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

faded. “No, I did not see her, not this time. Your Grace,” she added, warned by his glare. “But I tell you truly, the wench is a—”
    “Silence!” he said, thumping his fist to the arm of his chair. Of course the wet nurse was a slut, delivered of a bastard planted in her by some cowherd. But her milk was rich. Liam drank from her till he was bursting, and thrived. And she was a prime piece of flesh, youngand eager to open her legs. He’d caught her looking at him more than once. Had Morda not haunted the nursery he’d have had the little wagtail pinned against a wall long since.
    The bitch knows. She’s jealous. If there’s been even one man eager to thrust his cock between her skinny thighs I’ll eat my best destrier. Raw
.
    “My lady Morda, your care for my son cannot be faulted,” he said sternly. The court must not think him chastened. “But I fear you wrong his wet nurse. She dotes on the child, as all of Clemen dotes. If she walked him about the castle, then she did so with my leave. You well know Liam can be fretful of a night. Walking settles him.” Without looking at Argante, he eased his arm from beneath her fingers and closed his hand about hers. “Is that not so, my dove?”
    “Indeed, my lord,” she replied. “But perhaps—”
    Still smiling, he tightened his hold. “There, lady Morda. You hear my son’s mother. And now we are done. Return to the nursery and think no more of my son’s wet nurse.”
    No curtsey from Morda, only a stiff-necked nod. “Your Grace.”
    He would accept the implied insult, this last time. And in the morning he’d dismiss her. Let Argante pout. Did he not pour food, wine and coin into the open cesspit that was Ercole? For a half-brother, he’d do it. But not for the dried-up old bitch withdrawing in offended silence from his presence. The pages were still snickering, even as they continued serving their betters. Who did they belong to? Ah, yes. Meriet and Udo. He must devise a particular punishment, then. Sending to his court sons with no more breeding than a mucked hog.
    Argante was yet to move, her hand still prisoned within his fingers. She knew better than to pull free, with so many eyes upon them. “Harald…”
    She might sound pleading, she might have gasped a little when his hand took hers, but in truth she didn’t fear him. The first two women he’d made his duchess had feared him. He could break them with a look. Water in their veins, not blood. Argante was full of blood. Full of temper and life. The kind of woman to breed strong sons.
    “Harald,” she said, “shall we enjoy another dance?”
    He was weary. His chest hurt. But she was right, they should dance again. They should show the court that Clemen’s duke and his duchess were as one in all things. There were no Harcian merchants here to send tales home to Duke Aimery and his ill-mannered heir, but Clemen tongues wagged too. And not even he could cut them all out.
    He stood. “A slow measure, yes. So I might savour your beauty.”
    “And I your strength,” Argante replied, her smile brilliant. No other man in the room would know, as he knew, that behind the smile were surrender… and forged steel. She knew she’d lost Morda. And he knew she’d find a way to make him pay for that loss. It was the dance between them that did not end.
    At his signal, the minstrels in their gallery shifted to playing a
chibinay
. And because he and Argante were dancing, everyone danced, and the pages were left to stand adrift and watch and not touch the uneaten morsels of food they held, on pain of losing their fingers.
    Without warning, the music stopped.
    As the patterns of the
chibinay
fell apart, Harald released Argante and stepped back. Tipping his face to the minstrels’ gallery, he glared.
    “I gave no command for you to cease your playing! Begin again or forfeit your coins! Forfeit your supper also, and the comfort you find beneath my roof!”
    Still no music. A stifled gasp turned his head