The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series)

by Karen Miller

  It hurt to speak, but he had to. He had to make sure Iddo knew that he knew what was in his black heart. “You wish I’d died.”

  Iddo caught his breath, then quirked a ragged eyebrow. “I wish ye’d never come here. Cut yer finger and ye’ll bleed trouble. I knew it the moment that slattern Alys brought ye under this roof.”

  “Don’t call her names!”

  Iddo took a step forward, arms unfolded, one fist raised. “Keep a civil tongue, brat, or—”

  “Iddo! Iddo!” Molly scolded, bustling in. “Must ye fret the boy now? Go fill the tin tub with warm water. He’ll need a yarrow bath, Izusa says. Then see to that crowd in the public room. We be in for a busy night.”

  Iddo always did what Molly told him, even when he didn’t want to. He left, and Molly bent low over the truckle bed to fuss. She wasn’t Ellyn but she loved him. And he was fond of her.

  “There now, imp, don’t mind Iddo,” she said, her smile trembly. “Ye gave him a fright, is all. Ye gave me a fright too. But never fret. Izusa says ye’ll mend just fine.”

  Of course he would. He was brave Harald’s true-born son. And though he was just a boy now, one day he’d be a man. Then he’d take back the Falcon Throne the bastard Roric had stolen from him… and after that, he’d make the bastard pay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Roric travelled home to Eaglerock from Cassinia with gloomily silent Bellows, all the while thinking of little more than Catrain. The precocious child had become a startling woman. A woman who stirred him, challenged him, in every way his wife didn’t. Couldn’t. Such a mistake he’d made, marrying Lindara. Had he made another, leaving Catrain unprotected and at the regents’ mercy? Perhaps. Though he’d had no other choice. At least now he knew she was alive, he’d not killed her. There was comfort in that. And while she lived, there was hope… even though knowing how she lived, knowing her every breath depended on the regents and their whims, was almost as crushing a burden as the belief that she’d died.

  But while the thought of Catrain kept him sleepless, twisted a dagger of loss in his side, it was far easier to dwell on Berardine’s unattainable daughter than contemplate his contemptuous dismissal by the men who held her prisoner. Or what Humbert would say of it. Or how his council would react.

  Most of all, he didn’t want to face the almost certain truth that he nursed a traitor in his midst… or that discovering the man’s identity was likely impossible. Not when every lord on his council, even Humbert, had at one time or another expressed a keen dislike of Cassinia. And when all of them, united, had opposed any notion of him wedding with Catrain.

  He had no proof of treachery. Only suspicion and the snide taunting of the regents’ steward. It wasn’t enough. Without a confession–which he knew he’d never get–he was powerless. Without a confession he was condemned to live uncertain of his certainty. To spend his days looking into the faces of men who’d sworn him their loyalty and wondering: Did you lie?

  From the start he’d sworn to do nothing that wasn’t in service of the duchy his revered grandfather Berold had served till the day he died. But little Liam had perished, and every endeavour since had crumbled to ash. He’d been right, that night in Heartsong. The babe’s death was an ill omen. Folk who still followed the old ways would call him faery-cursed. And though he, like many men, had let his tenuous belief in the old ways lapse, when grief and doubt plagued him, when every good intention soured to bitter failure, it was easy to believe he had angered the unseen powers.

  His task now was to learn how he might appease them.

  Foul weather dogged every cantering stride from the Prince’s Isle to the Rebbai coast. The sea crossing from Gevez to Eaglerock was a misery of wind and rain and battering waves; the elements so harsh they even kept pirates at bay. He and Bellows between them heaved up most of every meagre meal they ate. Blane’s sailing master wanted to turn back to Gevez. Only the harsh truth that they’d come more than halfway stopped him.

  After four heartstopping days and nights, the weatherbeaten cog sailed into Eaglerock harbour at dusk, just before the evening curfew. Roric’s salt-stung eyes blurred at the sight of Eaglerock castle looming over the township. He’d take its rough-hewn strength over Cassinia’s elegantly refined prince’s palace any day. Alerted by pigeon-message of their departure from Cassinia, Master Blane waited to greet him on the almost deserted, torchlit dock. Cautiously swathed in a woollen robe and hood, the merchant took one look at his duke and winced.

  “Your Grace. ’Tis good to see you safely home. If you don’t mind me saying, I think you’d be wise to wait for darkness before you return to the castle. You’re welcome to come and sit with me a spell. Take in some good strong wine, eat a hot pie.”

  Roric dragged a hand down his weary, heavily stubbled face. Desperate as he was to reach Eaglerock, the merchant was right to advise caution. “I’ll do that, Blane. Thank you.”

  “’Tis no trouble, Your Grace. Besides, I’ve news to share.”

  Blane’s grimace sent his spirits plummetting. “Not good news, I take it.”

  The harbour curfew bell sounded; deep-throated bronze strokes bouncing off warehouse walls and echoing over the rippled water. Work might continue throughout the salt-scented night on board the tethered cogs and galleys, in the warehouses and their offices, but not until daylight would more boats be welcome at the docks.

  “It could be worse, Your Grace,” the merchant said, once the bell fell silent. “Though it’s true I—” Recalling they weren’t alone he frowned at Bellows, silently waiting a few steps distant. “Be off home with you, man. We’ll talk by and by.”

  “Bellows.” Roric turned to his erstwhile companion. “You have my thanks. And my help, if ever you should need it.”

  Bellows bowed. “’Twas my honour to serve you, Your Grace.” Another bow. “Master Blane.”

  “This way, Your Grace,” Blane said, gesturing. “Let’s have you away from prying eyes.”

  Settled beside a glowing brazier in the merchant’s cluttered, lamplit trading office, with the promised wine and pie to fill his raw, empty belly, Roric listened with growing despondency to the man’s brisk tale of Clemen’s most recent woes.

  “So as I said, Your Grace,” Blane finished, rising from his chair to refill his duke’s goblet, “matters could be worse. True, we’ve lost Lord Wido, and still might lose Lord Jacott, so rumour has it. But by the skin of his teeth, Humbert’s kept peace in the Marches and dealt the curs’t Harcians a bloody fright.” He sat again. “Which is better than the Harcians being able to crow a victory over us.”

  Roric hid his dismay with a deep swallow of wine. Fresh trouble in the Marches? So much for brokering a peace with Harcia. Had Humbert been right, then? Was Aimery’s overture of friendship no more than a feint, a deception, meant to cozen him into complacency? He’d believed Harcia’s duke was sincere. Had intended to meet secretly with his younger son, Grefin, so they could talk face-to-face about the future of their duchies. Now it would seem he’d been played for a fool. Just as Cassinia’s regents had played him. So who was he? Roric the bastard, a man with more hair than wit.

  Feeling Blane’s stare, he looked up. “You keep yourself well informed.”

  “I must, Your Grace. My livelihood depends on it.”

  And what was that? A subtle reminder that dukes weren’t the only men with power? As if he needed one when he was still smarting from his harsh schooling at the regents’ arrogant hands.

  The brazier’s heat was starting to wane. As he fed it more rough-hewn lengths of wood, Blane glanced sideways. “And you, Your Grace? How did you fare in Cassinia?”

  Roric swallowed more wine. He couldn’t afford a bald lie. Not when the merchant would surely winnow all he could from Bellows.

  “Not as well as I’d hoped. But neither am I bereft of hope. Clemen and Cassinia are too strongly tied for any permanent estrangement.”

  A man well-used to masking himself, Blane kept his composure. But not even he coul
d hide all his disappointment. “So you did make progress, Your Grace? Clemen’s merchants can expect more fairness and less uncertainty from Cassinia’s regents?”

  “Blane…” He smiled, apologetic. “My lords of the council would take it most amiss did I discuss matters of state with you before them.”

  Sitting again, the merchant raised his hands. “Indeed they would, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

  “Of course.” Time to shift the subject. “You didn’t say if Lord Humbert was returned from the Marches.”

  Blane slapped his knee. “No more I didn’t. Yes, Your Grace, he’s back. And a grand welcome Eaglerock gave him. ’Twas a warming sight, to see so many smiling faces. There being so little to smile at of late.”

  Another sly dig. What else did it say of him, that a mere merchant felt safe in his prodding? Was this proof of another mistake? In trying so hard not to be Harald, did he give the impression to men like Blane, to his council lords, yes, and Aimery of Harcia, that Roric the bastard needn’t be feared? Or even respected? Well, if he did, then more fool him. And shame on him for not following Berold’s example.

  After the Marches and Cassinia, that must change. He must change… or lead Clemen to its destruction.

  Glancing at the sliver of uncovered window, Roric saw that night had well and truly fallen. He stood. “Thank you, Master Blane. Your service and your discretion won’t be forgotten. But I’d beg one last boon. Have you a horse I can borrow? I’d rather not walk to the castle.”

  Yes, there was a horse. Obscured by his leather riding cloak, keeping its hood pulled low, Roric returned to Eaglerock. The stable staff knew better than to fuss at the sight of him but there were raised eyebrows and wide eyes. After warning the stable master against idly tattling tongues, he slipped into the castle by way of a double locked, tree-hidden postern gate to which only he and Humbert held the keys.

  Humbert.

  After hearing Blane’s news, finding his foster-lord swiftly was paramount. Never mind he was exhausted, filthy, desperate for a bath and a bed that kept still. Never mind he was aching to the marrow of his bones.

  “Your Grace!” Mouth open, his favoured steward Nathyn gaped. Looked up and down the stone corridor outside his chamber, one hand groping for the wall. “When did you–how did you–I wasn’t told—”

  Roric slapped the man’s arm. “Never mind that, Nathyn. I’d know Lord Humbert’s whereabouts. Is he in Eaglerock, or at his town house?”

  “Oh.” Nathyn’s amazement melted into consternation. “Your Grace, Lord Humbert sits with the duchess. I am sorry. Her Grace is unwell.”

  “Unwell,” he said blankly. “What do you mean?”

  “Her Grace has been bedbound for some days, my lord.”

  Days? Lindara had been suffering for days. While he dreamed of Catrain, pining for what might have been. Turmoiled with guilty confusion, he cleared his throat.

  “Bedbound why, Nathyn? What ails her?”

  “I don’t know the cause of it, Your Grace. There is a purging of her bowels and–and—” Nathyn swallowed. “Her womanly parts.”

  He felt the world tilt. “Is my wife in danger?”

  “Your leech, Arthgallo, says no, Your Grace, but—”

  Not waiting for the rest, he abandoned the steward and ran. By the time he reached Lindara’s apartments he was breathing hard and close to staggering. When he nearly fell into her candle-bright dayroom, her flock of attendants gasped and dropped their tapestries. Nodding at them, far beyond vapid pleasantries and protocol, he threaded his way across the room, scattering Lindara’s ladies like a fox amongst a flock of hens.

  Humbert, drowsing in a chair by the bedchamber’s shuttered window, jerked awake as its door closed. Straightening slowly, he stared.

  “Roric!”

  A maid he didn’t recognise was on a stool beside the bed. She stood, and dropped a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  Another nod, but his gaze was fixed on Lindara. Chalky pale, she lay like a wax doll beneath the squirrel-skin coverlet drawn up to her chin.

  “What happened, Humbert?”

  Humbert creaked to his feet. Snapped his fingers at the maid. “Wait outside.”

  “My lord,” she said, and quietly withdrew.

  “Humbert.”

  “Don’t fret, boy,” Humbert growled. “Arthgallo swears she’ll come right.”

  “So Nathyn said. What happened? Is it a pestilence?”

  Humbert tugged at his beard. “No. No. Not a pestilence.”

  He knew that uneasy tone, and the way Humbert tugged his beard when he was perturbed. Or defensive. “My lord, I’m in no mood for shibbling.”

  “Fine. The girl and I had words, after you left,” Humbert snapped. “I lost my temper, accused her of not doing enough to bear your son. Which is only the truth, boy, like it or not. So when my back was turned she swallowed some fool herbary she thought would ripen her womb. Instead it made her sick.”

  His legs watery, all of a sudden, Roric took hold of the bed’s carved corner post. “You had no right.”

  Humbert jerked up his chin. “I have every right. She’s my daughter.”

  “And I’m her husband!”

  “Roric—”

  “No. Humbert, I don’t care if you meant well or not. You over-stepped. My marriage is a private matter.”

  “And your lack of an heir is a public concern! Do you deny it?”

  How could he, when he’d added his own voice to Humbert’s and the rest of the council’s every time they broached the same fears to childless Harald? Besides. He lacked the stomach for an argument now.

  “No, my lord. But I’ll thank you to clap tongue the next time you feel an urge to meddle. This is painful, Humbert. Please, leave us to find our own way.”

  Arms folded, Humbert glowered. “All right–if you swear to me you’ll give yourself over wholly to Arthgallo. No more mimbling prevarications. Let him leech you without reserve.”

  “I do now!”

  “You do not and we both know it. Roric, the day you took the Falcon Throne you surrendered your body to Clemen. As one of Clemen’s keepers, I tell you I’ll not be denied on this. I’ve looked the other way for too long. The duchy must have its heir. You’ll give Arthgallo free rein.”

  Roric stared at the floor. It did no good to resent Humbert’s high-handed manner. This was his life. Lindara, his wife. Catrain was a dream and wanting her a childish yearning. For his sake, and for the duchy, he had to accept the harsh truth.

  “There’s something else,” Humbert said. “After you left for Cassinia—”

  “I know,” he said, looking up. “The Marches. Blane told me.”

  “Blane? That poxed, dribble-tongued—”

  “Never mind cursing him! What does it matter how I found out? Humbert, how did that business with Harcia turn so bloody so fast? And why did you come back to Eaglerock so swiftly? If Wido’s dead and Jacott’s crippled, who is—”

  “Vidar,” said Humbert, challenging. “I left him behind as Clemen’s Marcher lord.”

  “Vidar?” He stared, astonished. “Humbert, have you gone mad?”

  “I have not. Roric—”

  “No, truly, are you moonstruck? Explain yourself!”

  “Not here,” Humbert said quickly, his gaze shifting from Lindara to the closed chamber door. “Arthgallo’s leechery. There’s something you must see.”

  “Now?”

  Humbert snorted. “No, boy. Next full moon.”

  He wanted to argue. He wanted to fall face-first into sleep. But if he knew what Humbert’s beard-tugging meant, he also knew that look in his foster-lord’s eye. It was the same look he’d seen the night Humbert had taken his arm and whispered, “Come with me, Roric. We must talk about Harald.”

  Releasing the bed post, he moved to Lindara’s side and bent to kiss her pale, cool cheek. So frail, she didn’t stir. Illness had smeared shadows beneath her closed eyes. But the tight dissatisfaction in her face, caused by his failure to make her
happy was smoothed away. Beneath the marks of suffering he could see again the woman he’d married. The girl he’d grown up with under Humbert’s fostering roof.

  This is my fault. If I hadn’t failed Liam, let him perish in fire, she’d be happily married elsewhere. And I’d be what I was meant to be: a caretaker duke.

  “Humbert, are you certain she’ll recover?”

  “Arthgallo is. But she’ll be weak for a time. She’ll need careful handling.”

  “She needs more than that,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “And I’ll see that she gets it. I’ve been a poor husband. I must put that right.”

  Impatient, Humbert gestured at the closed door. “Roric—”

  “I know,” he said. “Arthgallo’s leechery. Let’s go, then. And I’ll tell you what I learned from Blane on the way.”

  “Your Grace! Lord Humbert!” Arthgallo straightened his canvas skull cap, askew on his head, then smoothed the front of his singed, stained smock. “This is a—” His expression sharpened. “Her Grace? Is there some change? Do you need me to—”

  “No. My daughter sleeps still,” Humbert said, casting a frowning look up and down the leechery’s laneway. Its other doorways remained dark, windows shuttered, no lamplight behind them. “We’re here on–that other matter.”

  “Ah!” Stepping back from his leechery door, Arthgallo beckoned. “Come in. Come in. We’re quite alone.”

  With a nod at Arthgallo, Roric entered the leech’s arcane world. The candle-yellow air within was thick with fresh, peculiar stinks and the throat-tickle of lingering, greasy smoke. He coughed. Coughed again. Startled as Arthgallo took hold of him, without permission, and pushed him towards the nearest puddle of light.

  “The door, if you please, my lord Humbert,” the leech said. “Drop the bar across it. We don’t want to be disturbed. Now, Your Grace–let us have a closer look.”

  No use protesting. Arthgallo rarely heeded protocols and Humbert would only tell him to clap tongue. So in silence he bore the leech’s poking fingers and muttered comments.

  At last Arthgallo finished. Puffed out his sunken cheeks. “For shame, Your Grace. This will not do. You are underfed and underslept and—” His gaze slid towards Humbert. “—and as the leech charged with your good health, I tell you it will not do.”