The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (76 page)

“I don’t think so. The innkeeper—”

“Would’ve kept her mouth shut to save her son! Now she’s dead, her man’s dead, the Pig Whistle’s a pile of charcoal, somebody killed that fuck Ercole and Humbert’s out for blood!”

“But Balfre—”

Grinning, Vidar moved on. No regrets that Waymon was in disgrace.
No regrets that Ercole was dead. Clemen would be better served with that cockshite in the ground. Roric had ever been a fool to keep him. As for Humbert, perhaps now he’d realise just how dangerous Harcia was.

Down at the tilt yard, Grule was bullying a handful of sweating new recruits through a series of sword drills. Leaning on the yard’s railing, Vidar considered the would-be men-at-arms… then frowned, and gestured at the serjeant to join him.

“Lord Boice,” Grule said, with a friendly, respectful nod.

“Grule.” He pointed. “Those two. They show some promise.”

“Ah.” Grule nodded again, pleased. “They be Willem and Benedikt. Molly’s boys, as weren’t killed at the Pig Whistle.”

And that was why they looked familiar. He’d seen them before, at the inn. “Which one’s which?”

“Benedikt’s got the dark hair. Willem’s the one with the scarred face.”

Vidar watched the innkeep’s brats methodically count their way through the drill. “Yes, indeed. They show promise.”

“Taken to swordplay like ducks to water, they have. Ye’ll see, my lord. I’ll soon have ’em teaching Humbert’s shiting men a lesson.”

He smiled, slowy. “They’re out for revenge?”

“Iss, my lord. And who can blame them?”

“Not I, serjeant,” he said, watching their swinging swords catch the sunlight. “For some of us, revenge is what keeps us breathing, even more than meat and drink.”

“I hear ye, my lord,” Grule said, approving. “D’ye care to come train a while with me? I could use yer canny eye.”

“Thank you, Grule. I do care.” Vidar gestured. “After you.”

Izusa. Izusa. Come to me.

Salimbene’s whisper tugged in her mind as she was plucking feathers from the chicken she’d killed for supper. Leaving the half-naked bird on the butchery tree stump, she dabbled her fingertips in the fresh blood then hurried indoors. The baby’s head in its box sat uncovered near the cottage hearth. Kneeling before it, she drew in a deep, calming breath.

“I’m here, Salimbene.”

The head’s tiny, shrivelled nostrils flared. Its dead lips moved, like a whisperer in the wind. Flakes of grey skin sloughed from its withered cheeks.

I smell blood.

She dabbled her scarlet fingertips on the head’s bald skull, and its lips. Its shrivelled tongue darted in and out, tasting, swift as a striking snake.

This head ages, Izusa. Soon it will fail.

“I seek a new head, Salimbene. But there are fewer babies born.”

The head chuckled. More skin sloughed free, to drift and float like featherdown in the breeze wafting through the open door.

Give it blood, Izusa. It will last long enough.

Her pulse leapt. “Is it time?”

It is time. When next Balfre comes to fuck you, Izusa, give him the fatal ink. Aimery will perish and Balfre will be duke.

“And then?”

Then your exile in the Marches will end.

Her pulse leapt again, tumultuous. “And I can go home to Lepetto? I can return to you?

You will return to Ardenn, Izusa, and serve its captive duchess Catrain
.

He was sending her back to Carillon? Disappointment, dark as death. Acid tears scalding her eyes.

You will do this for me, Izusa.

She flinched. Sighed. “Yes. I will.”

You know how to leave the Marches. You know what must be done
.

Another sigh. Her heart was aching. “I do. I’m ready.”

Remember the blood, Izusa.

And Salimbene was gone.

Disconsolate, she finished plucking the chicken. Ripped out its innards for burying in the herb bed then put it in a pot on the hob to simmer for pottage. Cleaned her butchering axe and knife. Fed and watered the horse. Tossed grain at the hens. Reworked the charms around her cottage. Dusk fell slowly, dragging starlit night by its heels. Tasks completed, she lit the torch by the front door and went inside to prepare, as far as she could, her last ink for Balfre. Exhausted afterwards, her nerves on fire, her belly raw, she curled up on her bed and plunged into sleep.

Balfre’s impatient knocking woke her. It was late. Hours past midnight. Feeling muzzy, raw still from her dark runings, she opened her door to him.

“My lord Balfre. Come in.” He pushed past her roughly and she closed the door. “I’d abandoned hope of seeing you. I take it Lord Waymon heals neatly, since you’ve not called me back to the manor.”

Balfre didn’t answer. Didn’t kiss her. Instead he tossed his leather
riding cloak to the floor and paced the cottage’s cramped living room like a man on the eve of battle.

“Balfre?” she said, puzzled. “What’s amiss?”

His face was pale, his eyes haunted. He’d been careless in his dressing, wore only a plain linen shirt and dark blue hose. No rings. No pendants. He looked like a peasant.

“Nothing’s amiss. I’m weary.”

“How weary?” Slipping in front of him, she slid his hand inside her shift, to her breast. “Shall we fuck?”

He snatched his hand free as though she’d burned him.

“
Balfre
. What’s happened? You’re not yourself.”

Turning, he stared at the flames lazily flickering in the hearth. “Perhaps my cock is tired of you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

A long silence. Then he shook his head. “I dreamed tonight. Of Aimery. And when I woke, I was weeping.”

Ah. Stepping close to him, she pressed her cheek against his back. “Don’t fret, my lord. ’Tis only the powers, calling your name.”

She felt the shock run through him. Stepped back, so he could turn again to face her. Hot colour in his cheeks, now. Desire in his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“I dreamed tonight too, Balfre. I was given the answer we seek.”

“It’s time? Izusa—”

She smiled, gently. Held out her hand. “Come. I need you.”

Compliant, like a small boy, he sat at her table where the unfinished ink awaited in its unstoppered glass vial. Watched unprotesting as she sliced his finger with her silver knife and dripped his eager blood over the letter from Aimery he’d given her weeks before, that she’d held safe for this moment. She could feel the incant building, insidious and deadly, as his blood soaked his father’s quavering signature until it was sopping red. When she scraped the mix of blood and ink from the parchment into the vial of tainted ink, the surge of power was almost blinding. A murmured chant. A binding rune. And then it was done.

Fascinated, Balfre lifted the stoppered vial before his eyes. “You’re certain this will kill him?”

“Yes. And with no more sign of violence on him than there was on the man-at-arms I killed for you at the Pig Whistle.”

“You were certain of the other inks, too,” Balfre said, his glance doubting. “But Aimery prevailed against them.”

Because he was meant to. Her secret, and Salimbene’s. “I told you, Balfre. I dreamed. Would you question my powers?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No.” A frown. “How soon will he die?”

“Once he touches the letter you write with this ink, Aimery of Harcia will be dead within a month.”

“So long?” he said, disappointed, and thumped the vial onto the table.

She needed a month, to be sure of her leaving. But he couldn’t know that either. “It might be sooner. I err on the side of the caution.” She tapped the table. “And so must you, my lord. This ink is lethal and blood-bound to you as well as the duke.”

“What?” he said, staring. “You’d put me at risk?”

“Not willingly. Balfre, this is killing magic. Darker than any we’ve yet touched. Of course there is a risk. There was no other way to ensure Aimery’s death.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“My lord, I am warning you now.” Leaning forward, she captured his gaze with her own. “Be sure to wear gloves when you write with this ink. When the letter’s done, seal it quickly. Then straight away burn gloves, quill, and what remains of the ink. Do you understand?”

“I understand I want to fuck you.” He laughed, his eyes warm again. All his ghosts chased away. “Izusa… Izusa… you must be a witch.”

S
eal Rock castle stood at the edge of the world.

Or so it felt, sometimes, to a man standing on the clifftop beyond its imposing stone curtain wall. A sheer drop to the waves pounding far below, to the rocks humped out of the restless water, where seals gathered
to hunt fish and laze in the sun. The rocks were empty this morning, the seals frolicking somewhere else.

Shading his eyes, Grefin stared out to the horizon, to the cold and empty north. The sky overhead was a pale, thin blue. Cloudless. Beneath his feet the salty turf was sheep-cropped and damp. The chill salt wind scouring his face and tousling his hair had sculptured the stunted gorse bushes into tortured, fantastic shapes. It bit through his martial leathers and the wool shirt he wore beneath them.

Seven weeks and four days since he’d killed a northern raider. Any morning now the first ice-laden gale of winter would sweep in across the shifting waters of the Silver Expanse. It meant the Green Isle would be safe for another season. And when spring returned, then they’d wait and see if the raiders had finally abandoned their hopes of Harcia. He was beginning to think it could happen. This past year had seen fewer raids, and they’d been foiled in their attempts to breach Cassinia and the Danetto Peninsula.

But he didn’t dare speak his hope aloud for fear of tempting a malicious faery.

He heard a faint, skirling cry in the wind and looked up. Wheeling high above him, an arrow-tailed kite. As he watched, it raised its bronze pinions and hovered, beautifully deadly. Waiting, waiting, for the right moment to strike. Some might call it an omen. A soothsayer’s warning. He called it nature, caring to look no deeper than that. Aimery always scoffed at omens, and had taught his sons the same.

“My lord Steward! My lord!”

Grefin turned, smiling. Watched his handsome son–his only son–stride over the turf towards him, a young, wiry-haired deerhound bounding by his side. The arrow-tailed kite shrieked and wheeled away.

“My lord,” Kerric said, reaching him, “you slipped out early. Are you hiding from our guests?”

Of course he was. “No.” Grefin fondled the deerhound’s ears. “What a thing to say. Why? Are you?”

When Kerric laughed he looked so much like Jorin that it hurt. Stung, Grefin shifted his gaze back over the sun-sparkled water so Kerric wouldn’t notice. He’d promised himself he’d never let his youngest child feel less for not being his dead brother. Because of Malcolm, and watching Balfre, he knew how that felt. Knew how a father’s undying grief could poison a living son’s heart.

Flicking him a concerned glance, Kerric moved to stand with him
and stare northwards. “Are you worried, my lord? Do you think the raiders wait to spring one last surprise before winter?”

He rested a hand on Kerric’s shoulder. So tall, his son had grown. And strong. Battle-hardened, blooded, and scarred. As good as a man, though many would still call him a boy. Mazelina still hadn’t forgiven him for giving Kerric a sword and throwing him at the raiders. Not after Jorin. She loved him, loved both of them, but she couldn’t understand. Kerric, a warrior born, lived to avenge his slain brother and protect Harcia. As a father, as the Steward, he’d not have it otherwise.

“I don’t,” he said, tightening his fingers, to reassure. “But I can’t help wondering if somewhere, out there—” He pointed towards the distant, watery horizon. “–a northern father stands with his son, looking towards us and saying
Come spring, my boy, we’ll take them
.”

Kerric laughed again. “Saying is one thing. Doing is another. Let those shites throw themselves at the Green Isle till the sun plunges into the sea. The northmen won’t defeat us. Not while you’re our Steward.”

Warmed, despite the cold wind, Grefin started to reply, but then the deerhound started barking. He and Kerric turned, to see the young dog losing its manners over a straggle of black-faced sheep.

“Shite,” Kerric muttered, and whistled for the dog to heel. “Don’t tell Darby. The hound means no real harm. And I am training him, truly.”

“’Tis our secret,” he promised. “But it’s likely best we remove him from temptation.”

“You know that means braving the barons’ gauntlet?”

Grefin rolled his eyes. “Better the barons than Darby. That man sets uncommon store by his sheep.”

Companionable, and escorted by the chastened deerhound, they returned to Seal Rock castle. It was full to overflowing with the Green Isle’s barons and lesser lords, some twelve men in all, and their chosen serjeants, gathered to celebrate the end of what had come to be called
raiding season
. But there was more point to this coming together than the relief of feasting and wine and a respite from killing. The living were honoured, the fallen mourned, and a detailed review was undertaken of the season’s failure and success.

“Ha! There he is, our mettlesome Steward! Come, Grefin, break your fast with us! Your wife presides over a hearty board!”

Terriel, the mightiest lord, bellowing, as they entered the Great Hall.

With Kerric a half-pace behind him, Grefin made his way between the hall’s crowded trestles up to the high table where Terriel and his son
Alard, who’d lost his right arm to the raiders earlier that year, sat with Mazelina and Ullia. Joben was there, and Paithan, travelled to Seal Rock from Aimery’s court. Servants scurried, carrying pitchers and platters and baskets of bread. Hounds slunk under the trestles, barked and snapped and snarled over bones in the corners, begged for morsels with mournful eyes. Some two score of voices clashed and mingled and bounced around the walls.

He made slow progress because they all wanted to speak with him, the Green Isle’s nobles. Ask a question, offer advice, shake his hand, share a loss. Though they could be fractious, disputatious, quick to offence and slow to forgive, still… in his years as their Steward he’d come to love these men. Even the ones he didn’t like very much. The serjeants, too, were eager to greet him. Tough men who oft made the difference when it came to defending the Green Isle’s raided villages.

At last, reaching the high table, he took a seat between his wife and his yet-unwed daughter. Kissed Ullia’s pretty cheek and Mazelina’s prim mouth. She wasn’t fond of Seal Rock castle, his wife. Cold, brute and masculine, she called it. Made for swords and bloodshed, not familial warmth. He couldn’t argue. He, too, preferred Steward’s Keep. But it was Seal Rock that guarded the Isle’s north coast, so in Seal Rock he must stay, and think of her, missing her, in the barren months they lived apart.

She touched his knee. “Grefin…”

Turning from Terriel, who’d started to ramble, he looked at his beloved wife. Since Potterstown, and losing Jorin, Mazelina had become his mirror. In her face he saw every scar on his battered body, every bleak memory behind his eyes. How much he’d changed and was still changing. What he’d sacrificed for the Green Isle and what he yet might have to give.

“My love?”

She nodded at the end of the hall. “I think–something’s happened.”

Nicholas, Seal Rock’s steward, stood in the hall’s doorway. His face was grave. Realising himself noticed, he half-raised his hand then took a step back. A warning. A plea.

“My lord?” said Kerric, breaking off conversation with Alard. “What is it?”

“Doubtless nothing,” he said, standing. “Tarry here. I’ll not be long.”

He could feel the curious stares follow him, hear how the babbling voices changed. Every man thinking it, not a one speaking the thought.

Are the raiders come back? Do we celebrate too soon?

“My lord,” Nicholas said, drawing him into the corridor beyond the Great Hall. A good man, quietly efficient. “This is just come from Tamwell castle.”

Grefin looked at the rolled parchment, waxed fast with Curteis’s device. He felt his throat close, his belly roil. His recently scarred fingers shook as he splintered the crimson seal. He read the note quickly, then nodded at Nicholas as he handed it back.

“Thank you. The herald should return at once. Tell him to find the swiftest cog in Naseby port and hold it till I arrive. Then send to the stables. My family and I will need our fleetest horses made ready to depart within the hour.”

Nicholas bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

As he walked back into the Great Hall, for once not hiding behind his Steward’s mask, the Green Isle’s lords and their serjeants fell awkwardly silent. So did the servants, halted in their tracks. Even the squabbling dogs hushed. His people stared and waited until he was standing before the high board.

“My lords,” he said, wishing above anything that he could hold his wife’s hand. “My friends. I must return to Cater’s Tamwell, with my family. Duke Aimery is fallen gravely ill and—” His voice broke. He had to clear his throat. “—and the leech fears for his life.” He turned to look along the table. “Terriel. I’d not abandon our purpose here. Can I ask you to play my part and see all good services performed?”

Terriel nodded, his eyes brilliant. “Of course, my lord Steward. Take the Green Isle’s love and good hopes with you to His Grace.”

“I will, Terriel.” His gaze shifted. “Joben. Paithan. As members of the duke’s council, I assume you’ll travel back with us?”

His cousin and old Herewart’s son looked at each other. They’d come to Seal Rock at Balfre’s request. Close to him still, after so many years. “We will,” Joben said, sombre. “I’m sorry to hear this, Grefin.”

Was he? Was Paithan? With Aimery dead and Balfre made duke they’d be showered with largess. That made it a trifle difficult to believe in their grief. But it wouldn’t be wise of him to show any doubt.

“I know. I’ll have the stables ready your horses.”

“Come, Ullia,” Mazelina said, an arm around their weeping daughter. “Kerric?”

“Yes, Mama,” Kerric murmured. He took his sister’s hand and together they started from the hall.

Grefin turned again as someone grasped his elbow. Terriel. “Don’t fret yourself on us, Grefin,” he said roughly. “And if your father dies, send word. The lords of the Green Isle will come to Tamwell and stand with you.”

He’d break if he tried to speak again. So he nodded, then followed his family through the silence and out of the hall.

For the first time since his life as the Green Isle’s Steward began, Grefin returned to Tamwell castle under cover of night. This wasn’t a moment for fanfare or celebration. It was raining, a dull, mournful drizzle of damp in keeping with his mood. After the brutal ride across the Isle, north coast to south, and then the rough water crossing to the mainland, he was exhausted. Pain-wracked. So were Mazelina and their children. Joben and Paithan showed the strain too. Only the men-at-arms who’d journeyed with them seemed indifferent to their hardships.

Curteis was waiting for him in Tamwell’s bailey, his face drawn in the sputtered torchlight.

“My lord Grefin,” he said, bowing. “You’ve made excellent time. I did fear—”

As the steward’s voice failed, Grefin took hold of his arm. “His Grace lives?”

“He does, my lord. But…” Curteis rallied. “He is determined to see you.”

Grief like a raider’s axe, cleaving him in two. “Where’s my brother? I’d speak with Balfre before—”

Glancing past him to Joben and Paithan, Curteis turned a little aside. “My lord, His Grace has not sent for Count Balfre. He would speak only with you.”

Ah. “Then I won’t keep him. Look to my family, Curteis, and these good men-at-arms.”

“Of course, my lord. You’ll find your father in his chamber.”

He kissed Mazelina and Ullia swiftly, patted Kerric’s stubbled cheek. “Go with Curteis. He’ll coddle you warm and dry and make sure of a meal.”

“Give your father our love,” Mazelina whispered. “Grefin—”

He couldn’t break. Mustn’t break. “I know. I’ll see you soon.”

The journey from bailey to Aimery’s chamber was the longest of his life.

The first sight of his father choked him to silence. The bold, vigorous
man of his childhood was entirely vanished. Even the older man he’d become lately–diminished, yes, but still vital–that man was gone too. Aimery had become a frail, pathetic creature, propped up in bed with pillows and tucked beneath bearskin. A half-dozen burning candles lent dishonest warmth to his face. Wrinkled skin draped over jutting bone. Once-keen eyes peered, yellow and rheumy. Thick hair thinned to gossamer strands was plastered to his crusted scalp.

“Grefin!” Aimery said, his voice a raven’s croak. “You’ve come.” His clawed fingers jabbed at the chamber’s attendants. “Get out. Get out. I’d be alone with my son.”

“My lord.” Somehow he managed to cross from the doorway to the bedside without falling to the floor. Paid no attention to the servants sent scuttling from the room. “’Tis good to see you.”

Aimery held him close. He smelled of disease and creeping death. Then his wasted arms fell away. “Let me look at you, while I can.”

There was a chair, but Grefin sat on the bed beside his father. Fought against tears as Aimery’s clouded gaze roamed his face.

“You’ve grown thin, fighting northmen. How many more of their ships have you taken?”

“Two score, or thereabouts,” he said, forcing a smile. Knowing the tally would give Aimery pleasure. “Stored safely inland with the rest, against the day Harcia dares to sail again. Your Grace—”

“Good, good.” Then Aimery frowned. “And you? What wounds have you, since last we met?”

“None worth mentioning. Your Grace, why—”

“Liar.” Aimery poked him. “Did you think your wife forgot how to wield a quill?”

Ah, Mazelina. “No, your Grace. Why have you not sent for Balfre?”

Aimery gestured at the silver pitcher set on a table against the wall. “Wine. And don’t stint.”

He was a husband, a father, and Steward of the Green Isle but he obeyed Aimery as neatly as though he were still a child. The pitcher held Lombardi sunwine, its spicy scent rich and familiar. He half-filled a silver goblet and returned to the bed. Eased his father’s cold, twisted fingers around its stem. But even so simple a task as raising it to his lips was now beyond Harcia’s duke. Eyes burning, Grefin helped him drain it, to prevent the crueller shame of spilled wine. And then he pretended he’d not done that, just as long ago Aimery had pretended not to see that his small son, taking his first jousting pass in the tilt
yard, had wept for being knocked out of his saddle and onto his arse. Setting the emptied goblet aside, he held his father’s hand and waited for him to speak. The chamber was hushed, its only sound the crackle of flames in the hearth. Iron braziers, filled with smouldering peat, added to the warmth.