“Have you seen this king I will marry?”
I nod.
“And you were there when my father declared it must be so?”
I nod again. It doesn’t feel like enough.
“I cannot defy the king’s wishes. Particularly not during war,” she says but she looks away and her face is unhappy. “Tell me about him?”
“Your father?”
She laughs quietly. “I suppose I could ask that, but I doubt I will need to know him. Tell me what you saw when you met the man to whom I’ll be given.”
“I saw…” I pause, thinking about how to deliver the blow. When you strike, it’s best to be merciful. Kill quickly, inflicting as little pain as you can. But I find I do not know how to do this with words as I do it with a blade. “A fae king. Glorious and bright. Powerful. He wore too much gold.”
She bites her lip and I know I am not doing this well. “And his temperament?”
“Arrogant. Confident,” I say and yes, I’m certain I’ve done poorly.
Her hand shakes. I’ve wounded rather than killed. A slow death.
I wince.
“Has he anything good to recommend him?” she asks eventually.
I pause and think.
“In marrying him you will forge peace,” I say at last. And that is the only good that I can offer.
Abruptly, I find I cannot contain my misery. Perhaps it is the warmth that has let it slip.
I lurch to my feet and hurry away without a word of goodbye. It’s churlish and yet I cannot help myself. I was close, for a moment, to slipping. I’m hovering along that cliff’s edge where tears and despair lie and I learned long ago not to walk that edge, much less fall into it.
I find the cold bed assigned to me, roll myself in a blanket, and embrace the small death of sleep.
6
IVA FITZROY
We ride at a breath-taking pace, driving the poor horses hard. Lady Fliad had demanded the best of the stable for both of us and I flinch when I think of how hard we are pushing them. Wildsage – Lady Fliad’s horse is a grey mare, and her milky mane and tail are meant for careful brushing, not for clumps of ice and snow. Her eyes roll whenever we stop to rest the horses, walking beside them instead of riding. I don’t know if it’s fear that has her dancing so nervously or the way Lady Fliad saws the reins to keep her balance. I need to get that horse away from her, or at least warn her about what she’s doing before she ruins the mare’s mouth beyond hope.
My own mount is not the usual unflappable Tipper – my favorite of the castle mares, but rather Flicker, her foal, now grown to a high-strung gelding. He’s Lady Stepha’s horse and no more fit for this journey than Wildsage. I soothe him with gentle words and calm hands and try to give him his head as much as I can. He feels more certain when he has more control. Perhaps, by the time we reach the front, he’ll be calm enough to take a less generous rider.
We’ve only been riding half a day when we reach the furthest point out from the castle that I’ve ever been – the small village of Courtey. I’ve been there only once before. It passes by so quickly, I scarce have time to notice anything new. The people scatter at our fast trot down the road leading through the village, a chicken squawks irritably, and then we’re gone and easing into a canter.
We ride in a pattern, walk, trot, canter, gallop, get down and walk beside, and then through the sequence again with most of the time spent walking, or walking beside the horse, and short bursts of faster riding. It’s the fastest we can move without spare horses, and we have none of those.
My goodbyes this morning were as chilly as I suspect my welcome to Castle Fairfield had been. No one wanted the king’s cast-off then, and no one was sad to see her gone now. No one in the big house, at least. The other vassals will miss me, and I will miss them. I will miss the sense of home I had among my folk, working hard for the castle. I’d expected to spend my whole life like that.
Perhaps, in another time, I might have married another vassal and moved to a cottage just outside the castle, but men are thin on the ground now. Most women my age will never marry. To say I am surprised to discover that I have a different fate. That is a surprise. I hadn’t thought that my father’s unwillingly-given blood would determine much of my future. I’d been badly mistaken. What else might I be mistaken about?
I find I like the cold breeze in my face and the steady rhythm of riding and stopping. I can lose myself in the motion. I can lose myself in the goal.
Occasionally, my thoughts drift to the boy I left in charge of my dogs. Occasionally, my eyes drift down to the dog running alongside the black stallion at the head of the soldiers. Sir Oakensen runs side by side with her when he dismounts his horse, and her doggy delight is clear. She might have spent a single night with me in the kennels, but she is his dog through and through.
My one regret is that I could take no dog of my own with me. I asked Lady Fliad before we left if I might bring Whipper and she snapped at me.
“You aren’t owed a dowry, Iva, and you won’t be getting one.”
