by Carol Berg
“No, the duchess needs her. I’ve had an idea. . . .”
Though I bore no love for Philomena, I would not see her life stolen if I could prevent it, so I gathered Nellia, Giorge, the midwife, the captain of the household guard, and two of the footmen whom Nellia recommended as highly loyal to Tomas, and I directed them to stand ready. As soon as we had a report that the duchess was in true labor, the midwife was to be taken to her. If Lady Verally refused to admit the woman, then the footmen were to remove Lady Verally from the room and confine her to her apartments until such time as Her Grace’s child was born or the aunt was sent for. I invoked my authority in the absence of the duchess for the purpose of preserving Her Grace’s life and that of her child. All agreed. I left them waiting for Nellia’s word to implement the plan. My own duties were in the great hall.
Comigor’s great hall was a long, narrow room, its floor area modest only in proportion to its immense height. Its arched ceiling was so tall that as a child I had marveled at the clouds that drifted there, and believed that if I were ever allowed to be in the chamber when it was dark, I might see a whole new universe of stars. Of course the clouds had been only the lingering smoke from the ancient hearths that gaped taller than a man, and the hundreds of lamps and candles required to light the place.
On this morning the banqueting tables and chairs had been pushed to the sides of the room. My footsteps echoed as I hurried across the wood floor to the far end of the hall. Giorge and his assistants had everything arranged: the small table with the flask of wine and two glasses, the two cushioned chairs for Gerick and me, and the plainer ones for the tenant and for Giorge and his assistant who would sit behind me and record the payments in their ledgers. Everything was the way the tenants would expect it to be. There is great comfort in five-hundred-year expectations fulfilled.
“Is the young master on his way?” Giorge joined me, his hands smoothing his gray velvet doublet. Rustling and murmuring could be heard through the front doors that had been flung open, and beyond the narrow windows of the hall, gray shapes moved about the courtyard, stamping their feet in the cold.
“I’m sure he’ll be here.” Of course, I was not sure at all, and I breathed at least as great a sigh of relief as Giorge when Gerick hurried into the hall. My nephew was outfitted in close-fitting breeches of black satin, white hose, a wide-collared shirt of patterned green silk, and a tight-fitting doublet of yellow satin, heavily embroidered in gold. His red-brown hair was shining, and his eyes could have frozen a volcano.
“You look quite handsome this morning, Your Grace,” I said.
Without deigning an answer, he sat down next to me, his back straight and stiff. He seemed a great deal older than ten.
“Have you spoken with your mother or Lady Verally this morning?” I asked. He shook his head. “Then perhaps you’ll want to know. . . . I understand that all is well with your mother as of yet.” I didn’t expect him to dance with joy, but was astounded when he shot me a look of such unmitigated hatred that my skin burned with it.
I had no time to consider the cause of his current displeasure, for the first rays of the sun angled through the windows. The clatter and scrape of a hundred nailed boots echoed at the far end of the hall as a long line of sturdy, plainly dressed men surged toward us through the door. I rose from my chair and motioned to Gerick to do the same.
Giorge leaned forward from behind me and whispered, “This man is—”
“Goodman Castor,” I said, nodding to the squat, toothless man who stood proudly at the front of the line.
I had asked Giorge to prompt me discreetly if I hesitated on a name, as there was no way to learn all the new faces in a short few months or to be sure that I could remember the old. But this man had worked the Comigor land since my father was a boy.
I gestured toward the chair. “In the name of His Grace, the young duke, I welcome you to Comigor. Please rest yourself.”
“An honor, ma’am,” the roughly dressed man said loudly, his eyes narrowed as he touched his forehead and settled himself carefully into the wooden chair.
“Would you have a glass?” I asked.
“Thank’ee, ma’am, but not this morning. I’ve work as must be done.”
“Tell me, Goodman, how is it with your Kate? And Bon and Ceille must be quite grown up since I was here last. Do they still switch dresses to fool everyone into thinking one is the other?”
The man’s face lost its wary sobriety. “It is you, then!” He swallowed hard, and blinked. “No . . . no, ma’am. Ceille has done gone and got herself with child four times, but Bon’s not chosen a man, so they turn out quite different now. And my Kate fares well. Still has all her teeth.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“How is it with the young duke and his family?” The man dipped his head to Gerick, who nodded silently. A gracious and proper response.
“We are quite robust,” I said, “and give thanks to all who honor us with their service.”
We talked briefly of crops and the weather, and I had Giorge write a note that Goodman Castor could use an extra half-bag of seed, for he was farming the portion of his son-in-law who was gone to the war in Iskeran. The young soldier had no one else to work his plot, for his own father was dead and his eldest son only six years old. When all was duly noted, I stood up to conclude the interview. “We wish you a healthy winter and a good season, Goodman Castor.”
The man rose and touched his forehead again. “And for the lord and his family, my lady.” Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a grimy handkerchief, and carefully unwrapped it to reveal eight small silver coins. Reverently, he placed them in my hand.
“Thank you, Goodman Castor,” said Gerick, with a polite bow of respect for the senior tenant, surprising me almost as much as he surprised the farmer. Then the man was gone, and another stood in his place, eyeing me anxiously.
Many of the tenants I knew, heads of the families that had worked the Comigor land for generations, whose children had grown up alongside me, though our paths had never been allowed to cross. Others were new to the estate. A few refused to open their mouths even in response to my questions. Their reluctance might just have been unfamiliarity, but more than one made the flick of the fingers that was supposed to call the Holy Twins’ attention to a bit of the evil from which they were supposed to be guarding us. One after the other the tenants came. All morning, only a few moments apiece, and it was necessary to greet each one as if he were the first.
“Goodman Phinaldo, I welcome you . . .”
“. . . an honor, my lady . . .”
“. . . no wine this morning . . .”
“. . . a healthy winter, and a prosperous year . . .”
Two hours into the long day, a footman brought me a note written in Nellia’s threadlike scrawl.
The duchess is full into her labors and does not fare well. The lady aunt has been removed and the midwife brought in as you directed.
“Goodman Helyard, I welcome you . . .”
“. . . a new scythe, as the old one has been sharpened until naught but a nubbin . . .”
“. . . quite robust, thank you . . .”
There was nothing to do. We couldn’t stop. In between tenants, I passed the note to the boy, for he had the right to know. His grave expression remained unchanged after he read it, and he nodded graciously to the next man. I felt inordinately proud of him.
“. . . and for the lord and his family . . .”
“With seven children, you surely have a goat. No? Giorge, please make a note. Goodman Arthur must have a goat.”
“. . . quite robust . . .”
At midday, the footman returned.
The duchess has been delivered of a daughter. The child is frail. The duchess sleeps and seems well.
I passed the message to Gerick, and he reacted exactly as before.
“. . . many thanks for your good service . . .”
“. . . my son is ready to take a wife . . .”
“. . . a note, Giorge. Goodman Ferdan’s son, Gerald, should be next on the list for a plot. If we reopen the western fields as we plan . . .”
We did not stop for a midday meal. I had nagged at my mother unmercifully about how unfair it was that the tenants got to go home after their duty was done, but we had to sit all day with neither a drink nor a bite. She never dignified my complaining with anything but a single comment. “Someday you will understand, Seri, that asking a man to hold his year’s work so that you may fill your stomach is unworthy of one in the position you have been given in life.” Gerick did much better than I had done at ten, looking each man in the eye as he thanked him for his payment. Tomas had taught him well. I smiled as I welcomed the next man.
“. . . loathly ashamed, my lady. ‘Tis the drink what done it . . . makes me a madman it does . . . and the thieves took advantage. . . .”
“. . . but this is the third year with no rent, and we have five young men waiting for land. It is time you yielded your place to those who will work honestly.”
“But where will I go? My wife . . . my kindern . . .”
“You should have thought of your family when you drank away your responsibilities. They will not reap the bitter harvest you have sown, but you will work your own portion no longer. You will serve Goodman Castor who works two plots while his son-in-law is away. He is to give you only a common laborer’s sustenance. Pay him heed, and he’ll teach you honor and duty.”
So passed Covenant Day until the last brushed and scrubbed man departed the great hall hours after the last shreds of daylight had faded. The glowing Giorge directed his assistant to pack up his ledgers and the plain steel box that now held the wherewithal to repair the forge and the west wing roof, to pay royal tax levees, the servants, the soldiers, and the wine merchant, and to ensure the security of the young duke and his family for another year. When he had sent the pale clerks on their way, the steward bowed deeply.
“A good day, my lady, young master. Properly done.” High praise indeed from the taciturn steward.
The carafe of wine sparkled deep red in the light of the candles that had been set out to illuminate the steward’s business. On a whim, I poured a little into each of the two glasses that had sat so neglected all through the day, and offered one to Gerick who slumped tiredly in his chair. He sat up straight, took the glass, and put it to his lips.
“Your father would have been proud of you today,” I said, smiling.
But my words seemed to remind him of whatever it was that had worsened the state of affairs between us. With a snarl, he threw the wineglass at my feet, shattering the glass on the floor and splattering my skirts with the ruby liquid. Then, he ran out of the hall. I was beyond astonishment.
The two notes from Nellia lay crumpled in Gerick’s chair, reminding me that I had not yet finished the business of the day. I thanked the wide-eyed servants, who came to clean up the mess and put the hall to rights, and started up the stairs to see Philomena.
Before I reached the first landing, a harried servant accosted me with a message from the chamberlain. A visitor was waiting in the small reception room, asking to see the duchess on urgent business. Perhaps Lady Seriana could see the man. I decided to get rid of the visitor first, leaving me uninterrupted time for Philomena and Gerick. I couldn’t imagine what might bring someone to Comigor so late of an evening, so with curiosity as well as impatience, I hurried into the plain anteroom that was used to receive messengers and low-ranking visitors.
“Good evening, sir,” I said to the cloaked figure that stood by the fire with his back to me. “Please tell me what is your urgent business with the duchess.”
“Only if you happen to be the duchess,” said the man in a supercilious tone that one did not usually hear from those consigned to the small reception room. He turned toward me as he spoke, and my retort died on my tongue. A handsome man of middle years, narrow face, dark, close-trimmed hair, conservatively dressed in garb suitable for a soldier of middle rank with connections at court. He had let his beard grow longer since I had seen him last, but I could not fail to recognize him. “Darzid!”
“You!” He gathered his self-control quickly, but I had seen astonishment, displeasure, and yes, an undeniable streak of dismay before he donned his usual mask of detached amusement. It gave me an unseemly jolt of pleasure to see him discomfited—even if only for a moment. “Lady Seriana. Never in all the vagaries of time would I have expected to find you settled in your brother’s house. Has her ladyship gone mad?”
Wariness kept my loathing on a tight rein. Only hours since Karon and Dassine had walked in a Comigor garden, and now here was the man I believed the most dangerous in the Four Realms. “Her Grace is not receiving visitors this evening, Captain. State your business, and I’ll do what I can for you.”
I had once considered Tomas’s darkly charming guard captain no more than a clever and somewhat amoral courtier, one who found cynical amusement in hanging about the edges of power and observing the foolish antics of those with high ambition. We had been friends as much as Darzid’s nature was capable of friendship. But I had lost interest in Darzid as I became involved with the greater mysteries of falling in love with a sorcerer. And then the captain’s amusements had taken a murderous turn. He had been instrumental in Karon’s arrest, trial, and execution, and those of our dearest friends. Darzid himself had brought my dead infant to show me, observing my grief as if I were some alien creature with whom he had no kinship. And on the day Karon had first returned to this world in the body of D’Natheil, Darzid had come hunting him in the company of three Zhid—sorcerer-warriors from the world of Gondai. Whether he was a pawn, a dupe, or a conspirator, I wasn’t sure, but he was certainly not innocent.
He stepped close, uncomfortably close, for I could smell anise on his breath from the sweets he favored. But I did not retreat. “Oh, this is very amusing,” he said, studying my face, “a twist in the paths of fortune that could never have been anticipated. But my business is quite urgent. A critical opportunity, I might say. The lady duchess will have someone’s head if it passes her by—yours, I suppose.”
“Either I deal with the matter or it will have to wait. The duchess has given birth to a daughter today.”
He smiled broadly, his cheeks flushed. “A daughter, you say. Poor Tomas. His last try at immortality comes only to another girl. And is this one as weak as the others?”
“I don’t see that as any of your business, Captain.”
“A fine thing he got a son the first time, is it not, else who would carry on the holy Comigor traditions?” He burst into entirely incongruous laughter. If he had not been standing so close, I might have missed the unamused cold center of his eye.
“Your urgent business, Captain? The hour is late.”
He flopped on the high-backed wooden bench beside the fire, his thin, sprawling, black-clad legs reminding me of a spider. “I’ve brought the duchess the answer to her prayers, but clearly circumstances have changed. Perhaps my news is out of date, undesired, or unnecessary. . . . Tell me, my lady, how fares your nephew?” His voice was casual, drawling, but his gaze did not waver.
“Why would the young duke be of concern to you? When my brother died, so did your relationship with Comigor. Tomas forged no contract with you.”
Darzid smiled broadly. “Have no fear, my lady. I’m not here to insinuate myself onto the Comigor paylist, but only to do a last favor for my late, esteemed master. Deeming me unworthy to tutor a lord’s son, the duchess asked me to make some private inquiries as to proper fostering. Indeed, I have found someone who is both of sufficient rank to satisfy the duchess’s pecuniary ambitions and of sufficient tolerance to take on the task of making a man out of your brother’s, let us say, uniquely difficult progeny.”
“And who might this person be?” As if any selection of Darzid’s might be appropriate!
“Oh, you will delight in this. It is a matter of such delicacy that I shouldn’t tell anyone before I inf
orm the duchess, but the chance to see your reaction is just too amusing. Can you not guess who might agree to such a responsibility?”
I didn’t answer. My skin burned where his eyes rested. I folded my arms tightly, so perhaps he would not notice my involuntary shudder.
“You will not give me the pleasure of a joust? Ah, lady, I do regret—Well, too bad.” He leaned forward. “It is our king himself who offers.” And then he sagged back against the spindled arm of the bench, smiling hugely.
“Evard wants to foster Gerick?” Only the fatigue of the long day prevented my disgust from exploding.
“Who else? His feelings for your brother were quite fraternal, and he wants to do for him as any brother would. I’d say that there’s a good chance young Gerick will get a royal bride out of the arrangement, if he can be made civil. Ironic, is it not? Comigor linked to the Leiran throne—the connection Tomas most wanted, only a generation late. And he is far too dead to appreciate it.”
It was not out of the range of belief; that was what was so appalling about the idea. Evard, King of Leire, had indeed loved Tomas, as much as a shallow, ambitious, unscrupulous man could love anyone. He might well be persuaded that if he were to give a home to his friend’s son and groom the boy as a suitable mate for his only child, the Princess Roxanne, then he would be ridding himself of two irksome responsibilities at once. And there would be no stopping it. The offer was, as Darzid said, the answer to Philomena’s prayers.
Darzid sat awaiting my response like the crowd before a gallows awaits the springing of the trap. No use for artifice.
“You’ll be delighted to hear that I have no say whatsoever in this matter, Captain. But I wouldn’t condemn the most deprived peasant child to life with Evard, so I’ll do everything in my power to convince the duchess that her son needs a mentor with some rudimentary concept of honor . . .”
