But now-now it makes him angry.
Since Ruyven had gone, Romilly had been sternly turned over to her stepmother, expected to stay indoors, to “behave like a lady.” She was now almost fifteen; her younger sister Mallina had already begun dressing her hair with a woman’s butterfly-clasp, Mallina was content to sit and learn embroidery stitches, to ride decorously in a lady’s saddle, to play with little stupid lap-dogs instead of the sensible herding-dogs and working-dogs around the pastures and stables. Mallina had grown into a fool, and the dreadful thing was that their father preferred her as a fool and wished audibly that Romilly would emulate her.
Never. I’d rather be dead than stay inside the house all the time and stitch like a lady. Mallina used to ride well, and now she’s like Luciella, soft and flabby, she startles away when a horse moves its head near her, she couldn’t ride for half an hour at a good gallop without falling off gasping like a fish in a tree, and now, like Luciella, she simpers and twitters, and the worst thing is, Father likes them that way!
There was a little stir at the far end of the hawk-house, and one of the eyasses there screamed, the wild screaming sound of an untrained fledgling that scents food. The sound sent Romilly’s hawk into a wild explosion of bating, and Romilly, one with the mad flapping of wings, the fierce hunger gripping like claws in her belly, knew that the hawkmaster’s boy had come into the hawk-house to feed the other birds. He went from one to another, slowly, muttering to them, and Romilly knew it was near sunset; she had been there since mid-morning. He finished his work and raised his head to see her.
“Mistress Romilly! What are you doing here, damisela?”
At his voice the hawk bated again, and Romilly felt again the dreadful ache, as if her hands and arms would drop off into the straw. She struggled to keep herself free of frenzy, fear, anger, blood-lust-blood bursting forth, exploding into her mouth under tearing beak and talons … and forced herself to the low tone that would not further terrify the frenzied bird.
“I am manning this hawk. Go away, Ker, your work is finished and you will frighten her.”
“But I heard Davin say the hawk’s to be released, and The MacAran’s in a rage about it,” Ker mumbled. “He didna’ want to lose the verrin birds, and he’s threatened Davin wi’ being turned off, old man that he is, if he loses them-”
“Well, Father’s not going to lose this one, unless you frighten her out of her senses,” Romilly said crisply, “Go away, Ker, before she bates again-” for she could feel the trembling build in the bird’s body and mind, she felt if that flapping frenzy exploded again she would collapse with exhaustion, scream herself in fury and frustration. It made her voice sharp. “Go away!”
Her own agitation communicated itself to the bird; it burst into the frenzied flapping of wings again, surges of hatred and terror coming and going, threatening to drown all her own awareness and identity. She fought it, silently, trying to cling to calm, to send out calm to the terrified bird. There, there, lovely one, no one shall harm you, see, here is food , . . and when she knew who or where she was again, the boy had gone.
He had left the door open, and there was a draught of cold air from the evening mists; and soon the night’s rain or snow would start to fall-damn the wretch! She stole for a few seconds on tiptoe away from the block to draw the door closed-it would avail her nothing to tame this hawk if all the birds died with the cold! Once away from the bird’s side, she began to wonder what she was doing here and why. How was it that she thought that she, a young woman, could accomplish something at which even the skilled Davin failed two out of five times? She should have told the boy that the bird was at the end of exhaustion, have him come and take over … she had seen what he could do with a wild, raging, exhausted stallion from the wild herds of the ravines and outer hills. An hour, maybe two, with her father at one end of a lunge line and the stallion at the other, and he would come to the bridle, lower his big head and rub it against The MacAran’s chest.. . surely he could still save this bird, too. She was weary and cold and exhausted, she longed for the old days when she could climb into her father’s lap and tell him all her troubles….