by Karen Miller
“I’m sorry.” Then Grefin smiled, a little tentative. “So. How’s your arse?”
“Still bruised,” he said, starting down the stairs again. Although deliberately losing the joust was worth a hundred bruises, to see his brother and father so eager to believe the lie. “Like my pride. But don’t apologise.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Grefin said, his smile widening to a grin. “The memory of you on the ground today will keep me warm on cold winter nights.”
Because it was necessary for Grefin to think they were friends again, true brothers, he started a mock-scuffle, as they’d scuffled in childhood with Malcolm. They took the last dozen shadow-flickered stairs down to the hall laughing and grappling, hips bumping, shoulders thumping, and laughed all the harder to see the affronted expressions on Reimond and Deness’s austere, lordly faces as the councillors made their way to the staircase leading up to the East Tower, where they were being housed during Aimery’s birthday celebrations.
Panting, Balfre tousled Grefin’s hair. “Did you want something? Or did you waylay me only to gloat?”
“Isn’t gloating enough?”
“Fuck you.”
Grefin mimed himself arrow-shot, grinning. “Muck-tongue.”
“Mankworm.”
“Mouldywarp.”
“Arselick!”
Two servants, a cord of firewood slung between them, startled as they came into the extravagantly candelit hall from the bailey.
“Now look what you’ve done,” said Grefin, nudging. “Next they’ll run weeping to Curteis and he’ll scold you all the way to the Marches.”
Balfre felt his lip curl. “I’m not in the habit of being scolded by servants.”
“Curteis is more than that, and you know it.”
Curteis was a fucking inconvenience. But no matter. Soon enough, like Grefin, he’d be swept aside.
“And Aimery’s right,” Grefin added. “He’ll serve you well, should it come to a Crown Court.” Surrendering to a yawn, he scrubbed crooked fingers through his hair. “But if I can be of any help before you ride out–if you ride out–if I’m still here? You’ve only to ask.”
With the wood-burdened servants huffing their way up the stairs to the East Tower, and everyone else safe behind chamber doors, they were alone again. Balfre felt his eyes narrow.
“I see. You think the task’s beyond me.”
“Of course I don’t! But—”
“But you’re Steward of the Green Isle… and I’m not.”
Grefin looked at him. “I thought we were past that.”
Fuck. Could he be more doltish, letting the rancor show? Lovingly, he rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We are, Gref. Long past. I meant every word I said today. I’m proud of you, and I’m sorry. If you’d not found it in your heart to forgive me…”
Grefin’s expression shifted from wary to embarrassed. “I told you, there’s nothing to forgive. The Green Isle is rightfully yours. I never should’ve said I’d take it, not even for a year. And once that year was up I shouldn’t have let Aimery talk me into staying. I should’ve argued harder. I owed you that much.”
“And if you had, would he have listened?”
“Most likely not,” Grefin muttered. “But I should’ve tried.”
Once, that admission would’ve counted for something, perhaps even healed the unhealed wound in his heart. Instead, the wound tore wider. Because he knew now how false his brother was. What a traitor he’d become, in league with Aimery against Harcia. Wooing Clemen. Offering the hand of friendship to that usurping bastard Roric.
Life is most strange. If Grefin had stood firm, if the Green Isle had come to me as I wanted, I might never have learned what he and Aimery are planning. And being ignorant, I’d have been too late to save us.
Seething, he pulled his brother close, held him tight. Conjured tears, because tears were important when selling a lie, even to the gullible. “It means everything, Gref, that you forgive me. And I want to tell you something, that I need you to believe. I’m well-pleased not to be Steward. You’re where you should be, on the Green Isle. And I’m where I must be, here, learning how best I can keep Harcia safe. If you never trust another word I say, trust that.”
“I do,” said Grefin, tightening his grasp.
He wanted to laugh at that. Instead, he forced a kind of choked sob. “Good. But don’t think you won’t be the one hitting the ground arse-first next time we joust.”
“There’s a fine boast!”
Stepping out of his brother’s embrace, he grinned. “Not a boast. A promise. Tell me, Gref, would you really school me so I’ll not make a fool of myself in the Marches?”
“Of course.”
“Then school me now. Tell me what you’ve learned on the Green Isle that I should know. It’s too early for bed. And besides…” He grimaced. “I’m in no mood for Jancis. If you love me, keep me from her. We’re happiest apart.”
Grefin’s lingering smile faded. “Balfre—”
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “You’ll be wasting your breath. Now come, my lord Steward. Let’s walk Tamwell’s wall together and talk of happier things. Like murder.”
Emeline had taken poorly, soon after the feast.
“She’s like me,” said Jancis, bathing her feverish daughter’s brow with lavender water. “The smallest morsel of rich food and her belly revolts. I did warn her not to indulge, but…”
Mazelina dipped a fresh linen cloth into the half-full pewter basin on the bedchamber floor. “But like any child, she doesn’t care to seem different.” She frowned. “I hope her cousins didn’t incite her.”
“Even if they did, Emeline knows better. This will be a lesson for her. Disobedience is always punished.”
And there was Jancis in a nutshell.
“Still. You can’t really blame her, not wanting to miss out on a pleasure. Especially when my brood gobbles everything in sight without so much as a hiccup.”
“Indeed.” With an effort Jancis smiled, half-hearted. “They’re fine, healthy children, Mazelina. Life on the Green Isle suits them.”
“It might suit Emeline, too. I wish you’d bring her for a visit, Jancis. I’m sure you’d do well away from court for a little time.”
Jancis looked down at her sadly plain, afflicted daughter. “Away from Balfre, you mean.”
“No, that’s not what I—” Only it was, and they both knew it. Biting her lip, Mazelina twisted moisture from the lavender-scented cloth. “It hurts to know you’re so unhappy. You deserve better. Perhaps were Balfre deprived of your company for a month or more he’d learn to appreciate—”
“It would make no difference,” Jancis said calmly, exchanging her used cloth for the fresh one. “Even when he’s here, he scarcely notices me. Save for fucking, when the need arises. When he’s not scratched that itch elsewhere.”
“Jancis!” She looked quickly at Emeline, but the child was restlessly fretful, her eyes barely open. “That’s a dreadful thing to say. Especially in front of—”
“The truth is often dreadful. As for my daughter, you may believe she’s heard worse.”
The trouble was she did believe it. Every time she and Grefin came back to court she was vividly reminded of what a misery her goodsister’s marriage had become. The unfairness of Jancis’s predicament cut her, knife-like. Made her feel guilty for her own unclouded happiness.
“Don’t reproach yourself, Mazelina,” Jancis said, reaching out. “Or fear that I begrudge you the joy I’m denied. Do you think I’d see the world weeping because I can’t laugh?”
Or bear a son. And here she sat, with two. Her vision blurred. “The Green Isle is an old land, Jancis. I’ve met herb-women there with healing powers so strong they put Tamwell’s leech to shame. If you’d come, if you’d let them—”
“Do what? Feed me foul potions? Gabble pagan chants over my shrivelled, barren womb?” Jancis withdrew her hand. “I won’t do that. Not even for a son.”
“But i
f they worked, Jancis. If it meant you could give Aimery’s heir an heir, then surely—”
Jancis turned away. “At the cost of my soul? I thought you cared for me, Mazelina.”
“You sound like an exarchite,” she said, staring.
“So what if I do? The Exarch’s priests have been a great comfort. When I falter, they keep me strong.”
“So you’ve considered it?”
“Of course! Even though Balfre forbade me. But the exarchites showed me I was wrong.”
“Oh, Jancis. What do those grey men know of how a woman suffers?”
“And you?” Jancis bent again over her daughter, smoothing dull, mousey hair back from her damp cheek. “What do you know of it?”
She leapt up. “I thought you said you don’t begrudge me?”
“I’m sorry,” Jancis said, flushing. “I know you mean well. But you can’t help me, Mazelina. No one can. Aimery refuses to sunder my marriage. And so long as the duke is obdurate, Balfre and I must endure.”
“So you’ve asked him? Aimery?”
Jancis sighed. “I’ve begged him. Many times. The last time, he forbade me to mention it again.”
“And Balfre?”
Instead of answering, Jancis again cooled Emeline’s over-heated skin. She was as pale as her daughter was flushed, and her thin, near-translucent hand trembled.
Frightened, Mazelina crouched at her side, by Emeline’s low bed. “Jancis? What’s Balfre done?”
Another pallid smile. “Tell me. You and Grefin. You confide in each other?”
“Of course,” she said, cautious. “But if you’re worried I’ll tattle your confidences then—”
“Balfre tells me nothing.” Jancis looked up, her gaze unseeing. “Days go by, and we hardly speak.”
“But?” she said gently, so full of sorrow her throat hurt.
Jancis shrugged. “He’s my husband, and I know him. Better than he thinks. People call him a hot-head. And I’ll not deny his temper.” Her hand crept to her cheek, as though remembering a blow. “But he’s changed, Mazelina. He used to blurt things out in anger, or when he was in his cups. Not any more. He holds his tongue, these days. He knows raging isn’t the only way to get what he wants.”
“And what’s that?”
“Freedom,” Jancis whispered. “When Aimery dies he’ll be free. Of me. Of Emeline.” She released a shuddering breath. “It won’t be long now, surely. Aimery’s an old, sick man. Balfre knows all he has to do is wait. And if he can wait, so can I. He’s not the only one chafing for freedom.”
Jancis sounded so bleak she wanted to weep. Started to say something, then turned as she heard the outer chamber’s door open.
“That’s Balfre,” said Jancis, tightly. “You should go.”
There was no use protesting the fear in her. The resignation. Jancis was right. Until Aimery died she was trapped here. Until Aimery died, she had to endure.
“Fair Mazelina,” Balfre greeted her, as she met him in the outer chamber. “Did you come seeking Grefin?”
“No, to gossip with Jancis. I miss her, on the Green Isle.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
For Grefin’s sake she tried to like him, but he made it almost impossible. “You should go to her, Balfre. Emeline is ill.”
“Again?” he said, indifferent.
Not knowing how to answer that, she searched his handsome face instead. The man who’d opened his heart to Grefin, who’d admitted his faults with grieving eyes. Was he real? Was he this man? Could she trust him with her husband, who needed so badly to trust?
Balfre tilted his head. “I’ve made you angry.”
“A little,” she admitted. “But then few men are born to be great fathers.”
“Like Grefin.” His jaw tightened. “And Aimery.”
“Aimery?” She hesitated. Then, striving to be just, remembering that if Jancis was trapped in misery so was he, she sighed. “I’d not call Aimery perfect.”
A flicker of surprise. “No? Best you don’t repeat that where Gref can hear you.”
“Where Grefin loves, he oft loves blindly. He’ll forgive any hurt done him, no matter how cruel. Which means those who love him must be less forgiving.”
“Why, Mazelina,” he said, amused. “Is that a warning?”
She tilted her chin. “If you like.”
Laughing, Balfre kissed her forehead. “Good night, dove. You’ll find Grefin in your chambers.”
He was right. She did. And, standing unnoticed in the doorway watching the lordly Steward of the Green Isle blunder about the room on hands and knees, their three crowing children crowded on his back, didn’t realise she was weeping until he at last saw her there.
“Mazelina! What’s amiss?”
“Amiss?” Feeling the dampness on her cheeks, she hurriedly smeared them dry. “Oh, nothing. Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
Ullia, dark curls bouncing, waved her plump little arms. “Mama! Mama! Come play! You can be my warhorse. We’ll joust Jorin and Kerric and make them fall off!”
“Ninnypants!” Jorin scoffed, and poked her with his elbow. “Girls don’t joust!”
Ullia’s lower lip quivered. “I can joust if I want. Can’t I joust, Papa?”
“Well, Mama?” said Grefin, catching wriggly Kerric’s ankle with one hand to stop him sliding onto the floor. “Can she?”
Turning, Mazelina closed the chamber door. Took that moment to breathe deep, until she knew she could trust herself to speak. There was nothing she could do for Jancis, or poor unwanted Emeline. All she could do was love her own family… and pray that one day her happiness might become theirs.
She turned back again, showing them nothing but delight. “Of course she can, my lord Steward! Come along, Ullia. I’ll be your fearless warhorse–and we’ll make ninnypants of them!”
Leaving Jancis to nurse her useless, sickly daughter, Balfre spent the night in their apartment’s outer chamber, slumped in a chair by the fire. He was too het up for sleep. For the first time since he’d stumbled across that fucking letter from Roric, he could see a chance to thwart Aimery’s puling plan for peace with Clemen. And all thanks to a Clemen whore, who’d got herself murdered in the Marches.
There was justice in that. A glorious retribution.
Though some of the council doubted, he considered it almost certain a Crown Court would be convened. Far less certain, and most surprising, Aimery’s decision to let his unwanted heir speak for Harcia. He’d offered himself to show willing, not because he thought his father would agree. Yet more retribution. The unseen powers were on his side. So he didn’t dare waste the opening they’d given him. Had to turn uproar to his advantage, use every weapon he could find in the pursuit of his grand dream.
The rightful conquering of Clemen.
As night trudged towards dawn he kept the fire in the hearth burning and let his imagination run riot. Considered this thought, discarded that one until, like a puzzle, a plan began to take shape. It was made up of many pieces: the bits of advice Grefin had offered him as they tramped Tamwell’s wall… the letter he’d taken from the trader, Culpyn, in Roric’s handwriting… his own skill with pen and ink, the gaining of which he’d once resented… and the friends he’d made, and how best he could use them.
Hours later, the sun rose slovenly beyond the castle’s thick stone walls. Fingers of daylight pushed between the outer chamber’s barred shutters to lie idle on the floor. His empty belly rumbled. His full bladder complained. He heard the drift of voices from the bailey far below. Caught the scent of baking bread wafting up from the ovens.
Tamwell was awake.
Hastily breakfasted, and changed into a gold-embroidered russet doublet and sober black hose, Balfre took himself downstairs to the bailey’s stables.
“My lord,” said Waymon, surprised to see him, and let go his stallion’s hind hoof. “Do you need something?”
The stables were bustling. Too many pricked ears. “I do, Waymon,” he said. “
Walk with me.”
They left behind the restless horses, the scurrying stable boys, and the farrier roaring his forge to hot life. Waymon, blindly trusting, let himself be led over the causeway and onto the narrow path that threaded dangerously along the edge of the cliff overlooking the river.
Reaching the one place along the cliff path that kept them hidden from curious eyes, Balfre halted and turned. “Forgive the mystery, Waymon. But we mustn’t be overheard.”
“My lord,” Waymon said, his pockmarked face tightening, “I know there’s trouble. My father keeps council discretion, but I can tell he’s worried.”
Balfre nodded. “There’s been a murder in the Marches. The bastard Roric intends to throw it at Harcia’s feet. Worse, he’s made our Marcher lords uncertain of their loyalty.”
“Bayard and Egbert?” Waymon gaped. “Suborned to treachery?”
“I fear so.”
Shaken, Waymon looked down at the distant river, and the flat-hulled barges floating their ponderous way towards Cater’s Tamwell. On the fresh morning breeze, the skirling shriek of a hunting eagle.
“Fuck, Balfre,” he said at last, “this is terrible news.”
“And with Clemen ruled by that murdering bastard Roric, I fear there’s worse to come. But you can’t whisper a word of this, my friend. The stakes are too high.”
“Of course, my lord. My lips are stitched.” Waymon dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “What’s to be done with them? Bayard, and Egbert.”
“Nothing kind. Waymon…” He folded his arms, like a man struggling against some great pain. “Do you love me?”
Waymon’s eyes widened. “My lord, you know I do.”
“And if I commanded a task of you? Something difficult. Something… dark.”
“Then I’d do it. Without question.”
He hid a smile. “Even though your hands may be stained with blood? Harcian, as well as Clemen?”
“Anything,” Waymon said, vehement, his mud-brown stare intense. “Name it.”
“Ah, Waymon.” Balfre embraced him. “I knew I could count on you.”
Waymon hesitated, then returned the embrace. As though they were brothers. “Always. Never doubt it. I’m your man till the day I die.”