Darkover: First Contact (29 page)

“You are not happy about this marriage,” he said, with his formidable scowl, and felt her flinch again as she had done when he squeezed her hand.

She lowered her head. She said at last, “I have no wish to marry; and I wept because no one asks a girl if she wishes to be given in marriage.”

Bard frowned, hardly believing what he heard. “What would a woman do, in the name of Avarra, if she was
not
married? Surely you do not wish to stay at home all your days till you are old?”

“I would like to have the choice to do that, if I wished,” Carlina said. “Or perhaps to choose for myself whom I would marry. But I would rather not marry at all. I would like to go to a Tower as a
leronis
, perhaps to keep my virginity for the Sight, as some of mother’s maidens have done, or perhaps to live among the priestesses of Avarra, on the holy isle, belonging only to the Goddess. Does that seem so strange to you?”

“Yes,” Bard said. “I have always heard that every woman’s greatest desire is to marry as soon as possible.”

“And so it is, for many women, but why should women be any more alike than you and Geremy? You choose to be a soldier, and he to be a
laranzu;
would you say that everyone should choose to be a soldier?”

“It’s different with men,” Bard said. “Women don’t understand these things, Carlie. You need a home and children and someone to love you.” He picked up her hand and carried the small soft fingers to his lips.

Carlina felt sudden anger, mingled with a flood almost of pity.

She felt like giving him an angry reply, but he was looking at her so gently, with so much hopefulness, that she forbore to speak what she thought.

He could not be blamed; if there was blame, it was her father’s, who had given her to Bard as if she were the red cord he wore about the warrior’s braid, a reward for his bravery in battle. Why should she blame him for the customs of the land which made of a woman only a chattel, a pawn for her father’s political ambitions?

He followed some of this, his brow knitted as he sat holding her hand. “Do you not want to wed with me at all, Carlie?”

“Oh, Bard—” she said, and he could hear the pain in her voice—“it is not
you.
Truly, truly, my foster brother and my promised husband, since I must marry, there is no other man I would rather have. Perhaps one day—when I am older, when we are both older—then, if the gods are kind to us, we may come to love one another as is seemly for married people.” She clasped his big hand in her two small ones, and said, “The gods grant it may be so.”

And then someone came up to claim Carlina for a dance; and though Bard glowered again, she said, “Bard, I must; one of the duties of a bride is to dance with all who ask her, as you very well know, and every maiden here who wishes to marry this year thinks it lucky to dance with the groom. Later we can speak together, my dear.”

Bard yielded her, reluctantly, and, recalled to his duty, moved about the room, dancing with three or four of Queen Ariel’s women, as was suitable for a man attached to the king’s household, his banner bearer. But again and again, his eyes sought out Carlina, where her blue robe, pearl-embroidered, and her dark hair, drew his awareness back again.

Carlina. Carlina was
his
, and he realized that he hated, with a violent surge of loathing, every man who touched her. How dare they? What was she about, flirting, raising her eyes to any man who came to dance with her, as if she were some shameless camp follower? Why did she encourage them? Why couldn’t she be shy and modest, refusing dances except with her promised husband? He knew this was unreasonable, but it seemed to him that she was trying to win the approval and the flirtatious smile of every man who touched her. He restrained his wrath when she danced with Beltran, and her father, and the grizzled veteran of sixty whose granddaughter had been her foster sister, but every time she danced with some young soldier or guardsman of the king’s household, he fancied that Queen Ariel was looking at him triumphantly.

Of course what she had said about not wanting to marry at all—that was girlish nonsense, he didn’t believe a word of it. No doubt she was cherishing some girl’s passion for some man, someone not really worthy of her, to whom her parents would not give her; and now that she was handfasted, and old enough to dance with men who were not her kinsmen, she could seek him out. Bard knew that if he found Carlina with another man, he would tear the man limb from limb, and Carlina herself he would—would he hurt her? No. He would simply demand of her what she had given the other man, make her so much his that she would never think of any other man alive. He scanned the ranks of guardsmen jealously, but Carlina seemed to pay no more attention to any one than another, dancing courteously with all comers but never accepting a second dance with any.

But no, she was dancing again with Geremy Hastur, a little closer to him than she had been to any other, she was laughing with him, his head was bent over her dark one. Was she sharing confidences, had she told
him
that she did not want to marry Bard? Was it Geremy, perhaps, she wished to marry? After all, Geremy was of the Hastur kin, descended from the legendary sons and daughters of Cassilda, Robardin’s daughter . . . kin to the very gods, or so they said. Damn all the Hastura, the di Asturiens were an ancient and noble lineage too, why should she prefer Geremy? Rage and jealousy surging in him, he crossed the floor toward them; he still had enough awareness of good manners to refrain from interrupting their dance, but as the music halted and they stepped apart, laughing, he moved toward them so purposefully that he shoved another couple, without apology.

“It is time again to dance with your promised husband, my lady,” he said.

Geremy chuckled. “How impatient you are, Bard, considering that you will have the rest of your lives together,” he said, resting an affectionate hand on Bard’s elbow. “Well, Carlie, at least you know your promised husband is eager!”

Bard felt the twist of malice in the taunt and said angrily, “My
promised wife
—” he put heavy emphasis on the words, “is
Lady Carlina
to you, not
Carlie!
”

Geremy stared up at him, still not believing he was not making a joke. “It is for my foster sister to tell me when I am no longer welcome to call her by the name I called her when her hair was too short to braid,” he said genially. “What has come over you, Bard?”

“The Lady Carlina is pledged as my wife,” Bard said stiffly. “You will conduct yourself toward her as is seemly for a married woman.”

Carlina opened her mouth in amazement, and shut it again. “Bard,” she said with careful patience. “perhaps when we are truly man and wife and not merely a handfasted couple I shall allow you to tell me how I am to conduct myself toward my foster brothers; and perhaps not. At the moment, I shall continue to do exactly as I please in that respect! Apologize to Geremy, or don’t presume to show your face again to me tonight!”

Bard stared at her in dismay and anger. Did she intend to make him crawl before this sandal wearer, this
laranzu
wizard? Was she willing to insult her promised husband in public over Geremy Hastur? Was it really Geremy she cared for then?

Geremy stared, too, hardly believing what he was hearing, but King Ardrin was looking in their direction, and there was enough trouble in this household tonight—he sensed it—so that a quarrel would not be wise. Besides, he didn’t want to quarrel with his friend and foster brother. Bard was alone here, with no father to stand beside him, and no doubt he was feeling touchy because his closest kin could not be troubled to make half a day’s ride to see him honored as the king’s champion, and married to the king’s daughter, so he tried to ease it over.

“I don’t need any apologies from Bard, foster sister,” he said. “If I offended him, I’ll willingly beg his pardon instead. And there is Ginevra waiting for me. Bard, my good friend, be the first to wish us well; I have asked her for leave to write my father to make arrangements for a handfasting in
that
quarter, and she has not refused me, only said that she must ask leave of
her
father to accept my offer. So if all the old folk are agreeable, I may stand, a year or so from now, where you stand tonight! Or even, if the gods are kind, in the hills of my own country—”

Carlina touched Geremy’s arm. “Are you homesick, Geremy?” she asked gently.

“Homesick? Not really, I suppose. I was sent from Carcosa before it could truly be my home,” he said. “But sometimes—at sunset—my heart sickens for the lake, and for the towers of Carcosa, rising against the setting sun, and for the frogs that cry there after the sun goes down, the sound that was my first lullaby.”

Carlina said gently, “I have never been far from home; but it must be sadness beyond all other sadness. I am a woman and I was brought up to know that whatever happened, I must leave my home someday. . . .”

“And now,” said Geremy touching her hand, “the gods have been kind, for your father has given you to a member of his household and you need never leave your home.”

She smiled up at him, forgetting Bard, and said, “If one thing could reconcile me to this marriage, I think it would be that.”

The words were like salt in a raw wound to Bard, where he stood listening. He broke in sharply, “Go, then, and join Ginevra,” and put his hand, not gently, on Carlina’s, drawing her away. When they were out of earshot he spun her around roughly to face him.

“So—did you tell Geremy, then, that you did not want to marry me? Have you been babbling this tale to every man you dance with, making a game of me behind my back?”

“Why, no,” she said, looking up at him in surprise. “Why should I? I spoke my heart to Geremy because he is my foster brother and Beltran’s sworn brother, and I think of him as I would of my own blood kin, born of my father and my mother!”

“And are you sure it is so innocent with him? He comes from the mountain country,” Bard said, “where a brother may lie with his sister; and the way he touched you—”

“Bard, that is too ridiculous for words,” Carlina said, impatiently. “Even if we were wedded and bedded, such jealousy would be unseemly! Are you going to call challenge, when we are wedded, on every man to whom I speak civilly? Must I be afraid to say a pleasant word to my own foster brothers? Will you be jealous next of Beltran, or of Dom Cormel?” He was the veteran of fifty years service with her father and grandfather.

Before her wrathful gaze he lowered his eyes. “I can’t help it, Carlina. I am frantic with fear that I would lose you,” he said. “It was cruel of your father not to give you to me now, since he had decided on the wedding. I cannot help but think he is making game of me, and that later, before we are bedded, he will give you to someone else he likes better, or who will pay a bigger bride-price, or whose station would make him a more powerful alliance! Why should he give you to his brother’s bastard son?”

Before the dismay in his eyes Carlina was flooded with pity. Behind the arrogance of his words, was he so insecure? She reached out to take his hand. “No, Bard, you must not think that. My father loves you well, my promised husband, he has promoted you over the head of my own brother Beltran, he has made you his banner bearer and given you the red cord; how can you think he would play you false that way? But he would have cause to be angry if you made a silly quarrel with Geremy Hastur at our festival! Now promise me you will not be so silly and jealous again, Bard, or I will quarrel with you too!”

“If we were truly wedded and bedded,” he said, “I should have no cause for jealousy, for I would know you were mine beyond recall. Carlina,” he begged, suddenly, taking up both her hands and covering them with kisses, “the law recognizes that we are man and wife; the law allows us to consummate our marriage whenever we will. Let me have you tonight and I will
know
that you are mine, and be certain of you!”

She couldn’t help herself; she shrank away in mortal terror. She had won a respite, and now he made this demand of her, as the price of ending his jealous scenes. She knew that her shrinking was hurting him, but she lowered her eyes and said, “No, Bard. I do not seek to—to pluck fruit from the blossoming tree, nor should you. All things come in their proper time.” She felt stupid, prim, as she mouthed the old proverb. “It is unseemly to ask me this at our handfasting!”

“You said you hoped you might come to love me—”

“At the proper time,” she said, and knew her voice was shrill.

He retorted, “This
is
the proper time, and you know it! Unless you know something I do not, that your father plans to play me false and give to another, meanwhile binding me to him!”

Carlina swallowed, knowing that he really believed this, and really sorry for him.

He saw her hesitation, sensing her pity, and put his arm around her, but she drew back with such distress that he let her go. He said bitterly, “It’s true, then. You do not love me.”

“Bard,” she begged, “give me time. I promise you, when the time has come, I will not shrink from you then. But I was not . . . not told of this, I was told I should have a year . . . perhaps when I am older—”

“Will it take a year to resign yourself to the horrible fate of sharing my bed?” he asked, with such bitterness that she wished she did not feel this dreadful reluctance.

“Perhaps,” she said, faltering, “when I am older, I will not feel this way—my mother says I am too young for wedding or for bedding, so perhaps when I am old enough—”

“That is folly,” he said scornfully. “Younger maidens than you are wedded every day, and bedded too. That is a ruse to reconcile me to waiting and then to losing you altogether; but if we have lain down together, my sweetheart, then no living person can separate us, not your father nor your mother. . . . I give you my word you are not too young, Carlina! Let me prove that to you!” He took her in his arms, kissing her, crushing her mouth under his; she struggled silently, in such dismay that he let her go.