Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  Nods of recognition met this announcement. Rys allowed a small smile to curve his lips. “I acknowledge the uneasy relationship between our two lands and the reasons for it,” he said in a level tone. “But Lord Francis and I, who served together at the Palace in Isamar, share a commitment to peace and the free flow of commerce between our peoples. We were one land at one time, after all.”

  “Commerce?” shrilled William. “You are mercenaries! Your ship and your soldiers—we know what you are!”

  An embarrassed silence fell over the assembly. William threw himself back into his chair, and Philippa thought that perhaps even he knew he had gone too far.

  By contrast, Rys’s refined voice seemed all the more elegant. “Lord Francis risked his own safety to take action after the brutal attack on one of your villages. He needed our help, and my daughter has longed to be a horsemistress since she was tiny. She and I know this means she will be a citizen of Oc, and not of Klee. But she, Lord Francis, and I—and Horsemistress Winter—believe this exchange will strengthen the goodwill growing between our two principalities.”

  He bowed again, first to the Duke, then to Francis, and finally to the Council Lords. He climbed back up through the tiers, his slender figure straight and dignified.

  Francis, leaning on the arms of his chair, forced his body upright once again. “This foal,” he said in a trembling voice, “this winged filly William has turned to his own purposes—this filly should have been bonded to Amelia Rys. Horsemistress Winter is right. My lord brother has committed treason, and his Master Breeder should be accused with him.”

  A storm of shouts erupted through the Rotunda. Francis sank back into his chair, his eyes flicking once to Philippa, then closing. Through the tumult, she leaned close to the presider and begged him to send for Francis’s carriage, to send him home. The presider, without asking the Duke’s permission, gave the order. Then he proceeded to bang his gavel on its sounding block, over and over, without success.

  Philippa saw that beyond the tall windows, darkness shrouded the White City. There would be no decision of the Council today, she felt certain. She rose, nodding to the presider. Helplessly, he shrugged, and bowed his permission for her to leave.

  William glared at her as if he would happily strike her dead with his own hand. “I’m going to have you sent down,” he grated. “And put away where you can no longer harm us. You have brought your own destruction on your head.”

  “I don’t believe you have the power,” she said through tight lips.

  “I tell you, Philippa, you can’t defy me this way.”

  “Stop posturing, William. I have already done so.”

  As she turned, her back rigid with fury, to climb up past the lords to the doors, she saw that Constance, the wan Duchess, watched her with an avid, almost greedy expression. As Philippa gathered her cloak and hat and gloves, she wondered upon which side of this great gulf Constance stood.

  THIRTY-THREE

  LARKspent the day cleaning tack, brushing Tup, changing the straw in the stall, even lending Erna a hand trundling barrows full of muck out of the stables. At every opportunity, she put her head out to watch for Mistress Winter. When evening came, the girls trailed across the courtyard to the Hall, their noses and cheeks pink with cold. Lark, reluctantly, went with them. The sky above them was clear and moonless, the stars like crystal flames in the blackness. Lark took one last, longing look toward the road before she went in through the big doors.

  She sat down for supper with Hester on one side and Amelia on the other. As the soup was served, Hester leaned forward. “Amelia, where did you go today? I saw you climb into the hack.”

  Lark thought there was a slight edge to Hester’s voice, but Amelia said only, “My father is in Osham,” as if she hadn’t noticed.

  “So you went to visit him? Is that all?”

  Even Lark could tell that Amelia managed to skirt the question. “He’s leaving for home tomorrow. For Klee. I don’t expect to see him for some time.”

  Lark frowned down into her bowl. She felt Hester’s elbow in her side, and she knew Hester was wondering the same thing she was. She felt torn between loyalty to Hester and concern for Amelia—she was supposed to be, after all, her sponsor. But if Amelia persisted in hiding things from her . . .

  Hester, with her usual directness, leaned past Lark again, and said, “Amelia, we flyers need each other.

  We have to trust each other.”

  Lark kept her head down, but she looked sideways to watch Amelia’s reaction. The Klee girl hesitated for a long moment, almost too long, then she looked up at Hester. “I know, Hester,” she said quietly.

  “Morning,” Hester corrected.

  Amelia smiled. “Yes. Sorry. Morning.” The smile faded, and she toyed with her soup spoon. “I have been schooled in diplomacy,” she said slowly. “Since I was tiny, in truth. I was taught never to reveal anything you don’t have to.”

  Lark touched her hand, and Amelia laid down the spoon. “I know you mean well, both of you,” she said.

  “And I would like nothing more than to forget all of that, simply be one of you, one of the Academy students. A flyer.”

  “You will be,” Lark said.

  Amelia’s eyes lifted to hers, and Lark was stunned to see that they glistened with tears. “He took my foal,” Amelia said in a broken voice.

  Hester said, “What?” but Lark put up her hand and hoped Hester would understand.

  Amelia said, “She should have been mine, my filly, my bondmate . . . he took her, and I have to go on waiting, pretending . . .”

  “It’s true,” Lark said, in an undertone to Hester. “I saw her. Today, the Council Lords are considering—”

  “I know about that,” Hester said impatiently. Amelia looked up at her, startled. Hester gave a short, subdued laugh. “You’re not the only one who was brought up to diplomacy, Amelia. My father is Lord Beeth, of the Council, and everything that happens in our world has at least two meanings, sometimes three.”

  Amelia brought her napkin to her eyes, then to her nose, sniffling. “Sometimes,” she said, “I get so tired of all of that, of trusting no one . . .”

  “Then you see,” Hester said firmly. “We have to depend on each other. Because otherwise we become pawns in their game. My mamá says—”

  Lark interrupted to murmur to Amelia, “Hester’s mamá is the most brilliant mother in the world. And very kind to boot.”

  Hester nodded. “She is indeed. And she says, now that I am to be a horsemistress, I must be above politics. And you, too, Amelia. You must be above politics, as much as you can.”

  Amelia dropped her eyes. Lark watched as two tears dripped down her cheeks and splashed into her empty bowl. At last, the Klee girl said, “I’ll try, Morning. I will. It’s hard.”

  “No, it’s easy,” Hester said, flashing her characteristic grin. “By comparison, anyway. You’ll find out it’s the Graces that are hard.”

  LARKinvented more tasks to do in the stables so she could watch for Mistress Winter’s return. The other girls, including Amelia and Hester, settled their horses for the night and crunched across the icy courtyard to go to bed, but Lark dallied. The night was bitterly cold, the stars reflecting in the frozen snow. Erna was in the tack room, keeping the close stove hot, and the Beeth watchman shivered and shifted from foot to foot outside the stables, finally moving as close to the tack-room door as he could for its warmth. Bramble, almost fully recovered now, tagged at Lark’s heels as she raked the sawdust of the aisle and made unnecessary adjustments to Tup’s blanket. She went to check on Winter Sunset, but Amelia had left the mare and her stall in perfect order.

  She had almost decided that Mistress Winter was going to spend the night in Osham when she heard the clop-clop of Pig’s hooves turning in from the main road and plodding down the lane. Lark dashed out into the courtyard.

  Mistress Winter untangled herself from the heavy blankets wrapped around her legs and climbed rather awkwardly down f
rom the gig. Herbert nodded to Lark and clucked to Pig. Lark managed to pat the pony and whisper a greeting in his ear before Herbert flicked the reins, and Pig pulled the gig on around the corner toward the back of the stables.

  “Larkyn,” Mistress Winter said. “You should be in bed.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Lark said. “Not knowing what happened.”

  “Well. I have no answers for you, so you might as well be off.”

  Lark groaned. “More waiting? At least tell me what happened, please, Mistress! I’ve been dancing on pins all day.”

  Mistress Winter sighed. “Have you seen Sunny?”

  “Yes, a dozen times, I promise you! But I’ve been so worried.”

  “You’re not a child, Larkyn. You must try to practice patience.” Mistress Winter turned toward the Domicile. “But you can come along with me. No one will be in the Hall, but we’ll go to the small kitchen and get Matron to make us a cup of tea.”

  Matron, they found, had also been watching for Mistress Winter’s return. By the time they had shed their coats and hats and gloves and walked to the small kitchen, the kettle was singing on the five-plate stove Matron used for making late-night tea or predawn breakfasts, as she sometimes needed to. She set the table with cups and saucers, a dish of cream, and a small plate of the flat white biscuits the girls sometimes had for dessert at supper. Mistress Winter frowned at the biscuits, but Lark said, “What a good idea, Matron. Mistress Winter is thin as a cottonwood at Erdlin!”

  She was rewarded by a slight quirk of Mistress Winter’s thin lips and a chuckle from Matron. Lark pushed the biscuits closer to Mistress Winter, and she took one. “You’re probably right, Larkyn. I doubt Sunny will notice the weight of one or two biscuits,” she said. As she nibbled at it and took a sip of Matron’s clear tea, her stiff spine seemed to relax and the tension around her eyes and mouth to release.

  She sighed. “It’s been a long day,” she said.

  “A bad day?” Lark asked.

  “Hard,” Mistress Winter said shortly. She sighed again and rubbed her eyes. “Kalla’s heels, I don’t know how they stand it.”

  “Stand what?” Lark asked.

  “Politics. Diplomacy. All that wrangling. What does it accomplish, after all?”

  “Government?” Matron suggested.

  Mistress Winter gave her usual snort, making Lark smile. “Government,” Mistress Winter said sourly.

  “Governing gets done, I suppose. But the weaker the leadership . . .” She stopped, and looked around at Matron, apparently wondering whether she was going too far.

  Matron said, “Aye, Mistress. The weaker the leadership, the more the argument. We’ve seen it before, haven’t we?”

  “Well, Matron, not I. All of my service was under Duke Frederick, and it seemed to me then—but perhaps I was young and naive—it seemed that everything ran like clockwork, issues before the Council, debate by their lordships, decisions handed down.”

  “Ah,” Matron said. She brought her own cup to the table and sat down next to Lark, reaching for one of the biscuits. “But before His Grace’s day—His old Grace, that is—I heard stories of endless disputes among the Council Lords, threats, promises, bribes, and payoffs.”

  “Did you, Matron?” Mistress Winter pressed her hands against her eyes. They were reddened, their lids irritated and rough as if she had been rubbing them all day. “I didn’t know any of that. I was too young, I suppose, and not yet bonded.”

  “Oh, aye, you could ask Mistress Morgan—” Matron broke off suddenly and put a hand to her breast.

  “Oh, by the entwined gods, I had forgotten for a short time. We can never ask Mistress Morgan again.”

  Lark was appalled to see tears well up in Mistress Winter’s eyes. “No,” she said in a shaking voice.

  “No, we can’t ask Margareth. The burden is all ours now.”

  “So,” Matron said, pouring more tea into Mistress Winter’s cup, “now you will be Headmistress, I suppose.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Mistress Winter said. Both Lark and Matron stared at her, waiting for more, but there was nothing. She said only, “I made my case, as best I could, against Duke William. The Council has not yet decided.”

  “But, Mistress Winter,” Lark began. “Did you tell them about the foal . . . about what he did? What he’s doing?”

  “I did, Larkyn,” Mistress Winter said wearily. “The Council is . . . well. There are some who think the Duke is right, and that men should be able to fly winged horses.”

  “They can’t!” Lark said. “It won’t work!”

  “I don’t believe it will, either. But the Duke has had some success with this filly—” She broke off and stared at the glow of the stove.

  “But who will be Headmistress if not you?” Matron asked quietly.

  Mistress Winter hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Lark thought there must be more to tell, but she looked so miserable, and so exhausted, that she did not press her. Matron seemed to understand it, too.

  “Come,” she said to her, taking Mistress Winter’s cup and the nearly untouched plate of biscuits away.

  “You need to sleep. It will all look better in the morning.”

  Mistress Winter looked doubtful about that, but she rose, said a subdued good night, and left the kitchen.

  Lark heard her trudging steps up the stairs to her apartment.

  Lark thanked Matron for the tea and went out of the Domicile into the freezing night. She hurried past the Hall to the Dormitory, her teeth chattering as she slipped and slid on the frozen cobblestones. She pulled off her tabard and divided skirt and let them drop to the floor. She pulled her nightdress over her head, shivering mightily, and crawled into her cot. The sheets felt icy and stiff. It was a long time before they warmed enough for her to stop shivering and sink into an uneasy sleep.

  PHILIPPAwalked to the high table at breakfast, aware that conversation among the horsemistresses stopped as she approached. She set her jaw and took her usual chair, meeting no one’s eyes, determined simply to drink her coffee, eat as much as she could manage, then go to the stables. Margareth’s empty chair sat like a cold reminder that her body still waited in its coffin to be taken to its resting place.

  Suzanne had sent notices to the Morgan family estate in Eastreach, and they were waiting to discover what the family’s wishes were. Philippa thought she would take Margareth herself, if the family wanted to bury her at home. She couldn’t bear the idea of her going off in the caisson alone.

  Kathryn Dancer came in a little late and sat next to Philippa. She took a thin slice of toasted bread and spread a bit of butter on it, then startled Philippa by holding it out to her. “Philippa,” the younger horsemistress said. “Please eat something.”

  “I—” Philippa began, then realized Kathryn was right. There was nothing on her plate, not even coffee in her cup. “Oh.” She accepted the toast. “Thank you. I’m so distracted.”

  “I know. I hear it was a terrible day yesterday.”

  “Matron must have told you.”

  Now all the instructors turned to Philippa, their faces alive with curiosity. One of the juniors, a young

  woman only just returned from her post in the Angles, leaned forward. “What happened?” she asked.

  “They’re saying the Duke wants you sent down!”

  A shocked silence and averted eyes followed this pronouncement, and the young woman blushed furiously. She muttered an apology, and Suzanne Star said firmly, “Let Philippa have her breakfast. If there is important news, we’ll know soon enough.”

  Philippa cast her a grateful glance. She ate the piece of toast, and someone filled her cup with coffee. The kindness made her eyes swim again, and she pinched herself through her skirt to bring herself back under control. Idiot, she told herself. Like a first-level girl with homesickness!

  She forced herself to eat a bit of bacon and was just finishing her coffee when Amelia Rys came into the dining hall, passed t
he long tables where the students sat, and approached the high table. She nodded to the horsemistresses, and addressed Philippa.

  “Mistress Winter, I hope you’ll forgive the interruption,” she said. “My father is here, and would like to speak with you when you’ve finished your meal.”

  Philippa set her cup down, and stood. “I’m finished,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “He’s waiting in the foyer.”

  “Thank you, Amelia.”

  Philippa stepped down from the high table and walked across the dining hall, being careful not to hurry.

  She felt every eye on her back, and it was a relief to go out into the foyer, where she found Baron Rys standing beneath one of the horse portraits. It was her favorite, a painting of the long-legged, broad-winged sorrel thought to be the founder of the Noble bloodline. Rys was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at it. Philippa walked up to stand beside him. “That’s Redbird,” she said quietly. “Ancestor to my own Winter Sunset.”

  Rys turned to her, and bowed. “He was beautiful,” he said. “As your mare is.”

  Philippa gestured toward the Headmistress’s office. “We can talk there,” she said. He nodded and followed her. She pushed open the door and found the room cold and dark. With Margareth gone, she supposed no one had thought to light the fire. She hurried to light a lamp on the desk and pull the curtains to let in the weak winter sunshine. “It’s so cold in here,” she said. “Shall I order a fire?”

  “Please don’t trouble anyone,” he said. “My carriage is waiting in the courtyard. I only came to tell you the news before I set out for the port.”

  She stiffened her spine. “Are they going to send me down, Esmond?”

  “No decision has been made, Philippa. I’m sorry.”

  A rush of anxiety made her tremble. She swallowed, and turned to the window to hide her weakness.

  The blue and white landscape seemed to reproach her with its purity, the exultant quality of sunshine on snow. When she could trust her voice, she asked, “What happened?”

  “The Council is at an impasse. Francis’s testimony was crucial, because there are those who think Duke William is within his rights to alter the bloodlines—and himself, apparently. Francis influenced a good number who weren’t certain.”