The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (5 page)

Grefin’s face twisted. “You should.”

“And you should care I’ve had my birthright stolen. The Green Isle is mine, Grefin. Not yours.”

“The Isle belongs to Aimery. Whoever is named its Steward, that man holds it in trust for Harcia’s duke.”

“And we both know I should be that man.
Please
, Gref.” Stepping close, he took hold of his brother’s shoulder. “Tell Aimery that for love of me you won’t steal the Isle like a common thief.”

“I can’t.” Shrugging free, Grefin put down his empty goblet. “I’ve already said I’d be Steward for a year.”

Balfre moistened his lips. “You’ve promised him that?”

“I have.” Grefin stared, defiant. “For both of us.”

His hot blood had turned to ice, freezing heart and bone. “I don’t remember lending you my tongue. Tell me, brother, what else did I say?”

“Balfre—”

“
What else?
”

Grefin turned away, his own temper escaping. “D’you think you can defy the duke and be winked at? Kill a man, and be winked at? So you’ll wait one more year before you’re Steward. That’s
nothing
.”

“Says the man who’s been made Steward in my place!”

“Oh, Balfre.” Turning back, Grefin shook his head. “Can you think of no one but yourself? The duke held that old rump Herewart in his arms and
wept
. That old rump is broken with his grief. It was his
son
you killed.
Fuck
. I begged you not to hold that joust. Why, just once, didn’t you listen to me?”

A good question, in hindsight.

Abruptly exhausted, Balfre dropped again to the settle. “So that’s that, is it? You’re to be Steward and I’m to be made a laughing stock.”

Grefin dropped to the settle beside him. “I’m sorry.”

As if that made any difference. As if that made what he’d done all right.

“Aimery does what he must for Harcia,” Grefin added. “He might not be the easiest of fathers but he is a good duke.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, grudging, then let out a slow breath. “But mostly he scares me shitless. He loves peace so much he’s afraid to think of war. He thinks Clemen is no danger. He thinks Harald—”

“Is a fool and a rascal who’ll stumble into trouble without our help.” Grefin looked at him sidelong. “And he’s right.”

“I know you think so. But Gref, what if he’s wrong?”

“What if he is? Are you saying the only remedy must be the spilling of Clemen blood?”

“Clemen’s spilled our blood, in the Marches.”

“And we’ve spilled theirs,” said Grefin. “We’ve both of us done our share of bleeding. But do you want Marcher squabbles spilled over the borders? Would you flood both duchies scarlet?”

“I’d never let it come to that. I don’t want Clemen ruined. Just brought to heel.”

In the fireplace, flames flickered. Shadows danced on the tapestry-hung stone walls. With a muttered curse Grefin braced his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands to his face.

“When we were boys,” he said, muffled, “after Malcolm was squired to Deness of Heems and it was just the two of us, you always wanted to play King of Harcia. Remember? You brandished a wooden sword and wore a crown you wove from willow-wands, and when I wouldn’t call you
Your Majesty
you’d get so angry…”

Balfre’s heart thudded hard. “Doesn’t every boy dream of being a king?”

“Maybe.” Grefin let his hands fall. Shifted a little, to look at him squarely. “But we’re not boys any more.”

“More’s the pity. Things were fucking simpler then.”

A startled moment, then Grefin laughed. “Yes. They were.”

“And you have to admit, Gref, they’d be simpler now,” he pointed out, carefully careless, “if the old kingdom returned and Harcia and Clemen were reconciled under one rule. Clemen’s people would be happier were they rid of cursed Harald.”

Grefin thudded his shoulder blades against the wall. “No doubt. Only the last king of Harcia died some two hundred years ago and those crowned days died soon after when the kingdom split. I know you still dream of the old Harcian kingdom reborn, Balfre, but you must know that’s folly. It’s far too late to turn the clock back.”

Said Aimery and his faithful echo Grefin. But they were mistaken. Ancient wrongs could be put right. Stolen thrones could be reclaimed.
The Kingdom of Harcia had been mighty, once… and would be again, when he was done.

But that wasn’t something he was ready to share with his brother.

“I know,” he said, heaving a deceptively rueful sigh.

“Do you?” Grefin frowned. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He punched a fist to Grefin’s knee. “It’s late. You should go. Mazelina will be thinking I’ve shoved you down the garderobe.”

Grefin’s answering smile was tinged with relief. “Given into temptation, you mean.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” he suggested. “Better yet, fuck your wife.” When his brother only stared, uncertain, he shoved. “
Go
, Grefin. I might sting over the Green Isle but if you think I’d throw myself from the top of the Croft for losing it, you’re moonshot.”

“So…” Grefin stood. “I’m forgiven?”

Balfre blinked. Forgiven? For capitulating to Aimery. For taking what wasn’t his. For thinking he could speak on anyone’s behalf but his own.
Forgiven?

Grefin really was moonshot.

Maybe in a year, when–
if
–Grefin kept his word, and the Green Isle’s stewardship passed from his brother’s unlawful hands to his. Maybe then he could find it in him to forgive the day’s betrayal. But not now, with Grefin’s presumption of pardon so glibly thoughtless, so
arrogant
. So like Aimery he could spit.

“Yes,” he said, smiling, as the dragon-talons clutched anew. “You’re forgiven.”

The smile lasted until the outer chamber’s door closed behind his little brother. Then he staggered to his feet, snatched up the bottle of brandy and poured what remained of it down his dry throat. Choked. Gasped for air.

“Fuck.
Fuck!
”

He was too angry to stand, had to rage about the luxurious chamber that served only to remind him of what he didn’t possess. In every castle of Harcia it was the same, he and Jancis and her mewling daughter granted the apartments that had belonged to Malcom. He held no castle of his own, outright. A clutch of manor houses, yes, with villages and farmland yielding him wealth. After Aimery, before Grefin, he was the richest man in Harcia. But it didn’t make up for his lack of moat and drawbridge and keep.

Grefin would have a castle, now he was Steward of the Green Isle.

The thought had him smashing the emptied brandy bottle onto the floor, sent him hunting for a fresh one. But then he stopped, panting. What was the point? There wasn’t enough brandy in the duchy, in the
world
, to numb his rewoken, all-consuming pain. He needed a living distraction, something soft and warm. A woman.

“Jancis!” he roared. “Jancis, where the fuck are you?”

He found his wife in the nursery, clad in unbecoming tawny wool, holding her swaddled brat of a daughter and talking with a servant. “Get out,” he told the girl. She picked up her linen skirts and fled.

“My lord,” Jancis whispered, standing with the brat’s crib between them. “I heard. About Hughe, and the stewardship. I’m so sorry.”

Oh, but she was a colourless shadow, his wife, with her pale hair and pale skin and eyes like watered glass. So thin, so flat-chested, sunlight almost passed right through her. No wonder he struggled to sire a living son. Aimery was to blame for that. From misplaced loyalty to one of his nobles, Aimery had cradle-promised him to Jancis, and when Malcolm died forced the wedding upon him. After two sons miscarried he’d begged his father on both knees for release, but the old fulmet wouldn’t let him put the barren bitch aside–even though her father was dead by then and couldn’t be offended. So he was yoked to her until Aimery was bedded for good in his own coffin.

He could feel the brandy in his belly, burning like dragon-fire. “How did you hear? Who told you?”

“I was with Mazelina in her apartments. We heard the servants gossiping.”

Fucking servants. He should rip out their tongues. “And?”

“And what?” his wife said, tears rising. “I don’t understand.”

Held tight to her uninspiring breasts, the brat wriggled and cooed. Jancis started to look down, then stopped herself.

“And do you have a fucking opinion?” he demanded. “Or is that too much to ask?”

His insipid wife’s pale cheeks washed pink. “I think it’s wrong that Grefin’s made Steward. Why did Aimery do such a thing?”

“Don’t you mean
How am I to blame
, that Aimery would kick me in the balls before the watching world? Isn’t that what you mean?”

Like his privy chamber, the nursery was generously lit with oil lamps and firelight. Jancis’s plump tears glowed with a golden warmth.

“No,” she whispered. “Of course not. However Hughe died, I know the fault’s not yours.”

“Herewart says elsewise.”

Jancis gasped. “Herewart calls murder on you? And Aimery
believes
it? That’s why he’s named Grefin his Steward? But–but that’s wicked unjust!”

She was a barren bitch and he could never love her. So what did it say of him, that her swift defence of his honour was a balm, and welcome?

“What a needle-wit you are,” he said roughly, sneering. “So sharp you must prick yourself twice a day, at least.” Her face paled again at the taunt. “There’ll be talk,” he added, needing to goad her. “Will you stand it?”

Her resentful eyes met his. “Will you?”

The tart reply was a surprise. Jancis hardly ever challenged him. Perhaps he’d like her better if she did. Perhaps if she had greater mettle she’d find the strength to give him sons.

And if mules were horses a peasant in the saddle could be mistook for a lord
.

“Mind your shrewish tongue,” he said, skirting the crib to close on her. “You’re the cause of this, Jancis.”

The brat snuffled as her holding arms tightened. “How is it my fault? I never—”

“Hughe’s dead because he slandered me!” he shouted, backing her into the wall. “And he slandered me because of
you
! What corruption is in you, Jancis, that your feeble body must spit out my sons before they’re formed?”

“No corruption, Balfre! Indeed, you do me wrong!”

“
I
wrong
you
?” He almost laughed. “
Bitch!
”

“I’m sorry, Balfre,” she whispered. “I’d give anything to give you sons. Perhaps if I could find a wise woman who knows of such things I might—”

“A
witch
? Woman, are you
mad
?”

She cried out. “No, no. I won’t look for one! I promise! Please, Balfre, don’t—” She was weeping, half-turning to shield the brat, starting to slide down the wall. “Don’t hurt her!”

Like a man watching a mummery, he saw himself looming over his unwanted wife and girl-child. Saw his fist raised to strike. Saw her tears, and her terror. Heard the child’s frightened wails. Sickened,
shaken, he turned away. Never in his life had he struck a woman.
Any man who beats a woman makes of himself a beast
. A lesson learned at his formidable mother’s knee. How ashamed she’d be, could she see him now.

Helping Jancis to stand, he felt her trembling fear of him beneath his hands and flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said, as she settled the brat in its crib. “Jancis…” Helpless, he stared at her. “Fuck. I wish–I wish—”

She looked up. “I know, Balfre. So do I.”

Without warning, his throat closed. “It’s not right that Grefin’s made Steward. Ever since Malcom died, Aimery has looked for ways to—” He breathed hard, fighting the pain he resented so much. “The honour of the Green Isle belongs to me.”

“Your father’s made his decision,” Jancis said, shrugging. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Her defeated acceptance rekindled his anger. “Fuck that. I don’t accept it. You wait. I’ll change the old bastard’s mind.”

From atop the Croft’s battlements, wind-tugged and shivering despite his padded doublet and heavy woollen surcoat, Aimery watched the summoned lords of his council clatter on horseback across the stone bridge leading to the castle’s outer bailey. Though he stood high, and they were distant, he could tell they weren’t happy. But then, neither was he.

Out of long custom, Harcia kept an itinerant court. As he travelled the duchy, showing his face, hearing disputes, he often met with his greatest barons. Together they nipped trouble in its rancorous bud, which meant a great council was held once, at most twice, in a year. Its holding was a disruption, an upheaval in many lives. That reckless Balfre was the cause this time would not endear him to the men cruel fate had decreed he’d one day rule.

Aimery sighed. If only Balfre understood that.

Horse by horse, Harcia’s barons vanished from sight as they passed into the keep: Deness of Heems, Lord Keeton, Lord Ferran, Maunay of Knockrowan, Reimond of Parsle Fountain, Lord Orval. Last of all, Joben, Balfre’s cousin on his mother’s side. There was a younger cousin, eager for a place on the council. But history taught that dukes who favoured family over their duchy’s loyal barons came to foul ends.

I must punish Balfre harshly in the eyes of every lord. Not just to save him, but to save myself too. And Harcia
.

Footsteps behind him, and then a lightly cleared throat. Curteis. “Your Grace, the council gathers in the Great Hall.”

“Let them wait. I’ll come presently.”

“Your Grace.”

Alone again, Aimery feasted his gaze on the open countryside around the Croft. Once woodland had grown almost as far as the eye could see. But Harcia had cut down nearly all of its forests, hungry to turn tall trees into swift galleys. A mistake, that had proven. The men of Harcia weren’t natural sailors. They failed to read the treacherous tides and currents of the northern sea. Those mistakes, and three seasons of vast storms, had wrecked Harcia’s galleys to driftwood. One more reason for his duchy’s struggle to find wealth in the world. Aside from the Green Isle’s splendid horses, they had precious little. He was doing his best, sapling by sapling, to bring back those slain forests and with them the natural riches Harcia had squandered. He’d not see them reborn in his lifetime, but Balfre would. If he continued the work his father had started.