The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (35 page)

Deness of Heems heaved a sigh that was mostly a groan. “Even so, Aimery, if worse comes to worst someone must speak for Harcia and we’re all agreed it can’t be you. Send Reimond. Or me. But—”

“I’ll do it,” Balfre said quietly. “I might lack Grefin’s broad experience as Steward, but in the last few years I’ve settled my share of disputes around the duchy.”

“That’s true,” said Ferran. “And settled them well, what’s more.”

“Your Grace.” Balfre turned. “Crown Court or no, peace must be restored in the Marches. If you send me to oil the waters, Wido can’t claim we’re treating Clemen with contempt. And whatever the truth of this woman’s death, Ferran’s right. Bayard and Egbert have failed you. Who’s better placed to punish? Deness, or Reimond… or Harcia’s next duke?” His breath caught. “Meaning nothing by that, Your Grace.”

May the spirits give him strength. Both of his sons grown men, yet so afraid of what must come. “I take your meaning, Balfre, and take no harm from it. Indeed, you speak good sense.”

He let his gaze drop again, signalling his need for thought. Send Balfre to the Marches? The suggestion had merit.

If he shows himself wise in his dealings with Clemen’s Marcher lords then perhaps I can bring myself to believe Grefin’s right, and my fears for the future are unfounded
.

Something he would never have considered possible, before Balfre’s heartfelt reconciliation with his brother scant hours before.

Looking up, he nodded. “Very well, Balfre. I’ll leave this sorry business in your hands. And Curteis will go to the Marches with you, for you may trust his advice as you’d trust mine.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Balfre, properly sober. “And thank you. I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”

“Balfre! Balfre, wait!”

Smothering impatience, Balfre slowed until Grefin caught up with him on the North Tower’s torchlit staircase, leading down to the castle’s entrance hall.

“Such a surfeit of vigour,” he complained, and clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “No wonder you and Mazelina have so many children.”

Startled, Grefin blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “’Twas a jest. And a poor one at that.”

“On you, yes,” said Grefin, discomfited. “It must be hard, after so long, to only—” He cleared his throat. “You and Jancis, have you tried–I mean to say, is there no hope you might yet—”

“What is it the exarchites preach? ‘In the divine there is always hope.’ So there you have it. Jancis prays. And I pray someone or something is listening.”

“I’m sorry.” Then Grefin smiled, a little tentative. “So. How’s your arse?”

“Still bruised,” he said, starting down the stairs again. Although deliberately losing the joust was worth a hundred bruises, to see his brother and father so eager to believe the lie. “Like my pride. But don’t apologise.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Grefin said, his smile widening to a grin. “The memory of you on the ground today will keep me warm on cold winter nights.”

Because it was necessary for Grefin to think they were friends again, true brothers, he started a mock-scuffle, as they’d scuffled in childhood with Malcolm. They took the last dozen shadow-flickered stairs down to the hall laughing and grappling, hips bumping, shoulders thumping, and laughed all the harder to see the affronted expressions on Reimond and Deness’s austere, lordly faces as the councillors made their way to the staircase leading up to the East Tower, where they were being housed during Aimery’s birthday celebrations.

Panting, Balfre tousled Grefin’s hair. “Did you want something? Or did you waylay me only to gloat?”

“Isn’t gloating enough?”

“Fuck you.”

Grefin mimed himself arrow-shot, grinning. “Muck-tongue.”

“Mankworm.”

“Mouldywarp.”

“Arselick!”

Two servants, a cord of firewood slung between them, startled as they came into the extravagantly candelit hall from the bailey.

“Now look what you’ve done,” said Grefin, nudging. “Next they’ll run weeping to Curteis and he’ll scold you all the way to the Marches.”

Balfre felt his lip curl. “I’m not in the habit of being scolded by servants.”

“Curteis is more than that, and you know it.”

Curteis was a fucking inconvenience. But no matter. Soon enough, like Grefin, he’d be swept aside.

“And Aimery’s right,” Grefin added. “He’ll serve you well, should it come to a Crown Court.” Surrendering to a yawn, he scrubbed crooked fingers through his hair. “But if I can be of any help before you ride out–if you ride out–if I’m still here? You’ve only to ask.”

With the wood-burdened servants huffing their way up the stairs to the East Tower, and everyone else safe behind chamber doors, they were alone again. Balfre felt his eyes narrow.

“I see. You think the task’s beyond me.”

“Of course I don’t! But—”

“But you’re Steward of the Green Isle… and I’m not.”

Grefin looked at him. “I thought we were past that.”

Fuck. Could he be more doltish, letting the rancor show? Lovingly, he rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We are, Gref. Long past. I meant every word I said today. I’m proud of you, and I’m sorry. If you’d not found it in your heart to forgive me…”

Grefin’s expression shifted from wary to embarrassed. “I told you, there’s nothing to forgive. The Green Isle is rightfully yours. I never should’ve said I’d take it, not even for a year. And once that year was up I shouldn’t have let Aimery talk me into staying. I should’ve argued harder. I owed you that much.”

“And if you had, would he have listened?”

“Most likely not,” Grefin muttered. “But I should’ve tried.”

Once, that admission would’ve counted for something, perhaps even healed the unhealed wound in his heart. Instead, the wound tore wider. Because he knew now how false his brother was. What a traitor he’d become, in league with Aimery against Harcia. Wooing Clemen. Offering the hand of friendship to that usurping bastard Roric.

Life is most strange. If Grefin had stood firm, if the Green Isle had come to me as I wanted, I might never have learned what he and Aimery are planning. And being ignorant, I’d have been too late to save us
.

Seething, he pulled his brother close, held him tight. Conjured tears, because tears were important when selling a lie, even to the gullible. “It means
everything
, Gref, that you forgive me. And I want to tell you
something, that I need you to believe. I’m well-pleased not to be Steward. You’re where you should be, on the Green Isle. And I’m where I must be, here, learning how best I can keep Harcia safe. If you never trust another word I say, trust that.”

“I do,” said Grefin, tightening his grasp.

He wanted to laugh at that. Instead, he forced a kind of choked sob. “Good. But don’t think you won’t be the one hitting the ground arse-first next time we joust.”

“There’s a fine boast!”

Stepping out of his brother’s embrace, he grinned. “Not a boast. A promise. Tell me, Gref, would you really school me so I’ll not make a fool of myself in the Marches?”

“Of course.”

“Then school me now. Tell me what you’ve learned on the Green Isle that I should know. It’s too early for bed. And besides…” He grimaced. “I’m in no mood for Jancis. If you love me, keep me from her. We’re happiest apart.”

Grefin’s lingering smile faded. “Balfre—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “You’ll be wasting your breath. Now come, my lord Steward. Let’s walk Tamwell’s wall together and talk of happier things. Like murder.”

Emeline had taken poorly, soon after the feast.

“She’s like me,” said Jancis, bathing her feverish daughter’s brow with lavender water. “The smallest morsel of rich food and her belly revolts. I did warn her not to indulge, but…”

Mazelina dipped a fresh linen cloth into the half-full pewter basin on the bedchamber floor. “But like any child, she doesn’t care to seem different.” She frowned. “I hope her cousins didn’t incite her.”

“Even if they did, Emeline knows better. This will be a lesson for her. Disobedience is always punished.”

And there was Jancis in a nutshell.

“Still. You can’t really blame her, not wanting to miss out on a pleasure. Especially when my brood gobbles everything in sight without so much as a hiccup.”

“Indeed.” With an effort Jancis smiled, half-hearted. “They’re fine, healthy children, Mazelina. Life on the Green Isle suits them.”

“It might suit Emeline, too. I wish you’d bring her for a visit, Jancis. I’m sure you’d do well away from court for a little time.”

Jancis looked down at her sadly plain, afflicted daughter. “Away from Balfre, you mean.”

“No, that’s not what I—” Only it was, and they both knew it. Biting her lip, Mazelina twisted moisture from the lavender-scented cloth. “It hurts to know you’re so unhappy. You deserve better. Perhaps were Balfre deprived of your company for a month or more he’d learn to appreciate—”

“It would make no difference,” Jancis said calmly, exchanging her used cloth for the fresh one. “Even when he’s here, he scarcely notices me. Save for fucking, when the need arises. When he’s not scratched that itch elsewhere.”

“
Jancis!
” She looked quickly at Emeline, but the child was restlessly fretful, her eyes barely open. “That’s a dreadful thing to say. Especially in front of—”

“The truth is often dreadful. As for my daughter, you may believe she’s heard worse.”

The trouble was she did believe it. Every time she and Grefin came back to court she was vividly reminded of what a misery her goodsister’s marriage had become. The unfairness of Jancis’s predicament cut her, knife-like. Made her feel guilty for her own unclouded happiness.

“Don’t reproach yourself, Mazelina,” Jancis said, reaching out. “Or fear that I begrudge you the joy I’m denied. Do you think I’d see the world weeping because I can’t laugh?”

Or bear a son. And here she sat, with two. Her vision blurred. “The Green Isle is an old land, Jancis. I’ve met herb-women there with healing powers so strong they put Tamwell’s leech to shame. If you’d come, if you’d let them—”

“Do what? Feed me foul potions? Gabble pagan chants over my shrivelled, barren womb?” Jancis withdrew her hand. “I won’t do that. Not even for a son.”

“But if they
worked
, Jancis. If it meant you could give Aimery’s heir an heir, then surely—”

Jancis turned away. “At the cost of my soul? I thought you cared for me, Mazelina.”

“You sound like an exarchite,” she said, staring.

“So what if I do? The Exarch’s priests have been a great comfort. When I falter, they keep me strong.”

“So you’ve considered it?”

“Of course! Even though Balfre forbade me. But the exarchites showed me I was wrong.”

“Oh,
Jancis
. What do those grey men know of how a woman suffers?”

“And you?” Jancis bent again over her daughter, smoothing dull, mousey hair back from her damp cheek. “What do you know of it?”

She leapt up. “I thought you said you don’t begrudge me?”

“I’m sorry,” Jancis said, flushing. “I know you mean well. But you can’t help me, Mazelina. No one can. Aimery refuses to sunder my marriage. And so long as the duke is obdurate, Balfre and I must endure.”

“So you’ve asked him? Aimery?”

Jancis sighed. “I’ve begged him. Many times. The last time, he forbade me to mention it again.”

“And Balfre?”

Instead of answering, Jancis again cooled Emeline’s over-heated skin. She was as pale as her daughter was flushed, and her thin, near-translucent hand trembled.

Frightened, Mazelina crouched at her side, by Emeline’s low bed. “Jancis? What’s Balfre done?”

Another pallid smile. “Tell me. You and Grefin. You confide in each other?”

“Of course,” she said, cautious. “But if you’re worried I’ll tattle your confidences then—”

“Balfre tells me nothing.” Jancis looked up, her gaze unseeing. “Days go by, and we hardly speak.”

“But?” she said gently, so full of sorrow her throat hurt.

Jancis shrugged. “He’s my husband, and I know him. Better than he thinks. People call him a hot-head. And I’ll not deny his temper.” Her hand crept to her cheek, as though remembering a blow. “But he’s changed, Mazelina. He used to blurt things out in anger, or when he was in his cups. Not any more. He holds his tongue, these days. He knows raging isn’t the only way to get what he wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“Freedom,” Jancis whispered. “When Aimery dies he’ll be free. Of me. Of Emeline.” She released a shuddering breath. “It won’t be long now, surely. Aimery’s an old, sick man. Balfre knows all he has to do is wait. And if he can wait, so can I. He’s not the only one chafing for freedom.”

Jancis sounded so bleak she wanted to weep. Started to say something, then turned as she heard the outer chamber’s door open.

“That’s Balfre,” said Jancis, tightly. “You should go.”

There was no use protesting the fear in her. The resignation. Jancis was right. Until Aimery died she was trapped here. Until Aimery died, she had to endure.

“Fair Mazelina,” Balfre greeted her, as she met him in the outer chamber. “Did you come seeking Grefin?”

“No, to gossip with Jancis. I miss her, on the Green Isle.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

For Grefin’s sake she tried to like him, but he made it almost impossible. “You should go to her, Balfre. Emeline is ill.”

“Again?” he said, indifferent.

Not knowing how to answer that, she searched his handsome face instead. The man who’d opened his heart to Grefin, who’d admitted his faults with grieving eyes. Was he real? Was he this man? Could she trust him with her husband, who needed so badly to trust?

Balfre tilted his head. “I’ve made you angry.”

“A little,” she admitted. “But then few men are born to be great fathers.”

“Like Grefin.” His jaw tightened. “And Aimery.”

“Aimery?” She hesitated. Then, striving to be just, remembering that if Jancis was trapped in misery so was he, she sighed. “I’d not call Aimery perfect.”

A flicker of surprise. “No? Best you don’t repeat that where Gref can hear you.”

“Where Grefin loves, he oft loves blindly. He’ll forgive any hurt done him, no matter how cruel. Which means those who love him must be less forgiving.”