by Karen Miller
“Does that mean Damikah isn’t your real name?”
“Yes. Yes. Your father’s daughter.” With long, slender fingers Damikah plucked a sheet of folded paper from the folds of her dress. Eyes half-closed she caressed it, her head tipping to one side. “So sorrowful, my lady. For all your freedoms, still a prisoner. Bound at every turn by the wanton whims of men. Greatness thrust upon you, whether you’d have it or not.”
Her letter. Handwritten and signed. A few terse words. No explanations. And yet Damikah knew. Blinking back a sting of tears, because the herbary woman sounded truly sad for her, Lindara took a deep breath. Let it out with a shudder.
“I need help. Can you help me?”
Damikah held up the letter. It caught fire. The flame consuming the paper burned green. “Yes, Lindara. I can help you. If you’re willing to pay the price.”
Humbert had to be punished. Roric too, for meekly, weakly, agreeing to the marriage without thinking of her first. “I’ll pay anything. I’ll do anything. Tell me what to do.”
The letter had burned to nothingness. Not even ash remained. Damikah crossed to the bench and picked up her lizard. The creature settled on her shoulder, blinking.
“Bring in Eunise, my lady. The old woman looks odd, standing outside my door.”
Eunise? “But—”
“I shall serve her tea,” said Damikah, softly. “And what she sees and hears, she will forget. I promise.”
“Damikah…”
A gentle smile. A hint of rage. “Do not worry, little Lindara. Here is where power lies. I shall share it with you… and you shall have your revenge.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Your Grace. Here is Lindara, come to give thanks for the great honour you’d bestow upon her and our house.”
Roric waited until he could be sure his face was schooled, then turned. Wheezing from his climb up Kite Tower keep’s many spiralling stairs, Humbert offered a breathless, perfunctory nod.
“We couldn’t meet in the Knot Garden, Roric?” he added, blotting sweat from his forehead with his embroidered linen sleeve. “You’ve turned my shanks to beef jelly, asking to meet in the clouds.”
Roric shrugged. “I’m fond of the view. And I’m too easily found in the Knot Garden. This is a moment for privy discussion, not meat for idle gossip.”
“Hmmph,” said Humbert, unmollified. With an impatient tut-tut and a finger snap, he beckoned Lindara forward. “Greet His Grace, daughter.”
Lindara obeyed. Gowned in brocaded blue silk, exquisite as Borokand amethyst, her rippled dark gold hair meshed in a richly jewelled caul, she dipped into a curtsey. “Your Grace.”
And that was wrong, for so many reasons. This was Lindara. Embarrassed, he held out his hands. “Don’t. To you, always, I’m Roric.”
A hesitant moment, and then she placed her cool palms atop his. “Roric.”
Struck dumb, he stared at her. They’d studied lessons together as children. Chased hound puppies and each other when no sour grown-ups were there to stop them. She was terrified of spiders. Her favourite colour was green, her favourite instrument the lute. Above all things she loved hunting. She rarely wept. She never cheated. She always bested him in games of chess.
“I’d be alone with your daughter, Humbert,” he said, not taking his eyes from Lindara’s pale, composed face. “Make yourself comfortable in my apartment solar. We’ll join you there presently.”
Of all Eaglerock’s tower keeps, the Kite stood tallest. As its stout oak door thudded closed behind Humbert, Roric took Lindara’s hand and led her to the red granite battlement overlooking Eaglerock township and its harbour. The afternoon was cool and clear, no clouds marring the bright sky. In the watery distance, smudging the horizon, a dreamy hint of Cassinia. Of departed Berardine’s Ardenn. A brisk breeze tugged at his hair, his doublet, coaxed rustling whispers from Lindara’s gown.
“I love Clemen,” he said softly. “I never knew how much until I knew how far I’d go, what I’d do, to keep it safe.”
Her sigh was lost in the breeze. “You went far indeed, Roric.”
“Unforgivably far?”
“That’s not for me to say.”
“I say it is.”
“To chide you would be to chide my father,” Lindara said, faintly reproachful. “You’d have me disloyal?”
She was playing word games. It wasn’t like her. “Telling the truth is never disloyal. In the end it’s the only loyalty that matters.”
Her fingers tightened around his. “You count truth the greatest virtue, Roric? Being true to one’s honour. To one’s heart and one’s word.”
“Yes,” he said, looking down at her. “Without that, what else matters?”
For the first time, she smiled. Brilliantly. “Nothing.”
“Well, then?”
Her smile faded. “Well, then, I think Harald was a bad man and a worse duke. Clemen was suffering. Something had to be done.”
“Do you wish I hadn’t done it?”
“How should I answer you? When it’s been arranged that I’ll benefit so richly from what you did?”
It was market day in Eaglerock. The town square was thronged, and the streets, and the two main roads leading to the city gates. He counted nine galleys tethered at the docks, another six sailing the lively harbour. A thriving township. His township, now.
Their township.
He still had hold of her hand. Heart thudding, he turned her towards him. “I have to know, Lindara. Are you content to be my duchess?”
Her eyes widened, as though the question surprised her. “Of course.”
“Lindara…” He shook his head. “I love your father as dearly as ever I loved Guimar but I’m not blind to his faults. I know how he is when he thinks he knows best. Has he browbeaten you into this match?”
A fleeting touch of sorrow in her wide, guileless eyes. “When Humbert looks in a mirror, Roric, he sees an old man. He wants no fears for my future. And he wants strong sons for you, and for Clemen.”
“Yes, but what do you want?”
“Roric…” Slipping her hand free of him, she laid her palm against his chest. “You sound uncertain. Did Humbert browbeat you?”
How could he tell her? The truth would only wound. And Humbert was right. Clemen’s duke had to marry, and Lindara was better than any other choice. “No. But I’d have you happy.”
“Being chosen by a duke, what woman could be anything but happy?”
“And love?” he said, troubled. “What of love?”
Her fingers tapped against his doublet. “But I do love you, Roric. Just as you love me.”
“We love each other as friends, Lindara. Is that enough for you?”
She laughed, as though he were being foolish. “It’s a start. Many nobles wed with far less.”
“So there’s no other man you’d rather have? You swear?”
This time she pressed her palm to his cheek. Her gaze was fearless. “I’m yours, and blessed for it. We’ll give Clemen fine sons.”
He’d kissed Lindara many times, on her cheek, on her forehead, but never on her mouth. She tasted cool and sweet. Chaste. She remained utterly still. Felt… indifferent. Her palm on his chest would feel his heartbeat, undisturbed. Behind his closed eyes he saw Catrain of Ardenn, alive with passion and fury, a firebrand of a girl. His heart leapt. He stumbled backwards.
“Roric?” Now Lindara’s gaze hinted at distress. “Am I displeasing?” Her breath caught. “Or is there someone else for you?”
“There’s no one. I’m sorry, Lindara, I—” He tried to laugh. “Don’t you find this strange? I find it strange. As though, of a sudden, I never knew you. Never saw you before this moment.”
Her pale cheeks coloured. “I do feel a little uncertain. But I’m sure that must be natural, for a maid.”
Did she know about Catrain? About Berardine’s offer? Surely Humbert wouldn’t have told her. He didn’t dare ask. “You’ll make Clemen a fine duchess, Lindara. You’ll make me a fine wife. I prom
ise I won’t disappoint you.” Hearing himself, he grimaced. “Well… I promise I’ll try.”
Turning, Lindara looked again at Eaglerock township. Then, taking his hand, tugging him with her, she walked all four sides of the tower’s square, blustery platform.
“Does it make you quail, Roric?” she said at last, sweeping her pensive gaze over the green fields, the neat hedgerows, the deep shadows of Bingham Forest and the higgledy-piggledy rooftops of cottages and farms and a half dozen distant, noble estates. “Knowing that all this rests in the palm of your hand? That every life, great and small, must be lived, or lost, obedient to you?”
Again, he tried to laugh. Felt sick. “It does.”
“You mustn’t worry,” she said, her fingers squeezing. “I’ll not let you bear the burden alone.”
A warm rush of tenderness. He lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Roric…” A shy look from beneath lowered lashes. “I’d have a favour of you.”
“Name it.”
“Once we’re wed my first duty must be to give you an heir. And I’ll do it willingly. You shouldn’t doubt that. It’s just…” She smiled, coaxing. “It means I must forgo my hunting. So couldn’t the court ride out tomorrow? I know the deer and boar won’t be summer fat, but still I think we’ll find good sport. Would you grant me one last frolic? One last mad, horseback romp?”
How could he refuse her? She was right, her life was about to change. Irrevocably. Only…
“You’re afraid I’ll take a fall?” she said, and sighed. “Roric. When did I ever fall a-hunting?”
“Never,” he admitted. “But—”
She laid a cool finger across his lips. “Never is the right answer.” Her pressing finger caressed him. “We needn’t take the whole day. Think of it as a wedding gift. I’ll ask no more of you, I promise.”
A morning’s hunting. It was a tempting thought. Fresh air, a good horse, and a few hours free of fretting care. “I’ll get no peace till I surrender, will I?”
Dimples winked in her cheeks. “None.”
He heaved a sigh. “Very well, then.”
“Fraud!” she said, and tweaked his nose. “As if you’re not as eager to chase after hounds as I am! Now come, Your Grace. We should rejoin my father before he gripes himself into another visit to Arthgallo.”
They found Humbert pacing the solar like a mare fretting for its weaned foal. On seeing their faces he let out a pleased roar then embraced them both, heartily.
“By the spirits!” he declared. “I knew you’d suit. Matching you is the best thing I ever did. Duke Roric and his duchess, Lindara. The minstrels will compose such songs…” He cleared his throat. “Daughter, our carriage sits in the castle forecourt. Wait for me within it.”
“My lord,” Lindara murmured. “Roric.” She gave them both a dutiful curtsey, and withdrew demurely from the solar.
“I’ve given this much thought, boy,” said Humbert, still gruff with emotion. “You’ll wed privily, the morning of your acclamation. A thimbleful of witnesses only, no public pomp. For all the duchy’s glad to be quit of Harald, there’s yet some sympathy for Argante and the child. I’ll not have it said you danced haper-scaper on their graves. Let some time pass and we’ll have a wedding feast or some such thing belike it. But not yet. It’s too soon.”
It surely was. He’d kept his word and not mentioned Liam again, but grief still gouged. “Agreed. But I’ll have Lindara acclaimed duchess by my side. I won’t give Harcia any excuse to raise quibbles.”
“That’s wise,” said Humbert. Then he snorted. “But I still think it ramshackle you’ve sent for those Marcher pules Bayard and Egbert.”
“Harcia must witness me made duke, Humbert. Would you rather I called on Balfre instead?”
“Yes, yes,” Humbert muttered, because he’d long lost the argument and knew that, too. Then he cleared his throat again, sounding suddenly ill at ease. “Now. Roric. There’s a last thing I’d tell you, for it’s something you should know. Vidar looks kindly upon Lindara.”
“Looks kindly?” Roric stared. “You mean he loves her?”
“He’s never asked me for her,” Humbert said swiftly. “But his feelings are somewhat… tender.”
Tender. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I’m telling you now. Besides, it makes no difference. I’ve never favoured Vidar. Not for Lindara.”
“Humbert…” He had to unclench his fingers. “Lindara told me her heart is untouched. Is that true?”
“My daughter’s as fair a maid as you’ll find in Clemen,” said Humbert, glowering. “And if you think I’d foist a soiled kerchief upon you, boy, then—”
“That’s not what I’m asking! Does she love him? Will she break her heart wedding me?”
“No!” said Humbert, nearly shouting. “What d’you take me for? A man who’d ruin his only child’s happiness?”
“So you’re telling me Lindara comes to this marriage willing.”
Humbert’s stare was belligerent. “Did she say so?”
“She did.”
“Then you’re answered, aren’t you?”
He was. And to call both Humbert and Lindara liars would be the height of folly and cruel, besides. They were family. They loved him. And he loved them.
“What of Vidar?”
“You’d mope for his feelings?” Humbert tucked in his chin. “I never knew you and Vidar were grown so close.”
“We aren’t. But—”
“Well, then,” said Humbert, and rocked on his heels. “What’s the missmuss? Vidar’s a worldly man. He knows how things are done. If Lindara meant so much to him he’d have spoken up long ago.”
“How could he, after Godebert?”
“Roric,” said Humbert, shaking his head, “Vidar knows full well that stain will soon be washed away. He could’ve come to me. He didn’t. That’s all you need to know.”
“Then if his passion is so shallow, and Lindara never shared it, why would you—”
“Because a duke must know the heart and mind of every man who kneels to serve him. And I’ve no doubt Vidar will sting over this. He’s shiteful of pride, that one.”
“What if it’s more than pride? What if you’ve misjudged the depth of his feelings?”
“I haven’t.”
He made it sound so simple. It wasn’t. “Vidar saved my life, Humbert.”
“And you’ll reward him, boy. But not with my daughter.”
Suddenly weary, Roric rubbed his eyes. “All right. But I’ll ask you not to say anything to him about me and Lindara. I’ll break the news to him tomorrow. While we’re hunting, or soon after.”
And there was a conversation he could easily live without. But that was his life, now. Difficult conversations. Uneasy choices. Hurting people’s feelings so he could serve the greater good.
Humbert was scowling. “Hunting? What’s this?”
“Lindara begged a favour. It’s a small thing, when she must stay safe once we’re wed so she can bear me healthy sons. Don’t puff about it, my lord.”
Humbert raised his hand, capitulating. “Your Grace, I am your humble servant. When and where do we assemble for this hunt?”
A humble servant? Humbert wouldn’t know humble if it bit him in his bath. “Bingham Forest. I’ll send a messenger with details by tonight. Now take your daughter home and cherish her, for I know you’ll miss her when she’s gone.”
After sending for the steward Nathyn, and arranging the hunt invitations and messengers to deliver them, Roric returned to the welcome solitude of the Kite Tower. There he paced, ignoring the dancing air and splendid views and the fact that Badouim, Eaglerock’s most senior exarchite, had long been waiting to meet with him. He couldn’t care less for spiritual matters. Not after hearing what Humbert had to say.
Vidar cares for Lindara.
Curse the man. Curse him. And every sprite in Bingham Wood curse him too.
The wounded boar plunged ou
t of a thicket, all hot, dripping blood and razor tusks and deep-set eyes on fire with rage. Plunging after it, baying and slavering, the heavy-shouldered hounds Roric inherited from Harald.
“’Ware His Grace!” someone shouted.
Cursing, Vidar wrenched his horse aside as a mud-splattered Roric spurred past him, reins in one hand, heavy spear in the other, chasing the boar. His face was alight with fierce, joyful determination and he urged the hounds forward with stirring cries.
Another mud-and-leaf-muffled thundering of hooves, then someone else shouted. “Give way! Give way! Mind yourself, Vidar!”
And that was Aistan, hard on Roric’s heels. Thundering with him were Humbert, Scarwid, Farland and that pisscock Ercole. Cursing again, Vidar held back his blowing, agitated horse until the knot of nobles was safely ahead, then gave chase. Off to his right, keeping rough pace with him, he could hear more riders crashing through the forest, and the baying of different hounds in pursuit of their own prey. The hunting pack had split. Did Lindara ride with them? He’d glimpsed her once so far that morning, when he arrived late at the rustic hunting lodge Harald had built at the forest’s edge. But Humbert kept her close. He’d had no chance to speak with her or even catch her eye.
A fresh thunder of hooves. A distant flash of sunlit colour between Bingham’s mighty oaks. Scarlet velvet, indigo leather, a shadowed gleam of dappled grey hide and chestnut. Then tawny velvet, and bright blue, and brown leather. A golden bay horse, two brown horses, and a black with white legs. Even with his half-ruined sight he knew none of them was Lindara. And then he saw her, brilliant in hunter green, riding her favourite pied gelding. She turned her head. Saw him. Such a look on her face! Startled, he glanced beyond his horse’s ears. Roric and the others were losing him. If he didn’t kick on he might well miss the kill.
Turning back to find Lindara, vanishing and reappearing and vanishing again as she threaded the narrow forest trail with customary, reckless skill, he saw her still stricken, as though she were newly bereaved.
Fuck the kill. Let Roric have it.
Heedless of his horse’s hocks he wrenched the animal sideways a second time, forcing it so close between two burled oak trunks he came perilous near to crushing both of his knees. And then he rode dangerously hard, though his ruined hip burned with pain, determined not to lose the other pack, and his beloved.
