Every year The MacAran held his great Midsummer-feast as preliminary to a great market in hawks, trained dogs and horses. On the morning after the Festival, Romilly wakened to the great bustle in the courtyard, and men and women thronging, while on the field beyond the enclosed yard, horses were neighing as men put them through their paces, and men and women were coming and going. Romilly dressed quickly in an old gown - there were still guests, so there could be no thought of borrowing a pair of Darren's breeches - and ran down. Calinda, meeting her on the stairs, gave a rueful laugh.
"I knew I should get no work out of Rael this day - he is beyond me, his father must send him soon to Nevarsin for teaching by men who can handle him," she said, "But must you, too, hang about the market, Romilly? Ah well-" she smiled kindly at her charge, "Go if you will, I shall have the whole day to work with Mallina on her penmanship - she takes guidance better when you and Rael are not there to hear. And I suppose you would not mind your book if your heart and thoughts were all out in the courtyard. But you must work all the harder tomorrow," she said firmly, and Romilly hugged the older woman with a vehemence that left her breathless.
"Thank you, Calinda, thank you!"
She picked her way carefully through the trampled mud of the courtyard and into the field. Davin was displaying the flight to a lure of one of the best-trained hawks, a great bird in whose training Romilly had played no small part; she stood watching in excitement till Davin spotted her.
"And this hawk is fierce and strong, but so gentle that even a young maiden could fly her," Davin said, "Mistress Romilly, will you take the bird?"
She slid the gauntlet over her arm and held out her wrist; he set the bird on it, and swirled the lure, and the bird took off, quickly climbing the sky, then, as the whirling leather thong with the meat and feathers came swooping down, striking so quickly that eyes could hardly follow the swift strike. Romilly picked up bird and lure and stood feeding the hawk from her free hand, to the accompaniment of little cries of amazement and delight
"I shall have that hawk, then, for my lady," said Cathal Aldaran of Scathfell, "She has not had enough exercise since her children were born, and so fine a hawk will encourage her to be out and about, and to ride."
"No," said the elderly Dom Gareth firmly, "No woman shall fly such a hawk as that under my roof; but your training methods are excellent, messire, and I will take one of the smaller hawks for Lady Darissa - have you a good lady's hawk? Mistress Romilly, can you advise me, perhaps, as to what hawk my daughter-in-law could best fly?"
She said, lowering her eyes modestly, "I fly a verrin hawk, vai dom, but either of these-" she indicated three of the smaller birds, with wing-spans not much longer than her arm, "are well-trained and I think Darissa would have no trouble in handling them. But I give you my word, sir, that if you want to buy the larger bird for her, she is so well trained that Darissa could fly her, and the larger birds are better for hunting for the kitchens; the smaller hawks can bring down nothing bigger than a field-shrew."
He snorted. "The women of my household have no need to hunt for meat for the pot; if they fly hawks, they do so only to have a reason to take air and exercise. And The MacAran still lets a great girl like you hunt with a verrin hawk? Disgraceful!"
Romilly bit back the protest on her lip - Aldaran might not approve of women flying hawks, but perhaps other men were not so stuffy and narrow-minded as he was himself - realizing that a saucy answer would only alienate a valued neighbor and customer of her father's. While they produced most of what they needed on the estate at Falconsward, still coined money was always in short supply, and most of her father's ready money came from this sale every year. She curtseyed to Lord Scathfell and withdrew, handing back the hawk to Davin. While he haggled with the man, she cast a quick frightened glance around the field - her father might have decided to punish her by putting Preciosa up for sale - but Preciosa was not there, but still safe within the mews. At the far end, her father was putting one or two of his best horses through their paces, while the kennel-man was displaying working dogs trained to obedience to word or gesture. The high nobility who had danced last night at their feast nibbed elbows with small-holders and farmers who had come to pick up dogs for their herding, or perhaps to trade for a horse rejected by the nobles. Darren was stationed at the far end, writing down all the details of the transactions for the steward; Rael was running in and out of the crowd, playing catch-the-monkey with a group of small boys his own age, his face and hands already grubby and his jacket torn.
"Can you take me to see your father's horses?" Alderic said at her elbow, "I would like to trade my nag for a somewhat better one; I have not much money, but perhaps I could work some time for him in return for the difference - do you think he would be interested in a deal like that? I have marked that your coridom is old and feeble - perhaps I could work for him for forty days or so while he finds himself a man better suited to the needs of his business, and the old man could be retired to an indoor steward."
She blinked in surprise - she had begun to be sure that he was, in fact, the Hastur prince in disguise, and here he was offering to hire himself, a paid worker, to The MacAran in return for a horse-trade! But she said politely, "About the deal, you must ask him yourself; but we have some good horses which are not good-looking enough to attract the attention of the highly-born, and must be sold at a lower cost; perhaps one of them would suit you, if it was well-trained. That one, for instance-" she pointed out a great ungainly horse, an ugly color of brown, spotted unevenly with black, his mane and tail growing somewhat askew, "He is an ugly raw-boned brute, but if you look carefully at his gait, and the way he carries his tail, you will see that he is a fine strong horse, and spirited too. But he is no ride for a lady, nor for any soft-handed fellow who wants his horse to plod along at a gentle pace; he wants firm hands and good handling. His sire was our best stallion, but the dam was only a cull, so though his blood is not bad, he is an ugly brute and not good-colored."
"His haunches look strong, indeed," said Alderic, "But I would like to look at his teeth for myself. I suppose he is broken to the saddle?"
"Yes, though father was at first intending to make a draft-horse of him; he is too big for most riders," she said, "But you are tall, you would need a large horse. Ruyven broke him to the bridle, but I myself have ridden him - although," she said, with a mischievous smile, "Father does not know it, and you need not tell him."
"And you can handle him, damisela?" Alderic looked incredulous.
"I will not ride him before all these people to prove it," she said, "but I would not stoop to lie about it to you, and-" she met his eyes briefly, "I think perhaps you would know if I did."
"That I would, Romilly," he said gravely.
"I give you my word, the horse is good-tempered enough, but he wants firm handling," she said, "I think perhaps he has a sense of humor - if a horse can laugh, I would swear I have seen him laugh at people who think they need only clamber on a horse and let him do all the work, and he had Darren off in two minutes; but my father can ride him without even a bridle, only a saddle and halter; because The MacAran knows how to make him, or any horse, behave."
"Aye, and I am told you have the same gift," he said. "Well, I will make your father an offer for him; would he take my horse in trade, do you think?"
"Oh, yes, he has always need of cheaply-priced horseflesh, to sell to farmers and such," she said, "Men who will use their horses well, but cannot afford much in the way of stables. One of our old mares, no longer young enough to carry active young folk who would be in the saddle all day, he gave for almost nothing to an elderly man who lives nearby, who was too poor to buy a good horse, just so that the old horse might live out her life in a good home and have only light work. No doubt he would do the same for your horse - is she very old?"
"No," Alderic said, "but I must be into the Hellers when summer comes, and even in summertime it takes a strong horse to ride such trails."
"Into the far Hellers?" She wondered what would take him into the almost-impassable mountain ranges in the summer, but he turned the subject deftly before she could ask.
"I had not expected to find a young woman such a judge of horseflesh - how came you to know so much?"
"I am a MacAran, sir; I have worked at my father's side since I was old enough to follow him about the stables, and when Ruyven left-" she broke off, unable to say to anyone outside the family that her oldest brother's defection had left her father with no one but paid help to share his love of the animals he bred and trained. Yet she sensed that he understood her, for he smiled in sympathy.
"I like your father," Alderic said, "He is harsh, yes, but he is just, and he speaks freely to his children."
"Does not your father?"
Alderic shook his head. "I have hardly had speech with my father half a dozen times since I was out of short dresses. My mother was wedded to him in a dynastic marriage, and there was little love to lose between them; I doubt they have said a civil word to one another since my sister was conceived, and now they dwell in separate houses and meet formally a few times a year, no more. My father is a kindly man, I suppose, but I think he cannot look on my face without seeing my mother's features, and so he has always been ill at ease with me. Even as a babe I called him sir, and have hardly spoken with him since I was grown to man's size."
"That cannot have been so long ago," Romilly teased, but he said, with a poignancy that stopped her teasing cold, "Still, I envy you; I have seen Rael climb without fear into his father's lap - I cannot remember that I ever did so with my father, but you can go to your father, speak with him freely, he treats you almost as a friend and listens when you speak. Even though my father is high in-" Alderic stopped himself short, and there was a moment of awkward silence before he finished weakly, "High in station and honor, I wish I need not always address him as My Lord. I swear I would trade fathers with you at any moment."
"He might think it a bargain," said Romilly bitterly, but she knew she was not quite truthful; her father loved her, harsh as he was, and she knew it. She said, "Look, there he stands and for the moment he has no customer, go now and ask for such a trade for Redwing."
"I thank you," he said, and went; then Davin called to her to show the paces of one of the dogs she had trained, and she forgot Alderic again. She worked all day on the sale fields, displaying the obedience of the dogs, explaining bloodlines and stud-books, exhibiting the hawks; her noon-meal was a mouthful of bread and cheese and a few nuts, swallowed in the enclosure behind the stables among The MacAran's men, and by the time the trading was called to a halt by the evening rain and the guests began to depart, she was famished and filthy, ready for a bath and to be dressed in a comfortable worn tunic and skirt for the family's dinner. A good smell of roasting meat and fresh-baked bread came as she passed the hall, and she went in and took her seat. Rael was still chattering to anyone who would listen about his day spent among the animals, and Luciella finally silenced him with a weary "Hush, Rael, or you shall have supper in the nursery; there are others in this family who would like to speak a word or two without being drowned out! How did it go today, my dear?" she asked The MacAran as he took his seat and picked up his mug. He took a long drink before answering.
"Well enough; I made a good trade for Redwing, who is a fine horse for anyone who has wit to see what lies beneath that ugly coat of his. Dom Alderic told me you recommended that sale, Romilly," he said, with a kind glance at his elder daughter.
"Did I well, father? I did not want to interfere, but it seemed to me that he would be a good ride for Dom Alderic," she said shyly, "and-" she looked around to see if Alderic had come in, but Darren's place was still empty and his friend was not at table either, "He told me he was short of ready money, so I knew that one of the blacks would be beyond his purse."
"I am grateful to you; I wanted Redwing in good hands," said her father, "and most people could not handle him; but with young Castamir, he was gentle as a child's cagebird. So I thank you, daughter,"
"But still," Luciella complained, "this must be the last year she goes out into the fields with the men, showing off hawks and horses - she is a grown woman, Mikhail!"
No fear of that," said The MacAran, smiling, "Other news I have too. Romilly, my dear, you know you are of an age to be married; I had not thought I would have such a good offer for you, but Dom Garris of Scathfell has asked me for your hand in marriage, and I have answered him; yes."
Romilly felt as if an ice-cold hand was closing about her throat.
Father!" she protested, while Luciella beamed and Mallina squeaked with excitement, "Not Dom Garris!"
Come, come," her father said with a genial smile, "Surely you have not set your heart on someone else? Manfred Storn is not yet ready to marry, and I thought you loved Darissa well, and would welcome marrying into that family, so you might be near your best friend."
I had thought-perhaps Cinhil-"
If that young man has trifled with your affections," said The MacAran, "I'll turn him over my knee and dust his breeches for him - he's too much a child to be worth calling challenge! Why marry the younger son when you can marry the Heir, my dear?"
Her heart sank as she remembered the moment in the galleries. I was only testing you. Now I see you are a good girl. So, she thought, if she had liked Dom Garris well enough to kiss him she would have been deprived of marriage, as if it were a prize for good conduct! But since she had showed her loathing, she was then worthy of his attentions? Her eyes burned, but she would not cry here before her father.
"Father, I hate him," she said, pleading, "Please, don't make me marry him!"
"Romilly," said Mallina, "You will be Lady Scathfell! Why, he's Heir to Scathfell, and perhaps even to Aldaran itself some day! Why, the folk of Aldaran were of the Hastur-kinfolk!"
The MacAran gestured the younger girl to silence.
"Romy," he said gravely, "Marriage is not a matter of whim. I have chosen a good young man for you."
"So young he is not," she flared, "he has buried three wives, and all of them have died in childbirth!"
"That is because he married into Aldaran kindred," her father said, "Any horse-breeder will tell you it is unwise to cross close kindred so often. You have no Aldaran blood and can probably give him healthy children."
She thought of Darissa, not much older than herself, swollen and shapeless with bearing children. Would she be like that, and would those children have been fathered by Dom
Garris, with his whining voice and damp flabby hands? The thought made her flesh crawl.
"No more talk," said her father firmly, "All silly girls think they know what man they want, but older heads must make the decision as it is best for their lives. I would not have you married before harvest time - I will not have my daughter hustled to marriage - but at the harvest you will marry Dom Garris, and that is all I have to say."
"So while I thought you were having a sale of horses and hawks," she said bitterly, "You were also making a sale of your daughters! Tell me, Father, did Dom Garris give a good price?"
She knew by the unlovely flush that spread over her father's face that she had caught him on the raw. He said, "I'll hear none of your impertinence, my pert young mistress!"
"I doubt it not," she flung back at him, "You would rather trade in hawks and horses because they cannot talk back - and you can give them what fate you will!"
He opened his mouth to reply; then gave her a heavy glance.
"My lady," he said to Luciella, "It is your task to bring my daughters under control; see to it, will you? I will dine with the steward; I'll not have this brangling at my family table." He rose and strode out of the room.
"Oh, Mother," Romilly wailed, crumpling and throwing her head into Luciella's lap, "Do I have to marry that- that-" words almost failed her, but finally she came out with, "that great slug? He is like something with a dozen legs that crawled out from under a piece of rotten wood!"
Luciella stroked her hair gently, puzzled. "There, there, child," she murmured, "It will not be so bad as you think; why, didn't you tell Dom Alderic that a horse should not be judged by his ugly coat? Dom Garris is a good and honorable man. Why, at your age, I had already my first child, and so had your own dear mother, Romy. There, there, don't cry," she added helplessly, and Romilly knew there was no help for it; Luciella would never defy her father. Nor could she. She was only a girl and there was no escape.
Alone in her room, or riding alone over the hills with Preciosa on her saddle, Romilly pondered what she could do. It seemed that she was trapped. She had never known her father to alter a judgment given - he would not hear of forgiveness for Ruyven, for instance - or to change his mind, once made up. He would not break his agreement with Dom Garris - or had it been made with Gareth of Scathfell himself? - though the heavens should fall. Her governess, her stepmother even, could sometimes be teased or argued out of a punishment or a judgment; in all the years of her life, her father had never been known to go back on what he had said, even when he knew it was wrong. Far and wide in the Kilghard Hills, the word of a MacAran was like the word of Hastur; as good as another man's signed bond or sworn oath.
What if she should defy him? It would not be the first time. Something inside her quailed at the thought of his rage. But when she countered her father's rage with the thought of the alternative, confronting Dom Garris and the memory of lust in his eyes, she realized that she would rather that her father beat her every day for a year than that he should deliver her over to Dom Garris. Didn't he know what the man was like? And then, with her heart sinking, she realized that The MacAran was a man and would never have seen that side of Garris of Aldaran; that, Dom Garris showed only to a woman he desired.
If he touches me, I will vomit, she thought, and then she knew that whatever her father's anger, she must make a final appeal to him.
She found him in the stable, supervising a stableboy in poulticing the knees of a black pony who had fallen in the yard. She knew it was not an auspicious moment, for he looked cross and abstracted.
"Keep up the poulticing," he directed the boy, "Hot and cold, for at least two hours, and then treat the knees with karalla powder and bandage them well. And see he doesn't lie down in the muck - make sure he has fresh straw every few hours. Even with all we can do, he will be scarred and I'll have to sell him at a loss, or keep him for light work on the farm; if his knees get infected, we may lose him altogether. I'm putting you in charge - if anything goes wrong, I'll have it out of your hide, you young rascal, since it was your careless riding let him fall!" The stableboy opened his mouth to protest, but The MacAran gestured him to silence. "And don't give me any back-talk - I saw you running him on the stones! Damned young fool, I ought to put you to mucking-out and not let you exercise any of them for forty days!" He turned his head irritably and saw Romilly.
"What do you want in the stables, girl?"
"I came to find you, father," she said, trying to steady her voice, "I would like a word with you, if you can spare the time."
'Time? I have none this morning, with this pony hurt and perhaps spoilt," he said, but he stepped out of the stable and leaned against one of the rail fences. "What is it, child?"
But she could not speak for a moment, her throat swelling as she looked at the panorama behind her, the mountains that rose across the valley, the green paddock with the brood mares near their time, placidly grazing, the house-folk washing clothes in the yard, over a steaming cauldron poised on the smouldering fire of little sticks ... this was all so dear to her, and now, whatever came of this, she must leave it ... Falconsward was as dear to her as to any of her father's sons, yet she must leave her home to be married away, and any of her father's sons, even Ruyven who had abandoned it, could stay here forever, with the horses and the home hills. She swallowed hard and felt tears starting from her eyes. Why could she not be her father's Heir in Ruyven's place, since he cared nothing for it, and bring her husband here, rather than marrying someone she must hate, and living in a strange place.
"What is it, daughter?" he asked gently, and she knew he had seen her tears.
She swallowed hard, trying to control her voice. She said "Father, I have always known I must marry, and I would gladly do your will, but-but-Father, why must it be Dom Garris? I hate him! I cannot bear him! The man is like a toad!" Her voice rose, and her father frowned, but quickly smoothed his face into the forced calm she dreaded.
He said reasonably, "I tried to make you the best marriage I could, Romy. He is nearest Heir to Scathfell, and not far from the lordship of Aldaran of Aldaran, should the old man die without children, which now looks likely. I am not a rich man, and I cannot pay much of a marriage-portion for you; and Scathfell is rich enough not to care what you can bring. Dom Garris is in need of a wife-"
"And he has worn out three," said Romilly, desperately, "And goes again to many another girl of fifteen...."
"One reason he asked me for you," her father said, "was that his other wives have been weaklings and too near akin to him; he wanted new blood for the house. If you bear him a healthy son, you will have great honor, and everything you could possibly wish for."
"And if I do not I will be dead and no one will have to care whether I am happy or not," she cried, her tears starting forth again. "Father, I cannot, I will not marry that-that loathsome man! Oh, Father, I am not trying to defy you, I would willingly marry almost anyone else-Cinhil, or-or Dom Alderic-"
"Alderic, hey?" Her father took her chin in his big hand and tipped up her face to look at it. 'Tell me the truth, now, child. Have you been playing about in a way you should not? Dom Garris will expect to find you chaste; will he be disappointed? Has that arrogant young Castamir sprig been trifling with your feelings, girl? A guest under this roof-"
"Dom Alderic has never spoken a word to me, or done anything, which he could not have done in full view of you and Mother," she flared indignantly, "I named him only because I would not find him loathsome, nor Cinhil, nor any healthy kind young man somewhere near my own age! But that-that slimy-" words failed her, and she bit her lip hard so she would not cry.
"Romilly," said her father gently, still holding her face between his hands, "Dom Garris is not so old as that: it is not, after all, as if I had tried to give you to Lord Gareth, or to any man I knew to be evil-tempered, or a drunkard, or a gambler, or one who was a wastrel of substance. I have known Garris all his life; he is a good, honorable and wellborn young man, and you should not hold his face against him, since he did not make it. A handsome face will soon be worn away, but honor and good birth and a kindly temper are the things I want for my daughter's husband. You are only a silly young girl, and you can see no further than a man's handsome face and grace at dancing; which is why fathers and mothers make marriages for young girls, so that they can see a man's true worth."
She swallowed, and felt shame overcoming her, to speak of this to her father, but the alternative was worse. She said, "He-he looks at me in such a way - as if I were naked - and when we were dancing, he put his hands on me-"
Her father frowned and looked aside and she knew he was embarrassed too. At last he sighed and said, "The man is wanting a wife, that is all; when he is wedded he will not need to do so. And at least you know that he is not a-" he coughed nervously, "he is not a lover of men, and will not desert you to hold hands with one of his paxmen or a pretty young page-boy or Guardsman. I think he will make you a good husband, Romy. He may be awkward and not know how to make himself known to you, but I think he means you well and you will be happy together."
Romilly felt the tears breaking and spilling. She said, feeling her voice break hi sobs, "Father-oh, Father, please. . . anyone, anyone else, I swear I will obey you without question, but not-not Dom Garris-"
The MacAran scowled, biting his lip. He said, "Romilly, this matter has gone so far I cannot honorably draw back. The folk of Scathfell are neighbors, and I am dependent on their good will; to break my word at this point, would be an affront to their honor which I could not recover in a lifetime. If I had had any idea you felt like this, I would never have given my word; but done is done, and I have pledged it in honor. There's no more to be said, child. You are young; you will soon grow used to him, and it will be well, I promise you. Now cheer up, don't cry; I promised you a pair of fine blacks, broken with my own hand, for a wedding-present, and I am going to make over the small farm at Greyrock to you, so you will always have something, a place of your own. And I have told Luciella to send to the markets in Caer Donn for fine stuff for a wedding-dress, so you need not be married in homespun. So cheer up, dry your eyes, and decide for yourself which of the blacks you want for a wedding-present, and you may ask Luciella to have new dresses made for you, three-no, four new outfits and everything to go with them, all kinds of petticoats and feathers and bonnets and gewgaws such as girls like, no girl in the hills will be better outfitted for her wedding."
She bent her head, swallowing hard. She had known it was hopeless, and he had given his word to Dom Garris and to Lord Scathfell. He would never draw back now, and it would be useless, no matter what she should say. He mistook her silence for agreement and patted her cheek.
"There's my fine, good girl," he said awkwardly, "I am proud of you, child - would that any of your brothers had your strength and spirit."
"I wish I had been your son," she blurted out, "and that I could stay at home with you always."
Her father took her gently into his arms. "So do I, girl," he said against her hair, "So do I. But it's for man to wish and the Gods to Give, and the Bearer of Burdens alone knows why he gifted only my daughter with those things a man wants from his sons. The world will go as it will and not as you or I would have it, Romy." He patted her, gently, and she cried, holding on to him, cried hopelessly, as if she would never stop.
In a way, she thought desperately later, his sympathy made it worse. If he had stormed and shouted at her, raged and threatened her with a beating, she could at least have felt that she had a right to rebel. Before his kindness she could only see his point of view - that she was a young girl, that her good parents and guardians were doing what they thought best for her, and that she was silly and thoughtless to speak out against their caution for her.
So she tried to seem interested in the preparations for her wedding which, so The MacAran said, would be at the harvest. Luciella sent to Caer Donn for spider-silk for her wedding-gown and fine dyed stuff, crimson and blue and violet, for her new dresses, and had ordered so many petticoats and camisoles and fine underthings that Mallina was openly jealous and sulked while the sewing was being done.
One morning, a rider came from Scathfell, and when he was welcomed in the courtyard, uncovered a cage before him on the saddle.
"A message from Dom Garris, sir," he said to The MacAran, "and a gift for Mistress Romilly."
The MacAran took the letter, scowling slightly, and tore it open. "Your eyes are better than mine, Darren," he said to his son, "Read it for me."
Romilly thought, annoyed, that if the letter concerned her, she should have been the one to read it. But perhaps The MacAran did not want it known that his daughter was so much a better scholar than his Nevarsin-educated son. Darren glanced through the letter and frowned, then read aloud.
"To The MacAran of Falconsward and to my affianced wife Romilly, greeting from Gareth-Regis Aldaran at Scathfell. Your daughter informed me that she flies a verrin hawk, which is understandable in the daughter of the finest hawk-trainer in these hills, but would be unseemly for the wife of Aldaran's Heir. Therefore I take the liberty of sending her two fine ladybirds which will fittingly adorn the most beautiful wrist in all of the Kilghard Hills, so that she need not fly a man's hawk. I beg her acceptance of these fine birds, and I send them now so that she may be accustomed to their flight. Kindly convey my compliments and respectful wishes to my promised wife, and to you my most respectful greetings, sir." Darren looked up, saying, "It has Scathfell's own seal affixed."
The MacAran raised his eyebrows, but said, "A courteous letter indeed. Uncover the cage, man."
The cover lifted, two beautiful little hawks were revealed; their hoods were of fine scarlet-dyed leather with an Aldaran crest worked in gold thread, and the jesses glimmered with gold threads too. They were tiny brilliant birds, gleaming with gloss and health, and Romilly caught her breath at the sight of them.
"A beautiful gift," she said, "and most thoughtful. Tell my-my promised husband," she said, and stumbled over the words, "That I am most grateful to him and I shall fly them with all kind thoughts of him." She held out her wrist, and lifted one of the hawks on to her glove. It sat so quietly that she could tell it was perfectly trained. Never mind that such hawks were no good for anything but flying at field-mice, they were exquisite little birds and for Dom Garris to pay so much heed to her known interests was a good sign. For a little while she thought better of her promised husband; but later she began to think it over; was this simply his way of telling her that when she was his wife she would not be allowed to work with a proper hawk at all? From what Gareth of Scathfell - the old man - had said, she was inclined to think so. It would be unseemly for the wife of Scathfell's Heir. She made up her mind, firmly, whatever they said, she would never be argued or bullied into giving up Preciosa! The bond between them was too strong for that.
While she was first flying the little hawks - with a guilty thought that she was being disloyal to her beloved Preciosa - she reached out for contact, the strong bond between hawk and flyer. But the tiny birds gave only a faint sense of confusion, exhilaration; there was no close emotion, no sense of rapport and union - the smaller hawks were too lowly-organized to have the capacity for laran. She knew the cagebirds had no such abilities - she had once or twice tried to communicate with them - in fact, "the mind of a cage-bird" was a byword for a stupid woman! Flying the small hawks was dull; she could watch them fly, and they were beautiful indeed, but there was none of the excitement, the sense of rapport and completion, she felt with Preciosa. She flew them dutifully every day for exercise, but it was always with relief that she hooded them again with the beautifully-worked hoods and cast off Preciosa into the sky, climbing the sky with her hi an ecstasy of flight and soaring freedom.
She rode mostly with Darren, now, and Rael; Alderic had been put to the coridom's work and was always busy about the place with accounts, arranging the stud-books, supervising the many men about court and stables. She seldom saw him, except now and again for a decorous word as he sat by the fire in the evening, or played a game of castles or cards with Darren or her father, or sometimes whittled wooden toys to amuse Rael in the long evenings.
Her days, too, were filled; her father had said she need do no more lessons, and the plan for her to study ciphering with the old steward had of course been put aside, since she was to be married so soon, so Calinda filled her days with stitching, and taught her how to oversee the kitchen-women and the sewing-women and even the dairies . . . not that there would be so much need for her to do any of these things, but, Calinda said, she must know how to do these things so that she could know whether her servants did them well or not; Lord Scathfell was a widower and she would be the first lady in authority at Scathfell; she must not let them think that Falconsward was a poorly run household, so that the daughter of Falconsward could not fitly supervise her women. Romilly thought she would rather muck out barns and milk dairy-animals and make the butter herself than have to oversee other women doing it; while as for the sewing-women, she was grimly certain that the youngest and least skilled of them would be better than she, so how could she ever presume to supervise or oversee, far less chide or correct? Luciella, too, hunted up one of Mallina's old dolls, and dressed it in Rael's cast-off babyclothes and taught both Mallina and Romilly how to bathe a young baby, how to hold it and support its floppy little head, how to change its napkins and what to do to keep it from having rashes and skin disorders; Romilly could not imagine why, if there were skilled nurses and midwives there, and Darissa with two - no, three children by now - she should have to know how to do all this herself, even before she had any children, but Luciella insisted that it was part of a young wife's proper knowledge. Romilly had no particular objection to having children - Rael as a baby had been adorable - but when she thought of having children, she thought first of Darissa, soft and flabby and fat and sick, and then of the inevitable process by which those children would be gotten. She was farmbred and healthy, and had often thought, with secret pleasure, of the time when she would have a lover, a husband, but when she sought to put Dom Garris's face into that place, which (to do her credit) she virtuously tried to do, she only felt sick, and now even when she thought of any man, the very idea made her feel queasy and faint. No, but she could not, she would run away, she would join the Sisterhood of the Sword and wear weapons and fight as a mercenary soldier for one of the kings contending for this land, she would cut her hair and pierce her ears - and when she got to this point she realized how foolish she was, for if she ran away they would only follow her and drag her back. And then she would make wild plans, a final appeal to her father, to her stepmother, to Lord Scathfell himself - when they put the bracelets on her she would scream "No" and tear them off, when they tried to lead her to the bedding she would fall on Dom Garris with a knife. . . . Surely then he would put her away, he would not want her ... she would tell him how much she loathed him, and he would refuse to have her....
But she knew in her heart that all this was useless. She must marry... and she could not!
The summer drew on; the evening snow was only a brief trickle of rain, and the hills were bright with flowers and budding trees; the nut-bushes were covered with little green lumps which would ripen into nuts, and almost every day she and Mallina could cut fresh mushrooms from the sides of the old trees which had been implanted with fungus-roots. She picked berries dutifully and helped to stem them for conserves, helped churn butter in the dairies, and seldom had leisure even for a ride, let alone to give Preciosa proper exercise; but every day she visited her hawk in the mews, and begged Darren or Alderic to take her out and fly her. Darren was afraid of hawks, and still avoided them when he could, but when Alderic had leisure he would take out Preciosa on his saddle.
"But she does not fly well for me," he told her one evening, "I think she is pining for you, Romilly."
"And I am neglecting her," Romilly said, with a pang of guilt. She had herself formed the tie with this wild thing; now she could not betray it. She resolved that tomorrow, no matter what duties Luciella laid on her, she would find some tune for a ride, and to take out the hawk.
She flew through her work the next morning with such speed and willingness that Luciella stared, and said, "Why, what you can do when you are willing, child!"
"Since I have finished, foster-mother, may I take my hawk out for a little while?"
Luciella hesitated, then said, "Why yes; you must not neglect Dom Garris's gift. Go then, Romilly, enjoy yourself in the fresh air."
Released, she fled to put on her riding-habit and boots, to order her horse saddled - she supposed it would have to be a lady's saddle, but riding sidesaddle was better than not riding at all - and was swiftly off to the mews. Darren was in the yard, glumly exercising one or two of the hawks; she noted his clumsy movements, and told him she was going hawking - would he come? He went, with relief, and had his own horse saddled. She was taking Preciosa from her block, holding her familiar weight on the gauntlet with pleasure, extending her senses toward the hawk to set up the old contact, when her father stepped into the mews.
"Romilly," he said sharply, "Take your own hawks, not that one. You know what your promised husband said; it is unseemly to fly a verrin hawk, and you have hawks of your own. Put her back."
"Father!" she protested, in a sudden flood of anger, "Preciosa is my own hawk, I trained her myself! She is mine, mine! No one else shall fly her! How can it be unseemly for me to fly a hawk I trained? Are you going to let Dom Garris tell you what it is right for your own daughter to do, in your own stable-yard?"
She saw conflict and dismay on his face; but he said sharply, "I told you, put that hawk back on the block and take out your own! I will not have you defy me, girl!" He strode toward her; Preciosa sensed Romilly's agitation and bated wildly, threshing furiously on her wrist, whirling up to the length of the fastened jesses, then settling restively back.
"Father-" she pleaded, lowering her voice not to disturb the easily-frightened birds, "Don't say this-"
The MacAran thrust out his hand and firmly gripped Preciosa's feet. He set her back on the block and said, "I will be obeyed, and that is all there is to it."
"She's not getting enough exercise," Romilly pleaded, "she needs to be flown."
The MacAran paused. "That's right," he said, and beckoned to Darren.
"Here," he jerked his head to indicate Preciosa on her block, "Take her; I give her to you. You need a good hawk to work with, and this is the best we have. Take her out today, and start getting used to her."
Romilly's mouth fell open in indignant surprise. He could not do that to her - nor to Preciosa! The MacAran grasped the bird again, held it firmly until the bating quieted, then set her on Darren's wrist; he jerked back, startled, and Preciosa, even hooded, thrust her head about, trying to peck, beating her wings; Darren ducked away, his wrist twisting so that she overbalanced and fell, hanging from her jesses. He stood holding the wildly bating hawk, and The MacAran said in a harsh whisper, "Pick her up! Quiet her, damn you, if she breaks a wing-feather I'll break your neck, boy!"
Darren made ineffectual movements to quiet the bird, finally getting her to something like quiet on his glove. But his voice broke into falsetto as he said, "It's not-not fair, sir. Father, I beg you-Romilly trained that hawk herself, and with her own laran-"
"Silence, young man! Don't you dare speak that word in my presence!"
"Refusing to hear it won't make it less true, sir. It's Romilly's hawk, she trained it, she earned it, and I don't want it - I won't take it from her!"
"But you will take it from me," said The MacAran, his jaw thrusting forth, his jutting chin hard with fury, "How dare you say a hawk trained at Falconsward in my own mews is not mine to give? Romilly has been given hawks by her promised husband. She needs not this one, and you will take it or-" he leaned toward Darren, his eyes blazing, his breath coming and going in rough harsh noises, "Or I will wring its neck here before you both! I will not be defied here in my own mews!" He made a threatening gesture as if to carry out his threat here and now, and Romilly cried out.
"No! No, Father - no, please! Darren, don't let him - take the hawk, it's better for you to have it."
Darren drew a long, shaking breath. He wet his lips with his tongue, and settled the hawk on his arm. He said shakily, "Only because you ask me, Romilly. Only for that, I promise you."
Her eyes burning, Romilly turned aside to take up one of the tiny, useless hawks that had been Dom Garris' gift. At that moment she hated them, the little half-brained, stupid things. Beautiful as they were, elegantly trapped, they were only ornaments, pretty meaningless jewels, not real hawks at all, no more than one of Rael's carven toys! But it was not their fault, poor silly little things, that they were not Preciosa. Her heart yearned over Preciosa, perched unsteadily on Darren's awkward wrist
My hawk. Mine. And now that fool of a Darren will spoil her . . . ah, Preciosa, Preciosa, why did this have to happen to us? She felt that she hated her father too, and Darren, clumsily transferring Preciosa from his glove to the block on the saddle. Tears blurred her eyes as she mounted. Her father had called for his great rawboned grey; he would ride with them, he said wrathfully, to make sure Darren used the hawk well, and if he did not, he would learn it as he had learned his alphabet, beaten into him with The MacAran's own riding-crop!
They were all silent, miserable, as they rode down the pathway from the peaks of Falconsward. Romilly rode last, staring in open hatred at her father, at Darren's saddle where Preciosa perched restlessly. She sent out her consciousness, her laran - since the word had been used - toward Preciosa, but the hawk was too agitated; she felt only a blur of confusion and hatred, a reddish-tinged rage that blurred her mind, too, till she had all she could do to sit in the saddle.
All too soon they reached the great open meadow where they had flown their hawks that day - only then it had been Alderic with them, a friendly face and helping hands, not their furious father. Awkwardly, pinching her in his haste, Darren took the hood from Preciosa's head, raised her on his fist and cast her off; Romilly, reaching out her senses to merge with the rising hawk, felt how fury dropped away as Preciosa climbed the sky, and she thought, in despair, Let her go free. She will never be mine again, and I cannot bear to see her mishandled by Darren. He means well, but he has no hands or heart for hawks. As she sank into the hawk's mind and heart, her whole soul seemed to go into the cry.
Go, Preciosa! Fly away, fly free - one of us at least should be free! Higher-higher-now, turn and go-
"Romilly, what ails you?" Her father's voice was filled with asperity, "Get your bird out, girl!"
She brought herself painfully back to the moment, her practiced hands loosing the embroidered hood. The little hawk, shining like a jewel in the red sunlight, angled off, high on the wind, and Romilly watched, not seeing - her eyes were blurred with tears, her whole awareness with Preciosa.
Higher, higher... now, down the wind, and away, away ... free on the wind, flying free and away. ... a last quick sight of the country, spread out below her like a colored picture in one of Rael's schoolbooks, then the frail link snapped asunder and she was alone again, alone in her own mind, her hands and heart empty, and only the shrill tiny screaming of the small hawk striking at some little rodent in the long grass, lifting-the bird lighted on her saddle. With automatic hands she tore at the small carcass, letting the hawk feed from her glove, but her heart was empty.
Preciosa. She is gone. Gone. Never again. . ..
Her father's head was thrown back, scanning the sky where Preciosa had vanished. "She has gone long," he said, "Romilly, do you usually let her fly out of sight?"
Romilly shook her head. The MacAran waited, frozen, and Darren's head was thrown back, his mouth a round 'O' of dread. They waited. At last The MacAran said in a fury,
"You have lost her, damn your clumsiness! The best hawk in the mews, and the very first time you fly her, you have lost her, worthless son that you are, worthless brat good for nothing but scribbling. . . ." he raised his riding-crop and the whip came down over Darren's shoulders. He yelped, more from startlement than pain, but the sound galvanized Romilly; she flung herself headlong from her horse and scrambled toward the men, throwing herself between her father and Darren so that the blows fell on her.
"Beat me instead," she cried, "It's not Darren's fault! I lost her, I let her go - I cannot be free, I must be chained inside a house and robbed of my hawk, you damned tyrant, but I will not have Preciosa chained too! I bade her go with my laran - with my laran - you have driven Ruyven away with your tyranny, you have made Darren afraid of you, but I am not afraid of you, and at least you will never mistreat my hawk again, my hawk, mine-" and she burst into wild crying. Her father checked a moment as the first blow fell on her shoulders, but as he heard the flood of abuse, as the forbidden words Ruyven and laran fell on his ears, his face turned furious black, congested with wrath, and he raised the riding-crop and struck her hard. He raised it again and again; Romilly shuddered with the pain, and shrieked at him, incoherently, harder than ever; her father slid from his horse and stood over her, beating her about the back and shoulders with the crop until finally Darren flung his arms around his father, shouting and yelling, and then another voice; Dom Alderic, restraining her father with his strong arms.
"Here, here, sir - I'm sorry, but you mustn't beat a girl like that - good God, Romilly, your back is all bloody - look, sir, you've torn her dress!" He wrenched the crop from her father's hands. The man made no protest, letting his arms fall dazed to his sides. Romilly swayed, feeling bloody wetness on her back, numb and smarting, and Alderic shoved her father into Darren's arms, coming to support her with his arm. The MacAran looked dazed, his wrath giving way to numbness; he looked hastily, in dismay, at Romilly's torn dress where the crop had cut the stiff material into ribbons, and then away again.
He said numbly, "I-I did not know what I was doing - I am in your debt, Dom Alderic. I-I-" and his voice failed him. He swayed where he stood and would have fallen, but Darren held him upright. The MacAran stared at Romilly, and said harshly, "I lost my temper. I shall not forgive you, girl, that you caused me to forget myself so shamefully! Had you been a boy, I would still beat you senseless! But soon enough your husband will have charge of you, and if you speak to him like that, I doubt it not he will break your head in two! Get out of my sight!"
Romilly stumbled; Alderic pushed her toward her horse. "Can you ride?" he asked in an undertone.
She nodded, numb, tears bursting out again.
"You had better get back to the house," he muttered, "while he is still in shock at what he has done."
The MacAran stood, still shaking his head in dismay and wrath. "In all the years of my life," he said, "Never have I laid hand on a woman or girl! I shall not forgive myself, nor Romilly for provoking me!" He stared up into the sky where the hawk had vanished, and muttered something, but Romilly, under a push from Alderic, rode away blindly toward Falconsward.
When she stumbled into the house, and into her rooms, her old nurse met her with dismay. "Oh, my lamb, my little one, what has happened to you? Your back-your riding-dress-"
"Father beat me," she mumbled, breaking out into terrible crying, "He beat me because Darren lost my hawk...."
Gwennis soaked the remains of the dress from her back, dressed the broken skin and bruised flesh with oil and herb-salve, put her into an old robe of soft cloth, and brought her hot soup in her bed. Romilly had begun to shiver and felt sick and feverish. Gwennis was grumbling, but she shook her head and demanded, "How did you come to anger your father so much? He is such a gentle man, he must have been beside himself to do something like this!" Romilly could not speak; her teeth were chattering and she kept crying, even though she tried and tried to stop. Gwennis, alarmed, went to fetch Luciella, who cried herself over Romilly's bruises and cuts and her ruined habit, and nevertheless repeated what Gwennis had said - "How in the world came you to anger your father like this? He would never have done a thing like this unless you provoked him beyond bearing!"
They blame me, Romilly thought, they all blame me because I was beaten....
And now there is no hope for me. Preciosa is gone. My father cares more to be on good terms with Aldaran than he cares for me. He will beat Darren ruthlessly into shape because Darren does not have my gifts, but he will not let me be what I am, nor Darren what he is; he cares nothing for what we are, but only for what he would have us be. She would not listen to Luciella's kind words, not to Gwennis's cosseting. She could not stop crying; she cried until her eyes were sore and her head ached and her nose was reddened and dripping. And at last she cried herself to sleep.
She woke late, when the whole of Falconsward was silent, and the great violet face of Kyrrdis hung full and shining in her window. Her head still ached terribly, and her back stung and smarted despite the healing salves Gwennis had put on it She was hungry; she decided to slip downstairs and find some bread and cold meat in the kitchen.
My father hates me. He drove Ruyven away with his tyranny, but Ruyven at least is free, learning to be what he must be, in a Tower. Ruyven was right; at least, out of range of my father's iron will, he can be what he is, not what Father would have him be. And suddenly Romilly knew that she, too, must be free, as Preciosa was free in the wild to be what she was.
Shaking, she pulled an old knitted vest over her sore back, and put on the old tunic and breeches she had worn. She slipped quietly along the corridor, her boots in her hand. They were women's boots; a woman, she had heard all of her life, was not safe alone on the roads, and after the way Dom Garris had looked at her at Midsummer, she knew why. Ruyven's room was shut up, all his things as he had left them; noiselessly she slipped inside, took from a chest one of his plainer shirts and an old pair of leather breeches, a little too large for her, shucked off Darren's too-tight ones and dressed in Ruyven's ample ones; she took a cloak too, and a leather over-tunic, slipped into her room again for her own hawking-glove. Remembering that Preciosa was gone, she almost left it behind, but she thought, some day I will have a hawk again, and I will remember Preciosa by this. At the last, before she slid her old dagger into its sheath, she cut her hair short to the nape of her neck, and as she stole outside, thrust the braid deep into the midden, so they would not find it. She had locked Ruyven's door again, and they would never think to look among his old clothes and count the shirts. She would carry her habit with her, so they would be looking for a girl with long hair in a green riding-habit, not a nondescript young boy in plain old clothes. Slipping into the stable, she put an old saddle, dustcovered and hidden behind other discarded bits of harness, on her own horse, then thought better of it and left him in the stall. A black horse, a fine well-bred one, would betray her anywhere as a MacAran. She carried the saddle carefully outside and made a small bundle of it with her tack and her girl's clothes. She left it there and slipped quietly into the kitchen - in the summer, all the kitchen work was done in an outer building so the building would not be too hot - and found herself meat and a cut loaf of bread, a handful of nuts and some flat cakes of coarse grain which the cook baked every day for the best of the dogs, the breeding bitches and those who were nursing pups .. . they were palatable enough and would not be missed as other breads might be, since they were baked by the dozen, almost by the hundred ... a handful would never be counted. She rolled them in a kitchen towel and tied the neck of the improvised bag, then put her boots on, went outside and carried bag and saddle to the outer pasture, where old horses and culls were left to grass. She scanned them for a horse who would not be missed for some days - let them think she had gone afoot. Finally she decided on an elderly hack who was used only once in a great while, when the old coridom, now retired and seldom out of doors at all, visited the far pastures. She clucked softly - all the horses knew her - and he came cantering quietly to the fence. She murmured to him, fed him a handful of coarse vegetables, then put the saddle on his back, and led him softly away down the path, not mounting till she was well out of earshot of the walls. Once a dog began to bark inside the castle and she held her breath and fiercely willed the animal to be silent.
At the foot of the hill, she clambered into the saddle, wincing as her fresh bruises were jolted, but setting her teeth against the pain and wrapping herself hi her cloak against the midnight chill. Once she looked up at Falconsward on its crag, high above her.
Bearer of Burdens! 1 cannot, I cannot - Father is sorry, he beat me, this is madness, I should go back before I am missed....
But then the memory of Darren's face as she gave him the hawk, of her father's rage, of Ruyven's set, despairing eyes the last time she had seen him, before he ran away from Nevarsin. . . . No, Father will have us what he wishes, not what we are. The memory of Dom Garris handling her rudely at Midsummer, the thought of how he would behave when she was turned over to him, his wife, his property to do with as he would-
She set her face like iron. Had there been anyone to see, at that moment, they would have marked; she was very like her father. She rode away from Falconsward without once looking back.