Hawkmistress! (16 page)

And that way, at least, she would be around horses and hawks. She thought with a bitter pang of the lost Preciosa.

But I am glad it happened, she thought fiercely, hunching against the slashing wind and drawing her cloak high over her face, almost to covering her eyes. Otherwise, I would never have had the courage to break away! I would have remained obedient, perhaps even married Dom Garris … and a shiver of revulsion went through her. No, she was well out of that, even if she must spend the rest of her life working as a boy in some stranger’s stables!

The snow was beginning to turn to a wet, soggy rain; the horse’s feet slipped and slithered on the steep trail, and Romilly, sliding into rapport, felt the chill of the wind, the uneasy way the horse shivered and set down his feet with uncertain care on the slippery road. The rain was freezing as it fell; her cloak was stiffening with ice. They must find shelter soon, indeed.

They came to a steep turn in the road, where it forked, one path leading upward through thick trees that lined the trail, the other broader, but steeply downward. Romilly slid off the horse’s back and went, craning her neck to stare through the thick misty rain. Downward she could see nothing except a small runnel of water cascading out of sight over the rocks beside the road; but upward, it seemed to her, she could make out the walls of some kind of building, a herder’s hut or shelter for animals. The broadening road might lead down to a village or a cluster of valley farms, but she had no assurance, nor did she see any lights in the valley, and the rains were coming ever faster.

Upward, then, it must be, to the shelter, no matter how crude; it would at least be out of the wind or rain. She did not mount again - on a trail as steep as this upward path, the horse would fare better without her weight. She took her horse’s bridle, speaking soothingly to the animal as it jerked its head away. She wished she could have had her own horse; this one was a stranger. Yet it was docile enough and even friendly.

The darkness through snow and rain grew darker; it was some building, indeed; not large, but it appeared weather-tight. The door was sagging, half off its hinges, and gave a loud protesting noise when she shoved it and went in.

“Who’s there?” a quavering voice cried out, and Romilly felt her heart race and her throat tighten with fear. Dark as it looked, dilapidated, it was not deserted after all.

She said quickly, “I mean you no harm, ma’am - I was lost in the storm and the rain is freezing. May I come in?”

“Honor to the Bearer of Burdens, and thanks be that you have come,” the voice said; a trembling, old voice. “My grandson went to the town and I make no doubt, in this storm he has had to shelter somewhere, I heard your horse’s steps and thought for a moment it was Rory comin’ back, but he rides a stag-pony and I see you have a horse. I canna’ leave my bed; can ye throw a branch on the fire, boy?”

Now her face was beginning to thaw a little she could smell the smoke; groping in the darkness, she went toward the dull embers. The fire was almost out. Romilly stirred the embers, coaxed it alive with small sticks, and when they caught, built it up again with a bigger branch and then with a log. She stood wanning her hands, in the growing light, her eyes made out a few sticks of decrepit furniture, a bench or two, an ancient chest, a box-bed built into the wall, in which lay an old, old woman, propped up against the back of the bed.

As the firelight grew, she said, “Come here, boy. Let me look at you.”

“My horse-” Romilly hesitated.

“You can lead him round into the stable,” said the old voice. “Do that first, then come back.”

She had to force herself to wrap the cloak over her face and go into the bitter cold. The stable was deserted, except for a couple of scrawny cats, who whined and rubbed against her legs, and after she had unsaddled her horse and given it a couple of pieces of the dog’s bread - the grain would be enough to feed it for tonight - they followed her through the door into the warmth of the now-blazing fire.

“Good, good,” said the old woman, in her shaky voice, “I thought of them out in the cold, but I could not get up to let them in. Come here and let me look at you, then, lad.” And as Romilly went and stood by the box-bed, she hitched herself up a little further, peering with her face wrinkled up at Romilly’s face. “How come ye out in such weather, boy?”

“I am travelling to Nevarsin, mestra,” said Romilly.

“All alone? In such a storm?”

“I set out three days ago when the weather was fine.”

“Are ye from south of the Kadarin? Red hair - ye have a look of the Hali’imyn about ye,” the old woman said. She was wrapped in several layers of ragged shawls, and three or four threadbare blankets, not much better than horse-blankets, were piled on her bed. She looked gaunt, emaciated, exhausted.

The old woman let out her breath in a trembling sigh. She said, “I hoped he would be back from Nevarsin early this day, but no doubt the snow is worse to the North- well, with you to mend the fire, I will not freeze here alone in the storm. My old bones cannot stand the cold the way I could before, and before he left he built up the fire to last three days, saying he would surely be back before then.”

“Can I do anything else for you, mestra?”

“If you can cook a pot of porridge, ye can have a share of it,” said the old woman, indicating an empty pot, bowl and spoon at her side, “But get out of your wet things first, lad.”

Romilly drew breath; the old woman apparently accepted her as a farm boy. She took off cloak and boots, hanging the cloak near the warmth of the fire to dry; there was a barrel of water near the fire, and she took the empty porridge-pot, rinsed it, and, as the old woman directed her, found a half-empty sack of coarse meal, more ground nuts than grain, and salt, and hung the mixture in the kettle from the long hook over the fireplace. The old woman beckoned her back, then.

“Where are you off to at this bitter time of the year, my lad?”

At that offhand “my lad” Romilly felt a bursting sigh of relief; at least the old woman had accepted her for what she seemed to be, a young boy and not a girl at the edge of being a woman. Then it occurred to her that the deception of an old woman, half-blind, was not so great a matter after all, and people with younger eyes and quicker wits might see through her more easily. And then she realized that the old woman in the box-bed was still peering out at her through those wrinkled eyelids, waiting for her answer.

“I am travelling to Nevarsin,” she said at last, “My brother is there.”

“In the monastery? Why, you are far off your road for that, youngster - you should have taken the left-hand fork at the bottom of the mountain. But too late now, you must stay till the storm is over, and when Rory is back he will set you on your proper path.”

“I thank you, mestra.”

“What is your name, lad?”

“Rom-” Romilly hesitated, swallowing back her name, realizing she had not thought of this for a moment. She pondered saying “Ruyven,” but then she might not remember to answer to that but would look about for her brother. She swallowed, pretended to have choked for a moment on the smoke of the fire, and said “Rumal.”

“And why are you going to Nevarsin all on your own? Are you to become a monk, or being sent there to be taught by the brothers, as they do with the sons of the gentry? You have a look of gentry about you, at that, as if you’d been born in a Great House - and your hands are finer than a stable-boy’s.”

Romilly almost laughed, thinking of the time when Gwennis, scowling at her calloused hands, worn by reins and claws, had said, reproving, “You will have the hands of a stable-boy if you do not take care!” But once again the old woman was waiting for an answer, and she thought swiftly of Nelda’s son Loran - everyone at Falconsward knew him to be the MacAran’s nedestro son, though Luciella liked to pretend she did not know, and refused to admit the boy existed. She said, “I was brought up in a Great House; but my mother was too proud to bring me under my father’s eye, since I was festival-got; so she said I could make more of myself in a city, and I hope to find work in Nevarsin - I was apprentice to the hawk-master.” And that, at least, was true; she was more Davin’s apprentice than that worthless Ker.

“Well, Rumal, you are welcome,” the old woman said. “I live here alone with my grandson - my daughter died when he was born, and his father’s away in the lowlands in the service of King Rafael, across the Kadarin to the south. My name is Mhari, and I have dwelt here in this hut most of my life; we make a kind of living from the nut-farming, or we did until I grew too old for it; it’s hard for Rory to look after the trees at all seasons, and care for me too, but he’s a good lad, and he went to sell our nuts in the market at Nevarsin, and bring home flour for porridge, and herb-medicines for my old bones. When he’s a wee bit older, perhaps, he can find him a wife and they can make a living here, for it’s all I have to leave him.”

“I think the porridge is boiling over,” said Romilly, and hurried to the fire, to move the kettle a little further from the flame. When it was done, she dipped up a bowl for the old woman, and propped her up to eat it, then shook out Mhari’s pillows and soothed her bedcovers and settled her down for the night.

“You are neat-handed as a girl,” said Mhari, and Romilly’s heart stopped till she went on, “I suppose that comes from handling birds; I never had the hands for that, nor the patience, either. But your porridge will be cold, child; go and eat it, and you can sleep there in Rory’s pallet by the fire, since it’s not likely he’ll be home in this storm.”

Romilly settled down by the banked fire to eat her bowlful, then rinsed the bowl in the barrel of water, set it near the fire to dry and stretched out, wrapped in her cloak, by the hearth. It was a hard bed, but on the trail she had slept in worse places, and she lay awake for a time, drowsily listening to the beating storm outside, and to the occasional drop of water which made its way down the chimney to sizzle briefly in the fire. Twice she woke during the night to make certain the fire was still alive. Toward morning the noise of the storm died away a little, and she slept heavily, to be wakened by a great pounding on the door. Mhari sat upright in her bed.

“It is Rory’s voice,” she said, “Did you draw the bolt, then?”

Romilly felt like a fool. The last thing she had done before settling down to sleep was to lock the inside door - which of course the crippled old woman could never have done. No wonder the voice outside sounded loud and agitated! She hurried to the door and drew the bolt.

She looked into the face of a huge burly young man, be-whiskered and clad in threadbare sacking and a cloak of a fashion which had not been worn in the Hellers since her father was a child. He had his dagger out, and would have rushed at her with it, but he heard old Mhari’s cry.

“No, Rory - the boy meant no harm-he cared for me and cooked my supper hot - I bade him sleep here!”

The rough-looking young man let the dagger fall and hurried to the box-bed. “You are really all right, Granny? When I felt the door locked, and then when I saw a stranger within, I was only afraid someone had come, forced his way in and done you some harm-“

“Now, now, now,” old Mhari said, “I am safe and sound, and it was well for me that he came, for the fire was near out, and I could have frozen in the night!”

“I am grateful to you, whoever you are, fellow,” said the big young man, sliding his dagger into its sheath and bending to kiss his grandmother on the forehead. “The storm was so bad, and all night I could think only of Granny, alone here with the fire burnt out and no way to feed herself. My hearth is yours while you have need of it,” he added, in the ancient mountain phrase of hospitality given a stranger. “I left my shelter the moment the rain died, and came home, though my hosts bade me stay till sunrise. And you are well and warm, that’s the important thing, Granny dear.” He looked tenderly on the old woman. Then, flinging off his cloak on to a bench, he went to the porridge-pot still hanging by the fire, dipped up some with the ladle, thick and stiff after the night by the hearth, and began to munch on the heavy stuff from his fingers. “Ah, warm food is good - it’s cold as Zandru’s breath out there still, and all the rain has frozen on the trees and the road - I feared old Horny would slip and break a leg. But I traded for some grain, Granny, so you shall have bread as well as porridge, and I have dried blackfruits as well in my bag; the miller’s wife sent them for you, saying you would like the change.” He turned to Romilly and asked, “Could I trouble you to get the saddlebags from my beast? My hands are so cold they are all but frozen, and I could not unfasten the tack till they are warm again; and you have spent the night in the warm.”

“Gladly,” said Romilly, “I must go out and see to my horse, in any case.”

“You have a horse?” A look almost of greed lighted Rory’s face. “I have always wanted a horse; but they are not for the likes of me! You must indeed have been brought up in a Great House.”

Romilly went outside, flinging her cloak over her shoulders, and unfastened the heavy saddlebags lying across the heavy-boned stag-like chervine Rory had ridden. She took the sack of coarse grain into the byre, and brought the saddlebags into the cottage, dumping them on the floor near the fire.

Rory was bending over his grandmother, talking in low tones; she was sure he had not heard her, so she slipped out again into the byre, went into her own bags and fed her horse one or two cakes of the dog-bread, stroking its muzzle and talking to it. There was an old-fashioned outhouse inside the byre, and she went into it; as she was readjusting her clothing, she paused, dismayed, at the bloodstains lining her underwear; because of the storm she had lost track of the days. When I thought to pass myself off as a man, she said to herself wryly, / had forgotten certain very important points which I must remember. She had never thought it would be simple, to remember to pitch her voice at its deepest level and to remember to move with the free stride for which Luciella and her governess had always reproved her, but she had forgotten the inexorable rhythms of female biology which could have betrayed her more than any of this.