by Karen Miller
After a terrible long time, he shifted his stare. “You men. I don’t know you.”
Master Bascot frowned at his brother and his nephew, then stood. “I am Bascot, my lord. A cloth-trader of Clemen.”
Waymon’s thin lip curled. “Thinking to trade your rags in the Harcian Marches? And in Harcia?”
“Thinking to trade, my lord, with all proper papers.”
“Not today. Harcia has had its fill of Clemen today. You may present yourselves to Count Balfre five days hence. He will decide then if you can trade in Harcia, or not.”
Bascot looked with some alarm at his brother. “Five days, my lord? You’d have us tarry here idle five days? But—”
Waymon’s hand found his sword-hilt. “Man, you and your friends can tarry or you can fuck each other for all I care. What you won’t do is set foot on Harcian soil before Count Balfre allows it. Not without offering forfeit of your lives.”
Face flushed, Bascot sat. “My lord.”
“Mistress Molly,” said Waymon, pinning her again with his dreadful stare, “best you make it known to your customers. Harcia has no stomach for Clemen treachery. Any man, woman or child found aiding Clemen in violence against us, or dishonesty, or trickery, or any knavish jest, that fool will perish upon the point of a sword. You hear me?”
“Iss, my lord,” she said faintly. “I do hear ye right well.”
“And so do these men-at-arms hear me,” said Waymon. “Every man of Harcia knows his duty and will do it. Never doubt that, Mistress Molly.”
She curtsied again. “No, my lord.”
“What walking filth is he?” Bascot spluttered over the raucous chatter, after Lord Waymon and his men-at-arms had gone. “I declare, Mistress Molly—”
“I know, Master Bascot,” she sighed. “That be Lord Waymon of Harcia. Count Balfre’s trusted man.”
“Ha! Trusted cur,” Tapster retorted, shaking with anger like his brother. “Trusted pizzle. Trusted shite—”
“Have a care, Master Tapster. That bench there be crowded full of Harcian farmers.”
Philbert glowered at them. “And you’d soil your fingers with their coin, would you?”
“Philbert!” Tapster struck his son a blow on the arm. “What’s the first rule of trading? Coin is coin. It has no friend or foe. Forgive him, Mistress Molly. He’s a hot-blooded lad.”
Though her nerves were still jangling, she gave the three men her best smile. “I do, Master Tapster. Now be peaceful. I’ll send Iddo to ye with ale on the house, for the disturbance.”
“Moll,” said Iddo, as she hurried to take the tray back to the kitchen. “Moll—”
When it counted, she could count on him. She’d always known that. She pressed her hand to his cheek. Felt the tight muscle over his jaw. “Don’t ye fret, Iddo. That shite Waymon don’t scare me. See ale to Master Bascot, iss? Our coin, not his.”
Leaving him to grumble, she pushed into the kitchen, dropped the tray on the table, stirred the stew in its pot, turned her curd pies in the oven, then went to find them ructious boys.
They were out the back, cross-legged on the dusty grass, carefully picking through a pile of rabbit and duck guts for the bits they knew she’d want to use.
“Benedikt! Willem!”
Surprised, they lifted their heads. One look at her face and they bounced to their feet.
“Ma?” said Benedikt. “What be amiss?”
She could weep, she was so frightened. “There were bloody trouble in Bell Wood this morning, Benedikt. What did ye and Willem see?”
Benedikt’s gaze slid by her. “See, Ma? Nothing. Just coneys and fish and birds and goats.”
She knew her son better than any soul living. Better than herself, better than Iddo. She knew when he was lying. Trouble was, she weren’t sure she wanted the truth.
“Who said there were trouble, Ma?”
“Lord Waymon. Boys, he was murdering angry.”
“He’s always murdering angry,” said Willem, careless. “Waymon’s a man as’d kill you by way of saying hello.”
Her hand lashed out and slapped him before she could stop it. “D’ye think I be jesting, Willem? Be this a smile on m’face?”
“Ma!” Benedikt protested.
Willem said nothing, only stared at her with his strangely grown-up amber eyes. The skin around the scar she’d given him was blotchy red from her blow.
“Ye’ll mind yer step the next few days,” she said, glaring. “Stay close to the Whistle. I won’t have ye roaming far.”
“Yes, Ma,” said Benedikt, crestfallen.
Willem never said a word.
With a last hot look at them, she picked up the skinned and gutted game carcases and went back inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Settled discreetly behind a tapestry screen in Balfre’s manor house library, Vidar nursed a goblet of wine and listened to his beloved Lindara’s father bellow.
“Extortion?” A heavy thump, as Humbert struck something made of wood. “You pizzling cockshite, this was no fucking extortion! Your merchants had no proof of road-tolls properly paid. And when they were challenged they did provoke the confrontation. This blood’s on your hands, Balfre. When Roric hears of the Clemen men your wild dogs killed in Bell Wood he’ll—”
“Do nothing,” said Balfre. “Humbert, I admire your loyalty but why do you persist in making threats we both know your duke will never honour?”
“You’re a fine one to be talking of honour, Balfre.”
“You should know, my lord,” Balfre said, his voice cutting, “that my father was of a mind to to send Clemen grain from Sassanine. A gesture of friendship, full knowing how the people of Clemen do hunger for bread. Alas, when he hears of your men-at-arms’ wanton belligerence against our traders…”
Humbert was breathing like a set of aged bellows. “Wanton belligerence? You’d speak to me of wanton belligerence, when there are still innocent Clemen folk sold into slavery abroad?”
Balfre’s laugh was ripe with contempt. “This again? How many times must I say it? Harcia has nothing to do with pirate raids upon Clemen’s villages. I could as easily accuse Clemen of being behind the northmen who pillage the Green Isle.”
“Pillage yourself, Balfre!” Humbert retorted. “And heed this warning. Roric stays his hand not out of cowardice, but care for innocent blood. Push him any harder and you’ll force him to stop caring.”
A heavy thudding of boots as Humbert stormed from the room and slammed its heavy oak door in his wake.
“Old fool,” Waymon muttered. “Roric must be in dire straits if he’s Clemen’s best choice for Marcher lord.”
“Humbert’s a wily old fox,” said Balfre, not for the first time. “You dismiss him at your peril. Isn’t that so, Boice?”
And there was his invitation. Vidar drank the rest of his wine, set down the goblet, then twisted off his stool and walked, not quite steadily, out from behind the screen.
“Fuck,” Waymon said, disgusted, eyeing the empty goblet. He stood close to Balfre’s chair, like the guard dog he was. “He’s drunk again. What worth is this shite’s counsel?”
“It’s been nearly four years, Waymon,” Balfre said mildly. “When did I last keep a man beside me four days if I found no worth in him? Enough pettiness, my friend. Instead give some thought to those matters we discussed earlier. I’ll join you in the tilt yard shortly. We can talk them over after we’ve trained.”
“My lord,” said Waymon, resentful, and withdrew.
“Well, Vidar?” Slouching against his chair’s high, cushioned back, Balfre raised an eyebrow. “Are you drunk?”
He shrugged. “A little. I have no choice, unless you want Waymon to wonder why Boice is sporting a sudden limp.”
“Ah. Your hip?”
“Is troubling me, yes. Izusa’s concoction isn’t holding.”
“Unlike her face.”
Yes, the face. It kept him safely unrecognised, kept him alive, the face Izusa had made for him. But
every time he caught sight of it–in a mirror or a darkened window or in a splash of water–he was shockingly reminded of all he’d lost. Reminded that the woman who’d made it for him was no harmless healer, but a witch. A witch. And instead of denouncing her, he was concealing her. Day and night he wore the charm she made him that gave him his new face. Kept it secret beneath his shirt, against his skin, where it burned him and chafed him and never let him fully rest.
Or perhaps that was his conscience.
“Sit, Vidar,” Balfre said, waving his hand. “I don’t like to see you in pain.”
Gritting his teeth against the grinding ache from his old wound, Vidar crossed the intricately woven Khafuri carpet and lowered himself stiffly into the padded oak cross-frame chair beside the fireplace. It was an old piece, beautifully carved. Godebert had owned one something like it. The chair made him feel closer to the home he’d abandoned and would never see again.
“Brandy?” Balfre offered, standing. “My brother’s sent me a keg. The best the Green Isle has to offer. It seems he and his doughty barons have beaten back yet another horde of raiders.”
“That’s good news.” But Balfre was frowning. “Isn’t it?”
“Grefin was wounded.”
“Badly?”
“Badly enough. But he says he’ll live.”
And whether that was good news, or bad, who could say? What Balfre felt for his brother remained something of a mystery. In no mood for solving riddles, Vidar let his gaze drift around the library. Like the rest of the manor, it was remarkably gracious. A fire crackled cheerfully in the slate-lined hearth, and the flame-warmed air was lit to a golden glow by scores of beeswax candles burning in wrought-iron candle-wheels. Books he’d now read several times over crowded a wall of shelves. Time-faded tapestries of frolicking nymphs and faeries decorated the other walls, while heavy damask drapes hid the lead-lined glass window. It was a room that had become painfully familiar since the night he’d thrown himself upon Balfre’s mercy… and to his surprise been caught.
“Vidar!” said Balfre, impatient, standing at the sideboard holding an unstoppered jug. “Brandy. Yes or no?”
No matter what Waymon thought, he rarely let himself get drunk. It was too dangerous. But Green Isle brandy was potent, and the pain in his hip was sharp. “Yes.”
Balfre splashed a pewter goblet a quarter full then gave it to him. “Here. And don’t be mopish. I’ll get something from Izusa later tonight, to ease your woes.”
It was galling how well Balfre had learned to read him. He emptied the goblet in one smooth swallow. Fermented apple burned a mellow path from his gullet to his gut.
“Fuck, Vidar!” Balfre protested. “Only a hog guzzles good brandy!”
Savouring the aftertaste, he half-smiled. “You say fuck a lot.”
“Fuck, yes, I do,” said Balfre, grinning, and dropped back into his chair. “And every time I say it I stick a finger in Aimery’s eye. The duke pretends himself above crudity, but in truth he can swear a man-at-arms thrice blind.”
“You really don’t like your father, do you?”
With extravagant ease, Balfre flung his right leg over the arm of his chair. “Not a whit. But then, name me one man–besides my faery-kissed brother–who’ll admit to liking the fuck who sired him.”
“I liked mine well enough. Though I’ll admit, affection cooled at the end.”
His own goblet paused at his lips, Balfre smiled an odd, secret little smile. “I think it’s the fate of an heir to resent his father. Always, always, the old man stands in the way. Second and third sons have it easier. All play and no work for them.”
“You call fighting hordes of northern raiders a game?”
Balfre shrugged. “But war is a game, Vidar. You know that.”
If it was then he’d lost badly, the very first time he played. “You don’t like your brother, either?”
“Did I say so?” Balfre sipped from his goblet and gave a small, pleased grunt. “Grefin and I would often sit by a good fire and drink and talk. In the Croft. In Tamwell castle. Wherever Aimery decided we should lay our heads next. Perhaps that’s why I squander fine brandy on you, Vidar. Perhaps I pine for my little brother and you’re the next best thing.”
He dropped his emptied goblet onto the carpet. “Fuck!”
“Ha!” Balfre was grinning again. “Now tell me. What d’you make of Humbert’s interfering with our merchants? He’s a sly fox, but he’s not wolfish.”
“You think Roric put him up to provoking the bloodshed?” He retrieved the goblet. “I doubt it. Roric’s first instinct is for peace, not slaughter.”
Balfre rolled his eyes. “The way you talk, you make him sound like a woman. Or an exarchite.”
“If you’d seen him slay Harald you’d not call him either.”
“Roric slew Harald a long time ago. People change.”
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Roric would never have brought Harald undone if not for Humbert, whispering in his ear.
“If Roric told Humbert to chivvy your traders,” he said slowly, “I’d wager that cockshite Ercole and his merchant goodfather Blane are behind it. The more coin that’s gouged from foreign merchants, the less Clemen’s merchants must pour into Eaglerock’s coffers.”
Balfre grimaced. “What kind of duke allows himself to be bullied by a merchant?”
“The kind who owes that merchant more coin than he can repay. Roric’s been in debt to Blane for years.”
“Has he?” Balfre said softly. “I don’t recall you mentioning that before.”
“Because I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
He met Aimery’s son stare for stare. “My knowledge of Roric and Clemen is like a dagger sheathed at my hip. But if that sheathe is empty…”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I don’t trust Waymon.”
“You have nothing to fear from Waymon.”
“You have nothing to fear from Waymon, Balfre. I have… nothing but fear.”
Balfre drained his goblet of brandy then got up and refilled it. “You’re safe here, Vidar. I’ve sworn it. Don’t insult me again.”
If he’d learned nothing else since coming to live under Balfre’s roof, it was that his host had a dangerously changeable disposition. He sat a little straighter. “No insult was meant.”
Balfre’s cold stare thawed. “More brandy?”
He retrieved his goblet and held it out. “Balfre, you know that Humbert will go back to Roric claiming you’re behind the trouble in Bell Wood. He’ll say you tasked your merchants to deny Clemen its lawful coin in the hope of provoking a confrontation.”
“And is that what you think?” Balfre said, returning the brandy to the sideboard. “That I defied Aimery to stir violence when he, like your Roric, prefers peace to war.”
He thought it entirely possible but wasn’t fool enough to say so. “No. And don’t call him my Roric. He is not fucking mine.”
“So it would seem,” said Balfre, amused. “But is he Humbert’s? Is he the council’s? Or he does he belong to Master Blane? Tell me, Vidar. Who truly rules in Clemen?”
He swallowed more brandy, savouring the heady swirl of fermented apple fumes. The leaping flames in the fireplace blurred across his vision, smearing the library orange and gold. Time smeared with it, and he was staring at the past.
“From the moment it was decided that Harald must go,” he murmured, “Roric leaned upon Humbert like a lame man on his staff. Even now I’m not sure he’s learned how to stand alone. The news from Clemen these past months gives me pause. Leaving aside the poor harvests, the inclement weather, pirates raiding the duchy’s coastal villages–if indeed it’s pirates–there is misery caused by the travelling courts, the punitive fines and imprisonments, the increased taxes and imposts, the discouragement of Harcian traders…”
“All of it meaning what, d’you think?”
He looked at Balfre. “That instead of leaning on Humbert, he’s now leaning on men like Erco
le. And Blane. Men who have him at a disadvantage, who care more for themselves than Clemen. Roric’s greatest fear, always, was of becoming another Harald. That fear has made him ever reluctant to wield power.”
Balfre pushed out of his chair and took a slow turn around the library, sipping brandy as he paced. “So men with less power now seek to wield him–and because he lets them, his greatest fear is coming true.”
It struck Vidar cold, hearing the words spoken aloud so starkly. “Of course, I could be wrong.”
Balfre nodded. “Of course.”
“The loss of Lindara—” He flinched, that pain always close to the surface “Roric never loved her as I did, but neither was he–indifferent.”
“And grief, like time, changes people.”
It certainly did.
Balfre considered him, quizzical. “You sound almost sorry for the bastard.”
“I’m sorry for Clemen. Roric has ruined everything he’s touched.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” said Balfre. “And for your duchy’s sake, Vidar, I hope the tide will turn soon, so that Clemen might enjoy peace and prosperity again. In the meantime, I’d ask you to join me and Waymon in the tilt yard. Dusk should be falling and I want our new men-at-arms to get a taste of training in the dark.”
Two days earlier some thirty green youths had descended upon them, to be changed from clumsy gawkers into lean, fighting men. Vidar shook his head. “I find it hard to fathom you’ve anyone left in Harcia who still doesn’t know how to hold a sword.”
Balfre shrugged. “You’d be surprised.”
“Why do you need more sword-ready men? Didn’t you say your brother had defeated the northern raiders? And word from Cassinia has pirates beating them back, too. Surely the danger has passed.”
“Not quite,” Balfre said, idly. “Baldassare and his vermin care only to protect their own killing ground. They won’t lift a finger to protect the Green Isle. And these raiders are persistent fucks. For all I know, Grefin will be fighting them every spring and summer for the next twenty fucking years.”
What a thought. But he couldn’t regret it. Balfre’s brother, the Green Isle’s barons and the men-at-arms he was helping Balfre train were keeping the persistent fucks off Clemen soil.
