by Karen Miller
“As if I need you to tell me that, Your Grace,” she retorted, with a wry smile. “But I’ve been playing it since I was fourteen, remember. And as you can see, I’m still standing.”
She was astonishing. And, may the spirits save him, he wanted to kiss her. It shocked him, how much he wanted to taste her lips. A heat he’d not felt in years burned in his blood. It wasn’t love. It was more than lust. And it was more honest, more demanding, than anything he’d felt for Lindara in months. Afraid that Catrain would see the desire in his face and be alarmed, or disgusted, he turned away. Pretended to be making sure they were still unobserved.
“Yes,” she said, her voice softened with regret. “I must go. The palace guards were loitering by the garden entrance when I came in, but they could start to prowl at any moment. Roric…”
Praying he could trust himself, he turned back. Cassinia’s prince had fallen asleep in her arms. He’d lost one of his scarlet mittens, and a bare thumb was stuck in his rosebud mouth. He was the age Liam would be now, if Harald’s son had survived Heartsong. The old pain stirred, mingling with this fresh grief. Poor, pitiful little Gaël. Orphaned and moonstruck, at the mercy of the regents. What would become of him? What would become of Catrain?
“You mustn’t be frightened for me,” she said, watching him. “I’ll be fine, Roric. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that,” he protested. “You can’t promise anything. Catrain, for pity’s sake—”
Shaking her head, she started to back away, slowly. “No, Your Grace. You can’t save me. I have to save myself. But there is one thing you could do for me.” Her face started to crumple, but with an effort she stayed strong. “Or–you could try.”
He wanted to follow her. He knew he couldn’t. “Name it,” he said, his voice breaking. “Anything.”
“Get word to my mother. She knows I live, but little more. Tell Berardine you saw me, and I’m happy–and—”
“I will, Catrain. I swear it.”
“Thank you,” she said, and turned, and fled back to the palace with Cassinia’s mad prince.
Alone again, more shaken than he cared–or dared–to admit, Roric returned to the marble bench. But he was too stirred up to drowse again. That Berardine’s daughter, Baldwin’s heir, should be kept prisoner here, a political pawn, no better than a glorified nursery maid? It was offensive. How could Cassinia’s dukes abide it? Surely they could see the danger, that what the regents would do to one they might eagerly to do them all? But no. It seemed they were too busy with their squabbles and he was helpless, his hands tied. Catrain was right. Somehow, she would have to save herself.
Fretting, he remained on the marble bench and waited for the regents’ steward to return. Time passed. Then it dragged. The day dragged behind it. Shadows lengthened. The garden cooled. His empty belly began to rumble. When a palace guard at last came to fetch him, the afternoon had sunk almost into dusk.
“Your Grace,” Docien greeted him, as he returned to the palace’s entrance hall. “I do apologise for keeping you so long.”
The steward stood beside a blood-red marble table, set against one wall. Looking at it, Roric saw laid there the note he’d written, his signet ring, and his three useful daggers.
“Alas,” Docien added, so smooth, so courteously vicious. “The regents are not able to meet with you, Your Grace. But they have asked me to convey this message. With regards to Clemen, Cassinia is satisfied with matters as they stand. If you have concerns, you’d be wise to look closer to home for the remedy. Perhaps you’re not aware, but you brought a fourth dagger with you. You’ll find it stuck between your shoulder blades.” The steward bowed. “Have a safe, swift journey back to Eaglerock, Your Grace.”
As the cunning door in the wall slid shut behind the steward, Roric retrieved his belongings from the marble table. There was rage in him, cold and vast, but it would have to wait. Silent, he slipped on his ring, sheathed the daggers, stowed the note inside his doublet, then followed the guard out of the palace and back to the gilded gates where his horse was waiting. Silent, swung into the saddle and rode back to the Crown and Garland.
“My lord!” Bellows greeted him eagerly, rising from his chair in the parlour. “How did you fare? Did you—” And then, seeing him close, his face fell. “Oh.”
Feeling like a traitor, rage giving way to grief, Roric briefly clasped the man’s arm. “I’m sorry, Bellows. The regents were… disinclined to help.”
“I’m sure you did your best, my lord,” Bellows murmured, shoulders slumping.
His best? Fuck. He could hardly have done any worse. But hadn’t Catrain warned him? And she was proven right. Humbert and Blane, too. He’d wasted his time coming to Cassinia. Wasted coin. Risked a good man. And for what? For nothing. He could imagine what Humbert would say. And as for the rest of the council…
You brought a fourth dagger with you. You’ll find it stuck between your shoulder blades.
The steward Docien’s barbed comment could mean only one thing. He’d been right, and Humbert wrong. Someone they both knew, another councillor, had told the regents about Berardine’s marriage offer. And now Catrain was the regents’ prisoner, because of that man.
“My lord?” said Bellows, alarmed. “Are you all right? Them curs’t regents didn’t offer Clemen violence, did they?”
“What?” He stared. “No. They offered us nothing. And keep your voice down, you fool, before you talk us into trouble.”
Bellows looked at the pinewood floor, abashed. “Beg pardon, my lord.”
Splendid. Now he sounded like Harald, snapping the nose off an underling because he was piqued. Taking a deep breath, he thrust aside anger, and humiliation, and his fear for Catrain. “Never mind, Bellows. I’m disappointed, and jogged out of sorts.”
“Yes, my lord. And no wonder.” Cautiously, Bellows lifted his gaze. “My lord, what do we do now?”
There was only one thing to do. Learn the name of the man who’d betrayed Clemen–imprisoned Catrain–and see that he paid full price for his treacherous disloyalty.
“We eat,” Roric said, pretending a better mood. “I’m famished. Then we sleep. And at sunrise, we start for home.”
The Marches had been buzzing like a kicked-over beehive for weeks. First it was the dreadful murder of Woodsman Gannen’s wife, and the mad slaughter between the Marcher lords’ men-at-arms that followed. Then, what with all four Marcher lords swords-drawn over the bloodshed, and pointing fingers every which way except at their own men, and the roads ridden to ruts by more men-at-arms meant to be keeping the peace but really looking for trouble, it seemed the Marches were like to catch fire. Gossip became the favoured coin. Some folk claimed to have seen goblins in the woods, others swore there’d been balefire on their rooftops. Jesslyn from Bluebell Hollow said he’d found a nest of two-headed worms, and the evil creatures had burst into blood when his gaze touched them. Every palm was damp with nervous sweat and every tongue was wagging. Charms and sprite-frights were nailed above doors and windows and dangled openly around folks’ necks. Not a soul could hazard what might happen next. When the answer came, at last, a bolt of lightning couldn’t have struck any harder.
“A Crown Court here?” Glad of stout Iddo at her back, Molly stood among her empty public room’s tables and smoothed the front of her bloodstained apron. Chicken’s blood, of course. The faeries knew when she’d be red with mutton blood again. “In my Pig Whistle?”
Pero, Duke Aimery’s herald, tall and skinny with faded pock scars marring his cheeks, looked down his bony nose. “Woman, you’d be mort unwise to raise ruckus over this. Say yes to Count Balfre, and be done with it.”
Recalling Denno Culpyn’s blood and bruises on him from that beating, she tucked in her chin. Then she looked at the herald who’d come all the way from Eaglerock.
“And this Lord Humbert of yers, Ser Dunsten. He pushes for the court to be held under my roof?”
As lean as his brother herald, but more comely, even though he was older and ba
ld as an egg, Dunsten nodded. “Mistress Molly, he does. For where else in the Marches can our unhappy lords meet to settle this contention? Your inn is one of the largest, and the best known, and sits convenient at the Crossroads. In belonging to no one lord, you could say the Pig Whistle belongs to all.”
“A feggit for that, ser!” she retorted. “The Pig Whistle belongs to me. I’ve the signed and sealed charter to prove it and if you’d like I’ll doddle upstairs this moment and fetch it.”
“There’s no need to trouble yourself, Mistress,” Dunsten said hastily. “I’m afraid you mistook my meaning. Your freehold here’s not in dispute.”
She sniffed. “Good, then. Just so we be clear. Now. How long would this Crown Court go on for?”
Dunsten spread his leathery hands. “As many days as it takes to reach a verdict.”
“As many days as Harcia and Clemen decide,” said Pero, his crooked teeth bared. “It’s not for you to quibble, woman. Your permission to hold the court here isn’t required. If you can read, you know what’s in your precious signed and sealed charter.”
Iddo’s warm hand on her shoulder. His warm breath against her cheek as he whispered. “They be in the right, Moll. Ye can’t refuse a lord’s lawful request.”
As if she didn’t know that. But because she could read, she knew everything that was lawful. “Unruffle yer feathers, sers. I’ll give the Pig Whistle to yer lords for their court–at a price. Ye’ll give me coin for the food I cook ye, the ale and cider ye drink, and any bed as gets slept in. Coin for yer horses what muck m’straw and eat m’fodder. Coin for the coin lost to me, since I’ll have no customers while yer lords argue this out. And coin to pay for what they break while they be arguing.”
Pero’s face darkened. “That’s a saucy tongue you keep, mistress.”
“A saucy tongue what can tell tales to the lord as puts them fancy clothes on yer back,” she said, and shrugged off Iddo’s tightening fingers. “I won’t be browbeat under m’own roof, Ser Pero. Ye be a Harcian man, iss? Come to us all the way from Cater’s Tamwell, I’ll allow, for ye first time in the Marches. Well, here be a little lesson for ye. Us all as lives here be Marcher folk, see? Clemen-bred or Harcian or born to a different land and come to live here by accident, we be Marcher folk first. And we don’t take kindly to a raised voice–or fist.”
“But I think you might run from a raised sword, yes?”
“Come, Pero,” Dunsten said, stepping forward. “Mistress Molly asks for what’s lawful, nothing more. Mistress Molly—” He gave her a swift smile, shaded with pleading. “You’ll tender our lords a fair and honest reckoning at the Court’s end, and receive your lawful coin in return. Agreed?”
“I be a fair and honest woman, ser. Not a copper nib more than I be owed will I ask for. And I’ll reckon to feed yer lords and their men pies and stew as’ll have ’em weeping to leave the Marches.” She folded her arms, daring him to argue. “Though I confess they won’t be mutton, on account of the troubles.”
With a great show of disdain, Pero distanced himself from Dunsten. “The Crown Court is set to start in two days’ time, Mistress Molly. You have that long to tell your regular customers they won’t be welcome till it’s done. Do what you must to warn away travelling merchants and the like, and make this inn of yours presentable before our lords arrive. My duke’s heir is a fastidious man, used to cleanliness and comfort. If either is lacking, you’ll regret it.”
As Pero stamped out, Molly raised an eyebrow at Dunsten. “And now ye’ll tell me this Lord Humbert of yers be a man of the same stripe?”
“Lord Humbert is a great man,” said Dunsten, with quiet pride. “I’m proud to serve him–and His Grace, Duke Roric.” He looked around the public room. “My lord will find no fault here, I’m sure. And I’m sure he’s sorry that the Court must put you to some trouble.”
“Ser Dunsten, I’ll tell ye what puts me to trouble,” she snapped. “Marcher men as can’t keep their cocks laced in their breeches. For if they could there’d be no woman dead, no blood spilled, and no lords come to clutter under m’feet!”
Dunsten grinned. “Pero’s right about one thing. You, Mistress Molly, have a saucy tongue indeed!”
“And it’ll talk ye into strife, woman, surely it will!” said Iddo, aghast, as the Pig Whistle’s door closed behind Clemen’s herald. “Moll, ye can’t scold a lord’s man like he were Benedikt, or the other one!”
“Iss, I can,” she said, truculent. “I just did. And don’t call Willem the other one! Ye do know how that frets me.”
As cross as she was, Iddo waved a finger under her nose. “Never ye mind scolding me, neither, ye besom! Wido and Bayard and them others, they be one hat of eggs. But here we do have Aimery’s heir and a great lord of Clemen blowing to our doorstep. Take it into yer head to offend them, Molly, and with one puff they’ll blow us all into the woods.”
He was right, but she was in no mood to admit it. “Let ’em puff. I meant what I said, Iddo. Them fancy counts and lords and their heralds, they can clankit in gold armour from head to toe, they can, but the Pig Whistle’s my inn and I’m the queen of it, y’hear?” She looked past him. “Alys!”
The leather curtains behind the bar parted, creaking, and the girl came out of the kitchen, her apron all over flour, her floury linen sleeves pushed back to her elbows and fingers shiny with butter. “Yes, Molly?”
“There be lords and counts and the faeries-know-what coming to us from Harcia and Clemen for a feggit Crown Court, on account of that poor murdered Thea and how not a one of ’em’s man enough to own the foul deed. Finish the pastry for tonight’s pie crusts, like I showed ye, then do me a tally of what is and ain’t in the dry cellar. It be a mort load of pies we’ll be baking, by and by.”
The girl stared, speechless, no more wit in her than a hammered sheep.
She clapped her hands. “Alys! Did ye fall deaf when m’back was turned?”
“No, Molly,” the girl said, her voice a strangled whisper.
“Then do as yer told!”
“Yes, Molly.”
Shaking her head as Alys scuttled back into the kitchen, Molly caught Iddo’s look. It made her scowl. No matter what she said, or how many times, he wouldn’t warm to the girl. Worse, lately he’d started the habit of beetling his brow at little Willem, too. Though why he’d do that she couldn’t guess, or make him tell.
“Not a peep out of ye, man,” she snapped. “Or it be a cold bed ye’ll find me keeping. The girl’s snockled with the news, and who could blame her?”
“Iss, Moll,” said Iddo, rolling his eyes. Then he grimaced. “Two days. T’aint much time to be fetching the ale we’ll need for all them lords and men, and the firewood, and every other curs’t thing they’ll want–or think they want.”
“Not much time at all,” she agreed grimly. “So do tell why ye be standing in front of me, flapping yer lips ’stead of getting to work!”
They were alone, so he kissed her. “That feggit saucy tongue, woman. It’ll be the death of ye one day!”
“And I’ll be the death of ye, Master Iddo,” she retorted, and because they were alone gave his cock a quick squeeze. “Now be off with ye, so I can see what that Alys be up to. Like as not she’s let them boys up-end a sack of flour all over my kitchen floor!”
Lost in wild thought, and churned so sick with fear that the aches of her hard day felt no worse than a tickle, Ellyn hardly noticed when Liam started tugging at her long, skimpy plait. It wasn’t till he pinched her, and used her proper name, that she paid attention. They were safe in their tiny attic bedroom with the door closed, the inn being shut for the night and Molly and Iddo tucked up safe where they couldn’t hear. But that made no difference. He was old enough to know better.
“No, Liam,” she said, and poked him. “I’m Alys. You mustn’t call me Ellyn.”
Amber eyes clouded with crossness, he bounced on his knees beside her on the narrow bed. “You call me Liam when I’m s’posed to be Willem.”
> “It’s not the same. I’m not a little boy. I won’t forget and call you Liam when we’re not alone up here.”
His lower lip poked. “You might.”
“I won’t.
“You might,” he said, scowl scrunching. “And I b’aint a little boy.”
She sighed. “Not b’aint. Speak proper, Liam. And anyway, you are a little boy, and you’ll be one till I say you’re not. Now, it’s late. I’m blowing out the candle. Best you hop into your truckle.”
His mouth dropped with dismay. “Without my story? But why? I can’t go to sleep without my story!”
Pain was pounding through her forehead, and her throat felt drier than dirt. “Can’t you, Liam? Just this once? For me?”
Those wide eyes, so like his father’s, filled with ready tears. “Please, please, I want to hear my story. I’m sorry I called you Ellyn. I won’t do it again.”
“Oh, Liam.” She snatched him close and crushed her cheek against his hair. “Don’t fret, lamb. It doesn’t matter. I’m not gnarly with you really.”
How could she be? When he called her Ellyn she could forget Alys, the girl she’d had to become. Instead she could remember who she’d been. Who she still was, in her secret heart. The girl gifted with Duke Harald’s baby son. The only soul in all the world who knew the truth of him, and kept it safe.
“Promise?” he said, his chin wobbling.
She kissed the tip of his nose. “Promise.”
“And you’ll tell me my story?”
“Of course I will.”
So she told him his story, the tale of Liam the rightful, dispossessed duke of Clemen, great-grandson of famed duke Berold, and he recited it with her, under his breath. And as she told it, speaking her lines without thinking like a player who’d played just one part over and over, for years, her mind poked and prodded at Molly’s dreadful news.
Clemen coming to the Pig Whistle? What cruel faery trick was this? If only she knew which lords that bastard Roric was sending. If only she dared ask. But of course she couldn’t. Not with Molly already prickled about the ructions of a Crown Court, and Iddo still watching her with eyes that never warmed.