And he turned and pushed his way out of the tent.
The knight herald nodded, somewhat sheepishly, to Lady Finree, then followed the new Lord Governor of Angland, thankfully taking his ghost with him.
Rikke’s father rubbed wearily at his stubbled jaw. ‘Well. We tried.’ And he patted Rikke on the shoulder and made his own way out.
Lady Finree was left staring towards the flap. A few moments ago, she’d been in total command. With a stroke of the king’s pen, she was cut down to some warrior’s worried mother.
‘It feels like yesterday I was feeding him, and dressing him, and wiping his arse.’ She looked at Rikke, voice turning harsh. ‘He’s a bloody idiot who knows nothing about anything, but he was born with a cock, so he gets to decide for all of us!’
She looked old, of a sudden, and weak, and helpless, and Rikke felt sorry for her, and sorry for what she’d done, but there was no undoing it. You might see the past with the Long Eye. But you can never go there.
She shrugged so high her shoulders were tickling her ears, then let them flop helplessly down. ‘Maybe he’ll win?’
A Fool’s Weapon
‘The bloody fool!’ snarled Calder, stalking through the village.
‘Aye.’ Clover sighed as he followed. ‘Bloody fool.’
The muddy place was crawling with Scale’s warriors, men armed and angry and used never to backing down. They soon scrambled aside, though, when they saw Black Calder coming with a face like thunder.
‘I loved my wife, Clover,’ he growled. ‘Loved her more than my own life.’
‘Well … that’s a good thing, I guess?’
‘That was my great weakness.’
‘Ah.’
‘I loved her, and she died, and all that was left of her was our son.’
‘Oh.’
Calder strode on towards the chieftain’s hall the King of the Northmen had made into his temporary tavern. ‘So I indulged him, and I spoiled him, and on the many occasions when I should’ve given the bloody fool the beating he deserved, I saw her face in his face and I couldn’t do it.’
‘Might be a bit late to spank him now,’ murmured Clover.
‘We’ll fucking see,’ said Calder, shoving the doors of the hall wide and storming through.
King Scale was drinking. What else would he be doing? He was drinking, and laughing lustily at stories of the battle, already bloating out with lies like so much watered beer. His nephew, the mighty Stour Nightfall, decorated with a few fresh cuts and bruises, grinned to hear of his own exploits, even more at the falsehoods than the facts. About these two heroes, old warriors and young basked in the sunny radiance of a victory they hadn’t won yet.
They fell silent as Calder strode in, carrying no weapon but with his face sharp as a drawn sword. ‘Get. Out.’
The old cunts and the young bristled, grumbled, looked to their respective masters, and Scale puffed his vein-threaded cheeks and gestured to the door. Up they got, out they filed, giving Clover his usual serving of scorn while he beamed back his usual good humour. The doors were shut on their performance, leaving only four in the room. King Scale Ironhand, his brother Black Calder, his son Stour Nightfall. And Clover.
Quite the party.
‘My loving family, all together!’ sang Calder in a voice rich with scorn.
Stour was all preening dismissal. ‘Father—’
‘Don’t “Father” me, boy! You approve of this madness, do you, Scale?’
‘We’re at war, brother.’ The King of the Northmen looked calmly at Calder from under his grey-streaked brows. ‘And in war, yes, I approve of warriors fighting.’
‘It’s how they fight and when that’s the issue! You’d put all our gains at risk! All our work!’ Meaning all Calder’s work, since Scale had done nothing but drink at the back and Stour nothing but strut at the front. ‘You’re our future, Stour! The future of the North! We can’t risk you—’
‘You said the same when I fought Stranger-Come-Knocking!’ Stour waved his father away like a cobweb. ‘He’s too dangerous, we can’t risk you, you’re all our futures.’ He put on a parroting whine which was, to be fair, not too bad a match for Calder’s prating. ‘But I beat him! Like the Bloody-Nine beat Shama Heartless, when no one said he could!’ And his chest puffed and his eyes twinkled, like a cock that spies another in his yard. ‘This Union child isn’t half the warrior Stranger-Come-Knocking was! Not one quarter!’
‘The Young Lion, they call him, and my spies tell me he’s formidable. How often have I said to you – never fear your enemy, but always respect him? Every duel is a risk and we don’t need to gamble. The enemy are fought out and we have fresh warriors. Flatstone can come around on the flank and the ground is—’
‘Enough strategy.’ Scale wrinkled his nose as if the word smelled. ‘Back in winter, you told me the war would be won in spring. In spring, you told me it would be won in summer. In summer, by autumn. Last week, you told me the war was won now. That you’d out-thought that Union bitch and outfought the Dogman. Seems the Union bitch is a sharper thinker and the Dogman a tougher fighter than you reckoned. What if you misjudge ’em again, and you can’t finish ’em before the weather turns, and the sluggardly King of the Union wakes up and sends help? What then?’
Calder angrily waved it away. ‘If help was coming from Midderland, it would’ve come already. We can still finish them before winter.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Stour. ‘I can finish ’em before sunset tomorrow.’ And he laughed, and Scale laughed, and Calder very decidedly didn’t, and Clover watched ’em, thinking this was no great way to run a kingdom. ‘The Bloody-Nine never backed out of a fight, nor Black Dow, nor Whirrun of Bligh, and nor will I.’
‘You’ve made a list of dead fools,’ hissed Calder, near tearing his hair. ‘Tell him, Clover, for the sake of the dead, tell him!’
Clover had been telling Stour for near half a year and made no mark, like shooting a quiver full of daffodils at a man in full plate armour. But one more daffodil could do no harm. He spread his hands as if he held out a platter covered in fine advice. ‘There’s no bigger foolishness than to choose to face a dangerous man on equal terms. Look at me. Lost everything in the Circle.’
Stour’s lip curled. ‘Your fruits, too?’
‘They’re still there, my prince, if a little shrivelled. But I don’t think with ’em any more.’
‘My nephew beat Stranger-Come-Knocking in the Circle,’ said the king, blowing some froth from his ale. ‘He can beat some Union fool.’
‘Who was it took your hand, brother?’ said Calder. ‘Some Union fool, as I recall?’
Scale didn’t anger, just smiled to show his missing front teeth. ‘You’re wise, brother. You’re cunning. Just like our father. What I have I owe to your wits and your ruthlessness and your loyalty, I know that. There are many things you understand far better than me. But you’re no fighter.’
Calder’s lip curled with contempt. ‘You haven’t fought a man in twenty years! You only want to watch him fight so you can relive your lost glories. You’re fat as a—’
‘Yes, I’m fat as a hog and twenty years past my best and I daresay quite the figure of fun for most. But there is one thing you’re forgetting, brother.’ Scale hooked his thumb under his golden chain and lifted it so the great diamond dangled, sparkling with the flames in the firepit. ‘I am our father’s eldest son. I wear his chain. I am king!’ He let the chain fall, and slapped his good hand down on Stour’s shoulder. ‘I name Stour Nightfall not only as my heir but as my champion. He’ll stand for me in the Circle, and fight for Uffrith and all the land between the Cusk and the Whiteflow. That’s the end of it.’