by Toby Bishop
“Sounds like a busy place.”
“It was today.”
“And Irina?”
“I didn’t see her. And William told me nothing I didn’t already know.” Philippa patted Sunny, and then paused, resting her cheek against her mare’s sleek neck. Quietly, she said, “I think, Margareth, that when it comes to our new Duke, I am no asset to the Academy.”
“You have a complicated history, I know,” Margareth said. “But surely, for the good of the Duchy . . .”
“There’s something strange going on with him.” Philippa straightened, and rubbed at the pain in her neck.
“We already knew that, of course,” Margareth said. “I only wish you could have found out why he—”
Philippa turned to face her. “Margareth, it’s something else. Besides Black Seraph. I—I touched William, inadvertently. We were arguing, and I thought he was going to strike me. I put out my hand to stop him, and I . . .” She shook her head. “I can hardly believe it. If I hadn’t felt it myself . . .”
Margareth frowned. “What is it, Philippa? What did you feel?”
Philippa touched her own chest with her palm, and then, on impulse, she reached for Margareth’s hand, and pressed the flat of it against her own thin bosom. “Do you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“William’s chest . . .” She dropped Margareth’s hand. “He has reason to affect those embroidered vests. You’ll think I’m mistaken. I can hardly believe it myself, in fact, but . . . but William’s chest swells like my own. Like yours.” Her voice cracked, and she touched her throat with her gloved hand. “Like a woman’s.”
HESTER called out to them just as they were going up the steps into the Hall. “Mistress Winter,” she said, “Headmistress. Please excuse me.”
They turned together and watched her dash up the stairs. She was a plain girl, angular and rangy, but Philippa had seen her grace in the saddle. Hester had an indefinable air of confidence and authority, no doubt learned at her mother’s knee. It would stand her in good stead in her career.
“What is it, Hester?” Philippa asked.
“It’s Black,” Hester said, her tone low and urgent. “She wasn’t in her cot this morning, nor in the stables. Do you know where she is? Could she be with Mistress Strong? She’s missed breakfast, and lunch, too.”
“Are you certain, Hester?” Margareth said.
“I’ve looked everywhere, Headmistress,” she said. “Library, sleeping porch, the tack room . . . She’s gone. And so is her colt.”
“Kalla’s teeth,” Philippa grated, looking past Hester’s worried face to Margareth’s.
Margareth’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth tightened. “Come with us, Hester,” she said. She led the way on up the stairs and into her office, shutting the door when they were all inside. She crossed to the window, and pulled the curtains back, letting the sunshine stream in over the dark furnishings, and then sank into her chair. Hester stood near the door, biting her lip.
Philippa paced, stripping off her gloves and pleating them with her fingers. “She’s gone after him,” she said to Margareth.
Margareth turned, standing with her back to the light, her hair a gray nimbus, her face furrowed with worry. “How would she know where?” she said. Her voice thinned. “If we don’t know where . . . or who . . .”
Hester spoke. “Mistress Winter, what’s happened? Does Lark need help?”
“We don’t know, Hester.” Philippa tucked her gloves into her waistband. “Has anyone else noticed she’s missing?”
“Everyone assumes she’s with Mistress Strong. We haven’t seen her today, either, or her mare. Everyone knows she’s been giving Black a hard time.”
Philippa gave a sharp nod. “Very well. We’ll keep it that way if we can. We knew Black Seraph was missing, because someone took him, and injured Rosellen when she tried to stop them.”
Hester looked at the Headmistress, and then back to Philippa. “Mistress Strong took him?”
Philippa stopped pacing. “Why would you say that?”
Hester shrugged. “Mamá knows all about Strong’s family, and her troubles. It had to have been a woman, to take a winged horse. And I assumed, when she was made senior instructor . . . There’s some connection with Duke William, isn’t there.” It wasn’t a question.
Carefully, Philippa answered, “There may be, Hester. We’re not certain.”
“Someone took Black Seraph,” Hester said, frowning. “And now Lark’s gone after him, just as I would do if someone stole Goldie. This could be dangerous, for both of them! We have to do something.”
Margareth said, in a shaking voice, “We were just trying to decide. I can’t think . . . I don’t know . . .”
Philippa said gently, “You can leave this to me, Margareth.”
“And to me,” Hester said firmly.
Margareth gave a sigh of acquiescence. Philippa turned to the girl. “I see you understand, Hester, that discretion is necessary.”
“Of course.”
“I can only guess where Black Seraph might have been taken.”
“And why?” Hester asked. “What good is he to the Duke without his bondmate? And how would Lark know where to find him?”
Philippa shook her head. “I would only be guessing at any of it, Hester. Let’s see if we can find him first. And stop Larkyn before something awful happens.”
LARK took hold of Bramble’s fur to stop the oc-hound from dashing out into the open. The dog whimpered, but she sank to her haunches under the pressure of Lark’s hand. Her gaze was fixed on a low-roofed building on the opposite side of a wide, sloping meadow. Lark knelt beside her, and tried to understand where they were.
It was growing late, she knew. The sun already skimmed the western peaks. Could Tup be in those stables, on the far side of the broad meadow? Who would be with him?
She put her arm around Bramble’s neck, and watched for signs of movement. A single horse, wingless, dappled gray, grazed in a grassy pasture. Another horse was tethered to a post. A little copse of beech separated the stables from a park. Above the treetops Lark could just see the roofs of a great, sprawling house. In the distance, a broad lane ran to the main road. Carts, drawn by oxen, came and went on the road, and a carriage or two bowled along behind a trotting horse. The great house itself seemed oddly quiet, as if it were abandoned. The afternoon had that suspended, pregnant quality of early spring. Not even a bird sang in the woods, nor did Lark hear the usual barking of dogs or bleating of sheep.
And then, in the hush, she heard a familiar sound. A whimper, then another. And immediately following, the hard, sharp thump of neat black hooves on a stable wall.
“Tup!” she breathed. He had sensed her presence.
Bramble whined, jumping to her feet, tugging to be free of Lark’s restraining hand.
“Yes, Bramble, you’ve done it!” Lark said. “Lovely smart, you are! But it’s not safe for us to go rushing in there. We have to wait to see if—”
But the oc-hound was already off, a streak of silver-gray racing down the slope, arrowing across the field. Lark struggled to her sore feet, and stumbled after her.
WILLIAM spent his bad temper in whipping his borrowed horse into a lather, making him run full out down the hard dirt of the lane to Fleckham House. What he wanted, craved, was to take his quirt to Philippa Winter, to wipe the sneer from her face, to make her fall to her knees and look up at him with fear and respect instead of glaring at him as if he weren’t now her liege lord!
They were all like that, those horsemistresses. Philippa was the worst, but Margareth Morgan had known him since he was a baby, and had never accorded him the respect he deserved. All of them made him furious. Thinking of the two of them, Margareth and Philippa, conspiring to thwart his plans, made him cut the mare again with the quirt. The horse ran faster, breathing hard, and her hoofbeats jolted William against the cantle. He gritted his teeth against the dust that rose from the lane, and regretted leaving his own swift br
own gelding with Jinson.
His temper had not yet subsided when he reached the courtyard of Fleckham House. He dismounted, and found that his legs were a bit shaky from the ride. His stable-man came out to meet him, frowning over the dripping horse, but wise enough to keep his damned mouth shut. “Are you alone, my lord?” was all he said.
“I don’t need an escort to ride ten miles,” William snapped at him.
“Of course not, my lord.” The man took the mare’s reins and disappeared with cautionary swiftness into the stables.
William took a deep breath, looking around him at the deserted courtyard, the blank windows of Fleckham House. Only a skeleton staff remained. There would be a housekeeper, a cook, a gardener, a few maids and footmen. Everyone else had removed to the Palace. The Fleckham family home might remain empty for some years, but William would not sell it. He needed it. Now that his household had left, there would be no danger of visitors interrupting his privacy. He and Jinson could go forward with his plan, and bring in Slater or Irina Strong when they needed an extra pair of hands. The simplicity of it all was perfect.
As he strode toward the beech grove, his bad mood began to lift. He had what he needed now. Just let one winged horse bond to him, one he could train and fly himself. The shock and disgust on Philippa Winter’s face would no longer matter. The changes of his body would be worth that triumph, worth the feeling of looking down on the Academy from the air. Centuries of the female monopoly of winged horses were going to come to an end. Duke William of Oc would be the agent of change, and neither Philippa nor Margareth nor any other cursed horsemistress could stop it. And by Kalla’s tail, when that day came, horsemistresses would curtsy to their Duke like proper females!
He slapped the dust from his trousers and shirt, and hurried through the trees.
THIRTY-THREE
THE closer Lark got to the stables, the louder the ruckus sounded from within. She crept past the small paddock that ran along the back, and sidled along the fence. The horse in the paddock, the dappled gray, was a young mare, perhaps four or five years old. She flung her head up, her ears flicking toward Lark and then toward the racket from the stables. The other horse was a long-legged brown gelding, wearing a black and silver saddle. Lark had a vague feeling she should recognize him, but the noise distracted her.
She knew it was Tup, whinnying, pounding walls with his hooves, stamping his feet. Her heart raced with fear and with relief.
The rear door of the stables was hooked back, open to the afternoon air. Lark ducked beneath its long latch, and flattened herself between the door and the wall. Someone was coming, clattering down the stairs from the upper level. Lark peered through the crack left by the door’s iron hinges.
It was no stable-girl stamping down the aisle. Lark knew Irina Strong’s heavy tread, and her voice as she snapped at Tup, “Quiet, Crybaby! Enough of your nonsense!”
There was a smacking sound, as of a leather strap applied to a horse’s hindquarters. Tup squealed, and Lark had to press her hands to her mouth to stop herself from crying out, too. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away, trying to think what to do.
When she flattened her cheek to the door, she could see two stalls, part of the sawdust-strewn aisle, and a door opening into a small tack room. Strong Lady put her head out of one of the stalls, her ears twitching nervously. Lark couldn’t see Tup, or Mistress Strong.
Lark drew a breath and held it. If she couldn’t see Mistress Strong and Tup, perhaps they couldn’t see her, either. She hesitated only a moment, fearful of losing her chance. Then, under the cover of another flurry of noise and banging of hooves, she slipped around the door and dashed for the tack room.
She ducked inside, and squeezed herself between a saddle rack and a wall hung with ropes and halters. Tup kicked the wall again, and there was the distinct sound of wood breaking. A new voice, one she didn’t recognize, stammered a string of curses. Not a stable-girl, then. A stable-man. Tup would never stand for it.
“Get back, Jinson, you’re making it worse!” Mistress Strong snapped. “Give me a minute to get him settled.”
“He broke the gate!” the man said. He sounded rather young, Lark thought, and a little frightened. “Watch his wing, there, those splinters—”
Lark almost sprang out of the tack room then. If they hurt Tup, or allowed him to hurt himself . . .
And then there was another voice, one Lark knew well. As soon as she heard it, she knew where she had seen the brown gelding before.
“Jinson,” Duke William said. “Irina. What in Zito’s hells do you think you’re doing?”
Lark pressed back against the wall, a braided rope catching at her hair, the buckle of a hackamore digging into her hip.
Tup whimpered, and the noise of his hooves ceased. He had reacted to William this way before, his ears flopping sideways, his little cry sad and confused.
She bit her lip, and listened.
“My lord,” the man called Jinson said anxiously. “The mare’s ready, she’s right there, but—I did tell you, sir, I said you couldn’t take a winged horse from its bondmate—”
“You mean it’s not done? Why did we go through all this, then?”
“My lord, the little stallion is going crazy! He could hurt the mare, or worse, he could hurt himself, and he’s a winged—”
“That’s enough, Jinson.” Duke William’s voice was so light Lark could barely hear his words. “Irina should have been able to handle this.”
“I told you he was bad-tempered,” Irina said.
“I don’t know why that should be,” William said smoothly. “His dam was as mild as they come, and his sire was steady enough for a child to ride.”
“My lord,” Jinson said in a shaky voice. “Maybe it’s mixing the bloodlines does it, ruins the temper? Master Crisp used to say—”
There was a sharp cracking sound. Lark thought William must have whipped something, a wall, his boot, perhaps even this man Jinson. A moment of tense silence passed before William said, “Eduard Crisp had no vision. I do. You have his job, Jinson, because I expect you to share my goals.”
Jinson answered meekly, “Yes, my lord.”
“I don’t give a damn if he hurts the mare, and if he hurts himself, that’s too bad. But we have to get him back, or I’m going to have to explain all of this to the Council. I don’t want to do that.”
Mistress Strong said, “Let’s try again, then.”
“I’ll get a halter,” Jinson began.
“Do that,” William said, and then added in an offhand manner, “Irina tells me he’s useless anyway. He’ll never make a flyer.”
Mistress Strong exclaimed, “Your Grace! If something happens to him—”
“No one can prove anything. If he won’t cooperate, we’ll put him down.”
Lark gasped, and pushed herself away from the wall. The halter that had been biting into her hip fell to the floor with a clank of metal.
She heard William exclaim, and then Mistress Strong’s boots came stamping down the aisle. Lark cast about for someplace to hide. It was a simple box of a room, smelling of leather and straw and oil. There were only four saddles on the rack, and a small stack of oat sacks, not high enough to conceal her.
There was nothing she could do but face them. Just as Mistress Strong reached the tack room, Lark stepped into the doorway. The horsemistress glared at her, and Lark glared back, chin up, spine straight, cheeks burning.
Her voice sounded small but steady in her ears as she said, “I’ve come for Tup.”
Tup whinnied at the sound of her voice, and his hooves battered the wall, more wood shattering. Jinson shouted something. Lark took a step forward, and then Duke William appeared at the horsemistress’s shoulder.
Lark froze where she was, even as Tup whinnied again.
William wore his usual black, with a vest embroidered in gold and violet. His boots and trousers were dusty, and streaks of sweat marked his smooth-shaven cheeks, but he held himself a
s still as ever, his eyes as black and flat as the stone of the Uplands. His lip curled. “Ah,” he said. “The brat.”
“Oh, aye,” Lark snapped. “And you’re the thief!”
Mistress Strong said, “Larkyn! How dare you!”
Duke William only laughed. “It’s not theft. I’ve taken what is mine by right.”
“We serve you,” Lark said hotly. “You don’t own us.”
“Oh, no?” He pulled his quirt from underneath his arm, and stroked it with his fingers. “You think you can stand in the way of the Duke of Oc?”
“If I have to!”
Mistress Strong stepped forward and gripped her arm. “Silence,” she hissed. “Show respect for your liege lord!”
Mistress Strong’s iron fingers pinched the skin beneath Lark’s arm, making her yelp. Tup gave a fierce neigh, and Jinson called weakly, “Mistress Strong—”
Duke William seized Lark’s other arm, and the two of them lifted her between them as if she was a naughty child. Lark screamed, “Let me go! Leave me be!”
Tup screamed in response. Hinges screeched under his battering hooves, and a great crash shook the walls of the stables. Jinson croaked something, and then Tup came pounding around the corner, ears laid back, teeth bared. He wore a halter with the lead broken, four inches of leather dangling beneath his chin.
Mistress Strong dropped Lark’s arm when she saw the charging colt. William, too, released her, cursing. He leapt into the aisle, brandishing his quirt in front of him. Tup skidded to a halt in the sawdust, rearing, forefeet clawing the air inches from William’s head. He gave the full-throated cry of an infuriated stallion, a sound that shivered in Lark’s bones.
“Tup!” she cried. “Here!” She stood poised in the doorway to the tack room. Warily, Tup let his forefeet drop. His eyes rolled at William, and he tried to dodge past him.
