The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  But if she failed him… if she failed him…

  When she reached the Pig Whistle, the stable lad who’d come to fetch her took the nag and told her she’d find Molly indoors. Iddo, tending the public room, nodded when he saw her and told the serving wench they’d taken on to show her upstairs.

  “Izusa!” cried Molly, wringing her hands. “At last. I tell ye, there be an ill faery under my roof. First that ruckus on the doorstep, then Alys goes tumbling to her death, and now this. The imp stood behind me while I was at the hob and when I turned round with the stew pot I—”

  “Yes, Molly, I see,” she said, moving to crouch beside Liam in his truckle bed, pressed against the wall in Molly’s bedchamber. “You broke his nose and burned him.”

  The woman’s true son, little Benedikt, stood high-strung beside his foster-brother. “But ye can heal him, iss?” His piping voice shook. “He won’t die?”

  Stripped out of his roughspun shirt and propped up on pillows, Harald’s son was a wounded, sorry sight. Nose bent and bloody. Forehead, cheek and shoulder blistered scarlet and weeping. His eyelid was swollen. Had the stupid woman made of him another Vidar? The child was shivering, pain taking its toll.

  Molly made a growling sound. “What did I say, ye wretch? Be hushed!”

  Her son wilted. Reaching out, Izusa stroked his wild, dark hair. “Not to fret, Benedikt. I won’t let him die.”

  Harald’s son, misnamed Willem, bore her interfering fingers with surprising strength. He whimpered but once when she mostly straightened his nose, and shed only a few tears at the bite of the poultice she slathered on his burned flesh. When she gave him a poppy posset he gagged, but drank. All the while, Benedikt stood close and encouraged him. Patted his good shoulder. Promised all kinds of rompish fun just as soon as he was healed.

  As for Molly, she stared. Stuffed with guilt, and silent. Stupid, careless woman. Should Salimbene want her punished it would be no hardship to obey.

  Finished with her leeching, Izusa helped Liam ease properly into his bed. Benedikt helped too. He was a sweet boy.

  “The poultice will stop any festering,” she said, turning to Molly. “Change it morning, noon and night for three days. I’ll leave you the herbs. But he’s going to scar. And that nose of his, it’ll stay crooked.”

  “His eye?”

  “Not blistered. I’ll know for sure when the swelling’s gone, but I think he’ll keep his sight.”

  Molly pressed her work-rough hands to her face. “The spirits be thanked.”

  “Let him sleep,” she said, touching the back of her hand to Liam’s unburned cheek. He was already drowsy, the poppy doing its work. “When he stirs he’ll likely fever up. Steep him in a yarrow bath. That should do the trick. Poor mite. He’ll feel worse before he’s better.”

  “Ye’ll come again on the morrow?” Molly said, anxious.

  Izusa smiled. She’d never seen the innkeeper so turmoiled. And serve her right, for Liam’s sake. “First thing.”

  “I want to stay,” said Benedikt, tugging Liam’s blanket smooth. “Can I stay? I won’t fret him.”

  Molly frowned. “Ye have chores, Benedikt.”

  “He’ll do no harm, Molly,” she said softly. “Let him stay. It’ll ease Willem if he’s not alone when he wakes.”

  “On yer bed, then,” Molly told her son, pointing to the other truckle tucked in behind the door. “And if I hear a mouse peep from ye, it’ll be the wooden spoon.”

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Izusa portioned out the herbs and ointments and powdered poppy that Liam would need overnight. When she was finished, her satchel repacked and fastened, Molly pressed a silver coin into her palm.

  “Thank ye, besom. I don’t know what I’d do without ye.”

  She slipped the coin into the leather purse belted at her waist. “Don’t fret, Molly. I’m not going anywhere. As for your Willem, he’ll come right. I’ll make sure of it. For you’d best believe I’ll die before I let that boy come to harm. Now, take care of your customers. I’ll see you again in the morning.”

  Her plain nag was weary, she’d ridden it so hard to the Pig Whistle. So she let it amble its way back to the cottage. Though summer was fading some warmth remained in the sun. She tipped her head back to bathe her face in it, let it melt the lingering fear.

  Harald’s son may be healed… but there was still Salimbene. She couldn’t keep this from him. That would surely mean her death.

  Returned to her small dwelling, she unsaddled the nag then penned it beside the cottage with water from the well, an armful of hay and a scoop of oats. That done, she went inside. Before she left the Pig Whistle, Molly had gifted her a skinful of rich rabbit stew. She warmed it in a kettle over her hearthfire, and washed it down with a mug of strong ale. Then, her heart thudding, she lit more candles, fed the fire to leaping, and fetched her wooden box. She never knew how long it might take for Salimbene to answer her call. Sometimes he came to her swiftly. Sometimes he took hours.

  All she could do was wait for him… and trust that he’d come.

  With a snarling shout, Balfre ducked under Waymon’s swinging arm, hooked one bare foot around his ankle, pulled hard while he thrust sideways once with his hip. Waymon went down. Balfre followed him. Plucked Waymon’s dagger from his numbed, wide-spread fingers and thrust its point under his chin. Sprawled on his back, gasping for air, Waymon turned himself to stone.

  Laughing, Balfre slapped Waymon lightly on the cheek. Then he bounced to his feet and turned to his watching men-at-arms, gathered raggedly around the barracks tilt yard of Bayard’s manor that he’d taken for his own. “A little trick I learned from my father’s Master Armsman, Ambrose.”

  Uneasy mutters. Sideways glances and some shuffling feet. Harcia’s men-at-arms didn’t know what to make of their new lord. Sagged into soft-bellied indiscipline by Bayard and Egbert’s neglect, their taunting squabbles with Clemen’s men spilling a little blood here and there but provoking more rancorous word play, these men thought themselves much deadlier than they were. Between them, at the Pig Whistle, he and Waymon had put down their sword-brothers with no more difficulty than if they’d been ladies’ lapdogs. What he needed was wolves.

  And when he was done with them, wolves he would have.

  “I was two years of age when Ambrose first put a sword in my hand,” he said, sweeping his gaze across their blankly wary faces. He held up Waymon’s dagger. “It was made of wood, not much bigger than this. When I was three, I rode my first pass in a joust. I sat a pony. Ambrose faced me on foot. He sent me tumbling. When I snivelled, he beat me with the flat of his blade. For shame, my lord Balfre, he said. You are a duke’s son. I learned my lesson. I took many more tumbles but I never snivelled again. You—” He sharpened his gaze. “Are all snivellers. You think you’re fine, fighting men but you only play at war. You take the duke my father’s coin and you piss it against a tree. You jeer at Clemen, and catcall, when you should stand fast for Harcia. Make no mistake. Your snivelling days are done. I’m about to beat you with the flat of my blade until you beg for mercy. Waymon.”

  “My lord,” said Waymon, joining him.

  “Let’s begin.”

  In all, Harcia boasted some fifty men-at-arms to protect its Marches territory from Clemen’s incursions. He’d ordered half to the tilt yard to train with him and Waymon this afternoon. The other half he’d confront in the morning. Waiting for the uneasy men to strip themselves to britches and bare feet, he smiled. Single out one or two for particular humiliation, batter the rest to their unsuspecting knees, and word would swiftly spread that Aimery’s son Balfre was no soft, pampered lord.

  “So, my friend,” he said, glancing at Waymon. “Are you ready to teach these fucking shites a sharp lesson?”

  Sweaty and dirt-streaked, his cheekbone bruised, Waymon grinned. “Not ready, my lord. Eager.”

  As was he. Putting crippled Vidar in his place at the Pig Whistle had only whetted his appetite for sport. He slapped Waymon’s arm. “Go
od. But no maimings. I don’t mind blood and bruises but I’d leave them with all their limbs.”

  For more than three hours he and Waymon put Harcia’s men-at-arms through their paces. Kicked their legs out from under them, tossed them onto their backs, cut them and bruised them and rubbed their lapdog noses in how much they didn’t know. When at last the light was fading, and he was satisfied they’d learned their lesson, he called a halt to the drubbing.

  “You could be worse,” he told his Marcher men, strewn panting and bloody around the foot-churned tilt yard. “Those of you who were worse got themselves gutted at the Pig Whistle. Me, I say they died of shame. That old cockshite Humbert took the most living men home. What’s shame, if not that?”

  Mynton, the barracks captain, hawked and spat blood. “My lord, what d’ye tell us? Do we prepare for war?”

  “With Clemen?” He laughed. “Every day is war with Clemen. Roric the bastard would kill us all, had he the chance. But Aimery loves you. He’d keep your blood in your veins–as would I. For now. So until Roric breaks the peace we’ll wage a war without blood. We’ll keep the Marches bloodless and every day we’ll train. Because one day Roric will put his sword to our throat. And when he does I’d have us ready to plunge our sword through his heart.”

  More muttering, this time tinged with cautious pleasure. This time Balfre hid his smile. These men were beaten but not broken, which was precisely his intent. Mynton and two others, men he’d made sure to wound enough for leeching, he told to remain. Dismissing the rest to the barracks bath house, he sent Waymon to fetch him needle, thread and hot water. When they came he neatly cleaned and stitched the wounds he’d inflicted.

  Mynton stared as he cautiously flexed his slashed forearm. A stringy man of middle years, he spoke with a faded hint of the Green Isle in his voice. In his pale blue eyes, a grudging gleam of respect.

  “Thank ye, m’lord.”

  Balfre nodded. “You did well. You’ll do better. See the men settled for the night.”

  “M’lord,” Mynton said, with a jerky half-bow. “Brindle. Poley. With me.”

  As the men-at-arms snatched up their boots and tunics and limped through the falling dusk towards their barracks, Waymon cleared his throat. “Balfre, a good lord should know his men. I’d bathe and sup with ours.”

  A surprising request. Making sure to seem indifferent, he shrugged. “If you like. If my company’s grown so dull.”

  Waymon flushed. “My lord—”

  “Fuck, Waymon. You’re as easily gulled as a virgin. Go. Somehow I’ll survive a solitary meal for one night.”

  After pulling on his shirt, doublet and boots he returned to the manor. Its soft-footed steward Fulcher met him in the modest entrance hall and handed him a wax-sealed parchment. “My lord, this came while you were at the tilt yard.”

  “I’ll be in the library,” he said, taking it. “Bring me food and wine there.”

  Comfortably cradled in his chair before the fireplace, he opened the letter. It was from Grefin, hastily penned the morning of his departure from Cater’s Tamwell.

  I’m off home to the Green Isle, Balfre, with Mazelina and the children. You should know Jancis decided not to come. Again, I wish you well in the Marches. I know you’ll keep Aimery’s peace, no matter how provoking Clemen might be. Speaking of the duke, I’ve sent for a leech who I’m told has worked wonders with other men afflicted like our father. I’m hopeful, as I know you’ll be, that with his help we can keep Aimery with us for many years yet. Stay safe, brother, till next we meet.

  Balfre tossed the letter onto a nearby side table, darkly amused, then stretched out his legs and let the leaping flames dazzle him. Ah, Grefin. So earnest. So transparent. So useful, from time to time. By all means let a new leech eke a few more years out of Aimery. He could wait. He had time. He had a great deal to do before he was ready to become the new king of Harcia.

  His belly rumbled, complaining. Fulcher arrived with his evening meal and, laughing softly, he started to eat.

  She was drowsing, drifting, when at last the severed baby’s head in its wooden box stirred, then answered.

  “Izusa. You called me.”

  Heart beating wildly, she slid from her chair to the cottage’s rush-mat covered earth floor. Forced herself to look into the severed head’s grey, prunish face.

  “Yes, Salimbene.”

  “You stink of fear, Izusa. What has happened?”

  Near to weeping, she told him.

  “Forgive me. I saw no sign of danger or—”

  “You say the boy will live?”

  “Liam will live. I swear it.”

  “Then you have not failed me. You are forgiven, Izusa.”

  Believing him, she let her tears fall. And when the head’s dead lips quivered, then stretched into a brief smile, she laughed. Her blood bubbled with joy.

  “What other tasks have you for me, Salimbene?”

  For a little while he didn’t answer. She sat on her heels, content with silence. Content with knowing she’d kept his trust even though Liam was hurt. Candlelight flickered. From the night-dark woods outside came the screech of a hunting owl. Then the head’s dead lips quivered again, and the sunken eyes behind their cobweb eyelids shifted.

  “Balfre of Harcia is settled in the Marches?”

  “He is. But I’ve not seen him.”

  “You will, in time. In time you will do more. But do not go to him, Izusa. Wait for him to come to you. When he comes–and he will come–you will give yourself to him. In giving you will take him. And then he will be mine.”

  Balfre to be her lover? No hardship, that. She’d fucked other men for Salimbene. Some had been old. Some gross. None were as handsome as Aimery’s heir.

  “Yes, Salimbene.”

  “We come to a fallow time, Izusa. Liam must grow out of childhood, and Aimery grow more feeble. Clemen must weaken further while Roric sinks into despair. Serve me in the Marches. Be a friend to every lord and humble woodsman. Listen to every whisper, and whisper them to me.”

  He wanted her close by while Liam grew out of childhood? That meant she’d be living in the Marches for years, be kept from him for years. Bubbling joy curdled to misery. But she couldn’t protest, or defy him. He was Salimbene.

  “I will,” she said, trembling. “I’m your eyes, your ears, your beating heart. Command me and I’ll obey.”

  She received no answer. Salimbene was gone.

  “Now remember, Liam, you’re no ordinary boy. You’re brave Harald’s true-born son, Berold’s great-grandson, and the rightful duke of Clemen. Keep the ring hidden and don’t tell a soul till you’re old enough to take back the Falcon Throne from that bastard Roric who stole it from you.”

  Twisting beneath his blanket, Liam whimpered out loud. It hurt to dream of Ellyn. He missed her so much. But he couldn’t stop dreaming her. If he stopped he’d never see her again. Never hear her tell him his story, and other stories of his father the duke, or feel her holding him safe and tight. In his dreams she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t broken on the attic landing. In his dreams she was smiling and he wasn’t alone.

  “Ellyn,” he moaned. “Ellyn.”

  A small finger poked his shoulder. “Willem? Are ye awake?”

  Oh, there was a terrible pain in his face and his shoulder. It wasn’t the deep, dull ache of missing Ellyn. This was bright and hot, like fire. He could hear himself snuffling. He could only open one eye.

  Poke, poke, poke. “Willem. D’ye want Ma?”

  Benedikt was kneeling beside the candlelit bed. His peering face was blurry, and screwed up with fright.

  “Wha’ happened?” he said, and frighted himself. He sounded mushy, like Iddo that time a drunk trader punched him in the mouth.

  “Ye got hurt,” said Benedikt. “This morning. Don’t ye remember?”

  It was hard to think past the pain. He wanted to cry with it, only Ellyn said dukes didn’t cry. His father, Harald, never cried. He had to make his father proud.

&n
bsp; “In the kitchen?” he said, uncertain. “Molly–she hit me with the pot.”

  “Not on purpose,” Benedikt said quickly. “Willem, who’s Ellyn?”

  A stabbing in his chest, worse than the fire in his face. He’d said her name out loud? But he’d promised he’d never tell. Every night he promised, even though she was dead. And even though this was Benedikt, a duke always kept his word.

  “What?” he mumbled. “No. I said Alys. I was dreaming. Benedikt, I feel sick.”

  Benedikt scrambled to his feet. “I’ll fetch Ma.”

  But before he reached the chamber door it opened. Iddo loomed in the doorway, his face scrunched in a scowl.

  “Molly wants ye for supper,” he said, crooking his finger at Benedikt. “Get downstairs, imp, quick.”

  “Iss, Iddo,” said Benedikt. “Look. Willem’s awake.”

  Iddo let Benedikt squeeze by him, then came into the room. Arms folded across his barrel chest, he kept on scowling. He had a good face for bad temper, all suspicion and scars.

  Blurry-eyed, silent, Liam stared up at Molly’s man. Iddo didn’t like him. But that was fine, because he didn’t like Iddo. Iddo had been mean and hard to Ellyn. More than once he’d made her cry.

  One day, when I’m Duke Liam on the Falcon Throne, I’ll make him pay for that.

  “Ye be a careless brat, Willem,” Iddo said, his eyes cold. “Diddling about under Moll’s feet. A mort of coin to Izusa, this’ll cost us. Coin we can’t spare.”

  It hurt to speak, but he had to. He had to make sure Iddo knew that he knew what was in his black heart. “You wish I’d died.”

  Iddo caught his breath, then quirked a ragged eyebrow. “I wish ye’d never come here. Cut yer finger and ye’ll bleed trouble. I knew it the moment that slattern Alys brought ye under this roof.”

  “Don’t call her names!”

  Iddo took a step forward, arms unfolded, one fist raised. “Keep a civil tongue, brat, or—”

  “Iddo! Iddo!” Molly scolded, bustling in. “Must ye fret the boy now? Go fill the tin tub with warm water. He’ll need a yarrow bath, Izusa says. Then see to that crowd in the public room. We be in for a busy night.”