2

2

Caer Lyoness, the summer capital, the following July

The right honorable Konrad Bartree, otherwise known as fifth Baron Kentigern, was in a vile mood. The ferocious glare he bent on the landlord at The Jennet Tree was enough to make the man take an involuntary step backward. Even as he opened his mouth to blast the wretch into oblivion, his manservant Jakeman stepped hastily into the fray.

“His lordship requires a room for the next two weeks,” he interjected swiftly. “If you cannot accommodate me as well, then I am sure I can find alternative accommodation nearby. Lord Kentigern has been a patron of your inn these past three years, good master Johnson, as I’m sure you’ll remember.”

The landlord’s shoulders came down a notch. “One room I can manage, right willingly,” he agreed, casting a nervous look in Konrad’s direction. “And I only ’ope ’is lordship can pardon the fact I must ask his servant to put up elsewhere. Caer Lyoness has been overrun this past two weeks, and I’ve never known it so busy!”

Jakeman made all the right replies, tutting at the influx of strangers who had poured into the city and nodding his head sympathetically as the older man vented his woes. Soon the landlord had calmed sufficiently to have Konrad’s bags carried up the narrow stairs to a bedchamber and a table set up below for his lordship’s refreshment.

Konrad flung himself down on the bench and took a large swig of his foaming tankard. The pleasant taste of the ale soothed him and reminded him why he always put up at The Jennet Treewhenever he was forced to come to the accursed southern capital. He glanced about at the busy room. The landlord had not lied. Within was busy, just as busy as the teeming streets without.

Most of them must have flocked to the city for the same reason as he, the royal summer tournament. Unlike the hawkers, pickpockets, and tourists, he actually had a relevant role to play in proceedings, he reflected sourly.

The tournaments this year had not thus far covered him with glory. He had not lifted the victor’s trophy since Rogets Ford in March. Even that win had not been as sweet as it should, for he had wanted a rematch with the so-called king’s champion, Roland Vawdrey, to regain his honor. Instead, the bastard had ducked out to dance attendance on his pregnant wife! Konrad shook his head and slammed his tankard down on the table.

They didn’t make competitors like they used to. Even Orde, who had been as grim and cheerless as you could wish in an opponent, had now taken to parading his wife about the tournaments like she was attached to his hip. He turned to Jakeman who was refilling his cup. “You’d better do the rounds,” he growled. “Find out who’s arrived and who’s rumored as a no-show this year.”

Jakeman gave a murmur of agreement. In truth, he didn’t need the direction. He’d been with Konrad for nearly five years now. The fellow was efficient, discreet, and unfailingly polite. Sometimes Konrad wondered how he could stand to be around such a perfect paragon of a servant, but there was a lot to be said for employing someone who had never known him before the war.

As far as Jakeman was concerned, his employer had always borne his grievous scars and been blind in his left eye. Old family retainers were wont to flinch and wince when they saw what the fifth Baron Kentigern had been reduced to. The sensation prompted by their horrified glances flayed his temper and put him in a worse humor than even nature intended.

His pilgrimages back to Vettel were few and far between, avoided wherever possible. Only the solstice would see him drag his carcass all the way north to the ruined spot where his estate once stood. Confiscated now by the Crown for their family’s role in the late war, Bartree Castle stood a blasted and blackened shell. Some might say its master was a similar ruin of his former self.

His elder sister Magnatrude lived there still in the old lodge house, and Konrad was forced to pay a handsome sum for the privilege. It mattered not what he said; she would not budge an inch from the spot where the degradation of their old home would be ever present in her mind. Trude wrote him long letters filled with bitter recriminations, and small wonder, for she was forced to bear witness every time another piece of masonry fell from the roof of Bartree Castle and shattered on what was left of the flagstone floors below.

He had another such letter in his pack even now and had it these past two days without so much as breaking the seal. He knew what it would contain, nothing but misery and woe. Trude would become a bitter old woman with a mouth full of nothing but ashes. There was nothing he could do to stop the rot. Last winter solstice, he had sat opposite her at table and realized she took a strange sort of pleasure in the sharp misery of her life.

Kentigern scowled and banished all thought of family and home. Bad enough that he was back in Caer Lyoness. The summer capital always put him in a foul mood. The prosperity of the winning side struck a pointed contrast with the hardship and deprivation still experienced in parts of the north. He didn’t want to think about what had once been.

Tonight, he would fling Trude’s letter onto the fire and drink himself into oblivion. Battle, winning, lifting the victor’s cup; that was what got him through his days, and he needed for nothing else.

Konrad spent the next two days settling into his new routine. He arranged the care of his destrier Actaeon with the ostlers at The Jennet Treeand spent both days training in the extensive palace grounds. The southern field had been roped out and set up with training equipment, quintains, and blunted lances. Everything had been made ready for the best knights in all the land.

Having finished his exercise on the second day, he stripped Actaeon of his trappings and rubbed the horse briskly down. The bond between them was strong, and even though his manservant was more than capable, Konrad still liked to do this himself on occasion. Only once he had finished did he relinquish him to Jakeman to lead him away to feed and water.

Konrad unbuckled his chest plate and leaned against a convenient stall. Squires ran about the place giving it a bustling air, though he did not spot many of his fellow knights as yet. One young sprig passed by in brand new armor which did not bear so much as a dent. He gave Konrad a wary nod, and Konrad returned the gesture. For a minute he had thought it was Farleigh, who for some unaccountable reason had taken of late to seeking out his company.

In fairness, Farleigh had been on the circuit for nearly two years now, and his armor did not look as pristine as all that. Most of the knights competing would take up quarters at the palace, but he could never bring himself to do this. Even when he had gladly bowed his knee to the king in the north, he had been no courtier.

Old King Magnur was dead, the last king from the royal house of Blechmarsh. The Argent King had rendered his only heir, the Princess Una, powerless by marrying her off to a southern scoundrel of low repute. Konrad had not had the stomach to attend the tournament two months ago that had seen her hand bestowed so disgracefully on that dog Armand de Bussell, but he had heard of what had transpired. The news had made him sick to his stomach.

His sister had written to him imploring him to enter the May Day festival and save ‘the rightful queen of all Karadok’ from a fate worse than death. Konrad had thrown her letter into the fire, wondering if his sister desired them both to perish a traitor’s death. If that letter had been intercepted, it would have been considered evidence of treason. Had Trude really not seen enough bloodshed in the northern cause?

In any case, he wondered impatiently, how could she have expected him to marry a princess of the blood when he had precisely nothing to offer her? His lands and monies were all gone, confiscated by the Crown. His face disfigured, half his vision gone, only his name and reputation were left to him these days. How could any woman be expected to share such a fate? Let alone an ill-omened princess. His sister must be mad.

Instead of attending, he had retreated to a bolt hole to lick his wounds. He couldn’t even seek oblivion in the arms of a woman these days, not since the terrible scars the Battle of Adarva had given him. What woman would want his face looming over her in the dark? He would give her nightmares.

He glanced toward the mellow stone edifice of the summer palace, with its soaring towers standing proudly against a blue sky. Had it been on a day such as this that Princess Una had watched as her future was thrown away on a whim of King Wymer’s? He was roused from his thoughts by a discreet cough behind him.

Konrad swung around and saw a stout figure dressed in a sage green robe stood nearby with his hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked rather like a friar, though the gold clasp that fastened his tunic looked too fancy for one under vows of poverty.

“If you will pardon my forwardness,” the man said politely. “May I make so bold as to enquire if I am addressing Lord Kentigern?”

Konrad regarded him stonily for a moment. “You are,” he answered shortly. He failed to see how anyone could mistake him. Southerners were always so fussy about their address.

“My name is Bryce,” the other continued mildly. “I wonder if I might be permitted to have a moment’s private conversation with you, my lord?”

Konrad felt himself stiffen with irritation. “If this is some administrative matter, my servant Jakeman will see to it.”

“It is not,” Bryce answered swiftly. “It is of a far more personal matter that I wish to speak with you, my lord, and not one for which you can deputize.” He hesitated a moment before drawing some missive from his wide sleeve and holding it out to him.

Konrad lowered his brows, regarding the newcomer balefully. “What is all this?” he asked with a glower.

Bryce coughed. “My lord, it is an invitation for you to dine with the king and some other select few guests for the feast of St. Drogo.”

Konrad could not have been more surprised if it had been a challenge to arms. “Why does this southern king invite me to his table?” he demanded.

This was a step too far even for the polite messenger. “King Wymer is sovereign of all Karadok,” he pointed out primly.

He had guts to say that to him, and Kentigern was forced to concede, looking over the plump little man in his monkish robes. “What was your name again?” he rumbled.

“It is Bryce, my lord.”

“You come from the palace? Whose man are you?”

Bryce’s chest swelled. “Earl Vawdrey’s,” he answered with pride. “His lordship has entrusted this delicate matter entirely to my hands. It is my first solo diplomatic mission.”

Konrad’s suspicions sharpened. “Mission?” he echoed. “What delicate matter?”

Bryce’s face fell. “Oh, I, er, meant the celebration of the feast,” he said lamely.

Konrad shrugged a mighty shoulder. “It is not my custom to celebrate feast days,” he said with a curl of his lip. “I must respectfully decline.”

“My lord!” Bryce’s cry was dismayed. “You surely do not mean to decline the king’s express invitation!”

“I am sure there are at least a dozen of my rank could dance attendance in my stead.”

“You misunderstand his majesty’s intent!” Bryce protested. “He does you great honor!”

Konrad threw him a scowl so fierce it made the ambassador wince. “I believe I will forego the honor, however it was intended.”

“My lord.” Bryce was so moved by this rejection that he went so far as to thrust the written invitation in Konrad’s face. So startled was Lord Kentigern by this act of boldness that he froze. The little man’s double chin shook. “I am persuaded you would not pass up so advantageous an opportunity as this gathering affords you,” Bryce hissed, looking around nervously.

What was this? Konrad pushed the paper away, but not as roughly as such impudence deserved. “What do you mean?” he demanded narrowing his eyes. He turned over what he knew about Oswald Vawdrey in his mind. The man was well known to be the king’s right-hand man and spymaster, but what could he want with him? “I doubt I would make an effective spy. Not with a face like mine,” he pointed out dryly.

Bryce sucked in his chubby cheeks. “I assure you –” he began hotly.

Kentigern waved a hand. “Never mind all that. Just get to the meat of the matter, or I will fling this ‘advantageous opportunity’ back in Wymer’s face, never doubt it. I’m no diplomat,” he finished gruffly.

Bryce appeared in the throes of some internal struggle. His face grew pink and shiny. “You put me in a very difficult position, my lord,” he complained fretfully. “Oh, very well!” he huffed when he saw the other’s dire expression. “Only, let us walk a little way off so we may not be overheard at least.”

There was no one within hearing, but Konrad suffered himself to be led some ten steps away before he came to an abrupt halt. “Well?”

Bryce glanced fussily left and right, his face assuming an expression of painful earnestness. “I don’t suppose you have heard tell of the rich spice merchant Gerold Ankatel?”

“Merchant?” Konrad repeated irritably, so far none the wiser. “I know of no merchants.”

“Over the past ten years, he has amassed quite a fortune. Some would go so far as to say he has established a spice empire, with trade routes encompassing all of Karadok, Samare, and the Western Isles.”

“Very enterprising. What of it?”

Bryce pursed his lips. “His success is such it hath garnered the attention even of the king himself.”

“By which,” Konrad cut in dryly. “You mean that some of his gold has found its way into the king’s money chests.”

Bryce coughed again. “Alas, the king’s coffers have been much depleted these past few years,” Bryce said sadly. “The late war took its toll …” Kentigern could tell the precise moment the little clerk realized he had blundered. A panicked look entered his eye. “O-of course,” he stammered. “The cost on human life was far higher than mere economic concerns.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Kentigern’s cool words cut across Bryce’s embarrassed babble. “It is all water under the bridge now.”

Bryce paused a moment to catch his breath. “In short, Ankatel has been in a position to finance the king in certain ventures. He has been an invaluable ally to his majesty of late, and ?–??”

“What has all this to do with me?”

“He has two daughters of marriageable age!” Bryce blurted. The silence stretched as Konrad eyed him with growing incredulity.

“And?” he prompted sharply.

Bryce’s gaze fell. “M-my lord, I am sure I do not need to explain to you, that a man whose fortunes have dramatically risen in the world will look to better his offspring’s standing in life.” Bryce’s cheeks were stained scarlet by this point, and Konrad took pity on the stammering fool.

“He means to marry them off,” he replied shortly.

Bryce nodded his head, looking relieved he had caught his meaning. “Yes, my lord. He wishes to secure for his daughters the best possible matches he can.”

“He wants titles for them, you mean,” Kentigern reflected coldly. Otherwise, they would surely not have approached him. He had nothing else to offer a wife. They must be plain specimens indeed if the king thought to fob one of them off on a scarred and penniless northern nobleman without lands or seat.

“Not necessarily,” Bryce answered cautiously. “The second party I am to approach is a mere third son without the prospect of a title.”

Kentigern regarded him a moment in silence. “I am sure you have a promising career at court,” he said heavily. “So, there is little need for me to explain to you why my involvement in such a scheme is impossible. I have no intention of taking a wife.”

“My lord, I have not yet told you her dowry.” Bryce paused. “It would be a fantastic sum indeed. And in addition,” he added when Kentigern’s eye refused to spark. “Gerold Ankatel would be willing to purchase the Bartree estate back from the Crown.”

Konrad, who had started to walk away, abruptly halted. “What did you say?” he asked harshly.

“All that you once lost could be returned to you,” Bryce said simply.

So flabbergasted was Konrad, fifth Lord Kentigern, by this piece of news that he stood stock still a moment, utterly staggered. Then he swung around, dry-mouthed. “Bartree?” he repeated hoarsely. The land of his forefathers; entrusted to him on the death of his father. The prized estate his family had been custodians of for generations. “You lie!”

Bryce folded his hands in front of him. “No, my lord,” he uttered calmly. “And a substantial fortune to go with it on the occasion of your marriage.”

The vision of Bartree’s turrets that rose before him abruptly vanished from his mind’s eye to be replaced with the appalling reality of how he had last seen it. “The place is a mere blackened shell, falling to wrack and ruin,” Konrad forced his numb lips to point out. “The roof was set alight, and its contents sacked. Your king has invested precious little in its upkeep this past four years.” Even if its ownership returned to him, what could he do with it as it stood now?

“As to that, my lord, Master Ankatel has already pledged the funds to restore your seat to its former glory,” Bryce said, robbing Konrad of all words.

Bartree would be restored and returned to its rightful owner? Was such a thing even possible? It was almost too much to contemplate. He started to shake his head. “But that would cost –”

“A king’s ransom,” Bryce concluded for him. “Luckily, Ankatel has that kind of money at his disposal.” He allowed himself a small smile. “That is the sole reason why he is now acquainted with a king.”

The blood had rushed to Konrad’s face so fast, he almost imagined the scars across his cheek throbbed, even though they no longer held any sensation. He had no words. No hope of stringing together a reply.

“I can see I have given you much to ponder,” Bryce said with a small smile of understanding. “Might I suggest our meeting again in two days’ time?”

Konrad managed a nod.

“That is your man stood yonder, by the water trough?” Bryce gestured.

Konrad managed to make some reply of the affirmative, and Bryce bowed neatly and tottered in Jakeman’s direction to make the arrangements.