The Falconer's Daughter, Book 1

Chapter 4 - Part 3

A handmaid knocked on the bedchamber door as Cordaella tugged her muddy shoes off. "You're late, miss," Maggie rebuked as she bustled in, stirring up the fire and setting a kettle on to boil water before unlacing the stays on Cordaella's dirty houppelande.

Cordaella held her trembling hands out to the fire, grateful for the warmth. "I feel frozen through," she said, but she was thinking of the Irishman and she hugged the half hour in the woods.

Maggie stripped the chemise over the girl's head. "Look at that back," the maid clucked. "He's been at it again, has he?" Carefully she blotted the welts on Cordaella's back with a damp cloth. "One of these days he'll leave scars."

"Only twelve this time." Cordaella pressed her arms to her bare breasts, her legs trembling with cold. She remembered the parting look the knight had given her, a small smile on his lips, and yet his eyes-they were so blue!-had stared down at her with as serious an expression as she had ever seen. "And he didn't even make me count."

Cordaella's head felt light, her legs almost too weak to hold her. She couldn't wait to see him again. She must hurry, must hurry back downstairs.

"I suppose he only wants the best for you," Maggie said matter of factly, lowering a clean chemise over her head. "No bath for you although heaven knows you need it. Your cousin went down a half hour ago." She opened the trunk at the foot of Cordaella's bed, drawing out a dark green velvet surcoat, this one with black-striped sleeves. She gave it a hard shake to soften the wrinkles.

Cordaella stepped into it, settling the waist and adjusting the high neck. While Maggie laced her, she tugged the sleeves into place, the full material at the wrist falling back over the pale ivory chemise. "Don't fuss much over me," she said, glancing towards the door. "I better go on downstairs."

"You better let me do your hair. You've got the entire woods caught in it-" The maid, only two years older than Cordaella, pushed the girl onto a low bench, plucking twigs and leaves from the black braids. "You've taken a walk again. To the mews, have you?"

"Not quite so far." Cordaella clasped her hands in her lap, trying not to fidget as Maggie pulled the pins out of the tangled coils and braids, loosening the strands so that the black hair waved past her shoulders. "But how did you know?"

"The others told me."

"Others?" Cordaella asked uncertainly. She pictured the Earl and her cousins.

"Yes, the servants talk." She combed out a tangle. "They see you scrambling over that back gate, your skirts flying like you were a bird or something. Good thing they like you. You don't know how many times the folk have covered for you-" She sighed as she worked at another knot in Cordaella's hair. "The falconer knows you go that way, so do the stable hands. The gardeners see your footprints in the orchard and lucky for you they keep an eye on the woods. It's not safe there, my lady. Woods are always full of trouble. Poachers, robbers, you don't know who might be watching, waiting to harm you."

"Well, I wasn't alone tonight. No one need worry."

"Yes, I heard that, too. You've made friends with the Irishman, have you?" Cordaella didn't answer, surprised that word had traveled so fast. "Well," Maggie said, "what is he like? Besides his looks. He isn't handsome, I know, his nose and chin are too hard, but I liked that roughness of his, all wind and weather."

Cordaella liked the description of him. Wind and weather. Like his voice. "He was nice," she hedged. "We talked mainly about the North. About the Macleods."

"Trying to impress him, were you? But remember now, he hasn't a copper to his name, my lady, so don't be thinking he's the one for you. Your uncle would never consider it." She laughed without malice, but even then, the laughter stung. She smoothed Cordaella's dark hair, the fishtail braids coiled with a rope of pearls and onyx stones. "Now hurry off with you before the Earl comes calling again."

Cordaella stood and taking the small hand mirror, she inspected her face. Her eyes looked too big for her face. Her mouth too full. She wished she wasn't so dark or the color of her eyes so light. Too much contrast, everything too strong.

"You don't like your hair?"

"No, it's not that." She returned the hand mirror to the bureau. "I was thinking-wishing-" She felt as if she was going to cry and she shook her head, ashamed by the strange emotions. "Maggie, am I pretty? Is there anything fine about me?"

"Ah, now that would be telling. We can't have you getting your dander up, thinking too much of yourself." She saw Cordaella's expression, the girl's eyes filling with tears. "I'll give you this, miss, you cast a fair shadow over the others, that you do. You've a different look, my lady, and you'll continue to grow into it. How can you help it? Now go-" Maggie pushed her towards the door. "I don't want the blame. Hear me?"

"Yes," she said, but still hesitating.

"What is it now, Lady Cordaella?"

"I will be sixteen on my next birthday." Cordaella thought of Sir Bran and shivered involuntarily. He was twice her age, but did that make him old? "And is that considered of marrying age?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you think the Earl might have plans for me?"

"Perhaps."

"But you'd tell me, wouldn't you, if you knew?"

"Perhaps," Maggie answered before opening the door and handing Cordaella a candle from one wall sconce. "Now go on before I take you downstairs myself."

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Seated at the far end of the table, she could just see her uncle, with the Irish knight

sitting directly across from him. She sipped at her soup, glancing up beneath her eyelashes to watch him. It had been years since Mr. Pole had gone and for the first time she could remember, she didn't want supper to end. Let them dine all night, as long as Sir Bran was there, his elbows on the table, his red gold head tipping back in laughter.

Tonight she didn't even mind having to share dishes with Eddie, allowing him most of the bowls, and as she dipped her fingers in the water bowl, she saw that the knight was doing the same thing. He wiped his hands on his towel, and she thought they looked like strong hands, good hands. She ducked her head, color darkening her cheeks. What was she thinking? But even the minstrel's song filled her with longing, making her wish for something she had never known. "When that I think what grief it is again, to live and lack the thing should rid my pain."

"What a stupid song." Eddie interrupted her thoughts, propping his head on one hand. "What is a 'Lover not Beloved'?"

"A love song," she answered shortly, not wanting to look at him and be reminded of the black and blue swelling around his eye.

"It makes me sick. Who wants to hear about love?" She didn't answer and Eddie scowled at her, put out by her silence. But she was thinking secret thoughts, feeling a strange new tenderness inside of her, an emotion unlike anger or sadness, fear or despair. This breathed within her, soft and eager. She glanced at the knight again, wishing she were outside, wishing she were next to him, wishing it was his voice speaking, his voice lilting like the moon, like the wind, like the stars she once counted in the Highland nights.