by Karen Miller
Standing rigid beside her husband, Argante held his hand so tightly it seemed her bones must burst through the skin.
“Lastly,” said Humbert, shifting his wide-legged stance, “we touch upon your ill-judged tauntings of Harcia. Against all sound advice you insist on provoking its duke! Like a boy with a stick you poke and you prod, flouting custom, flouting law. Inviting retaliation. They already resent us mightily for the wealth we possess and they lack. Do you think those wasps won’t sting us, Harald? Do you think you can kick and kick at their nest and they’ll say nothing? Do nothing?”
Harald laughed, sounding brittle. “They’ve done nothing yet.”
“And that might easily change,” Humbert growled. “I tell you, Harald, Aimery’s list of grievances against you is growing. Before long it will match our own!”
“Grievances?” Trembling, Argante slitted her eyes. “Better call them the petulant, self-serving whinings of an old fool. A fool who forgets himself, for you will surely address my husband as Your Grace, Lord Humbert, or I swear I’ll see you—”
“Peace, Argante,” said Harald, still pretending compliance, and raised the hand she did not hold. “Humbert has shed his blood for Clemen. He has earned the right to speak his mind.”
“Speak his mind?” Too angry to heed the warning in his face, she released her tight grasp of his hand and stepped down from the dais. Humbert stood his ground as she approached, bold as any man. “What mind? The old fool’s wits are scattered! He’s forgotten where his sworn loyalties lie. Shed his blood for Clemen? He should bleed out every last drop. That will serve Clemen!”
Aistan cleared his throat. “My lady, instead of berating Lord Humbert you should be on your knees thanking him. He has spared you in this, for you’re young and poorly guided. But were he asked, he could list your misdeeds.”
“My—” Incredulous, Argante glared. “You’d dare to besmirch me?”
“You besmirched yourself when you told lies about Lord Gerbod’s cousin in Harald’s name, so Gerbod’s manor house in Bellham was made forfeit to your brother.”
“Liar!” Argante spat at Aistan, and whirled round. “He’s lying, Harald. Don’t heed him!”
Looking away from his wife, Harald stared at Ercole. “My lord?”
“Your Grace!” Ercole protested. He stood alone, abandoned by Scarwid and the rest. “This is a foul slur, I swear it.”
Doubt and dislike clouded Harald’s eyes as he considered Argante’s brother. Then his expression smoothed. “You hear my wife, Aistan. She knows none of it, and nor do I.”
Roric saw Aistan’s face darken, saw his fingers unfurl and reach for his sword. They were were poised on a blade’s edge–and if they fell—
“I’m sorry, Harald,” he said quickly. “It’s true. Gerbod’s family kept quiet out of fear you’d seek vengeance on them for speaking ill of your wife.”
Humbert snorted. “Another failure. When no man, woman or child, be they of noble blood or common, can trust they’re safe from the rapacious whims of their duke and his duchess, how terrible a day has dawned in Clemen. Which is why we stand before you now, Harald, and say: No more.”
All through Humbert’s unflinching recitation, the other lords in the Great Hall had nodded and murmured as every terrible charge was laid down. Some of the complaints had touched on them personally, which prompted open agreement. Harald had never once acknowledged them, his gaze fastened to Humbert from beginning to end. But he paid them attention now, searching each face for even the smallest sign of comfort.
He found none.
“Harald?” said Argante, querulous. “I’m tired of this. Send them away.”
Roric looked at Humbert, who scowled. Your turn to speak. He took a breath, but Harald nipped in before him.
“Ah. And now we come to the bitter truth. You think to sit your arse on my throne? Cousin?”
“I think almost any arse would sit there better than yours,” he said, shrugging. “But I’ve been asked, and I’ve answered. If I can serve Clemen, I will.”
Harald smiled his scorn. “If you serve it as you’ve served me, Roric, Humbert and his friends will be weeping soon enough.” The smile vanished. “As will you. For if I’m to be the first deposed duke in Clemen, how long will it be until you’re the second? Something difficult done once is never so difficult again.”
“Pay him no heed, Roric,” Humbert warned. “He’ll say anything to save his miserable hide.”
With a flourish of her heavy velvet skirts, Argante returned to Harald’s side. “This is naught but chittlechat. Send them away, Harald–and together we’ll find a punishment to sweetly suit their foul crimes.”
“Are you deaf, you stupid bitch?” Vidar demanded, goaded past common sense. “Harald is done, Argante, and you’re done with him. Clemen has judged you, and Clemen spits you out like the rancid offal you are.”
With a shriek Argante leapt at him. This time it was Aistan who laid hands on her, swinging her off her dainty feet and shaking her like a ratting dog with its prey.
“Be silent, you spoiled slattern, or I’ll snap your pretty, worthless neck!”
“Aistan, no!” Shoving his sword at Humbert, Roric stepped in. “My lord, release her. This is the ducal court, not a shambles. Aistan! Let her go!”
Harald was on his feet, red-faced with fear and fury. “Aistan, you’re a dead man! I’ll dagger you myself and feed your hacked corpse to my hounds! You cur–you—”
Roric shoved him back into his chair. “Hold your tongue, Harald! Aistan!”
On a harsh, sobbing breath Aistan sprang his clutching hands wide. Argante slid to the tiled floor, weeping.
“Aistan?”
Aistan turned away, his face haggard. “I’m done, Roric. Finish this.”
“Finish this?” Argante looked up. Tears runnelled the chalk dust caked on her face. “Finish us, you mean. Why else are you here with swords?”
“To make sure you listen,” he said sharply. “We’ve not come to spill blood. Harald—”
Ignoring him, Harald pushed out of his chair. This time Roric let him go to his wife. Watching his cousin gently help Argante to stand, he felt an unexpected pang of sorrow.
“I never wanted this, Harald. None of it. You should’ve been a better man. There was Berold to guide you. Why did you take the path to ruin?”
Harald’s stare was vicious. “I don’t answer to you. Bastard.”
“He means to kill us, Harald,” Argante said, clinging. “He means to kill our son.” Her hands flew to her mouth. “Liam could be dead already, butchered in his cradle!”
“He’s not!” Roric said, as Harald blanched. “We have no quarrel with an infant.”
She shook her head, eyes glistening with tears. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then see for yourself. Humbert, go with her.”
“I will go,” said Harald. “Liam is my heir.”
“Argante goes, or no one.” Roric held out his hand. “Humbert?”
Stepping forward, Humbert gave back the sword he held in trust then offered Argante a brief bow. “My lady? Lead the way.”
“Go,” said Harald, curtly. “Bring Liam to me.”
Argante hesitated. “But—”
“Bring him!”
With a last hate-filled glare, Argante fled the hall, leaving Humbert to lumber in her wake.
“Your son is safe, Harald,” Roric said, feeling the heavy stares of the silently watching lords. “How could you think otherwise? That I’d harm him? Liam is family.”
Harald snorted, derisive. “You seek to steal his birthright, Roric. My son is dreadfully harmed.”
“Its loss is your fault, not mine. I never told you to rule Clemen with your sword-point pressed to its throat.”
Harald looked at Aistan, then Vidar, up to Farland, Morholt and Hankin in the minstrels’ gallery then back down to the other lords ranged against him.
“My lords!” he said, his voice raised. “Is there not a one of you who�
��ll stand with me against this upstart?”
A long and terrible silence. Not even Ercole answered. Instead, Argante’s brother stared at the floor.
“I see,” Harald said at last. “So it’s to be exile?”
Roric nodded. “With money enough, and comforts. Liam will want for nothing, Harald.”
“Nothing save his birthright! Tell me, Roric, where do you suggest that I—”
“Murderer! Bastard murderer!”
Startled, Roric turned to see the watching lords and their ladies cry alarm and scatter, the pages yelp and fling themselves to safety… and Argante, no sign of Humbert, running breathless towards him with a bloodied sword in her hands.
“Murderer!” she screamed again, her gold headdress discarded, her hair unpinned and flying, her blue velvet dress stained black and red. “Liam’s dead and burned in his cradle and Heartsong’s set afire! Harald–Harald—”
Roaring in anguished rage, Harald threw himself forward. Roric dropped his sword and took the weight of his cousin, grunting as a clenched fist caught him in the eye. Half-blinded he swung them both about to see Argante still running, still screaming, her stolen sword raised to strike.
“Vidar–Vidar, no, don’t—”
Vidar’s blade ran her through, neatly, with barely a sound.
“Argante!” Abandoning Harald, Roric tried to catch his cousin’s wife as slowly, so slowly, she slid off Vidar’s sword. But dismay robbed him of strength. Blood flowed from the killing wound as Argante slipped from his grasp and struck the red-and-white tiled floor. The sword she’d foolishly brandished clattered beside her, useless.
He looked up, his vision blurred. “Vidar…”
“You’re welcome,” Vidar said, sounding sour. His one good eye glinted. “Roric, she was no sweeter than a—”
Aistan’s shout and the change in Vidar’s scarred face spun him round. Harald. But whose sword was that he–
“Here!” said Vidar. “Now end this!”
Roric snatched Vidar’s offered, blood-wet blade and barely managed to clash it across the sword in frenzied Harald’s grasp. His own sword, his knight-gift, tossed aside without thinking.
“Don’t, Harald,” he panted, fighting to hold his ground. “I’d not—”
With a practised flick of iron-strong wrists, his face bestial with grief, Harald deflected the blocking blade and slashed his stolen sword in a swift, lethal sweep. Roric twisted as he parried, felt sharp pain as the passing blade caught him, drove links of mail through padding and into tender flesh. Dimly he heard someone shout, heard women scream, saw lords and ladies scuttle to the far reaches of the hall. Dimly he saw Vidar and Aistan, helpless, able only to watch.
Blow after blow he blocked, feeling each heavy shock shudder through his forearms, into his shoulders, rattle his teeth. This was no tilt yard game, full of laughter and teasing. Harald was trying to kill him.
I never wanted this.
They ranged about the Great Hall, filling the air with furious sound. Turned the castle into a smithy, steel ringing against steel. Sweat dripped, chests heaved, shod feet slid and scrabbled on the smooth floor. A stinging hint of tainted smoke. Had Argante told the truth, then? Was the castle on fire? Someone had dragged her body away. White tiles were smeared red. Roric sobbed for air as Harald beat him across the place where his wife died, beat him onto the dais and off it, smashing the gilded chair to kindling, beat him nearly into the fire and howled in furious disappointment when a killing thrust failed.
“Take him, Roric! Finish it! There’s no saving him now!”
Humbert.
He blocked another sword-thrust, grunting at the pain. His throat felt raw, his lungs shredded. His bones threatened to break. But Harald was the older man… and he was tiring too. Was tiring faster. His face was grey, and slicked with sweat. Slash. Parry. Block. Deflect. Slash—
Harald stumbled, going down hard on one knee. His head snapped up, eyes wide with pain, lips bloodied from a bitten tongue.
“Roric—”
“Forgive me, cousin,” he whispered, and pushed Vidar’s bloodied sword through Harald’s unprotected heart.
CHAPTER SIX
“Roric.”
For one dreadful moment, Roric thought it was his cousin speaking, enchanted back to life. But then a hand touched his slumped shoulder.
“Come, boy,” Humbert said, full of sombre grief. “With me.”
He felt his breath hitch. Liam. “No. Humbert, no. He was an infant, he was helpless. He can’t be—”
Humbert shook his head. “You must come.”
Of course. Vision blurred, he looked around the hall, at the court’s silent lesser lords and ladies then at Aistan and the other great lords, and the men-at-arms staring down from the gallery. “Remain here till I return. All of you. And don’t be afraid. I’m not my cousin. You’re safe with me.”
Leaving Vidar to retrieve his sword, and guard dead Harald, Roric climbed stair after winding stair until he reached Heartsong’s nursery. It was still smouldering, oil lamps over-turned and broken, candles trampled, the smoke-thick air sickening with the stench of burned bedding, burned furs, burned tapestries and heavy curtains and brightly painted furniture.
Burned flesh.
Eyes streaming, forearm pressed to nose and mouth, he made himself step over the charred men on the floor, over the charred remains of the wet nurse and Lady Morda, and face what lay in the smoky ruins of the cradle.
“Liam.”
A dazzle of memories, sharp as shattered glass.
Harald cradling his newborn son, tears on his cheeks… Argante kissing her babe’s forehead, her hard eyes softened with love… his own love, unexpected and fierce, as he held his cousin’s child, so afraid of letting the little one fall… Liam, smiling up at him…
“Roric!”
Choking on bile, he flung away from the babe’s burst, bubbled flesh and seared bones. Humbert followed him out of the nursery and into the torchlit corridor beyond, saying nothing as he bent double to heave and spit.
At length he straightened, wincing as his bruised, battered body groaned in protest. A sharp sting, as his bloodied linen undershirt pulled away from his skin. The side of his face and his eye ached fiercely, where Harald’s fist had caught him. He wanted to weep, but couldn’t in front of Humbert. On a shuddering breath, he looked at his foster-lord.
“I know, boy,” said Humbert, his own composure challenged. “It’s wicked.”
“Three dead men,” he said, his voice rasping. “At least one of them must be Harald’s. He never left Liam without a man-at-arms nearby.” He felt his breathing hitch. “Spirits, Humbert. Could they all be his men? Did our men slay Harald’s men-at-arms, slay Liam and Morda and the wet nurse, then set fire to the nursery to burn any trace of their crime before fleeing?”
“No,” Humbert said fiercely. “Roric, why must this be murder? It’s more likely to be mischance.”
“Mischance?” He nearly laughed. “You can’t believe that,.”
“One man seduced to disobey you, I can believe. Just. One man, taking his companions unaware. But a clutch of traitors in our midst?” Humbert shook his head. “That I won’t believe.
“Harald claimed he had a clutch of traitors in his midst.”
“Don’t,” Humbert commanded. “Harald was the traitor here. Everything he touched, he tarnished.”
He could still feel his sword sliding through Harald’s heart. See the light of life dying out of his cousin’s shocked eyes. His belly heaved again, fresh bile rising. He didn’t want to think about Harald.
“Once we’ve tallied our men, and Harald’s, we’ll know who lies dead,” said Humbert, breaking the heavy silence. “But more than that? I’m sorry, boy. Best you make peace with the notion we might never know how this unfolded. Not for certain.”
“Make peace with it?” Roric stared, outrage overcoming sickness. “Humbert, I said plainly Liam wasn’t to be touched. And now he’s dead. Harald’s son. You’l
l never convince me this was mischance. Someone I brought here in good faith has betrayed me. How can I make peace with that?”
“How you do it is your affair. But if there is a villain here, and if we don’t unmask him swiftly, then make peace with it you must. Aistan and the other lords won’t stomach harsh suspicion. They had a bellyful of that with Harald.”
True. And if he even so much as hinted at ruling like his cousin…
“Make no mistake,” Humbert added. “You need Aistan and the others to help you stamp your authority on Clemen. But to earn their trust you have to trust them. If ever they doubt you, this new house we’re building will tumble to ruins at our feet.”
“And what of Liam?” Seeing again that ghastly cradle and its dreadful, stinking burden, Roric dragged a hand down his bruised face. Welcomed the clean physical pain that caused, better by far than the soul-sickness of a slaughtered infant. “Doesn’t an innocent babe deserve justice? Vengeance?”
“Not if justice and vengeance come at the expense of this duchy.”
“Clemen’s people will expect me to avenge the murder of my own flesh and blood!”
“You can’t say for sure it’s murder.”
“You can’t say for sure it isn’t! And if—”
“Roric.” Heavy-handed, Humbert took hold of his shoulder. “Think like a duke, not a man. No good can come of whipping up mopish sentiment for Harald’s brat. Or in stirring Aistan and the rest with accusations of treachery. I know it sits sour, but in this mucky matter we’ll best be served by never learning what happened.”
And to think he’d thought the night couldn’t grow any worse. “So you’re saying I’m to wink at misdoing if it suits? Explain how that doesn’t make me Harald!”
Humbert growled. “Don’t you go pushing words between my teeth.”
“My lord, there’s a hall full of people downstairs who heard what Argante said, who know—”
“Nothing,” said Humbert, still glaring. “Beyond what we choose they should know. They’ll believe what we tell them, Roric.”