by Karen Miller
As a rule, Clemen folk and Harcian folk mixed under her roof without a blink or a growl. They were all Marcher folk first, that was the way of it. She never thought she’d see anything different. But tonight men from the Harcian Marches sat apart from Clemen folk. And while they knew better than to start a ruckus, with Iddo and his cudgel at the ready behind the bar, still there were some nasty glares swapped back and forth. Angry mutterings. Nobody spoke aloud of those five slain Clemen folk, but every man in the place was thinking of nothing else.
A little after nine o’the clock it started to rain. She wasn’t sorry. Though a bad night cost her coin, this night she was heartsick. She kept seeing those dead children’s severed heads, their dull, staring eyes fringed thick with blood-crusted lashes. More than anything she wanted to lie beside Iddo in their bed, in the darkness, and feel his rough hands stroking her skin.
Taking an empty tray back to the kitchen, she paused at the bar. “Keep things sweet out here, Iddo. I do want to cast m’eye over Benedikt and Willem.”
Iddo gave her a look. “Moll, them boys got no more than what they deserved. They b’aint at death’s door.”
He’d welted them on her say-so, because she was beside herself frightened after what Count Balfre had promised in her forecourt. The thought of Benedikt and Willem being killed for playing with sticks, it was enough to drop her howling where she stood. However hard it had been, listening to her boys’ weeping as Iddo whipped them, better that than seeing them dangling from a tree branch or run through with a sword.
“I know,” she said, resting a hand on his arm. “But it were a right proper welting. I’ll be back agin directly.”
Without giving him time to argue, Molly left the tray in the kitchen then made her way upstairs to the attic room, which she’d given over to the boys. She didn’t need it for a bar wench any more. First that Tossie, then Alys. Ellyn. Live-in help caused too much strife. She hired one of the girls from Birch farm when the inn was set to run her off her feet. Which of late was hardly never. Anyway, the boys were old enough now to serve in the public room and help her and Iddo keep the Pig Whistle neat and trim.
One lamp burned on the staircase to the attic, another inside the low-ceilinged room. Breathing softly, she eased the door open. The air stank of Izusa’s best ointment. And there was her heart, her son, her Benedikt, curled on his side with the tip of his thumb in his mouth. His dark eyelashes trembled, and he whimpered softly as he slept. Guilt smote her again, like the crack of a birch stick.
But I had to do it. To save him. Any loving mother would.
She looked at Willem, on the other bed. Curled on his side like Benedikt. Both boys had ate their dinner standing, too sore for a stool. Willem’s scarred face was lightly flushed, his reddish hair sweat-damp and trying to kink. He was her other son, and she loved him, but she feared him just as much. Even though she was sure he’d long since forgotten that cursed girl and her faery tales, even though his burned face and crooked nose meant he didn’t look like anyone but himself. It didn’t matter. She was afraid. He was an odd child, and always had been. So much friction t’wixt him and Iddo, if she could she’d send him away, get him ’prenticed on a farm. Only Benedikt would never forgive her. So, for her son’s sake, she kept Willem at home.
Satisfied they were well enough, she drew the door closed again and went back downstairs, then whisked about playing the innkeeper until it was time to chivvy the stragglers home and set the inn to rights for the night.
At last, crawled into bed, tucked beneath quilt and blankets, she pillowed her head on Iddo’s shoulder and smoothed the wiry hair on his broad chest.
“Iddo… about them boys…”
Hidden by darkness, he grunted. “Woman, I do know what ye want to say so I’ll say this afore ye. The brat deserved a harder welting than Benedikt. That sword mischief were his doing. The little shite leads our boy astray.”
She’d still never told Iddo the truth about Alys’s dying, or what she’d heard the girl and Willem talking on that night. She’d go to her grave keeping her mouth shut on that. Some secrets were too dangerous to share, even with her man of oak. But she worried that Willem’s oddness was grown out of the tales the girl had told him, that some part of him believed he was different, better–and that was why Iddo misliked him so. ’Twas a tricky path to walk between him and Willem. Tricky to love both of them when they didn’t want her to.
“Sometimes he does,” she admitted. “But Benedikt b’aint faery-blessed, Iddo. He be an imp too, ye can’t deny that.”
Another grunt. “That Willem, Moll. There be a hot defiance in him. He drives me proper wild, he does.”
“And ye weren’t never defiant, Iddo, when ye were a boy?”
“Not like Willem. I tell ye, Moll, there be a look in his eyes…”
Oh, didn’t she know that? Hadn’t she seen for herself the look he meant, and didn’t it fright her spitless?
“Ye’ll not beat it out of him,” she said firmly. “Beat a horse, beat a dog, beat a boy, Iddo, ye’ll turn ’em vicious.”
“So ye’d have me tickle him the next time he picks up a stick?”
She was making him angry. “No, Iddo,” she soothed. “If it be a welting he’s earned then it be a welting he’ll get. Him and Benedikt. Ye think I don’t know a boy’s spoiled without welting? Only…” She trailed her fingertips lower, to dance along his quiet cock. “It has got to be earned, Iddo. And no harder than what be fair.”
He rolled on his side, away from her. “Fine, woman. Next time ye can welt them boys yerself.”
“Iddo…” She let her forehead fall against his broad, muscled back. “Don’t ye be cross with me. Ye did what was needful. I b’aint resenting ye for that. I only said—”
“I heard what ye said, Molly. No need to say it agin.”
She knew that tone. Iddo was done talking. But he’d be sweet enough, come morning. He wasn’t one to hold a grudge. At least not with her. So she rolled to her own side of the bed, not crowding him, and soon enough, despite her guilt and the worry that never left her these dark days, fell into sleep.
“Willem! Willem, wake up. ’Tis morning. Cock’s crowed. Ma, she’ll be shouting. Willem?”
Twisting in his bed sheet, Liam heard Benedikt’s voice faintly, as though his brother had hidden himself in the henhouse and was shouting from out there.
“Willem! Ye got to roust up. We got to start chores. If Iddo welts me agin I think I’ll drop dead!”
He twisted some more, remembering. Iddo. The cellar. Benedikt rocking on the floor, bare arse in the air as he sobbed. His own welted arse, burning. His hatred for Iddo burning hotter than that. All his body, burning.
He dragged his heavy eyelids open. The window shutters were pulled back and the attic room was full of pale first light.
“Benedikt,” he muttered, “I b’aint feeling right.”
“I b’aint neither,” said Benedikt, already dressed in woollen hose and a homespun shirt. “My arse still hurts a mort. But—”
“Not just my arse. My head. And my bones.”
“What d’ye mean?”
Benedikt’s anxious face was blurry. Squinting, Liam tried to see him properly. But he couldn’t, his brother was dandelion-fuzzy, the way the world had gone fuzzy that time he snuck beer from the cellar and they’d drunk themselves silly. Iddo welted them that time, too. Iddo loved his switch and the sound of boys blubbing.
“Willem? Be ye sick?”
“Iss,” he said, talking Marcher. He did that sometimes, when it was easier than remembering how Ellyn had wanted him to speak. “I b’aint right.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Benedikt patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll fetch Ma.”
Hot and cold and shivering, Liam hugged himself beneath the blanket. His skin felt sore, like sunscorch, and he wanted to scratch his eyes.
A thudding of feet on the attic staircase and Molly came in, Benedikt at her heels.
“See Ma? T’aint playing. Wil
lem b’aint right.”
Liam shrank against the wall. Molly’s fury in the Pig Whistle’s forecourt, then the cellar. How she told Iddo to welt them, the cold way she treated them in the kitchen last night. She’d turned into a stranger. When she touched his forehead, he flinched.
“’Tis a fever,” she murmured, then stroked his hair. “Run to Iddo, Benedikt. Tell him we need Izusa.”
Benedikt bolted.
“Don’t ye fret,” Molly said, sitting on the edge of his bed. “We’ll have ye feeling rightsome soon enough.” She smoothed her apron over her knees. “Willem, ye d’know I care for ye, just as I care for Benedikt?”
He used to. He wasn’t sure now. But to be safe, he nodded. “Iss, Molly.”
“And ye care for Benedikt, don’t ye? Ye love him like a brother, just as ye were raised?”
“Iss, Molly.”
Molly frowned. “Ye say iss, Willem, but do ye? D’ye love him enough that ye’ll leave off being impish? Instead ye’ll be the one who says no when he wants to be romping? D’ye love him that much?”
“Iss, Molly.” And it was true. In every way that counted Benedikt was his brother, as much a part of him as his hand or his crooked nose. “I swear.”
Bending down, she caught his chin between her work-rough thumb and finger. “D’ye know the world be turning dangerous, Willem? D’ye know it be them with the swords as make the rules? And us folk here in the Marches, pinched t’wixt Harcia and Clemen, we matter no more to them great lords than a flea to be cracked t’wixt their fingernails? D’ye know that?”
She was hurting him. He pulled free. “Iss, Molly.”
“I hope ye do,” she said, still frowning. “For here at the Pig Whistle we be ordinary folk. T’aint one thing great about us, Willem. We serve them fine lords when they want serving and we don’t never go looking for strife.”
Squinting at her, shivering, he saw fear slither behind her eyes. And then, with a shock like lightning blasting a tree, he realised what she was afraid of.
Molly knows who I am.
Moaning aloud, as though his fever was getting worse, he pulled his knees to his chest and hid his face in his pillow. He wasn’t only pretending. He really did feel sick.
She knows. How does she know? Did Ellyn tell her?
She must have. But why would Ellyn tell Molly? It was meant to be their secret. He’d kept it their secret. Never breathed a word to Benedikt though he wanted to, so bad. Every night before he fell asleep, every night since Ellyn died, he told himself his story. Promised to take back his stolen duchy. Kill the bastard Roric and avenge his murdered father. Most of all he promised that he’d never breathe a word. He felt his eyes sting.
Not fair, Ellyn. You said it were our secret.
Molly was stroking his hair again. Maybe she did care for him, even after the cellar. But he didn’t show her his face. He might give himself away. Show her that he knew what she knew about him.
And then a thudding of feet on the stairs.
“Ma! Ma! Izusa be sent for!”
“Hush, Benedikt,” Molly chided. “No shouting when Willem be poorly.”
“Sorry. Ma, can I stay till Izusa gets here?”
Face still hidden, Willem felt his saggy bed shift as Molly stood. “No, Benedikt. There be chores. Come away and let Willem rest.”
Any other morning, Benedikt would try a wheedle on his mother. This time he didn’t, and Liam knew why. He wasn’t fevered so bad he couldn’t still feel Iddo’s whipping. Not even for him would Benedikt risk a swat on his welted arse.
“Iss, Ma,” his brother said, his voice small.
He didn’t want Benedikt to think he was angry ’cause of not wheedling, so he uncurled himself a smidge and opened his eyes. Caught Benedikt’s woeful gaze and managed a smile.
“Off ye go then,” said Molly, pointing to the open door. “Ye can see Willem later.”
Cheered, Benedikt nodded. “Iss, Ma!” he said, and did as he was told.
Time drifted feverishly after that. Liam drifted with it, hot and cold, his bones aching. Izusa came. He felt so poorly he didn’t care she that she stripped off his nightshirt and saw him naked back to front and head to toe. When she saw the welts on his arse she hissed like an angry cat. Her fingertips touching them made him moan. But then she shouted at Molly, and if his head hadn’t hurt so bad he would’ve laughed out loud.
“Answer me, Molly!” Izusa said, her voice shaking. “Did you do this?”
Molly made a funny sound. “I had to, Izusa. Him and Benedikt, they—”
“You had to whip him into sickness? For that’s what you’ve done!”
Listening to Izusa scold, and Molly make excuses, it was almost like he had Ellyn with him again. He turned his face into the crook of his elbow and smiled and smiled.
“This was very wrong of you,” said the healer, as though she was a lord. “Willem is a sensitive boy. You and Iddo must treat him gently. Didn’t I tell you that, Molly, the time you burned him with the rabbit stew?”
Risking a glance, Liam peered with half-closed eyes. Molly was red-faced. She looked almost ashamed.
“Y’be certain ’tis the whipping that do fever him?” she said, fingers twisting in her apron. “Willem b’aint touched with plague? Him and Benedikt, they—”
“If it was plague I’d say so, but it’s not. The charms I gave you make sure of it. This is your doing.”
“Oh,” said Molly. She sounded small as Benedikt.
“You can go,” Izusa told her sharply. “Wait for me in the kitchen, and put water to boil. There’s a tea to be brewed that’ll help with his fever and pain.”
Molly left without another word.
Izusa fed him poppy syrup. He remembered that muck from the time his face was burned and his nose broke. It still tasted dreadful. Then she put fresh ointment on his welted arse and helped him drink the tea she made. It tasted like pepper-grass. Within moments, he fell asleep.
When he woke again it was night. Benedikt sat on the floor beside the bed, cross-legged on a pillow, his candlelit face so miserable he looked near to sobbing out loud.
“Benedikt? What’s amiss?”
“Willem!” Benedikt’s chin trembled. “Willem, I be sorry.”
Cautiously, he sat up. The ache in his bones was gone. His skin didn’t feel sunscorched and he didn’t want to scratch his eyes. Even his arse didn’t hurt so much. He felt tender, but not terrible. Not like before.
He frowned at his brother. “Sorry for what?”
“I heard Ma and Iddo in the kitchen. They were brawling on what Izusa said. Willem, it be my fault ye got yer arse welted. That makes it my fault ye—”
“Don’t be a feggit.”
Benedikt sniffed. “It does. I be the one who called ye Lord Willem. I picked up that feggit stick and—”
“And did ye twist my arm so I had to pick up one too? No, ye didn’t. Benedikt—”
“Ma said Izusa said—”
“I don’t give a feggit for what Molly said. Remember when Iddo welted us for drinking that ale? Did ye blame me then, when I were the one did the pinching of it?”
Shoulders hunched round his ears, Benedikt wiped at his runny nose. “That weren’t so bad a welting. I never got sick from it, I never—” Another gulp, a heaving gasp. “Ma said Izusa said ye could’ve died.”
Oh.
Benedikt was rocking again, hurting as bad as he’d hurt in the cellar. “I be sorry,” he wailed. “I never meant for any trouble.”
It was worse than Iddo’s welting, seeing his brother hate himself and all ’cause of him. He couldn’t bear it.
“Benedikt!” he said, hearing his voice catch, “can I tell ye a secret?”
Slowly, Benedikt looked at him. “Iss. Course ye can.”
“But if I tell it, ye can’t never tell another soul. If ye tell another soul, Benedikt, even Molly or Iddo, I really could die.”
His brother’s eyes popped wide as soup bowls.
Heart thumping,
Liam swallowed. Ellyn had told Molly. That meant he could tell someone too. And if he couldn’t trust his own brother…
“My name b’aint really Willem,” he whispered. “It’s Liam. My father was Duke Harald of Clemen. That makes me a duke.”
Benedikt hiccuped. “Ye b’aint!”
He couldn’t be cross with Benedikt for not believing him at first. “I am,” he insisted, then leaned closer, confiding. “Alys weren’t Alys. She was Ellyn. She was my nurse when I were a baby. When Roric the bastard murdered my da and ma and burned Heartsong castle, Ellyn ran away with me. And she ended up here.”
From the look on his face, Benedikt didn’t know whether to laugh or fart. “Ye b’aint cribbing?”
“I swear,” he said solemnly, “on Ellyn’s grave.”
Benedikt knew what that meant. His eyes popped again. “Ye be a lord? Like Balfre and Vidar?”
“No, a duke. Like Balfre’s da in Harcia.”
“And Roric.”
“Roric’s a thieving bastard,” he said, scowling. “I’m going to kill him one day.”
Benedikt scrunched himself small. “Willem.”
“I have to. For Duke Harald. And so I can be Duke Liam properly instead of pretending to be Willem.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” he said, after a squirmy moment. “But I have to. I promised Ellyn.”
“Willem…” Benedikt bit his lip. “I believe ye, I do, but…”
“I can prove it. There were a Clemen duke named Berold. He was my great-granda, and I’ve got his ring.”
“Where?”
“It be hidden. I’ll show ye, by and by.” He stared at his brother. “Ye do believe me? Truly?”
Slowly, Benedikt nodded. “I do. I promise. And I won’t peep a word.”
There was a girl living in Clemen’s Marcher lands who was ready to drop her husband’s first son. Knowing Izusa as a fine healer, the woodsman had parted with coin he could ill afford, to be sure the birth was sweet. But his wife was badly built for breeding and he was a brute. His rutting had half-ruined the girl already and his child was set to do the rest. Having seen in the stones what must come to pass, and when, and needing a fresh baby’s head, Izusa had taken the man’s money and promised to do all she could.
