Taking advantage of the most favourable winds, the light galley Dancer made a night crossing from the Cassinian duchy of Ardenn to the great harbour of Eaglerock township. Cloaked against the cold, and the sea spray whipping up and over the galley’s side, Berardine of Ardenn brooded into moon-silvered darkness. As she stared, the Dancer’s hull sliced through the inky Moat, its parted waters slapping and hissing in protest. The galley’s square-rigged sail creaked high overhead, bellied with eager air, and its prow dipped and heaved beneath her feet, but she rode each surge easily, as though she sat her swiftest horse.
A pity she couldn’t simply ride the wide stretch of water between her royal duchy and Clemen. In nigh forty years of living, she’d never reconciled herself to boats.
The captain had promised her they’d reach Eaglerock harbour just after dawn. She didn’t know how her sailing masters knew these things. She didn’t need to. It was their business to know, and hers to be satisfied, and if they failed her they knew what they could expect.
Catching the sound of someone’s approach, Berardine turned her head a little and waited.
“Beg pardon, Madam,” said the captain’s mate, halting. “Captain thought you’d fancy a toddy against the nip.”
She held out her hand. “That is most thoughtful.”
“Madam,” said the mate, and put the warm tankard into her grasp. “Were you wanting anything else?”
“Solitude.”
“Yes, Madam.”
Footsteps, retreating. She took a moment to enjoy the toddy’s heat against her chilled fingers, then risked a taste. If it was goat’s milk… but no. Wisely, the captain had seen fit to bring on board finest sweet cow’s milk for her, and had liberally laced this tankardful with rum. She took a deeper swallow and smiled as the sailor’s brew burned a smooth path all the way to her near-empty belly. Her appetite these past weeks had been shy, the news from Clemen too disquieting for comfort. Milk might be babe’s pap, but it soothed her fretful stomach. She needed that, now more than ever. The days ahead were sure to be fraught with uncertainty, if not danger. To prevail she’d require all her strength and cunning.
Tucked within her jewelled bodice was a folded sheet of paper, the most recent report from her envoy to Eaglerock castle and its set-adrift court. She had no need to re-read it, though. After nineteen days of perusal she knew the letter’s contents by heart.
My great and gracious duchess, greetings. In obedience to your wishes, I convey to you the current state of affairs in Clemen. Roric has yet to be formally acclaimed the duchy’s duke, though his day-to-day dealings leave no doubt he is acting in that capacity. Alas, I cannot provide you with a reason for the delay. Also, though my original report holds true–Harald was not loved, so there is litle regret for this death–I must tell you Clemen’s mood remains cautious. Prior to these events Harald’s bastard cousin did not live large. Many do not know him, and lack of familiarity breeds unease. Despite this uncertainty, however, I see no reason to fear for your interests. Our traders here are confident. Ardenn is Ardenn, and will remain so.
And well it might, and must, for it was in trade with Clemen and, through it the duchy of Harcia, that she protected her own vulnerable duchy’s sovereignty and her precarious rule. Lose Clemen and Harcia and she lost all. The dukes of Cassinia, emboldened, would fall upon wounded Ardenn in a frenzy… and she’d get no help from the men in charge of Cassinia’s infant, orphaned prince. Those weak, selfish bastards were too busy feathering their own nests and appeasing the Principality’s great lords.
“But they won’t destroy me, or mine,” she declared to the wind-whipped water and the muffling night. “On my beloved Baldwin’s grave, I swear it.”
“Mama?”
She turned, frowning. “Catrain. Why aren’t you asleep?”
The galley was generously strung with oil lamps. In their leaping light Catrain’s blue eyes gleamed mysterious. Tendrils of wavy, honey-gold hair escaped from her blue cloak’s hood and flirted with the salty breeze. Though just fourteen, she seemed older. She was her dead father’s daughter, Baldwin’s image and delight.
“You’re not, Mama.”
“Mind your tongue.”
Her three other daughters, hearing that tone, would have flung themselves at her in sobbing regret. Not just because they were younger, but because–well, because they weren’t their sister.
Catrain laughed. “If I bother you so much, Mama, you should’ve left me in Carillon.”
“The captain can always take you back there once we have reached Eaglerock.”
“Mama…” Joining her, Catrain slipped a confiding hand beneath the folds of her cloak and into the crook of her arm. “He could, but he won’t. You need my eyes and ears in Clemen’s court. I’m the only one who can spy for you there unnoticed.”
Sometimes she feared her first-born daughter was too bright. “Is that why I’ve brought you with me? To spy on our Clemen cousins?”
“Am I wrong?” Catrain sounded surprised. “I couldn’t think of another reason why you’d want me to come.”
Berardine stared into the night. Yes, she had another reason. But oh, how she dreaded shattering her daughter’s innocence. There remained a little time, yet. Best divert her bright child with an answer that was the truth… but not the whole truth.
“Now that you’re of age, Catrain,” she said with practised ease, hiding all doubts, “I decided the experience of travel beyond our borders will stand you in good stead.”
Catrain nodded. “Yes, Mama. I’m sure it will. But you do still intend for me to be your spy. Yes?”
“You are the heiress of Ardenn. I intend you should do your duty.”
“Exactly so,” Catrain said, pleased. “I’ll make a good spy, I think. What man ever looks past a pretty girl’s tits?”
“Your father did.”
A careless shrug. “Papa was different.”
Indeed he was. Different, and irreplaceable. Even now, after so long, there were days when the pain of missing Baldwin threatened to put her on her knees.
“He’d be so proud of you, Mama.”
Berardine kissed her daughter’s cloaked head. “And of you, Catrain. Though he’d despair at your impudence.”
Another laugh, this time a trifle wistful. Catrain had been nearly seven when Baldwin died. An impressionable age.
“I’ll return to the cabin, Mama, if that’s what you truly want.”
Even with the brisk winds, they faced at least four more hours of sailing. She couldn’t stand on deck all that time. “We’ll both retire, in a moment.”
A stretch of silence as Catrain gazed up at the distant, glittering stars. Her face in profile was achingly pure. Looking at her, Berardine felt a pang of uncertainty.
Since his firstborn daughter’s third birthday it had been Baldwin’s determined desire for the child to marry into Clemen, and in doing so increase Ardenn’s influence and fortunes. But such an intent, while laudable, failed to tell the whole story. At last she’d wormed the truth out of her husband. In defiance of the Exarch’s strict teachings against soothsaying, Baldwin had claimed a knowing of it, and told her that if Catrain didn’t marry Clemen then dire calamity would surely follow. He feared the greed of his brother dukes, and their arrogance. He was afraid they’d see Ardenn reduced to smoke and cinders before admitting Catrain was bloodborn to rule. Instead they’d seek to take it for themselves. Without a great duke as her husband, her champion, his heir and duchy both would be ruined. A soothsayer had told him so.
She’d found it hard to believe him, even though she wanted to. He was the father of her children and the king of her heart. Never once had he lied to her. But soothsaying? That was near as bad as sorcery. A great sin. Only he’d asked her to trust him… and of course she did.
Then, four years later, she lost her beloved Baldwin.
Within days of his death the dukes of Cassinia began dangling various sons before her in hopes of securing an advantageous betrothal to Catrain. Smiles turned to scowls when she refused. Compliments swiftly decayed into veiled threats. Besieged on all sides, she’d begun to weaken, even though she could see that Baldwin had been right to fear the dukes.
But just as despair threatened to overwhelm loyalty, a young woman came to her, slipping into Carillon’s airy palace unchallenged. Like a shadow. Izusa, she called herself. Baldwin’s muse, she claimed to be. Without preamble she’d sworn her fealty, promising her service in defence of Ardenn and in dear Baldwin’s memory.
“Madam, three tokens will I give you by which my honesty can be judged,” she said. “If even one of these tokens proves untrue you’ll not hear from me again. But if I prove true, Madam, think of me… and I’ll return.”
She’d stared at the young woman, trembling with hope and dread. “What tokens?”
“Madam,” Izusa said. Her clear green eyes were fearless, her oddly matched features somehow attractive. “Three days hence, in the midst of its pealing, the great bell in the great chapel of Carillon will crack. When the exarchites prepare the bell field to cast a new bell, there they’ll discover the bones of a hunchback long since dead. Three hours after disturbing these mortal remains, a flock of night-crows will descend upon the chapel bell tower. Thrice will they circle it and then fall dead to the ground–save for one bird, which will sing more sweetly than the sweet-throated thrush. As the last note fades the bird will blush from black to gold and fly away into the blue sky, never more to be seen.”
“Ridiculous,” she said faintly. “Night-crows don’t sing.”
Izusa’s full lips curved in a smile. “One will sing, Madam. And all who hear it shall weep.”
Distraught with grief, more terrified of betraying Baldwin and his trust than imperilling her soul, she’d promised Izusa she’d wait to see if the strange predictions came to pass. Feeling foolish, missing Baldwin, on the third day after the soothsayer’s visit she left her palace to pray in Carillon’s great chapel.
And while she prayed, the great bronze bell in its tower cracked.
When word came to her of the crooked bones found in the bell field, she went to look. She watched the night-crows circle the chapel’s bell tower, then watched them fall dead at her feet. And when the last songless crow sang like a sweet-throated thrush she wept… and barely saw it fly away golden through the veil of her tears.
The next night, like a shadow, Izusa returned.
“Madam,” she said, fearless, “am I not a woman of my word?”
“How did you know those things would happen?” she’d whispered. “What are you, Izusa?”
“Your servant,” Baldwin’s soothsayer replied. “Bound to you and yours for as long as there is need.”
“Bound how? Bound by whom? For what purpose? I must know!”
“Madam…” Izusa took both her hands. Held them, though she had no permission. There was something comforting in her touch. “The more you know, the greater your danger. Shadows creep beyond these walls. Wicked men plot to wound you. Your daughter is not safe.”
She gasped. “Catrain?”
“She must marry into Clemen,” Izusa declared. “No matter who importunes you otherwise, Madam, you must stand firm.”
“Alone, Izusa?” She couldn’t bear it. “For how long?”
Izusa’s smile was brilliant. “You’re not alone, Madam. You have me and the powers who sent me.” Then she scattered her ancient telling stones across the bedchamber floor. “When your daughter is fourteen, and a woman, then will the wheel turn. Stand fast till then, Madam. For Ardenn and the love of the husband you lost.”
“Will I see you again?” she’d asked, watching Izusa return the telling stones to her rabbit-skin satchel one by one, with care. “How can I reach you, if I need… guidance?”
“Fear not, Madam. I’ll come if you need me.”
“And how will you know?”
“I’ll know,” said Izusa, her eyes gentle, her smile strange. Then, like a shadow, she was gone.
So for the last seven years she’d stood fast. Though in the end the threats came to nothing, her rejection of those dukes’ dangled sons had cost her much good will and roused unwelcome suspicions. Most valuable noble daughters were matched years before they reached the legal age to wed. While Baldwin lived there’d been no public complaint over Catrain remaining free, as there was still the chance of a son to inherit his duchy. But with that hope gone, since his death the critical whispers had grown louder. Baldwin’s widow was the sole ruling duchess in Cassinia, and tolerated only by virtue of her widowhood. The thought of Catrain succeeding her and ruling outright, unwed, was unthinkable. The girl must marry and breed a son to inherit Ardenn. Though the prince’s regents and the other dukes squabbled every other week, in this one matter they stood united.
As her daughter’s fourteenth birthday approached, the regents’ pressure increased. Berardine knew she was fast running out of time. Only the thought of giving her tender child to a man like Harald of Clemen stayed her hand. Then newly widowed Harald remarried, and the choice was denied her. When the news came ten months later that Harald had at last sired himself a healthy son, it seemed she must betray her beloved Baldwin and his dream. Harald would hardly betroth his infant heir to a girl of an age to have borne the child herself. She’d come to think she had no hope but to placate the prince’s regents and marry Catrain within Cassinia… or else find another husband for herself and risk her life, and everything she held dear, on the slender chance she could birth a son to follow Baldwin.
Dreading that, she’d waited for Izusa to break her years of silence. And then, when the silence persisted, she wondered if all along she’d believed in a lie.
But now Harald and his son were dead… and the cousin who’d supplanted him was yet unmarried. It seemed Baldwin and his soothsayer had been right after all. Still, one doubt remained. Would the regents and the dukes accept his widow marrying his daughter and heir across the Moat?
She was almost sure they’d support her if she promised that Cassinia would receive a goodly portion of Clemen’s trading wealth. Gold was like oil, it calmed the most troubled waters. And the law was on her side. Nowhere in Cassinia’s statutes was such a marriage forbidden. Why, foreign blood flowed through the veins of every Cassinian noble. As for Roric of Clemen being any kind of threat to the Principality, it went without saying that Catrain’s husband would never take precedence over her in Ardenn. And he was unlikely to object to the role of consort when the marriage would be so advantageous to his duchy. Indeed, in offering Roric her eldest daughter she’d be honouring him, enriching him, beyond his wildest imaginings. Of course he’d agree to the match. He might be a bastard, but she’d never heard he was a fool.
“Mama?”
Berardine stirred out of frowning reverie. “Yes?”
“Something troubles you.”
Yes, indeed. Her daughter was altogether too bright. “Catrain—”
“Mama,” said Catrain. “You fret over me, don’t deny it. You should tell me why. I have the right to know.”
A fair point. Without Catrain’s willing agreement to a match with Roric, Baldwin’s wishes would be thwarted–and if her headstrong daughter felt bullied or tricked in this, she would surely balk.
“Very well,” she said, casting a glance behind them to make sure they remained private. “But you must keep your counsel on it.”
“I will.”
Catrain’s hand was still tucked into her arm. Taking hold of it, lacing fingers, Berardine lowered her voice. “While I did bring you with me to hear things I might not that will advantage or disadvantage Ardenn, it’s not the only reason.”
A whispery giggle. “I thought it wasn’t.”
“You are Ardenn’s future, Catrain, as surely as if you’d been born a boy. The choices you make will set our course for years to come.”
In the dancing lamplight, Catrain’s expression was serious. “My choices, Mama?”
A shout from the captain’s mate, bold but not alarmed. Then a thudding of feet and a flapping of canvas as the Dancer’s sail was trimmed to meet the shifting wind. The boat heeled and the deck beneath them tilted. Oil lamps swung, washing new shadow and light across Catrain’s young, beautiful face as she easily kept her balance.
Berardine squeezed her daughter’s hand. “I know what’s done in other noble families. But you have my word I’ll never force you. Women are granted few enough freedoms in this world.”
“Mama…” Catrain wrinkled her nose. “I think you’re speaking of marriage.”
Pain and pride stabbed, sharply. For Baldwin to have his way she must lose this extraordinary child to a stranger. “I am, Catrain.”
Her daughter seemed more intrigued than alarmed. “And who would you have me marry?”
“You know our history, Catrain. How long ago it was nobles of Cassinia, many of the best of them from Ardenn, who tamed the wild men across the Moat and—”
“And birthed the Kingdom of Harcia,” Catrain finished, impatient. “Yes, Mama. I do remember my lessons.”
“Minx,” she said, but without heat. “Attend me. There has been some trouble in Clemen of late. Harald, who sadly was not a good duke, is no more. His cousin Roric will soon be acclaimed duke in his place.”
“How frightening for Clemen’s people,” Catrain said softly. “Not to have the comfort of a good ruler.”
Ah, but her daughter had a kind heart. She would make an excellent duchess. “Yes, child. Most frightening.”
“So, it’s this new duke Roric who’s in want of a wife?”
“Indeed he is.”
A stretch of wind-whipped silence, as Catrain considered this. At last she released her breath in a long, slow sigh. Let her hood fall back, and turned her bold face to the water and the wind and to distant, night-shrouded Clemen. Her pretty lips curved in a knowing smile, so like her father’s that the world almost stopped turning.
“Then, Mama, we shall give him one,” she said. “The lucky, lucky man.”
“Lord Humbert! A word!”
Biting back an oath, for he had peculiar news to tell Roric and wanted no delay, Humbert turned and waited for Vidar to fight his way through the visitors passing to and fro beneath Eaglerock castle’s portcullised outer gate. Heralds, town messengers, scholars, merchants, scribes, servants, a few minor nobles and even a brace of grey-clad exarchites, they jostled together in a noisy throng. With the changes thrust upon Clemen it seemed every man and his dog were eager to make themselves known to the officials of Roric’s unofficial, fledgling court. The gatekeeper and his junior bailiff were hard put to sort wheat from chaff. As for Vidar, he elbowed his way past them without stopping, his frown a dare to challenge him.
The castle’s red granite entry road, forbidden to horses, sloped steeply upwards from the outer gate. Halted halfway to the main forecourt, watching lame Vidar approach, seeing him gift the amblers in his path with a one-eyed glare fit to freeze the marrow, Humbert felt a grudging admiration. The man came on nimbly enough, though the odd hitch-and-twist in his gait lent him the look of a drunken sailor. That much could be said for him, he never once took to a litter and had himself carried about like a perfumed Sassanine. ’Twas a pity he wasn’t as amenable in other ways. An even greater pity that Lindara held him in such esteem.
“Lord Humbert,” Vidar said with a scant nod, on reaching him. “Do you go to meet with Roric?”
Humbert stared Vidar up and down, taking note of the shabby claret-coloured velvet and dimmed gold thread of his doublet. His undershirt was finest linen, but aged now, its lace trim about neck and cuffs looking tired. It was an open secret, how Vidar’s circumstances daily grew more straitened. He must be perilously close to beggared, these days.
“I do, my lord.”
Vidar was glaring again. “Then speak to him, sternly. He should’ve been acclaimed duke days ago. What’s the matter with him? He threatens the duchy’s calm with this dallying!”
Humbert waited for two messengers and a herald to hurry by. When they were safely past, with no one else close enough to eavesdrop, he raised a warning finger.
“Honest opinion or no, Vidar, you’ll keep from offering it in public.”
Vidar’s lips pinched. “Yes, my lord. But do you deny I’m right?”
Instead of answering, he started again up the sloping roadway. Vidar hesitated, then followed until they reached the castle’s wide, granite-paved forecourt. There, a little winded by the climb, Humbert puffed his way to the half-wall that bordered the sheer cliff side protecting Eaglerock’s western flank. Looking over it, a man sweeping his gaze across the heart-stopping view could see busy Eaglerock township far below, and the boat-crowded harbour with docks and warehouses lining it both sides. Those long, high buildings were crammed floor to rafter with goods to be sent out into the world from Clemen, and goods brought in from as near as Ardenn and as far as Agribia and Ardebenia. Clemen’s lifeblood, the flow of steady trade filling its coffers with gold from sales and taxes and tariffs and imposts. And all of it at risk now, thanks to Roric’s dithering.
But he’d eat a month-dead weasel before admitting as much to Godebert’s haughty heir.
Instead, he jutted his chin. “When the last king of Harcia died, and when the foolish sons who survived him were done tearing his kingdom apart, who survived best? Clemen. We survived, and even thrived, despite famine and drought and the great pestilences of 1140, 1219 and 1392. We even surived Harald, the spirits be thanked. And now you say Roric would put the duchy in danger?”
Vidar pushed a strand of breeze-blown hair out of his face. “Not on purpose. But it seems he’s reluctant to claim the throne he took from Harald, and you can’t deny that’s making Clemen nervous.”
He snorted. “I deny you’ve wit enough to fill a sucking babe’s milk cup. Now come with me.”
The men-at-arms with their killing-sharp halberds, standing duty at the castle’s entrance, knew him for Clemen’s chief councillor and nodded without challenge. Humbert stamped his way across the entrance hall’s tiled floor, leaving Vidar to toil in his wake as best he could, and took the first narrow staircase on the right past the enormous green marble sculpture of Paharan, Clemen’s abandoned god of war. Eaglerock’s exarchites were for ever on about having it hammered to dust but Harald, to his meagre credit, had always refused. He expected Roric would do the same, to remind the Exarch who was duke in Clemen and who wasn’t.
Provided we can get his arse officially sat on the Falcon Throne.
He’d chosen this staircase because it was narrow and seldom travelled, meant for the use of men-at-arms defending the castle. There was a cramped landing at its first bend, with an arrow-loop spilling a thin shaft of light. Humbert pushed his robed bulk onto it and waited. A few moments later Vidar caught up to him, his scarred face tight with anger and pain.
“My lord Humbert, I must—”
“Hold your tongue,” he said. “For I’ll have the rest of my say first.”
Vidar pinched his lips so tight they disappeared. “My lord.”
“Good, then. Now, Vidar. Don’t you take me for a fool. I know why you’re so eager for Roric to formally claim his title–and I can’t say I blame you. But if you think I’ll bully him into rushing ahead for your sake, you’re thrice the knothead I ever thought you might be.”
Vidar’s scarred face flushed, then paled. “He promised me restitution.”
“And you’ll have it! Roric’s word is good. You know that. But he’s juggling more balls than a score of acrobats. Would you have him drop them all, and Clemen’s future, for the sake of one man?”
“An easy question for you to ask, my lord,” Vidar retorted with heat. “With a full purse in your doublet and no taint upon your name!”
Humbert sighed. He had no great love for this man, but the natural justice of his claim couldn’t be denied. “Roric values your friendship, and your patience, Vidar. If you think he’d slight you when you stood by him at the risk of your own life, and took a life in defence of him, you don’t know him at all.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Vidar said stiffly. “But I judge men by what they do, not what they say. For weeks, all I’ve received from Roric is words. When it comes to deeds my purse is empty.”
“It won’t remain so. You’ll have your name and your lands returned to you.”
“When? He made it plain I’d have nothing till he was officially named duke. What stays his hand, Humbert? Why is he not yet acclaimed?”
Chewing his lip, Humbert scowled at the worn flagstones beneath their feet. It went against all instinct and honour to confide in Vidar… but keeping his counsel would only make matters worse. Feed the man’s sense of grievance beyond any hope of placation.
“My lord…” He offered Vidar his most fatherly smile. “You’re feeling hard done by, and were I in your shoes I’d doubtless feel no different. I know few men who’d willingly swallow the same injustice twice.”
Vidar’s expression darkened. “More words.”
“Aye, more words, but with a purpose, I fancy. If you’d have the truth of it, Vidar, our friend Roric yet grieves the loss of Harald’s babe. Putting it bluntly, his conscience pricks him.”
“His conscience?” Vidar stared. “How so?”
Shrugging, Humbert hid his own growing irritation behind a mask of indulgent sorrow. “If the child lived safe in exile I doubt he’d give it any thought. But it perished, and so he finds fault with himself.”
“The fault’s not his. The brat died by mischance. Roric’s a fool to shoulder the blame.”
He shook his head, making sure his features were well-schooled. Not by any slipshod hint could he tip Vidar to the notion that Roric remained convinced there was foul play behind the death of Harald’s son.
“I know it, my lord, as well as you. And I’ve turned my face blue comforting Roric, trying to convince him he’s innocent of any wrong.” Humbert spread his hands wide. “But there it is. The babe was his own blood. Can you wonder at his dismay?”
“No,” Vidar said, grudging. “But I can wonder at him dwelling so long and heavy on what won’t be changed by a river’s worth of tears. Harald is dead, and his line with him. Roric lives, and must live as Clemen’s duke. And as this duchy’s chief counsellor, and his foster-lord, it’s your duty to see it done.”
Humbert swallowed a vexed sigh. It gave him wind, agreeing with Vidar. “I know.”
“I don’t say this for my sake,” Vidar added. “But for Clemen’s. I trust you know that too, my lord.”
“I do, I do. Yes.”
Glowering, he stared out of the arrow-loop beside him, down to Eaglerock’s bailey. A host of riders was milling about, newly arrived it seemed. He squinted, trying to make out colours and badges. Eventually he recognised them.
“Ha,” he said, turning. “The Marcher lords are here, all four, with twice more men-at-arms than they need.” He snorted. “Foppets, to a man.”
Vidar raised his unscarred eyebrow. “Roric summoned them?”
“He did. I told you, Vidar. He might not dance to the tune you’d play him, but make no mistake. He means to rule.”
Relief washed away the surprise in Vidar’s face. Then came a familiar, cynical glint of amusement. “So. The Marcher lords of Clemen and Harcia travelled here together without hacking each other to pieces? Perhaps there’s something to the Exarch’s doctrine of miracles after all.”
Humbert snorted, then tugged at his beard. After a night of contentious deliberations, during which very little was agreed upon, Roric had dismissed Clemen’s council. Its lords remained in Eaglerock township, ready to reconvene when called. Prepared to grant Roric a trifle more leeway, as their unacclaimed duke came to grips with matters as they were and not how he wished them to be.
But only because I near twisted their arms off when his back was turned. Vidar is right, curse him. I’ve indulged the boy long enough.
“Do me a courtesy, Vidar.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Hie yourself down to the bailey. Greet the Marcher lords with all courtesy, especially those bastards from Harcia, see they’re halfway presentable then escort them to Heartsong’s constable. In the meantime I’ll tell Roric they’ve come.”
“My lord,” Vidar said, bowing. “It will be my pleasure.”
Humbert banged a fist to his chest and belched, his swiftly souring temper no friend. “I’m obliged.”
Halfway down the narrow staircase, Vidar halted and looked back. “For Roric’s sake I’m sorry that Harald’s brat died. But it was for the best, my lord. What hope can Clemen have, without first the old book is burned and the new book opened to an unwritten page?”
The distinctive drag-and-thud of his footsteps faded as he made his way down to Eaglerock’s entrance hall. Staring after him, Humbert felt a prickle across his skin. Could Vidar be the one who… But then he shook his head. No. For all his faults, Godebert’s son didn’t lack honour. Why, hadn’t he been prepared to consider the man as husband for his only daughter? He had, and were it not for Roric he’d say yes to the match. For his child’s sake, he would. He could’ve learned to live with wind.
But Clemen came first. Though the boy didn’t know it yet, Roric needed Lindara more than Vidar ever would.
I’m an old fool, is what I am. Vidar wouldn’t pledge loyalty to us, then betray us at the first chance. Nor would Aistan or any other lord. It’s as I held from the outset. Harald’s brat died by mischance.
And there that terrible night must end. Roric had to accept it, and announce the day and time of his acclamation, and take a wife, and breed a son… and let his promise flower, to the good of all Clemen.
Eaglerock castle’s largest and most splended audience chamber was a lofty, intimidating room. Its floor was diamond-tiled in scarlet and black, its stone walls panelled in gleaming white ash inlaid with cherrywood, and its ceiling was a frescoed blue sky chased with white clouds and stooping falcons. One enormous stained-glass window behind the ducal throne admitted the chamber’s only natural light. An unhooded falcon ruled the intricately designed glass, perched arrogant upon a steel-gauntleted fist. The cherrywood throne itself stood on a white ash dais, with talons for feet and outstretched falcon’s pinions on either side.
Roric touched the throne’s carved arm hesitantly, as though the polished, ancient timber might sear him for temerity.
“It won’t bite,” said Humbert behind him, sounding impatient. “Though I tell you, boy, I might if you don’t soon sit your arse in the curs’t thing.”
Resentment pricked. He let his hand fall to his side. “Boy?”
“Well, it’s a sham to call you Your Grace, isn’t it, when you won’t let the council acclaim you.”
“How many times must I say it, my lord? I still have unanswered questions about—”
“Enough, Roric! You’re as answered as you’ll ever be!”
Turning, he watched Humbert stamp his familiar, belligerent way toward him from the chamber’s open doors. One of the guarding men-at-arms discreetly closed them, so they could bellow at each other in private. When they were face to face, his foster-lord thumped to a halt and fisted both hands on his soberly robed hips.
“D’you hear me?” Humbert demanded, flushed. “Liam’s dead. Let him lie. And for Clemen’s sake let us here and now pick the time of your acclamation!”
“For Clemen’s sake, Humbert, how can I?” he said, keeping reasonable with some effort. “How can the duchy acclaim me, honour me, when—”
“Clemen honours strength, Roric! Not this womanish beating of your breast. It honours purpose and duty and men of their word!”
He stared. “What does that mean?”
“It means my ears are still ringing from Vidar’s angry complaints. And Roric, he’s in the right of it. You made him a promise.”
“Which I will keep!”
“Before his arse starts hanging out of his threadbare hose, or after? I tell you plain, boy, he’s so short of coin now he’ll soon be eating his horse. And if you think Aistan and the others haven’t noticed then you’re tipped in the skull.”
“If Vidar’s short of coin he can come to me. I’ll—”
“Why should he? It’s not charity he deserves, boy, it’s a duke who keeps his word!”
Struggling to hold his temper in check, Roric began to pace the gaudy floor. “I can’t help Vidar till I’m legally acclaimed duke and I can’t be acclaimed duke till Liam is avenged. For I know in my heart he was murdered and—”
“Are you truly such a lackwit?” Humbert roared. “Is this how I raised you? How Guimar before me raised you? Does Berold’s blood flow through your body or has there been a mistake?”
Brought up short, Roric swallowed. “Humbert—”
“You know in your heart?” Humbert’s fisted hands lifted, shaking. “What cat’s piss is that?”
“My lord, you taught me to trust my instincts. And my instincts—”
“I taught you to be a man your father would be proud of!” Humbert spat. “At least, I thought I did. But it seems I was wrong. It seems you’re more like Harald than I knew.”
“You’re unfair!”
“What’s unfair is that poor crippled bastard Vidar, limping to me one-eyed, with his hand out, begging for what he’s rightfully owed!”
He made himself meet Humbert’s furious glare. “All I want is justice for Liam.”
“Well, you’ll not have it!” Humbert retorted. “A fart on your instincts, Roric. You’ve no proof of murder and no way of finding it now. All you’re going to get is more bloodshed, because with every day you delay you give Harcia more reason to think Clemen’s a lone lamb without its shepherd. Get it through your head, boy. The brat’s death is a blessing!”
Humbert’s words struck him like a hammer blow to his heart. “What?”
“You were right about me, that night at Heartsong,” said Humbert, savage. “I am glad Harald’s son is dead. Clemen’s best served with a clean page, unwritten. Heartsong’s in the past. Accept it.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then Clemen will fall into chaos, making you more of a villain than curs’t Harald ever was.”
Not a hammer blow, this time, but a long, thin blade neatly slid between his ribs. He could feel the blood flowing from his bruised and battered heart. His eyes were dry, though, all his tears wept out for Liam.
“I only started this for Clemen,” he said, voice low, throat aching. “To save us from Harald.”
Humbert heaved his shoulders in a shrug. “I know, boy. Now finish it. Or what was all that dying for?”
A terrible question, with but one answer. Humbert was right. No matter what he suspected, he had no proof. “Fine, my lord. You win. I’ll speak no more of Liam.”
“Good,” said Humbert, sounding equally shattered.
“Was there anything else?”
Humbert tugged at his beard. “Yes, but it can wait. The Marcher lords are here.”
“I know. I saw them arrive.”
“They’re likely on their way up now.” Humbert cleared his throat. “Roric—”
Needing a moment, Roric pushed past him to the dais and took his place on the Falcon Throne. The cherrywood was cool beneath his hands as he grasped its carved arms. Never before had he sat it. As he accustomed himself to the feeling, he released a slow breath and considered the man who meant so much to him.
“I’ve disappointed you.”
“Worried me,” said Humbert, the hectic colour fading from his face.
“And angered.”
“True,” Humbert agreed. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I was harsh, boy. You’ve a good heart.”
“But?”
“But sometimes I fear the goodness in you will over-rule the iron.”
Deliberately, Roric relaxed his tight fingers. “And a duke should be iron first and foremost, with goodness trickled into the miserly nooks and crannies that remain?”
Humbert nodded. “He should, Roric. And you know it.”
That thin blade, still rib-lodged, twisted. “Alas, Humbert. I do.”
Humbert made to answer, then turned his head at a heavy rapping on the chamber doors. “Enter!” he bellowed, then stepped back until he stood beside the dais. The doors opened, revealing one of the castle’s stewards. Nathyn.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “I give you the Marcher lords, come to Eaglerock at your behest.”