Banders’s smile was faint but he lifted his goblet readily enough, drinking as she did. “Peace is always welcome, Highness.”
“Indeed. It also seems to be a concern for your Fief Lord. I had occasion to meet him on the road.”
Ulice’s fork made a loud clatter as she dropped it onto her plate. She blanched as Lyrna’s gaze swung to her, looking down, now visibly pale.
“Are you well, my lady?” Lyrna asked her.
“Forgive me, Highness,” she replied in a whisper. Next to her, Arendil reached out to clasp her hand, face drawn in worry.
“Perhaps, Highness,” Banders said in a somewhat hard tone, “talk of the Fief Lord can wait until after dinner. Such a subject has a tendency to turn the stomach.”
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, save for Davoka’s queries about the food placed in front of her. “Jellee?” she said, prodding the quivering castle-shaped dessert with a spoon. “Looks like snot.”
“I’m sure, my lord,” Lyrna said, “you require no lecture on the Realm’s recent troubles.”
They were in the main hall, alone save for a pair of wolfhounds, both of whom seemed to have taken a liking to her, laying their heads on her knees as she sat beside the great marble fireplace. Banders stood by the mantel, his expression still guarded but she could see the anger in him. “No, Highness,” he replied. “I surely do not.”
One of the wolfhounds gave a loud huff and she ruffled the fur behind his ears. “With the attempt on Tower Lord Al Bera’s life there may be more discord ahead,” she said. “Renfael has been largely free of the riot and lawlessness seen in the wider Realm. I assume you agree it would be best if it remain so.”
“I seek no discord. Only to preserve what is mine.”
“By traducing the reputation of your Fief Lord?”
“His reputation was sullied beyond redemption years ago, even before the war. I speak the honest truth, and only when asked.”
“And how often are you asked?”
Banders picked up a poker and prodded at the coals in the fire with quick, hard jabs. “There are many who find the thought of being ruled by that man a stain on their honour. If a knight comes to me for honest counsel, should I turn him away?”
“You should seek to preserve the King’s peace. Your standing in this fief, and the Realm, is very high. No other knight enjoys such regard. But high standing brings responsibility, asked for or no.”
He looked down, reminding her once again of Ulice and her obvious parentage, but not her son with his long dark curls. Only to preserve what is mine . . .
“Why have you not acknowledged your daughter?” she asked. “Or your grandson?”
Banders straightened, keeping his gaze averted. “I . . . do not grasp your meaning, Highness.”
“You have no wife, no other children. Your daughter, born outside the bounds of marriage or no, is still your blood. And clearly you cherish her greatly. Yet you withhold your name.”
He rose from the fire and turned away, hands clasped behind his back. “These are private matters . . .”
“My lord, I have travelled too many miles and seen too much to suffer the burden of petty courtesies. Please answer my question.”
He gave a heavy sigh and turned back, meeting her gaze, his face more sorrowful than angry. “Ulice’s mother was . . . of mean station, a miller’s daughter. I knew her from childhood, my father was always too wrapped up in his gaming and his whores to offer more than the laxest discipline. So I was free to associate with whomever I wished, and do as I pleased. And as I grew to manhood it pleased me greatly to make Karla my wife. But, for all his loose ways and disregard for propriety, my father would have none of it. That the daughter of the mill should bear the next heir to his lands and titles, those he hadn’t pissed away on cards or women that is. Unthinkable. When he died I hoped for a more sympathetic reply from Theros, but the old Fief Lord believed in the sanctity of knightly blood with all the vehemence others afford to the Faith. So, I gave up my entreaties and Karla and I lived together in this house as man and wife, though never formally joined. She was taken from me when Ulice was born, I have never sought another.”
“Your grandson?” Lyrna asked. “Ulice seems young to be a widow.”
Banders’s expression hardened once again. “Is it Your Highness’s habit to ask questions to which you already know the answer?”
Dark hair, dark blue eyes . . . I will of course, make provision for any dependents. “Lord Darnel.”
“Ulice was young,” Banders went on. “Barely fifteen, brought to join me at the Fief Lord’s holdfast. Darnel and I were never friends, he saw his father’s regard for me and hated it, for Theros had never shown him more than disappointed scorn. His pursuit of my daughter was revenge, though she didn’t see it as such, head full of the girlish notion that all knights are heroes. So when the handsome son of the Fief Lord professed love to her, why would she not believe him? He cast her aside of course, when she told him she was with child, laughed at her, and at me when I brought the matter to Theros. He beat the boy bloody, as was his wont, right there in the Lord’s chamber in front of all the ladies and retainers. Beat him until it seemed he’d killed him. Sadly, he hadn’t. I left the lord’s service the next day, took my daughter home and raised my grandson. I sought some recompense at the Summertide Fair a few years later, I believe you were there that day. I’d have had it too if one of his retainers hadn’t thumped me from behind with a mace.”
“Darnel has never married,” Lyrna recalled.
“And fathered no other children. None that are known in any case.”
“So if you were to acknowledge his mother, Arendil becomes of noble birth. A noble son with the Fief Lord’s blood. A claimant to the Lord’s Chair.”
“Darnel came here, shortly after I returned from the war, demanding his son by right. I told him he had no son. His retinue was only twenty strong, all callow youth. His old retainers had died to a man at Marbellis. I had over fifty knights at hand, all veterans of the desert. It pains me greatly that I didn’t decide to settle the matter then and there.”
“He hasn’t abandoned his claim then?”
Banders shook his head. “He wants his heir within his own grasp, either to be moulded into another monster or discarded as he sees fit. But if I give Arendil my name, it’s as good as an open claim to the Lord’s Chair. Renfael will go to war.”
“Then I thank you for your restraint.”
“It will not be I who sunders this fief, Highness. But, should it happen, with the King’s help, I can at least heal it. Our Fief Lord can only inflict wounds, not heal them.”
She was tempted to caution his tongue, but she had drawn the truth from him with impolite insistence after all. “There can be no war in this fief,” she said. “Not at any cost. You understand?”
He looked back at the fire and gave a tense nod.
“I ask for patience, my lord, and forbearance of difficult duty. Tomorrow Arendil will accompany me to Varinshold where I will counsel the King to offer him royal patronage. He will receive education and undertake service to the Crown, far beyond the reach of his father. His mother is free to accompany him if she wishes, I shall certainly be glad of pleasant company at the palace.”
“This estate is their whole world,” Banders said, voice soft. “Having seen more of the world beyond it than I would ever have wished, I dreamt that I might spare them the sight of it.”
Lyrna patted the wolfhounds a final time and rose from the chair, drawing a whine of protest from the larger of the two. “The price of noble blood is that we do not choose our paths in life, just the manner of walking them. I shall retire, my lord. You will wish to speak to your family.”
She had expected tears from Ulice but her gratitude was a surprise. “Wisdom and compassion,” she said the next morning, fighting a fresh bout of sobs as they said farewell on the gravel pathway before House Banders. “May the Departed preserve you always, Highness.”
Lyrna reached out to grasp her arm as Ulice began to bow. “Enough of that, my lady. I do wish you would come with us.”
“Fath—the baron needs me.” Ulice wiped her eyes with both hands, forcing a smile. “I can’t leave him here all alone. And a mother should know when to send her son forth, don’t you think?”
Lyrna squeezed her arm. “I do indeed.”
“May I crave a promise, Highness?” Ulice went on before Lyrna could move to mount Surefoot. “You have already done more than I could ever . . .”
“Just ask,” Lyrna said, then smiled as the woman blanched at her tone. “Please.”
Ulice came closer, speaking in a whisper. “Never let the Fief Lord take him. Hide him, send him far across the sea, but do not ever let him fall into his father’s hands.” The woman’s apparent timidity was gone now, her face a mask of maternal fury.
Lyrna clasped her hands and pressed a kiss to her cheek, whispering close to her ear. “I’ll see the raping bastard dead before he gets within a mile of your son. You have my word.”
