The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (7 page)

“Oh ho. So I’m Vidar’s squire, am I?” Humbert retorted, his own voice conspirator soft and teasing. “Come to bend my knee with querulous demand?”

Turning briefly from Harald’s moonlit Heartsong, Roric clasped the older man’s shoulder with leather-gloved fingers. “No, my lord. If there’s knee-bending wanted it will be me in the mud, not you.”

Humbert’s untamed, black-and-grey beard trembled as his jaw worked against emotion. “Don’t be a fool, Roric. Knee-bending? You? Never. You’re Berold’s grandson.”

He couldn’t long look away from the castle, for fear he’d miss the signal. “So is Harald,” he said, turning back. “More truly than I am.”

“Harald.” Humbert spat at their feet. “
That
for Harald. Your grandsire would never know him. I could believe yon Harald was a cradle-snatched changeling, so far from the great Berold has your cousin run his course. Bastard or not, Roric,
you
are Berold’s true heir. Not that bloat who wears the ducal coronet, breaking the heart of every man who should love him.”

“So you’ve said, many times. But—”

“Give me none of your buts!” Humbert said, fierce. “It’s the truth,
boy, and so I’ll remind you till the maggot doubt stops its gnawing of your guts.”

The barking foxes fell silent. Roric pressed the heel of his hand against the aching scar across his left thigh, where once a swinging blade had caught him. Not even his heavy cloak could keep out the cold and its torment of old, healed hurts. In the deeper gloom behind him, the muffled thump of horses’ shifting hooves and a clinking of bits and stirrups.

“Roric…” Humbert stepped closer. “You stand a stone’s throw from your heart-rotten cousin, sword ready to defend Berold’s duchy. At your back stand Clemen’s best nobles and their men, pledged to fight in your name. Would you shame them? Shame me? Shame the lord Guimar?”

As ever, the mention of his dead father was salt rubbed in an open wound. “Humbert, do not—”

“He was friend to me like none other, Roric. A count of such renown, the minstrels still write songs of him. And that brave man died full of fear, knowing his brother for a craven lumpet and his brother’s child for much worse.”

“Even so.” Roric swallowed a sigh. “It was my uncle Baderon born Berold’s heir, not my father, and Harald born
his
heir with no taint of bastardry on him.”

Humbert growled his displeasure. “
Boy
—”

The fisted blow, when it came, rattled Roric’s teeth and left a burning pain in his arm, even through the charcoal-hardened links of his mail. In the moon-silvered darkness Humbert’s glare showed fear and fury.

“I see the maggot’s in your brain, not your guts! You say this rumption
now
, as we stand ankled in mud with our sharpened swords thirsty for blood? You–you gormless bull-pizzle! You
tribbit
! What ill faery flapped its dust in your dreams that you’d spill—”

Roric raised a calming hand. “First changelings, now faeries? I hope you don’t speak of such things where an exarchite can hear you. Our pagan days are behind us, or so the Exarch holds.”

“I’ll spit on the Exarch, and I’ll spit on you after,” said Humbert, his barrel chest heaving. “But first you tell me truly, Roric. Are you wishing you’d not started this?”

“Did I start it? Or did you? I scarce remember.”

Humbert snorted. “What does it matter? The end is all. Harald’s end, and his vileness with him. Are you feared, Roric? I’ll not believe it.
You’ve served your time in the Marches, your sword is blooded a dozen times over. Don’t ask me to believe your courage fails you.”

“It doesn’t. But Humbert, don’t
you
feel the weight of this? No duke of Clemen has ever been deposed.” He shivered. “Making history gives a man pause. So I’ve paused, my lord. I’m thinking.”

“
Thinking?
”

He loved Humbert almost as much as he’d loved Guimar, but love didn’t kill less kindly feelings. “You’ve known me seventeen years, my lord. Tell me when I didn’t chew over my choices like a hound chews gristle.”

Another blow, fist to his back this time. “Your chewing time is
done
, Roric! It’s weeks you’ve had to chew this bone. What’s changed? Are you telling me this whoreson Harald sings a sweet tune now, and you’re the only man who hears it?”

If only he could say that. If only Harald had come to his senses. Instead, he looked at Humbert and shook his head. “No. My cousin’s voice is as ugly as ever.”

“And his deeds so foul they’d shame a soul-eater,” said Humbert, giving no ground. “Let history tend itself. It’s
right
we do here. Stiffen your sinews, boy. You swore to me, you swore to
them
—” His thumb jerked at the shadows behind them, at the men who’d pledged themselves to this night’s dark task. “—and all those lords waiting down south in Eaglerock, that your heart was in this. Are you Guimar’s son, Roric, or are
you
the cursed changeling?”

“Don’t plague me with Guimar,” he said, teeth gritted. “It’s
because
I honour my father that I think on this task, even as I stand here prepared to shed his blood from Harald’s body, if I must!”

When it came, Humbert’s released breath was like a groan. “It might not come to slaughter.”

“Might not, no. But Humbert, it might, and that will be a heavy thing to live with. And explaining it to Liam, when he’s old enough to understand?”

Just the thought could make him heave.

“You want to turn tail, then?” Humbert demanded.

“I want to save Clemen!”

Humbert stepped so close that his sigh felt like a warm, ale-scented breeze. “And if we could save it without riding roughshod over Harald, don’t you think it would’ve been saved before tonight?”

Roric looked away, weary before he’d struck a single blow. “Yes, my lord.”

“Yes, my lord,” Humbert echoed, close to pleading. “And I’d call you my lord, Roric. I’d call you my duke.” His finger stabbed at Heartsong, where Harald caroused unawares. “But I can’t call you either until that piece of offal is done with. And the only man who can see him done is you. The only head fit for Clemen’s coronet is yours. No more of Berold’s blood remains.”

“That’s not true.”

“Infants die every day, boy! Who’s to say Harald’s brat will live to see another winter?”

A fair question. Humbert had buried his two sons untimely, and both of Guimar’s true-born sons had died in their youth. Clemen’s grass grew green over the bones of young men and dead babes.

But even so…

“Liam’s not dead yet, Humbert. And by rights, Clemen is his.”

“This duchy has no need of a milk-suck,” said Humbert. “Even if the brat does survive, what use is it to us? We need a man who knows how to wield a sword. I promise you this, Roric. Grant Harald’s babe the coronet, trammel it with regents, as they’ve done in Cassinia, and the wolves of Harcia will be at our throats before summer’s end.”

“Aimery has never—”

“It’s not Aimery I fear! It’s his curs’t heir wants to spill our blood in the mire–and Balfre is mongrel enough to try!”

He wished he could deny it. But Balfre had long made it plain he saw Clemen as stolen land. With one whiff of weakness, Aimery’s heir and his friends would ride the Marches flat in their haste to reclaim Clemen for Harcia. And whispers from Harcia cast doubt on Aimery’s ability to stop him. Balfre was a hot-head, full of temper and bile. Fresh gossip held he now had innocent blood on his hands, an enemy killed under cover of rough play. That was the stamp of Aimery’s heir.

“Roric,” said Humbert. There was iron in his voice. “I want an answer. Do you honour your oath and wield your sword in defence of this plundered duchy, or do you forswear yourself and toss Clemen in the midden?”

His sword, belted close by his side. A knight-gift from Guimar, costly and much loved. Heavy with promises and oaths newly sworn, in secret. Harald’s doom… or his own.

Doubt was pointless. In this, he had no choice. Closing his fingers around the sword’s hilt, Roric drew breath to reply and end the untimely, unwelcome dispute.

“He’ll fight, of course,” said Vidar, joining them. Cat-footed as ever,
despite the halt in his stride. “He loves Clemen as some men love their wives. And a pox on you for doubting it, my lord.”

Any other man speaking so to Humbert would find himself clubbed to his knees. Vidar, being Vidar, earned nothing more violent than a glare. “We’re not here to henhouse,” Humbert muttered. “If you’ve a mind to be useful, keep an eye open for the signal.”

Vidar’s scarred face twitched, the closest he mostly came to a smile. In the moonlight, the eye that hadn’t been stitched shut glinted. “My lord, I’ll do my best.” Ignoring Humbert’s angry chagrin, he jerked his chin at the castle. “But since you mention it… the night wears thin, Roric, and there’s still no sign we’re welcome. Are you certain Harald’s knave is to be trusted?

He frowned. “Are you certain he’s not?”

“How can I say?” Vidar’s shrug was elegant. “I must defer to your superior judgement, since I’ve little cause to cross paths with knaves.”

And that was Vidar in a nutshell. His insults, if they were insults, were always so agreeably couched in courtesy.

“I’ve no reason to doubt him, Vidar. I told you. Belden’s uncle to a trusted squire, and vouched for.”

Another elegant shrug. “If you say so, Roric. Though I must confess I save my trust for lords, not knaves.”

“Then you can breathe easy, Vidar,” Humbert said flatly. “For it’s Roric you’re trusting.”

A brief bow, this time. “Of course, my lord.” Then Vidar smiled. “Good Roric, are we quarrelling? Let’s not. We should save our temper for Harald.”

And that was Vidar, too, effortlessly shifting from veiled insult to open, easy accord. Sometimes it was hard to know the real reason he’d joined their cause. Did he truly believe it was just? Or was he simply seeking revenge for his father, and the chance to reclaim what Harald had stolen?

And in the end, did it matter? So long as Harald fell…

“Look!” said Humbert, pointing. “There.”

A plunging star of light from the top of Heartsong’s single tower keep. A flaming arrow. The signal.

Blood pounding, Roric turned. “And that would be my knave, ready to unbar the castle’s sally port to us. It’s time. Vidar–”

Caught by the arm, Vidar swung about. His scarred face darkened with anger, swift as a wind-chased cloud crossing the sun. “Roric?”

“Remember I want little Liam untouched,” he said, loosening his hold. “Remind everyone, in my name. Harald’s son is innocent of his father’s sins, as all sons are innocent.”

Vidar, landless and tainted because of his own foolish father, bared his teeth in a grim smile. “At least until they make their own choices,” he said, his single green eye unclouded with doubt or fear. “And then they’re men, Roric, who must answer as men.”

“Perhaps. But any man who spills a single drop of Liam’s blood, be he noble or base, shall shed his own in a river. We haven’t come to make war on infants. My lord—” He looked to Humbert. “Go with Vidar to fetch the others, and our men-at-arms. We don’t want to keep Belden waiting. He might lose heart and think we’ve mislaid our purpose.”

“A knave lose heart?” said Vidar. “Shame on you for saying so, Roric. I’ve heard on the best authority that knaves are as noble as any lord in the land.”

“That’s enough mischief from you, Vidar,” Humbert growled. “Save your strife-making for Harald.”

Humbert and Vidar retreated into the copse’s shadowed gloom. Grateful for the solitude, however brief, Roric stared at the castle and felt his gloved fingers cramp until his hands were made fists.

See reason, Harald. Find shame. For all our sakes, I beg you. Do not contest me, so all of us might live
.

Liam was fussing.

“Oh, baby, baby, my wicked lamb! Waking so soon? Naughty!”

Swooping, Ellyn snatched up her beloved charge from his gilded cradle, hung with faery-charms no matter what the Exarch’s mimbly priests said, and pressed him close to her milk-plump breast. Was he hungry? No, that wasn’t his empty belly cry. She’d be leaking like a sieve if it was. No, he was just fussing, frit by a baby-dream and ripe for cuddling.

“There, my baby,” she crooned, as Liam grizzled and folded his fingers into her hair. His tiny nails scratched her neck. They needed paring again, growing as fast as he was. Nearly three full moons old now, and such a big boy. His wispy hair tickled her chin, chestnut-red like his handsome father’s. And his slate-grey eyes would turn the duke’s lovely amber-brown, she knew it. Such a beautiful boy, so fine she could scarce remember her own babe, strangled in its cord, blue and wrinkled and ugly. A mercy to lose the little bastard, her mother said, and it was true. That dead unwanted babe had brought her Liam.

Wriggle, wriggle, fuss. Would he never settle down?

“Hush-a-bye, hush,” she whispered, breathing him in, sweeter than summer roses. “You’ll wake the old cow, lamb. We don’t want her mooing at us, do we?”

The old cow, Lady Morda, who only looked at Liam and made him cry. Nasty old woman had no business being in the nursery with her pinching, poking fingers, but what use a fifteen-year-old wet nurse saying so? The lady Argante would be deaf to that. At seventeen and shockingly fair, the duke’s triumphant third wife knew everything already. Besides, the lady Morda was her kinswoman, so she could do no wrong.

“Come, baby,” Ellyn said, her cheek pressed to Liam’s restless head. “Shall we walk a bit? Take a little tit-tup? You’ll sleep like a noddy one, won’t you, once we’ve had ourselves a roundabout.”

Of course he would. She knew him front to back, knew his ten toes and his ten fingers and the reason for every tear on his rose petal cheeks. He was her baby, her Liam. What was Argante, Duchess of Clemen? Nothing but the vain, spoiled young woman who’d pushed him out between her legs.

“But you’re my wee man, Liam, aren’t you?” she whispered, walking him round and round the fine castle nursery, with its tapestries and velvets, stained-glass in the window, gilded shutters fastened tight against sly drafts, a brazier glowing with heat and candles enough to outshine the sun, as well as rushlights for the small hours. Nothing too fine for Duke Harald’s heir. “Liam is his Ellyn’s wee man.”