‘As you wish, my Lady, although I am not sure one could be found with the patience to stand idly by while my Lady decides on the dress she shall wear, or the perfume she shall put behind her ears, or what colour ribbons go best with crushed red velvet, while all the time the sun rises towards noon and her stomach rumbles ever the louder.’
‘You think not? Oh well, I will keep you on a little longer then. Let it not be said that I am unkind to the elderly and infirm. Now, what dress shall I wear today?’
Doren grimaced, pouring out the rest of the water in one go.
The Hartfields were one of the oldest, most revered noble houses in Tanaren. They had been among the closest advisors of the Grand Duke for centuries and before that had even held that august office themselves, which only reinforced their reputation for justice, temperance and piety. Their estates comprised much of the land surrounding the great, seething mass of humanity that was Tanaren City itself, and all of the land was productive and fertile, bordering as it did both sides of the mighty river Erskon. Its rivers and lakes were full of fish, the fields full of golden corn and grazing cattle, and its woods full of deer. The Hartfield estates, then, made them possibly the wealthiest old family in the country.
They owned several houses, too. There was Loubian Hall in the capital city, not a thousand paces from the ducal palace. There was Erskon House on the river, which regularly entertained the Grand Duke with regattas and great feasts held on the Duke’s own golden barge, but the spiritual home of the Hartfields was Edgecliff Castle, occupying a high promontory on the coast from which Tanaren City could be spied in the distance. It could be supplied from the sea at times of siege and had never fallen to its enemies, not in the half a thousand years of its existence. From its many towers, with the Archer’s Tower being the highest, flew the Hartfield pennants, a white deer on a green background, all of them snapping and flapping in the wind. This was the place Ceriana counted as home.
She had one brother and two sisters. Her brother, Dominic, was First Commander of the Knights of the Silver Lance, the Grand Duke’s own personal bodyguard. He had married into the Felmere family out east, slightly beneath himself if truth be told, although it had helped to strengthen ties with the ever surly eastern baronetcies. Her sisters, Giselle and Leonie, had married into wealthy families nearer to home. All three siblings had children, ever strengthening her family’s political hand, and so the only eligible Hartfield remaining was herself.
She was quite the prize.
She sat down at the top table in the great hall. It stood on a low dais and was covered in a rich red cloth filigreed in gold. The other tables on the lower floor faced it at right angles. There were some thirty to forty people at these tables, including a number of young men, many of whom looked at her intently. Sitting next to her was her mother, the Lady Margarete. They were the only two people at the high table. Bread and meat was brought along, with fruit both fresh and stewed. Wine was poured. Once everything was ready, Lady Margarete broke some bread, dipped it in the wine and ate it. This was the signal for everyone to start eating. A lively conversational hubbub started to fill the room.
‘Why do they all stare so?’ she moaned to her mother. ‘They look as if they are catching flies.’
‘You know exactly why, girl.’ Her mother was a no-nonsense sort; if Ceriana was being honest with herself she still found her intimidating. ‘Every unmarried man here wants you for his wife. And you have been promised to most of them at one time or another.’
‘I really have no say at all, do I?’ she sighed resignedly. ‘I suppose I have been lucky to remain single until now.’ She chewed absently on a rind of hard bread.
‘Yes, you have been lucky not to be married off at thirteen; thank your father for that. And no, of course, you have no say, The very idea is preposterous. Anyway, your father is discussing this very question with the Grand Duke even as we speak. He will confirm your betrothed when he returns tomorrow. Personally speaking I would like you married off before the end of the year; you would make your mother very proud if that was to be the case.’
‘As you wish, Mother, as long as it isn’t “Baron Cuthbert of the missing teeth” I will be content.’
But, of course, she wasn’t really content at all.
Later on that day she sat in a windowed alcove overlooking the sea in the Sailor’s Tower. She had embroidered for a while before tedium had overtaken her and now she was pretending to read. Megan, the castle harpist, was playing for her and her young companion, Lady Catherine of Nevenn, was embroidering next to her.
‘Do you know what she is playing?’ Catherine asked.
‘Yes, it is the Lay of Fair Isabel who was forced to send her true love away so that she could marry her father’s choice, the fat and old Baron Magrin. Rather than submit herself to his lechery she cast herself into Lake Winmead and even today on moonless nights you may still hear her song of sorrow among the whispering rushes.’
‘That is ever so sad,’ said Lady Catherine. ‘But surely by taking her own life her soul is condemned to walk the void between the heavens and the furnace of the underworld.’
‘And that,’ said Ceriana, ‘is why you can still hear her.’
Catherine nodded knowingly and Ceriana thought of telling her that she hadn’t a clue what Megan was playing and that she had made it all up, but decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. She picked up her book.
Later, as evening drew on, she decided to clear some cobwebs and walk the battlements. She passed the occasional guard each of whom acknowledged her with a polite ‘My Lady’ and continued to walk until she came to the great barbican at the front gates. Before heading indoors, she looked out over the battlements, first at the motley collection of buildings close to the gates that comprised Edgecliff town itself, and then at the ground directly beneath her. Could she do it, she wondered? Could damnation of the soul be any worse than damnation of the spirit? It would be quick after all. Her mother would claim it as an accident; people did fall from such places surprisingly often, so she had been told. The world would go on without her. She stared at the ground intently for a while, wondering what it would be like to fly through the air, but then, suddenly, she turned away. Biting her lip slightly, she went through the doorway in the gate tower and headed down the stairs, all the time cursing herself for her abject cowardice.
‘What is it, my Lady? Another black mood?’ Doren had just made up the bed and was scattering fresh rushes on the floor as her mistress sat facing her mirror idly running a comb through her hair. A pale moonlight gleamed weakly through the leaded window. ‘It is nothing,’ she replied weakly.
‘I know a lot will be changing for you, going to a place full of strangers and marrying a man you may not know at all, but...’
‘No, it isn’t that,’ she interrupted. ‘I am a nobleman’s daughter; I have been prepared for this all my life – a marriage to further my family’s interests is what I was born for. It is just...’ She seemed to be searching for the words for a second before continuing.
‘Remember my aunt, Augustine.’ Doren’s face fell at that name. ‘I just remember it so vividly. I was seven at the time and was playing in the dayroom with my sisters when Mother came and told us to go to our rooms. We knew something was wrong but we did as we were told. I was sat on my bed when I heard the screaming. I remember my throat tightening, but there was something that compelled me to go towards the sound. I went down the stairs as quietly as I could. The sound had stopped but I knew where it had come from. By chance, a servant had gone into the room and left the door open, so I followed her in.’ She stopped and swallowed hard. ‘I swear by Camille and Artorus the almighty, there was not a square inch on that bedsheet that was not soaked in blood. Doctors, midwives, the Sisters of Meriel, were swarming around the bed but I could still see Augustine’s face, bathed in sweat and white, ghostly white. I think she had already gone; she looked ... peaceful, if that was at all possible. Then someone saw me and shooed me out. It w
as ten years ago but it is still crystal clear in my mind. Both Augustine and the child died. Blessed Elissa did not help them on that day.’
Doren looked at her sadly. ‘We all remember it, child; it was a terrible day. But these things do happen; it has happened in my family, too.’
Ceriana looked contrite. ‘I am sorry, I was being selfish ... but ... when you had your children were you not frightened, too? We all die someday obviously, but I just don’t want it to be ... like that.’ She walked over to a table in a corner of the room. On it was a small carved figure of a woman in a cloak and small cape holding a swaddled bundle in her arms. On either side of it were two lighted candles. She touched the figure gently. ‘Blessed Elissa protect me.’
Doren broke her reverie. ‘Look at your sisters, my Lady, turning out children like rabbits. You have nothing to fear – the Gods will always look after the Hartfield girls, believe me.’
Suddenly the young girl laughed as if embarrassed by her sadness. ‘Will you just listen to me! I remember there was a merchant, in the square, selling trinkets and ribbons. I had to look, so I went down there with Catherine. For some reason I started to debate with him the merits of temporal power over the supernatural, or rather the lack of them, and do you know what he said?’
‘No, my Lady.’
‘He gave me the strangest look and said. “You know, my Lady, beautiful and clever you may be, but I do feel that you may have too much time with nothing of substance to fill it. Most folk I know are too concerned with putting food on the table and only think of the Gods on a Sunday, or when something bad happens.’ He is right though, isn’t he? I am luckier than most. So do I then have the right to feel unhappy?’
‘Yes, you do, my Lady; everyone has the right to feel every emotion the Gods have gifted to us. It is what separates us from the common beast, after all. Now, are you ready for bed? You are being called at dawn, remember?’
Ceriana climbed into bed, affecting a yawn. ‘Dawn it is. Call me any later and...’
‘“You will be released from my service”,’ they both said together. The girl laughed as Doren blew out the candles, bathing the room in the thin light of the moon. ‘Good night, my Lady. The Gods keep you safe.’
‘Good night, Doren. The Gods keep you, too. And thank you.’
She heard the door close softly and knew right at that moment that she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
‘My Lady, it is nearly dawn!’ Doren was now reduced to shaking the comatose girl – my, how she snored! A nice surprise for her future husband indeed! ‘Ah, at last you are coming round.’
‘Xhenafa take you – it is still dark!’ wailed the girl, desperately trying to pull the sheet over her head.
‘The heralds have arrived; your father will be here in less than half an hour!’
She sat up. All brown hair and large brown eyes, her pale skin spattered with freckles – possibly the most despised freckles in the world.
‘Oh!’ she said, deflated. ‘I suppose I had better get dressed then.’
‘Yes, my Lady, and quickly!’
Twenty minutes later, after changing into a rich, dark-blue dress that probably cost more than Doren saw in several years, she stood in the courtyard by the gate, which was opened with the portcullis raised. She was shivering in the cold of the new morning. The sky was tinged pink and, although some fitful stars could still be seen, the night was in abeyance. The courtyard itself was still dark and shadowed but, as Ceriana looked up, the light caught the white pennants on the Archer’s Tower and slowly began to slide down the grey, moss-covered stones towards them. Her mother was there, along with Doren, Lady Catherine and various assembled courtiers and knights. The seneschal, Berek, a vigorous grey-haired man with a hawk nose, was trying to arrange everyone into a semblance of order. He had had rushes scattered over where the ladies now stood as, given the propensity for geese (she could hear them now) and pigs to run freely over the courtyard, there was a good chance that one of them would ruin their expensive light shoes by stepping into something nasty.
Ceriana’s hair was loose, falling almost to her waist; she had had no time to pin or braid it. When it came to matters of personal appearance she was most particular, not letting Doren or any other handmaiden do her hair, colour her eyes or cheeks, or put on her brooches and necklaces. She wore a brooch now; it had an ornate silver setting in which a large green gem resided. Her father had given it to her as a sixteenth birthday present; she wore it often and was determined to make sure her father could see it. She knew a green gem on a blue dress was not an ideal combination, but her father had no fashion sense whatsoever and would not pick her up on it.
‘Don’t slouch, child,’ her mother said to her, disapproval oozing from every pore.
Ceriana stiffened her back immediately, trying to stand as erectly as one befitting her status should. As she was the last (and least important) of four children, the mother–daughter bond had never been particularly strong. Her mother had devoted most of her time to Dominic and Giselle, the eldest daughter, leaving Ceriana somewhat neglected and with plenty of time on her hands. This she filled with walks around the castle, wild romantic daydreams and the infernal embroidery which Catherine seemed to like so much. Her father, though, was another case entirely, doting on her whenever time allowed. She was a thin, slight girl, different to her sisters and he always seemed to think that she needed extra protection. Her mother frowned on all this, believing that indulgence was wasted on a girl whose only duty in life was to marry properly. This was why it seemed to Ceriana a slight betrayal on her father’s part that he should be discussing marrying her off. She did understand that he would have to do something about it eventually but she had hoped for a couple more years before the inevitable happened.
She squinted ahead of her. The castle drawbridge was lowered as usual so the ditch surrounding the castle could be crossed; it could be filled with water in times of war, she had heard, although she had never seen it herself. Over the ditch the drawbridge connected to a cobbled road which ran straight ahead for nearly a mile; either side of it were many tightly packed ramshackle cottages. A castle supported a whole community of craftsmen, labourers, vintners, butchers, cheese-makers and other suppliers of goods and provender, and they all had to live somewhere. Doren’s family home was among them, although she stayed in the castle most nights now her children were older. Eventually the road bent eastwards behind a low hill and it was here that most eyes were directed.
Then, just as Ceriana’s fingers were so cold that she imagined them as stalactites in a cave, she saw them.
Two horsemen, mailed in bright silver, lances held high so their pennants flew proudly in the breeze, were the first people to emerge from behind the hill. More similarly attired knights brought up the rear of the column, but between them were other horsemen, not armoured but wearing rich velvet doublets of varying colour, partially concealed under heavy riding cloaks. At their head and becoming more recognisable as he drew nearer was a tall man in a black cloak, trousers and riding boots. His face was characterful, strong and stern, lined in such a manner as to give an impression not so much of age but of power and experience. His still brown hair and eyes marked him as a Hartfield, characteristics that had been passed on to his youngest daughter, though not to his son, who was altogether darker. As he passed by the houses lining the road, people, both young and old, came out and cheered; some women even threw flowers on to the road before him and so it was that Nicholas, forty-third Duke of Hartfield, returned home.
Ceriana ducked under her mother’s restraining arm and ran towards the horses as they finished crossing the drawbridge. ‘Father!’ she called, her face flushed despite herself.
He reined in his horse, swung himself off the saddle and went to meet her. ‘Ah, you are wearing your brooch, my little one.’
‘Of course, Father, you know it is my favourite.’ She inhaled the scents of horse, leather and sweat and thought them the best in the world.
‘Oh
well, if you already have a favourite, then there is no point giving you this.’ He opened a gloved hand and held out his latest acquisition for her. There, dangling on a chain of pure gold, was a brilliant-blue sapphire. The sun, which now shone brightly on the courtyard, made its many facets glitter like the feathers on an Erskon kingfisher. She barely suppressed a squeal.
‘Thank you, Father. That is so beautiful. Where did you get it?’
‘A gift from Ludo Gerlig. His estates include mines in the Derannen Mountains where it was found.’
‘Quite a gift, Father; I hope it didn’t come at a price.’
‘Everything comes at a price, my dear,’ he said. Although she was still focusing on the gem, the look of regret that fleetingly crossed his face as he spoke did not escape her. ‘Now, I have business to attend to with Berek and your mother. You and Lady Catherine can go back indoors and I will speak to you properly once I have eaten.’
Ever the obedient daughter she curtsied and left them, still clutching her present and all the while trying to forget the feeling that the executioner’s axe hung poised above her neck.
She did not go down for the noon meal, feigning a headache. Instead, she retired to her room, but soon got fractious stomping around like a bear in a pen until her head really did start to hurt. She was just about to wander back down to the great hall, claiming a miraculous recovery, when there was a knock at the door. She bid the caller enter, knowing his identity without even looking up.
‘Are you feeling better, little one?’ Her father’s tone had a sardonic edge.
‘Um, yes, I mean no, not really.’
‘We can talk later, if you want.’
‘No, Father; please, if you have any news, tell it to me now.’
The Forgotten War Page 5