would kick me in the balls before the watching world? Isn’t that what you mean?”
Like his privy chamber, the nursery was generously lit with oil lamps and firelight. Jancis’s plump tears glowed with a golden warmth.
“No,” she whispered. “Of course not. However Hughe died, I know the fault’s not yours.”
“Herewart says elsewise.”
Jancis gasped. “Herewart calls murder on you? And Aimery
believes
it? That’s why he’s named Grefin his Steward? But–but that’s wicked unjust!”
She was a barren bitch and he could never love her. So what did it say of him, that her swift defence of his honour was a balm, and welcome?
“What a needle-wit you are,” he said roughly, sneering. “So sharp you must prick yourself twice a day, at least.” Her face paled again at the taunt. “There’ll be talk,” he added, needing to goad her. “Will you stand it?”
Her resentful eyes met his. “Will you?”
The tart reply was a surprise. Jancis hardly ever challenged him. Perhaps he’d like her better if she did. Perhaps if she had greater mettle she’d find the strength to give him sons.
And if mules were horses a peasant in the saddle could be mistook for a lord
.
“Mind your shrewish tongue,” he said, skirting the crib to close on her. “You’re the cause of this, Jancis.”
The brat snuffled as her holding arms tightened. “How is it my fault? I never—”
“Hughe’s dead because he slandered me!” he shouted, backing her into the wall. “And he slandered me because of
you
! What corruption is in you, Jancis, that your feeble body must spit out my sons before they’re formed?”
“No corruption, Balfre! Indeed, you do me wrong!”
“
I
wrong
you
?” He almost laughed. “
Bitch!
”
“I’m sorry, Balfre,” she whispered. “I’d give anything to give you sons. Perhaps if I could find a wise woman who knows of such things I might—”
“A
witch
? Woman, are you
mad
?”
She cried out. “No, no. I won’t look for one! I promise! Please, Balfre, don’t—” She was weeping, half-turning to shield the brat, starting to slide down the wall. “Don’t hurt her!”
Like a man watching a mummery, he saw himself looming over his unwanted wife and girl-child. Saw his fist raised to strike. Saw her tears, and her terror. Heard the child’s frightened wails. Sickened,shaken, he turned away. Never in his life had he struck a woman.
Any man who beats a woman makes of himself a beast
. A lesson learned at his formidable mother’s knee. How ashamed she’d be, could she see him now.
Helping Jancis to stand, he felt her trembling fear of him beneath his hands and flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said, as she settled the brat in its crib. “Jancis…” Helpless, he stared at her. “Fuck. I wish–I wish—”
She looked up. “I know, Balfre. So do I.”
Without warning, his throat closed. “It’s not right that Grefin’s made Steward. Ever since Malcom died, Aimery has looked for ways to—” He breathed hard, fighting the pain he resented so much. “The honour of the Green Isle belongs to me.”
“Your father’s made his decision,” Jancis said, shrugging. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Her defeated acceptance rekindled his anger. “Fuck that. I don’t accept it. You wait. I’ll change the old bastard’s mind.”
From atop the Croft’s battlements, wind-tugged and shivering despite his padded doublet and heavy woollen surcoat, Aimery watched the summoned lords of his council clatter on horseback across the stone bridge leading to the castle’s outer bailey. Though he stood high, and they were distant, he could tell they weren’t happy. But then, neither was he.
Out of long custom, Harcia kept an itinerant court. As he travelled the duchy, showing his face, hearing disputes, he often met with his greatest barons. Together they nipped trouble in its rancorous bud, which meant a great council was held once, at most twice, in a year. Its holding was a
Like his privy chamber, the nursery was generously lit with oil lamps and firelight. Jancis’s plump tears glowed with a golden warmth.
“No,” she whispered. “Of course not. However Hughe died, I know the fault’s not yours.”
“Herewart says elsewise.”
Jancis gasped. “Herewart calls murder on you? And Aimery
believes
it? That’s why he’s named Grefin his Steward? But–but that’s wicked unjust!”
She was a barren bitch and he could never love her. So what did it say of him, that her swift defence of his honour was a balm, and welcome?
“What a needle-wit you are,” he said roughly, sneering. “So sharp you must prick yourself twice a day, at least.” Her face paled again at the taunt. “There’ll be talk,” he added, needing to goad her. “Will you stand it?”
Her resentful eyes met his. “Will you?”
The tart reply was a surprise. Jancis hardly ever challenged him. Perhaps he’d like her better if she did. Perhaps if she had greater mettle she’d find the strength to give him sons.
And if mules were horses a peasant in the saddle could be mistook for a lord
.
“Mind your shrewish tongue,” he said, skirting the crib to close on her. “You’re the cause of this, Jancis.”
The brat snuffled as her holding arms tightened. “How is it my fault? I never—”
“Hughe’s dead because he slandered me!” he shouted, backing her into the wall. “And he slandered me because of
you
! What corruption is in you, Jancis, that your feeble body must spit out my sons before they’re formed?”
“No corruption, Balfre! Indeed, you do me wrong!”
“
I
wrong
you
?” He almost laughed. “
Bitch!
”
“I’m sorry, Balfre,” she whispered. “I’d give anything to give you sons. Perhaps if I could find a wise woman who knows of such things I might—”
“A
witch
? Woman, are you
mad
?”
She cried out. “No, no. I won’t look for one! I promise! Please, Balfre, don’t—” She was weeping, half-turning to shield the brat, starting to slide down the wall. “Don’t hurt her!”
Like a man watching a mummery, he saw himself looming over his unwanted wife and girl-child. Saw his fist raised to strike. Saw her tears, and her terror. Heard the child’s frightened wails. Sickened,shaken, he turned away. Never in his life had he struck a woman.
Any man who beats a woman makes of himself a beast
. A lesson learned at his formidable mother’s knee. How ashamed she’d be, could she see him now.
Helping Jancis to stand, he felt her trembling fear of him beneath his hands and flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said, as she settled the brat in its crib. “Jancis…” Helpless, he stared at her. “Fuck. I wish–I wish—”
She looked up. “I know, Balfre. So do I.”
Without warning, his throat closed. “It’s not right that Grefin’s made Steward. Ever since Malcom died, Aimery has looked for ways to—” He breathed hard, fighting the pain he resented so much. “The honour of the Green Isle belongs to me.”
“Your father’s made his decision,” Jancis said, shrugging. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Her defeated acceptance rekindled his anger. “Fuck that. I don’t accept it. You wait. I’ll change the old bastard’s mind.”
From atop the Croft’s battlements, wind-tugged and shivering despite his padded doublet and heavy woollen surcoat, Aimery watched the summoned lords of his council clatter on horseback across the stone bridge leading to the castle’s outer bailey. Though he stood high, and they were distant, he could tell they weren’t happy. But then, neither was he.
Out of long custom, Harcia kept an itinerant court. As he travelled the duchy, showing his face, hearing disputes, he often met with his greatest barons. Together they nipped trouble in its rancorous bud, which meant a great council was held once, at most twice, in a year. Its holding was a
Similar Books
