Yseult ducked around him and ran. Guelf was rough spoken and known to slap people who displeased him. Her other uncle, Jason, many years dead, had been rough mannered, too. Yseult rushed into the castle.
Why’s he so mean? I might as well stay downstairs with the cow-handed sewing maids, she thought resentfully. At least they are polite to me! Of course, they have to be.
In the great hall she hesitated, torn between conflicting desires. The chapel and prayer called; Guelf had ordered her to go to Mary, and she really needed to change.
Chapel can wait until after dinner, she decided. I’ll be calmer then and won’t hurry things. I must listen for the voice of the saint or the Immaculata with calm or I won’t hear it. So, what to do now? It’s a toss-up. Will Mama be angrier with me for coming to see her in all my dirt or if I come in later and make her wait? I’d better go see her first.
She scratched at the door and slipped in when her mother called.
“Back?” asked Mary.
Yseult eyed her warily. She stood by the fireplace stirring the coals with an iron poker. There was a sheet of paper in her hand and the grate was adrift in ashes. Ashes sullied the expensive rug from Oregon City that Mary stood on. More papers littered the large worktable by the southern windows.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Well, how do you like spending the day with the sewing maids?”
There was small sneer in Mary’s voice. What is she sneering about? Me liking the maids? Or did Uncle Guelf upset her? He’s always telling her what to do and it makes her mad.
She answered the question with a question. Father Haggerty got annoyed when she lied to her mother. “Working with five cow-handed seamstress apprentices? How do you think I like it?”
Ooops, that sounded really impertinent, and my voice sneered too.
Mary giggled, a sound Yseult had never heard her make before and tossed the paper into the fire. “Well, indulge your taste for the lower orders. I think… it’s September… October, November, December, January, February, March… Yes, my fool of a daughter can leave the company of hicks and fools on April Fool’s Day. That works out nicely. You may have your supper and lessons with Virgilia in the evening and break your fast with me in the morning, here in the solar.”
Yseult gaped and then snapped her mouth shut. What will happen on April Fool’s Day? she wondered. And why is she giggling? Usually she’s mad after Uncle is here!
She watched Mary pick up another piece of paper and suddenly wondered. Where is her rosary? I haven’t seen it dangling from her belt in months. She used to make such a point about it, about being Catholic originally not a change-Christian… but I haven’t seen it
… in forever.
Mary turned towards her, raising the very fine, fair, plucked brows. “Did you need anything before you sit down to lessons?” she asked.
“No, Mama.”
Yseult swallowed and shook her head. She edged her way to the servants’ door in the west wall, intent on getting out of her mother’s presence.
I have to think! Why am I just noticing things now? What do they mean?
The rosary was gone from her mother’s belt and so was the lovely enameled locket of the Annunciation she had always worn; a gift from her father. Mary giggled again and turned back to the fire.
The main door to the room crashed open. “I arrest you, Mary Liu, Dowager Baroness of Barony Gervais on the charge of High Treason. Do not resist your arrest or you may be put to the Question, or executed out of hand!”
Yseult froze, breathless. Her mind went blank as the Lady Regent’s men tramped into the room in full armor, swords drawn. It was as if her mind was an eye, and it had looked into the sun.
Mary reacted instantly. She whirled from the fire, her green silk cote-hardie swirling and flaring into the hot coals as she grabbed the poker like a club and ran. She managed to get two steps from the fireplace, running towards the paper-loaded table, her burning train scattering glowing embers across the carpet. The sergeant behind the captain was faster; two strides brought him within reach of Mary and he swung an armored fist to her stomach with a dull thud.
Mary’s small body rose until the tips of her satin slippers left the rug, then folded around the point of impact as if bending in. The poker fell with a muffled thud. The servants’ door slammed open into Yseult’s back, throwing her face down, left cheek skinning across the precious rug and grinding into the hot embers.
“We’ve got possession of the Castle, Sir Garrick,” said the man at arms standing by her head.
Yseult gasped and choked and sneezed on the fine paper ashes. She lay dazed, unable to move; to understand what was happening; to see anything but the man’s steel sabatons and the point of the long sword in his hand; to hear anything but the harsh voices and the creak and clatter of armor as they moved around the infinitely familiar room now made strange. She could see her mother’s small body heaving.
The sergeant beat out the flames in Mary’s silk skirts with his gauntleted hands. She fought madly as soon as she managed to whoop in a breath; struggling and screeching, clawing at the armored man as though her soft nails could rake through an Associate’s panoply. Two more men at arms, men Yseult recognized as part of the group who’d teased her earlier, trotted in with a bundle of white cloth.
Mary was yanked upright, her arms forced into sleeves much too long for her, the tunic buckled in back and then the arms crossed over, wrapped around and the sleeves brought forward to buckle in front. Yseult shuddered, gasping, almost glad she was lying on the ground in case she fainted.
Mama’s eyes! she thought. They’re black. No, they can’t be. The pupils must have gotten so big I can’t see the color… I think I’m going to be sick.
A second cloth was wrapped and strapped around her waist and legs. Mary’s headdress fell off, her graying blond braid flopping free, coming loose in wild tangles, her body still heaving and twisting in the soldiers’ hands. Yseult propped herself up with her right hand, her left cheek throbbing, her left arm a mass of throbbing pain from shoulder to wrist. Three clerks were helping the man called Captain Garrick sort through the papers on the table; he was a tallish brown-haired man with a neat pointed chin-beard and mustache, in full armor except for the gauntlets and helm. Two more were smothering the fire and carefully pulling out the charred scraps.
“How much did she burn?” asked Sir Garrick.
“Hmmm,” said one of the clerks. “I make it ten pages by the surviving edges and corners. She didn’t do the best job. What are they?”
“Probably drafts of their letters.” Sir Garrick frowned down at the bound woman struggling and screaming at his feet.
“Adolphus!” he snapped. “Quiet her down. I can’t hear myself think.”
A slender unarmed young man wearing a white tabard with a red cross on the shoulder came forward. After frowning for a few minutes he pulled a small brown bottle out of his leather satchel.
“Laudanum,” he said briefly. “I hate to use drugs, but I don’t have too many options. I could try to gag her, but the danger of her choking or aspirating is very high. The danger of overdosing her on opium is lower, but still significant. Especially with a case of hysteria like this.”
Sir Garrick grumbled under his breath. “She’ll do herself an injury anyway if we don’t quiet her, and we need her alive.” Louder he said: “Drugs. I take the responsibility.”
Mary struggled and thrashed like a salmon in a net, but Adolphus was very good; he dribbled the drops in one by one. Yseult blinked, trying to sit. An ungentle hand, gauntleted and armored, pushed her back down.
“Bide where you are, girl,” said the rough voice. “Bide quiet, that’s best.”
She lay watching her mother try to spit out the drops and Adolphus pour small amounts of water in her mouth and rub her throat. Gradually her struggles eased and she lay still, breathing heavily. Sir Garrick turned towards Yseult and smiled thinly. She cowered, feeling much like a rabbit confronted by a coyote. Or a wolf.
“Vulture and her chick, all in one net. Neat. Ah, Goodwife Romarec, attend.”
Yseult’s teeth chattered; her skin wrinkled as if it were freezing cold, not a warm early evening. Romarec was frog-marched into the room and shot one quick glance at Yseult before bobbing her curtsy to the knight. With her came all the higher staff; one of the men had a bleeding bruise across his cheek and was being assisted by two of the Protector’s Guardsmen.
“Sir?” the housekeeper said; there was a slight beading of sweat on her brow, but her voice was quietly
