Free The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) by Karen Miller Page B

“It’s
because
I honour my father that I think on this task, even as I stand here prepared to shed his blood from Harald’s body, if I must!”
    When it came, Humbert’s released breath was like a groan. “It might not come to slaughter.”
    “Might not, no. But Humbert, it might, and that will be a heavy thing to live with. And explaining it to Liam, when he’s old enough to understand?”
    Just the thought could make him heave.
    “You want to turn tail, then?” Humbert demanded.
    “I want to save Clemen!”
    Humbert stepped so close that his sigh felt like a warm, ale-scented breeze. “And if we could save it without riding roughshod over Harald, don’t you think it would’ve been saved before tonight?”
    Roric looked away, weary before he’d struck a single blow. “Yes, my lord.”
    “Yes, my lord,” Humbert echoed, close to pleading. “And I’d call you my lord, Roric. I’d call you my duke.” His finger stabbed at Heartsong, where Harald caroused unawares. “But I can’t call you either until that piece of offal is done with. And the only man who can see him done is you. The only head fit for Clemen’s coronet is yours. No more of Berold’s blood remains.”
    “That’s not true.”
    “Infants die every day, boy! Who’s to say Harald’s brat will live to see another winter?”
    A fair question. Humbert had buried his two sons untimely, and both of Guimar’s true-born sons had died in their youth. Clemen’s grass grew green over the bones of young men and dead babes.
    But even so…
    “Liam’s not dead yet, Humbert. And by rights, Clemen is his.”
    “This duchy has no need of a milk-suck,” said Humbert. “Even if the brat does survive, what use is it to us? We need a man who knows how to wield a sword. I promise you this, Roric. Grant Harald’s babe the coronet, trammel it with regents, as they’ve done in Cassinia, and the wolves of Harcia will be at our throats before summer’s end.”
    “Aimery has never—”
    “It’s not Aimery I fear! It’s his curs’t heir wants to spill our blood in the mire–and Balfre is mongrel enough to try!”
    He wished he could deny it. But Balfre had long made it plain he saw Clemen as stolen land. With one whiff of weakness, Aimery’s heir and his friends would ride the Marches flat in their haste to reclaim Clemen for Harcia. And whispers from Harcia cast doubt on Aimery’s ability to stop him. Balfre was a hot-head, full of temper and bile. Fresh gossip held he now had innocent blood on his hands, an enemy killed under cover of rough play. That was the stamp of Aimery’s heir.
    “Roric,” said Humbert. There was iron in his voice. “I want an answer. Do you honour your oath and wield your sword in defence of this plundered duchy, or do you forswear yourself and toss Clemen in the midden?”
    His sword, belted close by his side. A knight-gift from Guimar, costly and much loved. Heavy with promises and oaths newly sworn, in secret. Harald’s doom… or his own.
    Doubt was pointless. In this, he had no choice. Closing his fingers around the sword’s hilt, Roric drew breath to reply and end the untimely, unwelcome dispute.
    “He’ll fight, of course,” said Vidar, joining them. Cat-footed as ever,despite the halt in his stride. “He loves Clemen as some men love their wives. And a pox on you for doubting it, my lord.”
    Any other man speaking so to Humbert would find himself clubbed to his knees. Vidar, being Vidar, earned nothing more violent than a glare. “We’re not here to henhouse,” Humbert muttered. “If you’ve a mind to be useful, keep an eye open for the signal.”
    Vidar’s scarred face twitched, the closest he mostly came to a smile. In the moonlight, the eye that hadn’t been stitched shut glinted. “My lord, I’ll do my best.” Ignoring Humbert’s angry chagrin, he jerked his chin at the castle. “But since you mention it… the night wears thin, Roric, and there’s still no sign we’re welcome. Are