Battleaxe Page 4

  “That must be his wife, Queen Judith.” Faraday indicated a woman of ethereal and fragile beauty sitting between Priam and the Brother-Leader. As they watched, Priam leaned over attentively and gave her the choicest meats from his own plate.

  “Yes. It’s so sad. They say that Priam loves her dearly, but that she cannot have children. Every year of their marriage but the past two she has fallen pregnant, only to lose the babe in the fourth or fifth month. Now, perhaps, she is too old.”

  Both girls fell silent for a few minutes as they contemplated this supreme tragedy. The primary purpose of any noblewoman was to bear her husband sons as quickly as possible. No matter the dowry, the connections or the beauty that a woman brought to her marriage bed, her life became meaningless if she could not produce heirs. Faraday picked up a piece of cloudberry cheese and nibbled delicately at its edges, a line of worry appearing between her eyes. “It would be a tragedy if King Priam does not have any sons to follow him.”

  “Ah,” Devera took a healthy sip of wine, “that would leave the way open for his closest living relative. Now tell me, if you can, do you know who that is?”

  Her tone irritated Faraday. “His nephew, Duke Borneheld of Ichtar,” she retorted.

  Faraday had arrived at court only the day before and had yet to be introduced to the King and his family. If she knew names, faces as yet meant little to her. To her humiliation, Faraday could not place Borneheld’s face among the three or four noblemen at the royal table she still could not identify. Which one was he?

  Devera savoured Faraday’s embarrassed confusion for a moment, then inclined her head towards the man sitting immediately at Priam’s right hand.

  “Ah,” Faraday breathed, for now that Devera had pointed him out she could see some resemblance. Borneheld had Priam’s grey eyes and his hair was precisely the same shade of auburn, although dressed in a soldier’s close crop rather than Priam’s court curls. He was a man in the prime of his life, about thirty, and as solid as he might be, it was clear that his bulk was all muscle. If Priam was a courtier, then it was obvious that Borneheld was a warrior, his body honed by years in the saddle and wielding the sword. He looked a formidable man. Her mother had been remarkably silent on Priam’s immediate family.

  “Borneheld is the child of Priam’s only sister, Rivkah, who married Borneheld’s father Searlas, the previous Duke,” Devera explained.

  Faraday paused in her contemplation of Borneheld to glance back at Devera. For a moment she thought that there was some hesitation, or some darker shadow, behind Devera’s words, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “So, if Priam has no children, Borneheld will become king.”

  Devera shrugged and took another sip of wine. “Probably, unless the other Earls and Barons decided to fight him for the privilege.”

  “But that would mean civil war! Are you suggesting that our fathers would be so disloyal?” Faraday valued loyalty above most other virtues.

  “Well, the prize would be worth it, wouldn’t it,” Devera snapped, the wine she had drunk making her tongue dangerously loose.

  Faraday turned her head away and concentrated on the food before her. Perhaps it were best if she let Devera chat to the youth on her right for a time.

  Some twenty silent minutes later, Faraday became aware of a man moving quietly through the shadows behind the great columns, then weaving sinuously between the crowded tables and the darting, anxious serving men and women. Occasionally he bent to speak to a person or two seated at the tables.

  She watched him, fascinated by his unusual grace and the suppleness of his movement. He was moving towards the dais where the royal table stood, and she wondered if he were one of the nobles. Faraday was enthralled.

  Finally he stepped into the main body of the chamber and Faraday had her first clear look at him; she took a quick, sharp breath of surprise. Not even Priam commanded the same presence that this man did.

  He was still a relatively young man, perhaps some ten or eleven years older than herself, striking rather than handsome. This was due partly to his lithe grace, but also to the unusual alien cast of his features. His shoulder-length hair, drawn back into a short tail in the nape of his neck, and his close-shaven beard were the colour of sun-faded harvest wheat, his eyes an equally faded blue—but as penetrating as a bird of prey’s. He was tall and lean, and wore a uniform unlike any that Faraday had seen before, either in her home of Skarabost or here in Carlon. Over slim-fitting black leather trousers and riding boots, he wore a black, close-fitting hip-length tunic coat of cleverly woven wool. Even the trimmings and the raised embroideries down the sleeves of his tunic were black. The only relief was a pair of crossed golden axes embroidered across his left breast. As he stepped into the brilliance of the central chamber the entire effect was as if a panther had suddenly strolled out of a dark jungle into the sunlight of a glade.

  “Devera!” she whispered.

  Devera turned and looked in the same direction. “Ah,” she said, in understanding. Faraday’s reaction was the same as every woman’s the first time they laid eyes on the BattleAxe. It was a reaction the BattleAxe was fully aware he created and, if in the mood, capitalised on.

  She sighed and tapped Faraday’s hand to get her attention as the BattleAxe weaved through the last few tables towards the royal dais. “That is Axis, BattleAxe of the Axe-Wielders.”

  The Axe-Wielders! The legendary military wing of the Seneschal! And this was their commander! No wonder he had caught her attention. Faraday hadn’t even hoped to lay eyes on one of the Axe-Wielders while she was in Carlon, since they generally stayed close to the Tower of the Seneschal across Grail Lake.

  Devera’s lips twitched. It was a shame to disillusion Faraday about this man, but if she didn’t do it, then someone else soon would.

  “Faraday. Look at Priam for a moment, and tell me if you see a resemblance.”

  Faraday did as Devera asked. “Oh! They’re related—they must be. They have the same distinctive hairline and forehead.”

  “Yes. They are related. Axis is also Priam’s nephew and Borneheld’s half-brother, and Borneheld is just as unlikely to acknowledge that fact as Priam is to acknowledge Axis as his nephew. For the royal family, Axis is the ultimate embarrassment.”

  Faraday frowned, wondering why her mother had not told her of this man, but she did not take her eyes from the BattleAxe. He had stopped to laugh for a moment with a lady of minor nobility sitting at one of the tables close to theirs, and she did not want to take her eyes from him while he was so close. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Devera settled back in her chair and smiled. The story of Axis’ birth was well known in Carlon—although it was not widespread elsewhere—and it was not often that she had the opportunity to tell the deliciously scandalous tale of Rivkah’s shame to someone who knew nothing about the affair.

  “Axis is the illegitimate son of Rivkah, Priam’s sister,” she said bluntly, and her words were finally enough for Faraday to tear her gaze from Axis and look at Devera.

  “Really!” she breathed.

  “Yes,” Devera nodded sagely. “Rivkah was married at an early age, younger than you are now, to the ageing Searlas, Duke of Ichtar. Within a year she had produced a son, Borneheld. Searlas was pleased. While Rivkah had the young babe to occupy her, he left her at the fort of Sigholt in the Urqhart Hills, safe enough one would think, while he went on an extensive tour of the northern fortifications at Gorkenfort and the River Andakilsa. He was gone a year. When he returned to Sigholt it was to find that Borneheld had grown into a strong, one-year-old boy, and the Princess Rivkah was holding court at Sigholt with a bulging eight-month belly. Can you imagine the scandal? Even the stableboys knew of the pregnancy before Searlas did.”

  Faraday’s curiosity would not let the next question lie. “Who was the father?”

  Devera’s blue eyes twinkled and her mouth curved mischievously. She tossed her curls and her breasts jiggled in their too-tight bodice. “No one
knows, Faraday. Rivkah flatly refused to tell. She had not wanted to marry Searlas in the first place, and most people assumed that this was her way of ending the marriage. Well, Searlas was furious—as he had a right to be. He had believed that Rivkah would be safe at Sigholt—there is no garrison bolted tighter in Achar—and his suspicions immediately fell upon the garrison guard and servants. It is said that he had half of them tortured before he came out of his black rage. He had Rivkah sent to the Retreat in Gorkentown far to the north in a futile effort to keep the birth secret. Futile, because news of the pregnancy had already reached Carlon and the entire court knew that Searlas was not the father. The old king Karel, Priam and Rivkah’s father, was equally livid. He told Searlas that he could do with Rivkah what he wanted. But in the end Searlas didn’t have to do anything. Rivkah died in childbirth.”

  Faraday’s eyes misted and she twisted her napkin in her lap. “Oh, how tragic!”

  “Tragic my foot,” Devera snorted. “It was the best thing that could have happened. Well, the best thing that could have happened was that the bastard child had died at birth as well, but that was not to be. Searlas flatly refused to acknowledge him. King Karel, and then Priam after him, refused to even mention Rivkah’s name, much less acknowledge that her bastard son is of their blood.”

  “But who took care of the baby? What became of him?”

  “Brother-Leader Jayme, then attached to the royal household, was at the Retreat in Gorkentown when the boy was born. He took the child into the Seneschal as his protégé, hoping that the boy would eventually take orders and become a reclusive brother attached to some retreat in a dusty corner of Achar. It seemed the best solution and relieved both the King and the Duke of Ichtar of an embarrassing problem. But Axis had no penchant for the Brotherhood, and every penchant for the sword and the axe. After training in arms at a noble household for several years Axis joined the Seneschal’s Axe-Wielders when he was seventeen and, five years ago when Jayme was elected to the position of Brother-Leader, Axis received the appointment of BattleAxe from his patron. Jayme pretended not to see the horrified looks at court, arguing that despite his relative youth Axis was the perfect man for the job—which he has certainly proved to be. So now the court has to live with a royal bastard, who everyone hoped would fade into obscurity, holding one of the most elite military posts within Achar. Rivkah’s shame refuses to go away.”

  Faraday looked at the Brother-Leader. “Ah, I had heard that Brother Jayme was a good and kind man, but this story is proof of it. To take a young babe no-one else wanted and give him home and family. Artor bless him for that.”

  Axis noticed the young woman staring at him when he passed by her table but thought little of it. He stepped lightly onto the dais, keenly aware of the sudden tension his arrival had caused in many members of the royal table. He clenched his right hand into a fist above the golden axes on his left breast in the traditional salute of the Axe-Wielders and bowed low before Priam.

  “My King, may Artor hold you in his care.”

  “As He may you, BattleAxe,” Priam replied tersely.

  Axis straightened from his bow and looked Priam directly in the eye. Sheer courtesy on the king’s part should have made him offer Axis food and wine and a place at the royal table at this point; the position of BattleAxe was one of great honour within the realm. But Axis noted with some grim humour that the king’s sense of courtesy was noticeably absent when dealing with his sister’s bastard. Queen Judith fidgeted nervously with a tassel on her velvet sleeve, staring at a distant point across the chamber. Her dead sister-in-law’s fecundity, whether in or out of marriage, was a continual reproach to her own barrenness.

  “Your presence is most unexpected,” Priam said, carefully folding his napkin and dabbing delicately at the corner of his mouth.

  Axis’ mouth twitched. “Obviously sire, for I see you have begun dinner without me.”

  Priam stiffened, slowly lowering the napkin to the table. “And what has brought you home from Coroleas so precipitously, BattleAxe?”

  Axis had taken six cohorts of Axe-Wielders south into the neighbouring empire of Coroleas over two months earlier to help the Coroleans with their eternal problem of vicious summer raiders from across the eastern seas. It was a mission with dual purpose, to strengthen the diplomatic ties between Achar and Coroleas and, more importantly to Axis, to continue giving his own Axe-Wielders vital combat experience. Axis had now taken his command south on seven different occasions to help the Coroleans with both sea-raiders and internal rebellions. These successful forays had earned Axis his reputation as a brilliant commander in just five short years.

  But eight days before Axis had received an urgent message from Jayme asking him to bring himself and his Axe-Wielders home. The message had not said what was wrong, and Axis had fretted about it for the five days it had taken the ships carrying the Axe-Wielders to sail from Coroleas to the port of Nordmuth in Achar. He had left his Axemen to travel at a more leisurely pace from Nordmuth and ridden virtually nonstop to the Tower of the Seneschal, exhausting himself in the effort. Arriving late this afternoon, only to find that Jayme was attending Priam’s nameday banquet across the Grail Lake in Carlon, Axis had cursed the extra time it took to cross the lake. He sincerely hoped Jayme hadn’t called him home just to add his own good wishes to Priam’s nameday celebrations.

  “I but follow the Brother-Leader’s orders, sire.” Bland as it was the remark was designed to irritate Priam. For many hundreds of years the Acharite monarchs had chafed that the Axe-Wielders, as a wing of the Brotherhood of the Seneschal, remained under the supreme control of the Brother-Leader rather than the monarch. Axis risked a glance towards Borneheld. His half-brother was furious to see him here, and was gripping the stem of his golden wine goblet so hard Axis thought it might bend or snap at any instant. There was nothing but bitter enmity between the two brothers.

  Axis looked back at Priam, thinking that the man’s curls made him look effeminate and ineffectual. “Sire. May I say that the passing years only add to your elegance and majesty? Permit me to offer my congratulations on your nameday celebrations. I’m sure you must find it a great comfort to be surrounded by your entire family on this joyous occasion.” He paused, his level gaze once more on Priam, calmly ignoring the white faces at his slight stress on the word “entire”. “If I might have your leave to speak with the Brother-Leader, sire.”

  Priam stared at Axis, his entire body rigid, then took a deep breath and dismissed him with a curt wave of his hand.

  Axis bowed again. “Furrow wide, furrow deep, sire.”

  “Wide and deep,” Priam muttered stiffly as Axis bowed again and moved around the table to speak with Jayme privately.

  Borneheld let out a furious breath and turned to Priam. “Why in Artor’s name did Jayme have to recall him!”

  Priam laid a restraining hand on Borneheld’s arm and spoke quietly, repressing his own temper at the BattleAxe’s remarks. “No matter, nephew. It is as well, perhaps, that he is here. The latest news from the north is not good and we may well have to use both his expertise and that of his Axe-Wielders.”

  It was not the most diplomatic thing to say to Borneheld. Although control of Achar’s regular army was theoretically in Priam’s hands, Borneheld was their day-to-day commander. He had dedicated his life to the sword and was a clever military theorist if a somewhat untested combat commander. Priam had recently awarded Borneheld the title of WarLord of Achar; many said more in recognition of his position as heir to the throne than his demonstrated skill as a commander. To suggest that Borneheld might require Axis’ assistance to cope with the threat from the frozen wastes to the north of Gorkenfort was to throw salt into a gaping wound. The Axe-Wielders followed Axis with a loyalty, a devotion and a single-mindedness that Borneheld both coveted and resented. Borneheld wanted nothing more than to see the Axe-Wielders disbanded and incorporated into his own command. But he could do nothing. And meantime he watched the reputation of the Axe-Wiel
ders flower under the leadership of Axis. Because of their time spent fighting in the Corolean Empire, they had accumulated more real combat experience in five years than Borneheld had managed in fourteen years. It did not help that, while Borneheld was not an ill-featured man, it was Axis who had inherited most of his mother’s (and perhaps father’s) style and striking looks.

  Yet of all the hatreds Borneheld bore Axis, it was the fact they shared the same mother that he resented the most. Even though Rivkah had betrayed both her husband and her elder son in conceiving and giving birth to a lover’s child, Borneheld still revered her memory. And Axis had killed her. Axis had taken Rivkah away from Borneheld. Borneheld daily cursed Axis for causing his mother’s death. One day, Borneheld thought viciously, he would meet this bastard brother of his in combat, and then the world would see once and for all who was the better man. Artor would judge who had the better right to live. The stem of his goblet finally bent and it spun out of Borneheld’s hand and onto the floor.

  A servant scurried to replace it with another and mop up the mess, and for an instant Borneheld met Axis’ eyes across the head of Priam and Judith. The hatred between them was naked enough for any to see.

  Jayme gently touched Axis’ arm and drew his attention away from Borneheld. He spoke quietly so that no-one else would hear.

  “My son, I am pleased and relieved that you managed to travel so quickly from Coroleas. I hardly dared expect you so soon.”

  Axis smiled at Jayme, his dislike of Borneheld fading before the gentle face of the Brother-Leader. “We were close to the Corolean Sound when your message reached me, Father.” The title was one of deep respect tinged with some gratitude. Apart from his command, no-one else accepted him the way the Brotherhood did. “It was relatively easy for us to extricate ourselves and put to sea for Achar.” The Coroleans had been angry to see them go when the threat from the sea-raiders had been at its worst but Axis’ charm had smoothed diplomatic relations.