The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (10 page)

She leapt at him. Fending off her clawed fingers with one raised arm, he captured her wrist and swung her about.

“Control your wife, Harald. She’s spoiled and unlovely, but I’d not have her hurt.”

“Argante.” Harald held out his hand. “To me.”

Writhing against restraint, Argante hissed like a cat. “Harald! Why do you stand there like a bodkin? Summon the serjeant! I want this bastard knave chopped head from neck from knees! He dares
touch
me, he—”

“
Argante
.”

A flinch ran through her slight, velvet-clad body, then she stilled. Roric opened his fingers and watched her rejoin her husband, slowly, a falcon shamed to have lost its kill. He could feel Humbert and Vidar on either side of him, taut with purpose now that Argante was subdued. Around them, the heart-stopped court was a blur of shocked faces.
Some stared at him, some at Harald, and the rest up at the minstrels’ gallery where a double-handful of his borrowed men-at-arms stood to advantage, their drawn swords on show.

“So,” said Harald, stirring. “Cousin Roric.” The hall’s warm light revealed a sheen of sweat, broke sudden upon his forehead. Buried deep within his steady voice, a tremor. But was it fear or rage? There was no way to tell. “I should’ve expected this. A wise man knows that sooner or later a cur dog will bite the feeding hand. But love closed my eyes. And now here you are, betraying what little noble blood you possess that’s not tainted rotten by the whore who whelped you.”

Humbert muttered a curse. “Roric, don’t—”

“Peace, my lord,” he said mildly, though his heart pounded. “My mother is dead a score of years. Harald’s slighting words can’t hurt her. Or me.”

Harald laughed. “No? Roric, I have more ways to hurt you than there are spines on a hedgehog and I’ll enjoy showing you each and every one.”

“Be quiet, Harald,” said Vidar, stepping forward. “We’re not here for a taunting, but to—”

“To disrupt the gaiety of my court!” Harald said, his voice sharply risen. “And I promise you, I am
mightily
displeased!”

“Ho, are you?” Humbert retorted, scowling. “Well, so are
we
displeased, Harald, with far more grievous cause than you. Now, marry your teeth together a time and hear what’s to be done with Berold’s duchy, that you held in trust and have treated worse than a poxed drab.”

Still holding Argante’s slender hand, drawing her with him, Harald retreated to an ornate chair placed nearby upon a dais. With Argante haughty beside him, her fingers fiercely clasping his, he sat.

“Humbert…” A sorrow-filled sigh. “What faithless Roric has promised you for this, I can’t think. Nor you, Vidar.
Vidar
. So you lost your honour with your eye, did you? How sad. And now, like your unlovely sire, Godebert, you’ll burn beneath a blue sky.” His gaze swept around the silent hall. “Along with Humbert and Roric and every man standing with you. How your families will weep before I turn them out of their fine homes in rags, to wander friendless until they die starved to skin and bone in a rank, shit-filled ditch.”

“You would say so,” said Vidar. No sly humour in him now, only freezing disdain. “And you’d do it, given the chance. If any part of
you wonders what’s brought us here, Harald, know
that
is why. Humbert’s poxed drab would rule Clemen better than you.”

Releasing Argante, Harald stood. “I am not
Harald
to dross, Vidar. Son of a dead traitor and now traitor in his own right. I am
Your Grace
. I am your
duke
.”

“You were, Harald,” said Humbert, his voice heavy with impatient regret. “But no more. As your chief councillor, I—”

“You were!” Harald shouted. “But no more. Your authority in this duchy is forfeit,
my lord
. Scarwid, step forth!”

“Scarwid?” Argante stared at her husband. “You’d raise
Scarwid
to head of the council? A nothing lord from the north? Why? Scarwid’s no more than a nodding arse in a chair. This honour belongs to Ercole.”

Harald’s eyes were dangerous. “Ercole?”

“Yes. You said you’d see my family gilded. You said you’d—”

He slapped her. “Shut your mouth! You do not chew my private words before the court!”

“
Enough
, Harald!” Roric said, watching the white handprint on Argante’s cheek swiftly blush red. “Your bullying days are done with. Accept your fate, and set aside the ducal crown.”

“Or what?” Harald spat. “You’ll set it aside for me, still clasping my severed head?” Turning, he spread his arms wide in appeal to his silently watching court. “My lords! Will you bear this? Will you not speak against such naked treachery? If
I
am so assaulted, who among you is safe? Scarwid! I have named you my chief councillor, have I not? Then come, my lord. Step forward, and be heard in defence of your duke!”

S
carwid, unmoving, cleared his throat. “Alas, Your Grace, I must defer to Lord Humbert. He is head of Clemen’s council.”

Clemen’s council. Not Harald’s. Roric felt his blood leap. The lines of loyalty were drawn, and not in his cousin’s favour. Humbert had promised he’d deliver them, the lords of Clemen who’d not joined in this storming of Heartsong. Humbert with his rough charm and wide respect, the authority bred in him that had no need of threats or violence.

As the blurred hall resolved itself, as he considered Harald’s other noble guests–Udo, Gaspar, Gerbod, Sagard and Vasey the most prominent–he saw in their faces the same resolution that hardened Scarwid. Only Ercole looked uncertain, and Ercole was of no account. Seated on the council to keep Argante quiet, he’d long since exhausted what meagre good will he owed to the blood he shared with his half-sister.

Harald saw it too, his lords’ refusal to aid him as he might expect. Demand. A heartbeat’s hesitation, then he sat again in his fine chair. Smiled, magnanimous.

“My lord Humbert, you’ve taken me unawares. You of all men know the proper way of things. We are far from Eaglerock, where it’s custom for us to speak of weighty matters. ’Tis not meet that—”

“Yes, it is, Harald,” said Roric, swiftly. “How many times have you told us that where you are, there is the rightful authority of Clemen? You
are
the court, and the law. Isn’t that what you say?”

Harald’s jaw tightened. Roric met him stare for stare, feeling his own muscles tense. Beneath the fury in his cousin’s eyes there was hurt. But wasn’t that to be expected? Harald had been generous in the past. Denied him the hope of marriage and children, yes, but made up for the loss with lavish gifts and favours.

Still. No gift, however grand, could excuse his crimes.

Seeing him resolute, Harald shifted his stare. Wiped him from his heart as a wave upon wet sand wiped away a seagull’s tiny claw marks.

It shouldn’t have stung… but it did.

“Lord Humbert,” said Harald, a sounding bell of rediscovered reason. “You’ve served me twelve years, with your blood and your honour. In return I’ve shown you much favour. Yet now you come to me packed to the gills full of grievances?”

“Sore grievances, aye,” said Humbert, his eyes slitted. “But they’re not mine alone. The quarrels I have with you are shared.” He jerked his bearded chin. “By them.”

Shifting, Harald lifted his gaze to the minstrels’ gallery where Aistan, Hankin, Morholt and Farland had silently gathered and now stared down, their faces stony cold, their hands ominously resting on the hilts of their half-unsheathed swords. Four of Clemen’s greatest lords, and only Hankin not been seen frequently at Eaglerock’s court. Aistan and Farland had seats on the council. Harald’s face, blotched with emotion, drained pale.

“You see?” Vidar’s voice rang with contempt. “This is a mighty chorus, Harald. Not a thin, forlorn piping.”

“A chorus that sounds throughout the duchy,” Humbert added. “You’ll find unhappy lords not only here, in your pretty castle, but throughout the length and breadth of Clemen.”

Instead of answering, Harald looked once more to Aistan and the other nobles. “You perch high, my lords, like brooding carrion birds. Come down. Face me. Or do I ask too much?”

“Always, Harald,” Aistan retorted, his voice raised and carrying. “But I’ll face you. And whatever I say, you can trust I speak for us all.”

“Trust?” Harald’s face spasmed. “A turdish word, on your lips.” He snapped his fingers. “Very well. Join us.”

As Aistan stepped back from the gallery’s half-wall, Argante took hold of her husband’s arm. “Harald—”

“No,” he said, and seared her to silence with a look.

Aistan’s tread on the stone stairs leading down to the hall sounded loud in the smothering hush. Waiting, no one spoke. It seemed they hardly breathed. One of the pages was weeping, the leg of his green hose stained with piss. And when Aistan finally appeared, tall and broad and dour, the bleakest enmity in his eyes, Roric heard more than one gasp.

“Aistan,” said Harald, fingers tight upon the arms of his chair, “I can scarce believe your dagger’s buried in my back.”

“No?” Aistan laughed. His sword was returned to its scabbard, but anyone who knew him knew how swiftly that could change. “But why would you believe it, when you could believe a man would stand by and do nothing to avenge his ruined family. Truly, you’re surprised?” He swept a gesturing arm up to the gallery, then around the hall. “When the great men of Clemen you’ve not wronged can be counted on the fingers of a blind butcher’s hand?”

Harald shook his head, sorrowful. “Your accusations confound me, Aistan, though I see you think them true. Therefore, though we be leagues distant from Eaglerock, we shall call this a council, summoned in surprise–and do what we can to untangle this unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Your Grace!” Trembling, Argante glared. She was as pale as her husband, but that came from the powdered chalk fashionably dusted from wide brow to pointed chin. Beneath that pretended pallor, her cheeks burned. “You let unnatural kindness defeat natural rancour. These rough men are traitors, burst upon us with ill intent. Worse, they’ve turned the hearts of others against you. You
cannot
—”

“Cannot?” Harald said softly. “Argante. Was such a word ever spoke in Berold’s hearing?”

She was young and arrogant beyond bearing, but no man could accuse her of being snail-witted. Lips pressed tight, Argante folded her hands neatly, like an obedient wife, and lowered her gaze to the tips of her jewelled velvet slippers.

Roric let go his held breath, aware that Humbert and Vidar did the same. Aistan, his support declared, stood like a man carved from Harcian granite. The hall was so quiet the dull clinking of mail could be heard from the minstrels’ gallery, where those borrowed men-at-arms kept watch beside their lords.

He took a measured step closer to his deceitfully courteous cousin. “Harald, there is—”

“Hold your tongue, cur,” said Harald. “I deny you my name, my blood, and any part of me. To think I treated you like a brother. Well might Humbert take me to task for that. Indeed, it shames me to—”

Enough. Give Harald the chance and he’d warp this encounter to his own benefit, make himself the man wronged and slither free of condemnation.

“Your Grace, you said you’d hear our grievances. Will you hear them, or did you lie?”

“I
said
,” Harald replied, his teeth bared, “that I would listen to my barons.”

A light touch to his arm. Humbert. Throttling temper, Roric held his tongue. Beside him, Vidar shifted. Doubtless easing his bad hip, but also growing impatient. His grudge against Clemen’s duke was even more personal than Aistan’s. But though his rage was justified, it could never excuse blatant murder. No matter how cruelly Lord Godebert had died.

Feeling Vidar’s temper tighten further, Roric frowned at him. Vidar’s nostrils flared, but he let his sword lower until its point touched the tiled floor. Needing to ease the ache in his forearms, knowing the message it would send to Harald, Roric lowered his own sword-point likewise.

A small, triumphant smile curved the corners of Harald’s ungenerous mouth. He had silenced his upstart cousin and doubtless believed he’d silence Humbert too, and Aistan, and all the other lords of his duchy. Even now he thought he’d prevail, blinded by the arrogance that had led him to this confrontation. So was Argante blinded, standing straight-spined beside him, her beeswax-dyed lips the colour of old blood.

Looking at them, Roric felt a sting of pity for his cousin’s child, asleep in its cradle. Were Harald and Argante dog and bitch, a wise huntsman would never have bred them. What chance did the babe have, with such a bloodline? Poor Liam. Was there a way to save him?

We’re kin. I’ll have to try.

Smile fading, Harald smoothed a crease in the hem of his gold-embroidered bronze tunic. Candlelight set fire to the hearts of his ruby and emerald rings. Some of his colour was returned. He looked almost robust. Only the lingering sweat, and a pinch-mark between his eyebrows, hinted at anything amiss.

“And so, Humbert, council is in session,” he said. “Speak now, or never. I am patient in this small time but even the deepest well must run dry.”

Humbert’s turn to step forward. His large hand swallowed nearly all of his sword’s hilt. He carried the heavy blade easily, a man full of martial memories, tempered like Rebbai steel. Harald would cut himself to ribbons on him, and bleed to death before ever he knew himself hurt.

“Your Grace,” said Humbert, with only the faintest hint of scorn, “here are the grievances held by the lords and nobles of this duchy, by strength of which we claim the right of redress. First grievance: the gross and burdensome matter of untoward taxation…”

“Ellyn? Ellyn, wake up!”

Startled from her dropped-mouth drowse on her straw pallet, Ellyn dragged open her eyelids and blinked. “Nelda? What do you—”

The kitchen girl’s green eyes shone with fear, her arms clutching her bastard brat close. “Ellyn, can I hide here? Please, say I can.”

“
Hide?
” With a grunt for her aching back, she sat upright. Looked first to Liam, sleeping mousey in his cradle, then to Lady Morda’s closet–but its door remained slammed shut. “Nelda, you can’t be in here with your–with Tygo! He could start wailing any moment, and if you wake Morda she’ll skin us both.” She stared past Nelda to the nursery door, left ajar. “How did you get by Emun? He knows better than—”

“He be stretching his legs along the corridor,” said Nelda, unrepentant. “I waited for his back to turn. Ellyn, there be trouble. Men-at-arms in the castle.”

Spirits save them, was the girl ale-giddy? “Of course there are—”

“Not ours!” Nelda hissed. “These be strangers, and lords I’ve never seen before. Ellyn, they be roaming the castle with bare swords. They came into the kitchen and set Aunt Cook in a tizzy! I couldn’t help her. Tygo and me only just scribbled by them unseen.”

No… Nelda wasn’t ale-giddy. She was a henwit. Ellyn scrambled to her feet. “Then what are you doing here? Find the serjeant, tell him—”

“The serjeant be helping them!” Nelda sucked in a shuddering breath. “He be telling Heartsong’s men to keep their swords by their sides–and they are.”

She swallowed a surge of panic.
Liam
. “I don’t believe you. Not a word. You must’ve dreamed it.”

“Dreamed it when? As if I’ve slept since last dawn, working my fingers to blisters cooking for the duke!”

“But–Heartsong’s serjeant? He wouldn’t—”

“Ellyn, I
heard
him!” Nelda insisted. She was shivering with her fright. “The castle’s lost, I tell you!”

The banging open of the lady Morda’s closet door spun them both about.

“Slut!” Muffled in a night-cloak, her grey-streaked hair bundled into a linen coif, the lady Morda stood furious in her narrow doorway. “Is there no end to your wickedness?”

“My–my lady—” Ellyn replied, breathless. Stammering, because she did believe Nelda, even if the girl was a henwit. The kitchen drudge’s terror was too real for fakery. Besides, why would she risk terrible punishment with a lie? “Lady Morda, something’s awry. Strange men-at-arms in—”

“What I see
awry
, girl, is—”

An iron jangling of mail, and Emun was in the nursery. “What’s the rout here?”

“The rout?” Hand raised to strike, Morda stormed at him. “You worthless piece of dung! How did you let—”

“Emun! Emun, listen!” On a sobbing breath Ellyn leapt ahead of Morda. Knocking the woman sideways, ignoring her astonished gasp, she took hold of his arm. “There’s danger. We’ve got rough men in Heartsong.”

Suspicious, Emun stared. “What men? I’ve not seen—”

“I have,” said Nelda, daring. She sounded close to tears. “I—”

“This is nonsense,” said Lady Morda, her voice hoarse with temper. “Bar these sluts in a cellar. That snot-nosed bastard, too. I want them—”

“
Emun!
” Ellyn shook him, making his mail rattle a promise of safety. “Go and see. If I’m wrong I’ll let them whip me. I’ll let
her
—” she glanced at Morda “—do every terrible thing to me.”

“And me!” Nelda added. “But it be true. With my own eyes, I saw those men.”

“Saw the bottom of an ale barrel more like!” the lady Morda retorted. “As if any man in Clemen would endanger the duke!”

Emun opened his mouth then closed it again, uncertain. “Ellyn—”

Oh, he was a
cock
. “Please, Emun!” she nearly broke her hand slapping his mail-covered chest. “What harm can come from looking?”

“Plenty,” said Lady Morda, grimly. “For you and your sluttish friend.”

She only just kept herself from breaking a hand on the old cow. “Good then! You go with him, my lady, and prove us wrong. Then you’ll have your excuse to see me stripped and beaten, won’t you?”

“My lady—” Emun stepped back. “You should stay. Won’t take me a moment to look about.”

“And leave you to lie for this slut?” Lady Morda demanded, uglier than ever in her hate. “Make up some tarradiddle to soften the blow?”

Emun’s beard-stubbled face coloured. “My lady—”

“As if I’d not seen you sniffing after her. As if I didn’t know you’d pin her against a wall were I not watching so close. You’ll prove her a liar with me by your side. Out of here, churl.
Out!
”

He was a man-at-arms, and she was kin to Harald’s wife, in charge of the nursery that held Harald’s son.

“Go, Emun,” Ellyn said, struggling to smile. “And have a care.”

He didn’t want to leave them, but Morda gave him no choice. He bowed to the old cow, stiffly. “My lady.”

Morda stabbed a finger at her. “You stay here, Ellyn, you and this drab. Keep her and her bastard far from Harald’s son. And never doubt the duke will be told of your wicked mischief.”

“Oh,
Ellyn,
” Nelda wailed, as the nursery door closed behind Emun and the old cow. “I’m feared!”

“Yes, but hush,” she said, turning away. She and Nelda were of an age, but she felt years older. “Or you’ll wake Liam and then you’ll know true strife.”