Wildwing (17 page)

Bath

A
big wooden tub stands before a blazing fire, and Tip keeps running up the stairs with kettle after kettle of steaming water. I wait in my window seat, wrapped in a soft brown fur.

Today is the fifteenth day. And here I am. I’m staying.

Eustace never said another word about the grass in my hair. If he had any suspicions, they’re obviously long gone.

Outside, the sun is setting. Beyond the gates, down the hill, beneath the dead tree, those last rays must be shining on the filigreed walls of the lift. I can practically see it there, the door slightly ajar, a sudden gust of wind swirling a few crimson leaves onto the floor. They’ll ride back to the twentieth century, not me. Why would I leave? I love being a lady.

The door clicks shut; the tub is full, and Beatrixsprinkles dried petals across the surface. The scent of roses fills the room.

Now, finally, everything is ready. And I haven’t lifted a finger. Haven’t heated the water, or lugged it to the tub, or tested the heat. It’s everyone else’s job to make it perfect for
me
.

Outside, a few clouds are glowing pink.

Beatrix helps me up the step, and I sigh in pleasure as I sink down into the hot perfumed water, my hair floating loose on the surface. The tub is lined with the thickest and softest of cloths, because we wouldn’t want my noble skin—so delicate! so fine!?assaulted by rough splinters, now would we? Beatrix brings a little pot and pours a lavender-scented liquid on my head, working her strong, capable fingers through my hair—no, I’m not even expected to wash my own hair! I’m too grand for that. My eyes close, and I lean back into her hands, perfectly content.

I didn’t try to sneak out the gates, or insist on a late-afternoon ride. After all my efforts to be sure I could reach the lift, I’m letting the day end without even seeing if it came. All my deciding is done. No more maids’ caps and aprons and curtseying for
me
, thank you very much! I’m going to stay here for the rest of my life. I’ve learned my part to perfection. No one looks at me oddly anymore, wondering why I’m eating the trencher or staring around for afork that doesn’t exist. I’ve mastered the art of polite conversation and learned the graceful walk, all long neck, like a swan. I’ve convinced the castle I’m their lady.

As for Sir Hugh, I get the sense from people that he never did meet the real Lady Matilda. And now he’s been delayed again. I wish he would keep being delayed forever. I try to remember the dates of the Crusades, rather hopeful that one is about to start and he’ll be called away for years, leaving me here to wait. And I can wait very patiently indeed, with Will by my side.

Beatrix has long since finished rinsing my hair. I hear her padding out the door, closing it gently behind her.

The room is silent, except for the crackling fire. I lean back into the cloth cushioning the tub and I think once more of the field. But now I picture it in morning light, with Beatrix sleeping and Pilgrim standing on the perch. Will lays his cloak on the ground, and me on the cloak. Again I feel his lips soft on mine, then more insistent, and my mouth is just as eager, as hungry in return. Running my hands through his golden hair … hearing his breath …

I sink deeper into the water, thinking of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. It’s like the embers of a fire are banked inside me, waiting to be sparked back into flame the next time I fall into those deep blue eyes.

Sir Giles

A
few days later I’m walking across the bailey when there’s a shout from the wall walk, and suddenly men-at-arms are pouring from the guardhouse. Edward strides over and says firmly, “I will see you inside the keep, my lady.”

“What is it, Edward? What is happening?”

Then hoofbeats are pounding over the drawbridge, and Edward stops, every muscle tense, placing his body in front of me like a bulwark.

A man rides in on a powerful destrier. His brow is high, his chin juts forward like a prow, his blue-and-gold cloak is of the finest cloth. Two other riders flank him; I recognize one from the lake.

Sir Giles’s men
, Will said that day.
And meaning no good, by the looks of them
. This, then, must be Sir Giles himself.

He draws his horse up in the middle of the bailey and shouts, “I would have word with Sir Hugh!”

A soldier rushes into the keep. But if Sir Giles’s men have been skulking about, he knows full well Sir Hugh is nowhere to be found. What game is he playing?

He turns his mount in a tight circle, surveying the bailey and all its men. His eyes light on me. “Well, well, well,” he says with an unpleasant chuckle. “This must be the valuable young lady in question.”

Part of me wants to retort, “And you must be the devious Sir Giles.” But Edward’s hand is hovering near the hilt of his sword, and I decide it would be wiser to keep my mouth closed.

Eustace appears at the door to the keep. “You wish to speak with me?” he calls, making no move to come down the stairs.

“Not with you,” says Sir Giles, scornfully tossing down the words. “With your master.”

“I talk for him until he returns,” says Eustace.

“Talk!” Sir Giles gives a harsh laugh. “That seems to be all Sir Hugh will give me, talk and parchments and pasty-faced messengers. Then you tell him this: I will have the payment due me, and I will have it soon. In one form”—he pauses for emphasis, his eyes slashing across the bailey—”or another!”

He raises his hand. At the signal, the man behind him reaches for something at his saddle, and I hear the rattle of steel as every man-at-arms prepares to draw his sword. But it’s not a weapon the man produces. He holds up a coarse sack, the kind you’d use to carry potatoes to market, making sure everyone sees it before he hurls it toward the steps. It rolls to a stop near Robert.

Robert picks up the sack, unties it, and looks inside. He blanches. Then he carries it up the stairs and holds it open for Eustace to peer in. Eustace whirls and shouts at Sir Giles, “Sir Hugh will hear of this!”

“My hope exactly,” replies the knight, pulling on his reins. The destrier rears, the very picture of a battle steed. “You have had your warning!” he cries, wheeling to gallop from the bailey. His companions thunder close behind.

The moment they’ve crossed the drawbridge, it begins to rise. The iron gate descends.

Edward’s hand finally comes away from the hilt of his sword.

I whirl toward him. “What was the meaning of that?”

But his face is closed, ever the professional soldier. “My lady, all your questions should be addressed to Eustace.” He moves aside so I can pass.

As I walk toward the keep, everyone seems more awareof me than usual. “Are you all right, my lady?” “Should I call Beatrix for you, my lady?” But I don’t answer them as I should; I’m thinking of the men at the lake, and wondering if I made a mistake by not letting Will warn the castle. What was in that sack?

Only one person stands in the great hall, Tip, his face pale, a cleaning cloth gripped in white hands. I try to smile, hoping I can reassure him in spite of my own concern. He’s too young to look so frightened.

“Have you seen Eustace?” I ask.

He nods toward the far door, the one that makes my chest feel tight whenever I look at it, the one I’ve never gone through. This time I force myself to keep walking.

The staircase is the twin of mine, every step and window slit identical. But the door at the top opens onto a long, deserted corridor, ill lit by a few flickering candles. Sets of dark curtains shroud the outer wall. I reach for an edge of nubby cloth, my heart pounding as if I’m about to unearth some terrible secret. But pulling it open only reveals a chilly room hollowed into the stones, big enough for its straw sleeping pallet, a stool, and little more. The next curtained space is the same, and the next.

Then I hear a rapid scratching sound. I follow it to the end of the hall, where a door is cracked ajar. I peer inside. The steward sits at a table, quill in hand, scribbling furiously on a half-filled sheet of vellum. There’s no fire, no tapestry warming the walls, so the room feels as cold as his eyes. A huge leather-bound book lies open on the table before him, baring a page full of columns and numbers.

Why should I have to feel I’m gathering my courage to speak with this man? Isn’t he my servant, as well as Sir Hugh’s?

I push open the door. “Pardon me, Eustace—”

He leaps to his feet, the quill still clutched in his hand.

“What was that about, just now in the bailey?” My voice isn’t nearly as confident as I’d like.

His face may be drawn, but his eyes become sharper and more calculating than ever; his voice is strangely even. “Sir Giles? Why, he’s only a neighboring knight, my lady, come to discuss a minor land dispute and nothing more. Pray, do not concern yourself.”

“Eustace, he threatened the castle! What was in that sack?”

He ignores the question. “Threatened? No, not so much as all that. Such matters, as you must be aware, go on between knights all the time.” The quill turns around and around in his fingers. “It hardly warrants your attention. Indeed, I expect the matter to be resolved quite soon.”

But that’s not how it felt in the bailey. The energy there was a spark only waiting for wind to blaze it into an inferno. And so I press on. “How soon? And what is it needs to be resolved?”

“Once Sir Hugh returns, this …
disagreement
will be settled. As for the specific details, forgive me, my lady, but I feel it is not my place to say. I am sure his lordship will give you all the answers you need.” He holds a hand out toward the vellum. “I am writing him even now.”

Urging him to come home, most likely. Now there’s another feeling tangling up my thoughts. I’d like to know what’s happening, but not at the cost of Sir Hugh’s returning. I want things to go on as they’ve been.

Eustace walks around the table. With a respectful bow, he opens the door wider, suggesting I leave. “Is there anything you wish me to add to the letter, my lady?”

I shake my head.

“A land dispute and nothing more,” he repeats.

I walk back down the stairs feeling I know even less than I did when I came. Is it true that Eustace must wait for Sir Hugh to tell me the details, or am I being intentionally misled? I’m angry at myself for not asking more, demanding more.

As I near the bottom of the stairs, I hear strange, gaspingnoises from the other side of the door. I pause, listening, and now I make out stifled sobs and a low, guttural moan, far too deep for Tip. I open the door a few inches. It’s Robert crying. Great, strong Robert, who helped bring me back from the shore. He sits splayed on a bench, his head thrown back against the wall, his eyes closed in raw pain. I’m so shocked to see him like this, his face drenched in tears, it takes me a moment to recognize the sack in his lap. His hands are cradling something half in, half out of the coarse fabric, something as large as a melon but covered in dark fur. A sob shakes his body, the sack slides down—that’s not fur, it’s hair. And those are Oswald’s eyes staring blindly at me from his roughly severed head.

The floor gives way below me, and everything goes black.

To His Most Excellent Lord, Sir Hugh of Berringstoke, From His Faithful Servant Eustace

M
y lord, I am filled with a deep foreboding. If you do not return immediately, I fear you may lose Berringstoke. The severity of the threat forces me to be direct.

Firstly, Sir Giles himself rode to your very door, flinging down the bloody head of your messenger Oswald to show he will brook no further delay. Should he not be repaid with the utmost haste, he will take by force the lands you pledged as security for your debt.

Secondly, he spoke to Lady Matilda in a rude manner, as if he hoped the wedding would not take place at all. I suspect he would prefer the land to repayment, and hence is eager for battle.

Thirdly, Lady Matilda has become suspicious and is asking questions that may lead her to discover that these are the very lands you pledged as her marriage portion, a fact that, if brought to light, would render the marriage agreement void. In my attempt to assuage her ladyship’s fears, I have called this a minor dispute, easily resolved. This prevents me from discontinuing her hawking forays, as I dare not speak of danger. And yet she is clearly at risk.

And fourthly, these hawking expeditions are comprised of so small and, dare I say, intimate a party, I fear it threatens to become unseemly.

Delay no longer, my lord. With profound apologies for the bluntness of this missive, and all due diligence in serving you and your estate, I remain, most faithfully,

Eustace, Steward of Berringstoke