Hawkmistress! A DARKOVER NOVEL by Marion Zimmer Bradley

In early afternoon, Rory came in where she was listlessly kneading bread, and dumped the carcass of a rabbithorn on the table.

“I have it cleaned and skinned,” he said. “Roast a haunch of it for dinner tonight – I have not tasted meat this ten-day – and tomorrow we will salt the rest; for tonight, hang it in the stables, well out of reach of vermin.”

“As you wish, Rory,” she said, and inwardly she gloated. The meat, frozen as it would certainly be, would keep her for some time if she could manage to take it with her on her way out. She would be careful to hang it near to her own saddle.

The roast meat soon began to fill the hut with a good smell; Romilly was hungry, but even after she had fed the old woman, wiped her chin and settled her for the night, she found that she could not chew and swallow without choking.

I must be ready. I must be ready. It is tonight or never. She lingered at the table, sipping nervously at a hot cup of bark-tea, until Rory came and wound his arms around her from behind.

“I have built a fire on the hearth in the inner room, so we will not be cold, come, Calinda.” She supposed the old woman had told him her assumed name. Certainly she had not. Well, it was upon her; she could delay no longer. Her knees felt weak and wobbly, and for a minute she wondered if she could ever have the courage to carry out her resolve.

She let him lead her into the inner room and close the door and fasten it with a hook from inside. Not good. If she was to make her escape at all, she must have a clear way outside. “Must you lock the door?” she asked. “Certainly Gran-Dame Mhari cannot enter our room at any awkward time, for she cannot walk at all.”

“I thought we would be more private this way,” he said, smirking again, and she said “But suppose-suppose-” she fumbled a moment, then said, “But suppose Dame Mhari has need of me in the night, and I do not hear her? Leave the door part way open so she can call me if she has a pain or wants me to shift her to her other side.”

“You have a good heart, girl,” Rory said, and pushed the door open a crack, then sat heavily on the edge of the bed and began to draw off his boots.

“Here, let me help you,” she said, and came to draw them off, then deliberately wrinkled her nose.

“Faugh, how they stink, you must have stepped in the manure pile! Give them to me, my husband,” she used the word deliberately, “and I will clean them before you rise in the morning. You might as well give me your leather breeches too.” and she stopped, had she gone too far? But Rory suspected nothing.

“Aye, and I will have a clean shirt for the morning if you have one cleaned and dried,” he said, and piled his clothes into her arms. “Take them out to the washpot to wait for morning, if they smell of manure they will be better there than in our bridal chamber.”

Better and better! But he could still be after her in a flash if he suspected; lingering by the wash pot, half ready to make a dash for freedom then-naked, he could not chase her very far – she heard his suspicious call. “Calinda! I am waiting for you! Get in here!” “I am coming,” she called, raising her voice, and went back to him. Fate had decided it for her, then. She went back into the bedroom and drew off her own shoes and stockings, her outer tunic and breeches.

He turned back the covers of the bed and got into it. He reached for her as she came and sat on the edge of the bed, and his hand closed on her breast in what was meant, she supposed, for a caress, but his hand was so heavy that she cried out in pain. He twisted his mouth down over hers and wrestled her own on the bed.

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