The Frontier Lord: Previously published as The Marcher Lord

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Rolf did not hear what else the Under Butler had to say. As soon as he had the name and address, he headed for the doors as quickly as he could.

  Palace Hill Road was not difficult to find; Rolf had only needed to ask for directions once. It was in the wealthy part of the city, and all the businesses on the street spoke to that wealth: a goldsmith, a silk merchant, a gem cutter, and a physician.

  Rolf walked in the door and found himself in a small waiting room occupied by a bored-looking clerk.

  ‘Good morning, my Lord,’ he said. ‘How may Physician Blavaut be of assistance?’

  ‘My father,’ Rolf said. ‘He was cut by a dirty blade and the wound’s turned bad.’

  ‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll fetch the Physician. An out call is ten crowns…’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Rolf said. ‘Go fetch ‘im.’

  A few moments later, the assistant returned carrying a heavy leather bag, followed by a thin man with a mop of hair so grey it was almost white. It seemed dye was not the common fashion.

  ‘I am Blavaut. My assistant tells me your father has a wound that is turning bad. Where is he?’

  Rolf was about to speak when the door opened and a man walked in.

  ‘Ah, Blavaut, excellent,’ the new arrival said. ‘Her ladyship has a headache and would like you to attend on her at once.’

  ‘Physician Blavaut is engaged at the moment, my Lord Estiene,’ the assistant said, ‘but he can attend on you when he’s done.’

  ‘I’m sure whatever it is can wait,’ Lord Estiene said. ‘A silver penny for your trouble, lad.’ He flipped a small coin to Rolf, who made no effort to catch it. It bounced off his chest, and rattled on the floor.

  Rolf glared at him. Estiene was tall and slender and carried himself like he had once been a man of action, but had the ruddy, mottled complexion of a man now far too fond of his wines and spirits.

  ‘Now, now, no need to be surly, lad. The physician will see to your master once he’s attended to your betters. Physician Blavaut? Best not to keep my lady wife waiting.’

  ‘You’ve already been told that the Physician’s currently engaged. You’d do best to wait your turn.’

  ‘You’d do best to mind your bloody tongue, you impertinent little turd. You address a peer of the realm, not some grovelling servant.’

  ‘And you address the son of a marquis, whose treatment you are currently delaying, you arrogant whoreson.’

  Estiene paused, taken aback by the revelation that he was not in fact dealing with someone’s servant. His surprise was momentary however, and was replaced by the indignation of being called an arrogant whoreson.

  ‘Physician Blavaut, you’ll attend to m’father directly.’ Rolf knew that each moment they delayed would allow his condition to worsen, making recovery more difficult.

  ‘Where are you from, boy?’ Lord Estiene said. ‘I can tell from that thick, ignorant accent that you aren’t from around here, so am willing to forgive your impertinence as not knowing any better. Get out of my sight now, and I’ll forget all about this.’

  ‘I’m from the Western March, and Physician Blavaut can attend to your wife once he’s seen my father. His need is the greater.’

  ‘Western March? You’re the one who killed Charlot! I can see only too well how that engagement came about. You’re a mouthy little turd, but I’m told you think yourself quite tasty. Perhaps you are; Charlot was no slouch. Doesn’t excuse your smart mouth, however. I won’t be called a whoreson, not without satisfaction.’

  ‘I haven’t the time to deal with you now,’ Rolf said. ‘My father’s ill and I’m taking Physician Blavaut with me. You can try to prevent that if you wish, but it won’t end well for you.’

  ‘Ha! Threats now. You rural nobles really don’t have any idea of manners, do you? Take the Physician, but you’ll attend on me this evening, if you’ve an ounce of honour in your bog-soaked bones.’

  Rolf gestured to the door for Physician Blavaut and his assistant. They had both remained uncomfortably silent during the exchange. ‘It would be my singular pleasure to attend on you, Lord Estiene.’ He cringed at the sound of his voice. They were the appropriate words, but in his Marchland’s accent, they sounded clumsy and ignorant.

  ‘The Garden of the White Lilies, at seven bells. By the fountain.’

  Rolf wasted no time in ushering the Physician and his assistant out of the building.

  ‘And be grateful it’s not my lady wife’s wrath you face,’ Estiene called out after him.

  9

  The Dirty Blade

  Physician Blavaut and his assistant maintained a decorous pace as they walked toward the Dragon Fang Inn, despite Rolf’s efforts to urge them to greater speed. Rolf’s anxiety increased when they reached the inn and climbed the stairs to Borodin’s room. Rolf had been gone far longer than he would have liked. It had taken most of the morning to get Blavaut to the inn, and he prayed the Physician was worth the effort.

  His fears were realised when they entered the room. It stank of vomit, and although the assistant recoiled at the smell, Blavaut appeared unmoved. He went to Borodin’s bedside and began his examination. Rolf stood over his shoulder watching, until Blavaut held up his hand.

  ‘Your fidgeting behind me isn’t going to help matters. Perhaps you’d be better waiting in the parlour downstairs.’

  Rolf was reluctant to go, but did not want to distract Blavaut from his work. He did as he was told.

  The parlour was empty, which Rolf was grateful for. He was not in the mood for conversation and had already talked himself into one duel that day. He had little desire for another. A cup of wine did nothing to quell his anxiety. He counted the moments until Physician Blavaut and his assistant came down to the parlour.

  Rolf stood, eager to hear the diagnosis.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Blavaut said. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Rolf said, unable to believe what he was hearing. ‘It’s just a bad cut. Put some poultices on it, or whatever you need to do to clean it out.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Blavaut said. ‘Poison is involved.’

  ‘Poison?’ Rolf said. ‘Why would anyone poison m’father?’ His first thought was that the mugging was staged, a revenge for him killing Charlot.

  ‘No one intended to poison him, I think,’ Blavaut said. ‘I dare say it was a trace of poison left on the blade from a previous occasion. It’s a potent variety that I’ve encountered on more than a few occasions now. Had the blade been properly coated, your father would not have lasted the night. As it is, I’m afraid he doesn’t have long. The little that got into his blood has already done its damage to his innards. Perhaps if I had gotten to him earlier… I am sorry.’

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ Rolf said. ‘It was only a scratch.’

  ‘You’re welcome to seek a second opinion, but I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry if it’s to come in time.’

  The blood drained from Rolf’s face.

  ‘I’ve given him something to hold the fever off until the end. He will be lucid, and there will be little discomfort. You will be able to talk with him. You have my deepest sympathy.’

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Can you believe it?’ Borodin said, when Rolf went into the room.

  In the time Rolf had been waiting in the parlour, his father’s condition had visibly worsened.

  ‘It’s a bit of a shock,’ Rolf said.

  ‘Comes to us all,’ Borodin said. ‘Can’t say I expected it like this, though. Always thought it would be at the end of a Szavarian lance, not vomiting all over myself in bed.’

  Rolf didn’t know what to say, so said nothing, and sat in the chair by the bed.

  ‘There are some things I need to say,’ Borodin said. ‘The first… Put me beside your mother. On the hill looking out toward the Dragon Fang.’

  Rolf choked down a sob. ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘You can rely on G
asson and Rolet. They know what they’re about and will be able to help you through the first few months until you’ve found your feet. Gasson is better when it comes to money matters, but Rolet can turn his hand to pretty much anything else. They’re good men. They’ll do right by you.’

  Rolf willed them away, but he could not stop the tears from forming in his eyes.

  ‘I’d like to be able to tell you to go straight home, but that’s not possible. If the March is to survive, and our house in it, we need those concessions from the crown. You have to do everything you can to get an audience, and win those concessions. The King is the only man who can give them to you. Don’t waste your time with his advisors.’

  ‘I won’t fail you, Father.’

  ‘I know you won’t, Rolf. I know.’

  And then he was gone. Somewhere across the city, a bell rang six times.

  10

  The Garden of the White Lilies

  ‘Banneret of the White, Lord Estiene is willing to take an apology by way of satisfaction for the insult you served him.’

  The city gentlemen seemed fond of being apologised to once their tempers had subsided. Rolf stared at Estiene’s second with detachment. He wondered if it was their tempers that deserted them, or their stomach for a fight. The garden was beautiful, and it occupied almost as large a part of his mind as the man standing before him with an expectant smile on his face.

  The garden was a mix of finely manicured lawns and thick beds of beautiful white flowers. Lilies didn’t grow on the March. Beauty like that didn’t exist there. The March’s beauty was of a harsh, brutal type, the type that inspired awe rather than admiration. There was a large pond in the centre of the garden where more white flowers sat on broad green leaves, floating lazily on the mirror-still surface. It was the type of place where chevaliers of the Silver Circle might have wooed ladies of great beauty.

  The second cleared his throat.

  ‘Tell Lord Estiene there will be no apology. Tell him m’father is dead, and I hold him to blame.’ Rolf turned and walked back to where he had left his sword belt and the small satchel containing his things.

  There was a bottle of water in the satchel, and Rolf took a long swallow from it. It was a warm evening, the gentle breeze like a caress to the skin. He watched the insects buzzing from flower to flower on the pond and wondered what possessed them to go to the trouble. On the far side, Lord Estiene received his message with less than good grace. He was gesticulating and pointing in Rolf’s direction. People surrounded him, finely dressed people. Friends who no doubt thought their evening’s entertainment would be serviced by seeing a rural nobleman embarrassed.

  Estiene’s second approached again.

  ‘We can’t help but notice that you don’t have a second,’ he said. ‘That is most irregular.’

  ‘I assure you I won’t need someone to take my place,’ Rolf said. ‘I fight my own fights.

  ‘It wasn’t my intention to suggest that. Our concern is if there are any difficulties with regard to interpreting the result. Simultaneous cuts, and so forth…’

  Rolf glared at him. ‘That won’t be an issue. Lord Estiene has brought himself to this garden. If he finds himself lacking of a backbone, that’s not my concern.’

  The second made as though he was about to speak, then thought better of it, shut his mouth, and returned to Estiene and his entourage.

  There were several minutes of discussion before Lord Estiene finally walked forward, rapier in hand. His second had called him a Banneret of the White, and Rolf was not so ignorant as to mistake the meaning. Not only had he graduated from the Academy, he had been good enough to continue his studies and earn his colours. Just as the beauty of the garden did not move Rolf, neither did the danger Lord Estiene presented.

  Estiene, closely followed by his second, arrived at the stretch of lawn before the pond. It was as likely a duelling location as any.

  ‘Lord Estiene has stated that the first blood will satisfy his honour,’ the second said.

  ‘His honour, mayhap,’ Rolf said. He walked forward and drew his sword.

  Estiene gave a wry smile, as though he was sorry for what he was about to do, as though taking a splash of Rolf’s blood was an act no more challenging than kicking a puppy, and no less palatable.

  ‘Try not to kill him, Estiene!’ one of the supporters shouted. There was a chorus of laughter. They all held glasses. It did indeed seem that this was their evening’s entertainment.

  Lord Estiene shrugged apologetically. Rolf wondered what his friends at home would have thought of this. He thought of his father’s last words, and the importance of the duty that had been left to him.

  ‘You may begin,’ the second said.

  Estiene thrust and followed quickly with another, hopeful of a speedy resolution to the duel. Rolf moved backward with as much disdain as he could muster. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone standing watching them. It was a woman, alone. She was clearly not part of Lord Estiene’s group.

  Sensing the distraction, Estiene lunged, seeking a cheaply won cut and an end to the duel. Rolf parried the blade away effortlessly, the strength won by hours of using a heavier sword making the slender rapier feel like a toy in his hand.

  He stole another glance at the woman. She was wrapped in a travelling coat despite the warmth of the evening. It was the woman who had been with Charlot. No doubt she was there to see the killer of her lover meet a similar fate. Rolf almost felt bad that she would be disappointed. Even had Estiene the stomach for killing, Rolf did not feel pressurised by his attacks. It seemed that Estiene’s only interest was in a little derring-do and a splash of blood on an otherwise pleasant evening.

  Rolf thought of his father again, and the hill where his mother had been buried for near-on a decade. The day they had placed her there, Rolf had prayed it would be scores of years before he had to repeat the experience. He had known, even at that young age, that life on the March was unlikely to allow that hope to come to pass, but it was too soon. Sooner than he was ready for, and in the last place he had expected it to happen. He wondered if the delay Lord Estiene had caused made any difference.

  Estiene came at him again. Rolf parried and riposted with a neat thrust to the chest. Estiene gasped and dropped to his knees. Rolf pulled his blade free and walked back to his satchel and sword belt. There was a chorus of gasps and exclamations from Estiene’s gathered supporters, but Rolf paid them little heed. He looked to where the woman was standing. She remained there, motionless. He wondered what she thought of it all, what she made of a young country bumpkin who had killed two of the city’s gentlemen, fellows who had no doubt thought of themselves as dashing blades.

  There was nothing about Rolf that could be considered dashing. The only affectation to his hair was the string he used to tie it back and keep it out of his face. His moustache was not fashionably styled, and his clothes were far from being of the latest fashion. Such things were of little use on the March, but seemed to be the only thing that counted in the city. He cleaned his sword and sheathed it. By the time he looked up again, the woman was gone, gone with nothing but disappointment to accompany her on her way.

  A group had gathered by Estiene’s body, one of them the familiar face of Physician Blavaut, who leaned over the prone form. There was even less to do for Lord Estiene than there had been for Rolf’s father. The only strike worth the effort was a killing one, and for Rolf, that had long been second nature. He would have been dead and rotting on the March years before were that not the case. Rolf knew Estiene was dead before he had hit the ground; he would never have turned his back otherwise.

  He saw no need to remain in the garden any longer; there was nothing for him there, and there was nothing to say to Estiene’s second. The duel was fought to the code, and the killing was legal. In the morning he would call on court, demand his audience, and leave the city once and for all. If the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle had an ounce of sense, they would not spend a second longer in
that than they had to, and Rolf had no intention of doing differently. He could see why they travelled so far, and sought out such great dangers. Anything to get them out of that city.

  11

  The Dragon Fang Inn

  Rolf picked over his plate of food, but, seeing nothing that remained to his taste, he pushed it away. The cooking was excellent, the sauces sublime, but the raw material—the meat and vegetables—were poor. Things of no substance dressed up to appear far more than they actually were. He had little appetite in any event.

  His meal eaten, Rolf stood and headed for his room. There would be no more late nights in front of the fire listening to his father tell stories.

  ‘My Lord Marquis?’

  It took Rolf a moment to realise the voice referred to him. He was the Marquis now, although there would have to be an investiture of some sort, oaths to be sworn. He hoped he would be able to get it all out of the way before he left the city. He had no desire to ever return.

  He turned to look, and was left mouth agape when he saw it was the beautiful woman. Dealing with an irate woman was the last thing he needed, so he decided to try to head the situation off before it developed.

  ‘I apologise for what happened, m’Lady, but your companion’s fate was of his own making. I am sorry, however, for the inconvenience and grief that it must have caused you.’ His accent always sounded its worst when he was trying to be polite.

  She smiled, an expression of mirth. ‘I haven’t come for an apology,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Rolf said. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’ He couldn’t see what a young man like him could help a woman like her with. She was refined, elegant, perfectly presented. His clothes were his best, but calling his appearance scruffy could not be considered unkind. Even he could not defend his accent compared to the sophisticated tones of the city gentry.