Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  And Francis. At the thought of Francis, his ghastly wound, the blood and the pain and the worry, her throat closed.

  Kathryn touched her arm. “Eat, Philippa. You’re all bones.”

  Philippa nodded. She did her best to swallow away the tightness and resumed her meal.

  LARKleft the dining room with the other girls, and crossed the courtyard to the stables. She spoke to Tup as she passed, but went on to Winter Sunset’s stall. Mistress Winter had gone straight to her apartment, looking as if she could sleep for a week. Lark murmured to her as she walked by, “Leave your mare to me, Mistress,” and received a nod of thanks.

  She found Winter Sunset content, sleepily munching the last of her grain. There was water still in her bucket. Lark brought a pitchfork and cleaned the stall a bit so she would have perfectly fresh straw to rest on if she decided to lie down. “Tired, aren’t you, girl?” Lark said. “Lovely brave, you were. Such an adventure.”

  She patted Sunny’s smooth neck and left her drowsing in a corner. She had just reached Tup’s stall when she heard Petra Sweet’s nasal voice. “Truly, Miss Rys,” she was saying. “I do think it shows bad judgment to make the goat-girl your sponsor.”

  “Goat-girl?” Amelia asked. “Do you mean Lark?”

  Petra sighed. “Oh, yes, Lark. With her crybaby horse and that perfectly filthy little goat.”

  “Filthy?” Amelia said in a colorless tone.

  Lark was on the point of marching around the corner to confront Petra, but she stopped with one hand on the stall gate. Molly came and gazed up at her, her little beard trembling in anticipation of a treat. Tup turned his head toward Petra’s voice, ears pricked, listening.

  Petra dropped her voice confidingly. “You know, she’s only an Uplands farm girl. Hardly the thing for the Academy. And her colt—he’s not really of the bloodlines. Anyone can see he’s crossbred.”

  There was a pause. Lark caught her lip between her teeth, not knowing whether to dash out and demand Petra apologize or wait to hear what Amelia Rys would say.

  At last, Amelia spoke, with a clarity to her tone that reminded Lark of the Baron. “One so often finds crossbreeding energizes the line, doesn’t one?” Petra seemed to have no answer for that, and Amelia went on, “Horses, dogs, even people .” Lark heard the slight emphasis on the final word. “As my lord father so often says, every family needs fresh blood now and then.”

  “W-well,” Petra stammered. “I suppose . . . of course, Baron Rys . . . I mean to say, there are standards

  . . .”

  Amelia laughed, lightly, noncommittally. “Oh, standards,” she said. “When I left Klee, standards for ladies meant skirts a rod wide and hair teased up to the ceiling. I’m so glad not to be subject to other people’s standards.”

  There was a rustle of feet in sawdust, and Lark, her cheeks burning, hurried into Tup’s stall, closing the gate behind her. She busied herself with a hoof pick, searching for a nonexistent stone so as not to be caught eavesdropping. She waited what she thought was a safe interval, then straightened. Molly stood inside the gate, looking up at Amelia Rys.

  Amelia put both elbows on the gate. “Do you know, Black,” she said. “I do believe that is the cleanest little goat I have ever seen.”

  PHILIPPAwoke early the next morning to a world so dark at first she thought it must still have been night. She went to her window, wrapping her quilt around her against the cold, and sat in her armchair, where she could look out into the peaceful courtyard of the Academy. Never in her life had she been so glad to be home.

  The floor was cold, and she tucked her bare feet up under her to keep them warm. She let her head fall back against the cushion and gazed out at the wintry scene. Intermittent snowflakes dashed themselves against the glass, and the clouds were so low it seemed if she leaned out of her window she could touch them. The paddocks were still under their pristine covering of snow. Nothing moved in the courtyard or the stables, not even an oc-hound.

  It suddenly occurred to Philippa that Bramble had not come to greet her the day before. She frowned and sat up again, the last of her drowsiness gone. Perhaps, before breakfast, she would just run across to the stables, check on Sunny, make sure that Bramble was there.

  She dropped her quilt where it was, and hurried to dress. She wore her thick wool stockings, as if she were going to fly, and a warm vest beneath her tabard. She wound her hair hastily into the rider’s knot.

  When she was dressed, she tiptoed downstairs. The other horsemistresses were still in their apartments.

  The lamps were not yet lighted, and the Residence was cold and quiet at this early hour. She heard Matron just beginning to move about in the small kitchen beneath the stairs.

  She could have gone in and asked for a cup of tea, but she decided to wait. The question of Bramble troubled her. She pulled on her riding coat as she went out into the snow, not bothering with her cap, and strode across the icy cobblestones to the stables.

  The smell of horses and hay and leather greeted her on a gust of warm air as she went in. She didn’t see Bramble, but she slowed her steps, savoring the sensations. “Kalla’s heels, it’s good to be here,” she said aloud as she strolled down the aisles, nodding to the beautiful creatures in the stalls, sorrels, grays, bays, and duns, all groomed and blanketed, their precious wings carefully wingclipped against undue harm.

  Their ears flicked toward her as she passed, and their eyes glowed with recognition. Larkyn’s Black Seraph made his little whimpering cry as she came near, and Philippa paused at his stall.

  He crossed to her, and pressed his muzzle into her hand. “You little rascal,” she said fondly. “You’re the most vocal horse I’ve ever met.” She caressed his satiny cheek with the backs of her fingers.

  A step behind her made her turn so quickly she almost lost her balance.

  “He is a noisy one, isn’t he?”

  Philippa felt her cheeks burn with an unaccustomed flush. “Why,” she exclaimed. “Master Hamley! You are the very last person I expected to see here!”

  He kept a careful distance from the stall, so as not to upset Black Seraph, but he bowed, and she remembered how oddly elegant a picture he made, though he was such a big man. “My sister must be that glad to see you back, Mistress.”

  Philippa ran her hands over her hair and wished she had taken more pains with it, or at least rubbed a little cream into her skin. She gave a rather embarrassed laugh. “I’m glad to be back, myself, Master Hamley. But do tell me what brings you to the Academy—and why you’re in the stables so early!”

  “Having a blink at Lark’s little black, there,” he said. “And wanted to see Lark once again before I go back to Deeping Farm.”

  “Did you come all this way to see her?”

  “Nay, Mistress. Trouble with His Grace, I’m afraid.” Brye Hamley glanced about him, but no one else had come in yet. “I came here yestermorn. Hoping to find you, as it happens.”

  Philippa found this so unlikely she could think of no answer.

  He nodded, as if in understanding. “Thought perhaps you could speak for me, in the Council Rotunda.”

  “Oh, Brye,” she said, abandoning formality in their shared trouble. “William didn’t try to confiscate Deeping Farm after all!”

  “He did.” Brye folded his arms and leaned against a support post. He appeared to be perfectly at ease in the stables. But then, he was a farmer. He would be at ease here.

  He went on, keeping an eye out for anyone who might overhear. “Had a spy in our bloodbeets crew.

  The Duke knows now, I fear, that Pamella doesn’t speak. Not long after that man left Willakeep, got the summons from our prefect.”

  “And the charge was interfering with the bloodlines.”

  “Aye. Mistress Morgan asked Lord Beeth to stand up for me among the Lords, and he was kindly ready to do so. But Duke William didn’t show. The charge is postponed.”

  “The Duke wasn’t there? Does anyone know why?”

  “
Nay.” In typical Uplands fashion, he apparently felt this needed no elaboration. He straightened and put his hat on his head. It was a winter hat, boiled wool, with a neatly turned brim. His eyes looked deep and dark in its shadow. “Best I be going, Mistress. The mail coach is to stop for me out at the road.”

  “Do you not care to breakfast first?”

  He paused, and then shook his head. “Nay. Just a blink at Lark.”

  “I hear the girls coming out now. We can go and find her.” As they turn to go out of the stables, Philippa remembered what had drawn her here so early in the first place. “A moment, please, Brye,” she said.

  Said glanced around, looking for Bramble. She called her name, and heard a little yip of response from the tack room.

  By the time she had opened the door, and found the oc-hound on her bed of blankets, Herbert had joined her. Brye Hamley seemed to take in the situation at once, and strode across the tack room to kneel beside the dog.

  Herbert said, “Someone cut her, and bad enough it was.”

  Philippa crouched beside the dog’s head. “Bramble! Who would do this to you?”

  She whined a little, and thumped her tail. Philippa stroked her, and her fingers encountered something soft beneath her neck. “What’s this?”

  Herbert cleared his throat. “Well, Mistress . . . I stitched up her wound, with Larkyn’s help. And then Larkyn thought—well, she wanted a fetish, and Rosellen had left this one. I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

  Byre Hamley was carefully lifting the bandage from Bramble’s neck, smoothing long silky hairs away from the wound to examine the stitching. Under his careful ministrations, she laid her head down again, and sighed. “Good job you made of this, sir,” Brye said.

  Herbert nodded. “Aye. Bad business.”

  “’Twill heal fast. The stitches can come out soon.”

  “Aye. I thought the same.”

  Philippa said, belatedly, “This is Larkyn’s brother, Herbert. Brye Hamley, of the Uplands.”

  The two men nodded at each other, then Brye smoothed the bandage back over Bramble’s wound, and tied it deftly around her neck. He let his fingers linger on it, just for a moment, looking down at the dog.

  When he looked up, the anger in his face was so intense Philippa almost gasped.

  “If I knew who did this—” he began, then stopped. His jaw worked, and he stood up in a sudden, fluid motion. “I don’t hold with hurting animals,” he said, his eyes on Bramble.

  “Aye,” Herbert said. “But we can’t prove nothing.”

  Brye’s eyes, not violet like Larkyn’s, but the dark blue of a winter sky, met Philippa’s. “Dark days for Oc,” was all he said.

  She could only shake her head. He was right, of course. And she would never want that look of fury turned her way. But as they walked together out of the stables, it was the tenderness in his big hands she remembered, the precision with which he had touched Bramble’s wound, replaced her bandage. Not for the first time, she thought how fortunate Larkyn was, though motherless and fatherless, to have been brought up by such a man.

  Philippa caught sight of Larkyn coming out of the Dormitory, and called to her. She stood back as the brother and sister said their farewells. She watched Brye Hamley stride out of the courtyard and down the lane a moment later. His heavy boots stirred the snow as he walked, and his shoulders soon bore a frosting of snowflakes.

  “So strange, Mistress Winter, isn’t it?”

  Philippa looked down to see that Larkyn had come to stand beside her. The girl waved one last time to her brother, and he touched the brim of his hat. “What’s strange, Larkyn?”

  “That the Duke made Brye come all this way, then didn’t appear in the Council.”

  “Ah. That.” Philippa turned to go to the Hall, suddenly as hungry as the girls always were. “Yes. Well, let’s just be grateful. Put it out of your mind for now, Larkyn. You have work to do.”

  She tried to follow her own advice, but it was hard. She kept wishing she had been present in the Rotunda, to see how this Uplands farmer fared. She had an idea that Brye Hamley would be just as poised, just as sure of himself, among the Lords of the Council as he was kneeling on a dusty floor beside an injured oc-hound.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  WILLIAMfelt as if his whole world had become one of the smell of horses, the crunch of straw, the taste of sawdust. He stayed in the filly’s stall day and night, watching her suckle, seeing her begin to strengthen. Her slender legs steadied, and her coat of puppy fur thickened. He summoned Jinson when the stall needed mucking out, but otherwise no one came near the foal except her dam and himself.

  The dam, being wingless, accepted William’s presence. The foal, however, was wary. He saw her nostrils widen when he approached her, heard the intake of her breath as she sniffed at him. He kept a careful distance. He didn’t want a disaster like the last one.

  He sent Jinson to fetch Slater, and when he arrived, he ordered, “Slater! Get to the apothecary. Tell him to make it stronger.”

  Behind Slater, Jinson frowned, but Slater only grinned, showing his snaggleteeth, and said, “Aye, me lord. Back in two hours, then.”

  “M’lord,” Jinson said, when Slater had gone out into the snow. “D’you think that’s wise?”

  “It’s not a question of wisdom,” William said. “It’s a question of courage.”

  “But, m’lord, you—the changes—”

  “Poor Jinson. You just don’t understand, do you? I’ve had a bellyful of those horsemistresses and their monopoly. Men like you will praise my name one day.”

  “Your Grace, the risk—”

  William made an exasperated noise. “That’s enough, Jinson. When I want your views, I’ll ask for them.

  Now get me some food, and a bottle, port, or brandy. Both.”

  Jinson did as he was ordered, but to William’s irritation, he was not done making suggestions. He stood in the aisle outside the stall, a covered plate in his hands, a bottle under each arm. “M’lord,” he said, with evident diffidence, “the foal should have a dog with her, an oc-hound. Then you can—”

  “Not yet,” William said. He took the plate and set the bottles in the straw. “Now go. I won’t need you for a while.”

  “But, Your Grace, if she has a dog for a companion, you don’t have to—”

  “Damn you, Jinson! Don’t you see how important this is? Do you want another dead foal?”

  Jinson’s look of misery at this made William want to throw one of the bottles at his head. “Oh, Zito’s ass, Jinson, leave. Let me do what needs doing.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Jinson said. He walked away, shoulders slumping, feet dragging with reluctance.

  William turned back to his filly, admiring the way the filtered light coming through the small, high window shone on the ghostly dapples across her back. He pried the cork out of the bottle of port and sat down, his back against the wall, his legs stretched across the pallet of blankets that had served as his bed for the past two nights. He took a long draught of rich red wine, then sighed, a deep sigh of satisfaction.

  The filly lifted her head at the sound and cocked her ears toward him. Toward him, he noted, with a thrill of pleasure. Not away, not laid back. Toward him. Even better, she took one cautious step in his direction.

  He sat very still. When she didn’t move away, he said, softly, “You’re exquisite, my little friend. You’re like a perfectly cut diamond, aren’t you? Every facet catching the light, every detail glorious.” Her ears flickered, and he chuckled again. “Not that I would hesitate to put you down, little friend. But I confess, I

  would be sorry to lose something as beautiful as you are.”

  When she took yet another step toward him, he held his breath. She was everything he had dreamed, the realization of every ambition. She was, of course, merely a means to an end, but . . . the liquid glory of those eyes, the delicate cut of her muzzle, the silver glow of her mane and tail . . . He would have been less than human had he not felt m
oved by such a creature.

  And she was his. His filly. His little diamond.

  She took another step closer, and William almost wept with joy.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  HESTERand Lark stood in the shadow of the stable door watching Amelia Rys bid her father farewell.

  The snow had persisted in the week since Baron Rys and Mistress Winter had brought the injured Lord Francis to the Academy. There had been no flying, and little exercise, and every girl and horse at the Academy was restless.

  “I don’t trust her,” Hester told Lark.

  “I like her, Hester.”

  “It’s not that I dislike her. But the Klee are known to be devious, have always been so.”

  “Have they?”

  “So Mamá says. She and Papá asked me to keep an eye on her, and as you’re her sponsor, they wanted me to speak to you as well.”

  Lark frowned. “She’s been kind to me,” she said. “I don’t want to spy on her.”

  “Not spy. Just watch.” Lark glanced up at Hester’s plain profile and saw that her features were set, making her look older than her nineteen years. Making her look, indeed, very like her mamá.

  “Hester,” Lark said softly, “shouldn’t we give her the benefit of the doubt? That she simply wants to fly, as we do?”

  “We shall see,” Hester said, turning away from the view of the courtyard. “But there are political forces at work, and horsemistresses should always be aware of them.”

  Lark remained where she was, watching Amelia and her father embrace. The Baron climbed into the waiting carriage, and Amelia stood, the light snowfall dusting her brown hair and her black tabard. No emotion showed on her narrow features, nor on the Baron’s as he leaned out of the carriage to wave a final goodbye. They didn’t look deceitful to Lark, but they did look . . . purposeful was the word that came to mind. Like Brye when he was negotiating for a bloodbeet crew, or haggling over the price of broomstraw.

  From within the stables came a banging of hooves on wood. Lark spun about. “Oh, Kalla’s heels, Tup!”