Wildwing (8 page)

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

M
y lord, greetings and faithful service. It is with great concern that I write to urge you return with all possible haste. Following a storm the likes of which I have never before witnessed, the winds strong enough to bring down a great number of valuable trees in your lordship’s forest, I sent men to investigate the damage. It was God’s will that I did so, for they discovered Lady Matilda wandering the shore, stunned and confused, amidst the shattered remnants of her vessel and the drowned bodies of her men. She stood in the carnage immaculately clad in a finespun kirtle, a substantial gold cross studded with precious stones draped around her neck. Father Bartholomew believes the cross protected her. All are calling it a miracle.

There were no other survivors. The lady’s traveling party, attendants, and men-at-arms have all perished. I regret to inform you that Bertram and Gawyn, whom you sent to accompany the lady, were among those whose bodies were recovered.

You will recall, my lord, that we did not expect the lady so soon. Her party must have made remarkably good time in their travels, setting sail earlier than planned. Their very speed proved a curse as they sailed into the fury of the fatal storm. We are not yet prepared for Lady Matilda’s presence, let alone the guests and banquets to follow. The cloth for the household’s new attire is still being cut and sewn; the buttery remains almost bare of wine; I have yet to purchase sufficient wheat after the failure of your last crop. Moreover, in terms of household economy, we can no longer count on what the lady was expected to bring with her. All that could be found or salvaged were seven barrels of wine, a single kirtle of Lincoln scarlet, a cloak lined in miniver, and the lady’s jewel box. As for the remainder of her valuable clothing and worldly goods, the sea has swallowed them whole.

I have taken the liberty of engaging the cook’s sister Beatrix to attend her ladyship until such time as more suitable companionship may be arranged. She is a woman of middling age, not given to drink, and though lacking in refinement, she provides practical ministrations in additionto accompanying the lady as modesty requires. Such service is all the more essential as it is feared Lady Matilda’s mind may have been affected by her ordeal. When found, she was speaking oddly, apparently unaware of her own name, as well as the fact that she was bound for Berringstoke.

Given these developments and the possible risks to her ladyship’s health, not to mention all that hinges on her presence, I beg you, my lord, to return at the earliest opportunity.

The trees downed by the storm will at least provide a sufficiency of wood for burning. I pray you inform me if I am to take venison in your park against your arrival. I suggest we purchase wine in the amount expected but lost in the storm as soon as a good price may be arranged. I await your approval on these as on all things, that your business may prosper.

I remain, my lord, your most obedient and respectful servant,

Eustace, Steward of Berringstoke

Waking

M
y limbs are so heavy I can’t move. I drift in and out from the ocean of sleep to the shore of day, still clutching a dream full of hoofbeats and barking dogs and woodsmoke. Each time I start to wake, another wave tugs me back out into the vast darkness. I give in. There’s no morning sun on my eyelids, no need to leap up and put on the kettle, or iron my dress and apron before I head off to work. And I don’t want to wake, with my bed more delicious than usual, and the covers under my fingers as soft as fur… .

Fur?

I sit upright, feeling around in the dark. Yes, that’s fur under my fingers, and heavy curtains around me, sheltering a womb of a bed.

It wasn’t a dream. I’m in the castle.

How long was I asleep? I peek out the curtain and blink in the sudden brightness. It was midday when I climbed into bed, but this is morning light. I must have slept all yesterday and through the night. It was that drink, that warm bitter drink she poured down my throat!
My lady
, that’s what she called me. They all think I’m some lady they expected to arrive on that boat.

I yank the curtains open the rest of the way, breathing fast. They were expecting a lady—where is she, then? I stare at the door as if soldiers were about to fling it open with cries of “Imposter!” I look around frantically for my dress, so I’ll have something on when they hurl me out the gates. It’s nowhere to be seen, but a long linen shift hangs from a peg on the wall. That must be what counts as underclothes here. I clamber down and slip it over my head.

The feel of it on my skin stops me. It may just be linen, but the hand is wondrous soft and fine. The best, no doubt, that money can buy. I hug my arms about me, running my fingers up and down the fabric, the movement slowing me down enough to think. I look again at the monumental bed, the soft furs, the tapestries, the embroideries.

There’s no army surging through that door at the moment, is there? A day and a night have passed, and I’m still here. There must have been men searching everywhere. Wouldn’t they have found their lady, if she’s still alive? And if she’s dead …

I stand up straighter, determination filling me, spreading all the way down to my toes. If she’s dead, there’s a place open in this castle for a lady. And I’ve waltzed right into it. All I have to do is learn the part.

“Lady Matilda,” I say out loud.

I turn to the bed, my hands automatically reaching to straighten the sheets.

But what if someone knows what she looks like, and sees I’m all wrong? What if her body washes ashore, or her parents come searching, or—

I shake out the fur coverlet, then settle it down again neat as can be. Then I’ll deal with that when it happens. I’ve got the chance of my life, more than I ever imagined, and I’m not going to throw it away—I grab a pillow and give it a good hard shake to fluff the down—because of a mere
what if
.

I lay the pillow in place, and I’m shaking out the next one when the door opens. In bustles Beatrix, a tray in her hands, a blue gown draped over her arm. She kicks the door shut before turning to the bed.

She stops dead. “My lady! Whatever are you doing?”

“Just making my—” And then I stop, too, because Irealize what she’s seeing: a grand lady who’s used to being waited on hand and foot, making her own bed. I jump back like a child caught doing something naughty.

But if I’m a grand lady …

I put my hands on my hips. “How
could
you?” I demand.

“How could I what, my lady?” She walks to a chest and sets down the tray.

“You drugged me! You made me pass out!”

“I didn’t
drug
you, I
dosed
you, as any caring person would. And you with no mother or lady-in-waiting about to think what you need.” She clucks like a mother hen. “You needed sleep. And it’s done you good. You should have seen yourself yesterday, all wild eyes and shivers. And look at you now! Such rosy cheeks, and your green eyes so bright, they’re a wonder against your chestnut hair. Indeed, they were mistaken when they said you were—” She stops suddenly, putting a hand to her mouth, then continues, flustered, “That is to say, their descriptions didn’t do you justice.”

I look up sharply. What descriptions? What am I supposed to look like?

A wonderful smell of warm bread wafts through the air. My stomach growls; I’m starving, and everything on that tray must be for me. I reach for a fat buttered slice, and take a huge bite. It’s delicious. I grab the mug, take a gulp—and almost gag on a thick alcoholic brew. I start coughing.

Beatrix comes over, takes the mug from my hands, and pats me on the back.

“Oh, Beatrix,” I say. “I
do
need your help!”

She looks pleased. “Indeed you do. Why, you’ve put your shift on backward, trying to dress yourself! Oswald was right. That must have been a fearsome blow you were struck.”

“A blow?”

She nods, then motions me to pull my arms from the sleeves and twirl the shift around to face the right direction. “That’s why you’re so confused and all, talking so oddly and forgetting simple things.” She holds up the blue gown for me to slip my arms through the sleeves. “Though when I came to poultice it last night, I saw no bump.” She sighs. “Alas, the wound must lie deeper, and such wounds are harder to heal.”

Excitement flutters through me. That’s it! I could hug her! I’d completely forgotten my plan to pretend amnesia in town, and it will work even better here in the castle. It’s the perfect excuse for not knowing how to do things like a grand lady. Whenever someone looks at me strangely, I’ll just clasp my head and moan a little.

Beatrix starts tying and lacing and adjusting things on the dress. She stands back and gives an approving nod. “Notas fine as you’re used to, of course. We thought you’d be bringing your own. I’ll do some stitching later. The sleeves aren’t right. But you’re such a beauty, you could wear anything!”

A beauty, me? Oh, I’ve seen how some of the boys stare, but I thought it was because they were assuming … I look up at Beatrix, wondering what to say, and then I notice her head. “Don’t I need something to cover my hair and neck, like you have?”

“Why, no,” she says. “Enjoy your beautiful hair until you’re married. So thick and such a rich brown, though a bit of a tangle, isn’t it? From the wind and the sea and all your disasters. We need to do something about that.”

She glances around. There’s almost no furniture in this gigantic room, except for the bed, some benches, and a few trunks. She walks to one, opens it, shakes her head, and opens another. She rummages around and comes up with a comb.

“Let us sit in the window nook, and I’ll do your hair,” she says. “What a glory it will be when I’m done with it!”

She motions to me, and I step up into the window seat, scooting to the far end so I can look out while she combs my hair. The storm disappeared with the night. A few small clouds are just escaping over distant treetops, and the sky is crisp and blue, a perfect autumn day.

Below me, a hodgepodge of thatched buildings nestles inside the great stone walls. It’s like a city down there, a whole world, abustle with people shoeing horses, stirring cauldrons, turning spits of meat—

The comb catches a knot. “Ouch!”

“Begging your pardon, my lady.” Beatrix gently works through the tangle and starts on another section. She’s found my secret: I
am
proud of my hair. Mum makes me wear it hidden away in a long, tight braid, dangling down my back. “You don’t need the young men looking at that,” she always says.

A banging noise rises from below as a smith pounds a hammer, muscled arms bulging from rolled-up sleeves. A man is leading a huge black horse; the beast tosses its head, and the man stops, stroking its side. A skinny boy turns a handle at a big stone well as a bucket rises from the depths. A flurry of movement turns into wings flitting in and out of a tiny tower at the top of a building, and now my ears sort out the cooing of pigeons. I’m so entranced, I hardly feel the comb plying my hair.

And then I see him. The lad with the eyes.

He stands tall and slim. The sun shines on straight golden hair; on his wrist he carries that same small hawk. As I watch, he lifts his arm, bringing the bird closer, andseems to whisper something in its ear. With his other hand he strokes its back.

“Beatrix, who is that?”

She stops combing long enough to peer over my shoulder and follow my eyes. She gives me a knowing glance before sitting back and taking up the comb again. “That would be William, the falconer’s boy. Not such a boy anymore, though. Getting to be quite the young man, and such a way he has with the birds. Almost better than his father, or so they say. But don’t you be getting any ideas.” She gives a sharp tug, and I wince.

“Me? Ideas?”

She sighs. “We all know why you’re here, my lady.”

“Oh?” I ask, hoping she’ll say more.

But instead she stands and proclaims, “There! You’re a vision! Now eat your bread and drink your ale, and then if you feel well enough, the steward wonders if you will grant him a moment.”