Read Online The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) by Karen Miller - Free Book Online Page A

lives belonged to him, and their treasure chests. That was the order of things. Dukes ruled. Lords asked what they could give and then gave it, smiling.
    Well. If they knew what was good for them, they did.
    Masking temper with a smile, he drained the goblet of wine and held it out, upside down.
Enough
. Obedient hands took it from him. He sat back, breathing more easily, the iron bands clamping his ribs loosened now to mere discomfort. Because he was always watched, he rested a benevolent gaze upon Lord Udo, taking his turn at dancing with Argante. Ah, but she was a hot little bitch. His cock stirred in his hose at the sight of her tits swelling above her low-cut velvet gown. He could fuck her now, before his court in this Great Hall, creeping death be cursed, and not a man would gainsay him. Even had one of the Exarch’s sour grey celibates attended him here, he could fuck her. Rulers did that, if they wished to. Rulers were not ruled. The Potent of Khafur, he had as many concubines as shone stars in the night sky and he fucked them where and when he liked and any man who raised his right eyebrow lost his head before ever he could raise his left to comment more.
    Harald and the Potent of Khafur, rulers and cock-brothers
.
    The thought made him laugh.
    “Your Grace? Might I trouble you?”
    And here was Lord Bartrem. Amusement fading, Harald looked at the man, an unimportant local noble recently widowed of a rich Eaglerock merchant’s only daughter. He knew already what Bartrem was after. Some four desperate letters had paved the man’s road to Heartsong Castle. He’d been tempted to deny the nagging fool an audience, but prudence outweighed irritation. Bartrem’s cause was lost when his wife drew her last breath, but there was no need to needlessly inflame the man, or his fellow northern lords. Not when the court must soon return to Eaglerock, at the other end of the duchy.
    “Be brief, my lord,” he said, courteously enough. “We dance and make merry tonight. Serious matters belong to the morning.”
    “Yes, Your Grace,” said Bartrem, spindle-shanked and chinless, with watering eyes and bulbous nose. Lucky for him he had a proper bloodline. Without it he’d never have caught the merchant’s daughter. “Your Grace, I must speak on the question of Thania’s wardship.”
    “It’s not yet decided into whose care your child will be placed.”
    “Your Grace—” Bartrem took an impetuous step closer to the ducal dais, then stopped himself. He was trembling. “She is too young for wardship. My child is not yet three.”
    “Infant wardships are commonplace, Bartrem.”
    “Your Grace, they are cruel!”
    Harald stared until the man took a step back. “Not as cruel as a household in want of a wife. Or do you tell me you’ve wed again? Strange. I don’t recall granting you permission.”
    “No, Your Grace,” said Bartrem, losing colour. “Of course not. I know what’s right and proper.”
    “So you say.” He inspected the emerald ring on his thumb. “And yet you’d leave your precious daughter without womanly guidance?”
    “No, Your Grace. My late wife’s mother dotes on the child. With my parents dead, she would gladly—”
    “You expect I’d allow a child of noble birth to be raised by common hands?”
    Bartrem swallowed. “Your Grace, after me my goodmother is Thania’s closest kin.”
    “And common.” He let his voice chill. “As Clemen’s duke I have a duty to protect noble blood. I would no more hand your child to a trinket-trader for raising than I would gift a staghound puppy in my kennel to a passing peddler.”
    “Perhaps Your Grace is misinformed,” said Bartrem, fingers clenched nearly to fists. “My late wife’s father, Master Blane, is a merchant of high standing. His purse could buy half the lords beneath your roof this night and scarce show its loss of coin.”
    That was true. Harald looked again to his ring. The question to be answered was this: did Bartrem’s