Standing before the window in Wido’s oak-pannelled library, feeling the sharp ache in his daggered arm, Humbert stared across the mole-pocked lawn to the straggling woodland that fringed the manor’s unkempt grounds. Summer in the Marches started late and lived a short life. Wood burned in the fireplace, flames crackling loud and smoky. The chimney wouldn’t draw cleanly. Poor household management. But that was Wido, wasn’t it? Half-arsed. No proper judgement. Scant wonder the man was dead and order in the Marches lying in ruins around his corpse.
Almost he could wish Wido’s crime had been enriching himself at Roric’s expense. But no. The shite had spent his trusted time in the Marches squabbling with Harcia’s Bayard and Egbert, pursuing petty vendettas against them and their Marcher men while turning a blind eye to his own men’s misconduct. Within a day of his arrival here, he’d sniffed out Wido’s failings. Yes, and Jacott’s too. A pair of rotten peas in the same fucking pod.
And we in Eaglerock were fool enough, complacent enough, to take Wido and Jacott’s reports at face value and dismiss Harcian complaints as shite-stirring. But no more.
Brooding, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. It sat ill to reward Vidar when the bastard deserved beheading. But try as he might he could think of no better remedy. Clemen was already precarious. Its brittle nerve could never withstand Lindara’s wicked plot coming to light. No. He’d brought Vidar with him intending to leave the cockshite behind in exile, as punishment for daring to touch Roric’s wife. He must stay his course. So long as he kept a close watch on Godebert’s son–and he’d already sent for Egann to be his eyes and ears here–all would be well.
The library door opened. He heard the limping cockshite and his walking cane tap-and-drag into the room. Heard the door shut, then Vidar clear his throat.
“You wanted to see me?”
He turned. Vidar was leaning heavily on his cane, his one-eyed gaze wary. Not a knife-mark did he carry from the bloody debacle at the Pig Whistle, but the herb-woman who’d done her best for Clemen’s wounded, and then come to the manor house that morning to see how they were faring, claimed Vidar was badly knocked about, his damaged hip hurt again. And true enough, he did look to be walking worse than ever. But looks could be deceiving. Vidar’s looks most of all.
Six years on the council, nodding and smiling. Six years pretending he had Roric’s interests at heart. And all that time…
Humbert clenched his jaw. Every time he believed his rage conquered it woke again, and he wanted to knock Vidar to the floor and beat the shite to death with his bare fists.
“Humbert?”
“Tell me, Vidar,” he said, jutting his chin, “how long have you been fucking my daughter?”
The look on Vidar’s face was an admission of guilt. Not that there was any doubt.
“Answer me. You’re crippled, not deaf.”
Too late, Vidar tried to pretend. “If that’s a jest, it’s a poor one.”
“Jest? Vidar, you cockshite, it’s treason. How long?”
“I admit nothing!” Vidar said hotly. “Who accuses me, my lord?”
“No man. You accused yourself. When you danced with Lindara at your betrothal feast. So many people betrayed in one afternoon. Like father, like son. Godebert would be proud.”
The amethysts gold-stitched to Vidar’s dark blue doublet shivered light as his breathing changed. A muscle leapt along his tight jaw. Under his spoiled eye, a nervous tic.
Glowering, Humbert raised a warning finger. “Don’t waste your breath denying this. I know. I have confessions. Lindara. Her maid. And the witch.”
Instead of protesting he knew nothing of any witch, Vidar swallowed. “You’d see your daughter ruined by the taint of sorcery?”
“Ah.” He breathed out, slowly. “So you knew the woman she used to ruin Roric was foul.”
His one eye glittering, Vidar eased his bad hip. Seemed prepared to go on blustering… then abruptly surrendered. “Not till recently. I thought she was—” He sighed. “But I doubt you care what I thought. Or believe that I’d have kept Lindara from her, had I known.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
“You think me a traitor.”
“Think?” The urge to beat and batter rose again, blinding. “You pissing whoreson! She’s the wife of your duke!”
“An unwilling wife!” Vidar’s voice was shaking. “Wed to a man who never deserved her. Who never cared for her, not truly. Not like I do.”
Humbert stared, disbelieving. “What womanish drivel is this? Have you never heard of honour?”
“You think Roric has honour? He married Lindara knowing I loved her. Thinking I held my love so cheap that I could be bought with dirt and grass and a seat on his council.”
“And you were bought!” Sweating, Humbert clutched at a nearby straight-backed chair. “Like a two-copper whore you took what Roric offered–then you turned traitor and spat in his face. You planned to put your bastard son on the Falcon Throne!”
Vidar straightened, the effort blanching his unscarred cheek. “Fine. I’m a traitor. But we both know I’m not the only one.”
“What?”
“You think I don’t know how you threatened Lindara, to make her wed with Roric against her will?” Vidar’s face twisted with contempt. “What man who loves his daughter would treat her like that?”
“And what man with a daughter would see her wed with the likes of you?”
“Aistan.”
Humbert snorted. “To his everlasting shame.”
They glared at each other, the air between them thick with loathing. A faint splattering sound, as rain began to spit against the window.
“So?” Vidar said harshly. “What now? For as much as we both know you want to kick my corpse, you can’t afford to call my life forfeit. Not when you’re desperate to keep this matter close.”
Jaw tightened to breaking point, he scowled. “Don’t be too sure.”
“But I am sure,” Vidar retorted. “You love Roric too much to let it come to light. You love yourself even more. What a shame you didn’t think to kill me yesterday. You could’ve blamed my death on a Harcian and no one would ever know.”
“Believe me, I was tempted.”
But with Vidar dead he’d never trust Lindara to keep her mouth shut. Godebert’s son breathing was his only way to keep her tame.
“Come, Humbert,” Vidar said, near to taunting. His old self again. “Don’t play coy. I’d know my fate.”
Humbert released his hold on the chair. “As soon as Jacott can travel, if he doesn’t die, I’ll be leaving for Eaglerock with him, and Wido’s body, and their families. You’ll stay behind. I’m giving you Clemen’s Marches, Vidar. And your life will depend on you keeping the peace.”
“You’re mad,” Vidar said, after a choked silence. “You expect me to rot in this forsaken place? For how long?”
“You’ll not limp back into Eaglerock before Lindara’s given Roric two healthy sons. At least. Clemen will have its future, and you’re no part of that. You failed, Vidar, you and my daughter and that whore of a witch you found.”
Despite the fire, the room was chilly… but a bead of sweat rolled down the side of Vidar’s face. It almost looked like a tear.
“You have no right,” he whispered. “Roric is duke in Clemen. Not you. If he—”
“Roric’s been guided by me since he was seven. If I tell him you’re best suited here, then here is where you’ll stay.”
A short, bitter laugh. “And you call me a cockshite. Humbert—” Vidar’s fingers were white on his walking cane. “I saved your life yesterday. Is this how you’d thank me?”
“You’re not owed thanks. You’ve been fucking your duke’s wife.”
Vidar took a lurching step forward. “My wife, Humbert. In my heart, she’s my wife.”
More sentimental slop. Some faery had addled the bastard’s wits. “In your heart and nowhere else, Vidar. Stop thinking you can sway me. Lindara is lost to you. And I swear, if you fight me on this I’ll see that she suffers for the rest of her life. Then I’ll have your head for a paperweight and take my chances after.”
Vidar knew him well enough to know that was no idle threat. He seemed to shrink, his confidence shrivelling. In his face a stark and genuine grief. Seeing it, Humbert felt an unwanted pang of sympathy.
“Godebert was ever a weak and profligate lord,” he said roughly. “Watching you grow from boy to man, Vidar, I had hopes you’d redeem him. And you did, somewhat. In your early years. For certain you’ve never lacked physical courage. I can admire you for that much.”
“High praise,” Vidar said, savagely sarcastic.
“No. A brute beast has physical courage. More is asked of a man.”
Silence, as Vidar contemplated his fate. “And so I’m disposed of,” he murmured, at last. “Out of sight… and out of mind.”
“And it’s more than you deserve. Though I’ll say this. Despite what you’ve done, I know you love Clemen. Your treachery is personal. Born of weak, slighted feeling.”
“Does that mean I keep Coldspring? And my other estates?”
He had to leave the man with some hope, else risk him doing something worse. “If you behave yourself. If you make it plain to Roric that serving him here is your heart’s desire and serve him well, then yes, you’ll keep your property. And because I’m not a cruel man, I’ll let you have Aistan’s spoiled daughter to wife.” He shook his head, wearied with disgust. “Get a son of your own on her, Vidar. You owe that to Clemen, if not Godebert. Our duchy needs all the strong sons it can breed. Keep peace in the Marches. As close as my eye will be on you, keep yours close on Harcia. What Aimery does next will decide if it’s to be peace between us, or war.”
Vidar hesitated, then cleared his throat. “And yesterday’s bloodshed? The letter, and the man who brought it? His murder by Balfre’s man?”
“Never you mind on that,” said Humbert. “You can leave that to me.”
Crushed with disappointment, Aimery fingered the torn letter Balfre had given him. There was dried mud on it. Dried blood. But though some of the words were obscured, he could read enough to know they spelled the death of any hope he’d had for peace with Clemen.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Balfre said, subdued. “I wish I came with better news.”
“There’s no doubt Roric wrote this?”
“None. Humbert confirmed it is his hand.”
“And he killed Bayard?”
“Yes.”
“And Vidar slaughtered Egbert?”
“I saw it.”
He frowned. “Vidar’s a cripple.”
“That didn’t stop him from trying to slit my throat.” Balfre retorted, and pulled down his shirt.
Aimery stared at the scabbed dagger-cut in his son’s flesh. “You never said you were wounded.”
“I bled a little. That’s all.”
“All?” said Grefin, standing with his back to the privy chamber’s unshuttered window. “You nearly died.”
His face was disciplined, but Aimery knew his younger son. Grefin was anguished by Roric’s duplicity.
As I am. I offered him peace and friendship. He answered me with slaughter.
Both his Marcher lords murdered, and all of their men. His lax hand trembled on the arm of his chair.
“Your Grace—” Balfre dropped to one knee. “May I speak plainly?”
In the face of dire provocation, this reckless son had conducted himself with remarkable restraint. There was hope for him after all… and cause for pride.
He nodded. “You may.”
“I know you dream of a lasting peace with Clemen. Harald made it impossible, but I think you felt there could be a fresh start with Roric.”
“I did, Balfre,” he said, fighting the urge to look at Grefin. “A wise ruler seeks peace.”
“Yes. But he must be careful where he places his trust. Roric has proven that base blood will out. He’s a festering thorn and must be plucked from Harcia’s flesh before he poisons us all.”
Aimery watched the muddied, bloodied letter slip out of his grasp. Flutter like an autumn leaf to the floor. “You want war.”
“Want?” Balfre clenched his fists. “Never. But Clemen has butchered two of our lords. Would you have Roric think he can kill us without consequence? Have Harcia’s lords think you’ll see them buried unavenged?”
“You hope to insult me into warfare?”
Balfre stood. “No, my lord. But you—”
“I share your anger, Balfre,” Grefin said quietly. “But there’s blame here on both sides. Bayard and Egbert were often contentious with Wido and Jacott. And our Marcher men followed their lords’ poor example.”
Balfre snatched up the fallen letter and brandished it at both of them. “So you’d discard proof in Roric’s own hand that he’d deal falsely with Harcia? Father—” Tumultuous, Balfre dropped to his knee again. “Must the proof be written in your blood before I have leave to act?”
Moved by his angry fear, Aimery rested a hand on his son’s head. “Before we make countless Harcian widows? Yes, Balfre. It must. But keeping my sword sheathed is not the same as trusting Roric. I will never trust Clemen’s duke again.”
“Nor should you, my lord. The bastard played you false.” Balfre sighed. “Father… I’d make a suggestion. For on the ride home from the Marches I gave our dilemma much thought.”
Aimery sat back. “What would you have me do?”
“Thanks to Grefin, we have order in the Green Isle. Let me bring that same order to the Marches. Grant me the authority to uphold the law in your name. Make me your Marcher lord.”
Aimery tapped a finger to his chin. “A moment ago you were urging me to war. Yet a Marcher lord’s first duty is keeping the peace.”
“That’s true,” Balfre admitted. “But a weak peace is no strength. A weak peace leads to bloodshed. I can uphold Marcher law and give Clemen reason to think twice before spilling any more Harcian blood.”
“It’s not a bad idea, Father,” said Grefin. “As your heir, Balfre’s authority is unassailable. I doubt Roric would dare test him.”
What treacherous Roric would do, he could no longer imagine. “Perhaps,” he said, frowning. “But Balfre–a Marcher lord must be concerned with every man’s welfare. Could you deal fairly with Clemen if a man of Harcia was found in the wrong?”
“Yes, my lord,” Balfre said, still kneeling. Not humble, for he could never be that, but with his natural arrogance tempered, at last. “Which I think you know, or you wouldn’t have sent me to speak for you at the Crown Court.”
No, he’d sent Balfre to the Crown Court to prove himself trustworthy.
And when he could’ve slaughtered Humbert, slaughtered Vidar, wreaked his vengeance upon Clemen, he stayed his hand and came home to seek my guidance.
What else should Balfre do to prove himself worthy of trust?
“You’d need another lord to aid you. The Marches are too big for one man.”
“I’d take Waymon, Your Grace.”
“Not Joben? Or Lowis? Or even Paithan?”
“No,” Balfre said, regretful. “Harcia needs Joben’s voice on the council. Lowis’s health is uncertain. And with Herewart growing feeble, Paithan should be close at hand. His father will need him far more than I.”
“Waymon,” said Grefin, uneasy. “I know he’s your friend, Balfre, and I’d not smear him, but…”
“He can be wild,” Balfre said, looking at his brother. “But he saved my life in the Marches. In time he’ll season. If he’s given the chance.” He almost smiled. “As I have.”
Aimery pinched the bridge of his nose. Waymon wouldn’t be his choice, either. But Balfre had earned the right to decide. Just as he’d earned the right to rule the Marches.
“Very well, Balfre. You are my Marcher lord.”
Balfre leapt up, brilliantly smiling. “Thank you, Your Grace. I swear on my honour, I’ll not disappoint.”
“I know.” He released an unsteady breath. “Now, you’ve come to me straight from the road, weary and travel-stained after much hard riding, and though you keep close counsel I know you’re heartsore over Bayard and Egbert and our slaughtered men. Eat, sleep, and put aside sorrow for a time.”
“Your Grace,” said Balfre, and turned. “Grefin.”
Grefin crossed to his brother, folded him into an embrace. “I’m proud of you, Balfre. I doubt I’d have kept my head, if I’d been there.”
As Balfre departed, Aimery let himself slump. His weakened body was trembling, and grief threatened to break free.
Grefin reached for him. “Father—”
“Don’t, Grefin,” he said harshly. “There’s nothing you can say. Balfre is right. Clemen has ever been greedy and deceitful. Shame on me for thinking that could change.”
“Not shame,” said Grefin, his voice thick. “Never shame. There can’t be shame in an honest seeking after peace.”
He shuddered. “Say as much to Bayard and Egbert. See if they agree.”
“Father—”
“No, Grefin.” He raised a defensive hand. “You mean well, and I’m glad you badgered me into letting you stay in Cater’s Tamwell till Balfre returned. But I’d be alone. Go and play with your children. They’ll be grown and you’ll be an old man, soon enough.”
“Your Grace,” Grefin murmured, and did as he was told.
Aimery waited until the chamber door shut before he let the tears fall.
“Well, leech? Will Lord Waymon be spared?”
“Count Balfre!” The startled castle leech dropped his bone needle and length of boiled horsehair. “His lordship’s life is not in peril. The wound is more a long gash than deeply penetrating. Most fortunate.”
No, not really. Waymon had taken great care not to kill himself by accident. Inspecting the unstitched and freshly bloodied dagger-wound in Waymon’s side, Balfre raised an eyebrow.
“Were you not satisfied with the herb-woman’s stitchery?”
The leech sniffed. “There were gaps, my lord. Ill humours were gathering.”
“She had worse wounds than mine to mend,” said Waymon, grinning despite the pain. Bloodied linen cloths were scattered at his feet. “Count Balfre used his dagger on those Clemen filth with lordly skill.”
He frowned Waymon to silence. “A few proper stitches is all Waymon requires, leech?”
“Yes, my lord,” the leech said, cautious. “With a good daubing of speedwell ointment after, and a linen bandage to finish. I’ve one here, soaking in a tincture of cockleburr, comfrey and goldenseal.”
“Then go seek a patient elsewhere,” he said. “I know my way around a needle.”
Not pleased, but no fool either, Tamwell’s leech withdrew from the stone-walled infirmary. Balfre latched the door behind him.
“My lord?” Waymon was eyeing him like a skittish horse. “Are you sure you—”
“You wound me, Waymon,” he said, crossing to a bench where the leech’s tools were neatly displayed. “I could slit your throat and stitch it shut again well enough.”
Waymon laughed, uneasily. “I’m encouraged to hear it. I think. Have you seen the duke?”
Ah, Waymon. A little murder and mayhem and he thought they were almost equals. But this wasn’t the time to put the upstart in his place. Waymon was yet useful… and knew more than enough to be dangerous. He must be kept close.
“I’ve just come from him.”
“How went it?”
With his back turned he didn’t have to school his face. But he made sure to keep the aggravation out of his voice. “Sadly,” he said, choosing a fresh bone needle. “Aimery’s grieved by the loss of good Harcian men, and his grief grieves me. I did what had to be done but it gives me scant pleasure.”
“Better a little pain now than a great pain later. Clemen is a festering sore.”
Indeed. He fished a horsehair from its jar of spirits, and threaded the needle. “Though one good thing has come of this shambles. I’m named Harcia’s new Marcher lord.”
“Truly? ’Tis excellent news, Balfre!”
Waymon sounded astonished, but pleased. Just what he wanted to hear. “It’s a solemn duty.”
“You’ll perform it well. When do you leave?”
“Soon.” He crossed back to Waymon, who immediately looked skittish again. “Clemen must remain cowed. Now, my friend, hold your arm out of the way and grit your teeth. This will pinch.”
Womanish, Waymon yelped at each popping bite of the needle and closing tug of horsehair. Yelped louder as ointment was slathered across the wound, then groaned as the herb-soaked bandage was wound around his ribs.
“Thank you,” he said, when the task was done. “But don’t take it amiss if I say you were born to be a duke, not a leech.”
“I won’t. Waymon…” He settled his hand on the man’s shoulder. Showed him nothing but the duke’s loving son, a good friend. “You must think me monstrous ungrateful, that I’ve not yet spoken of what you did for me in the Marches.”
Waymon flushed. “My lord, I failed you in the Marches. I didn’t stop Humbert from claiming the trader’s body.”
True. But while the mistake still rankled, he was prepared, this once, to forgive. Humbert might have the body, but bodies rotted. He, on the other hand, had retrieved the forged letter. And it was the letter that gave him the leverage he needed over Aimery and Grefin. Which meant he had the power. All Humbert had was putrid flesh.
He gave Waymon’s shoulder a light squeeze. “No, my friend. Everything I asked, you did, even when what I asked was difficult. And I know it was difficult. Not killing that lone trader and dressing him in Roric’s livery, but wounding yourself. Killing Bayard. And maiming our own Marcher men so they’d not survive.”
“You killed Egbert, and some of our men,” Waymon said, shrugging. “How could I flinch, when you didn’t? Besides, they failed Harcia. They failed you. What could any of them expect for that but death?”
He sighed, as though impossibly burdened. “I’m glad you feel that way. There are many who’d think my judgement too harsh.”
“Not I,” said Waymon, fiercely. “Can a meek lamb rule Harcia?”
The man’s unswerving loyalty was a balm to his scorched spirit, which hadn’t healed from Aimery and Grefin’s betrayal. Might never heal. Some wounds were too deep. Some betrayals beyond forgiveness.
“Many would say yes.”
“Then they’re fools, my lord. I’d rather be dead in a ditch than suffer the lordship of a lamb.”
Well. That was one thing they had in common, at least. Balfre wandered idly back to the bench, where he’d left the jar of speedwell ointment unsealed. Pushing the cork plug into its neck, he glanced over.
“The letter from Roric I gave you to put with the Clemen man’s body. I know you must have questions.”
“Well—” Waymon hesitated. “Balfre, I don’t need—”
“No, but I’ll explain,” he said, smiling. “I owe you that much. How the letter came to me, it’s best you don’t know. I’d keep you safe whenever I can. But how I came by it meant I couldn’t easily reveal its existence to Aimery. And so… a small deception. Dishonesty in service of a greater truth. If that disturbs you, then—”
“I told you, Balfre,” Waymon said, sombre. “Whatever you need. Ask me, and it’s done.”
Returning to him, Balfre slid his hand to the back of Waymon’s neck, pulled him close so he could press their foreheads together. “Such loyalty is a rare gift. Worth more to me than a lake of molten gold. I’d reward it. Come to the Marches, Waymon. Be my strong right arm.”
Waymon jerked back. “Balfre! Me? But what—”
“My cousins are our friends and are good men, and I love them,” he said. “And I’ll have need of them, in time. But they lack your heart, Waymon. They would’ve stayed their hands in the Marches. Doubted what they were asked to do. Doubted me.”
“Then they’re fools too,” said Waymon. “Because what you did saved Harcia from Clemen’s treachery.”
“No, Waymon. We saved it.”
Struck dumb, Waymon swallowed.
“Now, my friend, you should eat a hearty meal, then rest,” he said. “As I intend to do. For the task before us is daunting and we shall need all our strength.”
The next morning, after a poor night’s sleep, disheartened by Roric’s duplicity and fretting for Aimery, Grefin found that not even Mazelina’s gentle company or his children’s laughter could soothe him. So he took refuge in childhood memory, and sought out the place where he used to hide as a boy: the crooked branches of an old apple tree, in a far corner of the bailey. There he sat, knees pulled close to his chest, and brooded.
Balfre found him there an hour later.
“We should talk,” his brother said, fisted hands on his hips. “Just the two of us.”
He pulled a face. “I’m not in the mood, Balfre.”
“Too bad. I am.”
There was no point protesting, so he climbed out of the tree and walked across Tamwell castle’s outer bridge with his brother, thinking they’d wander along the cliff or maybe through the township. Find a quiet tavern and hide themselves in a corner. But no. Instead, Balfre led him down to the river and threw coins at a wherryman for the use of his sturdy little boat.
With a comfortable sigh, Balfre settled himself on a bench seat, his back to the stern. “You’re the youngest. You can row.”
Bastard. Grefin hunched onto the wherryman’s seat, took hold of the oars and wrangled the wherry away from the dock and into the lazily flowing river. The wherryman stared after them, shading his bemused face with his hand.
“Mind, now,” said Balfre. “The river’s well-travelled and this doublet’s not for swimming.”
He was right. The river Tam was Harcia’s highway, thronged daily with wherries and barges unless it was a hard winter and the water froze. Then horse-and-carts used it like a regular road, and children tied shingles to their shoes and slid about in riots of laughter, and older boys held archery contests under the sparkling, ice-blue sky. Two hundred and sixty-odd years ago the Tam’s waters had flowed through the Marches and into Clemen. But Harcia’s duke in that time, Gorvenal, he’d put an end to that. Summoned every able-bodied man and boy in the duchy to the slow, narrow river bend beyond Cater’s Tamwell and turned them into an army of spadesmen. Upon his command they’d diverted the river back into Harcia. And though Clemen had howled and pleaded and threatened, Gorvenal stood firm… and Clemen didn’t fight. That was something to remember, in these uncertain times.
Glancing over his shoulder, then left and right at the wherries gliding beside them, making sure he was in no danger of a collision, Grefin heaved a sigh. “Balfre, where are we going?”
Balfre waved a vague hand. “Does it matter? Surely even you can’t get lost on a fucking river. Now put your back into it. It’s past time you worked up an honest sweat.”
If he’d not needed both oars, he’d have smacked his brother with one.
Feeling his muscles loosen as he worked into the rhythm of the task, feeling the impersonal tug of the flowing water and the strength it cost him to keep the wherry driving straight, he deepened his breathing. The air smelled of the midden, and open fields, and damp ploughed soil, and cattle.
“I’m wondering,” he said, watching Balfre watch the cottages and countryside glide by. “When you leave, will you take Jancis with you?”
Balfre grimaced. “No.”
“So you’d not object if she spent a little time on the Green Isle with me and Mazelina?”
“I would. Aimery needs her to tend him.”
“Balfre, she’s nursed Aimery since he fell ill. She’s tired. A respite will restore her spirits.”
“What the fuck do you care for my wife and her spirits?” said Balfre, staring. “Besides, surely Mazelina is trouble enough on her own.”
Grefin thought a moment before replying. If only Balfre weren’t so prickly when it came to talk of marriage. It touched too near the question of children, of sons. His disappointment, and how he blamed that on his wife.
“It’s Mazelina who’s asked me to ask you. She’s fond of Jancis. She says the wives of men like us must love each other like sisters.”
“Men like us? I suppose that’s an insult, is it? Men like us.”
“Balfre…” He shook his head, amused by his brother’s outrage. “Can you call us easy? Were you a woman, would you wish to be married to you?”
“Instead of you? Fuck! What do you think?”
“I think that when it comes to my wife, I know which battles to fight and when I shouldn’t even bother unsheathing my sword.”
“Fuck.” Disgruntled, Balfre worried at the ruby ring on his thumb. Then he shrugged, an irritable twitch of one shoulder. “Fine. Take Jancis back with you. Keep her for all I care.”
A double-sailed flat barge wallowed by them, laden with slabs of blood granite quarried in Danstun, three days’ ride to the north. Breathing hard, Grefin struggled to hold the wherry against the barge’s heavy wash. He could hear shouts and curses as the river’s wherryman fought to keep their own boats steady.
Balfre was laughing as he swayed in time with their boat’s plunging. “What did I say, Grefin? An honest sweat. But I warn you–tip me into the Tam and I’ll wring your fucking neck!”
A great deal of honest sweat saved him. Danger past, and the river settling, Grefin blotted his face on his sleeve. “You lazy shite, Balfre. You could’ve lent me a hand. I swear, one of these days I’ll kill you.”
Balfre grinned. “Not if I kill you first.”
That deserved an eye roll, and got one. Rowing again, he considered his brother. Wondered if he should risk speaking further about Jancis. Probably not. But when would he have another chance? They mightn’t see each other for a year. Perhaps longer. And Balfre was hurting, though he did his best never to show it.
“You shouldn’t fret over Jancis. When Aimery—” No, he still couldn’t say it aloud. “When you’re duke, you can put her aside. Choose a wife more to your liking and breed a son on her instead.”
“You astonish me,” Balfre said, after a staring silence. “Truly.”
“Why? I’m not Mazelina. A duke’s wife–the heir’s wife–owes him a son. Jancis is no bad woman, but she’s failed you.”
“Our father’s made it plain, Grefin. I must keep Jancis to wife.”
A mistake on Aimery’s part, but no amount of argument would change his mind. “And so you will. While he’s duke.”
Frowning, Balfre slid the ruby ring from his right thumb and fiddled it over the scarred joint on his left. “But if I keep her to wife after his death, as Aimery wants, and as Harcia’s duke die without a son, you’d follow me.” He inspected the ring again, then pulled it off his left thumb. As though the fate of the world rested upon which thumb wore a ruby. “Fuck, Grefin. If Clemen kills me in the Marches you’ll be Aimery’s heir. I’ll wager that thought gives you a thrill.”
His turn to stare. “D’you think that’s my ambition? That having tasted power in the Green Isle I now covet all of Harcia?”
The ruby ring was back on his brother’s right thumb. One arm resting along the wherry’s side, Balfre shrugged. “Don’t you?”
“No! Is this what you wanted to talk about? Because if it is—”
“Keep your voice down, Grefin. We’ve got wherrymen on either side of us and sound carries across water.”
Maybe so, but it was still hard not to shout. “I’ve no desire to be duke of Harcia. And fuck you for thinking I’d rejoice at your death.”
Balfre smoothed his breeze-blown hair. “It seems I’ve offended you.”
“And hurt me. When did I ever give you cause to doubt?”
“Never,” said Balfre. “I’m sorry, Grefin. My mind’s wandering to dark places. Blame Roric for that.”
For that, and so much more. “Then what did you want to talk about?”
“Aimery. I must go to the Marches and you must return to the Green Isle–with my wife, or without her. But losing both of us will weigh on him. You know it.”
Shifting on the bench, Grefin eased his rowing and looked back to see how far they’d come. A goodly distance. Tamwell castle appeared not quite so forbidding. Looking again to Balfre, he set the oars to holding them steady.
“What are you saying? Has the leech confided more in you than he’ll tell me?”
“The fucking leech hardly gives me the time of day. But I’m not so green I can’t hear what isn’t said. Aimery will never again be the man he was. And the next fit might—”
“Must there be another one?” he said, his mouth dry. “Does the leech suggest there will be?”
“Grefin…” Now Balfre was impatiently pitying. “You’re not so green either.”
No, he wasn’t. But the thought of his father’s death was as cruel a hurt as thinking of Mazelina taken from him, or one of his children.
“Then if you must go, and I must, what’s to be done?”
“I think…” Falling silent, Balfre searched the distant riverbank, as though he might find there the answer to a problem that was already answered. “Grefin, if we can keep him from worrying,” he said eventually, his voice low and unsteady, “then there’s hope we’ll keep him with us the longer. So while I pick up the pieces in the Marches, you need to bind the lords of the Green Isle ever closer. They heed you now for Aimery’s sake. Make them heed you for your own. If I can tame the Marches, keep Clemen penned safe behind them, and you can keep the Green Isle sweet, what will there be in Harcia to fret him? And without fret…” He sighed. “There’s hope.”
“Perhaps that is the best we can do for him. Only…”
“It seems too little,” Balfre said. “I know.”
They fell silent. Another barge blundered past, this one carrying sheep. Penned on the flat deck, their anxious bleating floated over the water.
“Life is strange,” Grefin murmured, turning to watch the barge. Mutton-sheep, he guessed, bound for slaughter. Even at this distance he could see their fleeces were good only for mattress stuffing and the stripping of lanolin. “Who’d believe we’d be brought close again by Aimery’s faltering health, and Clemen’s treachery.”
“Who said we’re close?” said Balfre, then laughed. “Grefin, Grefin… you’re as gullible as those fucking sheep, I swear.”
And here was the Balfre of his childhood: wicked, mischievous, absent for too long.
“Cockshite. You’re the only man I know who’d see a trusting nature as something to disparage.”
“Then you know the wrong men,” said Balfre. “Which explains why you’re such a fucking soap with those oars. Shift over, brother, and let me take one. Or it’ll be the middle of next week before we’re home.”
Aimery hosted a feast to honour Harcia’s new Marcher lord. A quiet affair, no acrobats or jonglers. Minstrels, of course, but they were instructed to keep the recent deaths of Bayard and Egbert in mind.
Just before the sweetmeats were brought into the hall, Balfre joined Waymon, Joben, Paithan and Lowis at the trestle he’d set aside for their privy use. He didn’t have to look back to know his father was watching.
“My friends,” he said, signalling a servant to bring them a fresh flagon of wine. “I know you wish you were all coming with me, but I’d ask you to be patient. I have important plans for each and every one of you. Wait to hear from me and know that you’re as much a part of Harcia’s future as I am.”
An exchange of looks up and down the trestle’s bench. There’d been loud dismay when he’d told Joben and the rest that it was Waymon who’d be at his right hand in the Marches.
Joben had dragged him aside, flushed with temper. “I’m your cousin, Balfre. How could you count him over your own blood?”
He’d kissed Joben’s cheek. “Because you’re blood. Who else can I trust to speak my mind while I’m gone?”
“Are you sure, Balfre? Waymon’s wild,” Paithan protested.
“A wild man for a wild place,” he’d replied. “Have no fear, my friend. I’ll handle him.”
Only Lowis had been indifferent. Lowis, whose cruel streak was less reliable than Waymon’s, but who’d make a useful messenger… and a blunt instrument, now and then.
He’d expected their disappointment. But it would count for nothing, in the end. One day he’d be their duke. Their riches–their lives–dependent upon his largess. Let them pout. It didn’t hurt him. All he had to do was snap his fingers and they’d come to heel.
After carousing a while with his lords, he left them to their belching and made his way around the hall, speaking to every noble guest and every merchant summoned by Aimery to bid him farewell. He spoke last of all with feeble Herewart.
“My lord,” he said, kneeling beside the wit-wandered old rump. “Once I did you a grave wrong, and I never begged your pardon. So I beg it now, and thank you for the gift of friendship with your heir. Paithan does you proud, Herewart, as I hope to do my father proud while I serve him in the Marches.”
Herewart’s rheumy gaze roamed his face. “I do pardon you, Balfre,” he said, his voice cracked and seamed beyond its years. Grief for Hughe had broken him, and he’d never mended after. “You’re to be my Paithan’s duke, so I’d not have us cross-purposed. He tells me you’re a changed man and if he says so, I’ll believe it.”
All around them, nods and murmurs of approval. Balfre bowed his head in a show of grateful humility, then shifted his gaze just far enough to look at the high table. His father was smiling. Grefin was smiling. Even his useless, barren bitch of a wife was smiling. As pleased to see him go as he was to leave, most like. Only Mazelina’s eyes were cool and guarded, watching him. But then, for all her pretending at friendship, she’d ever been his enemy. It didn’t matter. His brother’s wife would be dealt with in time.
When I’m king and she’s no one. Her fucking time will come then.