The Tears of the Sun (38 page)

The lesson concentrated on defensive and aggressive moves that an unarmed woman, mounted, could use when under attack. With her new understanding of her danger from her mother's actions, Yseult wondered at the content of her lesson since January. They finished with his usual command.

“Ride now, for an hour, practicing your canter and trot.”

Another hour of freedom from the solar was precious to her.

I might not be horse-mad like some girls,
she thought.
But I'll take a horse over alone with Mama right now, any day! And I don't even have to take an escort, with men so short.

She finished off her workout by taking the bridle path northeast along 99E, up to the tangle of vines and quick growing sumac, poplar and hemlock and sapling oak that was rapidly obliterating the burned-out site of old Woodburn. Her father and later her mother had supervised the stripping and destruction of the deserted town. She could just remember watching the foresters fire the controlled burn when she was five, and the quickgrowing trees planted for fuel and coppice were already fifteen or twenty feet tall in this moist mild climate.

She circled north on the edge of the raw young forest. Only the castle folk used South Boones Ferry Road, so she shook the reins and galloped over the familiar winding path, spurring Iomedea around the bend into Parr. A man stepped into the path and snatched at the bay's bridle. Yseult gasped but there was no time to be afraid, or to think. Horsemaster Johannsen's voice rang in her head.

“Wait for it, wait . . . four, three, two . . .”

Iomedea reared and crow-hopped, obedient to the signals she sent. She raised her quirt . . .

Thee may not need it, little Mistress,
she heard Johannsen say in her mind,
But nonetheless, I'll be teaching thee a few maneuvers. The mare's a nice girl and will learn well, and it never hurts to know.

Even as she brought the quirt down, cutting at the ragged man, her eyes met his. He started, dodged the whip and jumped back into the trees. Yseult gasped and set Iomedea forward at a hard gallop, her heart pounding.

I didn't think I would
need
a groom here! On my own land! Who
was
that?
she wondered.
I thought I knew him, just for an instant . . . I'd better tell the guard captain right away.

Anxiety and fear rode with her as she hurried back to town at a trot. She pulled up at the edge of the built-up area; Gervais wasn't big enough to rate a city wall. A Tinerant caravan was setting up as she did, their barrel-shaped house-wagons grouped in a square and a wild music of violins and guitars sounding; the ragged, gaudy figures made extravagant bows . . . one of them still juggling cups and daggers and apples while he did. A storyteller was declaiming to an audience of village youngsters and youths:
“Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars . . .”

She threaded her way through the crowds, not presuming too much on deference; she was a lady, but a very young one. Early evening, just as the sun set, was her favorite time in Gervais; everybody was in a good mood and thronging the streets between the shingled brick and half-timber houses and workshops, calling greetings and laughing. Hooves clattered on brick or asphalt paving.

Then a chill. A detachment of men-at-arms in the black armor of the Protector's Guard lounged in front of the Chinese Hand Inn, drinking beer and munching on bread and bowls of sweet-and-sour chicken. They whistled and wolf-called as she rode by, laughing at her glare and elevated nose. An under-officer came out of the inn with a wineglass in one hand and a chicken leg in the other to snarl at them: “Show some manners there, you dogs! Can't you see that's a lady?”

Doubtless they were the escort for some courier. Yseult arrived back at the castle with her cheeks flushed by more than good exercise.

As she dismounted in the stables, her uncle Guelf Mortimer strode in, calling for his groom. He saw her.

“Where've you been,
brat
? Your mother's that worried about you! Go to her
right now
!”

Yseult ducked around him and ran. Guelf was rough spoken and known to slap people who displeased him. Her other uncle, Jason, many years dead, had been rough mannered, too. Yseult rushed into the castle.

Why's he so mean? I might as well
stay
downstairs with the cow-handed sewing maids,
she thought resentfully.
At least they are polite to me! Of course, they have to be.

In the great hall she hesitated, torn between conflicting desires. The chapel and prayer called; Guelf had ordered her to go to Mary, and she really needed to change.

Chapel can wait until after dinner,
she decided.
I'll be calmer then and won't hurry things. I must listen for the voice of the saint or the Immaculata with calm or I won't hear it. So, what to do now? It's a toss-up. Will Mama be angrier with me for coming to see her in all my dirt or if I come in later and make her wait? I'd better go see her first.

She scratched at the door and slipped in when her mother called.

“Back?” asked Mary.

Yseult eyed her warily. She stood by the fireplace stirring the coals with an iron poker. There was a sheet of paper in her hand and the grate was adrift in ashes. Ashes sullied the expensive rug from Oregon City that Mary stood on. More papers littered the large worktable by the southern windows.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Well, how do you like spending the day with the sewing maids?”

There was small sneer in Mary's voice.
What is she sneering about? Me liking the maids? Or did Uncle Guelf upset her? He's always telling her what to do and it makes her mad.

She answered the question with a question. Father Haggerty got annoyed when she lied to her mother. “Working with five cow-handed seamstress apprentices? How do you think I like it?”

Mary giggled, a sound Yseult had never heard her make before and tossed the paper into the fire. “Well, indulge your taste for the lower orders. I think . . . it's September . . . October, November, December, January, February, March . . . Yes, my fool of a daughter can leave the company of hicks and fools on April Fool's Day. That works out nicely. You may have your supper and lessons with Virgilia in the evening and break your fast with me in the morning, here in the solar.”

Yseult gaped and then snapped her mouth shut.
What will happen on April Fool's Day?
she wondered.
And why is she giggling? Usually she's mad after Uncle is here!

She watched Mary pick up another piece of paper and suddenly wondered.
Where is her rosary?
I haven't seen it dangling from her belt in months.
She used to make such a point about it, about being Catholic
originally
not a change-Christian . . . but I haven't seen it . . . in forever.

Mary turned towards her, raising the very fine, fair, plucked brows. “Did you need anything before you sit down to lessons?” she asked.

“No, Mama.”

Yseult swallowed and shook her head. She edged her way to the servants' door in the west wall, intent on getting out of her mother's presence.

The rosary was gone from her mother's belt and so was the lovely enameled locket of the Annunciation she had always worn; a gift from her father. Mary giggled again and turned back to the fire.

The main door to the room crashed open. “I arrest you, Mary Liu, Dowager Baroness of Barony Gervais on the charge of High Treason. Do not resist your arrest or you may be put to the Question, or executed out of hand!”

Yseult froze, breathless. Her mind went blank as the Lady Regent's men tramped into the room in full armor, swords drawn. It was as if her mind was an eye, and it had looked into the sun.

Mary reacted instantly. She whirled from the fire, her green silk cote-hardie swirling and flaring into the hot coals as she grabbed the poker like a club and ran. She managed to get two steps from the fireplace, running towards the paper-loaded table, her burning train scattering glowing embers across the carpet. The sergeant behind the captain was faster; two strides brought him within reach of Mary and he swung an armored fist to her stomach with a dull
thud
.

Mary's small body rose until the tips of her satin slippers left the rug, then folded around the point of impact as if bending in. The poker fell with a muffled thud. The servants' door slammed open into Yseult's back, throwing her face down, left cheek skinning across the precious rug and grinding into the hot embers.

“We've got possession of the Castle, Sir Garrick,” said the man at arms standing by her head.

Yseult gasped and choked and sneezed on the fine paper ashes. She lay dazed, unable to move; to understand what was happening; to see anything but the man's steel sabatons and the point of the long sword in his hand; to hear anything but the harsh voices and the creak and clatter of armor as they moved around the infinitely familiar room now made strange. She could see her mother's small body heaving.

The sergeant beat out the flames in Mary's silk skirts with his gauntleted hands. She fought madly as soon as she managed to whoop in a breath; struggling and screeching, clawing at the armored man as though her soft nails could rake through an Associate's panoply. Two more men at arms, men Yseult recognized as part of the group who'd teased her earlier, trotted in with a bundle of white cloth.

Mary was yanked upright, her arms forced into sleeves much too long for her, the tunic buckled in back and then the arms crossed over, wrapped around and the sleeves brought forward to buckle in front. Yseult shuddered, gasping, almost glad she was lying on the ground in case she fainted.

Mama's eyes!
she thought.
They're
black.
No, they can't be. The pupils must have gotten so big I can't see the color . . . I think I'm going to be sick.

A second cloth was wrapped and strapped around her waist and legs. Mary's headdress fell off, her graying blond braid flopping free, coming loose in wild tangles, her body still heaving and twisting in the soldiers' hands. Yseult propped herself up with her right hand, her left cheek throbbing, her left arm a mass of throbbing pain from shoulder to wrist. Three clerks were helping the man called Captain Garrick sort through the papers on the table; he was a tallish brown-haired man with a neat pointed chin-beard and mustache, in full armor except for the gauntlets and helm. Two more were smothering the fire and carefully pulling out the charred scraps.

“How much did she burn?” asked Sir Garrick.

“Hmmm,” said one of the clerks. “I make it ten pages by the surviving edges and corners. She didn't do the best job. What are they?”

“Probably drafts of their letters.” Sir Garrick frowned down at the bound woman struggling and screaming at his feet.

“Adolphus!” he snapped. “Quiet her down. I can't hear myself think.”

A slender unarmed young man wearing a white tabard with a red cross on the shoulder came forward. After frowning for a few minutes he pulled a small brown bottle out of his leather satchel.

“Laudanum,” he said briefly. “I hate to use drugs, but I don't have too many options. I could try to gag her, but the danger of her choking or aspirating is very high. The danger of overdosing her on opium is lower, but still significant. Especially with a case of hysteria like this.”

Sir Garrick grumbled under his breath. “She'll do herself an injury anyway if we don't quiet her, and we need her alive.” Louder he said: “Drugs. I take the responsibility.”

Mary struggled and thrashed like a salmon in a net, but Adolphus was very good; he dribbled the drops in one by one. Yseult blinked, trying to sit. An ungentle hand, gauntleted and armored, pushed her back down.

“Bide where you are, girl,” said the rough voice. “Bide quiet, that's best.”

She lay watching her mother try to spit out the drops and Adolphus pour small amounts of water in her mouth and rub her throat. Gradually her struggles eased and she lay still, breathing heavily. Sir Garrick turned towards Yseult and smiled thinly. She cowered, feeling much like a rabbit confronted by a coyote. Or a wolf.

“Vulture and her chick, all in one net. Neat. Ah, Goodwife Romarec, attend.”

Yseult's teeth chattered; her skin wrinkled as if it were freezing cold, not a warm early evening. Romarec was frog-marched into the room and shot one quick glance at Yseult before bobbing her curtsy to the knight. With her came all the higher staff; one of the men had a bleeding bruise across his cheek and was being assisted by two of the Protector's Guardsmen.

“Sir?” the housekeeper said; there was a slight beading of sweat on her brow, but her voice was quietly respectful.

“Attend, all of you.”

He pulled a leather tube from his belt, twisted off the cap that closed it and shook out a roll of heavy paper, the kind used for official documents. It was sealed with a blob of red wax and ribbon; he held it up, then showed it to his own second-in-command.

“Fulk, witness that this is the Lady Regent's personal seal, and unbroken.”

“I witness it, Sir Garrick.”

The man went on in a loud official voice: “I am Sir Garrick Betancourt, belted knight and second son of the Baron of Bethany, Captain of Lancers in the Protector's Guard under the Grand Constable of the Association, Baroness d'Ath. I will now break the seal and read this warrant.”