The wise-wife snapped her fingers as she might at one of our father’s sleuthhounds, and the untidy mass of cloth answered like a well-trained dog by rising and following her. Duty turned back to the door as the bundle wafted across the room in her wake and followed into the hall beyond.
“It will trouble us no more,” Mother observed. “In such cases, it is best not to rely on fire alone. It would seem, my daughters, that you are still not too old for oversight. But no more about that now; we have other matters to consider.”
She drew a small square of paper from the low bodice edging of her gown. “Visitors are arriving—and soon.” We were acute enough to read the trouble behind her announcement. “Your father’s call for a general truce has at last been answered with favor by the Gurly Lord Starkadder. In three days’ time, he and his train will spend two days here, and then we shall depart with him to Losstrait to meet with the other clans and draw up terms.”
“And belike stage a horserace or two, also,” I commented. “Though to call these Border ponies horses belittles a noble breed.”
“See that you keep such remarks and thoughts to yourselves!” Mother snapped. “No matter that you can sit a saddle as well as any man; young females of the noble clans do not make a show of riding—”
“No,” interrupted Cilla, “the men would not permit a true contest.” She spread her skirts, touched the fingertips of her right hand to her chin, and summoned up a simpering smile.
While clansmen and women were granted equality of rank, the important families within the heritage employed a particular set of manners in public life. What was done in private, we knew, was quite another matter. Highly placed clan ladies dressed with ribbons and lace, and they also fluttered fans and bedizened themselves with simply cut gemstones set in silver and gold from the mountains. Our preferred garb of riding habits with divided skirts met with their disdain as often as their stilted formal manners provided us much silent amusement. Having visited both northern peel castles and the Alsonian court, we opined that a servingmaid to our gracious queen could show more refinement and intelligence than many of the self-important grand dames of Gurlyon.
Mother stilled us with a stare and we, realizing we had gone beyond proper limits, curtseyed again with appropriately sober faces. She did not have to enlarge upon her displeasure, but continued on another subject.
“You,” she addressed Cilla directly, “will go to the stillroom and fetch one of the hop-pillows Bina made. You are to use that tussie for your bed until I say otherwise, and I trust it will bring you dreamless sleep. We want no more trouble than we already face.” Her wine-dark skirts of stiffened silk rustled softly as she swept out of the door.
“What did she mean, ‘more trouble’?” Cilla’s mental question touched each of us.
“Father may share more news with her than we are told.” I answered aloud, and my opinion was echoed by Bina. “Could it be that the Border is ready to rise again?”
Two
Our mother’s perfection as a chatelaine was well-known. We often lagged behind her, to be sure; still, she had trained us, even as she had the servingmaids, to do with all our might whatever needed to be done to show courtesy and provide comfort for guests. And so we were occupied for the next two days.
The part of Grosper Castle kept for the housing of visitors had been given a spring turnout several weeks early this year. Linens, smelling of the lavender and dried rose petals that had been placed in their folds, were shaken out and spread on the large, curtained beds. Any spiders surviving the chill of winter were banished, and the floors pathed with thick carpet.
While we were engaged in aiding Loosy, the maid, in her work in the largest state chamber where the Starkadder himself would be lodged, Duty came in, a basket on her arm.
“Underpillows.” Duty was never free with what she considered unnecessary speech. She thumped the basket down on a carven chest to make a quick inspection of our bedmaking, including a twitch to the heavily embroidered upper spread; then she was gone.
Bina was nearest the basket. She leaned over to take an audible measure of its contents. “Lavender and hops,” she announced. “We wish our chief guest good sleep, it would seem.” Then she paused for a second sniff and looked puzzled. “What else?” She held the herb-holder to me as I labored at her elbow.
I performed a more thorough scent testing, then shook my head and passed the woven container along to Cilla for her guess.
But our third sister had none to offer. “Some other fragrance, neatly overlaid by the hops; I cannot put name to it. Loosy”—she summoned the maid, who was plumping pillows near as tall as she—“what say you?”
Loosy held the basket well up against her breast and took several noisy nosefuls. “I cannot tell, my lady, but no harm be in it. These Gurlys will have ridden long to get here, and the mistress may wish them a goodly rest.”
A bunch of herbs from the basket, tied with a ribbon, was thus duly applied as Duty had ordered—a process that was repeated in each room we put into order.
We had been given to understand that not only the Starkadder chief himself would be arriving, probably near sundown, but that his second son would also accompany him, plus three of his most important kinsmen, their squires, and a train of armsmen and other retainers. The lodging of troopers would remain the concern of the bailiff, and one late addition had been made: a member of the party who had ridden from the court to join the Starkadders and whom my father had marked as an observer of the king’s, not a warrior. He was to be given one of the rooms of state, but as yet we knew neither his name nor his rank.
Most of our tasks were behind us when our father’s squire, Rogher of Helmn, arrived ahead of the party, and we were summoned to our mother’s solar to hear what news he brought.
Rogher was an earnest young man who ever strove to give the best service he could, so seriously alert that he was ill at ease with any female. We believed that he was in awe of Father, yes, but something of true fear colored his dealings with our mother.
“He who joined us from the court,” Rogher began at her nod, “is no man of the king’s; Chosen Forfind sent him—”
As the squire hesitated, our mother prodded him. “Our visitor is one of the new priests, then?”
“Just so, my lady.”
“None of those religious have ventured southward before. What is he like?”
“He looks to be a sober man of middle years, my lady, and goes clad not unlike the least of court servants. In manner he does not play the courtier, nor does he speak much. He has ever to hand a missal bound with plates of metal and mumbles under his breath now and then as if reading from it. He held services at sunrise and sunset when we lodged at Hamleysted, but unbelievers were not made welcome by him to attend.”
“Odd,” our mother commented. “If he would gather others to be of his following, should he not be the first to welcome those to his preachings who are as yet unpersuaded by his doctrines?”
“My lady, who can reckon how such a man might think? On our journey here”—the squire’s voice dropped—“he took a whip to a farm girl who did not move out of his way quickly enough, shouting that she was fain to bespell, with the evil of her comely person, an innocent man.”
“What!” Our mother was on her feet.
Rogher was quick to answer her rising anger, if only to deflect it from himself. “My lord rode at him, jerked the whip from his grasp, and broke it, shouting that no man struck a woman, and ordering him to mind himself and his manners. Then Lord Verset called Alin Longbow to ride beside him as we went on.”
At that point Rogher paused, and we sensed hesitation in him, as if he was judging now whether he should voice some further news. Then he added hastily, as if he must speak before someone would deny him:
“My lady, odd doings have begun at the court of which we have heard whispers. Strange changes have come about there and are spreading among the greater clans. Ladies are openly denied the courtesy of their rank; th
ey are set to eat at separate tables and are served the coarsest of food. Some heiresses have been denied their heritages, which are being delivered to men of the clan, and,” he swallowed visibly, “the clansmen take any maids who be of lower birth to their beds without denial.” His face was flushed, and he did not meet our eyes.
However, Mother’s answer was mild. “Our thanks to you, Rogher, for this warning of what might be a source of trouble. Are these new beliefs held by the Starkadder clan?”
“That I cannot tell, my lady. But my lord said to me, quietly and apart, that I must speak of them to you.”
It was her turn to nod and dismiss him graciously. Once he had gone she looked to us.
I spoke first. “What could be the root of this?”
“Well may you wonder,” our mother returned. “Until we have better understanding, keep to yourselves when the company arrives. Your father has worked a half year to get this truce meeting arranged. Nothing must trouble it, for a conflict now would set fire among the tinder.”
Our guesting duties behind us, we hurried to our own tower quarters. There Loosy and Hanna awaited us. Our court dresses were spread on the wide bed for our viewing, and behind a screen an uncovered tub and buckets of steaming water waited. Full honor was evidently to be paid the Starkadder, for the dresses were those we had worn to our own court a year earlier, and the coffer of jewels had been brought out.
Still we felt as if we were to don steel instead of silk and satin, for Rogher’s report had given us much to think on. This strange priest, the new mistreatment of women—
“The Gurly females may have opened some portal to bring these changes about,” I observed. “Always it has seemed best to them to flatter their men, play fools before them.”
“Yes.” Bina straightened one lace-trimmed petticoat, as Loosy stood ready to drop another over her head. “But that was love-play, and men and maids both knew it to be such. However, if Rogher has the truth of the matter, things have passed beyond a game. Yes, Hanna”—she interrupted her answer to me to instruct her tiring-maid—“I shall want but the silver neck chain and ear-drops. We will give them satin skirts but not too much otherwise.”
The dresses were made alike—all in the first style, but that of a year past, and at our own court. Doubtless already some new fashion had changed what was lately right to what was now dowdy. Though the gowns were cut alike, they differed in color. My full skirts were of a rich maroon, the dropshouldered bodice edged in a fall of wide lace trimming from the workroom that supplied the queen herself. Bina now stood before a long mirror, turning slowly to make sure her own swell of shot-satin, which changed with her every motion from rose to silver-gray and back again, showed to the best advantange, while Cilla had claimed a gown of bright blue.
At last, Loosy’s and Hanna’s well-trained hands had coiled and pinned the third cascade of long black hair, fastened the last neck chain, clasped the final bracelet, and set a massive-gemmed ring on one, two, three hands. Our toilet complete, we made court curtseys to each other and thanked the maids for their assistance.
Hanna left, still laughing at one of Cilla’s comments, but Loosy hesitated and at last emboldened herself to speak.
“Lady”—she picked up a fan and offered it to Bina—“what manner of men are these clansmen who come?”
We were all quick to catch an odd note in her voice, but Cilla was first to speak.
“They are Gurlys of a noble clan, Loosy. If they wish, they may frequent the Gurlyon court. Some of their customs may differ from ours, but not greatly. Many of their ilk, though perhaps of lower rank, have visited here over the years. You have seen them. Why think you these may be different?”
Loosy’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down at the carpet.
“T’was the peddler, Lady Cilla—the one who was here two months since. He’d been to Snarlyhoe, and he said how the lord there had women whipped through the streets.”
“Be sure,” I snapped, “that the Lord of Snarlyhoe, no matter who he may be, does not rule here! Loosy, many tales are told from place to place by peddlers. And you are in our private service and so can keep to these quarters in the tower until you are sure there is no trouble to be faced. Now we must go—”
We were descending the curling tower stair when I paused for a moment.
“What indeed is wrong in Gurlyon?” I demanded.
“Loosy’s report must be told to Mother,” Bina returned. “The Gurlys are overfond of powerful ale, and wine will also be brought out at the feast. No servingmaids should be present, I think.”
We nodded as one at that. It was customary that the ladies of the house withdraw at the end of a feast, leaving men to their professed pleasure of tippling. Our father was an abstemious man, and so was the majority of our household. However, the far-riding, hard-living Gurlys were different.
As we reached the foot of the staircase, we heard a roll of drum, a blast of trumpet. Our visitors had been sighted from the watchtower. Raising our skirts two-handed, we hastened.
We were breathing faster as we passed swiftly through the great gate into the foreyard to take our proper places behind Mother. Our household made a fine array, the men all in their green livery-coats and the maids wearing vests with the Scorpy arms catching the sun’s rays in gold-touched broidery.
The company that entered was a large one and plainly set to make a show of its own. At the fore a mount pranced, clearly no northern bred pony but a powerful black warhorse to match the cream of our father’s stable. The man who besat it with easy grace was steel-bonneted as might be any Border Reiver. A socket on his helm sprouted aloft the two eagle feathers denoting a clan chieftain.
Beneath that helm showed the strong, browned countenance of a man well acquainted with wind and sun. His beard, which cloaked half his face, was not the neatly trimmed and chin-pointed one our father wore, but a wild gray bush, streaked with white. His buff coat was caped before and behind with steel, bearing at heart level the crooked device of a striking red adder in faded shades of yellow. Boots climbed to cover his legs near to his knees where butter-bright yellow breeches showed. He reined in his mount even as my father approached to join him, striding through the opened ranks of our household. Serving as his squire, Starkadder’s second son followed him, swinging down to catch the chieftain’s reins as he left the saddle.
My father advanced, made his bow to Mother, and introduced our principal guest. We all curtseyed as one. However, Starkadder’s greeting for my mother held very little grace; he even plainly stared at her for a moment before returning a shallow bow of his own.
“Rogher had the right of it!” I mind-sent. “This one is not used to niceties.”
But if Starkadder did not seem ready to follow social rules, his squireson was even worse lessoned. The youth’s clothing and armor echoed in richness that of his sire, but he was eyeing the three of us as if we were mares at the horse market.
Doubtless by the standard of the clans he was a handsome man. Tall, broad of shoulder, with red hair—and very red it was—falling from under his bonnet to touch those shoulders. He had even, well-cut features, though his skin was not tanned enough to hide his freckles. One of the mounts might have blown bran into his face.
We took time to study him, being careful not to meet him eye to eye, and our universal—albeit unspoken—decision was that we did not care for what we saw. However, our first view of the chieftain’s second son was interrupted as another man rode to the fore of the waiting clansmen. His mount was one of the ponies, a tough and sturdy beast, ungroomed and mud splattered, with neck bent by far too short a rein.
Here was no steel bonnet but a hood, pushed back so that we saw the features of its owner plainly. His skin carried none of the browning the others bore; it showed, rather, the sickly grayish hue of a prisoner long pent in a lightless dungeon. And just as no hair showed under the edge of the head-covering, so was the face bare of beard.
His nose was like a sharp-edged knife bridging b
etween dark eyes set overly close together. His mouth he held tight-lipped above a pointed chin. Altogether, it was not a face to awaken trust in another at first glimpse, nor, perhaps, even at tenth viewing.
Starkadder gave a small shrug as the fellow crowded up and glanced at my father. We sensed, and exchanged the thought, that in some way the clan chief was waiting for the Lord Warden of the South to make the first move.
The pause that followed was evidently disapproved of by the ascetic scarecrow, for he pulled his bowstring mouth even more taut, if such a gesture were possible. Then the Gurly chieftain spoke directly to our father.
“His Majesty craves your grace, Lord Verset, for this follower of Chosen Forfind. His name is Udo Chosen.”
My father, in no way seeming to note such an unusual introduction, looked to the stranger.
“As one come guesting, you are welcome.” But he did not expand that grudging greeting to include any introduction of our mother or us.
“Be all here unbelievers?” demanded Udo Chosen.
My father touched the wide brim of his hat, but for only a brief instant, making his recognition tremble on the thinnest border of courtesy—a response far from his usual treatment of any honest man.
“Under this roof,” he returned curtly, “we are followers of the Established Church of which Her Majesty is the Reverend Head.”
The thin grayish face seemed to swell, portending a forthcoming roar. However, the Starkadder now took a hand, or rather a foot, in the matter as, with a stride, he stepped between the seemingly wit-scrambled Chosen and our father.
“Clan greetings, Lord Verset, and also a salutation of goodwill from His Majesty.” Starkadder tapped the hilt of his sword, and we saw it was tightly bound round with the gold, blue, and green plaid ribbons of a declared truce.