The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (34 page)

Aimery of Harcia would have no Black Hughes today.

Their horses standing flank-to-flank, facing the dais, each mounted knight uplifted his visor. Revealed, his unsmiling nephew Joben and young Lord Brandt, lately stepped into his inherited estates at Gosfyth. Given a choice, proud Joben would never tilt against such a minor lord. But saving one, the day’s jousts were drawn at random. And it would do Joben good to climb down off his pride–if only for an hour.

Aimery stood, masking unsteadiness, and accepted his knights’ fist-on-heart homage with a raised hand. More cheering and applause from the nobles ranked on their bench seats below and to either side of him. It followed the knights out of the bailey.

As he resumed his gilded ducal throne, and Master Ambrose’s squires rushed in to set the tilt-run aright before the highly anticipated final joust, Mazelina touched her hand to his arm, laughing. Down in the bailey, Tamwell’s minstrels re-started their cheerful piping to entertain the crowd.

“And now it’s Grefin’s turn! Oh, Your Grace, I can’t envy you. Your heir and your Steward to joust each other. Perhaps they could both fall off, and satisfy honour without causing you to take sides!” She leaned forward, looking across him. “What d’you think, Jancis?”

Aimery shifted his gaze. Balfre’s colourless wife sat at his right hand, and though she was coloured head-to-toe in crimson damask, and gold, and rubies, still she looked as pale as a moon maiden from pagan lore. Her face, so unexpressive, seemed a chalk mask.

Stirred to pity, as every day she stirred him, though he couldn’t much like her, he forced a cheerful smile. “Indeed, Mazelina. You might have hit upon the answer. But I dare say our dear Jancis would prefer to see her husband the victor. Jancis?”

She might choose not to answer Grefin’s wife, but to ignore Harcia’s duke was unthinkable. “Your Grace, I confess to having no opinion,” Jancis murmured. “I’ve no fondness for the joust. It’s very loud, and I worry the horses will be hurt.”

By the Exarch’s balls, even her voice was colourless. No surprise she
was only delivered of one daughter. She was a mimbly woman, the wrong choice for Balfre entirely. That was his mistake. But for good or ill the two of them were bound and only death could part them. Were Jancis to be released, and marry again, and bear a son, the damage done to Balfre would be impossible to mend.

But if he remains without a son, at least Harcia won’t be ruined. It has Grefin and his sons. The future is secure
.

And that was the only reason he could sleep at night. Especially these days, with his health so much a trial.

Bright and beautiful Mazelina, his beloved Grefin’s beloved, was trying to dance over Jancis’s blunder.

“—
is
a worry a horse will be hurt, yes, but I think they love jousting as much as the men do, Jancis, truly. You know they’re dreadfully stubborn creatures. Almost as bad as a husband. I doubt you could make a one of them run the tilt if it didn’t want to. Isn’t that so, Your Grace?”

He patted her knee. Her gown was cloth-of-silver, embroidered blue, but she dimmed even that radiance. “My dear Mazelina,” he said, his smile entirely unforced, “I cannot fault you.”

“Here they come,” said Jancis, as the crowd of nobles stirred to excitement. “I pray no one is hurt.”

And so did he pray it, to whoever was listening. If he could have, he’d have kept his sons from this joust. Though Balfre had been volubly contrite for his lateness in returning to Cater’s Tamwell, had begged his father’s forgiveness so meekly, and in public–but mercifully not dressed in homespun and cast face-down on the floor–still a maggot of doubt was in him. From the time Balfre had burst into the world, furiously squalling, he’d never once forgiven a slight. And though he tried to hide it, there remained rancour over the Green Isle’s Stewardship.

But he’ll not hurt Grefin for that. Not here. Not like this. He might be a hot-head. The wrong stamp of man to make a duke. But worse? I’ll not accept it. For all his faults, he is my son
.

He watched Balfre and Grefin ride their glorious stallions into the bailey on a storm of acclaim. Balfre’s gilded armour was part-painted crimson, Grefin’s steel polished eye-searing silver and flourished in sky blue. They each wore their ladies’ colours in scarves tied to their breastplates. The silk fluttered gaily, danced by the same breeze dancing the house pennants over their heads. Visors raised, they halted before the dais. Balfre said something. Grefin looked at him, and laughed. Balfre said something else, his grin so wicked it must have been ribald. Both laughing,
they lifted their gazes, crashed gauntleted fists to their hearts. Aimery stood, his own heart pounding, and raised his hand in salute. The lance-squires ran forward, armed the combatants, then withdrew.

“Hold my hand, Your Grace,” Mazelina murmured, as he sat. “I’m so nervous I might faint.”

He did as she asked. Her palm was damp. So was his. He’d have held Jancis too, but her hands were kept from him, clasped tight in her lap.

The pipers ceased their trilling. Three horns blew a loud fanfare. The noble crowd fell slowly silent, until the only sounds were the snapping of pennants and the stately thud-thud-thud of the destriers’ hooves on the close-cut bailey grass as Balfre and Grefin, their visors lowered, rode to opposite ends of the tilt-run.

A single trumpet note, high and sweet. The horses fought against bridle and bit, eager to joust. Their riders steadied lances… dropped reins… pricked sharp spurs to glossy flanks. Aimery held his breath, and sank his teeth into his lip. With great, grunting whinnies, ears pinned back and eyes gleaming, his sons’ stallions charged.

And with one punishing blow of Grefin’s lance, Balfre crashed to the ground.

T
here was a feast in the castle’s Great Hall after the joust, with enormous platters of venison and boar from the Marches, swan and goose, pike and sturgeon and delectable eel. There were dainty minced chicken pies and cartwheels of cheese, honeyed damsons and apricots, endless flagons of wine, and cherry juice for those who disdained the effects of fermented grape. There was music and dancing and no grey-faced, grey-robed exarchites to frown the birthday revellers into sober behaviour.

Aimery and his sons and their wives enjoyed the highest of high tables, proudly displayed for Harcia’s nobles to see. Nearest to them, duly honoured, Harcia’s councillors, their wives and their heirs. Almost as honoured, Balfre’s closest companions. Even Joben, as yet unmarried, had forsworn his fellow councillors to carouse with Paithan, Waymon and Lowis, the young men loudly basking in the ducal heir’s esteem. Seated at the hall’s other damask-covered trestles, distantly overlooked by the antlered skulls of stags long since killed and consumed, many lesser nobles of Harcia, with sons and daughters attending. It was good to see them here. Marriages might come of the day’s celebrations. Another reason to celebrate. And long as fine Harcian sons wed with lissom Harcian daughters, and were fruitful, his duchy would live on long after his death.

Lastly, of course, there were his beloved grandchildren, seated at their own small trestle, ruled over by their nurses. Grefin’s three mischief-makers, and poor, wan little Emeline. Balfre’s sickly daughter. Old enough now to know how deeply she disappointed. And how could she not, when she was the image of her mimbly mother?

At the far end of their table, flushed with wine and astonishment, Grefin flung an unsteady arm around his brother’s neck. “To the moment I draw my last breath, Balfre, I’ll remember this day. Never before have I jousted
you
out of the saddle!”

Balfre, just as wineish, clumsily kissed Grefin on the side of his head. “But you did, brother, and I have the bruises on my arse to prove it. And let me tell you how it happened, since you seem so amazed.”

“Yes, yes, do tell us,” Mazelina implored. “For I promise you, Balfre, we’re as amazed as my husband!”

Everyone within hearing laughed at that. Aimery knew he could easily weep, so great was his relief. Neither son harmed in their bout, and both so joyful, so comradely. After years of strain and sourness, he’d never thought to see them in such smiling accord. And that was Balfre’s doing as much as Grefin’s. He’d taken his defeat lightly, been swift to laud his victorious brother. No churlish frowning, only admiring delight.

So… had he misjudged his heir, then? Perhaps Grefin was right. Perhaps he’d never been fair to Balfre, who wasn’t Malcolm and never could be. Perhaps the time had come to take a leap of faith. Trust that Balfre wouldn’t dishonour him by plunging the duchy into a maelstrom of strife.

“My Lord Steward,” said Balfre, comically serious, as the laughter died down around them. “It’s clear to me that while serving our gracious duke in the Green Isle, you have become a doughty knight. Mighty of virtue, strong in sinew, inviolate of purpose. Indeed, the very paragon of jousters!”

Grefin clapped hand to heart. “Why, thank you, my lord Count. Such praise leaves me speechless.”

“Not so very speechless, since that’s your tongue I hear flapping.”

More raucous laughter, drowning the court minstrels. Mazelina was wiping her eyes. Even subdued Jancis smiled, her be-ringed fingers clasped round the stem of a goblet full of cherry juice.

Eyes wide with mock-hurt, Grefin offered a seated bow. “Forgive me. It’s just I—”

“Be quiet, fool!” roared Balfre. “Can’t you see I’m still talking?”

“Do hush, Grefin,” said Mazelina, unsteady with mirth. “Or he’s like to tip that jug of wine right over your head!”

Thrusting aside discomforting thoughts, at least for the moment, Aimery banged a fist to the trestle. “At fifty silver ducats a barrel? Not if he wants to sit his horse inside a week! I might be officially declared an old man, but there’s yet strength enough in my arm to give a wayward son a good thrashing!”

“Fear not, Your Grace,” said Balfre, shaking his head. “I’ve long since grown out of the wasteful gesture. But if I might be allowed to finish?”

“By all means,” said Griffin, hiccuping. “Never let us distract you from your purpose.”

Balfre smiled. “I won’t, Grefin. On that you have my word. Now–as I was saying–you’ve impressed me, little brother. I am mightily impressed.”

“Go on, go on,” Grefin encouraged. “I’ve waited years to hear you say this.”

“And if you don’t cease interrupting, I swear you’ll never hear it again!”

More laughter, as Mazelina pressed a hand over her husband’s mouth.

“Speak swiftly, Balfre, I beg you. I fear your defeat has gone straight to his head!”

“Swiftly then,” said Balfre, grinning. “As my lady commands. Swiftly, Grefin, while I admire you, as an honest man I must add this to my praise. That while your jousting skills are proved impressive, most
impressive is the fact that at the ripe old age of twenty-eight you’ve at last learned how not to fall off your fucking horse!” Standing, he raised his wine-filled goblet. “Your Grace! My lords and ladies! I give you the Steward of the Green Isle, jouster without peer, Aimery’s beloved youngest son and my little brother.
Grefin!
”

“
Grefin!
” Harcia’s nobles echoed, and drank, and drummed their feet on the rush-strewn stone floor.

As servants carried in fresh platters of meat and refilled wine jugs from the kitchens, and the gathered nobles turned to each other for more eager talk, Balfre put down his goblet and dropped to a crouch between Grefin and Mazelina. Grin fading, he pressed his palm to his brother’s cheek.

“Grefin,” he said, his voice lowered to keep his words at their table. “I think you know I’ve been angry with you. For a long time, monstrous angry. I’ve blamed you and resented you for things that weren’t your fault. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Grefin grasped his brother’s shoulder. “Of course I will. As if you need to ask.”

“I think our father would disagree with that,” said Balfre, and turned. “Am I right, Your Grace?”

Feeling his eyes sting with tears, Aimery nodded. “You are. But there’s no shame in a man admitting a fault. Indeed, there’s honour in it. Your mother would be proud. As I am.”

“Then I have your forgiveness too?”

“Yes, Balfre,” he said, his voice breaking. “You most assuredly do.”

“Your Grace. Your Grace, I’m sorry…”

Curteis.

Looking at his faithful steward Aimery saw the trouble that creased the man’s forehead. “What is it?”

Curteis bent low. “Your Grace, word’s come from Lord Bayard. There has been–an incident–in the Marches.”

The Marches. His precarious hope. Flooded with dismay, Aimery fought the urge to look at Grefin. “How bad?”

“Alas, Your Grace. There are deaths on both sides.”

Fuck
. His heart was hammering too hard, his treacherous body rebelling at unwanted news. “Who’s to blame? Do we know?”

“The waters seem fearful muddied. Our Marcher lords are blaming Clemen, while their lords blame us.”

“Curteis, you surprise me.”

“Indeed,” Curteis murmured. “Your Grace, can I assume you’ll meet with the council on this?”

Curse the council. Men who’d leap at once to belligerence, in whom he could not confide. “After the feast, Curteis. Make arrangements.”

“Father?” Grefin said softly, as Curteis discreetly withdrew from the hall.

With an almost painful effort, Aimery relaxed his fisted fingers and rested them in his lap. “Not now. The acrobats are come.”

“But—”

“
Not now, Grefin
.”

An awkward silence. Then Balfre gestured at an untouched wine jug set down by a passing servant.

“Is that Grayneish red at your elbow, Gref? If it is I’ll take some, before you and the fair Mazelina drink it all.”

“Balfre!” protested Mazelina, as chastened Grefin struggled to reply. “How could you say so, when ’tis well known by all who know you that a full barrel of Grayneish red is not safe in your sight!”

And so to more laughter, and playful bickering, as the hall filled with leaping acrobats and the spritely music of tambourines.

“This is a nonsense, Aimery,” grunted Reimond of Parsle Fountain, his craggy face carved even sharper by candlelight. “What happens in the Marches is Marcher lord business. Let Bayard and Egbert settle it.”

Muttered agreement from his fellow lords, gathered in the North Tower’s council chamber.

Frowning, Aimery tapped the scrawled parchment brought in haste by one of Bayard’s men-at-arms. “We’ve seven dead, all told, a score more wounded, and Wido of Clemen making grave threats. I fear this is already spilled beyond the Marches.”

“It’s unacceptable!” Ferran said, banging his fist to the chamber’s robust oak table. “Who is this Wido, to demand Harcia take all blame? To bluster he’ll have that bastard Roric force us to a Crown Court if we don’t show our belly? And what’s Bayard about, letting himself be bullied by this shite?”

“It sounds to me Bayard’s grown too feeble for the Marches,” said Joben. “Clearly he can’t even control his men. Perhaps it’s time another lord was sent to govern in his place.”

Aimery spared his nephew a frowning glance. Here was ambition, scenting the air. “I won’t deny Bayard has questions to answer. Yes, and
Egbert too. But I’ll be the one asking them, Joben. And I’ll decide what’s to be done if the answers aren’t to my liking.”

“I say we call Wido’s bluff,” said Reimond. “Let him run to Roric bleating for a Crown Court. Let Roric demand one.” He smiled, grimly. “Let him demand the sun rise in the north, too, and rain fall when he farts. Since when does Harcia do as Clemen demands?”

Grefin cleared his throat. “My lords, I understand your reluctance to seem weak in the face of Wido’s threats. But let’s not forget that at the heart of this strife there lies a woman, dead.”

“A Clemen bawd,” Deness of Heems said curtly, seated across from him. “A strumpet, who lifted her skirts without care and got no more than she deserved.”

“And because the bawd was careless, Harcian men-at-arms have died!” Ferran added, glowering. “Weep for them, Grefin. Not for a wanton jade.”

“I do weep for them, Ferran,” Grefin retorted. “But you can’t dismiss this death so lightly. Murder must be answered.”

Joben scoffed. “You don’t know it’s murder! Wido calls it murder, but Bayard—”

“Bayard’s report is garbled, to say the least,” Grefin retorted. “We don’t even know yet who killed this woman, or why. What if she was innocent of any provocation? What if one of our Marcher men is guilty of the crime? Do we shield him because he’s Harcian? Do we wink at unlawful killing because the slain woman was from Clemen and kept no clean sheets?” He swept his hot gaze around the table. “My lords, if you’re seeking trouble with Roric,
I
say that’s a good way of finding it!”

More than muttering this time, as the council pounced on provocation. Letting their shouts wash over him, Aimery slid his half-lidded gaze sideways to Balfre, at his right hand, who was yet to speak. There was no telling from his bland expression what he thought. But surely he agreed with Reimond and the others, who thought any concession to Clemen an even greater crime than murder.

Grefin and the rest of the council were still arguing. If it weren’t so late he’d let the bickering run its course, for the pleasure of watching his son argue cantankerous Ferran into silence. But he was sixty years old, and weary, and these days ill-health rode him meanly wherever he walked.

“
Enough!
” he said, and slapped his palm to the table with a crack
like a hunting whip. “The answer’s simple. If Wido asks his duke to call a Crown Court and Roric refuses, there the matter will end. Bayard and his men will answer for the spilled blood to us, privily. But if Roric says yea, then there
will
be a Crown Court, for I promise you, my lords: to refuse him will cause more bloody strife between our duchies.”

Lord Keeton, a mild man whose talents lay more in the realm of coin-counting than swordplay, smoothed back his lank hair. “And if it does come to a Crown Court, Your Grace, will you speak for Harcia?”

“What?” said Joben, appalled. “Duke Aimery defend a bawd?”

“He’d not be defending a bawd,” said Grefin. “He’d be standing for Bayard’s accused men.”

Deness of Heems was ferociously scowling. “And if it’s proven they killed her, it amounts to the same thing. Would you see your father tarnished by this, Grefin?”

As every stare turned to him, Grefin sighed. “Of course not.
If
there’s a Crown Court, with His Grace’s leave I’ll speak for Harcia.”

Reimond of Parsle Fountain shoved his chair back, just a little. Caring nothing for the fate of a dead bawd, and impatient to be on his way. “So, then. It’s settled?”

Every stare shifted. Feeling the weight of them, Aimery looked at his folded hands. An old man’s hands. Three knuckles were swollen, and pained him in the cold. Once-smooth skin was turned wrinkled, blotched brown, wormed with veins. It made him angry, to see them.

“No,” he said, and looked at Grefin. “I’ll not keep you kicking your heels in Cater’s Tamwell while we wait to see how this plays out. There’s a chance the Marcher lords might yet settle this themselves. And if they don’t, it could be days, or even weeks, before Roric decides for or against a Court. You’re Steward of the Green Isle. Your duties lie there.”

Shocked, his son struggled to remain respectful. “But, Your Grace—”

“
Grefin
.”

Grefin swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

And so he should be, letting his passion for justice trample good sense. Given the delicacy of their barely fledged negotiations with Clemen, it would be madness for Grefin to thrust himself into the harsh glare of this tawdry affair. He could be seen nowhere near important men of Clemen, could take no part in legal proceedings from which Clemen might emerge bruised… or where Harcia might be proven the
troublemaker. However would Roric trust him, did he mire himself in murder?