The Frontier Lord: Previously published as The Marcher Lord

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Valair let out a laugh before gathering his composure. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘It is Banneret Charlot who requires the apology.’

  ‘Then he’s as much a fool as he looks,’ Rolf said.

  Valair opened and closed his mouth, then again, but words appeared to escape him. Eventually he found his tongue. ‘Banneret Charlot will be with you presently.’ With that, he turned and walked briskly toward the gathering at the other end of the garden.

  ‘Your pride will see our house extinguished,’ Borodin said. ‘If your mother were alive, she’d flay me for allowing things to get this far.’

  ‘And she’d ha’ done the same for making me back out and look a coward.’

  ‘Don’t make me regret allowing this to proceed,’ Borodin said.

  ‘I won’t, Father. I promise. He’s half the height of a hussar, and twice the width.’ Rolf wasn’t nearly as confident as he tried to sound. The only duel he had ever fought was with a willow switch.

  Borodin laughed long, giving the serene, but tense evening a welcome levity. The air had grown ever more fragrant as the sun dropped in the sky. It was half obscured by the horizon then, and standing atop the palace’s hill made him feel like he was towering over it. The light was warm and orange, and the surroundings so beautiful Rolf felt robbed of the enthusiasm to fight for his life. It seemed an easier thing to do when the land was harsh and unforgiving.

  Banneret Charlot broke away from his companions and strode toward Rolf, his chest puffed out, the blade of his rapier swishing through the scented evening air. Valair followed him. Rolf walked forward to meet them, his nervous father following close behind.

  ‘This is the last opportunity for an apology to settle this matter, my Lord,’ Valair said.

  ‘I believe my son has made his position on that clear,’ Borodin said.

  ‘Very well,’ Valair said. ‘The rules as prescribed by Standard Code of Duelling. I assume your son is familiar with them?’

  ‘I am,’ Rolf said. He might not have enjoyed the benefits of an Academy education, but he was a nobleman, and all noblemen knew the rules of duelling, even if they had not experienced them first-hand.

  ‘When you are both ready, we shall begin,’ Valair said.

  Banneret Charlot took a step back and worked his way through several stretching movements while Rolf remained still, as strong a look of disdain on his face as he could manage. When Charlot was done, he nodded to Valair and took his guard.

  Valair looked to Rolf, who finally drew his rapier, and nodded also.

  ‘Begin,’ Valair said.

  Charlot came at Rolf right away. He stamped forward with each thrust. The tip of his rapier moved smoothly and precisely. Rolf moved back from him, rather than trying to parry. It appeared to be as Rolf had feared. Charlot was no novice.

  Finally they clashed blades, Rolf forced to parry an aggressive thrust that would have cut right through him had it proceeded unopposed. There was a chorus of cheering from Charlot’s end of the garden.

  ‘Show him what for, Charlot!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Send him back to his swamp in a box!’ shouted another.

  It was warm, and sweat had formed on Rolf’s brow. It was far hotter than on the March, where cooling breezes blew down from the mountains in the west, and he was not used to it. Charlot saw the beads gathering at Rolf’s eyebrows and smiled. He attacked again, his thrusts aggressive and punchy. Rolf rushed backward, swatting them to the side. His sword felt awkward in his hand, and the wire-wrapped handle was already chafing the sweaty skin on his hand—he had foregone gloves due to the evening’s warmth.

  He had never before fought an opponent with a rapier for real. He had held them many times, chased about the halls of his father’s castle swishing one through the air on more occasions than he could count, but he never had cause to use one in a fight. This was the city, where men were bred to the rapier. He was a Marcher lad, where gentlemen were few, duels were rare, and swords had to be heavy enough to deal with armour. He had allowed his pride to walk him into trouble.

  Charlot pressed his attack on. He swept his blade high, then low, then thrust it with pinpoint precision, but Rolf was never to be found. The blade moved so quickly Rolf almost had trouble keeping up, so keeping out of its way seemed the best choice. He began to wish he had spent more time practising with his rapier, but after his opportunity to go to the Academy had come and gone, there seemed little point.

  On the March they used heavier blades. Fashion being fashion, the hilts and guards were the same, but a thicker, heavier blade was mounted and counterbalanced with a weightier pommel. Heavier meant slower and his light-bladed court rapier felt odd. It seemed like a toy, like the wooden switches he and the other lads had used in training.

  Rolf had been using the heavier weapon ever since his father took him on his first border patrol. That had been the week after his mother had died, the week after he was supposed to go to the Academy, the week after his seventeenth birthday. It was the week he had first killed a man. He had added a dozen more before that week had ended.

  Charlot seemed to grow exasperated at the fact he had not ended the duel in the first few thrusts. He threw in a deep lunge, which Rolf parried. Their blades shrieked against one another, sparks dancing from the contacting edges. A sword was a sword, and it was easier to go from heavy to light than the other way around. It had just taken him a little time to adapt to the differences.

  Rolf laughed. There was far more art to it all than cutting down Szavarian raiders on the Marches. In such a beautiful place, their dance must have looked a very fine thing indeed. He feared he would never be an artist, but in battle, the result was all that mattered.

  Charlot looked surprised by Rolf’s sudden mirth. Might he think it the mania of a man resigned to his imminent demise? He moved back slowly, sweat starting to form on his brow also. The sweat’s dark tint betrayed the dye in his hair and would likely blind him should it break through his eyebrows, but for now his eyes were alert, his guard perfect. He was a very polished swordsman and Rolf admired him for it. Polish impressed people—beautiful women most importantly—but polish counted for little when trying to kill a man, and Rolf had killed a great many. Though he was barely nineteen, he expected there were few men with as much blood on their hands as on his. Such was the life of a lord of the Marches. Even a young one.

  Pig, puppy, boy. Bumpkin. Rolf laughed again and struck. He regretted that his thrust was not so elegant as Charlot’s, his form not so refined. It would not impress any of the ladies gathered at the far end of the garden, but it was faster, stronger, truer. Charlot was already stuck with the blade when his attempt at a parry bounced off it.

  He let out a loud gasp, and suddenly he looked very old—every day of his years and more. The expensive dye and face cream counted for little when the life was draining from a hole in his chest.

  Rolf pulled his blade free and walked back toward his father. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the blade as he walked. It flexed in his hand as he wiped it with too much force—one duel alone was not enough to change all of his old habits. He had no concern for Charlot, or a dying strike. On the Marches, you got one chance to land a killing blow. If it did not land true, you were the one who ended up dead. Charlot had his chance to walk away and did not take it. Marcher or not, no nobleman could accept being spoken to the way Charlot had spoken to him. Rolf had heard the tales of court, the tales of the Silver Circle. Duels were fought, men were killed. On this day it was over a glimpse of a beautiful woman, a barrel-full of insults, and a fatally erroneous preconception. Bumpkin. Rolf had never even heard the word before that day, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

  As Rolf and his father walked from the garden, he wondered if any of the Silver Circle had fought a duel there, over some woman of great beauty, or some mortal insult to honour. It gave him a sense of fraternity, and he again wondered where they might be.

  7

  The Second
Day

  Borodin ordered Rolf to remain in the inn the following morning. There was always a reaction to a fatal duel, he said, and it was best to remain out of sight until that reaction had blown over. It had been legally fought, but Charlot’s friends might seek vengeance, and though unafraid, Rolf and his father had more important reasons for being in the city.

  Rolf was not much of a reader—he had always preferred to be told his stories—and there was little by way of entertainment to be found in his room. He tried to pass the time sitting at the window watching the world go by on the busy street below him.

  The excited fascination with which he had first greeted all the new sights and sounds seemed to have deserted him. It was nothing more than ordinary people doing ordinary things, albeit in a beautiful, intriguing place. Hours passed, and he wondered how his father was faring. He had friends in the city, and Rolf had to assume some of them would be of influence.

  More hours passed and Rolf wished that he could go out and explore the city. He sat with his hands and chin resting on the window frame, but no longer paid any attention to the people below. Not a single thing of interest had happened since he started his vigil early that morning. People walked up the street, people walked down the street. Occasionally someone dropped something.

  He let his mind drift. It went to stories of the Silver Circle, as it always did. Whether sitting in an inn in Mirabay, only paces from where they were based, or sitting by a ditch in the driving rain somewhere beyond the border, the Circle was always what he dreamed of. In some small way he believed that the life he lived allowed their ideal to flourish, and he could not understand why he had yet to see a trace of them in the city, or hear their name mentioned. He did not even know who he could ask. Perhaps one of his father’s friends could help?

  Rolf was asleep, still leaning on the window frame, when his father came in.

  ‘I’ve an audience in the morning,’ Borodin said, a hint of triumph in his voice. ‘Let’s go out for something to eat. There’s a tavern nearby that serves the best food in the city.’

  ‘The other… thing?’

  ‘That? Not to worry. There was some talk about it, but you conducted yourself perfectly so there’s no need for concern. I dare say that gentlemen at court will think twice before calling anyone a bumpkin again.’

  Rolf smiled uncomfortably. Now that his anger at the insult had subsided, he felt the incident had sullied his introduction to Mirabay and the Royal Court. It was supposed to be a beautiful place, far from the brutality of the March. Had he brought some of that brutality with him? Perhaps he was indeed a mannerless bumpkin. Should he have apologised and been on his way?

  His father waited by the door, not even bothering to take off his cloak. It appeared he meant for them to go for food immediately.

  A cup of wine and a good meal improved Rolf’s spirits considerably, and renewed his determination to find and speak with the chevaliers of the Silver Circle. His experience of the city thus far was unfortunate, but he was certain the good things would present themselves before too long. He would keep himself out of trouble, and make sure the hard ways of the March stayed there.

  He laughed and joked with his father as they walked back to the inn. He felt relaxed, and his father’s hope for the following morning was infectious. Rolf realised, as excited as he had been to visit the city, to see how the kingdom truly worked, he was now as eager to return home.

  ‘Enjoying your visit to the city, gents?’

  The accent was unlike any of those Rolf had encountered at court, but he had heard something similar when walking past the market when they arrived at the city.

  Rolf and his father stopped, and turned to face the man who had spoken. He was thin, dirty, but with eyes that shone with cunning intelligence. He was a dangerous man, and did not look to be a stupid one.

  ‘Very much, thank you,’ Borodin said. ‘Is there something we can do for you?’

  ‘Country gents like you pair probably don’t know how hard life can be in the city, what with all your fresh food, clean air, and open spaces. Thought you might like to make a donation to a man not as fortunate as your good selves.’

  Borodin reached into his purse and flipped the man a coin. Even in the gloom, he snatched it from the air.

  ‘I’ll take the rest of them, too,’ the man said.

  ‘You’d do well to take your coin and crawl back to whatever gutter you live in,’ Borodin said. His command voice again.

  ‘What would all my friends do for a coin, then?’ The man smiled, revealing a mouth full of filthy, rotting teeth. Three men stepped out behind him.

  Rolf turned to see another half-dozen men step out of the shadows.

  Borodin looked around and smiled. ‘You’ve caught me short tonight, gentlemen. Not enough silver to go around. Only steel.’

  Rolf had realised where his father was heading, and drew his sword at the same moment. The men rushed at them. Rolf could not quite believe they were so brazen as to attack two noblemen in the middle of the street.

  A few cuts and exclamations of pain, and the muggers melted away into the night as quickly as they had appeared. Their opportunistic attack had not met with quite as much success as they might have hoped.

  ‘That certainly got the blood up,’ Borodin said. ‘Do you still think the city is such a wonderful place? Civilised? Refined? Not so far removed from the March, is it?’

  ‘At least you can see them comin’ on the March,’ Rolf said. His eyes widened. ‘You’re cut.’

  Borodin looked at the rent on his sleeve. He poked at it with a finger and laughed. ‘One of the sneaky bastards nicked me with a blade.’ He laughed again. ‘Still, they took a few more cuts than we did. Let’s get back to the inn. It will be an early start tomorrow. Mayhap we might even be on the road for home by noon!’

  8

  The Surprise

  It was light when Rolf woke. That in itself came as a surprise. Usually his father was up before the roosters announced the dawn, and when he was awake, Rolf did not get to sleep for much longer. He roused himself and dressed, then went to his father’s room. He knocked, but there was no response. His concern growing, he went to the innkeeper and had him open the door.

  Borodin was still in bed, tightly wrapped in his bed sheets. His skin was pale, and covered with a sheen of sweat. Rolf held a hand to his forehead. He was hot. Too hot.

  ‘Father?’ he said. ‘Father?’

  Borodin’s eyes opened slowly. ‘Yes?’ he said, his voice croaky. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Long after dawn.’

  ‘The audience,’ Borodin said. ‘I have to get ready.’

  ‘Lie still,’ Rolf said. ‘You’re burning up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Borodin said, his voice confused.

  Rolf pulled back the sheet, remembering the cut on his father’s arm from the previous night. It was not a deep cut, and he could see why his father had been so dismissive of it. He wouldn’t have given it a second thought himself. Now, however, it was far more than a cut. It was angry and red, and Rolf could see that it was starting to go bad.

  ‘I’ll have to fetch a physician,’ Rolf said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Borodin said. ‘Let me get dressed, and we’ll go to court. I’ll be fine after some breakfast.’

  ‘Don’t you dare move,’ Rolf said. ‘That cut needs seeing to. I’ll be back with a physician.’

  Borodin put up no further protest, which was as worrying as the angry wound on his arm. Rolf hurried from the inn and was out on the street before he realised he had no idea where to find a physician. He went back inside, but the innkeeper was of little help. Rolf would not allow a quack anywhere near his father.

  The only place he could think of was the palace. There was bound to be someone there he could ask. Even a servant would do. He rushed through the streets, not caring who he bumped into. His head was filled with images of his mother on her deathbed. His father’s condition had terrified him, and Rolf was determi
ned not to allow him go the same way.

  ‘Who approaches the palace of the King?’

  Rolf wondered if they ever tired of repeating the same thing over and over every day.

  ‘Rolf dal Oudin, of the Western March.’

  The guards cast each other a look. ‘Pass, Rolf of the Western March.’

  Rolf had slowed to a quick walk, but the urge to run was strong. It wasn’t seemly to run in the King’s palace, but that convention wasn’t worth a damn to him at that moment. He worried his haste might seem threatening. Being delayed by the King’s Guard was the last thing Rolf needed.

  He spotted a servant cleaning the sculptures in the long hallway.

  ‘I need a physician,’ Rolf said. ‘Best there is. Who do the dukes and men of wealth use?’

  The servant, startled by Rolf’s intensity, shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘Then find out for me. Hurry!’

  The servant nodded and hurried away. Rolf felt bad for being so brusque with him—he was not in the habit of treating those in service ill—but his need was great and time was pressing.

  He continued on to the hallway outside the throne room, where he spotted the servant coming toward him with another man.

  ‘I am Under Butler Dreue. How might I help you, my Lord?’

  ‘My father’s been taken ill,’ Rolf said. ‘A cut gone bad. I need a good physician.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your troubles, my Lord. I believe Physician Blavaut is the first choice amongst the nobles of court. He can be found on the Palace Hill Road. He—’