by Karen Miller
She wanted to rock and whimper, but she’d only fright her little lamb. He was snuggled in her lap, grown too big for cuddling really, he was such a big, strong boy. But cuddling comforted both of them. She was mother and sister to him. He was her lambkin, her treasure, the reason she drew breath.
Should she run with him? She could run. Only he loved living here in the Marches. In the busy Pig Whistle Inn. He loved Benedikt, as good as his brother. Running from Benedikt would break his little heart. Besides, where could she take him that wouldn’t plunge them both into peril? Not Harcia. Not back to Clemen. There was the Marches. Nowhere else. Besides. Here in the Pig Whistle, she wasn’t a lowly, hardly noticed wet nurse. So many people knew her now. Knew her face, knew her false name. And they knew Liam.
And most everyone hereabouts knows Molly, one way or another. If I run, I’ll make her angry. She loves Liam too. Far and wide she’ll tell folk, don’t trust a hair on that Alys girl’s head. She mistreated that boy and stole him and I want him back. And they’ll listen, ’cause she’s Molly. They’ll hunt us down, and catch us.
And what would happen to Liam then?
Safe in her arms, he wriggled. “Ow, Ellyn! Ow!”
“Sorry, lamb,” she said, loosening her hold. “Didn’t mean to squash.”
He looked at her, puzzled. “Ellyn? Has one of them rough’uns hurt ye? I’ll fix him. You tell me who he is.”
Oh, the faeries protect him. Six years old he was, a little boy… with the courage of a man. Of a duke.
She kissed his forehead. “Nothing’s the matter, lamb. Come, let’s finish your story. And then, cos you’re a good boy, I’ll tell you about the feast the duke held when you were born.”
Later, when her sweet Liam was asleep in his truckle bed under the attic chamber’s shuttered window, she lay in the dark and tried to calm her pounding heart. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. And the lords of Clemen coming…
Oh, spirits, help me. We have to keep Liam safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Riding at a slow jog-trot to the first day of the Crown Court, in company with Humbert and Clemen’s herald and its ruinously inept Marcher lords and the two Marcher men who’d failed to save the Clemen woman and instead spilled Harcian blood, Vidar counted himself most harshly used. For surely it was a sour jest on Humbert’s part to bring him to this misbegotten wasteland now, of all times: fourteen years almost to the day since last he’d set foot in the Marches. Fourteen years since he lost his eye and the good use of his leg, battling Harcia. When every bright dream he’d had for himself had floundered and foundered in a gushing of blood.
It had to be deliberate. Humbert had been there the day he was so grievously wounded, along with the lords Grevill and Mostyn and six men-at-arms. Harcian’s men had come upon them in the shadowy depths of Barrows Wood, a part of the Marches counted as Clemen’s domain. Chastened Wido ruled there now, but then the task had fallen to Grevill. He’d died defending his territory, along with two of his men. And of those who survived, not a one escaped blooding. Not even Humbert, and in his day he’d been fearsome with a sword. Of them all, his own wounds were the worst. He’d come perilously close to joining Grevill in death.
Everything blighted in his life could be traced back to that maiming.
And yet, remembering it all, as he must, Humbert would still drag him back here. Why him? Why not Aistan? His soon-to-be goodfather was a greater lord than disgraced Godebert’s son and had fought in the Marches with distinction more times than the man on the brink of marrying his daughter. That business with the bribed leeches was a feeble excuse for Humbert to use.
For all his bluster, he’s a patient shite. This is his chance to punish me for taking a seat on the council. Not a day in his life has he wanted to share anything with me. Not a laugh, not Lindara… and for certain, not power.
A fist thumped to his knee jolted him back to his surroundings.
“Pay attention, Vidar!” Humbert growled, riding beside him. “Precious little use you’ll be here if you can’t keep your wits from wandering!”
With some effort he bit back an acid reply. For Clemen’s sake its great lords must be seen in accord. The bloody aftermath of murder had left Clemen’s men-at-arms on the jitter. Knowing their own lords had failed them, they looked to the duke’s councillors for the justice they deserved. And with rumours of evil omens flying thick as snow in winter, he and Humbert couldn’t be seen at each other’s throats. So he swallowed fresh resentment and showed Lindara’s father a meek face.
“I’m sorry, my lord. You said something?”
Humbert heaved an impatient sigh. “I said are you certain you’ve a grasp of the facts in this matter? For we’ll reach the Pig Whistle shortly, and for Roric’s sake I’ll not have you ill-prepared.”
The question was as good as an insult. Over the past five days he and Humbert had kept close in Wido’s manor house, doing little more than strip this matter’s carcase to its bones. They’d mercilessly interrogated Wido and Jacott–the lazy fools, grown fat and complacent in their little fiefdoms. When all was said and done they’d be answering to Roric for their costly mistakes. Inskip and his fellow survivor Sorren were closely examined too. No fault there, they’d done what they could. The murdered woman’s husband told them of the other times his dead wife had been rudely accosted by Harcian men-at-arms not kept in check by any lord. A whole day, they’d spent, talking to Clemen’s Marcher folk, and many a similar tale were they told. So yes, he was comfortably acquainted with the facts. But if he answered the insult, not the question, he might start something he couldn’t finish. At least not without risking his place at court.
And without court, there was no Lindara.
“I’m tolerably sure I’ll not disgrace you, my lord,” he replied, perfectly courteous. “But feel free to examine me, if you like.”
That earned him a glower. “Am I your bloody tutor, then?”
“No, my lord. I’d just have you confident I won’t take a false step.”
Humbert grunted, then lapsed into silence.
The road taking them to the Pig Whistle meandered through sparse, straggling woodland. The morning was cool, the air damp, echoing with the muffled clop-clop of hooves striking hard-baked earth softened by a recent storm.
Feeling the ache building deep in his hip, because time in the saddle and damp weather always woke his lightly sleeping pain, Vidar denied the urge to press fingers into his scarred flesh. Weakness revealed would be his undoing–and not only because Humbert looked for it. Harcia’s wolves would be seeking it too. Especially Aimery’s heir. Of late Balfre had earned a reputation for dispensing harsh justice… and his lack of love for Clemen was hardly a secret. What might have been swiftly dealt with had a different Harcian lord been sent to the Marches–Balfre’s gentler brother, Grefin, say–now promised to be a protracted, hard-fought affair.
Curse it.
Someone riding behind him exploded into a volley of ripe sneezes. It sounded like Wido, also feeling the damp. He and Jacott, kept company by Herald Dunsten, trotted in front of the two witnessing men-at-arms, Inskip and Sorren, and another score of men besides. The men-at-arms rode their tough Marches horses, but Clemen’s lords and its herald sat astride conspicuously unwarlike palfreys. And though every man making his way to the Crown Court wore a dagger sheathed at his hip, swords had been left behind at the manor house or the barracks. Likewise they rode without benefit of mail, or even boiled leather armour. A strict rule of the Crown Court. Bloodshed lay in the past. This was a time for peace and brotherly reconciliation. Any man, even a lord, who broke the law by being martial would receive an uncompromising rebuke from the Court, and face far worse than that on his return home.
As the road began curving lazily leftwards, Dunsten urged his lean, caparisoned horse forward.
“Lord Humbert, Lord Vidar,” he said, joining them. “The Pig Whistle inn lies just around this bend.”
And so it did, and there it was, sunlit i
n the distance. Remembering, Vidar frowned. “I hope their ale’s improved, Dunsten. It was sorely flat, the last time I was here.”
“Clap tongue, Vidar,” said Humbert. “Dunsten, ride on. Warn the innkeeper we’re coming.”
So warned, there were eager boys ready to take their horses once they’d dismounted in the Pig Whistle’s tidy forecourt. Dunsten, looking relieved, told Humbert that Balfre and his people were yet to arrive. The innkeeper, a tall, broad woman, curtsied indiscriminately and bade them welcome.
“And if ye be hungered or thirsty, m’lords, there be ale and cider and pies we’ll serve ye. Ye need only to ask.” She gestured at the trestle boards and benches set up along the low wall furthest from the inn’s open front doors. “All be made ready in the public room for the court, so I thought to serve ye out here.”
“Cider,” said Humbert. “For we want clear heads.”
The woman curtsied again. “Iss, m’lord.”
As Humbert gathered with Wido and Jacott, beard bristling as he reminded them, yet again, of how to conduct themselves in the court, Vidar idly followed the woman inside and took his time wandering around the room. Nodding approval at the arrangement of tables and benches for the legal proceedings, he was startled by the splash and clatter of tankards dropping to the floor. He turned awkwardly, pain hissing air between clenched teeth, to see a serving girl standing before him, her apron cider-soaked, her face stricken as she stared.
“Alys! Ye clumsy wench!” the innkeeper shouted, carrying her own tray laden with foam-topped tankards.
The maid crouched, face hidden as she scrabbled for the tankards she’d carelessly dropped. “Sorry, Molly. Sorry.”
“Do that again and I’ll show ye sorry on yer skinny arse. Just ye—”
“Lord Vidar?”
He turned back, to see Dunsten in the public room’s doorway. “What?”
“Lord Humbert asks that you join him. Count Balfre and his Marcher lords have come.”
Leaving the innkeeper to her scolding of the stupid wench, he followed Dunsten out to the crowded forecourt, which was heaving like an anthill with the arrival of Harcian lords and men and horses… and its next duke.
Though he’d never before laid eyes on Balfre, there was no mistaking Aimery’s arrogant heir. And not because he wore gold-stitched leather, and pearl-sewn velvet, and rings worth as much as Roric’s three best horses. No. Authority was stamped into him like a master swordmaker’s mark on his finest blade. And like an unsheathed sword, he stood before grizzled, aged Humbert, glittering in the cool sunlight and honed to a killing edge.
“Lord Humbert,” he said, his dark head briefly dipped. “I give you Duke Aimery’s cordial greetings.”
“And I Duke Roric’s greetings to him,” Humbert replied. Though his attire was rich in its own right, compared to Balfre he looked dull. “And you. Count Balfre, here is Lord Vidar, a trusted member of my duke’s council.”
Watching Balfre watch his limping approach through the noisy mill and roil, Vidar saw in the man’s eyes an indifferent curiosity… and a kind of impatient contempt. As though crippling wounds sustained in battle were somehow an affront. As though no man worth his mettle would choose to live a cripple rather than die.
“Count Balfre,” he said, halting. “’Tis a pity to meet like this.”
Balfre smiled, a swift sneer. “My lord, ’tis a pity to meet.”
“Count Balfre! Count Balfre! Lord Waymon rides for us as though a soul-eater were after him! ’Ware riot, my lord!”
And that was Pero, Harcia’s herald, shouting from the middle of the crossroad outside the inn. The note of alarm in his voice alarmed all four Marcher lords and their men. Hands slapped to daggers. Heads lifted like scenting hounds, eyes narrowing, shoulders bracing. Enticed by trouble, men-at-arms spilled out of the forecourt to meet riot with bared teeth.
“Wido! Jacott!” Humbert bellowed. “Tell your men to hold fast! Balfre—” He raised a warning fist. “Tell your lords to do the same! This is a Crown Court, there can be no—”
“The Court’s not convened yet,” Balfre retorted. “And Waymon is my man.”
Spitting curses like broken teeth, Humbert shoved after Balfre as he forged a path through their menacing me and into the road. Painfully aware of his one eye and aching hip, Vidar limped in their wake.
Balfre’s leather-clad man Waymon, fair-haired, his lean face knife-scarred and full of danger, hauled his sweat-foamed horse to a rearing halt. The bloodstained body slung over its neck slid free to thud onto the muddy ground.
“My lord Balfre! My lord—” Panting, Waymon leapt from his saddle. “Ride for Harcia! We are betrayed!”
“How betrayed?” Balfre demanded. “Waymon—”
With a shuddering groan Waymon pressed a hand to his side then held it out, blood-soaked, for everyone to see. “My lord,” he said, choking with pain. “As I rode to join you I came across this scoundrel. Something about him raised my hackles. And when I challenged him, he attempted my life! I had to kill him, or let him kill me. Count Balfre, he is Clemen’s man.”
“What?” Astonished, Humbert looked at Balfre. “This is not Clemen’s man. All my men are here with me!”
“Are they?” With a fierce look, Balfre bent over the body and rolled it face up. Then he stepped back, pale with fury, and pointed to the emblem stitched on its dirty tunic. “That is a falcon badge, Humbert. Only a man of Clemen might wear it. And those colours, bronze and black? Duke Roric’s colours, I believe!”
Humbert was staring at the dead man. “I don’t know him,” he insisted. “I’ve never once in my life laid eyes on him. Have you, Vidar?”
He limped closer. Frowned down at the dead man’s blood-and-mud smeared face. “No, my lord. Never.”
“So you deny him,” said Balfre, as Harcia’s Marcher lords and men muttered, an ugly sound. “And will you also deny the bleeding wound he opened in my good friend’s side? Perhaps you’ll claim Waymon plunged a dagger into himself!”
“No,” said Humbert. “But—”
“But what, my lord?”
Humbert raised his fist again, shook it at Balfre. Turned his glare on Harcia’s Marcher lords, then on Clemen’s. “This is not my doing! Nor can any man lay it at the feet of my duke! Wido! Jacott! Is this your mischief?”
“No, Lord Humbert,” said Wido, his own glare aimed at the Harcians. “I say this is Bayard and Egbert’s foul mashery, so they might escape blame for an innocent woman’s death!”
“That’s a lie, you poxed mule!” Bayard of Harcia retorted. “This is none of our doing. And it was your men maimed and killed mine after they murdered their own cunting whore!”
“Clap tongue, every one of you!” Humbert shouted above the rising discord. “Or I’ll—”
“Have a care, Humbert,” said Balfre, his face wolfish. “Lay your hand on a man of Harcia and I’ll take it from you with a single blow. And if you think I can’t, my lord, ask your friend Vidar. He knows a Harcian blade cuts cleanly. Don’t you, Vidar?”
Hatred rose in him, so thick and hot he almost spat it out. “I know Harcians are cowards who attempt the lives of women and children.”
“And which one are you?” With a derisive laugh, Aimery’s dangerous son bent again to the dead man and began to unlace the corpse’s blood-soaked clothing. Humbert stepped forward in protest.
“What are you doing, Balfre? Leave the man be!”
“But he’s not a Clemen man, Humbert,” said Balfre, with a scathing glance. “So why should you care if–ah. And what is this?”
Triumphant, he withdrew a letter from inside the dead man’s tunic. The folded, sealed rush-paper was partly soaked in blood. Balfre peered at it.
“A missive,” he said, frowning. “For Lord Humbert.”
Humbert held out a shaking hand. “Then give it to me!”
“No,” said Balfre, and ripped the letter open, scattering shards of cracked wax. “ ‘Humbert’,” he read aloud. “Upon reflection, I
cannot believe we’ll find either justice or Harcian friendship in the Marches. Aimery is duplicitous, like every Harcian duke before him. I’ve no doubt this Crown Court will be a sham. Therefore you’ll show the Harcian murderers no mercy and obtain their swift deaths. Roric.”
A brief, shocked hush, and then a furious outcry as the four Marcher lords and their men began hurling curses and threats and spittle at each other. The wounded man Waymon turned from Balfre’s side and started berating Wido and Jacott.
“Give that letter to me, I said!” Humbert shouted over the uproar, and lunged to snatch it out of Balfre’s grasp. “I’ll decide for myself if the curs’t thing’s genuine, my lord!”
With Balfre not arguing, or attempting to retrieve his prize, Humbert retreated a little distance and turned his back on Aimery’s son. Vidar joined him. Seeing the familiar pen strokes on the bloodstained rush-paper, he felt his guts cramp.
“I don’t understand,” Humbert muttered, as he closely examined the letter. “Surely Roric’s still in Cassinia. If he’d returned we would know. So how could he have written–and yet—” He thrust the letter sideways. The signature’s ruined with blood but it is his penmanship. Wouldn’t you say?”
Warily, Vidar nodded. “I would. And though it’s bloodstained, that looks like his signature. Perhaps Master Blane sent him word of the Crown Court. It is common knowledge in the duchy now.”
“Warned him by pigeon? That could be,” Humbert admitted, reluctant. “I suppose.”
“But this.” He tapped the rush-paper. “Harcian friendship. Humbert, what does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Humbert said, scowling. “Ask Roric, when next you see him.”
He didn’t know? Acutely aware of the shouting and threats and curses flying behind them, Vidar stared at the letter. His guts were cramping again. Because he thought Humbert did know. He thought Humbert was lying. But why? What was Lindara’s father trying to hide?
Then, before he could challenge the old bastard, Balfre approached, wounded Waymon a half-pace behind. “My lord Humbert! I’ll have your answer. Did your duke pen the letter, or no?”