balfre? Balfre!”
Grefin.
He turned. “Stay the fuck away from me or I’ll throw you off this fucking roof! Let Aimery bequeath his precious duchy to your corpse!”
Grefin took a limping half-step closer, then stopped. “He didn’t mean it. He’s distraught over Jorin. I’ll talk to him. I promise. I don’t want to be duke.”
“Fuck!” He would have laughed if he weren’t so close to weeping. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Balfre–Aimery made me Steward over you and right or wrong, I bowed to that. But I’ll bow no further. You’re his heir. I will never usurp you.”
“Never is a long time. And power is power.”
Stark honesty had crowded out the grief in Grefin’s eyes. “You know I don’t care about power! You think if Aimery discards you. I’ll break my word? Why? After my first year as Steward, I told him I was done. You heard me tell him. It was Aimery who wouldn’t release me. I kept my word, Balfre. Why doubt me now?”
He nearly said, Because I caught you plotting with Aimery and Roric behind my back. Only it was better his brother didn’t learn what he knew. Knowledge was power, too. That titbit might yet prove useful. Besides. By happy accident, Grefin had done him a favour. He’d likely not be Harcia’s Marcher lord without that little conspiracy. Anyway… what Grefin said was true. His brother lacked ambition. Without Aimery’s interference he’d never have become Steward. Grefin had never wanted anything beyond Mazelina and his brats.
“I mean this,” Grefin insisted, breaking the silence. “Take out your dagger. Prick my finger. I’ll give you an assurance written in my blood.”
His blind rage was fading. “I don’t want your fucking blood.”
Grefin shrugged, one-shouldered. “Still. It’s yours.”
“Fuck.”
“Balfre.” Grefin took another halting step towards him. “I don’t want us at odds. Not now. Not after…”
One of these days he’d learn how to stay angry with his brother. “I’m sorry. For Jorin.”
Looking over the battlements at Cater’s Tamwell’s busy afternoon streets, Grefin smeared dampness from his cheek. “You saved my life in Potterstown. The things you told me about fighting in the Marches? They saved my life.”
“Good.”
“But they didn’t save my son.” He flinched. “No. That’s not fair. I didn’t save him. It’s my fault Jorin’s dead.”
“Mazelina told you that, did she?”
Grefin’s silence was an answer.
“You didn’t kill your son, Gref, any more than you killed the people of Potterstown. Jorin was born with a sword in his hand. Like you were. Like I was. Bloody death is our birthright. How badly were you wounded?”
Grefin touched his right shoulder. “More than a tickle. It’s healing. And I bruised my hip. My leg. I’ll live.”
“I know,” he said, gently. “Come on. Let’s find old Ambrose. Talk to him about the men-at-arms you’ll need for the Green Isle.”
Silver striped in a sliver of moonlight, Aimery sat beside his sleeping son. Grief had driven Grefin to bed down in the Tamwell chamber he’d claimed as a boy. A few of his boyhood tunics were still in the chest at the foot of the bed and an old, splintery wooden sword was propped in a corner, collecting cobwebs. The chamber had no window, only an arrow loop. He used to play Constable of the Castle here with Balfre, when bad weather or a childish gripe kept him indoors. More than twenty-five years ago, that was. By the powers… twenty-five years. Time was an untamed horse, galloping heedless towards the abyss. Galloping him with it. He was grown an old man, infirm despite his costly leech. Not an hour raced by him these days without pain or worry in it. Every pain, every worry, sapping his remaining strength. But he wasn’t dead yet. Nor would he die, till he was certain Harcia would be safe.
Such hope he’d had. Cautious at first but in the last few years steadily firming. Balfre in the Marches, keeping the peace, upholding the law, had proven himself a man worthy to be called a duke. Or so he’d thought. But now Balfre butchered children. What was he to do with that? With him?
Grefin shifted under his red fox coverlet, breath catching as he muttered. The words were garbled, but ripe with distress. Aimery fumbled for the horn lantern by his chair and lifted it, anxiously peering. Grefin shifted again, his eyes restless beneath their closed lids, and the coverlet slid aside to reveal his bare, bruised chest and the healing sword-thrust through the top of his shoulder. The wound was inflamed around its horse-hair stitches. So nearly a killing blow–and more killing blows to come, if his suspicions were right and the raiders returned to the Green Isle in the spring.
If he dies… if they kill him… then will I die too. If I lose Grefin not even Harcia will keep me.
Doubtless it was shameful to feel he’d not die if he lost Balfre. He loved Grefin without pause. But love was too simple a word for what tangled within him whenever he thought of his heir.
The lantern was heavy. But as he lowered it, forgoing its muted, muddy glow, Grefin uttered a sharp cry and opened his eyes, his sound arm lifting as though to ward off attack.
“Lie easy,” Aimery said. “Or I’ll summon the leech.” He set the lantern on the floor at his feet. “You dream of Potterstown?”
A finger of moonlight traced Grefin’s face in profile as he rolled his head on the pillow. “Of Jorin.”
“Ah.”
“I lost sight of him,” Grefin murmured. “In the fighting. My horse was killed underneath me and it was madness, after. I lost sight of him in the fighting. And then… I lost him.”
Malcolm. Aimery pressed a fist against his chest. “I wish I could promise you the pain will ease.”
“But it won’t.” Grefin tugged the coverlet higher. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid you might be fevered.”
A small, boyish smile. Then it faded. “Father. About Balfre. What happened in—”
“No!” He raised a hand. “Don’t defend him. Would you break my heart, defending him?”
“And would you break mine, demanding I choose between you?”
Aimery sat back. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean!” Grefin elbowed himself upright. “For all our quarrels, I love Balfre. You had no right to threaten him with me.”
“I had every right! Old and frail I may be, yet I am still Harcia’s duke. And as duke I’ll do what I must to keep the duchy safe.”
“Even side with Clemen against your own son?” Grefin protested. “When it’s Clemen in the wrong? Trespass is a crime, and those people had the plague.”
“So Balfre says. But he can’t prove it.”
“Which makes him a liar? A murderer? Is that what you believe?”
“What I believe doesn’t matter! It’s what Roric believes that counts.”
“It matters to Balfre,” Grefin said quietly. “Father… he made a mistake.”
“Another mistake like that one and we will be at war!”
Wincing, Grefin rubbed the heel of his hand against a bruise. “I doubt that. From what I hear, Clemen has no coin to pay for it.”
Were his son not griefstruck, Aimery would have slapped him. “Did you wait for coin before you raised a sword against those raiders in Potterstown? And when you face them again, Grefin, will it take coin for you to avenge Jorin’s cruel death? What starts in blood must end in blood. Maybe they did carry plague, those tresspassing Clemen folk. But Roric won’t remember that. Not a husband or a father in his duchy will remember it. All they’ll remember is that Clemen folk died and Harcia killed them!”
“I understand your fear,” Grefin said, frowning. “But it was Harcia killed a Clemen woman in the Marches, Your Grace. We didn’t go to war over that.”
“That was different. The facts then were in dispute. But not this time. And Balfre—” He heard his voice crack. “Balfre killed children.”
A difficult silence. Grefin lay down again. “He’
s gone, you know. Back to the Marches. He left after you retired to your bedchamber.”
He grunted. “Without seeking my leave. I know. Curteis told me.”
“I tried to dissuade him. It’s dangerous, riding at night. He wouldn’t listen.”
“Balfre?” He raised an eyebrow. “How unlike him.”
Another brief smile. “Did Curteis also tell you he left a letter for the herald to give Roric? I read it. He was surprisingly contrite.”
“He doesn’t want me to disown him.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you did. I won’t take Harcia from Balfre. I’ve given him my word.”
A surge of anger. “You had no right, Grefin. That promise isn’t yours to give.”
“Even so. I gave it. And I’ll not take it back.”
He stood. Stooped, and picked up the lantern. “’Tis very late. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Good night again, Your Grace.”
“Pah,” he said, and left his defiant son to sleep.
In no mood for company or dallying, Balfre rode hard from Tamwell castle back to the Marches. Stopping only when he had to. Snatching meat and drink in haste. Pursued by inconvenient memories. His brother’s grief. His father’s fury. The hostile smirk on that fucking Clemen herald’s face. It had nearly killed him, writing that letter. But it wasn’t yet time to clash swords with Clemen. No matter what it cost him, he had to keep Roric sweet. So his pride was scorched. Better his pride than the Marches. Probably he should’ve left a letter for Aimery, too. Except there was only so much pride he was prepared to burn.
He knew Waymon would be waiting for him at the manor, with information and barracks reports and more coin–provided he’d managed to poach them a trader. And with his promise to Grefin of sending more men to the Green Isle, there were decisions to be made. But he was in no mood for Waymon or barracks talk. Through the long ride home, he could think of only one thing.
Eager, hungry, he crossed into the Clemen Marches and rode straight to the cottage that had become his second home.
“Izusa! Izusa! Open the fucking door!”
With a last fisted thump on the stubbornly closed carved timber, he stepped back. Shook his stinging hand and waited.
“Izusa!”
Nothing. His weary stallion lifted its head. Startled birds clattered skywards from the bare woodland around him. But the cottage door didn’t open. She didn’t come at his call.
“Bitch!”
Feeling outrageously thwarted, like a child denied its promised sweetmeat, Balfre retreated to sit on the storm-felled tree trunk Izusa used as chair and table when she wanted fresh air.
“Bitch,” he said again, but longingly, and dropped his head into his hands. No point trying to kick his way in. She had the cottage charm-protected, with foreign runes from across the sea.
“I’m a woman alone, my lord,” she’d protested at his protest. “Your men-at-arms can’t shadow me night and day. But don’t worry. My little magics will never turn against you.”
As a Marcher lord he should have her whipped for her spell-play. He should banish her from the Marches or thrust her at a passing exarchite. Those grey-robed miseries gave witches short shrift. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Izusa was far too good a fuck. And whatever else she knew, but shouldn’t, she had a knack for healing. All fucking aside, he’d keep her safe for that alone.
The cottage’s grassy horse yard was empty of the palfrey he’d given her. With nothing better to do, not wanting to leave without seeing her, he stripped his tired stallion of its saddle and bridle and penned the animal safe with a pail of water from the well. Found himself a puddle of late-afternoon autumn sunshine and sat in it, eyes closed and face tipped to the branch-latticed sky. Breathing in, breathing out, his body hummed with fatigue. He felt as hard-handled as his stallion. A good thing, perhaps, that Izusa wasn’t here. His cock was soft-soap, not iron. Good for pissing and nothing else.
He fell asleep. Dreamed and drifted until pleasure woke him, keen as a whetted blade.
His eyes opened on a strangled gasp, showed him Izusa in the sinking sunlight, her red hair wild, her eyes wilder, naked skin moon-pale, laughing as she took hold of his cock and thrust him home between her legs.
She rode him without mercy, shrieking like a falcon in flight. The slap of her thighs and arse against his leather breeches was a torment. He wanted to feel her skin to skin. But he was helpless beneath her, a ruthless man being ruthlessly fucked. All he could do was rear up and bite her nipples and weep aloud his triumph as she broke him to pieces and sucked him dry.
“Fuck,” he moaned, shuddering. “Fuck. I’ll kill you for this.”
She leaned close, her sweet breath brushing his cheek. “Kill me with fucking, Balfre. That’s the best way to die.”
The cottage door stood wide open. Inside, all the candles were lit. They staggered over the threshold, laughing, and then she stripped him of his clothing. Poured a herbed honey posset into his parched mouth and pressed a slender finger to his sticky lips.
“Wait, Balfre. Wait.”
Moments later, his blood caught fire.
He did everything to her, and she let him. When he faltered she urged him on. Pain was pleasure, pleasure pain. There was no end and no beginning, only the pumping need to purge. Twice more she fed him her intoxicating potion. The sun exploded behind his eyes. His body unravelled itself, flying apart. As he sank one last time into darkness, he felt Izusa’s gossamer touch.
“Sleep, my lord,” she whispered. “You’re safe here, in my arms.”
“Izusa…”
Freshly bathed, and dressed in a simple linen shift, she turned from the bedchamber’s unshuttered window. “My lord?”
“Izusa.” Sprawled naked on her bed, Balfre rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “I’d have the truth. Are you a witch?”
She’d left three candles burning. In their mellow light the marks of her teeth and nails showed boldly on his scarred skin. Her own skin was unblemished now. An important distinction.
“My lord,” she said, tilting her head, “what is a witch?”
“A foul, degenerate creature, full of deceit and lies and treachery. A misshapen monster spat from the reeking depths of the dark kingdom, spawned to wreak chaos and destroy men’s souls.”
She rolled her eyes. “Or so the exarchites say.”
“Yes. So they say.”
“But what do you say? Am I a misshapen monster? Have I destroyed your soul? Answer your own question, my lord. Am I a witch?”
A slow, remembering smile curved his lips. “I can’t answer for my soul, but I think you destroyed my cock.”
She laughed. “Then is every woman born a witch.”
“Every woman but my wife.” His smile vanished. “Why do you stand so far away? This bed is cold and empty without you.”
“As the Marches were cold and empty with you ridden to your father’s court.”
His shadowed face clenched like a fist. “Don’t speak of my father.”
“Oh.” She crossed to the bed. Sat beside him. “Your heart is hurting. If I have any power, I have the power to feel that. Your pain called to me while I did heal a goatman of bloody flux, out by Dead Dog Pond.”
“Dead Dog Pond?” he said, every muscle going still.
Watching a tumble of emotions play behind his eyes, she gently laced her fingers with his. “If you think your swift justice troubles Harcia’s people in the Marches, think again. Your people welcome it.”
“Then I wish my people had Aimery’s ear,” he muttered. “Aimery cares more for Roric’s opinion than mine or any Harcian’s. Roric. That fuck’s such a piss-poor duke he can’t even feed his people or keep them from disease. Plague-struck, they must creep into the Harcian Marches to steal our food.”
“Aimery didn’t praise you for averting disaster?”
“Praise me? He threatened me!”
Just as Salimbene had foretold, in Balfre’s absence.
“I’m sorry, my lord.”
Balfre sat up. “It was odd. He claimed the first he knew of those Clemen I killed was what he heard from Roric’s herald. But I sent a man-at-arms to Tamwell castle with a full report. He returned to the Marches safely and told me himself he’d spoken with Aimery.”
Because that was what she’d sorcelled Balfre’s man-at-arms to say. Obeying Salimbene, she’d intercepted him before he left the Marches. Drugged him. Kept him. And when enough time had gone by, released him to ride home again as though nothing was amiss. The man was dead now, of the slow-acting poison meant to end his life while Balfre was at Tamwell castle. The death had looked natural. A flux of the bowels, not plague. She didn’t know why she’d kept him, or killed him. Salimbene wanted it. That was enough.
“My lord. How did Aimery threaten you?” When Balfre didn’t answer, she traced the silvery scar crossing his ribs. “What you say to me is never repeated. What we do here isn’t known.”
He grimaced. “Waymon knows.”
“He knows we fuck. Not that we talk, after.”
“And what good is talk?”
“A burdened heart is an unhappy heart. I told you, my lord. I feel your pain.”
Balfre punched a fist to his knee. “Aimery threatened to disown me. To make Grefin his heir in my place.”
“No!” she said, and reached for him. “The wicked old man!”
He laughed, bitter, muffled against her breast. “It’s my own fault. Grefin found the old bastard a canny leech to keep him breathing and I held my peace. I had to. I couldn’t afford Aimery dying too soon. Now it seems he won’t die at all. The stubborn fuck clings to life like a tick.”
“Your brother. Lord Grefin,” she said, stroking his hair. “Does he stand with you, or with your father?”
Balfre eased free, not a man to long give himself over to comfort. “With me. He says. He swears. But…”
And there was his heart, uncovered. Never truly trusting. Always a useful seed of suspicion, ready to take root.
“But?” she prompted.
He scowled. “I never heard him say the same to Aimery’s face.”
She pressed her palm to his cheek. “Are you hungry, my lord? I’ve braised rabbit keeping warm. Rest, while I fetch you a bowl.”
