by Karen Miller
What courage? “Humbert…”
Humbert took hold of his shoulders and shook him, as he’d done countless times since he was seven years old. “It’s not fear that defines a man, Roric. Every man feels fear. It’s what he does despite the fear that shows his true mettle.”
Mouth dry, eyes burning, Roric stared at the man who’d made him, and destroyed him, and now sought to help him out of the mire. He remembered those two boys in the woodland beyond Broadthorpe, and all the desperate tyrannies that had followed in the wake of their deaths.
“Humbert,” he whispered. “I fear you were right. I think I am become Harald.”
“No, boy. You aren’t your cousin. Harald never doubted himself a fucking day in his life. You’re the great Berold’s grandson. And his greatness is in you.”
He’d never thought to see Lindara’s father again, not till the old man’s funeral. Never thought he could still care what the bastard’s opinion of him was. Now it seemed he’d been mistaken. How galling. He took a deep, steadying breath, then felt his belly recoil at the sour stink of rotten flesh. Of dead Vidar, whose dreams of vengeance were now become Clemen’s waking nightmare.
That recalled him to the dire present.
“If you’re right and Balfre means to attempt Clemen,” he said, pushing aside complicated feelings, “if we’re to have any hope of saving the duchy, I think we must hold Harcia at bay here in the Marches. If we can bloody Balfre badly enough, we might well give him pause.”
“I was thinking the same,” Humbert said, frowning. “And if you’ll heed me, Your Grace, here’s how we’ll proceed. By your written and sealed command, we’ll empty Clemen of swords and men to wield them, and muster them here to break that cockshite Balfre’s black heart. While we wait for them to arrive, I’ll send my stealthiest men-at-arms to spy out what they can of Harcia’s intentions. You’ll tarry here, and your presence we’ll keep quiet till we ride into battle so Balfre’s not tempted to take you prisoner–or worse. Aside from me and Egann, not a soul in the Clemen Marches can marry your name to your face. You’ll be plain Master Berry. Agreed?”
His heart was thudding, a dull drumming against his ribs. “Agreed.”
Humbert clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let’s not dilly-dally. There’s ink, paper and sealing wax in the house.”
Ink, paper and sealing wax. Was that all he needed to shatter peace? Declare war? Make himself a duke of widows and orphans? His flourished name and his signet ring impressed in hot wax. Wax the crimson of fresh blood, to be spilled by the men of Clemen he’d sworn on his life to protect.
“Roric.” Humbert was scowling, his beard jutted more fiercely than ever. “This is Balfre’s doing, boy. Whatever mistakes you’ve made elsewhere, the blame here isn’t yours.”
He wanted–needed–to believe that. But events had conspired to erode his certainties with doubt. Now he was a man stranded on rotted ice, knowing he must take a step, knowing that any step he did take would likely plunge him into darkness. Plunge his duchy into bloody death. He wanted to stand still–and knew he couldn’t.
“I know, my lord,” he said, pretending a confidence Humbert must surely know he didn’t feel. “So let us make a start. I’m eager to school Balfre with a lesson he won’t forget.”
Though Count Balfre–no, Duke Balfre–and Lord Waymon were gone to Cater’s Tamwell, Harcia’s Marcher barracks serjeants were so snarly the two great lords might as well not have left. Rumour and gossip thickened the barracks’ air almost past breathing. Clemen had plotted war against Harcia with Balfre’s brother and now a furious Balfre was preparing to punish the duchy and its duke. Battle would begin right here, in the Marches–and that meant every man-at-arms, no matter how young or green he might be, was to make ready to spill his blood in Balfre’s cause. Horses clean, saddlery clean, swords and daggers sharp, leathers oiled and mail without so much as a speck of rust.
Cleaning mail was a sweaty, tiresome task. Liam and Benedikt cleaned theirs together, since it was easier for two men to toss the heavy iron links in a sand-and-bran-filled leather bag on the open ground out back of the barracks, between the dormer and the tilt yard. Besides, that gave them a chance to talk without being overheard.
After they’d turned the bag end-over-end fifty times, Liam bent to unlace it, wanting to see if the mail inside was scoured clean and oiled enough to satisfy snickety Serjeant Grule. As he fingered the shiny iron links, Benedikt straightened and pressed his fists to the small of his back. Kept on flicking him frowning glances, same as he’d been doing for a few days now.
Huffing out a breath, Liam looked up. “What?”
“I wish ye’d tell me what be niggling ye, Willem, I know there be something. Ever since the skirmish with Clemen over that farmer’s thieving son, ye b’aint been yerself.”
There was hurt as well as temper in Benedikt’s voice. Looking down again, Liam re-laced the leather bag. He’d not told his brother about the tilt yard and how he’d seen Balfre murder Vidar. That night still made him sweat. If Balfre had seen him… if Harcia’s new duke ever found out he’d been witnessed…
So it was safer all round if Benedikt never knew. Better bruised feelings than a wine cup full of poison.
But he couldn’t say nothing. His brother was worse than a dog with a bone. “I been thinking, is all,” he said, with a glance round to make sure they were still alone. “About what to do when Balfre and Waymon get here with Harcia’s army, and the proper fighting starts.”
“I know what to do,” Benedikt said. “We scarper!”
He huffed out another breath. “No. We don’t.”
“But Willem, it be madness, us fighting for Harcia! Balfre don’t need our swords to help him win. Clemen b’aint got a feggit chance, everyone knows that. So why risk it?”
“Ye want me to turn tail Benedikt? How can I, when I—”
“Listen.” With a nervous look at the barracks, Benedikt came closer. “I know ye got yer heart set on killing Roric, but think. He b’aint here. He might not come at all. And even if he does, or we end up fighting him someplace else–ye don’t know what he looks like! He could stroll across the tilt yard right now and ye wouldn’t have a feggit notion it was him. So how do ye think to—”
“I know!” he said, angry because he’d not thought of it himself till the middle of last night. “Think I be a wigget, Benedikt?”
“No,” his brother said, sounding a touch doubtful. “Only–d’ye say now ye b’aint looking to kill him?”
“Oh, I’ll kill him,” he said, his blood hot. “One day, Benedikt, I’ll kill him.”
“Unless Balfre kills him first. Ye got to know Balfre wants Roric dead too.”
He did. And almost, almost, he could make his peace with that. If Roric came to the Marches and Balfre killed him in a skirmish, or took the bastard prisoner here or somewhere in Clemen and killed him after, it had to be the next best thing to killing Roric himself.
“Iss. I know.”
“So what d’ye plan to do?”
“I say we don’t think on Roric,” he said, close to a whisper. “’Cause for all we know he’ll not reach the Marches in time to cross swords with Balfre. We think on Humbert instead. Balfre hates him near as much as he hates Roric, and we know what that old shite looks like. So come the fighting we find Humbert, we take him prisoner, and give him to Balfre.”
“Ye reckon? Humbert be a canny swordsman.”
“Iss, but he’s old. He’ll not stand agin the two of us. And I do owe him vengeance.”
“So we take Humbert,” his brother said, frowning. “Then what? Ye reckon that’ll see ye shining in Balfre’s eyes?”
“Course it will. And after Clemen’s defeated, and Balfre’s named himself their duke, he won’t stay in Eaglerock. Not always. But we will. We can ask to be Eaglerock castle men-at-arms. And ’cause we gave him Humbert, Balfre’ll say we can.”
Benedikt rubbed his nose. “And then what?”
“Then we’ll bid
e our time. Clemen’s folk won’t want a Harcian on the Falcon Throne. Sooner or later they’ll want Balfre gone, and there I’ll be. They’ll fight for me. Harald’s son. Their proper duke. And I’ll take Clemen back from Balfre.”
“I dunt know, Willem. I mean, it do seem a good plan. Only an awful lot’s got to go right first.”
“An awful lot’s gone right already,” he pointed out. “I should’ve died in Heartsong, when I were a baby. Ellyn and me, we should’ve perished on the road afore we ever found the Pig Whistle. When Molly and Iddo died? I was meant to die then too. And since you and me started fighting in the Marches, I b’aint hardly earned m’self a scratch.”
“Skirmishes,” Benedikt said, uneasy. “When Balfre and Waymon come back it won’t be skirmishing, Willem. It’ll be proper war, like none of us have ever seen.”
They looked at each other, trying to pretend the thought didn’t fright them.
“I heard Serjeant Huley talking to Serjeant Eadin in the shite-house,” Benedikt added. “He caught another Clemen spy sneaking at the border. Huley said they pricked him some, to see what he knew of Clemen’s plans. But he knew feggit so Huley hanged him. Cut off his cock and balls, stuffed ’em in his mouth and left him there as a warning.”
Which was what happened when a man was fool enough to get caught. “They say anything else?”
“Eadin did. He said Balfre would surely be here soon, and it were a pity we don’t have no camp whores on account of him wishing he could have a last fuck, just in case.”
“He should find himself a sheep. Not even a whore would fuck Eadin.”
“No, but Willem—” Benedikt tugged at his ear. “That means—”
“It won’t be long now afore we’re swimming in blood.”
Another shared look. Deep breaths. Cautious smiles. And then the barracks bell sounded, and they had to haul their mail in its leather sack back to the armoury, where the endless grinding whir of the whetstone sharpening swords and daggers filled the air with a promise of war.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Balfre rode out of Tamwell castle at the head of his army, flanked either side by Waymon, his cousin Joben and Lord Terriel of the Green Isle. Behind them rode four hundred fiercely trained men-at-arms. Between the castle and the Marches he would be joined by Harcia’s other barons, their sons, and more men-at-arms. By the time he struck his first blow at Clemen, Harcia’s army would be some eleven hundred swords strong. Humbert and his Marcher men had no hope of victory and little of survival. He’d sweep through their Marcher lands and into Clemen unopposed.
And if Roric was in the Marches then the Marches was where he’d die. Wherever he was run to ground, Roric was going to die.
The people of Cater’s Tamwell township lined the high street to cheer their new duke as he pranced his great black warhorse past them under a blue sky. His gold-etched armour, hammered sleek by Aimery’s renowned armourer, Master Perryn, shone blinding bright in the unclouded sunshine. Men shouted for spilled Clemen blood, women sighed over their handsome duke and his lords, children squealed and clapped and threw fresh horse dung at each other once the last men-at-arms had ridden by.
Trotting knee-to-knee with his duke, by his coveted right hand, Waymon laughed out loud. “Harcia is with you, Your Grace. I’d wager a barge full of gold coin that Roric won’t have three cur-dogs barking support for him.”
Balfre grunted. At his back loomed Tamwell castle, held safe by a barracks of experienced men-at-arms. Aimery slept in its grand family tomb, laid hasty to rest with a scant nod at Harcia’s tradition of solemn, pervasive mourning. The pressing needs of war was the excuse given out, and not even blustery Terriel had questioned it. As for those other bodies, Grefin and the rest, they were coffined and quicklimed and stored deep beneath the castle, their deaths still a closely kept secret. Once Clemen was subdued, with Roric dead and himself proclaimed the rightful King of Harcia, word would go out of Grefin’s ruinous treachery and how in raging despair he’d killed not only himself but his wife and his children, his royal brother’s innocent family and two others as well. The barons who knew differently would be sworn to secrecy, on pain of death and the destruction of their families. Even Joben. And so the lie wouldn’t be doubted. People loved a good tragedy.
Then would Izusa be named King Balfre’s queen.
“Your Grace?” said Waymon, attentive. “Is something amiss?”
With a shake of his head, graced with a beaten gold ducal coronet, he glanced past Waymon to Joben, who only that morning had complained of feeling slighted. He’d not yet drawn his prickly cousin completely into his confidence. Let Aimery’s nephew prove himself against Clemen in the Marches, just as Waymon had proved himself these past years. That would decide how far he might be trusted, and with how much truth.
“Cousin,” he said, raising his voice above the drumming of hooves and the jangling of mail as they led his small army out of the township and onto the wide, stone-edged road that meandered towards the Marches. “Between now and when first we draw our swords against Clemen, I’d have you heed all the advice that good Terriel, here, can impart. Not a man who’s seen you lift a lance in the tilt yard could doubt your courage, but only since Aimery named me his lord of the Marches have I truly understood the difference between jousting and war.”
Joben frowned, wanting to take offence. But he knew better than to reveal his pricked pride a second time. “All of Harcia knows Lord Terriel’s martial reputation. I’d be honoured to have him school me.”
“The honour’s mine,” said Terriel. “Never fear, Your Grace. I’ll keep Lord Joben safe.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Balfre said, smiling. Pleased not by their acquiescence, which was his due, but for the binding strength of Izusa’s wardings. Days and days since Terriel and the other barons had read those runed, incanted letters and not so much as a hint of weakened influence had he seen. They believed in Grefin’s guilt as strongly now as they had in Tamwell castle. They were bound to him, their new duke, body and soul… and thanks to Izusa would remain bound until death.
They rode sure and steady towards the Marches until, with dusk falling, they reached the village of Dogger Hill, a good third of the way through their journey. There they were met by four more barons and their two hundred and thirty men-at-arms. The village, forewarned, had food and tents and horselines ready for them, and its one small inn emptied of guests for the convenience of His Grace the duke and his lords.
Balfre was halfway through his solitary, rustic supper of stewed rabbit when Waymon entered his privy chamber without invitation. He looked sick.
“Balfre…”
And without another word spoken, blinded by sudden premonition, he knew. He felt a dreadful stab of pain in his chest, felt the pewter spoon slip from his numb fingers. He wanted to vomit up every mouthful of meat he’d swallowed.
“Don’t,” he said, hearing his voice turned strange, hoarse and pleading. “Waymon, don’t—”
“I’m sorry.” Waymon groped to close the chamber’s crooked door. “You hardly spoke of her, but even so I knew that you–that Izusa was—” A rasping, indrawn breath. “So I asked Grule to keep an eye on her. Balfre, he’s sent word. Izusa is dead.”
Because he’d needed Waymon with him in Tamwell he’d left his most senior serjeant behind with his lord’s authority to safeguard the Harcian Marches. A good man, Grule. He didn’t make mistakes.
Balfre cleared his burning throat. “How?”
“No one knows for certain,” Waymon said, his eyes fearful. “There was a fire. Her cottage burned. But there are rumours, Balfre. It’s thought Humbert played a part. Because of Vidar.”
Vidar? And what did that mean? It had been Izusa’s idea, that after he left for Cater’s Tamwell she should be found with Vidar’s body, with the false confession, so Roric and Humbert would be stirred to confusion, further weakening Clemen with internal strife before his attack. Seeing the advantages, he’d readily agreed–and trusted implicitl
y that she’d do as she promised. But he’d never dreamed she’d meet trouble, that she might—
Fuck. Fuck. Did I get her killed?
“Balfre,” Waymon said again, helpless. “What can I do? What do you need?”
“I need Humbert’s head on a pike,” he said, scarcely recognising his own voice. “I need every creek in the Marches to run red with Clemen blood. I need to go deaf from the sound of Clemen men-at-arms, screaming. And right now, Waymon, I need you to get out.”
Waymon’s stricken face tightened. “Balfre, I—”
“Get the fuck out!”
The moment the chamber door banged shut he heaved up rabbit stew and buttered bread and the two full goblets of wine he’d drunk with them. Heaved till his belly was empty and all he could spit onto the floor was yellow bile. And after that he wept, a salty rush of grief that left him snot-nosed and shaking.
Izusa. Izusa. You will be avenged.
In the end, Roric decided, it was the waiting that taxed him hardest. Having agreed to Humbert’s plan that he remain unremarkable and unannounced, he kept himself to the manor house and its grounds while word went out for a mustering of Clemen’s lords with their men-at-arms. But that meant he found himself with too much time alone, too many chances to question every choice, every decision, every twist and turn of his life that had led him to this sword-point moment. It was exhausting.
Throughout the slowly greening Marches, where spring was blooming late out of a cold winter, tensions had wound intolerably tight. Clemen and Harcia’s men-at-arms warily circled each other like growling, raised-hackle dogs in a farmyard, each waiting for the other to bite first. But Humbert had given orders for their men to avoid trouble with Harcia on pain of death, and so far the tenuous peace was holding.
In an attempt to escape the pressure of that tension, and the merciless flogging of his own bleak thoughts, Roric spent hours in Humbert’s manor barracks tilt yard, readying himself for the bloodshed to come. He didn’t spar with Humbert, who–after finding an obscure resting place in the manor grounds for Vidar’s disagreeable corpse and seeing it buried–spent his time riding the Marches, seeking to instill confidence in the superstitious, rumour-plagued folk who called this cousined pocket of Clemen home.