Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  “But, Philippa—on what grounds could Duke William send you down?”

  “He accused me of deliberately causing Irina Strong to fall.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Yes, of course. But I brought suit against Duke William in the Council, you know that. For a breeding violation.”

  “Yes, of course, But I didn’t hear—”

  Suzanne said quickly, “Philippa didn’t want the girls to be talking about it.”

  “Amelia Rys knows, I’m certain,” Philippa said. “Her father would have told her, and he was there. But she—unlike me—knows when to hold her tongue.”

  “So,” Kathryn said thoughtfully, “the Council Lords didn’t rule on your suit against Duke William, but they also didn’t rule on his against you.”

  “Precisely so.”

  “That was months ago,” Kathryn said. “How could they put off a decision for so long?”

  “Because Duke William has not been present in the Council in all that time,” Philippa said in a flat voice.

  “Then where has he been?”

  “I believe,” Philippa said, “that he is at Fleckham House. Or more precisely, at the small stable he built on the estate. Where he and Jinson evidently bred the winged foal.”

  “Diamond,” Suzanne said.

  “Diamond?”

  “I’m told that’s what he calls her. A single name.”

  “Like the founders,” Philippa said grimly. “He is serious about this new bloodline.”

  Kathryn said, in a hushed tone, “Can he do that? Will it happen?”

  Philippa shook her head. “Unless he finds a flight of men willing to take potions, it won’t happen. They must be willing to nearly become women to do it.”

  “But he hates women,” Suzanne said.

  Surprised, Philippa asked, “Do you know the Duke, then, Suzanne?”

  “When I was young,” she said. “When I was bonded, he—he tried to—” Suzanne dropped her eyes, and looked away. “I hate speaking of it.”

  “At least you resisted him,” Philippa said, sympathy softening her voice. “There are some who were not so strong.”

  “I was fortunate,” Suzanne said. “He tried to force me, but someone interrupted him.”

  “According to Geraldine Prince’s suit against him, he succeeded with her.”

  “I heard about that,” Suzanne said. “But I didn’t know what I should do. My family said to keep it quiet.

  I think William threatened them.”

  “Geraldine’s family has paid dearly for their suit,” Philippa said. “I believe the Duke confiscated some of their property in the Angles.”

  Kathryn Dancer had been listening to all of this, shaking her head. “And now there is this rumor,” she said, “that he had something to do with Lady Pamella’s disappearance.”

  Philippa’s back stiffened, and she gazed at Kathryn. “What rumor is that?”

  “I heard Erna talking with Herbert,” Kathryn said. “The servants say Pamella is living somewhere away from Osham, and that—” She broke off. “It’s gossip. I shouldn’t repeat it.”

  “Probably not,” Philippa snapped. Kathryn blushed, and Philippa said hastily, “I’m sorry, Kathryn. I’ve done it again. It’s only that we have enough problems with William—Duke William, I mean—as it is. We don’t need him hearing through his spies that gossip about him is coming from the Academy.”

  A silence fell over the office as they all considered this. At last, thinking there was nothing more to be said about it, Philippa stood up. “Well,” she said, “we’ll have to resign ourselves to a small class for you, Kathryn.”

  Suzanne stood, too. “If he tries to send you down, Philippa, we’ll do something.”

  “There will be nothing you can do,” Philippa answered. “I can fight William, but if the Council opposes me, I’m finished.”

  “Can he learn to fly without us?” Kathryn asked.

  Philippa gave a short, mirthless laugh. “We may find out.”

  SUNNYhad no misgivings about the advent of spring, Philippa soon knew. She had taken to visiting Francis at the end of each week, on the only day she had no flights. Winter Sunset loved these visits, flying with no younger horses to monitor, no student flyers to lead. She shook herself with pleasure as Erna brought her out into the bright morning, and danced sideways, wings lifting, when Philippa reached for her reins.

  “Sunny, you rascal,” Philippa said indulgently. “You’re acting like one of the yearlings.” She patted Sunny’s neck and tapped her wingpoint to make her fold her wings.

  She led her mare to the mounting block. She didn’t feel so young herself this morning. She had slept poorly. She felt, as she stepped up on the mounting block and swung her leg over Sunny’s back, that the weight of the world weighed on her shoulders, that every worry added to the tightness in her neck, sending needles of pain into the back of her skull. The restfulness of her Erdlin holiday was long

  forgotten, its energy evaporated. The memory of Brye Hamley’s steady strength and surprising sensitivity stayed with her, but she already found it difficult to recall how he had looked that Erdlin night, with the firelight shining on his hair.

  As she turned Sunny down the flight paddock, she found herself thinking that it might not be so bad if the Council Lords sent her down from the Academy after all. Perhaps she could find some out-of-the-way post, some distant town, where she could be the resident horsemistress. She could carry messages, be a liaison with the Academy, and do little else. She would be lonely, bored perhaps, but not under such constant, wearing pressure.

  She felt a bit better as Sunny cantered easily down the paddock, her mane and tail streaming as she sped to the hand gallop and launched into the sunshine. As they rose above the grove and banked toward the White City, the Grand River shone with a sparkling exuberance, and the green sea glittered in the distance. The sky was a clear pale blue, with shreds of cloud scudding before the wind. It hardly seemed possible that such a lovely day could hide so much darkness and anxiety.

  By the time she reached the park at Fleckham House, Philippa had come to a decision. Secrets and rumors and whispered stories were doing Oc no good, nor the Academy. By association, that meant they were doing the winged horses no good. She slid out of her saddle, and led Sunny into the stables, her mind clear for what seemed the first time in months—the first time since that awful winter day in the Rotunda. She was done waiting for someone else to decide her future. She was ready to take matters into her own hands.

  Her improved mood faltered slightly when she saw Francis. He lay on his pillows, his features pale and drawn. She went to him and touched his hand. It felt cold under her fingers.

  His voice was clear, though not strong. “Philippa,” he said. “You’re so good to come every week. I’m sorry I’m not able to get up and greet you properly.”

  “Francis,” she said, trying to keep the worry from her voice. “Are you feeling worse?”

  “No, no,” he said, without much conviction. “I’m just a little tired today.”

  “Did you see the doctors this week?”

  His mouth curved in a crooked smile, making him look like a younger, more benevolent version of his brother. “I did,” he said. “And I sent the quacks away. All they talk of is bleeding and leeches and cupping.” He held up one arm, and Philippa saw the bruising along the inside of the elbow. “Cupping, ye gods,” he said, with bitterness. “Barbaric practice.”

  “I wish I knew what that ghastly woman had put on her knife,” Philippa said.

  “Never mind,” he said. His eyes closed briefly, and he sighed. “I’ll be better soon, I’m sure. I just need rest—and no more bleeding!”

  Philippa held his hand for a moment, then stood to pour him water from a carafe on the night table. “Do you not sleep well?” She held the glass for him to drink.

  When he had swallowed some of the water, he shook his head. “I don’t, as it happens,” he said. “I hear noises
in this house, which is supposed to be empty. And hooves on the gravel of the courtyard.

  Everything seems . . .” He sighed.

  “What, Francis?” she asked gently, sitting down beside the bed. “How does it seem?”

  “Exaggerated,” he said, with an empty chuckle. “I suppose because it’s so quiet, and because I have nothing to do. I have nothing to do, and yet I feel exhausted.”

  She patted his hand, and set the glass down again. As she did so, a sudden thought struck her, and she turned to him with a smile. “Francis! I have a wonderful idea.”

  “What is it?”

  She looked down at him, lying so thin and wasted beneath the blankets. “I had the best rest of my life over the Erdlin holiday,” she said. “I was in the Uplands.”

  “The Uplands?” he said, his eyes brightening a bit. “How nice that sounds. Far from the Palace, the city, and the Council.”

  “It was perfect,” Philippa said. “I spent the holiday with the Hamleys.”

  “Hamleys? Is there a Hamley in the Council?”

  “No, Francis. You may remember that your sister, Pamella, is staying with them, with her little son.”

  “Pamella . . . it would be nice to see Pamella. And to meet the boy.”

  “Pamella is still troubled, though. She still is unable to speak. Except, as it turns out, to the middle Hamley brother, who hardly speaks himself.”

  Francis frowned, but listened as Philippa told him of the rumors about Pamella, the stories about William’s misdeeds, about her concerns for the bloodlines and the disappointing foalings. But most of all, she told him about Deeping Farm, about the comfortable ancient farmhouse, the hearty food, the bracing air. She concluded by saying, “I’ve decided something else, Francis.”

  He smiled at her. “You look better as you say that, Philippa. Less weary.”

  “Ah. You’re being diplomatic, Francis. You mean I look less aged.”

  “I should never have said such a thing.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It would be true.”

  He managed a weak chuckle. “So, Philippa, tell me what decision you’ve reached.”

  She pulled her gloves from her belt to pleat them between her fingers. “I’m going back to the Council Lords,” she said. She turned her head to the window, where she could see the hills greening to the west.

  “The whole winter has gone by, and they have dawdled and dithered without William’s guidance. I’m going to demand they appoint someone to the post of Headmistress at the Academy, and I’m going to serve poor Jinson up to their judgment. I don’t blame him, really. William should have known better than to replace Eduard Crisp.”

  “William is insane, Philippa.”

  She turned to him, her brows rising. “Have you seen him?”

  “He hit me,” Francis said with a wry twist of his lips. “He struck me with that quirt he carries everywhere.”

  “While you lay in bed, he struck you?”

  “Well,” Francis said, with a listless gesture, “I was sitting up at the time.”

  Philippa dropped her gloves on the bed, and leaned forward to touch Francis’s hand again. “Francis, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you, of all people, needed protection from him. He wanted you to come here, after all.”

  “I don’t need protection from my brother,” Francis said, with a little flash of spirit. His color had risen a little, giving Philippa hope. “He struck me, but only once. And he hasn’t come back to this room since.”

  “I think,” Philippa said, “that he spends all his time in his private stable, beyond the beech copse. With the filly.”

  “The winged filly,” Francis said. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “None of us can,” she said. “But you’ve seen him, so you know how changed he is.”

  “He’s living in a sort of—a sort of prison. A prison he created for himself.” A little color rose in Francis’s face. “He is a man in a woman’s body, and his mind is coming apart under the strain.”

  “Yet the Council won’t listen.”

  Francis drew a shaky breath before he went on. “The Council Lords carry on a long tradition of respect for the Duke. You may have trouble standing against him.”

  “I don’t care, Francis. This waiting will make me as mad as William. And the future of the winged horses is more important than the future of one cranky horsemistress.”

  He sighed, and his brief color faded again. “I will come to the Rotunda,” he said. “To support you.”

  “You will not,” she said firmly.

  “But the consequences of your going alone—”

  She interrupted him. “Consequences be damned. This has gone on long enough.”

  FORTY

  FRANCISwas glad to be out of the confines of the bedroom at Fleckham House. He was thoroughly sick of being an invalid, tired of berating himself, furious about William but helpless to intervene. Lord

  Beeth sent his carriage, and its four matched grays drew it swiftly toward the Uplands on a glorious day, with birdsong pouring from every tree and hedgerow. The carriage was fully equipped with a driver and two footmen, all in the scarlet Beeth livery. One nurse had come along, but the bloodthirsty physicians were left behind.

  From the window of the carriage, Francis caught sight of Philippa and Winter Sunset flying ahead of them. Sunny looked like a great red bird, her wings glowing in the sun like fine parchment. Philippa made a slender slash of black against the achingly blue sky. Behind Philippa came the young flyers, Larkyn and her pretty stallion, Black Seraph. Francis leaned close to the window to watch them until the scalloped roof of the carriage cut off his view.

  They made one stop at a town called Dickering Park, for Francis to be helped out of the carriage by the nurse and go into a tiny, low-ceilinged inn to have a meal, use the privy, rest a bit. Philippa and Larkyn would already be at the farm, making preparations. The innkeeper bowed and fussed over the great event of having the Duke’s younger brother in his establishment. Francis ate a joint of lamb and a plate of buttered bloodbeets, as much to please the innkeeper as to satisfy his own hunger, and drank a bit of cider. When it was time to leave, he was embarrassed to realize that he had no money with him. It had been a long time since he needed money of his own, and he had given no thought to it.

  As he touched his coat pocket, where his purse might have been, the footman stepped up quickly, and said, “Nay, Lord Francis, his lordship has taken care of everything. Don’t trouble yourself.” Francis was forced to nod, and thank him, and as he was helped back into the carriage, he swore to himself this dependence would soon end. One way or another.

  Deeping Farm surprised him, when the carriage finally trundled out of the road and down a lane of packed dirt. The barn, though newly whitewashed, was a simple square with a slanted roof. There was no paddock. The house was tall and narrow, with a slate roof and small windows. The front door, it seemed, was completely blocked by an overgrown laurel hedge. The kitchen door, which opened as the carriage pulled into the barnyard, was shaded by a twisted rue-tree in full leaf. Everything was smaller and dingier than Francis had expected. Behind the house, a blackstone fence enclosed a kitchen garden, and all around stretched the black dirt of empty fields. What was it about this simple place that so enchanted Philippa?

  Philippa and Larkyn came out through the kitchen door with a plump, rosy-cheeked girl in a long apron.

  Philippa greeted him, and introduced him to the aproned girl, whose unlikely name turned out to be Peony. Francis, leaning on the nurse’s arm, was led into the high-ceilinged kitchen, redolent with the scents of meals long past and one, it seemed, soon to come.

  Peony curtsied, and blushed even redder, and mumbled, “Oh, aye, me lord, what a—oh, my goodness—we’re just so glad.”

  He couldn’t find a proper way to respond, but he tried to smile and nod to her. He was exhausted, his muscles trembling. Philippa showed him the bed made ready for him in what was no doubt supposed to be a parlor, but he
said, “Please, Philippa. I want to sit in a chair, at least to start with. My dignity is in shreds.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. Her fingers were strong and hard, as he might expect from a horsemistress, and he wondered if there was any strength left in his own grip. Peony pushed forward an ancient wooden armchair that looked as if it had been mended a hundred times. As he fell into it, he was surprised to find how comfortable it was, as if the wood had molded, over the years, to the human form. Soon he had a mug of strong black tea in his hand, a plate of some long, narrow biscuits before him, which Larkyn informed him were called crooks, and a padded stool for his feet. Though the day was warm, a small, cheerful fire crackled in the hearth, and something bubbled busily on a close stove. Dented pots hung everywhere, and some sort of fetish hung above the sink, with tattered skirts and a half-ruined face.

  Francis thought it was hideous, and he struggled against a sense of being utterly and uncomfortably out of place.

  And then his sister came into the kitchen, a small boy with the ice-blond hair of the Fleckhams clinging to her skirts.

  “Pamella,” Francis said. He held out his hands, and she ran to him, falling to her knees beside his chair

  and burying her face in his shoulder. The boy, his dark eyes filling with tears, hung back, sniffling.

  “Pamella, are you well? Is this your boy?”

  His sister, his imperious, spoiled, willful sister, shook her head against his shoulder, and the only sounds she made were heartwrenching sobs. Francis put his arms around her and held her, but the scene only added to his sense of strangeness. Pamella had never, in all their childhood together, wept in his arms, or indeed ever cried except when she wanted something from her father. He held her and gazed at Philippa above her head. Philippa shrugged, and Larkyn took the little boy’s hand while they all waited for the storm to subside.