2
Brides—Twelve and One
The halls of the Abbey were dim with the winter twilight. Here and there a wall lamp gave off faint light, which did not draw back the arras of shadows. To leave the fireside and the company in the great hall was to step into another world, but it was one I knew well. I passed the chamber of convocation. No light showed beneath its ponderous but time warped door. The Dames must all have turned to their cells in the wing forbidden to their guests.
Their guests—as I sped along that dark and chilly corridor I thought of those guests. Not those who had been so long housed at Norstead that they had become a part of its life, but rather the party which had ridden in before the last close down of night, who had shared our board and fare about the long table.
Lord Imgry, very much in charge of that company—his brown beard cut short to the jaw line for the better wearing of battle helm, its wiry strength shot here and there with silver, which showed again above his ears. His was a strong face, but with determination and will in every line of it, deep graven. This was man to yield not to any plaint, save when it pleased his own plan to do so, when that yielding meant advantage.
With him two others, lesser men, and one who had little liking for their present task. Soldiers used to the ordering of their coming and going, never looking beyond those orders to what prompted their giving—now ill at ease and more centred upon that unease than upon the surroundings which gave it cause. As for the troop of men-at-arms—they had retired to quarters in the village.
Last of all—the brides. Yes—the brides! My acquaintance with weddings had been limited to those of village maids, when I had accompanied the Dame delegated to represent the Abbey at such festivities. Then there had been smiles, and if tears, happy ones, and singing—a festival, in truth.
Tonight I had faced across the board a new kind of bride. They wore the formal travel garb, robes well padded against winter blasts, skirts divided for the saddle, and, under their cloaks the short tabards, each embroidered with the arms of their houses, that they might proclaim their high birth to the world. But there were no loose locks and flower crowns.
There is a saying that all brides are fair of face on their wedding days. Two or three of these, now glittering of eyes, feverishly flushed, too talkative, were notably pretty. But there were heavy, reddened eyelids, too pallid cheeks, and other signs of misery among them.
And in my ear had sounded the too-carrying whisper of the Lady Tolfana sharing her knowledge of the gathering with her seat mate.
“Fair? Ah, yes, too fair as her sister-by-blood, the Lady Gralya would tell you. Lord Jerret, her bedmate, is a notable lifter of skirts. It seems that lately he fingers, or would finger, robes closer to home. Thus you see Kildas in this party. Once wedded to a Rider she will not trouble that household again.”
Kildas? She was one of the feverishly alive brides. Her brown hair was touched with red gold in the lamp light, and she had the round chin, the full lower lip of one fashioned for the eyes of men. Even behind the stiff tabard there were hints of a well rounded body, enough to inflame the lecher her sister’s lord was reputed to be. A reason good enough to include Kildas in this company. Her seat mate was a thin shadow to her ruddy substance. The ’broidery of her tabard was carefully and intricately wrought. Much care and choice had gone into that stitchery, as if it were indeed a labour of love. Yet the robe beneath it was well worn and showed traces of being cut from another garment. The girl sat with her lids tear puffed, downcast and scarce ate, though she drank thirstily from her goblet.
I searched memory for her name—Alianna? No, that was the small girl at the far end. Solfinna—that was it. While Kildas had been sent forth in fine trappings, mayhap salving in some small way the consciences of those who had so dispatched her, Solfinna wore the thread-bareness of poverty long borne. Daughter of an old but impoverished house no doubt, with no dowry, and perhaps with younger sisters to be provided for. By becoming a bride she put the lords under obligation to serve her family.
In spite of Sussia’s suggestion, none of the girls was ugly. By the covenant they could not be diseased nor ill formed. And several, such as Kildas, were fair enough to marry well. For the rest, youth granted them some pleasantness or prettiness—though their unhappiness might cloud that now. I began to consider that the Lords of High Hallack were fulfilling their part of the bargain with honour—save that the brides were unwilling. But then, in High Hallack, weddings did not come of mutual liking and regard, not among the old houses, but rather were arranged alliances. And perhaps these girls were not facing anything worse than they would have faced in the natural course of events.
It was easy to believe that until I looked upon Marimme. She did not display the strained vivacity she had shown in the hall, but now sat still, as a bird when a serpent eyes it coldly. And she ever watched Lord Imgry’s face, though she made no attempt to attract his eye, rather turned her gaze from him quickly when it would seem he was about to return it. Had he broken the news to her yet? I thought not. Marimme, who had never been able to retain her composure when faced by small difficulties of the day, would have been in hysterics long since. But it was also plain she suspected something.
And when it did come...Plans made on the spur of the moment may go awry, but also may those which have been most carefully wrought over days and years. I was shield-backed now by my own sense that this was one of those times when Fortune not only smiled but put out her hand to aid, and that I needed only to keep my wits about me to have matters go as I willed.
So now that the feast was past—mock feast and shadowed as it had been—I sought my own answer for what must happen soon. The shawl over my arm I whipped about my shoulders. To have sought my own would have perhaps marked my going, so I had one found on the back of a chair—dull green instead of grey, but no colour in the night.
The way I took was a private one long known to me by my labours in the still room, and it was to that chamber I went, crossing the winter blasted garden at a run. There were snow flakes, large and feathery, falling. A storm such as this was another stroke of good luck. Within the still room the chill was not yet complete, and the good scents hung in the air. What I had come to do must be done swiftly and yet with care.
There were bags on a side shelf, each quilted into pockets of different sizes and shapes. One of these in my hands—and then, moving with care, for I dared not show a light, I made my way about the cupboards and tables, from shelves to chests, thankful that long familiarity made my fingers grow eyes for this task. Phials, boxes, small vials, each to its proper pocket in the bag, until at last I slung over my shoulder such a bag of simples and healing aids as Dame Alousan had supplied to the war bands. Last, not least but foremost, I groped my way to a far cupboard. It was locked by a dial lock, but that was no bar to me who had been entrusted with its secret years ago. I counted along a row of bottles within, making that numbering twice, then working loose a stopper to sniff.
Faint indeed was the odour—sharp, rather like the vinegar from the orchard apples. But it told me I was right. The bottle was large and difficult to carry. However, to try to decant what I needed for my purpose was impossible here and now. I gripped it tight between crooked arm and breast as I relocked the cupboard.
There was always the chance that Dame Alousan might find it in mind to check her storehouse, even at this hour and season. Until I reached my own room I was in danger of discovery. Yet in me the exultation grew with the belief that all was moving as I wished.