The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,21
color, for a year. Nothing in the Highlands had been black, not even the night. In the mountains, the sky was blue or purple, violet streaked with gray, but never black, never so heavy and unrelenting. In the mountains, the sky was full of stars and wisps of cloud, the moon, and even the wind which was but a whisper in the summer.
Elisabeth moved suddenly, her elbow sharp on Cordaella’s arm. “What are you looking at?”
“Not you,” Cordaella answered, pulling her arm away.
“I hate you!” Elisabeth said.
Cordaella fixed her gaze on her cousin’s face, the light gray pupils unblinking. For a long minute she said nothing, content to look at Elisabeth with that hard pointed stare. Cordaella had faced fiercer beasts than this. “It is not as if I take every breath just to spite you—”
“You are not one of us!”
“I know.”
“You haven’t the breeding to become one of us.”
“And I don’t want your breeding!” Cordaella whispered angrily, pressing her hands closer to her mouth to stifle the sound. “The last thing I want is to become one of you, just a sheep, with no thoughts of its own.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m a wolf, and I eat sheep,” Cordaella said, baring her teeth.
“Shut up!” Elisabeth’s angry retort rose above the prayers, even the priest momentarily interrupted, his concentration broken. The Earl had been roused and, shaking himself from his drowsy state, he tapped Elisabeth and glowered at Cordaella who was just out of reach.
*
“I’VE BEEN ASKED to Court. Bolingbroke wants to see me,” the Earl said smugly, holding out the letter to Mary. She smiled gently but shook her head; she couldn’t read. “Anyway,” he continued, “a week from today I’ll leave. I might even take Philip with me.”
The four children were just returning from a riding lesson, and the girls hung back as the boys continued towards their father. “Where does Philip go?” cried Eddie, overhearing the last part of his father’s conversation. “Why can’t I go? Why do I never get to go?”
“None of your concern, Edward.” The Earl half-heartedly rebuked his younger son, ignoring his daughter and Cordaella completely. Cordaella caught the look on Elisabeth’s face as her father passed her without acknowledgment.
“Father.” Philip hesitated in front of his sister. “Where was it that you said you might take me?”
“Oh, yes,” Eton offered the letter to the thirteen-year-old. “London. I’ve been asked to a meeting with the King.”
Philip’s face brightened. “If it could be arranged, I’d like to go with you. I haven’t been to London in years.”
“The city has changed. It’s much bigger. Twice the size, or so it’s said.” The Earl read over Bolingbroke’s invitation again, thinking of what he, Grey Eton, would do with his revenues. It was clear to him by now that he’d never make a tremendous profit from the land. It was time to go into trade; maybe his son could help him.
“Mary,” he said, rousing himself to a decision, “take the girls in with you. I trust they have other things to do besides stand here in the way.”
Lady Eton nodded, drawing Cordaella and Elisabeth after her, Elisabeth’s face flushed with color while Cordaella appeared not to care. “Father.” Elisabeth stopped in the doorway, not wanting to be left out, again ignored. “Father—”
“Yes? What is it?”
“Could I go to London with you?” She wanted him to say yes, she wanted more than anything for him to smile at her, to include her in his conversation.
“Of course not. If Edward can’t go, you certainly may not either.”
“But why Philip?” wailed Eddie.
Eton sighed, signaling again to Lady Eton. “Because he is the eldest, the first son. Now Elisabeth, don’t be tiring, go along with Mary.” He waited until his wife had closed the door leaving him alone with his sons. “Boys,” he said with a groan of pleasure as he took a seat in the solar’s great chair, “have I told you about my last trip to Rome?”
CHAPTER THREE
‡
IF IT WAS hard losing her father, Cordaella thought. It was also hard leaving the freedom she knew in the mountains. Nearly a year after her arrival in Derbyshire, she still chafed at wearing stockings and heavy soled shoes, chemises that covered her neck, a scrunch of stiff cloth beneath her chin. That entire year she had fought the changes, resisting Peveril’s discipline and order. She thought the lessons in the nursery were boring, but worse than learning to read, was learning to sit still. She had always been so active before, and now look at