by Karen Miller
“Don’t plague me with Guimar,” he said, teeth gritted. “It’s because I honour my father that I think on this task, even as I stand here prepared to shed his blood from Harald’s body, if I must!”
When it came, Humbert’s released breath was like a groan. “It might not come to slaughter.”
“Might not, no. But Humbert, it might, and that will be a heavy thing to live with. And explaining it to Liam, when he’s old enough to understand?”
Just the thought could make him heave.
“You want to turn tail, then?” Humbert demanded.
“I want to save Clemen!”
Humbert stepped so close that his sigh felt like a warm, ale-scented breeze. “And if we could save it without riding roughshod over Harald, don’t you think it would’ve been saved before tonight?”
Roric looked away, weary before he’d struck a single blow. “Yes, my lord.”
“Yes, my lord,” Humbert echoed, close to pleading. “And I’d call you my lord, Roric. I’d call you my duke.” His finger stabbed at Heartsong, where Harald caroused unawares. “But I can’t call you either until that piece of offal is done with. And the only man who can see him done is you. The only head fit for Clemen’s coronet is yours. No more of Berold’s blood remains.”
“That’s not true.”
“Infants die every day, boy! Who’s to say Harald’s brat will live to see another winter?”
A fair question. Humbert had buried his two sons untimely, and both of Guimar’s true-born sons had died in their youth. Clemen’s grass grew green over the bones of young men and dead babes.
But even so…
“Liam’s not dead yet, Humbert. And by rights, Clemen is his.”
“This duchy has no need of a milk-suck,” said Humbert. “Even if the brat does survive, what use is it to us? We need a man who knows how to wield a sword. I promise you this, Roric. Grant Harald’s babe the coronet, trammel it with regents, as they’ve done in Cassinia, and the wolves of Harcia will be at our throats before summer’s end.”
“Aimery has never—”
“It’s not Aimery I fear! It’s his curs’t heir wants to spill our blood in the mire–and Balfre is mongrel enough to try!”
He wished he could deny it. But Balfre had long made it plain he saw Clemen as stolen land. With one whiff of weakness, Aimery’s heir and his friends would ride the Marches flat in their haste to reclaim Clemen for Harcia. And whispers from Harcia cast doubt on Aimery’s ability to stop him. Balfre was a hot-head, full of temper and bile. Fresh gossip held he now had innocent blood on his hands, an enemy killed under cover of rough play. That was the stamp of Aimery’s heir.
“Roric,” said Humbert. There was iron in his voice. “I want an answer. Do you honour your oath and wield your sword in defence of this plundered duchy, or do you forswear yourself and toss Clemen in the midden?”
His sword, belted close by his side. A knight-gift from Guimar, costly and much loved. Heavy with promises and oaths newly sworn, in secret. Harald’s doom… or his own.
Doubt was pointless. In this, he had no choice. Closing his fingers around the sword’s hilt, Roric drew breath to reply and end the untimely, unwelcome dispute.
“He’ll fight, of course,” said Vidar, joining them. Cat-footed as ever, despite the halt in his stride. “He loves Clemen as some men love their wives. And a pox on you for doubting it, my lord.”
Any other man speaking so to Humbert would find himself clubbed to his knees. Vidar, being Vidar, earned nothing more violent than a glare. “We’re not here to henhouse,” Humbert muttered. “If you’ve a mind to be useful, keep an eye open for the signal.”
Vidar’s scarred face twitched, the closest he mostly came to a smile. In the moonlight, the eye that hadn’t been stitched shut glinted. “My lord, I’ll do my best.” Ignoring Humbert’s angry chagrin, he jerked his chin at the castle. “But since you mention it… the night wears thin, Roric, and there’s still no sign we’re welcome. Are you certain Harald’s knave is to be trusted?
He frowned. “Are you certain he’s not?”
“How can I say?” Vidar’s shrug was elegant. “I must defer to your superior judgement, since I’ve little cause to cross paths with knaves.”
And that was Vidar in a nutshell. His insults, if they were insults, were always so agreeably couched in courtesy.
“I’ve no reason to doubt him, Vidar. I told you. Belden’s uncle to a trusted squire, and vouched for.”
Another elegant shrug. “If you say so, Roric. Though I must confess I save my trust for lords, not knaves.”
“Then you can breathe easy, Vidar,” Humbert said flatly. “For it’s Roric you’re trusting.”
A brief bow, this time. “Of course, my lord.” Then Vidar smiled. “Good Roric, are we quarrelling? Let’s not. We should save our temper for Harald.”
And that was Vidar, too, effortlessly shifting from veiled insult to open, easy accord. Sometimes it was hard to know the real reason he’d joined their cause. Did he truly believe it was just? Or was he simply seeking revenge for his father, and the chance to reclaim what Harald had stolen?
And in the end, did it matter? So long as Harald fell…
“Look!” said Humbert, pointing. “There.”
A plunging star of light from the top of Heartsong’s single tower keep. A flaming arrow. The signal.
Blood pounding, Roric turned. “And that would be my knave, ready to unbar the castle’s sally port to us. It’s time. Vidar–”
Caught by the arm, Vidar swung about. His scarred face darkened with anger, swift as a wind-chased cloud crossing the sun. “Roric?”
“Remember I want little Liam untouched,” he said, loosening his hold. “Remind everyone, in my name. Harald’s son is innocent of his father’s sins, as all sons are innocent.”
Vidar, landless and tainted because of his own foolish father, bared his teeth in a grim smile. “At least until they make their own choices,” he said, his single green eye unclouded with doubt or fear. “And then they’re men, Roric, who must answer as men.”
“Perhaps. But any man who spills a single drop of Liam’s blood, be he noble or base, shall shed his own in a river. We haven’t come to make war on infants. My lord—” He looked to Humbert. “Go with Vidar to fetch the others, and our men-at-arms. We don’t want to keep Belden waiting. He might lose heart and think we’ve mislaid our purpose.”
“A knave lose heart?” said Vidar. “Shame on you for saying so, Roric. I’ve heard on the best authority that knaves are as noble as any lord in the land.”
“That’s enough mischief from you, Vidar,” Humbert growled. “Save your strife-making for Harald.”
Humbert and Vidar retreated into the copse’s shadowed gloom. Grateful for the solitude, however brief, Roric stared at the castle and felt his gloved fingers cramp until his hands were made fists.
See reason, Harald. Find shame. For all our sakes, I beg you. Do not contest me, so all of us might live.
Liam was fussing.
“Oh, baby, baby, my wicked lamb! Waking so soon? Naughty!”
Swooping, Ellyn snatched up her beloved charge from his gilded cradle, hung with faery-charms no matter what the Exarch’s mimbly priests said, and pressed him close to her milk-plump breast. Was he hungry? No, that wasn’t his empty belly cry. She’d be leaking like a sieve if it was. No, he was just fussing, frit by a baby-dream and ripe for cuddling.
“There, my baby,” she crooned, as Liam grizzled and folded his fingers into her hair. His tiny nails scratched her neck. They needed paring again, growing as fast as he was. Nearly three full moons old now, and such a big boy. His wispy hair tickled her chin, chestnut-red like his handsome father’s. And his slate-grey eyes would turn the duke’s lovely amber-brown, she knew it. Such a beautiful boy, so fine she could scarce remember her own babe, strangled in its cord, blue and wrinkled and ugly. A mercy to lose the little bastard, her mother said, and it was true. That dead unwanted babe had
brought her Liam.
Wriggle, wriggle, fuss. Would he never settle down?
“Hush-a-bye, hush,” she whispered, breathing him in, sweeter than summer roses. “You’ll wake the old cow, lamb. We don’t want her mooing at us, do we?”
The old cow, Lady Morda, who only looked at Liam and made him cry. Nasty old woman had no business being in the nursery with her pinching, poking fingers, but what use a fifteen-year-old wet nurse saying so? The lady Argante would be deaf to that. At seventeen and shockingly fair, the duke’s triumphant third wife knew everything already. Besides, the lady Morda was her kinswoman, so she could do no wrong.
“Come, baby,” Ellyn said, her cheek pressed to Liam’s restless head. “Shall we walk a bit? Take a little tit-tup? You’ll sleep like a noddy one, won’t you, once we’ve had ourselves a roundabout.”
Of course he would. She knew him front to back, knew his ten toes and his ten fingers and the reason for every tear on his rose petal cheeks. He was her baby, her Liam. What was Argante, Duchess of Clemen? Nothing but the vain, spoiled young woman who’d pushed him out between her legs.
“But you’re my wee man, Liam, aren’t you?” she whispered, walking him round and round the fine castle nursery, with its tapestries and velvets, stained-glass in the window, gilded shutters fastened tight against sly drafts, a brazier glowing with heat and candles enough to outshine the sun, as well as rushlights for the small hours. Nothing too fine for Duke Harald’s heir. “Liam is his Ellyn’s wee man.”
Her wee man blew a sticky bubble, then started to wail.
“No, Liam,” she implored, jigging him. “Don’t you start that. You’ll have me in such trouble. The old cow, she’ll blame my milk.”
And then the lady Argante would hiss like a cat and tell the duke to find another wet nurse for Liam. If that happened, she’d die.
Walking as she jigged him, she crossed them to the narrow, gilded door opposite Liam’s cradle. It was the lady Morda’s chamber behind there, the privy closet she had claim to because the nursery was in her charge. No straw-stuffed pallet on the flagstones beside the cradle for that old cow. Holding her breath, Ellyn pressed one ear against the painted wood, but heard nothing save the lady’s snores, rough as a hacksaw in a log.
“All mousey, lamb,” she whispered, backing away. “So hush now, hush.”
Liam’s wail stuttered into hiccups, but that was only the lull before the storm. There’d be more wails soon enough if she didn’t keep him sweet. A longer walk, then. But it was night-time, the stone corridors chilly. Let Liam catch an ague and she’d kiss farewell to those kindly looks from the duke. He’d kill her with his bare hands, instead. His son was worth more to him than all the gold and jewels in Clemen.
Ellyn bundled her little lambkin into a fine scarlet-dyed blanket, the wool to make it brought over land and sea all the way from duchy Ardenn, in Cassinia. They grew the best wool there, everyone knew that. But even so, ten gold marks for three hanks of sheep’s wool! Still, not even ten gold marks was o’erspending. Not for precious Liam. After he was safely snugged and gummy smiling, she wrapped them both in her coarse brown woollen cloak then slipped out of the nursery to wander Heartsong for a while.
The castle stood but three storeys high, not counting the kitchens and cellars below or the tower keep at one corner, and Liam’s nursery was an eagle’s eyrie on the uppermost floor. Expecting to find at least one of the duke’s men-at-arms nearby, she was surprised to discover the corridor empty and echoing. She hesitated, uncertain. But then faint strains of music drew her towards the stone spiral staircase leading down to the four-sided minstrel gallery above the Great Hall, where Duke Harald and his duchess and the court amused themselves of a night.
Warm beneath the plain cloak as they took the tight-turning stone stairs one careful step at a time, Liam wriggled and cooed. Ellyn smiled, feeling the damp on her linen undershirt where her little man had drooled. Reaching the gallery at last, she stopped.
There was the missing man-at-arms, snatching a few moments of music to brighten a dull watch. Emun, his name. A bit rough, like all men-at-arms, and older than her by a tenyear, but not a bad sod. She’d known worse. Emun spun about, hearing her laced leather slippers on the flagstones, his knee-length mail coat rattling its own rough music. The fat candles set into the stone wall beside him betrayed his surprise and sudden, red-faced guilt.
Ellyn pressed a finger to her lips, giving him her best saucy dimples. Let the twinkle in her eye tell him she’d not tattle if he didn’t, so he should stay and enjoy the music a bit longer. But Emun frowned, his thieved moment spoilt, his fear of the castle’s serjeant too great. Because he had a ready, slapping hand, she stepped aside from the arching stone doorway so he could stomp past her and Liam and take the spiral staircase back to where he belonged.
She wasn’t sorry to hear his footsteps fade away. She liked it best when she and Liam were alone.
“There, my lamb,” she murmured. “Let’s bide a while and listen, shall we? And watch your fine, handsome Dadda dance.”
“My lord Roric.”
“Serjeant Belden.” Roric, answering whisper with whisper, examined the man’s rough-hewn face in the torchlight falling through Heartsong’s narrowly opened sally port. Resignation there, a touch of fear, but no treachery. The man was standing firm. “Is all ready?”
The castle’s senior man-at-arms nodded. “His Grace is at his pleasure, keeping company with his lords and ladies in the Great Hall. They’re well-plied with wine, and mellow.”
“Your men? How many in all?”
“Fifteen.”
Still only a handful, then, even this close to the Marches. Harald’s overconfident arrogance was serving them well.
“Where will we find them?”
“There are none in the hall itself, my lord. Two stand at its doors. Four have the roaming of the castle, roof to cellars. The rest I’ve posted where they’ll do you least harm.”
“We crossed paths with no one outside.”
“No, my lord. I’ve kept every last man within doors. I didn’t want to risk them seeing the arrow.”
Roric nodded. “A clever thought.”
“My lord.” The serjeant chewed at his lip. “My lord, about my men. I’d not—”
“I make no promises I’m not sure to keep, Belden. But I’ll do my best to see they’re not slaughtered.”
The serjeant sighed gustily. “Yes, my lord.”
At his back, Humbert cursed. “Roric! What’s the hold?”
“No hold,” he said, turning. “I’m making sure of our welcome.”
A burning torch was set in the stonework above the sally port. In its guttering light he saw Humbert’s frown. Vidar’s almost-concealed tension. Open tension in the shadowed faces of the lords who stood with him: Aistan, Farland, Hankin and Morholt. Disciplined behind them stood the two score of men-at-arms sworn to follow their lords. Not a one of them belonged to him, yet to a man he commanded them. If they died this night, their blood would wet his head.
“Roric.”
He looked again at Heartsong’s guardian. “Serjeant of the Guard, do you grant us entry?”
Belden’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the sally port door, then he nodded. “I do, my lord Roric. The castle is yours.”
CHAPTER FOUR
On the far side of Heartsong’s gallery, across the lofty expanse of hall below with its tapestry-hung walls and wrought-iron candle wheels, Duke Harald’s minstrels played their merry music so Clemen’s lords and ladies might dance. Not dusty, out-of-tune travelling minstrels these, but clean, swift-fingered men paid to travel with the court and give the duke music whenever he wanted. Ellyn tugged her cloak aside so Liam could see and hear them, and smiled at his alertness.
“See, lamb?” she whispered, creeping closer to the wide oak railing. Not close enough for notice, though. Like Emun, she didn’t look for trouble. “That music, it’s for you. And those rousty men with their tabors and little fiddles and p
ipes, they belong to you too. Or they will do, one day. Or if they don’t, their sons will. Just like Clemen will be yours, when you’re a man and your father is–is—”
She couldn’t bring herself to say it, never mind Liam was too young for understanding. Looking down over the gallery’s half-wall, where Clemen’s northern lords and ladies caroused, she feasted her eyes on Duke Harald.
Tall and bold, he was, as Liam would be in his turn. The enormous beeswax candles and the golden firelight spilling from the wide hearth burnished his chestnut hair and his bronze silk tunic as he stood with two favoured noblemen, the lords Gaspar and Scarwid, clapping his hands and stamping his feet to the lively music. At nine-and-thirty years old, Duke Harald was past his prime, some would say. But those who said so, they didn’t know him. They’d not seen the duke astride his coal-black destrier, with his favourite falcon hooded and fierce on his upraised wrist. They’d not heard him laugh or seen him dance or cross great-swords in the tilt yard with his bastard cousin, the lord Roric.
No one who’d seen any of that would dare call Harald old.
The duke’s lady Argante was dancing, beautiful in her glittering headdress and pearl-sewn blue velvet gown, but she wasn’t partnered with him. Not with the lord Roric, either, or poor Lord Vidar who did still dance a little, despite his troubles. They were gone from Heartsong, about great doings for the duke. Just now Harald’s lady was dancing with Lord Ercole, her unwed half-brother. He was as plain as she was fair, which might well be why they danced. So she’d show to best advantage. It couldn’t be for the joy of it, since there was no deep love between Lord Ercole and his half-sister. She’d heard Duke Harald’s lady cursing him to her favourite damsel, Helsine. But that was because she’d caught the lord Ercole with his hand up Helsine’s skirt, fingers busy where they had no right to be and Helsine not protesting. Argante slapped Helsine’s cheek as scarlet as Liam’s blanket and raged until the girl’s eyes near washed out of her silly head from weeping.
