“I wish I were going with you,” the boy said, but Bard shook his head.
“Each man rides with his own fate, brother, and your road is to the king’s house. His own son is grown, but he has a new fosterling, Garris of Hammerfell, who is your own age, and no doubt you’ll be foster brothers and bredin; which, no doubt, is why he sent for you.”
“That,” Dom Rafael said with a sardonic curl of his lip, “and to make it certain I understood that his quarrel was with you, and not with me. Well, if he wishes to think me so quickly forgetful, be it so. And as for you, Bard, you could ride to the border and take service with The MacAran. He holds El Haleine against strife on all sides, and there are bandits, and cat-things coming down out of the Venza hills; he will be glad enough of a good sword.”
“I had thought of that,” Bard said, “though it is over near Thendara and there are Hasturs there. Some of Geremy’s kin might declare blood-feud on me, and I would need to guard my back night and day. I would rather be out of Hastur country for a few years.” He bit his lip and stared at the floor. A picture of Geremy was before his eyes, white and wasted from illness, halting on the lame leg. Damn Beltran who had drawn Geremy into their quarrel! If he must have maimed a foster brother, why could it not have been the one with whom he truly had a quarrel? A foolish quarrel, but still a quarrel; he and Geremy had seldom exchanged a cross word; and by his hand Geremy had been lamed for life. He set his teeth and mentally turned his back on the memory. What was done was done. It was all too late for regrets. But he felt he would give the best ten years of his life to see Geremy whole again, and feel his foster brother’s hand in his. He swallowed fiercely and clenched his jaw.
“I had thought of riding to the east and taking service with Edric of Serrais. It would feed my soul to make war on King Ardrin! It would teach him, perhaps, that I am better as friend than foe!”
Dom Rafael said, “I cannot advise you, my son. Far less can I lay a command on you. You are of age, and soon you will be far beyond the reach of my word; and you have your own way to make in the world for seven years. But I beg of you; spend the years of your exile far from Asturias, and make no war upon our kinsmen.”
“I had not thought of that,” Bard said. “If I join the ranks of King Ardrin’s enemies, he will consider you his enemy as well; in a sense, Alaric is hostage for my good behavior. I cannot face him in battle while he is foster father to the brother I love.”
“Not only that,” Dom Rafael said. “Seven years, at your age, will but bring you well into manhood. When you return—and after seven years have come and gone you will be free to return—you can make your peace with Ardrin, and make for yourself an honorable career in the land of your birth.”
Bard snorted amusement. “Ardrin of Asturias will make his peace with me when the she-wolf of Alar leaves off gnawing at her victim’s heart, and when the kyorebni in winter bring food to the starving rabbithorns! Father, while Beltran and Geremy live, I will never find peace here, even if Ardrin no longer lives.”
“You cannot be sure of that,” Dom Rafael said. “One day Geremy will return to his own country; and Prince Beltran may die in battle. And Ardrin has no other son. Should Beltran die sonless, Alaric is the king’s next heir, and I think he knows it; and that is why Alaric is being fostered in his house, for the proper education of a possible prince.”
“Queen Ariel is not yet past childbearing,” Bard said. “She might yet give the king another son.”
“Still, if it came to that, the new king could have no quarrel with you, and might well be glad of a kinsman, even nedestro, with your skill at war.”
Bard shrugged. “Be it so,” he said. “For your sake, and my brother’s, and for the sake of that claim to the throne, I will make no war on King Ardrin; though it would do my heart good to ride against him in war, or to storm Asturias and take Carlina by force of arms.”
Alaric asked, wide-eyed, “Is the Princess Carlina so beautiful?”
“Why, as to that,” Bard said, “I suppose all women are much the same when the lamp is out. But Carlina was the king’s daughter, and she was reared as my foster sister, and I loved her well; and she was promised to me, and by all the laws she is my handfasted wife. It goes against all the laws and against all justice that some other man shall take my promised wife to bed!” And again the bitterness surged in him, rage against Carlina who had refused to follow him into exile as a promised wife should do, rage against Beltran and Geremy who had come between them, rage against Melora who had driven him to Carlina in such frustration that he had lost his self-control and drunk too much and laid rough hands on her…
“Perhaps,” said little Alaric, “you will do some foreign king a great service, and he will give you his daughter—”
Bard laughed. “And half his kingdom, as the old tales have it? Stranger things have happened, I suppose, little brother.”
“Have you everything you need?” his father asked.
“King Ardrin, damn him, paid me off well,” Bard said. “I rode away in a fury, too angry to claim what he had given me, and here comes a flunkey after me, hot-foot, with all the things the king had promised me, a golden gelding from the plains of Valeron, and a sword and dagger which might well have been heirlooms among the Hastur kin, and the suit of leather armor I wore on the fields of Snow Glen, and a purse of four hundred silver royals, and when I came to count it I found he had added fifty copper reis too. So I cannot say I was ill-paid for my years of service to him; he could hardly have been more generous to one of his captains of twenty years going home to retirement! He bought me off, Zandru lash him with scorpion whips! I would like to send it all back to him, saying that since he had defrauded me of my lawful wife, I would be no better than a pimp to take money and goods for her; yet—” he shrugged, “I must be practical. Such a gesture would not get me Carlina, and I shall need horse and sword and armor when I ride out of Asturias—”
He broke off as the door opened and a young woman, full-bodied, her hair falling in two long copper braids over her shoulders, came into the room. In an instant of shock he thought he looked on Melora; but no, this woman was slenderer, and much younger. She had the same round face, the same big, vague gray eyes. She said shyly, “My lord, the Lady Jerana has sent to ask if she shall make anything ready before your son leaves us. She said that if Bard mac Fianna has any needs he should make them known at once, to me or to her, so that we may fetch them from the storerooms and have them ready.”
Bard said, “I shall need three days’ journey food; and I would be grateful for a bottle or two of wine. I will not trouble the lady further.” His eyes lingered on the familiar, yet subtly strange, features and body. The red-haired girl was prettier than Melora, more slender, younger, but she roused in Bard the same subtle combination of resentment and desire he had felt for Melora.
“You see,” Dom Rafael said, “my wife bears you no ill will, Bard; she is eager to make certain you do not suffer from want in your exile. Have you a good store of blankets, and would you like a cooking pot or two?”
Bard laughed. “Would you persuade me of Lady Jerana’s love, Father? By no means! Like the king, she is eager to pay me off and hurry me on my way! But I shall take advantage of her generosity; a blanket or two would not be amiss, and perhaps a waterproof cover for my packs. Are you going to supply them, damisela? You are new among my lady mother’s waiting-women?”
“Melisendra is not a waiting-woman, but a fosterling of my wife,” said Dom Rafael, “and your kinswoman, too; she is a MacAran, and your mother was of that kindred.”
“Is it so? Why, damisela, I know your kinsman,” Bard said, “for Master Gareth was laranzu when I rode to battle for King Ardrin, and so, too, was your sister Melora, and your kinswoman Mirella—”
Her face lighted with a quick smile. “Is it so? Melora is far more skilled than I as a leronis; she sent me word she was to go to Neskaya,” she said. “How does my father, sir?”
“When I saw him last, at mi
dwinter, he was well,” Bard said, “although, I suppose, you know that he was lamed at the battle near Moray’s mill, with a stroke from a Dry-towner’s poisoned dagger; and he was still walking with the aid of a stick.”
“He sent me a letter,” she said. “Melora wrote it; and she spoke well of your bravery—” and suddenly she dropped her eyes and blushed.
He said with calm courtesy, “I am glad Melora thinks well of me,” but inwardly he was raging with conflict. Melora, who had refused him, despite all of her fine words of friendship!
He said, “If your kinsmen think well of me, damisela, I am glad; for it had entered my mind to ride to El Haleine and take service with The MacAran.”
She said, “But The MacAran has no need of mercenary soldiers, sir; he has signed a truce with the Hasturs and with Neskaya, and they have pledged to keep peace only within their borders and wage no war outside them. You can save yourself the trouble of traveling there, sir, for they will hire no mercenaries from outside their borders.”
Bard raised his eyebrows. So the Hasturs of Thendara and Hali were extending their influence, then, to El Haleine? “I thank you for the warning, damisela,” he said. “Peace may be welcome to the farmers, but it is always unwelcome news to a soldier.”
“But,” said Melisendra, with her ingenuous smile, “if there is peace long enough, a day may come when men may do more with their lives than soldiering, and men such as my father may do more with their talents than risk their lives, unweaponed, in battle!”
Dom Rafael broke in, and somehow he looked a little displeased. “Go to your lady, my girl, and make my son’s wants known to her; and tell her he will be riding out at sunset.”
“Why, Father, are you so eager to be rid of me?” Bard asked. ”I intend to lie this night in my father’s house; I shall not see it again, nor you, for seven long years!”
“Eager to be rid of you? God forbid,” said Dom Rafael, “but you have only three days to leave Asturias.”
“It will take me only a day’s ride to reach the border, if I ride north to the Kadarin,” Bard said, “for if El Haleine is in Hastur hands, that is closed to me; I shall away into the Hellers, then, and see if the Lord Ardais has need for a hired sword who is also a leader of men. Or do you think your worthy kinsmen will send assassins to waylay me on my way out of the kingdom, sir?”
Dom Rafael stopped and considered it. He said, “I sincerely hope not. Still, if you have a blood-quarrel with Geremy, and with the prince—one of them might seek to assure that you do not seek to return and make peace with Ardrin after your seven years. I would go with great care, my son, and I would not delay until the last moment”
“I shall be careful, Father,” Bard said, “but I shall not sneak forth into exile like a whipped dog, tail between my legs, either! And I shall lie this last night in my father’s house.” His eyes met Melisendra’s in a long glance. The girl colored and tried to turn her glance away but Bard held her eyes, holding her in that close compulsion. Master Gareth had warned him away from Mirella as if he were an unruly schoolboy, and Melora had teased him, tormented him, finally refused him. He held Melisendra’s eyes until she squirmed, her face flooding crimson, and finally managed to break eye contact and hurry out of the room, her head bent.
Then Bard laughed and bent to Alaric. He said, “Come, you shall take choice of all my bows and arrows and all my playthings. I am a man and will not need them, and who should have them, when I am gone, if not my own brother? Stay and look through these things and I will tell you what you will do in the king’s house as his fosterling.”
Later, when the child had gone away, his hands full of balls and shuttlecocks and hunting bows and such gear, Bard stood by the window, smiling in pleasant anticipation. The girl Melisendra would come. She would not be able to resist the compulsion he had put on her. Damn all women, who thought they could tease him and refuse him and make him less than a man with their whims! And so he smiled, not with surprise, but with a kind of fulfilled greed, when he heard the light step on the stairs.
She came slowly, with lagging step, Into the room.
“Why, mistress Melisendra,” he said, with a grin that showed his white teeth, “what are you doing here?”
She looked up at him, the big gray eyes wide and vague and somehow frightened. “Why—I don’t know,” she said shakily, “I thought—it seemed to me that I had to come—”
He reached for her, with a lazy smile, dragged her close and kissed her, pressing her roughly. Under his hand he felt her heart beating, and knew that she was terrified and confused.
He should have tried this with Carlina, then there would have been no trouble; he would’t have hurt her, she wouldn’t have protested. He had been a fool. Somehow he had believed Carlina must somehow share the torment that raged in him, would want him as he wanted her. He still wanted her, like a ravenous itch in his blood, a thirst no other woman could slake; she was his, his wife, the king’s daughter, sign and symbol of all he had done, of his honor, his achievement, and King Ardrin had dared to come between them!
His hands went to the laces of her undertunic, thrusting inside, and she let him do what he would, in terrified silence, like a rabbithorn in the grip of a banshee. She whimpered, a little, as his hand closed over her nipple. Her breasts were full, not like Carlina’s meager bosom; this was a sow, a fat pig like Melora, like Melora who had teased him and played with his emotions! Well, this one would not do so! He dragged her toward the bed, keeping the relentless pressure on her mind and body. She did not struggle, even when he thrust her down on the bed, hauling at her skirts. She kept up the mindless whimpering, but he did not listen, flinging himself down on top of her. Once, she screamed. Then she lay silent, shaking, not even crying. Well, she knew better than that. Her very terror excited him, as Carlina’s had done. This woman would not resist him, this one knew better!
He rolled away from her and lay spent, exhausted and triumphant. What was she sniveling about? She had wanted it as much as he did; and he had given her what all women wanted, once you got through the silly nonsense of pretty speeches and flattery. He supposed he would have owed some of that to a wedded wife. He remembered, with a sudden throb of pain, how he and Melora had sat beside the campfire, talking. He had not wanted to put compulsion on her; and so she had made a fool of him. Well, this woman would have no such opportunity to do that! Women were all whores anyway; he had had enough of them. They didn’t make any fuss; why should a high-born girl be any different? They all had the same thing under their skirts, didn’t they? It was only that their price was different, the whores demanding money, the noblewomen demanding pretty talk and flattery and a sacrifice of his very manhood!
And then, suddenly, he was deathly sick and exhausted. Going into exile, leaving his home for years, and he was forced to waste time and thought on women, damn them all! Melisendra still lay with her back to him, shaking with sobs again. Damn her! It wouldn’t have been like this with Carlina. She loved him, she would have learned to love him, they had been friends since childhood, all he should have done was to show her that he wouldn’t hurt her… It should have been Carlina. What was he doing with this damnable little whore in his bed? Had it been some confused notion of revenge on Melora? The red hair, limp on the pillow, somehow rilled him with dismay. Master Gareth would have been angry, Master Gareth would know that Bard mac Fianna was no boy to be warned away from a woman he wanted. But her soft sobbing rilled him with disquiet.
He put out a hesitant hand to her. “Melora,” he said, don’t cry.“
She turned over and faced him. Her eyes, lashes damp and tangled, looked enormous in her white face. “I am not Melora.” She said, “If you had served Melora so, she would have killed you with her laran.”
No, he thought. Melora had wanted him, but for her own quixotic reasons had chosen to frustrate them both. This one—what was her name again—Mirella—Melisendra, that was it. She had been a virgin. He had not foreseen that; he knew that most leroni
took the privilege of choosing lovers as they would. He wished it had been Melora. Melora would have responded to his own hunger. Melisendra had been only a limp, unwilling body in his arms. And yet—and yet, that was exciting too, knowing that he forced his will upon her and she could not make a fool of him as Melora had done.
“Never mind,” he said. “It’s done. Damn it, stop crying!”
She struggled to control her sobs. “Why are you angry with me, now that you have had your will?”
Why did she talk as if she had been so unwilling? He had seen her looking at him; he had simply given her the chance to do what she wanted to do, without need of silly scruples like those that had kept Melora from his arms!
“My lady will be angry,” she said. “And what will I do, cousin, if you have gotten me with child?”
He thrust her clothing at her. “It’s nothing to do with me.” he said. “I am going into exile; unless you have grown so maddened with love for me that you wish to ride with me in male disguise, like a maiden in some old ballad, following her lover as a page, in men’s dress—no? Well, then damisela, you will be neither the first nor the last to bear a bastard to di Asturien; do you think yourself better than my own mother? If it should be so, I am sure that my father would not let you or the babe starve in the fields.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide, wiping away the tears that still flooded down her face.
“Why,” she whispered, “you are not a man, but a fiend!”
“No,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Have you not heard? I am an outlaw, and wolf. The king has said so. Do you truly expect me to behave like a man?”
She caught up her clothes and fled, and he heard her sobbing fade away as her light footfall died out on the stairs.
He flung himself down on his bed. The sheets smelled of the scent of her hair. Damn it, he thought miserably, it should have been Carlina…
Without Carlina I am an outlaw, a bastard … a wolf….. and his rage and pride and longing overcame him.