by Karen Miller
“Yet you never bore him a son.”
A tear trailed down her cheek. “Arthgallo suspects that in tainting you, I tainted myself. He fears I shall never give birth to a healthy child.”
Such stillness inside him. Such a vast, aching cold. “And you don’t care.”
“No. Not if it deprives you of an heir.”
He passed a shaking hand over his face. Catrain. He could have, should have, wed with Catrain.
“I don’t understand. It’s true we never shared a great passion, but Lindara… I did love you. As best I could. Why would you—”
Lurching upright, she hissed at him. “As best you could, Roric? Your best was shite. You love your cock. You love Humbert. You love Clemen. Nothing else. I was only ever a womb to you, something to spill your seed in so you could have a son. Vidar loved me, Roric. Not you. Vidar. He begged you not to marry me and you didn’t care. Remember?”
He couldn’t look at her any more. Instead, he looked at Humbert. “You knew?”
Humbert tugged at his beard, his face heavy with despair. “Roric—”
“You knew.”
“Roric—”
“You knew and you didn’t tell me.”
“Tell you what, boy?” cried Humbert, anguished. “That my daughter is a fucking whore who cuckolded you for years right under my nose? That she consorted with a fucking witch to poison your seed with her potions? How could I tell you that? How could I—”
“How could you not?” Fighting the urge to empty his belly, Roric clutched at his pounding head. “You said it yourself! My first, my greatest duty, was to give Clemen its next duke, to confirm Berold’s bloodline and close the door on the past. For years I’ve been trying and for years I have failed and in failing I’ve blamed myself! Believed I was being punished because at Heartsong I failed to save Liam’s life. You should have told me!”
“Nothing would have changed! Don’t you see, boy?” said Humbert, reaching for him. He was weeping. “By the time I discovered my bitch of a daughter’s treason it was too late. The damage to your seed was done. Arthgallo tried to tell me but I didn’t want to believe him. I wanted to believe there was still a chance, still hope, and so—”
“And so you lied to me.” Roric stepped back. “You bullied Arthgallo into lying. And you sent me back to Lindara’s bed knowing she’d betrayed me, knowing that she hated me, knowing—” He turned away, afraid of what he might do. “Humbert—”
“I stayed silent for you, Roric!” Humbert cried. “I knew this would break your heart, I knew how you’d—”
“Liar!” he said, spinning round. “You stayed silent for yourself! So you wouldn’t be shamed, so you wouldn’t be blamed, so you could make up for the loss of Lindara’s brothers and claim yourself Berold’s equal in the bloodline of Clemen’s dukes!”
“No, Roric, no, I never—”
“I trusted you, Humbert. With my life. With this duchy. Since I was seven years old I have loved you like a father. Obeyed you as though I were your dutiful son and raised you to be the second-highest man in Clemen. And this is how you thank me? This is my reward?”
In the bed, Lindara laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised, Roric. He might love you like you’re his flesh and blood but I am his flesh and blood and that never once stopped him from—”
“Lindara?” he said, as she doubled over on a dreadful cry of pain. “Lindara! Humbert, fetch Arthgallo!”
As Humbert blundered to the door, Roric crossed to the bed. Took hold of his wife’s ice-cold hand and dropped to one knee. “Be brave, Lindara. Hold on. Help is coming.”
Moaning, she dragged open her sunken eyes. “Tell Vidar I’m sorry. Tell him I know I wasn’t always kind.”
The request stole his breath. Mute, he stared at her. Seeing his hurt, her face twisted.
“Fuck you, Roric,” she whispered. “Fuck you. I hope it all ends in tears.”
And then came the gushing blood, like a raging scarlet river bursting its banks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Another sunrise. Another day in his life. Looking over the parapet of Eaglerock castle’s harbour-side balcony, watching the whitecaps on the water and the first scurrying skiffs, the previous day’s clouds and rain a memory, Roric breathed in the damp air and breathed it out, a hollow, whistling sound.
Widowed. I am widowed. My wife is dead. I’m alone.
The deformed baby was dead too. That grey-faced, mewling thing Lindara had pushed out of her body with so much screaming effort and pain. He couldn’t think of it as his daughter. Could hardly think of it at all. After pronouncing Lindara dead, Arthgallo had taken it away and returned a short while later with a different dead babe to be entombed with Lindara. Another girl. One that looked nothing like a changeling faery. Where the leech had procured it, where its mother was, how it died? He didn’t know. He never wanted to know. Every part of his body felt bruised and broken. Like a man unhorsed in a melee and trampled by countless hooves in the mud.
I am a widowed, childless cuckold. Oh, yes. And a bastard duke.
Duke of a struggling duchy. Duke of a dispirited people who were now being stolen and sold into slavery. A duke made incapable of siring an heir. Though Arthgallo, after doing what had to be done with Lindara’s bloodsoaked body, had urged his duke not to lose hope. There might yet be herbs in the world, rare and obscure, capable of restoring some life to His Grace’s seed. He would hunt for them. His Grace must not despair.
Poor Arthgallo. The leech was inconsolable over Lindara’s death and the disaster of her pregnancy. Weeping, on his knees, he’d begged forgiveness for failing Clemen, for not telling his duke the truth. But the lies, the omissions, weren’t the leech’s fault. There Humbert was to blame, so Arthgallo had been forgiven. And because he’d already proven himself to be an honourable man, his sworn oath never to reveal what he knew was accepted.
Sadly, the midwife and her assistant were another matter. Even now they languished in Eaglerock’s dungeons, where they could tell no one what they’d seen and heard. And whether they’d ever look upon the light of day again, well… that was a question without an answer, for now.
The only remaining loose end was Humbert.
Eaglerock’s servants kept the hinges of every door in the castle well-oiled, but even so Roric heard the portal behind him swing open. Heard hesitant footsteps and a cautious clearing of throat.
“Your Grace?”
Nathyn. Cool of head and steady of nerve. Discreet, reliable, loyal Nathyn, who’d sobbed once when he was told of Lindara and after that said nothing but Yes, Your Grace or No, Your Grace, or I will see it done, Your Grace.
Roric kept his gaze upon the harbour. “Well?”
“The proclamations are being given to the heralds now, Your Grace. They’ll be riding out shortly. And soon the passing bells will toll in Eaglerock. Indeed, in every corner of Clemen.”
Indeed. “But not in the Marches.”
“No, Your Grace. Though word will spread.”
Yes, but not swiftly enough to interfere with his plans. “Her Grace’s body? Her apartments?”
“The duchess and–and the child–lie at peace in the Great Hall, Your Grace. Three exarchites stand with them, saying prayers for their souls. And Her Grace’s ladies even now oversee the setting to rights of her bedchamber.”
“When that’s done, tell her ladies to sit vigil with the duchess. Then have the apartments sealed.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Something else, Nathyn?” he said, when the steward didn’t withdraw.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Humbert?”
“His lordship is here, Your Grace, and would speak with you.”
He’d sent Humbert home after Lindara died. Hadn’t known if he could trust himself not to find a sword and strike. Told his foster-lord not to show his face at court until he was summoned, knowing, even as he said it that Humbert would ignore him.
“Very well. Give Lord Humbert permission
to approach and then leave us.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Nathyn retreated. A low murmur of voices, then heavier footsteps crossing the balcony. They stopped.
“Roric.”
He waited, to see if the sound of Humbert’s voice would reawaken the hot desire to find a sword and run it through his foster-lord to the hilt. But no. He felt strangely calm. As though the cold, lonely hours after Lindara’s death had bled him dry of passion.
“Roric.”
Still staring at the harbour, he raised a hand. “No, my lord. Not any more.”
A small sound of distress. “Your Grace.”
“You wanted something?”
“Your Grace–curse it, Roric–we’re family, boy. The only family either of us has left.” A harsh breath. Almost a sob. “I know you’re hurt. But will you not even look at me?”
He had no desire to lay eyes on Humbert ever again. But they had unfinished business, so he turned around.
“My lord, you presume upon familiar acquaintance. I am your duke. That is all I am to you, or will ever be.”
Humbert’s eyes were red-rimmed, his hair and beard disordered. He still wore the rust-brown doublet and hose he’d changed into after the harbour. The sleeveless, marten-trimmed robe he wore over them had a tear in one seam. He was dishevelled, all the confident belligerence beaten out of him by grief. For the first time in his vigorous life, he looked an old man.
“So that’s it?” he whispered, stoop-shouldered. “I’ve lost you too?”
“You didn’t lose me, Humbert. You tossed me away.”
“I didn’t. Roric, I never—”
“Your Grace.”
Humbert’s bulky body flinched. “Your Grace.”
Roric narrowed his gaze, considering. “You do understand, my lord, that you’re entirely dishonoured?”
Another flinch. In the strengthening daylight, a glitter of tears. “Yes.”
“What would you do to earn your honour back?”
“Your Grace?”
“You heard me, Humbert. What would you do?”
“Anything,” Humbert said, his pale, drawn face stiff with hope. “Boy, I’d do anything to have things as they were.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, so Humbert couldn’t see them shaking. “Things will never be as they were. If that’s your dream, let go of it now.”
Humbert dropped his chin to chest. “Your Grace.”
“But if you mean what you say, then—”
“I do!” Humbert said eagerly, his head jerking up. “I mean it heartily. This night just past, I—”
“However you spent last night, my lord, believe me when I say you spent it more kindly than I did.”
“Roric…” Humbert’s grieving eyes widened with shock. “My daughter is dead.”
Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Perhaps some passion remained after all. “Yes, my lord,” he said, his jaw tight. “She is. A great many things died last night. Among them any care I ever felt for what you might suffer.”
Humbert rocked where he stood, like a jouster buffeted by a lance.
“We waste time,” he added, deliberately brisk. “Would you learn how you can reclaim your squandered honour, or shall we simply agree that—”
“No, Your Grace,” Humbert said, hands lifting. “What would you have me do?”
“Remove yourself to the Marches. You can best serve Clemen now by taking Vidar’s place.”
Humbert blinked. “And Vidar?”
“You’ll see him escorted back to Eaglerock by a score of the castle’s most seasoned men-at-arms. After that, you’ll put him from your mind. Your daughter’s treasonous lover is no longer your concern.”
“Your Grace—” With an effort, Humbert swallowed. “I think he must be my concern. For your sake, he must be. Vidar might be a disloyal cockshite but—” He took a step forward, his lax hands fisted. “Roric, you can’t—”
“Stand where you are and clap tongue, my lord! Every right you ever had of me is now and for ever forfeit! Do you not grasp that? Don’t you know what you’ve done?”
Breathing hard, Humbert stepped back. “And what of Vidar’s wife? She’s Aistan’s daughter, you can’t—” Pinched lips. Another shuddering breath. “You’re in no position to provoke the council.”
“Aistan’s daughter and her children are innocent in this. They’ll also return to Eaglerock, under my protection.”
“And how will you explain her husband in chains?”
Roric raised an eyebrow. “I am duke of Clemen. I don’t need to explain it.”
“Ah.” Humbert’s face tightened. “That’s what Harald used to say.”
“Harald might’ve been a bastard but he wasn’t always wrong.”
Humbert opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind. Stamped to the balcony’s red stone parapet and grasped it hard with both hands as he stared down at the slowly waking township. “When should I leave?”
“How fast can you pack?”
“Can’t wait to see the back of me?”
“No, my lord. I can’t.”
Humbert’s head dropped. “Doubtless I deserved that.”
That, and much more. But he was weary. He wanted this done with. “Leave tomorrow, at first light. Ride as hard and as fast as you can. Vidar’s manor house is staffed and provisioned. You can send for whatever else you need at your leisure.”
“Tomorrow?” Humbert’s fingers whitened on the parapet. “I’d prefer to leave after Lindara’s funeral.”
“No.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Letting go of the parapet, Humbert straightened. “What about Garith? The Clemen folk being sold abroad?”
“That’s not your concern. Look to the Marches. There is your domain now.”
Humbert sighed. “Vidar won’t simply take my word for it, you know. He won’t suffer himself to be brought back here on my say-so alone. Not under armed escort.”
“Don’t fret. You’ll receive an official letter to take with you.”
Humbert turned. Still grieving, but with anger stirred beneath the sorrow. “And if he demands to know what’s behind his sudden disgrace?”
“Did I tell you to mention anything about disgrace?”
“You mean to cozen him, then? Lull him with platitudes and pap? You’re a fool if you think he’ll believe it. Vidar’s sly as a fox.”
“And I’m trusting you to outfox him. Or do I ask too much?”
Humbert hesitated, then dragged a hand down his face and over his beard. “No, Your Grace. You don’t.”
“Good,” he said, smiling thinly. “Then be about your business. If you need help with anything, speak to Nathyn. He has my full confidence.”
Another hesitation. “You’re sure about this, are you?” Humbert said at last. “You think the Marches will be safe in my hands?”
“I wouldn’t send you if I wasn’t. I know how much you love Clemen. I know you’d give your life to protect it.”
“And you, boy,” said Humbert, his voice breaking. “I’d give my life to protect you.”
“I wonder,” he said slowly. “Did you ever say that to Lindara?”
For a moment, he thought he might see his foster-lord drop dead at his feet. He’d seen men die in the Marches with that stricken look in their eyes.
“Farewell, Humbert. Go to the Marches. And there redeem yourself, if you can.”
The draggle of villagers huddled in the wooded clearing at sword-point were so ragged, filthy and hungry Vidar almost felt sorry for them. But only almost. Leaving his five men-at-arms to keep them docile, he jogged his horse back and forth across the overgrown woodland track and gave his temper free rein.
“Doltards! Don’t you know we stand not a stone’s throw from the Harcian Marches? Were your dirty fingers stuck in your ears the day Roric’s heralds rode into your village and told you what happens when trespassing Clemen-folk cross paths with Balfre of Harcia?”
The oldest of the villagers, a man
in his middle years, took a cringing step towards him. “My lord, we were desperate. Root-rot took half our crops and a river flood took what was left, then washed away near every cottage.”
“And did it wash away your sense of direction too? Why not head up-river to Branstock? They lost people in the pestilence. You’d have found yourselves homes there.”
Uneasy, the man exchanged glances with his fellow villagers. “You ain’t heard, my lord?”
“Heard what?”
“There do be rumours of folk going missing round Branstock way.”
“Missing?” He stared at the man. “Faeries took them, I suppose. No–hold your tongue, man. I’ve heard enough.”
Fuck. Strict treaty governed how many folk could live in the Marches. Every year there was a head count, with Clemen testing Harcia and Harcia testing Clemen. Not to mention gossip and the excitement provoked by unfamiliar faces. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t risk letting a dozen villagers remain.
“You can’t stay in the Marches,” he said roughly. “Go to–to Cobley. I’ll send men-at-arms with you, to make sure—”
“No, my lord! Not Cobley!” a skinny woman protested, two skinny children hanging from the ragged hem of her dress. “There be black-lung broke out in Cobley, my lord.”
“Black-lung?” Vidar jabbed at his horse’s mouth, hauling it into retreat. “You fools have brought black-lung into the Marches? Fuck. I should run a sword through you where you stand!”
“No, my lord!” The man threw up his arms, pleading. “Soon as we heard there was black-lung, we bolted. Came here to be safe. We never walked anywhere close to Cobley. There be none of us sick. Not with black-lung. Not with anything. We be cold and hungry, no more than that.”
Now the village brats were crying, five of them wailing and snotting, making their mothers shriek. Tempted, so tempted, to act on his threat, Vidar backed his horse until its rump struck a low-hanging tree branch. Was the man lying? He and the others weren’t coughing up clots of blood, and beneath the copious dirt they seemed unblemished.
Black-lung? Why hadn’t Roric sent a warning and closed the Marches road?
“How long have you been skulking here?”
