Wildwing (14 page)

Baudekin Cloth

B
eatrix is rushing across the great hall clutching a bundle. When she sees me come through the door, she skitters to a stop.

“Oh, my lady!” she cries, bobbing a curtsey. “Such news!”

The bundle slips from her arms to the rushes, and she gapes, so horrified you’d think it was a baby. But as soon as she grabs it back up, she beams at me.

“Come see!” she says, hurrying to the table. “Over here!”

The great hall is especially gloomy today, the windows mere slivers of stone-gray sky. A few candles struggle to illuminate the cavernous space. Beatrix sets her armload down on the dark wood under the brightest candle. She pulls off the outer wrapping, and out tumbles a shimmering, sinuous river of golden fabric, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. I pick up a corner and lift it to my cheek. Oh, what Mum would say to work with stuff like this!

Beatrix gazes down with something like awe. “The king himself sent it for your wedding dress. Baudekin cloth, the finest silk with a warp of gold.”

Of course! Only a king would have access to something so grand. I unroll a length of fabric and drape it around my shoulders like a luxurious shawl, hug it close, feel the flow and heft of it. And it’s mine, I think, all smug. Me, the lady of the castle.

“I couldn’t wait to find you and try the gold against your dark hair,” says Beatrix. “I knew it. Perfect. The king himself! Imagine!” She sighs in contentment. “And that message he sent with it!”

“Message?” I ask, from somewhere in a dream.

“Yes! He sent it with the message that—”

“That he will indeed be honoring us with his presence,” says Eustace, strutting in from the far door. His chest is a sail puffed full of wind. “What is more, His Majesty sent these to adorn the gown.”

He produces a crimson pouch and tilts it over the cloth. Out pours a sparkling stream of pearls, and gems so green, they must be emeralds. They catch every ray of candlelight as they circle into a shimmering pool.

I gasp in pleasure. “For … me?”

Eustace nods. Beatrix beams like a proud new parent.

I gather up a handful of pearls and let them trickle through my fingers. Light swirls inside them like moonbeams.

“We had hoped His Majesty would come for the wedding,” says Eustace, his eyes reflecting the emeralds’ glint and shine. “But we couldn’t be certain until now. He didn’t do that for his other wards. You will be attired in a spectacular gown, his gift, as he witnesses the wedding he arranged, with everyone watching. Everyone.”

There’s a greedy joy to his voice, as if the jewels are all his, as if he’s the one getting married.

“And I’m to sew the kirtle!” cries Beatrix. “I must get to work.”

She starts to pick up the jewels, but Eustace holds out a cupped palm, his mouth narrowing into a tight line. “I’ll keep an eye on those,” he says briskly. “You may inform me when the gown is ready for adornment. Until then, they remain under lock and key.”

He gathers up the rest of the gems and counts them twice before slipping them back into the pouch. Then he starts backing away, the treasure clutched to his chest. “And now, if you will pardon me, my lady, there are a great many preparations to be made for His Majesty’s arrival. You may rest assured we will show Berringstoke to its best advantage.”

I’m so caught up in the Midas spell of the golden cloth, I merely nod.

Beatrix starts to fold the fabric. “Baudekin cloth,” she sighs in contentment. “Who would have thought it?”

“And sent by the king himself,” I say.

And then, as if the words are still hanging in the air, I finally hear what Eustace said. “Beatrix, what does that mean, that I’m the king’s ward?”

She makes that clucking, concerned sound of hers, the one that means
your poor hurt head
. “Of course,” she says. “Let me remind you. Your parents died of the fever?naught but a small child you were, they say—and the king took control of your estate until you should wed.”

Something tightens in my chest.

“He’s the one arranged your marriage,” she goes on. “Because our Sir Hugh has been such a help to him in his battles. If there’s one thing that man can do, it’s fight!”

But what if the king knows Lady Matilda? What if they were close? The questions start circling like a flock of ravens. What if someone else from her court comes for the wedding? What if—

My hand drifts down to stroke the silken cloth, and now it’s as if the gold itself is speaking, reassuring me.
What if you make this work? What if you keep all this for your own?

I can still feel those pearls in my palm, their cool, almost liquid weight.

Beatrix straightens, the Baudekin cloth once again secure in her arms. “How long a train to the kirtle, I wonder?”

“Quite long,” I say.

She nods eagerly. “Oh, do let me do a first fitting!”

And together we hurry up the stairs to drape that dazzling fabric all over me.

Noble Blood Will Out

H
ow goes your work with the falcons, my lady?” asks Father Bartholomew as I pass him the salt.

“Very well, thank you,” I say. “Today Pilgrim flew from my glove without the creance. Harold and William say she’ll be hunting in no time.”

Father Bartholomew nods. He picks up a chicken leg and takes a big bite, gulps it down, then leans forward confidentially and asks in a low, eager voice, “And was the angel bird there again today?”

I shake my head, wiping my mouth on the napkin before taking a sip from the goblet I share with Eustace, just like Beatrix taught me. I glance down to the lively throng at the trestle tables, half expecting to see her gazing up at me with approval. But the room is so full of talk and laughter andharp music, of platters brought and wine poured, of blazing fire and flickering candles, I give up and turn back to the chaplain.

“I don’t think the bird is coming back,” I say. “The vision was telling me to go out in the glory of God’s creation and work with falcons, to learn from them. That’s all.”

Eustace leans forward from my other side. “Noble blood will out,” he says to Father Bartholomew. “After the terrible blow Lady Matilda suffered, perhaps the Lord meant to reassure her, through her inborn talent with these regal birds, of the strength of her own noble blood.”

Noble blood? If only they knew. I shift uncomfortably and take a good swig of the wine—damn! I forgot to wipe my mouth first that time. But Eustace is too intent on addressing Father Bartholomew to notice.

While they’re going on about my pleasure in hawking and how noble that is, Timothy clears away the meat dish. He’s the boy who was lugging rushes the day I came. Then the skinny boy I’ve seen at the well brings a dish of pears baked in wine. The warm scents of cinnamon and clove fill the air.

A stir from below draws my attention. People are looking up from their trenchers at three men who’ve just come in. They’re washing their hands at the basin by the door, theone used by everyone but those of us at the high table. One of them, a burly man, only washes one hand; his other arm is strapped across his chest, swathed in bandages, and the linen is stained dark where blood seeped through. I’ve heard the clash of steel from outside the walls—training sessions, Eustace says. A shiver runs down my spine. Is that what happened to his arm?

As they walk to a table, others clear a space, murmuring and fussing over the wounded man. And then they’re swallowed up in the hall’s rambunctious calling and boasting, the boys rushing forward with trenchers and goblets, the dogs snuffling about hopefully in the rushes.

I pull my attention back to our table. The butler is filling my goblet. No common earthenware jug up here, but a silver ewer shaped like a dragon. Red wine pours from its mouth like flame.

Now Eustace and Father Bartholomew have moved on to debating the details for the plaque commemorating my holy vision, the one being carved for the church in town. Father Bartholomew feels it should be large enough to show the entire tree with an actual angel perched in its branches. Eustace is concerned about the cost. And me, I’m trying to figure out how to change the conversation. I have to admit I’m getting uncomfortable with the results of my made-upvision. I didn’t think it would go this far, with everyone staring at me all reverent, and the pantler crossing himself each time he offers me more of his fine white bread. No, I’d rather talk about something else.

I glance over my shoulder at the huge empty chair against the tapestry, waiting for the arrival of Sir Hugh. My husband-to-be, I think, and I start to feel queasy. He should arrive in a matter of days. It’s time I knew something more about him than his name. So when there’s a gap in the conversation, I look at Father Bartholomew and ask, “What would Sir Hugh say about the carving?”

He guffaws, and a little bit of pear flies out of his mouth. He dabs apologetically with his napkin, then says, “Sir Hugh, care about a thing like that? He’s never here! Leaves it all to Eustace!”

Eustace puts down the goblet. “Now, Father … “

“Likes the warrior’s life, he does! Never happier than when he’s off serving the king, raising that great bloody sword of his on the battlefield, lopping off heads left and right!”

Eustace raises his voice a bit, his eyes narrowing. “Father—”

“And when there’s no war to please him, well, it’s off to every tournament he can find. And not just for the racing andjousting and tilting and the like, the fine scrimmages on the field. No, it’s for the drinking that goes on afterward, isn’t it, Eustace?” He gives a hearty laugh. “Because, my, does our Sir Hugh enjoy his wine! Small wonder the buttery’s so low on butts of wine all the time! Now, if he spent the time on farming he spends on—”

“You there!” cries Eustace, waving to the harpist. “Let’s have another tune!” As the gay notes strike up, he calls to Timothy to clear away the last of the pears. Father Bartholomew pauses, befuddled.

Eustace bends toward me. “It is indeed my honor that Sir Hugh entrusts me with the management of the estate while he fulfills a knight’s true destiny, defending the honor of the realm and serving the king.”

“The king,” I say. And suddenly it comes to me. “King Henry the Third! From 1216 to—”

Both men stop, staring. There’s a long pause. “What a … good … king,” I say feebly, searching for words. They’re still staring.

Eustace finally nods. “Indeed, my lady,” he says, very slowly. He signals to the boy with the pitcher. “I believe Lady Matilda wishes to wash her hands.”

I clamp my mouth shut, determined not to let another word sneak out. Instead of my ridiculous outburst, I shouldhave asked when Sir Hugh arrives. In only five days the lift will be here. I may well have to decide whether to take it without knowing if the lord of the castle has met his bride-to-be. That’s the only thing that matters, isn’t it? Whether I’m safe and can stay.

As for the rest of it? I hold my hands over the bowl, washing them in the thin stream of water. It seems Sir Hugh is a drinker, a fighter. What did I expect, a whist-playing fop? Here, marriage is obviously not a meeting of hearts, but a tactical alliance. I’m heading for one of the richest. And, provided I don’t make too many more mistakes like my gaffe about the king, it’s as good as mine.

The Lure

W
illiam stands at the edge of the field and hands me my glove. Once I have it on, he holds his arm up to mine, and Pilgrim steps over. In the past few days she’s flown from my glove to the lure with the creance, and then without. Today she’ll soar free above us. She rouses, and joy flashes through my veins, as if it’s me on the glove, knowing I’m about to sail into that limitless ocean of sky.

William reaches into his saddlebag for the lure and slips it into the pouch at his side. He sees the question in my eyes. “To call her back,” he says.

“Won’t she come back to you anyway?”

“Ah, it needs to be her choice.” He smiles. “You’re never a falcon’s master; you’re her equal. Not like herd animals. Dogs live to obey, and horses and men like to know who’sin charge. But what cares a falcon if you approve or no?” He gazes down at Pilgrim. “She’ll always be wild at heart.” Then, softer: “You feel it. I know you do.”

There’s that flash of joy again. I catch my breath, glancing up at him, but he’s already turning, walking toward the center of the field. I hurry to catch up. “The lure might help if something in the distance catches her eye,” he says. “And we never fly when it’s too warm, when gulls cross the sky without once flapping their wings. A soaring day, we call it. Hawks ride the rising air like a magic carpet.”

We’re in the open now, and he stops, gazing into the distance, his profile all high cheekbone and strong jaw. “She’d fill with the glory of it. And mayhap she’d never come back.”

“You sound as if you know how it feels.”

He takes a step closer. “And you,” he says, lifting a gentle hand to stroke the back of Pilgrim’s head. “Haven’t you ever lost yourself in something you love?” And then he looks up into my eyes.

My heart stops. My head stops. Everything stops. There’s just William looking at me, and nothing between us.

Suddenly, my heart is racing like it’s never done before. Pilgrim bates, flapping and jumping backward off the glove. I clutch the cord tighter, trying to remember how calm flows through William when he holds her. I breathe deeply, soothing my own heart so I can soothe hers.

“There now,” I say, as softly and confidently as I can. She settles back on the glove. I give William an embarrassed smile. “I must be too eager to see her fly.”

“She’s excited, too.” He scans the sky. “We’ll loose the creance. She’ll stay on your glove. You’ll be facing into the wind. When I tell you, step forward and drop your hand to cast off.”

“Where is she, William? Is she gone?”

He laughs and points over the tops of some distant trees, and I pick it out again: a moving pinprick in a blue wilderness.

“She’s spotted that kestrel,” says William. Then he nods. “Good, she’s not going to bother with it.”

How can he see so much from here? I can’t even keep my eyes on that dot! He must have a falcon’s vision himself. He watches intently and then suddenly says, “There. She’s making the turn.”

He swings the lure overhead. Before I take my next breath, the speck in the sky is zooming toward us, closer, and bigger, and for a split second I see wings pressed in so tight, she’s a raindrop, a bullet shooting toward the earth, and the sky sounds like it’s ripping in two—

Pilgrim stands atop the lure on the ground, panting. Shestarts tearing bits of flesh from it, trying to turn it over with a talon to get at the meat on the other side.

William pulls a tidbit from his pouch and kneels beside her, whistling those soft lilting notes. She looks over eagerly and steps to his glove. He stands, watching as she tears into the meat with focused contentment. Again he whistles that refrain, and something quivers in me, like those notes are a message calling from another world.

“What a stoop!” he says, all proud. “Did you see the height she had? You picked a good day to come.”

Yes, I think, looking at Pilgrim, then back up at his glowing face. Yes, I did.

I’m running up the stairs to the keep when I remember,
Walk like a lady!
I slow to a dignified pace, glancing around anxiously, but no one seems to have noticed. They’re all too busy with what I now know are wedding preparations, sprucing things up for His Majesty King Henry III.

I step inside, and the dark is so sudden, it feels like night. The skinny boy, Ralph, is only now starting to light the candles on their tall iron stands, as other lads pull out trestles to set up tables for dinner. There’s a clinking from behind the curtained partitions at the back of the hall, where the butler and pantler and boys are always rushing during meals. Mypath to the stairs brings me closer. One of the red curtains draws back, and a man comes out with a rag; behind him I see dark wooden casks and a row of clay jugs. The silver dragon stands guard.

Wine, I think, flowing like water … like wind … and now it’s the field I’m seeing, and William’s face tilted upward, lit by the autumn sun, and his eyes as he follows Pilgrim’s flight, as he turns to me—

Slap!

The sound of a hand striking flesh stops me cold.

Behind a closed curtain, someone draws a shuddering breath. My feet won’t move. As if it’s me who’s been slapped. Me who’s been discovered.

“Thought you could get away with it, did you?” The voice is so low and menacing, it takes me a moment to recognize the speaker: Eustace, all his studied charm stripped away.

“Please, sir!” cries a boy. I can hear the tears he’s fighting back. “It won’t happen again, I swear. On my life, I swear!”

“Your life? That will hardly be necessary,” says Eustace. There’s a strange undercurrent to his tone, a mix of threat and … pleasure.
He’s enjoying this
. “But your hands, let’s talk about those. Missing even one of them could be, shall we say, inconvenient.”

The boy is sobbing openly now.

“I will not tolerate theft,” says Eustace, hard and brusque. “Consider yourself warned.”

Too late, I recognize the tone of finality. The curtain rips open, and suddenly Eustace is standing before me, his eyes small and brutal, his mouth a slash across his face. I flinch as the mouth curves up into a fawning smile.

“My lady,” he says with a sweeping bow, as if nothing had happened. As if he’d only been doing his job. “May I be of some assistance?”

I shake my head, unable to say a word. He backs away respectfully, turning only when he reaches the door.

The curtain has closed again. I take a step, lift the edge—it’s a pantry, with cutting boards and knives, and loaf after loaf of bread lined up, awaiting the meal. And staring out at me, a boy I’ve never seen before, no more than eight or nine years old, and so thin, he’s little more than a skeleton with huge brown eyes. He clasps his hand to his cheek, trying to hide the flaming imprint of another, larger hand.

With a sob, he rushes past me, and something small and pale glances off his foot, like a mouse skittering away. It comes to a stop, and I stare in disbelief: a single piece of fine white bread, with one bite taken out of it. Could
this
be the reason Eustace was threatening to chop off his hand?

Someone needs to stand up for the boy! I know what it’s like, being powerless, having to take what’s handed out to you. I start walking toward the door Eustace went through. Behind it rises a second spiral stair, one I’ve never climbed. But no sooner do I start than a flicker of doubt slows my steps. What do I know of this world and its rules? I barely know the table manners. I’ve just learned to wipe my cup when I sip… .

And then I stop completely, as fear and caution chase my righteous anger away. If I tell Eustace this lady won’t abide such injustice, he may start looking too closely at the lady in question. I’m not safe here yet myself.

In the end, it’s my own stair I take, my stomach twisting with every turn, my face burning as if I’m the one bearing the mark of the steward’s hand.