I do not want to be a man among men, and hide what I am. But I do not care much for the society of women – not even Swordswomen – either. Why can I never be contented, wherever I am?
Nevertheless, at last she was doing work for which she was fitted, and if any man offered her any insult she need not fear him as she had feared Rory. And the king himself had complimented her work with horses. Before she climbed into her bedroll, she reached out drowsily, as she had done every night of her year in the hostel, and sought for Sunstar’s touch. Yes, he was there, and content King Carolin would be good to him, certainly, would appreciate his intelligence, his wondrous speed, his beauty. She reached out again, a little further, seeking for the sentry-birds on their perches. Yes, all was well with them, too, and if it was not, Ruyven at least slept near them as a proper hawkmaster should. Sighing, Romilly slept.
She had returned to the bird-handlers’s tent the next morning, and with Ruyven’s young apprentice, a boy of fourteen or so called Garen, they set about feeding the birds. As she was examining the bandaged spot on Temperance’s leg, she sensed a stranger’s presence, and in the next moment, confirming it, the birds set up the high shrilling sound they had to indicate uneasiness in the presence of a stranger.
It was a young officer, in a green-gold cape; his hair was a light strawberry-blonde, his face narrow and sensitive.
“You are the hawkmaster?”
“Do I look like it?” Romilly snapped, “Swordswoman Romilly, para servirte. Carolin’s hawkmistress.”
“Forgive me, mestra, I meant no insult. I am Ranald Ridenow, and I came to give orders from His Majesty; I am to lead the detachment which will move ahead of the main army this morning.” His voice was crisp, but without arrogance, and he smiled a little nervously. “I was also to seek my kinswoman, Domna Maura Elhalyn.” He had to raise his voice over the shrilling noise the sentry-birds were making.
“As you can see, the lady is not in my pocket,” said Romilly tartly, “Nor, as far as I know, abed with my brother, but you can ask him. Now, Dom Ranald, if you would kindly move away from the birds, since they will keep up this god-forgotten noise until you are out of their sight…”
He did not move. “Your brother, mestra! Where will I find him?” He managed to sound anxious even while he was yelling to make himself heard over the noise of the nervous birds, and Romilly came and physically shoved him out of range. The sound slowly quieted to soft churring noises, then silence.
She said, “Now that we can hear ourselves think, I know nothing about your kinswoman, though my brother, the hawkmaster, spoke of a Lady Maura, now I come to think of it. I will go and – no, I need not, for here he is.”
“Romy? I heard the birds – is someone bothering them?” Ruyven suddenly sighted the Ridenow officer.
“Su servo, Dom … may I help you?”
“Lady Maura-”
“The lady sleeps in that tent yonder,” said Ruyven, indicating a small pavilion nearby.
“Alone? Among the soldiers?” Ranald Ridenow’s nostrils narrowed in distaste, and Ruyven smiled.
“Sir, the lady is better chaperoned by these birds than by a whole school of lady-companions and governesses,” he said, “for you yourself have heard that any stranger coming near will rouse them, and if I hear them aroused, I would come to her aid, and could rouse the camp if there was danger.”
Ranald Ridenow looked at the young man in the ascetic dark robe, and nodded with approval “Are you a cristoforo monk?”
“I have not that grace, sir. I am Ruyven MacAran, Fourth in Tramontana, Second circle,” he said, and the young officer in the green and gold cloak acknowledged him with another nod.
“Then my cousin is safe in your hands, laranzu. Forgive my question. Do you know if the lady is yet awake?”
“I was about to awaken her, sir, as she asked, or better, send my sister to do so,” said Ruyven. “Romy, will you tell Lady Maura that a kinsman seeks her?”