“About time,” Lord Hamilton said, “I am in need of a bed. Hand me the wine.”
Walter took a large wineskin out from a basket of items between him and Simon and gingerly handed Lord Hamilton the drink, who guzzled four strong gulps before corking it and resting it beside him on the bench.
“Bloody York,” he said again. As they rolled past the broken cart, Lord Hamilton caught sight of a young boy weeping over his father’s body. It was disgusting.He’s dead, Lord Hamilton thought,get moving, or you’ll be out a cart as well.
They rolled into the city through the old Roman gates, and Lord Hamilton looked out of his litter with disgust. They were all ants and rats to him, all those filth-covered peasants scrounging in the street, living on top of one another in crammed spaced, fucking and breeding like mice to fill his coffers and die on the field of battle. And die they did in droves.
It was a dark time in the world, and nobody knew it better than him. He had seen much in his long life, and he understood the ways of the world, at least, that’s what he had convinced himself of. The world was ravaged by war. From London to Brandenburg, men fought and died for little more than money. He was simply a businessman who elected to pay for others to do so rather than send his own men off to die.
It wasn’t his fault he had been left a kingly inheritance by the Duke of Provence, and it wasn’t his fault that he was smart enough not to fall into the same trap that every landowning noble in Europe fell into. They spent their money fighting each other and died young. Long ago, he decided he would make money letting them fight and die old. So far, things had worked out just fine.
Of course, it was illegal to charge interest on a loan. But it was one of those canonical laws that didn’t mean much of anything once you were rich enough, and Lord Hamilton certainly was. In his old age, he had taken to his estates in Southern England rather than the city and rolling through the streets of York reminded him why.
It was chaos out there, filthy death spawning chaos, and he wanted no part in it. All he wanted was the young bride he was promised. He had seen her once, as a young girl, and he had known then that he would have her one day. He should have had her years ago. She was almost too old now, but he would take what he could get whenever he could get it, and the wars in Scotland had left him in a brilliant position to take her now. It was about time; he was in terrible need of a wife. The last one had been beautiful, but she hadn’t worked out.
“Such a shame,” he breathed out, lifting the lavender back up to his nose.
“What’s that, Milord?” Simon asked.
“I was just thinking about Miranda,” Lord Hamilton replied, “and how it was a shame that she didn’t work out.”
“It was a shame, Milord,” Simon agreed, bowing his head. Walter’s face fell as he idly kicked his heels against the base of the jostling bench. “I’m sure your new bride will be perfect.”
“She best be,” Lord Hamilton snorted. “I paid enough for her.” He took another long gulp from the wineskin.
“My Lord,” Walter said, his heart living in his throat. “if I may.”
“Stop bloody saying that, Walter,” Lord Hamilton snarled. “If I may! If I may!If I may!I’ve heard you say that ten thousand times since we left London, and if I hear it anymore, I will have Simon cut your head clean off! Won’t you, Simon?”
“Of course, Milord.”
“How many Scottish heads did you take, Simon?” Lord Hamilton asked, adopting a mocking, cheery tone that sank Walter further into the bench seat. “Was it forty-four? Or Forty-five?”
“Forty-six, Milord,” Simon answered, looking straight ahead. “Would have been forty-seven, but the line broke before I could take his brow from his shoulders.”
“Forty-six,” Lord Hamilton breathed out in a sinister whisper. “Now, one more little English head wouldn’t bother you none, would it?”
“Not one bit, Milord,” Simon answered.
“So, Walter,” Lord Hamilton said, swinging his gaze back to the small man like a viper tracking an enemy. “Stop saying that.”
“I understand, Lord,” Walter said, pale in the face. “I only meant—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what youmeant, Walter!” Lord Hamilton practically shrieked. “I care about if it annoys me!”
“Yes, well,” Walter said, trying to sit up and clear his throat.
“Well, spit it out, man, grow a spine,” Lord Hamilton sneered. He loved toying with men like Walter. They were afraid of him enough from reputation alone, and he took joy in making them dance in the palm of his hand. It was too easy, and yet, it never got boring. It was one of his base satisfactions, the others being wine, food, and amassing wealth.
“I only thought to mention that your Lordship has never received tertiary confirmation and that it may be best for your Lordship to remain in York while Simon and I fetch your bride to ensure the journey is not wasted. I am told the Duke has quite a kingly residence here in the city that I’m sure could accommodate you.”
“Tertiary confirmation,” Lord Hamilton echoed the words with a low, churning growl in the back of his throat. “Elaborate, dear Walter, please.”
“You prosed the match to Lord Willby, a very favorable deal, a very kind one, of course,” Walter started again, choosing his words carefully. Lord Hamilton loved watching him squirm so. “And he agreed, but Milord, you never arranged to collect her, nor when the wedding should take place.”
“I am making those arrangements now.” Lord Hamilton snorted. “In person, as is best for such dealings.”
“Of course, but wouldn’t it be more comfortable for your Lordship to stay behind in York while your loyal servants go and fetch your bride? It is a longer journey still to Willby, and I dread to think what should happen if we arrive only to find her absent.”
