The Falconer's Daughter, Book 1

Chapter 6 - Part 1

It would come back to her, the scene on the parapet, and she would be struck mute standing lost, silent, as she listened to the voices playing in her head, hearing again the peasant's accusations, the Earl's contempt, the screaming. She wondered how many others Eton had murdered. And none of it seemed significant to him because all who had died were common, peasants. Dirt.

For years she had wondered what happened, there in the snow of Ben Nevis. Now she knew the truth and did knowing change anything?

Autumn was passing quickly. She thought ahead to November and December, before long it would be St. Nichol's and then the twelve days of Christmas—. When she first arrived at Peveril she had been surprised by the numerous Yule festivities: costumes and singing, dancing and gift-giving. The Nativity, on December's twenty-fifth, had been barely noticed in Glen Nevis, her father and she too poor, too busy to make up costumes and masks. Yet those Yule celebrations had been mystical, green pine branches draped across the door, tucked under eaves and into shutters. Outside it was cold, silent, white. Inside the fire glowed, the fragrance of pine filled the air and the sticky gold sap dripping from the boughs formed puddles on the floor. It had seemed lovely to her, beauty in the simplicity of the rough wood toys and the green garlands on the brown walls.

Cordaella stood on tiptoe, reaching up high to lift the garland off of the Earl's bedchamber wall. The dried herb and flower wreath was replaced with another. She stepped off the stool, careful not to crush the brittle wreath under her arm. The bedchamber door opened and Eton walked in. "Mary," he said, "where is my—" breaking off when he saw Cordaella instead of his wife. "What are you doing here?"

"Lady Eton asked me to change all garlands with the ones we made during the summer."

He seemed to be examining her, the same inspection he gave his best horses. "You are almost sixteen, aren't you?"

"Yes, my lord. In November."

"One month," he said, still considering her. "And you stay busy enough."

"Yes, my lord." She wiped dust off her cheek, aware of her old stained surcoat and her hair loosening from the braid. She hadn't expected to see him this morning. He was supposed to be with the bailiff and his scribes in the solar, hearing complaints from the villagers and settling disputes.

"You are spending more time helping her ladyship?"

Of course she was, she thought, he had ordered it, saying that she was too old for lessons and games. "Yes, my lord," she answered instead, keeping her gaze down, fixed on the floorboards between them.

"You will need to know how to run the affairs of a lord." He turned to rummage in a trunk at the foot of the bed. "You weren't brought up with responsibilities, living like a banshee in those mountains, and you need to work hard here, to learn a lady's duty." She was glad he couldn't see how much she hated him. She had learned to hide the loathing and anger behind vacant eyes and an empty expression. He slammed the trunk lid down with a curse. "Damn all! I cannot find my riding cloak, the brown one, with the fur hood."

She watched him turn around in his chamber. He looked helpless then, so small, almost lost. She wanted to laugh at him. She wanted to challenge him...to challenge his greed, his selfishness, his cruelty. Instead she swallowed, saying only, "Lady Eton is mending it. She and Elisabeth are sewing in the nursery."

"Then go fetch it for me," he said with a trace of impatience as he walked to the chamber door. "I will wait in the solar."

The solar, the room where he meted out all discipline with the low stool and the switch. How appropriate, she thought, climbing the narrow twisting stairs for the nursery. She would forever associate him with his fist. She wasn't even sixteen yet and she already knew that this was one of the ways men made women obey.