Isolde glared at Marcus. “This is my room,” she said, biting off an urge to shout in a most unladylike fashion. “It's always been my room.” Her fists clenched as she spoke; her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. “Why must I share it with someone who isn't family? Much less a pile of multiple someones?”

Marcus continued to walk slowly around the room, looking at everything. His movements were slow and deliberate. He stopped at a small table near Isolde's dressing mirror and picked up a hairbrush.

“The keep is the most secure part of the castle, but it really isn't very large,” Marcus said, examining the hairbrush. He put it back down on the small table. “Since your mother's long-held paranoia has started to rub off on Avery, he decided that this would be the safest place to put his prospective brides and their families.”

Isolde opened her mouth.

Marcus held up an index finger, impudently stilling her reply. “First, I can't put nobles in the servants’ quarters.” Marcus’s middle finger joined his index finger. “Second, I can't put Avery's brides in the duke's chambers until after the wedding. It’s not proper.” He added his ring finger. “Third, I've cleared out Avery's old room and the guest chambers, but it's still not enough.” He added his pinky finger. “Fourth, like Avery’s brides-to-be, you are a young lady and therefore fit company for other young ladies.” He patted Isolde’s cheek gently. “And that, dear Lady Isolde, means you get to have roommates. Unless you'd rather sleep elsewhere until the wedding or you have some way of making new bedchambers appear from nothing.”

Isolde continued glaring at Marcus. The bastard son of a hedge witch was treating her like a child, which she found infuriating. But losing patience would mean losing her dignity, demoting herself from the status of “lady” that he’d granted her by courtesy even though she had no title of her own… while Marcus was Sir Marcus courtesy of the old duke and Lord Marcus courtesy of her foster brother. The upstart acted like he owned this place, but there was no point in getting angry. Or in crying. Or in trying to argue against his command on the merits when it was entirely logical.

“No,” she said sullenly, cutting off all the other words and emotions she wanted to unleash.

“Good,” Marcus replied. He walked out of the bedroom, firmly closing the door behind him. Isolde is insufferable, the seneschal thought to himself. The woman had no real claim to a title of her own – just a hope of eventually inheriting Maude’s title – but the elfblooded woman had grown up feeling entitled to her space in the duke's keep. He'd crowd as many of Avery's brides into her room as necessary. Her bed was easily twice the size of the one he'd slept in at his mother's house, and she’d never had to share it with two noisome half-brothers.

I need time and space to clear my head, he thought to himself, taking the stairs down to the bridge from the keep to the bailey, and then over the bridge from the bailey into the city. From there, he wandered the streets, mentally working his way through the lists of Avery's suitors. Out of sixty-one families, nine had agreed to Avery's terms. Of the fifty-two remaining families, nineteen had left immediately following the announcement, a clear sign of decisive rejection; thirty-three had lingered. Of those thirty-three, nineteen left in silence, but fourteen had still been arguing amongst themselves as they left the great hall.

Two of those fourteen families were staying at York's newest inn, which reputedly served lovely and refreshing ale in its taproom, though Marcus had not yet had occasion to try the Golden Fleece’s house ale for himself. Refreshing ale would do to erase Isolde's whiny voice from his memory. Marcus lengthened his stride, walking briskly. He now had an excuse in mind for taking an extended absence from the castle, one that could take him most of the night. Gregor, he sent. If His Grace inquires, tell him I have gone to try to negotiate with some of his undecided potential allies in town.

Perhaps if he lodged enough visitors in the inner keep, Isolde would remove her infuriating self to her aunt’s estate, or at least the castle bailey instead of the keep.

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As Marcus approached the Golden Fleece, he reviewed what he knew of Baron Henry de Greystoke and Sir Thomas, the two men on his list who were known guests of the Golden Fleece.

Baron Henry was a Cumbrian with a relatively prosperous estate, but had only daughters, the eldest of which was old enough to marry and named Ivette. He seemed to be interested in taking over the mill under construction by the York Textile Company, and was also a member of some sort of secretive organization that James refused to describe in detail, saying only that it was “seditious but not in a way that presents a concern for Avery’s interest.”

Sir Thomas, the father of an eligible young lady named Gelle, had a more modest estate and a son, Sir Simon, who had gone hunting with the duke in order to introduce his sister to the duke. According to James’s files, Sir Thomas had been an excellent bladesman in his youth, proving himself in multiple duels; Sir Simon appeared every bit as talented based on the tales of his recent adventures on the streets of London.

Marcus opened the door to the taproom on the first floor of the inn and halted in his tracks. Even hunched over the bar and viewed from behind, Sir Malkin Guy cut an unmistakable figure, taller than the Silver Duke and broad enough across the shoulder to make Earl Ricard of Northumbria look petite.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Malkin lowered the pitcher from his mouth and belched, looking at Marcus with curiosity. “You’re the duke’s man,” he rumbled, slouching forward on his stool but not standing. “Sir Marcus, the seneschal. I remember you.”

“Well met,” Marcus said, sketching out a quick polite bow. Technically, he ranked the man, but it didn’t hurt to pay respect to a champion. “I would have words with you, if you do not mind.” He walked over to the stool next to the massive knight and made a quick signal to the innkeeper, who hastened to provide the seneschal with a mug of ale.

“Did you follow me here?” Malkin’s tone was mild, but with his size and musculature, he didn’t need to shout to project menace.

Marcus shook his head, then took a long pull from his mug, using the motion to cover the fact that he was turning his attention inward and focusing his energy on a desperate call to Gregor. Quick, what is the name of Sir Malkin’s daughter?

Merilda, came the faint answer from Gregor.

Marcus set down his half-full mug. “No, I had hoped to meet someone else here. This is a bit of providence, though; I am pleased to find you here. Have you discussed the duke’s proposal further with Merilda?”

“Of course not. She’s a good daughter. She does as I say.” The man’s brow furrowed. “Why would I ask her? What’s important is what I get for her. If I heard right, the duke wanted me to give him something for her. She’s a nuisance at times, but so can a goat be. You don’t pay someone to take a goat away.”

“No, no, of course not,” Marcus said. “So, let me tell you what the duke is offering to you in exchange for Merilda’s hand in marriage.”

A drunken man with clothes that would look fine if they were clean staggered forward. “The duke’s to marry my daughter,” he said, thrusting his chest out as he eyed the two taller men. “Or so I’m told. But you… you’re the duke’s man. You say he’ll marry this Merilda?”

“Only if Sir Malkin Guy here agrees,” Marcus said, holding up his hands.

The man turned away, looking over at a bearded man in a faded blue and red doublet sitting in the corner. “Devils take you for a liar,” he spat. “I’ll have satisfaction, I will!”

“Not in here,” the innkeeper interjected, waving frantically.

A large man with a close family resemblance to the innkeeper ushered the offended drunk man in fine but dirty clothes out the front door, none too gently; then turned back to the corner of the room where the man in the blue and red doublet had been sitting. However, the man in the blue and red doublet was nowhere to be seen. The bouncer looked over at the innkeeper, shrugging.

Marcus blinked. He could still see the imprint of the second man’s seat on the bench cushion, but couldn’t see how the man could have suddenly vanished from a corner of the room with no door in it. He shook his head, putting the disturbance out of mind, and turned back to Sir Malkin Guy. “In taking your oath of fealty, the duke promises to protect you and provide for you in times of need, and to intercede with his own authority on your behalf. If you pledge to take up arms upon his behalf when he has need, he will pledge to ensure you can take up arms.”

“For that, I need an untaxed estate where my neighbor doesn’t graze his sheep on my fields.” Malkin paused. “And someone to pay my tab tonight.”

Sir Marcus smiled. “The latter I can promise you now,” he said, fishing in his coin purse and retrieving a gold noble that he tossed to the innkeeper. “For the former, I’ll tell you that when you swear fealty directly to the Silver Duke, he will take care of you. The old Silver Duke knighted me when I swore to serve him; when I swore to be the new Silver Duke’s seneschal, he elevated me to a baronet by courtesy, and that means my heir will be a lord.”

“I don’t know what you mean by former or latter, but being a lord suits me,” Sir Malkin Guy said. “Give me that, and I’ll give the duke my daughter and promise to fight for him whenever he calls.”

“Such a matter is fully within his discretion, and he listens to my advice,” Marcus said. He’d already had a conversation with Avery; the two of them had agreed it made sense to elevate any low-ranked fathers-in-law in status after the wedding. Marcus stood, clapping a hand to his chest. “On my honor, I can promise he will do right by you in such a manner as your liege and son-in-law.”

The large man nodded, then dropped to one knee with a suddenness that surprised Marcus, his eyes brought down to the level of Marcus’s own eyes. Malkin clapped a massive hand across his chest. “My allegiance is to Duke Avery of York, and after him to the heirs of his choice, be they of my blood or another's. I will honor no other lord above him except through him.”

The bellowed oath silenced all conversation in the tavern. As a chatter of excited conversation broke out around the room, Sir Malkin Guy stood, continuing more quietly. “That was the oath the duke requested. Our bargain, then, is made; he shall grant me title, I will fight at His Grace’s command, and my daughter will be his to use as he sees fit. Cheers.” The man grabbed a full pitcher from behind the bar, clinking it against Marcus’s mug and then draining it in one long gulp.

“A good night to you, sir,” Marcus said as he watched the large man walk away.

“Pray tell, what did you say to him that inspired him so?”

Marcus turned and looked down; the speaker was of ordinary height and build, which made him a hand shorter and narrower of shoulder than Marcus himself. The man could be none other than Baron Henry de Greystoke, wearing a maroon silk doublet trimmed with silverwork embroidery showing leaping fish around the lower parts and an abstract crossing pattern around the collar. His hose matched his doublet perfectly, a set of galligaskins striped with the same shade of maroon and embroidered with silverwork waves.

“Oh,” Marcus said, trying to think quickly. An imperial baron could hardly be tempted by the temptation of being titled as a ducal baron – or baronet, as ducal barons were usually known. “Well met, Baron Greystoke. We were discussing the obligations of fealty, and I spoke to him of how His Grace is an excellent liege lord who takes loyalty to his vassals seriously.”

“Talk of lieges and vassals seems quite old-fashioned to me. The bureaucracy has most of the running of Cumbria; the duke is content that we pay his taxes on time.” The baron frowned. “I am not sure if the Duke of Cumbria would take offense if I swore fealty to another lord.”

“Does that mean that you do wish to marry Ivette to the Silver Duke?” Marcus asked.

“It would ease matters at home if she were elsewhere, unfortunately.” Henry sighed, fingering the fish on the hem of his doublet. “And there are other reasons for me to view the match positively. But what the duke asked of me simply isn’t possible on the face of it. Come sit with me and Sir Thomas – we have a table near the back bar.”

Marcus hesitated for a moment before following the baron down the hallway to the Golden Fleece’s second bar. Was Sir Thomas also a member of the baron’s secret society?