by Karen Miller
Aimery seized his oldest son’s shoulders and shook him. “I must, Balfre. For your sake, for Harcia’s sake, I have no other choice.”
“You’re a duke,” said Balfre, coldly. “You have nothing but choices.”
“Ah, Balfre…” Run through with pain, he tightened his fingers. “The day you understand that isn’t true is the day you will be ready for a crown.”
Balfre wrenched free. “Fuck you, Your Grace,” he said, and walked away.
CHAPTER TWO
Some time later, alone with his father, Grefin blinked away weariness and cleared his throat. “It wasn’t murder, my lord. Balfre was angry. But he didn’t murder Hughe.”
“Grefin, Grefin…” Staring into the Rose chamber’s flame-leapt fireplace, Aimery shook his head. “You always defend him.”
He felt his body tense. The spirits save him, not this brawl again. “He’s my brother.”
“And he’s my son! But that doesn’t—”
“The wrong son,” he muttered, then held his breath.
Slowly, Aimery turned. Seeing the naked pain in his father’s face, Grefin shifted in his chair and looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
There was a splash of dried mud on his woollen hose. He scratched at it, trapping dirt beneath his fingernail. “My lord, I did try to stop him. But you know Balfre. And Hughe’s slur was wicked. Drunk or sober, he meant to wound.”
Aimery turned back to the fire. “Yet you still say it wasn’t murder.” His shoulders rose and fell. “You’d have me brand Herewart a liar? Is that it?”
Hughe’s father, scarcely comforted and spurning his duke’s offer of a bed for the night, was on the road back to Bann’s Crossing. Riding home to his dead son, laid out in his finery on a trestle surrounded by sweet candles and weeping women.
Remembering Malcolm, and their mother, Grefin watched his knuckles turn white.
“The old man claims you weren’t there when Hughe fell,” said his father. “He claims Hughe’s squires told him you fought with Balfre, and stormed off.”
Curse it. If only he’d been permitted to meet with Herewart by his father’s side. But no, he’d been kept out of the room as though he were still a child. As though he couldn’t be trusted to speak the truth, dispassionate. As though speaking up for his brother was the same as telling lies.
“It’s true Balfre and I fought,” he said, holding resentment at bay. “And I left him. But I didn’t go far. I saw the joust. I tell you, my lord, Balfre’s not to blame. Hughe fell awkwardly. It was bad luck, that’s all.”
Aimery swore under his breath. “No, Grefin. It was bad judgement. There should never have been a joust. Can you admit that much, at least? Or is there nothing Balfre could do that you won’t excuse?”
At the end, when the leeches had no more help for his mother and it came his turn to sit with her for the last time, she’d surprised him by rousing out of her stupor.
“You’re the youngest,” she’d whispered. “My wee babe. Even so, you’re older than Balfre. I fear you always will be. Stand for him, Grefin. Take his part, no matter what. He’s not like Malcolm was. Your father can’t fathom him. But you do. You must. Always.”
He’d promised he would. Of course. But sometimes he wondered if his mother had known what she was asking.
“My lord…” Grefin braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “I’m not saying your anger is unjust. Balfre was wrong to call the joust. But must you make me the Green Isle’s Steward in his place? He won’t forgive it.”
Aimery swung round again. Though the chamber’s candlelight threw shadows, they weren’t deep enough to hide his rage. “How can I make him Steward, Grefin? What will Herewart say, and the other lords, if I elevate Balfre the very day of Hughe’s death?”
“Then wait,” he said, close to pleading. “Let Hughe be buried with all sorrow and honour. Give Balfre time to express the regret I know he feels, even if his wounded pride won’t let him show it, then—”
“I have no time for Balfre!” his father shouted. “I’ve squandered too much time already! The Green Isle must be mastered now, not a month from now. A month from now will be too late. Since Malcolm’s death it’s grown monstrous unruly and I won’t see us return to the battles and butcheries of my youth, with family pitted against family and no quarter shown. The day I lost my father, my uncle and both my brothers is burned into memory. How will I be remembered if I let such bloodshed happen again?” He struck his fist to the mantel over the fireplace. “The fault here is mine. I kept holding back, waiting to name Balfre as Steward, hoping I’d see some judgement in your brother, the smallest glimpse of Malcolm in him, but all I’ve done is delude myself. Balfre’s not fit to—”
“Now you are being unjust, my lord.”
“If that’s your opinion, perhaps I’m mistaken in you too!”
Grefin leapt up, goaded beyond customary respect. “Entirely mistaken, my lord, if you think I’ll stay silent as you use me to punish Balfre!”
“I do not use—”
“Yes, you do! And I mislike it, very much. But because I see you have no choice, Father, I’ll be your Steward. Only you must remember this. Balfre is still your heir. And if he’s to be the duke you want him to be, in his time, you can’t deny him the Green Isle’s stewardship for ever.”
Aimery struck the mantel again, so hard that in the hearth burning logs collapsed into charcoal. Sparks flew, hissing his fury. “Whelp! You presume to command me? Not even Malcolm dared—”
“Malcolm loved you too much not to speak his mind. And so do I.” Heart pounding, Grefin folded his arms. “Balfre has every right to expect the stewardship. But I know he has to pay a price for Hughe. And so does he. So I’ll be your Steward of the Green Isle for one year. Balfre will accept that.”
Aimery’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “He’ll accept whatever I give him.”
“Father—”
“Enough, Grefin. Leave me. I need solitude, so I might think.”
Defeated, he sighed. “Yes, my lord. But can I at least tell Balfre you’ll speak with him before you retire?”
“No,” said Aimery. “Keep him out of my sight.”
Torn, as he was so often torn between his father and the only brother he had left, he paused at the elegant Rose chamber’s door. “It’s not his fault he isn’t Malcolm. It’s not his fault he lived, and Malcolm died.”
In the flame-crackled silence, Aimery’s indrawn breath sounded loud. “You think because you’ve made me a grandfather you’re too old for a thrashing? You’re not, Grefin, believe me.”
From his first squalling cry, Malcolm had been Aimery’s favourite. And their mother had loved her sickly youngest son best. All his life Balfre had stood stranded between them, necessary, but not needed. Now, with Malcolm dead, he was needed… but not wanted.
“You should give Balfre a chance, Father. You never have. I think he’d—”
“Enough, Grefin! Get out!”
So much for building bridges. Grefin bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace. Good night.”
Heartsick and still numbly disbelieving, Balfre prowled the confines of his lushly appointed privy chamber. Grefin was made Steward of the Green Isle. Grefin, best loved and faery-favoured. Grefin, who’d heard Black Hughe’s black taunt and refused to lift a lance in his brother’s defence.
“Bastard!”
Stomach roiling, rich red wine turned to vinegar in his mouth, he hurled his goblet at the wall. Heavy green Maletti glass shattered against Ardennese tapestry-work, the spilled wine staining its vivid hunting scene like fresh blood. He was hard put not to weep. Grefin’s treachery buried dragon-talons in his bowels. No wonder he was bent in half. He crabbed sideways to a padded settle and dropped. The lamplit room stank of crushed, fermented grapes and betrayal.
A knocking at the door of the outer chamber turned his head. His useless wife was elsewhere and he’d dismissed the servants, so he was forced to answer th
e summons himself.
“Let me in.” Grefin, standing on the threshold. “I’ve things to say.”
Balfre smiled. In his veins his blood bubbled, dangerous. “Brother Steward. Come to gloat?”
“Don’t be a noddle, Balfre,” Grefin said, impatient. “Let me in.”
If he could change what had happened by beating his brother bloody, he would. But this war could only be won with words. He stepped back. “Fine. Join me, and welcome.”
“You’re alone?” said Grefin, leading the way into the privy chamber. “Where’s Jancis?”
“I don’t know.” He made for the sideboard. “My wife has taken to aping yours, and so does as she pleases. What do you want?”
“I told you. To talk.”
Picking up a bottle of brandy, he offered his brother a bright smile. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating your good fortune with Mazelina? Surely you’ve told her the happy news.”
“I wanted to see you first.” Grefin nodded at the brandy. “Might I have some of that, if you’ve not emptied the bottle?”
“Of course, little brother. As if you need to ask. Isn’t everything mine as good as yours?”
“Balfre—” Grefin stared, his brows pinched tight, then moved to the fireplace and thrust a fresh log into the lowering flames. “This isn’t my doing. I never asked Aimery to make me Steward.”
“Then refuse the appointment.”
“I tried. He won’t let me.”
“Try harder.”
Grefin sighed. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You just don’t want to.”
Their gazes met, like the clashing of swords. Grefin was the first to look away. “You can’t blame Aimery for being angry. You did defy him, challenging Hughe. And he sees your defiance as a stain on his honour.”
“What of my stain? What of Hughe and his filthy tongue? Where’s my honour if I don’t dispute such rank and public slander? Or doesn’t that matter?”
“Of course it matters,” Grefin muttered. “But curse it, Balfre, you know what Herewart is. If he’d not seen you punished he’d stir trouble with the lords, say that Aimery tramples justice to protect his son.”
“So I’m trampled instead, my rights as Harcia’s heir mangled like a hog’s guts in the mud? Where’s the justice in that?”
“Balfre, I understand you’re disappointed. But try to see it through Aimery’s eyes. He—”
“Fuck Aimery’s eyes!” Shaking, he sloshed brandy into a fresh goblet. Drained it dry as those dragon-talons twisted deeper into his guts. “We both know the old bastard won’t keep this secret. Within the week all of Harcia will know I’m disinherited the stewardship, and by month’s end Clemen will know it too. We’ll hear Harald laughing all the way from Eaglerock.”
“Harald?” Grefin groaned. “Why must everything come back to Harald?”
He stared. “Why? I swear, Grefin, you’re as blind as Aimery. It’s a fucking mercy you’re not the one stepped into Malcolm’s boots.” He refilled the goblet, hand still unsteady. “At least not the whole way.”
“Not even part way,” said Grefin. “I don’t want to be duke.”
“Good, for you’d make a poor one!” he retorted. “Don’t you see, Grefin? Sooner or later Harcia will be mine. And if Harald still rules Clemen then? By the Exarch’s balls, how will I keep us safe from that slavering mongrel if Aimery’s already taught him I’m not to be feared! Has the old fool thought of that? Fuck if he has!”
Another sigh, then Grefin looked again to the brandy. “Do I get a drink, or don’t I?”
He walked away from the sideboard. “Am I your fucking servant now? Pour it yourself.”
So Grefin tipped brandy into another goblet and drank, more deeply than was his habit. Balfre, looking over his shoulder, seeing the misery so close to his brother’s plain surface, turned from the chamber’s narrow, shuttered window. Fuck. Despite everything, and no matter how much he resented it, Grefin’s honest pain could still pain him. They were brothers, tied hand and foot by blood and memories and death. Nothing could change that, though he often wished otherwise.
“How long have you had that doublet, Gref? A year? You should’ve turned it to dishcloths months ago.”
“When it’s only been mended twice?” said Grefin, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think so. Besides, you keep the household tailor busy enough for both of us.”
He snorted. “Spoke like a true nip-purse. Are you certain sure we’re related?”
“Mother seemed to think so.”
“You do know she’s dying again, from shame, seeing you put together like a third-rate Ardennese merchant with a hole in his money chest.”
Grefin tugged at his dark blue velvet doublet, unleavened by so much as a single pink pearl. “Bite your tongue. I’m as well-dressed as a second-rate merchant, thank you.” Then he frowned. “And don’t speak of Mother like that.”
He raised a placating hand. “Sorry.”
“It’s just…” Grefin drank more brandy. “I miss her.”
“I know.” A headache was brewing behind his eyes. He pressed a knuckle hard against his forehead, rubbing “So. How was the duke when you left him?”
“Not sweet,” said Grefin, after an uncomfortable pause. “Herewart’s grief has left him raw.”
“Will he see me tonight?”
“No.”
“And if I want to see him?”
“Do you?”
He laughed, unamused. “No.”
“Well, then.” Grefin nodded at the scattered shards of Maletti glass beneath the wine-spoiled tapestry. “You broke a goblet.”
“And if I did?”
“It’s a pity,” said Grefin, shrugging. “They were Mother’s favourites.”
And so they were. “It was an accident.”
“Like Hughe?”
The sharp question stabbed him onto his feet. “Meaning?”
Grefin’s eyes had shaded to the cold blue of winter, and the grief in his face was turned to wariness… and doubt. “You spoke to him, after the joust. Couldn’t you tell he was mortal hurt?”
“I’m not a leech.”
“There was no hint, no sign, that he—”
“It was a joust,” he said, as temper stirred again. Tangled in all his adult feelings for the man Grefin had become, the childhood pride of a little brother tottering faithfully in his footsteps. Where was that little brother now? Where was the Grefin who thought Balfre could do no wrong? “Sometimes men die when they joust. I never forced Hughe to ride against me. And I never hobbled his horse or sat a burr under his saddle or cut through his stirrup leather or weakened his lance. All I did was win. Is winning enough to make me a murderer?”
“I know you never meant Hughe to die,” Grefin snapped. “But admit this much, Balfre. When you’re angry you don’t see straight. You don’t even try. I think you saw Hughe was hurt and because he’d hurt you first, you just didn’t care.”
He was sore tempted to smash another glass goblet. “Why should I flinch for Black Hughe’s spilled blood or weep because he’s a corpse now, and rotting? He was an upstart, a brash-boy, he mocked his betters and never knew when to hold his nasty tongue. Did he care when he slandered me? Fuck if he did! So no, I didn’t care he was hurt and I don’t care he died of being the poorer man in a joust!”
Grefin’s face twisted. “You should.”
“And you should care I’ve had my birthright stolen. The Green Isle is mine, Grefin. Not yours.”
“The Isle belongs to Aimery. Whoever is named its Steward, that man holds it in trust for Harcia’s duke.”
“And we both know I should be that man. Please, Gref.” Stepping close, he took hold of his brother’s shoulder. “Tell Aimery that for love of me you won’t steal the Isle like a common thief.”
“I can’t.” Shrugging free, Grefin put down his empty goblet. “I’ve already said I’d be Steward for a year.”
Balfre moistened his lips. “You’ve promised him that?”
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“I have.” Grefin stared, defiant. “For both of us.”
His hot blood had turned to ice, freezing heart and bone. “I don’t remember lending you my tongue. Tell me, brother, what else did I say?”
“Balfre—”
“What else?”
Grefin turned away, his own temper escaping. “D’you think you can defy the duke and be winked at? Kill a man, and be winked at? So you’ll wait one more year before you’re Steward. That’s nothing.”
“Says the man who’s been made Steward in my place!”
“Oh, Balfre.” Turning back, Grefin shook his head. “Can you think of no one but yourself? The duke held that old rump Herewart in his arms and wept. That old rump is broken with his grief. It was his son you killed. Fuck. I begged you not to hold that joust. Why, just once, didn’t you listen to me?”
A good question, in hindsight.
Abruptly exhausted, Balfre dropped again to the settle. “So that’s that, is it? You’re to be Steward and I’m to be made a laughing stock.”
Grefin dropped to the settle beside him. “I’m sorry.”
As if that made any difference. As if that made what he’d done all right.
“Aimery does what he must for Harcia,” Grefin added. “He might not be the easiest of fathers but he is a good duke.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted, grudging, then let out a slow breath. “But mostly he scares me shitless. He loves peace so much he’s afraid to think of war. He thinks Clemen is no danger. He thinks Harald—”
“Is a fool and a rascal who’ll stumble into trouble without our help.” Grefin looked at him sidelong. “And he’s right.”
“I know you think so. But Gref, what if he’s wrong?”
“What if he is? Are you saying the only remedy must be the spilling of Clemen blood?”
“Clemen’s spilled our blood, in the Marches.”
“And we’ve spilled theirs,” said Grefin. “We’ve both of us done our share of bleeding. But do you want Marcher squabbles spilled over the borders? Would you flood both duchies scarlet?”