The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  As Wulfric had hoped, Grenville sat down well within conversational distance, leaving Wulfric with a tense wait until enough people had come to the table for his insults to be sufficiently publicised. He barely touched his first course as he watched Grenville out of the corner of his eye. The Humberlander was remarkably cool, considering he was sitting so close to a man he had tried to have killed on two occasions, and had contrived to send to his death on a fool’s errand. Wulfric took long, slow breaths to control his anger. The pantomime required to deal with a man who had tried to kill him so many times was infuriating.

  Eventually, Wulfric felt that the time was right.

  ‘I believe congratulations are in order, Banneret Grenville,’ Wulfric said. ‘I hear you are recently appointed ambassador to the court by the Lord of Elzmark.’

  Grenville smiled thinly. ‘Thank you. I am fortunate to have been chosen for so important a role.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Wulfric said, preparing to launch into a well-rehearsed speech. ‘All the more so considering your parentage. I was talking with a fellow from Humberland the other day who knows your family well. Your mother in particular, he was saying. He said that many men in Humberland knew your mother.’

  Wulfric paused to gauge Grenville’s reaction, but he said nothing. He was watching Wulfric, though, and everyone within earshot—and some beyond it—had stopped eating and were paying close attention.

  ‘I think he mistakes me for someone else,’ Grenville said.

  ‘Oh no,’ Wulfric said. ‘He was definitely talking about you. Could describe you down to the last spot. A ratty little fellow, he said, with a scraggly beard the type a fifteen-year-old boy grows to try and pretend he’s a man.’

  There were a couple of stifled laughs at the table, but still Grenville showed no signs of reaction.

  ‘Well, I suppose we all have those who don’t hold us in as high a regard as we might like.’ He returned to his meal, as though Wulfric did not exist.

  ‘The most interesting part,’ Wulfric said, ‘was about your father, though. He must be especially proud of you having risen all the way to banneret and noble emissary. A shame he can’t take credit for it, what with him not being married to your mother and all, nor named as your father. Still, for a privy cleaner to have his boy do so well, when he wouldn’t have a child at all were it not for the fact your whore mother couldn’t pay to have her night soil taken out. How many pokes did he get to settle the fee?’

  This comment drew a gasp from one lady whose face was a picture of outrage, while several gentlemen had to cover their mouths to hide their amusement. Grenville looked up and swallowed hard. He placed his fork down on the table and smiled, though if it had been any more forced Wulfric feared his face might have split in two, robbing Wulfric of the pleasure of doing that for him.

  ‘I fear I’ve lost my appetite,’ Grenville said. ‘Good evening.’

  He stood and walked away from the table without so much as a backward glance, leaving Wulfric with a hollow sense of disappointment at the failure of his plan. Grenville was clever and he was controlled, with blood as icy as a mountain stream, and now he knew that Wulfric was on to him.

  WULFRIC WOKE EARLY the next morning, and went out to walk around the palace. There had been no sign of Grenville since he left the dining hall the night before, but Wulfric was hoping he might show his face, having found whatever shreds of honour and dignity he had. He knew that his attempt to bait Grenville out had been hasty and clumsy, and he regretted having not spent more time thinking it through. Perhaps he had not learned quite so much as he had thought. He wondered if Grenville might be out paying more men to try to kill him. If anything, Wulfric actually looked forward to the prospect. Idleness was his greatest fear at the palace. Other than being seen about the place, Wulfric had been given no clear duties. It seemed he was as much a deterrent as a solution to the princess’s loyalty problems. That was well and good for her, but it was nothing but a source of frustration for him. Adalhaid was never far from his thoughts, nor the debt that remained to be settled on her behalf. He was already feeling the urge to have a horse saddled and gallop straight to Elzburg to finish what he had started.

  ‘Lord Ulfyr, a word, if I might.’

  Wulfric looked around to see Chancellor Merlitz. He was a dour man of middle age with keen, inquiring eyes. Wulfric had not had any dealings with him up to that point, but he could not have missed the position of power that he occupied. He seemed to spend most of his time watching, and occasionally whispering. Jagovere said he had spies everywhere, and was one of the main things standing between the princess holding onto her realm and losing everything.

  ‘I think my office is the most appropriate place.’ He gestured for Wulfric to follow, and started on his way, there never being any question of Wulfric saying no.

  When they arrived, he sat behind an imposing oak desk covered with wine leather, and looked at Wulfric from behind a small pair of spectacles.

  ‘The princess requires that you accompany her emissary and his bodyguard on a mission to Elzburg.’

  Wulfric did his best not to smile. Straight to the point, and sending him exactly where he wanted to be. This was a man he could come to like.

  ‘That’s all?’

  It was interesting that Elzburg was the destination. With the revelation that Grenville was one of Elzmark’s men, it seemed there was more going on there than immediately met the eye. Hochmark had not been the only powerful thorn in the princess’s side, it appeared.

  The chancellor smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘No, that’s not all. A show of strength for her emissary’s mission is Her Highness’s primary intention, but should that prove insufficient, she desires that you kill the Lord of the Elzmark.’

  Wulfric had to actively suppress a smile. It seemed all the frustration of being pulled into palace life, and the baggage that went with it, might be worth it after all. If he had legitimate reason to kill the Markgraf, his task would be so much easier.

  The Chancellor watched Wulfric as he allowed the words to hang in the air, and Wulfric hoped he had been able to conceal his pleasure.

  ‘Do you have a difficulty with that?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Wulfric said. ‘None.’

  ‘Excellent,’ the Chancellor said. ‘If you’re true to your word, I expect I shall very much enjoy working with you. Men who have little compunction about doing the tasks necessary for maintaining a strong and secure state are always more valuable than gold. Your elevation to Banneret of the Grey means that you can challenge any peer of the realm to a duel. As Royal Champion it is your duty to defend Her Highness’s honour, and take action in the event of any insult against her. Should the negotiations be unsuccessful, Her Majesty’s emissary will bait the Markgraf to insult her, and you will step in to represent her. Kill him. Kill him quickly. There is no message that needs sending with this act; we simply need him dead.’

  ‘Why is he such a problem?’ Wulfric said. ‘I thought Hochmark was the most powerful nobleman in Ruripathia.’

  ‘He was, but since opening up the Northern territories, Elzmark has doubled in size and he now directly controls a territory as large as the rest of Ruripathia. That doesn’t take into account all the silver he’s bringing south, only a tiny fraction of which he is declaring for taxation. I would have him arrested for it, but there are a number of reasons I don’t think that would work. He has too much power, and now he’s bought in an army of mercenaries. I’m unconvinced as to the reasons being offered. Rattle his cage, and we’ll likely have civil war. Far better to kill him before that happens, break up the Elzmark, and distribute it amongst the more loyal of Her Highness’s noblemen and women.’

  ‘You make it sound like the failure of the negotiations is guaranteed,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘It is, in all but name. You don’t buy in thousands of mercenaries unless you intend to have them fight for you. He’s also been doing deals with other noblemen. He’s gone too far to back down now. Short
of offering to marry him, the princess has no way to bring him back under her control, whether she chooses to admit it or not. Just a good thing we have a fellow like you at our disposal. Make sure that when you stick the blade in, it does its job. You leave in the morning.’

  BEFORE WULFRIC WENT TO ELZBURG, one piece of business remained unfinished. Grenville might have had the sense to weather Wulfric’s insults the night before, but that did not mean Wulfric intended to let him get away with what he had done. With his impending departure, there were many things to do, and Wulfric no longer had the luxury of hanging around the palace in the hope that he might bump into Grenville and finish what he had started. It was time to force the issue. A few quick inquiries directed Wulfric to Grenville’s apartments in the palace. Wulfric headed there, hopeful that he would not bump into Jagovere on the way. Wulfric knew he wouldn’t approve of his method, and would suggest something far more subtle, and likely more sensible. Wulfric was tired of subtle, however.

  He knocked heavily on the door, hoping the incessant pounding would discomfit whoever was inside. Eventually a servant opened it.

  ‘May I help you, my lord?’

  ‘I’m here to see Emissary Grenville.’

  ‘The emissary was called back to Elzburg. He left during the night, with some haste.’

  Of course he had. Wulfric smiled. It seemed he would have to postpone their encounter until he got to Elzburg.

  THERE WERE a number of things to attend to before leaving for Elzburg, and Wulfric felt a sense of growing frustration with each thing that delayed their departure. The first thing was to have his banner made. Jagovere had said it was essential that he have one for when they rode into Elzburg, and had been too insistent for Wulfric to disagree. The one benefit to being Ulfyr the All Famous was that the staff at the Bannerets’ Hall in Brixen had jumped to the task with enthusiasm, and a design—two belek prowling around a silhouette of his still-nameless sword—was produced, which Wulfric had to admit looked impressive. It was quickly embroidered in navy and white onto a steel-grey banner, and then Wulfric was rushed to the royal armourer, who had created a harness for him based on the measurements taken by the tailor when he had first arrived at the city.

  In this, he had little choice. The commission and the design had been given by Princess Alys before his return from Wolundr’s Forge, and Wulfric was concerned about what she and her advisors might think fit for the Royal Champion. He need not have worried, however. It was all he could have hoped for, and more. It was a three-quarter harness—perfect for a horseman, but still effective on foot—of blackened steel with silver filigrees and decorations. The helmet’s mask was a snarling wolf’s face, as fine and ferocious a visage as he had ever seen. The armourer was an expert in his trade, and it only required a few minor alterations to make it fit perfectly. Then they were finally ready to leave.

  Enderlain insisted on carrying Wulfric’s banner as they rode out of the city, along with the royal emissary and his personal staff, and bodyguard. Crowds had gathered to watch them, which came as no surprise to Wulfric, something that bothered him. It amazed him how quickly he could become used to, and even expect, that level of attention. Wulfric had caught a glimpse of a famous duellist—the sport of choice amongst southerners—as he had moved about the city. He had been dressed in silks and furs, with nothing on his person that could be embellished left undecorated. He had visibly thrived on the adulation, and although Jagovere assured him that it was a tough sport and to reach the top you had to be truly great, he had seemed little more than a peacock to Wulfric, prancing about with his feathers out so that everyone would look at him. Wulfric did not intend to follow suit. He was determined that his armour would have dents, and his blade would have nicks. With luck, the trip to Elzburg would provide both.

  He allowed his mind to drift as he rode. Enderlain was out in front, proudly holding the banner high, while Jagovere and Varada rode behind him, deep in conversation, something Wulfric had noticed of them with growing frequency. With Elzmark branded a traitor and dead, Wulfric did not think it too much of a stretch of the imagination for Rodulf to be equally treasonous. Rodulf too, could be dealt with under the protection of southern law, meaning Wulfric had no need to flee and live out his life in obscurity. That meant options, which was not something he had considered before.

  On the one hand, there was no need for him to remain in Ruripathia, or continue to answer to the princess’s every whim. He could ride for the border and disappear into what remained of the Northlands. Ulfyr could become a legend, and he could get on with his life as Wulfric once more. On the other, there was a good life to be had in the south—and more importantly, good friends. Could the same be said for the Northlands? So much had changed, and he was unsure if he would even recognise them.

  The emissary and his people kept much to themselves. He had introduced himself as Burgess Tuller, making him a man of education or business rather than nobility or a banneret, but beyond that, Wulfric had little cause to interact with him. They all knew what their tasks were, and no one was there to extend their circle of friends. Tuller was small with unfashionably short, messy hair, slight of shoulder and tending toward the bloat that affected many men of middle age and light activity. He had the same active, inquiring eyes that Wulfric had noted in many of the non-noble members of court. Men like him got to where they were because of their brains, and everything about the emissary said he had brain power to spare. Wulfric wondered if such men looked down on the likes of him, who made their way in the world with a sword rather than a pen. However, there was a place for both, as this mission showed. The emissary might be the one to do the talking, but without Wulfric’s sword behind him his words would be hollow threats.

  As they travelled through the countryside, Wulfric could see the signs of the war with Ostia still evident on the land as they travelled. He would not have recognised it before, but after his experiences across the sea, the markers were as obvious as the sun. Large swathes of good farmland lay fallow with no one to work them. Burned-out remains of farmhouses were still visible, slowly succumbing to an ever-thickening layer of overgrowth. They even passed through an abandoned village, an eerie experience, as Wulfric kept expecting to see or hear people when there was only stillness and silence.

  It brought home to him how important a mission he was on. Hundreds of people would have lived in that village. Where were they now? Dead? Enslaved? Beggars on the streets of Brixen? If Elzmark was allowed to break with the princess, it would mean war and there would be countless more villages like the one they passed through. He had all those lives in his hands. With one cut of his sword, war could be avoided, and countless people could go about their daily toil. It seemed like a ridiculous amount of influence to be trusted to one man, but he supposed that was the way of it for powerful people. Hundreds of villages like Ulmdorf, protected in one act. It was frightening how important a duty had fallen to him, and it was why he could not turn his back on it when Elzmark and Rodulf were dead. When a man or woman’s words carried the power to become action, the world could be changed on command. The commands of men like Elzmark led people to their deaths. Wulfric’s blade lead Elzmark to his. Then he could use his position to make sure that powerful men did not hold the lives of their people cheaply. He would use his fame to show them what it meant to be a warrior and man of authority.

  CHAPTER 39

  Rodulf went to collect what would soon be his crown himself. It needed to be kept a secret. As he brought it back to the palace with him, he had to force himself not to open the box and stare at its magnificence. He wondered what his father would think, to see his son preparing to be crowned a king, when all he had been able to dream for himself was a barony.

  Of course, it all assumed he was able to continue avoiding an assassin’s blade, dal Geerdorf’s similar ambitions, and the army of a princess trying to hold her realm together. The danger of a civil war when they found out what was going on was very real. It was why he needed to
persevere under the Markgraf’s rule until the princess had conceded that she would not win and signed a peace recognising the new borders. Only then would he be able to effect the transition of power safely. At least, as safely as one could overthrow a king, legitimised heir or not.

  A DAGGER SHEATH and a belt buckle bearing dal Geerdorf’s crest were all Rodulf was able to get his hands on without drawing undue attention to himself. It was not much, but it was enough. They were the type of things that might be overlooked by men told to strip themselves of all identifying possessions. All he needed was enough to be able to point the finger. Justice would be swift and harsh, and the aftermath would be filled with events far greater than the death of a nobleman. By the time the dust of rebellion had settled, dal Geerdorf would be all but forgotten about.

  He placed one item on each of the two bodies he had brought back, then laid them out on the table in the Markgraf’s audience hall. He had thought about bringing the Markgraf along for added authority, but he had already been given tacit orders to kill the person responsible for stealing the silver, and he had pointed that finger as convincingly at dal Geerdorf as he thought was needed.

  The Blood Blades had dragged dal Geerdorf from his apartments that morning, killing two of his retainers in the process, then thrown him into the dungeon for the intervening hours to soften him up a little. Rodulf liked to think about it as his version of the letters, to leave him down there, splattered with the blood of his men, with nothing to do but speculate as to why he was there.

  As much as Rodulf enjoyed the thought of him down there, not knowing what was going on outside of the walls of his cell—if his family had been subjected to similar treatment, or if they even still lived—time was a commodity that no amount of money or power seemed able to get Rodulf more of. As pleasing as it was to leave dal Geerdorf to stew in the dark, needs must, and he couldn’t afford the luxury. News of his arrest would spread amongst the nobles, and they would demand to know what was going on. If dal Geerdorf was already dead when they did, his position would be so much the better. If not, they might demand his release pending a proper trial. That was not something Rodulf could allow.