Hawkmistress! (17 page)

As she was tearing up one of the old petticoats in her pack - she could wash it privately by night, perhaps - she took stock of what she should do now. The old woman had promised that Rory would set her on her road to Nevarsin. Would it be ungracious, she wondered, to insist that she must leave at once? She should have invented someone who was waiting for her in that city and would come to look for her if she did not appear at the appointed time. She made certain that there were no telltale bulges in her clothing, fed the horse and led Rory’s stag-pony inside, spreading fresh straw and fodder for it - she did not like the looks of that heavy-set young roughneck, but the riding-animal was certainly not to blame and should not suffer for her dislike of his master’s face.

Then she stepped back through the door-and paused, hearing the old woman’s voice.

“The youngster was kind to me, Rory. This is an evil thing you do, and a breach of hospitality, which the Gods hate.”

Rory’s voice was sullen. “You know how long I have wished for a horse, and while I dwell here at the world’s end, I shall never have a better chance. If this is a runaway bastard from somewhere, he’ll never be missed. Why, did you see his cloak - in all my years I have never even had a chance at such a cloak, and the brooch in it alone would pay a healer to come all the way from Nevarsin to cure your joint-aches! As for your debt to him, well, he had lodging and fire the night - it was not all kindliness on his part. And I can cut his throat quick as a puff of wind, and he’ll never have the time to be afeared.”

Romilly caught, terrified, at her throat. He meant to kill her! Never had she for a moment thought, even in the poverty of the hut, that her horse and cloak, let alone the copper brooch in its fastening and the money in her small purse, might endanger her very life. She would have turned, noiselessly, to flee; but without cloak or horse, without food, she would die quickly in the bitter cold! She gripped her fingers on the dagger in its sheath at her side. At least, he would find no unaware or easy victim; she would sell her life as dearly as she could. But she must not allow them to know that she knew of their plans, but pretend to suspect nothing till she had her cloak and her pack, and could make a run for the horse. She turned quietly about and went noiselessly back to the byre, where she put her saddle on her horse, and turned him about, ready to flee. Now she must have her cloak, or she would freeze in the hills.

Keeping her hand unobtrusively near the dagger’s hilt, she came back to the door, careful to make some noise as she opened it. When she came in, Rory was sitting on the bench fiddling with his boots, and old Mhari had laid her head back on the pillow and was asleep, or pretending to be. As Romilly came in, Rory said, “Would you give me a hand wi’ my boots, young fellow?”

“Gladly,” Romilly said, thinking fast. If he had his boots off, at least he could not pursue her too quickly. She knelt before him, putting both hands to the boot, and hauled it free of his foot; bent forward to the other. She had both hands on it, and was tugging hard, when Rory bent forward, and she saw the glint of the knife in his hand.

Romilly acted without thought; she pushed hard on the leg with the boot, sending it up so that Rory’s knee slammed into his chin, with a loud crack. The bench went over backward, with Rory tangled in it, and she scrambled to her feet and ran for the door, snatching up her cloak as she ran. She fumbled at the latch-string, her heart pounding, hearing Rory curse and shout behind her. A quick glance told her; his mouth was bleeding, either the blow had knocked out a tooth or cut his lip. She was swiftly through the door and tried to thrust it shut with her shoulder, but he wrestled it open behind her and then he was on her. She did not see the knife; perhaps he had dropped it, perhaps he meant to use only his huge hands. Her tunic ripped all the way down as he grabbed her; he pulled her close, his hands closing around her throat; then his eyes widened as he saw the ripped tunic and he tore it all the way down.

“By the Burden! Tits like a very cow! A girl, huh?” He grabbed Romilly’s hand, which was clawing at his eyes, and held her immobile; then whirled her about and marched her back into the little kitchen.

“Hey, there! Granny! Look what I found, after all? Hell’s own waste to hurt her - haven’t I been after a wife these four years, and not a copper for a bride-price, and now one comes to my very door!” He laughed, jubilantly. “Don’t be frightened, wench, I wouldn’t hurt a hair of your little head now! I’ve something better to do, hey, Granny? And she can stay with you and wait on you while I’m out at the farming, or away to the mill or the town!” Laughing, the big man squeezed her tight in his arms and mashed a kiss against her mouth. “Runaway servant girl to the gentry, are you, then? Well, pretty thing, here you’ll have your own kitchen and hearthfire, what do you say to that?”

Paralyzed by this torrent of words, Romilly was silent, filled with terror, but thinking faster than she had ever thought in her life.

He wanted her. He would not hurt her, at least for a little while, while he still hoped to have her. His mouth against hers filled her with revulsion, but she concealed the crawling sense of sickness and forced herself to smile up at him.

“At least you are no worse than the man they would have had me marry,” she said, and realized as she said it that she was telling the absolute truth. “Old, more than twice my age, and always pawing at helpless girls, while you, at least, are young and clean.”

He said, contented, “I think we will suit well enough when we are used to each other; and we need only share a bed, a meal and a fireside, and we will be as lawful wedded as if Lord Storn himself had locked the catenas on our arms like gentlefolk! I will build up the fire in the inner room where there is a bed, and you can get about cooking a meal for us to share. There is flour in the sacks, and can you make a loaf with blackfruit? I do like a good fruity bread, and I’ve had nothing but nut-porridge for forty days and more!”

“I will try my best,” Romilly said, forcing her voice to calm, “and if I am not sure what to do, no doubt mestra Mhari will tell me.”

“Ah, you think yourself my old Granny’s betters, do you?” Rory demanded truculently, “You will say Dame Mhari till she gives you leave to say Granny, do you hear?”

Romilly realized, abruptly, that she had automatically used the form of a noblewoman speaking to an inferior. She hung her head, pretending to be ashamed, and murmured, “I meant no harm-“

“And since you’re a girl, it’s more suitable for you to wash Granny’s face and put her into a clean bedgown, get her ready for the day,” Rory said, “D’you think you could sit in the hearth for a little today, Granny? If our fine lady here gets you fresh and ready?”

“Aye, I’ll sit in the hearth for your wedding meal, Rory,” said the old woman, and Romilly, biting her lip, said meekly that she would be glad to do whatever she could for Dame Mhari.

“I knew she was too fine-handed for a lad,” said Mhari, as Romilly bent to lift her, and went to dip hot water from the barrel. As she washed the old woman’s face and hands, and brought a clean but threadbare gown from the ancient clothes-press in the corner, she was thinking harder than she had ever done. How could she escape? They would watch her moment by moment until the marriage was consummated; by which time she thought grimly, they would think her too beaten to try and get away. It made her sick at her stomach to think of that great unwashed lout taking her to bed, but she supposed it wouldn’t kill her, and since she was actually in the bleeding part of her woman’s cycles, at least he was unlikely to make her pregnant. And then she stopped short in what she was doing, remembering gleefully something Darissa had whispered to her a few months after her marriage. At the time, Romilly had only been embarrassed and giggled about it - what great sillies men were, to be superstitious about such a thing! But now she could make it serve her.

“I am cold, wet and bare like this,” the old woman complained, “Wrap me in my gown, girl - what am I to call you?”

Romilly started to tell the woman her name - after all, now they knew she was a girl what did it matter? - but then she thought; her father might seek her even as far as this. She said the first name that came into her head.

“Calinda.”

“Wrap me in my gown, Calinda, I am shivering!”

“I am sorry, Mother Mhari,” she said, using the meek term of respect for any aging woman, “I had a heavy thought-” and she bent close to the old woman as she wrapped her in gown and woolly shawl and then laid her on her pillows, drying her hands with a towel. “I-I-I will gladly wed your grandson-” and she thought the words would choke her.

“And well you should,” said the old woman, “He is a good kind man, and he will use you well and never beat you unless you really deserve it.”

Romilly gulped; at least that she would never have bad to fear from Dom Garris. “B-but,” she said, pretending to be embarrassed, which was not difficult, “He will be angry with me if he tries to share my bed this night, for my-my cycles are on me, and I am bleeding….”

“Ah, well,” said the old lady, “You did well to tell me; men are funny that way, he might well have beaten you for it; my man used to thump me well if I did not tell him well before the time, so he could keep away or sleep with the dairy-maid-ah, yes, once I was well off, I had a dairy-maid and a cook-wench at one time, and now look at me. But with a woman’s care, I will grow better soon, and Rory will not have to cook porridge and bake bread, which is no work for a man. Look what a fine man you are getting, he never scorned to wash and turn his old Granny in her bed, or bring her food, or even empty my chamberpot. And speaking of a chamberpot-” She gestured, and Romilly fetched the utensil and supported the old woman.

She thinks this life will make me well off; so long as I have a man for husband, I need ask no better than to drudge about barn and byre and kitchen, waiting hand and foot on a bedridden old woman, so long as 1 have the name of wife. She shivered as she thought, perhaps some women would truly think themselves well off - a home of their own and a hardworking man, one who was kind to his old grandmother. She settled the woman in the bed again and went to empty the chamberpot. She was used to working with her hands about animals, and the work itself did not disgust her, but she was frightened of Rory.

I did not refuse Dom Garris to be married by force to a woodsman, however honest or good. And now I have won myself a few days time. I will pretend to be meek and mild and biddable, and soon or late, they must let me out of their sight.

When the old woman was washed and dressed in a fresh gown, Romilly went to the pump in the yard to draw water, placing the great kettle over the fire to heat for the washing of linens, then, guided by directions from Dame Mhari, set about mixing and baking a loaf of bread with small lumps of sliced blackfruit in the dough. When the bread was baking in the covered pot in the ashes by the hearth, and Dame Mhari dozing in her box-bed, she sat down on one of the benches to rest for a moment, and think.

She had gained time. A swift visit to the outhouse showed her that her horse had been unsaddled again and tied with hard knots; well, if a moment served to escape, she must somehow have her dagger ready to cut the knots and flee; choose a moment, perhaps, when Rory had his boots off, and hopefully his breeches too. Her pack she could abandon if she must - the food was gone and she could live without the other things - but her warm cloak she must have, her boots and her saddle … though she could ride bareback better than many women could ride saddled. Food, too, she must somehow have; it would not be stealing, she had worked hard and cared for the old woman well, it was but her just due.

Perhaps tonight, when they were all asleep, she thought, and, hauling her weary body up from the bench, set about washing the musty linens from the old woman’s bed, and the sheets from the bed in the inner room, which had been long unused - Dame Mhari said that when the weather was warm, Rory slept in there, and only in chilly weather did he sleep on the pallet before the fire. Well, that was something - if she must bed that wretched animal of a man, at least it would not be under the peering eyes of the old grandmother, as it might have been in a poorer cottage with only one room. She shuddered suddenly - was this how folk lived, away from the Great Houses?

Should I give up, flee back to my family, exchange my freedom then for the protected life I would live as the wife of Dom Garris? And for a moment, shivering at the thought of what must lie before her, even if she escaped from Rory and his grandmother, she was halfway tempted.

Like a hawk on a block, chained, hooded and dumb, in exchange for being fed and cherished, guarded preciously as a prize possession….

Oh, Preciosa, and that was what I would have brought to you… . she thought, and was fiercely glad she had freed the hawk. At least she would never be Darren’s possession. She could have kept it clear with her conscience to keep Preciosa herself - the hawk had returned to her of its free will, out of love, after being allowed to fly free. She would never return to Darren.

She is free, she belongs to no man. Nor shall I. Rory might take her - once - as the price of making him think her beaten and submissive. But she would never belong to him; he could not enslave her. Like a hawk badly trained, the moment she was tested in free flight, she would be away into the sky…

She sighed, ferociously sousing the sheets in the harsh soap. Her hands were sore, and ached, but the sheets were clean - at least she would not be taken in that man’s dirty bed!

She hung the sheets on a rack near the fire to dry, took the bread from the oven, and hunted in the rickety shelves of the kitchen; she found dried beans and herbs, and put them in the empty kettle to make soup. Rory, stamping in snow-covered from outside, saw her doing this and beamed, flinging down a sack of mushrooms on the table.