The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  He shook his head. “You honour me, Aistan, but—”

  “If you think I’d force Kennise to wed any man, even you, after all she’s suffered,” Aistan said quickly, “you’re mistaken. Beneath my daughter’s sorrow there is sweetness. I’d see it bloom. Kennise has always admired you. She often speaks of your kindness to her at Vidar’s funeral, and since.”

  Kindness. He needed no more lessons on how little difference kindness made in a marriage. Make Kennise his duchess? What had that woman ever done to deserve such a fate? Arthgallo was still treating him with noxious tinctures and pungent herbs, but the leech couldn’t say for certain that his duke’s seed was restored to health. How could he in good conscience bed Kennise not knowing if because of him she’d give birth to something foul as Lindara did?

  “Aistan—”

  “Roric, you must give Clemen an heir! If not by Kennise then by some other suitable woman. Without one, seeing us vulnerable, what do you think Balfre will do when Aimery dies and he’s made duke?”

  “You don’t need me to answer that.”

  “I think I do,” Aistan retorted. “I need to be sure you understand the stakes!”

  Fuck. As if anyone could understand the stakes better than he. Did Aistan and the council think he never once considered what would likely happen should he trip over his own feet and break his neck falling down a flight of stairs? Fuck. For months now he’d been thinking of little else. Knowing he should wed again, even though it would be a lie. Knowing he couldn’t tell the truth, that Lindara had likely ruined him. Knowing that whatever he did it would be the wrong thing.

  Somewhere, beyond the great divide between the quick and the dead, Harald was laughing.

  He looked at Aistan. Time, at last, to know the truth for certain. “Tell me. Was it you who told Cassinia’s regents that Berardine of Ardenn had offered her daughter Catrain to me?”

  Aistan’s eyes widened. Then he nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. It was.”

  Surprised to silence, Roric blotted more sweat from his face. Looked ahead to Cudrotham Wood, perhaps a quarter league distant. The sunken road’s footing was getting boggier. He slowed his horse to a walk. Aistan slowed with him, as did their men-at-arms.

  “Odd,” he murmured. “I suspected, but never thought to know for sure.”

  “I believed I was doing the right thing. If you’ll recall, Roric, I told you once that never did I do anything with a heart bent on harming Clemen.”

  “And yet Clemen was harmed. Some might call that treason.”

  “And you’d not wed a traitor’s daughter?”

  “I’d not wed any man’s daughter, Aistan. Save that it seems I must. And since I must, why confess the truth now? After so many years, when you’d have me for Kennise?”

  “Because I’d have you for Kennise,” Aistan said, shrugging. “If you’d never asked the question, Roric, I’d have taken that truth to my grave. But you did ask and if I’d lied you’d have known it, I think. Then whatever trust there is between us would’ve died an ugly death.”

  Trust. Too small a word, surely, for the gaping wounds left behind at its loss. He’d trusted Lindara, and Humbert, and both betrayed him. But what of Aistan? Had he truly betrayed Clemen? Or was it that in trying to protect the duchy he’d simply made a mistake.

  “When you wrote to Cassinia’s regents,” he said quietly, “was it because you didn’t trust me? Because I met with Berardine in secret? Did I give you cause for doubt?”

  Aistan frowned at his horse’s neck. “You were young. Green. Seeking to establish your authority apart from Humbert. As for me, I was angry. My great dignity offended. By the time I understood your thinking, it was too late.”

  In other words, yes. He was partly to blame. “It was wrong of you to tell the regents of Berardine’s offer. But it was wrong of me to meet with her before first consulting with you. Especially after all you’d risked, standing with me against Harald.”

  Another silence, then Aistan glanced sideways. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

  The road ended, and Cudrotham Wood began. Passing from cloudy light into dappled shadow, Roric nudged his horse to a brisk trot as they struck the leaf-littered path. A moment, then Aistan caught up with him. Creaking leather, jangling bits, as the men-at-arms followed suit.

  Roric looked again at Aistan, trotting beside him. “Humbert swore Lindara loved me. He lied. Our marriage was a misery. Lindara never loved me a single minute of one day, and when she was dying she cursed me.”

  Not even the woodland shadow could mask Aistan’s shock. “Roric.”

  “I know I have to marry again. I know I have to sire a son.” Somehow. “But for pity’s sake, at least for the moment, let’s talk of something else. Broadthorpe. What are your thoughts?”

  “If they deliver the coin they owe in timely fashion you won’t hear me complain,” Aistan replied. “But Broadthorpe is one township. You did well to shame them but will you wear out your tongue shaming every tardy town and village in Clemen? Or will you do as your council advises and let your lawful sword speak for you?”

  “Berold never thought to raise his sword against his own people!”

  “Berold never faced such perilous times–or the disobedience of those who’d seek to thwart the will of their duke.”

  Mindful of the men-at-arms riding behind them, Roric lowered his voice. “You agreed to depose Harald because you could no longer defend his actions. By that reckoning, Aistan, should I drown my sword in Clemen blood you’d be forced to depose me!”

  “I don’t advocate wholesale slaughter,” Aistan retorted. “But you cannot shrink from making an example of the next reprobate who’d shake his fist at you, like that turd of a mayor Jarvas. His conduct sets a dangerous example. It teases others to test your bounds. Did you learn nothing from turning a deaf ear to the jeers of the malcontents in Eaglerock?”

  He didn’t relish the reminder. His willingness to tolerate a little rowdy discontent had led to a riot in the Shambles. A harsh lesson he wasn’t keen to repeat.

  “I take your point, my lord. I’ll stomach no more men like Jarvas. And that’s enough talk of Broadthorpe. Tell me of this new falcon you’ve procured.”

  “Ah!” said Aistan, brightening. “Now there’s a pretty thing!”

  Relieved, Roric let Kennise’s father wax eloquent about his latest acquisition from Khafur. Trotting and cantering in turn, they made their way deeper into Cudrotham Wood.

  The first arrow took Roric’s palfrey through its throat.

  As the horse dropped like a stone, taking him with it, he heard the high-pitched thrum of more arrows singing out of the weeded gloom. Lying winded on the damp ground, ankle trapped beneath his palfrey’s carcase, he saw another arrow find the rump of Serjeant Homb’s horse. It squealed and bolted, taking Homb with it. More arrows quivered in tree trunks, struck branches, impaled his dead horse.

  “Stay down, Roric!” Aistan shouted, battling to keep his horse steady, positioning himself as best he could to draw fire. An arrow jutted from his thigh. “Don’t make yourself a target!”

  The other men-at-arms had scattered in pursuit of their assailants. He could hear shouts and thudding hoof-beats off to the left, heading deeper into the woodland. No more arrows were flying.

  “Roric, are you sore hurt?” said Aistan, his voice tight with pain.

  His breathing almost returned, he shook his head. “Bruised only.” He hoped. “Who—”

  The sound of uneven hoofbeats turned his head, had Aistan wrenching his horse about. But no danger. It was Serjeant Homb, his thin, sun-weathered face slick with blood from an open welt across his left cheek. His grey horse’s rump was daubed scarlet.

  “Your Grace! Are you fettled? I swear I didn’t run. My horse—”

  “Bolted, I saw,” Roric said. “And who could blame it, with an arrow in its arse?”

  “My men ride down the shites behind this. Your Grace—”

  “Don’t fret, man. I’m breathing
. But help me out from under this brute. Lord Aistan is wounded.”

  Alarmed, Homb turned to Aistan then slithered from his saddle. Wincing, Roric did his best to help the serjeant lever the dead horse’s hindquarters off his ankle. Groaned as he was half-pulled, and half-dragged himself, free. Propped on one elbow, he tried to argue with Aistan as the lord insisted that Homb first render aid to Clemen’s duke.

  “Leave me, Serjeant!” he snapped, giving up on Kennise’s father. “My leg’s bruised, no more. Lord Aistan caught an arrow. See to him now.”

  Dismounted and seated on a half-rotted log, his lined face pale, Aistan gritted his teeth as Homb inspected the wound.

  “Could be worse, my lord,” Homb said. “You’ve dribbled a bit, but there’s no gushing pumper. The arrow’s not in too deep to cut out, but I hesitate to inflict battle butchery on you.”

  “Cut the shaft close to his leg, Homb,” Roric told him, on his feet, warily letting his bruised ankle take some weight. “Leave the arrow-head embedded, and tie it off with a strip of linen. That should last well enough, Aistan, till we can get you to Arthgallo.”

  Stoic, experienced, Aistan bore the serjeant’s rough leeching with scarcely a sound. When it was done, his bloodied thigh bound tight with strips torn from Homb’s shirt, he blinked his eyes free of sweat and looked around them.

  “No experienced archers did this. One horse dead, by luck more than skill? Not a man killed but a dozen slaughtered trees. A shoddy business.”

  He snorted. “Then let me say I am all in favour of shoddy. Given I think we both know it should be me dead on the ground and not my horse.”

  “Your Grace,” Homb said, his gaze seeking untoward movement in the shadows. “I’d take Lord Aistan’s horse and see how my men fare.”

  Roric nodded. “Go, Homb. And be wary.”

  As the serjeant vaulted into the saddle then hustled the horse in pursuit of his men-at-arms, Aistan tried to stand.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Roric said. “Nurse your strength. You think I don’t remember what it’s like to catch an arrow?”

  “’Tis good, I’ll prosper,” Aistan muttered.

  “I know you will, my lord.” He limped to the fallen log and lowered himself, stiffly. “Especially by sitting quietly till we’ve no choice but to ride on.” He checked the strip of linen binding Aistan’s thigh. Bloody, but not sodden, no major vessels breached. A piece of good luck. He rested a hand lightly on Aistan’s shoulder. “And I’ll not forget how you put yourself between me and danger. It was—”

  “My duty, Roric,” Aistan said, faintly smiling. “And my privilege. I’d not—”

  Then they both turned, at the sound of approaching horses. Roric stood, slowly, then limped to the middle of the path. Unsheathed his sword and waited. The hot stir of battle was fading. He felt chilled, and deadly. A few moments later Homb trotted into sight, his men behind him. Halting, he tossed onto the path three bows and three quivers emptied of arrows.

  “Your Grace,” he said, nodding. “We have them.”

  He raised a hand and three of his men rode forward. Each had a body slung face-down across his horse in front of his saddle, bound at wrist and ankles with leather ties. Two of the captives wriggled. The third hung limp and dead. A snap of his fingers and the three assailants were shoved off the horses and onto the damp, leaf-littered ground. They fell awkwardly. Rolled face-down.

  Roric smiled at the pained cries from the living. “Well done, serjeant.” With an effort, masking the sharp pain, he closed on his assailants without revealing his lameness. Looked down at them, outwardly indifferent, then sliced the ties binding their ankles. Pricked them between their shoulder blades with the point of his sword. “On your feet, cockshites.”

  They were young men, no older than fifteen or sixteen. Brown haired, loose-limbed. One had brown eyes, the other green. They looked no more remarkable than any youths to be found on the streets of Eaglerock township. Beneath the mud and leaves plastering them, they seemed well fed. Respectable. Their doublets and hose were hardly extravagant but weren’t pauper wear either. Brimful of frightened defiance, the youths stared at him. Roric stared back, no longer smiling.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  The taller youth sneered. “Roric.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Duke Roric,” the other youth muttered, sullen.

  “And why did you attempt my life?”

  Though his wrists were bound, the taller youth clenched his hands to fists. “You be a tyrant! And a greedy bastard. You thieve the coin from honest Clemen folk so you might live high and mighty in Eaglerock castle. You’ve no care for our suffering so long as your belly’s full!”

  Pain stabbed through his chest but he kept his face stern. “You come from Broadthorpe? All three of you?”

  The youths looked down at their dead companion. The back of his brown doublet was ripped and blotted with drying blood. Lips trembled. Eyes widened. Then they exchanged glances and clamped their unsteady lips tight.

  Roric shook his head. “You come from Broadthorpe.”

  The woodland hush had deepened further. Its gloom as well. No birdsong or clatter of wings in oak branches, or ash. No furtive scuttling of lizard or any warm-blooded creature through the undergrowth. The dappled sunlight was fading. Were those storm clouds closing in? Roric thought they must be. He could feel Aistan’s eyes on him, and Serjeant Homb’s. The eyes of every man-at-arms, angry and expectant. He kept his own gaze fixed on the two defiant, frightened young men before him.

  “You are wrong about me. I am no tyrant. If you’d come to me in Broadthorpe with honest complaint, I’d have listened. Over the protests of my loyal councillor, Lord Aistan, whose life you also attempted, I’d have sat down with you. Broken bread with you. Listened to your grievances and helped you where I could. Instead you have cast yourselves into the midden. All that remains now is the choice you must make.”

  The shorter youth, with green eyes, licked his dry lips. “Choice?” he croaked. “What choice?”

  He held their wide-eyed stares steadily, showing them nothing but cold rage. “Your lives are forfeit. You are lost. But if you answer my questions honestly I will spare you torture in Eaglerock’s dungeons. Instead I’ll give you a swift and merciful death. I will not mount your heads above the entrance to the castle and I will spare your families a similar fate.” He waited for his words to sink through their shock. “But if you refuse to answer me, or you insult me with lies, believing that with you safely dead I’ll never learn the truth of who you are, I will hurt your loved ones in ways you cannot imagine. Because I will learn the truth of you. You have nowhere to hide.”

  Their defiance lasted mere heartbeats. Then the young men’s knees buckled and they fell against each other, eyes white-rimmed with horror. And then, stammering, weeping, they answered his curt questions.

  No, they’d not told their families they intended to do this terrible thing. They’d told no one in Broadthorpe. They were friends who listened to their fathers and the men in the township complaining and threatening but doing nothing about anything, ’cause they were bags of hot wind who blew and blew and blew nothing down.

  They’d not been allowed in the guildhall for the meeting but they’d been outside. They’d heard enough to realise the mayor wasn’t going to stand tall for Broadthorpe. That Jarvas was going to surrender with hardly a shout, barely a raised fist. It made them so angry they knew they could never let it pass. Someone had to speak for Clemen’s ordinary folk. Strike a blow against the tyrant duke, the tyrant Harald’s cousin, Roric. So they’d run, they’d fetched their horses and their weapons, and they’d galloped ahead to wait in Cudrotham Wood.

  “And this is the truth?” Roric demanded, when they finished amongst a flurry of sobs. “You swear it on your families’ lives? On every scream of agony they’ll utter if I learn you’ve lied?”

  They swore it, incoherent. Believing them, Roric slid his sword back in its scabbard and instead
withdrew his dagger from its sheath on his hip. Then he held out his left hand to Aistan, who withdrew his own dagger and tossed it into his grasp.

  “Can you die like men?” he asked, looking at the ashen-faced youths. “Or must my serjeant hold you down like sheep in a shambles?”

  They nodded, shaking so hard their teeth chattered.

  “Good, then.” Roric closed on them and cut the leather ties binding their wrists. “Open your doublets.”

  With trembling fingers, faces running tears and snot, they bared their hairless chests to the cool, damp air. His own fingers steady, his eyes dry, not letting himself think of what this meant, only how best to do it, he lightly rested the tip of each dagger against the flesh between their third and fourth left-hand ribs. The daggers heaved in time with his would-be murderers’ desperate breathing, blades catching what little of the day’s light still filtered through cloud and trees.

  The taller youth stared. “You–you never asked our names,” he said, bewildered. “You don’t know who we are.”

  “I don’t care who you are. You tried to kill me.”

  The daggers punctured their hearts cleanly. Roric released his hold on each hilt as the bodies fell, so there’d be no dying gush of blood to spoil his clothing. Feeling cold, and strangely distant, he stared at the dead men. What begins in secret must end in secret. One of Harald’s favourite sayings. One of the few Humbert ever agreed with. Secrets. Lies. Duplicity. All shades of the same uncomfortable colour. Once, for the greater good, he’d set discomfort and scruples aside.

  And now it seemed he had no choice but to set them aside again.

  “Homb,” he said, looking up at his serjeant. “Lord Aistan and I will ride on to Eaglerock with two men. You and the rest stay behind to deal with this.”

  Homb nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Take these fools as deep into the woodland as can be reached. Strip them first so Cudrotham’s scavengers aren’t hindered. Keep their clothes and weapons to burn somewhere else.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. And what of your horse?”

  “The same, as far as you’re able. Strip its tack, drag it as far off the path as you can and leave it for the wolves. Take the saddle and bridle with you to Eaglerock.” He frowned. “We’re down two horses. I’ll have yours. You find the horses these cockshites rode here. That’ll leave one spare. You can lead it. And one of your men will have to walk your wounded horse home.”