But she knew in her heart that all this was useless. She must marry… and she could not!
The summer drew on; the evening snow was only a brief trickle of rain, and the hills were bright with flowers and budding trees; the nut-bushes were covered with little green lumps which would ripen into nuts, and almost every day she and Mallina could cut fresh mushrooms from the sides of the old trees which had been implanted with fungus-roots. She picked berries dutifully and helped to stem them for conserves, helped churn butter in the dairies, and seldom had leisure even for a ride, let alone to give Preciosa proper exercise; but every day she visited her hawk in the mews, and begged Darren or Alderic to take her out and fly her. Darren was afraid of hawks, and still avoided them when he could, but when Alderic had leisure he would take out Preciosa on his saddle.
“But she does not fly well for me,” he told her one evening, “I think she is pining for you, Romilly.”
“And I am neglecting her,” Romilly said, with a pang of guilt. She had herself formed the tie with this wild thing; now she could not betray it. She resolved that tomorrow, no matter what duties Luciella laid on her, she would find some tune for a ride, and to take out the hawk.
She flew through her work the next morning with such speed and willingness that Luciella stared, and said, “Why, what you can do when you are willing, child!”
“Since I have finished, foster-mother, may I take my hawk out for a little while?”
Luciella hesitated, then said, “Why yes; you must not neglect Dom Garris’s gift. Go then, Romilly, enjoy yourself in the fresh air.”
Released, she fled to put on her riding-habit and boots, to order her horse saddled – she supposed it would have to be a lady’s saddle, but riding sidesaddle was better than not riding at all – and was swiftly off to the mews. Darren was in the yard, glumly exercising one or two of the hawks; she noted his clumsy movements, and told him she was going hawking – would he come? He went, with relief, and had his own horse saddled. She was taking Preciosa from her block, holding her familiar weight on the gauntlet with pleasure, extending her senses toward the hawk to set up the old contact, when her father stepped into the mews.
“Romilly,” he said sharply, “Take your own hawks, not that one. You know what your promised husband said; it is unseemly to fly a verrin hawk, and you have hawks of your own. Put her back.”
“Father!” she protested, in a sudden flood of anger, “Preciosa is my own hawk, I trained her myself! She is mine, mine! No one else shall fly her! How can it be unseemly for me to fly a hawk I trained? Are you going to let Dom Garris tell you what it is right for your own daughter to do, in your own stable-yard?”
She saw conflict and dismay on his face; but he said sharply, “I told you, put that hawk back on the block and take out your own! I will not have you defy me, girl!” He strode toward her; Preciosa sensed Romilly’s agitation and bated wildly, threshing furiously on her wrist, whirling up to the length of the fastened jesses, then settling restively back.
“Father-” she pleaded, lowering her voice not to disturb the easily-frightened birds, “Don’t say this-”
The MacAran thrust out his hand and firmly gripped Preciosa’s feet. He set her back on the block and said, “I will be obeyed, and that is all there is to it.”
“She’s not getting enough exercise,” Romilly pleaded, “she needs to be flown.”
The MacAran paused. “That’s right,” he said, and beckoned to Darren.
“Here,” he jerked his head to indicate Preciosa on her block, “Take her; I give her to you. You need a good hawk to work with, and this is the best we have. Take her out today, and start getting used to her.”
Romilly’s mouth fell open in indignant surprise. He could not do that to her – nor to Preciosa! The MacAran grasped the bird again, held it firmly until the bating quieted, then set her on Darren’s wrist; he jerked back, startled, and Preciosa, even hooded, thrust her head about, trying to peck, beating her wings; Darren ducked away, his wrist twisting so that she overbalanced and fell, hanging from her jesses. He stood holding the wildly bating hawk, and The MacAran said in a harsh whisper, “Pick her up! Quiet her, damn you, if she breaks a wing-feather I’ll break your neck, boy!”