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For Guy did have a wife. A wife that none were permitted to ever speak of. A money-hungry, thrice wed, southern bitch of a wife, who even now paraded around the Argent King’s court, bearing his title as if it were his own severed head. How he hated her, and all she represented. The desecration of all his boyhood ideals and dreams. The brutal awakening to the cold reality of his life. He slammed his fist down on the table, but held himself back from speech. It took an effort.
“Guy…” started Firmin warningly, and he looked up to find the wedding revelers all staring at him fearfully. Clearly, they thought he was about to turn the table over and start bellowing. He passed a hand over his brow. He hadn’t really lost his temper in a twelvemonth. His hand shook slightly as he reached for his drink, before tossing it back. The musicians struck back up their tune and a sigh of relief seemed to pass through the room at a potential disaster averted.
“One more jug of ale,” he said in a low voice. “And I leave.”
“None could complain at that,” rallied Firmin. “You’ve been a generous overlord, and done Temur proud.”
“A right handsome wedding gift, you gave them,” joined in Waldon. “They’ll get a good start in life with that.”
Guy curled his lip in reply. All he had given them had been a purse of gold, and he had plenty of that. He disliked being dragged from his hearth during Yuletide, when he wanted to be sequestered away from all celebrations and making merry. He glanced over at his young cousin, the groom.
“Poor bastard,” he grunted, though even the most impartial bystander could see Temur was flushed and giddy with happiness and ale.
His new wife, Guy had not bothered to remember her name, had one shapely arm curved around Temur’s neck and looked just as triumphant as the groom. He would not let a woman get so close to his jugular, he thought grimly. Temur was a fool. But at least Temur’s bride had been of his own choosing, Guy acknowledged. That was more than his wife had been. He had been given the bleak choice of signing his fealty over to the southern king, along with half of his wealth, or face execution. The added bonus of being leg-shackled to a woman he’d never even met had been the crowning insult.
He’d been sat in a filthy cell when the papers had been placed before him with pen and ink. He had not even realized then, how complete King Wymer’s victory over his family had been. For with a wife he had married by proxy, a wife never actually given into his possession, his line had also effectively been severed. For how could he ever beget a legitimate heir to continue it or to inherit? On his death, his lands and his title would revert to the Crown. So really, he had signed away everything on that accursed day. Was it any wonder he was so bloody bitter?
He brooded over his cup for another half hour, before taking his leave and heading back. Was it his imagination, or did the company breathe a collective sigh of relief at his departure? He wouldn’t be surprised, for all everyone insisted his blessing was necessary. He was under no illusions that he was well-liked. How the hells was anyone else supposed to like him, when he absolutely despised himself?
Firmin insisted on accompanying him back, though Waldon stayed behind to celebrate the nuptials. It was a six mile ride from the village of Acton Dymock to his sprawling estate of Acton March. The large manor house was mostly plunged in darkness on their return. Candles had been left alight in the wood-paneled hallway, but there were no other signs of life.
“Will ye take no supper?” Firmin asked when Guy immediately headed past him to mount the shadowy staircase to his private rooms. He needed no light to guide his way.
“Nay,” he shook his head. He’d eaten a good supper at the wedding feast, but usually that would not mean he could not eat again. It was thinking of her that had made him lose his usually considerable appetite.
“I’ll bid ye good night then, Guy.” Firmin hesitated. Guy stood a moment on the stair, then it struck him his steward was about to wish him a happy solstice. He stared at him balefully and Firmin gulped and gave a nod instead, before turning away.
Firmin was a good steward, a good friend if it came to that. But Guy preferred his own company when he was feeling morose. As he undressed for bed, he noticed the driving rain that was starting to pelt against the window panes. It would be a cold, cheerless day on the morrow for all it was a feast day. In truth, he found it hard to remember a time when it had been any different.
He added a few more logs onto his fire and threw himself into his oversized canopied bed. The sheets were cold, and he cursed as he rolled this way and that, bundling himself up in the blankets. The wind was starting to howl outside. When the windows began to rattle, he realized that the rain had turned into hailstones. It was a filthy night. He spared a thought for any travelers abroad at this hour and was glad he’d left for home when he had. It might offer little by way of cheer or comfort, but it was shelter from the storm at least, if nothing else.
In his father’s day, on nights such as these, the whole household would gather around the huge stone hearth in the Great Hall and someone would tell the old tales. Sometimes it was an aged servant, and other times a travelling bard, who might know different variations on the stories. But the most vibrant tales were told by Old Helga, who had been the local wise woman. Tales of the Wild Hunt and how the All-Father would be riding forth with this company of wolves and ravens. Woe betide any hapless traveler who strayed into their path. But the All-Father could be beneficent, when the mood took him, and if he found his quarry worthy of reward.
Guy wondered if Old Helga still lived. He had not heard any mention of her in years. He had not ventured along the path that led to the wood for many a long day. Doubtless her cottage still stood, even if it was empty, as it was in such a remote spot. Though on his land, she had paid precious little by way of rent or tithe. Her kind never did. Witches. He gazed sightlessly into the darkness, remembering that Yuletide many moons ago when she had foreseen his own demise. What was it she said?
He couldn’t remember. He had only heard it secondhand for his father would never speak of it. Whatever it was, it had been enough to get her thrown from the hall and denounced by his father. Folk whispered it was something about his downfall being tied with the Blechmarsh line. Well, if that was so, she had been right enough. The southern king had roundly defeated the north, and united all Karadok under his standard. But the lords of Martindale had always been loyal to the northern crown and had fought to the bitter end.
They had not gone down without a fight, and they had paid the price. Not as cruelly as some, he thought reflecting on his neighbors, the Kerslakes who had their ancient castle razed to the ground, or the Pierces who had lost all three of their sons in battle. But then, had their house not also lost all its sons? All their future sons that is, for he would be the last of his once proud line.
He stared out into the darkness. Had Old Helga really seen it all in the bones? If so, her warning had fallen on deaf ears. His father had remained stubborn and staunch to the very end. Luckily, he had died in his bed before the northern cause had folded and before his only son had been forced to marry one of the enemy. But who would have thought the war would wage for ten long years? Ten years and he had transformed from boy to man in that time. Forged in the fires of bitter experience.
The rain beat against the roof, distracting him from his thoughts, and just as he was turning onto his side, he heard the loud three knocks against his fortified front door. Except, he couldn’t possibly. Not from the vantage point of his bedchamber. Even as he told himself this, he sat up in his bed, his heart beating loudly. He somehow knew that was what he had heard. Someone had knocked at his door. For a moment, one of the old tales flashed into his mind. The tale of the disguised traveler, come to test the worthiness of the inhabitants on a cold winter’s night. To see if a humble beggar would be offered shelter from the storm. Except, it was no beggar that stood before the potential host, ready to stand in judgement. He shook his head. It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful.
Th
e house was all in silence. It seemed the summons had stirred no one save himself. Grumbling, Guy reached for a robe, and donned it. He craned his ears, but did not hear another sound. Doubtless it was all in his imagination, he told himself uneasily. He must have imbibed more than he’d realized, or else it was stronger than the usual fare.
He had just reached the top of the staircase when he heard another three bangs again on the door and almost jumped out of his skin. This time, he knew it was not mere imagination, for he heard faintly the kitchen dogs barking down below. They had been roused by it also. Snatching up a candlestick, he approached the door and began drawing back the bolts. As the swung the door open, he braced himself, but that did not stop his eyes from starting from his head at the sight that greeted him.
Flanked by two beadles and another he vaguely recognized as a representative of one of the wealthier merchant families from nearby Wickhamford town, were two youths, soaked to the skin, their wet hair plastered to their heads and their stockings and boots covered in mud. Grimly, Guy ran his eye over them. They were not part of his household, he was sure of that.
“My Lord Martindale—,” began the beadle, and at his words, the smaller youth let out an exclamation.
Guy’s gaze snapped to him, and the little wretch had the nerve to stare back at him with open curiosity. “Y-you’re Lord Martindale?” he stammered, through lips fast turning blue.
“I knew he were a little liar!” gasped the other beadle, seizing the lad’s arm and shaking it. “Said you knew his lordship, didn’t you, you little swine!”
The other lad sprang forward at this rough treatment, “Don’t you touch him!” he yelled, only to be cuffed roundly by the other beadle.
“Now, now,” interjected the merchant distastefully. “Let’s not get over zealous in pursuit of our duty, officers.” He looked back at Guy. “May we come in, my lord?”
“What business is this of mine?” Guy growled, even as he fell back to allow their entry.
His eye was drawn again to the smallest youth, who surely could not be more than thirteen or fourteen in years, unless he was severely undernourished. They trooped past him, dripping rainwater puddles onto the floor. Guy turned his head, hearing an inner door open and saw two befuddled-looking servants peering around it. He guessed his household had probably been celebrating the season in his absence, and that must have been why they had been so hard to rouse.
“Light the fires in the main hall!” he barked, and glanced at the shivering boy again. “And fetch blankets!” He did not know why he added the last directive. Doubtless the angelic face hid the soul of a hardened criminal. Still… For some reason, he did say it. He wasn’t worried overmuch that anyone would accuse him of being tenderhearted. If they did, it would be a first.
The servants fled before him, and Guy led the way to the hall where they were hurriedly lighting the sconces. Bogdon nearly fell into the fireplace he was rekindling, and Jankin looked decidedly bleary-eyed as he brought in ale and blankets for their visitors. Obviously, he thought grimly, his servants had been making merry below stairs.
Guy pulled out a chair and gestured for his visitors to do likewise. He stared at the two boys a moment, before nodding toward the fire which had been banked for the night, but was now starting to put forth flames again. The bigger one took his meaning and dragged the smaller one toward the blaze.
“Hold!” ordered one of the beadles sternly. They were divesting themselves of their rain-soaked cloaks and hats.
“Let them stand with their backs to the fire,” Guy found himself growling. At their astonished faces, he added in a surly voice. “You’ll be cheating the hangman if you let them catch their deaths now.” The merchant’s son laughed, but the beadles both took their seats stiff with affront. Guy motioned for Bogdon to bring forth the ale jug, and his guests were served refreshment as the two boys stood huddled before the huge fireplace, far bigger than the both of them. The whole time, Guy was strangely aware of the huge eyes fixed on his face. Who was the boy to him? Could he be the offspring of one of his men? He raked his memory, but could find no answer.
“Take a blanket,” he barked, ignoring the reproachful gaze of the first beadle. “I can’t hear myself think above the chattering of teeth,” he added, and looked up as more footsteps approached. This time it was Firmin, who had either not yet undressed, or had delayed to redress himself.
He gazed about him in astonishment. “But what is all this?” he asked.
“Join us,” said Guy. “I’m about to find out myself.” He turned back to the men now seated at his table. “Well?”
“My name is Thurston, my lord,” said the merchant when the two beadles sat in stony silence. “Today it was my civic duty to serve as a parish officer. These boys were apprehended earlier in Wickhamford town.”
Instead of asking what that had to do with him, Guy found himself glancing back at the fireplace where the bigger boy was now vigorously rubbing a blanket over the smaller boy’s head and mumbling under his breath. The smaller one stood patient as a lamb, as he was subjected to what looked like a thorough scolding. Could they be siblings? There was precious little resemblance that Guy could see. The bigger boy had rusty brown hair and freckles whereas the smaller one was fine-boned and delicate, with skin that looked translucent in the flickering firelight.
Guy turned back to find all eyes on him. “What had they done?” he asked testily.
The first beadle bristled. “Assaulted a poor carter delivering his goods.” Guy stared the man down. “My lord,” he added hastily.
“Really? These two boys?” he asked scornfully.
“Don’t be deceived by appearances, milord,” piped up the second beadle. “They’re a pair of devils the both of them. Poor man was covered in bruises and that little one even bit him.”
“Did they rob him?” Guy asked, his eyes returning to the small figure shivering in front of the fire.
“No,” admitted the first beadle grudgingly.
“There was his horse,” the second beadle reminded him.
The first beadle perked up. “Ah yes, they stole his horse, milord.”
“You’re saying they’re a pair of horse thieves, then?” asked Firmin, shooting a puzzled look at Guy.
Thurston sucked the air between his teeth and frowned. “I think that’s a bit much, indeed I do,” he said gravely. “I couldn’t support a charge of horse thievery, upon my soul.”
“Now Master Thurston!” Objected the first beadle. “What would your pa say, if he knew you wasn’t a-doing of your duty?”
“He’d say a lot more if he knew I unjustly supported a hanging charge,” Thurston responded with spirit.
“But what I say is this,” interrupted Firmin. “What the devil has any of this to do with Lord Martindale?”
“He,” said the first beadle pointing at the smaller boy. “Said as he knew Lord Martindale, who would stand as character witness for him.”
The smaller boy’s eyes had been drifting shut, as he relaxed in the heat of the fire. They snapped open now and clashed with Guy’s. “Boy, come here,” Guy said firmly. The older boy’s hand shot out to stay his friend, but he was gently shaken off.
“It’s alright, Rob,” he heard him murmur, then he walked around the table until he stood directly in front of Guy. To his astonishment, all Guy could see in those large hazel eyes was curiosity. No shadow of fear or trepidation showed in their depths. He returned the gaze, and instead of denouncing the little wretch, he found himself asking curiously: “How is it that you know me, boy?” Firmin’s sharply indrawn breath showed how far he was acting out of character, but Guy did not break eye contact and the boy gazed steadily back at him. “Because, my lord,” he whispered. “I am your wife.”
III
Mathilde waited expectantly for Lord Martindale to react, but if anything he only seemed to go very still in his seat.
“What was that the boy said?” rumbled someone. She rather thought it was the grizzled look
ing latecomer, but she did not have eyes for anyone other than her husband at present. She was wholly engrossed taking in all his glory. He was tall and powerfully built with broad shoulders and strong limbs. He was clearly master here, with his rich, booming voice, yet he opened his own door which she found strangely fascinating. Things must be very different here in the north, she thought.
Both her former husbands had been old men, but this one was young, even that black beard covering what she was sure was a strong jaw, could not obscure the fact. She was wildly encouraged by his kindness to her and Rob by providing them with fire and blankets. He was clearly both thoughtful and generous, and her heart swelled to find him so. By some miracle, her mother had hit on a bridegroom who was not wholly past prayers.
Suddenly he came to his feet, staring straight ahead of him a moment. Then he spoke, two words, “Follow me,” and strode past her. Mathilde blinked, and quickly followed, cries of “My lord!” and “But where are you going?” ringing in her ears. He paid no heed to them, so neither did she. He flung open a door on the opposite side of the hall, and disappeared through it. Mathilde hurried after him. He did not look back over his shoulder, but instead plunged down a dimly lit corridor and then up some stone steps. She paused at the bottom of the steps which were steep and winding, and felt a flicker of panic rise up, which she swiftly extinguished. Her days of being scared of her own shadow were behind her, she told herself sternly.
She had travelled the length of the kingdom, dressed as a man. She had hitched rides on carts. She had slept in common taverns, on hard wooden benches, and even once, under a hedge. She had haggled over the price of a loaf, been cuffed round the ear by an irate stall-holder, and that very morning she had been in her first fight in defense of the innocent. In short, she had earned her spurs. She was not about to fall at the final fence.
Steeling herself, she started up the steps, listening to the ring of Lord Martindale’s — her husband’s — boots against the flagstones. He took very large strides, and she wondered if he was scaling two steps at a time. Her fitness levels had vastly improved over the past month, but she was no match for him. When she finally reached the top, panting slightly, he stood, a shadowy figure next to another open door. It appeared he was expecting her to walk through this one first. She hastened to comply. He followed her through the door and shut it after him, turning a key in the lock. Then he stood a moment, leaning back against the door, regarding her through narrowed eyes.