The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  “A wild man for a wild place,” he’d replied. “Have no fear, my friend. I’ll handle him.”

  Only Lowis had been indifferent. Lowis, whose cruel streak was less reliable than Waymon’s, but who’d make a useful messenger… and a blunt instrument, now and then.

  He’d expected their disappointment. But it would count for nothing, in the end. One day he’d be their duke. Their riches–their lives–dependent upon his largess. Let them pout. It didn’t hurt him. All he had to do was snap his fingers and they’d come to heel.

  After carousing a while with his lords, he left them to their belching and made his way around the hall, speaking to every noble guest and every merchant summoned by Aimery to bid him farewell. He spoke last of all with feeble Herewart.

  “My lord,” he said, kneeling beside the wit-wandered old rump. “Once I did you a grave wrong, and I never begged your pardon. So I beg it now, and thank you for the gift of friendship with your heir. Paithan does you proud, Herewart, as I hope to do my father proud while I serve him in the Marches.”

  Herewart’s rheumy gaze roamed his face. “I do pardon you, Balfre,” he said, his voice cracked and seamed beyond its years. Grief for Hughe had broken him, and he’d never mended after. “You’re to be my Paithan’s duke, so I’d not have us cross-purposed. He tells me you’re a changed man and if he says so, I’ll believe it.”

  All around them, nods and murmurs of approval. Balfre bowed his head in a show of grateful humility, then shifted his gaze just far enough to look at the high table. His father was smiling. Grefin was smiling. Even his useless, barren bitch of a wife was smiling. As pleased to see him go as he was to leave, most like. Only Mazelina’s eyes were cool and guarded, watching him. But then, for all her pretending at friendship, she’d ever been his enemy. It didn’t matter. His brother’s wife would be dealt with in time.

  When I’m king and she’s no one. Her fucking time will come then.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Molly was in the kitchen, stirring a fragrantly simmering pot of rabbit stew, when Iddo pushed his way past the leather curtain.

  “Moll.”

  One look at his face told the tale. More trouble. Biting her lip, she glanced at the boys, sat quiet at the table eating their noon meal of bread and cheese and pickled onions. Willem was woebegone, missing Alys, and Benedikt was woebegone for him. She had them sleeping in her chamber now, because of Willem’s bad dreams over the girl’s death.

  She still regretted it, causing Willem pain. And lying to Iddo, who could never know the truth. But what did it matter that she was pricked with miscomfort? Her lies, and what she’d done, kept them safe from the peril that dreadful, deceitful Alys had plunged them into. And with a tad more time gone by Willem would surely stop dreaming–and screaming.

  Iddo slapped the wall. “Moll. Ye’ve got to come. It be them feggit lords again.”

  “Which lords?” she muttered. “To my mind they be all of ’em feggits.”

  “Balfre and Vidar.”

  Vidar. Her heart pounded. Of all the lords to be put in charge of Clemen’s Marcher lands, why did it have to be him, a man who’d spent time at dead Harald’s court? Afraid Iddo would see her fear, which would only stir him up, she plunged her wooden spoon back into the rabbit stew.

  “What d’they want?”

  “I didn’t ask!” Iddo said, astonished. “Think I want a dagger ’twixt my ribs, woman, asking them two lords their business?”

  Frowning, she jerked her chin at the boys. Mind yer tongue, man. “Don’t be foolish. ’Tis a reasonable question.”

  “Iss,” Iddo retorted. “But ye know as well as I do, Moll, they b’aint reasonable men!”

  Swallowing a curse, Molly clapped the lid back on the cast-iron stew pot. Teased to leaping at shadows, Iddo was, these past few days–and the faeries knew he wasn’t alone. Three days before, word had reached the Whistle that Aimery’s son Balfre was returned as Harcia’s new Marcher lord. Nobody she spoke to since was frolicsome at the news. Bad enough that familiar Jacott was on his slow way back to Eaglerock, too hurt ever to sit another horse, Izusa said, with crippled Vidar left behind in his place. There were whispers already from Clemen’s men-at-arms, on how stern and unforgiving he was. Him and his man Egann. Wicked hard, both of them. Now here was Balfre, the son of Harcia’s duke, and the Crown Court slaughter had shown them the kind of man he was. So what hope for peace and quiet did the poor Marches have, with those two brawling lords holding all the power and no one to caution them?

  She’d told Izusa there’d be trouble. For once she wished she was wrong.

  “Molly,” Iddo said, nervously impatient. “What be amiss with ye? Them lords—”

  “I know, I know,” she said, wiping her damp palms on her apron. “Where are they?”

  “In the forecourt. I did bid ’em to hold there, so they could speak private if needed.”

  Clever thinking. But if she didn’t play the welcoming innkeep they’d be under her feet soon enough. And above all things she had to keep Vidar away from Willem. “I’ll see to ’em. Best ye get back to the bar. Boys, ye bide here.”

  Making her way through the public room, she frowned her dozen or so busybody guests to prudent silence. Then, as she stepped over her own threshold and into the forecourt, she felt her heart sink, because them feggit lords were facing each other like tomcats and Aimery’s handsome son Balfre, he had such a smile on his face.

  “—reward for your courage you’re exiled to the Marches,” he was saying. “Perhaps next time you’ll think twice before thinking to slit my throat.”

  “My lords!” she said loudly. “Be ye both welcome again to the Pig Whistle. Was it ale ye wanted? Some tasty beef pottage, perhaps?”

  Both lords looked at her, shining in velvet and glittering with jewels. Refusing to wilt under their scrutiny, she lifted her chin. No curtsy this time. They owed her for all the spilled blood no amount of scrubbing could get out of her floor.

  “Count Balfre and I would discuss Marcher affairs,” said Lord Vidar, his voice cool. “You must have a room set aside for privy matters.”

  “Iss, my lord,” she said. “I do.”

  “Take us to it and make sure we’re not—”

  As his one-eyed stare moved past her, she heard the patter-patter shuffle of small footsteps and two smothered voices. She turned. Benedikt and Willem, agoggle in the public room’s open doorway. And what was Iddo doing, to let them slip by? Useless man.

  Dry-mouthed, she raised her hand to them. “Into the kitchen, ye rompish goblins, or I’ll be breaking a wooden spoon across yer skinny arses!”

  Her boys retreated, unwilling, eyes wide as they took in the splendidly dressed Marcher lords.

  “My sons,” she said, turning back. Feeling sick. She didn’t dare look at Vidar’s face. “Naughty but no harm in ’em. My lords, if ye’d follow me?”

  She led them into the Whistle and up to the small, pleasantly furnished chamber kept aside for important guests. Hurried downstairs to dish pottage into her best bowls. Thrust the steaming bowls on their serving tray at Iddo, told him to draw two tankards of their best ale and take it all up to their lordships, fended off questions from the public room and escaped back into the kitchen. It took every bit of strength she had not to heave her guts into the sink.

  Now she knew how Alys had felt. Heartshot. Beyond terror. She could feel the nervous boys behind her, waiting for a scold. In front of her the rabbit stew simmered on the hob. Upstairs, over her head, Lord Vidar of Clemen was eating her pottage and drinking her ale. Vidar, who’d known Duke Harald. And here was Harald’s son under his feet.

  Vidar saw him. He saw Willem. And no matter how I try to stop it, he’ll likely see the boy again. Or one of his fancy friends from Eaglerock will see him. They’ll see him, and see Harald in him. It only be a matter of time. And then–and then—

  They’d take Willem. They’d take the Pig Whistle. To keep, or to burn. They’d take her and they’d take
Iddo and like as not hang them both. And Benedikt, her precious Benedikt, he’d be orphaned and alone. Or they could hang him too. Clemen’s lords in Eaglerock pretended to care for the Marches but that was mostly for show. Mostly they cared because the Marches kept Harcia at arm’s length. Marcher folk didn’t matter. What was one hanged boy to them?

  Lord Wido cared for us, but he’s dead. Lord Jacott cared, but he’s gone. And I’d hang myself afore believing Lord Vidar would lift a finger to save Benedikt’s life.

  So the burden was hers. Again. Protecting her boys, the Pig Whistle, Iddo? It was for her to do. Again. And having killed to protect them, what wouldn’t she do?

  As though she watched another woman, she watched her hands reach for the bubbling pot of stew.

  Ye can’t. He’s a little boy. He meant no harm. Ye could kill him.

  But even as the words wailed inside her head she was picking up the cast-iron pot and swinging round, swinging hard, knowing exactly where innocent Willem stood.

  They sat opposite each other in the Pig Whistle’s small upstairs chamber, both pretending they were alone. Pretending they’d come for a meal, nothing more. But even though the pottage was tasty, the ale rich and deep, Vidar thought he might as well be eating dirt and drinking swill.

  He’d been a fool to demand this meeting. Balfre couldn’t help himself; the shite offered insults the way marshland belched noxious fumes. Why had Aimery’s heir even bothered to come? Not to admit any faults on Harcia’s part, that much was plain. The bastard—

  From below stairs, muffled, a woman’s cry. A child’s high-pitched shrieking. Thudding feet. Men’s raised voices.

  Balfre lifted his head like a boarhound scenting game. Pushed his chair back from the table and stood, fingers touching his dagger’s hilt.

  “Don’t stir yourself, Vidar,” he said, viciously polite. “I’ll see what’s amiss.”

  And what could he do but nod agreement as he swallowed his mouthful of barley and beef? Balfre had seen how painfully he moved. His bad hip burned yet from the Crown Court skirmish and the relentless physicality that had followed, forced upon him by Lindara’s father in the crowded days before his departure. Hours of drilling Clemen’s men-at-arms and riding through its Marches territory, making himself familiar with every copse, every stream, every pond, every holding and the men and women who dwelled there. The healer-woman Izusa had given him pills more potent than he’d ever taken, but nothing could kill the pain outright.

  Listening to the light thud-thud-thud of Balfre’s boots as the shite ran downstairs to make sure the inn wasn’t under attack, Vidar drained his tankard of ale and wished, for the thousandth time, that he’d kept his mouth shut and let Waymon butcher Humbert. But a lifetime of loyalty to his duchy wouldn’t let him. A lifetime of loyalty–and his love for Lindara. Who hated her father yet loved him too. Or loved some small part of him, deny it though she might. He knew how that felt. To love and hate a father. For all his grave sins, didn’t Godebert haunt him still?

  So for Clemen and my beloved I saved Humbert’s life. And now I’m prisoed in the Marches, at Humbert’s mercy, his man Egann my keeper. Soon to be prisoned in marriage to Kennise… and no Lindara to unlock the cage.

  His bones ached for her. His heart ached. Every night he dreamed of her, and woke every morning soaked in his own seed. Humbert said she was lost to him. He refused to believe it.

  The old bastard won’t live for ever. And then she’ll be free. She’ll run from Roric and I’ll run from the Marches and together we’ll run till we find our peace.

  A foolish yearning? Perhaps. But what else did he have to sustain him? Yes, of late he and Lindara had been unhappy. But that could change. It would change. As soon as Humbert died.

  But until that happy day he had only one choice: serve Clemen, and endure.

  Thud-thud-thud. Balfre was returning. Vidar swallowed his last mouthful of beef, napkinned his lips clean, and sat back in his chair like a man without a care.

  “’Twas nothing,” Balfre said, pushing the door closed behind him. “One of the innkeeper’s brats burned itself.” Sitting again, he grinned. “She’s got a spare, so no harm done if it dies.”

  He couldn’t care less about the innkeeper’s brats. “Balfre, we must find common ground if we’re to keep peace in the Marches.”

  Still grinning, Balfre raised an eyebrow at him over the top of his tankard. “Must we?”

  With an effort he kept his fingers relaxed. He would not, would not, let himself be provoked. “It’s no secret Harald winked at misdoings here that soured you on Clemen. We don’t blame you for hard feelings. Harald was not a good duke.”

  “Well, you’re bound to say so,” said Balfre, shrugging. “Since he executed your father. For treason, yes? I see it runs in the family.”

  For one dreadful moment, he thought Balfre meant Lindara. Then he realised the bastard was referring to Harald’s killing.

  “We never sought Harald’s death,” he said, his jaw tight. “We offered him honourable exile. It was his choice to fight.”

  “Then perhaps he wasn’t such a bad duke after all.” Impatient, Balfre banged his tankard to the table. “Vidar, I didn’t come here to rake over Clemen’s tedious history. What you do with your dukes is your affair. What matters is the present. Harcia’s duke, my father, though sorely grieved by recent calamity, seeks to leave the past in the past. If Clemen agrees not to pursue the murder of the woodsman’s wife, Harcia will turn a blind eye–this once–to Roric’s double dealing. We’ll call it an error of youth and let the matter lie.”

  Vidar dropped his gaze. So. Harcia wanted peace. It was the outcome he wanted, that Humbert demanded he obtain, but Balfre’s dismissive contempt was beyond bearing. He’d never survive being trapped in the Marches with the bastard if he let him ride roughshod from the start.

  “You have no proof of double dealing,” he said, looking up. “One letter isn’t proof. But there’s no doubt the woodsman’s wife was murdered, or that Harcia’s men-at-arms were—”

  Balfre stood. Not amused now, but angry. “So it’s just words with you, Vidar? You mumble for peace and prepare to spill more blood? Fine. If it’s bloodshed you want then Harcia will oblige.”

  So much for survival. Aimery’s heir was even more volatile than rumour had whispered. Without kid-glove careful handling he’d rush them all to ruin.

  “Wait,” he said tersely. “Did I say I wanted blood?”

  “Then what do you want? Tell me. That is, if you know.”

  I want Eaglerock. I want Lindara. I want to dance on Humbert’s grave.

  He met Balfre’s hot, derisive stare. “I want peace. And so does Roric. Clemen agrees to your terms. We’ll leave the past in the past and call this a fresh start. But you’ll keep your men on a tight leash, Balfre. I’ll do the same, and with luck our paths won’t need to cross more than once a month. If that.”

  “Done,” said Balfre. “Just be sure you keep your word.”

  He let Balfre leave first, so the arrogant bastard could think he’d won. And so Aimery’s son couldn’t bear witness to his pain. Sitting so long had tightened his sinews. His body groaned when he stood. Groaned as he limped his slow way downstairs. Groaned as he hauled himself into his saddle. And wept as he rode back to the manor house, that had belonged to Wido and which now he must call home.

  Izusa was picking hedgerow herbs on the edge of her cottage woodland when one of the Pig Whistle’s panting stable lads found her.

  “Can ye come to Mistress Molly?” he gasped, leaning out of his ragged pony’s old, patched saddle. “Her boy, he’s been hurt.”

  She felt a sickening lurch in the pit of her belly. Not Liam. Please, not Liam. “Which boy? How is he hurt?”

  “’Tis Willem,” the lad said. “I din’t know what be amiss, but I heard him howling. Can ye come?”

  Howling. She felt the earth tilt. “Of course. I just need to fetch my satchel. Tell Molly.”

  As the boy drummed his
heels against the pony, urging it to a canter, she snatched up the sack of herbs and ran like a hunted doe to her cottage. If Liam perished, Salimbene would have her heart. Oh, how had she not known? Had she grown complacent? Or worse, were her powers failing?

  Even if Liam lived, Salimbene would surely discard her if they were.

  The thought of being tossed aside by him had her sobbing for breath, fumbled her fingers as she made sure of enough poppy and fevermoss and knitbone in her satchel. When she was satisfied, she hefted it outside, fetched her nag from its tethered grazing, banged on its saddle and bridle, strapped on the satchel, and set off for the Pig Whistle.

  At least she had one consolation. Molly had straight away sent to her for help. That was welcome proof she’d grown indispensable to this stretch of the Marches. It was what she’d been working towards. What Salimbene had planned. Perhaps, hearing that, he’d forgive her for Liam.

  It had been a simple task, killing the old herb-woman Phemie. Long ago Salimbene had given her the power to walk silent through the world, being seen by men only when it suited her. Or him. No curse had killed the old woman, just a drop of poison. A lingering death that mimicked the capricious cruelty of nature and let her death be called plague-kill without question. After that it was simply a matter of making people sick, as she’d made that trader Denno Culpyn sick, then waiting until fear stalked the Marches like a ravenous beast. Only then did she reveal herself. Izusa, the healer, with no plan to stay in these parts… except that she was needed. And being needed, would remain.

  But only for so long as Salimbene desired.

  Clemen’s Lord Wido, unaware he was galloping towards his death, had granted her the use of dead Phemie’s cottage. It lay in one of his woodlands so he imagined it was his. She’d taken it, gladly, and placed around the modest daub-and-shingled dwelling so many runes and curses that not a living soul would ever remember she’d lived there or what she looked like. Unless, of course, she wanted them to. Soon after that she arranged a dead baby, for its head. Then Salimbene found her and she was whole again.