Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  Francis eyed the clutch of people, thinking he had never seen such misery. They were short, square people. The women wore cloth dresses beneath layers of animal skins that were matted and greasy-looking. Their hair looked no better than the furs. “They left them,” he said. “Ran off and abandoned their families.”

  The captain shrugged. “Barbarians.”

  “Barbarians, perhaps,” Francis mused, “but they are people.”

  The captain fixed him with a level gaze. “They kill children, my lord.”

  “Yes. I do remember.” Francis approached the group of Aesks, noting that none shrank away from him.

  Several of the women gave him fierce looks as they pushed their children behind them. One or two boys, on the verge of manhood, thrust their chests out and did their best to look brave, though their dirty faces were haggard with fear and shock. Francis circled them, trying not to let his own dismay show. He had no heart for this. He was sure he would have made a terrible soldier.

  “Don’t get too close, my lord,” the captain said at his shoulder.

  Francis looked back in surprise. He hadn’t known the man was following him. “Surely there’s no danger now,” Francis said.

  “There is always danger,” the captain answered.

  “I need to find the girl from Onmarin,” Francis said.

  “You may need to look among the dead,” the captain said. “This lot all look alike to me.”

  Francis’s belly clenched at the thought of telling the grieving mother that she had lost another daughter.

  He glanced back at the far end of the compound, where the dead lay cold and still, then he surveyed the disheveled survivors. He would look here first. He had to try.

  They looked back at him as he walked around them, their eyes slitted and wary. A child whimpered in the little group, and was quickly shushed. Some of them sat on the hard ground, others knelt or stood. All faced outward, reminding Francis of a hunt he had once been on, when a herd of deer gathered in a protective circle. And there was, he thought uncharitably, something animal about these people. They were dirty, and they smelled bad, but it was more than that. The veneer of society had never touched these creatures, never softened their edges, disguised their drives, or cushioned them from the basic necessities of survival. These people lived as close to the land as it was possible to do, and the land that was theirs had not been kind to them.

  Suppose, Francis thought, with jarring irrelevance, suppose we were to help them, rather than hunt them?

  Suppose we employed our ships to send them goods, grain or cloth or tools—

  He stopped, and gestured to two women standing shoulder to shoulder in front of him. One was a crone, grizzled and tiny. The other was younger, but hideously scarred, one half of her face ruined, the other flat-featured and stoic. “Stand aside,” he ordered, his confused emotions making his voice harsh. “Who is

  that behind you?”

  The women stared at him, and for a moment, he thought they would not move. He put his hand on the hilt of his smallsword and pulled it from its scabbard. The soldier behind him moved closer.

  Slowly, the old woman moved, a half step to her left. The scarred one didn’t budge, except to put one hand inside her furs.

  There was no mistaking the girl from Onmarin, now that Francis could see her. Though she was shockingly dirty, her pale hair and pinched features set her apart from the Aesks. She knelt on the ground, held there by the scarred woman, who kept one grimy hand clamped on the back of her thin neck. As the old woman moved aside, Lissie’s eyes lifted to Francis’s face. Tears streaked her pitifully bruised cheeks, and she began to sob.

  “Lissie?” he asked, stepping forward. “Lissie of Onmarin?”

  She put out her hand. Giddy with relief at having found her, he bent to help her stand. The Klee captain said, “Have a care, my lord.”

  Lissie’s eyes rolled to her right, stretching wide with alarm. Francis didn’t see the scarred woman’s knife, but he felt it. It was not pain, not exactly. It seemed to burn, and yet to freeze at the same time, as if were a blade of ice. It cut through his wool shirt, sliced his skin, and drove in through his flesh until it struck bone.

  Distantly, he heard the captain’s shout, but he could not turn, impaled as he was. He still faced the girl from Onmarin, the thin, shaking child. The last color drained from her face as she opened her mouth to scream. He tried to lift his own weapon, to defend her, and himself, but his arm was nerveless. He managed only to pull it out of its scabbard, and then he dropped it.

  The Klee captain seized him from behind with both hands, and the girl from Onmarin, suddenly shrieking, leaped to her feet, and reached with both hands for Francis’s smallsword.

  The world blurred before Francis’s eyes, and a wave of cold swept his body. He hoped, rather faintly, that he was not dying. He watched, with wonderment and a sort of detachment, as the slip of a girl, the child of Oc, seized the hilt of his smallsword and thrust the blade at the Aesk woman who had stabbed him.

  Francis felt as if he were falling head over heels into a gulf of darkness. He flailed with his hands, trying to grasp at something to stop himself, but he found nothing. He couldn’t tell up from down, left from right.

  He couldn’t breathe, and the darkness was rising to his waist, to his chest, to his neck. When it closed over his head, all sound faded from his ears, and he sighed, giving in. How foolish he had been, when success had been within his grasp! William would be triumphant. He had failed after all.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  HERBERTtook one look at the nasty cut on Bramble’s neck, and said, “Needs stitches.”

  “Aye,” Lark said. “I know it does. Can you do it? I’ll help you.”

  Hester had left them to go and explain to Mistress Morgan what had happened, to try to excuse Lark for leaving her flight. There would certainly be consequences for her infraction, but Lark couldn’t think about that now.

  They laid the oc-hound on a pallet of blankets in the tack room, and Herbert brought a needle and a spool of fine silk thread. Lark knelt beside Bramble and took the dog’s head into her lap. She murmured encouragement to her while Herbert cut the long hair away from the wound, and threaded careful stitches through the torn edges of her neck. Bramble whimpered at each piercing of the needle, and Lark felt each pain as if it were her own. “I know, lass, I know,” she said, through a tight throat. “A little bit longer. It will only hurt a moment.”

  The oc-hound flinched, but she didn’t try to pull away. She licked Lark’s hand when it was all over, bringing tears to Lark’s eyes.

  “Saved her life, you did,” Herbert said as he spread a fresh, dry bandage over the wound. “She might

  have bled to death, out there in that field.” He pinned the bandage together and sat back on his heels.

  “Hester helped,” Lark said. “Or we might still have lost her.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, and glanced over his shoulder to be certain they were alone. The Beeth carriage had departed, and the horsemistresses and girls were at supper in the Hall. There was only Erna to worry about, and she had gone into the kitchens for her own meal. “The Beeths’ footman told me the Master Breeder showed up,” Herbert said quietly. “After the farmer went to the Palace for help.”

  Lark stroked Bramble’s shoulder. “Aye, Herbert,” she said. Now that she believed Bramble would survive, she trembled with the knowledge of how close they had come to losing the oc-hound. She lifted her eyes to meet the old stable-man’s. “I don’t think Jinson wanted to kill her,” she said. “But the Duke would have made him do it.”

  Herbert’s jaw set hard. “Don’t understand it,” he said bitterly. “When I think of the foals this dog has fostered . . .”

  “Aye.” Lark smoothed the blanket beneath Bramble and held a cup of water so she could lap a bit.

  “’Twas a cruel thing they did.”

  “Don’t understand why,” Herbert muttered. “What’s to gain?”

  Lar
k caught her lip between her teeth and didn’t answer. It didn’t seem fair to drag Herbert into her troubles with the Duke. “The important thing is,” she said after a moment, “they won’t try it again. They wouldn’t dare.”

  “I’ll watch over her, I promise you that.”

  “Aye, Herbert. I know.”

  “None of them other girls would do what you did tonight,” he said. There was a gruffness in his voice, and Lark looked up to find that his eyes had reddened.

  “I’m a country girl,” she said softly. “The beasts love me, and I them.”

  “I know, Larkyn,” he said. He cleared his throat abruptly. “You’re a good girl, you are.”

  She smiled at him and touched his hand. “Thank you, Herbert.” As he got stiffly to his feet, she said,

  “Herbert—do you have a Tarn?”

  He gave her a startled look. “A Tarn?”

  “Or some other fetish.” Lark’s cheeks warmed, and she shrugged a little. “I know we’re not supposed to believe in small-magics, but—”

  He put a finger on the side of his nose, frowning. “I think—seems to me there might have been something Rosellen favored.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “Give me a minute.” He turned and went up the stairs to the room Rosellen had used before Erna. In minutes he was back, a worn and faded object in his hand. He handed it to Lark.

  “Don’t know what it’s called. But Rosellen was a great one for charms and simples.”

  Lark caressed it between her fingers. It seemed to her that a touch of sea air still clung to it, and though it was almost shapeless, little more than a bundle of soft yarn and some sort of dried grass, it must surely retain some of the power Rosellen had believed it to have.

  She twirled the little fetish above Bramble’s wound, as she had once twirled her own Tarn over a teapot or a pot of soup, then she tucked it close to the dog’s head in a fold of blanket. Bramble’s eyes fluttered closed, and she gave a deep sigh.

  “There,” Lark whispered, stroking the oc-hound’s flank. “There you are, lass. Rosellen’s little charm will watch over you.”

  When she emerged from the stables, she shivered in the hard cold. Automatically, she let her eyes stray to the northern horizon, hoping to see Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset winging toward them, though it was so late. She saw nothing except sharp white stars in a black night sky, not even a sliver of moon. She paused, hugging herself against the chill, and took the icon of Kalla into her fingers to whisper a prayer for their safe return.

  Across the courtyard the lights of the Hall still glowed in the Headmistress’s office and in the dining hall.

  The Domicile was brightly lit, its reading room awaiting the horsemistresses. The Dormitory entryway shone with lamplight, vivid in the darkness. With the icon still in her hand, Lark felt a quiver of anxiety,

  but she couldn’t think why. She saw no tall, dark figure with ice-blond hair lurking between the buildings or creeping across the courtyard. Bramble was safe inside the stables, with Herbert keeping watch. Tup was in his stall, with Molly beside him. Still, something was wrong. She didn’t know what, nor did she even know why she knew.

  She walked on trembling feet across the cobblestones toward the Hall, trying to convince herself that it was her imagination, that it was exhaustion after the stressful day, and her fear for Bramble, but she couldn’t drive away the feeling that something had happened, some further disaster.

  “Zito’s ears,” she muttered, an epithet that had not come to her lips since she left the Uplands. “Will no one tell me what is happening?”

  LARKtossed and turned on her cot until the pale dawn washed the stars from the sky. Only then did she fall into a fitful sleep, with dreams and alarms disturbing her often. When Matron roused the girls on the sleeping porch, Lark felt exhausted and dry in that way she had felt during lambing season, when sleep came in short bursts, and was always interrupted. She struggled into her clothes, grateful that she had no need to spend time on her rider’s knot as the other girls did. She ran a comb through her short curls, splashed water on her face, cleaned her teeth, and was ready.

  Despite her anxiety, she was ravenous. As she sat down to breakfast between Hester and Amelia, it occurred to her that she had not eaten since breakfast the day before. She ate everything she was given and took every scrap of buttered toast from the tray when the others were done.

  Amelia only looked at her in that unreadable way she had, but Hester laughed. “Black, you’ve eaten enough to make Goldie full!”

  “I know,” she said. “Are you going to eat those apple slices?”

  Hester chuckled, and passed her plate so that Lark could have the last of her fruit. “Poor Black Seraph,”

  she said, as she brought it back to her place, empty now of every scrap. “I hope he feels strong this morning, now that you’ve eaten enough for two! We’re supposed to be drilling Grand Reverses.”

  Lark groaned, and Amelia raised her eyebrows. “Are they difficult?” she asked.

  “No,” Hester said, leaning forward to see Amelia past Lark. “Except Black would rather fly them bareback.”

  Lark was about to answer, but Matron interrupted her, bustling up behind her to tap her shoulder.

  “Larkyn,” she hissed. “The Headmistress wants you, quick!”

  Lark pushed her chair back, trembling with renewed anxiety. “Has something happened, Matron?” she asked.

  Hester stood, too. “What is it, Black? What’s wrong?”

  Lark shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Maybe,” Hester said with a wry grin, “it’s about your punishment for yesterday.”

  “No doubt,” Lark sighed.

  Matron, already at the door, turned and gestured to Lark to hurry. Lark said hastily, “Hester, explain to Mistress Star for me, will you? I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She hurried after Matron, leaving Hester shaking her head.

  As she trotted after Matron to the Hall, Lark thought Hester probably was right. Mistress Morgan had no doubt thought of some task she could do to show her penitence, something hard so that she would not repeat her offense. But why now? Why not wait until after her flight? Her stomach roiled with the big breakfast she had eaten so quickly.

  Matron opened Mistress Morgan’s door and stood back. Lark, trying to moisten her dry lips with her tongue, walked past her on trembling legs.

  When she saw the tall, burly man in the Headmistress’s office, his broomstraw hat in his hand, standing with his feet apart in his old, well-polished farm boots, for a moment she couldn’t speak. She stared at him, caught in an undertow between fear at what might have brought him here and joy at seeing him for the first time in months.

  He gave her a nod. “Lark,” he said, in his familiar rumbling voice.

  “Oh! Oh, Brye!” And she threw herself into her eldest brother’s arms.

  “WON’TPamella come to speak for us?” Lark said anxiously. “After all you’ve done?”

  Brye shook his head, heavily, sadly. “The poor lass is so terrified of her brother,” he said. “Edmar got it out of her, somehow.”

  “Is she speaking, then?”

  “Nay, not to me. But Edmar, when he comes home from the quarry, spends most of his time with her and the little boy, and he learns things. You can see for yourself, in any case, that whenever the Duke’s name is mentioned she turns that white, it would frighten you.”

  “But to lose Deeping Farm . . .” Lark shuddered, hardly able to take it in.

  “Now, Larkyn,” said Mistress Morgan. “You must not give up hope. The Council of Lords has to vote on such a confiscation.”

  “And what’s the charge?” Lark demanded. “’Tis the Duke who has committed crimes!”

  “Hush, child,” the Headmistress said. “Even here, his spies may be listening.”

  Lark put her fingers to her lips. Brye reached out one big hand and laid it gently on her shoulder. She had forgotten how hard his hands wer
e. Indeed, his whole big body was rigid with muscle. The Hamleys often marveled that Lark should be so different from her brothers. Silent Edmar and handsome Nick were both muscled and tall, though not so tall as Brye. They had teased Lark as a child, calling her bobbin, and button, and mouse.

  “Mistress Morgan has the right of it,” Brye said heavily. “I will speak before the Council, as is my right since the Duke wants to take our farm. But I had thought that Mistress Winter—if she would—could support me. If it doesn’t cause trouble for her.”

  They had explained Philippa’s absence to him and their hope that she would return any moment.

  “Mistress Winter won’t care about trouble,” Lark said stoutly. “But Brye, Duke William must have learned that Pamella can’t speak. We always thought he was afraid of what she would say, and that would keep Deeping Farm safe from him.”

  “We had a stranger with the bloodbeets crew,” Brye said. His shoulders sagged at the admission.

  “Should have known better. Should have suspected . . . but he seemed all right.”

  “You think he was a spy,” Lark said.

  “Aye, I fear so.” Brye turned his broad-brimmed hat in his hands. “The summons came soon as he left Willakeep.”

  “How did you get here?” Lark asked. “I didn’t see the oxcart.”

  “I took the mail coach,” he said. “Nick needed the cart. And I don’t know how long all this might take.”

  “What is the charge against you, Master Hamley?” Mistress Morgan asked.

  “Treason,” he said bluntly. “For harboring a winged horse of the bloodlines.”

  WILLIAMlaid his quirt across Jinson’s neck, enjoying the blanching of the man’s color as the power of the cold leather closed his throat. “Give me a reason,” he purred, “why I should not kill you the way I told you to kill that dog.”

  “M’ lord,” Jinson choked, “I’m sorry. I told you, I thought she was dying, I didn’t think she could last much longer . . .”

  “You thought?” William said. He pressed the quirt harder, seeing Jinson’s flesh crease, hearing his breath rasp. “You should have made sure.”