Chapter Seventeen The Maiden of the Manor #2
The dream could not fool her. She sat firmly down to her weaving by clear morning light, determined to wait forever if need be. If only forever wouldn’t take so long.
Caracalla was puzzling over the tangled web of her weaving when a ray of sunlight struck her sight, a flash as swift as a bow-shot and as bright as crystal. She looked out the window.
Light poured through the leaves onto the white horse and its rider. A summer breeze set coal-black-and-white-ice curls flowing as he rode.
She left the weaving, she left the loom, she crossed the room in three paces, and dashed headlong down the great staircase.
Through the Great Hall with wild abandon she ran, and leaped like a deer over the grey threshold and the Heart of Ice set coldly gleaming there.
Abandoning ladylike pretence, she ran faster than anyone could chase into the sweet sunshine, leaving the great oak doors thrown wide open in her wake.
Her heart went birdlike before her, so light and soaring it was, flying on gold wings to the bright party emerging from the green wood.
Around the dusty curve of the road Caracalla raced, past the red sea of poppies, faster than she had ever run in her life.
It was a very large party, larger than any Caracalla had seen coming down their path from many-towered Themesvar.
There were rattling carts, women and children, and men dressed in a raffish way that made her think of bandits.
Leading the way, on his magnificent long-fanged and swift-footed steed, rode her brother.
The lady charged. Into a mess of warhorses and carts, battle steeds baring fangs at her. In the chaos, Caracalla was not one bit afraid. Marius was off his horse and with her in an instant.
“Out in public with no shawl? Gods in their mercy lend you grace, Caracalla,” he said in his funny stern way, with the note of gentleness always in his voice when he spoke to her.
Marius rendered his scolding even more absurd by immediately taking her in his arms. He was so strong he could carry her as he had when she was a baby, and so tall he made her feel tiny and dainty, the way everyone said ladies should be.
Caracalla clung to him, her tangled dreams and fears dissolving like mist in sunlight.
What a fool she had been to doubt him. Nothing could hurt her big brother, and when he was near, nothing could touch Caracalla. She was the safest girl in the world.
“Oh, this family,” shouted a laughing voice from above. “Must you throw yourselves beneath the hooves of a hundred horses?”
Caracalla giggled at the joke, dizzy with relief and renewed faith. “We shan’t be hurt! We are Valerius.”
The Golden Cobra twinkled down at them from astride another war steed, by her excellent lines surely the promising filly Marius had written about. Caracalla had not realized the Cobra was so accomplished a horseman, and mentally added this important fact to her list of his many fine qualities.
He knew they were Valerius, of course. The Cobra was only being witty.
He was the most humorous and charming gentleman in the capital, and her future husband.
They were betrothed. Her mama had made inquiries when she saw how vastly taken Caracalla was with Marius’s friend.
All his servants agreed that the Cobra was as warm as summer’s longest day and never said a harsh word to even the lowest scullion maid.
Besides being so extremely good-looking and eloquent, and knowledgeable about the arts, and fashion, and finances, and everything under the sun.
When the Cobra accepted the betrothal dagger, Caracalla was overcome by her own good luck.
Valerius men were famous for their lethal beauty.
Valerius women were made to escape the notice of their dangerous men and a dangerous world.
If a Valerius warrior loved you or hated you, he would kill you, and if the world believed a woman was a threat, she would be crushed.
Valerius women hid their strength and fury, hid the mark on their skin that was the seal of their blood.
Quiet as little mice, with hair the plain grey-brown of mouse fur, Valerius women crept through the centuries.
There were breaks in the pattern: Caracalla’s dead aunt, they said, had been a beauty.
Caracalla herself was tall. She always wished to be pretty, so that a kind man might take her away from the manor in spite of the risk she would turn berserker.
After the Cobra agreed to make her his bride, Caracalla knew she didn’t need to be pretty.
She needed only what she had: the best brother in the world.
Privately, Caracalla suspected her brother must have intended the match long before she and her mama came to visit Themesvar. If you knew Marius as Caracalla did, you could easily tell he preferred the Cobra to that not-so-charming king, or to anyone else in the capital.
No surprise that Marius could find the perfect man. All for Caracalla.
Standing in the circle of Marius’s warm arm, Caracalla laid her face against his snow-white chest, and laughed and cried because she was so happy.
Clear as this brilliant day, her brother had brought the Golden Cobra home to marry her.