Hadrian kept his eyes on his plate, concentrating on mopping up yolk with a crust of bread.
“So anyway, if at all possible, it’d be real nice if you went a bit easy on Breckton. So he doesn’t get hurt, I mean. I know a’course that you can’t always help it. Dear Maribor, I know that. But I can tell by talking with you that you’re a decent fellow. Ha! I don’t even know why I brought it up. You’ll do the right thing. I can tell. Here, let me get you some more beer.”
Ibis Thinly walked away, taking Hadrian’s mug and appetite with him.
In many ways Amilia felt like a child Saldur had brought into the world that day in the kitchen when he had elevated her to the rank of lady. Now she was little more than a toddler, still trying to master simple tasks and often making mistakes. No one said anything. No one pointed and laughed, but there were knowing looks and partially hidden smiles. She felt out of her element when trying to navigate the numerous traps and hazards of courtly life without a map.
When addressed as my lady by a finely dressed noble, Amilia felt uncomfortable. Seeing a guard snap to attention at her passing was strange. Especially since those same soldiers had grinned lewdly at her little more than a year earlier. Amilia was certain the guards still leered and the nobles still laughed, but now they did so behind polite eyes. She believed the only means of banishing the silent snickers was to fit in. If Amilia did not stumble as she walked, spill a glass of wine, speak too loudly, wear the wrong color, laugh when she should remain quiet, or remain quiet when she should laugh, then they might forget she used to scrub their dishes. Any time Amilia interacted with the nobility was an ordeal, but when she did so in an unfamiliar setting, she became ill. For this reason, Amilia avoided eating anything the morning of the hawking.
The whole court embarked on the daylong event. Knights, nobles, ladies, and servants all rode out together to the forest and field for the great hunt. Dogs trotted in their wake. Amilia had never sat on a horse before. She had never ridden a pony, a mule, or even an ox, but that day she found herself precariously balanced atop a massive white charger. She wore the beautiful white gown and matching cape Lady Genevieve had provided her, which, by no accident, perfectly matched her horse’s coat. Her right leg was hooked between two horns of the saddle and her left foot rested on a planchette. Sitting this way made staying on the animal’s back a demanding enterprise. Each jerk and turn set her heart pounding and her hands grasping for the charger’s braided mane. On several occasions, she nearly toppled backward. Amilia imagined that if she were to fall, she would wind up hanging by her trapped leg, skirt over her head, while the horse pranced proudly about. The thought terrified her so much that she barely breathed and sat rigid with her eyes fixed on the ground below. For the two-hour ride into the wilderness, Amilia did not speak a word. She dared to look up only when the huntsman called for the party’s attention.
They emerged from the shade of a forest into the light of a field. Tall brown rushes jutted from beneath the snow’s cover. The flicker of morning sunlight was reflected by moving water where a river cut the landscape. Lacking any wind, the world was oddly quiet. The huntsman directed them to line up by spreading out along the edge of the forest and facing the marsh.
Amilia was pleased to arrive at what she hoped was their destination and proud of how she had managed to direct her horse without delay or mishap. Finally at a standstill, she allowed herself a breath of relief only to see the falconer approaching.
“What bird will you be using today, my lady?” he asked, looking up at her from within his red coif. His hands were encased in thick gloves.
She swallowed. “Ah… what would you suggest?”
The falconer appeared surprised, and Amilia felt as if she had done something wrong.
“Well, my lady, there are many birds but no set regulation. Tradition usually reserves the gyrfalcon for a king, a falcon for a prince or duke, the peregrine for an earl, a bastard hawk for a baron, a saker for a knight, a goshawk for a noble, tercel for a poor man, sparrow hawk for a priest, kestrel for a servant, and a merlin for a lady, but in practice it is more a matter of—”
“She will be using Murderess,” the Duchess of Rochelle announced, trotting up beside them.
“Of course, Your Ladyship.” The falconer bowed his head and made a quick motion with his hand. A servant raced up with a huge hooded bird held on his fist. “Your gauntlet, milady,” the falconer said, holding out a rough elk-hide glove.
“You’ll want to put that on your left hand, darling,” the duchess said with a reassuring smile and mischievous glint in her eyes.
Amilia felt her heart flutter as she took the glove and pulled it on.