Romilly thought, shaking, but there’s no need for this, I am a woman-he does not know, but it’s all right, I will tell him it’s all right- She was trembling with embarrassment, shy, but still the very real warmth and kindness she felt for Orain made her feel, this was not at all as it had been when Dom Garris sought to paw her, nor when Rory sought to force himself on her.
She sat upright and put her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder. “It’s all right, all right, Orain,” she whispered, close to his cheek, “You knew all the time, didn’t you? I-I-” she couldn’t say it She took his hand and put it inside her tunic, against her breast.
He sat upright, jerking away, his face flaming.
“Hell’s fire,” he whispered, in incredulous embarrassment, shock, and, Romilly realized with horror, real dismay, “Hell’s fire, you’re a girl!” And he actually leaped out of bed and stood staring at her, pulling his nightshirt together over his body with shock and modestly looking away from her.
“Mistress – damisela, a thousand pardons, I most humbly beg your pardon – never, never, I did not guess for a moment – Avarra’s mercy, mistress, I cannot believe it. Who are you?”
She said, shaking with cold and her whole body trembling with the shock of the rejection, “Romilly MacAran,” and burst into tears.
“Oh, blessed Gods,” Orain implored, bending to wrap the blanket round her, “I – don’t cry, someone will hear you, I wouldna’ hurt you for the world, lady-” and he gulped and stood back, shaking his head in dismay.
“What an unholy mess this is, and what a damnable fool I’ve made of myself! Forgive me, lady, I wouldn’t lay a finger on you-” Romilly cried harder than ever, and he bent, urgently hushing her.
“Ah, don’t cry, little lady, there’s nothing to cry about – look, hush, we’re friends anyway, aren’t we, I don’t care if ye’re a girl, you must have some reasons-” and as she sought to stifle her weeping, he wiped her nose gently with the sheet and sat down beside her. “There now, there now, that’s a good girl, don’t cry – sweeting, I think you’d better tell me all about it, hadn’t you?”
Book Three: SWORDSWOMAN
CHAPTER ONE
Snow had fallen toward morning, and the streets of Caer Bonn were piled high with trackless white. All the same, there was a softness in the air which told the country-bred Romilly that the spring thaw was nearing and this was the last blow of the winter.
Father always said that only the mad or the desperate travel in the winter; now I have crossed the worst of the Hellers after Midwinter-night. Why am I thinking of that now?
Orain patted her shoulder with the same clumsy deference he had shown since last night. It made her want to weep for the old, lost, easy companionship. She should have known he would not have liked her half so well as a woman; it was, when she really took thought, written clear all over him and must have been evident to everyone in the company except herself.
“Here we are, damisela,n he said, and Romilly snapped, raw-edged, “My name is Romilly, Orain, and I have not changed so much as all that.”
His eyes, she thought, looked like a dog’s that had been kicked. He said, “Here is the hostel of the Sisterhood,” and went up the steps, leaving her to follow.
Once he knew – certainly he could not allow her to face the dangers of life in camp and trail. He would always be aware, now, of her unwelcome womanhood. This was, after all, the best answer.
A hard-faced woman, with heavy hands which would have seemed more appropriate holding a hayfork, welcomed them to the front hall – or, Romilly thought, welcome was not quite the right word, but she did let them in. Orain said, “Kindly inform Mistress Jandria that her cousin has come to visit her.” His voice was again the impeccably courteous, well-bred voice of the courtier, with the last trace of the soft country accent carefully hidden. The woman stared suspiciously, and said, “Sit there,” pointing to a bench as if they were a pair of street urchins come a-begging. She went away down the hall and Romilly heard women’s voices at the far end of the building. Somewhere there was the noise of a hammer on an anvil – at least that was what it sounded like – and the small, familiar, friendly, chink-chink-chinking sound made Romilly a little less rigid with apprehension. All the doors along the hallway were closed, but as they sat there, two young women, wearing crimson tunics, their hair all tucked under red caps, went through the hallway arm in arm. They were obviously not what Romilly’s stepmother would have called ladies; one of them had great red hands like a milkmaid’s, and were wearing loose long trousers and boots.
Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194