The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (36 page)

“Why, Mazelina,” he said, amused. “Is that a warning?”

She tilted her chin. “If you like.”

Laughing, Balfre kissed her forehead. “Good night, dove. You’ll find Grefin in your chambers.”

He was right. She did. And, standing unnoticed in the doorway watching the lordly Steward of the Green Isle blunder about the room on hands and knees, their three crowing children crowded on his back, didn’t realise she was weeping until he at last saw her there.

“Mazelina! What’s amiss?”

“Amiss?” Feeling the dampness on her cheeks, she hurriedly smeared them dry. “Oh, nothing. Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

Ullia, dark curls bouncing, waved her plump little arms. “Mama!
Mama! Come play! You can be my warhorse. We’ll joust Jorin and Kerric and make them fall off!”

“Ninnypants!” Jorin scoffed, and poked her with his elbow. “Girls don’t joust!”

Ullia’s lower lip quivered. “I can joust if I want. Can’t I joust, Papa?”

“Well, Mama?” said Grefin, catching wriggly Kerric’s ankle with one hand to stop him sliding onto the floor. “Can she?”

Turning, Mazelina closed the chamber door. Took that moment to breathe deep, until she knew she could trust herself to speak. There was nothing she could do for Jancis, or poor unwanted Emeline. All she could do was love her own family… and pray that one day her happiness might become theirs.

She turned back again, showing them nothing but delight. “Of course she can, my lord Steward! Come along, Ullia. I’ll be your fearless warhorse–and we’ll make ninnypants of them!”

Leaving Jancis to nurse her useless, sickly daughter, Balfre spent the night in their apartment’s outer chamber, slumped in a chair by the fire. He was too het up for sleep. For the first time since he’d stumbled across that fucking letter from Roric, he could see a chance to thwart Aimery’s puling plan for peace with Clemen. And all thanks to a Clemen whore, who’d got herself murdered in the Marches.

There was justice in that. A glorious retribution.

Though some of the council doubted, he considered it almost certain a Crown Court would be convened. Far less certain, and most surprising, Aimery’s decision to let his unwanted heir speak for Harcia. He’d offered himself to show willing, not because he thought his father would agree. Yet more retribution. The unseen powers were on his side. So he didn’t dare waste the opening they’d given him. Had to turn uproar to his advantage, use every weapon he could find in the pursuit of his grand dream.

The rightful conquering of Clemen.

As night trudged towards dawn he kept the fire in the hearth burning and let his imagination run riot. Considered this thought, discarded that one until, like a puzzle, a plan began to take shape. It was made up of many pieces: the bits of advice Grefin had offered him as they tramped Tamwell’s wall… the letter he’d taken from the trader, Culpyn, in Roric’s handwriting… his own skill with pen and ink, the gaining of which he’d once resented… and the friends he’d made, and how best he could use them.

Hours later, the sun rose slovenly beyond the castle’s thick stone walls. Fingers of daylight pushed between the outer chamber’s barred shutters to lie idle on the floor. His empty belly rumbled. His full bladder complained. He heard the drift of voices from the bailey far below. Caught the scent of baking bread wafting up from the ovens.

Tamwell was awake.

Hastily breakfasted, and changed into a gold-embroidered russet doublet and sober black hose, Balfre took himself downstairs to the bailey’s stables.

“My lord,” said Waymon, surprised to see him, and let go his stallion’s hind hoof. “Do you need something?”

The stables were bustling. Too many pricked ears. “I do, Waymon,” he said. “Walk with me.”

They left behind the restless horses, the scurrying stable boys, and the farrier roaring his forge to hot life. Waymon, blindly trusting, let himself be led over the causeway and onto the narrow path that threaded dangerously along the edge of the cliff overlooking the river.

Reaching the one place along the cliff path that kept them hidden from curious eyes, Balfre halted and turned. “Forgive the mystery, Waymon. But we mustn’t be overheard.”

“My lord,” Waymon said, his pockmarked face tightening, “I know there’s trouble. My father keeps council discretion, but I can tell he’s worried.”

Balfre nodded. “There’s been a murder in the Marches. The bastard Roric intends to throw it at Harcia’s feet. Worse, he’s made our Marcher lords uncertain of their loyalty.”

“Bayard and Egbert?” Waymon gaped. “Suborned to treachery?”

“I fear so.”

Shaken, Waymon looked down at the distant river, and the flat-hulled barges floating their ponderous way towards Cater’s Tamwell. On the fresh morning breeze, the skirling shriek of a hunting eagle.

“
Fuck
, Balfre,” he said at last, “this is terrible news.”

“And with Clemen ruled by that murdering bastard Roric, I fear there’s worse to come. But you can’t whisper a word of this, my friend. The stakes are too high.”

“Of course, my lord. My lips are stitched.” Waymon dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “What’s to be done with them? Bayard, and Egbert.”

“Nothing kind. Waymon…” He folded his arms, like a man struggling against some great pain. “Do you love me?”

Waymon’s eyes widened. “My lord, you know I do.”

“And if I commanded a task of you? Something difficult. Something… dark.”

“Then I’d do it. Without question.”

He hid a smile. “Even though your hands may be stained with blood? Harcian, as well as Clemen?”

“
Anything
,” Waymon said, vehement, his mud-brown stare intense. “Name it.”

“Ah, Waymon.” Balfre embraced him. “I knew I could count on you.”

Waymon hesitated, then returned the embrace. As though they were brothers. “Always. Never doubt it. I’m your man till the day I die.”

To his surprise, the declaration touched him. If only Grefin possessed even a thimbleful of Waymon’s loyalty. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back. Shook off unwelcome melancholy. “And I’m yours.”

“What is it you need me to do, my lord?”

“Nothing. Not yet,” he said. “Matters are still unsettled. All I know for certain is I’ll be riding to the Marches, soon. And when I go, Waymon, I want you by my side.”

“Me?” Waymon frowned. “Not Joben? Or Paithan?”

Never. His cousin and Black Hughe’s brother were useful, but neither man was what he needed. Waymon might dress like a popinjay but on the inside, where it counted, Ferran’s son was a rabid wolf.

He smiled, gently. “Not this time. To prevail in the Marches, I’ll need you.” He thumped a fist to Waymon’s gaudy saffron-and-crimson striped chest. “Now come. We should return to Tamwell before we’re missed. And remember–not a word to anyone. Harcia’s future depends on your silence.”

H
arsh grunts. Rank sweat. The desperate, degrading thrust of flesh into flesh. There’d been pleasure in it, once. Desire and revenge entangled, feeding upon each other, swelling into a furious, endless burst of joy. Once there was laughter. A long time ago, delight.

Wearily, Vidar felt his straining body empty. Felt Lindara’s weak shudder in response. She winced when he pulled himself out of her. Sighed as she fumbled her heavy green velvet skirts over her hips. Then she reached for her sleeves, set carefully aside with her elaborate emerald chain on the spiralled stone steps beside them. Her face was pale in the mean rushlight, no lingering flush of fulfilment.

“Help me lace them up.”

Once, three years ago–a moment ago, a lifetime–they’d torn her gown’s bodice in their haste to disrobe. She’d had to lie to her lady’s maid after, then find plausible reason to dismiss the woman to make certain she’d never cause strife. They’d taken more care since. Even now, with passion perfunctory, they made certain not to repeat that dangerous mistake.

Black hose rucked down to his knees, cock limp and deflated below the edge of his black velvet doublet, he laced her blue-and-gold striped sleeves to her bodice. Three years ago she’d stripped almost naked, and maiding her had made him smile. Gave him reason to fondle her breasts one last time beneath soft, rose-scented linen, and whisper scandalous things in her ear.

Three years later they removed only her sleeves. And met to fuck quickly, in empty stairwells and chance closets, no more lingering in moonlight, entwined in gold-embroidered sheets, fucking at their leisure while Roric was absent from Eaglerock.

Lindara flicked him a cursory look as she made sure of her pinned hair. “You look ridiculous. Dress yourself, for pity’s sake.”

There’d been a time when she’d laughed to see him so foolish. A time when she’d coax his limp, naked cock back to rampant life. When a single caress would make him iron again, and invincible. He dreamed those times now. Dreams were all he had left.

Pulling up his hose, lacing the points, tidying his shirt and doublet, he gritted his teeth against the grinding ache in his ruined hip. It hurt like shite to fuck standing, in a stairwell. But since Lindara decided where they’d meet, and even Humbert’s pet leech Arthgallo couldn’t undo his body’s damage, he had to live with it. At least the leech’s draught of poppy and yasfar dulled the worst of his pain.

“By Damikah’s reckoning I’ve one more day fertile,” she said, fastening the emerald chain about her neck. “So we should fuck again tomorrow. But not here. Perhaps in the wine cellar. Or the tapestry storeroom. I’ll leave a note in the usual place by nine bells, once I decide.”

Abruptly exhausted, he looked at her. “Fuck again to what end?”

“What do you mean?” she said, staring.

She was brittle, and so was he. Both of them thinned to breaking point. But he was tired of holding his tongue. Tired of pretending all was well when they both knew it wasn’t.

“You set great store by your witch.”

“And why wouldn’t I? She keeps Roric a gelding.”

“So you say.”

“And what do
you
say? That she’s lying?”

“Or nowhere near the witch she claims to be. All this time fucking, Lindara, and you’ve still not borne my son. Or even my daughter.” He felt his breath hitch. “You’ve never even miscarried.”

Trembling, Lindara folded her arms. The fine lines time had etched round her eyes deepened as she frowned. “Then you do blame me.”

Perhaps he did. But how would it help to say so? “Your witch promised us a healthy son.”

“She also warned it might take time.”

“How much time? What we dreamed of six years ago, that we’ve schemed and lied and fucked for ever since? It hasn’t happened. Would you have us fucking in secret for
another
six years?”

“And what if I would, Vidar?” she demanded. “I’m not leaving Eaglerock. Are you?”

He hesitated. He’d intended to talk of it, but not like this. Not in a stairwell.

“Vidar?” she said slowly. “
Are you leaving?
”

Trapped, reluctant, he looked into her accusing face. “No. But I stand at a crossroad. There is a choice I have to make.”

“What crossroad? What
choice
?”

She sounded genuinely baffled. “Lindara,” he said, feeling lost. How could she know him, love him, yet fail to understand? “My title and estates were restored to me years ago, and still I haven’t married. Surely you’ve heard the whispers?”

He watched her consider his question. Saw her eyes narrow as she realised what he was trying to say.

“Really?” Her cold stare raked him. “You think people wonder why you’re unwed?”

And that hurt, as she’d intended. “Don’t,” he said roughly. “And don’t pretend you can’t see the danger we’re in. Every week that passes, every time we meet like this, we—”

“Danger?” She laughed, scornful. “Trust me, Vidar, we’re in no danger. Roric suspects nothing. All he can think of is Clemen and its woes.”

“Your childless state being one of them!”

Her eyes glittered in the meagre candlelight. “Roric forgives me that. So who are you to chide?”

“If he knew the reason for it he’d not forgive you.”

“Do you want to stop?” she said, stepping closer, hands fisted by her sides. “Is that it? Because this is proving more difficult than we thought, do you want to abandon our revenge? Does it no longer matter to you,
offend
you, that every time he fucks me it feels like a rape? Do you no longer love me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“
No
,” he protested. “But—”

“Or perhaps you think it isn’t rape,” she said, as though he’d not spoken. “Because he doesn’t use me violently. Because I’m not some peasant woman plundered on the battlefield as a reward for bloody slaughter.”

She was twisting his words, twisting
him
. “I don’t think that. You’re unfair.”

“
Unfair?
” she spat. “What do you know of unfair? You, a man, who’ll never be treated as property or a witless doll. You think yourself hard done by because Humbert married me to someone else? You arrogant shite. Until you know what it feels like to be the one who’s bartered,
who must play the compliant whore and smile and smile and smile with every fucking, don’t you
dare
stand there and moan to me about
unfair
.”

Did she know she was weeping? He thought she didn’t. Her rage was too hot. Risking further fury, he pulled her close to his chest.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should’ve killed him in Bingham forest.”

“And claimed what, after?” she retorted, her tear-stained voice muffled against him. “That he tripped over a tree-root and fell on his own sword?”

“Stranger things have happened. In Cassinia. Or so I’m told.”

“Fool.” On a shaky, indrawn breath she elbowed out of his arms. “There was no hope ever of killing Roric. And I never wanted you to try.”

“Not then. But now?”

Even in despair, she was beautiful. “Not even now. For nothing’s changed. Clemen must have a duke… and despite his failings, Roric has the people’s love.”

“They could learn to love another.”

Her eyes hardened. “They will love our son.”

“If we have one.”

“
We will!
” Breathing harshly, she glared at him. Repinned her loosened hair. “So. You want to marry. Have you a woman in mind?”

“Aistan’s youngest daughter.”

“Kennise?” Surprised, Lindara raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t she bury herself alive in that exarchite women’s house you failed to talk Roric out of permitting?”

A failure that still rankled, and Lindara knew it. She sought to punish him. “Aistan has coaxed her back into the world.”

“So you can wed her? Why her?”

There was no point now in the keeping of secrets. “He offered her to me at Heartsong, the night Harald died,” he said, weary. “I made excuses. I thought I’d be marrying you. And then–it was too late.”

“Kennise,” she said, tasting the name as though it were something sour. “You can do better.”

“I doubt it. She’s impeccably bred. And marrying into Aistan’s influence can do me no harm.”

“Kennise,” she said again, with such disdain. Then she smirked. “I wonder what Godebert would say to you wedding and bedding Harald’s soiled leavings?”

She could be the cruellest woman. More cruel even than Argante. “So I’m to feel pity only if the raped woman is you?”

“Kennise is old,” she said, refusing to admit her fault.

“She was barely fourteen when Harald had her. She’s younger than you.”

Lindara flinched. It pleased him to see it. “I don’t understand, Vidar,” she whispered, turning away. “Not once have you ever talked of wanting to marry. After so long… why now?”

“Oh,
Lindara
!” He wanted to shake her. “Did you truly think any son I sired on you would be the only son I’d ever want? I have a duty to my dead father. I’m thirty-five next month! If I should die without a legitimate heir then Godebert’s line ends. The thought of that fills me with shame, and fear.” He felt a stab of bitter pride. “And though I may be scarred, lame and half-blind, Aistan says Kennise will have me. But she won’t wait for ever… and neither can I.”

Silence. Then the faintest of sighs. “Do you love her?”

“I’ve never met her.”

Lindara glanced over her shoulder. “And yet you’d wed her.”

“If not her, then someone else.”

“And us, Vidar? What of us?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean!” she said, spinning to face him. There was fear in her eyes. “Wife or no wife, nothing can change. You swore you’d help me revenge myself on Roric, and on Humbert. I won’t let you break your word.”

Fuck. He was so tired. And his hip was on fire. If he didn’t sit down soon, he’d fall. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Damikah insists I’m not mismade,” she said, as though he’d not spoken. “We will have a son, Vidar, and he
will
be Roric’s heir. I can give him stronger potions. I can take them myself. There are charms and incantations, too. Damikah knows.”

He reached for her again. “Sorcery? No. I forbid it.”

“The choice is mine,” she said, trying to twist her shoulders free. “You can’t stop me.”

This time he did shake her. “You know I can. You know I will. No revenge is worth your
life
.”

Lips trembling, she stared up at him. “Then you do still love me.”

“
Lindara
.” He framed her face with his hands. “Sweet fool. I never stopped.”

Her beautiful eyes were full of tears. “Prove it.”

“I’ll see your witch,” he said, after a moment. “There must be a potion I can take.”

“You don’t need one.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, her smile wry. “Or did you think I’d not find out about the bastard on your estate?”

Shocked, he watched her retreat to the arrow loop in the stairwell wall and breathe in cold, fresh night air.

“That’s why I must risk Damikah’s strongest elixirs,” she said, her back to him. “And dabble in questionable magics. Because despite what she tells me, I fear the fault here is mine.”

And now his heart was burning. “It’s true, I’ve one bastard born at Coldspring. But I’ve fucked more than one woman there. It could be I’m to blame. Arrange for me to see your witch. I’ll swallow whatever foul concoctions she thinks will help.”

“All right,” she said, reluctant. “But even swallowing them… you’ll still wed?”

“Lindara—”

She pressed her hands to her face. “I know. I know. You must.”

“But not tomorrow,” he said, closing the terrible distance between them. Taking her in his arms again, and gentling her cheek to his chest. “We still have time.”

“How much?”

“Enough,” he said, and kissed her. “Don’t you know, Lindara? I’d steal time from the spirits for you.”

“Vidar…” Her clever fingers reached for him. “I was hateful. Forgive me.”

Pleasure drowned his fiery pain. As his ruined vision blurred, he gasped. “But won’t Roric—”

“Roric’s busy,” she murmured, unlacing him. Sliding down him to her knees. “Talking politics with Humbert. Don’t think of him. Think of me, and the son we’ll make.”

It was madness to stay. To risk all for another hasty fuck. But her fingers were a torment, and so was her tongue. Panting, he surrendered. Groaned, and moaned her name. So what if she was sometimes hateful?

She was Lindara. She was his life.

“… sorry, Your Grace. It pains me to say so, but I lack a simple answer where Cassinia’s concerned.”

Glowering, because it was late and his joints were aching, Humbert rapped his knuckles to the arm of his chair. “Come, come, Master Blane.
No need to be a mimbly waddler. Speak plainly to His Grace. He’s not Harald. You won’t suffer for it.”

“Humbert.” Roric flicked him a warning glance, then smiled at the merchant. “Don’t take his lordship’s scold to heart, Blane. With you so recently returned from nearly four months of merchant trading he’s anxious, as I am, to hear what you have to say about our cousins across the Moat.” He gestured at the goblet on the small table beside the merchant’s chair. “But before we talk in earnest, would you care for more wine?”

“More–well, indeed, that’s very kind, Your Grace,” Blane said, then stared, bemused, as Clemen’s duke rose from his own chair and played servant to pour it.

Humbert rolled his eyes. Spirits save him. He’d lost count of the times he’d told the boy not to lower his dignity in such a fashion, but did Roric listen? He did not. Neither did he pay heed to sound advice regarding the proper way to conduct this kind of meeting. They should be formal, in one of Eaglerock’
s
grandly appointed audience chambers, where no man was allowed to forget the weight of ducal might. Instead here they were, in Roric’s shabbily comfortable privy closet, with a cheerful fire burning and the boy playing host as though they were three cosy friends. It was ridiculous. Especially when the treasury owed wealthy Master Blane, head of Clemen’s Merchants’ Guild, a great deal of coin.

“More wine, Humbert?” said Roric, after refilling the merchant’s goblet.