For Kyle and Will

  It’s all your fault!

  The Sons of Brabant

  Copyright: Michael Bolan

  Published: 16th February, 2015

  The right of Michael Bolan to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  CHAPTER ONE

  What Came Before

  “Your father is dead.”

  “But he was fine! The chirurg said he was improving! He can’t just have died!” shouted Leo, youngest of the three brothers.

  A week ago, their father had been hunting, his life’s passion, when he was gored by a wild boar. The boys had killed the boar and dressed the wound as best as they could in the middle of the old forest. By the time they had returned to the castle, with their father lying on a makeshift paillasse, he had lost a lot of blood. Duke Henry was, perhaps blessedly, unconscious. The chirurg had attended to him, washing the wound out with raw spirits before suturing it. His prognosis had been positive, thinking that Henry’s brute strength would see him through. And yet now Henry, self-styled ‘King’ of Brabant, lay dead.

  The face of the castellan was grim.

  “And that’s not all. He changed his will. Your brother will explain the rest.”

  The words carried more than their simple meaning. Willem reeled, as if his entire life had just been turned on its head. Beside him, he could feel his younger brother’s confusion.

  “What does he mean, ‘he changed his will’? Willem, what does he mean? And where’s Reinald?”

  “I’m afraid, younger brother, that we might well be on our own,” whispered Willem as he stared into the castellan’s face. The old man had effectively run the household operations for their father and had taught them commerce, book-keeping, law and countless other subjects. Now he wouldn’t meet Willem’s gaze, even when Willem addressed him directly, “Am I right, old friend?”

  “That’s not for me to say, young sir. The new Duke, your brother Reinald, will explain all to you. Sooner rather than later, I would assume. He wants to see you now.”

  As eldest son and heir under the old system of inheritance, Reinald had sat the death watch with their father, perched uncomfortable on a hard wooden chair for several days, never one to shirk duty. He would be even colder in manner than usual and hunger and tiredness would just exacerbate his overly formal attitude. Reinald had been raised as heir to the Duchy of Brabant and had devoted his life to learning the skills that would prepare him for the job. Somehow he had missed out on not only his childhood, but seemingly any joy in his life. Everything was done with a ruthless efficiency, regardless of the human cost of his decisions.

  His life’s ambition was channelled into that one task – to be Duke. Or, as their father had loved to say, the true King of Brabant. He had taken his father’s decision to split the Duchy into three earldoms very badly indeed, but their father was not to be swayed. “Look at what’s happening!” duke Henry had said, “War is laying waste to cities, regions, even entire countries and there is no end in sight. You are stronger together, as equals. Think of the stool that a peasant uses. Those three legs offer strength and stability. Three allied independent territories will offer you greater protection.”

  The three brothers had never truly been friends. Indeed, Willem wondered if Reinald understood what friendship was. Reinald had never demonstrated any warmth or care to his younger brothers. There had been no secret adventures, no joint games and little enough conversation. There had been a time when Leo had been closer to Reinald, but Willem put that down to circumstance, rather than friendship. As for their sister, firebrand that she was, Reinald seemed intent on forgetting that she existed. It would be up to Willem to tell Isabella of their father’s passing, a task that he dreaded with all his heart.

  “Come on, Leo. It’s time. Let’s see what our darling Reinald has cooked up for us now, shall we? I suppose Reinald will want to boss us around as usual.”

  With that, Willem nodded to the castellan and strode towards the door, certain that his worst suspicions were about to be confirmed.

  *****

  The late Duke’s bedchamber was surprisingly warm, especially since it hadn’t felt a woman’s touch for over a decade. The walls were either painted with soft pastoral murals, or hung with intricate tapestries. The atmosphere was subdued, dozens of candles allowing enough light to read. The curtains over the Great Window, however, remained firmly closed, keeping the afternoon’s sun at bay.

  Reinald knelt beside the bed, their father’s hand clutched between both of his, his head bowed in prayer. He looked up when the door opened, eyes bloodshot, hair unkempt, face haggard, but quickly turned away. By way of greeting, he simply said, “Nice of you both to join me. Where have you been? Carousing with tavern wenches again?” Scorn tinged his words, although weariness robbed them of their usual edge.

  Willem bit his tongue and placed a calming hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Actually, Reinald, we have been outside this chamber since before dawn. The castellan has only just now informed us of Father’s passing.”

  Reinald did not respond. Instead, he slowly drew himself to his feet, stretching as he did so, until his solid six-foot frame was upright. He looked grey in the flickering shadows, the weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders. “I would take it kindly, brother,” his voice dripping with sarcasm, “if you would address me as Your Grace”.

  “I would be only too glad to do so, Reinald, were such the case. However, as you know, Father made arrangements for the Duchy to be divided into three equal parts upon his death and for each of us to rule one part as Earls. So we are equals. As such, the correct formal address would simply be My Lord. Although you’re not displaying much grace with Father lying cold in bed beside you! But that’s typical of you, isn’t it? More interested in what’s supposed to be right, than what actually is!”

  Willem could feel his gorge rising; it pained him to be arguing like this at such a time. Taking a deep breath, he changed tack, offering a diplomatic resolution to the burgeoning quarrel. “Let’s retire to Father’s study and discuss the plans for the next couple of days with his small council. And we need to tell Bella. She should hear it from one of us, not from some kitchen maid.”

  Reinald stiffened, then sighed. “You’re right, of course, but let’s do that now. There are changes of which you must be made aware. Father altered his will, in the presence of witnesses. There will be no earldoms, the Duchy will remain intact.” He slowly raised his hand, so that Willem and Leopold could both see the ducal ring on his finger. “And you will address me as Your Grace.”

  *****

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? I can tell. They’re gossiping about something. There’s such excitement everywhere. Look at them. You can almost see the news moving across the courtyard.” She rested her hand lightly on the cold stone of the windowsill, her eyes fixed on the scene below. “Oh Willem, tell me I’m wrong, please…”

  Willem looked at his sister as she looked out the window of her bedchamber. High up in the main keep of Leuven castle, she could watch the activities of many of the townsfolk. Unusually, Isabella had not been denied the same education as her brothers and had a better grasp of burgher politics than they did. She also had the gift of perception, able to quickly understand a situation, even with few concrete facts. Her lithe frame and childish tumbling curls belied a maturity beyond her years.

  “How did you know it was me?” he asked, his confusion apparent. She was still staring intently at the people below.

  “Who else was it going to be?” she sighed, turning to face Willem. “Reinald has the grace of a dungheap and would prefer it if I simply ceased to exist. And Leo, God bless him, is more suited to action than to words. He would try and tell me, but would get all confused and I’d have to drag it out of him. And none of the servants would dare approach me, regardless of the fact that they practically raised us. But you, you would want me to hear the news directly. So tell me, Willem, who else would it be? Who else would come to tell me that my father is dead, that I’m now an orphan?”

  Willem sighed. He loved his sister, as she reminded them all so much of their mother. Sometimes, however, her insight could be downright annoying.

  “You’re right. On all counts. Father’s dead. I can’t paint a nice face on it - he’s gone. It doesn’t make sense. The chirurg said that the wound was clear of infection and that he was gaining strength. I don’t understand.” Willem looked at his feet, afraid to give voice to the thoughts which were troubling him. “It’s almost as if someone or something interfered with the healing process.” Isabella looked up sharply from the window. “But anyway, that’s beside the point. What’s more important is that the will was changed and Reinald is Duke. What that means for the rest of us, I can’t tell. But we are to meet with the small council within the hour. You are invited to join us in Father’s study.” He moved across the room and laid his hand on her shoulder sympathetically. “And Bella, I’m sorry. I know what he meant to you. To all of us.”

  Isabella jer