Wildwing (7 page)

A Miracle

I
swivel around. Three men on horseback are pounding down the trail.

Relief surges through me like a flood tide. Thank God! They’ll search and find anyone who can still be saved.

They leap from their horses. One strides across the littered beach, splashes up next to me, hoists the half body, and tosses it ashore. Then he takes my arm, guiding me back from the grabbing, sucking surf.

“It’s a miracle!” he says, staring at me, at my dress, as if I’m an apparition. He whips off his cloak and flings it around me. I realize I’m shivering from head to toe.

“Hurry,” I say through chattering teeth. “Someone may still be alive.”

“Oswald!” he calls. “Robert!”

The two men rush forward, and he gestures with his chin along the beach. Without a word they stride off in opposite directions, peering into piles, lifting boards, scanning the waves as the wind snaps their cloaks. Green cloaks, yellow tunics, green leggings: they all match, like some kind of medieval rugby team.

The man in charge towers a full head over me. He studies the beach, sharp-eyed, then turns back to ask, “How many were on the boat, my lady?”

“I… . don’t know.”

“Not the crew, then, but your party?how many accompanying you?”

“Accompanying me?”

He looks at me piercingly. “Ladies-in-waiting? Attendants? Men-at-arms?” Seeing the confusion on my face, he continues, more slowly, as if he thinks I’m having trouble hearing. “If we know who accompanied you, we’ll know how many bodies we’re looking for.” He pauses. “That you live, it is a miracle indeed. But seeing this wreckage, chances are slim that others survived. Forgive me being so direct, Lady Matilda.”

Now I see! He thinks I was on that boat. And he thinks he knows who I am. “Lady Matilda?” I shake my head. “I’m—”

But the intensity in his eyes stops me as he stares at my dress, at the great cross dragging down the chain around my neck, at my hand and the ring with the bear’s head, all teeth and fury. Then he glances over at his horse. I follow his eyes; there, stitched in bright yellow on the green saddle cloth, snarls the same vicious bear.

I hide my hand quickly behind me. He’ll think I stole it! And the cross—oh, Lord, it’s too big to cover.

But he’s not accusing me of anything. He turns toward one of the men. “Oswald!” The man comes running, stands alert beside us. “I’m taking her ladyship to the castle at once. You and Robert continue searching. I’ll send more men, and a wagon to carry back what you find.”

“But I’m not your Matilda,” I insist. “I merely took a wrong turn. I’m going to town.”

“To town?” Now there’s a different kind of concern in his eyes. “My lady, I’m afraid his lordship would not think it wise, not in that sodden kirtle, or with that shiver threatening fever. Or your head so—”

He stops suddenly, as if he’s gone too far.

I reach a hand up and start patting my hair. What does he see up there? Did I get something tangled in it?

“Careful, my lady!” says the tall man. “Wait for someone at the castle to look at your head. You must have suffered a mighty blow. Small wonder you’re confused.”

The castle. Of course: they’ve come from the ruins atop the cliffs. But it won’t be ruins now, will it? There’s a real castle up there, all moats and jousts and knights in shining armor. My castle, come alive.

“She can take my horse,” says Oswald, looking at a huge beast. I step back in alarm. That enormous thing? And me never on a horse in my life?

“Not with that head. She’ll ride with me,” says the tall man, and then he and Oswald aren’t waiting for me to agree, but are bundling me up on his steed, and he’s leaping behind me, and before I’ve taken another breath, we’re hurtling up the hill, pebbles flying out from the horse’s hooves.

What am I doing? This is all wrong! I’ve just been pulling dead bodies out of the surf—dead bodies without legs—and more dead people are lying there under the debris or floating offshore. Again I feel the clammy touch of waterlogged skin against mine, and a shiver runs from my spine to my toes. I shouldn’t be doing this!

But under the shivering, and the horror of the bodies, and all the confusion, there’s … excitement. Me, taken for a grand lady! Me, the one they worry about and rush to help! Me, on my way to the castle!

Up the rise, under the wind-whipped trees, flashes ofgray sky flickering through branches like seabirds’ wings. Back the way I came, but so fast, I barely glimpse the clearing as we skirt its edge—can’t even see the lift or the dead tree—and we’re plunging into the forest, paths twisting and branching like a tangled maze. A startled stag crashes away. Then we burst through into the open and—

Oh! My heart almost stops! It’s my castle, but mightier and more beautiful than I ever imagined: a shining white citadel, imposing towers piercing the sky, flags whipping in the wind like battle pennants. Someone is peering over the wall, and then there are shouts, and we’re clattering across a drawbridge, through massive walls. Now I’m being lifted down, and there’s neighing and barking and clanking and shouting, and the smell of a wood fire, and people running from every which way, and the tall man calling out orders.

Suddenly there’s stillness inside me as I sense someone’s gaze. There, to my left: a boy a few years older than I am, with gold-blond hair and high cheekbones. His arm is bent at his side, and on his wrist rides a small speckled hawk. They’re both staring at me, hawk and boy, and the boy’s eyes are a piercing shade of blue, as if he’s got the summer sky trapped inside him.

A plump older woman rushes toward me with a blanket, and then she’s wrapping it around me, her arm circling my shoulders.

“Poor lamb,” she’s saying. “You poor, dear lamb!”

I hear horseshoes clattering back over the drawbridge as she bundles me up the stairs, every step solid and sturdy and new, and through a mighty door strapped with iron like it’s wearing its own coat of armor. Then I’m being pushed up a winding staircase,
my
staircase! I reach the familiar arch and start to step through, but she’s urging me on, because there’s another story above us, a level I never even knew existed. I don’t have time to watch my feet as I turn and turn, driven by the woman behind me, up to another door.

Beatrix

H
ere we are, my lady,” she says, as warm and comforting as a hearth fire. “Your chamber. How lucky we prepared everything early! His lordship is still away, I’m afraid. But that’s not so bad, now, is it? Because it means we’ve got more space for you, and nice and quiet, which is what you’re going to need.”

She reaches to my neck. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll put your cross over here.” She lifts the necklace off, clanks it down somewhere, then walks behind me. “Now, off with this lovely kirtle of yours—will you look at the weave of this fabric! I’ve never seen the like!” She starts untying and loosening laces, and then the sodden weight of the gown is lifting off and I’m standing there shaking in my cold, wet underwear.

“Well, don’t they do things different where you’re from, my lady!” She’s eyeing my underwear as if she’s never seen such things before. I cross my arms firmly across my chest. “Where is your shift? And what are
these
flimsy things? Well, no matter; they’re sopping, and you’re as wet as a drowned cat.” She reaches a hand to my underwear, and I leap back.

“No!”

“But you’re all ashiver, my lady,” she says, shaking her head firmly. “His lordship will never forgive me if you take ill. We need to get you into that warm bed.”

She leads me toward a gigantic wooden box of a canopy bed, so high it has its own little set of stairs up to the mattress. Red, embroidered curtains are pulled back to reveal a coverlet of silky white fur.

“In you go,” she says. “You need nothing but the skin the good Lord gave you, and the warmth of those covers.”

“Please,” I say. “Could you turn around for a moment?”

“I surely don’t know
why,”
she mutters, but she does, and I pull off the rest of my wet things and climb the stairs and slip under covers so thick and warm, they’d keep you toasty at the North Pole.

It’s the softest, coziest thing I’ve ever felt. And yet here, in this big bed, I feel more vulnerable than before. Now that I’m not tugging at dead bodies, or clinging to a galloping horse, or being pushed up the stairs, I’m starting to have timeto think. And those thoughts are making me uneasy. These people have decided I’m their Lady Matilda, come from afar. But what if someone knows the real Matilda, and cries out that I’m all wrong? What if the lady herself shows up, dripping and furious? Or they find her body washed ashore?

It’s a delicate line I’m walking, and I’ll need all my wits about me.

Clutching the fur to my neck, I try for my noble voice, the one I was going to use in the play.
Confidence
, I think.
Command
.

“Verily, I would that you bring me dry vestments to wear,” I say. “Prithee.”

She raises her eyebrows slightly, but then she nods. “I’ll have to round something up,” she says. “Oh, to think of all your beautiful kirtles and cloaks lost to the sea! What a tragedy! And what a tremendous cost to replace them. Though of course that’s nothing to you.”

Right, I think. Nothing to me.

“Though it may take me awhile,” she goes on. “But no matter, as you’ll be resting in bed for at least a day or two.”

I almost agree, she sounds so certain, but then I take in what she’s saying. A day or two! I could be long gone by then, if they find their real lady. I want to see my castle, all of it, while I have the chance. I want to learn how to play my part, find clues about who I’m meant to be.

She’s standing there, all respectful, waiting for me to respond. Well, she’s my servant, isn’t she? And I’m her lady. I get to do what I want for a change.

In my best regal tone, I demand, “What is your name, wench?”

She straightens up. “Beatrix, at your service, my lady.”

“Well, Beatrix, I do not wish to wait. Verily, I desire dry clothes, and I desire—I mean, I want them
now.”
There’s a questioning look in her eyes. Don’t I sound medieval enough? I search around for words, and a line from
The Tempest
pops into my head. “Do not infest your mind with beating on the strangeness of this business.”

“Infest my … ?”

Oh, that wasn’t right at all! Her eyebrows shoot up so high, they disappear beneath her headdress; her mouth is agape. I clamp my teeth together so no more wayward lines can sneak through.

Slowly, very slowly, Beatrix closes her mouth, and a different, thoughtful expression comes into her eyes. “Yes, my lady,” she says, with a curtsey. “Indeed, my lady. I’ll go and see what I can find. In the meantime, if it please your ladyship, do stay under the covers until you stop shivering and talking so odd. Let me care for you, as your lady mother would do were she still alive to see this day. I’ll send for agood hot drink to warm your blood and soothe your poor bumped head. And then I’ll find you something to wear just as fast as ever I can.”

My teeth are chattering. A hot drink
would
feel good, and I suppose it won’t take long. I find myself nodding and sinking back against the pillows.

Once she’s out the door, I look around. The walls aren’t bare stone, like I expected; they’re painted a cheerful gold and green. A long tapestry hangs on the far wall, with horses and hounds. And—Oh! There’s a window seat tucked into the wall’s thickness, but it’s brightened with a scattering of richly embroidered cushions and a shutter pulled back from the window.

“Here you are then!” Beatrix bustles back in with a steaming cup coddled in a cloth. She pulls back the curtain enough to stand by the bed and sits me up, the covers wrapped high around me. As if helping a toddler, she holds the cup to my lips and tilts it as I drink—something hot and slightly bitter—and I can’t stop, because she’s still tilting, and a drowsy warmth starts flowing through my veins.

“One more sip, now,” she’s cooing. “That’s right. Feels lovely, doesn’t it? So relaxing. So restful. Just what you need… .”

My eyelids are growing heavy, my limbs loosen, my hand lets go of the side of the cup …