Chapter 17: Journeys, Jewels
Springtime brought blossoms, skies blackened with migrating birds, and a visit from Gilling the Troubadour. Margaret was excited to see him after more than a year and a half had passed, and to meet his wife, a redhead with a lively countenance. They were on their way to Caer Aldene to retrieve Elora, who was spry as ever but lonely, and had conceded to come to King's Leigh. They made a unique entourage.
Dame Sintia had with her a black-haired girl whom Margaret knew to be older than their marriage, but was obviously Gilling's child, and a sturdy, kicking boy child with her red hair; and a young maid with disturbingly pale eyes and silvery blond hair, who could not speak or hear, but who communicated with the little girl through quick gestures only they could understand; Deinn spoke for her.
Gilling was in the court of the King now; referred to the Earl of Rovehill by Gregory, he had been heard in his house and the King had immediately expressed his envy, whereupon the Earl gave Gilling to King Fearnon, who rewarded him richly. No one looking on Dame Sintia, in her velvet gown and gold rings, would guess that she had once woven cloth in a musty hovel with a leaking roof. Gilling looked of ruddy health, and his voice had never been richer, it made the rafters in Brycelands hall ring with his music. Margaret clapped with the same delight he had brought her when she was a child. He coaxed a song or two from his wife, and asked Margaret to sing. Willa brought out her lute before Margaret could decline. She strummed and sang; Gilling noticed her difficulty with her right hand. He spread Margaret's hand before his wife and children and told again of how she had slain her husband's enemy with the sword. "I will make a song of that, what a story that is to tell! But first, I have something that may help you to play. . ." He went to a wallet in which he kept strings for his viol, spare parts and tools and oddments. He found, after rummaging, curved gilt-metal plectrums, which he bent around Margaret's fingers. Then she tried the lute again. It was far easier to pluck the strings, as she did not have to curve her palm as much. The metal also made a brighter, clearer sound on the strings. "They take some getting used to, but you may find you can play better. Keep them, I don't use them anyway."
"Thank you, Gilling. Perhaps you will sing with me, that song about Tamlyn?"
Gilling looked surprised, but agreed.
Tamlyn was a noble son
And knighted by the King...
Sintia joined in on harmony, and even Deinn seemed to be familiar with the song.
It's seven years his truelove weeps
It's seven seasons' round
Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless
His head a-hanging down.
Margaret had stopped singing. There was a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.
But moonlit nights by the green wood...
The song ended, and she tried to brush the feeling away. Thankfully, Gilling had immediately begun another.
Lady Margaret combed her hair
She wore a dress of green
And she's away to the greenwood
Where she has often been
To gather wild apple blooms
Where she has often been.
"How dare you pull these branches down
without the leave of me?"
Margaret turned herself about
to see who it might be
There she spied a fair young man
whom she had never seen.
"These woods they are my very own
My father gave them me
And I will pull the branches down
without the leave of thee."
But with one look he's captured her
And she's no longer free.
He's taken her by the grass-green sleeve
And sworn to her his heart
He's kissed her once and kissed her twice
They knew that they must part.
"Tell me, oh Tamlyn," said she
"What sort of man you be?"
"I will tell you true, Margaret
I was christened same as thee.
But I rode out of a bitter eve
From off my horse I fell
The Queen of Elfland found me dead
And she made me well,
And took me to the hollow hills
with Faerie Folk to dwell.
This very night the Folk will ride
And I must with them go,
Not to return from mountains high
Among the fields of snow,
And never more to see you,
And may with God you go."
He's kissed her once, he's kissed her twice,
but she answered him "No."
Lady Margaret combed her hair
She wore a dress of blue
And she's away to the greenwood
Frightened through and through,
To meet the Fair Folk as they ride
Frightened through and through.
And first rode by the black horse
Astride, the Elfland Queen
Then rode by the brown horses
The Elven-court riding
And fairer nor more fearsome folk
Margaret had never seen.
Then came by the white horses
Ridden by Elven knights,
The thunder of their coming
Froze Margaret with fright
But then she saw the face she loved,
It set her heart aright.
The lightning flashed across the sky
The stars, they blazed like day
She's thrown her arms around him
And cried, "Tamlyn I claim!
I will not let him go
though I die tonight!" she says.
And they have changed him in her arms
into a roaring lion
But she has held onto him fast
She knew that he was kind
She would not let him go
For she knew that he was kind
And next they changed him in her arms
Into a twining snake
But she has held onto him fast
He was one of God's own make
She will not let him go
For he was one of God's own make.
And last they changed him in her arms
Into a burning iron
But she has held onto him fast
And he's done her no harm
She will not let him go
And he's done to her no harm
And last they changed him in her arms
Into a mortal man
And she's flung her mantle over him
Saying , "Oh, Tamlyn, I've won!
She's flung her mantle over him
Saying, "Oh, Tamlyn, I've won!"
To Margaret's delighted applause, Gilling bowed deeply. "Thus I have published you in the court of King Fearnon, and the fame of Lady Margaret is all the talk in Queen Charis's circle. So," he said, turning to Sintia, who handed the baby to Willa, and reached into her beaded purse. She produced a small scroll, sealed and tied with twisted silk. She handed it to Gilling, who bowed deeply while proffering the scroll to Margaret. "Of course the King already wanted to meet with Tamlyn, whom he remembered knighting and giving him this very house, after the business with the Vallards; now he and the Queen want very much to receive you in the court in King's Leigh, as soon as convenient for you."
Margaret broke the King's seal almost reluctantly, and slid the silk ties off the letter. The parchment unrolled but stubbornly and she had to drag it over the edge of the mantle so it would lay straight. The letter had a wonderfully decorated border and was drawn in a lovely hand.
To Lady Margaret Aldene of Brycelands. Having heard the news of your valiant deeds concerning Sir Tamlyn, Lord-heir of Braewode, and wishing to hear of these things first hand, we desire to receive you in Caer Leighame, at the earliest possible date.
May the peace of our Lord go with you, Queen Charis Tiralounde.
Margaret stared and stared at
the letter, a thousand different thoughts running through her head-- what she would wear, with whom she would go, what would the Queen be like-- and another part of her mind watching, amused, slightly sad. "You can go with us when we return, if you like, or any time sooner if you'd rather not wait," offered Gilling.
Margaret was speechless. Willa could no longer contain a cry of excitement.
Smiling at the group, Margaret knew she wouldn't wait. That she wasn't waiting anymore. It wasn't a decision, but a bittersweet observation.
Preparing to go, however, took much longer than she had anticipated. New gowns must be sewn, letters written, escorts hired, the house arranged for her absence, and so on. In fact it was nearly the Solstice before Margaret set out from Brycelands, amidst her own entourage. Meanwhile her father sent Sir Gareth Ryleigh to accompany her.
The fresh-faced girl who had set out from Caer Aldene now had the sobriety and reserve that characterized her family, brought on early perhaps by unresolved thoughts of the heart. There were seven different houses and inns they stayed at, an ever-shifting landscape through which they passed, prairies and hawks and deer and foxes; many different people, deep woods with badgers and squirrels and nuthatches. There was a stout young girl crying with labor pangs by a hedge; she said her husband was coming after her soon with a waggon, but they carried her to an inn and paid her lodgings. They gave alms to itinerant friars and preachers and heard their declamations. They crossed the Briar River three times on stone bridges. They were joined by traveling knights in mail, riding on various errands here and there.
King's Leigh had been named for the fair meadows on which it had been situated before it had become a city and the King had come to dwell there most of the time. The white walled city spread itself neatly by the Briar, reflecting the midday sun as they approached. Many turrets stood at regular intervals, with conical roofs, flying the falcon flag of Ardinéa, where all hawks were free by law. Within were the largest houses Margaret had ever seen. Many Caer Aldenes could have fit within the walled city, and many Brycelandses, beside.
Margaret was thrilled at the teeming, bustling life of the great city. The archways and sculpted lintels and gates and courtyards and squares seemed endless, and the number of people that filled them uncountable. Gareth knew the way through, and they trotted through streets wide and narrow, lined on each side with tall houses, half-timber and brick giving way to dressed stone, many bearded thickly with green ivy. Then they were at Caer Leighame.
While Gareth talked with the guards, Margaret looked around. She struggled not to be overwhelmed, and instead focused her gaze ahead of her and sat up straight. Then they were entering the gate of the royal palace.
They were shown into an apartment whose beauty Margaret almost squealed in delight to see, but she was told that visitors were being received in one hour, and her luggage was arriving. Margaret was almost glad to be hurrying out of her riding habit and washing furiously in scented water that was brought. Willa and Margaret giggled like children as they checked each other's faces and hair and dove into their best shifts. Willa brought out an ivory velvet gown which had been wrapped with cloths in the folds very skillfully so as not to crease, and helped Margaret into it.
Then she bound Margaret's hair with flying fingers into intricate braids and covered it with the most transparent of silk headdresses. Willa threw open the trunks and found her best jewels. In less than an hour, Margaret stood before the mirror Willa held for her, and could hardly believe her own eyes. She smiled at the mirror, then at Willa, then she kissed Willa's cheek. "You! Get dressed, too!" She tossed the mirror on the bed and helped Willa dress. She gave Willa a silver chain to wear.
"Oh, God, I hope we are acceptable. Oh, God!" said Margaret, gripping Willa's hand and kneeling to pray for a moment. Then she felt ready.
The butleress who had shown them to the room stood outside. Willa addressed her, curtseying. "Mistress, My lady wishes to see you," she said, deferentially.
The butleress stepped into the room, and curtseyed shortly to Margaret. "Yes, My lady."
"Mistress," said Margaret, "I am but a young wife from Briardene, lately of Brycelands in Cynrose. I have never been to court this high. I would be obliged to you, should you tell us if we country girls are ready to go into the presence of the Queen."
The butleress's eyes widened, amused at her candor, then her eyes traveled quickly over the two. She had not reached her position in the Palace without being a quick judge of persons. "My lady, your appearance will be most acceptable; however, I would suggest that one's very best jewels and bridal crown be saved for the dinner and evening."
"Thank you, Mistress, your counsel is most appreciated. Willa, take these and bring me instead the pearls…"
In moments they stood in the rear of the Palace Hall. Margaret quailed inwardly and stood near Willa among the rich personages milling about. She found herself actually frowning with dislike of the artificial fashions of some of the ladies and men as well; with stiffened headdresses and cloth-of-gold mantles, overambitious broideries and overpainted faces. Where was Gareth Ryleigh? She had dearly hoped that he might escort her, but since he was not her husband, perhaps...
Something was happening; some trumpets played a short fanfare, and at the head of the room, with less ceremony than Margaret might have anticipated, King Fearnon and Queen Charis entered and stood, hands clasped and raised between them, at the fore of the room, and the court chamberlain began to announce names, and persons went forward to meet the King and Queen.
She looked toward the Queen. She seemed to stand in a ray of light in her pure white gown. Her golden plaits cascaded from beneath her crown almost to the floor. Margaret's name was announced. Alone, she moved forward as the others had done, shadowed by Willa. She forgot her anxieties as her eyes rested on the Queen's fair face; she was a person among people; there was nothing to dread. She halted before the royal couple and curtseyed deeply. Rising, she saw the Queen's face break into a smile. Margaret smiled in return and receded to the side where the others had turned aside.
Several more people were announced and came forward. Then music began and spiced wine was brought out. Formalities were shed and groups of people began talking. One of the last to be announced was a knight who she knew to be a friend of her old beau Roald, Sir Kirkstan; they had met at Hildreth's wedding. He fairly leapt upon her and inquired about her family.
So, looking at him, she was completely taken by surprise to turn and find that the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting were approaching her. Mid-sentence Kirkstan clapped his mouth shut and turned to Charis, bowing deeply. Margaret also curtseyed.
"Lady Margaret, of song and story, how pleased I am to meet you in person," she said, with total sincerity.
"My Queen, I am more than honored…" Margaret said, wishing it didn't sound trite. They stood, smiling. Kirkstan thrust into the void and began babbling; the Queen smiled at him kindly and turned back to Margaret.
"You will sit at my table tonight. In the morning one of my ladies will come to bring you to my bower for some quiet talk." The King appeared beside her. Beside Charis he seemed to stand in a shadow, yet his dark-bearded visage was honest, his dark eyes bright and true. Margaret blinked; it was as if she had just come in from outdoors and her eyes needed to adjust.
King Fearnon took her hand and kissed it. "Margaret, we are pleased." He too seemed sincere; Margaret smiled, speechless, her heart fluttering. The King led the Queen away. Margaret watched the people surge around them, pressing for attention; she realized that for the King and Queen to seek her out was an honor indeed, she was breathless. Courtiers now pressed in on Margaret with a flurry of interest in an unknown Lady in whom the Queen was interested.
After some polite talk, Margaret and Willa returned to their room. Her footman stood outside the door, guarding restlessly. Inside the door, Margaret turned and grabbed Willa's forearms and shrieked exhilaratedly. Then they both flopped down on the bed and Margaret re
alized how tired she was. The sun was setting and it was near time to appear for the dinner. But before she put on her crown and her sapphires, she felt oddly reluctant. She watched Willa rise and eagerly check her garments which the footman had hung in the wardrobe. She puckered with mild disapproval over one or two wrinkles, but did not impugn the footman; she was not that way.
She was going to sit with the Queen of Ardinéa, and tomorrow visit her storied bower. Yet she would just as soon sit and read a book while Willa sewed. She chuckled softly, looking at the freckled girl who grew taller by the week.
Willa stood behind her at the dinner, as was the custom. But Margaret kept wanting to turn and include her in the conversation. As honored as she was to sit at the royal dinner table, and as well trained as her upbringing had made her for such situations, she sighed wistfully more than once, looking about her at beautiful strangers and new acquaintances. It didn't matter that she compared well-- it was the comparing that grated. She kept looking back at the merry face of the Queen, whom she realized she liked very much already. Who wouldn't? she thought. She is beautiful, so merry, she is the Queen. But there is more to her...something sets her apart from other women who are beautiful and merry.
She was staring, and Lord Garem, Duke of Twelve Lochs, was waiting for a reply to a polite question.
"Aye, my lord, King's Leigh is situated most ideally, and beautifully laid out as well. From what I hear of the cities of Europa, many more ships would founder in the shoals of the White Sea with persons desiring to reach Ardinéan shores, if only they knew how fair her cities are."
"Well said, my lady! And this is your first visit to King's Leigh, is it not?" Lord Garem continued, but Margaret's eye was caught by something over his shoulder. It was Coltram, deep in conversation with a group of knights; talking and gesturing while several listened. He came to his point, it made its impact, he sat back. While another man began to talk, he glanced toward Margaret and by the look on his face, was surprised by her looking straight at him. Margaret nodded hello; he looked away quickly. Surely he couldn't have thought that she didn't see him looking at her. Why would he be rude to her?
"Aye, Lord Garem, I am quite overcome," she murmured.
Thankfully, those at the table rose as the King and Queen rose, and they left the dining hall for the Great Hall where there would be music. Many streamed out in that direction, and Gareth appeared beside Margaret. She was so glad to see him. He walked with her toward the hall and John with Willa.
Margaret had never heard such music as came from the consort in the Great Hall. It thrilled her, it transported her. Then they began the song about Tamlyn that Gilling had made. She was pushed forward to dance-- with Tamlyn's brother, Coltram!
His earlier discourtesy was gone, and he smiled at her and danced skillfully-- indeed, he made her look good; she had not danced much in the past year. When the song ended, all kinds of people wanted to talk with her and question her and hear of her adventure and of Tamlyn, and where was he?
Coltram was drawn into the group as well, but kept his counsel and drifted away, an unreadable look on his face. Willa glared at him and Margaret ought to have chastised her, but couldn't. Margaret made the most of the attention, feeling somehow that a time might come when friends would be valuable.
Margaret met the morning grateful that she had not drunk too much of the luscious wines that had been served. She had fended off three propositions, met two amiable ladies who lived within a day's ride of Brycelands, and had enough fun to forget her puzzlement over her brother-in-law's behavior.
A lady-in-waiting, Lady Sarine, and her own handmaid, Yola, arrived at her chamber in the morning and sat on the bed conversing while Willa dressed Margaret. Willa quickly evaluated what Sarine wore and chose that from Margaret's dresses that was most like it, and bound Margaret's hair in like, but not too alike, fashion. Margaret noticed, and thought that Willa would make a better courtier than she herself would ever be. They followed Sarine, a young girl who chattered endlessly and was clearly proud of escorting Margaret through the corridors to Charis's bower. Willa, carrying Margaret's gift to the Queen of an exquisite white mantle of kashmir goat wool, trimmed with pearls, trailed behind with Yola, a mere child who was intimidated by Willa's height and seeming severity.
As she entered the bower, Willa's severity reached its apex as she pursed her lips together in an effort not to gasp at the beauty of the white granite pavement, the huge, pale tapestries on the walls, the high, crown-molded ceilings, the tall, arched windows streaked with pouring rain and dressed in crewel work draperies, the harp music and rose scent filling the air; but her gray eyes grew wider and wider and the whole room seemed to dim when the Queen herself approached.
Willa sank in a perfect echo of Margaret's deep curtsey, her eyes darting anxiously from foot to foot to see if her lady's footwear was proper, but saw with utter amazement that the Queen's feet were bare on the woolen carpet! She stared at them even while proffering the linen-wrapped gift, and tore her eyes away while the Queen expressed sincere gratitude and exclaimed over the unmatched softness and rarity of the pure white kashmir wool.
Willa reddened and was grateful to see her Lady drawn aside by the Queen, who looped her arm through Margaret's and led her to a velvet couch by the tall windows, and Willa herself stood among the handmaids, who were watching a game of chess, which Willa had learnt from Margaret the past winter.
"Margaret," said Charis, taking her right hand, "Tell me again, in your own words, of how you met your husband, and how you took him for your own." Margaret found herself telling the whole story, beginning with the morning of Hildreth's wedding, and going on until her own wedding at Saint Savior's and Tamlyn's departure in the morning. It was a long tale, but Charis was intent on it, and telling it was easy. All except for the parts about Moruan; the Queen's eyes looked troubled, and Margaret passed quickly over him. Margaret found she enjoyed it, that it was like singing a song, that her heart flew and crashed with the story, and then it was told; Margaret found she was trembling and dropped her eyes. All ears in the room had been keen to her voice and there was a moment before the hum of voices resumed. Margaret realized that Charis still held her hand.
"I have had to learn to hold a pen with my thumb and middle finger, and cannot hold a needle well," she almost apologized, for something to say.
"His sword cut your hand while you defended him," Charis said, her eyes unreadable, probing Margaret, "And with his morning gift, he gave you his back," she merely stated, yet there was a question in it. Margaret raised her eyes to the Queen's.
"A thousand times, I would do it over for love of Tamlyn," she said coolly.
Charis's eyes softened, their fires banked, and she smiled, nodding slowly. She released Margaret's hand, and Margaret realized that it was hot and yet dry and tingling; the warmth of Charis's hand had eased the usual ache, whose absence was like pleasure.
"Come to the window. The rain has stopped, the clouds are breaking," said Charis with a glance at the women that told them to stay. Charis rose and herself turned the latch and swung the window wide. Margaret came to her side, and looked out. A long garden swept away from the window, its wall hidden by trees, over which a distance of hills and the River's shining curves lay under windblown clouds going ragged around the edges, and letting patches of sun in here and there. Birds chorused in the trees of the garden, and a fountain played in it, overfull from the rain; drowning out the noise of the city beyond the walls, and of the room behind them.
Charis drank of the fresh breeze and leaned out over the windowsill. A maid brought a long cushion and laid it over the wide, stone sill before retreating. Charis sat down, and patted the cushion for Margaret to sit also. After a moment, she turned to Margaret.
"My lady, speak freely with me. You are lonesome for Tamlyn?"
Margaret's heart was crushed and there was no hiding it. Willa was suddenly there with a kerchief, and hesitantly drew away after Margaret's grateful glance
. When she had some control over her voice, she crossed her arms, holding the kerchief to her temple in a balled fist. "I have dreams. He stands on a mountain, whispering my name-- I see his eyes, feel his breath-- for me, he lives; he is not dead yet. Is that very strange?" she asked, opening her eyes to look into the Queen's, whose eyes returned her intense gaze.
"If he is not dead to you, then he lives," she murmured, her eyes half-lidding, but seeming to burn even brighter. Margaret was arrested. Suddenly the sun leapt from the clouds and struck Charis blindingly. As Margaret looked, it was as when a candle flame is caught in sunlight and its own luminosity becomes transparent: that was the only way her mind could describe it. She shook her head slightly as Charis shimmered and rose and retreated from the blinding brightness. She took Margaret's hand and pulled her close, and whispered, "It is not so strange to me, for Elvenkind have their own laws, their own time. Not for no reason are our ways sundered. Have patience, and lose not hope." She embraced Margaret closely, and there was strength and kindness in it, and the strangeness of the moment fled away.
Church bells chimed around King's Leigh for Terce, and Charis pulled away, smiling at Margaret. "Open Court this morning, you will come?"
"Yes, my Queen," said Margaret, not sure she wished to, but feeling indebted.
Charis regarded her. "Your brother-in-law, Sir Coltram, will bring a petition this morning-- he mentioned it last night. I believe it concerns you. I am glad that we talked. Come!" She turned away, and skirts rustled as she rose. "Return here afterwards; we will sup together." A maid brought the white mantle and a pearl brooch, and another her crown, and another a scepter. Margaret fell in with the women lining up to go to the Hall, Willa her reassuring shadow. Again, Margaret had the sensation of her eyes adjusting to the seeming dimness around her, and voices jarred against the lilt in Charis's voice. What did that remind her of?
As the group proceeded from the bower, Margaret turned around and saw that the bower which had seemed so magnificent was not truly much larger than her own at Brycelands, nor so lofty as it had appeared.
Soon they were in the great Hall of the King, where the Queen joined Fearnon on the dais, the women ranging themselves to her side, while the King's men-- knights, squires, pages, chamberlains, ministers, and so on, swarmed around most of the dais in clusters. People of all ranks filled the room in drifts; some hanging back and others pressing forward impatiently. Margaret picked out some faces she recognized; others were strange to her both in face and dress: Southards, Lowlanders, Moormen.
Court began, and it was clear to Margaret that the dispute at the border of Ardinéa and the southern Fiefs, though in truce, brought bitter issues to the Court, and she was impressed with King Fearnon's ambition to bring justice to the lowliest peasant whose cow had been slain for meat by raiders. There was a lord from the north who had seduced a serving-girl while a prisoner in Bradmead; he was fined an endowment for the baby's sake when he declined to wed her. There was land whose ownership and borders were in question. In one case, where the dispute seemed unresolvable, the King gave of his own lands, rather than disinherit one family completely.
Then she saw Coltram approach the throne. He bowed courteously and handsomely. She peeked from behind the woman in front of her, backing up unconsciously against Willa.
"My King, my Queen," he began, making a short speech about the kindness of their justice and wisdom and so on. Then he came quickly to the point. "I am the second son of my lord my father, Lord Coltyn Braewode. My older brother, Sir Tamlyn Braewode, vanished into the wilderness nearly two years ago, and there has been neither word nor sighting of him since. His own wife, Lady Margaret Braewode, may vouch this word."
Margaret froze, incredulous, behind the women in front of her, but Coltram did not turn toward her nor acknowledge that he was aware of her presence. She began to feel a dread anger and fought it away. Coltram continued, "My lord my father is now quite ill and fears to die. Unless my brother's death is declared, my father will die heirless, his baronetcy extinct. And Tamlyn's widow will be bound by her vows to a man no longer living. I petition this court to declare that Tamlyn of Braewode is deceased, and I, his brother, may carry the title and name of my father among the living, that his honor might not vanish from the earth." With this he bowed gracefully.
"Let Lady Margaret Braewode speak,” spoke the Queen, smiling slightly at Margaret. Margaret wanted to cry, but called on Heaven’s King to hold her composure. In the space of a breath she had it, and moved forward. Heads swung around toward her; there was a susurrus of whispers. She curtseyed deeply to the King and Queen, then turned and curtseyed to Coltram, whose smile had vanished, but his head was high and his face relaxed.
"My King; my Queen; my brother-in-law speaks well for his father's interests. I am thankful that my father-in-law has such an advocate." Margaret was partly sincere. There was a ripple of discreet laughter. She didn't wish to make an enemy of Coltram, however, and she spoke quickly. "However, I also have an interest in advocating for my husband--"
"Her late husband--"
"--Whom I have reason to believe may yet live. Proof I cannot offer you. But neither can any other show proof that he does not live." She gave that a moment, raising her eyes hopefully to Charis, whose reassuring glance slowed her thumping heart.
Coltram spoke smoothly. "We have a law that after one year, an abandoned wife" --Margaret gasped-- "may be declared free and have the same rights as a widow."
King Fearnon spoke. "That is common law. There is no such law among the nobility. However, Lord Coltyn, God spare him, must have assurance that he has an heir. He may disinherit Tamlyn of Braewode if cause can be shown. However, the circumstances of his disappearance make this very difficult."
"Come, my King, Faeries and Elf-knights?" Coltram struggled with his composure, even as he forced a laugh and glanced about him, looking for concurrence. Margaret marked that Charis bridled, her eyes fierce, King Fearnon held up his hand and Coltram wisely shut his mouth.
"Tamlyn's inheritance can be held in trust by the next in line-- that would be you, excepting of course all that belongs to his bride by right of marriage. However, his title cannot be transferred until death is declared." He looked thoughtfully over at Charis, who returned his gaze; their eyes made some exchange before the King turned back. "Seven years. After seven years have passed from his disappearance, Margaret may apply to Cynrose court for widowhood, and then, you for his title and heritage. Until then, Tamlyn of Braewode is considered Lord-heir. You will hold his inheritance in trust upon your father's death until that time-- unless," he flicked his eyes at the Queen-- "Tamlyn were to return ere the seven years are over; then all would return to him."
Coltram was clearly frustrated even as he delivered his speech of thanks and backed away, knowing that Fearnon would not change his pronunciation once it was spoken. Margaret could not speak, but smiled weakly and whispered gratitude while she sank down low before returning on quivering legs to the women, drained by the confrontation. Willa sidled up close to her, beaming with pride; Margaret gripped her hand. When she felt the attention turned elsewhere, they quietly left.
In the afternoon, while closed court was held and the King and Queen received a new raft of visitors and courtiers, Margaret had Gareth take her about to see the city. She stopped at a goldsmith's and went inside with Willa. She whispered to the goldsmith, whose bushy brows arched in surprise, and he brought out some earbobs and bracelets, rings and neckchains. "Model them for me, Willa," she said, and Willa delightedly tried on pieces she picked from the selection; together they settled on a necklace, bangle, and simple earrings, which she held before her unpierced ears in the shop's mirror. Margaret paid for the pieces, changing the earrings for a ring, and a small brocade bag to carry them in; she bought also a new pin for Gareth's brooch; he had lost it on the way and was using an ironwood stick. Then she turned to Willa. "My dear Willa, these are for you, who have been worth your weight in gold to me on this jo
urney." Willa's gray eyes widened with surprise, then tears. Margaret pressed the bag into her hands, and Willa clutched them to her, dashing her eyes and sniffling, and then remembering her ever-ready kerchief.
"Sorry, my lady. Thank you, my lady," she croaked. Then she stood up straight, taller than ever. Margaret noted that the planes of Willa's face were standing out, her nose taking a good shape: she was no longer a round-faced child. They left the shop and Margaret asked Gareth to remove his brooch. He removed it from his cloak, and Willa took and refastened it with the gold pin. To her surprise, he colored, though he grunted his thanks; he hesitated before lifting her to her horse. Margaret smiled to herself, that this gruff warrior was so touched by her little gift.
It rained on their return journey for two solid days. Margaret thought that the smell of wet horses never would leave her nostrils. The manors where they lodged were crowded and merry at night with music and dancing and storytelling. Margaret insisted they start early; she knew Sir Gareth was eager to be about his knighting business. After the late nights she dozed in the saddle. Gareth, John and Geven had a good laugh at her expense, saying that she would make a good swordmistress yet, riding in the rain and sleeping on the march.
The third day it only drizzled intermittently, and the fourth day dawned glorious. A drying breeze picked up from the west and by afternoon, men were cutting hay under the azure sky. The scent of it was intoxicating. They came to the last ford of the Briar that they needed to cross, and it was swollen beyond hope of crossing. Gareth drove his palfrey into the surge, but turned back.
"On my war-horse I'd not bat an eye, but the ponies will never take the ladies over. We'll have to wait, or go on upstream." The men discussed alternate routes. As they stood their horses, letting them pull the lush grass, Margaret saw a short way off, the inn where they had paid the girl's lodging that was in labor. Margaret directed Willa to look in and ask about the mother. Willa dismounted and walked the stepping-stones through the mud yard to the inn, fending off the innyard dogs with her riding-crop.
In a few moments, Willa came bounding back, looking flustered. "My lady, the innkeeper says --" She was superseded by the innkeeper, a large woman who stalked across the yard in a few steps with a squalling bundle in her hands.
"My lady," she panted, making something like a curtsey, "The girl who you lodged, she left here as soon as she was delivered. I've had to pay a wetnurse, tend to this motherless brat, and have a screaming infant at all hours in my inn to boot! Never had none of my own and can’t start now. Now I'd like to know what shall I do with her, seeing as you brought the mother here, and I haven't been able to trace her. She was so fat I doubt whether anyone even knew she had a brat, and there wasn't any husband looking for her, and that's for sure. She probably sneaked out to have it and leave it, but you came along with your kindness, God reward you, my lady, but the question is now, what are you going to do with the baby?"
As she spoke she pushed closer and shoved the child upon Margaret, who had to let go the reins and catch it before it fell; the horse shied and the woman backed away quickly. Gareth had watched the interchange with bewilderment, but now rode his horse forward to cut her off from her door, hollering at her while the other men circled around her. "Hold!" cried Margaret. All eyes were upon her. "Oh God, what have I fallen into?" she thought.
Aloud she said, "I will pay you for your care for the babe. Right now, fetch the wetnurse, the babe is hungry. Tell her I will hire her for three days' nursing while journeying with us and three more returning home. Bring me three dozen clean nappies and a good sheepskin. And a carry sling. Do it now!"
The innkeeper turned toward the wall of horses. Margaret looked at Gareth, who turned his horse as if in a dream. After the woman had huffed off, happy to smell money, Margaret fixed her eyes on the infant, who no longer cried, but switched her tiny head around, rooting for the breast. She heard Gareth jump off his horse and stamp away, muttering his disbelief. Geven looked confused and John sat with his head turned away, his shoulders shaking violently as he snickered. Willa came up and peered at the baby. "Put your finger in its mouth," she said. Margaret slipped her finger in the tiny mouth, and it sucked powerfully; surprisingly so.
"Nappies!" Gareth was heard to growl, and John finally laughed out loud.
The baby fell asleep, exhausted by crying. Then Margaret held a sleeping babe in her arms, and she didn't even look up when she heard the innkeeper harrying the wetnurse up to her. She was thinking of Rivanone saying, "God has a way of not letting us sit around too long."