The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  Roric let go his held breath, aware that Humbert and Vidar did the same. Aistan, his support declared, stood like a man carved from Harcian granite. The hall was so quiet the dull clinking of mail could be heard from the minstrels’ gallery, where those borrowed men-at-arms kept watch beside their lords.

  He took a measured step closer to his deceitfully courteous cousin. “Harald, there is—”

  “Hold your tongue, cur,” said Harald. “I deny you my name, my blood, and any part of me. To think I treated you like a brother. Well might Humbert take me to task for that. Indeed, it shames me to—”

  Enough. Give Harald the chance and he’d warp this encounter to his own benefit, make himself the man wronged and slither free of condemnation.

  “Your Grace, you said you’d hear our grievances. Will you hear them, or did you lie?”

  “I said,” Harald replied, his teeth bared, “that I would listen to my barons.”

  A light touch to his arm. Humbert. Throttling temper, Roric held his tongue. Beside him, Vidar shifted. Doubtless easing his bad hip, but also growing impatient. His grudge against Clemen’s duke was even more personal than Aistan’s. But though his rage was justified, it could never excuse blatant murder. No matter how cruelly Lord Godebert had died.

  Feeling Vidar’s temper tighten further, Roric frowned at him. Vidar’s nostrils flared, but he let his sword lower until its point touched the tiled floor. Needing to ease the ache in his forearms, knowing the message it would send to Harald, Roric lowered his own sword-point likewise.

  A small, triumphant smile curved the corners of Harald’s ungenerous mouth. He had silenced his upstart cousin and doubtless believed he’d silence Humbert too, and Aistan, and all the other lords of his duchy. Even now he thought he’d prevail, blinded by the arrogance that had led him to this confrontation. So was Argante blinded, standing straight-spined beside him, her beeswax-dyed lips the colour of old blood.

  Looking at them, Roric felt a sting of pity for his cousin’s child, asleep in its cradle. Were Harald and Argante dog and bitch, a wise huntsman would never have bred them. What chance did the babe have, with such a bloodline? Poor Liam. Was there a way to save him?

  We’re kin. I’ll have to try.

  Smile fading, Harald smoothed a crease in the hem of his gold-embroidered bronze tunic. Candlelight set fire to the hearts of his ruby and emerald rings. Some of his colour was returned. He looked almost robust. Only the lingering sweat, and a pinch-mark between his eyebrows, hinted at anything amiss.

  “And so, Humbert, council is in session,” he said. “Speak now, or never. I am patient in this small time but even the deepest well must run dry.”

  Humbert’s turn to step forward. His large hand swallowed nearly all of his sword’s hilt. He carried the heavy blade easily, a man full of martial memories, tempered like Rebbai steel. Harald would cut himself to ribbons on him, and bleed to death before ever he knew himself hurt.

  “Your Grace,” said Humbert, with only the faintest hint of scorn, “here are the grievances held by the lords and nobles of this duchy, by strength of which we claim the right of redress. First grievance: the gross and burdensome matter of untoward taxation…”

  “Ellyn? Ellyn, wake up!”

  Startled from her dropped-mouth drowse on her straw pallet, Ellyn dragged open her eyelids and blinked. “Nelda? What do you—”

  The kitchen girl’s green eyes shone with fear, her arms clutching her bastard brat close. “Ellyn, can I hide here? Please, say I can.”

  “Hide?” With a grunt for her aching back, she sat upright. Looked first to Liam, sleeping mousey in his cradle, then to Lady Morda’s closet–but its door remained slammed shut. “Nelda, you can’t be in here with your–with Tygo! He could start wailing any moment, and if you wake Morda she’ll skin us both.” She stared past Nelda to the nursery door, left ajar. “How did you get by Emun? He knows better than—”

  “He be stretching his legs along the corridor,” said Nelda, unrepentant. “I waited for his back to turn. Ellyn, there be trouble. Men-at-arms in the castle.”

  Spirits save them, was the girl ale-giddy? “Of course there are—”

  “Not ours!” Nelda hissed. “These be strangers, and lords I’ve never seen before. Ellyn, they be roaming the castle with bare swords. They came into the kitchen and set Aunt Cook in a tizzy! I couldn’t help her. Tygo and me only just scribbled by them unseen.”

  No… Nelda wasn’t ale-giddy. She was a henwit. Ellyn scrambled to her feet. “Then what are you doing here? Find the serjeant, tell him—”

  “The serjeant be helping them!” Nelda sucked in a shuddering breath. “He be telling Heartsong’s men to keep their swords by their sides–and they are.”

  She swallowed a surge of panic. Liam. “I don’t believe you. Not a word. You must’ve dreamed it.”

  “Dreamed it when? As if I’ve slept since last dawn, working my fingers to blisters cooking for the duke!”

  “But–Heartsong’s serjeant? He wouldn’t—”

  “Ellyn, I heard him!” Nelda insisted. She was shivering with her fright. “The castle’s lost, I tell you!”

  The banging open of the lady Morda’s closet door spun them both about.

  “Slut!” Muffled in a night-cloak, her grey-streaked hair bundled into a linen coif, the lady Morda stood furious in her narrow doorway. “Is there no end to your wickedness?”

  “My–my lady—” Ellyn replied, breathless. Stammering, because she did believe Nelda, even if the girl was a henwit. The kitchen drudge’s terror was too real for fakery. Besides, why would she risk terrible punishment with a lie? “Lady Morda, something’s awry. Strange men-at-arms in—”

  “What I see awry, girl, is—”

  An iron jangling of mail, and Emun was in the nursery. “What’s the rout here?”

  “The rout?” Hand raised to strike, Morda stormed at him. “You worthless piece of dung! How did you let—”

  “Emun! Emun, listen!” On a sobbing breath Ellyn leapt ahead of Morda. Knocking the woman sideways, ignoring her astonished gasp, she took hold of his arm. “There’s danger. We’ve got rough men in Heartsong.”

  Suspicious, Emun stared. “What men? I’ve not seen—”

  “I have,” said Nelda, daring. She sounded close to tears. “I—”

  “This is nonsense,” said Lady Morda, her voice hoarse with temper. “Bar these sluts in a cellar. That snot-nosed bastard, too. I want them—”

  “Emun!” Ellyn shook him, making his mail rattle a promise of safety. “Go and see. If I’m wrong I’ll let them whip me. I’ll let her—” she glanced at Morda “—do every terrible thing to me.”

  “And me!” Nelda added. “But it be true. With my own eyes, I saw those men.”

  “Saw the bottom of an ale barrel more like!” the lady Morda retorted. “As if any man in Clemen would endanger the duke!”

  Emun opened his mouth then closed it again, uncertain. “Ellyn—”

  Oh, he was a cock. “Please, Emun!” she nearly broke her hand slapping his mail-covered chest. “What harm can come from looking?”

  “Plenty,” said Lady Morda, grimly. “For you and your sluttish friend.”

  She only just kept herself from breaking a hand on the old cow. “Good then! You go with him, my lady, and prove us wrong. Then you’ll have your excuse to see me stripped and beaten, won’t you?”

  “My lady—” Emun stepped back. “You should stay. Won’t take me a moment to look about.”

  “And leave you to lie for this slut?” Lady Morda demanded, uglier than ever in her hate. “Make up some tarradiddle to soften the blow?”

  Emun’s beard-stubbled face coloured. “My lady—”

  “As if I’d not seen you sniffing after her. As if I didn’t know you’d pin her against a wall were I not watching so close. You’ll prove her a liar with me by your side. Out of here, churl. Out!”

  He was a man-at-arms, and she was kin to Harald’s wife, in charge of the nursery
that held Harald’s son.

  “Go, Emun,” Ellyn said, struggling to smile. “And have a care.”

  He didn’t want to leave them, but Morda gave him no choice. He bowed to the old cow, stiffly. “My lady.”

  Morda stabbed a finger at her. “You stay here, Ellyn, you and this drab. Keep her and her bastard far from Harald’s son. And never doubt the duke will be told of your wicked mischief.”

  “Oh, Ellyn,” Nelda wailed, as the nursery door closed behind Emun and the old cow. “I’m feared!”

  “Yes, but hush,” she said, turning away. She and Nelda were of an age, but she felt years older. “Or you’ll wake Liam and then you’ll know true strife.”

  Ignoring Nelda’s frightened snuffling, leaving her to cosset her bastard brat, she bent over the cradle. Bless the spirits, her precious lamb slept on despite the upset. Daring a fingertip to his soft cheek, she made herself breathe slowly until her heart left off its banging on her ribs.

  “Ellyn…” Nelda whispered now. “What do we do?”

  “Do?” She stood straight and turned. “Nelda, you heard what I—”

  And then she bit her lip. You stay here. Yes, that was the sensible thing. Only there were lords in the castle, with their men-at-arms. Serjeant Belden was helping them. What did that mean?

  Oh. Wild spirits save me. What if these lords are noblemen from Harcia? Not a soul of us thought Duke Harald would ever sire a son. Harcia must’ve doubted it too. What if Belden’s sold his loyalty to Duke Aimery? He could have. And everyone knows what the Harcians are. What if–what if–

  Nelda’s bastard brat cried in protest as her hold on it tightened. “Ellyn? You be frighting me. What thought’s put that look on your face? What—”

  Leaping to Heartsong’s kitchen drudge, Ellyn pressed a finger to the girl’s cold lips. “Nelda. Listen. Do you love our duke?”

  Mute, Nelda nodded.

  “And his son? His beautiful Liam, who’s to be duke after him? Do you love him too?”

  Another nod, then Nelda pulled away. “Ellyn—”

  “No, no, just listen,” she said, fighting not to shout. “These men in the castle, Nelda. They’ll never hurt a babe. Noblemen aren’t like that. But–but–we must make certain Liam’s kept safe for the duke.”

  “Safe?” said Nelda, bewildered. “I don’t—”

  She took hold of Nelda’s shoulders, thin beneath a kitchen-stained linen dress. “Emun will be back soon. Him and Lady Morda, they’ll be back,” she said quickly, as coaxing as she could. “But one of those lords you saw, the ones we don’t know, they could find us first. Nelda, they mustn’t find Liam. You and me, we can’t let any of them have the duke’s son. Not when we can’t be sure what they’re about.”

  Nelda’s eyes were wide enough to nearly start from her head. “But Ellyn, you said they’d not hurt a babe. You said—”

  “I know what I said!” she snapped. “And they won’t. But don’t you see? They could still take him and threaten to hurt him, so they can hurt the duke. So here’s what we’ll do. You and me. For Duke Harald. I’ll take my Liam and go in there—” She pointed at Lady Morda’s closet. “—and you’ll stay out here with your–with Tygo. Look! You can sit in the nursing chair and–and Tygo, he can sleep in Liam’s cradle. With all its charms dangling on it, see, so he won’t go awry.”

  Nelda’s eyes filled with tears. “You want to leave me here? Alone?”

  Stupid henwit. “No, no, Nelda, you won’t be alone. I’m not leaving. I’m just going to sit with Liam in Morda’s closet. So if one of those lords comes here, he’ll not find us.”

  “But he’ll find me and Tygo,” said Nelda, tears spilling. “What do I say then? What do I do?”

  “Nothing,” she said, and tugged Nelda towards the nursing chair. “You’re only a kitchen drudge. They won’t care about you or your little bastard. So you sit and wait for Emun. Or the duke! He’ll come, for certain. And when he sees what you’ve done for Liam, he’ll be so pleased, Nelda. He’ll–he’ll grant you a cottage, he will. And coins. A gold mark all your own, I’ll bet. And the lady Argante, she’ll give you some of her clothes, she’ll be so grateful. Fancy! Silks and furs and could be a little ruby ring, too.”

  “For sitting here?” said Nelda, letting herself be pushed into the chair. “Ellyn, be you sure?”

  Ellyn plucked sleeping Liam from his cradle. “Yes! Certain sure. Don’t I know them, Nelda? I’m wet nurse to their son. They trust me, you’ve seen that. So you can trust me. When I tell them how brave you are, how much you love Liam—”

  “Ais, but—” Hope and doubt shook Nelda’s voice. “Lady Morda, she be—”

  “Never you mind about that old cow,” she said, fighting not to look at the nursery door. Any moment it could burst open, any moment… “The duke has no care for her, and what the duke decides is what happens. Nelda, you settle Tygo in Liam’s cradle. He’s never slept anywhere so fine, with all these lovely oil-lamps. They’re scented. Don’t the air smell sweet? Better than a kitchen full of cake! Your Tygo, he’ll dream he’s a duke! I’m taking Liam into the closet now. Once I close its door, not a peep. Not a hiccup. And whatever you do, if a lord does come, don’t look our way. Best you forget we’re in there. The duke will be here soon. All will be well. I promise.”

  “Ais,” said Nelda, sniffing.

  “And you promise to stay mousey?”

  “I promise,” said Nelda.

  Shaking, Ellyn closed the closet door on Nelda’s trusting smile. The door had a latch and a wooden cross-bar to hold it fast. Struggling not to disturb Liam, she fumbled the bar into place. Hearing it thud home, she had to swallow tears.

  Safe. Safe. We’re safe.

  Morda had left three beeswax candles burning beside her bed. Three, when she begrudged anyone else a single stinking tallow taper. Oh, she was a cow. And the bed, layered deep with softest wool blankets and a wolfskin coverlet on top. Luxury! And all she did was moan that Duke Harald did not esteem her.

  “I’d like to esteem her,” she muttered, cradling Liam’s head as she sank to the edge of the bed. “Right off the top of Heartsong’s keep, I would.”

  The mattress gave way beneath her, a silence of wool and feathers. No crackling, prickly straw for Morda. Aching with nerves, she wanted to lie down, only that would be folly. Safe she and Liam might be, but safer still sitting up. She pressed her lips to his head, gently. He wriggled, the tiniest twitch, knowing who held him. Knowing who loved him more than anyone in the world. Even more than Duke Harald did, though she’d never say it out loud. But how could he? Duke Harald didn’t suckle his son, Duke Harald hardly saw him but once or twice in a week. Duke Harald wanted more sons, in case Liam died. She could understand that. It was the way men were made.

  But you’ll not die, my baby. You’ll live and be a duke.

  No sound from Nelda in the nursery beyond the barred door. After so much fuss and upset, she’d half-expected to hear Tygo crying. Could be the brat was sickly. Best for Nelda if it was, and died. Bastard brats were a burden–unless they were born noble, like Duke Harald’s bent-nosed cousin.

  The beeswax candles burned bright. Staring at them, hating the thought of sitting in the dark, she dithered a moment then reached for the long-handled snuffer and put them out. Better darkness than discovery.

  Time dragged its heels. Surely Emun would return soon. Surely—

  A heart-cracking sound of timber striking stone as the nursery door crashed open. Nelda broke her mousey promise and screamed. Blind and trapped in Lady Morda’s dark closet, Ellyn leapt to her feet. Bit her lip to blood when Nelda screamed again, and her sickly bastard screamed with her. A confusion of heavy boots on the stone floor, rough voices, a clashing of mail.

  “This is the child?” A man’s harsh demand. “Harald’s son?”

  Remembering this time, Nelda said nothing.

  “What is this? What do you do here?”

  A new voice. Familiar. Ellyn stuffed her fist between her teeth.
Emun. At last.

  “Answer me!” said Emun. “You’re bound to answer, for—”

  Metal scraping metal, a shocking sound. Metal plunging into flesh. A choked-off cry, full of pain. A woman’s scream, not Nelda, and then a metal thud as something heavy struck the nursery floor.

  “Butchery!” cried Lady Morda, shrill with fear. “Murder! Foul murder! Where is the duke, send for the—”

  Another sickening sound of forged steel cleaving meat. Another thud, much lighter. No rattle of iron mail.

  “Hold!” said a different voice, tight with anger and confusion. “What are you doing?”

  A harsh laugh, another new voice. “What I’m paid for.”

  Muffled shouts. A clash of sword blades. Breathless grunts and booted shuffling. A smash of wood. A desperate cry. A second iron thudding on the floor. A man’s groaning curse, full of pain. Halting, dragging footsteps. And then a frightened baby’s wail.

  “Please,” said Nelda, weeping. “Please, you be mistaken. Don’t hurt us. I’m not–please, you mustn’t–no–don’t–don’t—”

  Ellyn dropped to the soft bed and muffled Liam in wolfskin, so he couldn’t hear that bastard brat and its babbling henwit mother die. When it was over she waited to be found, for the closet door to crash open, to feel the unforgiving kiss of steel, to hear Liam shriek like Nelda’s Tygo. To feel her lamb’s blood wet her skin. Instead came another heavy, metal-rattling thud. Slow, this time, and with much laboured groaning.

  Then the groaning stopped, and there was silence. Ellyn swallowed a sob. She and wriggling Liam were alone… and alive.

  To Roric’s surprise, Harald had said nothing throughout Humbert’s remorseless onslaught of accusations. But, knowing his cousin, he knew the self-control wouldn’t last. Behind the attentive mask Clemen’s duke was seething. Humiliated. A muscle twitched in his cheek, chaotic, and a swollen vein throbbed an ominous warning at his temple.

  Standing rigid beside her husband, Argante held his hand so tightly it seemed her bones must burst through the skin.