by Karen Miller
“Hold my hand, Your Grace,” Mazelina murmured, as he sat. “I’m so nervous I might faint.”
He did as she asked. Her palm was damp. So was his. He’d have held Jancis too, but her hands were kept from him, clasped tight in her lap.
The pipers ceased their trilling. Three horns blew a loud fanfare. The noble crowd fell slowly silent, until the only sounds were the snapping of pennants and the stately thud-thud-thud of the destriers’ hooves on the close-cut bailey grass as Balfre and Grefin, their visors lowered, rode to opposite ends of the tilt-run.
A single trumpet note, high and sweet. The horses fought against bridle and bit, eager to joust. Their riders steadied lances… dropped reins… pricked sharp spurs to glossy flanks. Aimery held his breath, and sank his teeth into his lip. With great, grunting whinnies, ears pinned back and eyes gleaming, his sons’ stallions charged.
And with one punishing blow of Grefin’s lance, Balfre crashed to the ground.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was a feast in the castle’s Great Hall after the joust, with enormous platters of venison and boar from the Marches, swan and goose, pike and sturgeon and delectable eel. There were dainty minced chicken pies and cartwheels of cheese, honeyed damsons and apricots, endless flagons of wine, and cherry juice for those who disdained the effects of fermented grape. There was music and dancing and no grey-faced, grey-robed exarchites to frown the birthday revellers into sober behaviour.
Aimery and his sons and their wives enjoyed the highest of high tables, proudly displayed for Harcia’s nobles to see. Nearest to them, duly honoured, Harcia’s councillors, their wives and their heirs. Almost as honoured, Balfre’s closest companions. Even Joben, as yet unmarried, had forsworn his fellow councillors to carouse with Paithan, Waymon and Lowis, the young men loudly basking in the ducal heir’s esteem. Seated at the hall’s other damask-covered trestles, distantly overlooked by the antlered skulls of stags long since killed and consumed, many lesser nobles of Harcia, with sons and daughters attending. It was good to see them here. Marriages might come of the day’s celebrations. Another reason to celebrate. And long as fine Harcian sons wed with lissom Harcian daughters, and were fruitful, his duchy would live on long after his death.
Lastly, of course, there were his beloved grandchildren, seated at their own small trestle, ruled over by their nurses. Grefin’s three mischief-makers, and poor, wan little Emeline. Balfre’s sickly daughter. Old enough now to know how deeply she disappointed. And how could she not, when she was the image of her mimbly mother?
At the far end of their table, flushed with wine and astonishment, Grefin flung an unsteady arm around his brother’s neck. “To the moment I draw my last breath, Balfre, I’ll remember this day. Never before have I jousted you out of the saddle!”
Balfre, just as wineish, clumsily kissed Grefin on the side of his head. “But you did, brother, and I have the bruises on my arse to prove it. And let me tell you how it happened, since you seem so amazed.”
“Yes, yes, do tell us,” Mazelina implored. “For I promise you, Balfre, we’re as amazed as my husband!”
Everyone within hearing laughed at that. Aimery knew he could easily weep, so great was his relief. Neither son harmed in their bout, and both so joyful, so comradely. After years of strain and sourness, he’d never thought to see them in such smiling accord. And that was Balfre’s doing as much as Grefin’s. He’d taken his defeat lightly, been swift to laud his victorious brother. No churlish frowning, only admiring delight.
So… had he misjudged his heir, then? Perhaps Grefin was right. Perhaps he’d never been fair to Balfre, who wasn’t Malcolm and never could be. Perhaps the time had come to take a leap of faith. Trust that Balfre wouldn’t dishonour him by plunging the duchy into a maelstrom of strife.
“My Lord Steward,” said Balfre, comically serious, as the laughter died down around them. “It’s clear to me that while serving our gracious duke in the Green Isle, you have become a doughty knight. Mighty of virtue, strong in sinew, inviolate of purpose. Indeed, the very paragon of jousters!”
Grefin clapped hand to heart. “Why, thank you, my lord Count. Such praise leaves me speechless.”
“Not so very speechless, since that’s your tongue I hear flapping.”
More raucous laughter, drowning the court minstrels. Mazelina was wiping her eyes. Even subdued Jancis smiled, her be-ringed fingers clasped round the stem of a goblet full of cherry juice.
Eyes wide with mock-hurt, Grefin offered a seated bow. “Forgive me. It’s just I—”
“Be quiet, fool!” roared Balfre. “Can’t you see I’m still talking?”
“Do hush, Grefin,” said Mazelina, unsteady with mirth. “Or he’s like to tip that jug of wine right over your head!”
Thrusting aside discomforting thoughts, at least for the moment, Aimery banged a fist to the trestle. “At fifty silver ducats a barrel? Not if he wants to sit his horse inside a week! I might be officially declared an old man, but there’s yet strength enough in my arm to give a wayward son a good thrashing!”
“Fear not, Your Grace,” said Balfre, shaking his head. “I’ve long since grown out of the wasteful gesture. But if I might be allowed to finish?”
“By all means,” said Griffin, hiccuping. “Never let us distract you from your purpose.”
Balfre smiled. “I won’t, Grefin. On that you have my word. Now–as I was saying–you’ve impressed me, little brother. I am mightily impressed.”
“Go on, go on,” Grefin encouraged. “I’ve waited years to hear you say this.”
“And if you don’t cease interrupting, I swear you’ll never hear it again!”
More laughter, as Mazelina pressed a hand over her husband’s mouth.
“Speak swiftly, Balfre, I beg you. I fear your defeat has gone straight to his head!”
“Swiftly then,” said Balfre, grinning. “As my lady commands. Swiftly, Grefin, while I admire you, as an honest man I must add this to my praise. That while your jousting skills are proved impressive, most impressive is the fact that at the ripe old age of twenty-eight you’ve at last learned how not to fall off your fucking horse!” Standing, he raised his wine-filled goblet. “Your Grace! My lords and ladies! I give you the Steward of the Green Isle, jouster without peer, Aimery’s beloved youngest son and my little brother. Grefin!”
“Grefin!” Harcia’s nobles echoed, and drank, and drummed their feet on the rush-strewn stone floor.
As servants carried in fresh platters of meat and refilled wine jugs from the kitchens, and the gathered nobles turned to each other for more eager talk, Balfre put down his goblet and dropped to a crouch between Grefin and Mazelina. Grin fading, he pressed his palm to his brother’s cheek.
“Grefin,” he said, his voice lowered to keep his words at their table. “I think you know I’ve been angry with you. For a long time, monstrous angry. I’ve blamed you and resented you for things that weren’t your fault. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
Grefin grasped his brother’s shoulder. “Of course I will. As if you need to ask.”
“I think our father would disagree with that,” said Balfre, and turned. “Am I right, Your Grace?”
Feeling his eyes sting with tears, Aimery nodded. “You are. But there’s no shame in a man admitting a fault. Indeed, there’s honour in it. Your mother would be proud. As I am.”
“Then I have your forgiveness too?”
“Yes, Balfre,” he said, his voice breaking. “You most assuredly do.”
“Your Grace. Your Grace, I’m sorry…”
Curteis.
Looking at his faithful steward Aimery saw the trouble that creased the man’s forehead. “What is it?”
Curteis bent low. “Your Grace, word’s come from Lord Bayard. There has been–an incident–in the Marches.”
The Marches. His precarious hope. Flooded with dismay, Aimery fought the urge to look at Grefin. “How bad?”
“Alas, Your Grace. There are deaths on bo
th sides.”
Fuck. His heart was hammering too hard, his treacherous body rebelling at unwanted news. “Who’s to blame? Do we know?”
“The waters seem fearful muddied. Our Marcher lords are blaming Clemen, while their lords blame us.”
“Curteis, you surprise me.”
“Indeed,” Curteis murmured. “Your Grace, can I assume you’ll meet with the council on this?”
Curse the council. Men who’d leap at once to belligerence, in whom he could not confide. “After the feast, Curteis. Make arrangements.”
“Father?” Grefin said softly, as Curteis discreetly withdrew from the hall.
With an almost painful effort, Aimery relaxed his fisted fingers and rested them in his lap. “Not now. The acrobats are come.”
“But—”
“Not now, Grefin.”
An awkward silence. Then Balfre gestured at an untouched wine jug set down by a passing servant.
“Is that Grayneish red at your elbow, Gref? If it is I’ll take some, before you and the fair Mazelina drink it all.”
“Balfre!” protested Mazelina, as chastened Grefin struggled to reply. “How could you say so, when ’tis well known by all who know you that a full barrel of Grayneish red is not safe in your sight!”
And so to more laughter, and playful bickering, as the hall filled with leaping acrobats and the spritely music of tambourines.
“This is a nonsense, Aimery,” grunted Reimond of Parsle Fountain, his craggy face carved even sharper by candlelight. “What happens in the Marches is Marcher lord business. Let Bayard and Egbert settle it.”
Muttered agreement from his fellow lords, gathered in the North Tower’s council chamber.
Frowning, Aimery tapped the scrawled parchment brought in haste by one of Bayard’s men-at-arms. “We’ve seven dead, all told, a score more wounded, and Wido of Clemen making grave threats. I fear this is already spilled beyond the Marches.”
“It’s unacceptable!” Ferran said, banging his fist to the chamber’s robust oak table. “Who is this Wido, to demand Harcia take all blame? To bluster he’ll have that bastard Roric force us to a Crown Court if we don’t show our belly? And what’s Bayard about, letting himself be bullied by this shite?”
“It sounds to me Bayard’s grown too feeble for the Marches,” said Joben. “Clearly he can’t even control his men. Perhaps it’s time another lord was sent to govern in his place.”
Aimery spared his nephew a frowning glance. Here was ambition, scenting the air. “I won’t deny Bayard has questions to answer. Yes, and Egbert too. But I’ll be the one asking them, Joben. And I’ll decide what’s to be done if the answers aren’t to my liking.”
“I say we call Wido’s bluff,” said Reimond. “Let him run to Roric bleating for a Crown Court. Let Roric demand one.” He smiled, grimly. “Let him demand the sun rise in the north, too, and rain fall when he farts. Since when does Harcia do as Clemen demands?”
Grefin cleared his throat. “My lords, I understand your reluctance to seem weak in the face of Wido’s threats. But let’s not forget that at the heart of this strife there lies a woman, dead.”
“A Clemen bawd,” Deness of Heems said curtly, seated across from him. “A strumpet, who lifted her skirts without care and got no more than she deserved.”
“And because the bawd was careless, Harcian men-at-arms have died!” Ferran added, glowering. “Weep for them, Grefin. Not for a wanton jade.”
“I do weep for them, Ferran,” Grefin retorted. “But you can’t dismiss this death so lightly. Murder must be answered.”
Joben scoffed. “You don’t know it’s murder! Wido calls it murder, but Bayard—”
“Bayard’s report is garbled, to say the least,” Grefin retorted. “We don’t even know yet who killed this woman, or why. What if she was innocent of any provocation? What if one of our Marcher men is guilty of the crime? Do we shield him because he’s Harcian? Do we wink at unlawful killing because the slain woman was from Clemen and kept no clean sheets?” He swept his hot gaze around the table. “My lords, if you’re seeking trouble with Roric, I say that’s a good way of finding it!”
More than muttering this time, as the council pounced on provocation. Letting their shouts wash over him, Aimery slid his half-lidded gaze sideways to Balfre, at his right hand, who was yet to speak. There was no telling from his bland expression what he thought. But surely he agreed with Reimond and the others, who thought any concession to Clemen an even greater crime than murder.
Grefin and the rest of the council were still arguing. If it weren’t so late he’d let the bickering run its course, for the pleasure of watching his son argue cantankerous Ferran into silence. But he was sixty years old, and weary, and these days ill-health rode him meanly wherever he walked.
“Enough!” he said, and slapped his palm to the table with a crack like a hunting whip. “The answer’s simple. If Wido asks his duke to call a Crown Court and Roric refuses, there the matter will end. Bayard and his men will answer for the spilled blood to us, privily. But if Roric says yea, then there will be a Crown Court, for I promise you, my lords: to refuse him will cause more bloody strife between our duchies.”
Lord Keeton, a mild man whose talents lay more in the realm of coin-counting than swordplay, smoothed back his lank hair. “And if it does come to a Crown Court, Your Grace, will you speak for Harcia?”
“What?” said Joben, appalled. “Duke Aimery defend a bawd?”
“He’d not be defending a bawd,” said Grefin. “He’d be standing for Bayard’s accused men.”
Deness of Heems was ferociously scowling. “And if it’s proven they killed her, it amounts to the same thing. Would you see your father tarnished by this, Grefin?”
As every stare turned to him, Grefin sighed. “Of course not. If there’s a Crown Court, with His Grace’s leave I’ll speak for Harcia.”
Reimond of Parsle Fountain shoved his chair back, just a little. Caring nothing for the fate of a dead bawd, and impatient to be on his way. “So, then. It’s settled?”
Every stare shifted. Feeling the weight of them, Aimery looked at his folded hands. An old man’s hands. Three knuckles were swollen, and pained him in the cold. Once-smooth skin was turned wrinkled, blotched brown, wormed with veins. It made him angry, to see them.
“No,” he said, and looked at Grefin. “I’ll not keep you kicking your heels in Cater’s Tamwell while we wait to see how this plays out. There’s a chance the Marcher lords might yet settle this themselves. And if they don’t, it could be days, or even weeks, before Roric decides for or against a Court. You’re Steward of the Green Isle. Your duties lie there.”
Shocked, his son struggled to remain respectful. “But, Your Grace—”
“Grefin.”
Grefin swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
And so he should be, letting his passion for justice trample good sense. Given the delicacy of their barely fledged negotiations with Clemen, it would be madness for Grefin to thrust himself into the harsh glare of this tawdry affair. He could be seen nowhere near important men of Clemen, could take no part in legal proceedings from which Clemen might emerge bruised… or where Harcia might be proven the troublemaker. However would Roric trust him, did he mire himself in murder?
Deness of Heems heaved a sigh that was mostly a groan. “Even so, Aimery, if worse comes to worst someone must speak for Harcia and we’re all agreed it can’t be you. Send Reimond. Or me. But—”
“I’ll do it,” Balfre said quietly. “I might lack Grefin’s broad experience as Steward, but in the last few years I’ve settled my share of disputes around the duchy.”
“That’s true,” said Ferran. “And settled them well, what’s more.”
“Your Grace.” Balfre turned. “Crown Court or no, peace must be restored in the Marches. If you send me to oil the waters, Wido can’t claim we’re treating Clemen with contempt. And whatever the truth of this woman’s death, Ferran’s right. Bayard and Egbert have failed yo
u. Who’s better placed to punish? Deness, or Reimond… or Harcia’s next duke?” His breath caught. “Meaning nothing by that, Your Grace.”
May the spirits give him strength. Both of his sons grown men, yet so afraid of what must come. “I take your meaning, Balfre, and take no harm from it. Indeed, you speak good sense.”
He let his gaze drop again, signalling his need for thought. Send Balfre to the Marches? The suggestion had merit.
If he shows himself wise in his dealings with Clemen’s Marcher lords then perhaps I can bring myself to believe Grefin’s right, and my fears for the future are unfounded.
Something he would never have considered possible, before Balfre’s heartfelt reconciliation with his brother scant hours before.
Looking up, he nodded. “Very well, Balfre. I’ll leave this sorry business in your hands. And Curteis will go to the Marches with you, for you may trust his advice as you’d trust mine.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” said Balfre, properly sober. “And thank you. I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”
“Balfre! Balfre, wait!”
Smothering impatience, Balfre slowed until Grefin caught up with him on the North Tower’s torchlit staircase, leading down to the castle’s entrance hall.
“Such a surfeit of vigour,” he complained, and clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “No wonder you and Mazelina have so many children.”
Startled, Grefin blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “’Twas a jest. And a poor one at that.”
“On you, yes,” said Grefin, discomfited. “It must be hard, after so long, to only—” He cleared his throat. “You and Jancis, have you tried–I mean to say, is there no hope you might yet—”
“What is it the exarchites preach? ‘In the divine there is always hope.’ So there you have it. Jancis prays. And I pray someone or something is listening.”