It isn’t mine, thought Hilary, it’s yours and Papa’s—the one you would have liked to have. However, she had learned by now not to say so. She turned around, asking, “What is it, Maellen?” as her youngest sister came into the room.
“Mama, there are messengers from Armida, and Lord Damon himself is with them; he has a message for you.” Maellen was now a coltish eleven, all knees and elbows, protruding gawkily from her torn pinafore, her red curls tangled and half uncurled.
“Oh, dear, I hope you did not greet him looking like that, Maellen,” her mother said, but broke off as Damon Ridenow himself came into the room and bent over Hilary’s hand.
“Don’t scold her, I beg of you, vai domna,” he said to Domna Yllana; “I have come to bid you to a naming-feast at Armida, and of course Callista bade me come to you first of all.”
“Oh, has Ellemir borne her child? She will be so happy!” Hilary exclaimed.
“No,” Damon said, “Next tenday, perhaps; she is still dragging about, as big as the side of the barn, or so it seems. No, Callista bore Andrew a daughter ten days gone, and she wishes to call her daughter ‘Hilary’; so I came to you to be certain you were not of those who thinks it ill luck to name a child after a living person.”
“No, of course I am not,” said Hilary, delighted. “I shall have a naming-gift for the little one. Is Callista well, then? And Ellemir?”
Damon grinned—as happily, Hilary thought, as if the child were his own. “I am happy to say that both are well, and barring something unforeseen,” he made a superstitious gesture, “this time, all Gods be thanked, nothing will go wrong.”
“I am so happy for Ellemir,” Hilary said, “I have not seen either of them since the wedding.” It had been quite a scandal in the country round. The twins of Armida had been married, Ellemir to Damon and Callista to a stranger, a Terran, named Anndra Carr—and that not by the catenas but in a simple freemate declaration before witnesses. But both marriages, as far as she knew, had gone well, and the folk at Armida were no less popular than ever. Of course, whatever an Alton of Armida chose to do was assumed to be well done.
Damon touched Hilary’s hand; his eyes fell on the wedding gown on the rack. “Yours? May I ask when the wedding is to be held?”
“We were making ready to send out messages bidding you to the wedding,” Hilary said, “I could not possibly be married without my oldest friend in attendance.” She recalled, on the day she left Arilinn, Damon had met with her in the courtyard and had kissed her in farewell—the first human touch she had borne in seven years.
He said, with a trace of the old familiarity, “So you are to have a wedding. I hope it may be as lucky as mine; a marriage should be a happy thing. Do I know the fortunate man?”
Hilary thought, Probably better than I do, but aloud she only said, “I believe you knew him when you were cadet-master in the Guard. His name is Farrill Lindir; he has four children by his first wife, so he need not care if I do not give him a son.”
“Oh, Hilary,” Domna Yllana interrupted in despair. “Isn’t she dreadful, Damon? Why, her health is so much improved. I beg of you. Lord Damon, don’t listen to her! No doubt, at this time next year, he’ll be sending out a bidding to a naming-feast at Miron Lake.”
“I certainly hope he does not count upon that,” Hilary interrupted. “If it is a child he wants, no doubt he’ll return me like a sack of grain from the mill; but he wishes for a noble wife, one of unquestioned birth and position. But no doubt he has heard of why my betrothal to Edric Ridenow went amiss; and everyone for miles around knows my health is not that much improved. Nor do I care much for babes—I would rather it was me he wanted, not a brood mare.”
Domna Yllana interrupted, “Surely this is no seemly speech for a maid almost on the eve of her marriage!” but Damon laughed.
“So Callista has said many times; but now that her own child is more than a vague idea, she is not only reconciled to having her but has become fond enough of her daughter. And if she were not, there are more than enough women in the Domain for that.” He smiled at Hilary, ignoring her mother, and said, “It was a gift of Arilinn which kept this child for me; you know after Ellemir’s first child was born so much too soon, it was a woman from the college of midwives at Arilinn Village who told Ellemir what she should do to keep her from such misfortune this time. And so I will soon invite you to the naming feast of my own first son.”
Hilary said with an attempt at formality, “I am happy for you, Damon; I know how much Ellemir has wanted a child.” She thought, If it had been you came courting me instead of Edric—She quickly dropped that thought, knowing Damon would pick it up. But when we both dwelt in the Tower, I was but a little girl—and Callista even more so—and he could never see any woman but Leonie. Knowing Damon would pick that up, too, she looked away from him with a new shyness.
Damon bent and kissed the tips of her fingers, “May you be as happy as I am with Ellemir, breda,” he said.
Hilary stood on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with her lips, then withdrew, coloring a little, as she saw her mother’s eyes upon them.
When Damon had left them, Domna Yllana scowled. “You wretched girl! Why, if you wanted to be married, did you not make sure of Dom Damon before ever you left the Tower?”
“Mother,” Hilary protested, “when Damon left the Tower, I was young and had never thought of any future but to be Keeper at Arilinn. I thought no more of Damon that way than of one of my father’s grooms!” And she thought, I am afraid to ask how she thinks I should have made sure of him, or how that would have availed me anything but for both of us being sent away for misconduct.
Domna Yllana’s cheeks reddened with a dull color, and—not for the first time—Hilary suspected her mother had some laran, though flawed and incomplete. But Domna Yllana only said aloud, “We have on our estate somewhere, too, a midwife trained at Arilinn. If she helped Lady Ellemir, we should have her look at you.”
“Perhaps,” Hilary said, and hoped her mother would forget it again.
But nothing much happened that day on the estate but for a long colloquy with the cooks about the cakes and wine to be served at the wedding. Personally, Hilary thought this was a lot of fuss for nothing; they had vetoed her first choice of an apple nut cake.
“I can’t imagine why, since I am to be the bride in question, and it is my favorite cake,” Hilary protested.
But Domna Yllana only laughed and said, “Don’t be silly, it isn’t at all a suitable cake for a wedding. Dom Farrill would think I didn’t know what was proper!”
When Hilary stubbornly requested further explanation, her father pinched her cheek and said, “I don’t understand either, my love; but your mother knows about these things and I don’t. Better listen to her.” Hilary, realizing he was probably right, had said no more.
The wedding gown was finished and hung in Hilary’s clothespress. She had tried it on, but when she wanted to show it to her father and Despard, her mother had said harshly that it was ill-luck for anyone but the bride and her attendants to see her dressed before the wedding. Hilary wondered why, then, it would not be bad luck for her mother to see it; and since Domna Yllana had fashioned it for her, how her mother could have made it without seeing it. Again, she knew better than to ask.
It was only a day later when the horsemen rode into the courtyard. The foremost among them said they were from Lake Miron and asked, “Is it you, damisela Hilary, who was to marry Dom Farrill?”
“It is I,” Hilary returned with poise and self-possession; but she already knew, from the man’s taut face, what news he would give her. She heard him say it, like an echo. Dom Farrill had been thrown by a half-broken horse, and his head had split open. That last detail they thought to spare her, only calling it a riding accident—but she knew it anyway.
She felt no great personal grief, for she had barely known the man, but it was a dreadful thing for a young life to be so suddenly snuffed out. “I cannot tell you how greatly I regret this,�
� she said, shaking her head sadly. Inwardly, she felt nothing but a relief she was too worldly-wise to show. She offered the riders refreshment, already knowing her mother’s grief would be greater than her own.
Indeed, when Domna Yllana heard the news, she was as shaken as if she had lost a son. It was she who felt it necessary to tell the riders that Hilary was truly heartbroken, but too dignified and self-possessed to show her grief publicly.
When Hilary expressed her true feelings to her father he looked troubled. “Don’t say such things before your mother; she was really looking forward to your wedding.”
“I know,” said Hilary, making a face. “Between ourselves, rather more than I was.”
He looked at her guiltily. “I know; also between ourselves, I’m not sorry to keep my little girl a few more years. How old are you now, my darling?”
“Nearly twenty-three,” Hilary said, grimacing. “A confirmed old maid for certain.”
He looked abashed. “Oh, surely there is time enough,” he said, and hugged her.
Domna Yllana seemed resigned. She said crossly to Hilary, “I suppose even Maellen will be married before you will! I knew when you wanted to show Arnad your wedding gown that some evil would come of it,” she added with a grim look as if she had foreseen all this.
Trying to comfort her, Hilary agreed to consult the Free Amazon midwife on the estate; she had never been willing to speak with the woman before. But now she thought it might be a good thing to be completely well again.
A couple of days later Domna Yllana brought the midwife to her. To Hilary’s surprise, the Renunciate did not wear the riding garb she had always associated with Renunciates, but an ordinary skirt and overdress. Her hair was fastened in a net. Hilary, looking closely, saw that the skirt was cut somewhat shorter than most dresses—for riding, probably.
“I am astonished you do not appear like the Guild House Renunciates, with short hair and breeches.”
“Oh, I wear breeches when I must, but when I am in the villages, I dress so as not to alienate the women I must serve—or their husbands,” the woman said, her eyes twinkling.
“What is your name, mestra?”
“Allier n’ha Ferrika, my lady.”
“And—how old are you?” Hilary asked with real curiosity. “You look no older than I.”
“I probably am not,” the woman said. “I was twenty-two a few days before Midsummer. I learned this work at my mother’s knee; I have been doing it since I was fifteen. Women of my kind, my lady, work from the time they are big enough to gather eggs.”
“I am twenty-two also,” Hilary said, “and I worked long and hard when I was in Arilinn.” And as she spoke, she thought, But now I am doing nothing! A working woman like this must despise me for my idleness.
“I dwelt for a couple of years in Arilinn, to learn the midwife’s art,” the woman said. “I saw you, from time to time, riding out with the old sorceress; I doubt not at all that your life in the Tower was harder than mine in the Guild House.”
Hilary flushed; had the woman been reading her thoughts? After a moment she put the question.
“No, my lady; I am not of those gifted with laran, but in Arilinn everyone knows how hard the sons and daughters of the Comyn must work, and what a toll it may take of them. And my mother’s favorite apprentice works at Armida. She came there to care for Lady Ellemir, and she saw how hard it was for Lady Callista to cast off those same shackles. Everyone in Arilinn knew you were not as healthy and strong as the Lady Callista.” She colored a little. “I fear in Arilinn—as everywhere else in the Domains, my lady—we have not much better to do than speak of the comings and goings of our betters,” she said defensively. “Surely you know how women gossip. Perhaps they should not, but they do, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Oh, I’m familiar enough with that,” Hilary said. “Even here on my father’s estate I am gossiped about enough. And I know that in Arilinn, a mouse can hardly stir in the walls before half the people in the countryside are offering us kittens to catch it. I grew used to that my first year there.” It was not particularly pleasant to think that her health had been discussed throughout the midwives college there; but it was simply part of living in Arilinn, which, after all, carried enough privileges that she must accept its few disadvantages as well. She grinned almost mischievously at the woman.
“Fair enough; I suppose you heard also when my marriage with Lord Edric Ridenow came to nothing.”
Allier said quickly, “Only that there had been talk of some such alliance, but it ended because of your ill-health. Did you want very much to marry him, my lady?”
Hilary could not keep from laughing. “I think I could have borne the loss without weeping,” she said, “but my mother was wonderfully cross. That is why she has sent for you, that my health may not lose us another valuable alliance. My mother feels that it will be a disgrace if I am not properly married off before my younger sister Maellen is old enough to wed.”
Allier looked straight at her. “And you are willing to be married off that way, my lady?”
Hilary shrugged a little. She said equivocally, “It will please my mother if I am not ill; and what is more, I cannot abide the thought of continuing to spend ten days of every forty in bed. I have already made enough embroidered pieces for a dozen or more hope chests for myself and Maellen, and I am weary of it.”
Allier smiled. “Well, we shall see what can be done.”
Hilary felt that Allier had really been asking her something else, but she was not sure quite what.
“Tell me, what remedies have they given you?”
“I have drunk enough golden-flower tea to drown the very Tower itself, both here and in Arilinn. And there have been many other things as well—I cannot remember them all—black hawberries, bitter herbs, in fact everything they could think of.”
“Ah, some herb-wives would treat the black rot with a dose of golden-flower. Have you—” she hesitated, then asked, “Forgive me, my lady. Have you miscarried a child? Or did anyone give you a potion to rid you of an unwanted child?”
Hilary chuckled.
“No,” she said. “I do not think the Goddess Avarra herself could manage to conceive a child under Leonie’s sharp eyes. I dared not even think of such things in her presence! I have had no opportunity, and I am not an oathbreaker.”
“True; even laran has its drawbacks.” The young Renunciate agreed.
“Nor, I must say, has the man been born who would or could tempt me from my vows. No, not even Damon,” Hilary said. “You may believe that or not—my mother does not—but it is true.”
“I have no laran,” the woman said, “but I know when I am being told the truth. I believe you, my lady.”
Hilary sighed and relaxed. “What do you think you can do for me?”
“I can promise you nothing; but we know more about these things than women before us knew. In Leonie’s time it was fashionable to say the sickness was in the mind; and while a sickness in the mind can be harder to cure than one of the body, there were those who thought if the illness was all in the mind, it was just a matter of making up your mind to be free of it.”
Hilary sighed “I know; I have lost count of those who thought my illness all in the mind. Even Leonie, I think, kind as she always was, never ceased to believe that I was making myself ill in some way that she, and certainly I, did not understand.”
“We know better now,” Allier told her. “Whether or not we can make you entirely well is not within my knowledge; but we will try.”
“Thank you, Allier,” Hilary said. “And you know, now that I think on it, I truly do not wish to be married off for my family name nor for the children I might have, even though it is the fate of almost every woman in the Domains.”
“I would be the last to think ill of you for that,” Allier said. “Of course, that is the one fate a Renunciate need never fear.”
Hilary sighed. “Alas, I have neither talent nor will to defy my family and live
as a Renunciate, even were such a path open to me. I fear I could not face my family and wage war for that right, although such as you will think me cowardly for believing so.”
Allier smiled. “Courage is of all kinds,” she remarked. “I have often said that you strove with more courage in Arilinn than I would ever have had. I would have given in and come home within three months. You were there, I think, for almost seven years. No, my lady, coward is not a word I would ever use for you.”
After this, they returned to the subject of what the woman thought could be done for Hilary. They soon agreed that she should ride with Allier to her home in the village, since Hilary was experiencing one of her episodes of reasonable health. It would be convenient to have the Renunciate’s supply of herbs and medicines close at hand.
“We will try one of the simpler remedies first,” Allier said. “Even if it does you no good, it will do no harm. With some of the stronger remedies, you must be watched carefully day and night, and I am not free this tenday to take leave of my other patients and stay near enough to you to make certain that you have no trouble.”
“That is pleasing to me,” Hilary said. “But the old woman on the estate has already dosed me with enough of her brews that I have little faith in any of them.”
“Still, we will try them,” Allier said. “And if I were you, I would not undervalue the power of faith; but I believe you have already put the work of faith to the test. Here.” She alighted from her saddle horse, and went into her small cabin; Hilary followed and found the woman rummaging among the flasks and vials on a long shelf. She asked Hilary, “Do you know anything of the healer’s art, my lady?”
“Very little. Callista knows much more of herbs than I,” Hilary said. “But I know enough to know that your equipment is of the best. I think we had hardly so much in the Tower itself.”
“Perhaps not, for I know something of the Terran medical arts; their medical men and women make use of remedies more powerful than those at my command. Only at last resort would I make use of those with you. And before doing so, I must consult with my Terran colleagues.”
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover Page 15
