Ragnilda de Greystoke stared at the sealed letters for a long moment. Here on the south side of the top floor of the tower, looking out over the pond, she could have both good light and privacy—with the baron and his family absent, the servants would not come to the top floor unless she herself rang for them. She did not want anyone to watch her while she read.
One blurry seal felt familiar, marking another letter from Uncle Henry; one was not, though the herald had told her it came from the Duke of York. Yet the herald had seemed to expect her to read it and was delaying his departure in case she wished to add a reply to his courier pouch. He would be going to Carlisle Castle the next day with an urgent missive for the Duke of Cumbria, but then returning to York.
Putting aside the letter from Uncle Henry as less interesting, Ragnilda picked up the second letter, hesitating a moment before deciding she had the right to open it. She turned to put the sunny tower window at her back and held the letter at arm’s length to bring the blurry letters into focus, tracing the tiny letters one by one with the index finger of her other hand.
TO THE RESIDENTS OF THE CASTLE GREYSTOKE—URGENT
In the absence of Uncle Henry and his wife Colette, she was, for all intents and purposes, mistress of the castle. And the letter was addressed to the occupants of the castle in the plural—practically a public decree. Uncle Henry’s last letter had mentioned that he had obtained an appointment with the Duke of York in relation to his pursuit of a suitable marriage for Ivette. Perhaps the Duke of York would call on the castle? If so, she would need to begin preparations immediately.
Carefully, she cut the seal with a penknife, then resumed reading.
To those whom it concerns:
It is with deep regret that I write to inform you that Henry de Greystoke has been murdered while visiting the city of York, along with his wife Colette and his daughters Ivette, Clara, and Dulcia. They were slain in an attack that killed over a dozen people in the dark of night. Investigations are continuing, and I swear the perpetrator or perpetrators will be brought to justice.
Ragnilda’s breath caught, the letter falling from her limp hands and fluttering to the stone floor. Her first reaction was horror. Henry was dead? And his whole family besides? All three of his sweet daughters, dead? When Henry had refused to bring her mother back as a waxy-skinned servant, Ragnilda had cried for a week, wishing she could again see her mother’s face; now every living relative she knew was gone.
Then her thoughts turned to her own fortunes, swirling from sadness into despair. She had no property of her own, no income, and no right to continue residing in Castle Greystoke if Uncle Henry was dead. Even if her acknowledged kin Cecil returned after being missing at sea for more than a year, the bastard could put her out—she’d never met the man, but she doubted he would be generous to a stray noblewoman.
She paused in thought. Cecil had set out to sea with his wife and young son; if he returned at all, he might have more children by then. As a bastard inheriting his noble half-brother’s title, he would need someone to teach his children to fit into his new social class. Perhaps she could convince him to keep him on as a governess. Having grasped a straw of hope to pull herself out of despondence, she bent, picking the letter back up off the stone floor, and started reading again, working her way back through the first painful paragraph and then onward.
It is the finding of my court, based on our interpretation of imperial law, that he is survived by his chosen heir, then called Sir Simon, originally of Rutland. I have written separately to the Duke of Cumbria to inform him of this fact.
Prior to his elevation, Baron Simon was a belted knight and accomplished bladesman, trained in the military arts and imperial law, and it will be your good fortune to gain him as a baron after Henry’s unfortunate demise. It is my understanding that Simon and Henry became closely acquainted via Baron Henry’s business projects.
Baron Simon is occupied at present with matters related to the sudden death of his adoptive father—Baron Henry had business dealings in York—but will arrive at his earliest convenience. I hereby entreat you to begin preparations for his arrival.
Ragnilda stared down at the signature of Duke Avery of York for a long moment before beginning the painful process of re-reading the letter, unsure if she correctly understood the letter or its implications.
The barony of Greystoke was within the duchy of Cumbria, separated from the duchy of York by the counties of Westmore and Durham. The title of Baron of Greystoke was part of the imperial peerage. The Duke of York had full formal legal authority over lesser ducal baronies within his own territory, but Greystoke was neither a ducal domain nor was it within the boundaries of the duchy of York.
By what right did the Duke of York proclaim this Simon as the new Baron Greystoke? What, if anything, could Ragnilda do to secure her own future? And what was the part of the Duke of Cumbria in this? Surely, if any duke could interfere in the inheritance process, it was the one whose domain it was.
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“But what does the letter from the baron say?” Peter asked gently.
Ragnilda hung her head. “In the excitement, I forgot to look at it,” she said. “I was so distraught by the idea of Castle Greystoke being given to a stranger that I rushed straight down here.”
“Well, let’s have a look at it,” Peter said.
Ragnilda looked at the kindly old man—old enough that Uncle Henry sometimes called him “Father” by accident—then thought about the winding stone stairs leading up to the top of the tower. “I’ll ring a servant to go fetch it,” she said, reaching for a bell.
While waiting for a spritely young stableboy to return with the letter, Ragnilda told the old man her fears, and the old man listened until the stableboy returned, letter in hand.
“So, let’s see what Henry said.” The old man gestured at the letter. “Maybe he’ll ease your worries from beyond the grave.”
Ragnilda swallowed nervously, breaking the seal and unfolding the letter. She spent a moment staring in the dim lamplight at the blur of black ink on the page. “Um. Well, you can see for yourself,” she said guardedly.
“Hm? Oh.” Peter sighed. “I see, this letter isn’t from Henry at all. It’s from Simon himself.”
“Yes,” Ragnilda said. “The nerve of him to use Henry’s seal!”
“Well, he is the new baron,” Peter said distractedly, looking closely at the letter. His finger tapped on the page, and he counted under his breath. “Interesting…”
Ragnilda shook her head. “I don’t know what to do about this. Except to petition Duke Alexander.”
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Duke Alexander of Cumbria was the master of Carlisle Castle, an adept necromancer and competent conjurer. He was fond of literature, with an extensive collection of classical and contemporary works, from Icelandic sagas to classical Greek drama. He was not, however, fond of having his target practice delayed. It was a court day, but Magister Zacheus hadn’t brought up his list of the accused and the bureaucrat’s recommended verdicts until just after nones—some matter related to a complexity in the case—and then one of his wife’s cousins had been in a particularly chatty mood during the procession from the duke’s audience hall to the wall overlooking a fenced enclosure within the castle courtyard.
“Your Grace, my apologies for the disruption.” The butler bowed deeply, a courier bag in one hand and a message tube in the other. “There was a herald who arrived from York, and he bore several pieces of correspondence.”
“I just had a letter from him by regular post yesterday. He’s getting married on short notice and sent out a pro forma invitation.” Duke Alexander sighed, taking the letter and cracking the seal. “Likely he’s rescheduled or canceled. I planned not to attend in any case.”
Magister Zacheus nodded sagely in response, as did several courtiers.
The duke’s eyebrows drew together as he read the letter. “Strange,” he said. “Duke Avery writes to tell me that Baron Greystoke is dead and that he has appointed an heir. A Rutlander, of all things.”
“Who has appointed an heir, the baron or Duke Avery?”
The innocent-sounding question came from one of the flock of courtiers and sounded like it was probably one of his wife’s cousins. As he wasn’t sure which one it was, Duke Alexander frowned and turned instead to Magister Zacheus, letter in hand. “Supposedly the baron. But as determined by the court of the Duke of York. Can he do that?”
“Ah,” the imperial bureaucrat said. “Well, it is an imperial barony, so it isn’t subject to ducal whimsy, but customarily a duke is the final word of justice within his domain. Technically, he could determine that while within York, the baron had declared Sir Simon his heir, and this Sir Simon could then rightly call himself Baron Greystoke from a Yorkish perspective. But he can make no finding of justice binding on the state of affairs here in Cumbria, and if you made a contrary finding, the only way for him to resolve such a dispute in his favor would be to appeal to the Emperor.”
The butler cleared his throat.
“Is there something more?” Duke Alexander looked at his chief domestic manservant.
The butler bowed apologetically. “There are two letters from Cumbria in the mail bag. As well as another from York, which bears the seal of the Baron Greystoke. I did not think them urgent enough to bring to Your Grace’s immediate attention.”
“Let’s have them,” the duke said. A moment later, he was ripping open a letter. “Ragnilda de Greystoke begs me to declare her the proper heir in contravention of ordinary custom, as Cecil is missing at sea and should be declared dead, and this Simon is an unrelated pretender.”
Magister Zacheus nodded. “That seems like it would be a prudent choice if you don’t want a Rutlander managing one of your baronies.”
“Absolutely not,” the duke said. “Women can’t inherit. I know it’s happened, but not in Cumbria. I’ve met titled women in London. They’re all absolutely insufferable, and Ragnilda must be already insufferable enough given she’s still unmarried at twenty-six years of age. Let’s have the next one, shall we?”
The butler handed the duke the letter. “No seal on this one, Your Grace; I swear I didn’t look at it already.”
The duke unfolded the paper. “The baron’s clerk—Old Peter—saying that Sir Simon was adopted by the baron as his son a week before he died. He had a letter from the baron saying as much, though the paper has since been erased and reused as he is thrifty.”
“And this new letter from Henry himself?” The duke shook his head as he broke the seal on the next letter handed to him by the butler. “No, not from Henry. It’s a letter from the claimant himself. Cheeky of him to use the baronial seal already. Says very little, though he says it politely and with many words. Not one word about documentary evidence, though, except for the letter the clerk already recycled. What if I reject all claims? The barony escheats to me, does it not?”
“Technically, to the imperial crown, but the emperor does not manage outlying estates,” Magister Zacheus said. “Until such time as you found the proper heir or the title was reassigned to a new family by imperial writ, the estate would be in your care, though I could have someone from the chancery brought up to oversee the details of administration on your behalf.”
“It all seems quite strange.” The duke shook his head, then turned to the butler. “I will return to this topic later; it’s taken enough of my daylight hours and no immediate action is required.” He pointed down at the line of four prisoners. “Have them just send out the second from the left—the big, juicy one—and put away the rest for later. I only have time for one round of target practice before the sun sets, so make sure the duchess’s ewer is ready straightaway.”
As the butler hastened down the stairs, the duke licked his lips unconsciously, thinking of his thirsty duchess. She hadn’t aged a bit in thirty years and was delectable in her youthful beauty. He loosened and ruffled his voluminous sleeves, wriggling his fingers to warm them up as he recited a nursery rhyme under his breath to loosen his lips. Target practice was both fun and rewarding.
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Duke Robert de Lancaster leaned back from his crystal ball. “John, I want our agents in the Cumbrian court to push Duke Alexander on this. I don’t know what kind of Yorkish trickery is afoot, but I know this Sir Simon must be York’s creature if they’re seeking to install him. Sabine may be able to turn matters to our advantage later, but I have been unable to contact her.”
The court wizard of Lancaster nodded at his duke and unacknowledged uncle. “Yes, Your Grace. Is there anything else?”
“This business about inheritance… it bothers me.” Robert de Lancaster shook his head. “We loosened our custom on women inheriting, but the aristocratic disease is more common here than in Cumbria, and I can think of half a dozen baronies in Lancaster that will escheat to the crown short of undiscovered genealogy. I do not trust that the imperial bureaucracy will let them back out of their management. And Sabine…”
The court wizard waited patiently, then broke the silence. “What about Sabine, Your Grace?”
“Sabine and Stephen are more important than I thought,” Robert said. “If I live another century, I could leave a dead end, like Durham has.”
“I would not be sure Durham is a dead end, Your Grace. He was born in the sun as his mother died to it. He’s different. Maybe he can sire children as he is.” John rubbed his chin. “He has not married, but…”
***
“This far I go, but no further,” the tinker said, waving at the abandoned hut. “The sun is near setting, and I doubt I will find better shelter in the next quarter of a bell or so.”
The rider dipped his head. “The city of Durham is perhaps but a half of a bell’s ride ahead. It would not be too late to arrive at the city gates.”
“Perhaps, but I would not want to be a stranger wandering the land of Durham when the sun sets. My grandfather warned me against it. The aristocratic disease was common to several of Durham’s barons, and I’ve heard the new earl is an avid hunter himself. No, I won’t be out after dark, not at all.” The tinker unharnessed his donkey from his cart.
“What I can’t figure out is why, if you’re so fearful of such things, you wouldn’t have stopped your travels in York.” The rider gestured south. “The duke doesn’t issue any licenses for hunting of peasants at all. You could prosper safely there.”
“I heard he issues no licenses for hunting two-legged game, but I didn’t travel by night on my way through d’Ivry lands on my way up, neither. If there’s no license to hunt, a free traveler might be poached on the sly, vanishing in the night without anyone the wiser.” The tinker glanced nervously at the low sun. “And there’s too many people in York with too little money. I made less than half my old wages on my way up here. Durham’s population is managed tightly. We’ve not seen new houses in any of the villages we passed. There may be a ready supply of the dead for ordinary sorts of work, but there’s no tinker’s art from dead hands—in the city of Durham, a tinker’s wage must be ten times what I saw in York.”
“Well, a good night to you, then, and good fortune on the morrow when you reach the city. I cannot myself delay.” The rider checked his message tube, then flicked his reins, leaving the tinker behind. He passed a village before the sun set and then rode past two more sleepy villages with his herald’s badge glowing brightly to illuminate the road before him.
When the herald arrived at the city of Durham, he was surprised to find only a low outer wall around the outer borough, an unguarded barrier suitable only for keeping animals from wandering into the streets. Proper fortification was reserved for the castle perched on the other side of a triple-arched bridge that crossed the River Wear.
The herald showed his badge of office to the bridge guards, crossing into the inner borough below the castle. The gate to the castle was closed and silent, though, and remained so after he announced his presence. He would have to deliver his message in the morning, and so he slept the night away in the inn. When morning came, the herald delivered his messages, but the Earl of Durham was already out hunting.
The herald set forth, his herald’s badge carefully polished and in plain view. He didn’t meet the tinker going the other way on the road, and this saddened him.