Simon Pole left the children momentarily on pretext of taking a walk. But they knew better. He was on the chamber pot, and would probably be away a good while. Philip, Elisabeth, and Cordaella looked at each other for a long moment, considering their unexpected reprieve. Eddie was in the nursery taking his afternoon nap.
"I am sick of learning," Elisabeth grumbled, closing her book with a bang.
Cordaella glanced up and said nothing. She waited for Philip to speak. Inevitably, Philip intervened, carrying the conversation and easing tensions. "Just another hour," he said to Elisabeth, "and then Eddie and I take our fencing lesson."
Cordaella's face crumpled. If the boys were fencing it meant that they-she and
Elisabeth-would be stitching. "Ha!" Elisabeth said, with a triumphant little laugh. "There is something for you, Cordy. Embroidery. Tapestries." She knew how much her cousin hated sewing. "Just wait until you have to stitch an entire one by yourself. It will take you a year, at least."
"At least," Cordaella agreed, returning to her book.
"You can't read," Elisabeth said interrupting, "so don't try to pretend." She stared at
Cordaella, ignoring her brother. "Why do you bother with it, anyway? You were too old to begin with and you'll never really need to know how."
"All ladies should know how to read." Philip stood up and restlessly paced the floor. "It's important."
"I don't agree. It's silly to fill your head with stories from old civilizations. Things that happen now are more important." Elisabeth fidgeted with her skirts. "I would rather read about court and what is happening in London. I want to hear about the expedition in France. Those stories are exciting-not ancient epics."
Cordaella rose up on her heels, looking longingly out the window. "Why can't we go outside?"
"Because Mr. Pole told us to read twenty pages each. I haven't even read seven," Philip said.
"I don't care what old Mr. Pole said." Elisabeth rose. "And I am sick of this chamber."
"Then let's go out," Cordaella proposed.
"We can't." Philip stubbornly buried his nose in the book.
"Fusspot!" Elisabeth said, sticking her tongue out at him. "You are a stuffy old man already, Phil."
"Do come, Philip," Cordaella urged. "Let us go have a look outside. It would be so nice to walk-"
"But we'll get in trouble."
"We will get in trouble anyway," Elisabeth retorted.
"She's right, Philip," Cordaella said, suddenly desperate to be outside and free. She longed for the mountains with the open space and the huge sky and the smell of heather and pine. "And I am going," she said, putting the book down. "I don't care if I do get in trouble."
"Me, too." Elisabeth pulled her cloak over her dress. "I will go with you. Besides, I haven't had a whipping in years."
Reluctantly, Philip rose. "But where will we walk?" He and Elisabeth turned expectantly to their cousin.
Cordaella was still staring out the window and little by little her expression lifted, the dark brows arching as a thought came to her. "Why," she said with a quick laugh, "perhaps we can try the mews."
"The mews?" Elisabeth said, darting a hasty look at her brother. "To the falconer's? But how would we get past the gatekeepers? You know they won't let us out without Father's permission." She was still watching her brother who had picked up his book again. "Maybe we shouldn't," she said after a strained moment. "We would get caught."
Cordaella thought of her last whipping and looked out the window at the wonderful sky, the clouds high and thin against the deep blue. She would have to learn to appreciate the sky from here. Slowly she sat down again, frightened by the realization she was becoming like the others. Just a sheep. No mind of her own.
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Supper was always eaten in the great hall, the earl and his family sitting at the main table on the dais. Cordaella sat near the end of her uncle's table, directly across from Mr. Pole. Mr. Pole was the only one of Peveril's staff who sat at the earl's table.. She wished she didn't have to sit across from Mr. Pole, it made her sick just to watch him. It wasn't that he was messy; he was just the opposite, nibbling on the venison, picking at the duck, his bites so small that it took him forever to finish anything. He could make the fish course stretch for fifteen minutes, and she thought dinner was already too long, some nights lasting two hours or more.
"Ladies should not stare," Mr. Pole said, wiping his mouth with his hand towel before returning his attention to his plate. He was still flaking the smoked trout from the bones. Cordaella dropped her head but lifted it moments later to watch him take a bite. The fish barely filled his spoon. She sighed. Why did she have to sit here? "Perhaps you could use this time," Mr. Pole proposed, lifting his fork again, "to review your Latin conjugations. You haven't mastered them at all."
"I'm not in the nursery," she answered tartly, frowning at him over her cup of watery wine.
"Perhaps you should still be eating there. Mrs. Penny and Edward could use the company."
Cordaella balled her hands in her lap. "Why do you keep telling me to join them? I'm not a baby like Eddie and I don't need a nurse."
"You certainly could use manners. You talk like a barbarian and eat as if you've never had a hot meal before this one. 'Tis no wonder your uncle put you here with me. But what you need, I simply cannot teach. There aren't enough hours in the day."
"I think it is a pity you haven't men your age to pick on," she said, her voice cold. "Queen's College must be ashamed of your learning-"
"Studies," he said, interrupting her, "it is called studies."
"I don't care!"
"But that, child, is obvious." She glared at him, hating his pale skinny face with the chin that seemed to unexpectedly disappear. He had no lips either, just a small hole for a mouth. No wonder he was called Mr. Pole.
"What now?" he sighed, looking up from his plate.
"Nothing," she said. "It is not something I imagine you'd want to hear."
"Good," he replied, allowing himself a small smile while he took another bite of his fish. "Delicious, isn't it?"
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The summer had given way to autumn and from the castle Cordaella could see the farmers harvesting the barley. Peveril's bailiff, a Mr. Smith, would ride out every day to oversee the yoking of the plows, the reapers, and the threshers. Today, Cordaella could see him, with one of the castle's scribes, riding past the woods and the one small meadow to the first of the fields. She thought she would like that job. He was always coming and going and she fancied that he would always have diversions in the village.
Fortunately this afternoon they were excused from lessons, and Cordaella planned to escape the nursery as soon as she could slip past Mrs. Penny, who looked as if she were about to fall asleep any minute. Edward was riding back and forth on his red painted hobby horse, a gift from his father after the Earl's latest return from London, and Elisabeth was preparing to bathe in Lady Eton's chamber. And since Philip was downstairs playing chess with Mr. Pole in the solar, it left Cordaella free to explore the woods.
The moment Mrs. Penny's eyes closed and Eddie's back was turned to her, Cordaella tiptoed to the door and raced down the hall for the southwest stairs. This was the stairwell that Philip had used to reach the tunnel. It took her some doing, but she finally discovered the spring that opened the trap door, and she lifted the step up to slide through the crawl space and replaced the stair step. She had forgotten to bring a candle and for a moment she stared sightlessly ahead, panicked by the darkness. She took a step and then another, moving her toes forward to search for steps or obstacles. What if the tunnel led in two directions? What if she took a wrong turn? She shuddered, wishing now she had never come. She might get lost and no one would know where she was. She could very well die here.
Take a step, she told herself, and use your hands to guide you. Pretend you are
blind. Pretend you must climb the mountain in a snow storm. It seemed like forever, but she thought she saw a sliver of light ahead. She walked a little more quickly, her hands scraping a rough stone as she hurried. She grasped the handle on the door and pushed, then pushed again. Slowly it gave way and light poured into the darkness. Climbing out of the tunnel she shut the door, carefully hiding the hinges with the ivy tendrils. She wouldn't need to find the opening; she wouldn't be going back that way. It had been scarier than she remembered and it would be better to get in trouble than have to do it alone again.
The ground was damp from the last rain so Cordaella lifted the hem of her skirts, tying them up around her waist. As she walked, leaves crunched beneath her shoes and she took bigger steps, hopping from one foot to the other. As she hopped she sang, a little Highland chanter about a handsome man cursed by a fairy woman. Her favorite part of the chanter was when the young man died heartbroken on the fairy knoll. She liked the ending and sang it three times through until she glimpsed the small square roof of the mews. The chimney was smoking. She skidded to a stop, her soft shoes scuffed with mud. It was real after all: the falconer, the birds, the mews.
Sometimes she thought she had imagined it all, the stories her father had told her about his early years at the Macleod mews. He told her he had lived in a stone cottage, the building even smaller than their Highland croft. She had laughed at the idea, laughed at the picture of her tall father stooping to get in and out of such a squat building. Her father. The falconer.
"Papa," she whispered, her voice trembling. It had been so long since she had said his name, so long since she had been happy. She could still see his face clearly and hear his rough voice. Remembering him was easy. Letting go of him would be the difficult part.
But she lived here now, at Peveril. In England.
England. Even the name sounded strange. Perhaps it was her way of saying it that made it sound so foreign. But it was foreign to her; as was everything in this place. . She suspected it would always feel this way. Some things couldn't be undone, like taking the mountains out of a person. Her papa and the winters and Culross had taught her too much. She wasn't a sheep, not like the English. Not like the Etons. She would rather die than be like the Etons. Resolutely, Cordaella straightened her shoulders and let down her skirts, suddenly seeming much older than her nine and a half years. She turned around to walk back the way she had come.
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In London, the Earl of Derby met for the second time in six months with King Henry IV. Bolingbroke, as the King was affectionately called, suffered increasingly from poor health, his bad days more frequent, limiting him to bed rest. But on his good days, and this was one of them, he tried to ride and hunt, meet with his council, consult with advisors.
Bolingbroke had not felt well enough yesterday to rise, and postponed all meetings until the next day. Fortunately, this morning he woke without the pain in his legs and he felt clear, alert. Now he convened in one of the Tower of London's smaller halls to meet with the Earl of Derby. They were discussing England's trade relationships and the King had been attempting to analyze why England's agreements were not as profitable as her European counterparts.
Eton believed that England wasn't utilizing her routes to full advantage, relying too heavily at the moment on the Italians.
"What do you propose then?" Henry said, oblivious to his scribe and bevy of advisors clustered behind him. "Limit our treaty with Italy?"
"No." Eton enjoyed these meetings tremendously. "Rather we use our own ships and develop our own routes. If you would take a look at these maps-" The Earl drew the King and the three chief finance advisors to the table, "-you will note that Italy, Aragon, and Castile dominate particular routes and ports. For example, Italy's heaviest trade is within the Mediterranean Sea. Italy is the only country that ventures as far as Constantinople and Tripoli. While their ships dock at some thirty-odd ports, the majority of their trade takes place between Cadiz and Naples."
"But the Italian carracks dock in London!" interjected Thomas Beaufort.
"Yes," the Earl agreed patiently, for he loved this subject better than any, "and that is the extent of Italy's trade with England. Do they only dock in London because that is the only English port?" He shook his head. "We have a number of good harbors-Chester, Bristol, Plymouth, Southampton, Hull, and Newcastle."
"But exports-does no one export from any other English port or must everything pass through London?" asked Beaufort.
"The Hansards sometimes stop in Newcastle and Hull. The Castilians, due to their proximity, prefer Bristol and Southampton." Eton traced the routes with his finger, tapping England's southern coastline. "We have harbors, we have ships, we have exports. But we lack the cooperation between port and merchant that I have seen in other countries." He stood up. "Expanding our production and distribution of exports would significantly improve commerce. Not only does trade boost income-" Eton knew the King was listening closely now-"it also raises taxes. Each increment of growth, is an increment of revenue for your treasury."
Bolingbroke said nothing for a long minute, studying the map and the black arrows that had been carefully drawn from one port to another, indicating the main directions of sea trade. "We develop our own ports and our own routes..." His voice drifted off as he considered the opportunities, "...which does not affect the trade agreements, therefore we are not breaking any contracts and we are not subject to penalty or regulation." He continued to study the map. "Which ports do you suggest we develop first?"
"Our Chester to Dublin, and Bristol to Cork," Eton said, naming two important Irish sea towns. "Only Spain calls at Cork. No one calls in Dublin."
"What about the coast of Portugal?" The King asked.
"And the northwestern ports of Castile?" Beaufort added, squinting at the map and the intricate arrow patterns.
"Portugal won't trade with Castile, and trades only to a limited degree with Italy." Eton felt warm, relaxed. His mind was clear, every thought lucid.
"Meaning, Portugal might welcome a new treaty-" Bolingbroke smiled, realizing the considerable possibilities. "And Castile...another future possibility."
"Exactly," the Earl of Derby agreed, thinking of Aberdeen and its harbor, along with Cordaella and her inheritance. When the girl married...depending on whom she married...Eton smiled. She could be of infinite value, an asset, unlike his own poor plain Elisabeth. It had been a stroke of luck-or was it genius?-bringing Cordaella to Peveril. She would more than pay for her keep. She would make his.