The Frontier Lord: Previously published as The Marcher Lord Page 5

  ‘Might we sit and talk for a moment?’ she said.

  Confused by the purpose of her visit, Rolf gestured to the table he had just vacated.

  ‘I wanted to offer my condolences,’ she said. ‘I heard that your father died suddenly.’

  That she would take an interest in such things was as much a surprise as her being there.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rolf said. ‘It’s come as a great shock.’

  ‘He was always a fair man. A good lord,’ she said.

  ‘You knew ‘im?’

  ‘Of him,’ she said. ‘I come from the March. From Oudin.’

  Surprise was laid upon surprise. Her clothes, hair, jewellery, and makeup were perfect. If an artist were to paint an example of cosmopolitan feminine refinement, it would be this woman. Her accent was as crisp as cut glass. There was not even the faintest hint of a March brogue. How could a woman such as this come from the same town as him?

  ‘It’s very kind of you to pay your respects,’ Rolf said, enunciating his words carefully, then realising it made him sound like even more of a boor, he returned to his usual speech. ‘Have you lived in the city for long?’

  ‘Not long enough,’ she said. She smiled, but it seemed tired, forced. ‘Too long, perhaps.’

  ‘I only ask… your accent—‘

  ‘S’wha’ever ah choose it to be,’ she said, sounding no different to any of the girls who lived in the village by his father’s castle. It was even thicker than his own. Thicker than March mud. The thought made him smile. What was more, the change took years from her face. Where a moment before, she had been a sophisticated woman of the city, she now seemed barely more than a girl, no older than Rolf.

  ‘What brought you to the city, my Lord?’ she said.

  ‘There’s trouble across the border, or there will be soon. We’re here to make sure we have the money to defend the King’s borders.’

  ‘Have you seen him yet?’ Her accent was once again every syllable that of a city lady, sharp, precise, intimidating.

  Rolf humphed but cut it off midway, it being a Marchland affectation, and not suitable for a city parlour. ‘No,’ he said, hoping he hadn’t caused offence. ‘Only one of ‘is officials. Didn’t get us anywhere.’

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I realise, I don’t even know your name,’ Rolf said. ‘Is there anyone you’d like to be reminded to from home? I could carry back some letters if you’d like.’

  ‘Ysabeau,’ she said. ‘And thank you, but no. There’s no one there for me now.’

  There was silence, uncomfortable silence, and Rolf hoped he had not touched on a tender nerve.

  ‘Is the bakery still there on Southgate Hill?’ she said after a moment.

  ‘It is. Although young baker has taken over from his father three years since.’

  ‘Does he make cream buns as well as his father did?’

  ‘Better.’

  She smiled. ‘I used to pinch them when I was a girl. Old baker was very fat. He could never catch me.’

  Rolf laughed. ‘I remember him. You’d be out of luck now. Young baker was a man-at-arms before his father died. Fit as a fiddle.’

  ‘I’m a quick runner,’ Ysabeau said.

  Rolf raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No, these skirts aren’t the best for running in. Good thing I moved to the city, then,’ she said, a smile lighting up her face. ‘Although I’ve the coin to pay for them these days.’ The smile faded.

  ‘Do you miss the March?’

  ‘At times. Life wasn’t easy there.’

  ‘That’s the March.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time, my Lord. Once again, I’m very sorry to have heard about your father.’

  He stood as she did, for once his mother’s lessons on city manners not escaping him.

  ‘Thank you for calling,’ he said, stumbling over the words. He found himself struggling for something to say that would keep her there, even if only for a moment. ‘If you ever find yourself in the March, please call on the castle. You’ll always find hospitality there.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, my Lord. I might just take you up on that.’

  Rolf watched her leave, fully aware of the jealous glances he had attracted from every man present for the duration of their conversation. She was a picture of beauty, her dress perfectly cut from silk so fine its price could outfit and feed a dozen men-at-arms. The cockaded hat lent her appearance a mischievous air, but it was not until she was gone that Rolf came to a realisation. There was only one way a young woman from the March with no ties came to wear silks and gems.

  12

  The Insult

  Rolf slept little that night. His family’s hegemony of the March was one thing, and it was every nobleman’s duty to ensure the continuance and prosperity of his house, but it was not Rolf’s entire concern. It was also the duty of a nobleman to ensure the safety and prosperity of their subjects. It was a lesson his father had repeated many times, and Ysabeau’s visit the previous night to pay respect to a good and just lord had reminded him of the fact. If the Szavarian’s crossed the border unopposed, every man would be killed, every woman raped, and every child sold to slavery. There would be no need for the noble house of Oudain, nor would it deserve the lands it held.

  He had no idea how he would convince the palace officials to give him an audience with the King, nor what he would say if he was given one. If his father had not been able to manage it, how could he be expected to? He had none of his father’s polish, and he felt guilty at regretting not having gone to the Academy. He had made the right decision to remain at home. It was the only choice.

  He dressed quickly and tried to push thoughts of the impossible from his mind. He was a nobleman, and had a right of audience the same as every other peer of the realm. He would persist until he was given an audience. After that, he would have to pray that Divine Fortune smiled on him.

  His father’s body was in repose at the local chapel, a quiet place overlooking a pretty garden where the priests could say the words that needed saying, before the body was packed in a cask of brandy for his final journey back to the March.

  Before he went to the palace, Rolf had to call on the notary to seal the declarations given by Physician Blavaut and the priest to make his father’s death official, and the path for his accession to the March open. Once sealed, he would deliver the papers to the Seneschal when he was at the palace for his audience. There was no reason for any difficulty over that; the March was his by right of inheritance. It could cause delays, however; could cause his getting an audience to be more difficult; could ultimately doom him to failure.

  Rolf hurried toward the palace. The sun was already high, and he knew how much more difficult it would be to get an audience late in the day. Nobles and commoners alike would have been gathering by the palace doors since before dawn. He had, at least, carried out the tasks he had set himself that morning, and had all the proofs necessary to present the Seneschal, and accede to his father’s seat.

  He was given the usual challenge at the gate, but hesitated for a moment before answering. Did he call himself Marquis now? It seemed premature, so he simply named himself as a lord of the March, as he had when he called previously. As before, he was admitted with the dignity befitting his rank, but once inside, he was anonymous once again; a minor noble in a high sea of aristocracy.

  As in battle, timidity would get him nowhere. He strode through the crowd, not allowing his gaze to wander either left or right, although he wondered if Ysabeau was there, and if so, with whom. He had neither the time nor the desire to fight another duel that day, so he was as polite as he could be as he pushed his way through the crowd.

  The Seneschal’s clerks dealt with the initial requests, and they were efficient in their duty. Rolf’s request—for papers to be inspected by the Seneschal, and for an audience with the King—was quickly heard. The fulfilment would take longer, however. Only those requests deemed to be of suffi
cient importance would find their way to the ears required to make decisions.

  Of his accession, Rolf was confident. It was a formality, and one that required speedy resolution to ensure the efficient management of the kingdom. Of his request, Rolf was far less certain. His father had been a respected man, and one who wielded more than his fair share of influence. His request for an audience had won him no more than an instant of the King’s time, and even then not an ounce of his attention. Rolf wondered what chance he might have, this considered, and felt guilty for entertaining the hope that his father’s death might improve his chances of attracting the King’s notice.

  His applications lodged, there was little to do but find a free patch of wall in the crowded hall and wait in the hope that his name might be called.

  It was difficult to prevent his eyes from wandering across the gathered crowd. The court was still a thing of fascination for him, and his thoughts ever drifted to the possibility that one, or several, of the men before him might be chevaliers of the Silver Circle. Despite all he had seen in the city, part of him still clung to the ideal that they represented.

  As his eyes flicked from face to face, colourful clothes, hats, and decorations, he felt himself yearn more for a glimpse of Ysabeau than someone who fit his image of a Chevalier. She had done well to rise so quickly in the city, although he was confident that she had turned far more influential heads than his own. He wondered at her life, one where her only responsibility was to herself, and her survival in a hostile place. He thought of his castle, his lands, his subjects, the duty the King had placed upon his family, and wondered which of them had it best. When it came down to it, they both owed their livelihood to the service of men more powerful than they were.

  The day wore on, and the crowd thinned. Each time a name was called from the front of the hall, Rolf felt his heart jump with hope, but each time he was disappointed, as someone else made their way forward to have their plea heard. Rolf’s mind continued to wander, dreams of the Silver Circle, with he in their number, and Ysabeau the beautiful woman in need of rescue. It was a foolish daydream, but a pleasant way to pass the hours. He almost missed it when his name was called.

  Rolf walked forward and made himself known. He was headed toward the throne when an official diverted him off to one side. It was to be expected; there were formalities to be dealt with first.

  ‘Rolf dal Oudain, heir apparent to the Western March,’ the Seneschal said, when Rolf arrived at his desk, a dark, ancient looking chunk of wood that was covered with stacks of papers.

  ‘The very same,’ Rolf said, in what he thought to be the style of the city.

  ‘I’ve reviewed your papers, and see no reason to prevent your accession.’ He dripped sealing wax onto a piece of parchment and pressed a heavy-looking seal into it. ‘This is your writ of ennoblement.’ He handed the parchment to Rolf. ‘From this moment until your death or attainder you are Marquis Rolf, Lord of the Western March, bound in fealty to His Royal Highness, King Boudain the Ninth, and sworn to defend the Kingdom’s western border until the last breath of your body. Do you so swear?’

  ‘I swear it,’ Rolf said.

  ‘Very good,’ the Seneschal said. ‘You may go.’

  ‘About my audience?’ Rolf said.

  The Seneschal gave him a frustrated look. ‘It is my recollection that this matter has already been dealt with.’

  ‘But not in a satisfactory way,’ Rolf said, irritated by the Seneschal’s patronising tone.

  ‘Satisfactory to whom?’ the Seneschal said, with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘To anyone,’ Rolf said. ‘When the Szavarians cross the border, I will likely be killed and my house will come to an end. The King will lose his March and all the revenues that go with it.’

  The Seneschal smiled. ‘A compelling argument, but your demesne is sufficient to pay for the border’s defence; it is why the territory is so large. As I already explained to your father, the King’s coffers are not a last resort for noblemen who cannot properly manage their accounts.’

  Rolf’s temper flared. ‘I can assure you, I am not here to beg, only to seek an exemption from tax for two years. Every penny of that money will be spent on better securing the King’s borders. I realise all the dandies and fops at court might think the money better spent on wine, and cards, and whores, but on the March we take our responsibilities a little more seriously.’ Rolf could feel the veins pulse in his temple.

  ‘Are you quite done?’ the Seneschal said.

  ‘He most certainly is,’ a new voice said.

  Rolf turned to look, and received a stinging slap to the face. When his eyes cleared, a tall man stood before him, the feather on his black hat matching his powder blue tunic. He had bags under his eyes, and looked like he favoured late nights over sleep.

  ‘I’ll have you know I’m neither a fop nor a dandy,’ the man said.

  Rolf could taste blood in his mouth. ‘But I notice you make no mention of wine, cards, or whores.’

  The man’s eyes bulged, but the slap had stated that nothing Rolf said could make the matter any worse.

  ‘Is there a place you favour?’ Rolf said, resigned to having to fight his third duel in as many days. How easily these city gentlemen seemed to take offence.

  ‘The Cloister of Sint Gerol,’ the man said. ‘Would one hour be convenient?’

  ‘Only if you think you can have your affairs in order by then. As I’ve just discovered, death brings a fair heft of paperwork with it.’

  ‘Cocky little bumpkin, aren’t you?’ the man said. ‘One hour, and I’ll carve that smile off your face.’

  Rolf doffed his hat, and the man walked away, leaving Rolf with a clear view of Ysabeau, who wore an amused expression on her face. Even the dark pools of her eyes could not draw him from his frustrated temper. He shrugged at her, winning the faintest hint of a smile, and looked back at the Seneschal, who regarded him with a weary expression.

  ‘I hate to be the cause of missed appointments,’ the Seneschal said, ‘but if you force me to call the King’s Guard, I doubt very much if you will be at your liberty in time for your engagement with Lord Gauchier.’ He gestured for Rolf to move away and make room for the next courtier. With no options coming to mind, Rolf walked away, wondering how best to find out where the Cloister of Sint Gerol was.

  13

  The Cloister of Sint Gerol

  There was peace and beauty to all of the places in the city where Rolf had killed. The Palace Gardens were an oasis of serenity at the hectic court. The Garden of the White Lilies provided the same to those not privileged enough to lay eyes on the Palace Garden in a city that never seemed to rest. The Cloister was the first place where Rolf had felt true peace since arriving in Mirabay.

  A number of trees cast their shade over the small courtyard surrounded by cloistered walkways. The old stone arches and the buildings beyond them were ruins now, and Rolf wondered what they might once have been. It seemed to be a place of contemplation, so far removed from the harrying pace of the city that it might as well have not existed. A place for men of learning, or the gods, perhaps. It was a shame to spoil that tranquillity with the clash of steel and splash of blood, but spoil it he would.

  Lord Gauchier arrived with his party a while after Rolf, their excited voices spoiling the spell that had been cast over the place. It made him feel less guilty of the part he would play in shattering it in the moments to come. Rolf stood from the wall he had been sitting on.

  ‘Gauchier! That’s him,’ Gauchier’s second said. ‘The fellow that killed Estiene.’

  ‘Well then, I’m doubly glad to have made his acquaintance,’ Gauchier said. He took off his cloak and threw it to one of his companions. There was pride in the way he displayed the rapier and dagger at his waist.

  ‘Where’s your second?’ Gauchier said.

  ‘He doesn’t have the use for one, apparently,’ Gauchier’s second said, before Rolf had time to answer for himself.

  ‘Bad news for
you,’ Gauchier said to his second, but intending for Rolf to hear. ‘You’ll have to deal with the body when I’m done.’ He laughed, and was joined by his companions.

  Rolf stood silently with his hands on his hips, watching them. One of the companions held out a small silver cup from which Gauchier took a long drink. He smacked his lips when he finished.

  ‘Best be to it then,’ Gauchier said. ‘Put some manners on this scruffy little bumpkin.’ He drew his sword and swished it through the air, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he did.

  Fine clothes, fine swords, fine words. That was all Rolf had found in Mirabay. He would return to the March in the morning, and make the best of what he had there. Triumph or fail, there was nothing in the city that he wanted, nothing it, nor his King, could offer him. The March was a lonely place, and that was as it should be—the lesson his father had taught him the day his mother had died was that you could never entertain the hope for help when living on the March.

  ‘Ready, boy?’ Gauchier said.

  Rolf drew his sword and unbuckled his sword belt before throwing it to one side. He had no words left to waste on a city nobleman. He took his guard.

  ‘Do you have any instructions for your body?’ Gauchier said. ‘Any bog you’re particularly fond of that you’d like us to have you thrown into?’

  Several of his companions laughed. It was a big city, but even so, Rolf would have thought that his previous performances would be better known, and that Gauchier would conduct himself with a little more caution.

  Gauchier pushed the arrogant smile from his face in a gesture that said he had to force himself to take the matter seriously. He beat the blade of his sword against Rolf’s twice. Rolf brushed it aside and lunged. Gauchier’s eyes widened, and his sword fell from his hand. Rolf pulled his blade free and walked toward where his sword belt had landed.