The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series)

by Karen Miller

  The villagers and mudder knights were still cheering, the ragtag children shaking their rattles and handbells and blowing their whistles. He waved once, since it was expected, then turned from them to consider old Herewart’s son. The lingering pains in his body were as nothing, drowned in the joy of seeing his enemy thrown down.

  “Lord Balfre,” Hughe greeted him, his voice thin as watered wine. His squires had freed him from his helmet and thrust a folded tunic beneath his head. “Your joust, I think.”

  With a look, Balfre scattered the squires who hovered to render their lord aid. Then he dropped to one knee, with care, and braced an aching forearm across his thigh.

  “Hughe.”

  Black Hughe was sweating, his face pale beneath the blood seeping from a split across the bridge of his nose. More blood trickled from one nostril, and from the corner of his mouth. He looked like a knifed hog.

  “I’m not dying, Balfre,” Hughe said, slowly. “I bit my tongue. That’s all.”

  “And to think, Hughe, if you’d bitten it the sooner you’d not be lying here now in a welter of your gore, unhorsed and roundly defeated,” he said kindly, and smiled.

  Hughe coughed, then gasped in pain. “My lord—”

  “Hughe, Hughe…” Leaning forward, Balfre patted Black Hughe’s bruised cheek. Mingled sweat and blood stained his fingers. He didn’t mind. They were his prize. “I’m going now. Without your horse and armour. I didn’t joust you for them.”

  “My lord,” said Hughe, and swallowed painfully. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. And Hughe, for your sake, heed me now. Remember this moment. Engrave it on your heart. So the next time you think to slight my prowess with my lance? You think again–and stay silent.”

  Hughe stared at him, struck dumb. Balfre smiled again, not kindly. Pushed to his feet, spurning assistance, gave Hughe his armoured back and walked away.

  Temper sour as pickled lemon after his fractious dealings on the Green Isle, Aimery of Harcia disembarked his light galley in no mood for delay. Not waiting to see if his high steward and the others were ready, he made his way down the timber gang-plank, booted heels sharply rapping, and leapt the last few steps with the ease of a man half his age. The surety of steady ground beneath his feet at once lifted his spirits. Ah! Blessed Harcia! Never mind it was little more than a stone’s throw from the mainland to the Green Isle. He’d stick a sword through his own gizzards before confessing to a soul how much he hated sailing.

  “’Tis good to be home, Your Grace,” said his high steward, joining him.

  Staring at the busy harbour village of Piper’s Wade crowded before them, Aimery breathed in the mingled scents of fresh salt air, old fish guts, people and beasts. Some might call the air tainted, a stench, but never him. It was the smell of Harcia, his duchy, sweeter than any fresh bloom.

  “We’re not home yet, Curteis. Not quite.” He smiled. “But this’ll do. Now, let’s be off. I can hear the Croft calling.”

  His party’s horses had been stabled against their return at nearby Piper’s Inn. With their baggage to be off-loaded from the galley and transported by ox-cart, he led his people to the inn with purposeful haste, greeting the villagers who greeted him with a nod and a friendly word in passing, making sure they knew he was pleased to see them but alas, could not stop… only to be halted in the Piper’s empty, sunlit forecourt by a wildly bearded man in embroidered rags.

  “My lord! Duke Aimery!” Skinny arms waving, the man shuffled into his path. A soothsayer from the old religion, half his wits wandered off entirely. Lost, along with most of his teeth. Twig-tangled grey hair, lank past his shoulders, framed a seamed and sun-spoiled lean face. His pale grey eyes were yellowed with ill health, and sunken. “A word, my lord! Your pardon! A word!”

  It was held bad luck to spurn a soothsayer. Aimery raised a warning hand to his four men-at-arms. “Keep yourselves. There’s no harm here. See to the horses and you, Curteis, settle our account with the innkeeper.”

  They knew better than to argue. As he was obeyed, and his scribe and body squire hastily took themselves out of the way, Aimery turned to the ragged man.

  “You know me then, soothsayer?”

  The soothsayer cackled on a gust of foul breath. “Not I, my lord. The stars. The little frogs. The wind. The spirits in the deep woods know you, my lord. But they whisper to me.”

  “And what do they whisper?”

  Those sunken, yellow-tinged eyes narrowed. “I could tell you. I should tell you. But will I be believed? Do you honour the spirits? Or…” The soothsayer spat. Blackish-green phlegm smeared his lips. “Are you seduced by the grey men, my lord?”

  The grey men. The Exarch’s monks, harbingers of a new religion. It had barely scratched the surface of Harcia, though its roots grew deep in other lands. The soothsayer stared at him, hungrily, as though his reply must be a feast.

  “I’m seduced by no one,” he said. “Every philosophy has its truth. Speak to me, or don’t speak. The choice is yours. But I’ll not stand here till sunset, waiting.”

  The soothsayer cocked his head, as though listening. Then another gusting cackle. “Yes, yes. I hear him. A needle-wit, this Aimery. Prick, prick, prick and see the blood flow.” A gnarled finger pointed to the early morning sky, eggshell-blue wreathed in lazy cloud. “Three nights past, my lord. As the moon set. A long-tailed comet. The sign of chaos. Were you witness? It made the black sky bleed.”

  Three nights past at moonset he’d only just crawled into his borrowed bed on the Green Isle, head aching with arguments. “No. I didn’t see it. I was asleep.”

  “Asleep then, asleep now.” Eyes stretching wide, the soothsayer shuffled close. “Time to wake, my lord duke, and see the trouble festering under your roof.”

  A clutch at his heart. “What trouble?”

  “There was a man who had three sons. Lost one. Kept one. Threw the third away. The fool.”

  “What do you mean? What—”

  “Be warned, my lord duke,” the old man wheezed. “Unless you open your eyes you will sleep the cold sleep of death.” A rattle in the scrawny throat, a sound like the last breath of a dying wife. A dying son. “And no right to say you were not told. You have to know it, Aimery. A long-tailed comet cannot lie.”

  But a man could. A mad man, his wits scattered like chaff on the wind. Aimery stepped back. “Be on your way, soothsayer. You’ve spoken and I’ve listened.”

  “Yes, but have you heard?” The soothsayer shook his head, sorrowful. Or perhaps merely acting sorrow. Who could tell, with a mad man? “Ah well. In time we’ll know.”

  It was nonsense, of course. He had little time for religion, old or new. But the soothsayer looked in a bad way, so he pulled a plain gold ring from his finger.

  “Take this, old man. Buy yourself a warm bed and hot food. And when next the spirits whisper, whisper to them from me that a faithful servant should be better served.”

  The soothsayer’s eyes glittered as he stared at the ring. Then he snatched it, and with much muttering and arm-waving hobbled out of the forecourt.

  “Your Grace,” Curteis murmured, arriving on soft feet that barely disturbed the raked gravel. “Is aught amiss?”

  Aimery frowned after the soothsayer, an indistinct bundle of rags vanishing into the high street’s bustle. Mad old men and their ramblings. Throw a stone into any crowd and you’d likely strike at least three.

  “No. Can we go?”

  Curteis nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. As it please you.”

  They rode knee-to-knee out of the inn’s stable yard in a clattering of hooves, with his body squire and his scribe and his men-at-arms close at heel.

  “Be warned, Curteis,” he said, as they scattered pie-sellers and cobblers and fishwives before them along Piper’s Wade high street, “and share the warning with them that ride behind. I wish to sleep in my own bed under my own roof sooner rather than later. Therefore we shall travel swiftly, with few halts, and should I hear a tongue clapping com
plaint I swear I’ll kick the culprit’s arse seven shades of black and blue.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Curteis, smiling. He was well used to his duke.

  With the past two weeks fresh in mind, Aimery scowled. “I tell you plain, man, I’ve heard enough clapping tongues lately to last me till my funeral.”

  “The lords of the Green Isle were indeed fretsome, Your Grace.”

  “Fretsome?” He snorted. “Snaggle-brained, you should call them. Vexatious. Full of wind. Especially that cross-grained fuck Terriel.”

  “Your Grace,” agreed Curteis. “Lord Terriel and his noble brothers farted many noisome words. But you set them well straight.”

  Yes, he did. And woe betide a one of them who again dared defy his judgement. That man, be he ever so lordly, even the great and grasping Terriel, would find himself so handily chastised there’d be scars on his great-grandson’s arse.

  Bleakly satisfied, still impatient, Aimery urged his iron-dappled palfrey into a canter, then swung left off the high street onto Hook Way, which would lead them eventually to his ducal forest of Burnt Wood. If the rain held off and no mischance befell them, with the horses well rested they’d be in and out of the forest by day’s end. Spend the night in Sparrowholt on its far side, leave at dawn on the morrow, ride hard with little dallying and with fortune they’d reach the Croft before sunset.

  And so it proved. But when he did at last trot beneath the arching stone gateway of his favourite castle’s inner bailey, feeling every one of his fifty-four years, he found himself ridden into yet another storm. For standing in the Croft’s torchlit keep, clad head to toe in unrelieved black velvet, was old Herewart of nearby Bann Crossing. He trembled in the dusk’s chill, tears swiftly slicking his withered cheeks. Waiting with him, stood at a wary distance, Balfre and Grefin.

  “What is this, Balfre?” Aimery demanded of his accidental heir, even as his gaze lingered on his youngest son. His favourite, now that Malcolm was dead. “Why am I greeted with such confusion?”

  He’d sent a man ahead, to warn of his arrival and stir the castle’s servants to duty. As they hurried to take the horses and relieve Curteis and the scribe of their note-filled satchels, and the men-at-arms waited with their hands ready on their swords, he saw Balfre and Grefin exchange disquieting looks. But before his heir could answer, Herewart let out a cry cracked-full of grief and approached without leave or invitation.

  “Your Grace, you must hear me! As a father, and my duke, only you can grant me the justice I seek!”

  “Hold,” he said to the men-at-arms who were moving to protect him. Then he looked to his steward. “Curteis, escort Lord Herewart within the castle. See him comforted, and kept company in the Rose chamber until I come.”

  Very proper, though he was also weary, Curteis bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace!” Herewart protested. “Do not abandon me to an underling. My years of loyalty should purchase more consideration than that. I demand—”

  “Demand?” Summoning a lifetime’s worth of discipline, Aimery swung off his horse to land lightly on his feet. “My lord, be mindful. Not even a lifetime of loyalty will purchase a demand.”

  Herewart’s colour was high, his wet eyes red-rimmed and lit with a burning fervour. “A single day of loyalty should purchase the justice I am owed. And be warned, Aimery. Justice I’ll have, as I see fit, and from your hand–or there will be a reckoning. This is not cursed Clemen, where injustice wears a crown!”

  Silence, save for Herewart’s ragged breathing and the scrape of shod hooves on the flagstones as the horses hinted at their stables. Aimery looked to his sons. Grefin stood pale, arms folded, lower lip caught between his teeth. There was grief for Herewart there, and fear for his brother. As for Balfre, he stood defiant. He knew no other way to stand.

  Belly tight, Aimery looked again at Herewart. “What has happened, my lord?”

  “My son is dead, Your Grace,” said Herewart, his voice raw. “My youngest. Hughe.”

  The blunt words tore wide his own monstrous, unhealed wound. “I’m sorry to hear it, Herewart. To lose a son untimely is—”

  “You must know he was murdered,” Herewart said, bludgeoning. “By your son and heir, Balfre.”

  “Liar!” Balfre shouted, and would have leapt at the old man but for Grefin’s restraining hand. “It was ill chance, not murder, and he’d still be alive had you taught him how he should speak of Harcia’s heir! The fault is yours, Herewart, not mine, that your son’s bed tonight is a coffin!”

  Aimery closed his eyes, briefly. Oil and water, they were, he and this son. Oil and flame. Balfre, you shit. When will you cease burning me? “What ill chance?”

  “None,” said Herewart, glowering. “Hughe’s death was purposed. Your son challenged mine to a duel and killed him.”

  “Duel?” Balfre laughed, incredulous. “It was a joust! I unhorsed him by the rules, and when I left him he was barely more than winded. How can you—”

  “No, my lord, how can you!” said Herewart, a shaking fist raised at Balfre. “My son made a ribald jest, harmless, and you, being so tender-skinned and pig-fat full of self love, you couldn’t laugh and let it go by. You had to answer him with your lance, you had to goad him into unwise confrontation in the company of churls and mudder knights and take your revenge by taking his life! He breathed his last this morning; his body broken, your name upon his blood-stained lips.”

  Pulling free of his brother’s holding hand, Balfre took a step forward. “Your Grace, Hughe’s death isn’t my—”

  Aimery silenced him with a look, then turned. “My lord Herewart, as a father I grieve with you. And as your duke I promise justice. But for now, go with Curteis. He’ll see you to warmth and wine while I have words with my son.”

  Herewart hesitated, then nodded. As Curteis ushered him within the castle, and the inner bailey emptied of servants, squires, men-at-arms and horses, Grefin tried to counsel his brother but was roughly pushed aside.

  “Balfre,” Aimery said, when they were alone. “What was Hughe’s jest?”

  His face dark with temper, Balfre swung round. “It was an insult, not a jest. And public, made with intent. I couldn’t let it go by.”

  “Grefin?”

  Grefin glanced at his brother, then nodded. “It’s true. Hughe was offensive. But—”

  “But nothing!” Balfre insisted. “For Herewart’s son to say my lance is riddled with wormwood, with no more strength to it than a pipe of soft cheese, and by lance mean my cock, never mind we talked of jousting, he questioned my ability to sire a son. He as good as said I wasn’t fit to rule Harcia after Aimery. And that’s treason, Grefin, whether you like it or not.”

  Grefin was shaking his head. “Hughe was wine-soaked when he spoke. So deep in his cup he couldn’t see over its rim. He was a fool, not a traitor.”

  “And now he’s a dead fool,” said Balfre, brutally unregretful. “And a lesson worth learning. My lord—” He took another step forward, so sure of his welcome. “You can see I had no choice. I—”

  “Balfre,” Aimery said heavily, “what I see is a man possessed of no more wit and judgement at the age of three-and-twenty than were his when he was five.”

  Balfre stared. “My lord?”

  “You killed a man for no better reason than he had less wit than you!”

  “But Father–I was wronged. You can’t take Herewart’s part in this!”

  Oh Malcolm, Malcolm. A curse on you for dying.

  Aimery swallowed, rage and disappointment turning his blood to bile. “Since last you saw me I have done nothing but ride the Green Isle, hearing complaints and chastising faithless lords who count their own petty needs higher than what is best for this duchy. And now you, Balfre, you encourage men to defy my decree against personal combat. What—”

  “It was a joust!” Balfre shouted. “You’ve not banned jousting. I was obedient to all your rules. I made sure of a tilt barrier, my lance was well-blunted, and I—”
/>   “And you killed a man, regardless,” he said, fists clenched. “Much good your obedience has done you, Balfre. Or me.”

  Balfre’s hands were fisted too. “That’s not fair. Father—”

  “Do not call me Father! On your knees, miscreant, and address me as Your Grace!”

  Sickly pale, Balfre dropped to the damp ground. “Your Grace, it’s plain you’re weary. You shouldn’t be plagued with the Green Isle. Appoint me its Steward and I’ll—”

  “Appoint you?” Aimery ached to slap his son’s face. “Balfre, if I let you loose on the Green Isle there’d be war within a week.”

  “Your Grace, you misjudge me.”

  “Do I?” He laughed, near to choking on bitterness. “And if I were to break my neck hunting tomorrow and the day after I was buried you learned that Harald of Clemen had yet again interfered with Harcian justice in the Marches? Tell me, would you tread with care or would you challenge him to a joust?”

  “Harald is a cur-dog who sits upon a stolen throne,” said Balfre, his lip curled. “Thieves and cur-dogs should be beaten, not cosseted. If Harald feared us he’d not dare flout your authority, or entice Harcia’s men-at-arms to break your decrees, or demand unlawful taxes from our merchants and—”

  “So you’d challenge him with a naked sword, and slaughter two hundred years of peace.” Aimery shook his head, stung with despair. “Never once doubting the wisdom of your choice.”

  “Your Grace, there’s no greater wisdom than overwhelming strength and the willingness to use it.”

  And so the decision he’d been avoiding for so long, like a coward, was made for him. He sighed. “I know you think so, Balfre. Grefin—”

  Grefin looked up. “Your Grace?”

  “The Green Isle has been left to its own devices for too long. Therefore I appoint you its Steward and—”

  Forgetting himself, Balfre leapt to his feet. “No!”

  “Your Grace—” Alarmed, Grefin was staring. “I’m honoured, truly, but—”

  “Enough, Grefin. It’s decided.”

  “No, it isn’t!” said Balfre. “You can’t do this. Like it or not I’m your heir. By right the Green Isle’s stewardship is mine. You can’t—”