Authors: Elizabeth Marie Pope
"It's nothing." Kate pulled her wits together. "Only, I — that thing you found — you're sure it was dead? It had been dead for a long time?"
"Lord, yes!" said Sir Geoffrey. "Didn't you hear me? There was nothing left of it but — "
He stopped short as a thin wailing cry rose from the archway at the foot of the wall beneath them. It was a cry of such pain and despair that even Sir Geoffrey stiffened, and Kate turned whiter still.
"What is it?" she gasped. "What's that noise?"
"I don't know," said Sir Geoffrey, in his grimmest voice. "But I'm afraid it's another one."
"Another what?"
"I was wrong when I told you that nobody was going to miss them."
The old white-haired pilgrim that Kate had once seen returning from the Holy Well had come back again. As they leaned over to look, they saw him pull himself away from his serving man's arm and plunge down the path to the valley at a hobbling run, rushing to and fro distractedly as he ran, and making sudden darts at the water, like a lost dog in front of an empty house.
"That's the second since this morning," said Sir Geoffrey. "The first one — but never mind that now: I'd better go down and do what I can to keep him from breaking his neck. Get back to your room, Kate. You're shaken enough as it is. You don't want to see any more of this; it's as if they'd run mad."
But Kate only went as far as the door of the long gallery and stopped there, feeling that she could not bear to be shut up again just then, even in her own room. Instead she found a corner of the wall overlooking the courtyard where a stone seat had been built in the old days for a guard or a watchman. The seat was in the sun, sheltered from the wind, and the stone was warm where it reflected the light. The light was so strong that she was aware of it even when she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the warmth of the stone, listening to the murmur of the wind and the slow tick of the castle clock from the courtyard as it measured the time of the world.
In the days that followed, she spent many hours sitting there in the sun or walking back and forth in the high clear air on the battlements. Sometimes she stood looking down at the inner courtyard and the workmen moving in and out of Lord Richard's tower; Sir Geoffrey was giving the grain to the village to replace the crop that had been destroyed in the storm, and there was to be a peal of bells for the church at last. Sometimes she went as far as the stretch of walk above the archway and looked down the valley towards the Holy Well. The flood had stopped rising when it reached the foot of the Standing Stone, and not even an occasional pilgrim was still coming to wander about on the shore. There was nothing to be seen in the whole valley but a lake of deep water, green where it lay under the shadow of the cliffs and blue where it reflected the color of the sky. It might have lain there in unbroken peace since the beginning of time.
Presently, little by little, the sharp images of the old pilgrim, the choked passages, and the floating mass of bones began to recede from her mind.
She was left very much to herself, for Christopher had not returned and Sir Geoffrey was taken up with the work of the estate, but in those days she did not feel a lack of company. She did not even want it. All she wanted was to rest, to be let alone, to walk in the air and the light, or to sit for hours watching the birds wheeling in the great space over her head. The wound in her hand had not festered, but the palm took a long time to heal, and it was even longer before she stopped dreaming at night of flooded caverns where the blind fish nosed in the darkness about the steps leading up to a stone chair, or where Joan and Betty and Marian still lay in their beds, drowned in their enchanted sleep. It was useless to hope that the Lady might have taken the mortal prisoners with her when she escaped. The Lady would not break her given word, and — what was it that the redheaded woman had said to her once? — "The Fairy Folk cannot be moved by pity because they have no hearts in their bodies."
The redheaded woman — her name proved to be Susan — was up at the Hall now with her little boy. There had been no way that Kate could tell her how much she owed to her gift of the cross, but she could at least find out what she wished for the most and try to give her that in return. What Susan wished for the most was very simple: the dream of her life was to learn fine sewing and move from the village to a great gentleman's household. She and Dorothy soon became mighty gossips, with many whispered secrets and interminable confidences as they sat by the fire making over Kate's clothes with their heads together, nodding wisely to one another. Kate did not ask what they were talking about.
The days passed and became weeks: two weeks — three weeks — four. The weather continued to be fair and remarkably mild for the month, one of those rare quiet seasons, the "Saint Luke's summer" that came like a blessing from time to time at the very end of autumn. It was not until almost the first of December that Kate awoke to find that the wind had veered north in the night and the sky was the color of iron.
"There's snow coming," said Sir Geoffrey at dinner that noon. "I knew this weather was too good to last. Christopher had better start back soon if he doesn't want to find the roads blocked."
"He's been gone a long while," said Kate. "I thought he was just taking Cecily to her Aunt Jennifer's."
"He may have business of his own in London. Who knows? Perhaps he's found a girl he fancies at last." Sir Geoffrey pushed back his plate and rose to his feet, smiling down at her. "Would you care to ride over to the Elvenwood with me, Kate? I want to mark some of the trees for felling."
"In the Elvenwood?" said Kate, almost sharply.
"Why not? We're likely to have a great need of ship timber in England if the Queen dies and the Lady Elizabeth isn't fool enough to marry King Philip. That oak in your glade by the waterfall would go near to making a ship by itself."
"Not the dancing oak?"
"It can dance on the waves," said Sir Geoffrey. "Come along, lass. We won't be more than an hour."
Kate shook her head. She was not superstitious, but she did not want to see the dancing oak marked for felling, and she did not think she would care to put to sea in any ship that was fashioned out of its timber. "I'll keep to the battlements," she said.
But on the battlements it had grown bitterly cold; the stone seat was icy to the touch, and the heavy gray clouds hung so low that they seemed no further off than a roof of moving rock. In the end, for the first time, she was glad to get back to the warmth and shelter of her room, even though Dorothy opened the door as she approached and said in her most old-nursery voice: "Come in, Mistress Katherine, and see what Susan and I have for you to try on."
"I tried on that dress this morning," said Kate. "And it doesn't need anything more done to it."
"Ah, but this isn't the same dress," said Dorothy coyly. "You come and see."
The dress lay spread in splendor on the coverlet of the bed. It was silk brocade, the most beautiful Kate had ever seen, all deep glowing bronze with a sheen of gold where the light caught it, woven in a pattern of birds and acanthus leaves. The bodice was cut square across the breast and closely fitted, but the skirt was wide, falling in folds from the narrow waist and opening like a flower over a petticoat of yellow satin. The brocade sleeves of the bodice were closely fitted too, but dropped away at the elbow into great bell shapes that were lined with golden brown marten fur, turned back and fastened with sapphire clasps to show the fur and big wrist-length undersleeves of the same yellow satin as the petticoat. There were sapphire pins to hold the little square black velvet hood to the hair, and a sapphire pendant on a thin fine gold chain for the throat.
Susan and Dorothy stood beaming delightedly at the look on Kate's face.
"It's from all of us, Mistress Katherine," said Susan. "Dorothy thought of it, and Sir Geoffrey gave us the sapphires for it, d — "
"Aren't you going to try it on, Mistress Katherine?" broke in Dorothy, almost weeping with excitement and self-importance. "No, don't you stir a finger; Susan and I will see to you . . . The brocade and the satin and the fur were laid by in a chest, and I said to Sir Geoffrey . . . Give me that comb . . . 'Sir Geoffrey,' I said to him, 'it's not for me to speak, but I can't bear the thought of all that lying there going to waste, and Mistress Katherine with nothing but done-over clothes to her name.' No, don't look in the mirror till we've finished. I made just such a dress for my own lady Anne years ago when she was a girl your age, and the sapphires are what she wore at her wedding . . . There, Susan! wasn't I right? The bronze color was the one for her hair, and the blue to bring out her eyes. Turn round now, Mistress Katherine, and see how it becomes you before you go show yourself to Sir Geoffrey."
Kate looked at the glowing figure reflected in the glass, and for the first time in her life, flushed with pleasure at what she saw.
"Where is he?" she asked a little shyly. "I thought he'd gone to the Elvenwood."
"No, he's back. Go down, Mistress Katherine: you've no cause to be shy of him or anyone else in the world now. Humphrey said he was working on the books in the evidence room."
But Sir Geoffrey had come out of the evidence room and was talking to somebody in the great hall. Kate could hear his deep voice below as she opened the upper door to the dais stair, and paused there, hesitating: it might be better to wait until he was alone. He was standing by the fire, and beside him was another man, a cloak flung back from his shoulders and a riding whip under one arm. He was a tall, stooping man, with a lean ironic face and brown hair that was thickly flecked with gray.
Kate gave one cry, and then — forgetting her dignity, Sir Geoffrey, the new dress, and everything else on earth — ran headlong down the stairs into his arms.
"Aren't you going to kneel properly to your father and ask him for his blessing?" demanded Sir Thomas Sutton, hugging her as if he could not let her go. "I've come to fetch you away, Kate. The Queen sent me for you."
"Not Queen Mary?"
"No," said Sir Thomas. "Queen Mary's been dead these two weeks and more, poor soul. It was the Lady Elizabeth. Where have your wits gone begging, child? Didn't she tell you that she'd send me for you as soon as she had the power?"
"I — I never thought she'd remember," Kate stammered. "A little word like that."
"It's my opinion that that young woman doesn't forget anything more than she chooses," retorted Sir Thomas dryly. "Yes, she remembered — and a pleasant journey it's been, too, with all the bells along the road ringing for our new Lady, and some of your old acquaintance for company." He nodded towards the oriel window that looked out on the terrace. "There they are now," he said.
Through the glass — the Wardens had never been ones to grudge the expense, and the glass was as clear as crystal — Kate saw Christopher at the foot of the terrace steps, very splendid in blue velvet, with his own riding whip under his arm. He was smiling, but not at her, and he was holding his hand out, but not to her. The girl beside him caught at the hand and came running recklessly up the steps, stumbling over the flagstones in her haste, laughing and waving and calling out as she ran.
"Kate!" she cried, bursting into the hall on a wave of cold air. "Oh Kate, Kate, Kate, isn't it wonderful? Aren't you surprised to see us? I made Christopher keep back on purpose to surprise you. Christopher likes planning surprises, don't you, Christopher? Did you miss me? Were you very unhappy without me? I was dreadfully unhappy without you. Darling, where did you get that antiquated dress? No one at the new court is wearing those sleeves any longer. Just let me take off this cloak and I'll show you. Oh, Sir Geoffrey — it is Sir Geoffrey, isn't it? I should have spoken to you first of all, shouldn't I? You must think I've no manners. It's only — " said Alicia, looking around her radiantly with tears in her golden eyes, "it's only that I'm so happy."
"And no wonder," said Sir Geoffrey, smiling down at her. "But won't you come to the fire now, Mistress Alicia — it is Mistress Alicia, isn't it? You must have frozen on the road."
"I love fires," said Alicia. "And," she added hopefully, "hot wine."
Within a matter of minutes — it was her great gift — she had them all gathered into the warmth and light of the hearth, Sir Geoffrey talking as easily as if he had known her all his life, Randal gazing at her wonderingly from his corner with songs in his eyes, Sir Thomas watching her with an amused quirk of his eyebrow, Christopher leaning over the back of her chair laughing and teasing her outrageously. She too had on a new dress: of cream-colored wool, embroidered all over with a wandering design of bright flowers and butterflies in fine crewel work. It had long tight sleeves that ended in puffs at the shoulders, and a small close ruff of lawn set high about the neck. On her head she wore a round hat of rose velvet, with a plume of feathers in the band.
"Everything's new at the court now," she told them, straightening the hat. "No more dark, heavy colors, no more of those mournful little hoods. No, Kate, don't go away to Father; come here and sit by me. I want to feel you close to me so I can feel sure it really is you, and I've got you back." She slipped her hand through Kate's arm and laughed a little uncertainly. "You — you've changed somehow. Christopher, what have you been doing to change her so?"
"Don't lay it on me," said Christopher. "I hardly know her myself."
"It's not the dress," persisted Alicia. "I can't tell what it is, exactly. But you know how bony and how stiff in the back you always used to be?"
"Yes," said Kate. She could feel herself stiffening again at Alicia's touch like a troll-woman turning to stone as the sun rose.
"And now, suddenly, you're — Kate! Oh Kate, darling!" Alicia broke off with a little cry. "Your hand! Your poor hand! What did you do to it?"
Kate tried to pull the hand away — she had fallen into the habit of carrying it half-closed at her side — but Alicia took it back and spread it open on her knee. The palm was slashed over in a ragged double cross-shaped scar, still red and angry, and puckered around the edges. "Will you have that all your life?" breathed Alicia, her eyes wide with pity and concern. "However did it happen, my precious?"