On the third day it began to snow. Romilly, who had lived all her life in the foothills of the Hellers, knew that she must find shelter quickly; nothing alive could survive a storm, even at this season, except under cover. The wind whipped like a knife, and howled along the trees lining the path like the voices of ten thousand devils. Briefly she considered retracing her steps to the little hill-farm she had passed early that morning, and asking shelter there . . . but no. The farmers there might have been among those who came, now and again, to Falconsward, and even in her boy's dress might know her for The MacAran's daughter. She did not know them; but she had never been this far from her home, and was not sure where she was.
She knew vaguely that if she followed this trail, keeping to the north, she would come at last to Nevarsin, where she could take the road to Tramontana Tower. There she would find her brother Ruyven - or if he had been sent elsewhere by the leroni who ruled in the Towers, she could find news of him. It was in her mind that she might seek the training of her laran within the Towers, as the leronis Marelie had invited her to do some years ago. Alternatively, she might remain in Nevarsin for the winter - she had lived in the Hellers long enough to know that travelling in the winter, by the roads she must take to Nevarsin, was a dangerous enterprise, undertaken only by the mad or the desperate. Surely in Nevarsin she could seek to find work somewhere as a hawkmaster's apprentice, or with some blacksmith or horse-keeper as a stableboy-for she had no intention of revealing herself as a girl. She had seldom been away from her own home, where even the kitchen-girls and washerwomen were treated kindly and properly supervised by Domna Luciella, but the very way they reacted to this treatment told her how rare it was, and one of the women, who had worked as a tavern wench for years, had told many stories of the treatment she was apt to receive. Romilly did not doubt her own ability to care for herself and to keep unwelcome hands off her; but even the lowest stable boy was paid more than any cook-woman or tavern maid, and Romilly had few skills to lift her above the lowest scullery-maid's tasks. All she knew was horses and hawks, and the supervision of servants. Dressmakers and children's nurses, she knew, could earn higher wages, but even the thought of working as a sewing-woman made her smile, remembering the botchery she made of her sewing, and for a child's nurse they would want to know much more about her than she would be willing to tell. No, if she chose to stay in Nevarsin for the winter she would remain a boy to all appearances, and seek work in stables or mews.
And that way, at least, she would be around horses and hawks. She thought with a bitter pang of the lost Preciosa.
But I am glad it happened, she thought fiercely, hunching against the slashing wind and drawing her cloak high over her face, almost to covering her eyes. Otherwise, I would never have had the courage to break away! I would have remained obedient, perhaps even married Dom Garris . . . and a shiver of revulsion went through her. No, she was well out of that, even if she must spend the rest of her life working as a boy in some stranger's stables!
The snow was beginning to turn to a wet, soggy rain; the horse's feet slipped and slithered on the steep trail, and Romilly, sliding into rapport, felt the chill of the wind, the uneasy way the horse shivered and set down his feet with uncertain care on the slippery road. The rain was freezing as it fell; her cloak was stiffening with ice. They must find shelter soon, indeed.
They came to a steep turn in the road, where it forked, one path leading upward through thick trees that lined the trail, the other broader, but steeply downward. Romilly slid off the horse's back and went, craning her neck to stare through the thick misty rain. Downward she could see nothing except a small runnel of water cascading out of sight over the rocks beside the road; but upward, it seemed to her, she could make out the walls of some kind of building, a herder's hut or shelter for animals. The broadening road might lead down to a village or a cluster of valley farms, but she had no assurance, nor did she see any lights in the valley, and the rains were coming ever faster.
Upward, then, it must be, to the shelter, no matter how crude; it would at least be out of the wind or rain. She did not mount again - on a trail as steep as this upward path, the horse would fare better without her weight. She took her horse's bridle, speaking soothingly to the animal as it jerked its head away. She wished she could have had her own horse; this one was a stranger. Yet it was docile enough and even friendly.
The darkness through snow and rain grew darker; it was some building, indeed; not large, but it appeared weather-tight. The door was sagging, half off its hinges, and gave a loud protesting noise when she shoved it and went in.
"Who's there?" a quavering voice cried out, and Romilly felt her heart race and her throat tighten with fear. Dark as it looked, dilapidated, it was not deserted after all.
She said quickly, "I mean you no harm, ma'am - I was lost in the storm and the rain is freezing. May I come in?"
"Honor to the Bearer of Burdens, and thanks be that you have come," the voice said; a trembling, old voice. "My grandson went to the town and I make no doubt, in this storm he has had to shelter somewhere, I heard your horse's steps and thought for a moment it was Rory comin' back, but he rides a stag-pony and I see you have a horse. I canna' leave my bed; can ye throw a branch on the fire, boy?"
Now her face was beginning to thaw a little she could smell the smoke; groping in the darkness, she went toward the dull embers. The fire was almost out. Romilly stirred the embers, coaxed it alive with small sticks, and when they caught, built it up again with a bigger branch and then with a log. She stood wanning her hands, in the growing light, her eyes made out a few sticks of decrepit furniture, a bench or two, an ancient chest, a box-bed built into the wall, in which lay an old, old woman, propped up against the back of the bed.
As the firelight grew, she said, "Come here, boy. Let me look at you."
"My horse-" Romilly hesitated.
"You can lead him round into the stable," said the old voice. "Do that first, then come back."
She had to force herself to wrap the cloak over her face and go into the bitter cold. The stable was deserted, except for a couple of scrawny cats, who whined and rubbed against her legs, and after she had unsaddled her horse and given it a couple of pieces of the dog's bread - the grain would be enough to feed it for tonight - they followed her through the door into the warmth of the now-blazing fire.
"Good, good," said the old woman, in her shaky voice, "I thought of them out in the cold, but I could not get up to let them in. Come here and let me look at you, then, lad." And as Romilly went and stood by the box-bed, she hitched herself up a little further, peering with her face wrinkled up at Romilly's face. "How come ye out in such weather, boy?"
"I am travelling to Nevarsin, mestra," said Romilly.
"All alone? In such a storm?"
"I set out three days ago when the weather was fine."
"Are ye from south of the Kadarin? Red hair - ye have a look of the Hali'imyn about ye," the old woman said. She was wrapped in several layers of ragged shawls, and three or four threadbare blankets, not much better than horse-blankets, were piled on her bed. She looked gaunt, emaciated, exhausted.
The old woman let out her breath in a trembling sigh. She said, "I hoped he would be back from Nevarsin early this day, but no doubt the snow is worse to the North- well, with you to mend the fire, I will not freeze here alone in the storm. My old bones cannot stand the cold the way I could before, and before he left he built up the fire to last three days, saying he would surely be back before then."
"Can I do anything else for you, mestra?"
"If you can cook a pot of porridge, ye can have a share of it," said the old woman, indicating an empty pot, bowl and spoon at her side, "But get out of your wet things first, lad."
Romilly drew breath; the old woman apparently accepted her as a farm boy. She took off cloak and boots, hanging the cloak near the warmth of the fire to dry; there was a barrel of water near the fire, and she took the empty porridge-pot, rinsed it, and, as the old woman directed her, found a half-empty sack of coarse meal, more ground nuts than grain, and salt, and hung the mixture in the kettle from the long hook over the fireplace. The old woman beckoned her back, then.
"Where are you off to at this bitter time of the year, my lad?"
At that offhand "my lad" Romilly felt a bursting sigh of relief; at least the old woman had accepted her for what she seemed to be, a young boy and not a girl at the edge of being a woman. Then it occurred to her that the deception of an old woman, half-blind, was not so great a matter after all, and people with younger eyes and quicker wits might see through her more easily. And then she realized that the old woman in the box-bed was still peering out at her through those wrinkled eyelids, waiting for her answer.
"I am travelling to Nevarsin," she said at last, "My brother is there."
"In the monastery? Why, you are far off your road for that, youngster - you should have taken the left-hand fork at the bottom of the mountain. But too late now, you must stay till the storm is over, and when Rory is back he will set you on your proper path."
"I thank you, mestra."
"What is your name, lad?"
"Rom-" Romilly hesitated, swallowing back her name, realizing she had not thought of this for a moment. She pondered saying "Ruyven," but then she might not remember to answer to that but would look about for her brother. She swallowed, pretended to have choked for a moment on the smoke of the fire, and said "Rumal."
"And why are you going to Nevarsin all on your own? Are you to become a monk, or being sent there to be taught by the brothers, as they do with the sons of the gentry? You have a look of gentry about you, at that, as if you'd been born in a Great House - and your hands are finer than a stable-boy's."
Romilly almost laughed, thinking of the time when Gwennis, scowling at her calloused hands, worn by reins and claws, had said, reproving, "You will have the hands of a stable-boy if you do not take care!" But once again the old woman was waiting for an answer, and she thought swiftly of Nelda's son Loran - everyone at Falconsward knew him to be the MacAran's nedestro son, though Luciella liked to pretend she did not know, and refused to admit the boy existed. She said, "I was brought up in a Great House; but my mother was too proud to bring me under my father's eye, since I was festival-got; so she said I could make more of myself in a city, and I hope to find work in Nevarsin - I was apprentice to the hawk-master." And that, at least, was true; she was more Davin's apprentice than that worthless Ker.
"Well, Rumal, you are welcome," the old woman said. "I live here alone with my grandson - my daughter died when he was born, and his father's away in the lowlands in the service of King Rafael, across the Kadarin to the south. My name is Mhari, and I have dwelt here in this hut most of my life; we make a kind of living from the nut-farming, or we did until I grew too old for it; it's hard for Rory to look after the trees at all seasons, and care for me too, but he's a good lad, and he went to sell our nuts in the market at Nevarsin, and bring home flour for porridge, and herb-medicines for my old bones. When he's a wee bit older, perhaps, he can find him a wife and they can make a living here, for it's all I have to leave him."
"I think the porridge is boiling over," said Romilly, and hurried to the fire, to move the kettle a little further from the flame. When it was done, she dipped up a bowl for the old woman, and propped her up to eat it, then shook out Mhari's pillows and soothed her bedcovers and settled her down for the night.
"You are neat-handed as a girl," said Mhari, and Romilly's heart stopped till she went on, "I suppose that comes from handling birds; I never had the hands for that, nor the patience, either. But your porridge will be cold, child; go and eat it, and you can sleep there in Rory's pallet by the fire, since it's not likely he'll be home in this storm."
Romilly settled down by the banked fire to eat her bowlful, then rinsed the bowl in the barrel of water, set it near the fire to dry and stretched out, wrapped in her cloak, by the hearth. It was a hard bed, but on the trail she had slept in worse places, and she lay awake for a time, drowsily listening to the beating storm outside, and to the occasional drop of water which made its way down the chimney to sizzle briefly in the fire. Twice she woke during the night to make certain the fire was still alive. Toward morning the noise of the storm died away a little, and she slept heavily, to be wakened by a great pounding on the door. Mhari sat upright in her bed.
"It is Rory's voice," she said, "Did you draw the bolt, then?"
Romilly felt like a fool. The last thing she had done before settling down to sleep was to lock the inside door - which of course the crippled old woman could never have done. No wonder the voice outside sounded loud and agitated! She hurried to the door and drew the bolt.
She looked into the face of a huge burly young man, be-whiskered and clad in threadbare sacking and a cloak of a fashion which had not been worn in the Hellers since her father was a child. He had his dagger out, and would have rushed at her with it, but he heard old Mhari's cry.
"No, Rory - the boy meant no harm-he cared for me and cooked my supper hot - I bade him sleep here!"
The rough-looking young man let the dagger fall and hurried to the box-bed. "You are really all right, Granny? When I felt the door locked, and then when I saw a stranger within, I was only afraid someone had come, forced his way in and done you some harm-"
"Now, now, now," old Mhari said, "I am safe and sound, and it was well for me that he came, for the fire was near out, and I could have frozen in the night!"
"I am grateful to you, whoever you are, fellow," said the big young man, sliding his dagger into its sheath and bending to kiss his grandmother on the forehead. "The storm was so bad, and all night I could think only of Granny, alone here with the fire burnt out and no way to feed herself. My hearth is yours while you have need of it," he added, in the ancient mountain phrase of hospitality given a stranger. "I left my shelter the moment the rain died, and came home, though my hosts bade me stay till sunrise. And you are well and warm, that's the important thing, Granny dear." He looked tenderly on the old woman. Then, flinging off his cloak on to a bench, he went to the porridge-pot still hanging by the fire, dipped up some with the ladle, thick and stiff after the night by the hearth, and began to munch on the heavy stuff from his fingers. "Ah, warm food is good - it's cold as Zandru's breath out there still, and all the rain has frozen on the trees and the road - I feared old Horny would slip and break a leg. But I traded for some grain, Granny, so you shall have bread as well as porridge, and I have dried blackfruits as well in my bag; the miller's wife sent them for you, saying you would like the change." He turned to Romilly and asked, "Could I trouble you to get the saddlebags from my beast? My hands are so cold they are all but frozen, and I could not unfasten the tack till they are warm again; and you have spent the night in the warm."
"Gladly," said Romilly, "I must go out and see to my horse, in any case."
"You have a horse?" A look almost of greed lighted Rory's face. "I have always wanted a horse; but they are not for the likes of me! You must indeed have been brought up in a Great House."
Romilly went outside, flinging her cloak over her shoulders, and unfastened the heavy saddlebags lying across the heavy-boned stag-like chervine Rory had ridden. She took the sack of coarse grain into the byre, and brought the saddlebags into the cottage, dumping them on the floor near the fire.
Rory was bending over his grandmother, talking in low tones; she was sure he had not heard her, so she slipped out again into the byre, went into her own bags and fed her horse one or two cakes of the dog-bread, stroking its muzzle and talking to it. There was an old-fashioned outhouse inside the byre, and she went into it; as she was readjusting her clothing, she paused, dismayed, at the bloodstains lining her underwear; because of the storm she had lost track of the days. When I thought to pass myself off as a man, she said to herself wryly, / had forgotten certain very important points which I must remember. She had never thought it would be simple, to remember to pitch her voice at its deepest level and to remember to move with the free stride for which Luciella and her governess had always reproved her, but she had forgotten the inexorable rhythms of female biology which could have betrayed her more than any of this.
As she was tearing up one of the old petticoats in her pack - she could wash it privately by night, perhaps - she took stock of what she should do now. The old woman had promised that Rory would set her on her road to Nevarsin. Would it be ungracious, she wondered, to insist that she must leave at once? She should have invented someone who was waiting for her in that city and would come to look for her if she did not appear at the appointed time. She made certain that there were no telltale bulges in her clothing, fed the horse and led Rory's stag-pony inside, spreading fresh straw and fodder for it - she did not like the looks of that heavy-set young roughneck, but the riding-animal was certainly not to blame and should not suffer for her dislike of his master's face.
Then she stepped back through the door-and paused, hearing the old woman's voice.
"The youngster was kind to me, Rory. This is an evil thing you do, and a breach of hospitality, which the Gods hate."
Rory's voice was sullen. "You know how long I have wished for a horse, and while I dwell here at the world's end, I shall never have a better chance. If this is a runaway bastard from somewhere, he'll never be missed. Why, did you see his cloak - in all my years I have never even had a chance at such a cloak, and the brooch in it alone would pay a healer to come all the way from Nevarsin to cure your joint-aches! As for your debt to him, well, he had lodging and fire the night - it was not all kindliness on his part. And I can cut his throat quick as a puff of wind, and he'll never have the time to be afeared."
Romilly caught, terrified, at her throat. He meant to kill her! Never had she for a moment thought, even in the poverty of the hut, that her horse and cloak, let alone the copper brooch in its fastening and the money in her small purse, might endanger her very life. She would have turned, noiselessly, to flee; but without cloak or horse, without food, she would die quickly in the bitter cold! She gripped her fingers on the dagger in its sheath at her side. At least, he would find no unaware or easy victim; she would sell her life as dearly as she could. But she must not allow them to know that she knew of their plans, but pretend to suspect nothing till she had her cloak and her pack, and could make a run for the horse. She turned quietly about and went noiselessly back to the byre, where she put her saddle on her horse, and turned him about, ready to flee. Now she must have her cloak, or she would freeze in the hills.
Keeping her hand unobtrusively near the dagger's hilt, she came back to the door, careful to make some noise as she opened it. When she came in, Rory was sitting on the bench fiddling with his boots, and old Mhari had laid her head back on the pillow and was asleep, or pretending to be. As Romilly came in, Rory said, "Would you give me a hand wi' my boots, young fellow?"
"Gladly," Romilly said, thinking fast. If he had his boots off, at least he could not pursue her too quickly. She knelt before him, putting both hands to the boot, and hauled it free of his foot; bent forward to the other. She had both hands on it, and was tugging hard, when Rory bent forward, and she saw the glint of the knife in his hand.
Romilly acted without thought; she pushed hard on the leg with the boot, sending it up so that Rory's knee slammed into his chin, with a loud crack. The bench went over backward, with Rory tangled in it, and she scrambled to her feet and ran for the door, snatching up her cloak as she ran. She fumbled at the latch-string, her heart pounding, hearing Rory curse and shout behind her. A quick glance told her; his mouth was bleeding, either the blow had knocked out a tooth or cut his lip. She was swiftly through the door and tried to thrust it shut with her shoulder, but he wrestled it open behind her and then he was on her. She did not see the knife; perhaps he had dropped it, perhaps he meant to use only his huge hands. Her tunic ripped all the way down as he grabbed her; he pulled her close, his hands closing around her throat; then his eyes widened as he saw the ripped tunic and he tore it all the way down.
"By the Burden! Tits like a very cow! A girl, huh?" He grabbed Romilly's hand, which was clawing at his eyes, and held her immobile; then whirled her about and marched her back into the little kitchen.
"Hey, there! Granny! Look what I found, after all? Hell's own waste to hurt her - haven't I been after a wife these four years, and not a copper for a bride-price, and now one comes to my very door!" He laughed, jubilantly. "Don't be frightened, wench, I wouldn't hurt a hair of your little head now! I've something better to do, hey, Granny? And she can stay with you and wait on you while I'm out at the farming, or away to the mill or the town!" Laughing, the big man squeezed her tight in his arms and mashed a kiss against her mouth. "Runaway servant girl to the gentry, are you, then? Well, pretty thing, here you'll have your own kitchen and hearthfire, what do you say to that?"
Paralyzed by this torrent of words, Romilly was silent, filled with terror, but thinking faster than she had ever thought in her life.
He wanted her. He would not hurt her, at least for a little while, while he still hoped to have her. His mouth against hers filled her with revulsion, but she concealed the crawling sense of sickness and forced herself to smile up at him.
"At least you are no worse than the man they would have had me marry," she said, and realized as she said it that she was telling the absolute truth. "Old, more than twice my age, and always pawing at helpless girls, while you, at least, are young and clean."
He said, contented, "I think we will suit well enough when we are used to each other; and we need only share a bed, a meal and a fireside, and we will be as lawful wedded as if Lord Storn himself had locked the catenas on our arms like gentlefolk! I will build up the fire in the inner room where there is a bed, and you can get about cooking a meal for us to share. There is flour in the sacks, and can you make a loaf with blackfruit? I do like a good fruity bread, and I've had nothing but nut-porridge for forty days and more!"
"I will try my best," Romilly said, forcing her voice to calm, "and if I am not sure what to do, no doubt mestra Mhari will tell me."
"Ah, you think yourself my old Granny's betters, do you?" Rory demanded truculently, "You will say Dame Mhari till she gives you leave to say Granny, do you hear?"
Romilly realized, abruptly, that she had automatically used the form of a noblewoman speaking to an inferior. She hung her head, pretending to be ashamed, and murmured, "I meant no harm-"
"And since you're a girl, it's more suitable for you to wash Granny's face and put her into a clean bedgown, get her ready for the day," Rory said, "D'you think you could sit in the hearth for a little today, Granny? If our fine lady here gets you fresh and ready?"
"Aye, I'll sit in the hearth for your wedding meal, Rory," said the old woman, and Romilly, biting her lip, said meekly that she would be glad to do whatever she could for Dame Mhari.
"I knew she was too fine-handed for a lad," said Mhari, as Romilly bent to lift her, and went to dip hot water from the barrel. As she washed the old woman's face and hands, and brought a clean but threadbare gown from the ancient clothes-press in the corner, she was thinking harder than she had ever done. How could she escape? They would watch her moment by moment until the marriage was consummated; by which time she thought grimly, they would think her too beaten to try and get away. It made her sick at her stomach to think of that great unwashed lout taking her to bed, but she supposed it wouldn't kill her, and since she was actually in the bleeding part of her woman's cycles, at least he was unlikely to make her pregnant. And then she stopped short in what she was doing, remembering gleefully something Darissa had whispered to her a few months after her marriage. At the time, Romilly had only been embarrassed and giggled about it - what great sillies men were, to be superstitious about such a thing! But now she could make it serve her.
"I am cold, wet and bare like this," the old woman complained, "Wrap me in my gown, girl - what am I to call you?"
Romilly started to tell the woman her name - after all, now they knew she was a girl what did it matter? - but then she thought; her father might seek her even as far as this. She said the first name that came into her head.
"Calinda."
"Wrap me in my gown, Calinda, I am shivering!"
"I am sorry, Mother Mhari," she said, using the meek term of respect for any aging woman, "I had a heavy thought-" and she bent close to the old woman as she wrapped her in gown and woolly shawl and then laid her on her pillows, drying her hands with a towel. "I-I-I will gladly wed your grandson-" and she thought the words would choke her.
"And well you should," said the old woman, "He is a good kind man, and he will use you well and never beat you unless you really deserve it."
Romilly gulped; at least that she would never have bad to fear from Dom Garris. "B-but," she said, pretending to be embarrassed, which was not difficult, "He will be angry with me if he tries to share my bed this night, for my-my cycles are on me, and I am bleeding...."
"Ah, well," said the old lady, "You did well to tell me; men are funny that way, he might well have beaten you for it; my man used to thump me well if I did not tell him well before the time, so he could keep away or sleep with the dairy-maid-ah, yes, once I was well off, I had a dairy-maid and a cook-wench at one time, and now look at me. But with a woman's care, I will grow better soon, and Rory will not have to cook porridge and bake bread, which is no work for a man. Look what a fine man you are getting, he never scorned to wash and turn his old Granny in her bed, or bring her food, or even empty my chamberpot. And speaking of a chamberpot-" She gestured, and Romilly fetched the utensil and supported the old woman.
She thinks this life will make me well off; so long as I have a man for husband, I need ask no better than to drudge about barn and byre and kitchen, waiting hand and foot on a bedridden old woman, so long as 1 have the name of wife. She shivered as she thought, perhaps some women would truly think themselves well off - a home of their own and a hardworking man, one who was kind to his old grandmother. She settled the woman in the bed again and went to empty the chamberpot. She was used to working with her hands about animals, and the work itself did not disgust her, but she was frightened of Rory.
I did not refuse Dom Garris to be married by force to a woodsman, however honest or good. And now I have won myself a few days time. I will pretend to be meek and mild and biddable, and soon or late, they must let me out of their sight.
When the old woman was washed and dressed in a fresh gown, Romilly went to the pump in the yard to draw water, placing the great kettle over the fire to heat for the washing of linens, then, guided by directions from Dame Mhari, set about mixing and baking a loaf of bread with small lumps of sliced blackfruit in the dough. When the bread was baking in the covered pot in the ashes by the hearth, and Dame Mhari dozing in her box-bed, she sat down on one of the benches to rest for a moment, and think.
She had gained time. A swift visit to the outhouse showed her that her horse had been unsaddled again and tied with hard knots; well, if a moment served to escape, she must somehow have her dagger ready to cut the knots and flee; choose a moment, perhaps, when Rory had his boots off, and hopefully his breeches too. Her pack she could abandon if she must - the food was gone and she could live without the other things - but her warm cloak she must have, her boots and her saddle . . . though she could ride bareback better than many women could ride saddled. Food, too, she must somehow have; it would not be stealing, she had worked hard and cared for the old woman well, it was but her just due.
Perhaps tonight, when they were all asleep, she thought, and, hauling her weary body up from the bench, set about washing the musty linens from the old woman's bed, and the sheets from the bed in the inner room, which had been long unused - Dame Mhari said that when the weather was warm, Rory slept in there, and only in chilly weather did he sleep on the pallet before the fire. Well, that was something - if she must bed that wretched animal of a man, at least it would not be under the peering eyes of the old grandmother, as it might have been in a poorer cottage with only one room. She shuddered suddenly - was this how folk lived, away from the Great Houses?
Should I give up, flee back to my family, exchange my freedom then for the protected life I would live as the wife of Dom Garris? And for a moment, shivering at the thought of what must lie before her, even if she escaped from Rory and his grandmother, she was halfway tempted.
Like a hawk on a block, chained, hooded and dumb, in exchange for being fed and cherished, guarded preciously as a prize possession....
Oh, Preciosa, and that was what I would have brought to you. . . . she thought, and was fiercely glad she had freed the hawk. At least she would never be Darren's possession. She could have kept it clear with her conscience to keep Preciosa herself - the hawk had returned to her of its free will, out of love, after being allowed to fly free. She would never return to Darren.
She is free, she belongs to no man. Nor shall I. Rory might take her - once - as the price of making him think her beaten and submissive. But she would never belong to him; he could not enslave her. Like a hawk badly trained, the moment she was tested in free flight, she would be away into the sky...
She sighed, ferociously sousing the sheets in the harsh soap. Her hands were sore, and ached, but the sheets were clean - at least she would not be taken in that man's dirty bed!
She hung the sheets on a rack near the fire to dry, took the bread from the oven, and hunted in the rickety shelves of the kitchen; she found dried beans and herbs, and put them in the empty kettle to make soup. Rory, stamping in snow-covered from outside, saw her doing this and beamed, flinging down a sack of mushrooms on the table.
"Here; for the soup, girl. For our wedding supper," he said, and stooped to enfold her in an awkward embrace, landing a damp kiss on the back of her neck. She gritted her teeth and did not draw away, and he took her quiet endurance for consent, pulled her round and mashed another kiss against her mouth.
"Tomorrow you will not be so shy, heh, my fine lady - well, Granny, has she taken care of you properly? If she hasn't, I'll teach her." He flung off his own rough cloak and took up hers, slinging it around his shoulders with strutting pride.
"I'll have this; you'll have no need to further out of doors than the outhouse, not till the spring-thaw, and then you'll not need it," he said, and went out again. Romilly swallowed her rage at seeing her brother's well-made, fur-lined cape over his shoulders. Well, if she found a chance to escape, then, she must snatch up Rory's cape; coarse as it was, it was warm enough to shelter her. The few coins in the purse tied at her waist, those she must have too, few as they were, for when she reached Nevarsin. Pitifully small the hoard was- The MacAran was generous with his daughters and his wife, buying them whatever they wished, but he felt they could have small need for ready money, and gave them only a few small silver bits now and again to spend at a fair. But to Rory, she knew, they would seem more; so she found a moment to conceal herself from Dame Mhari's eyes behind the clothes-press and transfer the little hoard of coins from the pocket tied at her waist, into a folded cloth hidden between her breasts; surely, soon or late, he would take the pocket from her, and she left one or two small pieces in it to satisfy his greed - maybe he would seek no further.
As dark closed down from the short gloomy day, she sat with them at the crude table to eat the soup she had made and the bread she had baked. Rory grumbled - the bread was not very good - was this all the skill she had at cooking? But Dame Mhari said peaceably that the girl was young, she would learn, and the bread, however heavy, was at least a good change from nut-porridge! When bedtime came he said sharply, looking away from her, that tonight she might sleep in the box-bed with Dame Mhar', and that he would wait four days, no more, for her return to health.
Now she knew the limits of her time. But if she had had any idea that she might escape while they slept, it vanished when Dame Mhari said, "Let you sleep on the inside of the bed, my girl; do you think I don't know you would run away if you could? You don't know when you are well off; but when you are Rory's wife you will not wish to run away."
Oh, won't I? Romilly thought, gritting her teeth, and lay down fully resolved to try for an escape as soon as the old woman slept. But she was weary from a day of heavy and unaccustomed work, and fell asleep the moment she laid her head on the pillow; and when she woke in the night, whenever she stirred, she saw by firelight the old woman's eyes, wide awake and beady as a hawk's, watching her.
Three days passed in much the same way. She cooked coarse meals, washed the old woman's sheets and gowns, found a little time to wash her own clothes, including the torn-up petticoat she had put to use . . . fortunately she was not too closely observed at the wash-kettle, so she had a chance to dry the cloths and fold them and hide them under her tunic.
If she was ever to pass herself off as a boy - and she was more resolved than ever that she would not travel as a woman in these mountains - she must find some better way of concealing this personal necessity. She had heard gossip about the woman soldiers, the Sisterhood of the Sword, who were pledged never to wear women's gowns nor to let their hair grow. She had never seen one, only heard gossip, but it was rumored that they knew of a herb which would keep women from bleeding at their cycles, and she wished she knew their secret! She had learned something of herb-lore for doctoring animals, and she knew of herb-medicines which would bring a cow or bitch - or, for that matter - a woman into the fertile cycles, but none to suppress it, though there was a drug which would keep a bitch, briefly, from going into heat when it was inconvenient to breed her. Was that what they used? Maybe she could try it, but she was not a dog, and a dog's cycle of heat was very different from the female human's. It was all theoretical speculation at the moment anyhow, for she had no access to the herb, and would not know how to recognize it in the wild state anyhow, but only when prepared for use by a beast-healer.
On the fourth day, when he rose, Rory said, smirking, "Tonight you shall sleep with me in the inner room. We have shared meal and fireside; it needs only now to bed you, to make the marriage legal in all ways."
And in the mountains, she had heard, a law would return a runaway wife to her husband. No matter that she had been wedded without her consent, a woman had small recourse in law; so if she escaped after Rory had bedded her, there would be two people seeking her, her father and her husband; would a Tower even take her in under those circumstances?
Well, she would ride that colt when it was grown to bear a saddle. But she would try very hard to find a way of escape today.
All day, as she went about the drudgery of the household, she pondered a variety of options. It was possible that she could wait till he had taken her . . . then slip away when he slept afterward, as she had heard that men were likely to do. Certainly the old woman could not follow her - but she might rouse Rory from sleep. Somehow, one way or other, she must manage to prevent Rory from following her....
And if she did that, she might as well have let him take her on that first night. Her throat closed in revulsion at the thought of being a passive victim, letting him take her unchallenged.
Possibly, when they undressed for bed, she might somehow contrive to hide his boots and his leather breeches, so that he could not at once follow her; barefoot and unbreeched, would even he manage to chase her, afoot - for she would also cut loose his riding-chervine and drive it into the woods. By the time he found boots and breeches, and rounded up his chervine, she and her horse would be well on the way to Nevarsin.
But she would have to submit to him first....
And then she thought; when we are undressed for bed, a well-placed knee in the groin would cripple him long enough to evade pursuit, certainly. Only she must have the courage
to kick hard; and hit her target at the first touch; otherwise, he would certainly half kill her when he caught her, and would never trust her again. She remembered what her own mother had taught her when she and Ruyven were very small, that she must never hit or kick him there even in play, because a relatively light blow to that area would cause serious and possibly permanent damage; if the parts were ruptured, even death. And that made her stop and think.
Was she prepared to kill, if she must, to prevent him from taking her?
After all, he had first tried to kill her; if she had truly been a boy, or if her tunic had not torn, revealing her as a woman, he would have cut her throat for her horse and her cloak. Yes, he had been kind to her after his own fashion when he discovered she was a woman, but that was because he thought that rather than a corpse, he would prefer to have a slave . . . for surely that was what her life with him would be, drudging daylong at heavy work and waiting on the whims of the old woman; he could get more from her, that way, and have horse and fine cloak too. No, she would not scruple.
In early afternoon, Rory came in where she was listlessly kneading bread, and dumped the carcass of a rabbithorn on the table.
"I have it cleaned and skinned," he said. "Roast a haunch of it for dinner tonight - I have not tasted meat this ten-day - and tomorrow we will salt the rest; for tonight, hang it in the stables, well out of reach of vermin."
"As you wish, Rory," she said, and inwardly she gloated. The meat, frozen as it would certainly be, would keep her for some time if she could manage to take it with her on her way out. She would be careful to hang it near to her own saddle.
The roast meat soon began to fill the hut with a good smell; Romilly was hungry, but even after she had fed the old woman, wiped her chin and settled her for the night, she found that she could not chew and swallow without choking.
I must be ready. I must be ready. It is tonight or never. She lingered at the table, sipping nervously at a hot cup of bark-tea, until Rory came and wound his arms around her from behind.
"I have built a fire on the hearth in the inner room, so we will not be cold, come, Calinda." She supposed the old woman had told him her assumed name. Certainly she had not. Well, it was upon her; she could delay no longer. Her knees felt weak and wobbly, and for a minute she wondered if she could ever have the courage to carry out her resolve.
She let him lead her into the inner room and close the door and fasten it with a hook from inside. Not good. If she was to make her escape at all, she must have a clear way outside. "Must you lock the door?" she asked. "Certainly Gran-Dame Mhari cannot enter our room at any awkward time, for she cannot walk at all."
"I thought we would be more private this way," he said, smirking again, and she said "But suppose-suppose-" she fumbled a moment, then said, "But suppose Dame Mhari has need of me in the night, and I do not hear her? Leave the door part way open so she can call me if she has a pain or wants me to shift her to her other side."
"You have a good heart, girl," Rory said, and pushed the door open a crack, then sat heavily on the edge of the bed and began to draw off his boots.
"Here, let me help you," she said, and came to draw them off, then deliberately wrinkled her nose.
"Faugh, how they stink, you must have stepped in the manure pile! Give them to me, my husband," she used the word deliberately, "and I will clean them before you rise in the morning. You might as well give me your leather breeches too." and she stopped, had she gone too far? But Rory suspected nothing.
"Aye, and I will have a clean shirt for the morning if you have one cleaned and dried," he said, and piled his clothes into her arms. "Take them out to the washpot to wait for morning, if they smell of manure they will be better there than in our bridal chamber."
Better and better! But he could still be after her in a flash if he suspected; lingering by the wash pot, half ready to make a dash for freedom then-naked, he could not chase her very far - she heard his suspicious call. "Calinda! I am waiting for you! Get in here!" "I am coming," she called, raising her voice, and went back to him. Fate had decided it for her, then. She went back into the bedroom and drew off her own shoes and stockings, her outer tunic and breeches.
He turned back the covers of the bed and got into it. He reached for her as she came and sat on the edge of the bed, and his hand closed on her breast in what was meant, she supposed, for a caress, but his hand was so heavy that she cried out in pain. He twisted his mouth down over hers and wrestled her own on the bed.
"You like to fight, do you? Well, if that's what you want, girl, I'll give it to you that way-" he panted, covering her with his naked body; his breath was hot and sour.
Romilly's qualms were gone. She managed to draw away just a little, then shot out her foot in the hardest kick she had ever given. It landed directly on target, and Rory, with a howl of pain, rolled off the bed, shrieking with fury and outrage, his hands clutched spasmodically between his legs.
"Augh! Augh! Hellcat, tiger, bitch! Augh!"
She heard Dame Mhari's voice anxiously crying out in question; but Romilly scrambled from the bed, clutching her cloak about her, pulling on her tunic with hasty fingers as she fled. She shoved the door open and was in the kitchen, snatching up the remnants of the loaf and the roast meat, grabbing Rory's boots and breeches and her own in an untidy armful, hastily fumbling at the lock of the byre. Behind her Rory was still howling, wordless screams of agony and wrath; they beat out at her, almost immobilizing her, but she fought for breath, thrusting her way into the byre. With her dagger she slashed through the knots which tied Rory's riding-chervine and slapped the animal hard on the rump, driving it with a yell into the courtyard; slashed at her horse's reins and fumbled to thrust on the bridle. Rory's howls and Dame Mhari's voice raised in querulous complaint - she did not know what had happened and Rory was not yet able to be articulate - blended in a terrifying duet, it seemed that Rory's agony throbbed painfully in her own body, but that was laran, she thought dimly that it was a small price to pay for that avenging blow.
He would have killed me, he - would have ravished me - I need feel no guilt for him!
She was about to fling his boots and breeches out in the snow; she fastened her tunic carefully against the cold, bent to pick up Rory's boots, then had a better thought. She flung open the door of the small outhouse and thrust them, with a savage movement, down into the privy, thrust the breeches down on top of them. Now let him find them and clean them before he can follow me, she thought, flung herself on her horse, snatched up the hastily bundled provisions, and dug her heels, with a yell, into her horse's side. The horse plunged away into the woods and she took the steep path downward, giving her horse his head in her haste to get away. She had to cling to the horse's neck, so steep was the road, but there was no horse alive to whose back she could not stick if she must, and she knew she would not fall. She remembered Dame Mhari's words, you should have taken the left-hand fork at the bottom of the mountain. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly hear the sharp clatter of her horse on the path under her feet.
She was free, and for a little time at least, Rory could not pursue her. No matter that she was abroad on a dark night, with rain falling underfoot, and with scant provision and no money except for the few coins in a cloth between her breasts; she was at least out of the hands of Rory and the old woman.
Now I am free. Now I must decide what to do with my freedom. She pondered, briefly, returning to Falconsward - but that would be taken, by her father, as a sign of abject surrender. Dom Garris might give her a slavery more comfortable that she would find with Rory in the woods; but she had not used all her ingenuity to get free of them, to go back to imprisonment.
No; she would seek the Tower, and training of her laran. She told herself, all the old tales of heroism and quests always begin with the hero having to overcome many trials. Now I am the hero - why is a hero always a man? - of my own quest, and I have passed the first trial.
And she shivered at the thought that this might be, not a road to freedom, but only the first of the main trials on her quest.