by Liz Lyles
“Once somebody is hurt, there isn’t much anyone can do. Not after a knife wound. You mustn’t blame yourself.” He looked down on her. “Is that why you came here? You had nowhere else to go?”
She nodded. “But I don’t like it here. Except for Philip. He is good. The others—” she said with a shrug, her silence revealing more than words ever could. “Anyway, this is where I am now.”
“So you aren’t going to run away?”
“Where would I go?” She knew the truth. A young girl belonged to her guardian. She supposed she was lucky she had a guardian.
He leaned over to pick up a twig, twirling it absently between his fingers. “How are you a relation to Eton? He isn’t from across the border, is he?”
“No. His first wife, Charlotte, and my mother were from Aberdeen. Daughters of the late Duke Macleod.”
“John Macleod?”
“Yes. There were three daughters. Charlotte was the eldest. My mother was the middle sister. Mary was the youngest. I think of them, those three sisters, and I think of my grandfather and my uncle, the one they called Dunbar the Red.” She hesitated before continuing, “and then I think of my father. And they’re all gone.” She lifted her face to the wind, the cold stinging her cheeks. “But I can’t let them go. Not yet. Not until things are right.”
“Then you might find the world a very hard place.”
“But of course I will. I am a Scot.”
“Yes, and not so different from the Irish.” He broke the branch between his fingers, the dry wood snapping.
She looked up high, past the treetops to the sliver of moon. “Do you know what the strangest part about living here is? It is being a girl. In the mountains I never thought about being a girl. I didn’t even know I was one. I was just me, Cordaella. But here I am something different…like a different breed of animal. And it’s not just me. I see Lady Mary treated the same way, although she is older and a real woman. But Elisabeth! She, I think, has it even worse than me. She doesn’t seem to matter, at least not to anyone here. It is almost as if she didn’t exist.” Cordaella shivered. “And because Elisabeth matters so little, she blames me. I wish she had inherited the Macleod estates. Perhaps she would be the one guarded, protected.”
“Is that why you weren’t at the banquet this afternoon?”
“My uncle—” and she laughed, sounding lonelier than she would ever know, “—thinks I might draw an attack, provocation for jealousy. He seems to think everyone covets the inheritance. That I would have false suitors.” She shook her head, her teeth now chattering. “Perhaps we should go back. It is late. Supper can’t be long now.”
He took her arm, assisting her over a stump and through the tangle of undergrowth. Color fanned her cheeks and she kept her head down, trying it ignore the warmth of his hand on her arm, of his upper hand at the small of her back as they hurried through the dark musk fragrance of the woods to the distant lights of Peveril. She heard the wind pick up, the trees singing. This is where magic happened. And she would somehow help her father, avenge his death. Like the trees and the night, she was strong.
*
A handmaid knocked on the bedchamber door as Cordaella tugged her muddy shoes off. “You’re late, miss,” Maggie rebuked as she bustled in, stirring up the fire and setting a kettle on to boil water before unlacing the stays on Cordaella’s dirty houppelande.
Cordaella held her trembling hands out to the fire, grateful for the warmth. “I feel frozen through,” she said, but she was thinking of the Irishman and she hugged the half hour in the woods.
Maggie stripped the chemise over the girl’s head. “Look at that back,” the maid clucked. “He’s been at it again, has he?” Carefully she blotted the welts on Cordaella’s back with a damp cloth. “One of these days he’ll leave scars.”
“Only twelve this time.” Cordaella pressed her arms to her bare breasts, her legs trembling with cold. She remembered the parting look the knight had given her, a small smile on his lips, and yet his eyes—they were so blue!—had stared down at her with as serious an expression as she had ever seen. “And he didn’t even make me count.”
Cordaella’s head felt light, her legs almost too weak to hold her. She couldn’t wait to see him again. She must hurry, must hurry back downstairs.
“I suppose he only wants the best for you,” Maggie said matter of factly, lowering a clean chemise over her head. “No bath for you although heaven knows you need it. Your cousin went down a half hour ago.” She opened the trunk at the foot of Cordaella’s bed, drawing out a dark green velvet surcoat, this one with black-striped sleeves. She gave it a hard shake to soften the wrinkles.
Cordaella stepped into it, settling the waist and adjusting the high neck. While Maggie laced her, she tugged the sleeves into place, the full material at the wrist falling back over the pale ivory chemise. “Don’t fuss much over me,” she said, glancing towards the door. “I better go on downstairs.”
“You better let me do your hair. You’ve got the entire woods caught in it—” The maid, only two years older than Cordaella, pushed the girl onto a low bench, plucking twigs and leaves from the black braids. “You’ve taken a walk again. To the mews, have you?”
“Not quite so far.” Cordaella clasped her hands in her lap, trying not to fidget as Maggie pulled the pins out of the tangled coils and braids, loosening the strands so that the black hair waved past her shoulders. “But how did you know?”
“The others told me.”
“Others?” Cordaella asked uncertainly. She pictured the Earl and her cousins.
“Yes, the servants talk.” She combed out a tangle. “They see you scrambling over that back gate, your skirts flying like you were a bird or something. Good thing they like you. You don’t know how many times the folk have covered for you—” She sighed as she worked at another knot in Cordaella’s hair. “The falconer knows you go that way, so do the stable hands. The gardeners see your footprints in the orchard and lucky for you they keep an eye on the woods. It’s not safe there, my lady. Woods are always full of trouble. Poachers, robbers, you don’t know who might be watching, waiting to harm you.”
“Well, I wasn’t alone tonight. No one need worry.”
“Yes, I heard that, too. You’ve made friends with the Irishman, have you?” Cordaella didn’t answer, surprised that word had traveled so fast. “Well,” Maggie said, “what is he like? Besides his looks. He isn’t handsome, I know, his nose and chin are too hard, but I liked that roughness of his, all wind and weather.”
Cordaella liked the description of him. Wind and weather. Like his voice. “He was nice,” she hedged. “We talked mainly about the North. About the Macleods.”
“Trying to impress him, were you? But remember now, he hasn’t a copper to his name, my lady, so don’t be thinking he’s the one for you. Your uncle would never consider it.” She laughed without malice, but even then, the laughter stung. She smoothed Cordaella’s dark hair, the fishtail braids coiled with a rope of pearls and onyx stones. “Now hurry off with you before the Earl comes calling again.”
Cordaella stood and taking the small hand mirror, she inspected her face. Her eyes looked too big for her face. Her mouth too full. She wished she wasn’t so dark or the color of her eyes so light. Too much contrast, everything too strong.
“You don’t like your hair?”
“No, it’s not that.” She returned the hand mirror to the bureau. “I was thinking—wishing—” She felt as if she was going to cry and she shook her head, ashamed by the strange emotions. “Maggie, am I pretty? Is there anything fine about me?”
“Ah, now that would be telling. We can’t have you getting your dander up, thinking too much of yourself.” She saw Cordaella’s expression, the girl’s eyes filling with tears. “I’ll give you this, miss, you cast a fair shadow over the others, that you do. You’ve a different look, my lady, and you’ll continue to grow into it. How can you help it? Now go—” Maggie pushed her towards the door. “I don’t wan
t the blame. Hear me?”
“Yes,” she said, but still hesitating.
“What is it now, Lady Cordaella?”
“I will be sixteen on my next birthday.” Cordaella thought of Sir Bran and shivered involuntarily. He was twice her age, but did that make him old? “And is that considered of marrying age?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you think the Earl might have plans for me?”
“Perhaps.”
“But you’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if you knew?”
“Perhaps,” Maggie answered before opening the door and handing Cordaella a candle from one wall sconce. “Now go on before I take you downstairs myself.”
*
Seated at the far end of the table, she could just see her uncle, with the Irish knight sitting directly across from him. She sipped at her soup, glancing up beneath her eyelashes to watch him. It had been years since Mr. Pole had gone and for the first time she could remember, she didn’t want supper to end. Let them dine all night, as long as Sir Bran was there, his elbows on the table, his red gold head tipping back in laughter.
Tonight she didn’t even mind having to share dishes with Eddie, allowing him most of the bowls, and as she dipped her fingers in the water bowl, she saw that the knight was doing the same thing. He wiped his hands on his towel, and she thought they looked like strong hands, good hands. She ducked her head, color darkening her cheeks. What was she thinking? But even the minstrel’s song filled her with longing, making her wish for something she had never known. “When that I think what grief it is again, to live and lack the thing should rid my pain.”
“What a stupid song.” Eddie interrupted her thoughts, propping his head on one hand. “What is a ‘Lover not Beloved’?”
“A love song,” she answered shortly, not wanting to look at him and be reminded of the black and blue swelling around his eye.
“It makes me sick. Who wants to hear about love?” She didn’t answer and Eddie scowled at her, put out by her silence. But she was thinking secret thoughts, feeling a strange new tenderness inside of her, an emotion unlike anger or sadness, fear or despair. This breathed within her, soft and eager. She glanced at the knight again, wishing she were outside, wishing she were next to him, wishing it was his voice speaking, his voice lilting like the moon, like the wind, like the stars she once counted in the Highland nights.
CHAPTER FIVE
‡
In Santiago de la Compostela, Castile’s Galician capital, the long windows of the palacio were drawn against the night, curtains swathed across cold glass. A fire burned zealously in the hearth, casting shadows of the Duke Fernando and his advisor huge on the stone wall. Pedro Fernando’s brows grew heavier and heavier above his eyes, the dark and white of the pupil glistening. He guarded his kingdom and his castles, but there were two things he had loved far better—his cathedral on the square, and his merchant ships that doubled and trebled his wealth.
He had been one of the first to see the opportunity in trade and had taken great risks in the beginning. For twenty-nine years he labored to expand his trading empire, constructing stone by stone one of the finest ports on the continent in the protected harbor of San Sebastián. Early it had been a struggle to finance the first handsome fleet of ships. Since then twenty-three ships had sailed under his colors; his ships were his making, each voyage a discovery and a horde of treasure. He started small, just a bit of this and a chest of that. Now he was an expert on export—satisfying the aristocratic tastes in Westminster and London with the Mediterranean pleasures. It was he who controlled the price for wines, olive oil, dried fruits, salt, rare dyes, mercury, iron, and hides. What did he take from England, working now, with the Earl of Derby?
Fernando took wool. Each year his ledgers showed the profit. Almost twenty percent of all English wool was sold to Castile—Fernando with the biggest share—and sold again on the continent. England’s raw material was always in demand. Bolts of beautiful cloth returned to Britain on Fernando’s ships after the wool had been woven in Prato, Milano, and Roma. Each exchange made money. Lots of money.
But for Pedro Fernando, the Duke of Galicia and Count of Santiago, money had never been the object. He was already wealthy. Rather, his shipping empire brought power. He relished his control over England, the continent, the seas in between. As a duke he was formidable in Castile. As a merchant he was invaluable to kings.
At the moment, Fernando was furious, nearly distraught over the most recent loss of cargo. Two of his ships had been boarded and raided—thirty-three miles off the Dover coast. It was the second act of piracy in the last twelve months. Despite the Anglo-Castilian treaties, the laws of international trade were not enforced. Another deterioration in control, one the duke attributed to England’s ailing king Henry IV.
Perhaps it was time for Fernando to assert himself. It wasn’t lost revenue he was after. His desire was for something more, something less tangible than gold. Trade was his interest, power was his pride. And no one, his black brows plummeted, no one played lightly with Pedro. His empire had cost him too much, the price too dear. He would have his own port in Britain, a harbor like San Sebastian, which would protect and preserve what he had begun. And maybe there was something his new English associate, this Earl Eton, could help him with.
*
It rained most of the night, revealing the morning as a watercolor landscape painted gray and white with a soft sable brush. Misty veils hovered over the hollows of Buxton, Derbyshire, more mist clinging mysteriously to the woods and the village green. The castle felt as damp as it smelled, long cool shadows lurking in the corners of the massive building. Philip walked along the battlements, his cloak billowing off of his shoulders, as Cordaella leaned over the edge, staring off towards the village.
She was thinking about the traveler that had stopped last night at Peveril, and once his tongue had been loosened by ale, spoke at length of London, having just come from there. She was amazed by his description of the market places, street after street lined by merchant and farmer. It sounded so big, so interesting. “I keep thinking of the visitor,” she said, leaning on the balustrade.
“He did know how to talk,” Philip said as he paced behind her. “Of course Father only wanted to know of the taxes being levied on imported goods. He doesn’t care about the war in France. Just his ships. His purse.”
He had come to a standstill and she said, “He did talk of the war. He spoke of sending you with Sir Bran on the next expedition.” Four miles down the road lay the village of Buxton. Thick smoke curled from the thirty-odd cottages and she watched it rise in heavy black columns.
“I’ll never be a soldier,” he said quietly, joining her at the embattlement “It is this place that I love,” he said, running his hand along the cold wet stones. “This old damp castle with its unmatched towers and tunnels and passages that lead nowhere.”
She knew how passionate he was about Peveril—its musty smell, the cool dark places where tapestries hung permanently damp on the walls, the high narrow windows that one could barely touch with a hand but never see out. She had been with him when he crept along beams in the solar and watched while he shinnied down the outer keep’s walls, climbing over the back gate to join him in the woods. One summer they had pretended to be Merlin and a knight, and while he had been Merlin, she had been the knight. She looked up past the smoke from the village. Gray swollen clouds seemed to touch the top of Peveril’s towers. “It will be raining before long,” she said.
“Let us go in.” He held out an arm to her, leading through the nearest tower door. They took the steps quickly, knowing the spiral staircases by stone, each of the four staircases winding through the four castle towers. This stairwell spiraled down the full four stories and they exited into the great hall, she heading for the kitchen and he for the stable. The ladies’ maid, Maggie, ran past, her arms full of linens, her face red. “My lady,” she gasped, out of breath, “they have been looking high and low for you. The gardener we
nt to the woods, thinking you might be there.”
“Why? What has happened?” Cordaella picked up her skirts, hurrying after Maggie. The maid turned briefly, nodding for emphasis. “You best follow me, miss, and your lordship, too. You will be wanted.”
Philip chased after them. “What is it? Is someone hurt?”
“The village,” Maggie panted, “it is on fire.” And she exited through the smaller of the two kitchens. They were greeted by more chaos as maids frantically dashed from the scullery to the fireplace and back again. Pots rattled as servants shouted from one kitchen to the other, their raised voices echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Here,” the cook said, handing Cordaella a basket. “Inside is root of peony, holly seed, sage, rue, poppy, parsley—” She broke off, “I think that’s all now. You are needed to take it down to her ladyship. She is already in the village. Horses are waiting. Hurry now!”
Philip took the basket from Cordaella. “Since Father is gone I better go and take an account of the fire.” A stable boy waited with the horses and the lad helped Cordaella up while Philip swung into the saddle. “Do you know what happened?” he asked the stable boy. “Can you tell me anything?”
“I heard it said that a fire swept through three houses. There were six children inside.”
Philip glanced at Cordaella who simply shook her head. They set off at a canter, Philip shouting to her. “Why would the children be alone? Where were the parents?”
The wind caught at her cloak, pulling her hood low on her shoulders. “You know how it is,” she called to him. “But both parents are needed to work the fields. It’s the only way they can break even. The taxes are becoming heavier each quarter.”
“Don’t let my father hear you.”
She ducked her head as they rode beneath a low tree branch. “I think it is hard for you to understand them.”
“Harder for me than you?”
“They love their children, Philip, but they take greater risks. They have to.”
