Mercedes Lackey - Anthology (35 page)

 
          
Honoria
felt cold at her heart, as if she had suddenly gotten a lump of stone there
instead of a warm and beating organ, and clenched her hands in her lap to still
their shaking. She knew the look her father was wearing; he was the sole
authority in this corner of the Empire, the Crown Prince, and he could not be
persuaded in this mood, for he felt he was making a decision for the good of
Family and Principality.

 
          
"I
will even give you time to make that decision," he continued implacably,
as the cold seeped from Honoria's heart into the rest of her body. "It is
only proper for the length of a year fall between Theresa's betrothal and her
marriage, for she is still barely twelve summers old. I would not send her to
her bridegroom before that time, and no one would fault me for being too
reluctant a father to release my daughter before then. But the rest of your
sisters are fully ready to be wed, indeed are quite impatient to become brides,
and I intend either a triple, or quadruple marriage take place so that all my
daughters may be satisfied at once. Therefore, I give you until autumn to
decide: either to wed, or to enter the Church."

 
          
The
ax had fallen, and Honoria restrained the impulse that urged her hands toward
her throat, to see if her head still remained on her neck. Now she knew why her
mother so often made that choking sound when she was overcome with emotion.
"And just who am I to wed, if you are not to be forsworn, Father?"
she asked dryly, wondering how she managed to sound calm and sane even as she spoke
the words. "I assume you have some ready candidate standing by. How is it
that this does not negate your promise to me?"

 
          
"That
is your choice, Honoria." This time it was her mother who spoke, her voice
tight with anger. The Princess had never understood her eldest daughter, and
saw Honoria's refusal to wed as a personal affront. "You have had several
proposals; pick one of them. Pick one of your father's
nobles,
Pick a simple knight, for Jesus sake! But pick someone, or pick the Church.
That is
more choice
than any maiden has ever had since
the world began!" She looked for a moment as if she had a great deal more
to say, but something changed her mind as her husband patted her hand absently,
and she fell silent.

 
          
"Remember
Prince Siegfried—when you attended his birthday fete with your brother—"
her father began. "You said you found Siegfried congenial—"

 
          
"Prince
Siegfried wedded Queen Odette just before his coronation," Honoria replied
calmly, and with irrefutable logic. "The invitation to the wedding came
before Christmastide; I sent a pair of merlins as my gift. Besides, he never
had any intention of asking for any of
us, that
was
plain from the moment we arrived."

 
          
That
wasn't quite true, but Honoria had known before the birthday feast that Siegfried
had found his bride—and it wasn't one of the six invited as his guests. Several
of the other girls had been surprised, but not Honoria.

 
          
"I
only meant that there has been, in the past, at least one possible suitor you
found acceptable," the Princess continued, as if she had not interrupted,
though the Princess made a hard, thin line of her lips. "What about his
friend, Count Benno? You had good things to say about him! Should I send an
invitation to him to pay court to you?"

 
          
Benno,
who was too afraid of Freya even to stand near her? Oh, indeed. But at least
here, again, she had a perfectly reasonable answer for him. "Count Benno
is said to be courting King Siegfried's sorceress, Odile. I do not think it
would be a good idea to interfere in that situation. It is not wise to anger a
magician."

 
          
"No,
indeed—" It was the Prince's turn to blanch at the thought. There were
far, far too many examples of what happened when one did anger a sorcerer,
examples proving that death was not the worst fate in the world. For that
matter, one didn't even need to anger a sorcerer to suffer damage; one only
needed to be in the way, as Queen Clothilde had discovered a split second
before a large piece of her palace fell on her.

 
          
The
Princess broke in angrily.
"Siegfried, Benno, what does
it matter?
Make a choice, daughter! You have a wealth of young men to
choose from, or, if you choose to take vows, the certainty of becoming an
Abbess before your hair turns silver! Just choose."

 
          
Honoria
stood up, prodded to anger that matched her mother's; she felt her face flush,
and she clenched her fists at her side. This was so entirely unfair! "Yes,
and this is a hair-splitting choice to give me, that skirts the vow that you
would not force me to wed against my will! Either I must be walled up in a
cloister, or I must tie myself to a man who may take as much of my freedom as
any Holy Order would!"

 
          
Her
father, ever the peacemaker, stood up as well, making soothing motions with his
hands. "Honoria, I will honor any choice of man you make, no matter how
lowly born. You have the time; find a husband who is exactly to your liking.
Wed old Heinrich, if you will, for surely there is a man to match your
mind!"

 
          
Honoria
choked back a hysterical laugh at the idea of proposing marriage to Heinrich;
her mother just choked. Jesu! I can just imagine Heinrich's face! It would
almost be worth it, just for the sight! And as for Mother's face if I agreed to
the notion—the temptation is almost too much!

 
          
Having
cooled the anger of both women, the Prince sat back down. "I do not expect
you to wed Heinrich, unless that truly is your will, Honoria. I only suggest it
as an
example, that
you may choose anyone. If you take
a man of lower birth than yours, you are like to find that he is so bemused by
his elevation and grateful to you for it, that you are free to act as you
choose."

 
          
Or
more like to find myself beaten into submission. But her father was
right,
it was more likely that she could continue the life
she'd enjoyed until now if she chose a man beneath her. He might even be
willing to be led by her. . . .

 
          
Until
I am with child, that is, she thought bleakly, following the path of logic to
its end. How much hunting may I do heavy with babe? And that assumes I shall
survive motherhood. There is more to marriage than the simple acquisition of a
husband, and how am I to keep him from my bed when he demands his rights there?

 
          
But
the other prospect, of taking Holy Vows, was even less appealing.
A year as a novice, another as a postulant, and how long as a
sister before I have the right to fly a bird again?
And even then, by
canon law it can be nothing more than a
merlin,
and
only if the Mother Superior deems it allowable. I would not dare flaunt the law
until I became Abbess, and how long would that take? Nuns live forever, it
seems, and Holy Mothers longer than that!

 
          
"I
have only one request, child," the Prince said plaintively into the
silence. "Should you choose a peasant, at least let it be a man who has
performed such a deed of valor that I may knight him."

 
          
The
Princess choked again, her face entirely hidden in her silk kerchief.

 
          
Evidently
Mother does not approve of Father's liberal-mindedness.

 
          
Honoria
clenched her teeth, but steeled herself to make a civil reply. "Then I will
obey your orders, Father, hard though it goes with me. I will not have it said
that I did not know my duty."

 
          
She
rose from her chair, made the briefest of curtsies, and left the room. She went
straight to the stables, so blind with mingled anger and despair that she
hardly knew where she was going and did not remember asking for her horse, nor
mounting it. She only came to herself again when she was on the road, away from
the palace, galloping her hunter as recklessly as any of the young knights she had
mentally chided for the same reckless behavior this morning.

 
          
As
soon as she realized what she was doing, she reined the gelding in; this was no
surface to gallop on, and it was not the fault of the horse that this had
happened. "Sorry, Odo," she told him, patting his neck as she pulled
him to a sedate walk, and relieved to see that he was no more than damp.
"It would be a worse ending to a bad situation if I made you break a leg
with my carelessness."

 
          
She
did not have the same feeling for horses that she had for the birds, but she
still felt more of a kinship with any four-footed creature than she did with
their masters. "It is too bad that I cannot have a would-be husband
gelded," she said aloud, since there was no one to hear her make such
shocking statements. "Then I could wed with no fear of losing my
freedom."

 
          
There,
after all, was the rub—the loss of freedom to do exactly as she wished, within
bounds that were reasonable, and without having to consider the desires or
well-being of anyone except herself. Yes, she had taken responsibility for
young
Bern
's education, but she had done that because
she wished to, and because she was willing to accept the constraints that came
with it. The Church would impose its rules on her— rules so restrictive that
she did not even for a moment consider taking vows. Sweet fesu, in my novice
and postulant years, I would not even be able to see the sky except when I
passed from cloister to chapel and back! The very notion of such confinement
gave her horrors—like the nightmare in which she found herself close-confined
in a tiny room, with no doors and no windows.

 
          
So
the only other choice was marriage.
Which was no choice at
all.

 
          
Hot
tears coursed down her cheeks, and with no one to see or comment on them, she let
them; she didn't even bother wiping them away. Let the chill breeze dry them on
her cheeks and leave them chapped and unsightly; why should she make herself
look attractive to a would-be husband she didn't want? That they were tears as
much of anger as of sorrow didn't really matter at this point, for there was
nothing she could do to change the cause of either.

 
          
She
could only ride, ride until she regained control of herself, until the ache in
her stomach eased and the burning resentment subsided a little, until solitude
and the spring sunshine helped her find her composure again. Only then did she
turn Odo and ride back to the palace.

 
          
She
spent the afternoon in complete and defiant rebellion; not merely wearing her
oldest and shabbiest clothing, but instead of wearing a gown, donning her
brother's outgrown breeches and hose, tunic and leather vest. The last time she
had dared to wear this combination, the Princess had spent an entire day
closeted in her bedroom having hysterics, and another day alternately lecturing
Honoria and weeping over her.

 
          
But
there was no other set of clothing so suited to the dirty, ugly work of
cleaning the mews and all her hawk furniture of the inevitable grime of a full
season of successful hunting.

 
          
She
didn't actually clean the entire mews, only the stalls of her particular birds:
Victor, Valeria, and Melisande, her lovely peregrines; Freya, her remarkable
goshawk;
Regina
, the stately gyrfalcon; Ares and Athena,
high-strung merlins; and Johanna, her temperamental kestrel. Kestrels were also
known as

 
          
"tower-falcons,"
and were particularly suited for an afternoon of exciting flying when there was
no real need to supplement the pantry. Fearless and fiery, they wrought great
havoc among the sparrows
who
nested in each and every
available chink of tower walls, and were useful for thinning the little pests
out.

 
          
That
made eight stalls to clean out; the usual way was to move each bird in turn to
the weathering yard, rake the gravel of the stall until there was no sign of
feathers, furs, mutes or castings, sweep out the feathers, fur and castings
she'd raked out of the gravel, then scrape down the walls and the slats of the
windows until they were clean as well. All the old perches and blocks would
come out, to be returned to the equipment room for refurbishing, and she would
replace them with new perches and a new, clean block from Heinrich's stores. It
was vital to the hawk's health to perform this chore before the weather really
warmed; infection, particularly bumble-foot, was a real danger if the stall
wasn't cleaned of winter's detritus. It was easy to overlook a bit of food
cached
somewhere,
or scraps of flesh mingled with the
gravel, but once warm weather arrived, those were potential sources of foul
smells and fever.