Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  Princess Ragenilda opened her mouth and yawned, and Devlin realized his foolishness. She was not only a Princess, she was also an eleven-year-old girl—one who had just endured a long and difficult journey.

  “Princess Ragenilda, welcome home,” he said, holding up his arms to help her dismount.

  After a moment’s hesitation she nodded, and he lifted her down from the saddle.

  Grooms held the horses as the others dismounted. He caught a brief glimpse of Solveig before the shifting figures blocked his view.

  “There is much news to share, but now is not the time,” Devlin said, pitching his voice so the entire party could hear. “Servants will show you to your rooms, where you may rest and refresh yourselves. I will meet with you later.”

  He turned his attention to Princess Ragenilda, finding he still held her right hand in his own. “Your maid Marja has missed you. She is waiting in your chambers,” he said.

  Ragenilda smiled at this news, and Devlin was glad that she would have at least that much of a link to her past. The world that Ragenilda was returning to had changed greatly in the brief months she had been gone.

  He escorted Ragenilda to her rooms and turned her over to her former nurse, who clucked over her charge, promising that she would be warm and well fed in no time.

  Having seen Ragenilda settled, he then spoke with the servants, who confirmed that Lord Brynjolf and his family had been shown to the rooms prepared for them in the palace, while their escorts had been given rooms with the guards. Devlin’s feet carried him toward the rooms he had assigned to Brynjolf, but he found his steps slowing, and he turned away before he reached them.

  It was simple courtesy, he told himself. The travelers were cold and tired, and they needed to rest, not to answer his questions. He gave them their peace out of consideration. Not because he had anything to fear.

  Still it felt like an act of cowardice when he retreated to his offices. To placate himself he arranged for dinner to be served in the smallest of the royal dining rooms and sent a servant with the message that those who wished to join him could do so.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon working in his offices, reviewing the tax rolls. A few weeks previously the Royal Steward had sent over a list of those who were delinquent in their taxes, urging immediate action. Several of the names on the list had been familiar to him, including the Baron of Esker. It had not taken him long to realize that the royal steward had prepared a list that included only the names of his political enemies, while failing to include others who had been supporters of King Olafur. When confronted, the steward had claimed these were honest errors. Hopefully, he’d learned better than to try such a petty trick again. In the meantime, Devlin had had the complete tax rolls sent over to his offices, and with the help of his aide was slowly going through them, putting together his own lists.

  Some, like Brynjolf, would be excused. The Baron of Esker had not hoarded his treasure for his own gain. Instead he had spent his personal fortune on training and equipping a force of armsmen. Without his troops, the northwestern territories would have fallen to the border raiders. It was the crown that owed a debt to Brynjolf, not the other way around.

  Few cases were as clear. Some tax payments had never reached the capital, falling victim to robbers or pirates. Devlin doubted that all the nobles who claimed such were telling the truth, but it was a hard thing to prove, and he knew better than to utter accusations that he could not back up. He needed their taxes to rebuild the kingdom, but he also needed their support. It was a tricky balancing act, and while his aide combed through the files and prepared recommendations, each case ultimately had to be decided by Devlin.

  He looked up, as a soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

  Jasen, his aide, stood in the doorway. “Lord Devlin, you have a visitor,” he said.

  Not for the first time, Devlin realized how much he missed Didrik. Jasen was more than competent, but he would never be the friend that Didrik had been. Burdened with a strict sense of propriety, he had spent weeks addressing Devlin as “Your Excellency,” and it was only with great reluctance that he had finally adopted the less formal address of Lord Devlin.

  “Show him in,” Devlin said, then he hastily rose to his feet as Solveig entered.

  His palms began to sweat. He had expected that Stephen would be the first to seek him out, or perhaps Lord Brynjolf. But not Solveig.

  Devlin jerked his head and Jasen closed the door behind Solveig, granting them privacy.

  “Please sit,” Devlin said, pulling out the chair he kept for visitors. “Shall I have Jasen fetch you wine? Kava? Citrine?”

  He knew he was babbling, but he could not help himself.

  Solveig took a seat, but Devlin leaned back against his desk, too nervous to sit.

  “You look well for a man whose funeral I attended,” she said. He noted that she had taken the time to change from her traveling clothes into an embroidered tunic of undyed wool, worn over darker leggings and high boots. It was casual attire, rather than the formal garb worn when the court was in session.

  “I am as surprised as any by my survival,” Devlin said.

  It had been over a year since he had last seen Solveig. On the day he had left for Duncaer she had embraced him, urging him to come back safely, though he had known that her concern was for the Chosen One as much as it was for the man her brother called friend. Since that time he had changed greatly, but it was comforting to see that Solveig looked the same.

  “I owe you a debt,” he said. “For protecting Princess Ragenilda and keeping her out of the hands of the Selvarats.”

  Solveig shook her head. “I did not do it for you. I did it at King Olafur’s request. Toward the end, even he could see the trap that he had fallen into.”

  “Nonetheless, you have my gratitude.”

  If Ragenilda had been taken, then Jorsk would have been lost in bloody civil war, for there was no other suitable heir. And if Devlin had tried to claim the throne by force, the quarreling noble factions would have united against him, while between them Nerikaat and Selvarat would have picked the bones of the Kingdom clean.

  “The Princess seems no worse for her experiences,” he said, as the silence stretched on between them.

  “She understands her duty. And she grew fond of my father, and he of her,” Solveig said.

  Her gaze fixed on him, and he fought the urge to squirm. “My father plans to speak to you this evening, to tell you that he has decided to accept your offer,” she said.

  “Good.”

  When he had written to Brynjolf, he had offered the Baron a seat on the Regent’s Council. It was in part as a reward for his past valor, and in part to ensure that the borderlands, which had suffered the most in the past years, had a strong voice in the deliberations of the council. He had known that Brynjolf would be reluctant to leave his lands, but Devlin had urged him to look to the greater duty.

  “And what of you?” he asked.

  As her father’s heir, it would have been logical for Solveig to stay behind in Esker, to rule in her father’s name. Instead she had made the long and difficult journey. Perhaps she had done so out of respect for the Princess, so the girl would have a familiar companion. But Devlin wondered if her presence was a sign that she was willing to consider the offer he had made in his letter to her.

  “Why me?” she asked bluntly. It was one of the things that he admired about her. When she set her mind to it, Solveig could play the games of court, speaking in riddles and innuendo to shade her meaning. But she could also be as plainspoken as any farmer.

  “Ragenilda is still a child. She needs a woman in her life, someone who can teach her to be strong. I could think of no better example for her to follow,” he said.

  Solveig pursed her lips, as if his answer had displeased her. She rose to her feet, and as she stood in front of him, he noticed that they were nearly of a height. He did not have to bend his head to meet her eyes.

  “And what do you need?”
she asked.

  He needed a wife, to reassure all those who still thought that he coveted the crown and would marry Ragenilda to get it. But he knew enough of the workings of a woman’s mind not to state his case so baldly.

  “I need a friend. Someone I can trust.”

  He spoke no words of love. He respected Solveig and admired her strength of character. Her skills as a courtier would be invaluable, serving as a counterweight to his own blunt tactics. And he had hopes that in time their friendship would deepen into affection. But he was not capable of passion. Cerrie had been his soul mate, the love of his youth, and he would never love another in the same way.

  “I will not promise love. But I can offer friendship and respect, and promise that I will be faithful to you,” he said.

  They both stood to gain from an alliance. As a future Baroness, Solveig had always been destined for a political marriage. He tried to tell himself that she might have done far worse for herself than one who bore the titles of Regent and Chosen One.

  “And what shall we do when Ragenilda comes of age? Shall we go our separate ways? Do you expect me to follow you to Duncaer?”

  It would be years before he could return to Duncaer. Devlin the man would be welcome by his kin, but the Lord Regent would not be. His people were still recovering from the decades of Jorskian occupation. No doubt they had been shocked when Devlin’s messenger arrived, instructing the Lawgiver Peredur that the Kingdom of Jorsk was prepared to recognize as sovereign whomever the six families should elect to rule. It would take time for the two kingdoms to learn to live in peace with each other, and Devlin’s presence would only upset that balance.

  “I plan to leave Kingsholm, and we can make our home in Esker. If you will have me,” he said.

  His heart quickened, which was strange. He was a man proposing a political alliance, not a callow youth proposing to his sweetheart. If Solveig rejected him, she would be rejecting the alliance, not spurning his heart. Yet, despite all logic, he held his breath as he awaited her answer.

  “I accept.”

  His chest eased as he finally drew a breath.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking her hands in his. “We can ask your father for his consent this evening.”

  An ordinary woman could marry whom she pleased, but the heir to a barony had fewer freedoms. Not that he expected Lord Brynjolf to raise any objections, but it would be discourteous not to ask his consent.

  Solveig grinned. “No need. He gave his blessing before we left Esker.”

  Devlin allowed Princess Ragenilda a day to rest, then early the next morning he made his way to her quarters. Three rooms were set aside for her personal use, including a bedchamber, a private sitting room for entertaining those few guests who were deemed suitable companions for the royal heir, and a small room where her maid resided. The Princess’s rooms were part of the much larger royal suite, vacant since the death of her father. As he passed the sentry who guarded the corridor that led to the royal suite, Devlin was stuck by the silence, and he realized that this would be a lonely place to be. Not that he had any intention of taking residence in the royal suite. Such a move would only provide fodder for his enemies. Nor had he any wish to discover if Olafur’s restless ghost haunted the site of his suicide.

  But perhaps Ragenilda would like a change.

  He knocked thrice on the door. After a brief delay it was opened by the Princess’s maid Marja.

  “Your Excellency! We did not expect you. You should have sent word so we could prepare,” she scolded him, as if he were one of her charges.

  “Is Ragenilda awake? Dressed?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Marja drew herself stiffly erect, which meant that her glare was focused somewhere in the middle of his chest.

  “Then what is your concern?”

  He brushed by her, and as he entered the sitting room, Ragenilda rose, and made a brief curtsy. Devlin gave a short bow in return.

  “Good morning, Your Excellency,” she said.

  He grimaced. “There is no need for this ceremony. You may call me Devlin.”

  “It would not be proper,” Ragenilda said, in dry tones that sounded as if her nurse had repeated this lesson often.

  Devlin realized that he would have to rethink the wisdom of allowing Marja so much influence over her charge. Fortunately, the girl would have Solveig’s example to follow.

  “You called the Baron Lord Brynjolf, did you not? You may call me Lord Devlin, if you wish.”

  The noble title was an honorific, given to the Chosen One.

  “Lord Devlin,” she repeated.

  He waited as she took a seat, daintily arranging her wide skirts around her, then took his own seat.

  “You may leave us, Marja,” he said, when the maid showed a tendency to hover.

  The maid sniffed, then retreated to the Princess’s bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

  “You know I have been named Regent for you, is that right?”

  She nodded.

  “And do you know what that means?”

  “It means you now rule, instead of a king,” she said solemnly.

  Her features were composed, giving no trace of her inner thoughts. It seemed impossible to think of her as a child, for surely no child could sit so still, without even a hint of fidgeting. But appearances were deceptive. She was still a child, and one in mourning for her father. He had to remember this and treat her accordingly.

  “Being Regent means I will rule, yes,” he said. “But it means that I am a protector. As Chosen One I protected the people of Jorsk. Do you remember when I slew the lake monster?”

  She gave him a shy smile. “You told the funniest story. But then one of the guards said you were a true hero, and he taught me a song about it.”

  The Princess had insisted upon meeting Devlin after his defeat of the giant skrimsal, and King Olafur had indulged his daughter’s wishes. She had been amused by Devlin’s tale of accidental heroics, though the Gods only knew what kind of song she had been taught. For a few months afterward there had been some truly awful ballads circulating. He still remembered Stephen’s attempt. . . .

  He forced his mind back to the matter at hand. “Now I have a new duty. As Regent I am to protect you, until the day you are ready to assume the throne and rule as Queen. And I am to protect your inheritance, ensuring that you have a prosperous Kingdom to rule over.”

  It would not be the same Kingdom her father had governed. Too much had changed and would continue to change. Turning peasants into warriors had enabled Devlin to defeat the Selvarat armies, but it had also changed the balance of power between the commoners and the nobles who ruled them. Abusive and incompetent landholders would no longer be tolerated by a people who had learned what it was to defend themselves.

  It would take time to sort out the changes, and for both sides to come to a new understanding of their rights and duties. Time to restore prosperity to those areas that had suffered most under the invaders. Time to build new alliances and ensure that the Kingdom’s safety was not threatened again.

  “And what will you do when I become Queen?” she asked.

  He realized that she needed more from him than a promise that he would see to her political future. He was not just the guardian of the realm, he was also the guardian of a child, one who had no nearkin to care for her.

  “As Queen you will be able to choose your own councilors, though you may always call upon me at need,” he said. “I cannot replace your father, but I swear to you that I will care for you as if you were my own. As will Solveig Brynjolfsdatter, who has agreed to become my wife.”

  Ragenilda considered this for a moment, before switching topics. “You did not like my father.”

  “We did not agree,” Devlin said. He hesitated, before deciding that plain speaking was best. “In the days and years to come you will hear many things about your father. Some good, some bad. From what I knew of him, he was not a brave man, nor was he wise. But he loved you, and that is how you
should remember him.”

  It was a fine epitaph for a man, but a poor one for a King. Ragenilda would have to work hard to overcome her father’s legacy. Still, they had time to teach her what it meant to be a wise ruler and to show her what was possible when power was allied with justice.

  “Very well. I accept you as my Regent, Lord Devlin,” Ragenilda said, in the tones of one granting a royal favor.

  Her dignity was such that he did not point out that she had no choice in the matter.

  “I thank you for your confidence,” he said.

  Epilogue

  DEVLIN PULLED THE HOOD OF HIS CLOAK forward, hiding his distinctive features. The gray sky above whispered of the approach of dawn, but the streets were still dark, and the guttering torches served more as signposts than actual illumination. The streets were quiet, and he encountered only a handful of other souls—lovers or drunkards seeking their own beds and those whose labors began before the sun. None spared him a glance. And why should they? Who would believe that the man in his tattered cloak was in fact the Lord Regent of the Kingdom?

  Such anonymity was a rare gift these days. Captain Embeth had assigned personal guards to him, over his objections, and few indeed were the times when he was allowed to appear in public without one of her watchful shadows. A faint smile touched his lips as he thought of how she would react when she learned that he had disappeared. Those assigned to watch him would be roundly castigated, and Embeth would berate him for his folly, then demand to know just how he had managed to slip away unnoticed so she could plug the holes in her security.

  He might even tell her, if he was in the mood. Though by now she should have learned to expect the unexpected from him. The other nobles she had guarded were content to stay in the places assigned to them, but Devlin was not above a bit of subterfuge. Nor was he too dignified to crawl out a window, as he had done this morning.

  He reached the tavern known as the Singing Fish just as the sky turned pink with the dawn. Even at that hour he saw a light burning in the common room, and as he made his way around the tavern to the stables behind, he saw a solitary figure saddling his horse.