The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series)

by Karen Miller

  But even so…

  “You know, Balfre, Waymon holds no high opinion of my ability to train green men.”

  “I don’t care what Waymon thinks. Your Marcher experience remains invaluable.”

  “My experience remains a spur pricked to his flank!”

  Balfre’s eyes lit with amusement. “Exactly. When you and he cross swords, the men learn swiftly what it means to fight with passion.”

  “And one of these days I might be teaching them how to die in a welter of blood!” he retorted. “Izusa’s potions, for the most past, kill my body’s pain. But they don’t unmake the damage. One false step, one stumble, and—”

  “Fuck that, Vidar. Lame or not, you’re a brilliant swordsman.”

  “I’m flattered. But—”

  “But what?” Amusement fading, Balfre stared. “You grow tired of your refuge here? You long for a return to Clemen skies? Or perhaps my generosity has become a burden. I’d understand if that’s the case. I have been very generous.”

  Fuck. Awkwardly, Vidar stood. “Balfre—”

  “But I forget,” Balfre said, sweetly vicious. “You can’t go back to Clemen, can you? Thanks to me, Clemen thinks you dead. Which you will be, should Roric learn the truth. How does Sassanine appeal? I’m sure I could smuggle you there in a dung cart with the next shipment of Harcian horses!”

  Mouth dry, skin prickling, Vidar raised a hand. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Does that mean you’ll come with me to the tilt yard?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  With an irritable flick of his wrist, Balfre tossed the last drops of brandy out of his goblet and into the fire. The flames roared, blue-tinged.

  “Don’t fucking apologise, Vidar! Just–do as I ask.”

  Mutely, he nodded. Hating himself. Hating Balfre. Hating Roric most of all, for making him into this helpless, servile thing.

  For over an hour he trained green men-at-arms by the light of a flaming torch. By then he could have wept for the pain in his hip. Noticing, at last, Balfre called a halt to the sparring.

  “See what happens when you make me lose my temper?” he said, too softly for nearby Waymon to overhear. “Now, you’re done for the night. Waymon and I have further business. I’ll see you again at breakfast.”

  Upstairs, alone in his lavishly appointed bedchamber, Vidar sat on the edge of his wool-stuffed mattress and dropped his aching head into his hands. He could still taste Balfre’s brandy in the back of his throat. It held the tang of betrayal. If Lindara could see him, she’d be so ashamed.

  Except I do this for her. For the memory of her. I do this for Clemen, though no one will understand.

  In those first, dark days of hiding, he’d been a wounded beast gone to ground. Grief and rage had consumed him. He’d thought the agony of Lindara’s death would kill him. Thought he deserved no less. Instead of fighting for her, he’d deserted her. Abandoned her to Roric’s loveless bed. He was contemptible. A coward. A eunuch, not a man. Imagining her final hours, the blood, the pain, the fear, he’d reduced himself to a torment of skin and bone.

  Balfre’s ruthless pity saved him. And for a time, as he recovered his lost strength, he’d fed his soul on dreams of revenge. Harcia wanted him? Harcia could have him. Roric had thrown him away. For the price of a safe roof over his head he’d sold Balfre Clemen’s secrets. It was the only way he could punish Roric, who’d married the one woman he’d ever love.

  But then, slowly, surely, as he spent more time in Balfre’s company… listened to him and Waymon talking… lay in bed at night making sense of the hints and whispers all around… he came to understand the breadth and depth of his mistake. Because behind the smiling human mask, Aimery’s son was a rabid wolf with an appetite for conquest. He’d be Clemen’s blood-soaked future if he wasn’t stopped.

  Worse, it became painfully clear that Clemen couldn’t rely on Berold’s bastard grandson to stop him. Disgraced Godebert’s disgraced son would have to stop him. There was no one else.

  A terrible realisation… and easier said than done.

  He had to wait for the right moment. If he spoke now, no one would listen. If he spoke now, he’d die. Roric would kill him, because of Lindara, or Balfre would, for his betrayal. But if he stayed his hand and kept compliant, if he did whatever Balfre asked, he could help Aimery’s wolfish son defeat Roric. And then, with Roric thrown down, he could return to Clemen and heal what Harald’s bastard cousin had hurt.

  It was how he consoled himself, found a way to live with the fact that it was possible to enjoy his life in the Harcian Marches–and even Balfre’s company. Sometimes.

  Standing, he stripped off his fine clothes and crawled into bed. As the relief of sleep closed over him, he breathed out his nightly plea.

  I love you, Lindara. Forgive me. Help me. We must keep Clemen safe.

  “The thing is,” said Balfre, calloused fingers idly roaming, “I almost feel sorry for the old rump.”

  Lying with him in her cottage bed, tucked into the curve of his arm, Izusa pushed a strand of sweat-damp hair out of her face. “Why? Humbert’s your enemy.”

  Balfre chuckled. “I know. But there’s a ruthless streak runs through him that I could use, were he Harcian. Instead, most likely he’ll die.”

  “But not yet.”

  “No. Just like Vidar, he’ll be useful till I’m made Harcia’s duke. Which will be when, Izusa?” With one of his abrupt mood shifts, Balfre pinched her inner thigh. “You said the tainted ink I use to write my letters to Aimery would kill him. You swore it. And still my father is breathing. How much longer must I wait?”

  A dilemma. Nothing Balfre wanted would come to him before Harald’s son was ready. And Harald’s son was not ready yet. So the ink she’d been making was sorcelled to weaken, not kill. To keep Aimery feeble, Balfre eager, and give Liam time to grow.

  And not a word of that truth could she share with Aimery’s son.

  Propping herself onto one elbow, she traced the strong arch of his eyebrow with a gentle fingertip then lowered her forehead to rest on his.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It’s not given me to tell you what you want to know. All I can say is what I’ve said from the start. You will be duke of Harcia… and after that, a mighty king.”

  With a roar of frustration he shoved her out of the bed, then pounded the wall behind him with his fist. Though she was freshly rune-charmed, she felt fear. Magic could fail–and Balfre had a raw power all his own.

  “Don’t, my lord,” she said, touching his arm. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  He pulled her back in beside him. “Fuck.”

  Waiting for his temper to cool, she idled her fingertips on his chest. “You’re unsettled. Has something happened?”

  “Grefin’s wounded, fighting northmen,” he said, after a brooding pause. “If he dies before Aimery I could be named Steward. I don’t want to be named Steward. I need to bide my time, in the Marches.”

  “And you will.” She caressed his lips. “Grefin. You’re frightened for him.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “No. But you are.”

  “He’s my brother,” Balfre muttered. “Whatever our disputes… he’s my brother.”

  He was no use to her melancholy. “Vidar needs stronger potions for his pain. I have some ready for you to take. And more ink.”

  That had him staring. “How do you know what Vidar needs? I never—”

  “I’m a witch,” she said, taunting. “There’s very little I don’t know.”

  Balfre never cared for being challenged. “Witch or not, Izusa, you’re still a fucking woman! Don’t presume to—”

  In one lithe move she straddled him, and rubbed herself against his cock. “I am a fucking woman. Did you want to fuck?”

  Distracted, he seized her breasts. Pinched her nipples. Laughed at her gasp. “Does a dog piss on three legs?”

  She rubbed him harder. “Let me think…”

  His
turn to gasp as his face flushed with desire. “Before the thought escapes me,” he panted. “The slaving raids into Clemen will have to stop. Humbert’s making accusations. Until Aimery’s safely dead I’d not pour oil on his flame.”

  “I’ll stop them. You pour oil on my flame.”

  “Fucking witch,” he groaned, shuddering as she took him in. “Izusa.”

  She finished him quickly, and he left her cottage soon after. The moment her front door closed behind him she hurried back to her small bedchamber and unwarded the baby’s head, where it sat hidden in plain sight on a shelf near the bed.

  “Salimbene?”

  In the open ash box, the sunken eyes shifted beneath their greyish, papery lids. The little rosebud mouth pursed and relaxed. Then its lips parted.

  “Izusa.”

  “You were watching, Salimbene?”

  “I was. You handled him well.”

  A thrill of delight, more potent than a hundred thrusting cocks. “You heard what he said about Humbert?”

  “Baldassare will be told.” The dead lips curved in a brief, sardonic smile. “The loss of ready coin will keep him restive. A good thing for a pirate. I’d not have him made sleek with easy pickings.”

  “Balfre grows so impatient,” she confided. “I fear—”

  “Fear is weakness, Izusa. Be strong. Balfre will wait.”

  Foolish, to show misgivings. She bowed her head. “Yes, Salimbene.”

  “The future ripens in our favour, Izusa. Harald’s son has killed his first man.”

  She looked up. “At last!”

  “Tonight I will send you a dream, Izusa. At dawn you will find the place you dream of and rune it from all eyes save his. You will rune the swords you find there. They belong to Liam and the innkeeper’s son.”

  She trusted Salimbene without question. But swords? If Balfre or Humbert should stumble across the secret…

  The baby’s grey lips stretched in another brief smile. “Your runes will keep them safe, Izusa. Sleep now, and wait for me.”

  “Salimbene.”

  Alone again, she closed up the box and wreathed it in muffling charms. Then she fetched a stained piece of linen from the chest at the foot of her bed. The blood on it belonged to Harald’s son. It was years old, but no less powerful for the passing of time. Taking her dagger, she slashed free a narrow strip of the rusty-red stained linen. She pissed on it, to start the magic brewing, then lay down to sleep… and dream.

  The morning after the slaughter in Bell Wood there were chores. No great surprise, that. The Pig Whistle was full of chores. More chores than customers these days. For once, Liam and Benedikt didn’t feel like moaning about them. Last night’s story telling had been sombre, restful sleep hard to find–and full of blood.

  Since they both hated pot-scouring, they tossed a copper nib to see who’d lose.

  “Rough!” Benedikt called, but the coin landed smooth-side up on the kitchen floor. “Feggit. Be ye fiddling it, Willem? That be four tosses in a row I’ve lost.”

  Liam thumped his brother just hard enough to ache. “Fiddle yourself, pizzle.”

  Molly looked up from scraping carrots. “I’ll fiddle ye both ’less ye get to rolling up yer sleeves. And mind yer tongue, Willem. I’ll have no rough talk from my boys.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “Leastways not where I can hear it.”

  “Iss, Ma,” said Benedikt, to avoid a cuff on the ear. “Ma, since it be a splashy day, can we fish Chibbum Pond once chores be done? Fish do rise something easy in the rain. And ye always do say there b’aint no such thing as too much smoked fish.”

  Lips pursed, Molly started on a fresh carrot. “Be ye wheedling me, Benedikt?”

  “Not wheedling, Ma. Just asking.”

  “Chibbum Pond? No place else?”

  Liam looked at his brother, and his brother looked back. Lying to Molly made Benedikt feel sick, after. She was hinting about Bell Wood. And while the swords weren’t hidden there, they weren’t at Chibbum Pond, neither.

  “No place else, Moll,” he said easily, because he could lie to her all day. “Promise.”

  Scrape, scrape, scrape went Molly’s paring knife. Little curls of carrot skin fell to the kitchen table, soft as snow. Molly’s fingers were stained orange. She never cut herself.

  “When yer chores be done,” she said, not looking up. “But don’t stay gone all day. Be best all round if Iddo finds ye here when he gets back, come dusk.”

  Liam grinned at Benedikt. Sousing Iddo was near as much fun as fishing. And with the day to themselves they’d have plenty of time to take a few fish and talk about sword-work. His fingers itched like fire to wrap themselves round a hilt.

  “Chores!” said Molly, glaring. “Willem, scrub the public-room benches with hot water and soft soap. But if a customer comes, mind, ye’ll put yer bucket and brush aside and serve him.”

  But it wasn’t a local farmer or travelling merchant who cast his shadow over the Pig Whistle’s threshhold. It was Harcia’s Lord Waymon, mud-splashed and reeking of pride.

  “Boy, I’d have words with Mistress Molly. Fetch her.”

  Dropping the scrubbing brush into the pail of cooling soapy water, Liam stared at the Harcian lord. Arrogant shite, he’d never dare that tone of voice if he knew it was Clemen’s rightful duke he spoke to.

  “What words, my lord? Only Molly, she be—”

  Waymon struck him. “Fetch her! Or fetch your head as it rolls across the floor.”

  Scarred cheek burning, Liam dropped his gaze so Waymon wouldn’t see the molten fury leaping inside him. “Iss, my lord. Sorry, my lord. Never meant no harm, my lord.”

  He fetched Molly, then retreated to the shadows between the bar and the kitchen so he could listen to what Waymon had to say.

  “My lord,” Molly greeted him, bobbing in and out of a curtsy. “How might I help ye?”

  Beneath his leather riding cloak, Waymon’s doublet was midnight blue and stitched with pearls. Its sleeves were slashed, showing silk beneath them. He wore a fat drop-pearl in his ear and gold rings on his gloved fingers. His muddy riding boots reached past his knees and his silver spurs glinted hints of gold in the public room’s lamplight. Scowling, Liam fingered his own scratchy, roughspun wool sleeve.

  When I’m a duke I’ll dress like that. When I’m a duke I’ll wear gold and pearls.

  Waymon stared down his narrow nose. “Count Balfre is deep displeased with Clemen. At every turn its duke and lords and men-at-arms seek to do us harm. I think you know this, Mistress Molly.”

  Molly put up her chin. “Lord Waymon, I b’aint any part of what dukes and counts and lords might do. The Pig Whistle be an honest inn, and we keeps to Marcher law.”

  “Mistress Molly…” Waymon smiled, unfriendly, “these are turbulent times. I’d think you would welcome a friend like Count Balfre.” He looked around the public room. “The Pig Whistle is popular, but folk can be fickle. The Marches boast other inns. A few hints from Harcia’s men-at-arms and you might find yourself wanting for custom. And of course life is unchancy. Accidents happen. People die.”

  Liam saw the flinch run through Molly’s stout body. “D’ye be threatening me, Lord Waymon?”

  “You’d take friendly advice as a threat?”

  “Lord Humbert of Clemen, he be a man as offers friendly advice.”

  “No doubt. But I do doubt he’ll lift a finger when your son’s taken for theft.”

  “Theft?” Molly stepped back. “My Benedikt’s no thief!”

  “A mother’s love,” said Waymon, shrugging. “And who will trust it when Count Balfre’s Serjeant Grule swears he saw your son at trespass on his lord’s manor estate, looking to take deer?”

  “But it b’aint true!” Molly cried.

  Waymon sneered. “It’s true if I say it is. And then your son hangs.”

  Sick with rage, with fear, Liam watched Molly tremble. She knew he wasn’t Willem. She knew he was Harald’s son. What if she gave him to Waymon for a promise Benedikt would be
safe? Would she do that? Should he do that? Benedikt was his brother. Could he let his brother hang?

  And then Molly slumped, surrendering. “What must I do?”

  “Whatever I ask,” said Waymon. “Share gossip from Clemen and further afield. The names and privy business of travellers seeking shelter under your roof. And from time to time you’ll mention certain things in passing to men who’ll take your words with them back to Clemen, and into the wider world.”

  “I will,” said Molly, stifled.

  “Remember,” Waymon said, his eyes narrowed. “Your son’s life depends on your obedience and good sense. For should I learn you’ve run bleating to Humbert of this…”

  Benedikt would hang. Shaken, Liam watched Waymon leave. The moment the bastard was gone, he stumbled out from behind the bar.

  “Molly! Waymon can’t do that, can he? Ruin the Pig Whistle? Hang Benedikt on a lie?”

  She turned to stare. “Willem!”

  These days he never could be sure she loved him. Not when she feared him on account of who he was. But–she could’ve given him to Waymon and didn’t. So she must love him a bit. And they both did love Benedikt.

  “Ye can’t let Waymon do this! Ye can’t—”

  “This b’aint yer concern, Willem!” she snarled. “Run along. Catch me some fish. And if ye breathe a word to Iddo or Benedikt I’ll whip the skin right off yer arse.”

  No point arguing. He ran.

  “That feggit Waymon!” Benedikt said, kicking the wet grass as they reached the home wood’s far western edge, which ran up against Froggy Bogmarsh, where folk didn’t go. Where they’d carefully hid the swords. “I wish faeries were real, Willem. Then I could catch one and make it put a chant on him to shrivel his cock black and make it fall off!”

  Liam slung his arm around Benedikt’s shoulders. “I know.”

  “She can’t do it, Willem. She can’t tell lies for Harcia.”

  “I think she has to. She b’aint got a choice.”

  “But what if Humbert finds out?”

  Then there’d be a mort of trouble. Only he didn’t want to think on that now. “He won’t. Who’d tell him?”