“That’s the Advocate, who speaks for the people. He presents the cases. Have you been to Hearing Days?”
“The Inn is too far away, the village had no quarrels we couldn’t settle among ourselves rather than make the journey to the Earl’s castle.” But even as she explained this to Orien, the Falcon’s Wing seemed to Birle to be something she barely remembered, something she had heard about once in a story.
Orien spoke to an old man who sat on the benches set against the wall for those too weak to stand for the long day. “A farmer asked a girl to wed, and then at the fair he said he would not have her,” he told Birle. “Her father brought the case, claiming that the farmer has found a bride with a larger dowry. They’re waiting for the decision.”
The whole room waited, with quiet conversations. The Earl, in his green shirt with a wide-winged gold falcon sewn on it, at last stood up before his chair. “The man,” he said, “must give this girl five gold pieces, for her shame, and he must also wed her—if she will have him. For she might not wish to put her life into the hands of a man who would shame her so. Furthermore,” he went on, in a cold voice that carried to all the ends of the great hall, “the man must also give his second betrothed five gold pieces, for he has dishonored her as much as the first. Her he may wed, be he free, if she will have a man capable of such deceit.”
This was a heavy sentence. Even the wealthiest of farmers took years to amass ten gold pieces, after he had paid his taxes to the Earl. It seemed to Birle that if neither girl would have him now, this man might never marry, and she wondered if the Earl too had thought of that.
The Earl sat down again. “Next case,” the Advocate called. This was a plea brought by a weaver, who said he had paid his seven silver coins for taxes to the Steward, but the Steward had come back after only three days to say he’d only paid five of them, and to demand the other two. The Steward was not at the Hearing Day, but his Lord was. The Lord said that five was the number written down as paid, in the long book. The Advocate reported that the man’s wife, and three neighbors who were after him in line, all swore that he had paid seven. Because they couldn’t read, they couldn’t say what the Steward had written down, but they could count from one to seven, and seven were the coins that had been placed by the Steward’s hands on the table.
“Sir,” the Lord spoke, “in the long books several such short-payings have been noted, but never more than one in any village.”
“Aye, then he writes down falsely,” an angry voice called, and the Advocate turned quickly, to catch the speaker.
The Earl ignored the interruption. “Send to the villages, to hear what these others say. There might well be one error, in all the work of collecting taxes. There might even be two. But more than that will identify a guilty party, if there be such a one. If there be such a one, the law will deal with him. Does that satisfy you, Advocate?”
“It satisfies me, my Lord,” the Advocate replied, without hesitation. “Last case,” he announced.
“Hearing Day used to go on, late into the night and sometimes into the next day.” Orien sounded surprised.
“Is something wrong, then?” she asked.
“Or it’s been made right,” he answered.
The last case involved two farmers, who were also neighbors. The one had sold the other a sow, thinking she was a gilt. But she had been pregnant, and now he claimed to own the piglets—arguing that while he had sold the sow he hadn’t sold her piglets, not at that price. Two men, both as round-bellied as pigs themselves, shoved to the front of the crowd behind the Advocate, and punctuated his summary with their own claims, and their anger at each other. “Greedy pig,” and “Swindler,” they called each other. “A pigman without the wits to know a gilt from a pregnant sow,” one said, and the other answered that that was a mistake he’d rather make with his pig than his wife.
The Lords raised gloved hands to rub at cheeks and noses, concealing smiles. The crowd laughed openly. Even the Advocate was ashamed of the case. Every sentence he spoke to the Earl had an apologetic “my Lord” tacked on to its beginning or end.
The Earl rose, interrupting the Advocate, silencing the farmers. “This is no case to bring to Hearing Day,” he announced. “The Lords have nothing to do with these quarrels.” At the sound of his voice, all smiles fled all faces. Even the Lords sat up straighter.
“You two.” The Earl pointed a finger at first one farmer, then the other. The two tried to shrink back into the crowd, but nobody would give them room to hide. “You two will settle this between yourselves. In three weeks’ time my Steward will come to find out your settlement. He will know if it satisfies the Earl’s justice.”
The young Earl looked out over the crowd, as clapping hands approved of his judgment. At Birle’s side, Orien smiled. “That’s my brother,” he said to Birle, and she heard pride in his voice, and laughter too. His smile, sent over the heads of the crowd like a beam of sunlight, caught the Earl’s eye.
The Earl stiffened, stared.
There was something here Birle didn’t understand. Then she could understand it: Unfinished between these two was the matter of a father’s death. More than that: This Earl could not be the Earl, once Orien had returned. Birle stood at Orien’s side. She had a knife at her boot.
“Hearing Day is completed,” the Earl announced. “Let the hall be cleared,” he said. Behind him, the Lords stirred and rose. Before him, the people turned, to crowd out of the door. “You, man,” he said, not needing to point for Birle to know to whom he spoke, “wait where you are.”
“Aye, my Lord,” Orien called back in answer.
The room was quickly emptied. Some of the people cast curious glances at Orien, where he leaned at ease against the wall, but most hurried away, back to their own labors and their own lives. Birle stayed beside Orien, who ignored her. Even when the hall was emptied, he didn’t move or speak.
It was the Earl who jumped down from the platform, to cross the empty floor. He was a darker man than his brother, with black hair and eyebrows, but his eyes were a much paler blue. He approached slowly, with no expression on his face. A few feet away, he stood to stare.
“Orien?” he asked.
“Aye, my Lord,” Orien answered. He didn’t move.
At that response, the Earl laughed aloud and his whole face lit up, as if he had shed solemnity like a cloak. “Aye my Lord indeed, Brother.” He held out both of his hands, to take the one Orien held out to him now. “I give you greeting, my Lord,” he said, and his voice was stiff now. His eyes shone cold, perhaps angry or perhaps afraid. Before Birle could decide, he spoke again. “Brother indeed,” the Earl said. “And you’re back, you’ve come back.”
He was glad of that. He hadn’t even noticed Birle, so glad was he to have his brother in his sight. Orien was in no danger here. This dark man was no guilty murderer, whatever else he might be.
“A little travel-stained,” Orien said.
“A little—” The Earl laughed again. “Yes, you might say that and I won’t gainsay you. You look—” He reached out and turned Orien’s head a little to the side. “What’s that mark? As if you’ve been—” Quick as flames in dry branches, anger took the place of gladness on his face.
“I’ll tell you the story sometime, Gladaegal. For now, it’s enough to say that no beast in my house will ever again be branded. No, Brother, the men who did it are well beyond your reach, and I count it enough to be alive. Brother,” Orien said, to distract the Earl, “you sit well in judgment.”
“Yes, I think so,” his brother answered, all pride. “Yes, I know I do. It’s the second time I’ve had the Hearing Day and already fewer bring their quarrels. Orien, you must see Grandfather.”
Birle looked at Orien’s brother. Then this was not the Earl, if the old Earl still lived. Orien must have known it all along, but she didn’t know how he would have. For just a minute, selfishly, she wished they were once again beyond the Kingdom, just the two of them, equal in the forest solitudes.
“Him and the rest of us too.”
Orien held up a hand. “You don’t need to say it. I’ve learned—” Without saying what it was he had learned, he turned to Birle, and took her arm. “This is my Lady,” Orien said.
“Your Lady?” Gladaegal echoed.
“My Lord,” Birle said to Orien, “can’t it wait, shouldn’t you go to your grandfather if he’s alive to greet you?” She thought she might slip away, take the horse, and be out of the city before he had time to notice she was gone. She thought he hadn’t known what would happen here, when he had returned to his rightful place; she knew she hadn’t thought of it.
“Birle,” Orien said, “let me present my brother.”
“I give you greeting,” Gladaegal said. But he paid no more attention to her than Orien did.
Birle took the arm Gladaegal offered, although she was well able to walk without it. She was in a world she knew nothing of. If, in this world, a woman took a man’s arm for support when she walked, then Birle must do as the others.
They went along a long corridor, where the only light came from candles set in the walls. They entered a hall where fires burned in fireplaces large enough for three men to stand abreast, and great woven hangings covered the walls. Men sat or stood near the fires, and all turned to see them enter. “Orien?” one asked, and all came forward.
Gladaegal summoned a maidservant. “Take this lady up to my wife,” he told the girl. “You’ll join us at table, won’t you, Lady?”
He was only interested in his brother, and Birle thought that was right. She too had her eyes on Orien, but he was occupied with the Lords who closed around him.
“I give you greeting, my Lord,” they said, one after the other, kneeling in turn.
The servant led Birle up a broad stone staircase and down a long hallway. They were bid enter a room where a tall Lady rose to meet her. “I give you greeting,” she said. “You are welcome to this house.” Then she spoke only to the servant, to give orders. Birle didn’t take offense at being slighted. She didn’t know that—had it been asked of her—she could have spoken her own name.
Birle followed the servant into another room, where beds stood against the wall, each one surrounded by heavy hangings, and a fire burned. Behind the privacy of screens, Birle was unclothed, and then bathed in a metal tub set before the fire. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, or say, so she did as she was told and said nothing.
They dried her hair before the fire, combing it free. They dressed her in a fine shift, then lowered over her head a red dress that fitted close up under her breasts and fell in folds down to the floor. Birle ran her hands down over it, admiring the way the long sleeves hung down from her wrists. She had seen such dresses, on Ladies at the fairs. They put soft leather shoes on her feet; the shoes were too long but they stuffed the toes with pieces of cloth to make them fit.
When she was ready, Birle was led down the hallway and down the stairs, back to the great hall, where long tables were set out. The Ladies sat along one side, the Lords along the other, and at the high table were only three—Orien and his brother and Gladaegal’s wife. Birle was given a seat among the women.
Servants moved up and down the room, carrying platters of fowl and fish and flesh, baskets of breads and pastries, jugs of wine. They put food onto the metal plate before Birle, and she tried to eat it, but had no appetite. It was enough trouble to keep the long sleeves out of her food. They poured wine into the metal goblet, and she raised it to her mouth, but could not swallow. None of the others at the table had any desire to speak with her. Their talk was all of Orien, and his return, the scar on his face—which they had heard he earned in battle, or maybe in a fight to free himself from pirates—and the mystery of his disappearance.
When she dared, Birle raised her eyes from her plate, to look at him. Orien too had been bathed and clothed. His beard had been shaved off. As he ate and drank, as he spoke laughing with his brother, while his brother’s wife sat unnoticed between them, Birle recognized him for what he was, the Earl that would be.
She didn’t want to sit gawping at him, so she turned her eyes back to her plate. It was as well that no one asked, for she didn’t know what explanation to give of herself. The meal went on, and on.
Birle’s plate was taken away and replaced with another. Servants came by with wooden platters of cheese, and baskets of apples, and bowls of sweetmeats. They put food onto her plate. She lifted her goblet and drank as much as she could. Then there was a movement of chairs from the high table and from across the room. Birle looked up.
All around the hall, the men were standing, with goblets raised in their hands. The ladies didn’t stand and Birle followed their example. Gladaegal gave the toast. “To my brother, returned. You are welcome to this house, Orien.”
Everyone raised goblets, echoed him, and drank. “See?” an excited voice said, down the table from Birle, “it’s me he’s looking at.”
“No it’s not,” someone answered. “You’re always such a ninny about him. It’s her he’s looking at.”
Birle raised her eyes to meet Orien’s bellflower glance, almost as she’d first seen it. For a brief time, only heartbeats long, it was as if nothing had changed.
“He’s not married yet,” the wistful voice said. Then Gladaegal’s Lady rose from her seat between the brothers, and all the Ladies rose to follow her out of the hall. Birle moved among them, although she had no idea why they were leaving, or where leading. She was taken back to the room upstairs, her fine gown was removed, and the shoes, and the shift; a long white dress was put on her. She was put to bed in one of the beds that lined the wall. She was asleep before the curtains were drawn closed around her, on that bed softer than even her imaginings had thought it might be.
Chapter 23
ON A WINDLESS WINTER MORNING Birle stood by a high window, looking out. Smoke rose from city chimneys into a clear blue sky. Beyond the city, fields and hills were blanketed with snow, and the frozen river looked like a long gray snake, asleep in the winter sunlight. The air on her face was cold.
Birle had everything she had imagined, and more: That was her thought as she listened to the voices of children playing in the snow that covered the castle grounds, and the sounds of servants at their work. She had somehow found for herself everything she had wanted, and better than she’d dared to dream. At her back lay the apartment of the Earl of Sutherland, where a broad fire burned, where tapestries hung over the cold stone walls. The Earl himself had just asked, “Come sit by me, Birle, and read to me.”
She would never have imagined it. She would never even have thought to imagine it. But if she had, she wouldn’t have thought that she wouldn’t be contented.
Birle turned around. The Earl sat by the fire, in a tall carved chair, with a blanket over his legs. Two woven tapestries, hanging out from the wall on long wrought-iron poles, kept him out of drafts. The Earl was an old man, with sixty-one summers behind him. The skin on his face was as papery as the dried skin of garlic bulbs. His body was weak with age and sickness, but his mind was not weak, or dull. At their first meeting, the Earl neither gave her the customary greeting nor pretended that he hadn’t heard of her. Even weak as he’d been then, he had fixed his pale blue eyes on her with a boy’s direct glance, and said, “I knew your grandparents. I was sorry when they died.”
Birle had learned already not to give voice to questions. Why did he not speak to her in formal manner? Why should he know Gran and Granda, and even so, why should he remember? She had asked nothing of the old man in the high bed, pillows piled behind him to help him sit up. She had stood silent beside Orien, trusting Orien to show her how she should behave. In the castle, every word spoken seemed to mean something more, and also less, than the word itself.
“Doesn’t she speak?” the Earl had asked Orien.
Birle felt the Earl’s impatience, and she saw it in the way he scratched at the backs of his
pale hands and arms. She thought she might make him formal greeting, but the words were clumsy in her mouth. She felt always clumsy these days, her hair loose and needing frequent attentions from the servants, her hands and mind without occupation. Even though the dress she wore had been made especially for her, it seemed to fit her ill. The seamstress, she had learned, might do that, if she didn’t like you. She might pretend to be doing her best, but the finished gown would make the girl look awkward. Birle didn’t know if the seamstress had disliked her, or even if the dress did fit badly; all she knew was that she felt awkward and clumsy, and she couldn’t think of any words to speak, even though her silence was making the old man in the bed cross.
“Say something. Say anything,” he had commanded. “Say your name.”
The woman who sat in a chair beside the bed had spoken then. “You already know her name, my Lord.” Her hands were busy with knitting needles and fine wool. The blanket she knitted lay like snow on her lap.
It was not her words but the laughter in her voice that made Birle lift her eyes from her own clasped hands to look at her. The woman wore a gray dress, soft as rain clouds; her hands held the needles ready to begin their work again. A gray silk band was wound into her white hair, and her eyes, under white eyebrows, were a deep, bright blue. “I’m Orien’s grandmother,” she said.
“He never said he had a grandmother,” Birle protested. She turned to Orien, her tongue unlocked by anger and curiosity. “You never said.” In the days she had lived in the castle, she had seen him only across the dining hall; when they did pass close enough to speak, there was only time for his quick question, “Are you content?” and none for her answer.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. Then she heard her own voice and was ashamed, and fell silent again. She felt sad, and sick at heart at what she was beginning to unwillingly understand. Orien must regret asking her to be his wife; he had never said so to her, but since they never had opportunity to talk, she couldn’t console herself with that thought. It seemed often as if she were a puppet on a stage, being presented before the people of the castle, who observed from their places in the audience how the doll performed. Gladaegal’s Lady, who had the duty of instructing Birle in the running of the household, referred frequently to “Your foreign customs,” as if she refused to know who Birle was. Birle had been lost in unknown lands, and lost among strangers, but she had never felt so lost as she did here, in Orien’s home. He stood beside her, now, but as the Earl that would be, not as the man she would wed.
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