The Frontier Lord: Previously published as The Marcher Lord Page 6

  Gauchier was still on his feet, wavering, but he was no longer a threat to Rolf, and he was beyond anyone’s help. There was no more noise coming from Gauchier’s companions. They all stood stock still, all too shocked to react in any way. Rolf was walking past them and out of the cloister before they moved toward Gauchier’s now prone form.

  14

  The Note

  There was little about Rolf’s first visit to Mirabay that he cared to remember. He had killed a great many men in the few years since he had first picked up a real sword, but he only knew three of their names; Charlot, Estiene, Gauchier. That was the memory he would take from Mirabay. That and his father’s death. The name would always leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He wondered how things might have gone differently had he remained at home.

  He had risen before dawn, with as strong a desire as he had ever experienced to leave Mirabay. Each act in the process of extracting himself from his bed, doing his ablutions, and dressing felt as though it was taking ten times longer than usual. Were it not a three day ride to the next inn worth stopping at, he would have foregone a hot breakfast as well.

  As he fumbled with the buttons on his doublet, his haste lengthening the process, there was a knock at the door. He looked over to see a note being pushed underneath. He stared at it for a moment and felt his gut twist. Since arriving in the city, he had killed three men. Might one of their friends or family think they could succeed where the recently deceased had failed? Killing on the March was a necessity for survival. In the city it seemed an affectation to vanity, and an utter waste of time. However, to walk away from a challenge would be seen as cowardice, and that was something he could not accept. If another city gentleman felt a pressing desire to die, Rolf would see him satisfied.

  He picked up the piece of paper, breaking the purple wax and unfolding it as he did.

  Be at the Palace by eight bells.

  Y

  The script was neat and elegant, unmistakably that of a woman. No one in the city knew him, and there was only one person he knew of that would sign a letter with ‘Y’. His heart raced at the thought of her sending him a note requesting that he attend on her. He was curious as to what it might mean, but he was certain of one thing. There was no way he would miss an invitation by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, no matter how strong his desire to leave the city.

  He received the usual challenge when he arrived at the palace, but did not hesitate to call himself ‘Marquis’ this time. Despite his earlier-than-usual arrival, there were already a great many people present. He wondered if their concerns ranked along with the threat of a Szavarian invasion. He had not known what to expect after getting the note, but it had occurred to him that he did not know Ysabeau well, and that she was not only a survivor, but someone who thrived in the city. He had killed three men of influence. Her offering him up on a plate to their families or friends could serve her very well, even if it might not end well for them.

  He continued on to the hall, looking for her as he went. He walked into the already-crowded hall, ignored as always, but by the time he had gone a few paces, a murmur of whispers started to develop. It took Rolf a moment to realise the whispers and stares were being directed at him, and he felt far more uncomfortable than he ever had staring down a sword.

  A clerk spotted him, and hurried forward.

  ‘My lord, if you’d like to come this way.’

  Rolf nodded and followed. The crowd parted as they moved toward the throne, which Rolf spotted was empty. The clerk continued on around the dais toward a door at the side of the hall. They passed through the door and down the corridor behind it until they reached another door. The clerk opened it, and gestured for Rolf to go in. With hesitation he stepped over the threshold.

  Sitting at a large, ornate table drinking a glass of iced orange juice was Ysabeau. Opposite her, doing likewise, was the King.

  15

  The Audience

  Rolf bowed the instant he realised whose presence he was in.

  ‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘I apologise. I didn’t expect to be brought before you.’

  The King waved for Rolf to stand straight. ‘I’m told there is unrest across the border.’

  ‘There is, your Highness. The Voivode of Vastapol died several months ago. There’s a succession dispute that’s nearing its end. M’father believed the first thing the new Voivode will do is attack across the border to prove himself.’

  ‘Will his resources not be exhausted by the succession dispute?’

  ‘No, Highness, I don’t believe so. The Szavarians favour assassination over war when it comes to local squabbles. They save their soldiers for the likes of us.’ Rolf glanced at Ysabeau in the hope of getting some indication of how he was doing, but her expression gave away nothing. She had risen high indeed to be able to arrange private audiences with the King.

  ‘As things stand, what will happen when the dispute is over?’ the King said.

  ‘They’ll start to raid in strength. We won’t have the manpower to stop them everywhere, so villages will be destroyed, resources taken, and populations put to the sword or taken as slaves. Border fortifications will be destroyed, and like as not they’ll build garrisons of their own. By then my manpower will be reduced, and I won’t have the funds to raise more levies. I won’t be able to do anything about the garrisons, and the territory they cover will be lost to us. It’ll take a decade to recover from the devastation. In the worst hit areas, generations.’

  The King stroked his beard and stared into nowhere. ‘I see,’ he said absently. After a moment, he spoke again. ‘How long will this perceived threat last?’

  ‘As long as we are unable to stop it,’ Rolf said. ‘Given the resources to prepare, I’ll be able to prevent them crossing the border, and give them a bloody nose in the process. Do that three or four times and they’ll lose the taste for it. Might even overthrow their Voivode and create another few years of peace while they find themselves a new one.’

  The King nodded. ‘Poncet, prepare the papers to exempt the Western March from all Royal Duties for two years hence, then bring them to me to sign.’

  The Seneschal had been standing in the shadows the whole time, but Rolf had not noticed him.

  ‘As you wish, Your Highness,’ the Seneschal said.

  ‘I understand your father died suddenly, Lord Oudin,’ the King said. ‘You have my deepest condolences.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ Rolf said.

  ‘Unless there is anything else?’

  Rolf bowed, and made to leave, but stopped. ‘One thing, Highness.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘The Chevaliers of the Silver Circle. I expected to see them when I came to court, but I have not. Do they still exist?’

  The King smiled. ‘You have, and they do not. The fraternity has fallen out of fashion in recent years, and there were but three of their number remaining. I’m given to understand you killed them all in duels over the past few days.’

  Rolf’s jaw dropped. He saw the corner of Ysabeau’s mouth curl in a wry smile, but he was completely lost for words.

  ‘Young men as handy with a blade as you are always useful. I wonder if you might consider aiding me in reconstituting the Silver Circle by adding your name to their roster?’

  Rolf’s heart raced. An offer to join the Silver Circle was the subject of his most ambitious dreams. It was something he had never thought to be even remotely possible. He closed his mouth and tried to gather his thoughts. The first one that came to him was Charlot’s hair dye, his pathetic concession to vanity. The next was Estiene and the ruddy face borne by those too fond of wine and spirits. Finally it was Gauchier, and the heavy bags under his eyes from too many late nights, doubtless spent whoring or at a card table. Above all, he thought of their arrogance, and the way they had declared him a bumpkin worthy only of contempt the moment they had heard his accent.

  They were not the men who had slain dragons, rescued maidens, or had tal
es told of their deeds. They were not men Rolf would ever be comfortable keeping company with. He preferred the rough sound of his accent, the rough cloth of his clothes, and the harsh landscape of his birthplace. He liked being able to identify an enemy at a glance.

  ‘Thank you, Highness, but I must decline. My responsibility is to the March and ensuring the border of your Kingdom is held fast. I fear other distractions might impair me in that.’

  The King nodded again. ‘Well said. I’m confident the March is in good hands.’

  Rolf was not so boorish as to miss the fact that the ensuing silence meant his presence was neither required nor desired. He bowed and backed out of the room the way he had come in.

  16

  Homeward Bound

  As the gloom under the cavernous city gate gave way to sunlight once again, Rolf felt as though a weight was lifted from him. He only noticed it now that the great white walls of Mirabay receded behind him. Being out in the open again, not confined by walls or narrow streets, was a panacea. Were it not for the riderless horse he was leading along beside him, he would have felt optimistic.

  He had achieved what he and his father had set out to do, but it felt like a hollow victory. The Szavarians were their enemy, and the battles should be fought on the border, not in Mirabay, where he had to beg for the resources to keep the realm safe. He had gone to Mirabay expecting a jewel of a city, the home of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle. Instead he had found a fruit that was rotten on the stalk.

  He stopped and turned to give the city a final look. A steady stream of traffic passed in and out of the gate. A lone rider broke away from the flow and turned in his direction. The road leading to the March was a lonely one, and they were the only two on it. Even from that distance, he could make out the cockaded hat and the gold silk rose nestled in it. He felt a surge of optimism that even his father’s empty horse could not quell.

  He watched the rider close with him and smiled when she stopped.

  ‘A friend has offered me his hospitality in the March,’ Ysabeau said. ‘I was wondering if you might offer your escort…’

  Rolf’s smile grew wider still.

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  About the Author

  Duncan is a writer of fantasy fiction novels and short stories that are set in a world influenced by Renaissance Europe. He has Master’s Degrees in History and Law, and practised as a barrister before writing full time. He is particularly interested in the medieval and renaissance periods, from which he draws inspiration for his stories. He doesn’t live anywhere particularly exotic, and when not writing he enjoys cycling, skiing, and windsurfing.

  His debut novel, ‘The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1)’ was placed 8th on Buzzfeed’s 12 Greatest Fantasy Books Of The Year, 2013.

  You can contact Duncan at the following places:

  @DuncanMHamilton

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  Copyright © Duncan M. Hamilton 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  The right of Duncan M. Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or downloaded in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This book was previously published under the title The Marcher Lord