Castle Nobart

  The banners of the Crown and House Nobart snapped sharply in the morning wind atop the walls, their bright colors stark against the castle’s pale stone. Below them, the courtyard was packed tight.

  The commoners stood in small clusters, whispering among themselves, eyes darting from the soldiers above them, watching in silence, to the banners.

  Most of them were women and older men, those left behind when the men who had marched did not return. The Count’s men had promised they would not be harmed, but lords had broken their promises before. Only the unspoken threat of the soldiers’ presence had made them come.

  A few young men were scattered throughout the crowd. Their eyes flitted around, the fear that the dreadful weapons they had faced would be leveled at them again whispering in their ears. Only desperation had forced them to respond to the new Count’s summons. He had offered a generous reward for their retelling of the march. It was an odd request, but they dare not try to fathom the mind of a nobleman.

  Their eyes occasionally flitted toward the few burghers standing close by, and the other group standing at a distance.

  More than three dozen nobles, easily recognizable by their higher quality clothes, stood to the side. Most of them were the family members of the fallen knights and men-at-arms. In front of them stood an even more distinct group.

  The claimants to the baronies.

  Everyone was wondering why they had all been summoned together when the doors of the the castle’s keep opened. The new Count came out, flanked by his mother and a tall foreign woman with dark complexion.

  He told them about the attempt on his life and his recovery.

  Then he had the culprit killed in a manner that left everyone staring.

  The squelch of the bolt hitting the culprit’s body soon became a rhythm, much more gruesome than the sight.

  No one spoke in the aftermath.

  There was no cheering. No cursing.

  The men who had been at the Battle of the Bog shook with fear, fighting the urge to run. The rest stared at the carnage and the soldiers who had delivered it. Five men, as deadly as twenty, wielding instruments of death that did not demand years of training or noble blood.

  The noblemen’s eyes hardened, fear and calculation warring for domination within, but the Count’s message was clear.

  The days of you alone wielding violence are gone, and you do not want to be my enemy.

  As the second man was hanged, the old Baron clenched his jaw tight, until the cords in his neck stood out. The two young noblewomen in black mourning dresses drew in their breaths, struggling to keep their eyes on the dying man, while the third, older and harder, scoffed quietly.

  When it was done, the Count spoke again. He called the men who had fought at the battle his brothers, causing the noblemen’s brows to furrow. Then he announced five years of pay to the families of the fallen, making them rise as high as they could. The obscene sum was only a little less than what the county collected through taxes in a whole year.

  He was buying loyalty, and judging by the looks on the peasants’ faces, succeeding. The eyes of the burghers shone with interest.

  One of the noble widows looked at the new Count with unmatched intensity. This was not the young man she had known and loved. Jack had been smart but carefree. Impulsive yet gentle. This man, on the other hand, would do terrible things if necessity demanded them. Whatever happened after he left home, it had permanently altered Jack. The Sindhi woman had only spoken in vague terms, but she had clearly understated the degree of change he had gone through.

  Eirica had been given assurances, but they were not enough. Not when it came to the safety of her little ones.

  The moment the Count turned to leave, she gathered her courage. Disregarding decorum, she began walking towards him, leaving the other nobles behind.

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  Eirica.

  The name of the woman bowing low before me came to me, before the rest of the memories.

  She was the widow of Baron Mondgrove, and Jack’s ex-lover.

  “My lord,” her delicate voice spoke out.

  More memories flooded my mind. Jack had wanted to marry her, but his father wouldn’t let him marry someone “far beneath their station,” as she was a knight’s daughter. That had been the death knell to the father and son’s relationship.

  “My lady,” I inclined my head.

  Her soulful eyes gazed at me, searching for the man Jack used to be.

  Remnants of the feelings Jack held for her tried to surface, but I pushed them down.

  Another one who can discover my secret. How do I deal with her?

  Luckily I had a guardian angel looking over me. Reshma stepped up to my side.

  “I believe you have already met Lady Reshma,” I pointed to the tall, swarthy woman. “Her Majesty’s personal aide.”

  Reshma smiled with practiced warmth and exchanged a polite bow. Eirica stared at her a heartbeat longer, noticing how close the Sindhi woman stood to me.

  I felt a compulsion to slide an arm around Reshma’s waist, but that was no solution. I sucked at diplomacy.

  Eirica shifted her focus back to me. “My lord, might I speak with you privately?” she asked, with a slight tilt to her head.

  “I’m afraid not at the moment, my lady,” I smiled apologetically. “I have a few things to announce. Maybe afterwards?”

  She held my gaze, but seeing I would not budge, bowed her head in defeat and turned to walk ahead of our group.

  Noticing an alcove, I took Reshma by the arm and pulled her inside.

  “Mother told me that Eirica claimed asylum in the castle,” I whispered, “and you kept the information from me. Why?”

  She reluctantly met my eyes. “Because you would have gone to her to investigate, and it wouldn’t have taken her much to figure out the… you-know-what.”

  I threw an annoyed glance her way.

  “Relax. I took care of it,” she murmured, while squeezing my arm.

  I fixed her with a stare. “Are you sure you didn’t keep her away from me because of jealousy?”

  “No,” she answered. A bit too quickly.

  Her eyes roamed everywhere except my face, until she wrung her hands in frustration and met my eyes. “Fine! Maybe there was some jealousy, but I would not hide anything important from you because of that! I didn’t become a diplomat through… unsavory means. I earned the position. You can confirm with Laira.”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “Just be aware of it. I don’t need to tell you that even our personal relationships have political ramifications.”

  “I know,” she sighed.

  I wanted to discuss the matter in depth with her, but I had to meet the vassals straight away, while the image of the repeating crossbows was still fresh in their minds.

  We entered the well-lit chamber, where a dozen people were already present, along with my mother, Moore, Elric, the knights of the Royal Guard and Godwin. All stood around the large, ancient table that dominated the chamber. Light spilling from tall windows illuminated a large map of Nobart, spread atop the polished wood. It was the most detailed map my people could build within a week. Pitiful by modern standards, but one thing it clearly showed were the various baronies of Nobart.

  My gaze swept over the assembled people. Eirica stood close to my group, even though her dead husband’s cousins were there. The men were dressed in high quality plaid, colored red and blue, with thick heads of brown hair. Both were giving Eirica dirty looks.

  The woman standing next to them was doing a much better job at hiding it, but she didn’t like Eirica either. She was a beauty in her mid-to-late twenties, her mourning dress arranged in such a way it subtly drew attention to her generous curves. She broke into a charming smile as our eyes met.

  “We are all pleased to see you hale and hearty, my lord,” she said in a confident voice. “Congratulations on your betrothal to Her Majesty.”

  I inclined my head. “Thank you, Dowager Nebelhain.”

  Someone cleared his throat, catching my eyes.

  Nobody can miss you, old man, I thought. He dominated the room with his presence alone.

  Despite his age, the barrel chested man stood unbent, sporting a full, thick beard of dirty-blonde hair. His eyes were boring into me with barely masked anger, tempered by decorum and caution. A warrior if ever there was one.

  “Your lord father had declared you dead, my lord,” his deep voice rumbled throughout the room. “How fortunate,” he said with barely masked derision, “that you return to us victorious.”

  I inclined. “Thank you, Baron Wulf.”

  Next to him stood an old woman, lips drawn tight. Through the mass of wrinkles, her sharp eyes looked at me like a scavenger watching a dying animal. Dowager Nordhaven. We exchanged slight bows.

  I drew in a deep breath. “A great deal has happened since I left the county,” I looked them in the eyes, one by one. “Let me tell you why I stand here, and why the old rules no longer apply.”

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