Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  In time, Pamella’s tears dried, and Larkyn urged the little boy forward. She said, “This is Brandon, my lord.”

  Francis put out his hand to him. “I am your uncle Francis,” he said.

  The boy took his hand solemnly, squeezed it, then retreated behind his mother. Francis drank his tea, watching his sister from the corner of his eye. She had taken a seat near the fire, and the little boy stood beside her knee. Pamella was thinner than he remembered, and there was no color in her cheeks. She kept her eyes on her hands, twisted together in her lap. And the boy, Brandon—Francis found he could hardly bear to look at him, though he seemed a likely lad. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he was too weary to puzzle it out.

  When everyone had finished their tea, Pamella jumped up to help Peony clear the mugs and the pot. She gave the last of the crooks to her son, then pulled on a long, worn coat, and went out the kitchen door.

  This time, when Philippa urged Francis toward the bed in the parlor, he gave in. The nurse helped him out of his boots and trousers, and he lay down in a nest of pillows and old, soft linens. Beyond the curtained windows, the sky darkened to violet, then to a starry blackness. Francis watched birds flit to and fro past the window until he drowsed, lulled by the lowing of cows from the barn and the occasional bleat of a goat.

  He woke to the sounds of pots clanking in the kitchen and desultory conversation. The nurse was gone, but a plain pottery cup and pitcher rested beside his bed. He poured himself water from the pitcher and drank it. By the time he had set it down again, Philippa was in the doorway. A big man stood beside her, with a broad-brimmed straw hat in his hands.

  “Francis,” Philippa said quietly, “are you awake? This is Brye Hamley, the owner of Deeping Farm.”

  “My lord,” the farmer said. His voice was deep, resonating in the old parlor. He had thick, graying hair, and strong features.

  Francis said awkwardly, “I’m sorry I can’t get up to meet you, Master Hamley. It’s kind of you to allow me to stay here.”

  “An honor to have you.” Hamley bowed, and looked Francis over as if taking his measure but seemed to feel nothing else needed to be said. He glanced around the parlor, and evidently finding all was in order, nodded to Philippa and went back into the kitchen.

  Philippa crossed to the bed, and straightened the quilt over Francis’s legs.

  “Philippa,” Francis said. “The boy, Pamella’s boy. Isn’t there something about him—”

  He broke off. She pursed her lips and looked behind her, as if to be certain no one could hear. “There is something about him, certainly,” she said. “And both Larkyn and I have remarked upon it.”

  “I can’t think what it means.” Francis sighed, feeling slowwitted and impatient with himself. His mind shied from the implications of Brandon’s face, his eyes, the cut of his chin and nose. He passed his hand over his eyes.

  Philippa came to the bedside. “Do you need anything, Francis? Shall I call the nurse?”

  He shook his head. “No. I just—I hate people seeing me like this.”

  “Give it time,” she said.

  “Philippa,” he said, his jaw tight with frustration. “I have given it time. Too much!”

  Before she could answer, the girl Larkyn appeared in the doorway to say, “Supper’s almost ready, Mistress Winter.” She carried a little stack of napkins in her hand. “Will Lord Francis eat with us, in the kitchen, or shall I bring a tray?”

  Philippa said, “I think a tray, Larkyn, thank you.”

  Francis wanted to protest, but he hadn’t the energy even for that. He turned his eyes again to the window, where a faint moonlight now silvered the laurel hedge. He wondered if there was truly any reason that his recovery would be quicker in this rustic place than it had been at Fleckham House. He was utterly sick of being an invalid, of spending all his time in bed, of needing help for every simple act. It might have been better if the damned Aesk woman had finished the job while she had the chance. And he couldn’t help wishing, for the hundredth time, that it had been he, rather than poor Lissie, who had put an end to her cruelty.

  FRANCISslept poorly, tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed, listening to the creaks of old timbers, the whisper of feet moving on the floor above him, the chitter of some nocturnal creature in the walls. He finally fell into a heavy sleep just as the first gray light of dawn showed through the curtains. Moments later, it seemed, a rooster crowed vigorously from his coop as if the safe arrival of day were his sole responsibility.

  Francis opened his eyes, unsure for a moment where he was. He turned his head on the pillow, and found that someone, a vague figure in the semidarkness, was bending over his bed.

  He was only half-awake, and he thought for a moment that he must be dreaming. When he drew a startled breath, the unmistakable scent of horse filled his nostrils.

  It was the young flyer. Larkyn. She was already dressed in her riding habit, black tabard and divided skirt. She leaned above him, with something in her hand. He squinted, trying to see what it was, wondering if he should protest.

  The light grew steadily brighter outside, and now he could see her face, her smooth brow furrowed, her eyes pools of shadow, her lips pursed as she concentrated. She moved her hand across his body, and then up over his chest, and he saw that she held the fetish he had seen in the kitchen. She spun it, making its skirts swirl, blurring its distorted features into a face of nightmare. She murmured something under her breath, and repeated the motion, then, with a little smile, she touched his blankets with her fingertips and was gone, leaving Francis to lie pondering what it all meant.

  He managed, with his nurse’s help, to be outside in the barnyard when Philippa and Larkyn took their leave. The day was even warmer than the one before, presaging a hot summer. The air smelled of newly plowed ground, freshly turned compost, and goats. The two winged horses cantered up the lane to launch into the blue sky. Francis watched them, leaning on a staff someone had found in the barn. He didn’t take his eyes off the shining red horse and the gleaming black one until they dwindled in the distance, then he turned to assess his surroundings. With a heavy heart, he admitted to himself that this had been a terrible idea. He was stuck here, on a farm in the Uplands, in a cramped, dingy farmhouse with people he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. The air was sweet with growing things, it was true, and the atmosphere was restful. But he had nothing in common with these people.

  Common—that was the word. He moved toward the blackstone fence that separated the kitchen garden from the barnyard and sat upon it, looking out at the rows of vegetables and vines. He had spent no time at all with commoners, not in all his nearly thirty years of life. He had lived a life apart, either with his family, or with Prince Nicolas, or even, during the Aesk adventure, with the Klee Baron. He knew nothing of how common life was lived, what they spoke of, what they read—if anything—or what they cared about.

  His shoulders slumped as he let his weight settle onto the old stones of the fence, and he cursed himself for letting Philippa talk him into this.

  Aweek after her return from the Uplands, Philippa presented herself once again in the Rotunda. She had rehearsed her petition, written down every word, changed it a dozen times. She meant to be clear, but she hoped to be respectful. Many of the Council Lords thought women should never speak in the Rotunda. Indeed, Duke William was not the only one who thought horsemistresses should have no rights above other women. Philippa struggled to phrase her statement to be as inoffensive as possible, but it was no easy task. She had a great deal to say. Subtlety would not serve.

  Lady Beeth sent her carriage so that Philippa would not have to worry about stabling Winter Sunset in

  Osham. When Philippa, attired in a fresh habit and cap, her wings pinned prominently on the collar of her tabard, climbed into the carriage, she was surprised to find her benefactress seated inside.

  “Lady Beeth,” she said, settling herself opposite. “It’s too kind of you to accompany me.”
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  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Hester’s mamá said with a grin. “And you must call me Amanda.”

  “Then,” Philippa said, “please call me Philippa. And thank you for helping us yet again. I don’t know what any of us should have done without you and your husband.”

  “What use is a title and a position if you can’t do some good with it? The Council Lords can use a bit of influence, if you ask me, and I’m only too happy to provide it!” Her hearty laugh boomed inside the confines of the carriage. Philippa managed only a smile. She was too tense to laugh.

  It helped to be able to walk into the Rotunda in the company of Lady Amanda Beeth, to have little Lord Beeth bow to her, and escort her down the tiers to the petitioner’s chair. She walked with her back straight, her head high. She folded her cap and gloves into her belt, but she kept her quirt under her arm as a badge of office.

  There was a long wait while the Council observed its usual opening rituals. Philippa wished she could pace. Her fingers itched for something to fiddle with, but she left her gloves where they were and tried to relax her hands. She fixed her eyes on the empty chair where Duke William should have been sitting. She felt like a boiling pot with a tight lid, and she hoped she wouldn’t explode before her chance came.

  It was a great relief when, at last, Lord Beeth introduced her, and asked the Council to hear her petition.

  She stood and clamped her quirt under her arm. “My lords,” she said. Her voice echoed off the hard floors and bounced back at her from the ceiling. There was silence in the Rotunda. Even the watchers in the gallery were rapt, no doubt hoping she was about to do something outrageous.

  “My lords, the Academy of the Air has been without a Headmistress for months now, ever since the death of Margareth Morgan. Our spring crop of winged foals is half what it should be. The incoming class will be the smallest in memory.”

  She waited for the rustle that greeted this announcement to cease, then she said, clearly and unequivocally, “Duke William sent down our rightful Master Breeder, Eduard Crisp, and replaced him with an incompetent.” Grim silence met this, narrowed eyes, stiff necks.

  “Without the winged horses,” she went on, “Oc loses its edge over the other duchies and diminishes its bargaining position with other principalities. It’s not too late to save the bloodlines. I ask you, my lords, in the continuing absence of the Duke, to appoint a Headmistress, and to restore Eduard Crisp to his rightful position as Master Breeder.”

  Several of the Council Lords shifted at that, and one or two began to grumble. Philippa raised her voice.

  “Act now, my lords. If you wish to send me down, as the Duke has asked, do so. But give us Master Crisp, and give us a Headmistress. In honor of the memory of Duke Frederick and his ancestors, I beg you take action without delay.”

  Amanda Beeth had advised her that when she was done speaking, it would be best if she simply excused herself. Philippa had no better advisor, and so she did as Lady Beeth had suggested. As she swept up the tiered steps to the aisle, and out to the door, she heard Lord Beeth begin to speak in his cultured voice. Someone interrupted him, and she heard her own name spoken in anger.

  She stopped where she was and turned to find the speaker.

  It was Meredith. Her own brother. His loud voice was like a blow, pronouncing, “My lords, this was an outrageous display of disloyalty to the Council! Let us take the horsemistress at her word. Send her down from the Academy! Make an example of her!”

  And at precisely that moment, as if they had rehearsed it, the door on the opposite side of the Rotunda opened, and Duke William, his body hidden by a sweeping black cloak, appeared.

  Every man of the Council jumped to his feet, and as William passed them, they bowed. Philippa felt as if her feet had grown roots right through the marble floor. Amanda Beeth came to stand beside her, and both of them stared at the Duke.

  William’s hair was pulled back and tied with a gleaming black ribbon. His face was nearly as pale as his hair, his chin fuller than she remembered, but his eyes were as hard as ever. He stood before his carved chair in the center of the Rotunda, lifted his arm, and pointed a long white finger at Philippa.

  “My lords,” he said in his high voice. “This traitoress has lost the right to wear the wings of a horsemistress. I second Lord Islington’s demand that Philippa Islington be sent away from the Academy.

  I am the Duke of Oc, the Master of the Bloodlines, and I revoke her standing now and for always.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence, until Lord Chatham said, “Your Grace, don’t you think—”

  “We’ve thought about this long enough,” William said. “And conferred with Lord Islington, who knows his sister better than any of us.”

  Lord Beeth jumped up. “Wait a moment, my lords. This rush to judgment is ill considered! If our horsemistresses think they can be treated in this way, will girls still want to bond to the winged horses?”

  William sneered at the little man. “Beeth,” he said rudely, “you haven’t been paying attention. With my new bloodline, we won’t need girls. Men will fly!”

  An approving murmur swept around the Rotunda, and even some voices from the gallery acclaimed the Duke’s statement.

  “Come, my lords, enough delay. We gave the horsemistress months to come to her senses. Send her down and be done with it!”

  “But, Your Grace!” Lord Daysmith, whose age and reputation commanded the respect of every member of the Council, tottered to his feet. “If you send Horsemistress Winter down, what will become of her mare?”

  William’s smile was as sinister an expression as Philippa had ever seen. “Ah, yes,” he said silkily. “Her mare.” He looked around at the Council Lords and their aides, and up at the gallery, waiting in breathless silence. “I have thought of this, naturally. Winter Sunset is a fine example of the Noble line. With Philippa Islington under her brother’s protection at Islington House, Winter Sunset will become part of my new breeding program.”

  The blood drained from Philippa’s face and head, and she reeled. Only the strong arm of Amanda Beeth kept her from falling. She tried to say, “Duke William—this isn’t necessary—” but over the sudden uproar from the balcony, her voice faded to nothing. She saw William smiling at her, his eyes glittering like a snake’s. She saw the triumphant blaze in Meredith’s face, his gaze meeting hers without remorse.

  She heard one of the other Council Lords say, “Surely it’s past time to restore ducal authority over the winged horses.” A chorus of ayes greeted this.

  Philippa felt, suddenly, that she couldn’t catch her breath.

  Voices and faces began to blur. To her horror, black spots filled her vision, and a moment later she slumped, weak and senseless, into Amanda Beeth’s arms.

  When she roused, she found herself once again in the Beeth carriage, rolling down the broad avenue away from the Rotunda. “Kalla’s tail,” she whispered. “Did I faint? I have never fainted in my life!”

  “It’s not surprising,” Amanda said grimly. “I am as shocked as you are.”

  Philippa grasped her hand. “Did they decide? What happened?”

  “Duke William called for a vote on the spot, Philippa,” Amanda said. She looked fierce and sad, and a terrible dread gripped Philippa’s heart so that she feared she might faint again.

  “What, Amanda?” she whispered. “What was the vote?”

  “He had the majority,” was the answer. “A narrow margin, but a majority nevertheless.”

  Philippa sat up straight. “Take me back!” She pounded on the wall of the carriage with her hand. “I have to go back! They can’t do this! It will kill her!”

  Amanda shook her head. “If there’s anything at all to be done, Philippa, Beeth will do it, or Daysmith.

  It’s better you’re not there.”

  Philippa stared at her. An awful understanding began to clear her mind, and with it, all faintness vanished.

  “It’s his revenge,” she breathed. “William�
�s revenge. Against me. Against his father. All of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “They won’t stand against him, will they?”

  “Some did. Not enough.”

  “They don’t care about Sunny.”

  “They care,” Amanda Beeth said, every word sharp as a knife, “about power.”

  Philippa, her body stiff, her mouth dry, stared at the blank wall of the carriage all the way back to the

  Academy.

  FORTY-ONE

  AMELIAwas allowed to bring her foal to the Academy, with its dam. It was unusual for a foal to come before it was weaned, but everything about Amelia’s situation was unusual.

  Lark and Hester were waiting for her in the courtyard, and when they caught sight of the little procession turning into the lane from the main road, they ran to meet it.

  A single horse from the Beeth stables drew a small cart at a careful pace. Old Jolinda, grinning with delight, rode beside the driver. The foal’s dam walked behind the cart, and the winged foal, wearing wingclips and a shiny new halter, trotted beside her. Amelia walked with him, one hand on his scruff of black mane. Lark and Hester slowed their pace so as not to frighten him. Bramble, pacing at their heels, went forward to sniff and be sniffed.

  “Mistress Winter says Bramble can foster your colt!” Lark said by way of greeting.

  Amelia gave her usual cool smile, but there was a new light in her eye, and her sallow cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “Very good,” she said.

  “We have your stall ready,” Hester said. “The big one, back beside the dry paddock, so there’s room for the mare and for your colt.”

  “Thank you,” Amelia said. She bent to ruffle Bramble’s fur. “I could hardly wait to come, though your mamá made me so comfortable at Beeth House.”

  “Mamá understands,” Hester told her. “When it was my turn, I drove her half-mad with wanting to come to the Academy—and I had to wait until fall, with the other first-levels!”