Sir Malkin Guy paused to watch the sun set over the Ouse. His horse, being undead, had no need of the rest, but the living knight’s bones and mind both needed the calming peaceful moment. He pulled a loaf of bread from his saddle and ate, alternating bites directly from the loaf with sips from a leathern flask.

I don’t miss my dead wife's daughter one bit, he thought to himself. Nor will my new wife.

He shook his head as the last sliver of sun dipped under the hills on the other side of the river, tossing a hard piece of crust to the side. He decided that his feelings of sadness were due to the fact that he had a long ride through the night ahead of him. Or perhaps he'd second thoughts about swearing to obey the duke above all other lords. The seneschal's promises of future favors seemed vaguer each time he rehearsed them in his mind’s ear.

A sharp pain between his shoulders startled him out of his reverie. He turned in confusion, blinking his sun-blinded eyes and peering at the murky darkness. He could hear something in that direction.

Then there was a second pain, like the first but on the front of his chest. He looked down. A crossbow bolt, likely mage-sharped, had punctured his mail shirt, drawing blood before being stopped by his ribcage. With speed alarming in a man his size, Malkin slipped down off his horse, running at a diagonal to the direction of attack. A divot of earth tore as he pivoted, switching to another diagonal just as a third crossbow bolt flew to his left, and then straightening out.

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness and he could see clearly now. He had identified two men, the first holding an unloaded crossbow in his left hand while drawing a sword with his right and the second frantically cranking back a crossbow for a second shot. Neither was wearing armor. The sword blade slid along Malkin's mail shirt as he slammed into the first man, knocking him off his feet. Mud flew as the first man skidded along the ground.

Continuing his charge past the first man to the second, Malkin grabbed the second man's crossbow, twisting it out of line. The jostled crossbow fired, quarrel aimlessly striking the ground a few paces away. Malkin's hands closed around the second man’s right arm, squeezing hard. The man cried out in pain as bones cracked, dropping the crossbow and pulling a dagger from his belt with his other arm. Malkin felt the cold steel jab against his ribs, a lucky hit aimed for the hole punched by the second crossbow bolt. He snarled, swinging the man overhead by his broken arm, flesh tearing and bones crunching as he smashed the bandit into his still-prone companion with deadly force.

Malkin wheezed as he bent over the two dead men. They had coin on them. Identification papers, too, which Malkin tossed in the ditch. Worthless to him. Some jewelry. The crossbows were good quality, and they had clever bolt cases for them, too. The sword had slashed open some of the rings of his mail shirt. Possibly enchanted, Malkin thought to himself as he cleaned and sheathed the sword. Several vials in a pouch carried by the man with the likely-enchanted sword. Potions or poisons, perhaps. Malkin coughed, looking at the blood in his hand for a moment before realizing that the dagger had nicked his lung. He bundled the arms and pouches together in a cloak before returning to his horse, stowing the loot, and fishing around in his pack for a jar of foul-smelling salve.

He smeared the goop liberally on and in the puncture wound, then awkwardly tried to wind a cloth bandage around himself. The small roll of cloth slipped through his fingers and fell in the mud; he shook his head, leaving the bandaging where it lay. Stuffing filth into the wound would be worse than useless.

Rosamund's salve is probably enough, but best to check in with the hedge witch herself along the road home, he thought to himself. Merilda was good with bandages, he admitted to himself, before shaking his head again. He wouldn't think about her, she was otherwise without value to him and he was well rid of her. He mounted his horse, and nudged it forward, starting down the hill towards the bridge. As he rode, he kept an eye on the horizon, looking for movement.

----------------------------------------

Two men, one older and one younger, sat around a campfire, a tin pot full of stew steaming next to them. Around them, the gentle sounds of crickets filled the darkened forest.

“Sir Simon, I will certainly speak in favor of your suit,” the older man said.

The younger man – Sir Simon – held a rag in one of his hands, streaked with reddish-brown stains. He was preoccupied with the task of polishing a saber that showed no hints of iron-red rust, only black tarnish in the lettering along its blade. He grunted wordlessly at the man known as Zephyr, letting the mysterious Yorkish man carry the conversation.

“Cumbrian tradition is strict on the unsuitability of the passage of titles to women,” Zephyr said, fishing in his pocket for a spoon. “Henry has only daughters, and a half-brother of acknowledged paternity – who is no fisher. Ivette’s husband, if she gets one, would gain a strong claim to inheritance of his domain. Especially if he formally adopts his son-in-law as a son. I could not see a better husband for Ivette than you.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Simon pulled his mug out, scooping up the stew. He stirred, blowing cool air over the hot stew as he looked down at the chunks of moonapple, carrot, and rabbit. “I’m glad to have your recommendation. I only hope the baron sees it the same way. He has some ambition of putting her with the duke.”

The Yorkish man shrugged, spooning stew into a bowl of his own. “I think half the nobles in the duchy have some ambition of setting their daughter up with the new duke,” he said. “But surely only one of them can succeed, and for that reason, I would not bet upon her victory unless it were neither a sin nor offered on equal terms. There are dozens of women, and Ivette did not really meet him closely until Isolde’s ball, did she not?”

“True,” Simon said, after swallowing a mouthful. “Still, she is markedly comely, and was dressed in a most daring and fashionable mode. I daresay she was one of the most impressive women at the ball. And she is the daughter of a prosperous baron besides – the duke surely must see her as a desirable partner.”

“You are partial to her,” Zephyr said. “And so you see her as most beautiful. To another man, though – Laudine and Emeline have every bit as much rank and wealth behind them. Especially now that Osric is in no position to inherit. And they are more familiar figures, ones the duke may have fancied from afar before his sudden elevation.”

Simon rubbed his arm unconsciously, his wound twinging underneath the bandages. “Osric made matters rather dicier than I liked,” he said. “His cousin was bad enough, but that was a regular duel. Now, I am perhaps a murderer in the eyes of the law, but for the absence of witnesses. And perhaps only because I am not sure he is done for. It was still night when we fled Kirkham.”

“Self-defense,” Zephyr said. “It was he who struck the first blow. And I feel sure you had him done.”

“We shall see if I did not,” Simon said. “I will be glad when I am back to the safety of the Golden Fleece within York’s walls.”

----------------------------------------

Beatrice stabbed the piece of meat on her plate with her fork a little harder than necessary, and then held the whole thing in the air, glaring at it for a moment before bringing it to her mouth and taking a bite.

Alric glanced over at her father, raising an eyebrow.

“Small bites, Bea,” her father admonished. “Remember your etiquette lessons. Those tutors were expensive.”

She chewed and swallowed. “My apologies, father. I'm still angry that Avery wanted to have this in his bed and not me.” She waved the rest of the chunk of roast Ivette in the air.

Alric cleared his throat. “I'm sure it's therapeutic for the girl to vent on the subject, Edward, but I worry she needs another focus,” he said. “The duke's advisors simply would not countenance him marrying someone base-born. She needs to move on.” The wizard exaggerated his motions as he used knife and fork to cut a politely-sized piece of the meat on his plate, then dipped it halfway into a pool of gravy, then brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly.

“Don't talk about me like I'm not here!” Beatrice said around a half-chewed mouthful of cooked flesh. She angrily tried to stuff the rest of the piece in her mouth, chewing angrily. It didn't quite fit.

“Indeed, Alric,” her father said, his fork topped with a folded thinly-cut sliver of meat. “I've been thinking about having a gala to mark the opening of the new cloth factory, but if she can't maintain conversation-worthy composure, I'm afraid it will only embarrass us.” Sentence complete, he popped the meat into his mouth, chewing slowly with his mouth closed.

“Ah. Well, perhaps you could have the gala, and just tell the guests she's indisposed,” Alric said.

Beatrice signaled to a servant, who whisked her empty plate away and refilled it from a platter at the center of the table. “No, not that one, that one, please. Thank you,” she told the servant. When he placed the plate in front of her, she turned her gaze to Alric, took out her fork and knife, and carefully cut out a square of meat about an inch on each side.

She brought it to her mouth and daintily slipped it into her mouth and chewed. Then she swallowed. “This meat is marvelous, Father. Very tender. Perhaps I might say genteel. Cook has done an excellent job,” Beatrice said, dabbing at an imaginary speck of gravy at the edge of her mouth with her napkin. Then she waited patiently, her eyes downcast.

“Better, Bella,” her father said. “Yes, it is very nice,” he added, spearing a small chunk of meat and a small slice of moonapple onto his fork together. “Tenderer than anything I’ve had from hunts in Lancaster, even with Cook’s excellent attention. Perhaps age, breeding, or leisure make a difference.” He waved the filled fork in the air. “Master Alric has made some interesting suggestions for improvements to the design of the factory, ones that might not require the duke's permission.”

Alric nodded. “With the duke's wedding so soon, I don't think we can make any headway in negotiations with officials until matters settle down. Better to build what we can now and then bring it up to speed. I do also think that we should begin looking for a different husband for you, perhaps in London. I'm afraid that I foolishly got you and your father's hopes up earlier.”

Beatrice bared her teeth in an approximation of a polite smile. “I don't want to leave home and I've not yet given up my hopes, thank you very much. The duke’s wedding has not yet taken place.”

Alric shrugged. “Well, if you insist. But there are some very eligible young men in the capital, some high born. I don't think a noble husband is beyond your reach, dear. Just that particular one.”

“You're too kind,” she said, maintaining her polite rictus. “But no, I think I really shall remain here in York.”

Edward cleared his throat. “So, Alric, what's this I hear about your new method for bleaching cloth to pure white? Someone told me it was a necromantic spell, but that can't be right.”

Alric nodded. “Indeed, it is not. It is entirely the product of alchemy, and can be hastened via transmutation. It's a product of aqua regia with a couple of different chemical salts, believe it or not. The intermediate products will kill you if you aren't careful, but the end result is a solution that is stunningly effective at simply eliminating colors. I imagine there could be a fashion for brilliantly white clothing in the future.”

For the rest of the dinner, the conversation continued in a similar vein. At the same time, a very different dinner was taking place in York Castle.