The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,52

grapes and what else?”

“Livestock. Nearly two thirds of Castile is pasture land. Also honey and olive oil.”

“Honey?” said Elisabeth.

“Yes,” Carlas said, nodding, “from many places—Toledo, Talavera, and La Alcarria.” He inclined his head. “And do you like honey?”

She blushed, glancing quickly in her father’s direction. “Oh, yes, very much.”

“Then I shall have some sent to you.” He saw her flush again and his mouth curved in a sardonic smile. “After all, Castile is the closest place to Heaven on Earth.”

*

AS THE STORM had passed and the morning dawned clear, the horizon a cool blue with a scattering of pink-tinged cloud, the foreigners left early, intent on reaching London before nightfall. The Earl said nothing about the visit to the others, and as the days passed and one week turned into the next, even Philip and Cordaella were forced to admit that their fears might be unfounded.

“Perhaps it was only for talk about trade routes. That is all we ever heard them say,” Cordaella said, taking up the tapestry again. Lady Eton had been disappointed with Cordaella’s work from the night before and asked her to replace some of her rows with smaller, tighter stitches.

“Perhaps,” Philip answered darkly, staring across the solar at her, his brow creased. And yet Cordaella was surprised by her disappointment, an inexplicable sense of loss. She didn’t want to marry the Duke Fernando, but after all the tension, the months waiting, she felt strangely let down.

“But now we have more time together,” Cordaella said, an effort at cheerfulness.

“One would almost think you wanted to be betrothed.” Philip’s jaw tensed, his gray eyes clouding.

“What makes you think that?” She pulled the broken thread through the back of the linen, careful to keep her face expressionless. She should have known that he could read her so easily. Mrs. Penny used to say she was too transparent, wearing her emotions on her sleeve.

“I can tell, that’s all.” He smiled sadly, scuffing the toe of his boot against the hearthstones. “Is this part of your plan, Cordaella? Do you fancy yourself getting back at my father?”

“Ouch!” she cried, poking herself in the finger. “Now see what you have made me do!” She sucked on the finger, trying to draw the blood away. “How do we even know there is a betrothal? And how do we know it would be mine?” She pulled her finger out of her mouth and examined the puncture.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” she answered. “But perhaps they are interested in Elisabeth. The nobleman spent considerable time answering her questions. Maybe it is her they are interested in.”

“Ridiculous. She has no lands, no income, no port…” He stressed the last word hard, referring to Aberdeen. “Why would the Duke be interested in her? She brings nothing to the marriage but herself, and even that isn’t much.” He sighed. “Why don’t you let me help you, Cordaella? Why won’t you let me do something?”

“Like what?” She tried laughing at his serious expression. “What will you do? Run the Duke Fernando through? Pull a sword on your father? Really, Philip, you make too much of this.”

“But Cordaella…”

“Oh, I hate my name,” she said turning on Philip. “Especially when you say it that way, as if I am being sacrificed like the Cordaella of the old legend. And yet we don’t know anything, Philip, so we can only wait.”

“I like the Cordaella of legend. And you are more like her than you’ll ever know.”

“Well, I would much rather be Ellen or Eleanor, Margaret or Jane.”

“But those are plain names, ordinary names.”

“I want a plain ordinary name,” she insisted. “Something that would let me hide. Escape.” She leaned over from her bench to toy with a bit of kindling heaped by the solar’s hearth. The dark beams of the solar glowed from the firelight, the sun working its way through the clouds, drawing long pale shadows on the hardwood floor. “I doubt there is even a single Cordaella in London, and London is a very big place.”

“How would you know? You’ve never been there.”

“But you have, and you have never mentioned another Cordaella.”

He smiled fondly at her. “Yes, but there can only be one Cordaella. Besides, your name suits you.”

“It does not. It sounds like a garden herb.” He laughed outright.

“Is that so bad?”

“Why would my parents—or any parents—name an infant Cordaella? Perhaps my mother, ill and all, and still idealistic, thought it pretty, but my father?” She shook her head. “No, he wasn’t an impractical man.”

“Only impractical enough to run away with