Wildwing (16 page)

Fitting

I
stand in my shift in the middle of the solar, the candles guttering on their stands, a cold wind howling outside the shuttered window. The fire in the hearth struggles to keep the chill at bay. Two more days and the lift will be standing in the field, and with no word of Sir Hugh arriving, it’s clear I won’t know by then whether I’m safe here or not. And now there’s William… .

“Here you go then, my lady,” says Beatrix. She holds the golden kirtle high so I can slip it over my head. There aren’t any sleeves yet; this is only the second fitting. She fluffs the skirt out full around me and starts tugging at the waist to see how much tighter it should go.

There’s a quick, easy confidence in the way she handles the fabric that reminds me of Mum. I never got that good. Mum said it was all the time I spent on schooling and reading and the like. If I were at it twelve hours a day, then I’d know my way around a dress, that’s what she always said.

Suddenly, sadness takes hold of my heart and rips it down the middle like a length of cloth. It should be Mum sewing my wedding dress! Mum, who’s probably sitting up late right now, stitching; a cup of tea growing cold by her side; no company to keep the silence at bay. I wish she were here to see me wed.

Or do I?

I look down at the priceless fabric swirling about me, and I start to feel embarrassed. Fabric sent by a king for my marriage to a man I don’t even know. When there’s another, a lad I know better all the time. I know the light in his eyes, and the gentle knowledge in his voice, his hands. I know how his face is alert when he’s judging the wind, how it softens when he gazes at me. How intently he kept me safe.

A shining circle appears on the cloth. Another, and another.

“Tears?” says Beatrix. “Why, my lady! Whatever is the matter?”

And then I’m sobbing, and Beatrix is wrapping her arm around me and leading me to the window seat, replacing the slinky silk with a thick, warm fur. She wraps me in a comforting hug, not worried about my grand-ladyness at all.

“Now, now,” she murmurs. “They say Sir Hugh is delayed again. It may be a good long while until he comes. And it’s not so bad, is marriage. Not so bad at all.”

Not a Lady

B
eatrix says I might want to spend more time stitching, or learning how to oversee the castle’s works and accounts. And the chapel. I might spend more time in the chapel. Not quite so much time in the mews, my lady, or out in the field. That’s what she says.

But there’s nowhere else I want to be. I’m only alive now when I’m with the falcons, with William. My brain keeps trying to remind me that Sir Hugh will be here before long, that the lift is about to arrive, that I must be prepared… .

And then my heart tells my brain to be quiet, so it can picture how William’s eyes scan the sky, seeing everything, no matter how small; how his hands are strong and gentle at the same time, holding a bird, or tying that one-handedfalconer’s knot, or grasping the pommel for the smooth leap up to his horse’s back; how the corners of his mouth lift in that irresistible smile?and there’s no room to think of anything else. No room at all.

The dead tree stands like a sentinel at the edge of the field. Tomorrow at sunset the lift will be waiting beneath that outstretched branch. I need to decide. But now the decision is about so much more than merely whether I’m safe.

William and I are walking around the field as Pilgrim circles overhead. Beatrix joined us at first, but soon stopped and, murmuring an apology, settled down against her favorite tree. She wasn’t awake for long.

When William decides Pilgrim is starting to loop too wide, he pulls the lure from his pouch. This time, he hands it to me. “When she turns downwind and sees you,” he says.

I watch carefully, and at just the right time, I play out the lure and swing it overhead. I see the sudden alertness in Pilgrim’s body, the tight-tucked wings. Then there’s the split-second brutal descent, and a raging wind roars past my head.

Pilgrim is on the ground, atop the lure, the proud conqueror.

William pulls out a tidbit, but instead of giving it to her himself, he hands it to me. So now I’m the one going up softand low to Pilgrim, tempting her to give up the lure for my glove. It’s me standing with her on my fist.

I try to whistle her tune, and William laughs. “You’ve got it wrong,” he says, and he whistles it softly, the right way, next to my ear. I try again, and this time I get it right.

With his easy stride, William walks to the trees and cuts a long, sturdy twig. He bends it into an arc and sticks both ends in the ground, making a perch. I kneel so Pilgrim can step over, and William kneels next to me, tying the one-handed knot. Laughing, leaning over …

And then we stop.

His face is a few inches from mine. His eyes are on my mouth, and his smile is replaced by something so intense, I feel it on my skin, like the air is electric. His hand reaches over and covers my bare hand on the ground. I hear his breath, and he’s drawing closer, his lips brushing mine… .

He wrenches back. “What am I doing?” he cries, staring at his hands like they’ve betrayed him. “Forgive me, my lady. Forgive me!”

I lean so close, only a few inches separate us. “You want to kiss me,” I whisper.

He breathes in sharply, staring at my mouth.

“So kiss me,” I whisper again, so full of wanting, that’sall there is. And he feels the same, I know he does, it’s thick in the air around us.

His face is all cheekbone and strong jaw. “But … you’re to marry Sir Hugh.”

My head is reeling, my heart flying. Is that all that stands between us?

“I’ve heard”?the next words come from deep inside me, from a place I don’t recognize?”I’ve heard even married ladies sometimes kiss others.”

“How can you think that’s all it is?” His hands tighten into fists. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Don’t make you say what?”

“That I don’t deserve you!” he says, in a voice of pain and longing. “Me, who came wandering out of the woods and had to make a family from naught. An orphan! A mongrel! Do I have to make it any more clear? I’m not worthy of you.”

“And if I weren’t a lady,” I whisper. “Would you kiss me then?”

His voice is low. “I would do more than kiss you, by God.”

And there’s nothing between us. Nothing but a title.
Lady
.

Suddenly, I want to tell him everything! How I came from another time, and found the wrecked ship, the jewelbox. How I never bumped my head at all—me, a bastard maid, who was emptying rubbish bins and sweeping floors and curtseying to my betters! How there isn’t a drop of noble blood in my body!

But then I remember last night, how I stood in the solar wearing that golden gown, Sir Hugh’s wedding gown, knowing William had my heart. And suddenly I think,
I can have both, a name and love. I don’t have to give up either one
.

I open my mouth, and the words that come out surprise me. “Just pretend,” I whisper, lifting my hand to his cheek. “Pretend I’m not a lady.”

I don’t know if it’s my words, or the touch of my hand, but his blue eyes get deeper, so I’m falling right into them, and his breath comes faster.

“By God’s blood, I will,” he says.

His hand reaches up and cradles the back of my head, pulling me closer, and closer, and then his lips are on mine. We melt together until I don’t know where my mouth stops and his starts. His other hand is circling my waist, laying me gently on the grass, and my heart is beating in time with the heartbeat I feel pulsing through his tunic, and his skin is warm beneath the fabric, and—

“My lady!” calls Beatrix from a distance. “William! Wherever have you got to with that bird?”

We sit up with a jolt, staring at each other. I’m breathing too hard to answer.

“My lady!” she cries, a little louder.

I finally find my voice. “We’ll be right there, Beatrix!”

But William doesn’t let go yet. He presses close again for one more kiss, and then, very slowly, he pulls away. And smiles the most glorious sunlit smile I’ve ever seen.

Grass

I
’m not walking across the bailey; I’m flying. I’ve never felt so free! It’s all I can do to keep from grinning in the most unladylike way. Each time I glanced at William on the ride back, his eyes were on me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. When we got off our horses, Beatrix gave me a questioning look before bustling off. Does she suspect something? I laugh, because even if she does, she won’t say anything. I know she won’t!

I turn toward the walled garden so I can be alone. I want to sit on the bench beneath the pear tree and hug this feeling close, remembering William’s lips on mine, the warmth of his breath.

A squat figure appears at the door to the keep, shielding his eyes with a hand as he peers from side to side: Eustace,searching for victims to find fault with, no doubt. I quicken my steps, praying he won’t spot me. I couldn’t stand to have him get in the way of this wonderful feeling.

I’m nearing the garden door when he calls, “Lady Matilda!”

I pretend not to hear him. I reach for the latch?

He calls again. “Lady Matilda! I beg a moment!”

Rapid footsteps scurry up behind me. I stop, sighing. There’s nothing for it. Just let it be quick. I put on my gracious lady face and turn. “Good day, Eustace.”

He sweeps one of his too-deep bows. “I have been searching for you everywhere, my lady,” he says, rising. “I know you eagerly await his lordship, and would wish to be informed as soon as—”

Suddenly he stops, transfixed. He’s staring at a spot above my left eyebrow. Whatever he sees there pulls his hand toward my temple, slowly, as if he were under a magician’s spell. I’m so shocked by the idea of his touching me, I stand frozen. He reaches into my hair, then slowly pulls his hand back, clutching something between thumb and fingers.

We both stare down: three blades of brown, dried grass, crumpled from the weight of my head as I lay with William in the field.

We gasp at the same time. I look up with a start. His eyes are like a rat’s eyes piercing the dark, a rat that has discovered a sack of grain and bares its teeth, ready to gnaw at the cloth that holds everything in, making a small hole, ripping it wider, and wider, until suddenly the grain spills out on the floor for everyone to see.

How could I have let my guard down? I force myself into my role, change my expression from shock to indignation. “How
dare
you!”

“What can I have been thinking?” he says. “I most humbly beg your pardon.”

But he doesn’t sound nearly humble enough for comfort. He’s staring again at the grass, at me, at the mews, and his fingers are rolling the dried blades back and forth, back and forth. Again I hear the words,
But your hands … Missing even one of them could be … inconvenient
. And dallying with the lord’s lady is a crime far worse than stealing a slice of bread. I need to pull his eyes away from the mews, now, before his thoughts can go any further.

Cloaking myself in the imperious tones Caroline’s mother used at her back door, I throw my shoulders back as straight as they should have been from the moment we met. “You will
never
touch me again!” The scorn in my voice reaches him; I have his full attention now. “If the wind blowsleaves and grass about, what concern could it be of yours? Are you in charge of my grooming now?”

He forces a tight smile, as if I were making a joke. “No, indeed, my lady.”

“You had something you wished to tell me?” Finally, the grass drops from his fingers to the ground. “It’s … nothing, my lady. Forgive me. I fear I have inconvenienced you.”

I incline my head slightly. “Now, if you will pardon me.” He bows. I turn toward the door, stepping on the blades of grass, grinding the evidence into dirt.