The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,42

more closely. “You had better come see for yourself, Cordy. I think he is ailing.”

Cordaella knelt opposite her, putting her ear to Bobby Purcell’s chest. She heard a faint rattle, air moving in little fits through his lungs. He sounded like a bird, trilling unsteadily. There was nothing she could do. He had only turned two last week. “Elisabeth, fetch his mother.” For once her cousin did as she was asked and Mrs. Purcell ran into the room, her eyes red-rimmed, her mouth pinched.

“No, miss, not my baby!” She stretched out her hands to Cordaella, pleading, “Can’t you do something else? Don’t you see, the twins were in the cradle? I have no more.”

“I am so sorry,” Cordaella whispered, her mouth dry, her eyes dry. She felt so helpless. “We have sent for the doctor but he hasn’t come.”

“But I have nothing now,” the poor woman sobbed, covering her face with her hands.

Cordaella sat back on her heels. The meanness of the small room overwhelmed her. She tried to shut out the old thatched roof smelling of mildew and the walls of smoke and urine, hay and sweat. Her stomach cramped, queasy. The rush of nausea was unexpected and tendrils of hair clung to her damp brow. She covered her mouth, afraid of betraying herself in front of Mrs. Purcell.

Mrs. Purcell’s wailing, the stench, the darkness of the croft all set her nerves on edge, keenly stirring memory, a physical reflex to death. She fought the unexpected terror, reminding herself that this was not her cottage, not her home. If only she could get outside; the fresh air would help clear her head. But she was loath to leave the weeping mother by herself, and waited indecisively while ghosts of the past climbed on her shoulder. She felt like a child again, and she could see her own cottage, hear her own terrified screams. “Aiee, Papa!”

His right arm was nearly severed free, blood pooling below his armpit, staining the straw a summer pink.

They had come near midnight, the sky was black—starless—and it had been hard, so hard to drag him in. She stared at the knife protruding from his stomach, wondering who was still out there, wondering when they’d come get her. Inside the cottage, the heifer’s bell clanked dully as the cow lowered her head.

Cordaella wrapped her skirts tightly around her legs, her fingers kneading the nubby woolen fabric as she stared at her father. What was she to do first? He was not a bird with a broken wing. Nothing would stop the blood from flowing. Did that mean she could not save him? She stiffened at the sound of footsteps close to the door. Her mouth was dry, too dry for her even to swallow.

Moaning, the falconer stirred. His eyelids fluttered, but it took him a moment to open them. He stared at her hard, pupils black, a peculiar expression in his eyes. As he said her name, red dribbled from his nose, mingling with the red at his mouth. She watched red bubble with his breath. There was too much red. Blood spilled everywhere. She leaned closer. “Papa!” She couldn’t feel anything, nothing but pain where her heart had once been.

“Listen, my girl,” he said, his mouth working. “You must get to the village. Your grandfather—from Aberdeen—has left you money—” His jaw went slack.

Her grandfather. The money. Aberdeen. Her grandfather. Money.

Cordaella lunged at the door, groping with the handle to get outside. The old terror was back, reminding her of the six hours she had spent, huddling near his dead body, waiting for the light of morning.

In the last six years she had not let herself dwell on it, steering her mind from the horror. Outside the cottage she gulped in air with great breaths, her face pale, perspiring. She leaned against the door frame, shuddering from the cold and pain. Those were the longest hours of her life. Even after he died, she still heard the voices and the heavy footsteps outside. There were at least two of them, their conversation rising and falling, once peaking in argument. “You take her, then!”

“Why me?”

“Well, I don’t want her—if you want to try your luck with her, that is your affair.”

“There is no money in it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would we stand to lose any?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t mentioned in the agreement.”

She listened to their voices, not understanding. For some reason they had come to kill the falconer, but then, why not her? Aberdeen. Her grandfather. Money.

Did it