Hawkmistress! (6 page)

Well, perhaps she would have a chance to ride with her father, and with Darren who would be home from Nevarsin, and to fly Preciosa; it would not be too bad, even if, while there were guests, she must wear a lady’s riding-habit and use a lady’s saddle instead of the boots and breeches more suitable for hunting; the guests would only be here for a few days and then she could go back to her sensible boy’s clothes for riding; she was willing to dress up properly to meet her parents’ guests. She had learned, as a matter of course, to manage proper riding-skirts and a lady’s saddle when there were guests, and to please her stepmother.

She was humming when she returned to her room to change her dress for riding; perhaps she would take Rael with her when she went to exercise Preciosa to the lure, the long line whirled around her head with scraps of meat and feathers to train and exercise a hawk. But when she searched behind her door for the old boots and breeches she always wore for riding - they were an ancient pair of Ruyven’s - they could not be found.

She clapped her hands to summon the maid who waited on the children, but it was old Gwennis who came.

“What is this, Nurse? Where are my riding-breeches?”

“Your father has given strict orders,” Gwennis said, “Lady Luciella made me throw them out - they’re hardly fit for the hawkmaster’s boy now, those old things. Your new habit’s being made, and you can wear your old one till it’s ready, my pet” She pointed to the riding-skirt and tunic laid out on Romilly’s bed. “Here, my lamb, I’ll help you lace it up.”

“You threw them out?” Romilly exploded, “How dared you?”

“Oh, come, don’t talk like that, my little love, we all have to do what Lady Luciella says, don’t we? That habit still fits you fine, even if it’s a little tight at the waist - see, I let it out for you yesterday, when Lady Luciella told me.”

“I can’t ride Windracer in this!” Romilly wadded up the offending skirts and flung them across the room. “He’s not used to a lady’s saddle, and I hate it, and there aren’t guests or anything like that! Get me some riding breeches,” she stormed, but Gwennis shook her head sternly.

“I can’t do that, lovey, your father’s given orders, you’re not to ride in breeches any more, and it’s about time, you’ll be fifteen ten days before Midsummer, and we must think now about getting you married, and what man will want to marry a hoyden who races around hi breeches like some camp-follower, or one of those scandalous women of the Sisterhood, with sword and ears pierced? Really, Romy, you should be ashamed. A big girl like you, running off to the hawk-house and staying out all night like that - it’s time you were tamed down into a lady! Now put on your riding-skirts, if you want to ride, and let’s not have any more of this nonsense.”

Romilly stared in horror at her nurse. So this was to be her father’s punishment Worse, far worse than a beating, and she knew that from her father’s orders there would be no appeal.

I wish he had beaten me. At least he would have been dealing with me, directly, with Romilly, with a person. But to turn me over to Luciella, to let her make me into her image of a lady….

“It’s an insult to a decent horse,” Romilly stormed, “I won’t do it!”

She aimed a savage kick at the offending habit on the floor.

“Well, then, lovey, you can just stay inside the house like a lady, you don’t need to ride,” said Gwennis complacently, “You spend too much time in the stables as it is, it’s time you stayed more in the house, and left the hawks and horses to your brothers as you should.”

Appalled, Romilly swallowed down a lump in her throat, looking from the habit on the floor to her beaming nurse. “I expected this of Luciella,” she said, “she hates me, doesn’t she? It’s the sort of spiteful thing Mallina might do, just because she can’t ride a decent horse. But I didn’t think you’d join with them against me, Nurse!”

“Come, you mustn’t talk like that,” Gwennis said, clucking ruefully, “How can you say that about your kind stepmother? I tell you, not many stepmothers with grown daughters are as good to them as Lady Luciella is to you and Mallina, dressing them up in beautiful things when you’re both prettier than she is, knowing Darren’s to be Lord here and her own son only a younger son, not much better than a nedestro! Why, your own mother would have had you out of breeches three years ago, she’d never have let you run around all these years like a hoyden! How can you say that she hates you?”

Romilly looked at the floor, her eyes stinging. It was true; no one could have been kinder to her than Luciella. It would have been easier if Luciella had ever showed her the slightest unkindness. I could fight against her, if she was cruel to me. What can I do now?

And Preciosa would be waiting for her; did Gwennis really think she would leave her own hawk to the hawkmaster’s boy, or even to Davin himself? Her hands shook with fury as she pulled on the detested habit, threadbare blue gabardine and in spite of Gwennis’s alterations, still too tight in the waist, so that the lacings gaped wide over her undertunic. Better to ride in skirts than not to ride at all, she supposed, but if they thought they had beaten her this easily, they could think again!

Will she even know me in this stupid girl’s outfit?

Fuming, she strode toward the stables and hawk-house, tripping once or twice over the annoying skirts, slowing her step perforce to a proper ladylike pace. So Luciella would bribe her with a pretty habit, to soften the blow? Just like a woman, that silly devious trick, not even telling her outright that she must put aside her riding-breeches!

Inside the hawk-house, she went directly to the block, slipping on her old gauntlet and taking Preciosa up on her arm. With her free hand she stroked the hawk’s breast with the feather kept for that purpose - the touch of a hand on the hawk’s feathers would take the coating from the feathers and damage them. Preciosa sensed her agitation and moved uneasily on her wrist, and Romilly made an effort to calm herself, taking down the hanging lure of feathers and signalling to the boy Ker.

“Have you fresh meat for Preciosa?”

“Yes, damisela, I had a pigeon just killed for the table and I kept all the innards for her, they haven’t been out of the bird more than ten minutes,” Ker said, and she sniffed suspiciously at the fresh meat, then threaded it on to the lure. Preciosa smelled the fresh food and jerked uneasily and fluttered; Romilly spoke soothingly to her, and walked on, kicking the skirt out of her way. She went into the stableyard and loosed the jesses, whirling the lure high over her head; Preciosa flung herself upward, the recoil thrusting Romilly’s hand down, and wheeled high into the sky over the stableyard, stooping down swiftly on the lure, striking almost before it hit the ground. Romilly let her feed in peace for a moment before calling her with the little falconer’s whistle, which the bird must learn to associate with her food, and slipping the hood over her head again. She handed the lure to Ker and said, “You whirl it; I want to watch her fly.”

Obediently the hawkmaster’s boy took the lure and began to whirl it over his head; again Romilly loosed the hawk, watched her fly high, and descend to Romilly’s whistle to the flying bait. Twice more the maneuver was repeated, then Romilly let the hawk finish her meal in peace, before hooding her and setting her back on the block. She stroked her again and again tenderly with the feather, crooning nonsense words of love to her, feeling the sense of closeness and satisfaction from the fed hawk. She was learning. Soon she would fly free and catch her own prey, and return to the wrist…

“Go and saddle Windracer,” she said, glumly adding, “I suppose you must use my sidesaddle.”

The groom would not look at her.

“I am sorry, damisela - The MacAran gave strict orders. Very angry, he was.”

So this, then, was her punishment. More subtle than a beating, and not her father’s way - the delicate stitches set by Luciella’s hand could be clearly seen in this. She could almost hear in her imagination the words her stepmother must have used; see, a big girl like Romilly, and you let her run about the stables, why are you surprised at anything she might do? But leave her to me, and I will make a lady of her….

Romilly was about to fling at the groom, angrily, to forget it, a sidesaddle was an insult to any self-respecting horse … but on her arm Preciosa bated in agitation, and she knew the bird was picking up her own rage - she struggled for calm and said quietly, “Very well, put a lady’s saddle on her, then.” Anger or no, sidesaddle or no, Preciosa must be habituated to the motion of the horse; and a ride on a lady’s saddle was better than no ride at all.

But she thought about it, long and hard, as she rode that day. Appeal to her father would be useless: evidently he had turned responsibility over to Luciella, the new riding-habit had been only a signal showing which way the wind now blew. No doubt, a day would come when she would be forbidden to ride at all - no, for Luciella had told her of his plans to give her a good horse. But she would ride as a lady, decorously because no horse could do anything better than a ladylike trot with a lady’s sidesaddle; ride cumbered in skirts, unable even to school her hawk properly; there was no proper room for a hawk as there was on a man’s saddle where she could carry the block before her. And soon, no doubt, she would be forbidden the stables and hawk-house except for such ladylike rides as this. And what could she do about it? She was not yet of age - she would be fifteen at Midsummer, and had no recourse except to do as her father and guardians bade her. It seemed that the walls were closing about her.

Why, then, had she been given this laran, since it seemed that only a man had the freedom to use it? Romilly could have wept. Why had she not, then, been born a man? She knew the answer that would be given her, if she asked Luciella what she would do with her Gift; it is, the woman would say, so that your sons will have it.

And was she nothing but a vehicle for giving some unknown husband sons? She had often thought she would like to have children - she remembered Rael as a baby, little and cunning and as soft and lovable as an unweaned puppy. But to give up everything, to stay in the house and grow soft and flabby like Luciella, her own life at an end, living only through her children? It was too high a price to pay, even for babies as adorable as that. Furiously, Romilly blinked back tears, knowing that the emotion would come through to hawk and horse, and disciplined herself to quiet.

She must wait. Perhaps, when her father’s first anger had cooled, he could be made to see reason. And then she remembered; before Midsummer, Darren would be home, and perhaps he, as her father’s sole remaining heir, could intercede for her with her father. She stroked the hawk with its feather to quiet her, and rode back toward Falconsward with a glimmer of hope in her heart.

CHAPTER THREE

Ten days before Midsummer, on Romilly’s fifteenth birthday, her brother Darren came home.

It was Rael who saw the riders first, as the family sat at breakfast on the terrace; the weather was so fine that Luciella had given orders for breakfast to be served on that outdoor balcony overlooking the valley of the Kadarin. Rael had taken his second piece of bread and honey to the railing, despite Luciella’s gentle reprimand that he should sit down nicely and finish his food, and was hanging over the edge, throwing crumbs of bread at the broad leaves of the ivy that crawled up the sides of the castle toward the high balcony.

“Look, Mother,” he called, “there are riders, coming up the path - are they coming here, do you think? Father, do you see?”

The MacAran frowned at the child, raising his cup to his lips. “Hush. Rael, I am talking to your mother-” but Romilly abruptly knew who the riders were.

“It is Darren,” she cried, and flew to the railing. “I know his horse - I am going down to meet him!”

“Romilly! Sit down and finish your food,” Luciella scolded, but Romilly was already out the door, her braids flapping against her shoulderblades, and flying down the long stairway. Behind her she heard the clattering of Rael’s boots, and laughed at the thought of Luciella’s disquiet - the peaceful meal had been disrupted for good, this time. She licked her fingers, which were sticky with honey, and went out into the courtyard, Rael behind her; the boy was hanging on the big gates, calling to the yard-men to come and open them.

“It is my brother Darren - he is coming!”

Good-naturedly, the men came and began to tug on the doors, even before the sound of the horses’ hooves reached them; Rael was a favorite, spoiled by everyone. He clung to the gates, laughing, as the men shoved them under him, and waved his arm excitedly at the riders.

“It is Darren, and there is someone with him, Romilly, come and see, come and meet him!”

But Romilly hung back a little, suddenly shy, conscious of her hastily-braided, crooked hair, her smeared fingers and mouth, the bread and honey still in her hand; she flung it quickly to the yard-dog and rubbed her kerchief over the sticky smears on her mouth. Why did she feel like this? It was only Darren and some friend he had made at the monastery. Darren slid from his horse and Rael was clambering all over him, hugging him, talking so fast he could hardly be understood. Darren laughed, set Rael down and came to take Romilly into his arms.

“You have grown, sister, you are almost a woman.”

“It’s her birthday, Darren, what did you bring her?” Rael demanded, and Darren chuckled. He was tall and thin, his red hair clustered in thick curls over his eyes, his face had the indoor pallor of a winter spent among the snows of Nevarsin.