Chapter Eight
“York,” Lord Hamilton grunted, smelling the putrid, urban air that floated toward him from their destination. “Filthy place.” He took a sprig of lavender from a small box beside him and held it beneath his nose for a moment, drinking in the aroma. Then he leaned back once again against the stiff, wooden seat of his carriage, letting his belly blossom out before him as he shifted his left leg up onto the seat across.
He was a thoroughly repugnant man, and he knew it. The days of pretending to be something else were long gone, and he was gladder for it. His leg was swollen, his belly was swollen, his face was imperfect and blotchy, one of his eyes had started drooping five or six years ago and had only gotten worse with time. He was, by all rights, hideous, but the most disturbing thing about him was his temperament and his utter disrespect for human life. At least, that’s how he described himself, and he was proud of it.
“Of course, Milord,” said the stiff-lipped man-at-arms sitting in the carriage with him. “Filthy place.”
The carriage crossed a low wooden bridge, and the cart rattled so that Lord Hamilton’s leg bounced up and down, banging against the seat, and he gave a bitter grunt of pain.
“How is the foot today, Milord?” the man asked.
“It’s bloody gout, isn’t it?” Lord Hamilton spat back. “It doesn’t get better.”
“Of course, Milord.”
In fact, it had been getting worse these recent years, so bad at times that he could not rise himself from bed and that he punished those around him for lack of recourse to the pain and slow death that was creeping up on him. He knew his time was limited, but he needed to secure his legacy before he was gone. How could he do that without a bride? Without a son? Even though his wives had never given him a son, or any children for that matter, he refused to quit trying. How could he have become the man he was if he quit when things were down?
“I have never been to York,” the third man said. He was neither a lord nor a man-at-arms, dressed in fine clothes with a small face and a small stature.
“It is a dung heap,” Lord Hamilton grumbled. “Everything is a dung heap. To think that I should have to endure such travel to find myself a bride. What the devil has happened to this country?”
“War, Milord,” the man-at-arms answered.
“I bloody well know that Simon, don’t I?” Lord Hamilton spat back, his mood further aggravated by the inflammation of his gout. “It made me filthy rich.”
“Richest man in the kingdom,” the third man added.
“Walter,” Lord Hamilton said, frowning even more than he already was, “keep your smart comments to yourself. You’re here because you’re useful, not because I need you.”
“Of course, Milord,” Walter said, bowing his head.
“The wrong quip, I might just have Simon stick you in the heart,” Lord Hamilton said, glancing back to the open window.
“It’d be a pleasure, Lord,” Simon said, still as straight-faced as he had been for the entire journey.
Suddenly, the carriage came to a halt on the far end of the bridge, and Lord Hamilton struggled to sit up against his massive belly and peer through one of the windows.
“Simon, get us moving.”
“Yes, Milord,” Simon said, and with a spring in his step that might surprise one after a first glance, the soldier climbed down from the carriage. There was some vague discussion out of Lord Hamilton’s earshot, and that bothered him. He was a man who liked to be in complete control over everything around him. Simon was the only one he really trusted, but still, it added to his irritation that he couldn’t hear what was happening. Soon enough, though, Simon returned to the carriage window.
“Well? What is it?” Lord Hamilton barked. “I refuse to be delayed any longer! The sun is near down!”
“Broken axel in front of us, Milord, some farmers.”
“Well, get them off the road! Must I spell everything out? Go on! Kill them if they don’t move. I don’t care.”
“Very good, Milord,” Simon said and disappeared again from view.
“Lord,” Walter said tentatively, “if I may?”
“May what, Walter? Spit it out,” Lord Hamilton growled.
“Surely, the Duke of York wouldn’t take kindly to us killing his commoners? They are his property, after all.”
“The Duke of York owes me a fortune,” Lord Hamilton grumbled. “I’ll take payment however I see fit.” There was a sharp scream from in front of them, and soon Simon returned, wiping his hands on a scrap of burlap.
“We’re clear on, Milord,” Simon said, climbing back into the carriage.
