In the room to which the servant conducted her, she unfastened her cloak and put back the hood. She went to the fire to warm herself, but she did not touch the jug of wine which had been sent to her.
After a long time she heard a soft sound at the door. A woman stood there, round and plump-bodied, enveloped in a capacious apron; she might have been the innkeeper’s wife or daughter, or a servant. She said with soft courtesy, “I will make up the fire freshly for you, my lady,” and came to put fresh logs on it. Then she blinked in astonishment “But you are still wearing your cloak, damisela. Let me help you.” She came, and Hilary started to recoil, automatically . . . no human being had laid so much as a fingertip on her garment, not for years. Then she remembered that this prohibition no longer applied to her, and stood statue-still, suffering the impersonal touch of the woman’s hands, removing her cape and the scarf around her neck.
“Will you have your shoes off as well, my lady, to warm your feet at the fire?”
“No, no,” said Hilary, embarrassed. “No, I will do very well—” She stooped to unfasten her own traveling-boots.
“But indeed, you must not,” said the woman, scandalized, kneeling to draw them off. “I am here to serve you, lady—ah, how cold your feet are, poor little lady, let me rub them for you with this towel . . . .” She insisted, and Hilary, acutely embarrassed, let her do as she would.
I did not know how cold my feet were until she told me. I have been taught to endure heat and cold, fire and ice, without complaint, even without awareness . . . but now that she was aware of the cold, she shivered as if she would never stop.
The woman took a steaming kettle off the hob of the fireplace and poured something hot into a cup. “Now drink this, little lady,” she said compassionately, “and let me wrap you in your cloak again. It will warm you now. Here, put your feet up to the fire like this,” she said, drawing a footstool around so that Hilary found herself deep in a chair with the soles of her feet propped up to the blazing fire. “Have you dry stockings in your saddlebags? I think you must have them on or you will take cold.” And almost before Hilary knew it, her feet were toasty warm in dry stockings, and she was sipping at the hot spicy brew which, she suspected, had had something a good deal stronger than wine added to it. A sensation very like pleasure began to steal over her.
I have not been this comfortable in a long time, she thought, almost with a secret guilt, a long, long time. Her head nodded and she drowsed in the heat. Sometime later she awoke to discover that a pillow had been tucked behind her head in the armchair, and someone had covered her with a blanket. She had not slept so well for a long time, either.
The thought began to stir faintly in her consciousness. I have been taught to be indifferent to all these things, indifferent to pain, cold, hunger, isolation. Such thoughts are not worthy of a Keeper. I learned to endure all these things. And still I failed . . ..
Outside in the hallway she heard soft voices; then there was a tentative knock on the door. Quickly Hilary turned her skirt down over her thin knees. Even if I am no longer a Keeper, she thought, I must behave as circumspectly as one, lest my behavior give them cause to think I was sent away from Arilinn for something I have done. She got to her feet and called, “Come in.”
The leader of the escort sent by her father stood hesitantly in the door, saying diffidently, “My lady, the snow has begun to fall so thickly that we cannot go on. We have arranged to remain here for the night, if it please you.”
If it please me, she thought. But the words were only formal courtesy. What could they possibly do if it did not please me? Try to force their way through the storm, and perhaps lose the way or be frozen in a blizzard? She did not look at the man; her face was turned away, as always in the presence of strangers, and she longed for the protection of her hooded cloak, hanging on the chair to dry. She said with aloof courtesy, “You must do as you think best,” and the man withdrew.
Later she heard voices along the hall.
“Look, I don’t care who the vai domna is, unless she is the Queen’s own self or Lady Hastur. Once and for all, we are crowded and overworked down here, with the storm and all these travelers; no one has leisure to go back and forth along all these corridors with trays and special meals now. The worthy lady can just haul her honorable carcass down to the common room like everyone else, or she can stay in her precious private parlor and go hungry, for all I care.”
Hilary’s anger was purely automatic. How dared they speak like that? If a Keeper of Arilinn chose to honor their wretched little inn, how dared they refuse her the protection of her privacy? Then, dully, Hilary remembered. She was no longer Keeper, no longer even a leronis of Arilinn. She was nothing. She was Hilary-Cassilde Castamir, second daughter of Arnad Castamir, who was only a minor nobleman on a small-holding in the Kilghard Hills. She remembered, dimly, like something in a dream, something her father had said to her. It had been the year before she went to Arilinn, but already she had been tested and had begun to dream of being one of the great Keepers. She had been about nine years old.
“Daughter, the servants and vassals have tasks much harder than ours, much of the time. You must never needlessly make their lives harder; it is not worthy of a noblewoman to give orders only for the pleasure of seeing yourself obeyed.”
Hilary thought; I need nothing, I will tell them I am not hungry, then I can remain here in peace, untroubled. They need not spare anyone to wait on me. But there was a good smell of cooking all along the hallways, and Hilary reflected that in order to tell them this, she would need to go down to the common-room anyhow. And she had breakfasted early, and scantily, and had had nothing since except the drink the woman had given her. She put her light veil about her head, and went along the passageway to the common-room.
As she came in, the woman who had waited on her before came toward her. Hilary stopped in the doorway, overcome by shyness and the impact of the crowded room, more people than she had seen in one place in many years, men, women and children, strangers, all overtaken by the storm. The woman led her quickly to a small corner table, apart from the others, where she could sit in the shadow of the projecting fireplace and not be seen. The four men of her escort were eating and drinking heartily, laughing over their food and wine; the leader came and inquired courteously if she had everything she needed. She murmured a shy assent without raising her eyes.
The woman was still standing protectively beside her. “My name is Lys, my lady. Will you have wine, or hot milk? Food will be brought to you in a moment. The wine is from Dalereuth and quite good.”
Hilary said shyly that she would rather have hot milk. The woman went away and after a while a great fat woman, swathed to the neck in a great white apron, came around, lugging a huge bowl the contents of which she ladled out onto every plate. She passed Hilary’s isolated table and ladled out a great dollop of whatever it was onto her plate, then passed on to the next table. Hilary stared in consternation. It was some kind of stew, great lumps of boiled meat and some kind of thickly cut coarse vegetables, white and orange and yellow.
Hilary was rarely hungry. She had been ill so much that she almost never thought with any pleasure of food. When she had been doing heavy and strenuous work in the matrix screens, she was ravenous and ate whatever was put before her without tasting, not caring what it was, so long as it replaced the energy her starved body needed. At other times she cared so little for food that the others in her circle tried hard to think up special dainties which, delicately served, might tempt her fickle appetite just a little. This stew from the common dish looked appalling. But it smelled surprisingly good, hot and savory, and after all she could not sit there and seem to disdain the common fare. She took a bite, squeamishly, and then another; it tasted as good as it smelled, and she ate it all up, and when the woman Lys came around with her hot milk she stirred honey into it and drank all of that, too, surprised at herself.
While the adults in the room were busy at eating and drinking, two young
children had come and knelt on the hearth, their tartan skirts spread around them. One of the little girls had opened a little bag she carried and spilled out some small cut and colored pebbles. Hilary knew the game; she had played it with Callista, to try to divert the homesick child in her first loneliness. As they cast the stones, one of them fell on the edge of Hilary’s green skirt. They looked at her, too shy to come and fetch it, and Hilary bent down and held out the small carved stone to them.
“Here,” she said, “come and take it.” It did not occur to her to be shy with the children.
The taller of the little girls—they were about six and eight, with long tails of white-blond hair down their backs—said, “What is your name?”
“Hilary.”
“I’m Lilla, and my little sister is Janna. Would you like to play with us?”
Hilary hesitated, then realized that in the darkness of the room, they probably took her for a child like themselves. Rising early at Arilinn that morning, she had simply tied her hair at the back of her neck without bothering to do it up. The little girl urged, “Please. It isn’t so much fun to play with only the two of us,” and it reminded her of something Callista had said once. She smiled and sat down on the hearth beside them, carefully tucking in her skirts. Lilla said, “You can have first turn if you want to, since you are our guest,” and at the child’s careful politeness, she wanted to giggle. She thanked Lilla and shook the toys out on the floor.
After a time the woman Lys came back to clear away the plates and mugs, and looked startled to see Hilary on the floor with the children. Recalled, Hilary looked around for her escort; they were wrangling with the housekeeper, near the door. The children scrambled to their feet. Lilla said politely, “My mother will be looking for us. Thank you for playing with us. I must take my little sister to bed,” but small Janna came up, held out her arms wide and gave Hilary a moist kiss and a hug.
Hilary, too shy to return the kiss, felt tears start to her eyes. No one had kissed her in so many years. My mother kissed me, in farewell, when I went to the Tower. No one since, not even my mother when I visited her, not my sisters; they had been told of the taboo, that I was to touch no one, not with a fingertip. Callista did not kiss me when we parted. Callista, who will be Lady of Arilinn. Callista will make a good Keeper, she is cold, she finds it easy to keep to all the laws and rules of the Tower . . . and again she felt the weight of her guilt and shame, the weight of failure. For a few minutes, playing with the little girls, she had forgotten.
The escort and the innkeeper were still arguing, and the woman Lys broke away from them and came toward Hilary. She said, “Lady, my master cannot displace any guest who has bespoken a room before you. But I have offered—it is mean and poor, lady, but the room I share with my sister and her baby has two beds; I will share my sister’s bed and you may have mine, you are very welcome.” And as Hilary hesitated, “I wish there were some place more worthy of you, lady, but there is nothing, we are so crowded, the only alternative is to spread your blankets in the common room with your soldiers, and that a lady cannot do . . . .”
“You are very kind.” She felt dazed by many shocks. She had eaten in a room full of strangers, played with strange children, now she was to share a room with two strange women and to sleep in a servant’s bed. But it was preferable, of course, to sleeping among her soldier escort. “You are very kind,” she said, and went with Lys, only half conscious of her escort’s look of relief at this solution.
The room was dark and cramped and not warm, but floor and walls were scrubbed clean, and the linen and quilts heaped on the beds were immaculate. Between the two beds was a cradle, painted white, and on the other bed, a woman sat holding a chubby baby across her lap and dressing it in clean clothes. Lys said, “This is my sister Amalie. Domna, I must go and finish my kitchen work. Make yourself at home; you can sleep here, in my bed.” Hilary’s saddlebags had been brought and shoved into the cramped space at the foot of the beds, and Hilary began to rummage for her nightgear. The woman with the baby was looking at her curiously, and Hilary murmured a shy formula of greeting.
“It is most kind of you to share your room with a stranger, mestra.”
“I hope the baby will not keep you awake, lady. But she is a good baby and does not cry very much.” As if to give her the lie direct the baby began to wave its small fists and shriek lustily, and Amalie laughed.
“Little rogue, would you make a liar of me? But she is hungry now, my lady, she wants her supper; afterward she will sleep.”
“I have heard that it is good for them to cry,” Hilary said timidly. “It helps their lungs to grow strong. How old is the baby. What is her name?”
“She is only forty days old,” Amalie said, “and since my husband is a hired sword to Dom Arnad Castamir, I named her for one of the lord’s daughters, Hilary.”
So the baby is my namesake. Couldn’t the woman do better for her child than to give her the name of a failure, a disgraced Keeper? But she could not say that. She said, “My name is Hilary, too,” and held out her hand to the chubby screaming child. The fist waved, encountered Hilary’s finger and gripped it surprisingly hard. Amalie was unfastening her dress; she was thin, but Hilary was surprised to see her breasts, grotesquely swollen, it seemed, to the point of deformity. The nipples already oozed white. Amalie lifted the baby, crooning.
“There, you greedy puppy,” she said, and the small rosy mouth fastened hard on the swollen nipple, the crying choking off in mid-scream. The baby made small gasping noises as she sucked, waving her clenched fists rhythmically, in time to the sucking gulps. Hilary had never seen a woman nursing her child before—at least, not since she was old enough to remember.
“I heard them say in the inn that you were coming from Arilinn,” Amalie said. “Ah, you must be happy to be coming home to your mother, and she will be happy too. I think it would break my heart if someday my daughter went so far from me.” She stroked the baby’s forehead with a tender finger, brushing the colorless curls away from the tiny face. “They live such sad and lonely lives in the Tower, poor ladies. Were you very unhappy there, very glad to come away?”
Not a word or whisper of disgrace. Nothing but, you will be glad to be coming home to your mother. My mother, Hilary thought. My mother is a stranger; she has become a stranger to me. And yet once we were close . . . as close as that, Hilary thought, looking at the woman with the child at her breast. My mother need not be a stranger now. Perhaps, when she knows how hard I tried, she will not blame me for my failure . . . .
The baby’s fists were still clenching and unclenching rhythmically as she sucked, her toes curling up with eagerness. The woman’s eyes were closed. She looked happy and peaceful. Suddenly Hilary felt a pain in her own breasts, a cramping down through her whole body, not unlike what she felt at the time of her recurrent ordeal, only now, for some reason, it was not particularly painful or even unwelcome. It was so intense that for a moment she thought she would faint, and clutched the bedpost; then quickly she turned away and began to rummage again in her saddlebags for her nightgown.
She got into bed, and lay watching the nursing, feeling strangely drained. The pain had gone, but her breasts felt strange, tense, as if she could feel the nipples rubbing hard against her thick nightgown. The woman finally drew the baby, sated and blissful, from her breast fastened up her nightgown, and carried her to Hilary where she lay in the strange bed.
“Would you like to hold her for a minute, Domna?”
Hilary held out her arms, and Amalie put the baby into them; she held her awkwardly against her own meager breasts. Full and sleeping, the baby squirmed, nuzzling her mouth against Hilary’s nightgown, and the woman laughed as the little flailing hands closed on Hilary’s breast.
“You will find nothing there, greedy one, and you are as full as a suckling pig already,” she scolded, teasing, “but a year or two from now, well, she would have better luck looking there, perhaps, lady?”
Hilary blushed, loo
king down at the baby in her arms, drawing her finger over the soft little head. It felt like silk, feathers, nothing in the world had ever felt so soft to her. The soft sleeping weight against her body made her feel depleted, with a pleasant exhaustion. When Amalie picked up the baby to tuck her into the cradle, Hilary’s arms felt suddenly cold and empty, and after the light was out she lay listening to the soft breathing of the women, and the child, feeling the curious ache in her body. What must it feel like, to nurse a child that way, to feel that hungry tugging at her breasts? She felt her nipples throbbing again. She had never been conscious of them before, they had simply been there, part of herself, like her hair and her fingernails. She put her hands over them, awkwardly, trying helplessly to calm the aching; she felt cold, an empty shell, shivering, finally pulling the pillow toward her and hugging it tight, in an attempt to quiet the strangeness she could not calm. Suddenly, exhausted by strangeness and fatigue, she slept.
When she woke the room was filled with sunlight, and Amalie and the baby had gone, and Lys was saying apologetically, “I am sorry to waken you, my lady, but your escort sent to say you should be ready to ride within the hour.”
Hilary sat up in bed and blinked; she had slept unusually long and late.
“You can wash yourself here, lady, I have brought you some hot water. I will bring your breakfast if you like.”
“I can come to the common-room for breakfast,” Hilary said, “but I will be glad of your help in lacing my gown.”
She gave Lys a gift of money before she left. When the woman protested, saying it was unnecessary, she said, “Give it to your sister, then, and tell her to buy something pretty for the baby.”
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover Page 12
