by Liz Lyles
“What do you mean?”
“I’m only just finishing Boccaccio. Did you read it before you lent it to me?”
Philip walked to the hearth and kicked the log, rolling it over in a shower of red sparks. “No. I thought it vulgar. Too florid.” He leaned against the mantle. Her chin jutted in mute protest. “Don’t be angry, Cordy.” He gentled his voice. “I don’t mind you reading it, only Father wouldn’t be happy. He would think it improper.”
Her jaw tensed, her fine arched eyebrows lifting. “I don’t care what he thinks.”
“I only want what is best for you. And although I know my father has wronged you—”
“—I thought we weren’t to discuss it,” she said, interrupting him.
“But I am partly responsible. I am his son, the heir to the earldom, to Derbyshire and the Peveril estate. I can’t help him for what he is, but I can try to make amends—”
“Don’t go on like this.” She fidgeted with the ragged edge of her red and black sleeve. “It won’t help to discuss it. And of course it isn’t your fault. How could it be? Now, please, Philip, stop.”
“I know what he has planned for you, or an idea of it. I can’t bear to think of you married for my father’s gain. Please…” he said, moving to intercept her as she got up and walked towards the door. “Won’t you hear me out?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”
She placed a hand on his arm that was barring the door. “Let me pass. And say no more.”
“And where will you go now? Back to your Boccaccio?”
“Don’t be unkind.”
“Do you know how I feel?” He grabbed her hand, his fingers tight about hers. “Do you have any idea of my feelings?”
She wrenched her hand free. “Your father’s shame is not your own. I do not blame you. I would not hold you responsible. Let me do what I must—”
“And why must you marry Fernando?
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“So let me act before the betrothal is announced. I will marry you myself, Cordaella—”
“Stop.” She was frightened, unnerved by his passion and his insistence. His father would kill him. And maybe her too. Then poor Elisabeth would inherit. Cordaella shivered. Philip had never been practical. Now she saw how little Eton there was in him. She could almost imagine her mother pleading with the falconer this way, Marry me, marry me and let us leave here. But Cordaella knew what had happened to her mother and her father later. It hadn’t been a happy story. Nor a happy ending.
“I care for you,” he said so quietly she barely heard him.
“And I for you.” But she hardened her heart against further entreaties. “Now let me pass.” Wordlessly he stepped aside, watching her walk the length of the corridor. He waited until she was gone to look out the window where she had earlier stood. The sun, so brilliant on the crimson and copper-colored leaves, only reminded him of his own emotion, of his heart so cold that it hurt to breathe.
*
After a day of sun the fog returned, rising from the valley beneath the peaks, rolling up over the hills to blanket the morning in a thick wet cloud of gray. Cordaella was released from her work early and decided to ride. Elisabeth, overhearing Cordaella’s plans, asked to join her. They rode through the edge of the woods, the forest opening onto the meadow between Buxton and Bakewell before narrowing again into a dark thicket of trees.
Elisabeth was the better rider, fearlessly flying over stumps and fallen branches, leaning forward on her horse’s neck for balance and speed. Cordaella was able to keep up, but she hated traveling so fast when the fog lay low and thick, trees disappearing into the mist, shrubs shrouded in white. Cordaella pictured ghosts, and spurred her horse on, watching Elisabeth vanish into the mist, as if another spectre.
And then Elisabeth screamed, a terrible cry that pierced through Cordaella. Cordaella clenched the reins as Elisabeth’s screaming continued, a high horrible peal of terror. Cordaella could only charge blindly into the mist, following the screams and the frantic nickering of Elisabeth’s horse. “Oh God,” Elisabeth sobbed as Cordaella heard something else, something that sounded frenzied, furious. Like a wild pig. Boar. She had seen dogs gutted by boars and horses with bellies ripped open. If Elisabeth was cornered… “Where are you?” Cordaella called, straining to see familiar shapes in the fog.
“Help me, oh Cordy, help!” Cordaella could just make out a burgundy skirt, and ducked her head to ride beneath the low bare branches. “Cordy, it is too awful,” Elisabeth sobbed, “my horse—”
“Where is it?” Cordaella called.
“There, in the bush,” she said, her voice quavering, “but the boar…it’s staring at you, Cordy, it might charge again.”
Cordaella reached up to snap off a brittle tree limb. She could make out the black bristles of the boar now, its tusks nearly as long as her forearm. “Get on,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes on the wild pig, “I can’t ride any closer.” Elisabeth dashed towards Cordaella, her deep red skirts tangling in the undergrowth. The boar grunted and lowered its head. “Quickly,” Cordaella urged, “it’s going to charge again.”
Elisabeth was grabbing at Cordaella’s saddle, her damp hands slipping on the leather. “I can’t,” she sobbed. Cordaella tried to scoot forward, reaching down to give her cousin an arm. “Careful,” Cordaella gritted, straining to pull Elisabeth up. “It’s coming!”
She didn’t know how to ride and protect them. She knew that if they rode, the boar could still charge them, destroying the horse and leaving both Elisabeth and her vulnerable. She would fight, then. She watched as the boar’s black head lowered, its small red eyes focused on the horse’s forelegs. Cordaella lifted the tree limb over her head, tensing, waiting. And then she swung, bringing the branch down with all of her strength. She heard the pop and the branch exploded into three pieces, flying out of her hand. She had merely grazed the boar’s head, and it hesitated for a fraction of a second. Elisabeth kicked the horse hard, so hard that the mare lunged forward, sending the two girls forward.
“Hold fast,” Elisabeth panted, kicking the horse again. She had taken the reins from behind Cordaella and Cordaella grabbed handfuls of mane, leaning against the mare’s neck as Elisabeth whipped the horse into a hard run. They galloped through the last of the meadow and into the acre of wood before Peveril’s gates. Cordaella could hear Elisabeth’s muffled tears and she felt as shaken. The attack had all been so sudden, so unexpected. Cordaella had forgotten the danger in the woods.
“My horse,” Elisabeth said, trying not to sniffle.
“I know,” Cordaella whispered, grateful to see the guards swing open the huge iron gates for the girls. “I am so sorry.”
Elisabeth pulled up on the reins, slowing the mare to a canter and then a walk. “Thank you.” They rode up the sweeping drive, the brown dirt cutting between the green lawn. “Visitors,” Elisabeth said, seeing the ring of eight horses at the stable door. She rubbed any trace of tears clean and unfastened her cloak’s collar. Beads of water clung to tendrils of her dark blonde hair. “Their colors look foreign,” she said. “Whose banner is black and yellow?”
“Castilians,” Cordaella said softly. “The Duke Fernando’s colors.”
The Castilians were the two de la Torre brothers and their guard; the brothers sailing from Santiago as emissaries of Duke Fernando. Cordaella did not meet them until supper when the afternoon fog gave way to rain, Peveril’s windows rattling throughout the meal, wind shrieking through the castle’s towers.
After dinner they left the drafty hall for the snug solar. The Earl had learned of the boar attack just before dinner but hadn’t yet spoken to either girl about it. “What do you mean,” he whispered angrily to Elisabeth as they took seats in the solar, “riding so far from the road? What foolishness! We lost a good animal today and we might have lost you,” he said, but he had turned to look at Cordaella as he spoke the last words. Elisabeth’s l
ip trembled and the Earl hastened to say, “You’re never to ride beyond Buxton again. Is that clear?” She nodded unhappily and Cordaella lowered her head, feeling somehow responsible and aware that all could hear the Earl.
Carlas de la Torre held his hands to the fire, his dark coat gleaming in the red and gold light. “It must have been frightening,” he said, his accent flawless, “and yet, what an adventure. Who would have expected so much excitement on an afternoon ride?”
Elisabeth shuddered. “It wasn’t exciting. It was horrible,” she said. “My horse didn’t have a chance. If Cordaella hadn’t been there, I would have been killed.”
“And what did Cordaella do?” Eddie mocked, full of eleven-year-old malice. “Strike the boar down?”
Elisabeth looked at him, her expression cold. “Yes, she did.”
The other brother, Enrique de la Torre smiled. “And does she always carry a weapon?”
“She didn’t have a weapon,” Elisabeth said, her voice small, tight. “She took a branch—”
“A tree branch?” Enrique’s eyebrow rose.
“Yes, and she clubbed the boar with it.”
Eddie howled, “I would have liked to see that!”
“I only stunned it,” Cordaella defended, wishing they would forget the incident. It had been a horrible afternoon and all she wanted was to go to bed, to climb beneath the warm covers and hide.
Carlas and Enrique exchanged glances. “You must be very brave,” Carlas said gently, taking an empty seat near the hearth. “So much courage for a girl.”
Cordaella stared at him, trying to see past his pleasant expression, wondering what he was really thinking. She didn’t trust him; she didn’t trust any of these men. Lady Eton stretched out a hand, calling for Cordaella to join her. She had brought out the tapestry and Elisabeth was already threading her needle.
Thunder boomed, the window pane rattled more loudly and the Earl sent a servant to shutter over the glass. In the meantime he offered more of his hot spiced wine, the fire hissing as stray drops of rain sizzled on the flames. “I apologize for the weather,” he said, his voice too loud for the solar. “England is normally more temperate than this.”
Enrique shrugged. “England is England.” He gargled the strong wine at the back of his throat. “Which means wet.”
Carlas, ever polite, smoothed his brother’s remarks over with a small gesture of his hand. “Rain is always welcome to a Castilian. Our father’s orchards depend on the rains, something we don’t get very regularly in Barcelona.”
Eddie rose on one knee. “But I thought you were from Santiago.”
“We serve the Duke Fernando, our mother’s cousin. She is from there. We were raised in Barcelona.” Carlas’ civil answer seemed to please nearly everyone.
Elisabeth raised her head shyly. “What is Castile like? I heard the climate is very different.”
Carlas and Enrique again exchanged glances, Enrique’s dark brow rising higher than before. He was the first to answer. “The climate is quite different from here. Less rain. And much warmer.”
“Yes,” Carlas chimed in, “Castile smells of ripe grapes and oranges.”
“I heard that sometimes there is so little rain that the crops die,” Philip interjected coolly, his light gray eyes narrowed on the two brothers. There was something tense in his expression that belied his outward calm.
“Perhaps, but not often,” answered Enrique.
“What is the word—drought?—n England we do not have that problem,” said Philip.
“Every country has its share of problems,” Enrique said, taking note of Philip for the first time.
“What else do you grow in Castile?” Eddie asked, impatient with Philip’s digression. “Oranges and grapes and what else?”
“Livestock. Nearly two thirds of Castile is pasture land. Also honey and olive oil.”
“Honey?” said Elisabeth.
“Yes,” Carlas said, nodding, “from many places—Toledo, Talavera, and La Alcarria.” He inclined his head. “And do you like honey?”
She blushed, glancing quickly in her father’s direction. “Oh, yes, very much.”
“Then I shall have some sent to you.” He saw her flush again and his mouth curved in a sardonic smile. “After all, Castile is the closest place to Heaven on Earth.”
*
As the storm had passed and the morning dawned clear, the horizon a cool blue with a scattering of pink-tinged cloud, the foreigners left early, intent on reaching London before nightfall. The Earl said nothing about the visit to the others, and as the days passed and one week turned into the next, even Philip and Cordaella were forced to admit that their fears might be unfounded.
“Perhaps it was only for talk about trade routes. That is all we ever heard them say,” Cordaella said, taking up the tapestry again. Lady Eton had been disappointed with Cordaella’s work from the night before and asked her to replace some of her rows with smaller, tighter stitches.
“Perhaps,” Philip answered darkly, staring across the solar at her, his brow creased. And yet Cordaella was surprised by her disappointment, an inexplicable sense of loss. She didn’t want to marry the Duke Fernando, but after all the tension, the months waiting, she felt strangely let down.
“But now we have more time together,” Cordaella said, an effort at cheerfulness.
“One would almost think you wanted to be betrothed.” Philip’s jaw tensed, his gray eyes clouding.
“What makes you think that?” She pulled the broken thread through the back of the linen, careful to keep her face expressionless. She should have known that he could read her so easily. Mrs. Penny used to say she was too transparent, wearing her emotions on her sleeve.
“I can tell, that’s all.” He smiled sadly, scuffing the toe of his boot against the hearthstones. “Is this part of your plan, Cordaella? Do you fancy yourself getting back at my father?”
“Ouch!” she cried, poking herself in the finger. “Now see what you have made me do!” She sucked on the finger, trying to draw the blood away. “How do we even know there is a betrothal? And how do we know it would be mine?” She pulled her finger out of her mouth and examined the puncture.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes,” she answered. “But perhaps they are interested in Elisabeth. The nobleman spent considerable time answering her questions. Maybe it is her they are interested in.”
“Ridiculous. She has no lands, no income, no port…” He stressed the last word hard, referring to Aberdeen. “Why would the Duke be interested in her? She brings nothing to the marriage but herself, and even that isn’t much.” He sighed. “Why don’t you let me help you, Cordaella? Why won’t you let me do something?”
“Like what?” She tried laughing at his serious expression. “What will you do? Run the Duke Fernando through? Pull a sword on your father? Really, Philip, you make too much of this.”
“But Cordaella…”
“Oh, I hate my name,” she said turning on Philip. “Especially when you say it that way, as if I am being sacrificed like the Cordaella of the old legend. And yet we don’t know anything, Philip, so we can only wait.”
“I like the Cordaella of legend. And you are more like her than you’ll ever know.”
“Well, I would much rather be Ellen or Eleanor, Margaret or Jane.”
“But those are plain names, ordinary names.”
“I want a plain ordinary name,” she insisted. “Something that would let me hide. Escape.” She leaned over from her bench to toy with a bit of kindling heaped by the solar’s hearth. The dark beams of the solar glowed from the firelight, the sun working its way through the clouds, drawing long pale shadows on the hardwood floor. “I doubt there is even a single Cordaella in London, and London is a very big place.”
“How would you know? You’ve never been there.”
“But you have, and you have never mentioned another Cordaella.”
He smiled fondly at her. “Yes, but there can only be one Co
rdaella. Besides, your name suits you.”
“It does not. It sounds like a garden herb.” He laughed outright.
“Is that so bad?”
“Why would my parents—or any parents—name an infant Cordaella? Perhaps my mother, ill and all, and still idealistic, thought it pretty, but my father?” She shook her head. “No, he wasn’t an impractical man.”
“Only impractical enough to run away with the great Macleod’s favorite daughter.”
“She wasn’t his favorite.”
“She was,” Philip said. “And that’s not the point.”
She sat silent for a moment, listening to the sudden howl of the wind in the trees. Like a wolf’s howl, like her Culross. She pictured the huge animal leaning against her skinny legs, her feet bare. She turned her head quickly to shake the picture, and the strands of pearls roped through her hair snapped together. “I wish we had known them,” she said, trying to picture them instead.
“Who?” He watched her as she talked. She didn’t know that he thought her unbearably pretty, and that every time he looked at her, she seemed different, her face changing before his eyes, the bones pressing higher against her skin, new planes and angles.
“Our mothers.” She shrugged. “Our grandfather Macleod. We have this family we know nothing about.”
“What don’t you know?”
“Don’t be obstinate.”
“I don’t mean to be.” He grimaced at the rebuke.
“But doesn’t it ever seem strange to you that we never knew the Macleods? That we know nothing of our mothers, only our fathers? And how different the Buchanan is from the Eton.” She smiled almost wistfully. “Perhaps it is our mothers bringing us together like this. Angels.”
“I think you are more Macleod than any of us,” he said, leaning forward to tentatively touch a tendril of black hair that had come loose from her chignon.
“I don’t look like a Macleod.”
