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 whi
ch 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.
Hawkmistress! Page 10
