The Fire Star Page 5

  ‘We meet again,’ he says, and that annoying dimple appears briefly.

  ‘Indeed,’ I respond. ‘You seem less . . . flustered this morning.’

  I can see him relax as he takes another bite of the honey cake, the scent of which wafts towards me, making my mouth water.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ I ask as he continues to chew thoughtfully. ‘Or are goat-herding and thieving your only, er, skills.’

  ‘No,’ he sputters, before pulling himself together. ‘I am but struck dumb by your loveliness.’

  I cannot contain a sharp crack of laughter. ‘Seriously? That’s your response? And I thought you squires were supposed to be clever.’

  I watch, fascinated, as the tide of red rises over his cheeks. ‘You mock me, my lady?’

  ‘Oh, put a stocking in it,’ I say. ‘Save your knightly speeches for a lady who will flutter her fan and her eyelashes at your charm.’

  The truth is, the whole notion of chivalry bores me. What is the point of taking part in a charade when there are real conversations to be had? Unfortunately, I am a rebellion of one when it comes to this radical idea. I have in turn appalled or offended boys, girls, men and women by trying to transform meaningless banter into something interesting.

  Or so my mother likes to tell me. When she writes. Which is not often now.

  But this boy is not turning away in disgust at my uncouth forwardness. Rather, he is studying me, apparently deep in thought. With a frown, it is true, but without the moue of disgust that often accompanies such close inspection of my forgettable face and ‘untoward mouth’ (thank you, Mother).

  Perhaps he is not averse to the notion of not having to be thinking one step ahead of every conversation and peppering it with ridiculously lavish compliments and other drivel? There must be at least one boy in the kingdom who agrees with me?

  ‘As you wish,’ he says, finally, before popping the last of the honey cake into his mouth, his expression giving nothing more away. ‘We were not introduced yesterday, but I believe your name is Maven?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Maven.’ I push myself upright and stroll towards him. ‘The Lady Cassandra is my mistress, and you, I believe, are named Neale or Reeve.’

  ‘Reeve,’ he responds, the winning smile back in position. ‘Charmed to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I say, folding my arms across my chest. ‘You’re standing there thinking that I’m too blunt and too forward and too plain – well, that’s what I’m told people usually think of me. But that’s okay. I know how to behave when I need to do so and I hate airs and graces when I don’t. Remember that and we’ll get along just fine.’

  Reeve blinks, and I see him reaching for words but they have all flown away.

  ‘Now, I think we need to go this way?’ I say, taking pity on him. He is not the first to be rendered speechless in my presence and I suspect he will not be the last. It used to bother me that people do not like me much, but now . . . not so much. Most of the time.

  I lead the way down the hallway, knowing that his good manners mean Reeve will follow.

  ‘We?’ he asks.

  ‘I assume you’re on your way to see Lorimer? I, too, have been summoned. And we’re late.’ Glancing behind me, I catch him shaking his head. He seems to be preoccupied with my feet and I follow his gaze to my leather slippers.

  They are as brown as my gown, unremarkable in any way but for the coating of dust upon them. He looks up and I meet his gaze, raising one eyebrow in challenge, but he says nothing. I will not explain to a squire why my indoor slippers are dusty – a late-night meeting of Beech Circle members in a disused cellar is not a topic for boys like him. Boys at all, really. But I make a mental note of the fact that he noticed the dust.

  Interesting.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I say, evoking deliberate lightness to break the silent tussle. ‘I’ve got a busy day ahead of me and I’d imagine that you do, too. The sooner we get this over and done with, the better.’

  I am at the door to Lorimer’s lair, Reeve slouching along behind me, when it suddenly strikes me that if the Lady Cassandra marries Sir Garrick, I will be seeing a lot more of Reeve – and his observant eyes – in the future than I might like.

  The thought is enough to still my hand mid-knock.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Reeve says. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  I pause just long enough to let him know that I will knock when I’m ready, before banging on the door.

  ‘Enter.’ Lorimer’s thin voice is muffled by the thick wood, but his impatience is clear. I take a deep breath, summon up Maven Who Once Appeared at Court, and push the door open, entering a room that is little larger than a cupboard.

  Lorimer has furnished it with a small writing desk, polished until gleaming, and a high-backed wooden chair upholstered in a worn, striped silk that I suspect was once castle curtains. A thick green rug, also showing signs of wear, covers the floor, from corner to corner, and I note Lorimer’s enterprise at having had it cut down to fit the space.

  Then again, he always was enterprising.

  ‘Ah, Maven of Aramoor,’ Lorimer says, and I do not flinch, even as I feel Reeve start in surprise beside me. ‘It is good to see you again after so many years.’

  I peek at Reeve, who is struggling to compose his face at the steward’s deference to me, a mere maid. As Lorimer greets me with a small bow, Reeve’s intake of breath is just audible.

  ‘Lorimer,’ I say, ensuring I use the smooth, rich tones of the lady that Lorimer knows me to be. ‘Always a pleasure.’

  It is anything but, as Lorimer well knows, but now is not the time for semantics.

  ‘Close your mouth, boy,’ says Lorimer, sneering down that thin nose in Reeve’s direction. ‘You look like a trout that’s been landed.’

  To his credit, Reeve does as he’s told, though I feel him watching proceedings closely.

  ‘And how are your parents, my lady?’ Lorimer continues, talking to me as though Reeve was not in the room. For a moment, it is as though this were true, and I am ten years old again, running to our household steward for a coin to take to the chapel for the plate.

  ‘Last I heard, they were well,’ I say, giving the man a hard stare, unwilling to say more in front of a squire I’ve just met. ‘No longer in need of a master house steward such as yourself. They have been cut down to size, much as your rug has been.’

  For a moment the mask slips and he grimaces, but recovers a moment later.

  ‘And now their youngest daughter has joined me here at Rennart Castle,’ he says, and I can see that he is enjoying my diminished circumstances. I will not give him the satisfaction of responding.

  ‘I go where my Lady Cassandra goes,’ is all I say. He knows I have no agency. Not any more.

  Not ever again.

  ‘Indeed,’ Lorimer responds. ‘How fortunate for us then that you are here. As for you . . .’

  Reeve is staring at the painting over Lorimer’s desk, so busy with his thoughts that he does not notice the old man’s attention has turned to him. As Lorimer’s heavy grey brows begin to beetle into a frown, I dig Reeve in the ribs.

  ‘What? Yes?’ Reeve blurts out, looking around wildly.

  ‘Yes, you,’ says Lorimer, not appearing to have noticed the nudge. ‘Airl Buckthorn commented that you served well at table last night.’

  I hide a smile as Reeve preens.

  ‘But that is not to say you were perfect,’ Lorimer goes on. ‘As such, you will meet me in the Great Hall after breakfast for practice.’

  I cannot hear the groan but I know that it is there. Reeve looks to be about my age, perhaps a year or two older, which means that he has probably spent many years learning the ins, outs and protocols of serving at table. I have no doubt that spending another hour going through the ‘pour from the left, remove from the right’ routine is the last thing Reeve wants. But he says nothing.

  ‘That is not why I brought you both here this morning, however,’ says Lorimer
, before pausing with a frown and talking almost to himself. ‘I wanted Neale as well, but I imagine he is with Sir Garrick, so no mind.’

  He fixes us both with a steely gaze. ‘The next few days will be both busy and fraught for all of us. As the servants of the bride and groom, it is imperative that you two – and Neale – work together to ensure the smooth facilitation of the great day.’

  Lorimer pauses again, seeming to grope for the right words.

  ‘You were there last night, Reeve of Norwood,’ Lorimer finally continues. ‘You saw . . . things are not as . . . straightforward as we might wish them to be.’

  Now Lorimer looks at me, questions filling his eyes.

  ‘My Lady Cassandra is . . . unsettled,’ I respond, keeping my tone even. ‘And with good reason.’

  ‘It is not our place to discuss whys, wherefores and reasons,’ Lorimer says, clapping his hands together as though to end the very thought. ‘It is enough that we acknowledge that the path to the altar may be bumpy, and that we work together to ensure that Airl Buckthorn’s wishes are carried out.’

  I wonder what exactly Lorimer knows – or thinks he knows – but now is not the time to probe. Not without raising his suspicions. Better to say nothing.

  Lorimer is cunning, as well I understand. One does not rise to his position in any household without staying abreast of exactly what goes on in that household. And one certainly does not keep that position without a good network of spies and allies peppered throughout its halls.

  Where Reeve fits in to this picture I have no idea, but, until I do, the best approach is silence.

  So few people understand this.

  But Lorimer has not yet finished. ‘If you hear of anything – anything at all, the slightest whisper – from any quarter, even those closest, that might interfere with Airl Buckthorn’s plans, you are to report them to me. On the Airl’s orders.’

  Reeve gasps, at the same time as I grasp the meaning of his words.

  ‘You ask too much,’ I say, concealing my clenched hands in the folds of my skirt. ‘I will not spy upon my lady.’

  ‘I ask only what Airl Buckthorn asks,’ says Lorimer calmly, though I can see he is enjoying our reactions. ‘This wedding has far-reaching implications and must go ahead. Airl Buckthorn is counting on the two of you to help make that happen.’

  ‘I am not of the Airl’s household,’ I say, my voice rising with my temper.

  ‘Not yet,’ Lorimer agrees, now pacing back and forth before us, wearing new tracks on that old green rug. ‘But, one way or another, it will happen, and Airl Buckthorn looks favourably upon loyalty.’ He stops to fix me with a beady stare.

  ‘And what of my loyalty to Lady Cassandra?’ I snap, wishing I was able to pace. ‘What of that?’ That he dare speak to me of loyalty remains unsaid.

  ‘In three short days, Lady Cassandra will swear a promise that will bind her to this household,’ Lorimer says sombrely, and now he stands before me, arms folded over that thin chest.

  ‘A promise she does not wish to give,’ I say, unable to help myself. Inwardly, I curse my outburst. Now is not the time to remind the Steward of the Household that the Lady Cassandra is an unwilling bride.

  ‘Her father has promised it on her behalf, as is her father’s right,’ says Lorimer, and his eyes are sharp as he stares down that long nose at me. ‘Just as your father gave you to the service of Lady Cassandra’s household.’

  ‘Yes,’ I breathe, unable to look at him, ‘as my father did.’ My hands are so tightly clenched, I feel the strain across my shoulders.

  ‘And you are happy in your service to the Lady Cassandra, are you not?’ Lorimer continues in a singsong voice, as though talking to a frisky horse.

  My glance slides sideways once more, but Reeve continues to study the painting on Lorimer’s wall, and I am grateful for his consideration. This is not a conversation I want to endure with a witness, but what choice do I have?

  What choice have I ever had about anything at all?

  If Lorimer wants me to discuss my current position with Lady Cassandra right here, right now, then discuss it I will have to do.

  ‘I am happy enough,’ I say, picking my words with care, flexing my fingers within the folds of my skirt in an attempt to sound relaxed. ‘The Lady Cassandra has been kind to me.’

  It is the truth, if only part of the story.

  ‘Well, then,’ Lorimer says, sounding smug, and making me want to slap the satisfied smile from his face. ‘Do you see how these things work out for the best? Why will it not be so for the Lady Cassandra?’

  In the long pause that follows Lorimer’s words, I watch the steward’s smile fade and disappear into disapproval. He is opening his pinched mouth to speak again when I finally respond.

  ‘My Lady Cassandra has high hopes for the future.’

  It is all and nothing. Enough.

  Lorimer appeared satisfied with Maven’s words, but Reeve recognised diplomacy when he heard it. Which made Reeve wonder what the girl was hiding – and how it might impact upon him. He had been Sir Garrick’s squire for less than one full day, but he already felt protective. And whether that protectiveness was entirely for the man or in part because of the future Sir Garrick offered Reeve, the feeling was enough for now.

  But what to do about it?

  The discussion he’d overheard between Sir Garrick and the Airl at dinner the previous evening had suggested that the knight already had qualms about his intended bride. Should Reeve report this conversation and add fuel to that fire? Or should he simply take Maven at face value and trust that all would be well?

  What he had seen so far of this odd, prickly girl did not necessarily induce trust. But Reeve also knew that the wedding would ensure they spent an awful lot of time together in the future.

  It would not do to create a rift on day one.

  ‘Very well,’ said Lorimer, clapping his hands together to indicate the end of the subject. ‘I am glad we are all on the same page. You will report to me the slightest hint of gossip or innuendo that might upset the wedding plans.’

  ‘Yes, my lord steward,’ said Reeve, glancing across at Maven, who murmured something that sounded like assent.

  And if Lorimer could not see the girl’s fingers crossed behind her back as she made her promise, then Reeve certainly could.

  Following Maven out into the hall moments later, Reeve noted her ramrod-straight back and the stubborn lift of her chin. How he had mistaken her for a lowly servant, he had no idea.

  ‘Why do you wear the garb of a maidservant?’ Reeve asked her, plucking at Maven’s sleeve as she began to stride off down the hall.

  Maven stopped and turned to him. ‘Because that is what I am?’ she said, her expression unreadable.

  Reeve stepped back. ‘But Lorimer worked for your family’s household, Maven of Aramoor. You have an estate.’

  Her mouth tightened. ‘When I was young,’ Maven said. ‘Since then, my father has fallen on hard times and our household is no more. My father sits and drinks above the farrier’s shop, an unwelcome interloper in the village that he once owned, while my mother and my sisters and I attend to the needs of the ladies to whom we are indentured.’

  Reeve gasped. ‘Indentured?’

  Maven stiffened. ‘Well, as good as. My mother is in service to Lady Fenlon, my sister Iva dances attendance on Lady Sandalwood, Elinor is governess to the children of Lady Canold and I –’

  She broke off, breathing out hard. ‘I am Maven of Aramoor no more, but I am the lucky one. I was sent to Lady Cassandra to serve as her companion. It is I who chooses to wear the servant’s garb. It never does to forget one’s place. You would do well to remember that also.’

  Reeve snorted. ‘I am a lowly squire. One day removed from a page. It is not likely that I will forget it.’

  Maven laughed, and Reeve was surprised by how uplifting the hearty sound was. ‘Ah, Reeve of Norwood, I suspect that under other circumstances we might have one day been friends, but . . .�
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  Her voice trailed away and, as Reeve watched, she seemed to make up her mind about something. ‘The Lady Cassandra is very unhappy about the impending marriage,’ she confided, watching him closely.

  Reeve collected his own thoughts. ‘I got that impression last night,’ he said, allowing no hint of judgement to colour his words.

  ‘I did advise her against attending dinner,’ Maven said with a sigh. ‘But she is angry and . . . stubborn.’

  As Maven reached out and put a hand on his arm, Reeve realised he had not heard much beyond the word ‘advise’. Maven was speaking as though the Lady Cassandra was the much younger servant, not the other way round.

  ‘She really does not want to marry him, you know,’ Maven said, her voice low.

  ‘She has no choice,’ Reeve responded, and felt Maven’s grip tighten for a moment before she let go, a flicker of regret on her face – but whether it was her lady’s lack of choice she regretted, or her own impulse to speak to Reeve of the matter, Reeve was not sure.

  ‘No,’ Maven said, stepping back and appearing to shrink a little. ‘No, it certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?’

  With those words, she turned and strode away from him, turning left at the end of the hallway to be swallowed up by the vast maze of corridors within the castle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Reeve was still puzzling over Maven more than an hour later – a long, boring hour spent at the shoulder of Lorimer, stifling yawn after yawn as the steward took him, in excruciating detail, through everything Reeve already knew about serving at table. But Reeve had uttered not one word of complaint.

  If the household steward wanted to make Reeve stand on his head beside the Airl’s chair for an hour every night, then that’s what Reeve would do. His goal was to become a knight, and not just any knight, but a knight who might one day fill the Knight Protector role, just as Sir Garrick did.

  A knight like that would never have to leave the shores of Cartreff. He would never be sent away by his own father, across the ocean, far from everything he knew.