Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  When he had kicked the gate shut, he threw Lark against the opposite wall and put both his hands around her neck. His hands squeezed until she thought her eyes would fall out of her head.

  “William! No!” It was Mistress Winter’s voice, sharp with desperation.

  And then there was Tup. Mistress Winter fell to one side as he charged past her, his lips pulled back, his ears flat. He reached for the Duke’s shoulder, and his teeth closed on it. He shook him, like an oc-hound might shake a rat, and William howled with shock and pain, a thin, high cry. The mare in the stall gave a nervous whinny, and the colt dashed back and forth in the stall, whickering anxiously.

  William released Lark, all at once, and the moment he did, Tup loosened his bite. The Duke whirled, lifting his quirt to strike.

  Tup snorted, and backed away, his hindquarters deeply flexed, his tail brushing the sawdust of the aisle.

  Philippa had recovered her balance, and she strode past Tup, hands on hips, glaring at William. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  Lark sagged against the wall, her hands to her throat. “He tried to kill me!”

  The Duke snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous, brat. Why would I do that?”

  She stared up at him. “He did!” she said faintly. “Tup knew it, that’s why he—”

  Mistress Winter said, “William, have you lost your mind?”

  “That will be Duke William, to you, Horsemistress,” he said. He spoke as easily as if they were sitting down together over tea, as if he had not just had murder in his heart. He dropped his hand, and Lark saw that blood from Tup’s bite seeped through his white shirt near his collarbone.

  “You dishonor your title,” Mistress Winter said. “Abusing a child this way.”

  The Duke adopted a negligent pose, leaning against the wall of the box stall, switching at his thigh with the quirt. “I have abused no one,” he said.

  “Larkyn is bleeding,” Mistress Winter pointed out. “And I saw you with your hands around her neck.”

  “She’s not hurt. Not that I have the slightest need to explain to you , Philippa, but I have simply stopped an impetuous brat from interfering with my horses.”

  “Your horses?” She stepped forward, and looked past the Duke into the box stall. Lark pressed her hands to her trembling lips, and watched as Mistress Winter took a long look at the silvery foal. It trotted back and forth, ears flicking in its anxiety, its little plume of white tail swishing. She eyed the mare, who

  huddled fearfully against the far wall, and then she turned to look at the Duke’s dirty coat and trousers, his soiled boots. “William,” she said deliberately. “What have you done?”

  He ran a hand through his tumbled hair and pushed it behind one ear. “You can see perfectly well what I’ve done, Philippa. I’ve bred a beautiful winged filly, from a wingless dam and a wingless stallion.”

  “It’s treason.”

  He straightened, and his voice grew silky. “It’s a triumph.”

  “What do you hope to gain from it? What’s the point?”

  Lark stepped up behind Mistress Winter, but she kept a wary distance from the Duke. “Mistress,” she whispered fearfully. “I saw him touch her. And she didn’t—she—”

  Mistress Winter glanced down at her, then looked back at William, her face set in sharp lines. “What is this about?”

  His cold smile made Lark’s belly quake anew. Involuntarily, her hand strayed to her throat, still throbbing from the pressure of his hard fingers. He said, “It’s a new bloodline, Philippa. A glorious step forward in the history of the winged horses.”

  Mistress Winter shook her head slightly, frowning. Lark took a deep breath, steadying herself. She said, in a swift undertone, “He bonded with her, Mistress. He’s changed his body so he could bond with a winged horse.”

  The Duke’s eyes flashed something frightening, but Lark forced herself to hold her ground. He couldn’t hurt her with Mistress Winter here. Or Tup.

  Tup, too, stood his ground, now that he was out of reach of that quirt. His head was high, his legs stiff, his tail arched above his croup. His nostrils flared red, and Lark cast him a look of pride and gratitude.

  He would have killed for her, she felt sure.

  “Your grandfathers would turn in their graves if they knew, William,” Philippa said.

  “Then,” he said with a forced laugh, “I hope their coffins are spacious.”

  “I will bring this before the Council.”

  “Don’t waste your time.” He tucked his quirt under his arm, and brushed bits of straw from his coat. “I’m not the only one who thinks men should be able to fly winged horses.”

  Mistress Winter gave her famous snort. “You underestimate me, William, and not for the first time.” She turned her back on him and put a hand under Lark’s arm. “Come, Larkyn. Collect your stallion, and let’s go home.”

  Lark, trembling with the aftermath of too much emotion, stumbled toward Tup, glad to have his neck to lean on as she preceded Mistress Winter out of the stable. She hurt all over, her legs, her head, her cheek. Her knees felt weak.

  Winter Sunset came to meet them, blowing nervously. Lark patted her, then threw her arms around Tup’s neck. She whispered, “Oh, lovely Tup! Lovely brave, you are!” He dropped his head and nuzzled her shoulder.

  Mistress Winter stopped in the tack-room doorway, and spoke once more to the Duke. “I suppose this is why you haven’t answered our letters, William. Certainly you look as if you’ve been living in the stable.”

  “Why did you write?”

  “To tell you that your brother has been injured.”

  There was a little moment of silence, then the Duke growled, “What? How?”

  “Rescuing two Onmarin children from the Aesks,” Mistress Winter said. Her voice, Lark thought, was as hard and cold as the Duke’s quirt. “A job you should have done, William.”

  “I was otherwise occupied,” he said, but his voice seemed to falter slightly.

  “Indeed.”

  “Philippa—is Francis going to survive?”

  “I don’t know. This is why we came here. There’s not adequate room for him at the Academy, and it’s not restful. We thought Fleckham House was empty. I suppose we will have to find some other place now.”

  “Not at all. Of course he should come here to recuperate. In fact, I’ll order it. And I’ll visit him.”

  “I’m sure,” Mistress Winter said in a dry tone, “that he’ll find that restorative.”

  PHILIPPAand Larkyn went back to the stables of Fleckham House to retrieve their saddles and replace the borrowed blankets in the tack room. Philippa saw how Larkyn winced when she jumped down from Seraph’s back and that her face was already beginning to bruise. When she put her fingers on the girl’s cheek, Larkyn’s indrawn breath led her to lift the dark curls aside and see the great welt beneath her hair.

  “What other hurts do you have, child?” she asked, anger constricting her throat.

  Larkyn lifted one side of her divided skirt to show the scarlet stripes where William had struck her. As she leaned forward, Philippa saw the contusions on her slender neck. There were more on her wrists.

  Philippa had to fight a startling urge to draw the girl into her arms and hold her there, but she knew better.

  Flyers must learn to deal with adversity, and softness would not help them. “The Council Lords should see these,” she said grimly.

  “And then Duke William would take Deeping Farm for certain,” the girl said. She lifted Seraph’s saddle to his back and began to do up the breast strap and the cinches.

  “That’s a possibility, I fear.” Philippa finished tacking Sunny and turned to face Larkyn again. The girl was pale beneath her bruises, but her chin was lifted, her eyes bright with courage. “Margareth and I would stand up for you in the Council, of course. But there are some Council Lords who will back the Duke no matter what, simply because he is the Duke.”

  Larkyn didn’t answer, but she re
vealed how much pain she felt by leading Seraph to a mounting block.

  When she was in the saddle, her knees tucked beneath the thigh rolls, she reined Seraph around and gazed out over the melting snowfields. “I doubt the lords will care much about a girl from the Uplands,”

  she said. “Flyer or no.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Larkyn. The breeding violation will be considered at least as serious as the Duke’s attacking you, I’m afraid.”

  Larkyn shrugged. “Not to my family.”

  “Of course not.” Philippa mounted, suppressing a groan of her own. Seraph, when he had charged at the Duke, had banged one of his hooves on her shin, and she knew it must be black-and-blue and swollen by now. She had no intention of letting Larkyn know of it. Enough had happened to weigh on the child, and there was one more warning that had to be made. “Larkyn, I fear for the Duke’s safety if your brothers should hear of this attack.”

  Larkyn’s eyes turned to her. Their violet color was so dark it was almost black, and the cruel stripe across her cheek was vivid scarlet against her white skin. “Mistress Winter,” she said softly. “We mustn’t tell them. There would be such trouble.”

  Philippa gave an approving nod. “You’re a wise girl, Larkyn. And you will one day be a wise horsemistress. We flyers will stick together in this, then, as we do in everything. Come, let’s get home, and we’ll talk with Margareth.”

  They launched from the park and circled to the east and south. Philippa and Sunny led, but Philippa kept a worried eye on Larkyn and Seraph. The pair looked steady to her, and Larkyn, despite her injuries, sat straight in her saddle, leaning as Seraph banked, secure as they picked up speed. By the time they had reached Osham, Philippa felt confident in the young flyers.

  She looked ahead to the slate roof of the Academy Hall glistening under a thin sheen of snow and ice.

  Shadows already stretched toward the east, the early evening of winter fast approaching. Philippa spared a look to the west, to the hills of the Uplands, and beyond to the Marins, their peaks mantled in white, framed by the bright pale blue of a winter sky. It was a time Philippa usually looked forward to, when the weather enfolded the Academy in its cold embrace, and the Hall and the Residence and the stables were warm havens where horses, oc-hounds, and women settled in to wait out the season. She wondered if there would be any peace this winter. Conflict seemed to be building on every side, trapping her in a web of tension.

  She and Larkyn flew back over the roofs of the White City, made a long, gradual descent to the Academy, and came to ground in the return paddock. Philippa watched Larkyn and Seraph’s landing, the little stallion’s ebony hooves flashing against the snow, the girl’s slight body flexing and balancing just

  as it should.

  They cantered, then trotted up the paddock to the stables. Erna came out, but Philippa waved her off.

  “I’ll rub her down myself,” she said. “But Larkyn—perhaps you would like Erna to take Seraph?”

  She was not surprised when Larkyn shook her head. “Nay, Mistress. He’ll worry if I don’t do it.”

  Erna, incurious and stolid, went back into the tack room, where a merry fire crackled in the close stove.

  Philippa and Larkyn went into the stables, side by side, their horses walking quietly behind them. “I’ll ask Matron to arrange a hot bath for you, Larkyn,” Philippa said, as they reached Seraph’s stall. “Do you need a potion? Are you in pain?”

  Larkyn shook her head. “Nothing’s broken, Mistress. But a hot bath will help.” She let Seraph into his stall. “The other girls will talk if they see these marks,” she said. She pointed to her bruised face.

  “Especially my sponsor.”

  Philippa tutted. “I’ll speak to Petra, Larkyn. You’re a second-level flyer now, and have no need of a sponsor. And as to the talk—there’s no way around that.”

  “I don’t want them to think I fell.”

  “You can’t control what they think, I’m afraid.” Philippa bent her head, thinking. “If you speak of what really happened, you’ll be open to all sorts of accusations and slanders. The Duke will deny everything.

  He’ll say you made up the story to prevent him from confiscating Deeping Farm—and it will be his word against yours.”

  “Aye.” Larkyn nodded and followed Seraph into his stall. “I’ll just say nothing, then,” she said. “And pretend I don’t hear them whispering.”

  “It’s hard on you, Larkyn, but I think it’s best.” Sunny whickered, eager for her stall, and nudged Philippa with her nose. Still she hesitated. “Are you—you’re quite certain you’re all right, Larkyn? He didn’t—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “’Tis not pricking he wants, Mistress,” Larkyn said. “He pressed me against that wall with his own body.

  If rape had been on his mind, I would have known.”

  Philippa nodded and turned to lead Sunny to her own stall. Larkyn was wise beyond her years, perhaps beyond her experience. She could very well rise above her country manners, her Uplands accent, and her lack of breeding to become one of the great horsemistresses of Oc.

  If they could protect her from the mad Duke.

  THIRTY-ONE

  PHILIPPAand Margareth dispatched one of the third-level girls the very next morning with a missive for Lord and Lady Beeth, requesting their protection. Lady Beeth responded by sending one of her footmen, a tall, silent man who brought a letter of explanation. He was introduced to Herbert, and shown where he could stand night guard outside the stables of the Academy. The girls looked at him curiously as Philippa showed him about. She informed them he had come to assist Herbert, and they frowned, knowing Herbert had never needed assistance before. Only Larkyn and Hester looked relieved. The girls had proved already they could be trusted to keep silent, and Larkyn would sleep better knowing there was someone keeping night watch.

  After much discussion of the risks, Margareth sent a formal complaint to the Council, alleging a breeding violation by Duke William. She and Philippa both understood that if the decision did not go their way, there could be trouble. They couldn’t see how else to deal with the situation. With Francis ill, and the Master Breeder in William’s control, the Council Lords were all they had to rely upon.

  The confirmation of their suit was to come by post, which meant two days of waiting, Philippa pacing, Margareth mostly sitting in her big chair, wrapped in a heavy shawl.

  “You’re ill, Margareth,” Philippa said, on the first day. “You should be in your bed.”

  “No, no,” the Headmistress said faintly. “I just feel cold. Don’t you think it’s cold?”

  Philippa walked to the window to hide her frown. A lively fire crackled in the hearth, and Margareth’s

  office was so warm that she herself had been on the point of opening the window to the crisp air. She stood gazing out, glad her students had already returned from their commissions. Clouds had rolled down from the mountains in the night to shroud the countryside in cottony gray folds. She could see neither the hills to the west nor the spires of Osham to the east. She folded her arms, and tapped her elbows peevishly with her fingertips. She couldn’t shake the memory of Larkyn with William’s hands at her throat, of Tup crashing past her to sink his teeth into William’s shoulder. And the winged filly’s wide, innocent eyes haunted her.

  “She’s so beautiful, Margareth,” Philippa said for the tenth time. “Pale gray, the faintest dapples across her back and croup, and her mane and tail are like silver. Her wings will be gray, too, I think, and her legs are long for her body. I’d think she were a Noble if it weren’t for her color. She should have been Amelia’s, but of course it’s too late for that now. What will become of the poor little thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Margareth repeated. “It will depend on the Council.”

  “It’s too late,” Philippa said again, feeling cross and restive. “She’ll die if we take her from him, but I fear she’ll die if we don’t . . .”

  Acros
s the courtyard, she saw the stable door open, and Herbert came out, carrying a bucket and a spade. Bramble paced at his heels, slowly, but her tail up and waving. Philippa put one hand on the cold sash, and watched the oc-hound as she followed the stable-man around to the dry paddock. “At least Bramble is recovering,” she said, half to herself.

  “Thanks to Larkyn,” Margareth said. Philippa glanced at her, and saw that the Headmistress had leaned her head against the high back of her chair and closed her eyes.

  “Margareth. Go to bed. How will you be strong enough to appear before the Council?”

  After a moment, Margareth opened her eyes, but they were red and unfocused. “I suppose you’re right,”

  she said weakly. “Call Matron for me, will you?”

  Matron took charge of Margareth, helping her down the stairs and across to the Residence, up the stairs into her apartment. She installed her in her bed with a blazing fire and a heated brick between her sheets.

  Philippa oversaw all of this before she went down to the kitchens to see that everything was in order for the midday meal. Then, feeling itchy and out of sorts, she wandered across the courtyard to the stables.

  Bramble came to meet her, and Philippa crouched to hug the oc-hound, to stroke her, and to take a look for herself at the wound on her neck. Whoever had administered it had been serious, she thought. It had been a deep cut, intended to kill. But why?

  When she stood up, she found Amelia Rys standing in the doorway, watching her.

  “Hello, Amelia,” Philippa said.

  “Hello, Mistress Winter.” The girl stood aside to let her pass.

  “I hope you’re finding enough to occupy you?”

  “Oh, yes,” the girl said, in that noncommittal voice. “I’ve been studying the genealogies, and helping in the stalls where I can. Where I am allowed, I should say.”

  Philippa had started to turn away, but this stopped her. She lifted one eyebrow. “Is there a problem here?”

  Amelia shrugged. “The other girls neither like me nor trust me,” she said. “But I’m not surprised by it. It’s an uneasy alliance between our two principalities. We have a long history.”