“By savory you’d be meaning thick, brown and salty, no doubt.”
Huon blinked. It was a little difficult to imagine the fastidious brother he remembered slaving over a campfire. Much less the High Queen, not to mention the heir to the Protector’s position, scrubbing out pots and dishes with sand and ashes.
“And here we are, already hashing over the past like withered elders sitting in the sun and dwelling on their youth,” Rudi said.
“Sometimes the past is key to the present,” Dmwoski said. “This mission of mine has proven that once again.”
Mathilda used her eyes in a quick commanding flick, and most of those present withdrew; the trestle tables were taken down. Lamps were coming on throughout the sprawling tent-city, but most would go to sleep with the sun sinking westward.
“Go on, Most Reverend Father,” Rudi said to Dmwoski.
“I will; some of this I learned from the Grand Constable, and some from Lord Huon and Lady Yseult, and other parts from the records. I think I have put it together accurately, but let them correct me if I err.”
He looked down at his hands, his strong-boned furrowed face underlit by the coals of the fire.
“The Lady Regent and the Grand Constable acted quickly when the news of the enemy prisoner and Sir Guelf’s defection reached Portland. The Grand Constable had alerted Sir Garrick Betancourt to hold himself in instant readiness…”
CASTLE GERVAIS, BARONY OF GERVAIS PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION (FORMERLY WESTERN OREGON) SEPTEMBER 22, CHANGE YEAR 23/2021 AD
The solar was quiet, quiet enough that the tick of a needle piercing cloth was loud. Yseult was curled up in the window seat, restlessly staring out the eastern window of the tower, across the Five Great Fields of the home manor, sunlight glinting on the almost glassy stems of the reaped wheat and the nearly motionless leaves of the Lombardy poplars in the rows separating the fields. The air was warm and drowsy, smelling of slow-flowing water in the moat beneath the pads and blossoms of the lilies, and of the warm stuccoed concrete of the castle walls themselves. It was much better than winter, when they soaked up the dank chill and released it again to keep you in the right mood for the Black Months.
She’d pulled her fair braid over her shoulder and was nibbling on the end. Huon was out east, serving at Pendleton as a page in the fighting train of Sir Chaka Jones, Baron of Mollala. Odard was even farther east, in Boise, Idaho, the guest of President pro-tem Lawrence Thurston, according to his last letter. Which was dated a long time ago, so he might be anywhere now.
Odard didn’t always have time for Huon and me, but he was nice when he did.
She sniffled quietly, and winced. Here it comes, she thought, wait for it… wait… five, four, three, two… Mary Liu reached for her scissors, silk sleeve rustling. A quiet snip and a quick snap.
“Ysi! Daydreaming again! What have you done so far?”
Yseult swung around and lifted the heavy weight of the altar cloth she had been embroidering before it slid to the gleaming wood floor. She brought it over to her mother, sitting between two south-facing windows. As she gave it over she snuck a quick look at the narrow face under the widow’s wimple. They were alike in some ways; her mother had fair hair too, though graying now, and blue eyes. But the bones of her face were much sharper, and Yseult hoped she would never have that look of settled discontent.
Her heart sank. Mama’s been on edge since the letters arrived from Boise.
Yseult watched nervously as her mother slid the embroidered cloth through her fingers. Mary’s moods had been unpredictable since Odard left; it paid to bet on the side of strictness, especially for her only daughter.
Yseult swallowed as Mary’s fingers stopped at the section she’d been working on so desultorily this morning and yesterday.
“This is as bad as your stitches when you were five! You need to pay attention, Yseult. You are fifteen. I was a married lady by the time I was sixteen! And much better with my needle. A King’s daughter had to set an example, back when we were in the Society.”
If you were a King’s daughter, why aren’t you a Princess?
Yseult gulped back the words, surprised that she’d dared to think them in her mother’s face.
Lady Phillipa told me that was just a fantasy of yours. That it didn’t mean the same thing in the Society and you weren’t a King’s daughter, anyway.
She clenched her teeth as her mother pushed the heavy cloth onto the table with a quick nervous gesture and walked a few steps towards the fireplace and back.
“Hand!” she demanded.
Yseult gasped, but held out her right hand, palm up. No good ever came of whining or trying to get out of her punishments. Her left hand grasped her parting gift from Brother Odard. A two-sided medal with St. Bernadette of Lourdes on one side and the Immaculate Conception on the other that hung on a fine gold chain around her neck.
Her right hand trembled and she couldn’t stop two tears sliding down her cheeks as she waited for the ruler to snap against her tender palm.
“Crying!” exclaimed Mary, contempt and dismissal in her voice. “Here.”
She thrust the heavy linen back into Yseult’s arms. “Pick it out, from here to here. Then put it away for now. I won’t have slovenly work on the altar of the Lord. You can…”
A scratch on the solar door interrupted her tirade. She turned and Yseult drew in a quick, shuddering breath of relief, rapidly and neatly folding the cloth.
“Romarec, what is it?”
“My lady, your brother begs an audience.”
Yseult looked at the matronly housekeeper in some surprise. The last she’d heard, Uncle Guelf was leading the Gervais menie in battle out in Pendleton.
What’s he doing back in Gervais?
She began to sidle towards the servants’ door; strict, hard-handed Uncle Guelf ranked low on her list of people to welcome.
“Certainly. Send him up and do you take this child of mine with you,” said Mary, a tight smile on her face. “She is to work on her sewing with you until the altar cloth embroidery is good enough for me.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Goodwife Romarec bobbed a curtsy, met Yseult’s eyes and made a very small hand gesture to her and held the door open. As she shut the door behind them, Yseult sighed, her palm tingling where the ruler had not hit. Romarec instructed the waiting page to bring Lord Guelf up and waved Yseult towards the door to the servants’ hall.
“Come, young Mistress,” she said. “What’s amiss?”
Yseult gave the housekeeper a rather watery smile. “Mama’s so annoyed and angry all the time, these days. I know the Regent said we all have to do our part in this war, but I wish I could do my part staying with Aedelia Kozlow or Jehane Smitts.”
Romarec led her down the servants’ corridor, frowning.
“You wouldn’t be allowed. Not with the Regent as angry as she is with your mother over the Sutterdown assassins. It took some months for the news to percolate down, but that’s why each family has withdrawn their maidens and none have offered you a spot.”
She eyed Yseult, but Yseult shook her head. “Mama never said what happened with the Re… Wait! The Lady Regent was mad at Mama because brother Odard saved the life of the Mackenzie and the Wanderer? I mean, I mean, mostly he was trying to keep the Princess safe… She’s not very easy to keep safe.”
Romarec shot a quick glance up and down the length of the hall before saying softly: “Little Mistress, your mother does you no favors by keeping you ignorant.”
Yseult sniffed and pushed the heavy white cloth into the housekeeper’s hands. She pulled out her hankie and wiped her eyes and blew her nose defiantly.
“Sorry, I was afraid I’d drip on that pure cloth. Mama would have had kittens-more kittens. Mama-Mama and Uncle did something, and Odard came back really angry, but I didn’t hear what he said to her. She wouldn’t tell me, anyway. Sometimes the other maids-in-waiting would tell me things.”
Yseult felt her lip pout out and sucked
it back in. Lady Mary had a habit of pinching it if she pouted in front of her. The housekeeper shook her head and hesitated, before opening the door to the large bright room that was the servants’ sewing room. Five peasant girls were sitting by the north-facing windows. They looked up and smiled before continuing their work. Romarec spread the altar cloth with its white on white counted cross-stitch over a table in the back. She lowered her voice.
“It’s not something I should talk to you about; it’s not safe. The Lady Regent was so furious your mother nearly lost her head. Those assassins were sent by a kingdom to the east; Cutters they call them. Your mother and your Uncle Guelf snuck them in, hid them, and gave them money and information. Your mother’s goal, as she told me, was the death of the Mackenzie tanist. Rudi Mackenzie, their Chief’s son. But it all went wrong, and the Princess Mathilda and Lord Odard were put in mortal peril as well.”
Yseult froze, the room going dark around her. Sparks of light starred the blackness and she swayed, clumsily thrusting a hand out for balance. Romarec’s scolding sounded distant through the sea-surf roaring in her ears. Something hit the back of her legs and she sat abruptly on a hard chair. A glass was thrust in her hands and that distant voice ordered her: “Sip!”
Yseult felt her teeth begin to chatter and clenched her jaw. I won’t be weak! She sipped, nearly coughed at the fiery-sweet taste of the herbed apricot brandy in the flask and looked up, her sight clearing. Romarec’s concerned eyes met hers. She nodded and sipped again.
“My mother endangered the Princess?” she whispered, incredulous. “That would be treason, and not petty treason either! Why are any of us still alive?” Her mind made a leap. “Odard! Odard fought for her. She must have begged his life of the Lady Regent.”
Then she waved her hand as Romarec glanced to either side again. “No! No, you are right. Not now. Some other day. Now, I should do what Mama says.”
A frisson of fear ran down her back, a physical sensation like the edge of nausea, and she shuddered. Her appalled understanding of her mother’s idiocy made her stomach twist as if she’d eaten green apples, a knowledge as much of the gut as the brain. Fear for herself warred with fear for the whole family; high treason could see them all executed and the lands attainted. And treason was tried before the Court of Star-Chamber, not a jury of your peers. The Lady Regent was not known for being forgiving about anything, much less the life of her only child and heir. Having that child and heir run off-the rumors were plain it had been without permission, and there had been a rare public loss of temper by the Lady Regent-wouldn’t have made her any sweeter about it.
Goodwife Romarec nodded and straightened up, speaking in a normal voice: “Well, my little Mistress, seeing that you have been assigned to sew with me, I’ll tell you that I can really use the help. These are five new maids, each as clumsy as a cow with her needle and each one worse than the last, but they’re all I have, now the maids-in-waiting are gone, to sew all the clothes that we must provide for the castle. We need to make sure the Christmas distribution is done, and we only have a few months to get through the tasks.”
Yseult smiled. She wished she could hug so lowly a person as the housekeeper. But Lady Mary frowned on what she called Yseult’s familiarity with the lower classes. That was old-fashioned thinking, of course. Nowadays nobles knew who they were. Instead she nodded.
“Yes, Romarec, I think that will help me become more disciplined. What times do you think I should work for you?”
“I…” Romarec studied the altar cloth, running it through her hands. “What are these symbols?” she asked.
Yseult shook her head. “Mama tells me what to embroider, by the count. She’ll give me a starting point, but she won’t explain. She told me that it would make me concentrate more, that I was getting distracted and letting the colors and shapes guide my hands and not the pattern, itself.”
Romarec shook her head. The last foot of cloth she frowned at. “ This? She thinks this must be taken out? Child, your mother never could decide from which side of her mouth she should blow! I can see the difference, with my eyes six inches from the cloth, but on an altar at five yards, white on white, it’s not going to show at all. Howsoever, your Lady Mother is sure to ask and inspect. So, come meet my new girls, pick this out and I will expect you here from nine in the morning every day. You will have elevenses with us and eat dinner with the castle staff and work until three in the afternoon.”
“And then?”
“Thusly, Master Johannsen will still see you at four for your riding lesson, and we will inform Mistress Virgilia that your tutoring will be in the evening.”
Yseult nodded, relieved to be free of the hot, boring solar and out of her mother’s sole company.
How awful! I never felt like this about Mama, before. But there were always maids with us!
She picked out the slightly sloppy stitches, wondering why Guelf was in Gervais and what the war news from Pendleton was.
Maybe Guelf brought a letter from Huon? Or one from Odard! Dispatches? Or mischief? Mischief! What a word for high treason. What will happen to us?
She tried to settle the gnawing worm of anxiety in her stomach by ignoring it, forcing her hands not to twitch. She wasn’t very successful. Some time later as she carefully taught Martha how to do a stretch stitch so the cuffs would stand up to rough handling she suddenly wondered:
Jesus’ wounds! Should I tell the Regent my uncle is here? What if he ran away? No, he’ d never run from a fight… But, what is he doing here? What should I do? Odard! Huon! Where are you? I need your help!
At three, her dilemma still unresolved, she raced up the stairs and back corridors to her own apartment, two rooms in the west tower’s third story; the light was always a little dim here, because this low the windows were all narrow slits, but space was always at a premium in a castle. The passageways seemed very empty and bare without the men who’d marched east with the host to Pendleton; it made you realize how the vassals and their menies doing garrison duty made up so much of its usual population. With only the families of the permanent staff and the remnant of older men and boys too young to take the field she felt like one of a handful of dried peas dropped into a drum.
Her maidservant helped her out of the soft violet cote-hardie and rose linen chemise, then hesitated.
“Is there news from the war, my lady?”
Yseult blinked, and then remembered that the girl had a sweetheart who was a spearman; her previous maid had been her first, and had just left to marry a blacksmith in town.
“No, Hathvisa, there isn’t. I’ll tell you if I hear anything, though.”
“Thank you, my lady. The riding habit?”
“Yes, please.”
She pulled on a riding tunic, then the heavy brown pleated wool split skirt, and shrugged into the short tight jacket. She rejoiced in the relative freedom of movement the riding habit gave her as she stamped into her boots and snatched up the hard leather riding hat. Racing down the stairs she was tempted to stop at the little prie-dieu just inside the door of the castle chapel her mother had set up to the Immaculate Conception and St. Bernadette.
Later, when I get back! That’s what I’ll do! I’ll ask my saint and see if she can help me figure out what to do!
Master Johannsen was waiting for her in the courtyard, holding the reins of her spirited little bay palfrey, Iomedea. Yseult shook her head at his offer of a leg up, swung into the saddle and then followed him out into the pasture north of the town that the castle also used as a training and tilting ground. That was empty too, none of the tall coursers or destriers whose hoofprints still marked the green turf, the stands that were put up for a tourney gone except for the anchor-points.
The lesson concentrated on defensive and aggressive moves that an unarmed woman, mounted, could use when under attack. With her new understanding of her danger from her mother’s actions, Yseult wondered at the content of her lesson since January. They finished with his usual command.
&n
bsp; “Ride now, for an hour, practicing your canter and trot.”
Another hour of freedom from the solar was precious to her.
I might not be horse-mad like some girls, she thought. But I’ll take a horse over alone with Mama right now, any day! And I don’t even have to take an escort, with men so short.
She finished off her workout by taking the bridle path northeast along 99E, up to the tangle of vines and quick growing sumac, poplar and hemlock and sapling oak that was rapidly obliterating the burned-out site of old Woodburn. Her father and later her mother had supervised the stripping and destruction of the deserted town. She could just remember watching the foresters fire the controlled burn when she was five, and the quickgrowing trees planted for fuel and coppice were already fifteen or twenty feet tall in this moist mild climate.
She circled north on the edge of the raw young forest. Only the castle folk used South Boones Ferry Road, so she shook the reins and galloped over the familiar winding path, spurring Iomedea around the bend into Parr. A man stepped into the path and snatched at the bay’s bridle. Yseult gasped but there was no time to be afraid, or to think. Horsemaster Johannsen’s voice rang in her head.
“Wait for it, wait… four, three, two…”
Iomedea reared and crow-hopped, obedient to the signals she sent. She raised her quirt…
Thee may not need it, little Mistress, she heard Johannsen say in her mind, But nonetheless, I’ll be teaching thee a few maneuvers. The mare’s a nice girl and will learn well, and it never hurts to know.
Even as she brought the quirt down, cutting at the ragged man, her eyes met his. He started, dodged the whip and jumped back into the trees. Yseult gasped and set Iomedea forward at a hard gallop, her heart pounding.
I didn’t think I would need a groom here! On my own land! Who was that? she wondered. I thought I knew him, just for an instant… I’d better tell the guard captain right away.
Anxiety and fear rode with her as she hurried back to town at a trot. She pulled up at the edge of the built-up area; Gervais wasn’t big enough to rate a city wall. A Tinerant caravan was setting up as she did, their barrel-shaped house-wagons grouped in a square and a wild music of violins and guitars sounding; the ragged, gaudy figures made extravagant bows… one of them still juggling cups and daggers and apples while he did. A storyteller was declaiming to an audience of village youngsters and youths: “Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars…”
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