The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  Not that the lady Argante cared so much what her half-brother did, or even Helsine. No, the tantrum at Helsine was because, like her brother, Duke Harald’s fingers dabbled where the lady Argante thought they shouldn’t and she couldn’t shout at him or slap his handsome face scarlet.

  “As if she had a right to,” Ellyn told Liam, safe in her arms. “A duke does as he pleases. So hard as he labours for Clemen, what’s a kiss and a fumble? All the fine jewels your father gives her, and the dresses, and the feasts, how can she grudge him? She flirts. I’ve seen her.”

  And she’d seen the duke do more than flirt in shadowed corners and on many spiralling castle stairs, with fine ladies who sometimes sighed, sometimes sobbed. She hated them sharp as a knife, being touched like that, by him, so handsome with his curling chestnut hair and broad shoulders. It stirred her own hunger, that she’d fed just the once and a dead bastard to show for it. She dreamed of Duke Harald’s fingers, sometimes, and woke wet and aching.

  Her breathing half-hitched, Ellyn held Harald’s son tight and trembled her longing.

  Far below, in the Great Hall, the duke broke from his noblemen’s company, snatched an armful of delighted lady and leapt into the dance. The falcon stitched into his bronze tunic dazzled its gold wings in the candlelight, talons out-thrust, sharply curved beak gaped wide. The other lords and their ladies, bound to obey the duke, joined in the dancing after him. Rubies flashed fire. Gold shone like the sun, and silver like sun-struck fresh snow. The nobles of Clemen at their play, no tears for them. No sorrows. Everything at their fingertips and nothing to regret.

  Unseen above them, Ellyn danced with Liam in the minstrels’ gallery, making him laugh. It was as close to joy as she would ever come, and she knew it. Too soon her wee man would be weaned off her. The lady Morda would take him and she’d be banished to the milch cows for her own milk to dry up.

  “Liam, Liam,” she whispered, and wept as they danced. Then she had to stop dancing because, like an arrow from a blue sky, hunger struck hard in her belly. It took a lot of meat and bread to make all the milk Liam could drink. The duke knew that, so she had his leave to seek out the kitchen whenever she needed.

  Down in the Great Hall, Duke Harald laughed. Wrapping Liam close again in his soft, scarlet blanket and her coarse cloak, feeling herself wrapped close in Duke Harald’s carefree happiness, Ellyn left the music behind and went in search of hot, plentiful food.

  As the iron-studded sally port’s door groaned shut behind the last of his borrowed men-at-arms, Roric looked around the crowded guards’ chamber at the grim faces of the lords who’d risked everything to follow him. In a few hours’ time, either the sun would rise upon their victory or else on their hacked corpses. His guts tightened. If only this could be done without risking anyone else. If only it were as easy as killing his cousin. That would be no challenge. Harald trusted him. A simple matter, then, to slit his throat in the dark.

  Simple… and dishonourable. The duchy deserved better, and so did Harald’s infant son.

  Silently, Humbert and Vidar and the other lords and their men-at-arms shed their cumbersome cloaks. Guttering torchlight played upon the blades of their swords, unsheathed for the stealthy crossing from copse to castle. Mouth dry, Roric fumbled one-handed at his own cloak pin.

  “You barred the door, Serjeant?” he said, letting his cloak fall to the stone floor as Belden joined them.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then find your trusted men outside the hall and tell them to be canny. Spread word to the rest after, quickly and quietly. Order them not to interfere. We’ve no wish to wade through blood spilled for misplaced loyalty.”

  “But we will spill it,” Vidar added, “if any man is fool enough to show us naked steel.”

  Belden frowned, his eyes glassy with unease. Roric flicked Vidar a warning glance, then touched the man’s arm. “You’ve trained them to heed you, man?”

  “Yes, my lord. Of course. But—”

  “Good. Trust to that. And if any choose not to heed you what happens is their doing and no shame on you. They’re not slaves, with their free will taken from them.”

  “My lord,” said Belden, his voice strangled.

  Hearing the fear, the doubt, Roric took the serjeant’s shoulder in a firm grasp. “What we do here is right, Belden. But right is rarely easy.”

  Belden dragged a hand down his face, rasping stubble. “It surely isn’t, my lord.”

  “Don’t despair, my friend,” he said gently. “When this is over Clemen will know you for its truest son. Now stand aside. Some of these lords and their men will go with you to secure Heartsong, but I’d have words with them first.”

  “My lord,” said the serjeant, and withdrew to the mouth of the corridor leading into the castle proper.

  When Belden was out of earshot, Roric shifted his gaze past Humbert and Vidar to Aistan, oldest and most experienced of the remaining lords. Next to Humbert, he’d worked hardest to bring Clemen’s great nobles to this undertaking. But then Aistan had suffered more. With his wife and his daughter both debauched by Harald, his sister robbed of the lands owed to her from her dead husband and his own estates reduced to feed Harald’s insatiable greed, he had every reason to want Clemen’s rapacious duke thrown down.

  “Be swift, Aistan, and stealthy,” he said. “I prefer Harald completely surprised.”

  Aistan nodded, content to be led by a younger, less experienced man because of his blood-tie to Berold. Roric felt his heart thud. If he let himself dwell on that, the burden might break him.

  “I’ve no doubt the bastard will be surprised,” Aistan said gravely, amusing his brother nobles and their men-at-arms. “Never fear, Roric. We’ll clear the weeds from your path.”

  “You heard what I told Belden,” he added. “Honour it, as far as you’re able. Temper just cause with mercy. There is one enemy here and his name is Harald.”

  “Agreed,” said Aistan, as the other lords nodded. His lips curved in a small, grim smile. “But when you face the real enemy…”

  “Never fear, Aistan. My mercy is saved for those who deserve it.”

  “Well said,” Humbert muttered, standing back to let Aistan and the others lead their purposeful men-at-arms out of the guards’ chamber.

  “And since we speak of Harald,” said Vidar, “I’m wondering. Do we now bait the cornered bear? Or should we tarry some time longer, chatting?”

  Ah, Vidar. But even as he opened his mouth to make a tart reply, Roric hesitated. “Lord Aistan, hold,” he said, then slapped the stone wall to attract Belden’s attention. “Serjeant, to me.”

  “Roric?” Humbert was frowning “What’s the—”

  A touch to Humbert’s arm hushed him. A moment later, Belden rejoined them. “Serjeant, on any other night how many men would you set to prowling the castle grounds?”

  “Three or four, my lord,” said the serjeant, puzzled. “Depending.”

  “Then find your four men closest to the hall and send them outside by any door but the sally port. You’ll save them from harm and make our task the simpler. When that’s done, and your other guards are subdued, leave the lords to their business and come back to me here.”

  Relief and gratitude warmed Belden’s sharp eyes. “My lord.”

  “That’s a good thought, Roric,” said Vidar, as the guards’ chamber began to empty. “But I do question the wisdom of skulking here while Aistan and the others bring Heartsong to heel.”

  “You’re the one who called Harald a cornered bear,” Roric said, stifling anger. “Would you face a bear without first sending in all the dogs?”

  “Enough,” Humbert said, before Vidar could say more. “Roric’s made his choice. Now we wait.”

  “And I suggest we wait at the other end of the corridor,” said Roric, gesturing with his sword. Shadows flickered along its gleaming, lethal length. “After you, my lord Humbert. And you, Vidar.”

  “More pottage, Ellyn?” said Nelda, keeping her voice hushed so t
he cook, her mother’s crotchety sister and her only living kin, wouldn’t rouse in her fireside chair and start beating anyone she could reach with a wooden spoon. “Go on. There be plenty.”

  The small night kitchen was drowsy warm with its flame-crowded hearth, and whispered full of music from the Great Hall above. Its long, wide bench was laden with dainty morsels waiting a summons from the duke. Leek and cheese tartlets, minced pork tartlets, tiny napwing eggs in aspic, pewter cups of frumenty and sturdy wheels of cheese. Fine food for fine nobles, floated down their elegant throats on the best wines in Clemen.

  Squeezed at the bench’s far end, Ellyn swallowed the last scraping of bean mush from her bowl and slumped a little on her stool. She envied the sleeping cook. Naughty Liam, keeping her awake so late and so long.

  “More ale, I’d like,” she said, smothering a yawn. “But I’m bellyful else, Nelda, and I thank you.”

  “It be hard work, feeding a babe,” said Nelda, her shy smile come-and-gone. “I’ll fetch your ale.”

  Hard work it surely was, feeding and holding. Ellyn wriggled a bit, trying to ease the ache in her arm from keeping Liam pressed close. She longed to lay him beside Nelda’s bastard brat on its straw-stuffed pallet, just for a moment, but she couldn’t. The cook might be snoring fit to rival Lady Morda but not even that old besom would snore through Liam, screaming. And scream he would, for certain, if his Ellyn set him down on the floor.

  “Here,” said Nelda, pouring more ale. For all she was young and skinny, she hefted the pitcher as though it weighed light as air. “Drink up.” With the tankard full again she stepped back, and sighed at sleeping Liam. “Ah, he’s a fine boy, Ellyn. It’s strong milk you’ve got, him growing so fast.”

  She swallowed half her fresh ale before answering. “True, he’s a bonny lamb. And yours, Nelda? Tygo? He seems fine, too.”

  “Ais,” said Nelda, nodding. “No sign of sickly on him, at least not so far. Not as brave as little Liam, though, for all he’s a moon older.”

  Ellyn hid her face in her tankard. And why would a kitchen drudge’s brat be any like to her lamb, Tygo being planted in Nelda by a passing trinket-man, not a duke? But it seemed unkind to say as much, especially after that tasty pottage, so she drank more ale instead.

  “If he stays small, he’ll find work here on the turnspit, like little Thom and his kind,” said Nelda, with a frowning glance at the three kitchen boys gnawing heels of bread along the wall beside the fireplace. “My mam’s told me I dursn’t hope for more.”

  With a ripe burp, Ellyn pushed the emptied tankard to one side. “He’ll be warm in winter, any road.”

  “Ais, and soused in sweat othertimes,” said Nelda, sighing. Then she ruffled herself, like a hen. “But tie my tongue for griping. There be fathers what drown their daughters’ bastard brats, and mams as tell them to do it. Tygo’s living and he’s with me. I’ve no cause to gobble.” Stepping briskly, she returned the ale pitcher to its slab-sided stone jar in the corner furthest from the flame-warmed hearth. “Not to you, leastways. You lost your own, I’m told. That’s a sad thing and I’m sorry for it.”

  Fussing with Liam’s scarlet blanket, Ellyn made a grunting sound that could’ve meant anything. Let Nelda decide, it was easier.

  “I’d ask you, Ellyn, if I could,” Nelda started, but then a coming-closer pattering of footsteps in the corridor beyond the night kitchen turned her. A moment later one of Heartsong’s pages scuttled in, puffed up in his green velvet tunic and fine wool hose, a little Clemen lordling.

  “An’ it please His Grace the Duke,” the page piped, “but he’s wanting supper served.”

  Because she had to, because this was a favoured lord’s son and she was common as muck, Nelda spread her apron and bobbed a curtsey. “An’ it please His Grace the Duke,” she answered, “fetch the other pages, sir, for you see the duke’s supper is here ready and waiting.”

  “I see it,” said the page, his eyes wide with greed. “I shall return in a moment.”

  “There now, Ellyn, you’d best go,” said Nelda, as the page scuttled out. “For in a tricket I’ll have him and his friends underfoot like mice. Aunt Cook, Aunt Cook—” An urgent hand shook the heedless woman’s shoulder. “Supper for the duke, Aunt Cook.” She turned to the kitchen brats. “Come on, you little toads! On your feet!”

  Wrapped once more in her coarse woollen cloak, Ellyn left the old woman snorting awake, the kitchen brats cramming the last of their bread and Nelda pushing her bastard brat to safety beneath the long kitchen bench, and made her own way with Liam back to their eyrie. One pause on the minstrels’ gallery, to snatch a last glimpse of Duke Harald. For all his smiles he looked weary, packed about with pushing lords and ladies. After him for favours, always, they were. No matter what the duke gave them it was never enough. Never enough for the lady Argante, either. Greedy bitch. All the fine things he’d given her, and not once did she open her mouth to the duke if it wasn’t to ask for more. She was in his lap down there, wriggling. What a cock-tease. The poor duke. He couldn’t see her for what she was. Sick in love with his son, he was babe-blind. Why were men so stupid?

  Holding Liam close, feeling the ache in her breasts that told her she was too full of milk, she hurried up the spiral staircase then along the stone corridor that led to the nursery. The man-at-arms, Emun, he was in his rightful place again. He saw her and rolled his eyes, finger pressed to his lips.

  Slowing, she felt her heart thump. Morda? she mouthed, and he nodded. Sighing, she smiled her thanks. He smiled back, not such a bad man, Emun, even if he was rough. He’d not had to warn her. Could be he’d like a kiss sometime. He’d earned it. Sucking in a deep breath, she stepped into the nursery.

  “Slut!” shouted Lady Morda, leaping forward with bony arms outstretched. “Give the babe to me, you drabbish lightskirt!”

  Even as Liam woke, Ellyn clutched him tighter and half-turned away. “Please, my lady, you’ll—”

  Liam opened his gummy mouth and howled. It was his angry cry, his hungry cry, and her aching breasts spurted milk at the sound. Lady Morda stepped back. She knew that cry too. And she knew that whatever the duke’s son wanted, that came first. Always.

  The old cow pointed at the nursing chair. “Sit,” she hissed. “Feed him. I go downstairs to the duke. He will be told what you’ve done. Expect a whipping, at the least.”

  Ellyn sat, unlaced her tunic, bared her breast and set Liam to suckling. Outside, in the corridor, Lady Morda was berating Emun. She’d see him whipped too, and perhaps a hand taken for good measure. Or an eye put out, his cock sliced off. He’d be sorry he let the sluttish wet nurse past him. Hating her, Ellyn stroked Liam’s downy head. She’d speak up for Emun, she would. Tell the duke she’d waited till the man-at-arms had needed a piss, then slipped out of the nursery. She’d say she’d not meant to cause trouble, Liam was fussy, wanting a walk, and she was hungry. No harm was done. Duke Harald would listen. He gave her many kindly looks–and he had little care for Lady Morda. The old bitch wouldn’t have the pleasure of maiming poor Emun.

  Liam made happy little gurgling sounds when he sucked. Charmed by them, adoring him, Ellyn closed her eyes. Her lamb, her precious lamb. She’d keep him safe from Lady Morda, and every other harm.

  Trapped in his chair, near-deafened by that old bitch Morda’s shrieking rage, Harald felt his fingers itch for a sword. A cursed pity the court’s niceties demanded a lack of naked blades and bloodshed. He couldn’t even summon the serjeant to kill her for him, since Morda was cousined in some distant degree to Argante and so was thrust out of his reach. To his lords’ and ladies’ tittering amusement, and threatening to drown out his minstrels, the old sow was demanding the hide of Liam’s wet nurse.

  “But my lady,” he said, when the hag paused to draw breath, “would you have me a tyrant? How can I chastise without cause?”

  Morda’s pebble-grey eyes bulged. “Without cause?”

  “Morda…” Standing beside him, slender fingers lightly rest
ed on his arm, Argante favoured her kinswoman with a cool smile. “His Grace is right. In your dismay you’ve not told us what the girl has done to earn this demanded whipping.”

  “She took your son from his cradle!” Morda spat, her miserly dugs heaving beneath the green brocade bodice covering them. “She wandered with him about the castle like a drab, heedless of the hour and chill, and if she did not show her privy parts to every man-at-arms in passing I am not a true servant to His Grace and that babe!”

  More tittering. The court’s pages, holding silver trays of cooling food, stared at the bitch and each other. Two smothered giggles. Harald felt his teeth grind. Morda was making a fool of him.

  “You saw her drabbish? With your own eyes, this very night?”

  “Saw her?” The high colour in Morda’s sallow cheeks faded. “No, I did not see her, not this time. Your Grace,” she added, warned by his glare. “But I tell you truly, the wench is a—”

  “Silence!” he said, thumping his fist to the arm of his chair. Of course the wet nurse was a slut, delivered of a bastard planted in her by some cowherd. But her milk was rich. Liam drank from her till he was bursting, and thrived. And she was a prime piece of flesh, young and eager to open her legs. He’d caught her looking at him more than once. Had Morda not haunted the nursery he’d have had the little wagtail pinned against a wall long since.

  The bitch knows. She’s jealous. If there’s been even one man eager to thrust his cock between her skinny thighs I’ll eat my best destrier. Raw.

  “My lady Morda, your care for my son cannot be faulted,” he said sternly. The court must not think him chastened. “But I fear you wrong his wet nurse. She dotes on the child, as all of Clemen dotes. If she walked him about the castle, then she did so with my leave. You well know Liam can be fretful of a night. Walking settles him.” Without looking at Argante, he eased his arm from beneath her fingers and closed his hand about hers. “Is that not so, my dove?”