The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (8 page)

Her wee man blew a sticky bubble, then started to wail.

“No, Liam,” she implored, jigging him. “Don’t you start that. You’ll have me in such trouble. The old cow, she’ll blame my milk.”

And then the lady Argante would hiss like a cat and tell the duke to find another wet nurse for Liam. If that happened, she’d die.

Walking as she jigged him, she crossed them to the narrow, gilded door opposite Liam’s cradle. It was the lady Morda’s chamber behind there, the privy closet she had claim to because the nursery was in her charge. No straw-stuffed pallet on the flagstones beside the cradle for that old cow. Holding her breath, Ellyn pressed one ear against the painted wood, but heard nothing save the lady’s snores, rough as a hacksaw in a log.

“All mousey, lamb,” she whispered, backing away. “So hush now, hush.”

Liam’s wail stuttered into hiccups, but that was only the lull before the storm. There’d be more wails soon enough if she didn’t keep him sweet. A longer walk, then. But it was night-time, the stone corridors chilly. Let Liam catch an ague and she’d kiss farewell to those kindly looks from the duke. He’d kill her with his bare hands, instead. His son was worth more to him than all the gold and jewels in Clemen.

Ellyn bundled her little lambkin into a fine scarlet-dyed blanket, the wool to make it brought over land and sea all the way from duchy Ardenn, in Cassinia. They grew the best wool there, everyone knew that. But even so,
ten gold marks
for three hanks of sheep’s wool! Still, not even ten gold marks was o’erspending. Not for precious Liam. After he was safely snugged and gummy smiling, she wrapped them both in her coarse brown woollen cloak then slipped out of the nursery to wander Heartsong for a while.

The castle stood but three storeys high, not counting the kitchens and cellars below or the tower keep at one corner, and Liam’s nursery was an eagle’s eyrie on the uppermost floor. Expecting to find at least one of the duke’s men-at-arms nearby, she was surprised to discover the corridor empty and echoing. She hesitated, uncertain. But then faint strains of music drew her towards the stone spiral staircase leading down to the four-sided minstrel gallery above the Great Hall, where Duke Harald and his duchess and the court amused themselves of a night.

Warm beneath the plain cloak as they took the tight-turning stone stairs one careful step at a time, Liam wriggled and cooed. Ellyn smiled, feeling the damp on her linen undershirt where her little man had drooled. Reaching the gallery at last, she stopped.

There was the missing man-at-arms, snatching a few moments of music to brighten a dull watch. Emun, his name. A bit rough, like all men-at-arms, and older than her by a tenyear, but not a bad sod. She’d known worse. Emun spun about, hearing her laced leather slippers on the flagstones, his knee-length mail coat rattling its own rough music. The fat candles set into the stone wall beside him betrayed his surprise and sudden, red-faced guilt.

Ellyn pressed a finger to her lips, giving him her best saucy dimples. Let the twinkle in her eye tell him she’d not tattle if he didn’t, so he should stay and enjoy the music a bit longer. But Emun frowned, his thieved moment spoilt, his fear of the castle’s serjeant too great. Because he had a ready, slapping hand, she stepped aside from the arching stone
doorway so he could stomp past her and Liam and take the spiral staircase back to where he belonged.

She wasn’t sorry to hear his footsteps fade away. She liked it best when she and Liam were alone.

“There, my lamb,” she murmured. “Let’s bide a while and listen, shall we? And watch your fine, handsome Dadda dance.”

“My lord Roric.”

“Serjeant Belden.” Roric, answering whisper with whisper, examined the man’s rough-hewn face in the torchlight falling through Heartsong’s narrowly opened sally port. Resignation there, a touch of fear, but no treachery. The man was standing firm. “Is all ready?”

The castle’s senior man-at-arms nodded. “His Grace is at his pleasure, keeping company with his lords and ladies in the Great Hall. They’re well-plied with wine, and mellow.”

“Your men? How many in all?”

“Fifteen.”

Still only a handful, then, even this close to the Marches. Harald’s overconfident arrogance was serving them well.

“Where will we find them?”

“There are none in the hall itself, my lord. Two stand at its doors. Four have the roaming of the castle, roof to cellars. The rest I’ve posted where they’ll do you least harm.”

“We crossed paths with no one outside.”

“No, my lord. I’ve kept every last man within doors. I didn’t want to risk them seeing the arrow.”

Roric nodded. “A clever thought.”

“My lord.” The serjeant chewed at his lip. “My lord, about my men. I’d not—”

“I make no promises I’m not sure to keep, Belden. But I’ll do my best to see they’re not slaughtered.”

The serjeant sighed gustily. “Yes, my lord.”

At his back, Humbert cursed. “Roric! What’s the hold?”

“No hold,” he said, turning. “I’m making sure of our welcome.”

A burning torch was set in the stonework above the sally port. In its guttering light he saw Humbert’s frown. Vidar’s almost-concealed tension. Open tension in the shadowed faces of the lords who stood with him: Aistan, Farland, Hankin and Morholt. Disciplined behind them stood the two score of men-at-arms sworn to follow their lords. Not a one of them
belonged to him, yet to a man he commanded them. If they died this night, their blood would wet his head.

“
Roric
.”

He looked again at Heartsong’s guardian. “Serjeant of the Guard, do you grant us entry?”

Belden’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the sally port door, then he nodded. “I do, my lord Roric. The castle is yours.”

O
n the far side of Heartsong’s gallery, across the lofty expanse of hall below with its tapestry-hung walls and wrought-iron candle wheels, Duke Harald’s minstrels played their merry music so Clemen’s lords and ladies might dance. Not dusty, out-of-tune travelling minstrels these, but clean, swift-fingered men paid to travel with the court and give the duke music whenever he wanted. Ellyn tugged her cloak aside so Liam could see and hear them, and smiled at his alertness.

“See, lamb?” she whispered, creeping closer to the wide oak railing. Not close enough for notice, though. Like Emun, she didn’t look for trouble. “That music, it’s for you. And those rousty men with their tabors and little fiddles and pipes, they belong to you too. Or they will do, one day. Or if they don’t, their sons will. Just like Clemen will be yours, when you’re a man and your father is–is—”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, never mind Liam was too young for understanding. Looking down over the gallery’s half-wall, where Clemen’s northern lords and ladies caroused, she feasted her eyes on Duke Harald.

Tall and bold, he was, as Liam would be in his turn. The enormous beeswax candles and the golden firelight spilling from the wide hearth burnished his chestnut hair and his bronze silk tunic as he stood with
two favoured noblemen, the lords Gaspar and Scarwid, clapping his hands and stamping his feet to the lively music. At nine-and-thirty years old, Duke Harald was past his prime, some would say. But those who said so, they didn’t know him. They’d not seen the duke astride his coal-black destrier, with his favourite falcon hooded and fierce on his upraised wrist. They’d not heard him laugh or seen him dance or cross great-swords in the tilt yard with his bastard cousin, the lord Roric.

No one who’d seen any of that would dare call Harald
old
.

The duke’s lady Argante was dancing, beautiful in her glittering headdress and pearl-sewn blue velvet gown, but she wasn’t partnered with him. Not with the lord Roric, either, or poor Lord Vidar who did still dance a little, despite his troubles. They were gone from Heartsong, about great doings for the duke. Just now Harald’s lady was dancing with Lord Ercole, her unwed half-brother. He was as plain as she was fair, which might well be why they danced. So she’d show to best advantage. It couldn’t be for the joy of it, since there was no deep love between Lord Ercole and his half-sister. She’d heard Duke Harald’s lady cursing him to her favourite damsel, Helsine. But that was because she’d caught the lord Ercole with his hand up Helsine’s skirt, fingers busy where they had no right to be and Helsine not protesting. Argante slapped Helsine’s cheek as scarlet as Liam’s blanket and raged until the girl’s eyes near washed out of her silly head from weeping.

Not that the lady Argante cared so much what her half-brother did, or even Helsine. No, the tantrum at Helsine was because, like her brother, Duke Harald’s fingers dabbled where the lady Argante thought they shouldn’t and she couldn’t shout at him or slap his handsome face scarlet.

“As if she had a right to,” Ellyn told Liam, safe in her arms. “A duke does as he pleases. So hard as he labours for Clemen, what’s a kiss and a fumble? All the fine jewels your father gives her, and the dresses, and the feasts, how can she grudge him? She flirts. I’ve seen her.”

And she’d seen the duke do more than flirt in shadowed corners and on many spiralling castle stairs, with fine ladies who sometimes sighed, sometimes sobbed. She hated them sharp as a knife, being touched like that, by him, so handsome with his curling chestnut hair and broad shoulders. It stirred her own hunger, that she’d fed just the once and a dead bastard to show for it. She dreamed of Duke Harald’s fingers, sometimes, and woke wet and aching.

Her breathing half-hitched, Ellyn held Harald’s son tight and trembled her longing.

Far below, in the Great Hall, the duke broke from his noblemen’s company, snatched an armful of delighted lady and leapt into the dance. The falcon stitched into his bronze tunic dazzled its gold wings in the candlelight, talons out-thrust, sharply curved beak gaped wide. The other lords and their ladies, bound to obey the duke, joined in the dancing after him. Rubies flashed fire. Gold shone like the sun, and silver like sun-struck fresh snow. The nobles of Clemen at their play, no tears for them. No sorrows. Everything at their fingertips and nothing to regret.

Unseen above them, Ellyn danced with Liam in the minstrels’ gallery, making him laugh. It was as close to joy as she would ever come, and she knew it. Too soon her wee man would be weaned off her. The lady Morda would take him and she’d be banished to the milch cows for her own milk to dry up.

“Liam, Liam,” she whispered, and wept as they danced. Then she had to stop dancing because, like an arrow from a blue sky, hunger struck hard in her belly. It took a lot of meat and bread to make all the milk Liam could drink. The duke knew that, so she had his leave to seek out the kitchen whenever she needed.

Down in the Great Hall, Duke Harald laughed. Wrapping Liam close again in his soft, scarlet blanket and her coarse cloak, feeling herself wrapped close in Duke Harald’s carefree happiness, Ellyn left the music behind and went in search of hot, plentiful food.

As the iron-studded sally port’s door groaned shut behind the last of his borrowed men-at-arms, Roric looked around the crowded guards’ chamber at the grim faces of the lords who’d risked everything to follow him. In a few hours’ time, either the sun would rise upon their victory or else on their hacked corpses. His guts tightened. If only this could be done without risking anyone else. If only it were as easy as killing his cousin. That would be no challenge. Harald trusted him. A simple matter, then, to slit his throat in the dark.

Simple… and dishonourable. The duchy deserved better, and so did Harald’s infant son.

Silently, Humbert and Vidar and the other lords and their men-at-arms shed their cumbersome cloaks. Guttering torchlight played upon the blades of their swords, unsheathed for the stealthy crossing from
copse to castle. Mouth dry, Roric fumbled one-handed at his own cloak pin.

“You barred the door, Serjeant?” he said, letting his cloak fall to the stone floor as Belden joined them.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then find your trusted men outside the hall and tell them to be canny. Spread word to the rest after, quickly and quietly. Order them not to interfere. We’ve no wish to wade through blood spilled for misplaced loyalty.”

“But we will spill it,” Vidar added, “if any man is fool enough to show us naked steel.”

Belden frowned, his eyes glassy with unease. Roric flicked Vidar a warning glance, then touched the man’s arm. “You’ve trained them to heed you, man?”

“Yes, my lord. Of course. But—”

“Good. Trust to that. And if any choose not to heed you what happens is their doing and no shame on you. They’re not slaves, with their free will taken from them.”

“My lord,” said Belden, his voice strangled.

Hearing the fear, the doubt, Roric took the serjeant’s shoulder in a firm grasp. “What we do here is right, Belden. But right is rarely easy.”

Belden dragged a hand down his face, rasping stubble. “It surely isn’t, my lord.”

“Don’t despair, my friend,” he said gently. “When this is over Clemen will know you for its truest son. Now stand aside. Some of these lords and their men will go with you to secure Heartsong, but I’d have words with them first.”

“My lord,” said the serjeant, and withdrew to the mouth of the corridor leading into the castle proper.

When Belden was out of earshot, Roric shifted his gaze past Humbert and Vidar to Aistan, oldest and most experienced of the remaining lords. Next to Humbert, he’d worked hardest to bring Clemen’s great nobles to this undertaking. But then Aistan had suffered more. With his wife and his daughter both debauched by Harald, his sister robbed of the lands owed to her from her dead husband and his own estates reduced to feed Harald’s insatiable greed, he had every reason to want Clemen’s rapacious duke thrown down.

“Be swift, Aistan, and stealthy,” he said. “I prefer Harald completely surprised.”

Aistan nodded, content to be led by a younger, less experienced man because of his blood-tie to Berold. Roric felt his heart thud. If he let himself dwell on that, the burden might break him.

“I’ve no doubt the bastard will be surprised,” Aistan said gravely, amusing his brother nobles and their men-at-arms. “Never fear, Roric. We’ll clear the weeds from your path.”

“You heard what I told Belden,” he added. “Honour it, as far as you’re able. Temper just cause with mercy. There is one enemy here and his name is Harald.”

“Agreed,” said Aistan, as the other lords nodded. His lips curved in a small, grim smile. “But when you face the real enemy…”

“Never fear, Aistan. My mercy is saved for those who deserve it.”

“Well said,” Humbert muttered, standing back to let Aistan and the others lead their purposeful men-at-arms out of the guards’ chamber.

“And since we speak of Harald,” said Vidar, “I’m wondering. Do we now bait the cornered bear? Or should we tarry some time longer, chatting?”

Ah, Vidar. But even as he opened his mouth to make a tart reply, Roric hesitated. “Lord Aistan, hold,” he said, then slapped the stone wall to attract Belden’s attention. “Serjeant, to me.”

“Roric?” Humbert was frowning “What’s the—”

A touch to Humbert’s arm hushed him. A moment later, Belden rejoined them. “Serjeant, on any other night how many men would you set to prowling the castle grounds?”

“Three or four, my lord,” said the serjeant, puzzled. “Depending.”

“Then find your four men closest to the hall and send them outside by any door but the sally port. You’ll save them from harm and make our task the simpler. When that’s done, and your other guards are subdued, leave the lords to their business and come back to me here.”

Relief and gratitude warmed Belden’s sharp eyes. “My lord.”

“That’s a good thought, Roric,” said Vidar, as the guards’ chamber began to empty. “But I do question the wisdom of skulking here while Aistan and the others bring Heartsong to heel.”

“You’re the one who called Harald a cornered bear,” Roric said, stifling anger. “Would you face a bear without first sending in all the dogs?”

“
Enough
,” Humbert said, before Vidar could say more. “Roric’s made his choice. Now we wait.”

“And I suggest we wait at the other end of the corridor,” said Roric,
gesturing with his sword. Shadows flickered along its gleaming, lethal length. “After you, my lord Humbert. And you, Vidar.”

“More pottage, Ellyn?” said Nelda, keeping her voice hushed so the cook, her mother’s crotchety sister and her only living kin, wouldn’t rouse in her fireside chair and start beating anyone she could reach with a wooden spoon. “Go on. There be plenty.”

The small night kitchen was drowsy warm with its flame-crowded hearth, and whispered full of music from the Great Hall above. Its long, wide bench was laden with dainty morsels waiting a summons from the duke. Leek and cheese tartlets, minced pork tartlets, tiny napwing eggs in aspic, pewter cups of frumenty and sturdy wheels of cheese. Fine food for fine nobles, floated down their elegant throats on the best wines in Clemen.

Squeezed at the bench’s far end, Ellyn swallowed the last scraping of bean mush from her bowl and slumped a little on her stool. She envied the sleeping cook. Naughty Liam, keeping her awake so late and so long.

“More ale, I’d like,” she said, smothering a yawn. “But I’m bellyful else, Nelda, and I thank you.”

“It be hard work, feeding a babe,” said Nelda, her shy smile come-and-gone. “I’ll fetch your ale.”

Hard work it surely was, feeding and holding. Ellyn wriggled a bit, trying to ease the ache in her arm from keeping Liam pressed close. She longed to lay him beside Nelda’s bastard brat on its straw-stuffed pallet, just for a moment, but she couldn’t. The cook might be snoring fit to rival Lady Morda but not even that old besom would snore through Liam, screaming. And scream he would, for certain, if his Ellyn set him down on the floor.

“Here,” said Nelda, pouring more ale. For all she was young and skinny, she hefted the pitcher as though it weighed light as air. “Drink up.” With the tankard full again she stepped back, and sighed at sleeping Liam. “Ah, he’s a fine boy, Ellyn. It’s strong milk you’ve got, him growing so fast.”

She swallowed half her fresh ale before answering. “True, he’s a bonny lamb. And yours, Nelda? Tygo? He seems fine, too.”

“Ais,” said Nelda, nodding. “No sign of sickly on him, at least not so far. Not as brave as little Liam, though, for all he’s a moon older.”

Ellyn hid her face in her tankard. And why would a kitchen drudge’s
brat be any like to her lamb, Tygo being planted in Nelda by a passing trinket-man, not a duke? But it seemed unkind to say as much, especially after that tasty pottage, so she drank more ale instead.

“If he stays small, he’ll find work here on the turnspit, like little Thom and his kind,” said Nelda, with a frowning glance at the three kitchen boys gnawing heels of bread along the wall beside the fireplace. “My mam’s told me I dursn’t hope for more.”

With a ripe burp, Ellyn pushed the emptied tankard to one side. “He’ll be warm in winter, any road.”

“Ais, and soused in sweat othertimes,” said Nelda, sighing. Then she ruffled herself, like a hen. “But tie my tongue for griping. There be fathers what drown their daughters’ bastard brats, and mams as tell them to do it. Tygo’s living and he’s with me. I’ve no cause to gobble.” Stepping briskly, she returned the ale pitcher to its slab-sided stone jar in the corner furthest from the flame-warmed hearth. “Not to you, leastways. You lost your own, I’m told. That’s a sad thing and I’m sorry for it.”

Fussing with Liam’s scarlet blanket, Ellyn made a grunting sound that could’ve meant anything. Let Nelda decide, it was easier.

“I’d ask you, Ellyn, if I could,” Nelda started, but then a coming-closer pattering of footsteps in the corridor beyond the night kitchen turned her. A moment later one of Heartsong’s pages scuttled in, puffed up in his green velvet tunic and fine wool hose, a little Clemen lordling.