by S G Dunster
The hall was the entire central space, two stories up, beamed with dark varnished wood. The whitewashed walls held banners, that of King Henry, and what must be the DuCarne crest: a knight’s metal helm resting on a red shield, crossed by three yellow flowers.
At the hall’s end, stairs went up both directions, and there was a series of doors stretching along both sides of the upper story, leading off to what Thessaly assumed were living apartments, solars, and sitting rooms.
The hall was empty and the long tables and benches were pushed to the sides, leaving a clear path to the staircases at the end.
The doorman hastened up the stairs up to the left side of the upper story.
Duke DuCarne immediately emerged. It could only be him, Thessaly thought as they watched him stride down the stairs. His carriage was forceful, assured, his stride very long. He wore leather and wool over a tunic with a long hood that hung down his back. Leggings, not hose, enveloped his legs, with boots that rose to the knee and cuffed over, sturdy and scarred. His face was wind-burnt, his hair long and rough.
He’s a hunter, not a courtier, Thessaly thought as DuCarne shook Antonio’s hand, giving a gruff little bow.
More the tradesman than the noble.
Like her father.
In fact, Antonio seemed to relax in his presence. “DuCarne,” he boomed.
“And you are de Vasco,” DuCarne replied.
Thessaly was startled. His voice contrasted his appearance—cultured, with a refined tone and precise words. “My lady wife has anticipated your arrival.”
“This is Waintree,” Antonio said. “And my daughter.”
“Miss de Vasco,” he said, reaching for her hand.
“D’Ainestille,” Thessaly corrected, taking it. The callouses of his palm were so hard it felt like the hand had been lacquered, and the skin was sharp and cracked below the fingers.
“Pardon,” Antonio said, giving Thessaly a close-mouthed smile. “Thessaly’s title comes from her mother’s side.”
“Of course.” DuCarne gave another curt little bow and turned to Waintree.
“This is my Rosalie,” the portly merchant said, pulling Rosalie forward so she stood in front of him.
“Miss Waintree,” DuCarne said, taking her hand for a moment as well. “Let me lead you to the solar where the other ladies are spending their afternoon.”
Up the stairs, to the end of the house not visible from the road, was a room full of windows and light. Four ladies sat inside, one at a large curved harp as tall as a man.
“Lady DuCarne, Miss DuNought, and the elder and younger Miss Dudley,” DuCarne pronounced, indicating one at a time the four ladies. Each rose for a brief moment, bowing their heads slightly, and sat again.
“Dudley,” Rosalie breathed.
“Indeed,” the elder Miss Dudley, a slim, sharp-featured girl replied. “If it’s the Northumberland high family you’re thinking on, we are a close relation.” She gave a smug little smile, her eyes flicking appraisingly over Rosalie and Thessaly.
“Miss Waintree and Miss d’Ainestille,” DuCarne gestured to Rosalie and Thessaly. “They shall be joining you for lessons in the afternoons here at the manse every day. Dear heart, were you about to play? Please carry along and tickle those strings in that bright way you do. Culture, we surely have it.” He gave Thessaly a grin. “Even here in the sore marchlands.”
Lady DuCarne, seated at the harp, had a gentle look. Heart-shaped face, large dark eyes fringed with a thick shadow of lashes. Soft curved mouth, straight nose, and a wide, pale brow. Her figure betrayed she was with child—close, Thessaly thought, to delivery. She was surprised the Lady was out in a common room. Most of the courtiers she had known confined themselves entirely to their rooms the last two months.
“I shall, once I have it more sweet-tuned,” Lady DuCarne returned. She reached up and adjusted a screw.
There was a silence—tense. Uncomfortable. The two misses Dudley had returned to needlework, their eyes fastened to the pattern they worked, but Miss DuNought openly stared, a book in her hand resting on her lap.
A book. That was different. Thessaly had not met many other young ladies who read.
Or, for that matter, matrons or crones either. The only women who read were women who wanted it badly enough to pursue a practice often thought to render them unattractive to most men.
Thessaly was staring. Miss DuNought gave Thessaly a nod, her dark eyes creasing. Amusement? It was hard to tell. The girl had a very dark complexion. Thessaly would almost say Moorish.
No, Thessaly thought. Not even Moorish, as they called darker Spanish ladies in courts. Positively African indeed, this DuNought. There was no mistaking it; her skin was dark mahogany and her hair sprung up around her face in coils, though it was caught back and covered with a veil and felt-piece. Her eyes were almond shaped and black, and her nose had the straight, slim quality of the Berber men and women she’d met. Her chin and nose and cheekbones were like a classic sculpture. She was so beautiful and so very surprising, that though Thessaly knew she was being presumptuous and rude, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“Are you a Moor?” Rosalie asked frankly, taking a step toward her.
Lady DuCarne looked up sharply. The two Dudleys looked up, too, the younger Miss Dudley’s mouth falling open, the older hiding her mouth with the back of an elegant palm.
Miss DuNought stared back at Rosalie for a moment, her expression suddenly cold and stony, and then, after another moment, her face split in a wide grin. “No,” she said. Her voice was rich, low, and commanding. “My grandmother was Alexandrite. But my father is of Southern Spanish blood.” She considered, tilting her head, and set her book aside, giving Rosalie a long look. “I suppose that means I could be Moorish, though. They’ve flooded in and out of Spain like tides through marshes. And you? Are you a bloody Norseman?”
The feisty, foul words flowed out along with the others, clipped and refined so Thessaly almost didn’t catch their profanity. And when they processed, she snorted.
This DuNought would be a friend, if Thessaly could say anything about it.
Waintree, however, sucked in a breath, and Antonio glared.
Miss DuNought glanced over both of them, cool, unruffled, and turned back to Rosalie, her expression polite interest, as if she’d just asked what the weather had been like on their ride over.
Rosalie stared a moment longer, then giggled, bringing her hand up to her face. “Was I rude, Miss DuNought? I do apologize. I’ve no refinement; that’s why Papa brought me here to learn.”
“Not rude,” Miss DuNought said. “Artless, perhaps.” She stood. The move was queenly, cultured.
Wherever she’d been raised, Thessaly thought, it was somewhere with the best teachers and the most graceful courtiers. The name, DuNought. Clearly a false name, given to keep privacy. Or protection.
“Beatrice,” Miss DuNought declared, holding out a hand first to Rosalie, then to Thessaly. “And that is Hele and Jivette,” she pointed to the others in turn. “We welcome the two of you, and hope you enjoy lessons, as we have.”
There was a slight wryness in her tone that had the smile returning to Thessaly’s mouth, and their eyes locked, a flash of understanding going between them.
“You seem well versed in the finer arts already,” Thessaly said. “I hope you do not mean to leave soon.”
“No indeed. I came here to learn music,” Beatrice replied, “and to keep out of the way of ships and armies.”
Thessaly nodded, her understanding clicking into place. “That is also our purpose here in the wilds of Kernow. To stay away from flags and cannons.”
Beatrice’s lips turned up at the corners. She gave a little nod.
“Sit with us,” Lady DuCarne said, indicating a low couch, “while the men discuss their business. I shall play for you in a moment, husband. Come back once you have arranged all the details to your satisfaction, and by then the instrument should be tuned to my liking.”
The men bowed and left.
The room, Thessaly thought as she settled her skirts around her, was a little stuffy and hot. The sun streaming in through the windows was quite warm. She and Rosalie, used to fresh winds and cold salt spray, were soon sweating. The close air smelled of lotions and paling creams, too. A better smell, Thessaly told herself, than cabin rats and the sweat of men who’d worn the same clothes the month out, but it was strange—chemical, with an undertone of guano. Cosmetics, Thessaly thought. Cream to pale skin. The Dudleys were certainly caked with it; she didn’t need to come any closer to them to discern that.
For a while, the silence in the room was just as thick.
Thessaly unfettered her floes a little.
She glanced through the window at her back. There they were, the oak trees with their glittering frosting of mistletoe.
She wanted to feel what was in them. She’d seen them. Now she wanted to feel them.
She reached out with fire and flesh—
And found herself oddly blocked.
Like a barrier, Thessaly thought. Only not a wall. It was more a slowing of floes, a sluggishness, like trying to walk through something sticky and thick.
She pushed harder, and a shimmer of pain shocked through her. She drew her floes back immediately, breathing in sharply.
What was that? Whatever it was, she couldn’t see it. Not with bound or loose floes. There was something there, though. Something that . . . fettered? Was it the right word? Like her own curse?
She turned carefully, gazing about the room, her eyes lighting on each of the women, resting for a moment on Beatrice, then Lady DuCarne, who was again playing, her fingers careful, eyes intent on the strings.
She turned back to the window. This time, she touched on it, thought about the floes there—fire and flesh.
The heat rose inside, and spread, and the fetter quietly dissolved.
Liquid silver, bringing with it scorching heat, soared through her arms, threaded through her fingers, pooled at her fingertips.
She tried again, pressing palms to the glass, leaning against it as if she were trying to peer out.
Nothing. The thing, whatever it was, seemed to ripple against her, move away slightly, but only slightly, as if her floes were currents, and whatever blocked her, swaying lengths of tangled weed she must route herself around.
Something smelled odd. A burning... like a censer, only no spice she knew smelled like that. It was metallic, with an edge of something putrid. It grew stronger, and she coughed and stepped back. “Vinculum,” she muttered.
The music faltered, a striking of strings as if something had nudged the Lady of DuCarne Manse. Thessaly turned and looked at her, and as their eyes met, it was a mutual questioning, a deep scouring attention on both their parts.
Lady DuCarne continued her music after a moment, watching Thessaly with still-narrowed eyes as she played. “Do you see something out there on the green which disturbs you?” she asked. “If it’s our old hunchback gardener, do not worry. He looks like a right old gnome, but it’s simply a twisting illness in his spine.” She struck a gentle scale, then leaned back, folding her hands over her swollen belly.
“Hm,” Thessaly said. “I wonder if he’d let me… look at him.”
“Are you a physic, then?”
Thessaly glanced back out the window. “No. I’m just . . . curious. It has been a while since I've seen anything out my window but roiling sea.”
“Understandable,” Lady DuCarne responded. “Yes, I know something of sicknesses and remedies. And you? Do you have interest in . . . herbs? Spices? Or perhaps . . . winds and . . . wells?”
Thessaly stared.
Lady DuCarne’s voice was kind, calm, but something glittered there in her eyes. A darkness, a knowledge. They locked gazes, the two of them.
What should Thessaly say? What was Lady DuCarne asking her? Could she feel what Thessaly had just done? The questions seemed too fortunate, too pointed, in that moment. Spices. Winds and wells, she’d said. Magicks bound and magicks unbound.
Was Lady DuCarne, then, a practicer of magicks herself? Was she the source of this barrier, these things Thessaly was feeling?
Her heart leapt. Could Lady DuCarne perhaps teach her more than music and needlework?
“Some,” Thessaly said, deciding to be careful. “I have a couple of eccentric aunts who taught me all manner of things my father disapproved of.” She laughed and walked to where Rosalie sat, and made sure to nudge her friend. Rosalie shut her mouth, and bent over her lap, fingers picking at the fine embroidery.
“If you choose to dip your fingers in such things, beware,” Lady DuCarne said. “Here, the folk are low and unread. They see demons and fairies in every inexplicable happening. And any women who knows how to read Latin must be a witch.” She laughed, her voice low and musical, and ran her fingers over the strings again. “We must play to every audience we find ourselves in, and keep back parts of us that bother those we serve, isn’t that right?”
Her expression this time was harder, and her words more for herself. A hint of bitterness infused her tone.
Unsettled, unsure the best way to respond, Thessaly gave her a little nod, and looked at Rosalie, who was sitting, slightly hunched, a fingertip in her mouth.
“Spine straight, Miss Rose,” Lady DuCarne said gently, tearing her gaze from Thessaly to glance at Rosalie, and then her fingers began expertly running along the harp’s silver strings. The melody was sharp, wild, and lovely, rippling chords, a tune that wept. She moved with passion as she played, leaning in, closing her eyes, hunching her shoulders as she plucked a particularly emotive flow of scales.
Thessaly felt it again suddenly. The icy edge of a working.
There were magicks here. In this room.
In this music. They were clean and sharp, and they moved toward her, coiled around her, and then prodded against her, seeking something.
Thessaly stared at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap now, and pulled her twin orbs deeper inside, fettering them so tightly that they were bare lines of light.
The cold touch prodded, then entered.
Does she know I can tell? That I can feel it? Thessaly wondered, shivering. She didn’t push them away, she allowed them in to explore for a moment. Perhaps she doesn’t. If I react, though, she will.
For some reason, Thessaly was not certain she wanted Lady DuCarne to know what power she held inside.
The fetters were straining. Slipping. Rays and coils of silver and gold were escaping, moving toward the probing icy touch.
Thessaly gritted her teeth and closed her eyes for a moment. Vinculum. Vinculum.
She barely mouthed the words, barely breathed them, binding the two glowing balls tight, tight to her core where she could keep them secret.
Lady DuCarne hissed and dropped her hands, touching her breastbone. For a moment she seemed to gasp for air, and then color filled her face and glowed in her eyes. She leveled her gaze at Thessaly. This time it held a little wariness, and the doe-eyes narrowed slightly.
She knows, Thessaly thought. Maybe not all, but she knows I work the arts.
Perhaps this is not such a bad thing. She met the lady’s gaze again. Deeper understanding this time, acknowledgment. Maybe an edge of fear? Certainly curiosity.
“Are you well, My Lady?” Jivette asked, dropping her work.
“Aye. Just a small pain.” Lady DuCarne’s hand went from her chest to rub at her round belly. “I shall go and see where the men went to. They are taking a long while.”
Thessaly was tempted, and not tempted, to follow her. The Lady knew Thessaly practiced the arts. She’d been discovered. Could this lady perhaps teach Thessaly more than music and needlework?
Thessaly was distracted from these musings because as soon as the Lady left, the Dudleys turned twin cold, calculating faces on Thessaly and Rosalie.
“Where does your money come from?” The younger asked bluntly. In contrast to her sister’s, her face was weak and doug
hy, with a chin that sloped down nearly to her collarbone. “You’re no gentry, either of you.”
Beatrice lifted a gold-gilded fan, waved it in front of her face, and snorted in a most uncouth manner. “And you are, Hele? What, because your father owns a pigeonhouse? A field or two of sheep?”
The older of the two stood. “An orangerie,” she said grandly. “And two tilting fields. Four mills. A fuller’s shop and,” she said, raising her thin, pointed brows, “a title.”
“Bought in gold and blood five generations ago or less, no doubt.” Beatrice set down her embroidery. Thessaly saw it was exquisite—a peacock done in threads of deep azure, sea-green, shimmering gold. “I’m tired of crossing words with you two nut-heads. I, for one, am glad for fresh blood.” The dark, graceful girl stood, went to the harp, sat down there on the place Lady DuCarne had just vacated, and began to play.
Miss DeNought’s playing was not nearly so lovely and entrancing as Lady DuCarne’s, but the melody was very pretty. She gave Rosalie and Thessaly a grin as her fingers moved over the strings. “Don’t mind them,” she said. “They can’t associate with practical people, or their slender hold on nobility might snap. A slender thread won’t hold much mud, you see.”
Rosalie’s chin trembled, but Thessaly couldn’t help but laugh. “What about spices?” Thessaly asked.
Beatrice shrugged. “Mix it with water, it’s just another sort of mud. Isn’t that right, Jivette? Hele?”
The Dudleys gazed at Beatrice coldly. Hele’s pudgy nose rose, and she picked at her embroidery.
“Is that where your fortune comes from, then? The Spice trade?” Miss DeNought asked, turning back to Thessaly.
“Aye,” Thessaly said. “I admit, a ship’s cabin isn’t much of a castle.”
“You have seen a great deal of finery, I’d imagine. Where have you been to?”
And so Thessaly talked about the various places she had been, and miss DeNought moved away from the harp, listening as Thessaly described the people of Goa, of the Spice Islands, and when she talked of Venice and the Milanese court, Hele and Jivette stopped pretending to embroider and listened as well. Rosalie’s hurt evaporated and her face turned rapt, even though she had heard it all before.
