Although even then, he reflected, the only person with whom he truly discussed them was Matilda.
“Yes, I’m certain,” he said at last, meeting her gray eyes as he answered her question. God, she’s beautiful, he thought with a familiar sense of wonder and awe. Seven years younger than he—or seven years younger back on Earth, at least—her huge eyes and the golden glory of her hair had delighted him from the moment he laid eyes upon her. She was better born than he, but his own soldier grandfather and father had been thrifty men, and Wickworth had been the sort of manor to please any nobly born father.
Their marriage had been one of political advantage, yet it had also been more, which had been one reason for the warm relationship with Earl Cathwall which Sir George had treasured so highly. The earl had been a doting father. He had refused to marry his daughter off for his own advantage, for he’d wanted her to marry for love, and he had been satisfied that she’d done just that as he watched her with his son-in-law.
He had also actively encouraged his daughter’s pursuit of an education, which was almost unseemly, and Sir George was devoutly grateful that he had. Matilda’s love was the core of his own strength, but she’d also become his wisest and most trusted advisor, as well.
“I don’t think he realizes he revealed so much,” the baron went on now, raising a wine goblet to hide the movement of his lips and speaking very quietly, “but I’m certain of it. More certain than I like.”
“But surely there’s no longer any doubt that we truly are as valuable to his Guild as he’s suggested,” Lady Matilda pointed out. “They would not lightly discard a tool whose worth they hold so high.”
“Um.” Sir George set the goblet aside, then stretched in an ostentatious yawn. He smiled at his wife and moved to lay his head in her lap, smiling up at her as she tickled the tip of his nose with a stalk of local grass. To the casual eye, they were but two people—people miraculously young and comely—in love, but his eyes were serious as he gazed up at her.
“We are valuable,” he agreed, “but we’re also the very thing you just called us: a tool. You haven’t spent as many hours with him as I have, love. I wish I hadn’t, but I have. And in the spending, I’ve learned that we have absolutely no value to him except as tools. He sees us as we might see a horse, or a cow. Certainly with less affection than I hold for Satan!”
“Because we aren’t of his kind?” Lady Matilda murmured, her expression troubled, and Sir George shrugged.
“In part, perhaps, but I think not entirely. At least he loves to boast, and I’ve gleaned what bits and pieces I can from his bragging. As nearly as I can tell, there are several kinds of creatures in the `Federation’ of which he speaks. His own kind is but one sort of them, and there are great physical differences between them. But they seem much alike in spirit and outlook. All consider themselves `advanced’ because of the machines and other devices they build and control, just as they consider us `primitives’ because we lack the knowledge to construct such devices. And to the Federation, primitives are less than French serfs. As primitives, we have no rights, no value, except as tools. We aren’t remotely their equals, and most of them wouldn’t as much as blink at the thought of killing us all. So if our value in the field should suddenly find itself outweighed by the potential discovery that the Commander’s Guild violated a Federation edict—”
He shrugged again, and she nodded unhappily, glorious eyes dark. He felt the fear she tried to hide and smiled ruefully as he reached to pat her knee.
“Forgive me, dear heart. I should never have burdened you with the thought.”
“Nonsense!” She laid a small hand across his mouth and shook her head fiercely. “I am your wife, and you are not a god to carry all the weight of our fate upon your shoulders alone. There may be nothing I can do to help beyond listening, but that—and sharing your burden—I can do, at least!”