Chapter 30
It was unprecedented. The tilting field was closed, off limits to every one of the one-hundred and fifty knights, men-at-arms, and squires that constituted the household soldiery currently at Ravensworth. By order of the Old Wolf himself, Master Finch, the sergeant-at-arms.
Naturally that meant that every pair of eyes (belonging to the said soldiery) had immediately sought out vantage points from which they could observe the play upon the field.
Few had ever witnessed such a sight before. There was the lord’s wife, round as a pudding at Yuletide, dancing about hither and yon, pretending she was a firefly with a waster in her hand.
Moreover, she was dressed in clothes borrowed from one of the younger pages, woolen hose and tunic that came midway between ankle and knee.
Most unusual. Normally that would have caused raised eyebrows but then, the Lily Flower was known to do unusual things.
‘Twas said she made likenesses in her tower atop the castle walls and sent these as gifts to kings and princes.
If her lord husband allowed such outlandish exploits, well then, who was to gainsay it? Indeed, his presence on the field settled the matter for all but the most silent doubters. There he stood, leaning against a nearby post, arms crossed over his chest.
The wretched squire, more miserable than a contemplative monk in a bawdyhouse, stood beside the Lady and waved his wooden waster at her in a tired and desultory fashion.
He, it appeared, had been designated the Lady Flower’s training partner. And who, after all is said and done, would have chosen that unenviable position? Lily asked in sympathy.
And ineffectual it had been up until this morning; she had to admit. Diggens had been too terrified of hurting her to do anything he was told to, and Master Finch, against the idea from the outset, stood in terror of issuing a command that might test her at all.
Today, it seemed, the Old Wolf had come to an epiphany of sorts. Everyone watched as he marked three lanes with string and rope. In the first, he placed small piles of eggshells at intervals, measuring each distance with a stick to ensure the gaps were equal.
In the next lane went cup-sized blackberry pies, specially baked for the occasion, although ‘twas rumored that Cook was none too happy about the arrangement.
These were placed a mite closer together than the eggshells.
The third lane contained coney snares that when triggered sent up a small crimson flag.
In this last lane, the spaces between the traps were smallest of all.
“Now then, mistress,” said Master Finch. “We are going to use thy nimble feet and stealth as weapons. Might ye have not, but quick and secret ye can be.”
Turning to Diggens he instructed the boy to hold the lady steady as she navigated the hazards of the eggshells by clasping one of her hands.
It started badly. Lily managed to lift her foot over only two piles before stepping directly into a sticky pile of yolky shells. Out of the two dozen hazards, she stepped into all but four.
The earl passed a weary hand over his eyes.
The blackberry pies, with space between narrower than the eggshells, she managed better. This time she stepped into less than half.
Master Finch looked as though he’d swallowed the hedgehogs he was wont to complain of.
He returned to the eggshells, counting out the time in brisk tones. “An’ step, an’ step,” he barked.
“Again,” he added and back to the eggshells she went. On it went. And on.
“‘An’ step, an’ step.” Relentless.
Each time it got a fraction better, each time a little quicker until, amazingly, the rhythm caught.
Suddenly, things clicked into place and Lily found herself dancing over the hazards on silver-quick feet.
She gave a little yip of triumph, but Master Finch was having none of it.
He shooed Diggens away with a scowl of dismissal.
“No point in looking down when the danger is before or behind ye. This time ye keep eyes on me,” he told her, positioning himself directly in front of her, his arm raised as if holding a cudgel.
“Impossible!” cried Lily horrified at the idea. “I’ll be up to my ankles in pastry and eggs.”
“Not iffen ye get th’ feet to wear th’ eyes,” croaked the Old Wolf. “Must feel it, mistress. What have I taught ye?”
“To keep my eyes on the threat at all times?”
The Old Wolf grunted. “At all times.”
The lanes were seeded with fresh eggshells and blackberry pies. Each time she did better. The tenth run through the blackberry pie lane, even better.
By the time the Old Wolf directed her to the coney snares, the entire household, including its granite-faced lord, had forgotten to breathe.
“Now then, mistress,” growled the Old Wolf in full training field manner, “let’s see how dainty a dance ye can give us,”
As you will, Lily, she schooled herself and looked along the lane of snares.
There was precious little space between the traps.
Up came her head, her eyes locked on Master Finch.
One deep breath and she was over the first trap, maintaining her balance.
She stood sideways and arched her foot over the next hazard, bending her knee and holding her foot high. So far so good.
“An’ step.” Master Finch counted out the time and Lily had none to spare. “An’ step, an’ step,” he called, clapping his hands to the beat. Down the lane she went, four and twenty traps in a row. Not a single flag!
* * *
August came in, and the days were aglow with tawny colors and bluster. Nights became cooler. Lammas day meant the start of the harvest. The hard month of the hungry gap was done. All the stores were emptied, the sheds and cellars scrubbed and repaired, everything readied for the new harvesting.
Blackberrying was underway. Lily swung her basket as she and one of her maids scampered across the fields like children. They sang silly songs and told jokes.
Both wore large aprons with pockets all along the front such as the vintners wore for harvesting to keep the fruit from ruining their clothes. They looked like two tents sailing aloft in the breeze, having broken free of their moorings.
“Down this path, m’lady,” said Mary breathlessly, and she led the way. They went along the hedgerows into a little wood quite near the teardrop lake.
Mary had boasted that she knew a secret clearing inside the trees where the bushes grew thick and tall as a man. There, she promised, they would find a bounty of berries.
“You’re sure you can find the way back?” asked Lily, glancing at the shadowed wood. “The others can’t hear us call from in here.”
“Oh, yes, m’lady. ‘Tis often I come here with my cousins and all,” said the girl. “It’s not too far, you will see.”
And so, it proved.
Soon enough, their baskets were full. They used pruning serpes to cut the higher branches.
The berries were delicious, plump and sweet, and soon they had purple-black hands up to their elbows and stains around their mouths.
They left their baskets and went to where a small freshet burbled from a rocky groove in a bank.
Green ferns grew there and loosestrife, as pretty as could be.
Laughing and splashing their feet in the cold water, they did their best to wash away the dark purple marks. Their mirth rang loud in the woodland glade, and so they did not see the man until he rose up in front of them.
Mary gave a scream and lurched back, falling to the ground. Lily stood mute for fully two minutes. A shudder spiked through her, and she unconsciously clutched her stomach. The protective gesture was not lost on the man, she could see.
He was dressed as a peasant, his clothing poor and ill-fitting, but she would know his hateful visage anywhere, even shadowed by the cowl.
“What do you want here, John Percy?” she said.
“I have come to take you to your dying brother,” he said. Pointing his sword accusingly at her, he added, “your craven husband attacked us in the black of night. Stabbed in the back by the ruse of free passage through his lands. I managed to fight him off, but Lambert is sorely wounded.”
Lily looked at him skeptically. “If what you say is true,” she said, “I will go and ask my husband for his telling of the tale, ere I go anywhere with you. I recall our last meeting in a wood and keep a clearer accounting of it than you seem to.”
“No, Lily. Even now, I doubt we will be in time. The blood pours from his many, many wounds… his arm is near hacked off,” he clutched at his forehead. “Ah, the suffering! He is sorely wounded.”
Lily closed her eyes against the image. Her fists clenched as she fought the wave of revulsion. Lambert, she wailed silently, it had to be Lambert. How cruel when she could not bear the thought of him wounded, let alone dying. She looked back in the direction of the castle.
“No, I will not break troth; I will not go with you.”
He spat. “That is exactly what I expected and told your poor brother so. You would not come.” His lip curled in a sneer, and he turned to go.
“You were always gutless, selfish, heedless of others. He is close by, yet you could not trouble yourself, not you. Not even willing to give a dying man small consolation.”
Lily started. Doubt plagued her.
Then just as abruptly as he stalked away, he turned back, striding toward her as if he wanted to deliver an extra barb. Contempt writ large, he faced her directly. Without warning, he reached out a hand and snatched the basket from her nerveless hands.
For one moment, it seemed he was about to thrash her face with it, but instead, he dropped it, the berries scattering over the ground. “Your brother loves you,” he hissed in fury. “He has made this one dying wish: to see you, although by the devil, I would not know why. The shame is yours.”
“Wait,” said Lily, looking wildly at him. “He is close, you say?”
“Aye. I have my horse further back in the woods. Alas, I must carry this foul message to my friend that his sister will not trouble herself for the likes of him.”