English, Elizabeth (10 page)

Don't
be a fool, she ordered herself fiercely. He's only a Kirallen. If he knew the
truth he'd show her no mercy, and she could not afford to show him any,
either—no matter how winningly he smiled. She had not started this war. It had
been raging long before she was born, and no doubt it would continue long after
she was dead. It was between the Darnleys and the Kirallens and had naught to
do with her. She had no choice, none at all. Robin was depending on her.

Robin.
What had she been thinking to even consider her own pleasure when Robin's life
was hanging in the balance? Oh, she was a selfish, wicked girl, just as Father
Aidan had told her many times.

Jemmy
hesitated in the doorway, and Alyson stared down at the floor, terrified that
he might speak—or worse, that he might smile at her again. Because if he did
that she'd be lost, and before she knew it she'd be riding off to Dunforth with
the wind in her hair and the sunlight on her face.

"I'll
expect you in the stables in a quarter of an hour," he said evenly, then
walked out, slamming the door behind him.

"Well,
then, my lady, we'd best get ye into your riding clothes," Maggie said,
not troubling to hide her amusement. "Come along now, the fresh air will
do ye good, and 'tis for sure ye won't want to keep him waiting."

The
day was warm and the air was fragrant with the
scent of damp earth and
pine and heather. Hawks swooped against an achingly blue sky that seemed to
stretch forever. The ground was bright with purple pansies and yellow heather
as Alyson and Jemmy cantered along the slopes of the triple-crowned Eildon Hills.

Though
Alyson was very new to the exercise, riding had been her chiefest pleasure
during her ordeal at Aylsford. Horseback was the one place she had been able to
escape Sir Robert's demanding, sarcastic tutelage and Lady Maude's petty
cruelties. The first time she was mounted had been terrifying, until she
realized that horses were no different from people, really. They would take
advantage of any weakness—but only if you let them. She had soon come to an
understanding with her palfrey, and now the animal obeyed her with no arguments
when she slowed it to a walk.

"So,
Maude, tell me," Jemmy asked lightly, pulling up beside her. "Have
you ever seen a fairy in the hills?"

"You
shouldn't speak of them," she answered quickly. "Not here."

"Where
better? This is where they are said to dwell."

"You
don't believe it, though."

"And
you do?" he challenged with a grin.

Alyson
began to say that she did indeed believe, but then stopped in some confusion,
wondering if the nobility didn't know about the Fair Folk. It wasn't something
that had come up in conversation during her time with Maude. She shrugged
without answering.

"Look—"
Jemmy said, pointing to a tree standing all alone upon the moor. "Just
think—this could be the very spot where Thomas the Rhymer met the Queen of
Elfland."

"So
it could," she said. "Though they say 'twas on the
other
side
of the border."

"Two
hundred years ago and more—who can say where the border was back then? And
what's a border, really, but lines upon a map? Surely the Fair Folk are too wise
to care if we call this bit of land a part of Scotland or of England!"

Alyson
heard his words with some surprise. The exact location of the border had been a
cause of deadly dispute for centuries. Yet he talked as though it didn't really
matter.

"Yes,"
he added, staring at the tree. "I'm sure it was just here. And she carried
him away to Elfland for seven years, then returned him to this very spot with
the gift of truth upon him."

He
lingered a moment longer, then kicked his horse into a walk. "I wonder what
a gift that was, really. To be doomed to speak only truth—poor devil. His life
must have been a merry hell."

"So
you count the telling of lies as the means to happiness?" she asked
tartly.

"How
like a Kirallen!" he said, finishing the unspoken thought. "Yes,
lady, we're all terrible liars. It's what we do best—well, when we're not too
busy with murdering and thieving. And on certain evenings of the year we slay
newborn babes, as well," he finished, twisting his face into a leer.

She
was nearly surprised into a giggle, but just in time turned it to a cough and
looked away.

"What?
Don't tell me your father left that part out! Surely he told you all about our
wicked ways."

"He
told me what I need to know," she answered curtly.

"And
now you're one of us. Was it very terrible when you learned you were to come
here?"

The
last question was asked without a touch of mockery. Alyson bit her lip and
stared down at the reins between her gloved hands. "My father gave his
word."

"Aye,
and so he did. But you were never asked. I'm sorry for that, Maude."

Oh,
she wished he wouldn't do that, talk to her as if she was his equal, as if
anything she might have thought or wanted made the slightest bit of difference.
He wouldn't speak that way if he knew who I am, she reminded herself firmly.
It's only that he believes I'm noble-born. People like him never stop to think
about my kind.

"I
trust I'll do my duty," she said stiffly.

"Will
you, then?" he asked, and though his tone was light, his glance was very
keen.

"Have
I any choice?" she answered coolly, pretending that she did not understand
his question. But the warm blood rushing to her cheeks said otherwise.

"Do
any of us really have a choice?" he asked, his voice suddenly bitter.
"We work and plan and then—" he snapped his fingers. "It's gone.
Sometimes I wonder if anything we do makes the slightest bit of difference or
whether it was all laid out for us before. It's like the horses that turn the
mill with a cloth around their eyes, walking round and round in circles,
thinking they're actually getting somewhere."

Alyson
thought of her mother. Of Robin. Of herself. Of the senseless, violent acts
that had destroyed every plan they'd ever made.

"God
has given us free will," she argued, troubled at the image. "Or so
I've heard it said. But the most important thing is not to lose faith in
Him."

"Faith,"
Jemmy repeated flatly. "Aye, well, faith's a fine thing if you have it,
but if you don't..." He shrugged.

"You
have no faith?"

She
was shocked at the casual admission. Prayer, observance of the holy days,
regular attendance of mass— these things were as real, as much a part of life
as work or sleep. Even Lord Darnley took care to justify his actions as God's
will. And though Alyson often disagreed with God and found His ways a mystery,
she had never doubted His existence.

"I
know the sun will rise in the morning and set at night. Beyond that..." He
shot her a rueful smile. "Not much, I'm afraid. None of it makes a bit of
sense to me. The priests say we have free will, but what does that really mean?
Who would choose to be born blind or lame or poor? It seems all the important
matters are completely out of our hands."

Alyson
had often thought the same thing herself, but it seemed a curious notion for a
nobleman to entertain. After all, he was rich and strong and powerful. It was
his kind who had the best reason to endorse God's plan.

She
had tried to fathom why God's plan would call for her to take part in Lord
Darnley's treachery. On the face of it, it didn't seem likely that it could. But
Father Aidan had reminded her over and over again that it was not her place to
question. God Himself had arranged the world in perfect order. From the lowest
villein to the highest of the archangels, every living being had its place. To
question the order of her overlord—and her father—was to question God's perfect
plan, which Father Aidan had assured her was a greater sin than any other.

"Of
course some people believe differently," Jemmy went on, sitting easily in
the saddle. The sunlight fell on his dark hair, lighting the copper highlights
in its depths. "They say we live not once, but many times. And our present
circumstances are not simply God's will, but the result of what we did in other
lives."

"Really?"
Alyson said, intrigued by the idea. "If it was true—it would explain so
much."

Jemmy
smiled. "There's just one problem. It's heresy. Men have burned for less.
And really, what difference does it make if we live once or many times? We
still have to get through this life as best we might."

"Oh,
but it does make a difference," she said earnestly. "If I could just
be sure—"

"Then
what?"

Then
maybe I would know what I'm supposed to do, she thought, but she didn't speak
the words. Instead she said, "Well, then I would know. It's always a fine
thing to know something for sure. But perhaps we aren't meant to know."

"And
yet we're expected to believe? It's a strange God that gives us minds to think
and then tells us not to use them! But there, I don't mean to speak against
your faith. Are you very pious, Maude?"

His
question shocked Alyson into awareness of her own mistake. What had she been
saying? Maude had not the slightest interest in religion!

"Oh,
it's not something I think about often," she said quickly. "But once
or twice—in an idle moment—when the priest spoke of such things..." She
stifled a yawn behind one hand and kicked her horse into a trot, making toward
a small burn falling down the hillside in a shower of glittering spray.

She
allowed her palfrey to drink, and Jemmy stopped beside her as his gray bent its
neck to the water. A welcome breeze fanned Alyson's hot cheeks and when she
realized Jemmy was going to let their conversation drop, the muscles of her
shoulders began to soften.

It
was very quiet here, very peaceful. Dappled sunlight danced upon the water's
surface and the wind soughed among the treetops. As Alyson's uneasiness receded
she became aware of Jemmy just beside her, the hard, muscled thigh gripping the
horse's withers, the strong, brown hands loose upon the reins. Though she kept
her own eyes fixed on the water, she felt his gaze move over her, like a
feather brushed against her skin.

What
does he see when he looks at me? she wondered. A wife he doesn't want? The
woman who will one day bear his children? Whatever he thinks he sees, it isn't
me. The water blurred and shimmered before her eyes and suddenly she wished
with all her heart that she had never ridden out today.

The
palfrey raised her head and blew, stamping a hoof to signal she was finished
drinking and it was time to leave.

"Have
you traveled much beyond Northumberland?" Jemmy asked as they moved on,
obviously making an effort to begin again.

Alyson
repressed a sigh. She had known this question would come soon or late. Now it
was time to recite the lessons she had learned—all too well, it had seemed
during weary weeks at Aylsford.

"Last
year I went to London with my uncle," she began, letting her gaze drift up
to the white clouds dotting the blue sky. "I was presented to Princess
Joan herself and oh, what a lady she is! Not quite as beautiful as she once
was, perhaps, but still... they say the Black Prince was clay in her
hands!"

"I
once—" Jemmy began, but she ignored him, just as Maude ignored anyone
foolish enough to try to slide a word in edgewise when she started on her favorite
topic.

"At
one tournament she had ladies dressed like men ride out to entertain the
crowds. Did you ever hear the like?" she demanded with a high, forced
laugh. "Oh, it was scandalous, but such fun! They wore tunics that showed
their legs up to the thigh and were even armed like men and riding war-horses.
Everyone was shocked! They preached sermons about it—said the ladies were not
ladies at all—and I agreed. Can you even imagine such a thing?"

Jemmy
opened his mouth to reply, but she rushed on, "Every day was something
new—jongleurs and minstrels, hunting, feasts, and pageants.... And
now"—she frowned with a petulant sigh, pleased that she'd remembered
exactly where it was supposed to come—"now I'll never know if Alice
Perrers is still flaunting her position as the King's paramour—or whether
styles have changed. In London the fashion is all for the new Bohemian
headdresses," she went on in a breathless rush. "They're so delicate,
so airy. I had one made for the last feast I attended. Even Princess Joan noticed
it. She said..."

Before
Alyson finished even half of what she had been forced to hear upon the subject,
Jemmy's expression had hardened to bored impatience. And when she launched into
a description of the second tournament Maude had seen, he did what she had
often longed to do herself—cut off the flow of words with a quick excuse and
rode ahead.

She
kept her own mount to a decorous walk. But though the sun still shone with full
force, much of the brightness had vanished from the day. She could not understand
it, nor why she was not more pleased at having convinced him that she was just
as vain and stupid as Maude could ever be.