Romilly stared out the window, her head in her hands. The great red sun was angling downward from noon; two of the small moons stood, pale dayshine reflections, in the sky, and the distant line of the Kilghard Hills lured her mind out there in the sky, with the clouds and the birds flying. A page of finished sums, put aside, lay before her on the wooden desk, and a still-damp page of neatly copied maxims from the Book of Burdens; but she did not see them, nor did she hear the voice of her governess; Calinda was fussing at Mallina for her badly blotted pages.
This afternoon, when I have done flying Preciosa to the lure, I will have Windracer saddled, and carry Preciosa before me on ray saddle, hooded, to accustom her to the horse's smell and motion. I cannot trust her yet to fly free, but it will not be long....
Across the room her brother Rael scuffled his feet noisily, and Calinda rebuked him with a silent shake of her head. Rael, Romilly thought, was dreadfully spoiled now - he had been so dangerously ill, and this was his first day back in the schoolroom. Silence fell over the children, except for the noisy scratching of Mallina's pen, and the almost-noiseless click of Calinda's knotting-pins; she was making a woolly undervest for Rael, and when it was finished, Romilly thought, not without malice, then she would only face the problem of getting Rael to wear it!
Her eyes glazed in a drowse of perfect boredom, Romilly stared out the window, until the quiet was interrupted by a noisy wail from Mallina.
"Curse this pen! It sheds blots like nuts in autumn! Now I have blotted another sheet!"
"Hush, Mallina," said the governess severely. "Romilly, read to your sister the last of the maxims I set you to copy from the Book of Burdens."
Sighing, recalled against her will to the schoolroom, Romilly read sullenly aloud. "A poor worker blames only the tool in his hand."
"It is not the fault of the pen if you cannot write without blots," Calinda reproved, and came to guide the pen in her pupil's hand. "See, hold your hand so-"
"My fingers ache," Mallina grumbled, "Why must I learn to write anyway, spoiling my eyes and making my hands hurt? None of the daughters of High Crags can write, or read either, and they are none the worse for it; they are already betrothed, and it is no loss to them!"
"You should think yourself lucky," said the governess sternly, "Your father does not wish his daughters to grow up in ignorance, able only to sew and spin and embroider, without enough learning even to write 'Apple and nut conserve' on your jars at harvest time! When I was a girl, I had to fight for even so much learning as that! Your father is a man of sense, who knows that his daughters will need learning as much as do his sons! So you will sit there until you have filled another sheet without a single blot. Romilly, let me see your work. Yes, that is very neat. While I check your sums, will you hear your brother read from his book?"
Romilly rose with alacrity, to join Rael at his seat; anything was better than sitting motionless at her desk! Calinda bent to guide Mallina's hand on her pen, and Rael leaned against Romilly's shoulder; she gave the child a surreptitious hug, then dutifully pointed her finger at the first hand-lettered line of the primer. It was very old; she had been taught to read from this same book, and so, she thought, had Ruyven and Darren before her - the book had been made, and sewn, by her own grandmother when her father had first learned to read; and written in the front were the crudely sprawled letters that said Mikhail MacAran, his own book. The ink was beginning to fade a little, but it was still perfectly legible.
"The horse is in the stable," Rael spelled out slowly. “The fowl is in the nest. The bird is in the air. The tree is in the wood. The boat is on the water. The nut is on the tree. The boy is in the-" he scowled at the word and guessed. "Barn?"
Romilly chuckled softly. "I am sure he wishes he were, as you do," she whispered, "but that's not right, Rael. Look, what is that first letter? Spell it out-"
"The boy is in the kitchen," he read glumly. "The bread is in the pan?"
"Rael, you're guessing again," she said. "Look at the letters. You know better than that."
"The bread is in the oven."
"That's right. Try the next page, now."
"The cook bakes the bread. The farmer-" he hesitated, moving his lips, scowling at the page. "Gathers?"
"That's right, go on."
"The farmer gathers the nuts. The soldier rides the horse. The groom puts the saddle on the horse. Romy, when can I read something that makes sense?"
Romilly chuckled again. "When you know your letters a bit better," she said. "Let me see your copybook. Yes, your letters are written there, but look, they sprawl all over the line like ducks waddling, when they should march along neatly like soldiers - see where Calinda ruled the line for you?" She put the primer aside. "But I will tell Calinda you know your lesson, shall I?"
"Then perhaps we can go out to the stables," whispered Rael. "Romy, did father beat you for taming the hawk? I heard Mother say he should."
I doubt that not at all, Romilly thought, but the Lady Luciella was Rael's mother and she would not speak evil of her to the child. And Luciella had never been really unkind to her. She said "No, I was not beaten; father said I did well - he would have lost the hawk otherwise, and verrin hawks are costly and rare. And this one was near to starving on its block."
"How did you do it? Can I tame a hawk some day? I would be afraid, they are so fierce."
But he had raised his voice, and Calinda looked up and frowned at them. "Rael, Romilly, are you minding the lesson?"
"No, mestra," said Romilly politely, "he has finished, he read two pages in the primer with only one mistake. May we go now?"
"You know you are not supposed to whisper and chatter when you are working," said the governess, but she looked tired, too. "Rael, bring me your sheet of letters. Oh, this is disgraceful," she said, frowning, "Why, they are all over the page! A big boy like you should write better than this! Sit down, now, and take your pen!"
"I don't want to," Rael sulked, "My head hurts."
"If your head hurts, I shall tell your mother you are not well enough to ride after your lesson," said Calinda, hiding the smile that sprang to her lips, and Rael glumly sat down, curled his fist around the pen and began to print another series of tipsy letters along the line, his tongue just protruding between his teeth, scowling over the page.
"Mallina, go and wash the ink from your fingers. Romilly, bring your embroidery-work, and you may as well bring Mallina's too," said the governess, bending over Rael's desk. Romilly, frowning, went to the cupboard and pulled out her workbasket and her sister's. She was quick enough with her pen, but, she thought angrily, put a needle in my hand and I might as well have a hoof instead of fingers!
"I will show you one more time how to do the knot-stitch neatly," said Calinda, taking the grubby, wrinkled linen in her own hands, trying to smooth it, while Romilly pricked her finger threading the needle and yelped like a puppy. "This is a disgrace, Romilly; why, Rael could do better if he tried, I do believe!"
"Then why not let Rael do it?" Romilly scowled.
"For shame, a big girl, almost fifteen, old enough to be married," Calinda said, glancing over Rael's shoulder. "Why, what have you written here?"
Startled by the tone in the woman's voice, Romilly looked over her small brother's shoulder. In uneven printing, he had lettered I wish my brother Ruyven come home.
"Well, I do," said Rael, blinking his eyes hard and digging his fists into them.
"Tear it up, quickly," said Calinda, taking the paper and suiting the action to the word. "If your father saw it - you know he has ordered that your brother's name is not to be mentioned in this house!"
"I didn't mention it, I only printed it," said Rael angrily, "and he's my brother and I'll talk about him if I want to! Ruyven, Ruyven, Ruyven - so there!"
"Hush, hush, Rael," said Calinda, "We all-" she broke off, thinking better of what she had begun to say, but Romilly heard it with her new senses, as clearly as if Calinda had said, We all miss Ruyven. More gently, Calinda said, "Put your book away, and run along to your riding-lesson, Rael."
Rael slammed his primer into his desk and raced for the door. Romilly watched her brother enviously, scowling at the wrinkled stitchery in her hand. After a minute Calinda sighed and said, "It is hard for a child to understand. Your brother Darren will be home at Midsummer, and I am glad - Rael needs his brother, I think. Here, Romilly, watch my fingers - wrap the thread so, three times around the needle, and pull it through - see, you can do it neatly enough when you try."
"A knot-stitch is easy," said Mallina complacently, looking up from her smooth panel of bleached linen, where a brilliant flower bloomed under her needle.
"Aren't you ashamed, Romilly? Why, Mallina has already embroidered a dozen cushion-covers for her marriage-chest, and now she is working on her wedding sheets."
"Well," said Romilly, driven to the wall, "What do I need of embroidered cushion-covers? A cushion is to sit on, not to show fancy stitching. And I hope, if I have a husband, he will be looking at me, and not the embroidered flowers on our wedding sheets!"
Mallina giggled and blushed, and Calinda said, "Oh, hush, Romilly, what a thing to say!" But she was smiling. "When you have your own house, you will be proud to have beautiful things to adorn it."
I doubt that very much, Romilly thought, but she picked up the stitchery-piece with resignation and thrust the needle through it. Mallina bent over the quilt she was making, delicately appliqued with white starflowers on blue, and began to set tiny stitches into the frame.
Yes, it was pretty, Romilly thought, but why did it matter so much? A plain one would keep her just as warm at night, and so would a saddle-blanket! She would not have minded, if she could have made something sensible, like a riding-cloak, or a hood for a hawk, but this stupid flower-pattern, designed to show off the fancy stitching she hated! Grimly she bent over her work, needle clutched awkwardly in her fist, as the governess looked over the paper of sums she had done that morning.
"You have gone past my teaching in this, Romilly," the governess said at last, "I will speak to Dom Mikhail, and ask if the steward can give you lessons in keeping account-books and ciphering. It would be a pity to waste an intelligence as keen as yours."
"Lessons from the steward?" said a voice from the doorway. "Nonsense, mestra; Romilly is too old to have lessons from a man, it would be scandalous. And what need has a lady, to keep account-books?" Romilly raised her head from the tangle of threads, to see her stepmother Luciella corning into the room.
"If I could keep my own accounts, foster-mother," Romilly said, "I need never be afraid I would be cheated by a dishonest steward."
Luciella smiled kindly. She was a small plump woman, her hair carefully curled, as meticulously dressed as if she were about to entertain the Queen at a garden-party. She said, "I think we can find you a husband good enough that he will see to all that for you, foster-daughter." She bent to kiss Mallina on the cheek, patted Romilly's head. "Has Rael gone already to his riding-lesson? I hope the sun will not be too strong for him, he is still not entirely recovered." She frowned at the tangled threads and drunken line of colored stitching. "Oh, dear, dear, this will never do! Give me the needle, child, you hold it as if it were a currycomb! Look, hold it like this. See? Now the knot is neat - isn't that easier, when you hold it so?"
Grudgingly, Romilly nodded. Domna Luciella had never been anything but kind to her; it was only that she could not imagine why Romilly was not exactly like Mallina, only more so, being older.
"Let me see you make another one, as I showed you," Luciella said. "See, that is much better, my dear. I knew you could do it, you are clever enough with your fingers - your handwriting is much neater than Mallina's, only you will not try. Calinda, I came to ask you to give the children a holiday - Rael has already run off to the stables? Well enough - I only need the girls, I want them to come and be fitted for then - new riding-habits; they must be ready when the guests come at Midsummer."
Predictably, Mallina squealed.
"Am I to have a new riding-habit, foster-mother? What color is it? Is it made of velvet like a lady's?"
"No, my dear, yours is made of gabardine, for hard wear and more growing," said Luciella, and Mallina grumbled.
"I am tired of wearing dresses all clumsy in the seams so they can be let out when I grow half a dozen times, and all faded so everyone can see where they have been let out and the hem let down-"
"You must just hurry and finish growing, then," said Luciella kindly, "There is no sense making a dress to your measure when you will have outgrown it in six months wear, and you have not even a younger sister to pass it on to. You are lucky you are to have a new habit at all, you know," she added smiling, "You should wear Romilly's old ones, but we all know that Romilly gives her riding-clothes such hard wear that after half a year there is nothing at all left of them - they are hardly fit to pass on to the dairy-woman."
"Well, I ride a horse," Romilly said, "I don't sit on its back and simper at the stableboy!"
"Bitch," said Mallina, giving her a surreptitious kick on the ankle, "You would, fast enough, if he'd look at you, but nobody ever will - you're like a broom-handle dressed up in a gown!"
"And you're a fat pig," retorted Romilly, "You couldn't wear my cast-off gowns anyway, because you're so fat from all the honey-cakes you gobble whenever you can sneak into the kitchen!"
"Girls! Girls!" Luciella entreated, "Must you always squabble like this? I came to ask a holiday for you - do you want to sit all day in the schoolroom and hem dishtowels instead?"
"No, indeed, foster-mother, forgive me," said Romilly quickly, and Mallina said sullenly, "Am I supposed to let her insult me?"
"No, nor should you insult her in turn," said Luciella, sighing. "Come, come, the sewing-women are waiting for you."
"Do you need me, vai domna?" Calinda asked.
"No, go and rest, mestra -I am sure you need it, after a morning with my brood. Send the groom first to look for Rael, he must have his new jacket fitted today, but I can wait till he has finished his riding-lesson."
Romilly had been apprehensive, as she followed her stepmother into the room where the sewing-women worked, light and airy with broad windows and green growing plants in the sunny light; not flowers, for Luciella was a practical woman, but growing pots of kitchen herbs and medicinals which smelled sweet in the sun through the glass. Luciella's taste ran heavily to ruffles and flounces, and, from some battles when she was a young girl, Romilly feared that if Luciella had ordered her riding-clothes they would be some disgustingly frilly style. But when she saw the dark-green velvet, cut deftly to accentuate her slenderness, but plainly, with no trim but a single white band at her throat, the whole dress of a green which caught the color of her green eyes and made her coppery hair shine, she flushed with pleasure.
"It is beautiful, foster-mother," she said, standing as still as she could while the sewing-women fitted it with pins to her body, "It is almost too fine for me!"
"Well, you will need a good one, for hawking and hunting when the people from High Crags come for the Midsummer feasting and parties," said Luciella, "It is well to show off what a fine horse-woman you are, though I think you need a horse better suited to a lady than old Windracer. I have spoken to Mikhail about a good horse for you - was there not one you trained yourself?"
Romilly's delighted gasp made her stepmother smile. She had been allowed to help her father in training three of the fine blacks from the Lanart estates, and they were all among the finest horses to grace the stables at Falconsward. If her father agreed that she might have one of those horses - she thought with delight and pleasure of racing over the hills on one of the spirited blacks, with Preciosa on her arm, and gave Luciella a spontaneous hug that startled the older woman. "Oh, thank you, thank you, stepmother!"
"It is a pleasure to see you looking so much like a lady," Luciella said, smiling at the pretty picture Romilly made in the green habit. 'Take it off now, my dear, so it can be stitched. No, Dara," she added to the sewing-woman who was fitting Mallina's habit over her full young breasts, "Not so tight in the tunic there, it is unseemly for so young a girl."
Mallina sulked, "Why must all my dresses be cut like a child's tunic? I have already more of a woman's figure than Romilly!"
"You certainly have," Romilly said, "If you grow much more in the tits, you can hire out for a wet-nurse." She looked critically at Mallina's swelling body, and the younger girl snarled, "A woman's habit is wasted on you, you could wear a pair of Darren's old britches! You'd rather run around looking like a stableboy, in a man's old leathers, like one of the Sisterhood of the Sword-"
"Come, come," said Luciella peacefully, "Don't make fun of your sister's figure, Romilly, she is growing faster than you, that is all. And you be quiet too, Mallina; Romilly is grown, now, and your father has given strict orders that she is not to ride astride in boots and breeches any more, but is to have a proper lady's habit and a lady's saddle for Midsummer, when the people from High Crags will be coming here for hawking and hunting, and perhaps Aldaran of Scathfell with his sons and daughters, and some of the people from Storn Heights."
Mallina squealed with pleasure - the twin daughters of Scathfell were her closest friends, and during the winter, heavy snowfalls had separated Falconsward from Scathfell or from High Crags. Romilly felt no such pleasure - Jessamy and Jeralda were about her own age, but they were like Mallina, plump and soft, an insult to any horse that carried them, much more concerned with the fit of their riding-habits and the ornaments of saddle and reins than in the well-being of the horses they rode, or their own riding-skill. The oldest son at High Crags was about Ruyven's age and had been his dearest friend; he treated Romilly and even Darren as silly children. And the folk from Storn were all grown, and most of them married some with children.
Well, perhaps she would have a chance to ride with her father, and with Darren who would be home from Nevarsin, and to fly Preciosa; it would not be too bad, even if, while there were guests, she must wear a lady's riding-habit and use a lady's saddle instead of the boots and breeches more suitable for hunting; the guests would only be here for a few days and then she could go back to her sensible boy's clothes for riding; she was willing to dress up properly to meet her parents' guests. She had learned, as a matter of course, to manage proper riding-skirts and a lady's saddle when there were guests, and to please her stepmother.
She was humming when she returned to her room to change her dress for riding; perhaps she would take Rael with her when she went to exercise Preciosa to the lure, the long line whirled around her head with scraps of meat and feathers to train and exercise a hawk. But when she searched behind her door for the old boots and breeches she always wore for riding - they were an ancient pair of Ruyven's - they could not be found.
She clapped her hands to summon the maid who waited on the children, but it was old Gwennis who came.
"What is this, Nurse? Where are my riding-breeches?"
"Your father has given strict orders," Gwennis said, "Lady Luciella made me throw them out - they're hardly fit for the hawkmaster's boy now, those old things. Your new habit's being made, and you can wear your old one till it's ready, my pet" She pointed to the riding-skirt and tunic laid out on Romilly's bed. "Here, my lamb, I'll help you lace it up."
"You threw them out?" Romilly exploded, "How dared you?"
"Oh, come, don't talk like that, my little love, we all have to do what Lady Luciella says, don't we? That habit still fits you fine, even if it's a little tight at the waist - see, I let it out for you yesterday, when Lady Luciella told me."
"I can't ride Windracer in this!" Romilly wadded up the offending skirts and flung them across the room. "He's not used to a lady's saddle, and I hate it, and there aren't guests or anything like that! Get me some riding breeches," she stormed, but Gwennis shook her head sternly.
"I can't do that, lovey, your father's given orders, you're not to ride in breeches any more, and it's about time, you'll be fifteen ten days before Midsummer, and we must think now about getting you married, and what man will want to marry a hoyden who races around hi breeches like some camp-follower, or one of those scandalous women of the Sisterhood, with sword and ears pierced? Really, Romy, you should be ashamed. A big girl like you, running off to the hawk-house and staying out all night like that - it's time you were tamed down into a lady! Now put on your riding-skirts, if you want to ride, and let's not have any more of this nonsense."
Romilly stared in horror at her nurse. So this was to be her father's punishment Worse, far worse than a beating, and she knew that from her father's orders there would be no appeal.
I wish he had beaten me. At least he would have been dealing with me, directly, with Romilly, with a person. But to turn me over to Luciella, to let her make me into her image of a lady....
"It's an insult to a decent horse," Romilly stormed, "I won't do it!"
She aimed a savage kick at the offending habit on the floor.
"Well, then, lovey, you can just stay inside the house like a lady, you don't need to ride," said Gwennis complacently, "You spend too much time in the stables as it is, it's time you stayed more in the house, and left the hawks and horses to your brothers as you should."
Appalled, Romilly swallowed down a lump in her throat, looking from the habit on the floor to her beaming nurse. "I expected this of Luciella," she said, "she hates me, doesn't she? It's the sort of spiteful thing Mallina might do, just because she can't ride a decent horse. But I didn't think you'd join with them against me, Nurse!"
"Come, you mustn't talk like that," Gwennis said, clucking ruefully, "How can you say that about your kind stepmother? I tell you, not many stepmothers with grown daughters are as good to them as Lady Luciella is to you and Mallina, dressing them up in beautiful things when you're both prettier than she is, knowing Darren's to be Lord here and her own son only a younger son, not much better than a nedestro! Why, your own mother would have had you out of breeches three years ago, she'd never have let you run around all these years like a hoyden! How can you say that she hates you?"
Romilly looked at the floor, her eyes stinging. It was true; no one could have been kinder to her than Luciella. It would have been easier if Luciella had ever showed her the slightest unkindness. I could fight against her, if she was cruel to me. What can I do now?
And Preciosa would be waiting for her; did Gwennis really think she would leave her own hawk to the hawkmaster's boy, or even to Davin himself? Her hands shook with fury as she pulled on the detested habit, threadbare blue gabardine and in spite of Gwennis's alterations, still too tight in the waist, so that the lacings gaped wide over her undertunic. Better to ride in skirts than not to ride at all, she supposed, but if they thought they had beaten her this easily, they could think again!
Will she even know me in this stupid girl's outfit?
Fuming, she strode toward the stables and hawk-house, tripping once or twice over the annoying skirts, slowing her step perforce to a proper ladylike pace. So Luciella would bribe her with a pretty habit, to soften the blow? Just like a woman, that silly devious trick, not even telling her outright that she must put aside her riding-breeches!
Inside the hawk-house, she went directly to the block, slipping on her old gauntlet and taking Preciosa up on her arm. With her free hand she stroked the hawk's breast with the feather kept for that purpose - the touch of a hand on the hawk's feathers would take the coating from the feathers and damage them. Preciosa sensed her agitation and moved uneasily on her wrist, and Romilly made an effort to calm herself, taking down the hanging lure of feathers and signalling to the boy Ker.
"Have you fresh meat for Preciosa?"
"Yes, damisela, I had a pigeon just killed for the table and I kept all the innards for her, they haven't been out of the bird more than ten minutes," Ker said, and she sniffed suspiciously at the fresh meat, then threaded it on to the lure. Preciosa smelled the fresh food and jerked uneasily and fluttered; Romilly spoke soothingly to her, and walked on, kicking the skirt out of her way. She went into the stableyard and loosed the jesses, whirling the lure high over her head; Preciosa flung herself upward, the recoil thrusting Romilly's hand down, and wheeled high into the sky over the stableyard, stooping down swiftly on the lure, striking almost before it hit the ground. Romilly let her feed in peace for a moment before calling her with the little falconer's whistle, which the bird must learn to associate with her food, and slipping the hood over her head again. She handed the lure to Ker and said, "You whirl it; I want to watch her fly."
Obediently the hawkmaster's boy took the lure and began to whirl it over his head; again Romilly loosed the hawk, watched her fly high, and descend to Romilly's whistle to the flying bait. Twice more the maneuver was repeated, then Romilly let the hawk finish her meal in peace, before hooding her and setting her back on the block. She stroked her again and again tenderly with the feather, crooning nonsense words of love to her, feeling the sense of closeness and satisfaction from the fed hawk. She was learning. Soon she would fly free and catch her own prey, and return to the wrist...
"Go and saddle Windracer," she said, glumly adding, "I suppose you must use my sidesaddle."
The groom would not look at her.
"I am sorry, damisela - The MacAran gave strict orders. Very angry, he was."
So this, then, was her punishment. More subtle than a beating, and not her father's way - the delicate stitches set by Luciella's hand could be clearly seen in this. She could almost hear in her imagination the words her stepmother must have used; see, a big girl like Romilly, and you let her run about the stables, why are you surprised at anything she might do? But leave her to me, and I will make a lady of her....
Romilly was about to fling at the groom, angrily, to forget it, a sidesaddle was an insult to any self-respecting horse . . . but on her arm Preciosa bated in agitation, and she knew the bird was picking up her own rage - she struggled for calm and said quietly, "Very well, put a lady's saddle on her, then." Anger or no, sidesaddle or no, Preciosa must be habituated to the motion of the horse; and a ride on a lady's saddle was better than no ride at all.
But she thought about it, long and hard, as she rode that day. Appeal to her father would be useless: evidently he had turned responsibility over to Luciella, the new riding-habit had been only a signal showing which way the wind now blew. No doubt, a day would come when she would be forbidden to ride at all - no, for Luciella had told her of his plans to give her a good horse. But she would ride as a lady, decorously because no horse could do anything better than a ladylike trot with a lady's sidesaddle; ride cumbered in skirts, unable even to school her hawk properly; there was no proper room for a hawk as there was on a man's saddle where she could carry the block before her. And soon, no doubt, she would be forbidden the stables and hawk-house except for such ladylike rides as this. And what could she do about it? She was not yet of age - she would be fifteen at Midsummer, and had no recourse except to do as her father and guardians bade her. It seemed that the walls were closing about her.
Why, then, had she been given this laran, since it seemed that only a man had the freedom to use it? Romilly could have wept. Why had she not, then, been born a man? She knew the answer that would be given her, if she asked Luciella what she would do with her Gift; it is, the woman would say, so that your sons will have it.
And was she nothing but a vehicle for giving some unknown husband sons? She had often thought she would like to have children - she remembered Rael as a baby, little and cunning and as soft and lovable as an unweaned puppy. But to give up everything, to stay in the house and grow soft and flabby like Luciella, her own life at an end, living only through her children? It was too high a price to pay, even for babies as adorable as that. Furiously, Romilly blinked back tears, knowing that the emotion would come through to hawk and horse, and disciplined herself to quiet.
She must wait. Perhaps, when her father's first anger had cooled, he could be made to see reason. And then she remembered; before Midsummer, Darren would be home, and perhaps he, as her father's sole remaining heir, could intercede for her with her father. She stroked the hawk with its feather to quiet her, and rode back toward Falconsward with a glimmer of hope in her heart.