by Karen Miller
“This once ye can sleep till ye wake, lass,” said Molly, looming large in the doorway. “Or till the babe wakes ye. Likely that’ll come first. On the morrow ye’ll use a tub, and when ye be presentable then we’ll see what be what.”
She’d already settled Liam into her son’s outgrown truckle, after bathing him in the kitchen and dressing him in a fresh nightshirt and a little woollen cap. He was fast asleep now beneath comforting sheepskin, his cheeks pink again, the horrible pinched look of him gone at last.
“Yes’m,” said Ellyn, bobbing. She forgave the woman her bossy ways because Liam was warm and fed and safe. “Thank you.”
Molly’s watchful gaze swept her up and down. “Work hard, Alys. Mind yer manners. Mind Iddo. Give me no nincy-nonce and ye’ll call the Pig Whistle home. That be my word, and my word be trustful.”
The door closed behind her. Ellyn let out a shuddery breath, bent low to put the smelly candle on its shelf then dropped to her pallet. It was straw-stuffed and lumpy, the coarse, roughspun blankets full of scratch. But after so many cold and hungry days on the road, now she felt like a duchess.
The thought woke memories of Argante, and she shivered.
Dead. They’re all dead. Duke Harald and Duchess Argante and Lady Morda and Emun.
Nelda, too. And Nelda’s bastard brat. The little baby Tygo.
Stifling a sob, she pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face. Would she never forget? Would the blood and spilled bowels haunt her till she drew her last breath? Would she wake every night for the rest of her life, seeing the flames devour the splashed oil, the silks and linens, the blood-soaked hair, the hacked flesh and split bone? Would she never stop smelling them as they blackened and burned?
Please, spirits. Please, please, let me forget.
She’d left Nelda and her brat to die because protecting Liam was her duty. She’d set the nursery ablaze because she had to confuse Harald’s enemies, and she’d run because staying would have cost Liam his life. But she’d always meant to run back, as soon as she heard the danger was past. As soon as Harald put an end to his bastard cousin’s wicked plot.
But that never happened. Instead a terrible truth had escaped Heartsong and whispered fearful through the surrounding countryside. Duke Harald’s cousin had slain him and taken the castle for himself. The duke’s wife was dead too, and his infant son. Worse yet, Clemen’s council and its great lords were with the bastard Roric. So Clemen had a new duke. And if he knew Liam was living…
She’d had no choice but the Marches. It was a rough place full of rough men, true, where duchy law bent to Marcher law and lawless men roamed and weren’t always caught and punished. But the risk was well worth it. Not a soul knew her here. No one could question her story. She was Alys from Berrydown and little Willem was her brother. It meant she was dead to her parents, but she couldn’t help that. Besides, they had another daughter and two strapping sons. She wouldn’t be missed long. They might not miss her at all.
Warm in his truckle bed, Liam wriggled and sighed. Ellyn rolled it a little closer, and smiled down at his candle-shadowed face. Her precious lamb. Only… no. That wasn’t right. Not any more. Liam was her precious falcon. Heir to his father’s duchy and Clemen’s Falcon Throne. Still smiling at him, she pulled up her travel-stained skirt and groped for the torn strip of linen she’d bound tight around her right thigh. There it was. And bound within it, Duke Berold’s precious ring. Liam’s inheritance and the proof that one day would see him topple that bastard Roric from his stolen throne and into his traitor’s grave. On the morrow she’d find a place to hide it, and then she’d keep it safe there until Liam was old enough for revenge.
And if that meant she must be a Tossie in the Pig Whistle for the next fifteen or twenty years…
Then I’ll do it. I’ll be Tossie. And I won’t let Liam forget.
Burning with fresh purpose, she pinched out the stinking tallow candle. Then she wrapped a blanket close to ward off the night’s chill and bent low over Liam.
“Here’s our secret, my loveykins,” she whispered, in the silence and the dark. “Here’s the truth, that you can’t never tell a soul. Your father was brave Duke Harald of Clemen. Them wicked lords Humbert and Aistan and Vidar, they betrayed him, and the bastard Roric murdered him. The bastard stole your throne. But when you’re grown, my little Liam, you’re going to take it back.”
Curled up in bed beneath a goosedown quilt, in the shelter of Iddo’s strong arms, Molly felt his heartbeat thud through her in the darkness and knew she was safe.
Iddo cleared his throat, restless and unhappy. “I know ye be certain, but I won’t lie to ye, Moll. I say the girl be trouble. Her and the brat.”
She dug her smooth fingernails into his broad, naked chest. “He b’aint a brat, Iddo. Poor tiddy mite, with his miseries.”
“So ye believe the girl’s tattle?”
“D’ye say ye don’t? D’ye say no man never sotted himself senseless and laid about his wife and babes with his fists, or whatever he could find?”
“No,” said Iddo, grudging. “But Moll—”
“Y’know there be them as says I weren’t never raped and widowed by them roguish men,” she said, sitting up. “Y’know there be them as says Benedikt be yer bastard son on me, and we killed Diggin, Iddo, ye and me, to be clear of him. Ye know that?”
Iddo growled. “I know any arse what says so where I can hear him, he’ll be sorry.”
She lay down again, and took back his shoulder for her pillow. “Men tattle, Iddo,” she said, as he pulled the comforter close. “Can’t cut out their lying tongues and say they had the spot. Ye got no proof the girl be a diddler. And the babe was half dead, Iddo. Ye’d turn him away?”
“No,” said Iddo, after a long silence. His cheek rested against her unbound hair, his slow breathing a lullaby. “I be rough, but I b’aint cruel.”
She pressed her lips to his warm skin. “Yon tiddy mite can grow up Benedikt’s brother. I can’t give him one else, Iddo. Them roguish men saw to that, didn’t they?”
His arms tightened around her. It was her great sorrow, and he knew it, that she was barren since Benedikt’s hard birth. Phemie, she’d done her best, but even she couldn’t change what the raping and the hard birth had done. This babe, though, this little Willem, he could. He could be the second son she’d always wanted.
“And the girl?” said Iddo. “If she be another Tossie, a slutty tramp and a wagtail, and never worth her keep?”
Then she’d be feckled and out on her arse, that Alys. But not Willem. Little Willem, he’d stay behind. She’d fed him, she’d bathed him, she’d seen his sweet smile.
Willem be mine.
“I say ye be wrong, Iddo,” she said, soothing. “The lass’ll earn her keep. How else d’ye think she’ll live? She be orphaned, good as. The Pig Whistle be her home now. We’ll have no trouble, ye’ll see.”
Iddo grunted. “Iss, Moll. If ye say so.”
“I do, Iddo. I do.”
And it seemed she was right. Young Alys minded her business and worked hard and showed no interest in men. Which was good for her, after Tossie. But three days later a different kind of trouble came to the inn.
“Mistress Moll, Mistress Moll! You’re wanted, Mistress Moll!”
Molly put down her cleaver, wiped her mutton-mucky hands on a damp cloth, made sure Willem stayed sleeping in his truckle, then pushed aside the leather curtain out to the public room. It was late in the afternoon, the lull between nuncheon trade and night-time busyness. Only six passing-through men supping on ale and coddled eggs in the public room. A seventh man stood at the bar’s oak counter, Alys dithery beside him. He was young and hard-muscled from much riding, and his blue-and-white tabard was stitched with a horned owl.
She nodded at him. “Greetings. What’s to be done for Lord Wido today?”
“Mistress Molly,” said the man. “I am Berard, his lordship’s herald. My lord rides a league or two behind me, on his way to Eaglerock cas
tle. The day swiftly shortens, and he would sleep himself and his men beneath your roof this night.”
“Surely,” she said. After Hamelen’s warning, she’d been expecting this. “And what of Lord Jacott, d’ye know?”
“We meet with his lordship on the morrow.”
“So how many men do I feed tonight, young ser?”
“Counting Lord Wido and myself, Mistress, ten men,” said the herald. “By Marcher law—”
“His lordship comes afore all men save a duke,” she said, a trifle sharpish, so he’d know next time not to muckle her. “The law and me be well acquainted. Lord Wido and his men be most welcome at the Pig Whistle. Tell me, does his lordship take his lady with him to Eaglerock?”
The herald shook his head. “Another time, Mistress Molly. There will be no court frivols that her ladyship might enjoy.”
No frivols, eh? So, it seemed Clemen’s new duke was of a mind to be sure the Marches stayed settled afore he kicked up his heels. Not a fool, this Roric, the spirits be thanked.
“Ride back to his lordship, ser, and bid him come in good cheer,” she said, smiling. “We’ll have wine and meat aplenty for him, and a warm bed against the cold.”
“Mistress,” said the herald, and took himself away.
She turned to wide-eyed Alys. “Run to Iddo, lass. He be in the vegetable garden. Tell him Lord Wido be on his way. And tell Kytte in the laundry I do want my bed stripped, and fresh linens for his lordship.”
Alys bobbed. “Yes’m.”
With pies to finish and slide into the oven and stew to braise on the hob and jugged hare to bake, they’d be pinching time. Iddo came in with a basket of carrots and a pail of peas and Benedikt, covered in garden dirt from crawling. She scolded them both roundly then called Alys from her table-scrubbing to see her son washed and put in clean clothes. Iddo she sent out to warn Gwatkin of horses coming, then to chop wood, for the spirits knew they’d need a mort of it afore sunrise next. Little Willem woke fussing, so she warmed goat’s milk for him and filled his belly. When Alys came back with a clean Benedikt she gave the girl her son and Willem to mind on the grassy stretch between the vegetable garden and the herb bed, with the carrots to scrape and the peas to pop from their pods.
After that it was cooking, as fast as she could. What a mercy she had the pastry rolled and ready. When the last pie was slid into the oven there was just enough time spare to pin on a clean apron before she and Iddo must needs stand themselves in the wide crossroad outside the Pig Whistle to greet Lord Wido.
“Molly?” Squinting, Iddo shaded his eyes and stared at the approaching horses. “That be more than ten men. Looks like twice that, t’me.”
He was right. The horses trotted closer, and they had their answer. Blue and white pranced knee-to-knee with green and white, and a banner flag stitched with a badger kept company with Lord Wido’s horned owl. A good thing they had the large dormer, and plenty of stables and chopped wood.
“Lord Wido’s met early with Lord Jacott,” she said, sighing. “The lords and their men-at-arms, they’ll be sleeping cheek to toe.”
Iddo nodded, glumly. “We’ll be turning folk away.”
“Can’t be helped,” she said. “Ye know the law.”
Side by side, they stepped forward to greet Clemen’s Marcher lords as the nobles drew their joined company of men-at-arms to a halt.
“Mistress Molly,” said Lord Wido, lean and fit and smiling astride a glossy chestnut stallion. “As you see, I arrive on your doorstep with Lord Jacott.”
“I do see, my lord,” she said, nodding respectfully at Jacott on his fine acorn-brown horse.
“You have room for us?” said Lord Jacott, older than Lord Wido by a few years, and more portly. “Say yes. My mouth has not stopped watering with the thought of your pies.”
She curtseyed. “Ye both be right welcome at the Pig Whistle, my lords. But I must tell ye, there be but one great bed. Ye can share that, or toss a coin for it and the loser take a privy room. Comfortable but less grand, my lords. I’ll not feckle ye on that.”
Lord Jacott grinned. “Mistress Molly, for an extra helping of your pie I will gladly take a privy room.”
Jacott was a good man, for a Marcher lord. She favoured him with her warmest wink. “Seems to me, yer lordship, ye’ve earned the great bed and the pie, such tasty meat y’do sell me.”
“Hold on that!” Lord Wido protested. “I think there’s a coin toss in our future, Jacott.”
Stepping back, Molly raised her hands. “My lords, I be a humble innkeeper, is all. I beg ye, don’t—”
“Lord Wido! ’Ware Harcia!”
It was Wido’s herald, seated on his horse behind the lords, who raised the shout. He was pointing down the left arm of the crossroad, to a second company of riders coming towards them at a canter. The lowering afternoon sunshine showed them liveries of black-and-gold, and black-and-scarlet. Two banners fluttered, one stitched with scarlet arrowheads, the other with three balls of gold.
Molly felt Iddo plucking at her sleeve. “This be trouble, Moll,” he muttered. “Best we step aside.”
Iddo had the right of it. Feelings between Clemen and Harcia’s Marcher lords were lately sore bruised, what with Lord Bayard’s men caught hunting a stag in Lord Wido’s stretch of manor woodland. She let Iddo tug her off the road and into the Pig Whistle’s beaten-earth forecourt.
Lord Wido spurred his snorting horse forward as the company from Harcia plunged and milled before him.
“Lord Bayard!” he called. “I take it you and Lord Egbert are summoned to Eaglerock?”
Lord Bayard was a big man, strapped heavily with muscle. The scarlet arrowheads on his tunic and his black horse’s trappings made promise of violence. So did his smile.
“Summoned, Wido? Does Clemen now summon the lords of Harcia?”
There was muttering behind Wido, as Clemen’s men-at-arms took offence at Bayard’s tone and sweeping look of contempt. Jacott turned to glare at them, then rode to join his brother lord.
“If the word was ill-chosen, Bayard, feel free to choose another.”
Bayard sneered. “We are despatched south by our duke. More than that is no concern of yours.”
“As you say. Now, ride on. We stop here for the night.”
“At the Pig Whistle?” Lord Egbert laughed, deepening the pockmarks in his face and making the cloth-of-gold balls stitched to his black velvet doublet dance. “A happy chiming. So do we.”
“I think not,” said Wido, still glaring at Bayard. “There’s no room for you, my lords, so I think you’ll ride on. We are here first, we claim the right.”
Lord Bayard’s face twisted. “You claim so many rights, I do wonder how you keep them straight. If Clemen must be believed, you own every deer in the Marches and now every innkeeper’s bed.”
“Hold, Wido!” Jacott snapped, as his brother lord’s hand moved to his sword. “The new duke will not thank us should we muddy his waters!”
“The new duke?” scoffed Bayard. “Roric’s not acclaimed yet, Jacott. But he should be, for he’s fitting. A bastard lord for a bastard duchy, its castellans base venison-thieves and inn-scrapplers!”
The words were naked flame to spilled oil. Wido rode his warhorse at Bayard’s proud beast. The stallions roared, half rearing, forelegs striking, trained to kill and willing. Lord Jacott kicked his horse into a leap, one hand reaching for Wido’s reins.
“Hold, Wido! Enough! A dead stag isn’t worth this! For pity’s sake, think of Eaglerock! Egbert, you mumchance slipshod, speak up and keep the peace!”
But Lord Egbert paid him no heed, too busy fighting his own battle-eager stallion, and trying to keep himself out of the way. Jacott’s desperate rein-snatch failed and he was almost unhorsed as his stallion tripped and stumbled. And all the men-at-arms, the hard, scarred fighting men of the Marches, they saw their noble masters argle-bargling and drew their own thirsty swords, eager to prove themselves loyal.
Molly held her breath. If these lo
rds and their men slaughtered each other, what hope of hiding it? There’d be war in the Marches, rivers of blood where the roads used to be, and then how could she hope to keep the Pig Whistle’s doors open? She felt herself shaking, felt Iddo shaking beside her.
“Feggit lords and their shammeries!” he cursed, as the lords’ heralds, no fighting men, scurried themselves safe and the Pig Whistle’s few guests spilled onto the forecourt to point and stare, boggle-eyed, at the men-at-arms jostling towards each other, shouting vile insults and slashing the air to ribbons with their threatening blades.
Lord Jacott was purple-faced with fury. Heedless of the danger, he spurred his gape-mouthed stallion between Bayard and Wido’s horses.
“Come to your senses, Wido!” he bellowed. “Or d’you want Roric to banish you out of your castle and lands?”
Before Lord Wido could answer, the sound of steel striking steel slewed them round in their saddles. Two men-at-arms, one Clemen, one Harcian, swinging their swords wildly… and blood spilled on both sides.
Scant heartbeats of silence, full of shock and anger and fear. The air trembled on the brink of calamity. Then Jacott wrenched his horse about.
“Men of Clemen! Stand your ground!”
For one terrible moment, Molly thought Clemen’s men-at-arms would disobey. But then they heeded their furious lord, ramshackle, and Lord Egbert wheeled his warhorse on its haunches and rode it straight at Harcia’s approaching men-at-arms. Seeing their own lord in danger of their drawn swords, the men-at-arms collapsed into confusion, trampling each other to get out of his way. Lord Wido, still red-faced, abandoned his quest to spill Lord Bayard’s blood.
Dry-mouthed, Molly watched as a hasty truce was hammered between Jacott and Egbert, with Wido and Bayard glowering and all the tamed men-at-arms glaring their impotent threats. When it was done, Lord Jacott dismounted his stallion and stamped his way towards the Pig Whistle.
