by Karen Miller
Ignoring the pain, Berardine clasped her daughter’s face between her hands. “Listen, child, carefully, for I doubt we’ve much more time. You’ve done well to cozen the regents into thinking you a meek, obedient maid.”
Catrain almost laughed. “If I’d been myself at court I think they’d have risked the loss of me. So I put on a mask and became who they wanted. It’s served me well. What cat fears a trembling mouse?”
Oh yes, she was Baldwin’s daughter. “You denounce me, loudly and often?”
“Yes.” Catrain blinked back tears. “Though it breaks my heart.”
“No. You do the right thing.” She took hold of her daughter’s cold hands. “And when I’m dead you’ll go on denouncing me. The regents must never have reason to suspect you. Continue to play the mouse in public–but in private, be a lion. As best you can, keep Ardenn loyal to you, and to Baldwin’s memory. Most importantly, you must find a way to reach Roric. Clemen’s duke is fated to help you. A witch foretold this. She abandoned me but–for your father’s sake, I—”
“A witch?” Catrain shook her head. “Mama, I can’t. Why would you—”
“Please, child, you must trust that I—”
The chamber door swung open and Corbert strode in, not even the courtesy of a single knock. “It grows late. Say good night, lady.”
“Ser,” Catrain said, hiding her hatred behind swiftly lowered lids.
Berardine gathered her close. “Trust Roric,” she breathed. “It was your father’s dying wish.” Letting her arms fall, she collapsed against her pillows. “Farewell, daughter. Be sure to heed my advice.”
“Advice?” said Corbert, swiftly suspicious. “What advice?”
“Why, ser,” Catrain replied earnestly, turning, “that I should remain obedient to the regents and be guided by them in all things.” She turned back. “I’ll do what you say, Mama. I give you my word.”
The strength she’d hoarded like a miser was now all but spent. With trembling fingers Berardine touched Catrain’s cheek. Smiled with trembling lips, so her child would know she understood.
See, Baldwin? Here’s our daughter. Our beautiful, brave Catrain. Hope is not lost. Perhaps, with Roric’s help, she can still save Ardenn.
Plague returned to Clemen like a whisper on a breeze. Softly. Stealthily. Hiding in plain sight. A slight cough. A runny nose. A trifling pain in the fingers. Nothing so alarming as swollen pustules and blood. No reason for Eaglerock’s harbour leeches to raise the alarm. For weeks it spread, unheeded. Tainted sailors whoring in dockside taverns kissed it into bored, painted mouths. Merchants home from their travels, harassed and coin-pinched and infected, sweated it onto their wares. Smacked it onto their unruly children. Loaded it onto their mule trains and traipsed it around the duchy.
The very young. The very old. The already weak. They were its first victims. Their deaths were slow. They perished lazily, sauntering to their graves. Laboured breaths. Blue faces. Joints twisted out of shape. A little wasting of the body, but most could eat until the end. And only at the very end did they start to vomit blood.
Like scattered raindrops, harbingers of a coming storm, word began to spread of the new affliction. Rumours, to begin with. Gossip. Have you heard? For some weeks, those who answered could say no. Or say yes, they had heard, but they’d not seen it for themselves. They didn’t want to see it. Hadn’t Clemen suffered enough these past years? Poor harvests. The blistermouth. A crippling of trade. The duke taking more and more coin from their purses and still not giving them an heir in return. What was he doing, safe in Eaglerock castle? Didn’t he care how the people of Clemen were in strife?
But then, as the stealthy pestilence spread, more and more folk could give witness of their own eyes. Rumour turned into reality. The scattered raindrops became a flood. And instead of whispering, the plague started to shout.
The exarchite Ignace was short and fat. What hair he had left to him was clipped close to his scalp. Like many who hailed from the Danetto Peninsula, he was swarthy, with dark eyes and a thin nose and not enough teeth. And, like most of his brethren–dark and fair–he breathed out sweetness with every hushed word. No matter which city state they hailed from, Danettans doted on dried and syruped fruit. They thought of honey as liquid gold and tended to eat as though each meal was their last. Not even Clemen’s ongoing, never-ending trading difficulties, it seemed, could stem the flow of Danettan sweetmeats into the exarchite houses that had sprung up throughout the duchy over the past five years.
And because he needed the Exarch’s grey-robed priests, Roric couldn’t afford to levy taxes on their greed. It was just one more cause of friction between himself and his council. Before long there’d be enough causes to burst them all into flame.
“As you can see, Your Grace,” Ignace said softly, “we are now sore-pressed to nurse any more of Eaglerock’s afflicted. Not without we find and furbish another sickhouse.”
Which he’d be expected to pay for. Only with his ducal coffers perilously close to empty that was out of the question. Unwilling to say so, Roric nodded.
“I’ll be sure to raise the matter with the council, Ignace.”
He and Ignace stood side by side at the entrance to the exarchite house’s hospice. A high-roofed stone building sited close to the harbour, it had once been a warehouse for goods from Sassanine. But internal strife there, and the lack of Clemen coin for extravagant purchases, meant that Sassanine’s ruler had ceased trading in the duchy and let the warehouse lease lapse. Yet another blow to Clemen’s faltering finances. Not everyone on the council, or in the township, was pleased the exarchites had taken the lease, but the stark truth was unavoidable. Clemen needed the coin.
The sole reminder that the building had been a warehouse was the row of high, narrow windows under the sloping roof. Not even a lingering scent of exotic Sassanine spices remained. Instead the air was heavy with burning pastilles of sage and morning glory, thought by the exarchites to repel ill humours. Beneath it, the grim odour of failing flesh and rotten blood. End to end and wall to wall, the old warehouse was full of Eaglerock folk who’d succumbed to the latest plague. Men, women and children lay listless on straw pallets, moaning as Ignace’s brother exarchites tended to their needs. No privacy here. No modesty, either. Only misery and weeping.
“It was good of you to come, Your Grace,” Ignace murmured, with a touch to his arm. “Foolish, perhaps, but good.”
Roric drifted his gaze across the pinched, pale faces before him. “These are my people suffering. How could I not come?”
“Easily,” Ignace said, shrugging. “I am from Pruges, Your Grace. There is nothing a man can teach me about the indifference of dukes.”
At the far end of the old warehouse a child twisted on its pallet, crying out in pain. One of the exarchs moved swiftly to the child’s side. Knelt close and bowed his head in prayer. The child twisted again, then began to cough bright blood.
Roric took a step forward. “This is unbearable. There must be—”
“No, Your Grace,” Ignace said, catching his elbow. “You can’t help. That child is already dead.”
“But—”
Ignace pointed. “See? It is done.”
The child shuddered hard, head to toe. Shuddered again, its thin limbs flailing. And then… nothing. Lips silently moving, the kneeling exarchite pulled the bloodstained sheet over its small face.
“You should go,” Ignace said softly. “Your place is not here.”
The child’s brief, brutal death had stirred no response from the exarchites’ other patients. Either they were too sick to notice–or they’d grown used to such sights. Staring at them, his throat tight, Roric didn’t know which was worse.
“Then where is my place, Ignace? Where would you and the Exarch and your god have me be?”
Ignace folded his hands across his full moon of a belly. “Kneeling in penitent prayer before our chapel’s shrine, Your Grace. Sin unrepented is always punished. If you would but give yourself i
nto the Exarch’s keeping, the people of Clemen would follow your—”
“No, Ignace, for the last time, abandon these attempts to convert me and my duchy. What a man believes in is his own business. Not mine. Or yours. Or the Exarch’s.”
Ignace bowed his head. “Your Grace.”
“I must go. You know my chief steward, Nathyn. Be sure to tell him if there’s anything you need.”
Turning his back on Eaglerock’s sick and suffering, and the infuriatingly persistent priest, Roric left the shadowed hospice. His personal men-at-arms were waiting outside, holding his horse for him, stoically patient.
Captain Pero raised an eyebrow. “Your Grace?”
“I’m done.” He took his reins and mounted. “I’d return to Eaglerock.”
“Your Grace! Your Grace, a word. If you please.”
Riding back to the castle, Roric had found himself–and not for the first time–running a gauntlet of fearful, disappointed stares from Eaglerock’s townsfolk. His face still burning, more shaken than he wanted to admit, he flung Humbert a quelling glance. He was in no mood for one of his foster-lord’s scolds.
“Not now.”
Heedless of the staff and courtiers in the castle’s entrance hall, Humbert moved Pero out of the way with a glare and fell into step. “Yes, Your Grace. Now.”
They were in public so he couldn’t curse in Humbert’s face. Such a pity. A full-throated bellowing match with Lindara’s father would sear the memory of that dying child from his mind. Deafen him to its pitiful cries–and the jeers he’d heard from a few of those staring townsfolk. Pero and his men had silenced them, but not swiftly enough. Their anger echoed, flaying him like a whip.
There he is. Our duke, Berold’s grandson. Or so they say. But I say he’s not so much as a pimple on Berold’s arse!
Surprisingly nimble, Humbert slipped in front of him, blocking his way. The oak entrance hall staircase rose majestically behind him.
“Your Grace—” Splendid in a deep-rose-coloured gown over a crimson velvet doublet and black hose, a flat black velvet cap gracing his head, Humbert narrowed his stare. “I must insist.”
They were attracting the wrong kind of attention. With nerves in Eaglerock stretched taut, any hint of strife between Clemen’s duke and its great lords would feed the rampant fires of gossip, adding to the general unease.
Roric forced a smile. Patted Humbert’s vast shoulder. “Of course. Come. We’ll sit privily, and talk.”
“The small audience chamber,” Humbert muttered. “It’s empty.”
Dismissing Pero and his men with a nod, he led the way upstairs to the modest receiving room adjoining the grand Falcon Throne chamber. The moment he and Humbert were safely alone, his foster-lord turned on him.
“The exarchite hospice, Roric? What curs’t madness is this?
“Not madness,” he said, teeth gritted. “Necessity.”
“Necessity?” Scarlet-faced behind his beard, Humbert strode about the room like a man in search of somewhere to thrust his sword. “It was necessary for you to risk your life in that filthy place?”
“Yes, Humbert! It was! I had to be sure. I had to see for myself.”
“See what? Be sure of what? And keep your voice down. You’ve a gaggle of men next door, twiddling their thumbs waiting on you. Blane and Arthgallo and a few others.” Turning, Humbert stopped in mid-stride, barrel chest heaving, bearded jaw jutted with affront. “And that’s another thing. Why are they summoned? I had no word of it. Neither did Aistan know anything till I told him. But that cockshite Ercole’s there. He knew.”
Because Master Blane must have told him. Cosily wed with the trader’s grand-daughter, these days Ercole conducted himself more like a merchant than a councillor of Clemen. Curse him.
“Humbert…” Abruptly weary, a familiar pain leaping to life behind his eyes, Roric raised a placating hand. “I’m sorry. I’d intended to speak with you and Aistan first thing this morning. But Lindara had a poor night and—”
“Lindara?” Humbert’s breath caught, and his face tightened with fear. “Is aught amiss? Has Arthgallo seen her? What—”
“Humbert.” He took hold of his foster-lord’s arm. “She slept fitfully, that’s all. But it gave me a difficult start to the morning.”
United by their misgivings, they stared at each other. Two early miscarriages and an untimely stillbirth Lindara had suffered since his return from the disastrous journey to Cassinia. He and Lindara had grown brittle with each other, no words for such calamity. She was newly with child again… but he was afraid to hope. So was Humbert. They both startled at shadows and feared to hear her sigh, terrified that this babe would perish like the rest.
Humbert tugged at his beard. “All right, then. But now you will tell me what this—” He pointed at the door that led into the Falcon Throne audience chamber. “—is about.”
“You recall we discussed in council that the harbour might have to be closed?”
“It was discussed, yes,” said Humbert, frowning. “But no firm decision was—”
“I’ve decided. Until we can be sure this new pestilence has burned itself out, no ships will enter or leave Eaglerock harbour.”
“Roric—”
“I know I had my doubts,” he said quickly. “That’s why I went to the hospice. I needed to see the pestilence for myself.” He breathed out, hard. “Humbert, it was terrible. And the people are blaming me. Something has to be done.”
He waited, then, half-expecting Humbert to contradict him, bluffly assert that the people blamed him for nothing. But Humbert stared at the floor. Tugged at his beard again, his lips pinched tight. Which meant he’d been told of the recent stares, and the jeering.
“Humbert—”
Humbert lifted his head. “So you’ve decided to close the harbour. Good. If you recall, it’s what I suggested from the start. But what has it to do with Blane, and the rest?” Another frown. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re thinking to ask their leave?”
“No. But I’m mindful that closing the harbour will—”
“Be mindful of this. You’re Clemen’s duke, boy, and a duke doesn’t ask permission to do what must be done! What if the fucking merchant and those other pizzles say no?”
“Humbert…” Roric sighed. “How can they? I’m their duke. I’ve asked them here because they’ll be useful in keeping the harbour quiet when the news breaks.”
“You hope!” Humbert retorted. “And hope is no remedy in these perilous times!”
As if he didn’t know that. “Withdraw to the throne room and advise Blane and the rest I’ll be with them presently.”
“No, Roric,” Humbert said, shaking his head. “I’d have you think on—”
Fury, sudden and ungovernable. “Clap tongue, Humbert, and for once do as you’re fucking told! Or say to my face here and now that you do but indulge me in a fantasy that I’m your duke!”
Humbert’s jutting beard trembled once, then tucked close to his chest. He blinked, his face smooth as carved ice. “Your Grace.”
Roric watched the adjoining door close. Heard wood thud against wood. Bile scorched his throat, and his hands were shaking. As though he’d been the one chastised, instead of—
I had the right. I’ve been Clemen’s duke for eleven years. Nearly twelve. And still he questions every choice I make. He still calls me boy. No other lord would dare it. And while he dares, while I permit, I am neither man nor duke.
And yet he could weep for the look in Humbert’s eyes. Did every son and father battle so? He supposed they must. But there was no one he could ask.
Harald always said that to be a duke was to be lonely. I never believed him. But I believe him now.
He took a little time, to smooth his hunter-green velvet doublet and buff the diamond pin on his breast. To wait for his sickness over Humbert to ease. The clamour that greeted him as he entered the throne room had him longing for a whip so he could thrash his visitors to silence.
Why the fuck mus
t men be so contentious?
Crossing to his throne, Roric considered those he’d summoned to court. Blane and two of his fellow merchants, Lander and Gilmyn. Hoggard, the wealthiest of Eaglerock’s warehouse owners. Shipmaster Garith, who owned six galleys. Arthgallo, for his leechery advice. Like Humbert, Aistan had come uninvited, his eyes hooded and unreadable. And there was Ercole, clearly torn between standing with his goodfather, Blane, or with Aistan and Humbert. He hovered between them, trying to look like he supported both. Still sulky-faced, was Ercole, but at Blane’s well-fed table he’d grown a prosperous paunch.
Roric sat. “Gentlemen. What is this stir?”
Blane, who’d accumulated as much influence as coin these last few years, cleared his throat. “We’re told you intend to close the harbour, Your Grace.”
Staring at Ercole, Roric drummed the arm of his throne. A brief struggle, then Ercole dropped his gaze, defeated.
“I do, Blane.”
“Your Grace, you cannot—”
“I can. And I will. In case it’s escaped your notice, Clemen is afflicted with plague.”
“If you close the harbour, Your Grace,” said Shipmaster Garith, booted feet spread as though he rode his galley’s deck, “we’ll perish anyway. From lack of coin.”
“Garith’s right,” said Hoggard. “Eaglerock harbour is our lifeblood. Close it, Your Grace, and every ship will sail past us to find a port in Harcia.”
“It’s well known Harcia’s waters are treacherous, and the duchy has no decent harbour to speak of. The shipmasters who sail there before coming to us swiftly rue the decision.”
“Your Grace, they’ll risk the dangers,” Garith said grimly, “if you force their hand. And let but a handful succeed and we’ll not get them back to Eaglerock harbour again.”
“Without the little trade that’s left us,” Blane added, “the waterfront will wither and die–and as we die so dies all Clemen!”
“Arthgallo,” Roric said sharply. “Explain to these good men what they don’t understand.”
Because he was Arthgallo, he’d not thought to change his stained smock or strip off his tatty canvas cap. His dusty hose were saggy and threadbare at the ankles and his right shoe was held together with string.