The Fire Star Page 3

  ‘Is that all?’ he hooted, looking up from his pears. ‘Dear lord, man, don’t you knights spend years learning about chivalry and the like? Woo her, for God’s sake. Win her over.’

  He turned to Reeve, who was struggling to hide his interest in the conversation.

  ‘This young fellow will help you,’ Airl Buckthorn continued. ‘Won’t you, Rove?’

  ‘Er, it’s Reeve,’ Reeve stammered, and not for the first time in his life. Despite regular visits to see his wife at Harding Manor, the Airl had never bothered to remember the name of her lowly squire. ‘And I will be honoured. As Sir Garrick’s squire I am bound to help him in all things.’

  Sir Garrick stared at him, his shrewd, almost-black eyes seeming to look right into Reeve’s mind. ‘I believe that you believe that,’ he said, before turning back to the Airl. ‘All I can say is that I hope this damn Fire Star is worth it.’

  Reeve stared straight ahead over the two men’s bent heads as they continued to talk in low voices. What was a Fire Star, he wondered, and why did Airl Buckthorn want it so much he’d marry his own niece off to his prize knight to get it?

  Knights rarely married and, when they did, they didn’t marry the daughters of barons, which Lady Cassandra most certainly was. Daughter of a baron, niece of an airl, she would, even as daughter number four, have been a catch for someone.

  ‘You blaggard!’

  The harsh cry split the air, followed by the grating slither of a sword being unsheathed. Reeve stood on his tiptoes, peering between Airl Buckthorn and Sir Garrick, who had both jumped to their feet at the sound – as had most of the hall.

  The rowdy lower table had gone deathly quiet as an unkempt man in the Airl’s colours waved a sword above his head, its sharp, polished blade catching the glow of the torches that lit the room.

  ‘You take that back!’ the man shouted, his unshaven face red with anger. ‘Take it back or I shall call you out.’

  ‘Ha!’ retorted a chubby bald man, licking his sausage-like fingers with apparent disregard for the violent threats. ‘I’ll not take back the truth, Brantley of Adelard. You will never be a knight, and you know it.’

  As Brantley bellowed an oath and began to swing the sword back to strike, Sir Garrick drew up to his full height and roared across the hall: ‘Stop in the name of the Airl of Buckthorn.’

  Brantley froze, his face paling beneath his stubble.

  ‘You forget yourself,’ Sir Garrick continued in a deceptively mild voice, the undertone of menace so cold that Reeve stared at his new master in shock. ‘All weapons are checked at the door to this hall. Or did you forget?’

  ‘I – er,’ Brantley stammered, sheathing his sword with a practised movement. ‘I meant no harm, sire.’

  ‘I doubt that Derric there would agree,’ said Sir Garrick, stepping around the table and swaggering to the centre of the hall. ‘Another moment and the back of his neck would have felt your lack of harm.’

  Brantley flushed a deeper red and said nothing.

  ‘You may leave now,’ Sir Garrick said, with a smile that contained not a hint of amusement or friendliness. ‘All of you.’

  The men stood as one and filed out of the hall obediently, although Reeve noted that Brantley took his time, sauntering at the back of the line, and thought he even saw the man wink as he passed a table of young women. Given that the Lady Anice, Airl Buckthorn’s own daughter, sat at the head of that table, however, Reeve thought he must have been mistaken – surely Brantley would not be so bold?

  The Airl certainly did not seem to have seen a wink, and Lady Anice moved not one copper hair, even as her friends giggled and whispered. Either Reeve had imagined the wink, or Lady Anice had indeed developed the ‘social poise’ she had convinced her father she would learn at Rennart Castle.

  Until just a few years ago, Lady Anice had been resident at Harding Manor, where her difficult ways had made her unpopular with the servants. Reeve had learned from his earliest days as a page to stay away from the pretty girl with the ugly temper.

  Reeve had heard that Lady Rhoswen had argued against Anice’s move to Rennart Castle, knowing it would give Anice more freedom. The Airl believed his daughter could do no wrong – which meant that Anice could do pretty much anything.

  But Anice had won – as she so often did – and maybe, Reeve thought now, Lady Rhoswen had been wrong.

  ‘Thank you all for joining us tonight,’ Sir Garrick said once all of the rowdy men had left the silent hall. His small bow managed to take in every man, woman and child at the crowded tables. ‘I am sure you all look forward to greeting the Lady Cassandra on the morrow, as much as I do. But now –’

  ‘Oh, but why wait?’ trilled a high, gleeful voice from the doorway, and Reeve stared in astonishment at the vision in bright green now entering the hall. ‘Why not greet me now?’

  Sir Garrick’s jaw dropped, but no voice came out and it was up to Airl Buckthorn to rise from the table and step smoothly forward.

  ‘But what is this?’ he asked in a jovial tone, though Reeve did not miss the irritation beneath the Airl’s words. ‘My Lady Cassandra? We were not expecting you until midmorning tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah, Uncle,’ Cassandra breathed, sweeping towards him in a swirl of skirts before dropping into a deep and elegant curtsey. ‘How could I wait a moment longer to meet the man you have decreed I marry?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As the last of the banished men has shuffled off down the hallway, I creep out of the shadows and peer around the door like a child to watch what is happening in the Great Hall. Cassandra is playing it like the finest mummer, and the people assembled at the tables can do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, at the performance. Inwardly, I am applauding, though I stay as quiet as a mouse.

  Objectively, I can see that my lady was right to insist on wearing the emerald-green gown. She is beautiful, with her dark brows winging over the wide-set eyes that match her dress perfectly. The fine white lace outlining the deep square neckline of the richly embroidered bodice sets it off perfectly. It. The huge, sparkling red stone that rests in the hollow of her throat, secured by a thin, black, velvet ribbon. The reason we are all here.

  The Fire Star. A jewel worth a king’s ransom.

  The room seems to pause at the sight of it, a deep silence before the whispers begin. I have seen hen’s eggs smaller than the stone, which seems to burn from within like the red-hot embers of a dying fire.

  It’s a dazzling display of wealth – and a family secret revealed.

  I know not the name of the woman who first wore this jewel, nor how it came to be in Cassandra’s family. All I know is what Cassandra has told me, and she knows little enough herself.

  The Fire Star has been passed down from youngest daughter to youngest daughter, across the generations, bequeathed only on the occasion of that youngest daughter’s betrothal. It cannot be used as a dowry, nor even mentioned to a potential suitor before that day.

  When I asked Cassandra how it was possible, in this day and age in Cartreff, that such a valuable stone remain within the hands of women for so long, she laughed without mirth.

  ‘Sorcery,’ she’d said, ‘or rumours thereof. Grandmother told me that the story goes that the Fire Star is cursed and “pitiless bad luck” befalls any man who tries to take ownership. It must remain in the hands of women.’

  ‘Sorcery? Pitiless bad luck?’ I responded.

  Cassandra had managed another laugh. ‘Sorcery is the word applied to anything that women do that men do not understand, and the Fire Star is no different. It is held by the youngest daughter, safe for the next generation, and never talked about. Apparently, the women in my family have done much to keep the story alive and absolutely nothing to clarify any details at any time . . . and so the myth of the Fire Star has grown.’

  Unfortunately, the myth had been exposed beyond the reach of immediate family when dear old Sir Alfred had been convinced by Cassandra’s father to marry Cassandra, and then died before reachi
ng the altar.

  But not before he’d shared news of his good fortune with several of his friends, and word had reached Airl Buckthorn.

  ‘I don’t understand why the Airl didn’t organise this marriage much sooner.’ I had been packing her trunks for the journey to Rennart Castle when I’d mused those words aloud, and she had snorted like a horse at my innocence.

  ‘He did not know about the Fire Star until Sir Alfred’s death,’ she’d said.

  ‘But surely your mother, his sister, mentioned it?’ I had been focused on placing bags of lavender among the garments folded into the trunk, but did not miss the small silence that followed my words.

  ‘She did not know,’ Cassandra said, her voice flat. ‘My father is an only child, a boy, and the stone remained with my grandmother Jeanne until her death, willed to me, the youngest daughter, in a sealed codicil that remained unread until the day of my betrothal.’

  Once he knew the stone was there for the taking, Airl Buckthorn had pounced, offering Sir Garrick as a consolation prize to the ‘bereft’ bride – Sir Garrick who is bound to the Airl by an oath of loyalty until death.

  ‘Isn’t the Airl afraid of sorcery and “pitiless bad luck”?’ I’d asked Cassandra when she’d told me the plan.

  ‘The secret of the Fire Star is out, and the Airl wants it under his roof and his control,’ Cassandra had answered. ‘Once I am married, my father demands that I give the stone to my cousin Anice as a “gratitude gift” for being saved by her family from spinsterhood. My husband, who takes ownership of me upon marriage, will not object. And so the Fire Star will go, woman to woman, into the Buckthorn family tree.’

  Even now, as I watch the outwardly polite battle of wills being fought by the Airl and Cassandra, I have to admit that the plan is neat. The stone will technically remain in the hands of a woman – Anice – neatly sidestepping the ‘pitiless bad luck’. But, as his daughter, Anice and all her possessions belong to the Airl, bringing him ownership of the Fire Star in all but name.

  The same Airl, resplendent in a tunic embroidered all about with silver thread, is clearing his throat in the Great Hall. He towers over my Lady Cassandra, and, despite being at least forty-five years of age, remains lean. Lady Cassandra does nothing but wait, her hands on her skirts, allowing him – and everyone else in the Great Hall – to understand what it is that she brings to this castle in the backblocks of Cartreff. To this knight, who is so far beneath her in status.

  To the casual observer, her pose is demure, even deferential, to her uncle, but the message is clear. I, who know her well, can see the set of her jaw, the glitter in those lovely eyes. I suppress a smile, knowing what it is costing her not to attack her uncle and rake her nails across his face.

  But she won’t do this. I know it. She knows it. So does the Airl.

  ‘You forget yourself, my lady,’ he says, mildly enough, but she stiffens. ‘We are not ready for you and your party.’

  Cassandra laughs, and I wince at the shriek barely hidden by the dramatic giggle, but she tosses back her head in such a way as to set the stone dancing once more, its sparkle seeming to reach even the darkest corners of the hall.

  ‘There is no party, Uncle,’ Cassandra says, her tone measured. ‘I came on ahead. The rest will follow tomorrow, as expected.’

  The Airl freezes. ‘You are unescorted?’ he says, unable to hide his surprise or displeasure. ‘At night? In these dangerous times?’

  ‘Not unescorted,’ Cassandra retorts, swinging her dark plait over her shoulder, where it slithers down her back. ‘Maven has many talents.’

  I smirk, pressing as close to the wall beside the open door as I dare. It will not do to be discovered lurking out here.

  ‘Maven?’ says a man behind him. The blue fox on his tunic gives him away, and I study him with interest. This is the man my lady is expected to marry. Dark-haired, heavy lidded, strong. Many would think that she could do worse, I know. But not my Lady Cassandra.

  As the youngest of four daughters, she has always felt her expendability. And so it has always been her dearest wish to prove them wrong. To marry well. To marry better than any of them and have the pleasure of making them, the other three, bow and scrape in her presence as they have made her do to them these many long years.

  For that, she needs a duke at least, and, oh, she had come so close. But that dream had died with Sir Alfred, and so, here we are.

  Marrying Sir Garrick will consign her to the very bottom of the pecking order forevermore. And it is for this reason that it will never, ever happen. Not if my Lady Cassandra has anything to do with it.

  ‘My companion,’ Lady Cassandra is saying, ostentatiously not turning so much as a hair to look at her outraged uncle. ‘Enough of an entourage for this occasion.’

  It is all I can do not to laugh as I watch Sir Garrick stiffen, absorbing the snub almost as though Cassandra has hit him. His squire hands him a napkin, and Garrick busies himself wiping non-existent crumbs from his mouth, hiding his response from the crowded hall. It’s a nice move by anyone’s standards, and I crane forward to catch a glimpse of the exemplary, quick-thinking servant, who is shrinking back as I recognise this morning’s goat herder – minus the curls, which appear to have been shorn.

  Interesting. Perhaps there is more to that pretty face than I’d first thought.

  ‘Very well,’ Airl Buckthorn says, drawing my gaze back to him. He turns towards the crowd – still seated at their tables, most not even trying to hide their interest in the drama playing out – and claps his hands.

  ‘It seems that we are blessed with the presence of the bride a night earlier than expected!’ the Airl says before pausing. A few people in the closest seats try a feeble cheer, which quickly dies away. I wish I could see the Lady Cassandra’s face right now, but it’s probably for the best. One glance at me and we are both likely to descend into a gale of laughter.

  ‘Indeed,’ the Airl continues, ‘it is a joyous occasion, but she is tired and will retire to her rooms now as we enjoy dessert.’

  Many might miss the subtle nod the Airl sends in the direction of the jongleur in the corner, but I do not. As the man raises his lute and begins picking out a lively air, I drift inside the hall, creeping along the wall while everyone’s attention is on the musician. Moments later, servants burst through the doors with tray upon tray of wobbly jelly, golden tarts filled with creamy custard, and pears glistening with red-wine syrup. Before long, the crowd is oohing and aahing over the sweet treats, talking among themselves at an ever-rising volume.

  Lady Cassandra, however, does not move, and I creep closer, just near enough to catch her next words. ‘I see you are not pleased to see me, Uncle,’ she hisses beneath the music.

  Airl Buckthorn smiles as though she’s made a jest, before speaking in a tone so low that only those in the immediate vicinity could possibly hear.

  ‘You have had the entrance you wished for,’ he says. ‘You are lucky that’s all you’ve had. You took a great risk riding here alone tonight – the roads are not safe now, particularly for a woman like you.’

  My ears prick up at his words. Beyond the gossip about the King, we have heard the other rumours of unrest. Of the sovereign’s favourites who are picked up one minute and then discarded the next, stripped of titles and lands which are then handed to others like sweets. Of those who believe the King should be encouraged to marry and produce an heir – so that he can be replaced. Of peasants, tired of working only to pay taxes, who walk off the land to roam the roads, stealing what they can from passing travellers. But no men ever speak to women about politics, so third-hand stories are all we have.

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,’ says Lady Cassandra, staring him down. ‘We saw nothing untoward beyond some King’s horsemen and a farmer who’d lost control of his goats. And I assume it is not my safety you are concerned for, but that which I bring to you as a wedding gift.’

  ‘King’s horsemen, you say? Then you were lucky,’ say
s the Airl, ignoring her last words, and for one heart-stopping moment I think he will forget himself and say more. ‘But we will not speak of it now. You may retire to your rooms – I am sure you need a good night’s rest.’

  ‘Oh no,’ says Cassandra, gaily, moving as though to step around him and take a seat at the table. ‘I fancy some blackcurrant jelly.’

  Once again, I nearly break into applause. In the candlelight, her cheeks flushed, she is so beautiful and so dangerous. She will win the hearts of these people simply by sitting there among them. Which, of course, her uncle also realises.

  ‘My lady, you do not,’ the Airl replies, and this time the tone of his voice stops her in her tracks, the green gown swirling around her boots. Boots, I note now as the Airl and Cassandra glare at each other, that are still dusty from the road. I sigh. No doubt others will notice this and it will be me, the maid, who bears the brunt, not Cassandra the Impatient.

  ‘Very well,’ Cassandra finally sniffs, ‘you may have some choice morsels sent to my rooms.’

  And she now flings that long rope of hair back over her shoulder and draws herself up to her full height before stalking towards Sir Garrick, who takes an almost indiscernible step back. I also shrink back along the wall. With my brown dress, brown hair and skin tanned by what Mother has always called ‘an unseemly attraction to the outdoors’, I know that I blend in to the stone backdrop, allowing me a few more moments to observe.

  ‘And you must be my betrothed,’ Cassandra says, her voice shrill with a mixture of frustration and anger. ‘You may kiss my hand.’

  She sticks her fingers under his nose, radiating defiance. Taken aback, Sir Garrick hesitates, and it’s as though the room holds its breath, awaiting his next move. Knights are trained to be chivalrous and courteous at all times. Surely, the greatest knight in the kingdom won’t fail now, with his very own betrothed?

  But no. Sir Garrick’s face relaxes into a gentle smile, and he takes her fingers in his own and leans forward to graze the top of her hand. Transfixed, it takes me a moment to remember we hate him.