Airs Beneath the Moon Read online

  But, Philippa thought, as she trudged back down the paddock toward the Hall, Irina was right in one thing. Larkyn could not fly bareback. It wasn’t safe. The challenge was going to be convincing the girl of that.

  Philippa thought of a struggling student slipping from Pig’s saddle, falling like a sack of oats to the ground, an object to be pitied. Then she remembered Larkyn and Black Seraph dashing through the spruce grove as if they had not a care in the world.

  Had she ever, she wondered, looked or felt so utterly free?

  TWENTY-SIX

  WILLIAM eyed Irina Strong with a slight feeling of revulsion. It was not that the horsemistress was ugly, exactly. There was nothing particularly amiss about her features, though they tended to be large, a substantial nose, rather thick lips, heavy eyelids. It was, he thought, the way she used them—or didn’t use them. The monotone of her voice grated on his nerves, and she had a stolid air about her, giving an impression of weighty dullness, rather like one of the magistrates he sometimes had to deal with, or the prefect of a large, prosperous, utterly uninteresting town.

  He smoothed his vest with his hands, and kept his face turned to the window. Cold sunlight glittered from the smooth blanket of snow that stretched over the grounds of Fleckham House. “Would you like a cup of tea, Horsemistress?” he asked, forcing courtesy into his voice. “It must have been a cold flight.”

  “I did not fly, my lord,” she answered. “It would draw attention. I came by carriage.”

  He let his gaze flick over her, and then return to the window. “I would have thought,” he said lightly, “that there would be nothing exceptional in a horsemistress calling upon her lord.”

  “You are not my lord,” she said.

  He turned to face her. “I beg your pardon?” he said, letting his voice go very soft.

  “Duke Frederick,” she said. She could have been reading a shopping list, he thought, for all the emotion she showed. “I am in the service of the Duke.”

  William lifted his chin, and looked at her through hooded eyes. “Take care, Horsemistress,” he said with exaggerated lightness. “At any moment—quite, quite literally, I assure you—I could become the Duke.”

  “When that happens, our business will be easier,” she answered him. She seemed to feel no anxiety, though Slater, standing beside the door, had hunched inside his dilapidated greatcoat as if he wished he could disappear.

  William commanded, “Get on with it, will you? I have other business.”

  “I came to tell you that the girl will never learn to ride. She’s stupid, and uncooperative. The Academy is wasting its time with her.”

  William arched one eyebrow. “I met her once,” he said. “On her farm. She seemed anything but stupid to me.”

  Mistress Strong shrugged. “Perhaps that’s because the farm is where she belongs. I tell you, she can’t ride. And she has made no improvement in all these months.”

  “Does Margareth Morgan agree?”

  “She may not be aware of how badly the girl is faring. Philippa Winter knows, though.”

  William opened his eyes wide. “Philippa? Indeed,” he purred. “What is her opinion?”

  “She tried to blame the girl’s failure on me.”

  “Ah.” William turned back to the window, taking pleasure in the blinding glare of sun on snow. “That sounds like Philippa.”

  “You should also know, my lord, that the colt is evil-tempered. I doubt he’ll be worth much, even if Larkyn learns somehow to fly him.”

  “Odd, that he should have a bad temperament,” William said. “His dam and his sire were both spirited, but known for their manners. My own gelding is their get.”

  “This one is going to be trouble.”

  William stroked his chin with one finger. “What are you recommending?”

  “It’s a waste, my lord. You might as well take the colt now, and be done with it.”

  “Hmm.” William thought for a long moment before he faced his caller again. “If, as you assure me, the girl will fail on Ribbon Day—then I could take the colt with impunity, I believe.”

  “Why wait?”

  “Well, Mistress Strong, as you have pointed out with such subtlety . . .” He paused, and noted with amusement that Slater shrank against the door once more. What did the fool think, that he would harm a horsemistress, right here in Fleckham House? “As you have pointed out, I am not yet the Duke. I must tread carefully, and with some discretion.”

  “Yes, my lord. But I thought you should know.”

  He allowed the corners of his mouth to curve. “Quite right. I have taken note of it.” He nodded to Slater, who opened the door, and held it wide for the visitor.

  Irina Strong eyed the door, and then William. “Is that all, then, my lord? You’re . . .” For the first time, it seemed that some emotion flickered in her eyes and her voice. “Are you satisfied, then? My father . . .”

  “I am satisfied for the moment,” he said.

  “Best be present on Ribbon Day,” she said. “Before the Headmistress takes action.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I never miss Ribbon Day.”

  She inclined her head to him. He stood rigidly, arms folded over his vest, watching her depart. Even after all these years, it galled him. Only the horsemistresses believed themselves too important to curtsy to a scion of Oc.

  William snarled, “You know, Slater, when my day arrives, things will change.”

  “Oh, yes, me lord?” Slater gave him an ugly grin. “The Council of Lords?”

  “The Council, yes.” William threw himself into a chair, and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. “That collection of foolish old men stands in the way of progress. I will deal with them. And I swear to you, those damned horsemistresses will learn to curtsy to their Duke, or I’ll know the reason why.”

  “Lovely idea, me lord,” Slater agreed. “Only right and proper.”

  William murmured, “I grow mightily tired of waiting, too.”

  “Well, me lord,” Slater said, coming close and speaking in a confidential tone. “You know . . . we could hurry things along. We have a man at the Palace. There are ways . . .”

  William opened his eyes and, without moving his head, fixed Slater with a bitter gaze. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”

  Slater took a step back. “Oh, well, me lord, I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” William said. He closed his eyes again, and smoothed his vest with both hands. “Do not mistake me, Slater. Everything I do, I do for the future of Oc. I draw the line at patricide.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE weeks of winter slipped past almost without Lark’s noticing. She fell into her cot each night exhausted in brain and body, and rose each morning determined to renew her efforts.

  She had learned the bloodlines for ten generations past. She had memorized the succession of the Dukes of Oc and the Princes of Isamar. She could draw the coastline of Marin and Eastreach and name the principalities poised beyond the sea to invade Isamar for control of the shipping lanes. She knew all the parts of a flying saddle, down to the smallest panel. She kept Tup brushed smooth, currying out his winter coat, polishing his ebony hooves. She submitted to endless lectures by Mistress Strong about the proper care of a stallion, and the precautions she must take to keep him away from fillies in season. She put a flying saddle on him each day and led him around the dry paddock, avoiding Herbert’s eyes when he counted out the sandweights to hang from the pommel.

  “Build up them muscles,” Herbert would say. “You should be riding Black Seraph soon, let old Pig go back to pasture.”

  Lark obediently hung the weights on the saddle, and said nothing. By the time there were four of them, she knew the saddle and the weights together weighed twice what she did, and any lingering worries she had about Tup carrying her evaporated.

  It was, of course, not the weight Tup minded, but the tack. He nipped at the cinches and tried to rub the saddle against fence poles, whimpering at h
er. “I’m sorry, lovely boy,” she murmured, scratching his ears in apology. “It seems we both have to get used to it.”

  And despite her most determined efforts, she despaired of ever satisfying Mistress Strong that she could ride. Over and over she struggled to sit Pig at his heavy trot, to grip with her thighs and drop her heels as he broke into his lumbering canter, to feel his rhythm at the gallop.

  At the end of one of their lessons, Lark—who had managed at least not to fall that day—dismounted from the old piebald pony, and stood with her hands on her hips, her temper worn to nothing. Beyond the paddock the snow had melted from the fields and roads, and the air carried the sweet hint of early spring, but she was only remotely aware of it.

  “Mistress Strong,” she said. “I want to ride my own colt.”

  “No.” The horsemistress shook her head. “How are you going to teach Black Seraph what he needs to know when you know nothing yourself?”

  “That’s not fair! I can teach him, we understand each other!”

  “Put the pony in his stall,” was all Mistress Strong said. “Feed him and brush him. And don’t forget to clean his feet.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” Lark muttered, as she turned to lead Pig away.

  “No? I need to repeat everything else a hundred times,” Mistress Strong said.

  Lark stopped, and looked over her shoulder. The horsemistress stood like a pillar of stone in the center of the paddock. Pig pulled on his rein, eager for his feed bucket. Lark said, “No, Pig, wait.” She turned about, and lifted her chin at her teacher.

  “I know you don’t like me, Mistress,” she said. “But I’m not stupid.”

  Mistress Strong’s eyes flickered. “Liking has nothing to do with it,” she said. “I don’t want to see a winged horse wasted.”

  Lark felt the rush of heat in her cheeks. “Wasted? What does that mean?”

  “It means,” the horsemistress said in a sour tone, “that if you can’t learn to ride, you can’t learn to fly. And if you can’t fly, Black Seraph will be of no use to the Duke.”

  Lark’s mouth opened, but no words pushed past the shock that tightened her throat. Tup wasted? The very thought stung her soul. He would never, never be wasted! How could this rock of a woman even say such a thing? Even Mistress Winter had more heart!

  She watched helplessly, Pig tugging at the rein, as Mistress Strong turned her back, went through the gate, and disappeared around the corner of the stables.

  “Now that,” said a voice behind her, “is a stupid woman.”

  Lark whirled, and found Hester leaning against the jamb of the stable door. “Hester!” Lark cried. “She just—Mistress Strong said . . .” Her voice broke, and she sobbed. “She said—Tup—wasted . . .”

  “I heard,” Hester drawled. She straightened, and came to Lark, relieving her of Pig’s rein, and putting her free hand behind Lark’s back. “Come on, Goat-girl,” she said. “Let’s go groom this fat pony and we’ll talk.”

  Moments later Lark had dried her tears, and Pig was munching oats while she combed out his tail and Hester ran the currycomb over his broad back.

  “My mamá tells my papá,” Hester said, “that when you deal with stupid people, you have to work around them. If you can’t get rid of them, that is. She advises Papá about his work on the Council all the time.”

  “You don’t think she’s right, then? That I’m hopeless?”

  Hester shrugged. “Doubt it very much,” she answered. She tossed the currycomb and caught it, then twirled it between her fingers. “Someone like Mistress Strong just isn’t very—creative, I think would be the word my mamá would use.”

  “Lovely kind you are, Hester,” Lark said in a small voice. “But I don’t know how I can work around her. And I certainly can’t get rid of her!”

  Hester rested her elbows on Pig’s back and looked across at Lark. The pony shifted his feet and chewed with noisy contentment. “My Goldie is such a great sweet thing,” Hester said. “And you don’t weigh any more than a sack of feathers. If you’re not afraid of her . . .”

  “I’m afraid of no beast,” Lark said with confidence. “Least of all a winged horse.”

  Hester smiled. “I thought not. So let’s take our horses out for a walk. Your Seraph needs to carry his weights around, doesn’t he?” Lark nodded. “Goldie and I will join you.”

  It was not quite so simple an enterprise as Hester made it sound. Herbert made no demur as they left the stables, Tup laden with a flying saddle and four sandweights, Golden Morning saddled and bridled, both horses wearing their wing clips. Mistress Strong spotted them, though, and came out of the tack room, her brow furrowing with suspicion.

  Hester had learned well from her mamá. She smiled pleasantly at the horsemistress, and spoke with an air of aloofness Lark was certain she must have cultivated in childhood. “Good afternoon.” She started past her.

  “Where are you going?” the horsemistress said.

  “Why,” Hester said, brows up, head held high in the unmistakable manner of a born aristocrat. “Exercise, of course! Just as we’ve been instructed.”

  “Black Seraph is intact, you know, Hester. You must not let him and Golden Morning . . .”

  Hester’s lip almost, but not quite, curled. “Thank you so much, Mistress Strong,” she said in her precise accent. “I learned that lesson quite well at Beeth House stables. I have been riding since the age of four.”

  The horsemistress set her jaw. Hester lifted her filly’s rein and pressed on. Lark hurried after, Tup at her heels.

  Bramble trotted around the corner of the stables, and stood watching, tail waving gently, as Hester and Lark led their horses off to the yearlings’ pasture and through the gate.

  “Hester,” Lark said as they moved down the long pasture toward the grove. “Why did that work?”

  “It’s quite sad, really,” Hester said. “Or it would be if Strong weren’t such a dim-witted ox. Her father cheated Duke Frederick on a shipload of silk and linen, and his lands were confiscated. The family lost everything, and Mamá says only having a daughter in the Duke’s service kept him out of prison.”

  “Your mamá knows everything, doesn’t she?”

  Hester nodded. “She’s the brains in the family.”

  “What is your father like?”

  Hester smiled. “Papá is sweet . . . quite a nice man, really. And wise enough to let Mamá manage things.”

  “I barely knew my father,” Lark confided. “And I never knew my mother.”

  “That’s a hard thing,” Hester said. “I’ve been fortunate.”

  They had reached the grove. As they threaded through the trees, Tup began to stamp his forefeet and whimper, eager for his run. Hester turned to Golden Morning and adjusted the stirrups and checked the cinches. The tall palomino picked up Tup’s impatience, shaking her bridle, bending her neck around to see what was keeping her bondmate.

  “There,” Hester said. “I think those are short enough. Ready to try?”

  Lark looked up at the saddle. Suddenly the palomino seemed like a cliff, her withers towering over Lark’s head, her legs and feet enormous.

  “Here, I’ll boost you,” Hester said. “Give me Seraph’s lead.”

  A moment later, lifted up by Hester’s strong arm, Lark found herself perched in the flying saddle, her knees tucked beneath the points of Golden Morning’s folded wings, her boots settled in the narrow iron stirrups. The ground looked very, very far away.

  “Zito’s ears,” she breathed. “She’s enormous.”

  Hester grinned up at her. “Scared?”

  “No,” Lark lied. “Not a bit.”

  Hester chuckled, and handed her the rein. “She’s like riding a rocking chair,” she said. “Give her a try.”

  Obediently, Lark lifted the rein. She squeezed Goldie’s ribs tentatively with her calves, and the filly’s ears flicked toward her inquiringly.

  “Bolder than that,” Hester said. “She’s used to my great l
ong legs.” She laid a hand on Goldie’s sleek neck, and murmured into her bondmate’s ear. The filly tossed her head, once, and when Lark squeezed her again, she set off at a brisk, ground-eating walk.

  Lark thought that either she truly had learned a thing or two in her struggles with Pig, or Golden Morning was worlds easier to ride. Goldie’s big body moved nimbly, smoothly, and her head bobbed nicely as they moved between the outer edge of the grove and the hedgerow at the end of the paddock. The saddle still felt hard and slippery, but as Goldie extended her stride into a swinging trot, Lark felt the rhythm of the post for the very first time. She balanced in her stirrups, rising and sinking in time with Goldie’s steps.

  They reached the end of the narrow ride, and Lark felt the filly collect beneath her to turn. She slid across the saddle, but the cantle caught her before she could slip too far. She tried to sense Goldie’s intention as the horse settled into her hindquarters and reversed her direction. This was the hardest part, she thought, finding the balance point, centering herself over the movement, feeling the horse through the layers of leather and wood and iron.

  Goldie, though, was already beautifully schooled, though she was not quite two years old. She slowed her pace, as if sensitive to Lark’s fear, and then eased back into her trot.

  “You lovely, lovely girl,” Lark breathed, beneath the beat of hooves on the bare ground. “Lovely, lovely girl!” She became gradually aware of the cool sparkling sunshine, the fragile blades of new grass, the first fuzz of spring green on the hedgerows. Ahead her friend Hester stood, holding Tup’s halter lead. The palomino filly increased her pace, and Lark leaned forward as Goldie broke into a long-legged canter.

  She turned her head to smile at Hester as they passed. Hester grinned back, and waved.