Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  They led their horses outside, and Mistress Winter asked Lark to keep Sunny’s rein for a moment while she conferred one more time with Mistress Star. Lark stood in the chilly sunshine, feeling buoyant with anticipation at seeing her family, her goats, her cows, and her own homely bedroom once again. Little Molly bleated from the stable, making her feel just a bit guilty, but Herbert had promised to look out for her. And Bramble, of course, would keep her company.

  “Very odd, if you ask me,” came a voice behind Lark.

  She turned to find Petra Sweet in the stable doorway, leaning against the jamb. “I didn’t ask,” Lark said.

  Petra straightened and came out into the sunshine. Her boots squeaked on the thin layer of snow.

  “People are talking,” she said, pursing her thin lips. “Wondering why a horsemistress—the assistant Headmistress, no less—should want to spend Erdlin at a goat farm?”

  Lark turned her back on Petra and stroked Sunny’s mane. It glowed scarlet in the sunshine, brushed to a silken sheen by Amelia just this morning.

  “It’s just strange,” Petra said, coming closer. “Especially since I’ve heard that she’s leaving the Academy.

  Sent down by Duke William because she killed Mistress Strong.”

  Lark whirled, and stamped her foot. “You don’t know anything about it,” she said. “Mistress Strong attacked Mistress Winter, because . . .” She stopped, remembering. She had promised never to speak of it.

  “Yes?” Petra said. “Because?”

  “Mind your own business, Sweet.”

  Petra’s mouth tightened more, until her pinched face looked something like a dried apple. “Listen to me, Goat-girl,” she said. She stepped very close to Lark, her chin thrust out. “You’ve brought nothing but grief to the Academy. I blame you for what’s happened to Mistress Winter. First the crossbred colt, then you won’t use a saddle—”

  “I use a saddle now,” Lark protested.

  “You’re just trouble, Black. None of this would have happened without you!”

  Lark’s throat closed, and her delight in the day evaporated. Tup, sensing her mood, whimpered, and Petra said scornfully, “That crybaby of yours! Can’t you do something about that noise?”

  Before Lark could even think of how to answer, Tup threw his head up, stretched his neck toward Petra, and bared his teeth a hand’s breadth from her face. She jerked backward, almost losing her footing on the slippery cobblestones. Lark whispered, “Tup! No!”

  Petra recovered her balance and stood with her hands on her hips, two spots of red flaming in her

  cheeks. “Black! Your mongrel horse tried to bite me!”

  “He wouldn’t have bitten you,” Lark said. Her cheeks, too, were burning, and she struggled to control her temper. “But he’s sensitive—”

  “He’s spoiled rotten!” Petra spat. “And when we have a new Headmistress, I’ll make it very clear—or His Grace will—that the two of you need a strong hand!”

  Lark drew a steadying breath. She kept her eyes on Tup as she spoke, in as steady a voice as she could manage. “Take a word of advice from the goat-girl, Sweet. Watch out for the Duke. Keep your blinkers open around him.”

  “What? How dare you speak of the Duke that way?”

  “Just remember what I said. I know you don’t like me, nor I you, but I don’t want to see you end up . . .

  well. End up in trouble.” She lifted her eyes now, and they met Petra’s curious ones. “You’re to be a horsemistress, and nothing should interfere with that.”

  Petra tipped her head to one side, considering Lark for a long moment. “You’re serious,” she finally said.

  “Aye. I’m serious.” Lark saw that the doors of the Hall had opened, and Mistress Winter, in her heavy winter flying coat and thickest gloves, was coming across the courtyard. “I know more than I ever cared to know about the Duke,” Lark said in an undertone. “Believe me, for your own sake.”

  Petra gave a hoot of laughter. “As if I need advice from a country bumpkin!”

  “Mayhap you don’t,” Lark said. “But now you’re off my conscience.”

  Mistress Winter came up and took Sunny’s reins. “Ready, Larkyn?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Good. Let’s go while the weather is good.” Mistress Winter, with the nimbleness of a girl half her age, leaped into her saddle. Lark mounted, too, and picked up her reins. Both horses stamped their feet, blowing, rustling their wings with eagerness to be aloft.

  “Good Erdlin, Petra,” Mistress Winter said.

  “And to you, Mistress,” Petra said.

  Lark opened her mouth to offer the same courtesy, but Petra turned her back and disappeared inside the stable before she could speak. Tup shook his bridle and danced sideways, making Lark laugh. As she followed Mistress Winter into the flight paddock, and they began their canter into the wind, she forgot all about Petra Sweet and her gibes. In moments, the two horses spread their wings and launched into the brilliant blue sky, leaving the ground and its worries behind them. Lark gave Tup his head, and he surged past Winter Sunset, leading the way. Lark glanced quickly over her shoulder to see if Mistress Winter minded, but she had given Sunny her head, too, and one of her rare smiles played across her face. With a shiver of happiness, Lark turned her face toward the hills, and home.

  PHILIPPAwatched Seraph and Larkyn as they soared past her. The girl’s seat was so much improved, she could hardly credit it. When Larkyn had managed to deceive everyone at her first Ribbon Day by flying with only a handgrip and no saddle at all, Philippa had despaired of her ever accepting the necessity of the flying saddle, but it seemed now that this, at least, she no longer need worry about. Seraph was small and neat of body, his neck muscled, his tail arched and streaming in the wind. His wings, though narrow, were strong and steady.

  But what set the pair apart was not just that Larkyn’s spine was erect and flexible, or that Seraph’s hoof tuck was picture-perfect. It was the delight they had in flight, the accord in their movements, the evident trust each placed in the other. With a swell of emotion, Philippa put her gloved hand on Sunny’s neck, feeling the heat of her body through the layers of wool and leather, the power of her wingbeats rippling up from the great muscles of her chest. They had worked together, she and Winter Sunset, for more than twenty years. They had suffered, and fought, and monitored young flyers. It was hard to think that Larkyn and Seraph might have to meet the same challenges, suffer the same tragedies, as she and Sunny had done; but they were strong enough, she felt certain, to deal with whatever their career might bring them.

  She lifted her face into the sunshine, and though the cold wind brought tears to her eyes, she savored every wingbeat as her bondmate carried her on toward the Uplands.

  THElast time Philippa had been at Deeping Farm she had arrived in Lady Beeth’s carriage on a rainy spring day, her head and heart aching with fear for both Larkyn and Black Seraph. How lovely it was now to soar above the tiny hamlet of Willakeep, to circle the slate roofs and slumbering winter fields of Deeping Farm, to come to ground in the snow-softened lane and canter into the barnyard to be welcomed by a chorus of cackling hens, the bleating of brown goats, and Brye Hamley’s tall figure. Brye swept Larkyn into an embrace, then stepped forward to bow. “Philippa,” he said in his deep voice.

  She nodded to him. “Hello, Brye.” She knew Larkyn glanced at the two of them with surprise at their familiar form of address. But Brye Hamley and Philippa Winter had been through three days of agony when Larkyn and her little black went missing, and a friendship had been forged. Philippa smiled at the farmer. “I have looked forward to this very much,” she said.

  “And we are glad you decided to come.” He held out his strong, work-roughened hand.

  Philippa took it, remembering the tenderness those hard fingers had shown toward Bramble. “It’s good to see you again,” she said quietly.

  Another surprised look from Larkyn, but Philippa pretended not to notice.

 
The girl Peony, plump and red-cheeked in a long apron, appeared in the kitchen doorway, framed by the bare branches of the rue-tree that framed it. She curtsied to Philippa, and greeted Larkyn with more respect than she had previously. Philippa could see why.

  Larkyn stood with Seraph’s rein in her hand, her cheeks and nose pink from the icy winds aloft, her riding cap at a smart angle, her divided skirt brushing the toes of her boots. She looked every inch a flyer, and Seraph made an impressive sight, too, with his head high and nostrils flared to take in the familiar scents of the farm where he had been foaled. Larkyn touched the point of his wing with her quirt, and he folded his wings, rib to rib, shaking his head from side to side and snorting.

  Soon the horses were settled with water warmed for them by Brye. Hay and grain was waiting for them in their stalls. Larkyn urged Philippa to go into the kitchen, promising to rub Sunny down and blanket her against the cold in the unheated barn. Philippa agreed, and Larkyn flashed her a brilliant smile. It was a day of color, Philippa thought, as she left the girl to her chores. White snow, blue sky, the red and black of the horses wings, illuminated by the sun, and the vivid violet of Larkyn’s eyes. And in the kitchen there waited a pot of the Hamleys’ good strong tea, no doubt a plate of the crooks for which the Uplands were famous, and a crackling fire in the close stove.

  She crossed the courtyard, enjoying the crunch of crisp snow beneath her boots. She ducked beneath the branches of the rue-tree and opened the kitchen door.

  A wave of warmth met her, scented with the rich smells of freshly baked bread and some kind of soup bubbling in an enormous pot. The old farmhouse was a welcome sight, with its slanting staircase and high-beamed ceiling, its mismatched chairs and rows of battered pots hanging from hooks. The curtains, she thought, were new. Everything else in the place had the air and the security of great age.

  She slipped off her cap and her gloves and was folding them into her belt when Pamella came in, her young son behind her. Philippa stopped where she was, her mouth open, the cap and gloves forgotten in her hand.

  She had known they would be here, of course. It had been the greatest kindness that the Hamleys had invited Pamella—formerly the Lady Pamella, Duke William’s own younger sister—to stay with them.

  Pamella, disgraced and disowned, had come with her baby son at the same time Larkyn and Seraph had been found, at last, safe in a witchwoman’s hut.

  They had not even known the child’s name then. Only later, as Pamella began to trust the Hamleys, did she write her son’s name for Larkyn. Brandon had looked like a Fleckham, of course, with his pale hair and black eyes, nor had that surprised anyone.

  But now, at nearly four, the little boy’s likeness to his uncle, Duke William, almost stopped Philippa’s heart.

  She stared at the two of them. Pamella looked aged beyond her years, and the boy Brandon was straight and slender, tall for his age. Pamella pushed the boy forward to greet Philippa. Philippa, watching him walk across the ancient tiles of the kitchen floor, struggled for something to say.

  When Larkyn came in, a few minutes later, Philippa watched her closely to judge her reaction. It was the same. The girl’s eyes found hers, and they were wide with shock. Philippa nodded, briefly, and turned away. It was a matter to be dealt with at another time.

  AFTERsupper, a hearty meal of pottage, sliced bloodbeets, a heavy brown bread, and an abundance of freshly churned butter, Lark offered to settle both horses for the night, but Mistress Winter pushed her chair back from the table and rose. “I’ll come, too, Larkyn,” she said. “If your brothers will excuse me.”

  Nick and Edmar both nodded, their mouths still full. Brye got up, offering to help.

  “Nay, Brye, there’s naught for you to do,” Lark said. She grinned as she picked up a lamp. “Except upset the winged horses.”

  “Carry hay, water,” he said.

  “Thank you, we can manage,” Mistress Winter said. She followed Larkyn out into the chill darkness, both of them buttoning their coats as they went. She didn’t say a word until they were inside the barn.

  Someone had cleared the stall where the cow stanchions were so that Winter Sunset could have adequate space. Tup was in the box stall, and Sunny was comfortably settled with a fresh bed of straw.

  A feed box and water bucket had been neatly hung from the closed stanchions. Mistress Winter looked this over, nodding her appreciation.

  Lark could hardly stand it a moment longer. “Mistress Winter,” she said urgently, “Brandon looks exactly like Duke William.”

  “Indeed,” Mistress Winter said, in a voice full of foreboding. “It is the most startling resemblance I’ve ever seen.”

  “’Tis hardly possible,” Lark said.

  Mistress Winter looked at her. The lamplight made hollows in her thin face and shadowed her eyes.

  “What are you thinking, Larkyn?”

  “Mistress Winter, I’ve known breeding and birthing since I was small, and I’ve never seen such a likeness except between sire and son.”

  Mistress Winter looked away, gazing at Winter Sunset as if answers might be found in her neatly folded wings. “Nor have I, Larkyn,” she mused softly. “Nor do I want to be thinking this now. Or speaking of it.”

  “Nay,” Lark said. “Best left unspoken, I suppose.”

  Mistress Winter sighed. “You’re wise beyond your years, Larkyn.”

  “I know. ’Tis what happens when you lose your parents early. You have to grow up.”

  “You have been lucky in your family, just the same. Your brother—”

  “Oh, aye! My brother is the finest man in the world. They all are!”

  It may have been the lamplight, or the cold air, but Lark thought she detected a faint shine in Mistress Winter’s eyes. But as they went about their tasks, filling the water buckets, carrying a bit of muck outside, she thought she must have been mistaken. Mistress Winter spoke of this and that, made suggestions and gave orders. Her tone was as sharp as ever, and Lark found that comforting.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THErhythm of farm life had a soporific effect on Philippa. She rose in darkness, but the fire already crackled in the kitchen grate when she made her way downstairs, and the strong black tea she remembered from her earlier visits was ready, waiting under a tea cozy. The table was set with thick mugs, plates of sliced bread, a wheel of cheese, a dish of yellow butter and one of homemade preserves.

  The brothers were there before her, and Peony was bustling between sink and stove and table. Larkyn came downstairs soon after.

  Everyone ate breakfast in the typical Uplander silence. It felt companionable to Philippa, and peaceful.

  By the time the crowing of the rooster drew them all outside to their chores, Osham and the Council of

  Lords, William and his schemes, even the Academy seemed very far away. Only Francis still weighed on Philippa’s mind. She wished she had been able to pay him a visit before the holiday. She had spent her only free day escorting Margareth’s body home to her family, but she promised herself she would go straight to Fleckham House upon her return.

  She and Larkyn put wingclips on their horses and walked them to the north pasture to cavort in the snow. As Philippa gazed into the ice-choked currents of the Black River, and listened to the winter birds chattering in the dry hedgerows, time seemed to cease flowing.

  Larkyn had been tossing snowballs at Seraph to see him kick up his heels. When Seraph trotted off to nose beneath the snow for a bit of grass, she came to stand beside Philippa. She tossed her last snowball into the rushing water, and said, a little fretfully, “’Tis not the same having Peony in the house. I used to do all those things.”

  Philippa had to rouse herself from her reverie to answer. “Do you mind very much?”

  “I don’t mind when I’m not here,” Larkyn said frankly. “But when I come home, I have to remind myself not to be finding fault with everything she does.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Nay, nor sh
ould I do it,” Larkyn said. “And so I keep it to myself.”

  “It seems to me she does quite well for your family.”

  Larkyn shrugged. “Aye. And it doesn’t matter, does it? But everything here is so dear to me, every beast, every tree, every plant in the kitchen garden.”

  “It’s all wonderful, Larkyn.”

  The girl turned her vivid eyes up to Philippa. “Is it? Does it seem so to you? I would think Islington House to be a grand place.”

  Philippa’s lips twisted. “I think you could say that. Grand, and too big, and too cold, with a dozen servants and every room crammed with drapes and vases and uncomfortable furniture. As a girl, I preferred Fleckham House to my own. Especially when Duke Frederick still lived there, before his succession.”

  The horses ran up behind them, and they turned to greet them. Seraph snorted and blew, and danced away from Larkyn’s hand, inviting her to play again. Even Sunny pranced, kicking up sparkling fountains of snow. As they strolled back toward the barn, the little herd of brown goats, sporting their thick winter coats, trotted out to meet them and stood staring at Seraph and Sunny, ears turning back and forth, tails twitching. Larkyn walked among them, scratching polls, rubbing their backs. They clustered around her, bleating, butting at her pockets for treats. Philippa marveled at the circumstance that had caused Black Seraph to be foaled at Deeping Farm, with this particular girl to watch over him.

  PHILIPPAfound Pamella alone in the coldcellar one afternoon. Brandon had gone off with Edmar, his special favorite, and Pamella was churning butter. Philippa could still hardly believe that this was the same duke’s daughter she had known in Osham. Pamella, who had been such a spoiled, willful girl, worked the paddle on the churn as if she had been doing it for years.

  Philippa stood at the top of the steps looking down at her. The slanting door was folded back to let in the cool sunshine, and Pamella, her hair braided and bound in a kerchief, her apron splashed with cream, bent over the churn to test the butter’s consistency.