The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,51
rubbed any trace of tears clean and unfastened her cloak’s collar. Beads of water clung to tendrils of her dark blonde hair. “Their colors look foreign,” she said. “Whose banner is black and yellow?”
“Castilians,” Cordaella said softly. “The Duke Fernando’s colors.”
The Castilians were the two de la Torre brothers and their guard; the brothers sailing from Santiago as emissaries of Duke Fernando. Cordaella did not meet them until supper when the afternoon fog gave way to rain, Peveril’s windows rattling throughout the meal, wind shrieking through the castle’s towers.
After dinner they left the drafty hall for the snug solar. The Earl had learned of the boar attack just before dinner but hadn’t yet spoken to either girl about it. “What do you mean,” he whispered angrily to Elisabeth as they took seats in the solar, “riding so far from the road? What foolishness! We lost a good animal today and we might have lost you,” he said, but he had turned to look at Cordaella as he spoke the last words. Elisabeth’s lip trembled and the Earl hastened to say, “You’re never to ride beyond Buxton again. Is that clear?” She nodded unhappily and Cordaella lowered her head, feeling somehow responsible and aware that all could hear the Earl.
Carlas de la Torre held his hands to the fire, his dark coat gleaming in the red and gold light. “It must have been frightening,” he said, his accent flawless, “and yet, what an adventure. Who would have expected so much excitement on an afternoon ride?”
Elisabeth shuddered. “It wasn’t exciting. It was horrible,” she said. “My horse didn’t have a chance. If Cordaella hadn’t been there, I would have been killed.”
“And what did Cordaella do?” Eddie mocked, full of eleven-year-old malice. “Strike the boar down?”
Elisabeth looked at him, her expression cold. “Yes, she did.”
The other brother, Enrique de la Torre smiled. “And does she always carry a weapon?”
“She didn’t have a weapon,” Elisabeth said, her voice small, tight. “She took a branch—”
“A tree branch?” Enrique’s eyebrow rose.
“Yes, and she clubbed the boar with it.”
Eddie howled, “I would have liked to see that!”
“I only stunned it,” Cordaella defended, wishing they would forget the incident. It had been a horrible afternoon and all she wanted was to go to bed, to climb beneath the warm covers and hide.
Carlas and Enrique exchanged glances. “You must be very brave,” Carlas said gently, taking an empty seat near the hearth. “So much courage for a girl.”
Cordaella stared at him, trying to see past his pleasant expression, wondering what he was really thinking. She didn’t trust him; she didn’t trust any of these men. Lady Eton stretched out a hand, calling for Cordaella to join her. She had brought out the tapestry and Elisabeth was already threading her needle.
Thunder boomed, the window pane rattled more loudly and the Earl sent a servant to shutter over the glass. In the meantime he offered more of his hot spiced wine, the fire hissing as stray drops of rain sizzled on the flames. “I apologize for the weather,” he said, his voice too loud for the solar. “England is normally more temperate than this.”
Enrique shrugged. “England is England.” He gargled the strong wine at the back of his throat. “Which means wet.”
Carlas, ever polite, smoothed his brother’s remarks over with a small gesture of his hand. “Rain is always welcome to a Castilian. Our father’s orchards depend on the rains, something we don’t get very regularly in Barcelona.”
Eddie rose on one knee. “But I thought you were from Santiago.”
“We serve the Duke Fernando, our mother’s cousin. She is from there. We were raised in Barcelona.” Carlas’ civil answer seemed to please nearly everyone.
Elisabeth raised her head shyly. “What is Castile like? I heard the climate is very different.”
Carlas and Enrique again exchanged glances, Enrique’s dark brow rising higher than before. He was the first to answer. “The climate is quite different from here. Less rain. And much warmer.”
“Yes,” Carlas chimed in, “Castile smells of ripe grapes and oranges.”
“I heard that sometimes there is so little rain that the crops die,” Philip interjected coolly, his light gray eyes narrowed on the two brothers. There was something tense in his expression that belied his outward calm.
“Perhaps, but not often,” answered Enrique.
“What is the word—drought?—n England we do not have that problem,” said Philip.
“Every country has its share of problems,” Enrique said, taking note of Philip for the first time.
“What else do you grow in Castile?” Eddie asked, impatient with Philip’s digression. “Oranges and