Chapter 16: Brycelands
Winter stole over St. Savior's and with it Prime held in deep darkness, and Vespers also, unless the moon peered over the ivy walls. A messenger brought news of her father and brother's release. Snow piled deep and messengers were few, on snowshoes.
Margaret's hand healed to the point of itching fiercely across the deep red scar; she could hold a pen wrapped fat with a cloth, and she wrote letters to Rivanone and her sister Varda. She tried to embroider but had to give it up, for the needle continually escaped her fingers. Thankfully, Willa could stitch finer and faster than Margaret ever had been able, and produced shirts for Tamlyn and shifts for themselves that piled up over weeks until Margaret said, "Enough;" then she went back through embroidering them.
Tamlyn still did not return. Winter receded and the crocuses braved the pale sunlight and snow. Against the southern wall where the sun warmed the stones, diminutive, shiny new leaves emerged among the ivy. The roads were a morass. Soon she received a visitor: the houseman of Brycelands, sent by Lord Braewode to receive her instructions as to opening the house for her when the roads were passable.
Tamlyn still did not return. Spring reluctantly arrived, the trees leafed out. The scar ceased to itch and only ached as she worked to stretch and strengthen her hand.
An armed messenger came bearing her brideprice, and she bought a horse for Willa and a mule for their baggage. The priest hired men to accompany her, and with a hollow heart, and many good-byes and promises of letters to the sisters, she left St. Savior's.
It was but a long day's ride to Brycelands, and as they began an icy wind brought flurries of snow and rain. But then the sky opened, the sun poured out and the tiny new leaves on the trees sighed quietly. New lambs, foals and calves were in the pastures and coltsfoot and violas graced the roadside. They arrived at Brycelands in late afternoon.
Pastures spread over a broad rise in the land sweeping up to a turreted stone manor with a tiled roof. Riding on Star, wrapped in her fur-lined mantle, Margaret pulled her hood back. The sun glinted on the red roof tiles, a flock of white doves circled from the stable over the house. Rising behind the house was an ancient keep, golden in the failing light. As they drew near she heard a flock of migrating finches that were chattering in a grove of huge lindens to one side of the house.
They drew near the entrance to the hall. The houseman appeared in livery; soon the stablemaster, butler, cook and chambermaids also. She was assisted alighting from Star, who was led away to the stables with the other horses. The retainers bowed or curtseyed deeply to her, welcoming her as Lady Braewode.
As she started in toward the door, Willa turned toward her and gasped, looking beyond her. "My lady, look!"
Margaret turned around. Before her the pastures swept away, a sea of freshly springing green, giving way to plowed strip fields, to the broad sweep of the Briar River, to shadowed blue hills dotted with silver lakes and distant spires. Swifts twittered and swooped high and low, and in a lower pasture, several deer were emerging from a copse for an evening browse. Church bells began to ring Vespers on the edge of hearing.
Willa saw on her lady's face the first smile she had seen all day, and thus she turned into her new home, ready to be content with what she found there.
Tamlyn still did not return. Margaret oversaw the roses being pruned and manured. Lent came; she fasted and prayed, becoming overly thin and wan. After envying her sister Hildreth's spare middle, she found her reflection gaunt and made an effort to eat more bread. The new year began at the Feast of the Resurrection.
Time was heavy on her after the house and barns had been quite thoroughly cleaned and freshened. She looked harder about her and had the tiled floors pointed and polished, cracked mullions reglazed, wall hangings repaired, beams and rafters oil-rubbed, and so on. The house had been empty for over a year, the land administrated from Braewode, and there were a number of issues to settle with the village now that she was taking it on.
One beautiful day she was walking in the lawns behind the house with Willa, when the houseman came huffing and puffing across the shaved turf to her. She hid the disappointment when he announced visitors-- not Tamlyn.
"My lady, Lord Coltyn Braewode, Lady Tamar Braewode, and Coltram Braewode and family have arrived."
"Thank you, Rafert. I will meet them in the hall. Prepare rooms, bring wine-- heat lots of water for baths--" She waved her hand, moving away toward the rear hall entrance. She stopped abruptly and turned to Willa. "Do I look all right?"
Willa reached up and smoothed some hairs back into her lace headdress, tugged her bodice, straightened the folds of her sleeve. "Aye, my lady," she said.
Margaret straightened and walked into the hall followed by Willa, who held her arms primly. Before the cold hearth, Tamlyn's family stood, already having been served spiced wine and their mantles taken away by the butler. As they turned toward her, one pair of eyes captivated her-- those of Lady Tamar, for they were the same blue as Tamlyn's, with the same golden hair tucked neatly into a headdress.
She realized she was staring and hastened to greet them. She gave her hand to Lord Coltyn, who kissed her cheek. Lady Tamar drew her into a warm embrace, and held her left hand in her soft, warm fingers and examining the intricate wedding band. Coltram shook her hand and introduced his wife, Jehanna, whose eyes darted around and would not meet hers. Tamlyn's sister, Tamaris, also blond and blue eyed, also greeted her warmly, and she sat nearest Lady Tamar.
An uncomfortable moment of silence followed the introductions. All eyes were upon her. She inquired about their journey; the roads were firm and not dusty; highwaymen were unknown in that part of the country. Coltram looked as if he were going to speak, but Lady Tamar spoke first. "Are you quite settled in here? Are there sufficient servants? Is there anything you need?"
"I find the house to be very satisfactory, I am quite at home, and need only for my husband to return to complete my happiness."
Silence settled quickly in again. Coltram rushed into the void. "So where is our Tamlyn? You see, no one has explained to us what is this errand on which he is said to have gone. We are concerned, to say the least."
Margaret took a deep breath, summoning composure. "As you know, Tamlyn has been...entangled with the Faerie Realm. Ere he left the Realm he had given me a ring, as a token. As it turned out there was another, of the Realm, who coveted this ring. After he visited you he was waylaid by this one, who put him under some supernatural oppression. He escaped and made his way to Caer Aldene. . ."
"Yes, so you have told us in your first letter." Lord Coltyn cut in, grimacing impatiently. Lady Tamar looked abashed. "The question is, where is he now?"
Margaret valiantly drew a cool mask over the rawness inside. "After we were wed, he went to vanquish his enemy, as I have written. Somewhere in the eastern Wilds. More than that I know not. I can only wait."
Lady Tamar’s hand touched hers.
"Margaret, will there be no child?" She asked very softly.
Desolation drained the color from the cool, unflinching mask. Is it not very obvious? "No, my lady, there will not."
Coltram caught Coltyn's eye with a look of vindication. Margaret couldn't maintain much longer. She arose. "You must certainly be weary from the road. I will show you to the rooms. If you wish, baths can be brought ere the evening meal."
"Lady Margaret, you must understand that this is very difficult for us," offered Lord Coltyn, as if relenting. "Our son was lost to us for seven years! We had given him up for dead. Then he reappeared, and now again he has vanished, after marrying his bride apparently mid-journey-- we just cannot make sense of any of it."
Margaret stood silently. "I am not sure I can help you with that," she murmured, and turned away. The mask remained in place long enough to lead them to the guest chamber. In her own bower, she wanted to bawl and stamp her foot on the tiles like a child. "No," she told herself. "I am eighteen years old, a wife, and mistress of my house. I am a Lady, an
d a daughter of a duchess. I will wait on God. I will not let others steal my peace. If he lives, Tamlyn will return to me!"
Willa entered the room, followed by the houseman, who carried in an armload of firewood. After he had deposited it in its place, he stood and cleared his throat, removing his hat and holding it in his hands before him. "My lady, might I speak freely?"
Margaret turned to him. "Please, Rafert." He glanced at Willa and then the door, she went and closed it. "My lady, I was born a servant in the Braewode house, and have served them most all my life. Begging your pardon, but I have seen a bit of their ways." He hesitated.
"Say on."
"Lord Coltyn craves the eminence and glory for his sons that was denied him because of his withered arm. Master Coltram has always chafed at being second son, and grasps at any chance to advance himself, and of course his father supports him, as well he should. But he has no claim on Brycelands, nor authority over you.
"Lady Tamar has a big heart. I can see that she is very tender to your-- ah, considerations." He looked suddenly as if he had fumbled. “Any road, Lord Coltyn will favor you once the Lady has had a chance at him. But Coltram favors no one, unless there is something in it for him. Forgive me, Lady, I suppose I’ve already said too much.”
Margaret looked at him evenly, and nodded slowly. "Thank you, Rafert Houseman. Your counsel is most welcome."
He bowed and turned away. At the door he turned suddenly. "Begging your leave, my lady, but the hunting around Brycelands is second to none for deer, boar, and hare. The Braewodes might be invited to partake."
Margaret almost laughed: the men could be gone all day. "Thank you- Renard." The houseman smiled, bowed, and left the room.
The men took themselves off to the forestlands at dawn, leaving Margaret with Lady Tamar, Tamaris, and Jehanna; and their handmaids. As it happened, it began to rain shortly after sunrise, and the women sat in Margaret's bower, where the windows were brightest. The other women embroidered and spun, Margaret took up the Gospel Tamlyn had given her to read, after showing the wound in her hand, and explaining that she could not grasp the needle in her fingers well. Jehanna spoke for the first time that morning.
"I wouldn't mind if I never had to embroider another stitch," she said, stabbing the needle and throwing the work in her seat as she rose. "Excuse me," she said. Her handmaid scurried out of the room behind her.
When they were gone, Lady Tamar said, "The poor girl must have one of her headaches again today. Sometimes in summer Jehanna takes to her bed and cries from the pain. She says she can't even see sometimes, things swim and burst before her eyes, and roar in her ears."
"That is a burden. What have the doctors done for her?"
"Ah, she's been bled, fed, put to bed and left for dead," said Tamaris, "She won't see any more of them. Nothing has helped. She's gotten so she's not even pleasant when she's feeling fine."
Margaret began ticking off on her fingers. "Feverfew. Meadowsweet. Saint John's Wort. Cool wet cloths, and lavender, in a dark room. Excuse me, please," she murmured, curtseying and leaving, Willa following behind. Some time later she returned, Willa carrying a covered pot and some cloths, and Margaret with a small silver cup. "Lady Jehanna, as your hostess I wish to do all that I can to make you comfortable. Please try my honeyed brew. It can do you no harm."
Jehanna regarded her as if she would as soon scratch her. With a forced smile, she accepted the silver cup out of politesse. After a taste, she put it down. "Please try to drink it up. Relief may come more quickly." Jehanna looked at the cup. It had not been unpleasant, and this new sister-in-law was her hostess. She silently drained the cup. "I am having the butler hang curtains around your bed. It may help to have a cool cloth on your forehead and to lay with the curtains drawn. And there is more of this tisane if you wish it. There is also a fan by your bed, for your maid to cool you with."
Jehanna's eyes were actually wet. "I do believe I will lie down now for awhile," she said softly. Willa and Jehanna's maid carried the pot and the cloths out to the guest chamber.
When she was gone Lady Tamar said, "Thank you, even if it doesn't help, she'll know you understand. It is hard to be merry, or even courteous, when one is in misery. I'm afraid that Coltram… Well, thank you."
"Of course, my lady. I also occasionally suffer bad headaches."
"You have a doctor here in Brycelands?"
"Oh, aye, but my own mother taught me the virtues of many plants. She had no patience for leeches and bleeding cups. She loved flowers, herbs...And my Aunt Rivanone also."
"Have you seen any of your own family since you and Tamlyn were wed?"
"I am afraid not. My lord my father, after he was ransomed, remained in the south to help King Fearnon quell the Bradmeads. My Aunt is having a baby any day now. My married sister Hildreth also is expecting, and her husband is also at Salimont. My brother Aelfred is my father's squire. And I don't want to miss Tamlyn's return, so I have not gone to them."
Lady Tamar looked thoughtful. Tamaris said, "I hope you are not too lonesome here, especially with my brother missing and all."
Margaret spread her hands. "I desire no one's pity, please. You know what manner of man is Tamlyn. His love is great consolation to me. And the love of God that he led me to understand in a way that I never had before. Tamlyn waited a long time for a chance to know me. I also am willing to wait as long as it takes, and be faithful to him. I dwell in my own house, and it is so very pleasant here."
"Your being alone here, without a champion, will be an issue for you, you must know," said Tamar. "As Lord-heir of Braewode, Tamlyn owes homage to Cynrose."
"I have written to Lord Clewode, and am arranging to send shield-money in his stead. I have asked that he would hire me a knight he found acceptable. As for the last seven years, the Lord Clewode has accepted that Tamlyn was not free and has waived any scutage owed." Margaret looked out of the rainstreaked window at the misty lawns and pastures and groves stretching away from the house. "I had no idea how complicated all this could be...The Faerie Realm has no regard for Ardinéan litigiousness. Nor did I ever think that I would have to. I was born in a castle-- the law never seemed to touch me."
"Well, I feel it only fair to tell you, my son Coltram is not too happy with things. Actually Lord Coltyn is sending him off from here to Salimont-- that is why he has his battle-gear and his war-horse with him-- partly to have him cool off a bit. He has been impossible since Tamlyn reappeared. For a long time he has assumed the place of Braewode Lord-heir. Even this house, he had counted his own; when Tamlyn gave it to you... Part of the reason the houseman was sent to Saint Savior's was to verify the circumstances of the marriage with the priest there. I see this is upsetting to you, dear, but I think it only fair that you know. Coltram has a lot of influence on my husband, for many of his own hopes are in him. But on the other hand, my husband also dearly loves Tamlyn, and has great good will toward you as his wife, and as she who rescued him. And I must say," she placed one of those silky warm hands on Margaret's, "that I think God has blessed Tamlyn and our family with you, and I look forward to knowing you better."
Margaret squeezed the hand. "Thank you, Lady Tamar. I appreciate your honesty. I will try to make an ally of Coltram, if I may."
"Tamlyn told me, but do tell me again, how he led you to the Savior. We never tire of hearing such things, Tamaris and I."
At the evening meal, Jehanna appeared relaxed and made a visible effort to be personable. The men were full of their hunt and the way their hounds had rounded the deer to them; and that on the way home with the stag draped over a horse, the dogs had bolted into the brush and routed a young wild sow; Coltram had dispatched it with his lance. They enjoyed the meat with dinner, and the talk stayed away from contentions.
Margaret looked around her hall, in which usually she ate at an empty table with Willa. The Braewodes' entourage filled it with laughter and talk. The houseman's talents were brought to light in directing the staff to meeting the desi
res of her guests. She relaxed and enjoyed the human sounds.
Coltram's squire brought out a lute and Tamaris a viol. Margaret took a turn at the lute as well, realizing she missed the music in her life. There was singing and dancing and stories until late in the evening-- the Braewodes evidently knew how to liven up a quiet house. Margaret danced with the men and joined a circle dance with the ladies and handmaids all together-- even Jehanna.
They remained five days, except for Tamaris, who remained a fortnight after that. Tamaris played her viol, her blue eyes fixing in a way that reminded Margaret of Tamlyn, when he played the bladder pipes. Tamaris sniffled in church when the host was lifted up, to Margaret's wonderment. Tamaris loved to ride, and they explored Brycelands together.
On these rides, Margaret noticed that where the borders of Brycelands ended, it gave out against scabby knolls, marshlands, and rolling hills which hid tight hollows. All of the haugh, the fertile bottomland around the Briar River, was hers. The Bryceland village was cupped in a hollow, its surrounding farms riding the cresting hills. The manor, appended to an ancient castle keep which was all but subsumed into the structure of the house, was situated to survey all the surrounding territory. The bottomlands, the pastures, even the grist mill were hers and rented to the Brycelanders.
Disputes were heard in the court at Cynrose, and in Tamlyn's absence, she realized, Bryceland manor had very little to offer Brycelanders. In the dim hall before the cold hearth she discussed this with the houseman, questioning him closely on the workings of the economics and government. He answered her questions, somewhat discomfited at having to analyze for himself relationships and authorities. She saw his unease and dismissed him, but sat alone, sorting it all out in her mind.
For now there were words burning themselves into her mind that she could not reconcile: Verily I say to you that it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven. I tell you, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.
What is this telling me? thought Margaret. What am I to do about this? Sievan, when will you come home and help me understand? Please, please come back to me ..
Saint's days and festivals of the passing seasons marked the year slipping away. Tamaris departed with long waves goodbye and promises of letters; letters brought tidings of Rivanone's twin boys, Hildreth had miscarried but soon was pregnant again; her father returned to Caer Aldene and Aelfred was allowed to spend the winter reading the law with Lord Just, with the understanding that swordcraft was to be his first activity of the day, and he must learn to polish mail and wrangle warhorses like any squire.
The hilltop manor was spared the cloying heat of August, and the days passed in merest increments to the ragged end of summer, when leaf edges browned and fields were stripped of their boon of golden wheat and silver oats.
Then it was a year to the day of their wedding, and Tamlyn had not returned. While music and crowd noises rose from Bryceland village for a Saint's feast, Margaret passed the day in silence in her room, sending even Willa away with money to accompany the houseman's wife to the fair. She closed the heavy oak door to her bower, and opened a carved chest at the foot of her bed. She drew out the seed-pearled scarf that had been her veil and spread it on the bed. She spread out the white tunic he had worn. She remembered his face, his touch, his kiss, his eyes, his hair, his scent, his voice with the fey lilt; she fingered the fine bumps across her palm where he had with tiny stitches closed her wound. And she recalled the surrendering of the deepest chambers of her heart and body in his embrace, the surprise of his tears running down her scalp as she lay beneath him. She wished to cry as hard as she could, to ventilate the well of her sorrow.
She refused his death, she cried in anger at him, she bargained with God for his return. Her tears turned bitter and she railed. Finally she was wrung dry. Exhausted, she dozed, and the flutter of dove wings outside her open window figured in her half-remembered dream of birds of love that fly away, always too soon. She arose as the autumn light failed. She splashed her face and combed her hair. She felt like a raw wound. She stood before the mirror, empty inside, and she had no idea what to do. She wandered to the prie-dieu and knelt. But she could not begin the prayer in the book which lay open before her. "God, here I am. I am alone, with nothing to offer you. My heart is empty. I have been willful, now I say, Thy will be done. God, Jesu, I know not what to do. To You I surrender it all. Help me. . ."
There she knelt, her face on her arms, for some length of time. Not crying-- her tears were spent. Just waiting. She heard the doves flutter by her window again and again.
Then did I become in your eyes, as one who found peace.
She did not know from whence the remembered phrase surfaced, although she knew it was from the Song of Solomon. It was just there, and she drew a heavy sigh which left her lightheaded: she had eaten nothing. Surprisingly, she was hungry.
As she opened her door she heard voices in the hall, and Willa came red-faced into her room, untying her bonnet. "My lady, Lord Gregory has come! Shall I- " but Margaret had lifted her hem and run down the stair to fly to Aunt Rivanone's and Varda’s embraces with joy. They held each other tightly for a long minute, and Margaret inhaled deeply of the lavender scent that emanated from her aunt’s clothing, that soothed deep, deep within. Gray streaked her hair and lines in her face marked the deep joys and sorrows she had faced with faith and hope.
Rivanone held her away to look at her, marking the tired eyes, the redness that lingered. "Margaret, dear, we tried so hard to make it here yesterday. I didn't want you to have to be alone this day." Blessed Rivanone, she did not press the point but smiled gently, her eyes scanning, but not invading her. "What a woman you have become, my little Margaret. I believe your height equals mine now. Your hair bound...Come, see the twins!"
She pulled back from a large basket an embroidered covering to reveal two sweet, sleeping faces. "Justan and Gyvard, meet your cousin Margaret!"
"Oh, Auntie, they are beautiful. The wee lambs!" They marveled over the infants. "They are the reason we had slow going, they wanted to nurse continually in the unfamiliar surroundings, didn't you, darlings? And now you will sleep, of course." Rivanone and Varda had rushed into the hall before Lord Gregory, and now Margaret went out to meet him. In the fading twilight, he was surveying Brycelands, and looked approving. He turned and saw Margaret in the light of a page's torch, and in that moment did he realize how he had missed her, that in the turmoil of the year he had hardly taken notice. He warmly kissed her cheek, and held her hand, visibly moved. They entered the hall. Rafert had materialized in his livery and was bringing wine and had got the hearth dancing with flame. As he passed by, he murmured, "squabs in bacon, savory rice, summer fruits, dried apples poached in wine. . .?"
" Excellent, Rafert," she responded. She stood a moment, observing the sudden bustle that again filled her hall--her hall-- with voices and life. "Thank you, God," she whispered, "For making me go on."
Wonderful gifts her family had brought her-- tapestry and carpet, velvets and wools, fine linens, laces and the silks which were rarer than ever for the lack of ships which won through to the shores of Ardinéa; silverware and jewelry and to her heart's delight, a lute; hesitantly a set of bladder pipes was produced, and several flutes and whistles of blackwood, silver, and ivory. Rivanone had oils of damask rose, lavender, peony, heliotrope, and rare sandalwood and patchouli. There were horses, a pair of kashmir goats, peacocks, and harlequin ducks settled in the stables for the night.
There was music and talk late into the night, not exuberant and boisterous like the Braewodes; The Aldenes were more reserved and serious. Margaret and Varda held one baby boy or the other much of the evening-- she had hidden her tears when, after Tamlyn had ridden away, her time had come around; each time there was a small grief she endured, which was why Lady Tamar's question had stung so.
There was no such sting in Rivanone's queries, direct as they mig
ht be, for she was her flesh and blood. Even when she looked into her eyes and said, "Margaret, for the time being you are neither wife nor widow, and no one can say how long this will be. Some will not be comfortable with you, without your man's honor to stand behind. You have been willful; in consequence you will have to be willful to make decisions on your own, stand firm in who you are, even while people try to put doubts in your heart. Some will try to fix you, or to take advantage. You need to decide beforehand how you will handle such people. Then when you face them, you will be in a strong position."
Margaret drank in Rivanone's words. "I have already seen how Tamlyn's family was perturbed, which is understandable. But I hated having to be on my guard, especially around his brother and father...I never had to look out for my own interests at Caer Aldene."
"Aye, but you are not alone, remember that. You have us, and you have our God."
"Aye, Auntie… that is one thing Tamlyn left me," she thought. "I am so glad you are here. Oh, please," she said, pressing her hands to her eyes, "I've cried enough today."
"Oh, Margaret. You've worked every memory over, haven't you?"
"Aye, and I've lived in them too long. I just don't know how to go on, what to do next."
"I wouldn't worry for that too much. Life has a way-- or perhaps I ought to say, God has a way, of not letting us sit around too long. Pray about what to do next. Probably ere you're ready, He'll show it to you." Margaret had crossed her arms on her chest, listening to Rivanone with red eyes. Now she leaned her head over against her shoulder, and Rivanone took her in.
"I cannot say that I understand why you have made the choices that led you to this place, Margaret. But I can see that you do intend to see it through, as is right. That, I can understand, and support you with all my heart."
The leaves of the lindens in the front of the manor yellowed and fell in a golden storm when the wind rose. Margaret rode out in any direction, sometimes cantering wildly across fields of stubble, Willa looking determined on a rangy strawberry roan named Skara that Lord Gregory had brought; Margaret secretly laughed that the horse and Willa were so well matched, for the little maid was becoming a tall, rangy thing herself. Other days she sat astride dark Star and circled the hilltop indifferently, staring at the little houses of the holdings surrounding the manor, and wondering about their lives.
She rode in the lanes and tried not to stare at the groups of children spilling from one house, the old couple together weeding their vegetable plot, the young couple kissing in the doorway, the harried mother scolding her sullen son, the merchant family in pretentious finery receiving the priest for dinner; the cobbler hammering, the young maiden singing, the child crying. She sat as she always had, head high and spine erect, upon her high-bred horse in her fur-lined cloak, her handmaid and footman riding just behind her, and a man-at-arms left behind by her father, who trailed along rather despondently, wishing rather to be following knights to the wars in the south. She nodded with grave dignity when the Brycelanders waved, and let go a smile.