The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series)

by Karen Miller

  She put down knife and lemon with care. It was important, then. Vidar. Vidar. Please let it be Vidar. “At once? What’s amiss?”

  “Amiss? I know naught of amiss, my lady. Lord Humbert’s not in the habit of confiding in me.”

  Eunise’s snappish reply turned her towards the doorway. Since Vidar’s visit, and that business with his dagger, her former nurse’s manner had been tender as a gorse bush.

  “Very well,” she said. “But you’ll stay here and make certain the cook keeps his fingers off my preserves. Lord Humbert’s in his closet?”

  “Yes, my lady,” said sour Eunise.

  Breathing tight, Lindara made her way from the kitchen to her father’s privy chamber, where he often worked on council matters not concluded at the castle. At its closed door she hesitated. He’d not like to see her garbed like a servant. She should take a moment to remove the coif and apron, find a jewelled caul for her hair. But then she remembered she was cross with him for keeping her caged in the townhouse. She opened the door without knocking, dressed how she liked.

  “You wanted me, my lord?”

  Seated in a wood and leather chair, one hand nursing a goblet of wine, the generous candlelight showed the great Lord Humbert weary. His grizzled beard was finger-tangled, a sure sign of perturbation. Seeing her, he frowned.

  “Why do I pay silver ducats by the handful for ells of velvet when you’d as lief dress like a kitchen drab?”

  “I’m preserving lemons, my lord. Salt and juice will ruin velvet.”

  “Ah,” he said, his voice softening. “Your mother’s recipe?”

  “Of course. And I’ve not finished yet, so—”

  “Never mind your lemons, girl. I’ve something to tell you.” He jerked his chin at the closet’s empty chair. “Sit.”

  Breathing tight again, she obeyed. “How went it with Arthgallo?”

  “The man’s obsessed with leeches,” her father said, scowling. “I’ve lost less blood skirmishing in the Marches.”

  “But you feel better?”

  “I’m not dying. But enough of that. Lindara, I’ve news. You’re to wed with Roric. You’ll be Clemen’s new duchess, and mother to its next duke.”

  “What?” she said faintly. She could hear her heartbeat, pounding in her ears. “Wed with Roric? But–I thought—”

  “Thought what?” he said, staring.

  She was going to be sick, surely. Vidar had failed her. He’d promised to speak with Humbert, secure her father’s blessing, and broken his word. Or his courage had failed. He’d never admit it but Godebert’s folly had scarred him. Now he cared what others thought, when he’d never cared before. But she didn’t. She never would, no matter what happened. So she must be brave for both of them.

  She gave her father stare for stare. “My lord, I can’t wed with Roric.”

  Humbert thudded his goblet to the small table by his side. “You can and you will. It’s been arranged.”

  Just like that. No thought for her. She had to blink hard, to banish the sight-smearing anger. “By you?”

  “Yes, by me. Roric and I agreed on it this afternoon, in the leechery.”

  “The leechery?” Somehow, she found the strength to stand. Her legs were trembling, and her hands. “You bartered me to Roric while you were being fed on by leeches?”

  Humbert’s face darkened. “Don’t you take that tone with me, girl. I—”

  “Did he ask for me? Roric? Or am I to be thrust upon him against his will?”

  “And don’t talk trumpery! Roric knows your value, Lindara, he—”

  “Roric thinks of me as a sister!” she shouted. “I’ve no desire to marry him, my lord. You know who I would wed!”

  Still seated, Humbert glared up at her. “Even before the Marches ruined him Vidar was never good enough for you. He’s the son of a traitor. And blood proves itself. You know it.”

  “I know a man isn’t a staghound,” she retorted. “Or a stallion, or any beast. You can’t judge his worth with a studbook, or by what his father did. Vidar is a good and valiant man and he loves me. Roric doesn’t. I won’t wed him. I love Vidar.”

  With a grunt, Humbert stood. His beard was jutting, an ominous sign. “Weren’t you listening? I’ve made you a duchess. That you’d argue such good fortune only proves you’re too childish to choose for yourself.”

  She put up her own chin, fresh rage smothering fear. “Childish, my lord? I’m eighteen. Four years a legal woman.”

  “Legal to wed,” her father said, his eyes cold. “But until that day you’re in my care and you’ll do as you’re told. Vidar’s denied you, Lindara. Best make your peace with that.”

  Make her peace with it? How could she? Oh, why wouldn’t he understand? “Please, my lord. If you love me, don’t do this.”

  “If I love you?” Humbert roared. “It’s because I love you that I do it! I was ready to abandon my duty to Roric for this marriage. To resign from the council so the likes of Aistan wouldn’t carp!”

  “And what of your duty to me? Don’t you care that I don’t want this? I’ve pledged my heart and soul to Vidar. The thought of wedding Roric makes me feel like a whore!”

  Humbert seized her arms, his calloused fingers cruelly biting. “Has Vidar touched you? Has he breached you? If he has, girl, I swear I’ll—”

  “No,” she said, her voice breaking. “How could you think it? Vidar has his honour, and I have mine. My lord–Father–please—”

  Releasing her, Humbert stepped back. “You prate to me of honour. Of duty. What of your duty to me, Lindara? What of the honour owed to our name? Your brothers are dead. Our house will die with me. The only hope for our bloodline lies with the sons born of your body. And you’d waste our nobility on Vidar? You’d choose Vidar over Roric, the great Berold’s grandson?”

  “I’d choose love! Without it life is a desert!”

  “You know nothing of life, girl! You’re a foolish, featherbrained chit.”

  “I know my mother loved me,” she said, a tempest of tears rising. “I know she’d never forgive you for forcing me like this!”

  Humbert slapped her. “Your mother would never forgive me for letting you marry the crippled, one-eyed son of a traitor! A man who only stood against Harald so he could fill his empty purse!”

  “That’s unfair! You’re unfair!” she said, as the spilled tears flowed down her stinging cheek. “You said it yourself, Harald’s judgement was unjust. Whatever Godebert did, Vidar never—”

  “It was never proven,” said Humbert. “There’s a difference.”

  “Not to me! And if he was good enough to risk in your deposing of Harald, how can he not be good enough to sire my sons?”

  “When it comes to wedding and bedding you, girl, Vidar isn’t good enough to wipe my shitty arse! Love him? One day as Clemen’s duchess and you’ll barely remember his name.”

  “That’s not true.” Half-blinded, she dropped to her knees before her father. Reached out with trembling fingers and touched them to his hand. “Please, my lord. I’m begging you. Don’t make me do this.”

  He snatched his hand away as though her touch were poison. “So I’m cursed, am I? Ailred dead, Collyn dead, and a daughter who cares more for her own childish, passing fancies than she does for the duty and honour owed her sire and her house!”

  “And so am I cursed!” she cried. “With no mother to defend me, and a father who’d sacrifice my happiness in pursuit of his own lust for power!”

  He slapped her again, so hard he felled her. “You’re an ungrateful bitch, Lindara! Defend you? Were your sweet mother here, girl, she’d disown you! Your rank disobedience would break her heart!”

  Her head was ringing from the force of his blow. Sobbing, because she was hurt in body now as well as in heart, she hid her face in her folded arms so her father wouldn’t see what he’d achieved. She heard his breathing harshen as he bent close.

  “Listen well, Lindara, for I’ll not say this again. You’ll wed with Roric, or wi
th no man. The choice is yours. Life in Eaglerock, as Clemen’s duchess, cared for by Clemen’s duke, who’ll deny you no luxury your heart could desire–or a barred, barren chamber in Larkspur until you die of old age, withered and alone.”

  Stunned, she kept her face hidden. He didn’t mean it, surely. Humbert was a hard man, toughened by years of conflict in the Marches, by his great griefs, by the burden of trying to constrain Harald at his worst, but… he couldn’t mean it. He couldn’t do that to his own flesh and blood, his only daughter, the sole child of his body yet living.

  “Don’t test me, girl,” said Humbert. “Don’t think to play my sympathies, like a harp. In the matter of this marriage I’m no more yielding than stone.”

  So. He did mean it. And what was she to do? Short of murder, she had no defence against him. He was the great Lord Humbert. She was his daughter. Every law, every opinion, sat firmly on his side. And clearly Roric was willing to abet him in his bullying. There was no hope for help there.

  “Lindara. I’ll have your answer.”

  She couldn’t defeat him, at least not face to face. Her father might deserve a dagger plunged and twisted in his belly but the mother who’d loved her, who’d taught her how to preserve lemons, would never want her to do it. She’d have to find another way to win. A sly way, a cunning way. A woman’s way, in this world where men’s wants mattered most.

  Slowly, she sat up. Used her juice-stained apron to dry her tears. The sharp citrus scent gave her strength. She breathed in deeply, and felt hatred like acid etch itself into her soul.

  “My lord,” she said, lifting her dry eyes. “All my life I’ve been your obedient daughter. If you decree Roric is a better match for me than Vidar then I’ll bow to your wishes, and wed him.”

  Humbert frowned. “And no more caterwauling for Godebert’s second-rate heir?”

  Caterwauling, he called it. Her desperate cry from the heart. He was a monster, her father. “His name shall never again pass my lips.”

  “Good then!” said Humbert, and held out his hand. He was still stern, but his eyes were warmer. “I knew you’d be sensible. You’ll thank me one day, Lindara. When you’re holding your son, the next duke of Clemen, you’ll thank me.”

  She let him help her stand. “Yes, my lord,” she murmured, her gaze downcast. “And I’m sorry I was vexatious. You took me by surprise with this news. I never thought I’d be Clemen’s duchess.”

  “Nor me,” he said, and laughed. “Fate’s wheel turns strangely.”

  Looking up, she pretended anxiety. “I fear to fail you, my lord.”

  Another laugh. “Fail me? For shame, girl. You only fail me when you’re undaughterly. Promise me you’ll mind your manners and we’ll be honey-sweet.”

  As if she were one of his hunting bitches caught sniffing after the wrong dog. She smiled at him, deceitful, and showed him only what he wished to see: a biddable daughter, brought meekly to heel. “I promise. Now, if you please, I’d return to my lemons.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, briskly jovial. “And as for dinner, you may suit yourself. I dine with Aistan tonight. We’ve council business to chew on.”

  “Then I shall join you for breakfast.”

  “In the morning I must break bread with some exarchites.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll return for you in the afternoon. We’ll see Roric then, together, and you’ll tell him how he’s made you the happiest maid in Clemen.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said, and curtsied. “Thank you, my lord.”

  She closed his closet door very softly behind her. Hurried back to the small kitchen and snatched up her sharp knife. And as she stabbed and stabbed more lemons, imagined the juice they spilled was his blood.

  That night her sleep was fitful, haunted by dreams of betrayal and despair. At last, any hope of rest abandoned, she watched the false dawn give way to the rising sun, then daylight, and while the sky lightened she plotted her revenge.

  “Eunise,” she said, as her old nurse laced her silk-and-velvet striped sleeves to her bodice, “there’s a herbary woman I’ve heard tell of in the township. She has a little shop in Comfrey Lane. I’d have words with her this morning. D’you see that sealed letter on the chest, there? Tell the runner-boy to deliver it, so she might be warned I’m coming.”

  Eunise’s busy fingers ceased their lacing. “A herbary woman, my lady? Are you unwell?”

  “No. But I am to be married, Eunise. And since my first duty will be to give Clemen a healthy heir, I must—”

  “My lady!” Eunise was near to squealing. “Do you marry the lord Roric?”

  Of course the old wretch would be delighted. “You’re not to breathe a word of it beyond these chambers, Eunise. If you do I’ll see you beaten and locked in a cupboard, I swear!”

  Fingers trembling now, Eunise began lacing the other sleeve. “No–I mean yes–oh, my lady! This is wondrous good news! You must be so happy!”

  Yes, indeed. Happy as a man being dragged to the gallows. “I’m the most fortunate of maids, Eunise.”

  “But my lady, what need is there for some untried herbary woman recommended by idle chatter? Master Arthgallo—”

  “Is a man. I’ve no desire to unburden my womanly heart to him.”

  “But—”

  “Eunise, don’t scribble! Would you spoil my morning with your carping? Surely I may be allowed to choose my own physick without you pecking at me like a crotchety hen!”

  Eunise’s sallow cheeks flushed. “Lord Humbert relies on me to—”

  “Lord Humbert scarcely remembers you exist,” she snapped. “And he knows better than to meddle in womanish affairs. Now do as you’re bid. Give my letter to the runner-boy then bring me my breakfast.”

  Defeated, for the moment, Eunise withdrew. Glaring at the closed chamber door, Lindara resisted the urge to stamp her foot like a child. One thing was certain: she’d not take the old baggage with her when she began her new life in Eaglerock castle. As Clemen’s duchess she’d have her pick of ladies to serve her. And when she chose her privy companion she’d be sure to honour a young maid who’d know her place and understand where her loyalties must lie.

  No more Eunise! For that mercy alone it might be worth wedding with Roric.

  Her breakfast arrived as she was pinning her hair into a jewelled caul. Humbert’s brutality had robbed her of appetite but she ate her coddled eggs and warm bread roll with feigned enthusiasm. Afterwards, to kill time, she made lists of what clothing she’d take with her to the castle. Eunise argued with her choices. Of course.

  And then it was mid-morning, and she could leave to visit the herbary woman… who was more than a herbary woman if the whispered gossip were true.

  Comfrey Lane was narrow and shadowed, its shabby shops weatherworn and looking unprosperous. Silently cursing the need for Eunise’s prune-lipped company, Lindara frowned her old nurse into holding her tongue then picked her way along the rain-softened ground till she found the door she sought. The stout timber was splintered in several places, its ironwork pitted with rust.

  “Wait here,” she told Eunise. “Let no one enter till my business is done.”

  Eunise stared at her, owlish. “My lady, I don’t care for this. Lord Humbert wouldn’t like to see you in such a riffraff place.”

  No, he surely wouldn’t. And if she didn’t cozen Eunise the carping misery would tell tales. “Take heart,” she said, pressing her old nurse’s hand. “Perhaps I have been misled, but we’ve come all this way. I’ll know in a few moments if this woman can help me or not.”

  With a reassuring smile, she pushed the herbary door open and stepped inside.

  It took a moment to see in the gloom. Like Arthgallo’s leechery the air was thick with mysterious scents. Some sweet. Some sour. Some almost putrid. She felt her mouth dry as she breathed them in. Her head swam. Her vision blurred. Something hissed from the pooled shadows beyond the few fat, wax-dribbled candles lighting the room. A cat? No. A lizard. Green-scaled and spiny, it blinked orange eye
s and scrabbled sharply curved claws on a jar-crowded bench.

  “My lady Lindara,” said a soft, oddly accented voice. “You are welcome.”

  Lindara strained to see who’d spoken, but all she could make out was a slight figure standing in an archway, draped and swathed in a colourful, clinging fabric. “How did you know—”

  “I have your letter, my lady. You wrote it, yes? Signed it, yes?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. “But—”

  “Then I know you, my lady.”

  “Come out of the shadows. Let me see you.”

  The herbary woman laughed, low and husky. “You are your father’s daughter.”

  “Yes. I am. So don’t—”

  “Peace, my lady,” said the herbary woman. “We have a long road to travel. We should travel it as friends.”

  “Friends don’t hide from each other. Friends share their names.”

  The lizard hissed again. Thrashed its tail. One of the jars on the bench fell to the floor and broke, releasing such a sour odour that Lindara felt herself gag.

  “Silly disdis,” the herbary woman chided, stepping out of the gloom. The fabric swathing her made a slithery sound. “Be unafraid, my lady. Little Shoupa is a pet.”

  She didn’t care about the lizard. Astonished, she stared at the herbary woman. “Where are you from? I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

  The woman smiled, revealing crimson-stained teeth in a delicate face pale as finest Khafuri alabaster. Her dark hair was cropped so short it seemed painted on her skull and her moss-green eyes, large beneath highly-arched dark brows, stared as though she could see into another’s soul.

  “I come from Osfahr, my lady.”

  “The people of Osfahr are dusky-skinned.”

  “Most are, my lady. But some are not.”

  Lindara swallowed. “And why is that?”

  “I cannot say, my lady. Why are some dogs spotted and others plain?”

  She lifted her chin. “Tell me your name.”

  “Tell me your purpose.”

  “I thought you said you knew me. If that’s true then you know why I’m here.”