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

sense.
    “My lords,” he said again, once his barons were settled, “your summons to council arises from our dear brother Herewart’s grievous loss. He knows my privy heart in this, but I’ll share it now so none here might wonder. A son’s untimely death is a sorrow no father should suffer. And I tell you
my
sorrow is doubled, for the part my heir played in Hughe’s death.”
    “Your Grace, we all grieve,” said Reimond of Parsle Fountain. Time-grizzled, with thinning hair and two fingers lost from his left hand. He turned to Herewart. “Hughe was a fine man, boon friend to my own Geffrei. That he should die—”
    “By mischance,” Joben said quickly, not caring if he gave offence. Only two years parted him and Balfre, and as boys they’d been peapod close. “There was no malice.”
    Reimond glowered, while the other barons tapped fingers and muttered. “But there was temper, Joben. Temper and poor judgement. Your Grace—”
    “Peace,” said Aimery sharply. “This is not a debate upon the character of my eldest son. I know him, heart and soul, better than anyone. Balfre is—”
    “Here,” said his son, unwelcome and gallingly disobedient, as heentered the Great Hall. “Come to plead my case before Harcia’s duke and his council.”
    “Balfre, you
noddle
,” said Grefin under his breath, dismayed. “What are you doing?”
    The council, and Herewart, stared at Balfre as he approached. Not a popinjay this afternoon, but a sparrow, he wore an undyed linen shirt and mud-brown woollen hose. He came barefoot and bareheaded, not an ear or finger-ring to be seen. Plain Grefin by comparison was turned gaudy bright.
    Searching his barons’ faces, Aimery fought to keep his own face still. Balfre’s brazen defiance of established protocol was a barbed blade twisting in his guts. And he could see Reimond felt the same, his forehead knitted in disapproval. Indeed, only Joben showed any favour. Deness of Heems and the lords Keeton and Ferran echoed Reimond’s unmasked disgust.
    Heedless of their hostile stares, Balfre halted and folded into a bow. “Your Grace,” he said, straightening, his steady gaze supremely confident. “I come to you humbled, seeking forgiveness. When I blinked at your disapproval of rowdy sporting I acted out of youthful bravado, discarding your wise judgement for my own. Your Grace, you deserve much better. And before these great lords, whom I have also offended, I swear on my life I will never again fail you or Harcia–and I ask that you let me prove it by granting me all my rights as your heir.”
    Breathing out softly, Balfre pressed a hand to his heart, making his words a solemn vow. Then, letting his gaze lower to the flagstoned floor, he folded first to his knees and then to utter prostration, arms outstretched before him in an extravagance of entreaty.
    From a great, cold distance, Aimery heard the hall’s air whistle in and out of his chest. There was rage… and there was, he now discovered, a place beyond rage. He stared at the stunned faces before him.
    “Balfre is my heir,” he said, as though no time had passed, as though his other son had never entered the hall. “And when I die he will be your duke. But the tragedy of Hughe’s death makes plain that he yet has much to learn. Therefore I declare that for the span of a year and a day my younger son Grefin, here standing beside me, shall be hailed Steward of the Green Isle, my voice and my authority in that place.”
    Reimond of Parsle Fountain cleared his throat. “And if Balfre proves himself a slow learner?”
    “For his sake, Reimond…” Aimery bared his teeth in a smile. “I hope he proves otherwise.” He stood. “My lords of the council, my lord Herewart, I invite you to withdraw with me and my well-loved son Grefin, that we might spill wine in memory of Black Hughe and then celebrate our new Steward!”
    With every man watching, with Grefin breath-caught and torn, to his sorrow, he took a step