The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (22 page)

Careless, she tossed the dagger onto the seat of the high-backed chair beside her. “And what of my compensation? Ardenn lost a small fortune tonight.”

“Those losses will be addressed, Madam.”

“You say,” she retorted, finding herself aggravated by his arrogant certainty. “And who are you to say it?”

He looked at Tihomir. “Leave us.”

Though her factor was no fighting man, and the night’s woes had deeply shaken him, he’d not been named Ardenn’s trading representative on a drunken whim.

“I’ll do no such thing, you sly rogue!” Tihomir said, vigorously indignant. “This is my house and we are in the presence of my great and gracious duchess. I’ll not abandon her to the likes of—”

“Tihomir,” she said, forestalling him. “You may go.”

“But, Madam, I cannot—”

“
Tihomir
.”

With a last resentful look at her uninvited visitor, Tihomir obeyed. He left the dayroom door ajar this time.

To show the man she was unafraid, and in command of herself, Berardine crossed to another chair and sat. Fixed her arrogant visitor with the cold, impersonal look she’d cultivated in the weeks following Baldwin’s death, when every lord in Cassinia assumed she would meekly answer to him.

“Who are you? And be warned, I shan’t ask you again.”

“I’m Roric, Duke of Clemen,” the man said promptly. “Though I confess the formalities aren’t yet observed.”

She blinked. Was he a lunatic, to saunter into this house and make such an outrageous claim? He must be, surely. She wished now she’d sat herself on top of his dagger. Better yet, thought to tuck one of her own down the front of her bodice.

Clemen’s self-styled duke smiled. “I’m not lying, Madam. Or mad. I promise.”

It was the smile that eased her suspicion. Easy, unselfconscious, touched with a hint of self-mockery. As though he knew better than anyone how ludicrous he sounded and wasn’t afraid to admit it. Relaxing, just a little, she considered him more closely from beneath circumspectly lowered eyelids.

This
was Roric? The man she wanted for Catrain? This bold, almost insolent, horse-killing, peace-breaking noble bastard who’d spilled family blood for the sake of ambition. Or honour. Or whatever reason had provoked Harald’s bloodthirsty dethroning. This was Roric, the late and widely lamented Berold’s illegitimate grandson?

Well… they shared the same hair colour. And knowing Berold’s likeness, since a portrait of him gifted to Baldwin’s mother still hung in Carillon’s palace, she could see now that his bastard grandson had the ghostly look of him in the eyes, and the way he stood his ground, unafraid. He wasn’t dressed like a duke, unacclaimed or otherwise. But then, what did a duke wear when fighting fires and killing horses?

She straightened an emerald ring upon her finger. “An outrageous declaration, ser. You can prove it, I suppose?”

“Only a fool with a death-wish would pronounce himself Roric, surely,” he said, still amused, “when the lowest man-at-arms in Eaglerock could with one glance say it was untrue.”

Curving her lips, she kept her eyes cool. “In other words, you can’t.”

“Berardine…” There was a stout wooden settle pressed against the wall. Roric crossed to it and sat, leaning back, his arms loosely folded. “In my time at Harald’s court—” Some raw memory killed his lingering amusement. Shadowed his gaze, pinched his lips. “My cousin trusted me with letters you wrote to his council. Half-blinded I’d still know your handwriting. And while I’m a stranger to Master Tihomir, I was friendly with Master Locksill, the man he replaced. Your former factor can marry my face to my name. That is, if the word of an Eaglerock man-at-arms isn’t good enough.”

Berardine looked at her neatly clasped hands. The change in him, mentioning Harald, was too raw for deception. It set her suspicions at ease. This was indeed the the man she’d come to secure for her daughter.

“Tell me, Roric,” she said, intending cruelty, needing honesty. “Did you mean to kill the babe, or were you simply careless?”

Tears sprang to his eyes. “I didn’t kill Liam.”

“Someone else, then? On your orders.”

“
No
,” he said harshly. “The babe’s death—” Biting his lip, he pressed folded arms to his ribs so hard it was a wonder he could breathe. “It was an accident. One I deeply regret.”

“Do you?”

“Liam was my flesh and blood! More than that, he was innocent. I would
never
harm him, or order him harmed!”

She knew a score of men who could speak those words with that same wounded passion, summon the same touching tears to their eyes, and she’d never believe them. Roric, she believed. The knot of fearful anxiety lodged beneath her breastbone eased. Perhaps she could give Catrain to this man and not feel like a whoremaster selling a bawd.

“I’d be interested to know how you found me,” she said, letting go the matter of Harald’s slaughtered son. “Don’t say I have a Clemen spy in my court.”

Roric smiled, briefly. “Blame sharp Clemen eyes rather than shadowy deceit. You were recognised, Madam.”

“By whom?”

“Does it matter?”

She frowned. “You know it does.”

“By one of Humbert’s men.”

Sharp relief. She wasn’t betrayed, then. It was a comfort, after a night of much discomfort. “Who else knows I’m here?”

“To my knowledge? No one.”

Again, she believed him. There was an honesty in Roric that she found both refreshing and alarming. Whatever seedlings of duplicity he’d managed to find in himself that had let him cozen Harald, best he nurture them swiftly. No great ruler could afford the luxury of an untarnished conscience.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he added, watching her. “About compensating Ardenn for what was lost in those warehouses. Fire is always a danger, but I saw chaos tonight. I’ll make sure we do better next time.”

“Make sure of it,” she said. “For while I’ll take Clemen’s coin, gladly, some things can’t be bought twice. Tihomir tells me there were priceless manuscripts that burned.”

Roric winced. “I’m sorry.” Then, unfolding his arms, he leaned forward, his eyes intent. “Why are you here, Berardine? What do you want, that you must ask for it in secret?”

This time she straightened all five of her rings, rubbing a smudge from her favourite ruby, noting a small pink diamond loosened in its gold clasp. Shoddy work by the goldsmith. She’d not buy from him again.

“Berardine?”

Never had she imagined brokering Catrain’s marriage in such a fashion, filled with smoky sorrow and lacking sleep. She felt gauche and ill-prepared. Like a supplicant, not a duchess. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

“It’s a delicate matter, Roric. One close to my late husband’s heart, and mine, that concerns Ardenn’s future, and Clemen’s… and most importantly yours. Will you hear me out? Or would you rather play the grand duke, and leave here as ignorant as you were before you came?”

B
efore Roric could answer, the dayroom’s door pushed open.

“Mama?” said Catrain, entering. “Why are you—” But instead of finishing her question she stopped, staring at Roric. “
You!
What are you doing here? Did you save the horse? Please, please, tell me you did!”

Startled, Berardine watched Roric leap to his feet. “The horse? No. I’m sorry,” he said, as surprised as her daughter. “But I didn’t let it suffer. It was the best I could do.”

Catrain, who loved horses more than gold, was blinking back tears. “At least you tried. Those other men wouldn’t even do that much. Cowards. I hate them. I hope
they
burn one day!”

“Fierce maid,” said Roric. He sounded approving. “I’m quaking in my boots all over again.”

Catrain smiled at that. Though she wore an unremarkable green woollen dress, girdled about the hips with a plain leather belt, and her riotous hair was bundled haphazard into an unjewelled caul, her youthful beauty remained undimmed. Her expressive eyes revealed unfeigned admiration and interest. Roric’s gaze, sharply attentive, showed rapt attention.

Both had forgotten they weren’t alone.

“Catrain.” With an effort, Berardine relaxed her clenched fingers. “Am I to understand you left this house during the night? Without permission? Or an escort?”

Recalled to dutiful obedience, Catrain turned. Saw how much strife she was in, and looked down. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I wanted to see for myself what was happening.”

“And you escaped the premises how?”

“After you came to see I was unfrightened, I crept downstairs and hid in the pantry,” Catrain muttered, belatedly shamefaced. “And when the uproar over the fire was loudest, I slipped out the back.”

Of course she did. Curious, resourceful and undaunted: Catrain was Baldwin’s daughter in every way. “And how did
seeing things for yourself
lead to a burning barn full of horses?”

Blushing, Catrain fidgeted her feet. “I heard some men shouting about stables on fire, and then I heard the horses in distress. I thought I could help.” She looked up, beseeching. “Mama, I
had
to. I couldn’t just leave the poor things. That would’ve been cruel.”

She felt sick. And furious. All the while she’d stood in this dayroom, watching from a safe distance as Ardenn’s warehouses burned, thinking her precious daughter was out of harm’s way upstairs, the wicked child had been running loose in the riotous streets, no better than a tavern brat, caring only for
horses
.

“You risked your life for Harcian nags?”

Roric cleared his throat. “I can’t deny she was foolish, Madam. But your daughter was monstrous brave, too. You can be proud of that.”

“Can I?” she said coldly, berating him with her stare. “And the next time she’s monstrous brave, and it kills her, will pride smother my grief? Or undo the damage her disobedience will have wrought?”

“Life is uncertain, Madam,” he said, unflinching. “Some of us die old, and some die young, and few of us have a say in it. What matters is how we live. And if we live without courage, then better we never lived at all.”

Unimpressed, Berardine snorted. “Fine words, my lord. Most noble, I’m sure. But I wonder if you’d speak so swiftly in her defence if Catrain were your wife tonight, instead of my daughter.”

“Wife?” Catrain’s eyes widened. “Mama–is this
Roric
?”

“Wife?” Roric echoed, looking sharply between them. Then a disconcerted understanding dawned in his eyes. “Berardine—”

With all her careful plans in smoking ruins now, she took a moment to settle her breathing and ease her spine. “One moment, my lord. Catrain, leave us.”

Wisely, her daughter made no argument. “Mama,” she murmured, bobbing a dutiful curtsey. Then she smiled at Roric. “Your Grace.”

The door closed firmly behind her. Shaking his head, Roric returned to the settle. “So this is why you’ve come to Eaglerock? To broker a marriage between Clemen and Ardenn?”

She showed him nothing but cool self-control. “You find the notion abhorrent?”

“I find the notion astonishing,” he said, and laughed. Not a mocking sound, so that was something. “Marriage. With your daughter. With that–that
child
.”

“Catrain is fourteen. By law she is a woman, and of marriageable age.”

Roric raised a hand. “Laws are ink on paper. To my eyes, she’s a child.”

“But a brave one. You said it yourself. And not… unattractive.”

A gleam in Roric’s eyes as he silently acknowledged her daughter’s beauty. “You’re serious, Berardine? You’re offering me Catrain?”

“I am.”

“Even though I’m a bastard, and killed my cousin for his throne?”

“Bastard or not, you’re Berold’s grandson,” she replied. “Duke Berold was much respected in Ardenn. He even courted Baldwin’s grandmother, briefly. So you see, there is precedence. As for the manner of your cousin’s demise…” She discounted Harald with a shrug. “History is littered with untidy successions.”

A muscle leapt in Roric’s cheek. “If I made Catrain my duchess, her home would be here in Eaglerock. Or do you suggest I rule Clemen from your late husband’s palace?”

She should be pleased, really, that he was a man who didn’t let beauty blind him to awkward truths.

“Are Clemen and Ardenn so far apart?” she retorted. “I think my presence proves they’re not. The dukes of Clemen are in the habit of travelling. If you travelled a trifle further than usual, what harm is there in that?”

He drummed dirty fingers on his knee. “And what does the Prince of Cassinia think?”

“The Prince of Cassinia is a milksuck.”

“Who has a council of regents.”

She shrugged. “There is no law in Cassinia barring a marriage between you and Catrain.”

“The prince’s regents could write one.”

“They could,” she agreed. “At their peril. Cassinia’s dukes are coming to treasure their growing independence from the crown. And what constrains Ardenn today might constrain one of them tomorrow. The dukes of Cassinia aren’t fond of constraint.”

“Neither was Harald,” said Roric, very quietly. “It didn’t end well for him.”

Troubled, he pushed off the settle and began roaming the dayroom as though it were his own to wander. Sunrise flooded brightly through the window, making the paler light of lamp and candle almost disappear. Shifting in her chair, Berardine saw that the long night was catching up with him. Weariness slowed his movements, bruised shadows beneath his eyes.

“Believe me, Roric, I’d not intended to raise this matter with you in such a tumultuous fashion,” she said, softening her voice with sympathy. “But events, it seems, have trampled me. And since the ice is broken…”

Halted before the window, Roric rested his fingertips against the uneven glass. As though he would reach out and touch the blackened warehouses. Give comfort to those the fire had burned most deeply, and lend strength to the men who still toiled amidst the hot ashes.

“You’ve taken me unawares, Beradine,” he said at last. “I’d never thought to marry.”

“No? But surely every man dreams of a son.”

“Every man, yes,” he said, wry. “But not every bastard.”

“You’re no longer a bastard, Roric. You’re Clemen’s duke.”

“Almost.” Letting his hand fall, he glanced over his shoulder. “Can I trust you with a confidence?”

“Of course.”

“It was never my ambition to create my own lordly house. I meant to caretake Clemen for Liam. Keep it safe for him till he was grown, and able to rule in his own right.”

She blinked. “A noble thought, Roric, but impractical. You have to know Harald would have raised his son to hate you.”

“Perhaps. But I was prepared to bear the burden of Liam’s hatred.” He grimaced. “Believe me, the burden of his death is far worse.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said, smothering irritation. Roric might have time for maudlin sentiment, but she didn’t. “And I’m sorry for your grief. But now Clemen needs its future secured. And for that, you must marry and have sons.”

“With Catrain?”

“I think so.”

Roric turned, his expression sardonic. “Cassinia has no eligible men?”

“None good enough for my daughter.”

“But I am. When you know nothing about me.”

“Roric.” She stood, meeting him stare for stare. “Am I a fool? What I need to know of you, I know.”

“You need to know I’d never surrender Clemen to Cassinian rule.”

“Nor would I ask you to. I seek an alliance that would enrich both our duchies. Is that really so unthinkable? Clemen and Ardenn already share a rich history. Indeed, you sprang from us. The blood of my distant forbears flows through your veins. Together, Roric, I know we can achieve great things.”

He took a moment to examine his grimy fingernails. “And if I married your daughter, would I be named Duke of Ardenn?”

“No,” she said, fighting the urge to fiddle with her rings. “But your son would be. Could you content yourself with that?”

Roric smoothed a hand over his close-cropped hair. Frowned at the fresh soot smears on his palm. “I could. But that’s not the same as saying I will. You must know, Berardine, I can’t answer you now. I’ll have to discuss your offer with Clemen’s council.”

“You can answer me this. Do you truly not mislike Catrain for her hoydenish antics with the horses?”

The corner of his wide mouth quirked in a fleeting half-smile. “No. I don’t mislike her. For that, or anything else.”

Well, then. Perhaps the Exarch was right, and there was a god after all. “That’s a start.”

“You and Catrain should go home to Carillon,” he said. “Tonight. I’ll have no swift decision for you, and you can’t stay here for days on end. Word of your presence will spread, and that could cause trouble for both of us. Make sure Tihomir sends me a reckoning of your losses and I’ll see you’re promptly recompensed.”

She nodded. “That’s generous. I’m pleased to see it. I’d not wed my daughter to a miserly man.”

He held out his hand, and she returned his bloodstained dagger to him. Sheathing it, he favoured her with another half-smile. “The generosity is yours, Berardine. Catrain is a rare maid.” He bowed. “Have a safe journey home, Madam. I’ll show myself out.”

Much, much later, long after Tihomir had been despatched to warn the
Dancer
’s captain that he should be ready to sail his galley home to Ardenn that night, Catrain crept back into the dayroom. For once in her mischievous life she was properly subdued, as befitted the properly brought-up daughter of a duke.

“Mama?” she said, demurely standing before her. “Duke Roric. Will he have me?”

Remaining seated, Berardine looked at her. A needle-sharp pain pricked remorseless behind her dry, tired eyes. “I don’t know.”

Catrain swallowed. “Because of the horses?”

“No. He admires you for the horses. I think he’s the only man breathing in the world who would.”

“Oh.” Catrain tried, and failed, to smother a smile. “I see.”

Abruptly furious, she fought the desire to slap her oldest daughter–and lost.

“
Mama!
” Shocked, one hand pressed to her blotched cheek, Catrain gulped for air. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I’m not interested in
sorry
, Catrain! What use to me is
sorry
, with Roric returned to his castle and us dismissed home to Ardenn, and all my careful plans for our meeting gone up in flames and smoke like that horse!”

Tears spilled from Catrain’s beautiful eyes. “But you said he didn’t mislike me. You said—”

“I know what I said! But this is a delicate business, child. And what must
you
do but blunder through it like a farmhand in muddy, hobnailed boots!”

Still weeping, Catrain crumpled onto the settle. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Must we really go home? Aren’t we invited to Roric’s court? I’d have done well there, Mama. I’d have learned lots of useful secrets for Ardenn. And–and I think I’d have made Roric like me.”

Remembering his small half-smile, Berardine sighed. “Liking you isn’t the rub. Roric likes you already.”

“Then there’s still hope? He and I might yet be married?”

Perhaps… but she was far from sure. All her plans for Catrain, and Ardenn, had rested on her meeting with Roric. A meeting the time and place of which she had planned to control, where she’d intended to charm and cajole and persuade until Harald’s bastard cousin gave her the answer she wanted. But thanks to Lord Humbert’s man, who’d seen her, and the warehouse fire, which had ruined the night? She controlled nothing.

But that wasn’t Catrain’s fault.

“Mama?”

Temper cooled, she regretted losing it. The only spark of brightness in this muddy mess was that Roric had found something in
Catrain to admire. She opened her arms. Catrain rushed to her, and they embraced.

“Don’t fret, child,” she said, stroking her daughter’s neatly contained hair. “This is a setback, nothing more. We might leave Eaglerock on tonight’s tide… but we’ll be back again soon enough. I know it.”

For Izusa had promised the marriage would happen. And Izusa was never wrong.

“
Marriage?
” Humbert stared, incredulous. “With
Ardenn
? What, is the widow gone mad?”

Seated in their half-circle of chairs in Eaglerock’s council chamber, the rest of Clemen’s councillors muttered agreement with Humbert’s shocked demand. Seated separately, his chair raised upon a modest dais, Roric examined their faces as he waited for the fuss to die down. Did any man here think the notion of Clemen’s duke wedding Catrain was worth serious consideration?

Humbert didn’t, clearly. And from his look of derision, neither did Aistan. Scarwid huffed and puffed as though trying to recover from some mortal insult. As for Farland and the lords Hyett and Egann, they seemed just as unenthused. Only Ercole, banished to the council’s outskirts, slumped in his chair with apparent disinterest. Perhaps it was lingering grief for Argante. With Ercole it was hard to tell. Pouting disdain was all he’d ever shown his fellow councillors. This morning, though he was dressed head-to-toe in velvet and jewels, with his gilded hair newly shorn and slicked with Rebbai pomade, he looked like a petulant child.