The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (48 page)

Balfre was laughing as he swayed in time with their boat’s plunging. “What did I say, Grefin? An honest sweat. But I warn you–tip me into the Tam and I’ll wring your fucking neck!”

A great deal of honest sweat saved him. Danger past, and the river
settling, Grefin blotted his face on his sleeve. “You lazy shite, Balfre. You could’ve lent me a hand. I swear, one of these days I’ll kill you.”

Balfre grinned. “Not if I kill you first.”

That deserved an eye roll, and got one. Rowing again, he considered his brother. Wondered if he should risk speaking further about Jancis. Probably not. But when would he have another chance? They mightn’t see each other for a year. Perhaps longer. And Balfre was hurting, though he did his best never to show it.

“You shouldn’t fret over Jancis. When Aimery—” No, he still couldn’t say it aloud. “When you’re duke, you can put her aside. Choose a wife more to your liking and breed a son on her instead.”

“You astonish me,” Balfre said, after a staring silence. “Truly.”

“Why? I’m not Mazelina. A duke’s wife–the heir’s wife–owes him a son. Jancis is no bad woman, but she’s failed you.”

“Our father’s made it plain, Grefin. I must keep Jancis to wife.”

A mistake on Aimery’s part, but no amount of argument would change his mind. “And so you will. While he’s duke.”

Frowning, Balfre slid the ruby ring from his right thumb and fiddled it over the scarred joint on his left. “But if I keep her to wife after his death, as Aimery wants, and as Harcia’s duke die without a son, you’d follow me.” He inspected the ring again, then pulled it off his left thumb. As though the fate of the world rested upon which thumb wore a ruby. “Fuck, Grefin. If Clemen kills me in the Marches you’ll be Aimery’s heir. I’ll wager that thought gives you a thrill.”

His turn to stare. “D’you think that’s my ambition? That having tasted power in the Green Isle I now covet all of Harcia?”

The ruby ring was back on his brother’s right thumb. One arm resting along the wherry’s side, Balfre shrugged. “Don’t you?”

“No! Is this what you wanted to talk about? Because if it is—”

“Keep your voice down, Grefin. We’ve got wherrymen on either side of us and sound carries across water.”

Maybe so, but it was still hard not to shout. “I’ve no desire to be duke of Harcia. And fuck you for thinking I’d rejoice at your death.”

Balfre smoothed his breeze-blown hair. “It seems I’ve offended you.”

“And hurt me. When did I
ever
give you cause to doubt?”

“Never,” said Balfre. “I’m sorry, Grefin. My mind’s wandering to dark places. Blame Roric for that.”

For that, and so much more. “Then what did you want to talk about?”

“Aimery. I must go to the Marches and you must return to the Green Isle–with my wife, or without her. But losing both of us will weigh on him. You know it.”

Shifting on the bench, Grefin eased his rowing and looked back to see how far they’d come. A goodly distance. Tamwell castle appeared not quite so forbidding. Looking again to Balfre, he set the oars to holding them steady.

“What are you saying? Has the leech confided more in you than he’ll tell me?”

“The fucking leech hardly gives me the time of day. But I’m not so green I can’t hear what isn’t said. Aimery will never again be the man he was. And the next fit might—”

“Must there be another one?” he said, his mouth dry. “Does the leech suggest there will be?”

“Grefin…” Now Balfre was impatiently pitying. “You’re not so green either.”

No, he wasn’t. But the thought of his father’s death was as cruel a hurt as thinking of Mazelina taken from him, or one of his children.

“Then if you must go, and I must, what’s to be done?”

“I think…” Falling silent, Balfre searched the distant riverbank, as though he might find there the answer to a problem that was already answered. “Grefin, if we can keep him from worrying,” he said eventually, his voice low and unsteady, “then there’s hope we’ll keep him with us the longer. So while I pick up the pieces in the Marches, you need to bind the lords of the Green Isle ever closer. They heed you now for Aimery’s sake. Make them heed you for your own. If I can tame the Marches, keep Clemen penned safe behind them, and you can keep the Green Isle sweet, what will there be in Harcia to fret him? And without fret…” He sighed. “There’s hope.”

“Perhaps that is the best we can do for him. Only…”

“It seems too little,” Balfre said. “I know.”

They fell silent. Another barge blundered past, this one carrying sheep. Penned on the flat deck, their anxious bleating floated over the water.

“Life is strange,” Grefin murmured, turning to watch the barge. Mutton-sheep, he guessed, bound for slaughter. Even at this distance he could see their fleeces were good only for mattress stuffing and the stripping of lanolin. “Who’d believe we’d be brought close again by Aimery’s faltering health, and Clemen’s treachery.”

“Who said we’re close?” said Balfre, then laughed. “Grefin, Grefin… you’re as gullible as those fucking sheep, I swear.”

And here was the Balfre of his childhood: wicked, mischievous, absent for too long.

“Cockshite. You’re the only man I know who’d see a trusting nature as something to disparage.”

“Then you know the wrong men,” said Balfre. “Which explains why you’re such a fucking soap with those oars. Shift over, brother, and let me take one. Or it’ll be the middle of next week before we’re home.”

Aimery hosted a feast to honour Harcia’s new Marcher lord. A quiet affair, no acrobats or jonglers. Minstrels, of course, but they were instructed to keep the recent deaths of Bayard and Egbert in mind.

Just before the sweetmeats were brought into the hall, Balfre joined Waymon, Joben, Paithan and Lowis at the trestle he’d set aside for their privy use. He didn’t have to look back to know his father was watching.

“My friends,” he said, signalling a servant to bring them a fresh flagon of wine. “I know you wish you were all coming with me, but I’d ask you to be patient. I have important plans for each and every one of you. Wait to hear from me and know that you’re as much a part of Harcia’s future as I am.”

An exchange of looks up and down the trestle’s bench. There’d been loud dismay when he’d told Joben and the rest that it was Waymon who’d be at his right hand in the Marches.

Joben had dragged him aside, flushed with temper. “I’m your cousin, Balfre. How could you count him over your own blood?”

He’d kissed Joben’s cheek. “Because you’re blood. Who else can I trust to speak my mind while I’m gone?”

“Are you sure, Balfre? Waymon’s wild,” Paithan protested.

“A wild man for a wild place,” he’d replied. “Have no fear, my friend. I’ll handle him.”

Only Lowis had been indifferent. Lowis, whose cruel streak was less reliable than Waymon’s, but who’d make a useful messenger… and a blunt instrument, now and then.

He’d expected their disappointment. But it would count for nothing, in the end. One day he’d be their duke. Their riches–their lives–dependent upon his largess. Let them pout. It didn’t hurt him. All he had to do was snap his fingers and they’d come to heel.

After carousing a while with his lords, he left them to their belching
and made his way around the hall, speaking to every noble guest and every merchant summoned by Aimery to bid him farewell. He spoke last of all with feeble Herewart.

“My lord,” he said, kneeling beside the wit-wandered old rump. “Once I did you a grave wrong, and I never begged your pardon. So I beg it now, and thank you for the gift of friendship with your heir. Paithan does you proud, Herewart, as I hope to do my father proud while I serve him in the Marches.”

Herewart’s rheumy gaze roamed his face. “I do pardon you, Balfre,” he said, his voice cracked and seamed beyond its years. Grief for Hughe had broken him, and he’d never mended after. “You’re to be my Paithan’s duke, so I’d not have us cross-purposed. He tells me you’re a changed man and if he says so, I’ll believe it.”

All around them, nods and murmurs of approval. Balfre bowed his head in a show of grateful humility, then shifted his gaze just far enough to look at the high table. His father was smiling. Grefin was smiling. Even his useless, barren bitch of a wife was smiling. As pleased to see him go as he was to leave, most like. Only Mazelina’s eyes were cool and guarded, watching him. But then, for all her pretending at friendship, she’d ever been his enemy. It didn’t matter. His brother’s wife would be dealt with in time.

When I’m king and she’s no one. Her fucking time will come then
.

M
olly was in the kitchen, stirring a fragrantly simmering pot of rabbit stew, when Iddo pushed his way past the leather curtain.

“Moll.”

One look at his face told the tale. More trouble. Biting her lip, she glanced at the boys, sat quiet at the table eating their noon meal of bread
and cheese and pickled onions. Willem was woebegone, missing Alys, and Benedikt was woebegone for him. She had them sleeping in her chamber now, because of Willem’s bad dreams over the girl’s death.

She still regretted it, causing Willem pain. And lying to Iddo, who could never know the truth. But what did it matter that she was pricked with miscomfort? Her lies, and what she’d done, kept them safe from the peril that dreadful, deceitful Alys had plunged them into. And with a tad more time gone by Willem would surely stop dreaming–and screaming.

Iddo slapped the wall. “Moll. Ye’ve got to come. It be them feggit lords again.”

“Which lords?” she muttered. “To my mind they be all of ’em feggits.”

“Balfre and Vidar.”

Vidar
. Her heart pounded. Of all the lords to be put in charge of Clemen’s Marcher lands, why did it have to be
him
, a man who’d spent time at dead Harald’s court? Afraid Iddo would see her fear, which would only stir him up, she plunged her wooden spoon back into the rabbit stew.

“What d’they want?”

“I didn’t ask!” Iddo said, astonished. “Think I want a dagger ’twixt my ribs, woman, asking them two lords their business?”

Frowning, she jerked her chin at the boys.
Mind yer tongue, man
. “Don’t be foolish. ’Tis a reasonable question.”

“Iss,” Iddo retorted. “But ye know as well as I do, Moll, they b’aint reasonable men!”

Swallowing a curse, Molly clapped the lid back on the cast-iron stew pot. Teased to leaping at shadows, Iddo was, these past few days–and the faeries knew he wasn’t alone. Three days before, word had reached the Whistle that Aimery’s son Balfre was returned as Harcia’s new Marcher lord. Nobody she spoke to since was frolicsome at the news. Bad enough that familiar Jacott was on his slow way back to Eaglerock, too hurt ever to sit another horse, Izusa said, with crippled Vidar left behind in his place. There were whispers already from Clemen’s men-at-arms, on how stern and unforgiving he was. Him and his man Egann. Wicked hard, both of them. Now here was Balfre, the son of Harcia’s duke, and the Crown Court slaughter had shown them the kind of man
he
was. So what hope for peace and quiet did the poor Marches have, with those two brawling lords holding all the power and no one to caution them?

She’d told Izusa there’d be trouble. For once she wished she was wrong.

“
Molly
,” Iddo said, nervously impatient. “What be amiss with ye? Them lords—”

“I know, I know,” she said, wiping her damp palms on her apron. “Where are they?”

“In the forecourt. I did bid ’em to hold there, so they could speak private if needed.”

Clever thinking. But if she didn’t play the welcoming innkeep they’d be under her feet soon enough. And above all things she had to keep Vidar away from Willem. “I’ll see to ’em. Best ye get back to the bar. Boys, ye bide here.”

Making her way through the public room, she frowned her dozen or so busybody guests to prudent silence. Then, as she stepped over her own threshold and into the forecourt, she felt her heart sink, because them feggit lords were facing each other like tomcats and Aimery’s handsome son Balfre, he had
such
a smile on his face.

“—reward for your courage you’re exiled to the Marches,” he was saying. “Perhaps next time you’ll think twice before thinking to slit my throat.”

“My lords!” she said loudly. “Be ye both welcome again to the Pig Whistle. Was it ale ye wanted? Some tasty beef pottage, perhaps?”

Both lords looked at her, shining in velvet and glittering with jewels. Refusing to wilt under their scrutiny, she lifted her chin. No curtsy this time. They owed her for all the spilled blood no amount of scrubbing could get out of her floor.

“Count Balfre and I would discuss Marcher affairs,” said Lord Vidar, his voice cool. “You must have a room set aside for privy matters.”

“Iss, my lord,” she said. “I do.”

“Take us to it and make sure we’re not—”

As his one-eyed stare moved past her, she heard the patter-patter shuffle of small footsteps and two smothered voices. She turned. Benedikt and Willem, agoggle in the public room’s open doorway. And what was Iddo doing, to let them slip by?
Useless
man.

Dry-mouthed, she raised her hand to them. “Into the kitchen, ye rompish goblins, or I’ll be breaking a wooden spoon across yer skinny arses!”

Her boys retreated, unwilling, eyes wide as they took in the splendidly dressed Marcher lords.

“My sons,” she said, turning back. Feeling sick. She didn’t dare look at Vidar’s face. “Naughty but no harm in ’em. My lords, if ye’d follow me?”

She led them into the Whistle and up to the small, pleasantly furnished chamber kept aside for important guests. Hurried downstairs to dish pottage into her best bowls. Thrust the steaming bowls on their serving tray at Iddo, told him to draw two tankards of their best ale and take it all up to their lordships, fended off questions from the public room and escaped back into the kitchen. It took every bit of strength she had not to heave her guts into the sink.

Now she knew how Alys had felt. Heartshot. Beyond terror. She could feel the nervous boys behind her, waiting for a scold. In front of her the rabbit stew simmered on the hob. Upstairs, over her head, Lord Vidar of Clemen was eating her pottage and drinking her ale. Vidar, who’d known Duke Harald. And here was Harald’s son under his feet.

Vidar saw him. He saw Willem. And no matter how I try to stop it, he’ll likely see the boy again. Or one of his fancy friends from Eaglerock will see him. They’ll see him, and see Harald in him. It only be a matter of time. And then–and then—

They’d take Willem. They’d take the Pig Whistle. To keep, or to burn. They’d take her and they’d take Iddo and like as not hang them both. And Benedikt, her precious Benedikt, he’d be orphaned and alone. Or they could hang him too. Clemen’s lords in Eaglerock pretended to care for the Marches but that was mostly for show. Mostly they cared because the Marches kept Harcia at arm’s length. Marcher folk didn’t matter. What was one hanged boy to them?

Lord Wido cared for us, but he’s dead. Lord Jacott cared, but he’s gone. And I’d hang myself afore believing Lord Vidar would lift a finger to save Benedikt’s life
.

So the burden was hers. Again. Protecting her boys, the Pig Whistle, Iddo? It was for her to do. Again. And having killed to protect them, what wouldn’t she do?

As though she watched another woman, she watched her hands reach for the bubbling pot of stew.

Ye can’t. He’s a little boy. He meant no harm. Ye could kill him
.

But even as the words wailed inside her head she was picking up the cast-iron pot and swinging round, swinging hard, knowing exactly where innocent Willem stood.

They sat opposite each other in the Pig Whistle’s small upstairs chamber, both pretending they were alone. Pretending they’d come for a meal, nothing more. But even though the pottage was tasty, the ale rich and deep, Vidar thought he might as well be eating dirt and drinking swill.

He’d been a fool to demand this meeting. Balfre couldn’t help himself; the shite offered insults the way marshland belched noxious fumes. Why had Aimery’s heir even bothered to come? Not to admit any faults on Harcia’s part, that much was plain. The bastard—

From below stairs, muffled, a woman’s cry. A child’s high-pitched shrieking. Thudding feet. Men’s raised voices.

Balfre lifted his head like a boarhound scenting game. Pushed his chair back from the table and stood, fingers touching his dagger’s hilt.

“Don’t stir yourself, Vidar,” he said, viciously polite. “I’ll see what’s amiss.”

And what could he do but nod agreement as he swallowed his mouthful of barley and beef? Balfre had seen how painfully he moved. His bad hip burned yet from the Crown Court skirmish and the relentless physicality that had followed, forced upon him by Lindara’s father in the crowded days before his departure. Hours of drilling Clemen’s men-at-arms and riding through its Marches territory, making himself familiar with every copse, every stream, every pond, every holding and the men and women who dwelled there. The healer-woman Izusa had given him pills more potent than he’d ever taken, but nothing could kill the pain outright.

Listening to the light thud-thud-thud of Balfre’s boots as the shite ran downstairs to make sure the inn wasn’t under attack, Vidar drained his tankard of ale and wished, for the thousandth time, that he’d kept his mouth shut and let Waymon butcher Humbert. But a lifetime of loyalty to his duchy wouldn’t let him. A lifetime of loyalty–and his love for Lindara. Who hated her father yet loved him too. Or loved some small part of him, deny it though she might. He knew how that felt. To love and hate a father. For all his grave sins, didn’t Godebert haunt him still?

So for Clemen and my beloved I saved Humbert’s life. And now I’m prisoed in the Marches, at Humbert’s mercy, his man Egann my keeper. Soon to be prisoned in marriage to Kennise… and no Lindara to unlock the cage
.

His bones ached for her. His heart ached. Every night he dreamed of her, and woke every morning soaked in his own seed. Humbert said she was lost to him. He refused to believe it.

The old bastard won’t live for ever. And then she’ll be free. She’ll run from Roric and I’ll run from the Marches and together we’ll run till we find our peace.

A foolish yearning? Perhaps. But what else did he have to sustain him? Yes, of late he and Lindara had been unhappy. But that could change. It would change. As soon as Humbert died.

But until that happy day he had only one choice: serve Clemen, and endure.

Thud-thud-thud. Balfre was returning. Vidar swallowed his last mouthful of beef, napkinned his lips clean, and sat back in his chair like a man without a care.

“’Twas nothing,” Balfre said, pushing the door closed behind him. “One of the innkeeper’s brats burned itself.” Sitting again, he grinned. “She’s got a spare, so no harm done if it dies.”

He couldn’t care less about the innkeeper’s brats. “Balfre, we must find common ground if we’re to keep peace in the Marches.”

Still grinning, Balfre raised an eyebrow at him over the top of his tankard. “Must we?”

With an effort he kept his fingers relaxed. He would not,
would not
, let himself be provoked. “It’s no secret Harald winked at misdoings here that soured you on Clemen. We don’t blame you for hard feelings. Harald was not a good duke.”

“Well, you’re bound to say so,” said Balfre, shrugging. “Since he executed your father. For treason, yes? I see it runs in the family.”

For one dreadful moment, he thought Balfre meant Lindara. Then he realised the bastard was referring to Harald’s killing.

“We never sought Harald’s death,” he said, his jaw tight. “We offered him honourable exile. It was his choice to fight.”

“Then perhaps he wasn’t such a bad duke after all.” Impatient, Balfre banged his tankard to the table. “Vidar, I didn’t come here to rake over Clemen’s tedious history. What you do with your dukes is your affair. What matters is the present. Harcia’s duke, my father, though sorely grieved by recent calamity, seeks to leave the past in the past. If Clemen agrees not to pursue the murder of the woodsman’s wife, Harcia will turn a blind eye–this once–to Roric’s double dealing. We’ll call it an error of youth and let the matter lie.”

Vidar dropped his gaze. So. Harcia wanted peace. It was the outcome he wanted, that Humbert demanded he obtain, but Balfre’s dismissive contempt was beyond bearing. He’d never survive being
trapped in the Marches with the bastard if he let him ride roughshod from the start.

“You have no proof of double dealing,” he said, looking up. “One letter isn’t proof. But there’s no doubt the woodsman’s wife was murdered, or that Harcia’s men-at-arms were—”

Balfre stood. Not amused now, but angry. “So it’s just words with you, Vidar? You mumble for peace and prepare to spill more blood? Fine. If it’s bloodshed you want then Harcia will oblige.”

So much for survival. Aimery’s heir was even more volatile than rumour had whispered. Without kid-glove careful handling he’d rush them all to ruin.

“
Wait
,” he said tersely. “Did I say I wanted blood?”

“Then what do you want? Tell me. That is, if you know.”

I want Eaglerock. I want Lindara. I want to dance on Humbert’s grave
.

He met Balfre’s hot, derisive stare. “I want peace. And so does Roric. Clemen agrees to your terms. We’ll leave the past in the past and call this a fresh start. But you’ll keep your men on a tight leash, Balfre. I’ll do the same, and with luck our paths won’t need to cross more than once a month. If that.”

“Done,” said Balfre. “Just be sure you keep your word.”

He let Balfre leave first, so the arrogant bastard could think he’d won. And so Aimery’s son couldn’t bear witness to his pain. Sitting so long had tightened his sinews. His body groaned when he stood. Groaned as he limped his slow way downstairs. Groaned as he hauled himself into his saddle. And wept as he rode back to the manor house, that had belonged to Wido and which now he must call home.

Izusa was picking hedgerow herbs on the edge of her cottage woodland when one of the Pig Whistle’s panting stable lads found her.

“Can ye come to Mistress Molly?” he gasped, leaning out of his ragged pony’s old, patched saddle. “Her boy, he’s been hurt.”

She felt a sickening lurch in the pit of her belly.
Not Liam. Please, not Liam
. “Which boy? How is he hurt?”

“’Tis Willem,” the lad said. “I din’t know what be amiss, but I heard him howling. Can ye come?”

Howling. She felt the earth tilt. “Of course. I just need to fetch my satchel. Tell Molly.”

As the boy drummed his heels against the pony, urging it to a canter, she snatched up the sack of herbs and ran like a hunted doe to her cottage.
If Liam perished, Salimbene would have her heart. Oh, how had she not
known
? Had she grown complacent? Or worse, were her powers failing?