by Karen Miller
“Cassinia, Your Grace,” said Garith, sounding wary. “I stop in every duchy port, save Gevez and Carillon. Then it’s home again.”
“And in every port there’s a tavern, yes? A place you sailing men gather to drink and talk of matters close to your hearts?”
Garith rubbed a calloused hand over mouth and beard. “You want me to listen with a wide ear for talk of pirates and slavery?”
“And encourage gossip with coin, if coin will help. Discreetly, though. Caution your crew against wild tattling and don’t talk of this in Eaglerock. I must know how our people are being taken but I’d not see Clemen stirred to fresh panic. Not with our plague-fears so newly laid to rest.”
“I understand, Your Grace. Only…” Garith pursed his lips. “Tavern talk don’t come cheap.”
“I’ll send a purse to you before you sail. Or if you must sail before it reaches you, keep close tally of your costs. I’ll not leave you out of pocket.” With a strained smile, Roric stood and held out his hand. “Do what you can, Garith, but guard your life. I don’t want your death in my dish.”
Clasping him wrist to wrist, Garith bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. I promise, I’ll do my best.”
“I hope we can trust him and his crew not to tattle tongue,” Humbert fretted as they hurried back to the castle. “Let word of this run riot and I fear the result.”
It was raining again, hard enough to keep most people off the streets. Though water plastered his canvas cap to his skull and defeated his leather cloak to trickle between his shoulders, Roric was grateful for it. The fewer people who saw his face, the better. He couldn’t be sure it was perfectly schooled.
“Garith’s a good man. He proved himself trustworthy when I closed the harbour and he kept his word that he’d not stir trouble after. He helped find us plague ships and never once complained at their burning, though the loss of his galley cost him coin, and some of the other shipmasters and merchants shunned him for that help and their losses.”
“This is different. But it’s done now.” Puffing as they turned into Castle Way, the sharply up-sloping street leading directly to Eaglerock, Humbert dashed water from his face. “I’ll set Nathyn to summoning the council. We must—”
“Not yet. I want time to ponder this matter before I must start arguing with Aistan and Ercole and—”
“Ponder? You’d ponder? Roric—”
“Yes, Humbert, I’d ponder!” Frightened, furious, he glared. “It seems our people are being stolen from their beds with me none the wiser. Do you think I should give the council another reason to doubt me? I will ponder and make my own enquiries and when I am ready to discuss the situation more broadly I’ll—”
“Roric, what’s to ponder?” Humbert demanded breathlessly. “It’s Harcia behind this wickedness. Make no mistake, boy, this is Aimery’s doing. You threatened him, rubbed his nose in Balfre’s murderous perfidy, and now he takes his revenge. Stealthily. Hoping no one will realise he’s behind it.”
“And sells his own people why, precisely? Because he’s short of coin?”
“Because he’d throw us off his scent. I tell you, Roric, I’m right. Harcia’s filthy fingers are all over this.”
There was no point arguing. “Perhaps. But till that’s proven, Humbert, you’ll clap tongue. Clemen is only just finding its feet again. The last thing we need is for tensions to rise again between our duchies, and the sleeping Marches to wake.”
And so they walked in stiff silence for the second time that day. But any thought he’d had of taking some time to sit quietly to try and make sense of Garith’s news and decide who else he could send out nosing for answers was chased away by Nathyn. The agitated chief steward rushed to him as he and Humbert stamped through the persistent rain and spreading puddles across Eaglerock’s deserted forecourt.
“Your Grace! Your Grace! ’Tis the duchess, Your Grace. Her ladies attend and the midwife is sent for.”
Angry impatience forgotten, Roric clutched at Humbert’s arm. “It’s too soon. The babe’s not due till late next month.”
“A pox on the midwife,” said Humbert. “Send for Arthgallo. My daughter will have the best leech in Clemen.”
He took a deep breath, trying not to vomit. “Arthgallo chose the midwife, remember? He said from the start he was no—”
“I don’t care what he said!” Humbert bellowed. “Do you love my daughter or not?”
Not, as it happened. Though he wanted to, and every day hated himself for wishing she was Catrain. A secret he’d keep from her father at all costs.
“Nathyn,” he said, trying to sound calm, “fetch Arthgallo.”
Leaving Nathyn to obey, Roric let Humbert hustle him into the castle and up countless stairs to Lindara’s apartments. They were met in the empty dayroom by her barnacle of a lady’s maid, Eunise, limped out of retirement to serve her mistress again. Seeing them, she spread her blue linen skirts and offered a creaking curtsy.
“Eunise,” Humbert snapped, “where are Her Grace’s ladies? They should be in attendance. Do they dare—”
“Her Grace dismissed them, my lord,” the nursemaid said, her voice cracked and quavered with age. “And she requests that you and His Grace do not come to her. She’ll see you once the child is born and no sooner.”
Humbert growled. “Stand aside, you decrepit besom. I’m her father and the duke is her husband. She’ll see us when I say she’ll—”
“Peace, Humbert,” Roric said, as Eunise lifted her whiskered chin and backed against the closed bedchamber door. “Are you widowed so long you forget a woman’s vanity? Whenever did you know Lindara wanting anyone to see her with a hair out of place?” He managed a smile. “Except for after the toil of a good hunt, of course.”
“Exactly so, Your Grace,” Eunise said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me? I’d return to my lady.”
“Go. Be with my wife. And tell Lindara her husband and father sit vigil for her.”
“Miserable old bitch,” Humbert muttered, groping for the dayroom’s padded settle. “She was a sweeter piece thirty years ago.”
“Weren’t we all, my lord,” he murmured, and chose a gilded chair.
Soon afterwards, the midwife and her assistant came. On their heels, Arthgallo. They uttered vague, encouraging platitudes then vanished within the mystery of Lindara’s bedchamber. Eaglerock’s most senior exarchite arrived, uninivited, trailing an acolyte and incense. In no mood for hearing a lecture on powers that might or might not exist, Roric sent them away–but politely. To be safe. The candle-clock above the fireplace melted through the hours. Servants brought them dry doublets and hose and robes, and he and Humbert changed out of their rain-soaked clothing to avoid an ague. Other servants brought messages of support from the council, and at noon carried in trays of food and wine. Roric and Humbert ate, needing something to do other than wait in frightened silence. And the braised beef helped calm bellies churned by the muffled cries from behind the stubbornly closed bedchamber door. At sunset servants brought roast capon and sweet cider. Again they ate. What else could they do? Arthgallo emerged once to utter more vague reassurances, then shut himself away with Lindara and the midwife again. Soon after that there were raised voices, then Eunise was sent out. The old woman left the chamber protesting her dismissal, but Arthgallo would not be moved. Eunise left Lindara’s apartments and didn’t return.
Midnight crept closer, and still no word of a child. Light-headed with fear, Roric pressed a shaking hand to his face. Stubble prickled, and his skin felt like ill-cured parchment.
“I can’t bear this, Humbert. We’ve had so many false hopes and disappointments. What if—”
“Clap tongue,” said Humbert, rasping. “I’ll not listen to gloomy wallowings. You’ll soon be a father, Roric. Tell yourself that.”
He let his hand fall. “My lord, I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
With no heart to scold Humbert’s frightened rudeness, Roric closed his eyes and waited, as wood burned in the f
ireplace and the night crept towards another sunrise on leaden, hobbled feet.
Some two hours later, a woman’s piercing cry leapt him out of his chair. Humbert leapt with him, and they stared at each other with fear and terrible hope. Moments later they heard the mewling, high-pitched wail of a newborn babe. Then the bedchamber door opened, and Arthgallo emerged.
One look at him, and Roric felt his legs threaten to give way. “No. No.”
Beneath his stained, rumpled canvas cap, the leech’s face was haggard with strain and grief. “I am sorry, Your Grace. The child breathes… but not for long.”
Overwhelmed, unable to offer comfort to groaning Humbert, he followed Arthgallo into Lindara’s candlelit chamber. His wife lay weakly panting and sweat-soaked on the birthing board, her linen shift rucked to her waist, her spread thighs smeared with blood. The bloodstained midwife, as sweaty and exhausted as her charge, murmured low encouragement while kneading Lindara’s lax, emptied belly in rhythmic circles. Her young assistant, cheeks tear-runnelled, stood beside her and stared at the floor.
“Your Grace.”
Tearing his gaze from Lindara, Roric turned. “Arthgallo?”
The leech cradled a small, linen-coddled bundle against his chest. “Your Grace, here is your daughter.”
Daughter. Even as the word hammered iron through his heart, he was holding out his arms. And then, as Arthgallo surrendered the babe to him, he felt a terrible wave of relief.
If it must die, better it should die a girl. Not a son. Not my heir.
He looked down. Felt his breath catch. No relief now, only revulsion. Even after so many years, he remembered little Liam on the day of his birth. Pink and plump and gusty with life. But this–this–creature? So pale, almost grey. Wizened and wrinkled, limbs twisted. Face deformed and pinched with pain. Tiny mouth gasping for air. For life. It looked hardly human, looked more like a faery changeling, as though the old tales had come true.
This is what springs from my seed? This–this thing?
“Roric?”
He couldn’t show Humbert. The old man might drop where he stood. He kept his back to the open door. “Arthgallo’s right, my lord. There’s no hope. Leave us. I’d not have you distressed for no reason.”
“Fuck that, boy. I’ll see my grandson.”
“’Tis a girl, Humbert. Lindara birthed a girl.”
“Even so, I’ll see it.”
Low, skin-crawling laughter from the bed. “Do you hear that, Your Grace? Even so, he’ll see it. What magnanimity. What generosity of spirit. Am I not blessed among women, to have a father like him?”
“Clap tongue, Lindara!”
“No, Humbert. I will not clap tongue. After all these years with my tongue clapped I’ve birthed a living child and now, my lord, now, it is my turn to speak!”
Shocked by her raw bitterness, Roric shifted to look at them. Humbert and Lindara stared at each other with such malice, such hatred, it threatened to freeze his blood. The midwife with her bloody hands and canvas apron backed away from the bed, beckoning her assistant to join her beside the fireplace, out of the way.
Arthgallo moved to Lindara’s side, his stained hands raised to calm. “My lady, please, contain your passions. ’Tis not wise for a woman newly delivered to so upset herself. You’ve not passed the childbed yet and you won’t be out of harm’s way till that’s done.”
Lindara laughed again. This time she sounded wild. “You stupid fuck of a leech, I won’t be out of harm’s way till I’m dead.”
“Lindara—”
“No, my lord!” Arthgallo said, stepping between Humbert and Lindara. “Harness your temper. The lady’s in my care and—”
“And much good it’s done her!” Humbert roared. “Clemen needed a son from this birthing, Arthgallo! One that would live, and thrive, and carry the future on his back!”
“Don’t you blame him!” Lindara spat, struggling to sit up against her pillows. “This is your doing, old man! That gross lump of flesh in Roric’s arms, that is what your meddling has wrought!”
Bewildered, Roric looked down at the barely breathing thing he held, then up again. He felt like a man stumbled into the midst of a mummers’ play, watching a story unfold that they knew and he didn’t.
“Humbert, what is this? What does she mean?”
Humbert turned, and for the first time his gaze fell upon his daughter’s child. He shuddered, one hand lifting as though he’d ward away evil. “’Tis a tragedy, Roric. One of nature’s cruel tricks. But don’t despair, boy. There’s hope yet. You must try again and—”
“My lord, I don’t advise it,” Arthgallo said, his voice low. “I did warn you after Her Grace’s last stillbirth. Your daughter—”
“My daughter has no say in this! She will do—”
“Nothing!” said Lindara, sweat pouring down her face. “And you will do nothing. You have done enough, Humbert. And after this I’m quit of you! I’m quit of you, I’m quit of Roric, I am quit of all the lies!”
“What lies?” Roric demanded. “Arthgallo, you say you warned Humbert? Warned him of what?”
Humbert stabbed a pointing finger. “Clap tongue, Arthgallo! What we spoke of is privy. Roric—”
“You want to know what your dear foster-lord and his tame leech spoke of?” Lindara taunted. “Then I shall tell you, husband. It’s been a night for birthing, so let me at last deliver the truth. And when you hold it like you hold that repuslive monstrosity I hope you—”
“Not one more word, Lindara!” Humbert shouted. “This is on your head, all of it. Woe to me that ever I sired such a traitorous bitch.”
“Enough, Humbert!” Roric said, dizzy with dread. “That is my wife. Your daughter. If you can’t deal with her gently then—”
“Of course he can’t, Roric,” Lindara panted. “You blind fucking fool. He hates me. I’ve ruined everything. And I don’t fucking care. I’m glad his dreams are ruined. They were never my dreams. They were his and yours and I delight in their destruction. You fucking bastards ruined me. You ruined my poor Vidar. And now—”
“Vidar? What has Vidar to do with this?”
Humbert took a step towards the bed, his rage shot through with fear. “Lindara, I forbid you. I beg you. Do not—”
“You beg me?” Lindara shrieked with laughter. “But my lord, I begged you. On my knees and weeping I begged you not to force Roric upon me, not to destroy my hope of happiness, not to banish Vidar to the Marches, not to–not to—” Tears were coursing down her cheeks, washing away the sweat. “Humbert, I begged you. So let me answer you now as you answered me then. Fuck what you want. I—”
Before Roric could stop him, Humbert snatched the mewling, misshapen child from his arms. Thrust it at Arthgallo and seized the leech by his arm. “Get out.” Then he turned on the staring midwife and her assistant. Realised, too late, what the two women had seen and heard. “You as well. Wait in the dayroom. And if I hear one whisper I’ll see your corpses swinging on Gibbet Hill.”
As the shaken women scuttled from the chamber, Arthgallo stood tall. “I will not abandon the lady Lindara. She is my patient and—”
“And she is my daughter! Take that monstrosity she spawned and leave us alone!”
Staring at Humbert, his gaunt face stiff with distaste, Arthgallo shook his head.
“Very well,” said Humbert, a wild-eyed stranger. “The leech can stay, and we’ll go. Come, Roric. There’s nothing for us here.”
Though the room was warm, Roric felt cold to the bone. Frozen blood. Frozen marrow. A heart turned to ice. He looked at Arthgallo, so frightened he could hardly breathe.
“I think the truth is here. I’d stay to hear it. Arthgallo, what warning did you give Humbert? And do you know why the babe is so deformed?”
The leech’s eyes were full of pity. Holding the child close, he sighed. “After learning… certain things… I warned his lordship that a happy union between you and his daughter was unlikely. As for the rest…” He shrugged. “Your G
race, ask your wife.”
“Arthgallo—” Breathe. Breathe. Ignore the crackling of frost. “These certain things. They touch on me?”
“They do, Your Grace.”
“And yet you never told me.”
“No, Your Grace. To my shame. I was persuaded to keep silent.”
“Persuaded by my wife?”
“No, Your Grace. By her father.”
Humbert. “Thank you, Arthgallo. Wait in the dayroom with the midwife and–take the child with you.”
As the chamber door closed behind the leech, Humbert lifted his whiskered chin. “Now listen to me, Roric. This is no time to be hasty. Come away and we can—”
He closed the fingers of his raised hand slowly, until he held up a fist. “Enough.” Then he turned. “Lindara?”
His wife had rolled onto her side, knees pulled to her chest, fingers twisting in the bloodstained hem of her shift. He didn’t care. She could suffer. Until he knew the truth, she could suffer.
Lindara met his stare with familiar defiance. “Your precious seed is tainted, Roric. For years, I tainted it. Humbert found out eventually but by then it was too late. Arthgallo’s done his best. Did you never wonder at all the pills he gave you? He tried, but you’ll never sire a normal son.” She smiled. “Nor even a normal daughter, it seems, but I doubt you care for that. You or my father.”
Tainted. He was tainted. He could hear his own heart beating, a long way away. “And this was your revenge? Because Humbert made you marry me?”
“No, Roric. I intended to bear Vidar’s son and let you think the child was yours. That was to be my revenge.”
Another blow. He was almost too numb to feel it. “You were fucking Vidar?”
She smiled again, a grimace of pain and contempt. “From the day you and I were married, whenever and wherever and as many times as I could. Until Humbert sent him to the Marches, I was fucking Vidar. I love Vidar, Roric. I never loved you.”
