The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series)

by Karen Miller

  “Your Grace, they’ll risk the dangers,” Garith said grimly, “if you force their hand. And let but a handful succeed and we’ll not get them back to Eaglerock harbour again.”

  “Without the little trade that’s left us,” Blane added, “the waterfront will wither and die–and as we die so dies all Clemen!”

  “Arthgallo,” Roric said sharply. “Explain to these good men what they don’t understand.”

  Because he was Arthgallo, he’d not thought to change his stained smock or strip off his tatty canvas cap. His dusty hose were saggy and threadbare at the ankles and his right shoe was held together with string.

  “Your Grace,” he said, with a vague attempt at a bow. “’Tis a foolish man who dismisses the plagues and distempers brought to us from foreign lands. Strange indeed are the humours bred in Agribia and Khafur and in the stewpits of Danetto’s city states. Though this pestilence is somewhat mild, I fear—”

  “To no good purpose,” said Ercole, with contempt. “You leeches are all alike. A man sneezes and you cry plague and seek to empty his purse for remedies!”

  Roric looked at Humbert, who stood a little distant. As a rule, that kind of arrogant outburst had his foster-lord growling threats and thumping fist. But this time Humbert said nothing. Might have been an old man, lost to deafness and scattered wits. Hiding dismay, he leaned forward.

  “You think this pestilence a fraud, Ercole? Visit the exarchite hospice down at the harbour, as I have. Watch a child die in blood and agony, as I have. Then tell me again how Arthgallo and his brother leeches do perpetrate a fraud.”

  Discomforted silence. Blane cleared his throat. “You set foot in the hospice?”

  “I did.”

  “A child died there?”

  “Before my eyes.”

  Blane turned to Arthgallo. “Could you not prevent it?”

  “No,” said Arthgallo, staring. “I wasn’t present.”

  “He means in general,” Ercole snapped. “You’re Eaglerock’s most esteemed leech. Why haven’t you done more to cure this outbreak of pestilence?”

  Arthgallo’s thin nostrils pinched. “I do what I can, my lord. I am only one man. Why didn’t you prevent it from spreading in the first place? You and Lord Aistan, here. Since the blistermouth, aren’t you the lords charged with safeguarding the harbour?”

  “We are,” Aistan said, before Ercole could fly at the leech. “But despite our best efforts, this time we failed.”

  Surprised, Roric looked at him. Aistan had argued against closing the harbour. Was he changing his mind? It was hard to tell. Since his return from Cassinia, theirs had been a distant, suspicious relationship. His fault. Humbert was right. He’d been unwise to make accusations of treachery without proof.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, sitting back, “people are dying. Not in their hundreds, I admit, and many who sicken don’t die. Certainly Clemen has been afflicted with crueller plagues in the past. But that’s no reason for us to be complacent. The duchy is weakened. Should the unthinkable happen and another more deadly plague strike our shores…” He watched them swallow fear. “Every one of you remembers what it was like last time. None of us was untouched. We all buried people we loved. Do you want to live through that horror again?”

  Blane exchanged glances with the other harbour men, then heaved a sigh. “You’re determined to do this, Your Grace? Close the harbour?”

  “I am.”

  “And how long will it remain closed?”

  “No longer than needed.”

  “Then we must bow to your good judgement. Your Grace.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You must. And you must also do your part to see the harbour reconciled to my decision. Yours are influential voices. Put them to good use.”

  Another exchange of glances. Blane nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  It was a victory, but their reluctant capitulation left a sour taste in his mouth. One by one he watched them offer their obeisance, and leave the chamber. Arthgallo excused himself to look in on Lindara.

  “Aistan, Ercole,” Roric said, once he and his councillors were alone, “I trust you to see the harbour speedily closed. Be intolerant of mischief. I want no trouble.”

  “You might not want it,” Humbert said, staring after the departing Aistan and Ercole, “but you’re bound to get it. Best you put the castle guard on alert.”

  He already intended to. But he’d snarled at his foster-lord enough for one day. “A wise suggestion. Humbert—”

  “No, Your Grace,” Humbert said, subdued. Reminded of his sons’ deaths, his eyes were bloodshot. “I’m an old man and I’m weary. I’d have a little peace if it’s all the same to you.” Turning, he stamped his way to the throne room’s doors. Then, as he reached them, he turned back. “One last thing. I received word this morning. Berardine of Ardenn is dead. Catrain’s been acclaimed duchess.” He straightened his velvet cap. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  As the castle guard sealed the chamber doors after Humbert, Roric closed his eyes. Berardine dead? Catrain made duchess? Did that mean the regents would let her go home to Ardenn? If they did, what would that mean for Cassinia’s mad prince? According to Catrain, she was Gaël’s sole friend. He had no doubt of that. Nor, remembering them together in the palace garden, did he doubt how much she loved the boy. Two hard losses. He could only imagine the grief she was suffering. If only he could help her. But with Blane so wary of him, these days, Ercole nastily whispering in his ear, he had no hope of smuggling a second letter into Ardenn.

  All he could do was think of her… and hope for the best.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dappled with early-morning sunlight, the autumn-turned woodland glowed gold and tawny and red. The first leaves were falling, oak and beech spreading a fiery carpet upon the damp earth and the damp moss, covering delicate, pale green ferns. Toadstools squatted in the shadows, their red caps dotted cream. The cool, rich air promised snow in winter. Believing it, squirrels scurried, collecting acorns, filling their secret larders for the cold days ahead. Glossy black crows croaked and cawed, congregated in the thinning tree tops. A fox, sly eyes gleaming in its narrow, black-masked face, its rusty pelt thickening, trotted boldly between the trees.

  Settled belly-down along a crooked branch, watching it, Balfre regretted his lack of a bow. But this day, he wasn’t the hunter. This day, he was prey.

  Somewhere to the left, a startled squawk. A clatter of wings. The fox froze in its tracks, head lifted. A flick of its white-tipped brush and it was gone, darted into the tangled undergrowth.

  Balfre grinned.

  Moments later, two men came into sight. Both fair-haired, dressed in scarcely-worn huntsman’s leathers, they moved with clumsy stealth. Their booted feet scuffed and slipped through the bright leaves. Cracked half-rotten, fallen branches. Left an easy trail to follow in their wake. Each man had drawn his sword and his dagger. The dappling sunlight glinted on the bared steel. Stubbled faces tight with trepidation, they kept themselves close and tried to look in every direction at once.

  Balfre waited. Waited. Let them pass beneath his branch. And then, with a sinuous twist, ignoring the pull of the half-healed sword cut in his thigh, let himself drop the length of his arms, hands tight upon the weathered bark, and sent both men flying with a kick each between their shoulder blades. And as they sprawled ungainly, face-first on the damp ground, dropped lightly to his feet, plucked up their dropped daggers and pricked each man in the throat with his weapon’s point.

  “You’re dead,” he told them. “You fucking fools.”

  “My lord.”

  “My lord.”

  They’d dropped their swords, too. Were this a skirmish against Vidar’s men these green shites would be gutted now, like sheep. He pricked the dagger points a little deeper.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Oakford, my lord.”

  “Wallington.”

  “You’re second sons? Third sons? Your fathers are in trade?�
�

  “Yes, my lord. He’s a blacksmith.”

  “I be orphaned, my lord.”

  He snorted. “And you thought you could serve me as men-at-arms in the Marches.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The men’s voices had grown small. Unpricking them, Balfre sat back on his heels. Tossed the daggers so he held them blade-first, and rapped each man hard on his head with a hilt.

  “Had I a month to spare I’d still lack the time to tell you every stupid fucking mistake you made.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord.”

  “D’you mean to send us home?”

  He rapped their heads again, harder. “No. And no.”

  This time, wisely, the fucking fools said nothing.

  Ten new men, Paithan had sent him from his family estate. Like Joben and Lowis, he never sent more than ten. That was the rule. It was important Vidar never noticed any great difference in the number of Harcian men-at-arms riding in the Marches. And that Aimery never realised what his heir was about. Next week, or the week after, some eight or ten seasoned men-at-arms would be sent home to Paithan. He’d put them to good use, training more men-at-arms at home or serving Aimery at Tamwell castle, or himself, or some other impeccably loyal lord. A handful would go to the Green Isle, the ones who could be trusted to keep an eye on Grefin and report what they saw.

  And every man he trained, every man he sent home, was a man he could count on once he was made duke. Since coming to the Marches, he’d trained nearly six hundred men. He planned to train many more. An army of fierce men-at-arms, loyal to Count Balfre and steeped to the gills in hatred for Clemen.

  The two fools sprawled before him were the last of Paithan’s most recent gift. He dealt with them as he’d dealt with the other eight. Lashed each man’s wrists behind his back with thin strips of leather then pinned him between his sword and his dagger, plunged into the dirt at his head and his feet.

  “Stay here,” he told them. “And stay down. Move so much as a thumb’s width and I’ll use you for archery practice.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  His horse was hobbled in a clearing, not too far distant. Retrieving it, he released the hobbles, mounted, and returned to his manor. Waymon was in the library, at the reading table, working his way through an armory report. He looked up and burst out laughing.

  “All ten trussed like chickens? Truly?”

  Tossing his gloves onto a low table, Balfre shrugged. “What the fuck do you think?”

  “I think Paithan might be losing his touch.” Waymon shoved the report to one side and sat back. “Are there no better men to be found in Harcia?”

  Shrugging again, he crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a goblet of wine. “They’re young and strong. The rest we can thrash into them.” He nodded at the scattered pages. “What damage there?”

  “Enough,” Waymon said, scowling. “More than can easily be accounted to the duke.”

  Balfre swallowed wine. Fuck. It cost coin to train men-at-arms. Green men broke swords. They killed horses. They wore out their leathers, snapped arrows, snapped their bones, unravelled mail. Some of those expenses he could slip by Aimery and that sharp-eyed fuck Curteis. And some he could pay for out of his own purse. But not all of them. So, faced with failure, he did what had to be done. Not often. Just often enough.

  It was Waymon who’d suggested it, the first time he realised there were cobwebs in his coffers. When he was forced to accept the harsh truth that without sufficient coin at his disposal, his dreams and ambitions must wither on the vine. Because of that he’d agreed to thieving. And agreed too, there could be no witnesses left alive after. To be sure, murder was distasteful. But a duke–a king–must above all things be ruthless. Be prepared to shed blood in defence of his crown. And he’d killed at the Pig Whistle. Killed a Harcian lord and Harcian men-at-arms.

  Of course, Bayard and Egbert and their men-at-arms had failed Harcia, and in failing had betrayed it. Death had been a fitting punishment. Whereas the traders who came through the Marches were, for the most part, innocent men. Innocent of harming Harcia, at least. It was harder to reconcile the killing of an innocent man. But what choice did he have? He’d needed the coin then. He needed more now. And so another innocent man must die so the reborn Kingdom of Harcia might live.

  Such were the burdens of a crown.

  “Don’t fret yourself,” said Waymon, watching him. “I’ll take care of it. There’ll be traders coming back from the autumn fair at Meckersly. I’ll find one travelling on his own who won’t be missed.”

  He didn’t doubt it. Like every other time, Waymon would neatly slit the trader’s throat and take his purse or coffer and dispose of his body with no more conscience than a butcher. That was Waymon. If he’d learned anything since becoming Aimery’s Marcher lord, it was how right he’d been to choose this man as his companion.

  He drank the rest of his wine. “Very well.”

  Crossing back to the sideboard to refill his goblet, he glanced at the mantelpiece over the hearth. With Paithan’s latest recruits had come letters from Harcia. He’d read all of them save one. Wished he could toss the last of them in the library fire unread, because it was from Jancis. But Aimery would know if he’d not answered her and be angry. He couldn’t afford Aimery angry. His father, clinging stubbornly to life, must at all costs be kept sweet. So, fortified with more wine, he snatched up the letter from the mantel, where he’d left it, and cracked the wax seal. Dropped onto a stool and cast a swift, jaundiced eye over his unwanted wife’s spidery scrawling.

  Aimery was well. The leech Grefin had found for him continued to work wonders. Grefin was well, too, and Mazelina, and their children. She was well. She hoped he was well. Emeline had been poorly. But Aimery’s leech had treated their daughter and the dear child was on the mend.

  That was a pity.

  Harcia was abuzz with tales of plague in Clemen. Aimery, being a good duke, had sent leeches to the towns and villages nearest the Marches border. So far there was no sign of sickness in their duchy. She was very frightened and begged him to take care.

  Yes, yes, he knew all about Clemen’s latest pestilence. Did his fucking fool of a wife think Aimery had failed to warn him? Did she imagine his men-at-arms didn’t know what to do?

  Finally, she said, she would be an obedient wife. Did he want her to join him in the Marches, all he had to do was ask.

  Ask Jancis to join him? He’d hack his balls off with a rusty dagger first.

  Irritated, because she never failed to aggravate, he drained his goblet a second time, tossed his wife’s letter to the flames, then stood. “I’m going out.”

  Waymon smirked. “Izusa?”

  He turned away so Waymon couldn’t see his face. Wouldn’t see the way his blood burned beneath his skin. Izusa. Her name alone was enough to stir him. Sometimes he wondered if he wasn’t half-bewitched. If she didn’t fuck magic into him with every wild thrust of her hips. Maybe she did. What of it? Without her, his self-imposed exile to the Marches would kill him.

  He picked up his gloves, pulled them on. “Wait a full turn of the hour glass, then go and find those fucking turds I left in Bramly Woods. Run them back to the barracks.”

  “Run them?” Waymon pulled a face. “What if they trip over their own feet and break an ankle?”

  “For their sakes I hope they don’t.”

  Waymon sighed. “And then what?”

  “The archery butts,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “Till sundown. And this time, Waymon, don’t let them shoot each other. It’s a waste of good arrows.”

  Hand pressed to his heart, Waymon offered a sardonic, seated bow. “Yes, my lord.”

  “And you can tell them, from me, that any man who doesn’t shoot at least three bullseyes before the sun sinks will forfeit his dinner.”

  “Well, ’tis one way of saving coin.”

  He grinned, even as anticipation b
egan to burn. “Fuck you, Waymon. And finish reading that report.”

  There was a time, Molly remembered, when the roads that crossed just outside the Pig Whistle were thronged day and night with folk travelling in and out of the Marches. When anyone who stopped to listen would hear a dozen different shouted conversations in a dozen different, twisty tongues. When a soul could easily let slip an hour gazing at the foreign faces and the foreign clothes of the traders come to ply their wares wherever folk had coin to spare, and the dust kicked up by their horses and mules and donkeys threatened to choke the air. When folk from the towns and villages on either side of the Marches crossed their borders cheerfully, and nobody here minded too much that they were duchy-folk–so long as their purses were fat. And when them who lived in the Marches went about their work whistling and didn’t fear the Marcher lords and their men-at-arms, or stay locked indoors at night.

  There was a time… but it was five years past. Five years since the bloodshed over the Crown Court that never happened, and nothing had gone right for the Marches since.

  Standing in the crossroads, Molly shaded her eyes and stared down the road that guided a traveller into and out of Clemen. Even a year ago she’d have been taking her life in her hands to stand there. Now the crossroads were empty. The road was empty. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had to turn someone away from the Pig Whistle because all her beds were taken. Or curse herself red-faced because she’d run out of pies. And if that wasn’t misery enough, there was plague come into Clemen. Again. Thank the faeries Izusa had warned her, and told her what to look for in any soul with the taint, and given her secret, special charms for herself and Iddo and the boys, and the Pig Whistle, to keep them safe. She’d not stumbled across any sign of the new pestilence yet. But she’d heard tell of folk touched by it who were caught along the Clemen border of the Marches. Of course, that might be rumour. But if the stories were true…