The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (18 page)

Molly held her breath. If these lords and their men slaughtered each other, what hope of hiding it? There’d be war in the Marches, rivers of blood where the roads used to be, and then how could she hope to keep the Pig Whistle’s doors open? She felt herself shaking, felt Iddo shaking beside her.

“Feggit lords and their shammeries!” he cursed, as the lords’ heralds, no fighting men, scurried themselves safe and the Pig Whistle’s few guests spilled onto the forecourt to point and stare, boggle-eyed, at the men-at-arms jostling towards each other, shouting vile insults and slashing the air to ribbons with their threatening blades.

Lord Jacott was purple-faced with fury. Heedless of the danger, he spurred his gape-mouthed stallion between Bayard and Wido’s horses.

“Come to your senses, Wido!” he bellowed. “Or d’you want Roric to banish you out of your castle and lands?”

Before Lord Wido could answer, the sound of steel striking steel slewed them round in their saddles. Two men-at-arms, one Clemen, one Harcian, swinging their swords wildly… and blood spilled on both sides.

Scant heartbeats of silence, full of shock and anger and fear. The air trembled on the brink of calamity. Then Jacott wrenched his horse about.

“
Men of Clemen! Stand your ground!
”

For one terrible moment, Molly thought Clemen’s men-at-arms would disobey. But then they heeded their furious lord, ramshackle, and Lord Egbert wheeled his warhorse on its haunches and rode it straight at Harcia’s approaching men-at-arms. Seeing their own lord in danger of their drawn swords, the men-at-arms collapsed into confusion, trampling each other to get out of his way. Lord Wido, still red-faced, abandoned his quest to spill Lord Bayard’s blood.

Dry-mouthed, Molly watched as a hasty truce was hammered between Jacott and Egbert, with Wido and Bayard glowering and all the tamed men-at-arms glaring their impotent threats. When it was done, Lord Jacott dismounted his stallion and stamped his way towards the Pig Whistle.

“Iddo,” she said, under her breath. “Best ye get these lollygaggers inside. I’ll see what the lord wants.”

He was her Iddo, he did as she asked without a brangle. As he bustled their guests into the public room, she met with Lord Jacott.

“A foolish misunderstanding,” he said, sweaty and jaw-jutted. “I’d be obliged if you put it out of mind, Mistress Molly.”

“Yer lordship,” she murmured. “There be two men wounded. Would ye have me see to them?”

A great wash of relief passed over his face. “I would.”

He beckoned the two bloodied men-at-arms with a harsh gesture, not caring that one of them owed him no obedience, and as they limped forward she fetched her physicking chest. Then she did her best to bind their hurts, thinking all the while of Phemie peering over her shoulder. After that, the lords of Harcia rode on with their chastened men-at-arms behind them. Neither of them lowered their dignity to an apology.

She and Iddo ran themselves ragged after that, feeding Clemen’s lords and their rowdy men-at-arms and emptying a dozen kegs of fine ale into endlessly out-thrust tankards. They crawled into their bed well past midnight and lay curled together, hand in hand, humming head to toe with weariness.

“Feggit lords,” said Iddo, around a huge yawn. “If this be what a new duke in Clemen brings the Marches, we do be facing a mort of dark years.”

She wanted to argue, but he was right.

“A mort of dark years, Moll,” he said again, pulling her close. “And best we prepare for it, afore we lose our way.”

T
aking advantage of the most favourable winds, the light galley
Dancer
made a night crossing from the Cassinian duchy of Ardenn to the great harbour of Eaglerock township. Cloaked against the cold, and the sea spray whipping up and over the galley’s side, Berardine of Ardenn brooded into moon-silvered darkness. As she stared, the
Dancer
’s hull sliced through the inky Moat, its parted waters slapping and hissing in protest. The galley’s square-rigged sail creaked high overhead, bellied with eager air, and its prow dipped and heaved beneath her feet, but she rode each surge easily, as though she sat her swiftest horse.

A pity she couldn’t simply ride the wide stretch of water between her royal duchy and Clemen. In nigh forty years of living, she’d never reconciled herself to boats.

The captain had promised her they’d reach Eaglerock harbour just after dawn. She didn’t know how her sailing masters knew these things. She didn’t need to. It was their business to know, and hers to be satisfied, and if they failed her they knew what they could expect.

Catching the sound of someone’s approach, Berardine turned her head a little and waited.

“Beg pardon, Madam,” said the captain’s mate, halting. “Captain thought you’d fancy a toddy against the nip.”

She held out her hand. “That is most thoughtful.”

“Madam,” said the mate, and put the warm tankard into her grasp. “Were you wanting anything else?”

“Solitude.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Footsteps, retreating. She took a moment to enjoy the toddy’s heat against her chilled fingers, then risked a taste. If it was goat’s milk… but no. Wisely, the captain had seen fit to bring on board finest sweet cow’s milk for her, and had liberally laced this tankardful with rum. She took a deeper swallow and smiled as the sailor’s brew burned a smooth path all the way to her near-empty belly. Her appetite these past weeks had been shy, the news from Clemen too disquieting for comfort. Milk might be babe’s pap, but it soothed her fretful stomach. She needed that, now more than ever. The days ahead were sure to be fraught with uncertainty, if not danger. To prevail she’d require all her strength and cunning.

Tucked within her jewelled bodice was a folded sheet of paper, the most recent report from her envoy to Eaglerock castle and its set-adrift court. She had no need to re-read it, though. After nineteen days of perusal she knew the letter’s contents by heart.

And well it might, and must, for it was in trade with Clemen and, through it the duchy of Harcia, that she protected her own vulnerable duchy’s sovereignty and her precarious rule. Lose Clemen and Harcia and she lost all. The dukes of Cassinia, emboldened, would fall upon wounded Ardenn in a frenzy… and she’d get no help from the men in charge of Cassinia’s infant, orphaned prince. Those weak, selfish bastards were too busy feathering their own nests and appeasing the Principality’s great lords.

“But they won’t destroy me, or mine,” she declared to the wind-whipped water and the muffling night. “On my beloved Baldwin’s grave, I swear it.”

“Mama?”

She turned, frowning. “Catrain. Why aren’t you asleep?”

The galley was generously strung with oil lamps. In their leaping light Catrain’s blue eyes gleamed mysterious. Tendrils of wavy, honey-gold hair escaped from her blue cloak’s hood and flirted with the salty breeze. Though just fourteen, she seemed older. She was her dead father’s daughter, Baldwin’s image and delight.

“You’re not, Mama.”

“Mind your tongue.”

Her three other daughters, hearing that tone, would have flung themselves at her in sobbing regret. Not just because they were younger, but because–well, because they weren’t their sister.

Catrain laughed. “If I bother you so much, Mama, you should’ve left me in Carillon.”

“The captain can always take you back there once we have reached Eaglerock.”

“Mama…” Joining her, Catrain slipped a confiding hand beneath the folds of her cloak and into the crook of her arm. “He could, but he
won’t. You need my eyes and ears in Clemen’s court. I’m the only one who can spy for you there unnoticed.”

Sometimes she feared her first-born daughter was too bright. “Is that why I’ve brought you with me? To spy on our Clemen cousins?”

“Am I wrong?” Catrain sounded surprised. “I couldn’t think of another reason why you’d want me to come.”

Berardine stared into the night. Yes, she had another reason. But oh, how she dreaded shattering her daughter’s innocence. There remained a little time, yet. Best divert her bright child with an answer that was the truth… but not the whole truth.

“Now that you’re of age, Catrain,” she said with practised ease, hiding all doubts, “I decided the experience of travel beyond our borders will stand you in good stead.”

Catrain nodded. “Yes, Mama. I’m sure it will. But you do still intend for me to be your spy. Yes?”

“You are the heiress of Ardenn. I intend you should do your duty.”

“Exactly so,” Catrain said, pleased. “I’ll make a good spy, I think. What man ever looks past a pretty girl’s tits?”

“Your father did.”

A careless shrug. “Papa was different.”

Indeed he was. Different, and irreplaceable. Even now, after so long, there were days when the pain of missing Baldwin threatened to put her on her knees.

“He’d be so proud of you, Mama.”

Berardine kissed her daughter’s cloaked head. “And of you, Catrain. Though he’d despair at your impudence.”

Another laugh, this time a trifle wistful. Catrain had been nearly seven when Baldwin died. An impressionable age.

“I’ll return to the cabin, Mama, if that’s what you truly want.”

Even with the brisk winds, they faced at least four more hours of sailing. She couldn’t stand on deck all that time. “We’ll both retire, in a moment.”

A stretch of silence as Catrain gazed up at the distant, glittering stars. Her face in profile was achingly pure. Looking at her, Berardine felt a pang of uncertainty.

Since his firstborn daughter’s third birthday it had been Baldwin’s determined desire for the child to marry into Clemen, and in doing so increase Ardenn’s influence and fortunes. But such an intent, while laudable, failed to tell the whole story. At last she’d wormed the truth
out of her husband. In defiance of the Exarch’s strict teachings against soothsaying, Baldwin had claimed a knowing of it, and told her that if Catrain didn’t marry Clemen then dire calamity would surely follow. He feared the greed of his brother dukes, and their arrogance. He was afraid they’d see Ardenn reduced to smoke and cinders before admitting Catrain was bloodborn to rule. Instead they’d seek to take it for themselves. Without a great duke as her husband, her champion, his heir and duchy both would be ruined. A soothsayer had told him so.

She’d found it hard to believe him, even though she wanted to. He was the father of her children and the king of her heart. Never once had he lied to her. But
soothsaying
? That was near as bad as sorcery. A great sin. Only he’d asked her to trust him… and of course she did.

Then, four years later, she lost her beloved Baldwin.

Within days of his death the dukes of Cassinia began dangling various sons before her in hopes of securing an advantageous betrothal to Catrain. Smiles turned to scowls when she refused. Compliments swiftly decayed into veiled threats. Besieged on all sides, she’d begun to weaken, even though she could see that Baldwin had been right to fear the dukes.

But just as despair threatened to overwhelm loyalty, a young woman came to her, slipping into Carillon’s airy palace unchallenged. Like a shadow. Izusa, she called herself. Baldwin’s muse, she claimed to be. Without preamble she’d sworn her fealty, promising her service in defence of Ardenn and in dear Baldwin’s memory.

“Madam, three tokens will I give you by which my honesty can be judged,” she said. “If even one of these tokens proves untrue you’ll not hear from me again. But if I prove true, Madam, think of me… and I’ll return.”

She’d stared at the young woman, trembling with hope and dread. “What tokens?”

“Madam,” Izusa said. Her clear green eyes were fearless, her oddly matched features somehow attractive. “Three days hence, in the midst of its pealing, the great bell in the great chapel of Carillon will crack. When the exarchites prepare the bell field to cast a new bell, there they’ll discover the bones of a hunchback long since dead. Three hours after disturbing these mortal remains, a flock of night-crows will descend upon the chapel bell tower. Thrice will they circle it and then fall dead to the ground–save for one bird, which will sing more sweetly than
the sweet-throated thrush. As the last note fades the bird will blush from black to gold and fly away into the blue sky, never more to be seen.”

“Ridiculous,” she said faintly. “Night-crows don’t sing.”

Izusa’s full lips curved in a smile. “One will sing, Madam. And all who hear it shall weep.”

Distraught with grief, more terrified of betraying Baldwin and his trust than imperilling her soul, she’d promised Izusa she’d wait to see if the strange predictions came to pass. Feeling foolish, missing Baldwin, on the third day after the soothsayer’s visit she left her palace to pray in Carillon’s great chapel.

And while she prayed, the great bronze bell in its tower cracked.

When word came to her of the crooked bones found in the bell field, she went to look. She watched the night-crows circle the chapel’s bell tower, then watched them fall dead at her feet. And when the last songless crow sang like a sweet-throated thrush she wept… and barely saw it fly away golden through the veil of her tears.

The next night, like a shadow, Izusa returned.

“Madam,” she said, fearless, “am I not a woman of my word?”

“How did you know those things would happen?” she’d whispered. “What
are
you, Izusa?”

“Your servant,” Baldwin’s soothsayer replied. “Bound to you and yours for as long as there is need.”

“Bound how? Bound by whom? For what purpose?
I must know!
”

“Madam…” Izusa took both her hands. Held them, though she had no permission. There was something comforting in her touch. “The more you know, the greater your danger. Shadows creep beyond these walls. Wicked men plot to wound you. Your daughter is not safe.”

She gasped. “Catrain?”

“She must marry into Clemen,” Izusa declared. “No matter who importunes you otherwise, Madam, you must stand firm.”

“Alone, Izusa?” She couldn’t bear it. “For how long?”

Izusa’s smile was brilliant. “You’re not alone, Madam. You have me and the powers who sent me.” Then she scattered her ancient telling stones across the bedchamber floor. “When your daughter is fourteen, and a woman, then will the wheel turn. Stand fast till then, Madam. For Ardenn and the love of the husband you lost.”

“Will I see you again?” she’d asked, watching Izusa return the telling stones to her rabbit-skin satchel one by one, with care. “How can I reach you, if I need… guidance?”

“Fear not, Madam. I’ll come if you need me.”

“And how will you know?”

“I’ll know,” said Izusa, her eyes gentle, her smile strange. Then, like a shadow, she was gone.

So for the last seven years she’d stood fast. Though in the end the threats came to nothing, her rejection of those dukes’ dangled sons had cost her much good will and roused unwelcome suspicions. Most valuable noble daughters were matched years before they reached the legal age to wed. While Baldwin lived there’d been no public complaint over Catrain remaining free, as there was still the chance of a son to inherit his duchy. But with that hope gone, since his death the critical whispers had grown louder. Baldwin’s widow was the sole ruling duchess in Cassinia, and tolerated only by virtue of her widowhood. The thought of Catrain succeeding her and ruling outright, unwed, was unthinkable. The girl must marry and breed a son to inherit Ardenn. Though the prince’s regents and the other dukes squabbled every other week, in this one matter they stood united.

As her daughter’s fourteenth birthday approached, the regents’ pressure increased. Berardine knew she was fast running out of time. Only the thought of giving her tender child to a man like Harald of Clemen stayed her hand. Then newly widowed Harald remarried, and the choice was denied her. When the news came ten months later that Harald had at last sired himself a healthy son, it seemed she must betray her beloved Baldwin and his dream. Harald would hardly betroth his infant heir to a girl of an age to have borne the child herself. She’d come to think she had no hope but to placate the prince’s regents and marry Catrain within Cassinia… or else find another husband for herself and risk her life, and everything she held dear, on the slender chance she could birth a son to follow Baldwin.

Dreading that, she’d waited for Izusa to break her years of silence. And then, when the silence persisted, she wondered if all along she’d believed in a lie.

But now Harald and his son were dead… and the cousin who’d supplanted him was yet unmarried. It seemed Baldwin and his soothsayer had been right after all. Still, one doubt remained. Would the regents and the dukes accept his widow marrying his daughter and heir across the Moat?

She was almost sure they’d support her if she promised that Cassinia would receive a goodly portion of Clemen’s trading wealth. Gold was
like oil, it calmed the most troubled waters. And the law was on her side. Nowhere in Cassinia’s statutes was such a marriage forbidden. Why, foreign blood flowed through the veins of every Cassinian noble. As for Roric of Clemen being any kind of threat to the Principality, it went without saying that Catrain’s husband would never take precedence over her in Ardenn. And he was unlikely to object to the role of consort when the marriage would be so advantageous to his duchy. Indeed, in offering Roric her eldest daughter she’d be honouring him, enriching him, beyond his wildest imaginings. Of course he’d agree to the match. He might be a bastard, but she’d never heard he was a fool.