by Karen Miller
“Three days, my lord,” the woman said, clutching her snotty brats.
“And when did the black-lung start?”
“Some seven days ago, I think.”
Seven days. And with Cobley not important, likely that explained why the news of black-lung was yet to reach Eaglerock. Three days was enough time for the illness to take hold. So it seemed these fools–and the Marches–had escaped infection.
“Bodham.”
Lowering his sword, the serjeant approached. “My lord?”
“We’re near Hogget’s farm. You and the men herd these churls there. Hold them on my authority and send a man to fetch Izusa. If she counts them clean, borrow a cart from Hogget and take them over the border to–to—”
“Craikstone?” Bodham suggested. “It’s not so far.”
“Fine. Craikstone. Tell its people to take these fools, by order of their duke. Have Hogget feed them, and provide bread, cheese and ale for the road. He can send a reckoning of his costs to the manor but warn him I’ll know if he thinks to cheat me.”
Bodham’s thin face twitched near to a smile. “Yes, my lord. That’s very–strict–of you, my lord.”
Bodham was an impertinent bastard.
He rode away from the gratefully babbling villagers without a single backwards glance. The day wasn’t quite half over, but before he did anything else he needed to send word of the black-lung outbreak to Roric. So, once clear of the confining woodland, he spurred his horse into a canter and headed home.
There was a score of Eaglerock men-at-arms cluttering up his stables and rear courtyard.
“My lord,” their unfamiliar serjeant said, indifferently bowing. “We’re with Lord Humbert. He waits for you in the manor.”
He handed his horse’s reins to a goggle-eyed stable lad. “Does he, indeed?”
Still indifferent, the serjeant nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Given the upheaval of their generally quiet life, Vidar thought he’d be met indoors by Kennise, overflowing with tears and questions. But the manor’s entrance hall was empty.
He found Humbert in the Great Hall.
“Vidar,” he said calmly. As though they’d laid eyes on each other only a day or so before.
Vidar halted just inside the doorway. “Humbert. How unexpected. Have you been waiting long?”
Lindara’s grizzled, travel-splashed father wore mail beneath his green wool surcoat. A sword and a dagger were belted by his side. “Some little time. It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”
“I was taken up with Marcher business. A dozen Clemen villagers found in Hogget wood this morning. My serjeant and some men will shortly take them back to Clemen. A close-run thing. They all but trod on Balfre’s toes.”
“But you’ve dealt with them,” Humbert said, frowning.
Vidar smiled, like a good host. “I have. Tell me, you’ve been served refreshment?”
“It was offered. Vidar—”
He wandered a little further into the hall. “Egann will be sorry he missed you. He’s in the western Marches, training a handful of new men-at-arms. He’s a good man, Humbert. I’ll confess, when first you foisted him on me I was far from pleased. I know you sent him here to spy. I know you thought–you hoped–he’d catch me in some grave misdoing. But it turns out we work well together. Have you come to take him home?”
Humbert’s hands were tucked under his surcoat. His shoulders rose and fell as he breathed. “No.”
“Good! By the way, I have news. There’s black-lung not far over the border. In Cobley. Did you know? Does Roric?”
“I didn’t,” Humbert said, his chin tucked to his chest. “His Grace might. I’ve been riding hard for some days.”
“Yes. You do look weary.” Abruptly aware of his silent house, Vidar glanced around. “You were offered refreshments, you said. By my wife? Where is she?”
“Upstairs. With your children.”
“I see. And tell me, if you’ve not come to take Egann home, just why are you downstairs, Humbert, standing in my hall?”
In answer, Humbert withdrew a sheet of folded, sealed parchment from beneath his surcoat. “I am here on His Grace’s behalf.”
Oh, but there was something gone horribly wrong. Looking closely, he could see Humbert was more than weary. He was butchered with grief. The pain in his bearded face was the same pain he’d failed to hide when years ago he lost his wife and then both his sons. But if Roric was yet living, then who…
Lindara.
Feeling sick, he moistened his dry lips. “Humbert, what has happened?”
Lindara’s father thrust the parchment at him. “His Grace has written to—”
“And what’s this His Grace shite? He’s Roric to you.” He grimaced. “Or boy.”
Humbert winced. “Read the fucking letter, Vidar.”
“You read it,” he said, trusting in the clamour of instinct. “Out loud. That way we’ll both know what Roric says.”
“Very well.” His gloved fingers unsteady, Humbert broke the parchment’s crimson wax seal. Unfolded the letter. Tipped it a little to one side so it caught the light streaming through the hall’s window. “My lord Vidar, after some years of serving me in the Marches I can only imagine how you long for home. Therefore you may relinquish your Marcher lordship into Lord Humbert’s faithful hands and return to Eaglerock with your family so I might reward you as you deserve. Roric. Duke of Clemen.”
Vidar swallowed, close to gagging. Not for a moment did he believe a word. Not with Humbert standing there, looking like death. His world, his world, it was tumbling down.
“So. Roric knows. After all these years. He knows.”
Carefully, Humbert folded the parchment. “Yes.”
“Everything?”
A flicker in Humbert’s eyes confirmed it. “You’re to leave at once, Vidar. You and your family. Eaglerock’s men-at-arms will escort you to the castle.”
His skin was slicked with sweat. “You mean Roric’s men-at-arms. I’m under arrest?”
“There’s no mention of arrest in the letter, Vidar.”
“Fuck the letter! He knows. Who told him, Humbert? You?”
“No.”
He almost laughed. “Of course it was. It had to be. Lindara would never betray me. Fuck, why would you do it? When I’ve done everything you wanted, stayed away, buried myself here in these fucking Marches, never once tried to reach her.” He bent double, hands braced on his thighs, fighting to breathe, not to vomit. “What the fuck possessed you, Humbert?”
Humbert said nothing.
Slowly unfolding, Vidar stared at the pale and shaken old man. “You ask me to believe it was Lindara who told him? Why would she tell him? She wouldn’t.”
Still, Humbert said nothing.
And now the fear was building, roaring in like a tempest. He was rarely a man for weeping and yet he wanted to weep.
“What’s Roric done, Humbert? Fuck. Has he killed her? Don’t tell me you’re standing there doing that bastard’s bidding and she’s lying dead somewhere because he’s killed her!”
Humbert shook his head.
Grinding a fist into his damaged hip, Vidar struggled to keep his balance. “But she is dead. Isn’t she.”
Humbert pressed a calloused hand to his face and wept.
Lindara. If Roric didn’t kill her, then how could she be dead? And then he remembered. She was–she had been–pregnant.
“It was childbirth?” he said, choking. “Are you saying childbirth killed her?”
“Yes,” said Humbert, muffled.
“And the baby?”
“Deformed by the witching poisons you and she fed to Roric.” Humbert let his hand fall, and now his face was full of rage. “And so the truth gushed out, you cockshite, like the blood that gushed between my daughter’s legs.”
He had no words. Only pain and sickness and a tempest of grief.
If I weep for her now, I think Humbert will kill me.
“What does Kennise know? What h
ave you told her?”
“Nothing,” Humbert said. “You can tell your wife. Whatever you like. I don’t give a fuck. Only tell her now, Vidar, so I can get you out of my sight.”
Lindara.
How could one man’s body contain such a loss? Surely he should be bleeding. Surely his bones should break.
He bowed, awkwardly. “Then if you’ll excuse me, my lord?”
“Never,” said Humbert, his eyes savage. “But you can go.”
“Vidar!” Kennise leapt to her feet, shaking with nerves. “Why is Lord Humbert here, and all those men-at-arms? Is it Harcia? Does Balfre—”
He shoved the chamber door shut. “No. This is nothing to do with Balfre. Where are the children?”
“In their dayroom, with Inogen. I didn’t want them to see me afraid. Vidar—”
“Fuck, woman! Be quiet! Can’t you see I need to think?”
Tearful, she stood and waited, fingers pressed against her lips. He hated her for being so docile. Lindara would’ve slapped his face if ever he spoke like that to her.
Lindara.
“Vidar!” Kennise cried, and rushed to him. “Are you ill? Should I send for that healer woman? Vidar?”
He had no choice but to let her help him to the settle where he could sit, and try to breathe. She had his hand in hers, she was chafing his cold fingers. Her touch sickened him. Fuck. Fuck. He couldn’t go back to Eaglerock. Roric was going to kill him. Or seal him in a dungeon for the rest of his life. Death would be kinder. Roric wouldn’t be kind. After what he’d done, no man would be kind. Fuck. Fuck. He couldn’t stay here.
Sweating, he sat straight. Made himself look into his wife’s eyes, with kindness. “Kennise, my love, I need you to keep company with Humbert. He comes to us with dire news. Lindara is dead in childbirth. So–you should comfort him. His only daughter is dead and I can’t–I’m not—” He laced his fingers with hers. “He needs a woman’s care.”
“Oh, Vidar,” she whispered, tears spilling. “Poor Humbert. Poor Roric. Of course I’ll comfort him. But—”
“Tell him I go to see his men-at-arms settled in the barracks. As soon as that’s done I’ll join you and together we’ll do what we can to ease his grief.”
She pulled a kerchief from her narrow sleeve and began dabbing her cheeks dry. “Yes. We must.”
He had to explain the men-at-arms. “Kennise, Humbert’s men are here to escort us home. We’re returning to Clemen.”
“Vidar!” Disbelieving joy lit her, and then she faltered. “Oh. Oh, I shouldn’t be happy. How wicked of me to be happy when—”
“No. Not wicked.” He stood, drawing her with him. “This is a painful tangle. Be happy with me… but grieve with Humbert. Now go. He needs you.”
“Do you come downstairs?”
“Not yet. Recall that I knew Lindara, and liked her well. I’d have a moment, Kennise, to–to—”
“Of course,” she murmured, and kissed him. “She was your friend. I’m so sorry.”
The chamber door closed gently. Heart racing, sick with grief and fear, he crushed his hands to his face. He couldn’t stay. He had to run. Now, while Kennise distracted Humbert and the men-at-arms were tired and hungry after their hard ride from Eaglerock. He had to run. He had to run.
If only he knew where.
Pleasantly exhausted after a good night’s fucking with Izusa, Balfre ambled his horse into his manor’s torchlit stable yard. It was late. Closer to dawn than midnight. No stable lads scurried at the sound of hoofbeats. Obedient to his lightest whim, they remained ignorant in their beds. It meant he must act as his own groom but that was a small price to pay to keep his business privy.
The other horses shuffled and whickered, roused by his arrival. He returned his horse to its stable, stripped it of saddle and bridle, covered the animal with a horse blanket against the night’s chill, then carried the tack into the tack room and left it on the bench for cleaning.
In the lamplit feed room, scooping oats into a wooden pail, he heard a faint, hesitant shuffle in the glooming shadows. Caught the rank scent of stale human sweat. Easing his dagger clear of its sheath, he let the oat scoop fall.
“Step into the light and I might gut you,” he said. “Skulk in the corner and I will certainly gut you. Either way, you fuck, you’ve picked the wrong place to trespass.”
“Have I?” rasped a familiar voice. “Are you sure about that?”
Astonished, Balfre turned. A painful, dragging sound… and Vidar limped into the lamplight. Filthy. Unkempt. Doublet and hose stained and torn. His raised hands were red with bramble scratches. More scratches marred his already marred face. In his one good eye, the gleam of utter desperation.
“Balfre.”
“By the Exarch’s balls,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?”
Keeping hold of his dagger, he leaned a hip against the oat bin. “It looks to me like you’ve been playing hide-and-seek in the Marches–and losing. It looks to me that you are a man on the run. Dare I ask why?”
Vidar scowled. “In my experience, Balfre, there’s nothing you wouldn’t fucking dare.”
“True.” He laughed. “So, Vidar. Let me guess. This has something to do with Humbert’s noisy arrival in the Marches yesterday. Twenty men-at-arms, I’m told.” He shook his head. “Tut, tut, my lord. What did you do?”
Vidar didn’t answer. Turning aside, he groped at the bin of horse-bread for support. He looked tormented.
“My lord, your choice is simple,” he said tartly. “Tell me all and keep a free man, or keep your counsel and be delivered to Humbert.”
“Fuck,” Vidar muttered. “You really are a cockshite, Balfre.”
“And yet here you stand. More or less. In need of my help.”
That earned him a one-eyed glare. He waited, indifferent. Considered the tumult of emotions playing over Vidar’s face. Smiled as he witnessed the moment of collapse.
“Roric’s wife is dead in childbirth.”
“Is she? Well, it does happen. But what has that to do with—”
“Her name was Lindara.” Vidar’s voice cracked on the name. “She was Humbert’s daughter.”
“That’s common knowledge, even in Harcia.”
“She was mine, Balfre. Roric stole her. With Humbert’s connivance.”
Understanding dawned. “You cuckolded your duke? And in her death throes the bitch confessed?”
“She was no bitch!”
“Now, Vidar. Keep your voice down. Unless you want my men-at-arms to come running.”
“She was no bitch,” Vidar said again, but quietly. “She was beautiful and I loved her.”
The grief was genuine. Intrigued, Balfre tapped fingers to his dagger’s hilt. “Then why did you leave her for the Marches?”
Vidar’s face turned sullen. “Humbert discovered us.”
“But kept the truth from Roric. To save his daughter, yes?”
“And himself.”
“Of course. Family honour.” Balfre rolled his eyes. “And he had you exiled here. But now the truth’s come out. Secrets. They do have a nasty habit of finding the light. And that’s the whole sordid story?”
Vidar closed his eye. “Yes.”
No. That was a lie. “Vidar…”
“What do the details matter?” Vidar demanded, his voice cracking again. “You know the broad strokes and the outcome is the same. Roric seeks revenge, and I would keep my life.”
“Details matter because I say they matter,” he retorted. “What madness makes you think you have any power here?”
“Fuck you, Balfre! My madness was in thinking I could ask you for help!”
“And it could be that I am mad enough to give it. But unless you tell me everything, this conversation will end on the point of my sword!”
In Vidar’s scarred face, another struggle. And then, soon after, another collapse. “My son was to be Clemen’s next duke. Not Roric’s. Mi
ne!”
Silence. Nearby, in the stables, horses shifted in their straw.
“Fuck,” he said at last, admiring. “No wonder Roric wants you dead.”
“Yes,” Vidar said raggedly. “He must hate me almost as much as I hate him. So will you help me, Balfre? You’ll not regret it.”
“Why come to me? Your mortal enemy?”
“Where else could I go?” With a contemptuous flick of his hand, Vidar indicated his face and hip. “I’m hardly inconspicuous. Or fleet of foot.”
“You could’ve surrendered to Roric.”
Vidar laughed. “Would you?”
“And what of your wife? Your daughters?”
“Aistan will protect them. Roric won’t cross him.”
“And your duke? Surely he’ll hunt you.”
“Not if he believes I’m dead.”
He grinned. “So. You’d have me counterfeit your demise and thereby protect you from a vengeful Roric. And in return…”
“I told you,” said Vidar, his face stiff. “You’ll have no regrets.”
Balfre looked at him, eyes half-lidded. Then he pushed away from the oat bin and paced a little, deep in thought. Hide Vidar from Roric. It was an interesting idea. The man knew Clemen and its duke better than anyone else he had to hand. And knowledge was power. Vidar could be his secret weapon. A knife to be hidden until the perfect time to strike. But there was danger in keeping him. Vidar’s was a familiar, unforgettable face. Unless…
Izusa. She was a witch, and had sworn to help him. She had to know some way of keeping Vidar unknown.
“Are you fit to ride, my lord?”
With an effort, Vidar straightened. “Why?”
“Are you fit? Yes or no?”
“I can ride. Where are we going?”
“What do you care? Do you want my help or not?”
Vidar’s breath caught. “Yes.”
“And you’ll have it. But in return, you’ll do as you’re told. Whatever I ask, you’ll answer. Whatever I want, you’ll give. Agreed?”
Vidar’s lamplit, ruined face told the story of his last and hardest struggle. So did his battered body and the way he gasped for air. Watching him, Balfre smiled. An easy treachery was no treachery he could trust. But a man in pain? That was useful. Men in pain were easily wooed… and won.