Airs of Night and Sea

by Toby Bishop

  Lark took a sip of tea. It was light and fragrant, but it could have used, she thought, a twirl with a fetish. She lifted her eyes to Lady Beeth’s and blurted, all in a rush, “Mistress Winter would sacrifice herself for the students of the Academy, for me, and for Hester, and even for Beryl and the others who are loyal to the Duke though he’s making such a terrible mistake. I was afraid she would go to the Palace and turn herself in because the Council said she had to, then her horse would die and the Duke would win! And ’tisn’t right; ’tis all wrong!”

  “And what did you think, Larkyn? That you could stop her, all by yourself?”

  Lark shook her head. “I didn’t think,” she admitted. “I just—Tup and I—”

  “I believe Hester would say that it’s up to you to do the thinking for your bondmate.”

  “Oh, aye.” Lark looked down at her plate. Despite the scolding, the beef still looked good to her, and her fingers itched to pick up the remnants of the popover. The cook came close with the teapot to refill her cup, but Lady Beeth waved her off.

  “I assume, Larkyn, that Hester doesn’t know you’re here.”

  “Nay.” Lark shook her head. “She would have stopped me.”

  “Did you not think that she might worry about you?”

  Lark’s cheeks flamed again. “Nay, Lady Beeth. I didn’t think about that, either.”

  Amanda Beeth sighed and dropped her hands into her lap. Her face softened a bit as she looked across the table, shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry,” Lark told her. “Truly I am. But I’m worried.”

  “We all are,” Lady Beeth said. “Do you understand now what’s happening?”

  Lark shook her head. “Nay, I don’t. All I know is that Mistress Winter left Sunny here and went off alone, and Amelia has been gone for days, and I’m afraid Mistress Winter is turning herself over to the Duke so he’ll let Amelia go.”

  Lady Beeth reached across the table and touched her hand. “Larkyn, dear. We stand on the brink of civil war. Your teacher is trying to forestall that.”

  “Not all by herself!”

  Lady Beeth smiled a bit at that. “Weren’t you trying to help Philippa all by yourself?”

  Lark hung her head at that. “I just—I can’t bear for her to—”

  The older woman squeezed her hand and released it. “She’s not alone, Larkyn, trust me.”

  “But I saw her go off in the carriage!”

  “And you saw the men ride out not half an hour ago, with Lord Francis and your brother at their head.”

  Lark gaped at her, and hope rose in her breast. “My . . . my brother? Nick?”

  Lady Beeth looked at her oddly. “Why, no, Larkyn. It was Brye. Your elder brother.”

  “Brye? He’s here?”

  “No. He’s gone with Lord Francis to rescue Philippa.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  FROM inside the carriage, Philippa and the guard captain heard shouts before they felt the turning wheels grind to a stop on the icy road. Philippa had been leaning against the wall of the carriage. She straightened, and her stomach tightened.

  The captain swore and reached for the latch of the carriage door. His musket was long and awkward, and for a moment he struggled with it, jamming it sideways in the doorway.

  Philippa murmured, “Shall I help you?”

  He gave her a look of pure fury that made him appear suddenly much older. He worried the musket through the doorway and slid down after it. Philippa scooted sideways on the bench seat, knocking the cushions to the floor, and looked out into the night.

  She knew this road, of course. Her family home was a great pile of white stone on a hill south of the Rotunda. The best road from the Palace to Islington House led along the Grand River and across the New Bridge, constructed by Duke William’s great-great-grandfather. The carriage was stopped, at the moment, in the very center of the bridge.

  Stars glittered in a moonless black sky, reflecting on the moving dark water beneath the bridge and the dull metal of the muskets held by William’s militia. They had them up and pointed into the darkness of the road ahead. Gas lamps flickered at the crest of the bridge and on the corner of the road beyond. Just outside of their pools of yellow light, men on horseback blocked the road. There were, Philippa supposed, about thirty of them to the mere dozen William had thought necessary to transport his captive. She couldn’t see their faces, but she knew who was there.

  Philippa steeled herself. With this act of rebellion, the gauntlet was cast down. She feared William would be all too eager to pick it up.

  Or more likely, eager to allow others to pick it up for him.

  The young captain brandished his musket. “Stand aside,” he ordered. Only a slight cracking of his voice revealed his nervousness. “This party is on the Duke’s business.”

  “We will stand aside,” came Francis’s calm voice, “as soon as you release the horsemistress. We will take her home.”

  “That’s where we’re taking her,” the captain said. “And we mean to see it’s done.”

  “I don’t think we have quite the same destination in mind,” Francis said.

  William’s captain stood with his legs apart. He held his musket at his hip, pointed at the rebel force. “I don’t know who you are,” he said.

  “I’m Francis Fleckham, Captain,” Francis said lightly. “We don’t want a fight, and we don’t want anyone to be hurt. But we will have the horsemistress, whether you hand her over willingly or under duress.”

  The captain said, “Take aim, men.” Muskets were lifted to shoulders, leveled at Francis’s men. Those who carried smallswords drew them.

  Francis spoke with real authority. “Put down your weapons, men. There are a dozen of you, by my count, and there are thirty of us. We are all men of Oc. There is no need to splash the blood of countrymen on this bridge.”

  “I have my duty,” the captain said.

  “I know,” Francis said with sympathy. “But your loyalty, I’m afraid, is misplaced.”

  One of the other militia, an older man with gray hair curling around his collar, growled something and pulled back the hammer on his gun.

  An answering click came from the darkness, then another.

  The young captain swallowed so loudly Philippa could hear it from where she sat.

  She put her foot on the carriage step and braced herself with one hand on the door frame. She stood on the step, showing herself to Francis and his men.

  The captain whirled to face her. The barrel of his musket looked enormous in the gaslight, but she was more wary of the panic in his eyes. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

  “He’s right, Philippa,” Francis called. “Stay where you are.” He clicked his tongue, and his horse took a few steps forward.

  Every musket rose to point at him, and Philippa sucked in her breath. Francis was fully in the light now, the pale Fleckham hair gleaming like ice.

  The militia gawped as they realized who he was at last. Several of them gasped.

  Francis raked them all with a glance. “Men,” he said firmly, “I advise you to consider your position. Your Duke has made rash decisions and put not only you but your friends and your families at risk.”

  Lord Beeth called, “Have a care, Captain. We’ll do what we have to.”

  The gray-haired man snarled something at the young captain, who hesitated, the muzzle of his musket wavering between Philippa and Francis.

  Philippa said in an undertone, “Don’t do it! Listen to Lord Francis, for your own sake!”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed, and he brought the gun to bear on her again. “Get in the carriage, Mistress,” he said in a flat voice.

  She held her ground. They had hoped, she and Francis and Beeth, to brazen this out without violence. Indeed, it seemed that these militiamen had no wish to take arms against a Fleckham, even if he had gone against the Duke’s commands.

  It was the gray-haired man who worried her. He wore the scars of some sort of fight on his face and hands
, and he looked like someone who would enjoy a battle. Philippa glanced up at Francis. He, too, was assessing the older man, his eyes narrowed and his face hard.

  Francis carried no weapon and had left his smallsword in its scabbard. He urged his horse forward another step, and several of the men with him did the same. The militiamen fell back a step, though the captain hissed at them, “Hold!” Only the gray-haired man did not yield. He swung his musket up to aim it directly at Francis’s head.

  Philippa’s hand gripped the door frame of the carriage so hard the bones of her fingers hurt. The carriage driver leaped down from his seat and scurried for cover behind the frame, where the two footmen also clung, their heads down.

  Francis said, “We mean business, men. This is no idle venture. You can put down your arms, let us have the horsemistress, and the incident will pass.”

  The gray-haired man sneered, “Why should we listen to a younger brother?” One of the other militiamen hissed something at him, and he laughed.

  Someone behind Francis lifted his own musket, and another man drew his sword. Francis put up one narrow hand. “Wait,” he said. “You men listen to me—”

  He never had the chance to finish his thought. The gray-haired militiaman put his musket to his shoulder, and began to squeeze the trigger. The young captain cried, “No!”

  And someone from Francis’s side, a big man on foot with a broad-brimmed hat that flew from his head as he moved, leaped in front of Francis’s horse and smacked the barrel of the musket with his hand, driving it upward.

  The ball, an inch in diameter and lethal at such close range, flew above the heads of the carriage horses, whizzing past the iron balustrade that lined the New Bridge. A distant, small splash sounded when it hit the surface of the river.

  There was the sound of another shot, a dull little explosion with no reverberation. The gray-haired man spun to his left, and fell. The young captain cried a command, and the men with smallswords leaped forward. Another musket fired, and from somewhere a pistol shot. At first Philippa couldn’t move, frozen with horror as the situation exploded, men shouting, bodies falling, the horses snorting and shying so that the carriage jerked hard to one side.

  She felt a hard arm seize her middle and yank her violently backward, just as a musket ball flew past her to smack into the cobblestones of the bridge surface. A hand, just as hard and strong as the arm, pushed her head down, wrenching her neck and banging her forehead on some spongy surface.

  For a long moment it was all she could do to get a breath. When she finally drew air into her lungs, she lifted her head and looked around wildly. She found herself inside the carriage, pressed down between the bench seats, knees and elbows on the carpet that lined the floor. Outside, men howled threats and orders, and there was a clash of metal.

  The muskets, she knew, took too long to reload, so that once they were fired, the men would resort to swords and knives.

  She huddled on the floor of the carriage, trying to take in the fact that Brye Hamley had not only saved Francis’s life but very probably her own.

  IT seemed a long time, but might have been only moments, before the tumult on the bridge subsided, and someone opened the carriage door and helped Philippa out. It was not Brye this time, but Lord Beeth, his face grimy, his boots splashed with something Philippa feared was blood. She stepped down gingerly, looking about her with trepidation.

  There was, she soon learned to her relief, only one death, and that was the one she had seen. The gray-haired man’s body was being rolled into a blanket, and the young captain—his own captain—lifted his corpse and bundled it into the carriage once Philippa was out of it.

  Order reigned on the bridge, and civility, though there were pools of blood on the cobblestones, and several of Francis’s contingent stood with smallswords at the ready, as if at any moment the Duke’s militiamen might change their minds about their surrender. Wounded men leaned against the balustrade while other men tended to their injuries.

  None of the wounds looked serious. The carriage horses snorted alarm at the smell of blood, but their driver was at their heads, soothing them, keeping a watchful eye on the men around him. Philippa’s heart missed a beat when she couldn’t find Brye or Francis at first, but she found them behind the carriage, organizing William’s militia to march back to the Palace.

  Philippa looked into the face of the young captain. Defeat and relief mingled on his pudgy features. His eyes and mouth looked years older than they had a short time before. Dreams of glory gone sour, she supposed. She knew from her own experience how hard death could be on the illusions of youth. Reluctant sympathy stirred in her breast, but she turned away from him. This was no time to go soft, and he would not welcome her feelings.

  Francis strode around the back of the carriage. “Captain,” he said.

  “Yes, my lord,” the young man said wearily.

  “Tell my lord brother that we’re sending you and your men back as a sign of good faith.”

  “That won’t help Digby, will it, my lord?”

  Francis’s mouth quirked at one corner, an expression reminiscent of the crooked smile of his elder brother. “It will not, Captain. But it will help you and the rest of them.”

  “Aye.” The young captain sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “Duke William will be very unhappy.”

  “It’s in the Duke’s power to stop all of this at any time.”

  The captain’s brow furrowed. “Lord Francis, begging your pardon. Your lord brother says this is for a new Oc, with new connections to the Prince and men flying winged horses . . .”

  “Have you seen a man fly a winged horse?” Francis said in a wry tone.

  “Nay. Not yet.”

  “If your loyalty is placed with the Duke on that account, you may regret it,” Francis said. “Now take your man back to be buried, and tell my lord brother all this will be forgotten if he will pacify the Klee and return their daughter to them.”

  The young captain’s lips parted as if he would say something, but he hesitated. Philippa had turned back at the mention of Amelia, and saw this odd gesture. “What is it?” she asked.

  The young man shook his head.

  “Is it something about the Klee girl? Amelia Rys?”

  The captain’s round face was a picture of indecision. He touched his lips with his tongue and looked past Philippa, out into the sparkling swirl of dark water below the bridge. For a tense moment, no one moved, then he said, “I don’t know the girl. Haven’t seen her.”

  Philippa frowned and began to ask him again, but Francis moved on toward his own men, and Brye came up to offer Philippa a horse. Moments later the two groups parted, William’s militia back the way they had come, Francis’s contingent organizing itself for an orderly march back to Beeth House. Two of his men had received minor injuries, and they were mounted on horses for the short journey.

  Philippa shook her head at Brye’s offer of help and swung herself up into the saddle. The horse was a paint mare, her mane clipped close, making her spotted ears look long as a donkey’s. Her neck was heavily muscled and her shoulders sturdy, and when Philippa picked up the reins, the mare took the bit in her teeth as if she was used to a heavy hand. Philippa put a hand on her neck, and said very low, “Easy, there, my friend. Let’s be easy together,” and the mare relaxed, chewing on the bit a little, then releasing it. Philippa patted her withers. “That’s it,” she said.

  They had just reached the far end of the bridge when there was a small commotion behind them. Philippa twisted in her saddle and saw two men in the Duke’s uniform come running across the arch of the bridge. Several of Francis’s men drew their smallswords.

  The two men stopped a little distance away, and a familiar voice said, “Steady there, my friends! We left our weapons with the Duke’s men.”

  Brye Hamley stopped where he was, his fists on his hips, his face under the wide-brimmed hat in deep shadow. “Who’s there?” he rumbled.

  The newcomer laughed. “Take
a blink, brother,” he said. “ ’Tis that glad I am to see you!”

  “Zito’s ears,” Brye said, and a grin spread across his face. “Nick!” He strode forward, and seized his brother by the shoulders.

  “Nay, now, don’t crush me!” Nick said, still laughing. “But I’m thinking Lord Francis won’t turn down two more volunteers.”

  “No, I certainly won’t,” Francis said. “You’re both welcome to join us. For the record, your names?”

  “Nick Hamley.” Nick lifted his cap to Francis, as jaunty a gesture as if he were meeting a new friend in a tavern. “Deeping Farm, the Uplands.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  AMELIA, trembling, listened to the sounds of some sort of fracas on the bridge—the New Bridge, she thought it was called, to distinguish it from the fragile Old Bridge that could take only foot traffic. She and Mahogany and Jimmy had been asleep in their cold carriage house, and they startled awake at the noise.

  “Fighting,” Jimmy whispered.

  “I know. It’s not very close, though.”

  After a time the noise subsided, and Amelia curled again beneath the lap robe she was using as a blanket. Exhaustion reclaimed her before a few minutes had passed, and she didn’t wake again until gray light began to show through the openings in the eaves and around the sliding door. Jimmy still slept, but Mahogany’s head was up, ears turning this way and that, listening. Amelia got up and went to the back door to peer up the hill at the big house.

  There were lights in the windows, and movement in the garden and in the drive leading up to it. She shrank back and pulled the door closed. She needed to relieve herself, but she didn’t dare go outside with militia moving about.

  After a moment, she gave in, and used the far corner of the carriage house, behind the old gig’s sagging axle. Mahogany had done the same, and she supposed in time it would all take care of itself, but it was unpleasant, and she wished there were some other way. When she came back, she shook Jimmy awake, keeping a hand ready to stifle any sound he might make.