The Falconer’s Daughter: Book I

by Liz Lyles

  “But then, neither do we.” He pulled a funny face and she smiled, just as he intended to make her do. He stood up reluctantly. “I should see about the horses. Do you want to come?”

  “No, it’s too windy.” But she also stood up.

  “If the wind dies down, you ought to go riding with me. You haven’t been out in a while, not since the boar incident.”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t felt like riding. It scared me, what happened. I had thought I knew the woods, but—” and she broke off, glancing around the chamber, seeing the burgundy and gold tapestry, the pewter jug, the dark leather chairs and small polished table. “Nothing is,” she said, her voice low, sounding lonely like the wind outside, “as you ever think.”

  *

  Footsteps sounded down the hallway, stopping just outside Cordaella and Elisabeth’s bedchamber door. There was a knock. Cordaella continued combing her hair as Elisabeth glanced from the bath. Maggie went to the door, opening it “Your ladyship,” she said with a curtsy and opening the door to allow Lady Eton to enter.

  Mary Eton stood inside the doorway, her hands folded neatly against her skirts. She rarely visited the girls’ chambers and looked uncomfortable now. “Good evening,” she said a little stiffly.

  “Good evening,” the girls answered.

  “I have come to speak with you, Cordaella,” she said without preamble. “His lordship believes it is in your best interest if we—you and I—talk now.” She glanced at the beds and the small wooden bench against one wall. “We can speak here or go elsewhere.”

  “I am undressed,” Cordaella said, having already prepared for bed.

  “Then we can talk here.” She lifted the wooden bench and carried it to the bed. “Come, sit. I shall say what I must.” Cordaella could feel Elisabeth’s eyes on her as she walked to the bed, her legs wobbly, her knees loose as if all strength had left her. She sat down, her long hair spilling over her shoulders to her waist. “It is November,” Lady Eton began, “and nearly winter.” She cleared her throat. “You will be sixteen after Epiphany. Your lady’s maid has said that you’ve begun your monthlies, and—” she wavered for only a moment, “you are of an age to bear children.” Cordaella lowered her head, embarrassed. “Your uncle believed it would have been in your best interest to have had you married by your fifteenth birthday. He is looking for a suitable husband, one that will bring honor and strength to the Eton name.”

  Cordaella’s hands felt damp and she wiped them on her nightdress. “Has he made a decision?”

  Lady Eton didn’t immediately reply. She stared at the girl, her expression pained, her brow furrowed. “Do you understand a wife’s responsibility? That she must be quiet and diligent, gentle, honest, and always,” she said, stressing the last word, “obedient.”

  “Even when he is wrong?” Cordaella asked, thinking of Eton’s arrogance and manipulations.

  Lady Eton held up a finger. “One’s husband is never wrong. He cannot be contradicted.”

  Cordaella looked away, looking to Elisabeth who was silently drying herself by the fire. Maggie was emptying the tub’s water into small pitchers which she would then dump out the bedchamber window. “Am I to be nobody then?” Cordaella’s voice was barely audible over the popping of the fire. “Another servant for my husband?”

  “A wife is not a servant. She is his greatest asset, his help, his hands, his handmaiden, and that is very different from being a servant”

  Tears filled Cordaella’s eyes. “No it’s not,” she whispered, “it is no different. It is just that the church makes it sound good. Holy.” She swallowed and blinked back the tears. “But I am not like that. I cannot—”

  “You must,” Lady Eton said, interrupting her firmly. “That is your duty, your calling. Even as God calls some to the church, he calls others to serve through marriage. You are to serve as a woman, as a wife. It isn’t your choice. It is His.”

  “God’s?” Cordaella said, “or the Earl’s? Or is my uncle God?”

  Lady Eton slapped Cordaella, not terribly hard, but with enough strength to chastise her. “Shame! You dishonor your uncle, as well as the Lord. You are still so willful.” She shook her head as Cordaella touched her cheek. “Do you think I am harsh? Consider what your uncle would have to say. That is why I am here. I am telling you—trying to prepare you—for the future. God chooses our path. We must then choose to accept.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “It is never easy.”

  “I don’t know how to accept. Not from someone I cannot trust, cannot respect.”

  Lady Eton stood up. “You might never love your husband,” she said quietly, “but you can obey him. That is your decision.” She walked to the door, skirts rustling. “Both of you need sleep,” she said, turning the door handle. “We have visitors tomorrow. It will be a long day.” She inclined her head. “Good night, Elisabeth. Good night, Cordaella.”

  *

  From the nursery window the next morning Cordaella watched as the retinue of guards and nobles rode through the gates of Peveril. She heard a shout and then the trumpet of a herald. The horses’ hooves kicked up dirt and gravel and she pulled back as the yellow and black banners billowed, the wind filling them like sails. Fernando’s men. They had returned.

  *

  She was being undressed as if a doll. Lady Eton, Lady Eton’s maid, and Maggie pulled off Cordaella’s plain surcoat and stripped the everyday chemise from her thin shoulders. She shivered and covered her breasts. “Don’t be shy,” Lady Eton said, watching as her maid scrubbed Cordaella’s neck and chest with a damp cloth. “We haven’t time.”

  Lady Eton opened Cordaella’s trunk while Maggie brushed her hair, dragging the bristles through the thick black waves until Cordaella’s hair hung even and smooth. Lady Eton’s maid, an older woman Cordaella only knew as Joan, rubbed a cream into her skin, working the fragrant lotion deep in the skin.

  “This one,” Lady Eton said, unfolding a black houppelande from thin paper wrap. She shook out the black and gold folds, smoothing the bodice flat. “She needs a good chemise. Ivory. Should be silk.”

  Cordaella couldn’t think, her mind as numb as her body. She wondered what Elisabeth was doing, wishing it was Elisabeth being readied instead of her. Elisabeth was already sixteen. She should be the first to marry. But as Joan held the chemise open for her to step into, Cordaella did, tipping her head forward so that the back could be closed.

  The black gown was heavy, thickly embroidered in gold with a wide scrunch of pleated gold beneath her chin. The dress was tightly laced, the bodice pressing her breasts up, rounding them so they looked bigger, fuller. The black padded sleeves were folded back at the forearm, revealing the snug long sleeves of the ivory chemise. Just a doll, she thought, or a sheep.

  “Come,” Lady Eton said, as soon as the headpiece was pinned on. “They are waiting.” Cordaella followed her down the stairs to the smaller of the two great halls. At the door, Lady Eton whispered, “Be modest. Be quiet. Be obedient.”

  “I am not ready,” Cordaella pleaded, caught by the rise of sudden emotion. She wanted to run, to escape. There had to be some place she could go. Or hide.

  “You have no choice. There is no way to prevent this—” She broke off, frustration and pity in her expression. She looked the girl long in the face. “It is easier than you think to accept what comes next. I, too, learned to accept. Take a breath and calm yourself. You mustn’t disappoint him. Your uncle has worked very hard on the betrothal.” She opened the door and pushed the girl in.

  The Earl sat at one of the long wooden tables beneath the great stone arch that divided the hall from the solar. He was not alone. “Come here, Cordaella,” he said, rising. “I have good news for you. News that our friends, the noblemen, Dones de la Torres, have brought.” She knew then that it was all true—Spain, the Duke Fernando, leaving England. Her mouth half opened in protest but no sound came out. The Earl’s face was red from drink. “As you know, Don Carlas de la Torr
e is an emissary of Don Pedro Fernando, the Duke of Santiago and Count of Galicia.” Eton smiled benevolently. “Look what he has brought for you, Cordaella.” He dumped a fat black pouch onto the table, sending a heap of gold coins and precious stones in a spill of color along the table surface. “This is but one token of his Grace’s respect.”

  She stared at the jewels, transfixed. The heap of color shimmered, trembling as the Earl bumped the table. “Lucky Cordaella!” Eton enthused, drawing her closer. “Is it not exciting? The Duke is one of Castile’s most important men. You shall have a very powerful husband.”

  More powerful than you, she wondered? Still she said nothing.

  Eton tossed a gold coin at her and instinctively she reached out to catch it. “Very good,” he said. “Think on it, Cordaella. Gold. A palace on Santiago’s main square. Hundreds of servants. What more could a lady desire?”

  “But to Spain!” Her voice faltered, and she clenched the gold in one hand, only half aware of its heavy weight.

  “You will survive, even grow accustomed to the place,” the Earl said matter of factly, as if expecting the initial resistance.

  Carlas de la Torre spoke calmly. “His Grace is much impressed with you. He has heard that you are as pretty as you are learned. He looks forward to discussing some of the books you have read.” He smiled, revealing even teeth. “Perhaps someday you will be able to travel with him, have a chance to visit those Italian ports you seem to enjoy reading about.”

  She didn’t understand his reference. “My lord?”

  “The last time my brother and I were here you were reading the Italians—” His heavy lids lowered to conceal his eyes. “Let me think, who was it? No, not Petrarca. Not Dante. Boccaccio. Giovanni Boccaccio.” Again the smile and the flicker of his lashes as he looked up to catch her glance. “What did you think of him? Were you impressed with his style? Or, was it the subject matter?”

  “What’s this? What are you talking of?” The Earl mopped his brow. “What was she reading? When?”

  Don de la Torre held Cordaella’s eyes. “I mentioned the novel to his Grace. He thought it most interesting that a girl your age would have such—” and he turned away, breaking the tension—“interests.”

  “Is it the port of Aberdeen his lordship desires?” She forced herself to speak then, refusing to be silenced, intimidated. If she were to marry Fernando, she would be a Duchess. If the Castilian was wealthy, then she would also be. She watched her uncle, seeing how his mouth pursed at her question. She would find a way to beat him at his own game. If the Earl of Derby was rich, she would be richer. If he owned ships, she would someday own more.

  A smile played at the corner of Don de la Torre’s mouth. “His Grace does want the port, as well as the trade agreements connected with the region.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Do you?” Carlas prompted softly.

  She met his gaze, her head high. She was afraid but not weak. She was a girl but not a possession. Perhaps it would be better for her in Castile. Away from Peveril. Away from the Earl. She hoped her anger was better hidden then it felt. “I do,” she repeated calmly. “I bring something of value into the agreement. This is good. His lordship, the Duke Fernando, will know I am important to him.”

  The Earl flushed. “You best not talk such nonsense. I don’t like your tone.” He stared hard at her, his eyes glassy. He seemed impatient, eager to seal the agreement. “Cordaella, then you accept the proposal?”

  She stared back at him, seeing his red face, the bloodshot eyes. He must have been drinking for hours. How pleased he must be. She bit down on her jaw, holding to her calm, her resolve. “Yes,” she said, her voice low but steady. “I accept.”

  “So be it.” Don de la Torre rose. “I shall send word to his lordship. On behalf of Duke Pedro Fernando, I give you this ring, as binding a commitment as the marriage vows.” He reached for her hand, the Earl on one side, the Castilian on the other. As the ring was pushed over her knuckle onto the softness of her skin, Cordaella heard her uncle say a soft but fervent ‘Amen.’

  *

  “No!” He paced the length of the parapet furiously. His cloak sailed behind him, snapping in the biting wind. “I cannot believe it” He shoved his hand through his hair, ruffling the long blonde strands that were badly in need of a cut. His jaw was dark with the shadow of a two-day-old beard. “For the love of God, Cordy, don’t tell me you agreed.”

  “I had to, Philip!”

  “No, not yet, you didn’t.” He swung around, charging at her. “A thousand lashes would have been better than sweet acceptance. How easily you acquiesced.” He couldn’t hide his bitterness.

  “That’s not true.” She was freezing, the late November air frigid, the wind blowing steady and cold. “Please, Phil, let us go below. I am miserable with the wind.”

  “Is that all you feel? I wish I were so lucky.”

  “You’re not being fair!”

  “What does justice have to do with it?”

  “Everything.” She fought to keep her cloak from blowing over her shoulders. “You must realize that I had no other choice. I must answer to your father. He is—” and she hated the wretched expression twisting Philip’s face “—my guardian.”

  He took a step towards her, grabbing her against him. His arms were thin but binding, his fingers tight on her forearms. “I will die,” he said, burying his face in her hair, “here, without you.”

  “What do you say?”

  “God forgive me, but I love you. I love you better than I love myself,” he whispered, his voice wracked with pain. “I won’t let him send you away. My father is selfish, and terribly greedy, but this, this—”

  Cordaella hugged him. “Hush, Philip! It has been decided. You know I must go.”

  “But I love you. I want you.”

  She pulled back to touch his cheek with her hand, his beard scratching the softness of her fingers. “And I love you, my good Philip, but as friend. As a brother. Nothing more.”

  “You don’t have to love me, Cordy. Just let me take you away from here. Let me help you!”

  “Your father would never forgive you. And so I can’t let you.”

  “But if you didn’t have a choice?”

  “A choice?” Her heart thudded uncomfortably, wishing she could explain to Philip about her determination to avenge her father’s death. Wishing that she knew how to put into words her plan, and the plan meant leaving here, leaving Peveril and Philip for Castile where her future husband lived, powerful, more powerful than the Earl. Someday she would have everything and he, Eton, would have nothing. “Listen to me, Philip,” she said, her tone firm, almost hard. “I have accepted the proposal. I wear the ring now. Yes, hear me.” She caught his face between her hands and held his chin so that he had to meet her gaze. “I am going to sail at the end of next summer. Do not, I beg you, muster any defense on my behalf. I could not bear the grief of losing you too. I would much rather have you alive and distant, than dead.”

  “Fernando is a monster, Cordy,” Philip said more quietly, his gray eyes the same shade as hers. His arms had dropped to his side, his sword still sheathed. The wind blew his hair, a lock of it falling in his eyes. “How can I see you sail away?”

  She brushed the stray strands of hair away. “Don’t watch,” she whispered, hugging him one last time. “Do not watch, do not listen. Don’t think about it.”

  “I would do anything for you.”

  “Oh, Philip, I know.”

  Read on for a preview from

  The Falconer’s Daughter: Book II

  Liz Lyles

  Copyright © 2015

  She could feel his shadow, if that were possible, his tension tangible. Cordaella clenched her hands in her skirts, hiding the press of nail into her palm. More games. He was again playing with her, he the cat, she the mouse. Would it always be like this?

  “What do you want me to see, my lord?”

  “I want you to tell me how you see me.”


  She forced her tone to remain light, almost indifferent. “But I can not see you, my lord, not when you stand behind me.”

  Pedro laughed, a short bark. “Very good,” he said, stepping back around her, going to the hearth and talking there. “I am surprised—” he said with a smile, the scar twisting at the edge of his mouth, “—and delighted by your intelligence. None of my wives were ever so interesting before.”

  “Lent is nearly passed.”

  “The marriage, yes.” He nodded thoughtfully, one finger lying alongside his nose and mouth. “Tell me,” he said, “I am curious. What did you think of your voyage here?”

  “My voyage?” she repeated. November seemed so long ago. Now it was April and spring, the days were increasingly long, the sun shone warmer, even the air felt softer.

  “From London?”

  “I have often wondered how women perceive the rigors of traveling, especially the rigors of sailing. No matter how elegantly designed, a ship is never a comfortable place.” He extended a hand to her. “Do come sit down and tell me of your trip.”

  She crossed the chamber, wondering where her attendants had gone, and gingerly took a seat on the edge of the chair. “I haven’t thought much of the trip—there has been so much new here.”

  “Were you sick?”

  He was worse than indelicate, he was rude. “Yes, very sick. But even the admiral was ill on that voyage. He said it was one of the worst storms he had ever encountered off the Bay of Biscay.”

  “Were you friendly with the admiral then?” He sat forward, his shoulders tensing.

  She wondered what was behind the question, intimidated by his intense expression. “No, I was too ill to ever leave my chamber. He sent a steward to the door daily with fresh water and to change the slop bucket, and only on the last day did he ever appear.” She was relieved when the duke sat back, visibly relaxing. “The admiral stopped to say that we were anchored some fifteen miles off the harbor and would reach the town on the coast tomorrow.”

  “Were you on deck as The Anita docked?”