by Toby Bishop
Harshly, William said, “I think Father should rest now, Philippa. Say your goodbyes. His doctors will be here soon.”
Moments later Philippa found herself on the doorstep, with Andrews offering her cap and quirt, and Sunny awaiting her at the bottom of the steps. The efficiency with which William had managed this was impressive. Irritated, frustrated, she pulled on her gloves and her cap, marched down the stairs without answering Andrews’s farewell wishes, and leaped into her saddle, ignoring the mounting block that had been set for her. She set Sunny to canter toward the park, and let her launch swiftly, even roughly, into the bright sky. It had been, she thought furiously, a fine morning. It was no more.
SIX
THE girl on the bed was willowy and fine-boned, if not pretty. Her brown hair clouded across her slender shoulders. William preferred her like this, her face turned into the pillow, her shoulders heaving with her sobs, bruises beginning to rise on her back and legs.
“Oh, by Zito’s ass, desist your sniveling, will you?” he snapped. In truth, each of her pitiful cries gave him a fresh shiver of pleasure. It was all the pleasure he was capable of, and he savored it. He snapped his quirt against his thigh, and was rewarded by her squeal as she scrabbled through the bedclothes for something to cover herself.
William laughed. “No, no more, you little twit. I’ve sent for Slater, and he’ll take you back to—wherever it is you came from. Come, now, get up and dress. It’s late.”
He turned his back on her, and went to stand by the window. A sliver of moon showed through shreds of cloud, but the stars were beginning to fade. He glanced at the silver clock on the mantel, and saw that it was almost four. At least his needs had been met—met, that is, as much as was possible for him. He would tell Slater to wake him at ten, and he could leave for the Uplands then. He could even, he thought, stop in Clellum while he was there, carry a little gift. He smiled at his dim reflection in the window. He felt better now. He had been so angry at Philippa Winter, at her interfering, her presumption . . . Naturally, it would have been more satisfying to use his quirt on Philippa herself. But Philippa was a horsemistress. Even the Duke’s heir did not dare treat a horsemistress in such a fashion.
Thinking of this almost made him turn back to the cowering girl on the bed, but Slater knocked at that moment. The girl—if he had heard her name, he had already forgotten it—had pulled on her clothes and her hooded cloak, and she opened the door and slipped through before he could stop her.
Slater put his head round the door. He was a coarse-featured and thick-bodied man, none too clean, and his manner of address matched his appearance. William tolerated his rough ways because of his discretion, and his willingness to do any task, no matter how loathsome, that might be asked of him.
“M’lord,” he said. “You be needing anything else tonight?”
“This morning, you mean,” William responded. “And no. Wake me at ten.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Slater started to withdraw.
“Oh, Slater!” William said. He crossed the bedroom to his writing desk and fumbled in the drawer for a few coins. His valet stood in the open doorway. The hall beyond was deserted, the girl nowhere to be seen, probably halfway home already.
William jingled the coins in his hand as he crossed to the door. He dropped the money into Slater’s rough palm. “I’ll be needing more of old Notkin’s brew tomorrow.”
Slater grinned up at him as he dropped the coins neatly into the leather wallet at his belt. His teeth were stained brown by snuff. He dipped into a fold of his rusty black greatcoat, and pulled a brown glass bottle from an invisible pocket. “Thought you might be wanting this, m’lord,” he rasped. “Naught else?”
William took the bottle with his fingertips. “No, excellent Slater. You have seen to all my needs magnificently.”
Slater snickered at that, and turned with a sweep of his odorous cloak. William could hear him sniggering to himself all the way down the hall. With a grimace of distaste, he shut the door and barred it. Slater would hardly be his choice of personal servant, if matters were different. But choice, at the present moment, had little to do with it. Everything he did was governed by necessity.
He pulled the stopper on the little bottle to check the level of liquid inside. Notkin had cheated him once, sending half a bottle for the full price. This time, however, the bottle brimmed with noisome dark fluid, and William stoppered it again with a mirthless smile. Notkin had paid dearly for shorting him, and he doubted it would happen again.
He set the bottle on his dressing table. He took off his embroidered silk vest, and began to unbutton the linen shirt beneath. He paused with the job half-done, and stared into the oval mirror. He let his fingers stray across his chest, lightly to the left, and then to the right. The half-light of early dawn glimmered in the glass, and he leaned closer to it, testing the texture of his jaw with his hand. How long since he had last needed a razor? Weeks at least, he thought. The skin of his face was as smooth and soft as—well, as that nameless girl’s he had just sent packing. He picked up Notkin’s product again, and cradled it in his hand. A necessary evil, this potion. Sacrifices were necessary if one were to accomplish one’s goals.
Notkin had protested, saying that the concoction violated his apothecary’s oath, that he couldn’t vouch for the safety of such a recipe, that the Duke would hold him responsible if anything should happen to his eldest son.
William had persuaded him, of course. Such persuasion was, perhaps, unpleasant, but again—necessity drove him. Notkin protested no more after that, and William felt quite, quite certain he would tell no one of his special prescription. It helped that the old apothecary had a winsome granddaughter he doted on. She had not, as yet, been required, but it was always good to hold something in reserve.
That thought, oddly, brought Philippa Winter’s face to mind, severe, controlled, with that air of authority that enraged him. What would she say if she knew that he was as celibate, in truth, as she was? He could imagine. Her lip would curl, and she would give him that familiar, scornful look, her eyes like blue ice. He should have dealt with her years ago, when she worked so hard to ingratiate herself with his father. She had pretended to like the books Frederick did, had feigned interest in the workings of the Council of Lords. He had made a grave error, and all because he could see that Frederick preferred Philippa and Pamella to himself and Francis. He should have foreseen that his father would bond Philippa to a winged horse, but by the time he realized it, it was done. Philippa Islington became Philippa Winter, a horsemistress, with her own privileges and power.
For a brief moment, William wished the girl were still in the room, so he could expend his fury on her white flesh . . . but no. He was tired. It was enough. There would be other nights, other girls, and he could think of Philippa at those times. And surely, before long, the Palace would be his. He would see to it then that the horsemistresses treated him with the respect he deserved.
He turned away from the mirror to strip off his shirt and trousers. He slid between the sheets, and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He was making progress, he must remember that. The foal from the Uplands proved that. He must let nothing stand in his way.
SEVEN
THE hesitant coming of spring in the Uplands became a stampede. Hillsides and fields and gardens exploded with color. The rue-tree burst into full leaf. Hedgerows bloomed and brightened, and mistle thrush and yellowhammers flitted around them, bearing fragile burdens of twigs and moss. Bobbins, the little round Uplands flowers, sprinkled the new grass of the pastures with pink and lavender and violet.
Tup seemed to blossom, too. Every morning, when Lark hurried from the farmhouse to greet him, he seemed taller. His head came to her shoulder now, and his rough baby fur had begun to slough away, revealing the sleek black coat beneath. His legs were stronger, his body rounder, his mane and tail growing. He soon preferred mash to Molly’s milk, and he cropped the new grass in the barnyard with small, pearly teeth.
On the d
ay the bloodbeet starts arrived, and a crew came from the village to help Brye set them out, the foal’s wings opened.
Everyone in Willakeep had come, at one time or another, to see the marvel of one of the Duke’s winged horses foaled at Deeping Farm. In the quiet way of Uplanders, they came alone, or in twos or threes, greeting Lark, standing at a distance as she moved about the barnyard with the colt at her heels. On this day, Brye’s crew walked in through the gate just as Tup, with Molly in his wake, trotted across the barnyard after Lark. One of the laborers cried out, “Look! Look at his wings!”
Lark whirled, startled at both the voice and the words.
Tup startled, too, and shied, backing himself beneath the sparse cover of the rue-tree’s branches. Lark stood on the kitchen step, staring at him.
His wings had loosened in the past days, but they had done that before, relaxing, lifting no more than a finger’s width from his ribs, then clamping tight again. Lark, busier than ever with preparations, sewing to be done, linens to be assembled, arrangements to be made, had grown used to these exercises, and had given no thought to what they meant.
But now her lips parted in wonder. Her colt’s half-spread wings stunned her anew with the unlikely miracle of his existence.
“Tup!” she breathed. “Oh, Tup!”
There were six of the work crew, brawny fellows in heavy boots and floppy hats. Two of them stepped forward to take a closer look at the marvel. Tup whimpered, and put his forefeet on the step, his head pushed into Lark’s apron.
She held up a hand to the men. “Please, come no closer.”
“Just wanted a blink at yon colt,” one of them said softly. He took off his hat and held it between his hands. “Never seen such in the Uplands, miss.”
“I know,” she said. “But the winged horses . . . they don’t like men . . .” Her voice trailed off as she gazed at Tup.
The ribs of his wings looked like the bones of a bird. The membrane that stretched between them was almost translucent, delicate as a baby’s eyelid. Lark bit her lip, shaken by a sudden fear. Such fragile wings they were, no heavier than a fold of silk laid across the ribs of a fan! How were they ever to carry him, to carry them both, high into the air? She had watched Philippa Winter soar far, far above the barn, above the trees, above the hills! What if Tup were not strong enough? What if she made a mistake? They could tumble from the sky, both of them!
Tup, sensing her mood, whimpered again, and crowded against her.
“No, no, little one,” she murmured. She looked up at the curious men, and shook her head. “He’s just frightened. I’ll take him back to his stall. Brye will be out in a moment.”
She felt their eyes on her as she coaxed Tup across the yard. He tripped willingly beside her, his wings trailing, half-extended, pinions rippling above the ground. As she led him into the stall, he flexed his wings, making them rustle like a lady’s silken skirts.
“There now, Tup,” she said. “You just wait here. When they’ve gone to the south pasture, I’ll come for you.”
Molly bleated from the aisle, and Lark let the goat into the stall, stroking her bony back as she passed. An odd trio they made, she supposed, colt and goat and girl. Willakeep would buzz with it for years. At the end of summer, Tup would be eight months old, and they would be off to the Academy of the Air. It was a miracle. Kalla’s miracle.
The men were still waiting. She nodded to them, and went into the kitchen, calling for Brye. Waiting for him, she trailed her fingers across the old oaken table where she had taken almost every meal of her life. She reached up to touch the skirt of the ancient Tarn where it hung above the sink, and a sudden wave of nostalgia swept over her, an ache of love for this plain kitchen, for the familiar feel of the worn stairs beneath her feet, for the very seasons of the Uplands. How would she manage among the finely bred girls of the Academy? She would be as out of place among such thoroughbreds as Tup was among the oxen of Willakeep.
Brye came stamping past her, and she shook off her black thoughts. There were workers to feed, cows to be milked, butter to be churned, eggs to gather. She followed her elder brother out into the fulsome sunshine, and watched the crew gather their tools.
Edmar had left before anyone, while the lanes were still dark, he and the other stoneworkers making the most of every hour of daylight. Nick was off with the oxcart collecting emptied milk cans. Lark had Deeping Farm to herself.
Tup and Molly trailed her as she moved about the barn and the yard. She poured out the fresh milk, skimmed cream from the milking of the day before, spilled it into the churn for later. She had to shoo the colt and the goat out of her way to get back up the steps from the coldcellar. She closed the slanted door against the rising warmth of the morning.
She knew it was time to start the joint on its spit, but the sunshine beguiled her. She went around to the southeast side of the house to lean on the blackstone fence and look out over the kitchen garden. Tup and Molly came with her, Molly nibbling at bits of grass growing against the stone, Tup leaning his head against her shoulder. She absently rubbed his neck, and gazed at the old raspberry canes, the dried pumpkin vines, the empty rows waiting for her to plant lettuces and carrots and potatoes. Who would till the garden when she was gone? This would be her last summer to plant the seeds, stake the tomatoes, tie up the runner beans. And she would be hard-pressed even this year, because she was to go to Dickering Park each week, to be tutored by the horsemistress there.
She turned, and put her back to the fence, lifting her face into the sunshine. The foal pushed his nose into her hand, and she hugged his head close to her. He smelled like sunshine and straw, like good clean earth. She buried her face in his silky fringe of mane.
When he threw up his head, the movement jarred her back on her heels. “Tup! What?”
His ears were pricked forward, his eyes wide. She followed his gaze.
A long-legged brown horse had come down the lane from the direction of the village, its hooves almost silent on the packed dirt. Lark watched a tall, slim man dismount and loop his horse’s reins through the cast iron of the gate. He pulled off his hat, and his hair glittered, so blond it was almost white. Beneath his riding coat he wore the black and silver of the Duke’s livery, but Lark was certain he was not the tithe-man. His boots shone with polish, and a worked silver belt circled his narrow hips. He wore a heavily embroidered vest, something she supposed must be an Osham affectation.
As the man crossed the yard, Tup sniffed, and laid his little ears back. Lark circled his neck with her arm, suddenly aware of how alone she was, how isolated the farm. The bloodbeet crew was in the south pasture, a fifteen-minute walk from the house. Neither Nick nor Edmar would return for hours.
But this was a finely dressed man, in the Duke’s colors. Surely he was a gentleman, perhaps even a nobleman. Perhaps, as with the villagers, he had heard of her foal, had come to see the wonder for himself. She straightened her back, and stood as tall as she could, smoothing her milk-spattered apron and hoping her boots weren’t too muddy.
He stopped beside the rue-tree. He knew, she thought. He knew the foal wouldn’t tolerate him.
But Tup sniffed again, and his ears drooped sideways, as if in confusion. He made a small sound in his throat, not quite a cry, but not his welcoming whicker either. She patted him, and nodded to the man. “Good morning,” she offered.
His pale lips curved in a faint smile. “A fine morning it is, Miss.” He took another step, his glance flicking over Tup, the goat, herself. She noticed that he carried a small whip in his hand, the way Philippa Winter had done, holding it straight up and down in his closed fist. He took another step closer. Tup’s ears flattened again.
“Ah,” he laughed. “The colt doesn’t like me.”
“Not you, particularly,” Lark said. “Men.” She patted Tup once more, and again his ears fell to the sides in that curious position. She stared at him, wondering what it meant.
The visitor lifted his head to look around at the farmho
use, the barn, out to the north pasture, past Lark to the south pasture. “Are you alone here?” he asked.
Lark hesitated for half a breath. Then, briskly, she said, “My brother and a crew of six are just yonder.” She nodded to the south pasture. “Setting out bloodbeet starts. Due back soon for their meal, as it happens.”
He tilted his head, looking at her, one eyebrow quirked. “What are you called, Miss?”
“I’m Larkyn Hamley.” She took her arm from Tup’s neck, dusted her hands in businesslike fashion, and stepped away from the fence at her back. “And what are you called?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t recognize my name.”
The air was redolent with sunshine and growing things, but another, indefinable scent tickled Lark’s nose. Her nostrils flared, testing it, wondering. She glanced down at Tup, and saw that he, too, was sniffing the air, his neck arching as high as it would go.
She said, “I suppose you came to see my foal, sir. Now you’ve seen him, you must excuse me. I’ve butter to churn.”
“He’s not your own foal, of course,” the man said lightly. “But the Duke’s.”
Lark tossed her head. “Close enough,” she said. “He’s bonded to me. We’re off to the Academy soon.”
The stranger’s smile vanished all at once, and now Lark saw how sharp his features were, his lips thin, his fine cheekbones gaunt, his nose long and narrow. “Bonded?” he said. “Who allowed such a thing?”
Lark took a breath and held it. There was authority in this man’s voice, as there was in his bearing. There was also something menacing about him, though Lark could not have said what it was.
“When was he born?” he snapped. “Where’s his dam? And who arranged for you to go to the Academy?” He leaned forward, his head tilting on his stiff neck. His eyes were night-dark, and just as cold. He slapped the quirt against his open palm, and behind him, in the lane, the chestnut whinnied, and pulled back against his rein.
