Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  “But—won’t you let me—or Lord Francis—”

  “Let me go!” Mistress Winter snapped. She clapped her heels to Winter Sunset’s ribs, and the mare burst into a quick trot. In moments they were through the gate, cantering down the flight paddock.

  Lark ran after, and stood on the rails of the fence to watch as Winter Sunset, her red wings glistening, launched into the rose and blue of the dawn sky. She banked toward the White City, then north toward Fleckham House. Lark stayed where she was even when she could no longer see them, until she heard Tup calling from inside the stables. Then, with dragging steps and aching heart, she climbed down from the fence. Mistress Winter had not looked back, not once.

  LARKdrilled with her flight, this last day before the Estian holiday, but her heart wasn’t in it. Tup seemed to know, and he was even more willful than usual, darting above the line, falling out of formation before she was ready. Only when it came to the Graces did he pay attention. At least he understood that much, that the Graces were their greatest challenge. He flew the pattern perfectly, tilting gently to keep Lark in position. He banked neatly to the left, then to the right, giving her plenty of time in between to adjust her balance.

  When it was time to come to ground, she was afraid he might refuse. She put a hand on his neck and willed him to behave. She didn’t think, today, that she could bear to be scolded. He soared obediently down over the hedgerow at the foot of the return paddock and galloped easily toward the stables. When she dismounted, he nosed her cheek and whimpered. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his mane for long moments, letting the pain of the day wash over her, letting Tup’s warmth and energy soothe her.

  As she brushed him down, and cleaned and oiled his hooves, she kept thinking of Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset. They would be separated by now, Sunny whinnying desperately from that awful stable, Mistress Winter walking away, carrying herself in that stiff way she had when she was trying to hide her feelings. Her heart would be breaking. Lark remembered the perfect agony she felt when Tup went missing, and for Mistress Winter, there was no turning back. Even if the Council relented, it would be too late. No winged horse had ever recovered from being permanently separated from its bondmate. Winter Sunset would go mad, endangering herself or others, and have to be put down, or she would go into a decline and die of her own broken heart.

  Lark understood that Duke William would not care. The death of Winter Sunset would be the final, triumphant conclusion to his revenge against Mistress Winter.

  Lark wondered if she would ever see Philippa Winter again. Philippa Islington, she would be now, bereft of her winged horse and her horse’s name, shut up in disgrace at Islington House.

  Everyone felt the same tension Lark felt, in the stables and in the Hall. Herbert snapped at the girls and complained to Jolinda. Jolinda had been silent all day, going about her tasks, and the girls spoke in hushed tones when they spoke at all. Only Amelia Rys seemed her usual calm self, but no doubt she was distracted by the first flush of being bonded.

  Supper went past in a deadly silence. The horsemistresses ate almost nothing, and even the ever-hungry students had little enthusiasm for the summer salad and poached fish. They emerged from the Hall into the clear twilight, and Lark paused on the steps to look up into the lavender sky. A quarter moon had risen to ghost above the spires of the White City. Islington House was somewhere in the eastern part of Osham. Perhaps Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset were both looking up at that bit of moon, aching with longing to be together.

  There were still horsemistresses and students in the courtyard, some on their way to the stables, some to the Dormitory and the Domicile, when a phaeton, with two lathered horses in the traces, came clattering onto the cobblestones. Hester and Amelia had reached the bottom step, and Lark went down to join them. Everyone turned to see who had come tearing up to the Academy at such a pace.

  The driver reined in the horses with a great jangling of bits and harness. Lark didn’t recognize the tall, red-haired man who stepped down from the phaeton. But she knew the lean figure of Duke William coming behind him. And she knew the look on his face, and his habit of switching at his thigh with his quirt. He was in a rage.

  A little flame of hope began to burn in Lark’s heart.

  Hester breathed, “Kalla’s heels, that’s Lord Islington! Mistress Winter’s brother!”

  Amelia only pursed her lips in silence. Lark peered past Hester’s broad shoulder to see the men striding toward the Hall. She jumped when Meredith Islington roared, “Where is she?”

  Everyone gaped at him, and he demanded again, “Where is my sister?”

  No one answered. No one knew.

  The hopeful fire blazed up in Lark’s breast. She put both hands over her mouth to hide her smile. The Duke stalked toward the stables, and Lord Islington to the Domicile, barking orders, demanding information. For an hour they searched the Academy, looking in every corner and nook, opening every door. They found Mistress Star, and badgered her with questions, to which she could only shrug and spread her hands. They insisted on looking in Mistress Winter’s apartment, in the small kitchen, in store-rooms and attics. They found nothing, though Duke William threatened everyone he encountered with banishment.

  It was long past dark before the two men, glowering with frustrated anger, climbed back into the phaeton and whirled away toward the White City. The horsemistresses and the students stood together in the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder, and watched them go.

  PHILIPPAuntied the bag from behind the cantle of her flying saddle, then unbuckled the cinches and the breast strap. She slid the saddle off Sunny’s back, took a towel from the bag, and rubbed her mare thoroughly from chest to tail. She walked her back and forth on the sand, staying close to the dunes in case one of the patrols flew over, but evening was coming on, and the horsemistresses of the South Tower should be done flying for the day.

  She dipped a small wooden cup into the creek that ran down the beach to the sea, and sipped from it while Sunny dropped her head and drank. While she waited for Sunny to have her fill, Philippa gazed up at the quarter moon, pallid in the summer night. A breeze blew in from the water, refreshingly cool on her hot skin. It had been a warm day, and a long flight, taking the long way into the south, skimming the coastline to avoid being seen. It would be cold before morning, she knew, but there was little she could do about that. She didn’t dare build a fire, and she had only the saddle blanket to cover herself with. She had put cheese and bread in her bag, and a measure of oats for Sunny. She had managed to jam in a change of smallclothes and a hairbrush. She hadn’t dared pack anything more. Her books and her clothes had all gone into the trunk, to be uselessly delivered to Islington House.

  The thought of Islington House brought a bitter twist to her lips. She hoped Meredith was storming around the White City, looking for her. She hoped William’s temper drove him into a fit as he badgered his spies and that ghastly Slater for information. But no one could tell him anything, because only one person—and his daughter—knew where Philippa had gone. And Duke William of Oc had no power over Baron Rys of Klee.

  She led Sunny into the lee of a great boulder, where she spread the saddle blanket on the warm sand.

  With Sunny’s nose drooping comfortably beside her shoulder, she sat cross-legged on the blanket and watched the stars appear. Their reflections sprinkled the waters of the sea, breaking apart as the waves rolled onto the beach, shining again as the water smoothed. Philippa released a great breath and began to feel more relaxed than she had in weeks.

  It was not such a long flight over the sea to Klee, perhaps three hours. She and Sunny had made the journey once before. One of Rys’s trusted captains would meet her on the shore.

  She ate her cheese and bread, and drank more cold water from the creek. As the night enfolded her and Winter Sunset, she wrapped herself in the saddle blanket and lay down, wriggling until the sand conformed to her hips and shoulders. Sunny stayed close to her, an
d the rhythm of the waves soothed them both into sleep. Philippa’s last thought, before she closed her eyes, was that William truly was out of his mind if he thought she would ever allow him to separate her from Sunny. Sarah Runner had been right. She would have died first.

  FORTY-TWO

  NICKcame for Lark at midday, to carry her home in the oxcart, with Tup trotting along behind, and Molly allowed, as a treat, to ride in the cart. Students and horsemistresses were saying farewells as they drove off in their families’ carriages or phaetons. Only the third-level girls were allowed to fly home alone, after receiving stern warnings from Headmistress Star about the changeable summer weather, about flying too far or too high, about taking chances.

  Everyone at the Academy was sleepy and red-eyed, having stayed up far too late the night before. They had clustered in the stables, in the library, on their cots in the Dormitory, talking, exulting, asking anyone and everyone what they knew. No one, it seemed, had suspected anything, not even Headmistress Star.

  No one knew that Philippa Winter had meant to disappear with Winter Sunset, but no one was surprised.

  They had behaved as one united body before the Duke and Lord Islington. Even Petra Sweet had been shocked by the ruling against Mistress Winter. It helped, of course, that not one of them had the faintest idea where the fugitives had gone.

  Lark, though she was as tired as everyone else, felt she must be glowing like an unshaded lamp. The sunshine that had seemed so joyless the day before now seemed almost unbearably bright. She could hardly wait to see Deeping Farm, and Brye, and Edmar . . . she even looked forward to seeing Peony.

  With the weight of grief lifted from her heart, she felt so light she thought she might float right off the cart.

  Nick grinned as they trundled out to the road, Molly swaying behind the high seat, Tup trotting happily behind. “Take a blink at you!” he said to Lark. “You must be that glad to get away from this place.”

  “Nay, nay, Nick.” Lark laughed. “’Tisn’t that at all! Wait till I tell you!” And as they rode toward the Uplands, with the nuthatches twittering at their passage and squirrels scolding from beneath the hedgerows, she told him all about the Council of Lords, and Mistress Winter’s defiance of Duke William, and the awful decision that had come down from the Rotunda.

  They reached Deeping Farm just as the sun set behind the hills to the west. Lark was nearly speechless at the sight of Lord Francis himself waiting for them in the barnyard, a pitchfork in his hands and one of Brye’s battered hats on his head. He looked sun-browned and strong. In his woven shirt and trousers, he looked more like an Uplands farmer than like one of Oc’s nobility.

  Once Tup and Molly were stabled and fed, and everyone sat down at the long table to eat Peony’s fine pottage, Lark had to recite Mistress Winter’s entire story again. Brye frowned throughout, his face like a thundercloud, and though Peony and Edmar and Nick clapped at the end, at the delightful discovery that, somehow, Mistress Winter and Sunset had escaped from the Duke, Brye still scowled in rigid silence.

  Lord Francis said, “She should have sent for me.”

  Lark answered him, “Nay, Lord Francis, she feared for your safety. Yon Duke is set upon his road, and no one can stand in his way.” She blushed then, and added hastily, “Begging your pardon, my lord. I forget, at times, that he’s your brother.”

  “Where did she go?” Brye asked.

  Lark shrugged, and laughed. “No one knows, and that’s the best of all! If no one knows, then no one can be forced to tell!”

  “I hope she is someplace safe,” Brye glowered. “He’ll never have done searching.”

  BRYE’Sprediction proved true when Duke William clattered into the barnyard the next day on his lathered, exhausted brown gelding. Pamella came dashing in from the barn, sweeping up Brandon on the way, and hid herself and her son in the pantry. Larkyn called for Nick, who was in the coldcellar.

  Francis, who had been hoeing weeds in the kitchen garden, jumped over the blackstone fence to lend his support. He kept the sharp-pointed hoe in his hand as he stood in the exact center of the barnyard to face his brother. Larkyn was in the doorway to the stables, protecting her stallion. Nick Hamley brought the paddle of the butter churn up the steps, holding it in both hands like a club.

  William leaped off his horse and tossed the reins to the ground. The gelding stood with his head down, his sides heaving.

  “You’re going to kill that fine animal one day,” Francis said coolly.

  “Francis,” William said. His face was red and his hair wind-whipped, but his tone was as icy as Francis’s own. “I’m surprised to see you looking so well. I understood you were somewhere dying.”

  “I am far from death,” Francis said. “Which is more than I can say for your mount.”

  William didn’t even glance back at his horse. “You, brat,” he said, pointing his quirt at Larkyn. “Cool my horse.”

  Larkyn came forward gingerly, a wary eye on William, and took the horse’s reins. As he limped after her, Francis heard her speak to him in a tender voice. He said, “Not that you would understand, brother, but that’s the way to treat a horse.”

  William’s lip curled. “You’re telling me how to handle horses, Francis? That’s odd, in view of my recent achievement.” He took a step forward, and Nick Hamley bridled at his approach, lifting the wooden paddle as if it were a bludgeon. William laughed. “Look at you, Francis! You and the farmer, prepared to do battle with your tools!”

  Nick said nothing, but he didn’t lower the paddle, either. Francis felt a fresh wave of shame at his brother’s behavior. “What are you doing here, William? These good people have work to do. Come to that, surely you do, too.”

  “Ah. Now you’re telling me my duty?” William slapped his thigh with his quirt. “Since you’ve been shirking yours, I hardly think that’s appropriate.”

  “I’m going back to Arlton after Estian,” Francis said. “I have written to Prince Nicolas, and received a quite gracious letter in reply.”

  William’s eyes narrowed. “He said nothing to me.”

  “You’ve been to the Palace?” Francis said lightly. “My, you are busy, aren’t you. Deceiving the Council, destroying the bloodlines . . . quite an agenda.”

  “I have business with Nicolas. He’s interested in my new bloodline.”

  “Yes, he would be,” Francis said, suddenly weary of the whole exchange. “If he sees a profit in it. Is that what drives you, William? Profit?”

  William took another step, close enough that Francis could smell the odd essence of his skin, that slightly sweet, slightly sour smell he had developed. “Where is she, Francis?” he whispered. “Where have you hidden her?”

  Francis laughed. “I haven’t hidden her anywhere!” he said. “The first I heard of the whole affair was three days ago. Apparently she’s disappeared.”

  “I’ll make these people suffer if you don’t tell me.”

  “No, William.” Francis took two long steps forward to stand face-to-face with his brother. He gripped William’s arm and felt the skin give beneath his fingers. He experienced a rush of pride in the labor he had done in the past weeks, work that had made his hands hard and his shoulders stronger than they had ever been. “No, you won’t,” he repeated. And in a tone so low only William could hear, he said,

  “Because if you do, I will tell the Council, and Mother, and all of Oc—indeed, all of Isamar—what you did to Pamella.”

  William’s eyes widened, though he quickly controlled them. He couldn’t control the rush of blood to his face, though, that burned over his cheekbones in two angry red patches. “I don’t know what you mean,”

  he grated. “If our sister became a slut, it was none of my doing.”

  “I don’t know yet,” Francis said through gritted teeth, “if you forced her or seduced her. But I can see for myself who fathered the boy. And I will—I swear by our father’s grave that I will—expose you if you trouble these citizens at all.”


  “You’re mad,” William said, but his protest was weak.

  “Quite the contrary,” Francis said. “I am the only sane one left in the family.”

  William sucked in a breath and wrenched his arm free of Francis’s grasp. “I will call your bluff,” he said.

  “You haven’t the nerve for this sort of thing.”

  “No,” Francis said. “You won’t. And in this case, I do have the nerve, and more. I won’t have our legacy besmirched any more than it already is. What will the Council think of incest, added to your other offenses?”

  Larkyn had come near them as she walked the gelding to cool him. She froze, staring at William. Francis nodded to her. “Get the gelding some water, will you, Larkyn? My brother is leaving now.”

  William lifted his quirt, and Francis thought he might try again to strike him. But this time, with a sidelong glance at Nick Hamley, and with awareness of Francis’s newly acquired health, he dropped it again. He feigned a laugh and adjusted his hat. “You will regret this one day, Francis,” he said. “My memory is long.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Francis said. “It is your character that is short.”

  William’s eyes glittered with madness, but there was little he could do now. Larkyn was bringing his horse back, and Nick had come close enough to stand beside Francis, to hear what he had to say.

  William took the reins of his gelding and put his foot in the stirrup. When he was mounted, he looked down on them all, his lips pulled tight across his teeth. “Have a care, all of you,” he grated. “Diamond will soon fly, and when she does, there will be no one in Oc who will dare defy me!”

  He yanked the gelding’s head around, making the poor animal grunt, and he put spurs to him before the horse had taken more than two steps. The exhausted gelding galloped down the lane toward the road, his pace labored and uneven.

  Larkyn said sadly, “He will ruin that lovely beast.”