The Duke's Decision

The day of Avery’s announcement

“If you need time to confer with your family, you have it – but do not take too long. The wedding is in two weeks.” The echoes of the words of the new Silver Duke were swallowed by a susurrus of whispers.

Althea felt very confused. Her father was a ducal baron – sometimes called a baronet – who owned a small fortified manor between the Ouse and the Trent, on the border between the duchy of York and the county of Lincoln, one of a string of lesser lordships created by the old Silver Duke along his borders after the Great Famine of 1315 and the attendant unrest. She had come to York with her parents, two sisters, and two brothers to attend the coronation of the new duke. Then they had stayed. And stayed.

The occasion of the duke's coronation had brought many eligible nobles to town, and her mother was keenly aware that she had three unmarried daughters she needed to get rid of somehow. By the time the population of eligible noblemen had thinned, her mother, instead of giving up, had focused keen attention on the single most prominently eligible nobleman.

And now here she was with her family in the duke's great hall, and the duke had just declared himself willing to marry… all three sisters? And whomever else besides? She looked at her mother's fierce glare, then back at her sisters. Like her, they were built along lines that might kindly be called willowy, or less kindly as lanky or even gangly, with straight hair in a medium brown shade, hazel eyes, and little padding in spite of never having gone hungry. Isabel, middle-born, nevertheless had an inch of height on her; Althea in turn had almost two inches on Cecily, who might not have yet finished getting taller. It was hard to be sure.

“Mother has that look on her face, but I think only one of us has to do it,” Althea said quietly. “We should draw straws or something.”

Isabel nodded silently. Cecily, ever resourceful, was already holding out a fist, her hazel eyes glimmering. Althea eyed her youngest sister with suspicion. Cecily somehow always manages to rig the draw, Althea thought to herself. She reached for the nearest straw, stopped, then reached further, pulling the straw closest to Cecily. A long one. Althea breathed a sigh of relief.

Isabel drew next. Her straw was shorter – but when Cecily opened her hand, hers was clearly the short one. “Darn,” Cecily said. “I got the short straw. Mother, Althea wins the duke! She got the long straw!”

“Wait, I thought…” Althea narrowed her eyes, but it was too late. Her mother had already seized her by the wrist.

Forcing her into a corner away from her siblings, her mother whispered to Althea in hushed tones as tears gathered in her eyes. “I'm so proud of you! You're going to get married!”

Cecily laughed mirthlessly at her sister's dismayed expression as her mother dragged Althea backwards through the crowded room until they reached the queue at the front, where Althea’s arms were pinned against her sides by an excited hug from a woman with strawberry-blonde hair, shorter but more solid.

“Althea! I'm glad you made it!” Helen was the third of five sisters, within a year of Althea’s age. The oldest had married the elder of Althea's two brothers, who was likely to inherit both baronetcies unless Helen's parents managed to come up with a son as a late surprise. “I was worried Cecily would cheat you out of your spot! I'm so excited that we're going to be duchesses together! This is going to be such fun!”

“Um…” Althea squinted down dizzily at Helen as the two of them spun around, trying to figure out if this was some kind of cruel joke from a friend who was usually kind to her. “Helen? What about John? I thought you two were nearly engaged.”

“Oh, that?” Helen shook her head in disgust, holding Althea at arm's length. “He's twelve years older than I am and fat enough for three of me. I'd much rather have the Silver Duke once a week and you every day than John every night.”

The day after the Golden Fleece incident

Althea held her long slender arms out straight out to each side and rolled her eyes. “This is ridiculous. I was measured just two months ago. And we didn't do nearly this many measurements last time.”

“I'm just following the seamstress's instructions,” Helen said, her fingers brushing aside brunette hair before she slowly smoothed the measuring tape across Althea’s bare chest.

“It’s not as if they’ll get any bigger by your measuring them. Or as if I’ve grown in the last two months.”

“You were measured with a different tape. She uses new London inches instead of York inches or old London inches, and this gown will hug you in all the fashionably delicious places only if they’re exactly right. She said I have to do the whole set of measurements twice, and if any of the numbers don’t match, I should repeat the measurements until I’m confident which ones are correct. This measuring tape keeps sticking to your skin. It's your fault for sleeping in and not coming with me this morning.”

Althea shook her head, lowering her arms. “I'm not rising at matins to get measured for a dress. Couldn't she work normal hours?”

Helen snorted, pulling a stray strand of strawberry-blonde hair back behind her ear. “Madame Percy can't be out in daylight at all.”

Althea frowned. “So she's a vampire?”

“No, a ghost,” Helen said, jotting down a measurement and then looking back up at Althea. She licked her lips unconsciously and then wrapped the measuring tape around Althea's hips. “Or maybe an angel.” Helen frowned, adjusting the measuring tape. “I'm joking. Of course she has the aristocratic disease. She's been making dresses for the most fashionable ladies in London and just came up to work the season here because of the duke's coronation. We were lucky to get a matins appointment.”

A knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” Helen called. The maid opened the door and stepped aside. Althea’s mother, clad in an elegant blue gown no less fine than the one she had worn to Isolde’s ball, strode into the room. Her own brown hair, distinguishable from Althea’s by a few scattered strands of gray, was swept up into an elaborate coiffure. She was carrying an ornately decorated leather traveling case and her expression was stern.

“Maman, what is the matter?” Althea asked.

“The duke's guards are at the front door. We must go to the castle immediately.” Althea’s mother looked like she had more to say to her daughter, but cut herself off, turning to Helen instead. “Helen, would you help dress Althea? The maid will be busy with her sisters and we need to hurry. The peach dress, please, and no dilly-dallying. The footmen will pack up the rest of her things later.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Helen said, smiling and tucking a scrap of parchment with Althea's measurements into her purse as the maid – having just been indirectly offered instructions by her mistress – hastily walked away. Then Helen frowned, leaning close to whisper in Althea’s ear. “I bet this has to do with the Golden Fleece. Something awful happened there last night, but my mother wouldn't tell me exactly what.”

The elderly wizard eyed the ducal guards skeptically. “Do you know who I am?”

The lead guard hesitated, and consulted a piece of paper. “Sir Warin?”

“Archmage Warin,” the elderly wizard corrected. “I don’t bother with knightly orders, running one would cut into my research time. This residence is adequately warded. Fiona and I are perfectly safe here.”

“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to imply you were past your prime, sir.” The lead guard sweated nervously. “But the duke wants his fiancées in the keep for their own safety. The duke already invited both of you to come at your pleasure, sir, so you can come along if you like, but the duke has ordered Fiona's presence. And begging your pardon, sir, but you did pledge the duke as your lord.”

Warin sighed. “That I did. Very well. Fiona! Pack our things!”

The elderly wizard pulled out a piece of chalk and a string, and started drawing a diagram on the floor.

“Sir?” The guard looked on, puzzled. “What are you doing?”

“Going to the castle,” Warin said, continuing his drawing. “In a few minutes. Once Fiona has finished packing the bags. You might want to head there now if you want to catch up.”

A woman with copper hair and gently pointed ears slowly came down the stairs, one hand holding two bags over her shoulder and the other dragging a travel chest behind her. The chest thumped down one stair at a time. The elderly wizard stood and sprinkled something over the chalk and waited, tapping his foot.

“You should have levitated the chest, Fiona,” Warin told the woman as she carefully picked up the chest and set it inside the chalk pattern. “It should be easier than the other way by now. Practice makes perfect.”

Fiona scowled at her master. Then Warin snapped his fingers and both wizards disappeared, leaving the guards behind.

Merilda shuddered, nervously holding her long blonde braid. “Father, I'm frightened. If Gelle and Ivette have been murdered, surely I'm next.”

Though she was taller than most men, her father glowered down at her from a still greater height, his green eyes narrowed under black bushy eyebrows. “I'm not leaving town until I'm rid of you,” he said. “And I've what I want now from the duke and his seneschal, so I’m not breaking the engagement. You'll go to him whether you will or no. I don't care if he beds you or puts you to work in the scullery, you're his now.”

Merilda choked on a sob. “But, Father, two of the duke's fiancées are dead! Aren’t you worried I might be next?”

“All the worse for you if you are,” her father said. “All that means is that it's a pity you couldn't have found a man to marry earlier, Merilda. Your sister and your cousin went quickly, we didn't have to keep either of them up for so long.”

“But, Father, what if the murders are connected to the duke's marriage?” Merilda backed away into a crouch, her green eyes filling with panic and tears beneath a pair of thick blonde eyebrows.

“I'm sure they are,” her father said. “The duke's strong. If you die, he'll avenge you well enough to satisfy my family honor. If I ever find a reason I need a daughter, I'll get a new one on your stepmother.”

Merilda felt like she'd been stabbed in the stomach. She would rather he had slapped her. Her lips silently formed the words but, Father a third time; no sound escaped from them. She knew better than to try her luck.

A knock sounded at the door. Her father frowned, and put his face to the gap at the top of the door, peering out. Then he unbarred the door and opened it, revealing a pair of ducal guards accompanied by a wolfhound wearing a metal-lined harness. The two were standing in front of a carriage.

“How may I be of service to the duke today?” Merilda's father rumbled politely at the guards.

“Sir Malkin Guy,” said the guard on the left-hand side, with a short bow. “The duke has ordered that I bring Merilda to the keep.” He hesitated, peering up at the very large man hunched over the doorway of the small house. “The orders say nothing about you, but if you wish, sir, you may certainly accompany us there to look after her.”

The huge man shook his head. “I trust in my liege completely. You may have her.” He stepped back from the doorway. “Merilda, get your things.”

Merilda went to the corner of the room, picking up a pillow up from the floor. She carefully brushed off both sides and shook it. Then she unlatched a travel chest, put the pillow in, closed the chest, and then picked it up by a handle on the end, shouldering it with one arm.

“Goodbye, Father,” she said, giving him a sad look before walking out the door. Her father shut the door without a word.

“Ma'am, do you want help with that?” The right-hand guard looked up at her.

She shook her head. “It's okay,” she said, lifting the chest up from her shoulder and setting it carefully on the floor of the carriage. The carriage floorboards creaked in protest. “I'm used to carrying it.” She stepped in after it and sat down. “Thank you for offering.”

When the coachman cracked the whip, the horses started forward. The wolfhound jogged ahead and the guards followed behind on foot. They traveled through the city and then over the bridge that crossed into the bailey of York Castle. When they reached the gatehouse that led into the castle proper, they had to wait: The guards at the gate were checking everyone carefully before allowing them to enter the castle, and a line had built up.

Inside the gates, the driver turned the team, cutting through the bailey yard towards the smaller gatehouse at the base of the stairs leading up to the keep. As the carriage rolled along, Merilda stared out the window, watching the scenery pass by.

She was glad that her father was not coming. She didn't want to see him anymore. At the same time, she missed him terribly. She wished that he were here to protect her. Merilda sat for a moment, holding back tears as two footmen unloaded her travel chest from the carriage, balancing it between them as they started up the steps to the keep. She shook her head, clearing her thoughts, and then stepped out of the carriage in order to follow the two straining footmen in their slow journey up the stairs.

Then an elderly man appeared with a quiet pop of suddenly displaced air, a copper-haired young woman with gently pointed ears by his side. The pair of guards who had accompanied Merilda’s carriage turned, surprised.

“Contrary to my assumptions, it doesn't appear the keep is protected against teleportation,” the old man said, scowling up at the keep. “I may as well have saved us the hike up the stairs and brought us directly to the duke’s bedchambers. We were safer in the rental house.”

“Who are you?” The right-hand guard sounded suspicious and uncertain.

“Archmage Warin, and this is my ward and apprentice, Fiona, one of your duchesses-to-be.” Warin fished in his sleeve, producing an envelope. “Here are my credentials.”

The guards stayed at arm's length, neither reaching out to accept the envelope. “Wait, please,” said the guard on the right-hand side.

A pair of wolfhounds loped up, one brown and one gray. They sniffed the elderly wizard and the young woman. The gray wolfhound looked at one of the guards and nodded.

“You may proceed,” the guard said.

Warin smiled and gestured at the dogs. “Thank you,” he said to the gray wolfhound, then turned to Fiona.

“What is going on?” Fiona asked.

“I believe that dog is a ranking member of the ducal guard,” Warin explained. “Which means that our duke has secrets that I don’t yet know.” The diviner smiled, his eyes gleaming. “Very interesting.”