Donnel's Promise Page 5

  Risha was not ready to be so quickly placated. ‘I am aware of it. What fault do you claim for yourself?’

  The answer surprised her as much as the woman’s warm smile. ‘Oh, I am impatient and selfish and lacking in tact, so my husband assures me — and I have just displayed the last.’ She set her needlework aside. ‘If you still wish it, I will join you on your journey, and perhaps we might visit Ben if he will agree to meet us in the southern marches. When shall we embark upon this progress?’

  Risha felt unbalanced. ‘As soon as we may. Nolan will provide an escort and attend to provisions.’

  ‘The charming Captain Nolan: excellent. And as we travel, if you like, we will speak of your mother.’

  Athan scowled. ‘How you enticed my wife into this rash venture, I cannot comprehend.’

  Risha regarded him steadily. ‘Athan, I don’t believe that my mother and grandmother spent their lives sitting in their apartments stitching samplers. You might like to think of the benefits of having me out from under your feet; I don’t doubt you’ve taken advantage each time I’ve gone riding.’

  Guilt flickered briefly across his face, confirming her supposition, and Risha found herself longing with an intensity that seared through her chest for Cantrel and his steady, even-handed guidance. She cleared her throat. ‘I am not just a figurehead to put on display,’ she added. ‘I’d like to make my own judgements about the strengths and weaknesses of our duchy, and then to discuss with you my thoughts on these things. Need this really be a problem?’

  His silence was thoughtful. ‘You’ll need a larger guard, and the entourage should include a standard bearer and perhaps a pavilion.’ He raised a hand to forestall her interruption. ‘You may be more than a figurehead, but you are one nonetheless, and we would be remiss if we did not take advantage of it. If the people are going to see you, then see you they shall.’

  For the first time, inexplicably, Risha found herself liking the man.

  ‘I was rather dreading another travelling circus,’ she confided to Nolan as they prepared to depart. ‘It’s not as bad as I’d feared.’

  ‘I did my best to rein him in. Though I can see the man’s point: it will be good for morale for the people to see you, and with you a return to the grandeur of the past.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘I was not raised with grandeur.’

  ‘Nor in either of the duchies to which you are heir. I wonder whether Goltoy knows that all the time he searched for you, you were safely tucked away in his own lands.’

  ‘If he does it will annoy him.’ She paused, her thoughts drifting north. ‘I mean to go back to Torfell one day. It is where Pelon — the man who helped my mother escape, and raised me after her death — is buried.’

  ‘Pelonius? Your grandmother’s secretary? I had not heard that part of your story.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is my story so much discussed?’

  ‘Inevitably. How not?’ He offered his most charming smile and Risha couldn’t help but return it. ‘Though I’ve also heard that you were raised by wolves in the Othgard Mountains, and were able even as a youngster to defeat the scourge of bandits who dwell there. Perhaps Pelonius assisted?’

  ‘The scourge of my youth were village bullies and I never managed to defeat them. Pelon did foil Goltoy’s tithemen, who were certainly bandits.’ With the memory her mood darkened.

  Nolan leant past her to check Mica’s girth. ‘We never quite leave our childhoods behind us. But they are also what keep us steady in who we are.’

  She was reminded suddenly of Muir — he’d once said as much of his own childhood. She missed him, she realised. She’d not seen him since just after the siege of LeMarc’s citadel, nearly two years ago now. ‘Has there been any word from Gorth?’ she asked, abruptly shifting topic.

  ‘Not since the bird from Elion saying he’d concluded the first part of his business.’

  ‘He had another task to complete before returning to Havreport, but how will he find us on the road?’

  Nolan swept his eyes around the cluttered courtyard. ‘To be honest, my lady, I do not think anyone could miss us.’

  They rode west at a leisurely pace, winding through rolling farmland and orchards that reminded Risha of LeMarc, though the climate was more temperate. In the villages they gathered a retinue of wide-eyed children. Risha solemnly shook each offered hand.

  Ciaran had been truthful when she claimed she was out of the habit of riding, and complained that no part of her anatomy was exempt from discomfort. Lyse suffered similarly.

  ‘The more you ride, the sooner it will pass,’ Nolan assured the two women.

  ‘True as that may be, I would be obliged if you kept our days short, Captain Nolan, else I fear I shall be crippled before we reach the marches,’ Ciaran answered.

  The weather remained fair, with a freshening wind greeting them on the fourth day of their journey. ‘Sea wind,’ Nolan told Risha, reining back to ride beside her. ‘We’ll reach the coast midmorning.’

  It was not as she had expected. High cliffs of dark basalt, turfed to the lip of the drop, fell to the shore as if the land had been sliced through by a blade. The wind, blowing from the west, smelled of salt and dried kelp.

  ‘The edge is unstable,’ Nolan warned, as she craned to see down to the narrow strip of beach far below.

  ‘How do farmers stop their stock from wandering over?’

  ‘Not very well, I imagine, especially in the thick fog that sweeps in from the sea during autumn and winter. Sheep do well on the salt-grass, which perhaps makes up for any losses.’

  ‘Is it possible to get down to the shore?’

  ‘There are places where the bays are more sheltered and paths or steps have been cut, and further north a few fishing villages are tucked into larger coves, but it’s mostly as you see here.’

  The cliffs reminded her of the mountains of her childhood, steep and unforgiving. She said as much to Nolan.

  ‘I should like to see your mountains. I’ve never been north of Caledon.’ He gave her a slow smile. ‘I thought myself well travelled, lady, until I met you.’

  That evening they reached a town large enough to boast a choice of inns, and Ciaran argued vehemently for whichever offered the best bath-house. ‘I shall never again take a cushion for granted,’ she groaned, as she and Lyse helped one another up the steps.

  The building smelled pleasantly of damp timber and woodsmoke. The large central tub, made of tightly coopered planks, was set between two rows of washing cubicles. Risha stripped and scrubbed down, sluicing herself with a jug of warm water before wrapping herself in the fine cotton shift the inn supplied.

  ‘Delicious,’ Ciaran sighed. ‘And the perfect antidote to that accursed saddle.’ She rested her head against the tub’s lip and languidly rolled her shoulders. ‘I’ve never much cared for riding but you, my lady, were assuredly born to it.’

  Wincing a little at the heat, Risha sank down until the water lapped at her chin. ‘I didn’t learn until I reached LeMarc. Timon taught me.’ She paused, strangely shy of asking the question that pricked at her tongue. They had not yet spoken of Cattra. ‘Did my mother ride?’

  ‘She did, and enjoyed it. She was far more proficient than I, but her real love was sailing.’ Ciaran’s eyes were closed as she soaked up the heat, her lips curving faintly at some memory. ‘Against your grandparents’ instructions she would take her small boat out in the bay no matter what the weather and if ever we travelled by ship she was constantly under the seamen’s feet. In a storm she would stand on the deck while the wind whipped her hair and tore at her clothes. She loved the freedom of it, I think.’

  Risha tried to imagine it. ‘I have only twice travelled by ship — three times if you count a lake crossing, and even that was rough enough to make me feel queasy, though not nearly so ill as my first sea voyage.’ She grimaced at the memory. ‘I’m in no hurry to repeat the experience.’

  ‘It can be unpleasant,’ Ciaran agreed. ‘Some people, lik
e your mother, don’t seem to be troubled by it, just as some, like you, seem to adapt naturally to the saddle.’

  ‘Better a storm at sea than another day on a horse,’ Lyse muttered.

  ‘I can do very well without either,’ Ciaran answered. ‘But faced with the choice: at least a horse cannot drown you.’

  Something flickered in Risha’s mind, like the wild flap of a sail. She pushed it aside, intent on pursuing her questions. ‘Did you know my mother well?’

  ‘When I was nine and Cattra six I was sent to live with your grandparents. I was with them ten years, until my marriage.’

  ‘To Athan?’

  Ciaran laughed. ‘Athan is my second husband. My first …’ She gazed across the steaming water, her hand drifting a pattern beneath the surface that sent ripples dancing against the rim of the tub. ‘My first husband was Cattra’s cousin, Theon. He was fourteen years my senior and I did not, at first, much care for the idea — the match was a political alliance brokered by your grandparents. But we were very happy.’

  ‘Have you children?’ Lyse asked.

  ‘No.’ Ciaran’s mood had shifted.

  ‘When did my parents first meet?’ Risha asked.

  The woman’s answer was slow, as if the memories were hard to share. ‘They met at Theon’s. Cattra had come to visit me a few months after my marriage. Donnel had called on Theon to discuss some business of the Sitting. It was clear from their first encounter that there was something between them, but it took time to convince your grandparents to accept the match. Your grandmother was never resolved to Cattra leaving Havre. Nor, I think, did she approve of a love match.’

  ‘But it must have been romantic,’ Lyse suggested, ‘to have felt that way from their first meeting. And it could have been worse, if he’d been a stable boy or a guardsman.’

  Ciaran smiled wryly. ‘Indeed. Court allegiances are not primarily about love, at least not at first. I came to love Theon quite quickly.’

  ‘Well, that’s romantic, too,’ Lyse said firmly.

  In the silence that followed Risha stretched out her legs, watching their pale shape drift beneath the surface, her toes bobbing above.

  Her parents’ courtship seemed distant and dreamlike. She chased from her mind a memory of Donnel kitted for war and intent upon revenge. The image that drifted up to replace it was not of the young couple’s meeting but of her grandmother’s disapproving face. Before she had time to study it the image rippled away, replaced by a garden, two men and a woman lounging in the shade of a cypress, a woman’s carefree laughter echoing around them.

  She opened her eyes and found Ciaran watching her intently. Risha blushed and sat forward, her sense of ease gone. She felt as though she had been spying.

  The wet robe clung to her limbs like pondweed as she stood up. ‘I’m too hot. No, you stay, Lyse. I’m quite able to dress myself.’

  ‘But your hair,’ the girl protested.

  ‘I’ll plait it. I’d rather you troubled with it less now we’re away from court.’

  ‘You remind me of your mother, Lady Arishara,’ Ciaran said. ‘You share her free spirit, often called wildness by your grandmother.’

  ‘You make me think I would not have much cared for my grandmother.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you would. And she would have understood you all the better for having raised your mother.’

  Over the days that followed Ciaran dipped often into memories of her girlhood. Her reminiscences, told at Lyse’s prompting rather than Risha’s, drew a picture of Cattra as an exuberant and bold young woman, more than a little headstrong but invariably loyal. Risha listened but said little, unable to explain, even to herself, the emptiness Ciaran’s stories created within her.

  As the women became acclimatised to the saddle Nolan pushed them a little harder, steering them inland with the promise of a two-day rest in the sprawling market town of Tatton.

  As well as a bustling community it proved to be the heart of Havre’s woollen industry, and Ciaran insisted on visiting a string of cloth-weavers and lingering an extra day while they had new garments made up. In addition to the winter kirtles Ciaran recommended, Risha ordered riding trousers and jacket in a tough dun-coloured tweed.

  ‘You will scandalise the Council,’ Ciaran said, as Risha tried the garments on, ‘though Talben will be in favour. He has always argued that the only function of riding skirts is to get in the way.’

  ‘One of the traders I travelled with when I left Torfell often wore men’s garb on the road,’ Risha said. ‘She lent me trousers and a jerkin so I wouldn’t attract the attention of bandits. It was hard to go back to skirts, after.’

  ‘You would shock Athan with that story,’ Ciaran said. ‘Despite taking a modern approach to governance, he is a highly traditional man.’

  Risha took a breath, hesitated, then allowed her question to tumble out. ‘Does he resent my return?’

  ‘Why would you think so?’ Ciaran asked. ‘When Donnel brought word of your reappearance Athan called for a day of celebration. He would gladly see the reinstatement of all the old royal houses.’

  Risha could not quite mask her scepticism. ‘And give up his own role?’

  A double crease formed between Ciaran’s brows. ‘It does not follow. The Council has always existed in one form or another; your grandmother had a council of advisors of a similar size. Athan was delighted to hear news of you, Lady Arishara.’

  ‘I suspect not all the Council shared his enthusiasm.’

  ‘Not all believed it.’ There was a small contemplative silence. ‘Not all believe it now.’

  Risha straightened. ‘What do you mean?’

  The older woman drew a breath, releasing it on a rush of words. ‘There are some, Arishara, who suggest you are not Cattra’s child, that the story of your survival was concocted by Donnel to secure him a hold over Havre.’

  Risha’s mouth opened then closed as she considered the implications. Ciaran made no move to breach the silence. ‘I have been told I look a little like my mother,’ she said at last. Her voice came out oddly compressed.

  ‘You are the image of her. I cannot imagine a child of Cattra and Donnel looking other than you; you have your grandmother’s hair, your mother’s nose, your father’s eyes. It is almost too perfect.’

  ‘You’re saying—’

  ‘I’m saying only what I’ve heard said: that it is strange that Donnel had no knowledge of his only child for so many years, yet conveniently located her at the same time he chose to involve himself in Fratton’s politics. It is not unremarked that the timing of this miracle serves to gain him control over three of Elgard’s five duchies.’

  ‘But that is not the way it was at all! It was Barc who approached Donnel on Fratton’s behalf. He—’

  Ciaran was holding up her hands. ‘Please, Lady Arishara, you need not exert yourself to convince me. I felt only that you should be aware of what has been said.’ She smiled. ‘If I had any doubts, you dispelled them the first day we met.’

  Risha’s outrage was only slightly damped.

  ‘Yet you must admit it is an unlikely story on first hearing,’ Ciaran continued, her low voice unrelenting. ‘That you should have survived, yet remained invisible despite the effort Donnel — and others — put into finding you.’

  A thread of uncertainty wound up from Risha’s belly. What if the doubters were right? She had only Donnel’s word in support of his claim to her paternity. Perhaps Barc had seen a girl who looked a little like Cattra, and he and Donnel had concocted the whole story, making her a goat girl grown above herself, an orphan — she pulled herself up.

  ‘And Pelon? Odd that a scholar who once worked for my grandmother should have spent more than a decade secreted in Westlaw’s northern mountains.’ Her fingers lifted to the brooch she wore at her throat. ‘Or that he should have had my mother’s brooch hidden among his belongings. That would suggest a foresight even Donnel would be hard-pressed to employ.’

  The other woman’s smile di
d nothing to appease her, or to slow the rush of her thoughts. ‘Though perhaps that, too, is a fabrication in the minds of those who would retain power for themselves. I am sure they can find a counter-argument for any offered proof of my parentage.’ Vormer, she decided. And Thatton. There were likely others as well; Willart was easily swayed, and—

  Ciaran’s hand on her arm startled her out of her speculation. ‘Not for all proofs, my lady.’

  Some are irrefutable.

  The words set themselves out in Risha’s mind. The voice that spoke them, cool and clear as a mountain tarn, was not comfortable and familiar, not Nonno. ‘Ciaran—’ She found herself staring at the woman’s hand.

  Lyse appeared in the doorway. ‘Are you ready? The captain is eager to move on.’

  Ciaran reached for her cloak. ‘Of course. Poor man; we’ve already kept him waiting. We will speak of this another time, my lady.’

  Risha searched through her mind, but no connection between them remained.

  Ciaran smiled vaguely. ‘You know, your mother was always impatient.’ And she launched into a story that caused Lyse to laugh as she chivvied them from the room, though Risha, at its end, could not remember a word.

  When they reached the inn yard Nolan’s eyes ran between them as if Risha’s discomfort was evident. Rolling her shoulders to relieve their tension she swung onto Mica’s back.

  As they rode north, Nolan brought his horse alongside. ‘Is everything well? You’re watching Ciaran as though she’s a she-wolf in disguise.’

  Risha glanced sideways. ‘Her stories unsettle me. And it’s strange to be told you’re like someone you can only know through the memories of others.’

  ‘Your mother, you mean? They were close, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. And yet …’ And yet Ciaran’s stories of the girlhood she’d shared with Cattra left Risha with a stronger impression of her grandmother than her mother.

  ‘We all remember things differently. Be interesting to hear how Talben recalls it.’