The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) by Karen Miller Page 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.
    Balfre
.
    Aimery felt his breathing hitch. When would his son realise he must be a better man than the man who’d knocked Black Hughe from saddle to coffin? Than the man who blamed Jancis for their sorrows and looked with sour envy upon Grefin and his thriving son?
    He must know he disappoints himself. He must know he breaks my heart
.
    Even so, there was courage in him, and the capacity for love. If he was spoiled a little, if he wasn’t Malcolm, surely he wasn’t yet rotten. Surely he could still be saved.
    For Harcia’s sake he must be.
    Staring over his battlements, seeing in his mind’s eye every village and creek and manor that by birthright he owned yet only held in trust, Aimery felt a sting of tears. As much as he’d loved Malcolm, did love Grefin, tried to love Balfre, did he love his harsh, rugged duchy.
    Blinking away the sting, he turned from the battlements. He could hide up here no longer. Hard tasks did not soften with the passing of time.
    Grefin was waiting in the Great Hall, in company with the council. In company with Herewart, returned to the Croft after Hughe’s funeral, still dressed head to toe in mourning black. The old man’s sharp grief was blunted, the pain instead settled deep in his bones and moulding his face into a portrait of permanent loss. Herewart had no place on the council, but he was owed this public apology.
    “My lords,” Aimery said, raising a hand to acknowledge their sober greetings. “Be seated. I’d not keep you longer than necessary. Grefin, stand with me.”
    As they obeyed he took his own chair, the hugely carved ducal seat with its bearskin covering and bear-claw decorations. Let the bear’s strength suffuse him, let its courage rouse his blood. Bears were mighty and ferocious. Bears did not weep.
    He could feel Grefin at his right hand, high-strung beneath the outward calm. As always, dressed more like sober, self-effacing Curteis than a duke’s son, in dark blue velvet lacking jewels and gold thread. That would have to change. Clothes proclaimed the man… or, in his case, the Steward. But Mazelina would see to that. His youngest son’s wife was a lively woman of unbounded tact and common