She bent her head, swallowing hard. She had known it was hopeless, and he had given his word to Dom Garris and to Lord Scathfell. He would never draw back now, and it would be useless, no matter what she should say. He mistook her silence for agreement and patted her cheek.
“There’s my fine, good girl,” he said awkwardly, “I am proud of you, child – would that any of your brothers had your strength and spirit.”
“I wish I had been your son,” she blurted out, “and that I could stay at home with you always.”
Her father took her gently into his arms. “So do I, girl,” he said against her hair, “So do I. But it’s for man to wish and the Gods to Give, and the Bearer of Burdens alone knows why he gifted only my daughter with those things a man wants from his sons. The world will go as it will and not as you or I would have it, Romy.” He patted her, gently, and she cried, holding on to him, cried hopelessly, as if she would never stop.
In a way, she thought desperately later, his sympathy made it worse. If he had stormed and shouted at her, raged and threatened her with a beating, she could at least have felt that she had a right to rebel. Before his kindness she could only see his point of view – that she was a young girl, that her good parents and guardians were doing what they thought best for her, and that she was silly and thoughtless to speak out against their caution for her.
So she tried to seem interested in the preparations for her wedding which, so The MacAran said, would be at the harvest. Luciella sent to Caer Donn for spider-silk for her wedding-gown and fine dyed stuff, crimson and blue and violet, for her new dresses, and had ordered so many petticoats and camisoles and fine underthings that Mallina was openly jealous and sulked while the sewing was being done.
One morning, a rider came from Scathfell, and when he was welcomed in the courtyard, uncovered a cage before him on the saddle.
“A message from Dom Garris, sir,” he said to The MacAran, “and a gift for Mistress Romilly.”
The MacAran took the letter, scowling slightly, and tore it open. “Your eyes are better than mine, Darren,” he said to his son, “Read it for me.”
Romilly thought, annoyed, that if the letter concerned her, she should have been the one to read it. But perhaps The MacAran did not want it known that his daughter was so much a better scholar than his Nevarsin-educated son. Darren glanced through the letter and frowned, then read aloud.
“To The MacAran of Falconsward and to my affianced wife Romilly, greeting from Gareth-Regis Aldaran at Scathfell. Your daughter informed me that she flies a verrin hawk, which is understandable in the daughter of the finest hawk-trainer in these hills, but would be unseemly for the wife of Aldaran’s Heir. Therefore I take the liberty of sending her two fine ladybirds which will fittingly adorn the most beautiful wrist in all of the Kilghard Hills, so that she need not fly a man’s hawk. I beg her acceptance of these fine birds, and I send them now so that she may be accustomed to their flight. Kindly convey my compliments and respectful wishes to my promised wife, and to you my most respectful greetings, sir.” Darren looked up, saying, “It has Scathfell’s own seal affixed.”
The MacAran raised his eyebrows, but said, “A courteous letter indeed. Uncover the cage, man.”
The cover lifted, two beautiful little hawks were revealed; their hoods were of fine scarlet-dyed leather with an Aldaran crest worked in gold thread, and the jesses glimmered with gold threads too. They were tiny brilliant birds, gleaming with gloss and health, and Romilly caught her breath at the sight of them.
“A beautiful gift,” she said, “and most thoughtful. Tell my-my promised husband,” she said, and stumbled over the words, “That I am most grateful to him and I shall fly them with all kind thoughts of him.” She held out her wrist, and lifted one of the hawks on to her glove. It sat so quietly that she could tell it was perfectly trained. Never mind that such hawks were no good for anything but flying at field-mice, they were exquisite little birds and for Dom Garris to pay so much heed to her known interests was a good sign. For a little while she thought better of her promised husband; but later she began to think it over; was this simply his way of telling her that when she was his wife she would not be allowed to work with a proper hawk at all? From what Gareth of Scathfell – the old man – had said, she was inclined to think so. It would be unseemly for the wife of Scathfell’s Heir. She made up her mind, firmly, whatever they said, she would never be argued or bullied into giving up Preciosa! The bond between them was too strong for that.