by Karen Miller
“My lord.” Vidar bowed, not caring that courtesy stoked his body’s pain to greater heights. Let Roric gallop from doorstep to doorstep, he’d keep pace with the bastard no matter the cost. “Until morning.”
Limping from the hall, feeling the great lords’ gazes follow him, he made sure to keep his expression suitably grave. But once he was alone, in a cramped chamber on Heartsong tower’s third floor, he thought of Lindara and laughed, until pain and exhaustion felled him like an axe.
Gently imprisoned within her father’s unfashionable Eaglerock townhouse, Lindara waited, and waited, and thought she might go mad. Two weeks gone, almost, since Harald died at Heartsong. Clemen was still in convulsions. Ten days since Vidar and her father and Roric had returned from the north. Three days since Harald, Argante and their babe were laid to rest without public ceremony in the grounds of Eaglerock castle. Two days since Clemen’s new council was announced, with Humbert at its head. So far she’d seen her father five times, Roric once and Vidar not at all. Every morning she came downstairs, full of hope that this would be the day her beloved came to claim her. Every night, disappointed, she snuffed out her bedside candle and wept because he hadn’t.
If only she knew why he was taking so long…
Biting her lip, she tied off a thread of green embroidery silk and held out her hand. “Red, Eunise.”
Eunise, her nurse turned lady’s maid, laid a length of red silk across her palm. She threaded her needle, fighting the urge to stab it in her eye. Embroidery. She was sick to death of it. Sick of dour old Eunise, this dayroom, her life. No wonder wild birds moped and died in a cage. Feeling savage, she jabbed the needle through the silk cushion cover she was stitching. What she’d not give for a gallop through Bingham Wood, following hounds in pursuit of a stag. But her father wouldn’t hear of it. She must stay indoors, with Eunise, till agitated Eaglerock was millpond calm again.
“And when will that be?” she’d demanded, fretted to unwise confrontation.
“How should I know?” he’d replied, scarcely heeding her. Not caring, it seemed, that she was close to tears. “Lindara, cease your carping. I’ve greater worries to task me than your fidgets.”
So here she sat, day after tedious day, stitching cushion covers. Going mad.
A knock on the dayroom door, then it opened. Gillie, the townhouse steward, crossed the threshold and bowed. “My lady. Lord Vidar is come, seeking Lord Humbert.”
“You should send him away, my lady,” said Eunise, uninvited. “Lord Humbert wouldn’t like him bothering you.”
Perhaps she could stab her needle into Eunise’s eye, instead. “Show Lord Vidar in, Gillie.” And as her prunish maid hissed under her breath, added, “Enough, Eunise. It would be impolite to send him away without a courteous explanation.”
Heart hammering, she waited. When the door opened again, admitting Vidar, it took all her strength not to leap into his arms. Not to drown in pity for him, take his tired face between her hands, kiss away the fresh lines of pain grooved deep around his eyes and his lips. Because she couldn’t, must seem indifferent, she tucked the threaded needle into her embroidery and handed it to Eunise, then smoothed the folds of her violet skirts.
“My lord,” she said, offering Vidar a distantly polite smile. Eunise bristled close beside her, a guard dog ready to bite. “I’m told you wish to see Lord Humbert. Alas, he’s trapped in Eaglerock castle, and I can’t tell you when next he’ll be home. Roric keeps him monstrous busy. But if you’d care to leave him a message I’ll be sure he receives it.”
Vidar’s smile was as distantly polite as her own. “A kind offer, my lady, but what I must say to your father is best said face to face.”
She nodded, the gracious hostess. “Of course. Eunise—”
“My lady?” said Eunise, suspicious.
“Bring me a pitcher of Evrish wine, a plate of sugar wafers and two of the red glass goblets. I’d not send Lord Vidar away completely unsatisfied.”
Eunise tucked in her whiskered chin. “My lady, Lord Humbert wouldn’t approve of that.”
“And I don’t approve of you disputing me! Will you go, or must I dismiss you?”
“My lady,” Eunise muttered.
“So, my lord Vidar,” she said, as soon as they were alone. “Have you really come to see my father?”
Vidar grinned. “Given I know full well where Humbert hides himself, what do you think?”
She nearly tripped in her haste to reach him. “I think you’re a cat-hearted knave! It’s been days since you returned from Heartsong and this is the first I see of you? For shame!”
“Lindara, wait,” he said, catching her hands in his. “We can’t risk—”
“Peace,” she whispered, and swiftly kissed him. “Eunise will be an age. The only Evrish in the house is buried deep in the cellar, still a-barrel. Vidar, Vidar, where have you been? I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“Forgotten you?” He grasped her hips and pulled her close. “And will I forget to breathe, too?”
“Yes,” she said, kissing him again. Reckless, this time. Hungry. Laughed softly as his right hand left her hip to find a new home upon her breast. When they finally parted, too soon, she was flushed and aching. “What news, my love? Has Roric kept his word?”
Vidar turned away. Limped to the dayroom’s expensively glazed window, with its painted wooden shutters folded back, and looked into the budding Knot Garden below. “Not yet.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, staring. “Why the delay? Without you he’d never have toppled Harald. Without you, Vidar, he’d likely be dead!”
“You know what happened at Heartsong?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
“My father told me. You should know he praised your part in it.”
“Grudgingly, no doubt.”
“Praise is praise. And harder wrung from Humbert than blood from a stone.” She crossed to him and pressed her palm to his chest. His grey velvet doublet looked worn, the gilded pearls once stitched to it cut off for easy pawning. Not that she’d ever tell him she’d noticed. His pride mightn’t survive it. The thought pricked her temper. “Roric promised to reinstate you. You must demand he keep his word, Vidar. And if you won’t, I will.”
“No, Lindara.” Vidar’s hand covered hers, fingers folding, holding tight. “Roric made it plain on the ride home that he can’t restore my lands till he’s formally proclaimed duke.”
“And when will that be?”
“No bastard has ever been made a duke. Your foster-brother’s courting every baron and purse-heavy merchant and even some of the Exarch’s priests, to be sure of his welcome.” Sighing, Vidar captured her face between his hands and rested his forehead against hers. “My love, we must be patient. If I make a nuisance of myself I’ll turn Roric from ally to enemy. Is that what you want?”
“I want what was taken from you restored, Vidar. I want you as my husband. By my side. In my bed.”
“Soon, Lindara. We’ll have everything we want soon.”
She broke away from him. “Why must it be soon? Why isn’t it now?”
“Because of politics,” Vidar retorted. “You know that. You’re Humbert’s daughter.”
She couldn’t care less about politics. The politics of Clemen were ruining her life. “Then will you at least make formal approach to my father?”
“Of course. As soon as the ink is dry on my inheritance papers.”
“Before then, Vidar! Tonight. Or tomorrow morning. But no later.” She lifted her chin. “Else I’ll think you’ve changed your mind.”
He gaped at her. “Why would you think that?”
“With you so full of excuses, what else can I think?” She was tempted to slap him. “Perhaps your conscience pricks you. You told me yourself how Godebert didn’t want us matched, how he hated Humbert for not defending him to Harald. And when it comes to marriage you’ve never defied your father.”
“How could I?” Vidar said, incredulous. “I was a boy of seven t
he first time he betrothed me. Eleven when the girl died and he chose another. But she’s dead too and this time the choice is mine. Even if he still lived, Godebert would have nothing to say about it. Do you believe me? Lindara, say you believe me.”
She felt her eyes fill with tears. “I want to.”
Like every lord in Clemen, Vidar wore a dagger on his hip. Not taking his hurt gaze from her, he pulled it free of its sheathe. The sharp blade glittered in the sunlight shafting through the casement window.
“Shall I open a vein like the pagans of old and call upon Voss the Unforgiving to witness my honour?”
Suddenly she felt ashamed. The pain in him now had nothing to do with old wounds. “Of course not.”
“Lindara.” Lowering the blade, he shook his head. “That you could doubt me…”
“I don’t,” she said, snatching the dagger. “And I’ll prove it. Here’s my oath to you!”
Before he could stop her she plunged the dagger-point into the heel of her hand. Blood welled, daubing her fair skin scarlet and staining the lace on her sleeve.
“My lady!”
Startled, she turned. Eunise stood in the open doorway, whey-faced and shaking. The tray she held slipped from her unsteady grasp. Wine, sugar wafers and red glass goblets crashed to the floor.
“Oh, Eunise! Clumsy creature!”
In the ensuing confusion, as Gillie remonstrated with Eunise and another servant cleaned away the mess, Lindara slid Vidar’s dagger back in its sheathe then nudged him aside. The look on his scarred face pricked her eyes with guilt.
“Vidar—”
“Hush,” he said, tenderly scolding. “Lindara, I love you. Naught matters beyond that.”
She swallowed a sob. “I know. And I love you.”
“I wish I could kiss you,” he murmured. “But I think I should go. If your Eunise was a faery I’d have turned to stone by now.”
“Stupid woman,” she said, with a glance at her glaring maid. “I swear, I’ll marry you for no better reason than to be rid of her!”
That made him smile. “How touching. My lady, see to your wounded hand.”
After Vidar was gone, the townhouse felt twice as empty. Desolate, she let Eunise scold her for playing with daggers. Suffered the woman to smear ointment on her small hurt and bind it with a strip of linen.
Then she returned to her embroidery… because there was nothing else to do.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Pig Whistle’s battered oak door banged open, letting out the heat, letting in the night’s bluster and a tall, shambling figure wrapped neck to knee in a leather travelling cloak. Standing just inside the public room, the figure shook itself like a roused bear and stamped its booted feet. Raindrops spattered. Clots of mud smeared the uneven flagstoned floor. Nat Bevver and his brother Tid, seated at their ease nearest him, looked up from their tankards and cursed the newcomer in the way that invited trouble.
But Iddo, ever mindful, rapped his cudgel on the inn’s wide, scarred oak counter. “Shutten the bloody door, ye feggit! Do it look like ye done wandered into a byre?”
“Iss, iss, see me shutten yer feggit door!” the bear shouted back, ignoring the offended brothers, and made his point by kicking the door so hard he came near to knocking it off its hardy iron hinges. “And now I’ll be having ale off ye, Iddo, since this be an alehouse and I got m’self a powerful thirst.” Gloved fingers unlaced the leather cloak, then with a flourish and a fresh raindrop spatter whirled it free of his broad shoulders. “So where be m’sweet Mollykins? Mizn’t I standing here pining for a buss?”
With a shake of her head at Iddo, Molly stepped out of the shadows beside her inn’s heat-billowing fireplace. “I’d buss a farmer’s bristled hog afore the pressing of my lips to yon muggy cheekin, Trader Culpyn!”
Dropping the leather cloak, Culpyn let out a pleased roar and spread his arms wide. “Mollykins! M’sweetie honey posset, m’tossy love! Come to Denno! Mizn’t he been dreaming of ye since the last time he was here?”
Smiles and chuckles from her customers. Even the cross-grained Bevver brothers snickered. Molly pinched her lips tight to keep her own smile private. Denno Culpyn of Maletti was a rogue, but charming with it. Made him double dangerous. But money was money and no need to feckle a man with an appetite like his and a purse just as generous. To keep Culpyn amenable and herself undisputed mistress of the inn, she insinuated her broad hips between the public room’s close-packed stools and benches to pinch his bearded chin before scooping up his rain-soaked cloak and hanging it on one of the stout wall pegs by the door.
“Welcome back, Denno,” she said, letting her smile show. “Been a gormful long time since ye raised my roof with yer bellowing.”
Culpyn nodded, mournful, as he stripped off his battered gloves. “And it’s broke m’heart, Moll, not pressing my arse to a Pig Whistle bench these many moons.” He tucked the gloves into his wide leather belt. “Haven’t I missed yer good ale and yer good mutton pies?”
Could be he did. But she’d surely missed the way he carried letters into Harcia for her and her most trusted customers, asking no more for the favour than a free pie here and there. She’d found others to play messenger while he was gone, but not a one of them was reliable–or discreet–like Denno Culpyn.
Needing that certainty again, she widened her smile. “I be right glad to hear it.”
There was an empty stool up by the far end of Iddo’s counter. With a crook of her finger she led Culpyn to it as the rest of her customers, losing interest in the trader, returned to their tankards and pies, their dice and cards, lively conversations and guarded privy dealings. All kinds came to the Pig Whistle, from every corner of the Marches and far beyond, to do all manner of things. If they raised her no ruckus, and were careful not to bring any Marcher lords’ men to her door with swords drawn, she made sure to mind her own business and not theirs.
“Press yer arse there, Denno,” she said, jerking her thumb at the stool. “I’ll fetch yer ale and pie.”
“What be he doing back in the Marches, after no hide or hair of him for months?” Iddo muttered as she tapped a fresh keg of ale to fill one of her large tankards.
She shrugged, used to his crotchets and jealousies, and loving him no less. “Not to fret. I’ll find out.”
Her famed mutton pies kept warm in the kitchen out back. Leaving Iddo to his guarding of the Pig Whistle’s public room, she pushed aside the heavy leather curtain and went to fetch one. First, though, she looked to be sure her son was still sleeping righty-tight. And he was, tucked into his kitchen truckle by the ovens. Grown so big now, it surprised her every time she smiled down at him. Her Benedikt. Nigh six months old, and all she had left of the man she’d wedded and bedded. And poor dead Diggin was his father, she wouldn’t think elsewise. The trouble that saw her raped and widowed in one foul night, she’d not have it touch her lovely son. His raven-dark hair and brown eyes came from Diggin, not that other man. The one Iddo had killed for her, and axed to pieces, and scattered for the wolves and ravens from one side of the Marches to the other.
“Molly!” Iddo’s raised voice stirred her out of bleak memory. “Another mutton and a chicken pie, hoppish!”
She tucked sleeping Benedikt’s blanket a little closer, stirred the iron pot of beef and barley stew on the hob, then slid three pies out of the warmery oven and onto a wooden paddle and carried them out for eating.
With an eager chortle Denno Culpyn rubbed his wool-covered paunch as she put his pie and ale before him on the counter. “Mollykins, yer a queen among women.”
“Then ye’ll not refuse a royal demand for one shiny silver ducat, Trader Culpyn,” she said, holding out her hand.
“A ducat?” His astonishment wasn’t all pretend. “When y’asked me for copper nibs the last time I was here?”
“We had ourselves a hard winter, Denno.”
His fingers fumbled in the purse laced tight to his belt. “That’s what I be hearing, Moll.”
“
And I heard whisper ye’d forsaken us poor folk of Clemen and Harcia to make yer fortune elsewhere.”
“So I did, Moll, so I did,” said Culpyn, with a heaving sigh. He dropped a silver ducat onto her palm then picked up his tankard. “For as much as I love ye, there looked to be tidier profits elsewhere. All set I was, to spend what’s left of m’years trading m’wares around the west coast of Cassinia, the Quartered Isles and the old kingdom of Zeidica, and even the Treble Kingdom too. Had m’self a doughty little cog, a gullish wave-skipper if ever I saw one.”
For all he was a bawdy tale-teller, she could feel the honest regret in him. “Things turned foul on ye, did they?”
“Foul?” Culpyn tipped ale down his throat. “Mollykins, m’love, y’can blame Baldassare for my arse on yer stool, so y’can. Young he might be, scarce more than a stripling, but never was a pirate more curs’t to an honest trader than yon feggit barnacle.”
She’d heard of Baldassare. Most everyone had heard of Baldassare, no matter they lived landlocked and could go their whole lives not catching a glimpse of ocean or sails. A stripling, as Denno said. Rumour aged him at barely sixteen, but so fierce and fearless that men twice his age followed him eagerly into bloody plunder. A demon-sprite, he sounded. She was glad she’d never meet him. She had both hands full in the Marches.
“Sailed yer fine galley into the pirate king and here this night to talk of it, Denno?” she said, slipping his payment into the pocket stitched inside her blouse. “Don’t be telling me yer a man out of luck!”
Culpyn shoved a brimming spoonful of pie into his mouth. “Luck?” he mumbled around pastry flakes and drips of gravy. “It be luck to sail into that rampageous brine-thief three times, Queen Moll? To have every horn button and silver bracelet and garnet earbob and all m’pretty furs and laces plucked from m’fingers three times? Luck?”
He looked so aggrieved she had to pat his shoulder. “Luck that yer head wasn’t plucked from yer neck, Denno. Or yer clankit bones thrown into the Sea of Sorrows.”
