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Both men turned, startled, and members of the crowd nearest drew back.

Someone among them jeered. “Think yer ’ard enough, offcomer? I’ve a handful of coin says yer not.”

That was all the inducement Weaver needed. He’d walked away from needless fights many a time, but right here, right now, he’d welcome the release.

The crowd’s laughter died as drew his sword from the scabbard and rolled his shoulders to loosen them. The two men nearest the figure on the ground drew back warily. The fallen man panted as he dragged himself up onto his knees. Weaver nodded to Curtis and Blaine, who went over to him and drew him to the base of the market pillar where at least his back was protected.

Weaver drew in his breath, filling his lungs. Goddess, he needed this. “Which of you inbred scum is going to be first?” A couple of the nearest men stepped away from him. Someone at the back of the crowd laughed. But not all were so hesitant. A big man emerged from the midst of the crowd, wielding a long sword. The onlookers fell back in haste.

“Big Mel will show him,” someone shouted. Emboldened by this, the two who’d been beating up the youth also advanced, drawing business-like daggers with long blades. Weaver was aware Curtis and Blaine had stepped up to flank him. Old habits were taken up as easily as if it had been yesterday, despite several years having passed since these three last fought together.

Weaver grinned at the big man, a feral snarl with little humour. “What’s the matter? Having second thoughts, you bastard? Or is it your night to go home and fuck your mother?”

With a bellow the man charged at Weaver. There was no science behind his attack – he simply counted on his bulk to plough down his opponents.

Weaver sidestepped, deflecting the long sword and swinging round to slice open the man’s leggings with his sword point, exposing a pair of flaccid buttocks. The man spun around and charged again, blundering about like an enraged bullock as his leggings slipped down around his knees. Weaver opened the man’s throat before he could cause any damage, and he crashed to the floor. An uneasy murmur went through the crowd. The two ringleaders exchanged doubtful looks. Weaver made a covert hand signal to Curtis before springing forward at the taller man, on the left. A single arc of his sword severed the man’s knife-hand at the wrist. The blade clattered to the ground as blood arced through the air. The injured man charged at Weaver, a smaller blade clutched in his remaining hand, but his momentum carried him onto Weaver’s sword point. With a grunt of surprise the man crumpled to his knees and Weaver yanked his blade free, ready for more. Over to his right Curtis grappled with the other assailant before punching his dagger straight into the man’s heart through the gap around the armhole of his leather jerkin. To his left, Blaine kept a watchful eye on the crowd in case anyone still fancied their chances. There were one or two mutters of discontent.

Weaver pinpointed the speakers, but before he could do anything about it several metal-shod horses clattered into the marketplace. The riders spurred towards the crowd, who scattered in all directions.

Weaver, Curtis and Blaine stood their ground before the stone pillar. The soldiers were armed with spears. It didn’t bode well, but Weaver was still in reckless mood.

“You there by the steps. Set down your weapons.” The commander’s voice was muffled by a full-face helmet.

“By whose order?” Weaver stooped and wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s tunic as the others maintained defensive stances.

“By order of the commander of the city watch. And now I’ll thank you to set down those blades, before more blood’s spilled.” The voice sounded familiar.

Weaver ran a mental stocktake of the members of the city watch he’d known back in the old days, but drew a blank. “I’m spilling no blood now. While your men are pointing those spears my way I’m disinclined to put up my sword.”

The commander nudged his horse forward. “What’s been going on here?”

“These men set on one of our party. Brigholm offers a strange sort of welcome to travellers these days.”

“Aye.” Curtis joined in. “It was a friendly town once over. Now a man can’t have a quiet drink without being plagued by whores and their pimps.”

The commander sat back in his saddle, studying Weaver. After a moment he reached up a gloved hand and raised the visor of his helmet. “I know you: Ranald Weaver. Haven’t seen you since… it must be Ardvarran. I fought alongside you in the bill line. Jaseph Rekhart, you must remember.”

Of course. The once-skinny youth had filled out to match his height now, as best Weaver could tell by the poor light. “City watch? You’ve come up in the world, Rekhart. I should have known you from the damned tin can you’re wearing.” Weaver sheathed his sword.

Rekhart gestured to his men. “Stand down.” He dismounted, striding over to shake Weaver’s hand. “Well, Weaver. I’ll be damned. Your arrogant ways haven’t got you killed yet.” He made a cursory inspection of the dead men on the ground. “Mel and his mates picked on the wrong one this time. Clear these vermin away,” he ordered his men, then returned his attention to Weaver. “Last I heard, you were cosseting the royal whelp. Are you in town long? We have to catch up.”

“That about sums it up. There’s not much more to tell.” Weaver introduced his travelling companions. “This here’s Curtis, you’ll likely remember him, and Blaine. And this here–” He gestured at the lean figure who sat hunched beneath his hooded robe on the market steps, one hand pressed to his stomach. The figure straightened up and pushed back his hood to reveal not Drew’s cropped hair, but freemerchant braids and a stranger’s lean face with an aquiline nose.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Alwenna pushed her tapestry frame aside and stood up, pacing over to the window. She had no appetite for the work. Rain drizzled down the glass, distorting her view of the outside world. Mist obscured the treetops on the ridge across the gorge. It had been raining for ever. The outer wall of her chamber was slick with condensation, beads of moisture oozing down the stone to darken the floorboards where they met the wall. They would rot away if these conditions continued. She poked at the end of one of the floorboards and it yielded beneath her fingernail. How long before she too rotted, trapped here in this room? She wasn’t suffering in any physical way, but waiting to learn what Vasic’s next move would be and hearing nothing, day after day, was wearing beyond belief.

Maybe he’d tired of his obsession with her at long last – perhaps even found someone more willing and more suited to be his queen. Long ago there’d been talk of the daughter of a well-to-do family in the Outer Isles…

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of the maidservant, bearing a tray with Alwenna’s main meal for the day.

“My lady.” The girl curtseyed. “Shall I set this on the table as usual?”

“Yes. Thank you, Erin.” Alwenna wouldn’t risk eating until the maid had gone. The sickness could still catch her unawares when she first tasted food after a few hours’ fast. If Weaver had recognised her condition there was every likelihood a country girl would, too. Eventually the child would begin to show, but she would hide the truth as long as she was able.

The girl bobbed a sombre curtsey and moved over to the fire, stirring the embers into life and adding more logs. The girl attended to her duties in a methodical way, yet without any sense she was present in the moment at all. Alwenna turned her back to the window. She was hardly the liveliest of company herself, these days.

“Your accent isn’t Highkell. Did you have to travel far to find work here?”

“No, ma’am. My da used to farm down south of the bridge.”

That was the longest speech Alwenna had heard from her. For some reason she felt determined to persist today. Anything would be better than brooding over things she couldn’t change. “Used to farm? Did Vasic’s army destroy your crops?” She recalled the devastated farmstead she and Weaver had passed and realised how insensitive the question was.

“No, ma’am. My da was a tenant of Lord Stanton. When he died his uncle reclaimed the land for himself.”

So much for trying to get to know the girl better. Her family had been evicted on account of the man Weaver had killed the night they’d fled the citadel. That was one secret she’d better not confide in the girl, for sure. “That’s terrible. Could he do that legally?”

“My da said not, and he brought us all here to petition the king. But the king says until peace has been established he can’t hear our case in a proper court. He’s taken the land and says he’s holding it in trust until it’s–” She cast about for the right word. “Resolved.”

“Then I hope he resolves the matter to your satisfaction.”

“He gave me an’ Da work. Da’s in the stables. Some of the horses used to be ours, but the taxman took them.”

“Your father must have bred good horses.”

“Oh, yes’m. Our horses were fastest over the half mile at the last three spring fairs.” The girl lit up. “Our young stock got top prices at the autumn sales. Every year since, oh, forever.”

“And you worked with them? It must be difficult for you working indoors here.”

“Aye, m’lady. It’s warm an’ there’s plenty to eat, an’ I don’t smell of horses or have to clean mud off my clothes all the time, but…” The girl seemed to decide she’d said too much and fell silent.

“You said Lord Stanton’s uncle inherited his estate?” The courtier hadn’t been married. One reason for his popularity with the ladies… and hadn’t she herself once been just as taken in as the rest of them?

“Aye, m’lady. Lord Marwick. From down country.”

Alwenna remembered him from court, an old man without wife or children. “Lord Stanton was to be his heir.”

“Aye, m’lady. It didn’t work out that way.”

Indeed. “There are things that might be done to restore the land to your family. How long had your father held the farm?”

“Since his great grandfather’s time. He came with Norris’ vanguard from the east.”

“Then you have a strong claim. I know those at court who might help. Let me think, and I will give you the names of people most likely to support you. Things have changed at court since Vasic’s arrival, and I cannot take up your claim myself, but there is much I might do.”

“You would do that, m’lady?” The girl appeared doubtful, even suspicious. She was trying to find the catch. “Why, my lady?”

“Why?” It was a fair question. Why try to help a surly young servant, who had no conversation, no power and nothing to trade for the favour? “It’s what I was raised to do, as queen. I was taught to have concern for the people, and to do what I might to mitigate any ills they suffered. If I may help in some small way to undo the damage caused by my cousin’s obsession, then I shall.”

“I see, m’lady.” The girl looked at her as if she thought her entirely mad. “I… I must take your laundry to the green now, m’lady.” She gathered up a bundle of linen and hurried to the door. “I swore I would never be beholden to anyone again after I came here.” With a determined expression she turned and left the room.

“So that was, ‘Thank you, my lady, but I don’t need you to meddle in my affairs.’ And now I’m talking to myself.” There was nothing Alwenna could do here but sew pretty things and await Vasic’s… what? Pleasure? Judgement?

She’d killed a man. In self-defence, she might argue, and she was sure if Vasic had known what Hames planned he’d have disposed of him ruthlessly. And far more slowly. She might have been wiser to confide her suspicions in Vasic. Instead, by dealing with Hames herself, she’d delivered herself straight into Vasic’s hands: he now had a genuine charge of murder to lay at her door, as well as the false charges from Garrad. If Vasic was waiting for a suitable moment to make an example of her with a summary execution, he’d surely act soon.

The fact he’d returned her to her own rooms, and the fact he’d never questioned her – or had her questioned by others – about Hames’ death had to signify something, but what? Did he know the truth? Or was he waiting for some message from her? That, now the possibility occurred to her, seemed most likely. Vasic had never wavered in his obsession over the years. Was he finally playing a waiting game – intending her to go to him as supplicant, to seek his forgiveness for her crime?

That made sense. If he’d continued to persecute her, to give her a reason for anger, she’d have resisted him every inch of the way. But if she went to Vasic to seek forgiveness, after brooding over her crime, the death caused by her own hand… Once she took that step towards submission, he’d as good as won. If she were shown only kindness and understanding, she had nothing to fight against. Wasn’t that, in the end, how her opposition to the match with Tresilian had been worn down? And if the road ahead meant peace and prosperity for “her” people, could she, in conscience, resist and cause more grief for them?

Maybe he dared not kill her for fear of repercussions, while he feared her too much now to make her his wife and risk having her plunge a convenient knife into his body one night as he slept. Maybe he would leave her here for ever in silence. Waiting for some sign of clemency from him, or even some sign of anger. And if that sign never came, he could not have hit upon a more sure way to break her.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The freemerchant pushed himself to his feet, one hand clutched to his stomach. “My name is Marten. May the Hunter be my witness, I owe you gentlemen my sincerest thanks. But I fear you may have mistaken me for someone else.”

Weaver took only a few seconds to decide the freemerchant had a great deal too much to say for himself.

“A thousand pardons, gentlemen. I, too, was drinking at the
Three Tuns
this evening – a victim of my own curiosity, I must confess. When I went out to the privy I was set upon by those worthy citizens.” He gestured towards the corpses. “My curiosity has been assuaged, for I have learned the place deserves its reputation as a haunt of thieves and worse. One of them has my purse: green leather with a pewter clasp. When that is restored to me I can express my gratitude in some more meaningful fashion than this surfeit of words.”