The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands) (47 page)

Silence, save for Herewart’s ragged breathing and the scrape of shod hooves on the flagstones as the horses hinted at their stables. Aimery looked to his sons. Grefin stood pale, arms folded, lower lip caught between his teeth. There was grief for Herewart there, and fear for his brother. As for Balfre, he stood defiant. He knew no other way to stand.

Belly tight, Aimery looked again at Herewart. “What has happened, my lord?”

“My son is dead, Your Grace,” said Herewart, his voice raw. “My youngest. Hughe.”

The blunt words tore wide his own monstrous, unhealed wound. “I’m sorry to hear it, Herewart. To lose a son untimely is—”

“You must know he was murdered,” Herewart said, bludgeoning. “By your son and heir, Balfre.”

“
Liar!
” Balfre shouted, and would have leapt at the old man
but for Grefin’s restraining hand. “It was ill chance, not murder, and he’d still be alive had you taught him how he should speak of Harcia’s heir! The fault is yours, Herewart, not mine, that your son’s bed tonight is a coffin!”

Aimery closed his eyes, briefly. Oil and water, they were, he and this son. Oil and flame.
Balfre, you shit. When will you cease burning me?
“What ill chance?”

“None,” said Herewart, glowering. “Hughe’s death was purposed. Your son challenged mine to a duel and killed him.”

“
Duel?
” Balfre laughed, incredulous. “It was a joust! I unhorsed him by the rules, and when I left him he was barely more than winded. How can you—”

“No, my lord, how can
you
!” said Herewart, a shaking fist raised at Balfre. “My son made a ribald jest, harmless, and
you
, being so tender-skinned and pig-fat full of self love, you couldn’t laugh and let it go by. You had to answer him with your lance, you had to goad him into unwise confrontation in the company of churls and mudder knights and take your revenge by taking his life! He breathed his last this morning; his body broken, your name upon his blood-stained lips.”

Pulling free of his brother’s holding hand, Balfre took a step forward. “Your Grace, Hughe’s death isn’t my—”

Aimery silenced him with a look, then turned. “My lord Herewart, as a father I grieve with you. And as your duke I promise justice. But for now, go with Curteis. He’ll see you to warmth and wine while I have words with my son.”

Herewart hesitated, then nodded. As Curteis ushered him within the castle, and the inner bailey emptied of servants, squires, men-at-arms and horses, Grefin tried to counsel his brother but was roughly pushed aside.

“Balfre,” Aimery said, when they were alone. “What was Hughe’s jest?”

His face dark with temper, Balfre swung round. “It was an insult, not a jest. And public, made with intent. I couldn’t let it go by.”

“Grefin?”

Grefin glanced at his brother, then nodded. “It’s true. Hughe was offensive. But—”

“But
nothing
!” Balfre insisted. “For Herewart’s son to say my lance is riddled with wormwood, with no more strength to it than a pipe of soft cheese, and by lance mean my cock, never mind we talked of jousting, he questioned my ability to sire a son. He as good as said I wasn’t fit to rule Harcia after Aimery. And that’s treason, Grefin, whether you like it or not.”

Grefin was shaking his head. “Hughe was wine-soaked when he spoke. So deep in his cup he couldn’t see over its rim. He was a fool, not a traitor.”

“And now he’s a dead fool,” said Balfre, brutally unregretful. “And a lesson worth learning. My lord—” He took another step forward, so sure of his welcome. “You can see I had no choice. I—”

“Balfre,” Aimery said heavily, “what I see is a man possessed of no more wit and judgement at the age of three-and-twenty than were his when he was
five
.”

Balfre stared. “My lord?”

“You killed a man for no better reason than he had less wit than you!”

“But Father – I was wronged. You can’t take Herewart’s part in this!”

Oh Malcolm, Malcolm. A curse on you for dying.

Aimery swallowed, rage and disappointment turning his blood to bile. “Since last you saw me I have done nothing but ride the Green Isle, hearing complaints and chastising faithless lords who count their own petty needs higher than what is
best for this duchy. And now
you
, Balfre, you encourage men to defy my decree against personal combat. What—”

“It was a
joust
!” Balfre shouted. “You’ve not banned jousting. I was obedient to all your rules. I made sure of a tilt barrier, my lance was well-blunted, and I—”

“And you killed a man, regardless,” he said, fists clenched. “Much good your obedience has done you, Balfre. Or me.”

Balfre’s hands were fisted too. “That’s not fair. Father—”

“
Do not call me Father! On your knees, miscreant, and address me as Your Grace!
”

Sickly pale, Balfre dropped to the damp ground. “Your Grace, it’s plain you’re weary. You shouldn’t be plagued with the Green Isle. Appoint me its Steward and I’ll—”

“Appoint
you
?” Aimery ached to slap his son’s face. “Balfre, if I let you loose on the Green Isle there’d be war within a week.”

“Your Grace, you misjudge me.”

“Do I?” He laughed, near to choking on bitterness. “And if I were to break my neck hunting tomorrow and the day after I was buried you learned that Harald of Clemen had yet again interfered with Harcian justice in the Marches? Tell me, would you tread with care or would you challenge
him
to a joust?”

“Harald is a cur-dog who sits upon a stolen throne,” said Balfre, his lip curled. “Thieves and cur-dogs should be beaten, not cosseted. If Harald feared us he’d not dare flout your authority, or entice Harcia’s men-at-arms to break your decrees, or demand unlawful taxes from our merchants and—”

“So you’d challenge him with a naked sword, and slaughter two hundred years of peace.” Aimery shook his head, stung with despair. “Never once doubting the wisdom of your choice.”

“Your Grace, there’s no greater wisdom than overwhelming strength and the willingness to use it.”

And so the decision he’d been avoiding for so long, like a coward, was made for him. He sighed. “I know you think so, Balfre. Grefin—”

Grefin looked up. “Your Grace?”

“The Green Isle has been left to its own devices for too long. Therefore I appoint you its Steward and—”

Forgetting himself, Balfre leapt to his feet. “
No!
”

“Your Grace—” Alarmed, Grefin was staring. “I’m honoured, truly, but—”

“Enough, Grefin. It’s decided.”

“No, it isn’t!” said Balfre. “You can’t do this. Like it or not I’m your heir. By right the Green Isle’s stewardship is mine. You
can’t
—”

Aimery seized his oldest son’s shoulders and shook him. “I must, Balfre. For your sake, for Harcia’s sake, I have no other choice.”

“You’re a duke,” said Balfre, coldly. “You have nothing but choices.”

“Ah, Balfre…” Run through with pain, he tightened his fingers. “The day you understand that isn’t true is the day you will be ready for a crown.”

Balfre wrenched free. “Fuck you, Your Grace,” he said, and walked away.

Heart of the Mirage

The Shadow of Tyr

Song of the Shiver Barrens

The Last Stormlord

Stormlord Rising

Stormlord’s Exile

The Lascar’s Dagger

The Dagger’s Path

The Fall of the Dagger

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Glenda Larke

Excerpt from
The Last Stormlord
copyright © 2010 by Glenda Larke

Excerpt from
The Falcon Throne
copyright © 2014 by Karen Miller

Cover illustration by Steve Stone

Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

Maps copyright © 2013 by Perdita Phillips

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First ebook edition: April 2016

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ISBN 978-0-316-39969-2

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