by Liz Lyles
“I wish I had known them.” Cordaella rose from the stool and wandered aimlessly about the chamber, touching odds and ends as she passed. The water pitcher. A pile of yarn. One of Philip’s old books. No one really used the nursery anymore. She wasn’t sure why she had taken refuge here today. Perhaps it was the size. Or the view. From the window she could see across the peaks, not to mention the courtyard below. “I wish there was something of them to hold onto—just for luck, or memory. Maybe it would help.” She had returned to the window, her fingers on the thick bubbled glass.
“If I could, I’d give you a bit of the Macleod smile. Those sisters had the sweetest expressions…” Mrs. Penny sighed, “Oh, well, it is just as well. None of you take after your mothers—” Elisabeth interrupted her by dancing in.
“Oh, Cordy!” she cried, sinking into a chair. “You missed a wonderful party.”
“Did I?” Cordaella picked up Philip’s old book and settled down in a chair by the window.
“Everything was so lovely! And Sir Bran—” Elisabeth acted as if she were swooning, her small mouth pursing, “—has the most wonderful accent. I never liked the Irish before—uncouth as they are—but he seems different, doesn’t he, Philip?”
Philip had quietly followed his sister through the nursery door and leaned against the hearth. His fair hair had been cut shorter, the dark blonde bangs barely sweeping his forehead. “What are you reading, Cordy?”
“The Iliad.” She said, opening the cover and turning a page.
“Haven’t you read that before?” Elisabeth made a grab for the book but Cordaella held on to it.
“I can read it again, can’t I?”
“It wasn’t that good the first time.” Elisabeth tapped her foot against the floorboards, her expression dreamy. “Anyway, the party was lovely, and better yet, he’s going to stay here for a few days. Can you believe it? He was to have journeyed back to London to join the prince, Thomas, you know, the Duke of Clarence, but instead Sir Bran will remain here. He has something to discuss with Father.”
“It’s actually the King’s business. More trade talk.” Philip bit his fingernail down low, sucking the skin where it bled. “Damn all.” He looked at the small tear, “that hurts.”
“You shouldn’t chew your nails. It’s not becoming.” Elisabeth held out her own hands to admire them.
“And I,” the nineteen-year-old answered firmly, biting a second nail, “do not care.”
“But you will,” Elisabeth retorted, “when you’re married.”
Cordaella set the book down. “Are you going to be married, Philip?” The thought hadn’t ever crossed her mind. She wasn’t sure she even liked the idea. Philip, married?
“No,” he said crossly.
“We will all eventually marry.” Elisabeth sat up, too excited to sit still for long, the bells on her gown tinkling gaily with every flounce she made. The pale yellow of her houppelande cast a golden glow across her face, the neckline round, the yoke heavily embroidered. She wore a string of folly bells draped across one shoulder that she played with “Philip will marry first, then me, then Eddie. And Cordaella last.” Elisabeth smiled as she shook her bells. “Cordaella will be lucky to marry at all.”
“Maybe not. Cordaella could be the first.” Philip said, turning from them to the window. The guests were all gone; only the servants remained, tidying the lawn and packing the canvas tent.
“I don’t care if I ever marry,” Cordaella answered. “It is not something I look forward to.”
“I can’t wait to be married. I want a husband now.” Elisabeth shook her bells, listening delightedly as they jingled. “I would marry Sir Bran if Father would consider it.”
Mrs. Penny shot them all reproving looks. “It is not up to you to decide when you marry—or whom. I don’t see why you waste your time with silly talk, considering suitors who aren’t possibilities.”
“Who is to say that Sir Bran—” Elisabeth protested before Philip cut her off. “Well, what, Philip? Why isn’t he?”
“Come on, Beth, let’s change the subject. This is a waste of time.”
Elisabeth tossed her head. “Everything is meant to waste time. What else is there to do?”
“Too much in your cups, that is what I think,” the nanny said suspiciously, her needle working in and out of the linen, the red thread crossing the brown pattern. “This is the last thing you need, Lady Elisabeth.”
“And don’t you be crabby,” Elisabeth retorted, sweeping up from her chair with a luxurious stretch, the embroidered hem of her gown trailing the scuffed hardwood floor. “I don’t want my mood spoiled.” Elisabeth twirled, enjoying her new gown. “You should have come, Cordy. I can’t believe you’d rather stay in here.”
Eddie threw open the door, bounding into the room with an oath and a toss of his riding crop. “It is bloody hot for April!”
“You’ve been for a ride already?” Philip asked with some surprise.
“Why not? I was tired of waiting for something interesting to happen at the party. That Irishman didn’t say much, did he? I found the whole thing rather boring. I had hoped to see a good joust or fight. Not even a single fencing match today.”
“The party wasn’t meant for dueling,” Elisabeth said, “it was a luncheon, games on the lawn. Thank God for Hocktide. The festivities needn’t end.”
“Please, no more of that music.” Eddie grimaced, his pug nose pulling up. “I’ve never heard such an awful lot of musicians in all my life.” He sidled up to Cordaella’s chair. “And you, Cordy, what did you do all day? Read poetry to Mrs. Penny?” She ignored him, turning another page in the book. “Father said you didn’t come because you weren’t feeling well. Is that true? You aren’t well?” He leaned over her shoulder to look her in the face. “But you don’t look sickly now.”
“Edward!” Philip remonstrated.
“Not any more sickly than you normally do. But then I don’t suppose you can help that ugly face.”
Elisabeth giggled nervously. “Eddie!”
Cordaella’s expression changed imperceptibly. She stared him hard in the face, taking in the slight freckles across the bridge of his nose and the gap between his front teeth. “It must be hard,” she said, her tone as pleasant as could be, “to be so short, especially when you are almost twelve.”
“At least I have a proper name.” The boy clenched his fists.
“At least I don’t have the body of an eight-year-old.”
“You are stupid and ugly—”
“Eddie! Cordaella.” Mrs. Penny wrung her linen. “Not another word from either of you or I’ll march you straight to your father.”
“Bugger to that,” the boy said, glaring at the nanny. “He’s meeting with some of the King’s advisors. I guarantee he won’t see you.”
Cordaella laughed. Edward froze. “Why did you do that?” he asked, one hand rising to strike her.
“Because you’re awfully funny. I can’t imagine anyone taking you seriously—” She broke off when he reached across and smacked her on the face. The nursery fell silent. Cordaella pressed her hand against her cheek. After a moment’s hesitation she calmly laid down the book and grabbed Eddie by the arm.
Philip stepped forward. “Cordy, he is just a baby—”
“Please, Cordaella,” Mrs. Penny urged, “leave him be! Remember the scripture; it is always better to turn the other cheek.”
“Why?” Cordaella’s grip tightened on her cousin’s upper arm. “So that he can hit me again?” Eddie tried to pull away but Cordaella was stronger.
“Mrs. Penny! Mrs. Penny!” the boy implored.
“You had no right to hit me.” Cordaella’s fingers dug into his arm as she brought him nearer her face.
Bravado was his only weapon still available. “I’ll do it again if you don’t let go—” But he was genuinely afraid now, his eyes rolling to the sides for help from the others. “Mrs. Penny! Philip!”
Cordaella let go of him so suddenly that he stumbled, fa
lling forward. Just as he fell forward she swung her arm up, catching him full on his nose. There was a loud pop and Eddie stumbled, screaming in pain as he writhed on the floor.
“Oh, no!” Elisabeth whispered.
Philip knelt at his brother’s side, his fingers swiping away the dribbling blood. “I think his nose is broken.”
“Cordaella!” Mrs. Penny could barely speak. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hit him—” She sat down on the floor next to the boy, attempting to wipe up some of the blood with her skirts. “Eddie,” she said, dabbing at his face, “you must lie still.”
“Get away from me!” he screamed, his voice shrieking with anger and pain. “I hate you. Leave me alone.”
“I’m sorry, Eddie.”
He wrenched away from her, fresh blood spilling, causing him to shout again. “Damn Northern bitch—”
The nursery door was flung open. “In God’s name, what is this?” A pall fell over the nursery as five pairs of eyes riveted on the Earl, Grey Eton. He was not alone. The knight, O’Brien, hovered not far behind. “Well,” Eton thundered, “what happened here?”
Cordaella knew it was best to get it over with. “I broke Eddie’s nose,” she confessed.
Philip quickly added, “But Eddie hit her first, Father. I swear it. She didn’t mean to hit him hard. He sort of fell on her hand—” Philip’s voice broke and he hung his head ashamed.
Elisabeth said nothing, her face scarlet. Cordaella got to her feet, trying to hide the stains on her gown. “I am sorry. I know I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
“He’s just a boy,” the Earl thundered. “Why can’t you see that? You can’t behave like this, a banshee from the Highlands. I won’t stand for it.”
“I know.” She could feel all eyes on her and her throat closed, tightening around the apology. “I am sorry. I was wrong.”
“Not only is your cousin younger, he is also your lord.”
“Yes, Uncle.” She fought her pride and yet once again her pride won. “But, sir, if he is my lord, why is he treated like a baby? He is nearly twelve, sir.”
“Did you just question me?” Eton bent over but did not have to stoop far, Cordaella nearly reached his shoulder. She was already as tall as Philip and a good head taller than Elisabeth, although both were several years older than she. “Did you?” he persisted. Cordaella nodded, shrinking from what would come next. “Go to the solar.” Eton’s voice was cold. “I will be there momentarily.”
The Irishman’s eyes narrowed as he saw how the girl’s face paled, her jaw working furiously. He thought she would protest again and for a long painful moment no one moved or scarcely seemed to breathe. Cordaella fought the urge to cry. “Yes, sir.” Even if O’Brien did not, all the children knew what would happen next.
*
Cordaella left the solar with dry eyes. She had dug her nails into the wooden stool during the whipping rather than cry out loud. But now that she was free, she gathered her skirts into one hand and fled down the backstairs, climbing over the tall iron gate that separated the stable yard from the orchard. It was twilight and the sun had sunk low enough to leave the woods in long cool shadows. The ground was moist and as she walked, the smell of the earth rose up, warm and rich.
She walked quickly, covering the distance in fifteen minutes that might ordinarily have taken her twenty. She knotted her hands, her teeth grinding together to keep the tears away. Once in her life she might have wept. But she couldn’t cry now, not when she was fifteen—nearing sixteen—and wise to the Earl’s ways. There was no use holding a grudge against him. He never thought twice about administering a punishment, later expecting all to continue as it had.
Smoke swirled from the falconer’s chimney, and she heard the barking of dogs. The falconer must be at home, either working with the birds or preparing a bit of supper. She was hungry herself, and now that she thought about it, cold.
It had been too long a day, one of those days that went on and on, broken only by anger and pain. Her dress, she looked down at the bodice, was stained with blood and the hem caked in dirt. She rubbed at the stains, but it was futile; the dress was ruined.
She leaned against the trunk of a birch tree, pressing her forehead against the white bark. Her arms went around the trunk and she held it to her—as if it were a mother or a father. She closed her eyes but couldn’t picture the cottage anymore. It had become harder to remember her father’s face, his voice. She knew she had once lived high beneath Ben Nevis, but everything had blurred, and the memories had begun to desert her.
Cold, it was cold here. Cordaella shivered and rubbed her arms briskly. She turned to look for a place to sit in the clearing. Even now she was drawn to the woods, always returning to this place as if it held some special answer, some words for her. Her father had once told her that her mother had also been drawn to clearings, treasuring a favorite place in the Angus woods in Aberdeen. Anne, he had said, believed that clearings held magical powers and that mist in a clearing meant a quest was at hand.
A quest, Cordaella thought, drawing her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knobby knees. She hated her knees. Hated her long skinny arms and legs. She needed a quest. Something big. Something grand. Something like Arthur, when he pulled the sword from the stone, she would have to accomplish something.
Blood.
Did she say it or see it? The blood on the snow. And it all came back to her, pictures rushing into her head. Culross with his matted fur. Her father with the knife in his belly, the blade slicing up towards his heart. She was sure that his death hadn’t been an accident, not now, not after all she had seen in Peveril. Too many things were planned. Manipulated. Cordaella inherits. Cordaella is orphaned. She swallowed the sourness in her mouth, the first taste of hatred. She would find a way to get even.
A twig snapped behind her and she twirled around to peer into the twilight shadows of the wood. It was cooler already, a dampness in the night. The footsteps sounded again, heavy, deliberate. She slid down, hiding behind the fallen tree.
“Hello!” the voice called, the accent strange to her ear. She didn’t answer him, her heart hammering. “My name is O’Brien. I am a guest of your uncle’s—” Then the voice broke off, and laughed lowly. “But I don’t suppose you care to hear that.”
She wondered at the laughter in his voice, at the cool lilt in his voice, the words turning up and around as if each one rhymed. The knight. The Irishman. What was he doing here? She pulled herself in tighter, balling like a pillbug, attempting to become small and invisible. Maybe he’d go away.
“I didn’t want to intrude on you, but I thought perhaps you might want a cloak. It is a cold night, a night with rain in the air, isn’t it?” She thought his accent was like the night. The sound of his voice made her shiver again. “You can give it back to me later, tonight, after supper.”
Slowly she rose from behind her tree fortress, ashamed that she was hiding, that she was found out. “Thank you,” she whispered, not sure what to do next.
“Take the cloak, would you?”
She accepted it silently, pulling it on over her shoulders, fastening the ties at the front. “I was cold,” she admitted. “But I didn’t want to go back.” She sat back down on the tree, uncomfortable and at a loss for proper etiquette. What did one say to a famous knight?
“Would you like an escort back?”
“Thank you, but no. I don’t want to go yet.” She was silent a minute, thinking, and then her mouth turned, her lips curving in a wry smile. “You see, my lord, I have what Mrs. Penny calls, too much pride. Right now I am telling myself I’ll never go back. But I know that’s not possible. I will go back…eventually.”
“Wishing you could run away?” he asked, sitting down beside her.
She didn’t immediately answer him, instead apologizing for the afternoon fight. “I am sorry for the scene I caused earlier. How humiliating it all is—” She quivered, remembering. “It is a hard place,
sometimes. I haven’t quite figured it all out.” She stared down in the darkness, barely able to make out his boots. His boots were large, just like his legs. He must be very tall. “If you will forgive me for saying so, but you don’t seem like a great soldier.”
His laughter was quiet, like the summers in Glen Nevis. “I don’t consider myself a great soldier.”
“I didn’t mean that you weren’t great—” She broke off again. “Oh dear, nothing today is quite right. What I meant to say is that you are awfully kind. Very polite. One never pictures great soldiers being gentle. I think that’s what I mean to say.”
He laughed outright, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You can’t be English, not with that tongue of yours. I warrant you come from the North.”
“Aye. From the Highlands, not far from Glen Nevis.” She stared at her hands for a moment before asking, “How is it that an Irishman is knighted in London? You must have done something great.”
“I saved Bolingbroke’s son, the young Thomas of Clarence.” O’Brien said dispassionately. He might have been talking about food or the weather. “His Majesty was grateful.”
The night fell deeper, the woods dark, inky. She thought that he seemed to belong here, fitting right in with the darkness and the forest. His accent was soft, and she pictured the breeze rustling meadow grass, warm, sweet. She wished he would go on talking forever. “I would have knighted you, too. It must have been difficult, how you saved him.”
“It was war. War means hardship.”
“I don’t think I’d like that very much, though I always wanted to be a soldier, even though I’d been told otherwise.” She turned her cheek to look at his face. She could only see shadows and a line where his nose and brow met. “I think it must be hard killing people.”
“It is.”
“How do you do it?”
“Kill people?” he asked, “Or not think about it later?”
“Oh.” She turned back to rest her chin on her knees. “My father was killed. I think about that a lot. I wonder how they could have done it—stabbed him—and then left him like that. I was there, but what could I do? I was little yet, and I didn’t know much about healing.”
