The Duke's Decision

“As I see it, Lord Henry – and the duke is sure to agree – this Cecil of Clayton may be firmly heir by Cumbrian custom, but you are an imperial baron, not a ducal baronet. Even if you have no blood sons, a son-in-law by marriage, a grandson, or an adoptive son could displace him by imperial law, and he is in any case likely lost at sea.” Marcus leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. “You’re not actually the only one who couldn’t locate his heir to swear to the duke before engaging his daughter, the duke himself quietly made one exception I know of.”

“Very understanding of you,” Baron Henry de Greystoke said. “Sir Thomas may also be pleased to hear that, as he found himself in similar circumstances during Duke Avery’s announcement.” The baron nodded to the lanky knight, who had thus far remained silent through two full pitchers of ale.

Sir Thomas grunted. “Not that similar. My heir isn’t lost at sea. Simon ran off the night before with some mysterious friend of Baron Henry’s. And I doubt he’d approve of the match. He’s fought more than one duel on account of no man seeming good enough for his baby sister. He is overprotective, and I say that as their father.”

Marcus put down his mug, wiping foam off his neatly-trimmed mustache. “I was there when he brought her out for the hunt and introduced her to the duke. He seemed greatly concerned with making sure she left a positive impression on the duke.”

“Most strange,” Sir Thomas shook his head. “Stranger to me than Lord Henry agreeing to his daughter becoming but one of many mistresses to the duke. For myself as a mere knight, I doubt my daughter could do better; and if Simon truly finds favor in the match, then you have my agreement as well.”

“A toast,” Baron Henry said, turning to Sir Thomas and raising his mug. “To our future son-in-law!”

“To the duke!” Mugs clinked, and Marcus drained the last of his mug before standing unsteadily. He heard footsteps, and turned to look, but nobody was there; then the back door opened and shut.

“What was that?” Marcus frowned, staring at the door. First, the vanishing man in the faded blue and red doublet; now a door that opened and shut on its own. The Golden Fleece seemed a strange place.

The younger Joseph Matthew – Joseph de Mathieu, according to his socially ambitious wife – staggered back towards his chosen lodgings to the best of his ability. York was an unfamiliar city, the swirling and ever-changing blue, green, and white marbled face of the moon was hiding behind the clouds, and he'd gotten his lefts and rights thoroughly confused several pints ago. The man in the faded blue and red doublet had been generous, although not so generous as to buy him brandy. Not this time, anyway.

Joseph blinked. There was a dog standing in front of him. Big dog. Its head was higher than his belt just standing there on all fours.

“Nice doggie,” he said, veering left.

There was a dog standing in front of him. He veered left again. Now there were two dogs in front of him. Was he seeing double? He steadied himself and took a step backwards, turning his head slowly and counting all the dogs he could see. One, two, three, four, five… he paused, needing to change hands… six.

“Six great big dogs,” Joseph muttered weakly.

Walk. The lead dog gave a short, deep, and surprisingly quiet bark as a voice in his head gave him an unequivocal order. The dog then turned away from him and started walking.

“I'm not drunk!” he said. Had the dog spoken?

Leave it. Bad. said a second strange voice in his head, as one of the dogs behind him reared up on its hind legs and pushed him forward. Walk. Walk now.

Joseph shook his head dizzily. The world seemed to spin around him. “I have to sit down,” he said quietly.

A cold wet nose lifted the hem of his doublet and pressed into his back. No walk bath river, a third voice in his head said ominously. Bath river?

“Uh, I'm good,” Joseph said, stumbling forward. “Walk good,” he added. “No bath river. Nice doggies.”

The pack of dogs herded him down the street and towards the castle.

“That's not the inn,” Joseph said. “Charlotte's going to be mad at me if I don't make it back to the inn tonight.”

The lead wolfhound turned to look at him. Charlotte castle, the first voice said. Walk now.

No castle bath river, the third voice added from behind him. Bath river now? Bad smell.

Even as a baron’s son, Joseph de Mathieu expected the night guards to stop him as he crossed the bridge over the River Foss to the gatehouse. Instead, they gave a small salute to the lead dog, stepping aside to let a drunk man wearing finely-made but poorly-treated clothing and the pack pass through the open gate and into the massive gatehouse. Halfway through, Joseph peered up at the raised portcullis. The world tilted briefly, then everything went black all at once.

Maude wrinkled her nose. “He smells like he's been swimming in an open sewer.”

The wolfhound made a snorting noise. Did not push man bath river. Man try good, walk bad, fall many times. Sewer cover man scent.

Gregor shrugged, scratching the wolfhound behind the ears. “The hounds say he fell in the sewer a few times. The morning road cleaning crew won't be out for another two hours.” He prodded the face-down man with his foot. “They stopped a man with a crossbow in the alleyway between the pub he was in and the inn he was supposed to get back to. They also chased off three common cutpurses.”

Did I leave anything out? he asked the wolfhound.

The wolfhound shook his head.

Maude shook her head. “I assume they didn't leave the crossbowman alive for questioning?”

“No, milady,” Gregor said. “I haven't the knack for riding along with them in their heads the way James can do. I just talk to them, and most times they obey as best as they can.”

Gregor not ride because Gregor too heavy, the wolfhound sent to Gregor’s mind. Body heavy, mind heavy. James light.

Maude shook her head. “Whoever set an assassin for him is probably aiming for us.” She waved at a footman. “I want this man clean and presentable tomorrow. He's supposed to take an oath. If he's not ready to do that, we'll let the duke decide what to do with him at that point.”

“I wonder if it's one of the other brides. Johanna was the first to come forward. They might be worried that will give her special status of some kind,” Gregor said. “Or maybe they just want to reduce the number of competing wives.”

“Being the first to step forward probably will give her special status,” Maude said. “I know my nephew well enough to know that. He'll be inclined to count that courage for more than a higher birth, which will be trouble if we let him. The aristocracy thrives on rank and status; if Avery puts the granddaughter of a baron ahead of the daughter of an earl, that will rile them. Something about this whole situation doesn't quite fit, though.” She tapped her fingers together thoughtfully as she considered how she could deal with that situation. “Well, it isn't that important right now, and it will all work itself out soon enough.”

As Maude nodded briskly and walked off, the wolfhound quietly walked behind her, curious about what Maude thought was more important. The woman never spoke to them mind to mind, but she leaked thoughts readily.

Maude’s thoughts were turning towards the question of an acceptable husband for Isolde. Two of Avery's prospective brides had cold feet already, bringing the number down from nine to seven, a development that Maude had both encouraged and welcomed. In her discussions with the families, she stressed that they had not taken an oath to marry their daughter to the duke, they had simply pledged their allegiance and loyalty to the duke.

Their daughters could be married elsewhere, as long as that marriage did not bring them in conflict with their oath of allegiance – for example, they could marry someone who also owed allegiance to the duke, and there would be no conflict of allegiance at all for the happy couple. Similarly, other families that had not come forward during Avery's initial oath-taking ceremony were approaching her hesitantly, seeking alternate forms of entanglement that would help bind them to the duke without putting their daughters into some strange polygamous arrangement.

What Avery's grand gesture had proven beyond any doubt was that he was looking for allies and was willing to pay a substantial price to gain them. Perhaps some nobles would seek obtain a marriage with one of his cousins instead – and among those cousins, surely none was closer to Avery than Isolde. She was the closest thing Avery had to a sister.

In spite of her own negative words on the topic of cousin marriage, Maude had once considered trying to marry her daughter to Avery. They weren't that closely related; Hugh had been Maude's father. That made Avery and Isolde second cousins once removed (through Thomas) and also twice removed (through Mary). By Maude's calculations, that meant they had about one part blood in thirty in common, about as much as ordinary second cousins.

The wolfhound snorted. Crossbow man important, he thought in her general direction. As always, she did not hear him.

The moon shone down brightly on York, waxing gibbous. Its blue-green surface was mottled with streaks of white, and an ill-omened "white eye," a spiral with a dark spot in the middle slowly turning. The moon usually showed white eyes only in the summer months.

The moonlight glinted off the gilded sheep hanging off a heavy-duty metal pole attached to York's newest inn. The gilded sheep lurched as a dark-clad figure crawled out to the pole, hanging off the end of it before dropping down to the street and running. A small amount of yellowish-green gas seeped from the edges of the third-floor window as the sheep continued to swing back and forth.

A small fist banged on the window as horrid muffled coughing and sneezing noises sounded from within, along with the sounds of breaking furniture. Then a man’s fist shattered the window, glass tinkling on the street, and Baron Henry de Greystoke, clad only in a nightshirt, leaned for a moment over the edge of the window, coughing one last time before pitching over to fall head-first onto the cobbles below, his broken body unmoving where it lay.

A pair of wolfhounds ran down the street towards the inn, then suddenly stopped a dozen yards away from the fallen man, sneezing as their noses burned. One sat and howled; the other dashed back down the street, following the trail of the dark figure as far as the river, then stopping.

It was impossible to track the scent further, and impossible to know how far down the river the criminal had fled. The second hound returned to the first, and the two briefly conferred.

You stay. I go castle. Bring James. The second hound licked its lips nervously, peering at the harsh-smelling building.

James not castle. The first hound gave an exasperated growl. Gregor castle. I call Gregor. You stay, I stay, Gregor come. You go other side. Watch other side.

The second hound whined. Smell hurts, it said, barking in the direction of the building.

Yes. Go other side. Stay. Watch. The first hound growled.

The second hound curled its tail between its legs and slunk down the street towards the alleyway that would allow it into the yard behind the inn. I go. I watch.

The bodies were carried out a little after dawn, under the watchful gaze of a whispering crowd of Yorkish citizens. The innkeeper and his whole family; a well-known traveling merchant and his business partners; two other men, four other women, and two young girls, all with the fine faces and nightclothes that marked them as nobility. The guards questioned the neighbors, and the questions of the guards soon gave away the fact that two of the dead women had been promised as brides to the duke.

Even though the yellow-green gas could no longer be seen, the Golden Fleece still smelled wrong to the hounds.