| |
The inn was miles from Aldcaster Island and the Duke of Severn’s palace, but it faced the River Trahern, and that was why Sir Halvor Ingridsson had chosen it. The messenger boats from his troops upstream could get here faster, and Halvor wanted to know everything that was going on in the north. He couldn’t quite forget the war, even though he was ostensibly here for social reasons.
If Halvor couldn’t forget the war, then Timothy wasn’t allowed to forget it, either. But he did his best, anyway. In the dark shadows of the back of the stables, half-bent over an old feed trough, he was able to forget almost everything in the world except the feeling of the stableboy inside him. Well, that and the boy’s hand, reaching around with that same quick rhythm.
Timothy felt his climax building, and he came first, all over the straw-covered floor and his own boots. It had been too long. Then the boy tensed and gave a little gasp, and Timothy could feel him stiffen and let go.
“Fuck me,” said the boy, still panting. “That was amazing, Tom.”
“It’s Tim.” Not that it really mattered. Timothy couldn’t remember the boy’s name. They didn’t need names to do this, and sometimes, in these sorts of encounters, it was better if fellows didn’t know each other at all.
Now came the worst part—the awkward cleaning up, and the even more awkward farewells. When the passion was gone, and the only thing left was a nagging sense of shame. They wiped themselves off with handkerchiefs and straw as best they could. “So, um...tomorrow, then?” the boy said hopefully.
“Possibly.” A valet didn’t get to choose his itinerary when traveling. There was no telling when Sir Halvor would decide they had stayed here long enough.
And in fact, Timothy barely had his trousers laced up again when he heard the stable doors bang open, and he heard his employer bellow, “Tim? Are you in here?”
Timothy mouthed the words, “Wait here,” to the stableboy and went out into the dim, dusty light of the main barn. Halvor was still at the door, a hulking great shadow against the bright summer daylight.
“Yes, sir. Checking on the horses.”
This was a transparent falsehood—the horses were in stalls fifty feet away from where Timothy was standing—but Sir Halvor didn’t seem to care. He was in a foul mood. Even fouler than usual.
“Whatever. Blast it all, I can’t find the fucking army messenger. Did I get any messages yet today?”
“No, sir,” Timothy said, bowing. He had checked twice at the docks.
“Fuck it all to the Void,” grumbled Halvor, smacking one massive fist into an equally massive palm. “Nothing from my father, down in the city?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Come with me,” said Halvor. “I’m sending them another letter, and this time I want you to take it yourself and wait until they deign to reply.” He smacked his palm again as they crossed the courtyard toward the inn. Halfway up the stairs to their rooms, he paused and turned to shake a finger in Timothy’s face. “It’s that fucking woman, you know. His wife. She’s the one who keeps him from inviting me down there.”
Timothy nodded. It wasn’t his place to say anything. And if it were, what could he say? He didn’t know Duchess Carrine. But he did have some sympathy for her. It couldn’t be easy being married to the most famously promiscuous nobleman in Myrcia. Having one of the man’s many, many bastards around the palace couldn’t help.
On the other hand, he could see Halvor’s point. Out in the field, when the army was on campaign, Halvor was one of the chief lieutenants of his father, the Duke of Severn. They dined frequently together when they were stationed near each other, and Halvor was treated like a favorite child.
He and his men had spent most of the summer patrolling the river between Severn and the capital, guarding the flank of his father’s army, and keeping the lines of communication open. Without him, the forces of the traitorous Duchess Flora of Keneburg would probably have cut the duke off from King Broderick completely, which would obviously have been a disaster. Timothy didn’t know much about strategy or tactics, but he thought Halvor probably deserved a great deal more credit than he was given.
Up in the big parlor, Timothy took out his writing set and cut a new quill, while Halvor paced up and down the shaggy old carpet, muttering under his breath. When he finally started dictating, the words came out of him in a sudden, bitter torrent.
Dearest Father,
I trust you are well. I hope the duchess is equally well. Give her my love, and tell her I will always cherish the many kindnesses that she has shown me over the years. Give my love, too, to my brothers and sisters. I trust they are also in good health, and that they are enjoying all the warmth of your happy home. For my part, I am tolerably well, though this inn is quite drafty, and I can feel the chill most keenly in my old battle wounds. But please do not trouble yourself about me. I can make do, and I ask for no special favors.
Your loving and obedient son,
Halvor Ingridsson
“There,” said Halvor, when he’d signed and sealed the letter. “Let’s see them ignore that.” He clapped Timothy on the shoulder. “Off you go now, and don’t come back until they give you a reply.”
The ride down to the city was long and tedious—two hours in a small boat. The boatmen threaded their way between low, marshy islands on narrow, twisting canals. They passed farms here and there, and periodically villages, too. Timothy wondered if they had gotten lost, but then he could see the spires of the cathedral and the towers of the palace rising ahead in the mist.
At the palace, he found an underbutler, who took him to the duke’s chamberlain. “Another letter from Halvor, then?” the man said, taking the message from Timothy’s hand and holding it between his thumb and forefinger like a soiled handkerchief.
Timothy explained that he had been instructed to wait for a reply, and the chamberlain rolled his eyes and shuffled away, muttering. He was gone for hours.
“Are you still here?” he said incredulously, when he finally returned. He produced a very small note from one of his pockets. “Here. Give this to Halvor. It’s from his grace.”
The note wasn’t even sealed, and on the long boat ride back to the inn on the River Trahern, Timothy’s curiosity got the better of him. The first thing he noticed was that it was only a few lines long. The second thing he noticed was that it wasn’t in the duke’s handwriting. Timothy had seen plenty of letters—military orders, usually—written in the duke’s own hand, and this wasn’t it. Probably the chamberlain had written it. Or maybe the duchess. Or some nameless functionary, someone like Timothy himself.
Dear Halvor,
We are all well, and we thank you for asking. Your sister Penny left for Atherton this morning. Sorry you could not be here to see her off. I am pleased to hear you are well, and I shall see you soon in camp. Further orders to follow.
Your father
Not surprisingly, when Timothy gave the note to Halvor, the big knight crumpled it up and threw it against the wall. “That’s it,” he snapped. “We’re going back north. I’ve wasted enough time here.”
He seemed to be taking it rather well, but a minute later, he picked up one of the spindly old chairs and smashed it to bits. Then he smashed the washbasin and the mirror, too, and for good measure, he pulled off one of the bedposts and hurled it like a javelin through the window.
Timothy didn’t know much about tactics or war, but he could see when a retreat was in order. He went downstairs and calmly told the innkeeper that there might be some minor damage to the room, and that the bill could be sent to the chamberlain of the Duke of Severn.
By the next morning, Halvor was in better spirits. As he and Timothy sailed upriver, he recounted many stories of times he’d gone hunting with his father. Less charming were the stories he told about times they’d gone to the same whorehouses together. Some of these stories were remarkably explicit, and soon the other passengers on the little merchant vessel steered well clear of Halvor.
They stopped and took rooms at a nearly-empty hostelry in a little Odelandic village, downstream and across the river from the big market town of Montgomery. Having the market, Montgomery boasted considerably finer accommodation, but it was in Keneshire, so it wasn’t exactly safe to land there.
They had barely arrived when a sudden summer thunderstorm blew up without warning, and before supper had started, the common room was full of sodden travelers who had been obliged to land instead of continuing on, even if the war dictated they ought to be on the other side of the river, up in Montgomery.
The rain hammered against the windows, and something of a festive air prevailed. People bought drinks for strangers, and everyone found seats where they could, regardless of whether they knew anyone else at the table or not. Timothy ended up sharing a tiny corner booth and a massive pitcher of mead with Halvor. This was a breach of etiquette, of course, but Halvor was never one to stand on ceremony, and anyway, there wasn’t much choice. The servants’ hall was packed to overflowing, too.
Halvor went through most of the pitcher himself, and through a second one, after that, and he became quite cheerful. And also, as was his wont, rather lewd. He pointed out a pair of nuns seated at a nearby table. They were in the white and gray habit of the Leofine order—something Timothy knew quite well, having grown up in an abbey town. Were they actually from Erstenwell? Not that it mattered, one way or another.
“You see the shorter one there?” Halvor said, leaning over the pitcher. “The pretty one, I mean? Do you know who that is?”
“I have no idea, sir,” said Timothy.
“It’s Morwen Byrne,” said Halvor, chuckling. “Eldest daughter of Duchess Flora of Keneburg. Probably doesn’t even remember me, but I remember her. Damned shame she took the veil. A body like that is wasted on a nun. I’m half tempted to take her prisoner. Interrogate her, you know.” He nudged Timothy’s elbow. “Give her a real going over, if you know what I mean.”
“I imagine the church might object, sir,” said Timothy, turning aside and blinking away the alcohol fumes coming off Halvor’s breath.
“Fucking church,” grumbled Halvor. “In my mother’s homeland, women fuck all the time, whenever they want. Much more sensible religion, in my opinion.”
Timothy recalled that in Krigadam, the country of Halvor’s mother, they also punished rapists by castrating them, but he thought it best not to mention that.
A moment later, Halvor’s good humor returned. He pointed out another girl, sitting across the room, nearer the windows. “Hey, Tim. Look at that one there. The blonde one with the nice rack. What do you think of her?”
Timothy turned and gave the girl an appraising look. Halvor was right. She was blonde, and she was indeed quite well endowed. Even though Timothy wasn’t attracted to women, he could see that she was exceedingly pretty. Very well dressed, too. Probably some rich merchant’s daughter. There was a fat older woman with her. Her mother, perhaps? No, the woman was too coarse in her features. A governess, then.
As they watched, the girl took off her cloak, got up from her table, and went to the bar, presumably for more drinks. A lot of men turned to watch her go. A few women, too.
“Look at the ass on her,” Halvor said. “Wouldn’t you love to bend her over this table and ram it in her?”
For a multitude of reasons, Timothy wasn’t quite sure how to answer that question. His face burned, and he covered his embarrassment by taking a big gulp of his long-neglected drink. As he finished it, the girl turned again, carrying two mugs of ale. Looking straight across the common room, she caught them staring at her. Her eyes went wide, and her face drained of color, and she hurried back to join her governess. Timothy felt ashamed of himself.
“Do you know who she is?” Halvor said, smiling broadly.
“I’m not sure, sir.”
Halvor leaned even closer and whispered, “She’s my sister Penny. Now stop staring at my sister’s tits, you pervert.” Then he burst out laughing.
The rain let up soon afterward, and the wind died away. Lady Penelope and her governess were among the first to leave. Timothy noted that the girl did not bother to say hello to her half-brother Halvor, or even acknowledge his presence. And frankly, he wasn’t sure he could blame her for that.