Chapter Seventeen The Maiden of the Manor
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Maiden of the Manor
Lady Caracalla, only daughter of the Valerius line, was a shy and retiring maiden of fifteen years.
Knowing she – like her lady mother – was no beauty, and taller than every squire in the yard besides, it had been impressed upon Caracalla that she must at least make an effort to excel at womanly arts.
She chose a chamber of the east wing in which to sew and spin.
The chamber had a great mullioned window overlooking the road through the deep, dark woods.
The road ran through a field of poppies known as the Field of Blood, where once their ancestor fought, through fields of barley and of rye, through the Mountains of Truth where the Oracle awaited, all the way to many-towered Themesvar.
When her brother rode home, he would come by that road. She would see him first of anyone shut up in these grey walls.
First of anyone, she saw the smoke and flame as the ravine rose in Themesvar. Timid though she was, she was thus prepared, and when her old nurse came tiptoeing in, she heard the tidings of battle calmly.
“Don’t fear, Nurse. Lord Marius is the bravest and strongest of all the warriors in all the lands, and he cannot be defeated in battle. My brother will come and shield us from harm.”
By morning’s light and evening’s glow she spun. Surely Marius would come soon.
Then her old nurse came, tottering older than she had been the day before, to tell Caracalla her brother had perished.
“There must be some mistake.” Lady Caracalla remained calm. “I will wait for my brother to come and explain.”
She spun through dark night and mornings grey as their manor, waiting for her brother to carry home new hope.
What was carried home to Caracalla was her brother’s great sword, Starving for Blood.
So heavy was the sword, most men could not lift it with both hands, though she had seen her brother swing the blade one-handed as a boy.
Lady Caracalla said, “My brother may be wounded. I will keep his sword, awaiting his safe return.”
The duchy of Valerius was a proud and ancient house, but not rich.
Much of her brother’s investments had been made with confidence in Eyam’s military might.
With war swiftly followed pestilence and hunger.
Caracalla’s lady mother explained they must confine themselves to strict rations, to make sure all were fed.
When the invalid duke demanded more than his fair share, Eumineda, the last duchess, went to his chambers to remonstrate.
The old nurse, growing older by a year every minute, crawled up to her darling’s sewing room to tell Caracalla that her father, mother and even her tutor had been killed in the violent dispute that followed.
It was believed the tutor, himself an invalid, gave his life trying to shield the duchess from her husband’s wrath.
Lady Caracalla, gowned in her best, attended her mother and tutor to the grave. It would be the last time she wore fine clothes. She sold them off to buy three tombstones.
“The tombstones hold the dead in the ground. Nurse, I would not have my father come back again.”
When her nurse died, Caracalla buried the old woman beside her mother.
Then Lady Caracalla retired once more to her weaving room. She held her brother’s sword as close as a childhood toy, and whispered, “I am half sick of waiting, Marius.”
The few servants remaining carried back reports of bandits whose numbers could not be withstood. Villagers petitioned to be allowed refuge inside the great manor. At least if they starved within the manor’s grey walls, they would die warm.
Lady Caracalla refused to let a single soul enter. She said she must keep her family’s treasure safe.
Hearing reports of treasure, with only a girl gone mad to guard it, the bandits rode to the manor. Orders were given to shut up the manor, and smoke the girl out.
Except the girl could not be found, and the fire caught fast. In the Great Hall, the bandits fought over who had set the blaze too early and stoked it too high, and whether they should escape or try again to locate the maiden.
Slowly, they became aware she had found them.
At the top of the stairs, wreathed in smoke and sparks, stood the silhouette of a maiden, dragging a great sword behind her like a child’s toy.
“As lady of the house, it is my duty to make sure the fires burn high. I hear you ask for my treasure. I have nothing left but this sword.” Lady Caracalla smiled. “I’ll give it to you gladly.”
“We will slice you like a ham,” snarled the bandit leader.
Caracalla said, “Try.”
A boy among the bandits, as young as the maiden, cried that the flames raged out of control and they must flee. That was when the bandits tried the doors, and found none would open. They remembered, then, the old stories.
The line of Valerius was begun by the Great God, to serve as his son the Emperor’s generals and strongest warriors.
Ancilley Manor was built by the Great God to be a fortress.
In Eyam, even the stones in the earth have power, and the cornerstone of the manor was a great stone as transparent as a window and as cold to the touch known as the Heart of Ice.
An ice block, it seemed, which over the centuries had never melted.
None could enter the manor against the will of a Valerius.
And without the permission of a Valerius, none could leave.
The whole force had been neatly caught. When they whirled back with new threats in their mouths, the lady descended the staircase as daintily as if to her first ball.
“Think you the cursed bloodline is dead?” asked Caracalla. “Not yet. No helpless maid is trapped in here with you, gentlemen. You are trapped in here with the last daughter of Valerius.”
She was but a slender maid, but with one hand she lifted her brother’s great sword over her head in a shining deadly arc. Amid fire and darkness, the girl’s eyes were ice.
“Honour in my heart, death in my hand!” the Lady Caracalla gave her war cry. “My people will sleep warm tonight.”
The lady charged.
The blaze of Ancilley Manor rose in a red tower to the broken moon. So passed the sweet and valiant maiden Caracalla.
Nobody wept at her grave. Those who loved her were long dead.
Excerpt from the Once and Forever Emperor series, now revised, ANONYMOUS
Lady Caracalla, only daughter of the Valerius line, was a shy and retiring maiden of fifteen years. Knowing she – like her lady mother – was no beauty, and taller than every squire in the yard, it had been impressed upon Caracalla that she must at least make an effort to excel at womanly arts.
It was a great bother.
Caracalla chose a chamber of the east wing in which to weave and spin.
The chamber had a great window overlooking the road through the woods.
The road ran through the Field of Blood, through the barley and rye, through the Mountains of Truth where the Oracle awaited, all the way to many-towered Themesvar.
From this side of the mountains, the peak containing the Oracle’s cave seemed one great, sinister spike stabbing into the swirling clouds.
When her brother rode home, Marius would come by that road. She would see him first of anyone within these dreary, grey walls.
First of anyone, she saw the smoke and flame as the ravine rose in Themesvar. When Nanny Nuale came to tell her the tidings of battle, Caracalla had already prepared a speech that sounded cool, resolute and not scared.
“Don’t fear, Nurse. Lord Marius is the bravest and strongest of all the warriors in all the lands, and he cannot be defeated in battle. My brother will come and shield us from harm.”
By morning’s light and evening’s glow she spun on, squinting and hastily blotting the tears that fell on the red and white weave. Marius would be with her soon. He was her knight. He always came when she had most need of him.
She stayed in her room, not because she was so terribly fond of spinning, but because she must be the first to see when he came.
And for one more reason, though it was cowardly.
Mama, being a duchess, was a highly practical person.
If Caracalla went downstairs, Mama would sensibly try to prepare her for Marius being hurt, or worse.
Battlefields weren’t ideally suited for maintaining good health.
Marius would not want her to be shaken. Marius once wrote to her, We have nothing if we do not have faith.
Several nights and days had passed since the smoke and fires of war.
Word came from Themesvar that they were victorious – hurrah!
– though possibly the king had been killed.
Very sad, Caracalla was sure. Everyone said the king was so charming, but personally Caracalla thought there were much more charming gentlemen in the capital.
She made a wicked little bargain, just between her and the moon, that the king could be dead if only Marius was well.
She spun through dark night and mornings as grey as their manor – and also through the day, though that sounded less poetic – waiting for her brother to carry home new hope.
Caracalla slept that night in her sewing chamber on a heap of old tapestries she grandly intended to mend, and dreamed of endless waiting: hunger and cold, loneliness and grief that ended in fire.
She woke with tears on her cheeks, enraged at herself for being so silly.
Was this strange dream of misery and poverty any behaviour for the sister of the greatest warrior in the land?
Even if Marius was – she skipped over that thought – Marius had been so clever with investments.
The Marquis of Popenjoy told Marius he had nightmares about Marius only investing in the military, so Marius had diversified in many areas.
House Valerius was rich whatever happened, for generations to come.