The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series)

by Karen Miller

  So much for Harcia’s barn-man, poor bastard.

  The horse that had killed him jinked and jittered in a corner. The thud of its iron-shod hoof against timber sounded as menacing as a sword-hilt pounding on a bossed Harcian shield. Muttering a plea for protection, Roric dragged the dead barn-man out of the way then scooped up the dropped halter. With his wary, smoke-smeared gaze fixed on the snorting stallion, he cleared his dry throat. It was like swallowing gorse.

  “Steady, there, steady,” he crooned. “I’m here to help, so stand steady.”

  Many times in the Marches he’d gentled a warhorse driven wild by the stench of fresh blood and spilled entrails. He had the knack of calming fretful beasts. Dimly aware of raised voices at the front of the barn, of stall doors crashing timber to timber and shod hooves clattering on brick, he eased himself forward until his reaching fingertips met shivering, quivering muscle. The horse half-snorted, half-squealed at the touch on its arched neck, a heartbreaking cry for help, as above their heads the fire ate its ravenous way through the vulnerable barn roof and down its wooden walls.

  “Steady, beast,” he said again, and in a single, deft move slipped the halter over the horse’s head. Then he kicked the stall door wide, stepped back and tugged on the halter’s lead rope. For one dreadful moment the horse resisted, torn between terrors. And then it leapt, like a great stag, through the open doorway and over the dead barn-man, pulling Roric off his feet, tightening the rope around his hand almost to bone-breaking point. With his own great leap he lunged after it, grabbed hold of the halter’s cheek piece, used his body weight to slow the horse’s flight towards safety.

  Outside the burning barn he threw the lead rope into waiting hands, then ran back inside. In those brief moments the fire’s ferocity had increased. He twisted sharply sideways, nearly falling, as another man and horse escaped the inferno. Tried to hold his breath against the stink of burning hay, burning horseshit, burning horse. Whatever great prices the Harcians had hoped for these horses before tonight, they’d have no chance of fetching them after.

  Another wild-eyed horse and its rescuer burst out of the smoke. No time to ask how many were left to save. There was at least one, he could hear the frenzied thudding of hooves against a timber stall. Thankful now for his leather cloak, for the woollen hood he pulled low to his forehead, Roric pressed his forearm to his mouth and nose and pushed through the blinding smoke. A sane man would say he’d taken leave of his senses, risking his life for a horse, but he couldn’t leave a living thing to burn in this place, to burn as helpless Liam had burned.

  Somewhere in the nightmarish smoke-and-fire gloom a voice cried out in anger. “Stop it, you stupid creature! I’m trying to help!”

  Shocked, Roric stumbled. That was a woman.

  “Wait! Wait!” she shouted. “I have to—”

  And then a thump, and a muffled cry of pain.

  “You, there!” he called, turning, half-blinded by smoke. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “Help me! Quickly! The stall door is stuck, I think the heat has warped it!”

  She was in the second-last stall on the left, tugging at the stubborn door with one hand, fending off the panicked horse with the other.

  Roric heaved the door open. “You fool! What are you doing?”

  “What do you think?” she snapped. “I’m saving this horse!”

  He stared down at her, dumbstruck. Not a woman. A girl. Her deep voice had fooled him into thinking her grown. Tall for her age, and slender, she was swathed in a dark woollen cloak, with a thick mass of honey-gold hair, now tangled and sweaty, escaping her hood’s confinement. Her flawless skin was smudged charcoal black, and in the fireglow her eyes were eerily piercing. Crystal blue, the irises ringed a dark grey.

  “Give that horse to me!” he said, finding his voice. “Before it tramples you.”

  It was taking all her girlish strength to keep hold of the lead rope. “I can’t. There’s one more still trapped, and you must save it. Now move, ser, or you’ll be trampled!”

  Shocked anew, he stood aside. It was that or be kicked to the ground. Girl and horse pushed by him. A warning groan, and part of the roof at the barn’s far end caved in, showering sparks and embers. Pitched high above the renewed roar of flame, a scream to freeze a man’s blood and crack his bones to splinters.

  The last trapped horse.

  Men were shouting at him from the barn’s burning doorway, waving their arms, urging him to flee. But he couldn’t. Not yet. His debt to Liam was far from paid… and he could still see the challenge in that reckless girl’s blue stare.

  Staggering, barely able to breathe, refusing to see the ravenous flames, feel their heat, admit the rest of the barn could collapse on him any moment, he searched for the horse. Found it, and felt the tears leap to his eyes. The poor beast was truly trapped, its quarters pinned beneath a burning roof beam. The anguish in its almost human eyes nearly stopped his heart. Sobbing, he kicked his way into the smoke-filled stall. Fumbled beneath the folds of his leather cloak for the dagger on his hip, pulled the blade free… and plunged it deep into the horse’s throat. A twist, a wrenching downward pull, and it was done. Blood gushed, mercifully swift. Sizzled and smoked on the burning wood, the hot ground. One whispery groan and the horse collapsed, released from torment.

  Three unsteady strides beyond the confines of the burning barn and the ruined building fell in on itself. Shuddering, his lungs heaving, Roric whirled about. Fountains of sparks flew skywards, caught in a swirling updraft, despite everything still beautiful. A crowd had gathered in the road to shout and point and keep hold of the rescued horses.

  He seized the nearest man’s arm. Shook it. “The girl! The girl! Where is she?”

  “Girl?” The man boggled at him, confused. “What girl? I never saw no girl. B’aint no girls in this muckery, scunner! You done got yourself knocked on the head!”

  No use arguing. She must have abandoned the horse and run, afraid of getting into trouble. So he’d never see her again. Ah, well. She was only a girl… and the world was full of them.

  Turning at the sound of freshly raised voices, he saw that the Harcian horse-copers had finally arrived to claim their stock and bewail their losses. This was no place for the unacclaimed duke of Clemen. Sliding into the shadows, Roric made himself scarce.

  “Your Grace?”

  Weary to the marrow of her aching bones, heartsick at the losses Ardenn had sustained, Berardine continued to stare through the unshuttered window of the dayroom in her trading factor’s house. It had provided an excellent view of the harbour, the docks… and the chaos of the fire. All the coin her duchy poured into Clemen’s greedy hands, the harbour fees and galley tolls, the warehouse rental, the import taxes, the haulage imposts, the foreign trading levies and poll taxes, and still it could not muster sufficient men and buckets of water to save Ardenn’s warehouses from burning.

  Shame on them. Oh, shame. It was enough to make a grown woman weep. But she couldn’t. She was Baldwin’s wife. How could she disgrace him, betray him, by showing such weakness?

  “I’m sorry. Madam?”

  Turning slowly, because she must not appear eager to look away from the carnage, Berardine raised an eyebrow at dishevelled Master Tihomir. “Yes?”

  “Madam—”

  “Yes, Tihomir. What do you want?”

  Short and portly, he shifted uneasy feet. “Madam, there is a man.”

  She waited for a moment, then raised both eyebrows. “And?”

  Her factor had yet to clean all the soot from his round, fleshy face. Beneath the fire’s lingering evidence his stubbled cheeks were pale. Lines of strain tugged the corners of his mouth into decline.

  “Oh, Madam!” he wailed. “I told no one you were coming, or that you would be my most honoured guest. I swear it on my life. I serve you honestly, diligently, my loyalty is beyond reproach.”

  “That’s for me to decide, Tihomir, not you,” she said, her reply sharp, unhesitatin
g, even as her thoughts raced. Someone had betrayed her presence in Eaglerock. If not the trading factor, then who? “This man. He asks for me by name?”

  Tihomir nodded, miserable. “Madam, he does.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He won’t tell me.”

  “A rude rascal, then.”

  “I tried to send him away,” said Tihomir, his voice rising, cracking. “I told him he was wrong, that you weren’t here. He refused to heed me and–and—” He swallowed, convulsively. “Madam, he is very tall and strong.”

  “Has he a sword?”

  Tihomir shook his head. “No, Your Grace. But he looks no stranger to bloodshed with a blade.”

  She stiffened her spine. Straightened her shoulders. “Admit him.”

  “Madam!” Jaw dropped, the factor stared. “Is that wise?”

  “Look out of the window, Tihomir. Dawn fast approaches and the entire merchant district is still frantic after the fire. Would you have this tall, strong man on your doorstep at sunrise, for all and sundry to see and wonder on?”

  “Madam,” he said, wilting. “But I’d not have you meet this stranger unshielded. Shall I send for our warehouse men, for protection?”

  “The men who failed to notice until it was too late that the warehouses they’re paid to safeguard were on fire? Those men, Tihomir?”

  He looked close to tears. “Madam,” he whispered, and withdrew.

  Waiting for him to return, Berardine repinned her heavy, coiled hair and smoothed the folds of her deep-pink damask dress. Beneath its pearl-sewn bodice, and her chemise, she could feel her skin damp, feel the too-swift thudding of her heart against her ribs. This man… this unknown, inconvenient man… what mischief had he come to make? To whom did he owe loyalty? And how would she foil him? Her belly churned, sickly. But it was too late now for regret, that she’d brought Catrain with her to Eaglerock.

  A hesitant tapping on the dayroom door, which her trading factor had closed behind him. She folded her hands before her and lifted her chin. “Come.”

  The door swung wide, revealing Tihomir and the stranger who’d refused to give his name. Indeed he was tall, and lean, and strapped with militant muscle. Young yet, but clearly mature. He wore a soot-stained, spottily burned leather travelling cloak, thrown back over his broad shoulders. Beneath it his plain doublet and hose showed greatly the worse for wear. His coppery hair, kinked with the hint of a curl, was close-cropped and filthy, stuck to his well-shaped skull with dried sweat. His bronze-brown eyes were red-rimmed, watchful, set a trifle too widely over a crooked, once-broken nose. His mouth was generous, his chin determined. Not a handsome man, but neatly made. There was something teasingly familiar in his looks.

  He met her steady stare calmly. “Madam. Please, be easy. I’ve not come to do you harm.”

  “No?” She nodded at his hip. “Then surrender your dagger.”

  The merest hesitation, then he tugged the weapon from its plain sheath. The dayroom was lit brightly enough to reveal the blade stained with dried blood, imperfectly removed. She heard her breathing hitch before she could stop herself. Furious, she glared at her trading factor, who was staring at the staining blood in unabashed horror.

  “Take that dagger, Master Tihomir, and bring it to me.”

  Fingers trembling, Tihomir plucked the dagger from its owner’s loose grasp and proffered it to her.

  “The blood isn’t human,” the man said, his gaze never leaving her face. “One of the Harcian’s horses was trapped in its burning barn. I couldn’t save it.”

  “So you killed it?”

  He shrugged. The gesture was indifferent. The look in his eyes was not. “They’ll be compensated.”

  “I see. So I’m to believe you’re free to dabble your fingers in the duke of Clemen’s purse?”

  His lips twitched. There wasn’t a hint of fear or deference in him. “You are.”

  Tihomir was still holding the bloodstained blade between trembling thumb and forefinger, as though he expected it to cut his throat at any moment. Taking pity on him, she took it from him. A beautiful weapon, despite the marring blood. Certainly no poor man-at-arms’ possession. Her fingers sat comfortably about its leather-bound hilt and her forearm, taking its beautifully balanced weight, gave no protest at the burden. Its edge was sharp. She could easily imagine it cutting a horse’s throat. Or a man’s.

  Careless, she tossed the dagger onto the seat of the high-backed chair beside her. “And what of my compensation? Ardenn lost a small fortune tonight.”

  “Those losses will be addressed, Madam.”

  “You say,” she retorted, finding herself aggravated by his arrogant certainty. “And who are you to say it?”

  He looked at Tihomir. “Leave us.”

  Though her factor was no fighting man, and the night’s woes had deeply shaken him, he’d not been named Ardenn’s trading representative on a drunken whim.

  “I’ll do no such thing, you sly rogue!” Tihomir said, vigorously indignant. “This is my house and we are in the presence of my great and gracious duchess. I’ll not abandon her to the likes of—”

  “Tihomir,” she said, forestalling him. “You may go.”

  “But, Madam, I cannot—”

  “Tihomir.”

  With a last resentful look at her uninvited visitor, Tihomir obeyed. He left the dayroom door ajar this time.

  To show the man she was unafraid, and in command of herself, Berardine crossed to another chair and sat. Fixed her arrogant visitor with the cold, impersonal look she’d cultivated in the weeks following Baldwin’s death, when every lord in Cassinia assumed she would meekly answer to him.

  “Who are you? And be warned, I shan’t ask you again.”

  “I’m Roric, Duke of Clemen,” the man said promptly. “Though I confess the formalities aren’t yet observed.”

  She blinked. Was he a lunatic, to saunter into this house and make such an outrageous claim? He must be, surely. She wished now she’d sat herself on top of his dagger. Better yet, thought to tuck one of her own down the front of her bodice.

  Clemen’s self-styled duke smiled. “I’m not lying, Madam. Or mad. I promise.”

  It was the smile that eased her suspicion. Easy, unselfconscious, touched with a hint of self-mockery. As though he knew better than anyone how ludicrous he sounded and wasn’t afraid to admit it. Relaxing, just a little, she considered him more closely from beneath circumspectly lowered eyelids.

  This was Roric? The man she wanted for Catrain? This bold, almost insolent, horse-killing, peace-breaking noble bastard who’d spilled family blood for the sake of ambition. Or honour. Or whatever reason had provoked Harald’s bloodthirsty dethroning. This was Roric, the late and widely lamented Berold’s illegitimate grandson?

  Well… they shared the same hair colour. And knowing Berold’s likeness, since a portrait of him gifted to Baldwin’s mother still hung in Carillon’s palace, she could see now that his bastard grandson had the ghostly look of him in the eyes, and the way he stood his ground, unafraid. He wasn’t dressed like a duke, unacclaimed or otherwise. But then, what did a duke wear when fighting fires and killing horses?

  She straightened an emerald ring upon her finger. “An outrageous declaration, ser. You can prove it, I suppose?”

  “Only a fool with a death-wish would pronounce himself Roric, surely,” he said, still amused, “when the lowest man-at-arms in Eaglerock could with one glance say it was untrue.”

  Curving her lips, she kept her eyes cool. “In other words, you can’t.”

  “Berardine…” There was a stout wooden settle pressed against the wall. Roric crossed to it and sat, leaning back, his arms loosely folded. “In my time at Harald’s court—” Some raw memory killed his lingering amusement. Shadowed his gaze, pinched his lips. “My cousin trusted me with letters you wrote to his council. Half-blinded I’d still know your handwriting. And while I’m a stranger to Master Tihomir, I was friendly with Master Locksill, the man he replaced. Your f
ormer factor can marry my face to my name. That is, if the word of an Eaglerock man-at-arms isn’t good enough.”

  Berardine looked at her neatly clasped hands. The change in him, mentioning Harald, was too raw for deception. It set her suspicions at ease. This was indeed the the man she’d come to secure for her daughter.

  “Tell me, Roric,” she said, intending cruelty, needing honesty. “Did you mean to kill the babe, or were you simply careless?”

  Tears sprang to his eyes. “I didn’t kill Liam.”

  “Someone else, then? On your orders.”

  “No,” he said harshly. “The babe’s death—” Biting his lip, he pressed folded arms to his ribs so hard it was a wonder he could breathe. “It was an accident. One I deeply regret.”

  “Do you?”

  “Liam was my flesh and blood! More than that, he was innocent. I would never harm him, or order him harmed!”

  She knew a score of men who could speak those words with that same wounded passion, summon the same touching tears to their eyes, and she’d never believe them. Roric, she believed. The knot of fearful anxiety lodged beneath her breastbone eased. Perhaps she could give Catrain to this man and not feel like a whoremaster selling a bawd.

  “I’d be interested to know how you found me,” she said, letting go the matter of Harald’s slaughtered son. “Don’t say I have a Clemen spy in my court.”

  Roric smiled, briefly. “Blame sharp Clemen eyes rather than shadowy deceit. You were recognised, Madam.”

  “By whom?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She frowned. “You know it does.”

  “By one of Humbert’s men.”

  Sharp relief. She wasn’t betrayed, then. It was a comfort, after a night of much discomfort. “Who else knows I’m here?”