The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (46 page)

And then she heard what Alys was saying… and the blood in her turned to ice.

“So that’s who you are, Liam. Great-grandson of Berold, son of poor slain Harald, and the rightful duke of Clemen. And once you’re a man grown, my lamb, what will you do?”

“I’ll find that bastard Roric,” said Willem, so bold. “And I’ll cut off his feggit head.”

“Exactly right, my lamb. That’s what you’ll do. But can you tell anyone about it?”

“No,” said Willem. “Not even Benedikt. It be a secret. Yours and mine.”

For a long time Molly stood there with the raised lamp, hardly daring to breathe, biting her knuckles till her tongue tasted blood. Little Willem? That imp? Son of Clemen’s duke that was killed? How could that be?

But then she remembered again the look on that wicked girl’s face when she saw crippled Vidar… and knew, sick with terror, that it was the dreadful truth.

Willem’s the proper duk of Clemen. Not that bastard Roric. And if Clemen finds him here, they’ll take him. If he’s found here, they’ll kill us all
.

Kill Benedikt. Kill Iddo. Burn the Pig Whistle to the ground.

Shivering, she watched her bitten knuckles tap lightly on Alys’s door. Heard herself say, kindly, “I need ye a moment, Alys. Can ye come back downstairs?”

She waited. The door opened and Alys slipped out, her nightdress half-covered in a woollen shawl. The girl was cross, but trying to hide it. “Is something wrong, Molly?”

She shook her head. In her veins, the ice crackled. “No. Go on, now. I promise it won’t take long.”

She let the girl go first. And as Alys’s bare foot touched the third worn wooden tread from the top, shoved hard between her shoulders and sent the girl tumbling down the rest.

Thud, thud, bang, crack. Alys sprawled at the foot of the stairs, twisted on her side. Ice-cold, Molly followed until she was halfway down. Then she clutched at the banister and drew in a sobbing breath.

“Iddo! Iddo! Come quick! That Alys, she’s fallen down the stairs!”

A gasp from above her. Turning, she saw Willem–Liam–Harald’s son, the spirits save them–standing at the top of the stairs with his chestnut hair tousled and his amber eyes wide enough to pop. His nightshirt was patched and darned, and barely came to his knees. He was growing so fast. He’d be a tall man, one day.

“Back to bed, imp!” she told him, and tried to shield him from seeing Alys.

But Willem–Liam–ignored her. “Ellyn!” he cried. “Ellyn!”

She caught him with one arm, held him kicking and struggling. “Ellyn? Who’s Ellyn?”

For a heartbeat he slumped limply against her. Then he started struggling again. “Nobody. She’s Alys. She’s hurt. Let me go!”

So. Even the wretched girl’s name was a lie. Everything about the little bitch had been a lie. And if Iddo ever found out—

Thudding on the lower stairs, and then there he was. Seeing Alys crumpled on the shadowy landing, he hesitated.

“Be she dead, Iddo?”

He held his calloused palm in front of the girl’s face. “No, Moll. She be breathing. But I fear she’s mortal hurt.”

Not dead? She swallowed a curse. “Best ye get her into bed. I’ll sit with her. Ye can take Willem afore the fire.”

He frowned. “I don’t like to move her, Moll. Could be she’s got bones broke.”

“Ye have to move her, man. She can’t stay—”

A low, faint moan. The girl’s hand twitched. And then, in the lamplight, Alys–Ellyn–slowly opened her eyes.

“
Willem
.”

The boy was struggling so hard she was going to drop the lamp. No need for Clemen to burn down the Pig Whistle. She’d do it herself.

“Here, Iddo! Take him!”

She stumbled down the rest of the stairs, poor distressed little Willem slipping from her grasp. Iddo snatched him free, whirled him away.

“Wait, Iddo. Keep him by a moment.”

Putting the lamp down, Molly knelt by Alys’s side. Even in the rosy light the girl’s skin was sickly pale. Her eyes had drifted shut. A thread of blood trickled from her nose and over her parted lips. Another thread dribbled from her ear, staining the neck of her nightdress. Such a bloody day, they’d had.

She leaned close. “Alys. Can ye hear me?”

Another faint moan. A flutter of lashes. “Molly? Where’s Willem?”

“He’s here, girl. I’ve got him.”

Alys breathed in, a raw, shivering sound. Her fingers twitched again. “Molly…”

The girl’s voice was failing. Molly touched her cheek. She was cold. Another shivering breath, then she opened her eyes. They were already starting to cloud.

“Willem,” she whispered. “I risked my life for him, I did. I killed for him, Molly. I’d do it again. Keep him safe. Don’t let… don’t let…”

The girl died.

“Here, Iddo,” Molly said, and held out her arms. “Let Willem come. Let the poor mite say goodbye.”

It cracked her heart wide, to hear Willem sobbing over Alys. Or Ellyn. Or whoever she’d been.

Killed for him, did she? Well. And so did I.

“No, no,” Willem hiccuped, clutching the girl’s lifeless hand, his face hidden against her breast. “Don’t be dead. Ye can’t be dead.”

Remembering how she’d grieved for Diggin, Molly pressed trembling fingers to her lips. She wanted to weep too, though Iddo was dry-eyed. But she’d not whip herself. She’d done what she’d done and she couldn’t undo it. Wouldn’t if she could. Willem was her family, just like Benedikt and Iddo. She’d never beg pardon for keeping her family safe.

But kneeling there, in the lamplight, battered by Willem’s stormy grief… she was sorry to have hurt him. Still, he was just a little boy. Time would pass, and he’d forget this night and its cruel pain.

Forget Ellyn. Forget Liam. And forget he was a duke.

S
tanding before the window in Wido’s oak-pannelled library, feeling the sharp ache in his daggered arm, Humbert stared across the mole-pocked lawn to the straggling woodland that fringed the manor’s unkempt grounds. Summer in the Marches started late and lived a short life. Wood burned in the fireplace, flames crackling loud and smoky. The chimney wouldn’t draw cleanly. Poor household management. But that was Wido, wasn’t it? Half-arsed. No proper judgement. Scant wonder the man was dead and order in the Marches lying in ruins around his corpse.

Almost he could wish Wido’s crime had been enriching himself at Roric’s expense. But no. The shite had spent his trusted time in the Marches squabbling with Harcia’s Bayard and Egbert, pursuing petty vendettas against them and their Marcher men while turning a blind eye to his own men’s misconduct. Within a day of his arrival here, he’d sniffed out Wido’s failings. Yes, and Jacott’s too. A pair of rotten peas in the same fucking pod.

And we in Eaglerock were fool enough, complacent enough, to take Wido and Jacott’s reports at face value and dismiss Harcian complaints as shite-stirring. But no more.

Brooding, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. It sat ill to reward Vidar when the bastard deserved beheading. But try as he might he could think of no better remedy. Clemen was already precarious. Its brittle nerve could never withstand Lindara’s wicked plot coming to light. No. He’d brought Vidar with him intending to leave the cockshite behind in exile, as punishment for daring to touch Roric’s wife. He must stay his course. So long as he kept a close watch on Godebert’s son–and he’d already sent for Egann to be his eyes and ears here–all would be well.

The library door opened. He heard the limping cockshite and his walking cane tap-and-drag into the room. Heard the door shut, then Vidar clear his throat.

“You wanted to see me?”

He turned. Vidar was leaning heavily on his cane, his one-eyed gaze wary. Not a knife-mark did he carry from the bloody debacle at the Pig Whistle, but the herb-woman who’d done her best for Clemen’s wounded, and then come to the manor house that morning to see how they were faring, claimed Vidar was badly knocked about, his damaged hip hurt again. And true enough, he did look to be walking worse than ever. But looks could be deceiving. Vidar’s looks most of all.

Six years on the council, nodding and smiling. Six years pretending he had Roric’s interests at heart. And all that time…

Humbert clenched his jaw. Every time he believed his rage conquered it woke again, and he wanted to knock Vidar to the floor and beat the shite to death with his bare fists.

“Humbert?”

“Tell me, Vidar,” he said, jutting his chin, “how long have you been fucking my daughter?”

The look on Vidar’s face was an admission of guilt. Not that there was any doubt.

“Answer me. You’re crippled, not deaf.”

Too late, Vidar tried to pretend. “If that’s a jest, it’s a poor one.”

“
Jest?
Vidar, you cockshite, it’s treason.
How long?
”

“I admit nothing!” Vidar said hotly. “Who accuses me, my lord?”

“No man. You accused yourself. When you danced with Lindara at your betrothal feast. So many people betrayed in one afternoon. Like father, like son. Godebert would be proud.”

The amethysts gold-stitched to Vidar’s dark blue doublet shivered light as his breathing changed. A muscle leapt along his tight jaw. Under his spoiled eye, a nervous tic.

Glowering, Humbert raised a warning finger. “Don’t waste your breath denying this.
I know
. I have confessions. Lindara. Her maid. And the witch.”

Instead of protesting he knew nothing of any witch, Vidar swallowed. “You’d see your daughter ruined by the taint of sorcery?”

“Ah.” He breathed out, slowly. “So you knew the woman she used to ruin Roric was foul.”

His one eye glittering, Vidar eased his bad hip. Seemed prepared to
go on blustering… then abruptly surrendered. “Not till recently. I thought she was—” He sighed. “But I doubt you care what I thought. Or believe that I’d have kept Lindara from her, had I known.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“You think me a traitor.”

“
Think?
” The urge to beat and batter rose again, blinding. “You pissing whoreson! She’s the wife of your duke!”

“An unwilling wife!” Vidar’s voice was shaking. “Wed to a man who never deserved her. Who never cared for her, not truly. Not like I do.”

Humbert stared, disbelieving. “What womanish drivel is this? Have you never heard of
honour
?”

“You think Roric has honour? He married Lindara knowing I loved her. Thinking I held my love so cheap that I could be bought with dirt and grass and a seat on his council.”

“And you
were
bought!” Sweating, Humbert clutched at a nearby straight-backed chair. “Like a two-copper whore you took what Roric offered–then you turned traitor and spat in his face. You planned to put your bastard son on the Falcon Throne!”

Vidar straightened, the effort blanching his unscarred cheek. “Fine. I’m a traitor. But we both know I’m not the only one.”

“
What?
”

“You think I don’t know how you threatened Lindara, to make her wed with Roric against her will?” Vidar’s face twisted with contempt. “What man who loves his daughter would treat her like that?”

“And what man with a daughter would see her wed with the likes of you?”

“Aistan.”

Humbert snorted. “To his everlasting shame.”

They glared at each other, the air between them thick with loathing. A faint splattering sound, as rain began to spit against the window.

“So?” Vidar said harshly. “What now? For as much as we both know you want to kick my corpse, you can’t afford to call my life forfeit. Not when you’re desperate to keep this matter close.”

Jaw tightened to breaking point, he scowled. “Don’t be too sure.”

“But I am sure,” Vidar retorted. “You love Roric too much to let it come to light. You love yourself even more. What a shame you didn’t think to kill me yesterday. You could’ve blamed my death on a Harcian and no one would ever know.”

“Believe me, I was tempted.”

But with Vidar dead he’d never trust Lindara to keep her mouth shut. Godebert’s son breathing was his only way to keep her tame.

“Come, Humbert,” Vidar said, near to taunting. His old self again. “Don’t play coy. I’d know my fate.”

Humbert released his hold on the chair. “As soon as Jacott can travel, if he doesn’t die, I’ll be leaving for Eaglerock with him, and Wido’s body, and their families. You’ll stay behind. I’m giving you Clemen’s Marches, Vidar. And your life will depend on you keeping the peace.”

“You’re mad,” Vidar said, after a choked silence. “You expect me to rot in this forsaken place? For how long?”

“You’ll not limp back into Eaglerock before Lindara’s given Roric two healthy sons. At least. Clemen will have its future, and you’re no part of that. You failed, Vidar, you and my daughter and that whore of a witch you found.”

Despite the fire, the room was chilly… but a bead of sweat rolled down the side of Vidar’s face. It almost looked like a tear.

“You have no right,” he whispered. “Roric is duke in Clemen. Not you. If he—”

“Roric’s been guided by me since he was seven. If I tell him you’re best suited here, then here is where you’ll stay.”

A short, bitter laugh. “And you call me a cockshite. Humbert—” Vidar’s fingers were white on his walking cane. “I saved your life yesterday. Is this how you’d thank me?”

“You’re not owed thanks. You’ve been fucking your duke’s wife.”

Vidar took a lurching step forward. “
My
wife, Humbert. In my heart, she’s my wife.”

More sentimental slop. Some faery had addled the bastard’s wits. “In your heart and nowhere else, Vidar. Stop thinking you can sway me. Lindara is lost to you. And I swear, if you fight me on this I’ll see that she suffers for the rest of her life. Then I’ll have your head for a paperweight and take my chances after.”

Vidar knew him well enough to know that was no idle threat. He seemed to shrink, his confidence shrivelling. In his face a stark and genuine grief. Seeing it, Humbert felt an unwanted pang of sympathy.

“Godebert was ever a weak and profligate lord,” he said roughly. “Watching you grow from boy to man, Vidar, I had hopes you’d redeem him. And you did, somewhat. In your early years. For certain you’ve never lacked physical courage. I can admire you for that much.”

“High praise,” Vidar said, savagely sarcastic.

“No. A brute beast has physical courage. More is asked of a man.”

Silence, as Vidar contemplated his fate. “And so I’m disposed of,” he murmured, at last. “Out of sight… and out of mind.”

“And it’s more than you deserve. Though I’ll say this. Despite what you’ve done, I know you love Clemen. Your treachery is personal. Born of weak, slighted feeling.”

“Does that mean I keep Coldspring? And my other estates?”

He had to leave the man with some hope, else risk him doing something worse. “If you behave yourself. If you make it plain to Roric that serving him here is your heart’s desire and serve him well, then yes, you’ll keep your property. And because I’m not a cruel man, I’ll let you have Aistan’s spoiled daughter to wife.” He shook his head, wearied with disgust. “Get a son of your own on her, Vidar. You owe that to Clemen, if not Godebert. Our duchy needs all the strong sons it can breed. Keep peace in the Marches. As close as my eye will be on you, keep yours close on Harcia. What Aimery does next will decide if it’s to be peace between us, or war.”

Vidar hesitated, then cleared his throat. “And yesterday’s bloodshed? The letter, and the man who brought it? His murder by Balfre’s man?”

“Never you mind on that,” said Humbert. “You can leave that to me.”

Crushed with disappointment, Aimery fingered the torn letter Balfre had given him. There was dried mud on it. Dried blood. But though some of the words were obscured, he could read enough to know they spelled the death of any hope he’d had for peace with Clemen.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Balfre said, subdued. “I wish I came with better news.”

“There’s no doubt Roric wrote this?”

“None. Humbert confirmed it is his hand.”

“And he killed Bayard?”

“Yes.”

“And Vidar slaughtered Egbert?”

“I saw it.”

He frowned. “Vidar’s a cripple.”

“That didn’t stop him from trying to slit my throat.” Balfre retorted, and pulled down his shirt.

Aimery stared at the scabbed dagger-cut in his son’s flesh. “You never said you were wounded.”

“I bled a little. That’s all.”

“All?” said Grefin, standing with his back to the privy chamber’s unshuttered window. “You nearly died.”

His face was disciplined, but Aimery knew his younger son. Grefin was anguished by Roric’s duplicity.

As I am. I offered him peace and friendship. He answered me with slaughter
.

Both his Marcher lords murdered, and all of their men. His lax hand trembled on the arm of his chair.

“Your Grace—” Balfre dropped to one knee. “May I speak plainly?”

In the face of dire provocation, this reckless son had conducted himself with remarkable restraint. There was hope for him after all… and cause for pride.

He nodded. “You may.”

“I know you dream of a lasting peace with Clemen. Harald made it impossible, but I think you felt there could be a fresh start with Roric.”

“I did, Balfre,” he said, fighting the urge to look at Grefin. “A wise ruler seeks peace.”

“Yes. But he must be careful where he places his trust. Roric has proven that base blood will out. He’s a festering thorn and must be plucked from Harcia’s flesh before he poisons us all.”

Aimery watched the muddied, bloodied letter slip out of his grasp. Flutter like an autumn leaf to the floor. “You want war.”

“
Want?
” Balfre clenched his fists. “Never. But Clemen has butchered two of our lords. Would you have Roric think he can kill us without consequence? Have Harcia’s lords think you’ll see them buried unavenged?”

“You hope to insult me into warfare?”

Balfre stood. “No, my lord. But you—”

“I share your anger, Balfre,” Grefin said quietly. “But there’s blame here on both sides. Bayard and Egbert were often contentious with Wido and Jacott. And our Marcher men followed their lords’ poor example.”

Balfre snatched up the fallen letter and brandished it at both of them. “So you’d discard proof in Roric’s own hand that he’d deal falsely with Harcia?
Father
—” Tumultuous, Balfre dropped to his knee again. “Must the proof be written in
your
blood before I have leave to act?”

Moved by his angry fear, Aimery rested a hand on his son’s head. “Before we make countless Harcian widows? Yes, Balfre. It must. But keeping my sword sheathed is not the same as trusting Roric. I will never trust Clemen’s duke again.”

“Nor should you, my lord. The bastard played you false.” Balfre sighed. “Father… I’d make a suggestion. For on the ride home from the Marches I gave our dilemma much thought.”

Aimery sat back. “What would you have me do?”

“Thanks to Grefin, we have order in the Green Isle. Let me bring that same order to the Marches. Grant me the authority to uphold the law in your name. Make me your Marcher lord.”

Aimery tapped a finger to his chin. “A moment ago you were urging me to war. Yet a Marcher lord’s first duty is keeping the peace.”

“That’s true,” Balfre admitted. “But a weak peace is no strength. A weak peace leads to bloodshed. I can uphold Marcher law
and
give Clemen reason to think twice before spilling any more Harcian blood.”

“It’s not a bad idea, Father,” said Grefin. “As your heir, Balfre’s authority is unassailable. I doubt Roric would dare test him.”

What treacherous Roric would do, he could no longer imagine. “Perhaps,” he said, frowning. “But Balfre–a Marcher lord must be concerned with every man’s welfare. Could you deal fairly with Clemen if a man of Harcia was found in the wrong?”