In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “A terrifying thought, Demoiselle,” said Saraband faintly. “But perhaps I will schedule one session, as an expression of my esteem for you.” She glanced at Sorrel. “Tansyard—what is your name, Tansyard?”

  “Sorrel, so please Your Ladyship.” He staggered to his feet and bowed low to her.

  “I have seen you around, Sorrel,” said Saraband. “I recognize your tattoos.”

  “I know Your Ladyship by sight as well,” said Sorrel. “Although most of what I know of you is by Clovermead’s report.”

  Saraband laughed. “Don’t believe a word she says.” She unhooked a daisy from her crown and let it fall over the wall. Sorrel caught it in his fingers. “I esteem you also, Cadet. Please accept this token of my regard.” She smiled at Sorrel, nodded respectfully to Clovermead, and ambled away from the parapet.

  “She’s such a show-off,” said Clovermead disgustedly. “She always has to make herself the center of attention. Are you going to put that stupid flower away?”

  “Hmm? Yes, I suppose I will.” Absentmindedly Sorrel took off his helmet and stuck the flower behind his ear. Clovermead rolled her eyes. “I only have two hands, Clovermead. Can you think of a better place to keep her gift?”

  “I have ideas, but they’re not polite.”

  “Clovermead, I am shocked.” Sorrel regaled her with an entirely unconvincing display of innocent horror. “In any case, a Yellowjacket cadet must always exhibit the utmost courtesy toward ladies. I believe it is in the rulebook somewhere.”

  “You can’t read,” said Clovermead. “You wouldn’t know.” Groaning, she stood up, then lifted her sword. “Another bout?”

  A whistle shrilled at the other end of the Training Grounds. “Our Lady has provided me a blessed excuse to avoid more buffeting for now,” said Sorrel. They began to walk back to the Armory, to return their armor and practice swords to their cubbyholes. “Perhaps tomorrow?—no, the Midsummer Ball is tomorrow evening, and I do not wish to be too bruised to dance. The day after tomorrow, I think.”

  “You’ll be dancing?”

  “Of course.” Sorrel’s eyes sparkled. “I have been told just yesterday that it is a tradition for Yellowjacket cadets to steal dances at the Midsummer Ball with the prettiest young ladies and leave the lords fuming as we natural gentlemen show them that money and high blood do not always secure a lady’s favor. This has become my favorite of all the traditions of Chandlefort. I will fight to the death to preserve it.”

  “Stop and say hello to me,” said Clovermead. “Milady says I have to be there, even if I can’t dance.”

  They had reached the Armory. “Until tomorrow evening.” Sorrel waved farewell to Clovermead, then jogged into the changing rooms of the cadets, the flower firmly in place behind his ear.

  Clovermead put away her sword and armor, then walked through the side courtyard toward the Castle’s front entrance. There was a small room in the Armory where she could change clothes, but Clovermead wanted to go straight to her room, collapse into her bed, and sleep. “Every muscle in my body aches,” she said to herself. “Oof! Milady looks like she’s made of solid muscle now, but I’ll bet she was made of solid bruise first.” She tried to lift her arms, but she couldn’t. Then she saw that she had almost caught up to her languorously strolling dance teacher, and Clovermead pivoted abruptly and strode toward the courtyard’s sidewall. She didn’t want to give Saraband an excuse to talk with her again.

  A tall man with curly red hair was leaning against the wall. His hands were manicured, his face was pale, and he was dressed in plain, faded clothes. He looked only a few years older than Sorrel. He stepped to one side as Clovermead approached the wall, and bowed courteously. As his head rose, he looked at her face. Then he frowned.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve offended you already!” said Clovermead. “I don’t know you, I’ve never talked to you in my life, and you’re scowling at me like I stole candy from your baby daughter just before I hurled a stone through your windows. What did I do wrong? Was I supposed to curtsy when you bowed?”

  “Indeed you were, if etiquette hasn’t changed since last I was in Chandlefort.” The tall man’s voice was a low rumble laced with teasing banter and a vein of acid melancholy. “But then, you wear trousers, and that wasn’t usual among ladies either. Perhaps there has been a revolution in manners?”

  “That’s just me,” said Clovermead. “Trousers are comfortable, so I wear them. Does that offend you too?” she asked defiantly.

  The tall man laughed and shook his head. “I’m not offended, Miss, just curious. Your face is remarkably familiar.” He scratched his head. “I can’t have seen you before. You would have been a baby when last I was here. May I ask who your parents are?”

  Clovermead fumbled a penny out of her trouser pocket and flicked it toward the tall man. Sunlight gleamed on Lady Cindertallow’s portrait, engraved upon the coin’s head. “I look a lot like Milady, my mother. Is that who you were thinking of, goodman?”

  The tall man’s eyes went wide. “Indeed, Demoiselle.” He tossed the penny back. “I need no coin to tell me what your mother looks like. I knew her and your father well.”

  “You knew Ambrosius?” Clovermead’s heart skipped. She had heard terribly little of her real father these last six months. Her mother never talked of him, and she answered Clovermead’s questions with monosyllables. “Were you a friend of his?”

  “I owe him my life,” said the tall man. “He was an excellent friend to me.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t say more. Pardon me, Demoiselle. I cannot stay.” He turned to go.

  “Wait!” cried Clovermead, and she caught at his hand. His fingers were cool in her grip. “I’m sorry if I was rude. Can’t you stay another minute and tell me about him? Please don’t go.”

  The tall man disengaged his hand from Clovermead’s. “I’m sorry, Demoiselle. I shouldn’t have come so near Milady’s front door in the first place.” He laughed harshly. “She wouldn’t be happy to see me back in Chandlefort.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Clovermead. “If she gets upset with you, I’ll say I’m responsible. Just stay another minute.”

  “Your mother thinks I’m gone from Chandlefort forever,” said the tall man fiercely. “Let her think that still.” Clovermead gaped at him, and he grimaced. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you at all,” he muttered. Then he looked pleadingly in Clovermead’s eyes. “I ask you in your father’s name not to mention me to her.”

  Clovermead looked straight into his dark brown eyes. There was anger and good humor in them, malice and sadness, desperation and deception, and above all a loneliness that pled to Clovermead for pity.

  “What would she do if I told her you had returned?” she asked at last.

  “I think she’d try to kill me.” The tall man smiled bitterly as he saw the shock in Clovermead’s face. “She’s an unscrupulous woman, Demoiselle. Other people pay the consequences for her desires. Don’t you know that about her yet?”

  “No,” said Clovermead. Her throat was dry. “I hardly know her at all.”

  “You shall,” said the tall man. He hesitated. “Will you tell her I was here?” Slowly Clovermead shook her head. “Thank you, Demoiselle,” he said. “When next we meet, I’ll tell you more about Ambrosius.” He bowed to Clovermead, then strode toward the Castle gates. He ducked around a corner and in an instant he was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Hunting in the Heath

  Lady Cindertallow didn’t dine with her daughter that evening. “I have to talk with my spies,” she said quickly as she strode to the dining table, took a soft roll from the bread basket, and bolted it down. “Don’t imitate my manners. I’ve learned dreadful habits from my soldiers while on campaign. I’m sorry I can’t stay. It sounds like good news, though. I gather Lord Ursus’ infantry is marching toward Queensmart.”

  “That’s good news?” asked Clovermead.

  “They would have been marching against us otherwise,” said her mother grimly. “It mean
s we should be safe from him this year. Still, I wish I knew where his cavalry was.” She swallowed another roll, then turned from the table.

  Once again Clovermead was struck by how much she resembled her mother. Lady Cindertallow was still half a foot taller than Clovermead, regal and splendid as Clovermead could only dream of being, but she shared her daughter’s fair skin and yellow hair, her freckles and the shape of her face. Yet her white gown decorated with golden bees was glorious, while Clovermead’s clothes were only comfortable; and where Clovermead’s face still fell naturally into smiles, her mother’s face had grown set in the exercise of power. There was love and kindness in her face too, but sometimes they were difficult to see.

  She is an unscrupulous woman, the tall man had said. One hundred thousand people lived in Queensmart, and Lady Cindertallow had called their doom “good news.” Clovermead watched her mother stride away. I ask you in your father’s name not to mention me to her. He had begged it of her with pleading, lonely eyes. I think she would try to kill me.

  Clovermead opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. I don’t think Milady would kill him, she thought. But I just don’t know. I thought I knew Father, and he had been lying to me all his life. I’ve only known Milady six months. She’s been kind to me so far, but she does like to have her way. Sometimes I contradict her, and the way she looks at me frightens me half to death. And I’m her daughter! She shut her mouth. I won’t say anything yet.

  She dreamed that night that Lady Cindertallow was chasing after the tall man with a sword in her hand, swinging it wildly as he ran from her. He tripped into a grave, and her mother’s sword became a spade. She shoveled the dirt onto him with furious speed. When only his struggling hand remained visible, Lady Cindertallow turned to Clovermead and handed her the spade. “You finish the job,” she said. “You have to get dirt under your fingernails if you’re going to be a proper Lady Cindertallow.”

  Clovermead woke gasping. Her muscles were tensed and her legs were ready to run. It was barely dawn and already it was sweltering hot. The desert sun throbbed on the eastern horizon and sent a glare of yellow light against her wall.

  “She isn’t like that,” Clovermead told herself, her heart still hammering. “It’s the heat, that’s all. It gives me bad dreams.” She poured herself a drink of cool water from an earthenware pitcher by her bedside, then splashed some water on her face. She felt better, but she could still see the tall man’s hand thrash in the dirt. Clovermead grimaced. “I won’t be getting back to sleep with that dream waiting for me!” She tossed the blankets off and began to get dressed.

  Clovermead wandered idly through the Castle corridors and out into the back courtyards, where the breeze blew and it was a little cooler. After a few minutes she found herself in front of the Cindertallow graveyard. The gate was open. Inside, the grass was as verdant green as any meadow in Timothy Vale.

  “I’d take stumbling across a cemetery just now as ominous, if it didn’t look so peaceful inside,” said Clovermead. “I don’t think I’ll see any open graves here.” She smiled wryly. “Though, if I see a hand on the ground, I will run and scream without shame.” With the slightest trepidation, she walked through the gates.

  Irregularly scattered tombstones filled the graveyard. Twenty generations of Cindertallows were buried here—ladies and their consorts, infants dead in their cradles, and princes and princesses who had married among the nobility of Linstock. Simple slabs marked their resting places: Cindertallow splendor ended at the cemetery gates. Clovermead wandered past the orange trees that stood near the far end of the cemetery—and stopped abruptly. Lady Cindertallow stood in front of her, right by Ambrosius’ gravestone. She held a vase of fresh lilies in her hands. Her mother touched the flowers gently, then kneeled and placed them before the grave.

  How could I dream she was a killer? Clovermead stepped forward from the trees. “Hello, Ma’am,” she said as she came to stand by her mother. Lady Cindertallow looked startled to see Clovermead, then moved to one side. They looked down at the gravestone together. The vase lay on a stretch of flattened grass before the grave and had been propped up with pebbles. “I didn’t know you came here.”

  “It’s the anniversary of his burial,” said Lady Cindertallow. She gestured awkwardly at the vase. “I always bring flowers.”

  “You never told me he died in summertime,” said Clovermead.

  “I suppose I haven’t.” A tear trickled down Lady Cindertallow’s cheek. Quickly she brushed it aside. “He rode out from Chandlefort at dawn, and already it was so hot that the air crackled in my lungs. He intended to hunt in the hills all day and return at dusk. The clouds rolled in from the Reliquary Mountains that morning, the land grew dark, and it rained for the first time in weeks. Burning raindrops spattered down, but soon the clouds passed by and it was as fresh and cool as spring. I went to the window to enjoy the breeze and I saw a distant horseman gallop down from the hills and ride toward Low Branding.” Her mother turned from the gravestone to face the distant Heath. Her finger pointed out a spot in the western hills, then drew a line to the eastern horizon. “The hunting party came back while the sun was still high. I knew at once something was wrong. Ambrosius always rode ahead, to greet me as quickly as possible. I could not see him, and I ran to the gates. It was an accident, they said. We shot a dozen shafts at a lioness, and an arrow went wild. I remembered the fleeing horseman, and I knew it was no accident. I knew the Mayor of Low Branding had ordered him killed.

  “We buried Ambrosius the next day at dawn. The graveyard was packed and the old Abbess of Silverfalls led the prayers. I never did know what she said—the words just floated by me. I had cried all the night before so I wouldn’t cry in front of my subjects. I was dead to the world.” Her mother smiled a little. “Except for you. I was seven months gone, and you were as heavy as a catapult stone. I leaned on a cane during the service, to keep from buckling. To top it all off, you kicked inside me the entire time. I didn’t know if you were sad, or telling me there was a reason to keep living, or just uncomfortable because I stood for two solid hours. One time you kicked so hard, I almost cried out loud! Then I almost laughed out loud, but I couldn’t do that at Ambrosius’ funeral. I was grateful for the distraction you gave me.”

  “Happy to be of service, Ma’am,” said Clovermead. Her throat was tight.

  “I never dreamed I would spend so many years apart from him.” Lady Cindertallow sighed, then looked curiously at Clovermead. “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk.” Clovermead looked around her. “It’s prettier here now there are orange blossoms over his grave.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  Clovermead shrugged uncomfortably. “I came here last month.”

  “I would have been glad to go with you.”

  “I wanted to go by myself.” Clovermead looked away from her mother. “I saw fresh lilies laid by the stone then, too. Did you also put them there, Ma’am?” Lady Cindertallow nodded. “They covered up his last name. I moved them to one side so I could read it. Beechsplitter. Ambrosius Beechsplitter.” Clovermead had never said his full name out loud before. She spoke it slowly; let the vowels fill her mouth, and savored the consonants. “I’ve never heard a name like that before. Where did he come from?”

  “The Lakelands,” said Lady Cindertallow. “The Beechsplitters are a family of furniture-makers from Elkhorn Lake. Ambrosius’ father was an Alderman the year of my grandmother’s diamond jubilee, so he came to the celebrations and brought Ambrosius with him. The way Ambrosius told it to me, he saw the Yellowjackets practicing their swordplay the first morning he was at Chandlefort, and he told himself then and there he would be a Yellowjacket too. It took him a year of kicking and screaming and building lopsided tables, but he finally convinced his family he was much better suited for soldiering than for carpentry. That summer he came to Chandlefort and was admitted into the Yellowjackets. The next winter I first saw him, and jus
t the sight of him half-stole my heart away.” Lady Cindertallow looked at Clovermead’s disgusted face and laughed. “I know that expression! I had it too when I was not quite thirteen.”

  Clovermead rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Any day now my heart will start to twinge and boys will seem wonderful and this love business will make me groan like a lonely calf. The clocks are ticking, Doom, doom, the day your mind will turn to porridge is soooon! Goody Weft told me the same thing, and, heavens, I saw Sweetroot Miller getting porridgy just before I left Timothy Vale. I’m sure it will happen to me, too, but it hasn’t yet, thank goodness! I’m still me.”

  “I’m glad. It would be terrible to get to know you only after you’d stopped being you.” Lady Cindertallow reached out to Clovermead to caress her, hug her—Clovermead didn’t know what—but she flinched from the touch. Her mother jerked her hand back and looked at Clovermead with pain in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Cerelune.”

  “Clovermead,” Clovermead automatically corrected. Her stomach was clenched and she found it hard to breathe. “Please forgive me, Ma’am. I don’t mind that you do that”—she left what that was unstated—”it’s just that you startled me.”

  “I didn’t intend to,” said her mother. She was distant now, and that was a relief.

  Clovermead looked down at Ambrosius’ gravestone again. There were five stones on top of it. “What do those mean?” she asked, pointing them out to her mother.

  “His friends put them there when he was buried,” said Lady Cindertallow. “In Chandlefort that is a way for us to say that we pray to Our Lady to have mercy on the dead man’s soul.” She pointed at a dense scattering of stones fallen around the grave. “Dozens were put on the stone when he was buried. Wind and rain have knocked most to the ground.”

  He was an excellent friend to me, the tall man had said.