Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  Philippa said lightly, “We do, indeed. I am part of that history, as it happens.”

  “The battle of the South Tower,” Amelia said. Her eyes flicked away, just briefly, and for the barest moment she looked like the eighteen-year-old girl she was. When she brought her gaze back to Philippa, though, her face had resumed the expression of a seasoned diplomat. Philippa wondered if she had had any childhood at all.

  “How did you know about that, Amelia?”

  “My father told me,” the girl said. “He felt the more I knew, the better I would fare.”

  “It was not your father’s government who raided the South Tower. I know that.” Philippa pleated her gloves between her fingers. It was her turn to look away, out into the snow-filled clouds that hung low over the Academy. “Alana Rose died that day, and her beautiful Ocmarin, Summer Rose. It was the worst day of my life. Two precious creatures dead, and nothing gained. Our prince would never have

  ceded Klee the port of the South Tower.”

  “And you resent us still.” The statement was made without emotion, without inflection.

  Philippa sighed. “Amelia. You were an infant.”

  “But I am Klee.”

  Philippa met the girl’s level brown gaze, and nodded. “Yes. But if we don’t put the past behind us and look forward, we are no better than those barbarians I so recently met.” She pointed behind her, down the aisle of the stables. “Would you help me with Sunny’s stall? I’ve been away so much, it’s rather a mess.”

  “Of course,” Amelia said. “I could have taken care of it while you were gone, if I’d known.”

  “I would never have thought to ask you. In the days when Rosellen was our stable-girl, it wouldn’t have been necessary. Erna is—”

  “Less than satisfactory, yes,” Amelia Rys said, and turned to walk by Philippa’s side. “I can see that. I hope that next time you’ll remember to ask me, Horsemistress.”

  “I will, Amelia. That is, until you have your own horse and stall to care for.”

  Amelia looked up at her, and her narrow face brightened. “I can hardly wait,” she said, with a little throb of urgency in her voice. “It’s all I think about.”

  Philippa felt a rare smile curve her lips. “Indeed,” she said softly. “I was the same.”

  THEstorm began during supper. The horsemistresses and students came out of the Hall into a world of snow, big dry flakes filling the sky, softening the cobblestones of the courtyard, muffling every sound.

  Philippa glanced to her left, where she could just the see the corner of the dry paddock, and saw that Lady Beeth’s man was there, with a lantern and a hooded coat to protect him. It would be a long, cold night. She must tell Herbert to see to it the man had something warm to drink.

  The lane leading to the road was already filled with snow, the paddocks disappearing behind shifting curtains of white. The girls, laughing, turned their faces up to catch fat flakes on their lips and eyelashes as they trooped across the courtyard. Philippa had blanketed Sunny, and she turned toward the Domicile, looking forward to an early night.

  As she crept between the sheets and pulled her quilt up to her chin, she blessed Lady Beeth. It was a simple thing, sending her man to stand watch, but it was a great comfort. A shame, she thought, that more of the nobility did not possess the practicality of Hester’s mamá. Lady Beeth could be counted on to take action where action was needed, not to dither about asking permission or seeking approval for every small thing.

  She rolled to her side to watch the drifts of snowflakes dance past her window. It was wonderful to feel snug and safe, Sunny in her stall and she in her own bed, in her rightful place. She fell asleep at once.

  Snow was still falling and the sky gray with early morning light when the urgent knocking woke her.

  Philippa struggled out of a heavy sleep, with a momentary sense of displacement. The knock came again, and Matron’s voice called, “Mistress Winter! Mistress Winter!”

  Philippa put her feet on the floor, and almost gasped at the cold. She didn’t bother hunting for her slippers but went to the door, pulling her hair back from her face and rubbing her eyes. She opened the door, and found Matron standing outside, tears streaming down her face.

  She stared at her. “Matron! Kalla’s heels, what’s the matter?”

  She should have known, of course. She should have suspected, and she should have visited Margareth before she went to her own bed. For days afterward, she would try to remember what she had said to her old friend, what her last words had been, if she had shown her affection in any gesture or word. But it was too late now. It was not as if she could have saved her, postponed the inevitable in any way. It was only that—if she had had some idea—she might have said goodbye.

  She threw a dressing gown on, found her slippers, and hurried after Matron to Margareth’s apartment.

  Margareth lay as Matron had found her, curled on her side. Her hair spread across her pillow like a fan, almost as white as the pillowcase. Her eyes were half-open, gazing peacefully on the next world.

  Philippa knelt beside the bed and touched Margareth’s cheek, finding it icy cold beneath her fingertips.

  She gently, tenderly, closed the papery eyelids. She gathered the strands of her hair and wound them into

  a long braid. Margareth would not want to be seen with her hair disordered.

  Matron, still weeping, came to the other side of the bed, and together they turned Margareth to lie on her back, and folded her pale hands on her bosom. The blue tracery of her veins still showed in delicate lines like those of a spider’s web. They smoothed the quilt over her and folded it back to her waist.

  Philippa laid a hand on Margareth’s arm, then straightened, and stood back. “There’s nothing more to do for now,” she said. “Until the deaner can come.”

  Matron burst into fresh tears. “Oh, Mistress Winter! I had no idea she was so ill! I should have stayed with her . . .”

  “Nonsense, Matron,” Philippa said, but her tone was gentle. “Margareth was old, and tired. And now she flies with Highflyer again. She would not want us to grieve.”

  But later, in her own apartment, she sat down in her chair beside the window, put her face in her hands, and wept for a very long time, not for Margareth, but for herself.

  PHILIPPAprevailed upon Suzanne Star to make the announcement. The excuse she gave was that she knew her own manner of speaking was brusque, when gentleness was needed. Suzanne gave her a close look, and Philippa thought she probably had not fooled her. The truth was that she did not trust herself.

  The tears she had shed lingered in her throat and behind her eyes, and her eyelids were swollen. It would do neither the girls nor herself any good for her to break down at the high table.

  Philippa listened, her head bowed, as Suzanne told the assembly of Margareth’s passing, bracing herself against the gasps and cries of shock. She wished she had Suzanne’s gift for being direct without sounding harsh. She tried to focus on her words, but she kept seeing Margareth’s thin hands, once so strong and capable, and now still. She gritted her teeth against a fresh wave of sadness and stared at the tips of her boots until Suzanne said, “The Headmistress would have wished our work to go on without interruption.

  Mistress Winter, of course, will be acting Head until the Duke and the Council Lords name a successor.”

  Philippa hoped she was the only one who heard the slight hesitation in Suzanne’s voice. Nothing was certain these days. Suzanne, like the other instructors, knew that Margareth and Philippa had brought suit in the Council against the palace and that there was hostility between Philippa and William.

  Philippa looked up, and saw Kathryn Dancer’s eyes meet Suzanne’s. Kathryn gave a small shake of her head. The other horsemistresses, too, looked grim and a little wary. Two of the juniors whispered to each other, their eyes sliding to Philippa, then away.

  Philippa felt a little spurt of anger. It gave her a sort of energy and strength, which was a resp
ite from the dragging weight of her sadness. When Suzanne sat down, Philippa said, including all of them in her gaze,

  “There’s no need for any of you to look worried. Clearly, the Duke will not support me. And I doubt the Council will even consider naming me Headmistress.”

  Suzanne said, “Philippa, no one thinks—”

  Philippa put up a hand. “No, Suzanne, I understand perfectly. I’m nothing like Margareth. I’m not at all certain I want the position, in any case.”

  “But you’re the assistant Head,” Kathryn said. “It’s logical.”

  Philippa said, “Let us concentrate on remembering Margareth, shall we?” and she knew by the tightening of Kathryn’s mouth that she sounded snappish.

  “But who will make assignments?” one of the junior instructors asked. She sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes. “How will we know what to do?”

  “We have a schedule for the moment,” Philippa said. Her throat had begun to ache again. “We’ll follow that. Is that clear?”

  She saw the flicker of another glance between Suzanne and Kathryn. She threw down her napkin and got up. She opened her mouth to excuse herself, but her lips trembled, and she didn’t dare try to speak.

  She turned abruptly and stepped down from the high table to hurry out of the dining room. She was grateful there was no one in the foyer as she passed through. She went into Margareth’s office, slamming the door behind her just as the helpless tears overtook her. This time, as she breathed in the familiar scents, and sat in Margareth’s own high-backed chair, she wept for her old friend.

  After a time, feeling spent and empty, Philippa stood up and walked to the window. The storm had

  eased, and only a few intermittent flurries still drifted across the courtyard. She was standing there when the mail coach arrived, its wheels cutting parallel grooves in the deep snow. Its pair of draught horses, heavily muscled blacks, wore a powdery dusting of snow on their manes and on the hames of their harness. The driver huddled beneath a wide-brimmed hat, a red muffler tied round his chin, pulled up over his nose to keep out the cold. His scarf was the only spot of color in the landscape.

  Matron went out to receive the mail and carried it back up the steps to the Hall. Philippa turned away from the window and bent to put a match to the fire laid ready in the fireplace. She had seen the rolled, ribboned document on top of the letters in Matron’s hands. She recognized, even at a distance, the official format of a summons to the Council of Lords. The timing could not have been worse. She would have to present her case before the Council alone.

  Philippa sat down in Margareth’s chair and pulled the schedule book toward her. There was a great deal to be done, and it fell to her to do it.

  She had a pen in her hand, and the schedule book open, when Matron knocked on the door, brought in the summons and laid it on the big desk. She said only, “Thank you, Matron. Could you bring me a cup of tea, please, and ask Mistress Star to come in? We will have to make some changes after all.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  THECouncil had ordered the hearing of the Academy’s complaint for the very next day. Philippa rose early and dressed with care. Her neck already ached with tension, and the bout of weeping the day before hadn’t helped.

  Her case was considerably weakened, she feared, without Margareth. Margareth’s pragmatic voice, and the length and honor of her service, would have carried a lot of weight with the Council. Eduard Crisp would have stood beside her, defying the Duke without hesitation, but the new Master Breeder, the ineffectual Jinson, would be no help at all. They could have asked Eduard to come and support her cause, but she and Margareth had felt that the two of them, in their crisp black riding habits, their hair in the rider’s knot and wings glittering on their collars, would make an impressive and unambiguous presence in the Rotunda. Now it was too late to reach Eduard. He had retired, after his own suit against the Duke failed, to the relative safety of his family estate in Eastreach.

  Francis lay ill at Fleckham House. Margareth was gone. There was no one to speak for the bloodlines but Philippa herself.

  She stood back from her mirror to survey her appearance. She had smoothed almond cream into her skin and brushed her hair thoroughly. Reflectively, she touched her rider’s knot. The vivid red of her girlhood had given way to a muted auburn, softened now by streaks of gray. Lines fanned around her eyes, the toll of sun and wind aloft. Her tabard was freshly pressed by Matron, her belt cinched around her lean middle, and her boots sparkled with polish. It was the best she could do.

  She wished, briefly, that she had an icon of Kalla, like the one Larkyn wore, to carry with her. It was an absurd thought. She had never placed faith in such things, and it was foolish to think she could start now.

  The threat of more snow meant she could not fly into the White City as she would have preferred.

  Herbert had hitched the piebald pony, Pig, to the gig, and was waiting for her now outside the Domicile.

  Philippa put on her warmest coat and pulled on her gloves. She picked up the genealogy, which she had carefully wrapped in linen, and held it to her chest as she climbed into the gig. The genealogy might not help to persuade the Council, but its weight and its significance strengthened her own resolve.

  Herbert snapped the reins and spoke to Pig, and the pony set off toward Osham through the frozen landscape.

  THEwhite marble Rotunda sat on a low hill, its colorful pennants drooping and stiff in the cold. Carriages and phaetons waited before its grand entryway, their drivers spreading blankets over their horses, chatting together, smoking pipes under the bare branches of the ancient wych elm that dominated the

  plaza. They straightened and bowed to the horsemistress when they caught sight of her, and she nodded to them in return, before she bade Herbert a brief farewell and climbed the wide steps.

  Today she could not pace the outer aisle of the Rotunda, as she preferred to do. Holding the genealogy in one arm, she stepped down past the tiers where the Council Lords sat in their carved chairs, their secretaries and pages arrayed behind them. She didn’t look up at the balcony, but she heard the voices of the ladies as they murmured and whispered to each other. They would have heard from their lords, she supposed, that another suit was being brought against the Duke. Though this one hadn’t the prurient appeal of the paternity suit, it would still command a good bit of attention and provide gossip for the Erdlin festival soon to come.

  A page met Philippa, bowing, gesturing to a chair that had been set for her behind a long table with two other petitioners. She took the chair and unwrapped the genealogy to lay it on the long table. Its embossed lettering gleamed. She laid her hand upon it and waited.

  William must have been awaiting her arrival so that he could make his own entrance. No more than a minute passed before the doors to the Duke’s private chamber opened, and William and Duchess Constance appeared. The Duchess, looking wan and rather faded in an elaborate cloak edged with dark mink, lagged behind the Duke like a lost child. William bore himself proudly, his gilt hair shining, his high-heeled boots clicking on the marble floor.

  He had worn them to make himself taller than she, Philippa thought, and was tempted to laugh. He wore a fashionable waist-coat tightly buttoned to the neck, with white fur at the collar and cuffs. It completely hid the swell of his chest.

  Behind the two of them came Jinson. He avoided Philippa’s eyes.

  Philippa, with the Council Lords and the watchers in the gallery, stood while the Duke and Duchess made their way to the central dais and sat down. Jinson stood to one side, staring at his boots. As Philippa resumed her seat, she caught sight of a young woman in the aisle above the tiers. She was slender, and dressed in black, standing half-hidden by a pillar. Philippa narrowed her eyes, trying to see who it was, but the presider began to speak.

  “My lords,” he intoned, striking a tiny marble gavel on its sounding block. “Duke William of Oc is now in attendance upon the Council of Lords. Let all hear and remember.”

&
nbsp; Philippa’s summons had told her that hers would be the last case to be heard today. It was the most serious, requiring deliberation and discussion by the lords.

  The first two petitioners were heard and dismissed quickly. Philippa heard not a word of their cases. She bent her head, concentrating on what she would say, what she and Margareth had discussed. She was startled when she heard the presider speak her name, and she wondered for a bad moment if he had had to say it twice.

  She drew a deep breath, and stood, straightening her tabard. She lifted her head to look around at the thirty-eight Lords of the Council. Her brother Meredith was there, glaring at her. He would never forgive her for this, but there was nothing she could do about that. He should have learned by now that he could not stop her from doing her duty. It served him right, in any case. He had been eager to bond her to a winged horse solely for the purpose of ingratiating himself with the Palace. He had never once asked her about her own feelings on the matter.

  She turned her face to the Duke and Duchess. Constance tilted her head to see past William’s shoulder.

  William said something to her over his shoulder, and she shrank back again, dropping her head, toying with her great rope of pearls.

  “My lords,” Philippa began. She fixed her eyes on William’s black ones as she spoke. “I have come before you to lodge a complaint about a breeding violation, a breaking of the law as it was set down by good Duke Francis of memory. I accuse Duke William of this crime, and by the dictates of his great-great-grandfather, of treason.”

  She heard the delighted hiss of indrawn breath from the balcony and a slight shifting among the lords themselves. William’s face did not change, but his eyes glinted dangerously. She understood it was a warning. He had come prepared.

  Philippa lifted her hand from the genealogy and pushed the book forward on the table. “This, my lords,”

  she said, “is the genealogy of the three bloodlines of the winged horses. The ancestors of our Nobles, our Foundations, and our Ocmarins are written here, and the Master Breeder—” She let her eyes shift slightly to Jinson, but she could see only the top of his head. He stared at the floor and twisted his fingers together behind him. “The Master Breeder and the Headmistress of the Academy of the Air confer with the Duke on every breeding, in a constant effort to improve the bloodlines, to ensure that stallions and mares throw winged foals, that the distinguishing characteristics of each bloodline are kept pure.”