The Falconer’s Daughter: Book I

by Liz Lyles

  “Ladies should not stare,” Mr. Pole said, wiping his mouth with his hand towel before returning his attention to his plate. He was still flaking the smoked trout from the bones. Cordaella dropped her head but lifted it moments later to watch him take a bite. The fish barely filled his spoon. She sighed. Why did she have to sit here? “Perhaps you could use this time,” Mr. Pole proposed, lifting his fork again, “to review your Latin conjugations. You haven’t mastered them at all.”

  “I’m not in the nursery,” she answered tartly, frowning at him over her cup of watery wine.

  “Perhaps you should still be eating there. Mrs. Penny and Edward could use the company.”

  Cordaella balled her hands in her lap. “Why do you keep telling me to join them? I’m not a baby like Eddie and I don’t need a nurse.”

  “You certainly could use manners. You talk like a barbarian and eat as if you’ve never had a hot meal before this one. ’Tis no wonder your uncle put you here with me. But what you need, I simply cannot teach. There aren’t enough hours in the day.”

  “I think it is a pity you haven’t men your age to pick on,” she said, her voice cold. “Queen’s College must be ashamed of your learning—”

  “Studies,” he said, interrupting her, “it is called studies.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “But that, child, is obvious.” She glared at him, hating his pale skinny face with the chin that seemed to unexpectedly disappear. He had no lips either, just a small hole for a mouth. No wonder he was called Mr. Pole.

  “What now?” he sighed, looking up from his plate.

  “Nothing,” she said. “It is not something I imagine you’d want to hear.”

  “Good,” he replied, allowing himself a small smile while he took another bite of his fish. “Delicious, isn’t it?”

  *

  The summer had given way to autumn and from the castle Cordaella could see the farmers harvesting the barley. Peveril’s bailiff, a Mr. Smith, would ride out every day to oversee the yoking of the plows, the reapers, and the threshers. Today, Cordaella could see him, with one of the castle’s scribes, riding past the woods and the one small meadow to the first of the fields. She thought she would like that job. He was always coming and going and she fancied that he would always have diversions in the village.

  Fortunately this afternoon they were excused from lessons, and Cordaella planned to escape the nursery as soon as she could slip past Mrs. Penny, who looked as if she were about to fall asleep any minute. Edward was riding back and forth on his red painted hobby horse, a gift from his father after the Earl’s latest return from London, and Elisabeth was preparing to bathe in Lady Eton’s chamber. And since Philip was downstairs playing chess with Mr. Pole in the solar, it left Cordaella free to explore the woods.

  The moment Mrs. Penny’s eyes closed and Eddie’s back was turned to her, Cordaella tiptoed to the door and raced down the hall for the southwest stairs. This was the stairwell that Philip had used to reach the tunnel. It took her some doing, but she finally discovered the spring that opened the trap door, and she lifted the step up to slide through the crawl space and replaced the stair step. She had forgotten to bring a candle and for a moment she stared sightlessly ahead, panicked by the darkness. She took a step and then another, moving her toes forward to search for steps or obstacles. What if the tunnel led in two directions? What if she took a wrong turn? She shuddered, wishing now she had never come. She might get lost and no one would know where she was. She could very well die here.

  Take a step, she told herself, and use your hands to guide you. Pretend you are blind. Pretend you must climb the mountain in a snow storm. It seemed like forever, but she thought she saw a sliver of light ahead. She walked a little more quickly, her hands scraping a rough stone as she hurried. She grasped the handle on the door and pushed, then pushed again. Slowly it gave way and light poured into the darkness. Climbing out of the tunnel she shut the door, carefully hiding the hinges with the ivy tendrils. She wouldn’t need to find the opening; she wouldn’t be going back that way. It had been scarier than she remembered and it would be better to get in trouble than have to do it alone again.

  The ground was damp from the last rain so Cordaella lifted the hem of her skirts, tying them up around her waist. As she walked, leaves crunched beneath her shoes and she took bigger steps, hopping from one foot to the other. As she hopped she sang, a little Highland chanter about a handsome man cursed by a fairy woman. Her favorite part of the chanter was when the young man died heartbroken on the fairy knoll. She liked the ending and sang it three times through until she glimpsed the small square roof of the mews. The chimney was smoking. She skidded to a stop, her soft shoes scuffed with mud. It was real after all: the falconer, the birds, the mews.

  Sometimes she thought she had imagined it all, the stories her father had told her about his early years at the Macleod mews. He told her he had lived in a stone cottage, the building even smaller than their Highland croft. She had laughed at the idea, laughed at the picture of her tall father stooping to get in and out of such a squat building. Her father. The falconer.

  “Papa,” she whispered, her voice trembling. It had been so long since she had said his name, so long since she had been happy. She could still see his face clearly and hear his rough voice. Remembering him was easy. Letting go of him would be the difficult part.

  But she lived here now, at Peveril. In England.

  England. Even the name sounded strange. Perhaps it was her way of saying it that made it sound so foreign. But it was foreign to her; as was everything in this place. She suspected it would always feel this way. Some things couldn’t be undone, like taking the mountains out of a person. Her papa and the winters and Culross had taught her too much. She wasn’t a sheep, not like the English. Not like the Etons. She would rather die than be like the Etons. Resolutely, Cordaella straightened her shoulders and let down her skirts, suddenly seeming much older than her nine and a half years. She turned around to walk back the way she had come.

  *

  In London, the Earl of Derby met for the second time in six months with King Henry IV. Bolingbroke, as the King was affectionately called, suffered increasingly from poor health, his bad days more frequent, limiting him to bed rest. But on his good days, and this was one of them, he tried to ride and hunt, meet with his council, consult with advisors.

  Bolingbroke had not felt well enough yesterday to rise, and postponed all meetings until the next day. Fortunately, this morning he woke without the pain in his legs and he felt clear, alert. Now he convened in one of the Tower of London’s smaller halls to meet with the Earl of Derby. They were discussing England’s trade relationships and the King had been attempting to analyze why England’s agreements were not as profitable as her European counterparts.

  Eton believed that England wasn’t utilizing her routes to full advantage, relying too heavily at the moment on the Italians.

  “What do you propose then?” Henry said, oblivious to his scribe and bevy of advisors clustered behind him. “Limit our treaty with Italy?”

  “No.” Eton enjoyed these meetings tremendously. “Rather we use our own ships and develop our own routes. If you would take a look at these maps—” The Earl drew the King and the three chief finance advisors to the table, “—you will note that Italy, Aragon, and Castile dominate particular routes and ports. For example, Italy’s heaviest trade is within the Mediterranean Sea. Italy is the only country that ventures as far as Constantinople and Tripoli. While their ships dock at some thirty-odd ports, the majority of their trade takes place between Cadiz and Naples.”

  “But the Italian carracks dock in London!” interjected Thomas Beaufort.

  “Yes,” the Earl agreed patiently, for he loved this subject better than any, “and that is the extent of Italy’s trade with England. Do they only dock in London because that is the only English port?” He shook his head. “We have a number of good harbors—Chester, Bristol, Plymouth, Southampto
n, Hull, and Newcastle.”

  “But exports—does no one export from any other English port or must everything pass through London?” asked Beaufort.

  “The Hansards sometimes stop in Newcastle and Hull. The Castilians, due to their proximity, prefer Bristol and Southampton.” Eton traced the routes with his finger, tapping England’s southern coastline. “We have harbors, we have ships, we have exports. But we lack the cooperation between port and merchant that I have seen in other countries.” He stood up. “Expanding our production and distribution of exports would significantly improve commerce. Not only does trade boost income—” Eton knew the King was listening closely now—“it also raises taxes. Each increment of growth, is an increment of revenue for your treasury.”

  Bolingbroke said nothing for a long minute, studying the map and the black arrows that had been carefully drawn from one port to another, indicating the main directions of sea trade. “We develop our own ports and our own routes…” His voice drifted off as he considered the opportunities, “…which does not affect the trade agreements, therefore we are not breaking any contracts and we are not subject to penalty or regulation.” He continued to study the map. “Which ports do you suggest we develop first?”

  “Our Chester to Dublin, and Bristol to Cork,” Eton said, naming two important Irish sea towns. “Only Spain calls at Cork. No one calls in Dublin.”

  “What about the coast of Portugal?” The King asked.

  “And the northwestern ports of Castile?” Beaufort added, squinting at the map and the intricate arrow patterns.

  “Portugal won’t trade with Castile, and trades only to a limited degree with Italy.” Eton felt warm, relaxed. His mind was clear, every thought lucid.

  “Meaning, Portugal might welcome a new treaty—” Bolingbroke smiled, realizing the considerable possibilities. “And Castile…another future possibility.”

  “Exactly,” the Earl of Derby agreed, thinking of Aberdeen and its harbor, along with Cordaella and her inheritance. When the girl married…depending on whom she married…Eton smiled. She could be of infinite value, an asset, unlike his own poor plain Elisabeth. It had been a stroke of luck—or was it genius?—bringing Cordaella to Peveril. She would more than pay for her keep. She would make his.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‡

  April 1412

  In protest to the girl’s threat, the plump elderly woman stood, her full skirts rustling beneath the simple blue houppelande. With a hasty motion, Mrs. Penny tucked the needlework into her skirts, folding her hands over her ample stomach. “His Grace will not stand for your impertinence. Neither will I.”

  Cordaella turned disdainfully from the window. “Rubbish!” she cried.

  “You grow wilder by the day, Cordaella Buchanan.”

  “And you always say the same things.”

  “Do not forget your place. You show too little gratitude for his lordship’s kindness.”

  “Oh, he is kind, isn’t he?” Cordaella settled back down on the stool in front of the window, her arms propping her up on the sill. “In the six years I’ve been here—”

  “Don’t start on that again. I don’t want to hear it. If you can’t be pleasant, Cordaella, you needn’t speak at all.” Mrs. Penny placed a hand on either side of her high back chair and eased down into the cushioned seat with an appreciative groan. “Your gratitude ought to assume a more pleasing demeanor. And even if you don’t feel grateful, you don’t need to wear it on your face.” She tugged the needlework out of her blue waistband and fanned her flushed face with the scrap of linen. “You are too sour. It’s almost as if you want everyone to know what a pitiful life you’ve had.”

  “I want pity from no one—”

  “Now I’ll grant you, it is a pitiful life—”

  “Not even from you.” She concluded firmly, giving the nanny a look that would have wounded a more sensitive soul. “Besides, this castle is full of fools—the exception being Lord Philip—and I shall not pay lip service to the Earl or the younger children. Eddie is as much a baby as the day I arrived and goodness, he’s nearly twelve. Elisabeth—”

  The nanny interrupted her. “The Etons have treated you admirably considering you were orphaned.”

  “Mrs. Penny.” Cordaella looked at the old nurse as if amazed. “My uncle took me in because he profits from my warship. He receives all income from my lands, all revenues and taxes from Aberdeen and the various castles in the shire.”

  “Yours?” The nanny sniffed. “I can’t help asking what everyone was asking. Why you? Why did the Duke Macleod leave everything to you? Philip, he is the one that ought to resent you, but does he? No, he is like a lamb. Always thinking of you—”

  “Philip is good,” Cordaella admitted.

  “Philip is more than good. He is an angel and you are ungrateful.”

  Cordaella looked sideways at the old woman. “The Earl didn’t have to take me in. And he didn’t have to profit from the Aberdeen income. Until I marry, he takes everything.”

  “See, you can be guaranteed an excellent marriage. You will take into the marriage an outstanding dowry. Elisabeth. Tell! Now she knows she won’t ever have that kind of dowry.” The nanny adjusted her girth as she shifted her immense weight on the cushion. “So why are you so sour today? This is more like the girl I knew six years ago, not like the young lady of fifteen who can have sweet manners and a pleasant face.”

  “Perhaps I only wanted an invitation to join the party,” Cordaella answered more wistfully, watching the garden banquet again. From the window she could spot Elisabeth’s pale yellow damask gown swish through the guests, the dark gold embroidery on the yoke and sleeves glistening in the sun.

  “His Grace has his reasons for your not going. Besides, it’s your pride that eats at you most.” The grizzled old head wagged slowly, perspiration beading her upper lip.

  “Your pride will get the better of you, if you’re not careful, miss. I’ve seen it before. I’ve said it before.”

  “But why couldn’t I go?”

  The nanny shrugged. “Now that I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.”

  “I did. And he said I’m of an age for marrying but there are none here for me to marry.” She had hated his answer, hated his smugness. He was still so pompous. It made her sick.

  “There you have it, and instead of being grateful that he is looking after you, you sit here moping.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are. As sure as my name is Agnes Penny, you have the sulks.” Mrs. Penny rethreaded her needle with red.

  “I even dressed,” Cordaella whispered, toying with the wide sleeves that fell back from the wrist, exposing the creamy white chemise beneath. The violet and gray surcoat was cut narrow through the shoulders and bosom, falling in long loose folds from pleats at her breasts. “He doesn’t have to be ashamed of me. I wouldn’t behave badly.”

  “Maybe he fears you’d draw more attention than his own. Who can say?” Mrs. Penny jabbed the needle through the fabric, pulling gently on the thread. “You don’t try to look at it from his point of view. The fact is, the issue is, that you aren’t…” and she hesitated, searching for the right words, “or, what I mean is, you are a problem.”

  “A problem?” Cordaella leaned forward against the glass until her brow rested on the thick pane. She watched as three ladies met on the lawn, their gowns the colors of peacock blue, vivid green, and buttercup yellow, the fabric swirling as they talked and laughed. Two men sauntered past, bowing, laughing, their jupons just as bright, more blues and greens with leggings of contrasting color. “I’ve never wanted to be a problem. But sometimes it has been so hard.”

  Mrs. Penny attempted to soften her tone. “Come, child, come sit by me. You haven’t finished your cider.”

  “But it’s cold now. And I don’t really care for it.” Cordaella’s heavy plaits of hair tumbled over her shoulders, falling from the coil on her head, bringing the headpiece of rolled fabric and cut leaves down.

>   “At least let me fix your hair.”

  Cordaella watched as the cluster of ladies moved from the middle of the lawn to the white tent pitched close to the hundred year old oak tree. The giant limbs of the tree supported one side of the white canvas. That was where he was supposed to be, this special visitor, the Irishman who had been recently knighted by the King.

  “Cordaella?”

  She stood up and went to Mrs. Penny’s chair where she knelt long enough to let the nanny twist the coils back up and fasten the headdress on. “There.” Mrs. Penny patted her. “You look lovely again.”

  Cordaella didn’t return to the window, taking a stool in front of the hearth instead. This had once been Eddie’s seat before he was too large for anything but a regular chair. “Do you remember my Aunt Charlotte?” she asked, hugging her knees.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Was she happy here? Didn’t she find it terribly different from Aberdeen?”

  “I think your aunt accepted whatever life gave her.”

  “Which means she received very little, doesn’t it?”

  “That is not at all what I intended, miss, and you know it. Your aunt was a lovely young girl. She had spirit and intelligence and considerable charm.”

  “I wonder that she died so young.”

  Mrs. Penny bit off a bit of red thread and selected a new bobbin from her basket. “From what I know, all the Macleod daughters died young. A tragedy for the clan.”