The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,39

even mind having to share dishes with Eddie, allowing him most of the bowls, and as she dipped her fingers in the water bowl, she saw that the knight was doing the same thing. He wiped his hands on his towel, and she thought they looked like strong hands, good hands. She ducked her head, color darkening her cheeks. What was she thinking? But even the minstrel’s song filled her with longing, making her wish for something she had never known. “When that I think what grief it is again, to live and lack the thing should rid my pain.”

“What a stupid song.” Eddie interrupted her thoughts, propping his head on one hand. “What is a ‘Lover not Beloved’?”

“A love song,” she answered shortly, not wanting to look at him and be reminded of the black and blue swelling around his eye.

“It makes me sick. Who wants to hear about love?” She didn’t answer and Eddie scowled at her, put out by her silence. But she was thinking secret thoughts, feeling a strange new tenderness inside of her, an emotion unlike anger or sadness, fear or despair. This breathed within her, soft and eager. She glanced at the knight again, wishing she were outside, wishing she were next to him, wishing it was his voice speaking, his voice lilting like the moon, like the wind, like the stars she once counted in the Highland nights.

CHAPTER FIVE

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IN SANTIAGO DE la Compostela, Castile’s Galician capital, the long windows of the palacio were drawn against the night, curtains swathed across cold glass. A fire burned zealously in the hearth, casting shadows of the Duke Fernando and his advisor huge on the stone wall. Pedro Fernando’s brows grew heavier and heavier above his eyes, the dark and white of the pupil glistening. He guarded his kingdom and his castles, but there were two things he had loved far better—his cathedral on the square, and his merchant ships that doubled and trebled his wealth.

He had been one of the first to see the opportunity in trade and had taken great risks in the beginning. For twenty-nine years he labored to expand his trading empire, constructing stone by stone one of the finest ports on the continent in the protected harbor of San Sebastián. Early it had been a struggle to finance the first handsome fleet of ships. Since then twenty-three ships had sailed under his colors; his ships were his making, each voyage a discovery and a horde of treasure. He started small, just a bit of this and a chest of that. Now he was an expert on export—satisfying the aristocratic tastes in Westminster and London with the Mediterranean pleasures. It was he who controlled the price for wines, olive oil, dried fruits, salt, rare dyes, mercury, iron, and hides. What did he take from England, working now, with the Earl of Derby?

Fernando took wool. Each year his ledgers showed the profit. Almost twenty percent of all English wool was sold to Castile—Fernando with the biggest share—and sold again on the continent. England’s raw material was always in demand. Bolts of beautiful cloth returned to Britain on Fernando’s ships after the wool had been woven in Prato, Milano, and Roma. Each exchange made money. Lots of money.

But for Pedro Fernando, the Duke of Galicia and Count of Santiago, money had never been the object. He was already wealthy. Rather, his shipping empire brought power. He relished his control over England, the continent, the seas in between. As a duke he was formidable in Castile. As a merchant he was invaluable to kings.

At the moment, Fernando was furious, nearly distraught over the most recent loss of cargo. Two of his ships had been boarded and raided—thirty-three miles off the Dover coast. It was the second act of piracy in the last twelve months. Despite the Anglo-Castilian treaties, the laws of international trade were not enforced. Another deterioration in control, one the duke attributed to England’s ailing king Henry IV.

Perhaps it was time for Fernando to assert himself. It wasn’t lost revenue he was after. His desire was for something more, something less tangible than gold. Trade was his interest, power was his pride. And no one, his black brows plummeted, no one played lightly with Pedro. His empire had cost him too much, the price too dear. He would have his own port in Britain, a harbor like San Sebastian, which would protect and preserve what he had begun. And maybe there was something his