Cattra's Legacy

by Anna Mackenzie

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In part because I refuse to inflict on LeMarc the Sitting’s perpetual demands for higher tithes. Whatever laws they pass, they have no power to enforce them here.’

  ‘Laws are not the only problem,’ Risha said, remembering her father’s role. ‘When the tithemen visited Torfell they would claim higher payments than the Sitting demanded and keep the difference for themselves. It was their greed, rather than the Sitting’s taxes, that burdened the villagers of Torfell.’

  ‘Greed is behind much injustice,’ Donnel agreed.

  ‘My father, Pelon, put an end to their abuses. When people know how to read and calculate figures they are less easy to fool.’

  A silence spread like water through the room. Risha glanced towards Muir but his expression was indecipherable.

  Cantrel cleared his throat. ‘Lady Arishara shows herself most able with figures and it is a pleasure to hear her read.’

  There was a palpable easing of tension. With practised ease Donnel turned the conversation to observations from his recent journey.

  ‘What of the rumour that Somoran has formed an allegiance with Westlaw?’ Cantrel asked.

  ‘The usurper’s loyalty lies with no one save himself, and his people suffer for it. Whether he is in league with Westlaw: who could say? Goltoy would be a fool to trust him.’

  ‘Both are dangerous enough alone,’ Cantrel agreed. ‘Any news of the child?’

  ‘She is kept in seclusion. Somoran makes no secret of his plans.’

  ‘But she is well?’

  ‘So I was told.’ Donnel shifted in his seat. ‘Arishara, it grows late and you look tired. We will speak again tomorrow.’

  Risha curtsied and withdrew. The conversation had shown her how ignorant she was of the politics of Elgard. Meredus had mentioned Goltoy, but she had never heard of Somoran. It was a matter she would raise with Cantrel — or perhaps with Donnel himself.

  Upstairs, Lyse was waiting. ‘So tell me,’ the girl said as she helped Risha shrug out of the uncomfortable dress, ‘what did you think of him?’

  ‘Donnel?’ Risha considered. ‘He is accustomed to being a leader and used to managing men to his advantage. I would not want to cross him. But he is fair, I think.’

  Lyse stared at her. ‘You have an odd way of seeing things,’ she said at last, and turned to fold Risha’s petticoats and put them away.

  Risha rose early the next morning and went in search of Donnel. She had lain awake much of the night listing the questions she would ask him. It hadn’t taken long to decide that there were matters more pressing than the politics of the five duchies: why she was here, for example, and how he knew her family; how long it would be until she went to Havre, and what might be expected of her once she did. Now, standing in the doorway of his study, her questions shrivelled on her tongue.

  He looked up and smiled. ‘Good morning, Arishara. I trust you slept well?’

  She nodded, hoping her face didn’t reveal the untruth. Donnel pushed aside a stack of paperwork and stood abruptly. There was a coiled grace to his movements.

  ‘Is it too early for a ride? There’s something I’d like to show you. As well we might see how able a teacher Timon has proven.’ His teeth flashed. ‘You’ll forgive me if I do not, at the moment, test either Harl’s or Gorth’s success.’

  Risha studied him surreptitiously to judge whether he was making fun of her. It was impossible to tell.

  The trail he led her on was unfamiliar, winding steeply through the trees. They went slowly, Donnel chatting easily about LeMarc and questioning her in turn about Torfell and the childhood she had spent there. Risha told him about tending crops and milking goats, and he seemed to think no less of her for it. He asked about the breed that thrived in the northern mountains, then told her of the goats kept by the farmers of LeMarc — hardy creatures able to withstand periods of drought, with short, harsh hair rather than the soft fleeces of their northern cousins.

  Twice Risha laughed aloud and once he joined her. He had an engaging laugh, deep and rich, that softened his face so that he looked younger and more carefree. It would do him good to laugh more often, she decided.

  The sun was gathering its heat by the time they reached a wide clearing. In Torfell by this time the harvest would be safely stored and the goats brought down from the summer meadows. The first snows might already have fallen, but here it was still hot at midday and the crops stood golden and dry in the fields. It had not rained once since her arrival.

  Donnel tethered their mounts and led her on foot up a steep outcrop that rose clear of the trees. Even the rocks, the very bones of the mountains, were different to those she knew, with flecks of shell and spiralling imprints of leaves and tiny creatures pressed into their pale hearts. Its texture explained the demand for good Torfell stone, Risha decided, as a chunk crumbled beneath her boot.

  From the edge of the bluff, the citadel and town lay spread like a drawing on parchment, the roads like strips of ribbon, boats dotted like toys around the harbour. The sea sparkled silver in the morning sunlight. She had not fully appreciated quite how vast the ocean was.

  Donnel extended his arm. ‘You see the harbour mouth, there, and the Teeth of Sargath — the crest of LeMarc. And there, to the north, you see how the mountains run like a spine up the land, their skirts spread smooth and wide to the sea?’

  Risha nodded. In the middle distance the jagged slopes dropped abruptly to the coastal plains while beyond they fell into rugged foothills before stretching their toes to the coast. Scattered across the plains were signs of settlement: farmsteads, hamlets and larger towns, all shrinking with distance until there were only threads of smoke to mark their existence.

  ‘That is LeMarc,’ Donnel said. ‘From here to the Sound of Elswater and beyond, past Lacstone Marsh to Caledon Forest, bounded end to end by the Othgard Mountains. That is LeMarc.’ He glanced at her briefly then swung his arm northwest across the ocean. ‘And see, there.’ A dark smudge of land rose in the distance, purple and grey against the silvered water. ‘That is Havre. Together, they unite the south. LeMarc and Havre: the legacy of your birth, Arishara.’

  Risha stared. ‘I … have only recently learnt who my mother was.’

  ‘It is a lot to come to terms with.’ Donnel seemed to hesitate. ‘But believe me, Arishara, if I had known where you were, you would not have been left in ignorance — or cast upon the tender mercies of northern hospitality.’

  For a moment she allowed herself to imagine such a saviour riding over Lindfell Pass to smite the bullies of her childhood. She smiled faintly, till a question that had tugged at her since Caledon pressed insistently forward. ‘But why did my father never tell me who my mother was?’

  Donnel did not immediately answer. ‘Perhaps he had no choice,’ he said at last.

  ‘But —’

  ‘Pelonius chose your refuge well,’ Donnel said, though there was something grudging in his tone. ‘When no sign of you or your mother could be found in the months after you disappeared, it was widely assumed you had perished. That assumption kept you safe. It was important he maintain it.’

  A bird let out a ripple of song, setting cicadas chirruping in the trees behind them. Heat was gathering in the air. ‘I have a brooch that was hers. I found it when I went through my father’s papers, after …’ She swallowed.

  Donnel’s hand fell lightly on her shoulder. ‘These past months have been hard on you. I’m sorry for it. But know that you are welcome here, Arishara, and that you will always be safe in LeMarc.’

  ‘But why am I here? Why not go straight to Havre? Why—’

  ‘There is much you need to know. Arishara, I—’ He stopped and drew breath, holding it as he gazed towards Havre. His hand had slipped from her shoulder. ‘Long ago I made a promise to your mother — more than one, but this, at least, I am able to keep.’

  ‘What promise?’

  ‘That you would rule Havre in your own right, if you so chose; that the choice wou
ld be yours when you were old enough to make it.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Rule is responsibility; one you can never escape. It is no easy thing, especially in such times as these.’ A smile flickered across his face and was gone. ‘I once suggested to your mother that a united south could close its borders and leave the rest of Elgard to its fate. She was angry. She said it was the people who made Elgard, not royal houses or borders drawn on a map, and that our duty was to them all.’

  Abruptly he turned away, his arm jerking as if to fling away his thoughts. ‘I am an old fool, philosophising. Come, we’ll go back.’

  Without waiting for an answer he bounded down the rocky outcrop. By the time she caught up he had the horses ready and boosted her swiftly onto Sugar’s back. At the edge of the glade he swung back and stared around, though whatever he searched for he seemed not to find.

  Their return journey was silent: Donnel, voluble on the way up, had run out of words, while his casual mention of her mother had left Risha winded. Questions tumbled and fought within her — questions she’d never had the courage to ask Pelon, and now seemed equally unable to broach with Donnel. Instead her thoughts were filled with a tantalising memory, of a canopy broad as a sail stretched above, and a woman’s hair, rich auburn, draping over her like a tent.

  15

  Flight

  With Donnel’s return an air of urgency permeated the citadel. Everyone was on edge, every task more hurried, every bondsman and servant eager to please. Cantrel and Gorth were suddenly too busy for her lessons, while Timon trailed after Donnel like a hound hoping for scraps. When Harl cancelled their crossbow practice, Risha could no longer keep her frustration to herself.

  ‘Eon says Donnel plans to sail as soon as possible to Havre,’ Lyse told her. ‘It’s hardly fair to be resentful when they’re all busy on your behalf.’

  ‘But not at my request! And anyway, I don’t see why Havre should want me.’

  Lyse frowned. ‘You’re the heir. With Lord Donnel to back you, they’ll have no choice but to welcome you.’

  Muir’s half-forgotten words came back to her: when you go to Havre there will be a troop of soldiers at your back.

  ‘Which shows exactly how welcome I’ll be,’ she muttered.

  ‘Your mother—’

  ‘My mother is no less a stranger now I know who she was.’

  Lyse sat back on her heels, the pattern she’d been tracing temporarily ignored. ‘Perhaps going to Havre will change that. But Eon says Lord Donnel plans to take only Gorth and a handful of guardsmen with him this time.’ As if that resolved things, she returned to marking out her tapestry.

  Risha crossed to the window. The vine in the courtyard was hung with small purple fruit, a few late flowers scattered among them. Lyse had missed the point, even if her brother’s gossip could be believed.

  A wave of longing for Pelon swelled within her. In Torfell the villagers had thought him aloof and withdrawn, but perhaps it had simply been that he, too, had longed for his life as it had once been. Risha sighed. If only he had told her of her heritage, she would have had time to consider what being Cattra’s daughter meant to her before she found herself caught up in what it meant to others. Which brought her back to LeMarc. Why had Donnel taken it upon himself to provide her sanctuary, and why was he now in such a hurry to get to Havre in her name? If Havre was her birthright, should not she decide when she would take it up?

  ‘There,’ Lyse said, sitting back. ‘What do you think?’

  Risha glanced at the design. It showed a ship entering the harbour, the Teeth of Sargath visible behind. ‘It is of your arrival in LeMarc,’ Lyse added.

  ‘It will take a long time to stitch,’ Risha said, her thoughts turning to the citadel’s other tapestries. ‘Lyse, who made the tapestry that hangs in the gallery; the one that isn’t finished?’

  Lyse hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘But it is of Havre?’

  ‘I’ve never looked at it closely.’ Lyse looked strangely uncomfortable. ‘Lord Donnel might tell you.’

  ‘Were he not so busy planning his journey to Havre in my name.’

  Pah. Nonno’s disparagement stung like a whip.

  Risha frowned. Everyone said he was going in her name. If not, then — her thoughts struck a barb that sucked the breath from her lungs. Meredus had warned her against falling hostage to the lords’ games. Her thoughts raced. Was she just such a hostage?

  ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Risha turned to the window. The sky had begun to darken and a single spit of rain slapped the glass. Cantrel had asked Donnel about a girl imprisoned at Fratton: Margetta. She tapped her fingers on the sill then spoke with studied casualness. ‘Lyse, does LeMarc have an alliance with Fratton?’

  ‘No! At least not since Somoran’s uncle murdered the last true lord.’

  ‘Is Margetta not the true heir, then?’

  ‘She is. Lord Everil was her grandfather. She’s been a prisoner since she was born, and an orphan as well. Her mother jumped from the tower rather than marry a murderer, but they say Somoran takes care not to let Margetta do the same. He plans to marry her when she’s old enough, then he’ll rule as her husband and his son will be heir.’

  A shard of ice coalesced inside Risha’s chest, its edges sharp and unrelenting. Was that Donnel’s plan? Did he, like Somoran, plan to seal his claim to Havre with a marriage? She pictured him: as old as Pelon, steel-willed and careworn. She’d seen another side of him — had liked him even — but not in that way. She couldn’t imagine it. She didn’t wish to.

  Her eyes stared blindly from the window, her thoughts in turmoil. Her hands curled into fists. She needed to think, to make a plan. She had to get to Havre in her own right rather than as Donnel’s pawn. She cleared her throat. ‘I think I’ll walk on the battlements.’ She raised a hand as Lyse set aside her basket of wools. ‘No, Lyse, you stay — I just need to stretch my legs a little; I won’t be long.’ Her voice sounded odd but Lyse didn’t seem to notice.

  Risha walked stiffly down the stairs. Her one advantage was that no one knew she had finally realised the truth. How much time did she have? The keep was in a flurry with the urgency of Donnel’s preparations. What if he planned to force a marriage before he went to Havre? Would Havre help her if the deed was already done, if … Panic burst in Risha’s chest. She would not marry Donnel! She would not marry anyone.

  Risha ran. Someone called her name as she crossed the hall but she pretended not to hear. If she stopped she would only babble her fears — and how could she trust anyone within the citadel? She had to get away; as far away as she could, and as fast.

  In the courtyard two horses stood saddled and ready. She’d rather have ridden her safe old pony but the urge to escape brooked no delay. Twitching loose the reins, she raised her foot to the stirrup and half-swung, half-scrambled into the saddle. The horse was taller than her pony and the stirrups too long. She didn’t care. Slapping the reins on the animal’s neck, she clattered across the courtyard, through the low barbican and out into the sunlight. From the corner of her eye she saw the guard’s mouth fall open in surprise, then she was past him and gone.

  Veering away from the town, Risha let the horse have its head: she didn’t care where they went, as long as it was away from the citadel. Shouts rose behind but she ignored them. Sargath take the lot of them! The curse was one of Gorth’s. Laying low along the horse’s neck, she kicked him to a gallop. His answering burst of speed brought her heart to her throat. Misreading her fear, the animal lengthened his stride. Risha clamped her knees tight and wove her fingers through his mane.

  Tears stung in her eyes but the wind whipped them away. She soon ceased to care about anything except keeping her seat. A fallen tree blocked the path and she cried out, but her mount cleared it effortlessly. Fear narrowed her vision to a tunnel of thrashing branches and thudding hooves.

  When at last the animal slowed, she pushed herself u
pright. They were in a glade ringed by tall, red-barked trees. The horse’s neck was lathered and she felt a twinge of guilt. Gathering the reins into one hand, she slid to the ground. Her legs were weak beneath her. Tears of self-pity mingled with her mount’s sweat as she leant against his side. He turned his head, his hot breath blowing on her cheek. Risha took a deep breath. Her ride had achieved nothing. It wasn’t fair to let the horse suffer for it. Taking hold of his bridle, Risha led him slowly around the glade to cool him then rubbed him down with handfuls of fresh-torn grass.

  When he settled to graze she tied his reins to a branch and sank to the ground, her arms wrapped around her knees. She was worn out and lost — and those, she told herself grimly, were the least of her worries. It seemed obvious now, what she had failed to understand before: she was a piece in the game played by Donnel as much as by Goltoy or Somoran. She was LeMarc’s claim to Havre. Donnel himself had told her that together they united the south. To make good his claim he must marry her, just as Somoran planned to marry the girl who was heir to Fratton.

  Fresh tears were welling when the sharp crack of a branch alerted her. The horse, too, had heard it. He turned his head and whinnied. Risha sprang to her feet and shushed him, stroking his soft nostrils, but she could hear a rider approaching — she had probably left a trail a blind man could follow.

  Muir arrived in the glade at a canter. Risha stood straight to face him. He reined sharply and leapt from his horse, his face shifting through relief to fury as he closed the distance between them. His hands on her shoulders were rough. ‘You little fool! You could have been killed. In Sargath’s name, Risha, what possessed you?’

  ‘You lied to me — I should never have trusted you!’ As he glared she began to shake.

  Muir’s hands gentled. ‘Risha…’

  She clenched her teeth against the wild tide of her emotions, but it was hopeless. Balling her hands against his chest, she leant her head on them and wept. Muir held her shoulders lightly and waited.