Molly was in the kitchen, stirring a fragrantly simmering pot of rabbit stew, when Iddo pushed his way past the leather curtain.
“Moll.”
One look at his face told the tale. More trouble. Biting her lip, she glanced at the boys, sat quiet at the table eating their noon meal of bread and cheese and pickled onions. Willem was woebegone, missing Alys, and Benedikt was woebegone for him. She had them sleeping in her chamber now, because of Willem’s bad dreams over the girl’s death.
She still regretted it, causing Willem pain. And lying to Iddo, who could never know the truth. But what did it matter that she was pricked with miscomfort? Her lies, and what she’d done, kept them safe from the peril that dreadful, deceitful Alys had plunged them into. And with a tad more time gone by Willem would surely stop dreaming–and screaming.
Iddo slapped the wall. “Moll. Ye’ve got to come. It be them feggit lords again.”
“Which lords?” she muttered. “To my mind they be all of ’em feggits.”
“Balfre and Vidar.”
Vidar. Her heart pounded. Of all the lords to be put in charge of Clemen’s Marcher lands, why did it have to be him, a man who’d spent time at dead Harald’s court? Afraid Iddo would see her fear, which would only stir him up, she plunged her wooden spoon back into the rabbit stew.
“What d’they want?”
“I didn’t ask!” Iddo said, astonished. “Think I want a dagger ’twixt my ribs, woman, asking them two lords their business?”
Frowning, she jerked her chin at the boys. Mind yer tongue, man. “Don’t be foolish. ’Tis a reasonable question.”
“Iss,” Iddo retorted. “But ye know as well as I do, Moll, they b’aint reasonable men!”
Swallowing a curse, Molly clapped the lid back on the cast-iron stew pot. Teased to leaping at shadows, Iddo was, these past few days–and the faeries knew he wasn’t alone. Three days before, word had reached the Whistle that Aimery’s son Balfre was returned as Harcia’s new Marcher lord. Nobody she spoke to since was frolicsome at the news. Bad enough that familiar Jacott was on his slow way back to Eaglerock, too hurt ever to sit another horse, Izusa said, with crippled Vidar left behind in his place. There were whispers already from Clemen’s men-at-arms, on how stern and unforgiving he was. Him and his man Egann. Wicked hard, both of them. Now here was Balfre, the son of Harcia’s duke, and the Crown Court slaughter had shown them the kind of man he was. So what hope for peace and quiet did the poor Marches have, with those two brawling lords holding all the power and no one to caution them?
She’d told Izusa there’d be trouble. For once she wished she was wrong.
“Molly,” Iddo said, nervously impatient. “What be amiss with ye? Them lords—”
“I know, I know,” she said, wiping her damp palms on her apron. “Where are they?”
“In the forecourt. I did bid ’em to hold there, so they could speak private if needed.”
Clever thinking. But if she didn’t play the welcoming innkeep they’d be under her feet soon enough. And above all things she had to keep Vidar away from Willem. “I’ll see to ’em. Best ye get back to the bar. Boys, ye bide here.”
Making her way through the public room, she frowned her dozen or so busybody guests to prudent silence. Then, as she stepped over her own threshold and into the forecourt, she felt her heart sink, because them feggit lords were facing each other like tomcats and Aimery’s handsome son Balfre, he had such a smile on his face.
“—reward for your courage you’re exiled to the Marches,” he was saying. “Perhaps next time you’ll think twice before thinking to slit my throat.”
“My lords!” she said loudly. “Be ye both welcome again to the Pig Whistle. Was it ale ye wanted? Some tasty beef pottage, perhaps?”
Both lords looked at her, shining in velvet and glittering with jewels. Refusing to wilt under their scrutiny, she lifted her chin. No curtsy this time. They owed her for all the spilled blood no amount of scrubbing could get out of her floor.
“Count Balfre and I would discuss Marcher affairs,” said Lord Vidar, his voice cool. “You must have a room set aside for privy matters.”
“Iss, my lord,” she said. “I do.”
“Take us to it and make sure we’re not—”
As his one-eyed stare moved past her, she heard the patter-patter shuffle of small footsteps and two smothered voices. She turned. Benedikt and Willem, agoggle in the public room’s open doorway. And what was Iddo doing, to let them slip by? Useless man.
Dry-mouthed, she raised her hand to them. “Into the kitchen, ye rompish goblins, or I’ll be breaking a wooden spoon across yer skinny arses!”
Her boys retreated, unwilling, eyes wide as they took in the splendidly dressed Marcher lords.
“My sons,” she said, turning back. Feeling sick. She didn’t dare look at Vidar’s face. “Naughty but no harm in ’em. My lords, if ye’d follow me?”
She led them into the Whistle and up to the small, pleasantly furnished chamber kept aside for important guests. Hurried downstairs to dish pottage into her best bowls. Thrust the steaming bowls on their serving tray at Iddo, told him to draw two tankards of their best ale and take it all up to their lordships, fended off questions from the public room and escaped back into the kitchen. It took every bit of strength she had not to heave her guts into the sink.
Now she knew how Alys had felt. Heartshot. Beyond terror. She could feel the nervous boys behind her, waiting for a scold. In front of her the rabbit stew simmered on the hob. Upstairs, over her head, Lord Vidar of Clemen was eating her pottage and drinking her ale. Vidar, who’d known Duke Harald. And here was Harald’s son under his feet.
Vidar saw him. He saw Willem. And no matter how I try to stop it, he’ll likely see the boy again. Or one of his fancy friends from Eaglerock will see him. They’ll see him, and see Harald in him. It only be a matter of time. And then–and then—
They’d take Willem. They’d take the Pig Whistle. To keep, or to burn. They’d take her and they’d take Iddo and like as not hang them both. And Benedikt, her precious Benedikt, he’d be orphaned and alone. Or they could hang him too. Clemen’s lords in Eaglerock pretended to care for the Marches but that was mostly for show. Mostly they cared because the Marches kept Harcia at arm’s length. Marcher folk didn’t matter. What was one hanged boy to them?
Lord Wido cared for us, but he’s dead. Lord Jacott cared, but he’s gone. And I’d hang myself afore believing Lord Vidar would lift a finger to save Benedikt’s life.
So the burden was hers. Again. Protecting her boys, the Pig Whistle, Iddo? It was for her to do. Again. And having killed to protect them, what wouldn’t she do?
As though she watched another woman, she watched her hands reach for the bubbling pot of stew.
Ye can’t. He’s a little boy. He meant no harm. Ye could kill him.
But even as the words wailed inside her head she was picking up the cast-iron pot and swinging round, swinging hard, knowing exactly where innocent Willem stood.
They sat opposite each other in the Pig Whistle’s small upstairs chamber, both pretending they were alone. Pretending they’d come for a meal, nothing more. But even though the pottage was tasty, the ale rich and deep, Vidar thought he might as well be eating dirt and drinking swill.
He’d been a fool to demand this meeting. Balfre couldn’t help himself; the shite offered insults the way marshland belched noxious fumes. Why had Aimery’s heir even bothered to come? Not to admit any faults on Harcia’s part, that much was plain. The bastard—
From below stairs, muffled, a woman’s cry. A child’s high-pitched shrieking. Thudding feet. Men’s raised voices.
Balfre lifted his head like a boarhound scenting game. Pushed his chair back from the table and stood, fingers touching his dagger’s hilt.
“Don’t stir yourself, Vidar,” he said, viciously polite. “I’ll see what’s amiss.”
And what could he do but nod agreement as he swallowed his mouthful of barley and beef? Balfre had seen how painfully he moved. His bad hip burned yet from the Crown Court skirmish and the relentless physicality that had followed, forced upon him by Lindara’s father in the crowded days before his departure. Hours of drilling Clemen’s men-at-arms and riding through its Marches territory, making himself familiar with every copse, every stream, every pond, every holding and the men and women who dwelled there. The healer-woman Izusa had given him pills more potent than he’d ever taken, but nothing could kill the pain outright.
Listening to the light thud-thud-thud of Balfre’s boots as the shite ran downstairs to make sure the inn wasn’t under attack, Vidar drained his tankard of ale and wished, for the thousandth time, that he’d kept his mouth shut and let Waymon butcher Humbert. But a lifetime of loyalty to his duchy wouldn’t let him. A lifetime of loyalty–and his love for Lindara. Who hated her father yet loved him too. Or loved some small part of him, deny it though she might. He knew how that felt. To love and hate a father. For all his grave sins, didn’t Godebert haunt him still?
So for Clemen and my beloved I saved Humbert’s life. And now I’m prisoed in the Marches, at Humbert’s mercy, his man Egann my keeper. Soon to be prisoned in marriage to Kennise… and no Lindara to unlock the cage.
His bones ached for her. His heart ached. Every night he dreamed of her, and woke every morning soaked in his own seed. Humbert said she was lost to him. He refused to believe it.
The old bastard won’t live for ever. And then she’ll be free. She’ll run from Roric and I’ll run from the Marches and together we’ll run till we find our peace.
A foolish yearning? Perhaps. But what else did he have to sustain him? Yes, of late he and Lindara had been unhappy. But that could change. It would change. As soon as Humbert died.
But until that happy day he had only one choice: serve Clemen, and endure.
Thud-thud-thud. Balfre was returning. Vidar swallowed his last mouthful of beef, napkinned his lips clean, and sat back in his chair like a man without a care.
“’Twas nothing,” Balfre said, pushing the door closed behind him. “One of the innkeeper’s brats burned itself.” Sitting again, he grinned. “She’s got a spare, so no harm done if it dies.”
He couldn’t care less about the innkeeper’s brats. “Balfre, we must find common ground if we’re to keep peace in the Marches.”
Still grinning, Balfre raised an eyebrow at him over the top of his tankard. “Must we?”
With an effort he kept his fingers relaxed. He would not, would not, let himself be provoked. “It’s no secret Harald winked at misdoings here that soured you on Clemen. We don’t blame you for hard feelings. Harald was not a good duke.”
“Well, you’re bound to say so,” said Balfre, shrugging. “Since he executed your father. For treason, yes? I see it runs in the family.”
For one dreadful moment, he thought Balfre meant Lindara. Then he realised the bastard was referring to Harald’s killing.
“We never sought Harald’s death,” he said, his jaw tight. “We offered him honourable exile. It was his choice to fight.”
“Then perhaps he wasn’t such a bad duke after all.” Impatient, Balfre banged his tankard to the table. “Vidar, I didn’t come here to rake over Clemen’s tedious history. What you do with your dukes is your affair. What matters is the present. Harcia’s duke, my father, though sorely grieved by recent calamity, seeks to leave the past in the past. If Clemen agrees not to pursue the murder of the woodsman’s wife, Harcia will turn a blind eye–this once–to Roric’s double dealing. We’ll call it an error of youth and let the matter lie.”
Vidar dropped his gaze. So. Harcia wanted peace. It was the outcome he wanted, that Humbert demanded he obtain, but Balfre’s dismissive contempt was beyond bearing. He’d never survive being trapped in the Marches with the bastard if he let him ride roughshod from the start.
“You have no proof of double dealing,” he said, looking up. “One letter isn’t proof. But there’s no doubt the woodsman’s wife was murdered, or that Harcia’s men-at-arms were—”
Balfre stood. Not amused now, but angry. “So it’s just words with you, Vidar? You mumble for peace and prepare to spill more blood? Fine. If it’s bloodshed you want then Harcia will oblige.”
So much for survival. Aimery’s heir was even more volatile than rumour had whispered. Without kid-glove careful handling he’d rush them all to ruin.
“Wait,” he said tersely. “Did I say I wanted blood?”
“Then what do you want? Tell me. That is, if you know.”
I want Eaglerock. I want Lindara. I want to dance on Humbert’s grave.
He met Balfre’s hot, derisive stare. “I want peace. And so does Roric. Clemen agrees to your terms. We’ll leave the past in the past and call this a fresh start. But you’ll keep your men on a tight leash, Balfre. I’ll do the same, and with luck our paths won’t need to cross more than once a month. If that.”
“Done,” said Balfre. “Just be sure you keep your word.”
He let Balfre leave first, so the arrogant bastard could think he’d won. And so Aimery’s son couldn’t bear witness to his pain. Sitting so long had tightened his sinews. His body groaned when he stood. Groaned as he limped his slow way downstairs. Groaned as he hauled himself into his saddle. And wept as he rode back to the manor house, that had belonged to Wido and which now he must call home.
Izusa was picking hedgerow herbs on the edge of her cottage woodland when one of the Pig Whistle’s panting stable lads found her.
“Can ye come to Mistress Molly?” he gasped, leaning out of his ragged pony’s old, patched saddle. “Her boy, he’s been hurt.”
She felt a sickening lurch in the pit of her belly. Not Liam. Please, not Liam. “Which boy? How is he hurt?”
“’Tis Willem,” the lad said. “I din’t know what be amiss, but I heard him howling. Can ye come?”
Howling. She felt the earth tilt. “Of course. I just need to fetch my satchel. Tell Molly.”
As the boy drummed his heels against the pony, urging it to a canter, she snatched up the sack of herbs and ran like a hunted doe to her cottage. If Liam perished, Salimbene would have her heart. Oh, how had she not known? Had she grown complacent? Or worse, were her powers failing?
Even if Liam lived, Salimbene would surely discard her if they were.
The thought of being tossed aside by him had her sobbing for breath, fumbled her fingers as she made sure of enough poppy and fevermoss and knitbone in her satchel. When she was satisfied, she hefted it outside, fetched her nag from its tethered grazing, banged on its saddle and bridle, strapped on the satchel, and set off for the Pig Whistle.
At least she had one consolation. Molly had straight away sent to her for help. That was welcome proof she’d grown indispensable to this stretch of the Marches. It was what she’d been working towards. What Salimbene had planned. Perhaps, hearing that, he’d forgive her for Liam.
It had been a simple task, killing the old herb-woman Phemie. Long ago Salimbene had given her the power to walk silent through the world, being seen by men only when it suited her. Or him. No curse had killed the old woman, just a drop of poison. A lingering death that mimicked the capricious cruelty of nature and let her death be called plague-kill without question. After that it was simply a matter of making people sick, as she’d made that trader Denno Culpyn sick, then waiting until fear stalked the Marches like a ravenous beast. Only then did she reveal herself. Izusa, the healer, with no plan to stay in these parts… except that she was needed. And being needed, would remain.
But only for so long as Salimbene desired.
Clemen’s Lord Wido, unaware he was galloping towards his death, had granted her the use of dead Phemie’s cottage. It lay in one of his woodlands so he imagined it was his. She’d taken it, gladly, and placed around the modest daub-and-shingled dwelling so many runes and curses that not a living soul would ever remember she’d lived there or what she looked like. Unless, of course, she wanted them to. Soon after that she arranged a dead baby, for its head. Then Salimbene found her and she was whole again.
But if she failed him… if she failed him…
When she reached the Pig Whistle, the stable lad who’d come to fetch her took the nag and told her she’d find Molly indoors. Iddo, tending the public room, nodded when he saw her and told the serving wench they’d taken on to show her upstairs.
“Izusa!” cried Molly, wringing her hands. “At last. I tell ye, there be an ill faery under my roof. First that ruckus on the doorstep, then Alys goes tumbling to her death, and now this. The imp stood behind me while I was at the hob and when I turned round with the stew pot I—”
“Yes, Molly, I see,” she said, moving to crouch beside Liam in his truckle bed, pressed against the wall in Molly’s bedchamber. “You broke his nose and burned him.”
The woman’s true son, little Benedikt, stood high-strung beside his foster-brother. “But ye can heal him, iss?” His piping voice shook. “He won’t die?”
Stripped out of his roughspun shirt and propped up on pillows, Harald’s son was a wounded, sorry sight. Nose bent and bloody. Forehead, cheek and shoulder blistered scarlet and weeping. His eyelid was swollen. Had the stupid woman made of him another Vidar? The child was shivering, pain taking its toll.
Molly made a growling sound. “What did I say, ye wretch? Be hushed!”
Her son wilted. Reaching out, Izusa stroked his wild, dark hair. “Not to fret, Benedikt. I won’t let him die.”
Harald’s son, misnamed Willem, bore her interfering fingers with surprising strength. He whimpered but once when she mostly straightened his nose, and shed only a few tears at the bite of the poultice she slathered on his burned flesh. When she gave him a poppy posset he gagged, but drank. All the while, Benedikt stood close and encouraged him. Patted his good shoulder. Promised all kinds of rompish fun just as soon as he was healed.
As for Molly, she stared. Stuffed with guilt, and silent. Stupid, careless woman. Should Salimbene want her punished it would be no hardship to obey.
Finished with her leeching, Izusa helped Liam ease properly into his bed. Benedikt helped too. He was a sweet boy.
“The poultice will stop any festering,” she said, turning to Molly. “Change it morning, noon and night for three days. I’ll leave you the herbs. But he’s going to scar. And that nose of his, it’ll stay crooked.”
“His eye?”
“Not blistered. I’ll know for sure when the swelling’s gone, but I think he’ll keep his sight.”
Molly pressed her work-rough hands to her face. “The spirits be thanked.”
“Let him sleep,” she said, touching the back of her hand to Liam’s unburned cheek. He was already drowsy, the poppy doing its work. “When he stirs he’ll likely fever up. Steep him in a yarrow bath. That should do the trick. Poor mite. He’ll feel worse before he’s better.”
“Ye’ll come again on the morrow?” Molly said, anxious.
Izusa smiled. She’d never seen the innkeeper so turmoiled. And serve her right, for Liam’s sake. “First thing.”
“I want to stay,” said Benedikt, tugging Liam’s blanket smooth. “Can I stay? I won’t fret him.”
Molly frowned. “Ye have chores, Benedikt.”
“He’ll do no harm, Molly,” she said softly. “Let him stay. It’ll ease Willem if he’s not alone when he wakes.”
“On yer bed, then,” Molly told her son, pointing to the other truckle tucked in behind the door. “And if I hear a mouse peep from ye, it’ll be the wooden spoon.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, Izusa portioned out the herbs and ointments and powdered poppy that Liam would need overnight. When she was finished, her satchel repacked and fastened, Molly pressed a silver coin into her palm.
“Thank ye, besom. I don’t know what I’d do without ye.”
She slipped the coin into the leather purse belted at her waist. “Don’t fret, Molly. I’m not going anywhere. As for your Willem, he’ll come right. I’ll make sure of it. For you’d best believe I’ll die before I let that boy come to harm. Now, take care of your customers. I’ll see you again in the morning.”
Her plain nag was weary, she’d ridden it so hard to the Pig Whistle. So she let it amble its way back to the cottage. Though summer was fading some warmth remained in the sun. She tipped her head back to bathe her face in it, let it melt the lingering fear.
Harald’s son may be healed… but there was still Salimbene. She couldn’t keep this from him. That would surely mean her death.
Returned to her small dwelling, she unsaddled the nag then penned it beside the cottage with water from the well, an armful of hay and a scoop of oats. That done, she went inside. Before she left the Pig Whistle, Molly had gifted her a skinful of rich rabbit stew. She warmed it in a kettle over her hearthfire, and washed it down with a mug of strong ale. Then, her heart thudding, she lit more candles, fed the fire to leaping, and fetched her wooden box. She never knew how long it might take for Salimbene to answer her call. Sometimes he came to her swiftly. Sometimes he took hours.
All she could do was wait for him… and trust that he’d come.
With a snarling shout, Balfre ducked under Waymon’s swinging arm, hooked one bare foot around his ankle, pulled hard while he thrust sideways once with his hip. Waymon went down. Balfre followed him. Plucked Waymon’s dagger from his numbed, wide-spread fingers and thrust its point under his chin. Sprawled on his back, gasping for air, Waymon turned himself to stone.
Laughing, Balfre slapped Waymon lightly on the cheek. Then he bounced to his feet and turned to his watching men-at-arms, gathered raggedly around the barracks tilt yard of Bayard’s manor that he’d taken for his own. “A little trick I learned from my father’s Master Armsman, Ambrose.”
Uneasy mutters. Sideways glances and some shuffling feet. Harcia’s men-at-arms didn’t know what to make of their new lord. Sagged into soft-bellied indiscipline by Bayard and Egbert’s neglect, their taunting squabbles with Clemen’s men spilling a little blood here and there but provoking more rancorous word play, these men thought themselves much deadlier than they were. Between them, at the Pig Whistle, he and Waymon had put down their sword-brothers with no more difficulty than if they’d been ladies’ lapdogs. What he needed was wolves.
And when he was done with them, wolves he would have.
“I was two years of age when Ambrose first put a sword in my hand,” he said, sweeping his gaze across their blankly wary faces. He held up Waymon’s dagger. “It was made of wood, not much bigger than this. When I was three, I rode my first pass in a joust. I sat a pony. Ambrose faced me on foot. He sent me tumbling. When I snivelled, he beat me with the flat of his blade. For shame, my lord Balfre, he said. You are a duke’s son. I learned my lesson. I took many more tumbles but I never snivelled again. You—” He sharpened his gaze. “Are all snivellers. You think you’re fine, fighting men but you only play at war. You take the duke my father’s coin and you piss it against a tree. You jeer at Clemen, and catcall, when you should stand fast for Harcia. Make no mistake. Your snivelling days are done. I’m about to beat you with the flat of my blade until you beg for mercy. Waymon.”
“My lord,” said Waymon, joining him.
“Let’s begin.”
In all, Harcia boasted some fifty men-at-arms to protect its Marches territory from Clemen’s incursions. He’d ordered half to the tilt yard to train with him and Waymon this afternoon. The other half he’d confront in the morning. Waiting for the uneasy men to strip themselves to britches and bare feet, he smiled. Single out one or two for particular humiliation, batter the rest to their unsuspecting knees, and word would swiftly spread that Aimery’s son Balfre was no soft, pampered lord.
“So, my friend,” he said, glancing at Waymon. “Are you ready to teach these fucking shites a sharp lesson?”
Sweaty and dirt-streaked, his cheekbone bruised, Waymon grinned. “Not ready, my lord. Eager.”
As was he. Putting crippled Vidar in his place at the Pig Whistle had only whetted his appetite for sport. He slapped Waymon’s arm. “Good. But no maimings. I don’t mind blood and bruises but I’d leave them with all their limbs.”
For more than three hours he and Waymon put Harcia’s men-at-arms through their paces. Kicked their legs out from under them, tossed them onto their backs, cut them and bruised them and rubbed their lapdog noses in how much they didn’t know. When at last the light was fading, and he was satisfied they’d learned their lesson, he called a halt to the drubbing.
“You could be worse,” he told his Marcher men, strewn panting and bloody around the foot-churned tilt yard. “Those of you who were worse got themselves gutted at the Pig Whistle. Me, I say they died of shame. That old cockshite Humbert took the most living men home. What’s shame, if not that?”
Mynton, the barracks captain, hawked and spat blood. “My lord, what d’ye tell us? Do we prepare for war?”
“With Clemen?” He laughed. “Every day is war with Clemen. Roric the bastard would kill us all, had he the chance. But Aimery loves you. He’d keep your blood in your veins–as would I. For now. So until Roric breaks the peace we’ll wage a war without blood. We’ll keep the Marches bloodless and every day we’ll train. Because one day Roric will put his sword to our throat. And when he does I’d have us ready to plunge our sword through his heart.”
More muttering, this time tinged with cautious pleasure. This time Balfre hid his smile. These men were beaten but not broken, which was precisely his intent. Mynton and two others, men he’d made sure to wound enough for leeching, he told to remain. Dismissing the rest to the barracks bath house, he sent Waymon to fetch him needle, thread and hot water. When they came he neatly cleaned and stitched the wounds he’d inflicted.
Mynton stared as he cautiously flexed his slashed forearm. A stringy man of middle years, he spoke with a faded hint of the Green Isle in his voice. In his pale blue eyes, a grudging gleam of respect.
Balfre nodded. “You did well. You’ll do better. See the men settled for the night.”
“M’lord,” Mynton said, with a jerky half-bow. “Brindle. Poley. With me.”
As the men-at-arms snatched up their boots and tunics and limped through the falling dusk towards their barracks, Waymon cleared his throat. “Balfre, a good lord should know his men. I’d bathe and sup with ours.”
A surprising request. Making sure to seem indifferent, he shrugged. “If you like. If my company’s grown so dull.”
Waymon flushed. “My lord—”
“Fuck, Waymon. You’re as easily gulled as a virgin. Go. Somehow I’ll survive a solitary meal for one night.”
After pulling on his shirt, doublet and boots he returned to the manor. Its soft-footed steward Fulcher met him in the modest entrance hall and handed him a wax-sealed parchment. “My lord, this came while you were at the tilt yard.”
“I’ll be in the library,” he said, taking it. “Bring me food and wine there.”
Comfortably cradled in his chair before the fireplace, he opened the letter. It was from Grefin, hastily penned the morning of his departure from Cater’s Tamwell.
I’m off home to the Green Isle, Balfre, with Mazelina and the children. You should know Jancis decided not to come. Again, I wish you well in the Marches. I know you’ll keep Aimery’s peace, no matter how provoking Clemen might be. Speaking of the duke, I’ve sent for a leech who I’m told has worked wonders with other men afflicted like our father. I’m hopeful, as I know you’ll be, that with his help we can keep Aimery with us for many years yet. Stay safe, brother, till next we meet.
Balfre tossed the letter onto a nearby side table, darkly amused, then stretched out his legs and let the leaping flames dazzle him. Ah, Grefin. So earnest. So transparent. So useful, from time to time. By all means let a new leech eke a few more years out of Aimery. He could wait. He had time. He had a great deal to do before he was ready to become the new king of Harcia.
His belly rumbled, complaining. Fulcher arrived with his evening meal and, laughing softly, he started to eat.
She was drowsing, drifting, when at last the severed baby’s head in its wooden box stirred, then answered.
“Izusa. You called me.”
Heart beating wildly, she slid from her chair to the cottage’s rush-mat covered earth floor. Forced herself to look into the severed head’s grey, prunish face.
“Yes, Salimbene.”
“You stink of fear, Izusa. What has happened?”
Near to weeping, she told him.
“Forgive me. I saw no sign of danger or—”
“You say the boy will live?”
“Liam will live. I swear it.”
“Then you have not failed me. You are forgiven, Izusa.”
Believing him, she let her tears fall. And when the head’s dead lips quivered, then stretched into a brief smile, she laughed. Her blood bubbled with joy.
“What other tasks have you for me, Salimbene?”
For a little while he didn’t answer. She sat on her heels, content with silence. Content with knowing she’d kept his trust even though Liam was hurt. Candlelight flickered. From the night-dark woods outside came the screech of a hunting owl. Then the head’s dead lips quivered again, and the sunken eyes behind their cobweb eyelids shifted.
“Balfre of Harcia is settled in the Marches?”
“He is. But I’ve not seen him.”
“You will, in time. In time you will do more. But do not go to him, Izusa. Wait for him to come to you. When he comes–and he will come–you will give yourself to him. In giving you will take him. And then he will be mine.”
Balfre to be her lover? No hardship, that. She’d fucked other men for Salimbene. Some had been old. Some gross. None were as handsome as Aimery’s heir.
“Yes, Salimbene.”
“We come to a fallow time, Izusa. Liam must grow out of childhood, and Aimery grow more feeble. Clemen must weaken further while Roric sinks into despair. Serve me in the Marches. Be a friend to every lord and humble woodsman. Listen to every whisper, and whisper them to me.”
He wanted her close by while Liam grew out of childhood? That meant she’d be living in the Marches for years, be kept from him for years. Bubbling joy curdled to misery. But she couldn’t protest, or defy him. He was Salimbene.
“I will,” she said, trembling. “I’m your eyes, your ears, your beating heart. Command me and I’ll obey.”
She received no answer. Salimbene was gone.
“Now remember, Liam, you’re no ordinary boy. You’re brave Harald’s true-born son, Berold’s great-grandson, and the rightful duke of Clemen. Keep the ring hidden and don’t tell a soul till you’re old enough to take back the Falcon Throne from that bastard Roric who stole it from you.”
Twisting beneath his blanket, Liam whimpered out loud. It hurt to dream of Ellyn. He missed her so much. But he couldn’t stop dreaming her. If he stopped he’d never see her again. Never hear her tell him his story, and other stories of his father the duke, or feel her holding him safe and tight. In his dreams she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t broken on the attic landing. In his dreams she was smiling and he wasn’t alone.
“Ellyn,” he moaned. “Ellyn.”
A small finger poked his shoulder. “Willem? Are ye awake?”
Oh, there was a terrible pain in his face and his shoulder. It wasn’t the deep, dull ache of missing Ellyn. This was bright and hot, like fire. He could hear himself snuffling. He could only open one eye.
Poke, poke, poke. “Willem. D’ye want Ma?”
Benedikt was kneeling beside the candlelit bed. His peering face was blurry, and screwed up with fright.
“Wha’ happened?” he said, and frighted himself. He sounded mushy, like Iddo that time a drunk trader punched him in the mouth.
“Ye got hurt,” said Benedikt. “This morning. Don’t ye remember?”
It was hard to think past the pain. He wanted to cry with it, only Ellyn said dukes didn’t cry. His father, Harald, never cried. He had to make his father proud.
“In the kitchen?” he said, uncertain. “Molly–she hit me with the pot.”
“Not on purpose,” Benedikt said quickly. “Willem, who’s Ellyn?”
A stabbing in his chest, worse than the fire in his face. He’d said her name out loud? But he’d promised he’d never tell. Every night he promised, even though she was dead. And even though this was Benedikt, a duke always kept his word.
“What?” he mumbled. “No. I said Alys. I was dreaming. Benedikt, I feel sick.”
Benedikt scrambled to his feet. “I’ll fetch Ma.”
But before he reached the chamber door it opened. Iddo loomed in the doorway, his face scrunched in a scowl.
“Molly wants ye for supper,” he said, crooking his finger at Benedikt. “Get downstairs, imp, quick.”
“Iss, Iddo,” said Benedikt. “Look. Willem’s awake.”
Iddo let Benedikt squeeze by him, then came into the room. Arms folded across his barrel chest, he kept on scowling. He had a good face for bad temper, all suspicion and scars.
Blurry-eyed, silent, Liam stared up at Molly’s man. Iddo didn’t like him. But that was fine, because he didn’t like Iddo. Iddo had been mean and hard to Ellyn. More than once he’d made her cry.
One day, when I’m Duke Liam on the Falcon Throne, I’ll make him pay for that.
“Ye be a careless brat, Willem,” Iddo said, his eyes cold. “Diddling about under Moll’s feet. A mort of coin to Izusa, this’ll cost us. Coin we can’t spare.”
It hurt to speak, but he had to. He had to make sure Iddo knew that he knew what was in his black heart. “You wish I’d died.”
Iddo caught his breath, then quirked a ragged eyebrow. “I wish ye’d never come here. Cut yer finger and ye’ll bleed trouble. I knew it the moment that slattern Alys brought ye under this roof.”
“Don’t call her names!”
Iddo took a step forward, arms unfolded, one fist raised. “Keep a civil tongue, brat, or—”
“Iddo! Iddo!” Molly scolded, bustling in. “Must ye fret the boy now? Go fill the tin tub with warm water. He’ll need a yarrow bath, Izusa says. Then see to that crowd in the public room. We be in for a busy night.”
Iddo always did what Molly told him, even when he didn’t want to. He left, and Molly bent low over the truckle bed to fuss. She wasn’t Ellyn but she loved him. And he was fond of her.
“There now, imp, don’t mind Iddo,” she said, her smile trembly. “Ye gave him a fright, is all. Ye gave me a fright too. But never fret. Izusa says ye’ll mend just fine.”
Of course he would. He was brave Harald’s true-born son. And though he was just a boy now, one day he’d be a man. Then he’d take back the Falcon Throne the bastard Roric had stolen from him… and after that, he’d make the bastard pay.