The Falconer's Daughter, Book 1

Chapter 5 - Part 1

In Santiago de la Compostela, Castile's Galician capital, the long windows of the palacio were drawn against the night, curtains swathed across cold glass. A fire burned zealously in the hearth, casting shadows of the Duke Fernando and his advisor huge on the stone wall. Pedro Fernando's brows grew heavier and heavier above his eyes, the dark and white of the pupil glistening. He guarded his kingdom and his castles, but there were two things he had loved far better—his cathedral on the square, and his merchant ships that doubled and trebled his wealth.

He had been one of the first to see the opportunity in trade and had taken great risks in the beginning. For twenty-nine years he labored to expand his trading empire, constructing stone by stone one of the finest ports on the continent in the protected harbor of San Sebastián. Early it had been a struggle to finance the first handsome fleet of ships. Since then twenty-three ships had sailed under his colors; his ships were his making, each voyage a discovery and a horde of treasure. He started small, just a bit of this and a chest of that. Now he was an expert on export—satisfying the aristocratic tastes in Westminster and London with the Mediterranean pleasures. It was he who controlled the price for wines, olive oil, dried fruits, salt, rare dyes, mercury, iron, and hides. What did he take from England, working now, with the Earl of Derby?

Fernando took wool. Each year his ledgers showed the profit. Almost twenty percent of all English wool was sold to Castile—Fernando with the biggest share—and sold again on the continent. England's raw material was always in demand. Bolts of beautiful cloth returned to Britain on Fernando's ships after the wool had been woven in Prato, Milano, and Roma. Each exchange made money. Lots of money.

But for Pedro Fernando, the Duke of Galicia and Count of Santiago, money had never been the object. He was already wealthy. Rather, his shipping empire brought power. He relished his control over England, the continent, the seas in between. As a duke he was formidable in Castile. As a merchant he was invaluable to kings.

At the moment, Fernando was furious, nearly distraught over the most recent loss of cargo. Two of his ships had been boarded and raided—thirty-three miles off the Dover coast. It was the second act of piracy in the last twelve months. Despite the Anglo-Castilian treaties, the laws of international trade were not enforced. Another deterioration in control, one the duke attributed to England's ailing king Henry IV.

Perhaps it was time for Fernando to assert himself. It wasn't lost revenue he was after. His desire was for something more, something less tangible than gold. Trade was his interest, power was his pride. And no one, his black brows plummeted, no one played lightly with Pedro. His empire had cost him too much, the price too dear. He would have his own port in Britain, a harbor like San Sebastian, which would protect and preserve what he had begun. And maybe there was something his new English associate, this Earl Eton, could help him with.

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It rained most of the night, revealing the morning as a watercolor landscape painted gray and white with a soft sable brush. Misty veils hovered over the hollows of Buxton, Derbyshire, more mist clinging mysteriously to the woods and the village green. The castle felt as damp as it smelled, long cool shadows lurking in the corners of the massive building. Philip walked along the battlements, his cloak billowing off of his shoulders, as Cordaella leaned over the edge, staring off towards the village.

She was thinking about the traveler that had stopped last night at Peveril, and once his tongue had been loosened by ale, spoke at length of London, having just come from there. She was amazed by his description of the market places, street after street lined by merchant and farmer. It sounded so big, so interesting. "I keep thinking of the visitor," she said, leaning on the balustrade.

"He did know how to talk," Philip said as he paced behind her. "Of course Father only wanted to know of the taxes being levied on imported goods. He doesn't care about the war in France. Just his ships. His purse."

He had come to a standstill and she said, "He did talk of the war. He spoke of sending you with Sir Bran on the next expedition." Four miles down the road lay the village of Buxton. Thick smoke curled from the thirty-odd cottages and she watched it rise in heavy black columns.

"I'll never be a soldier," he said quietly, joining her at the embattlement "It is this place that I love," he said, running his hand along the cold wet stones. "This old damp castle with its unmatched towers and tunnels and passages that lead nowhere."

She knew how passionate he was about Peveril—its musty smell, the cool dark places where tapestries hung permanently damp on the walls, the high narrow windows that one could barely touch with a hand but never see out. She had been with him when he crept along beams in the solar and watched while he shinnied down the outer keep's walls, climbing over the back gate to join him in the woods. One summer they had pretended to be Merlin and a knight, and while he had been Merlin, she had been the knight. She looked up past the smoke from the village. Gray swollen clouds seemed to touch the top of Peveril's towers. "It will be raining before long," she said.

"Let us go in." He held out an arm to her, leading through the nearest tower door. They took the steps quickly, knowing the spiral staircases by stone, each of the four staircases winding through the four castle towers. This stairwell spiraled down the full four stories and they exited into the great hall, she heading for the kitchen and he for the stable. The ladies' maid, Maggie, ran past, her arms full of linens, her face red. "My lady," she gasped, out of breath, "they have been looking high and low for you. The gardener went to the woods, thinking you might be there."

"Why? What has happened?" Cordaella picked up her skirts, hurrying after Maggie. The maid turned briefly, nodding for emphasis. "You best follow me, miss, and your lordship, too. You will be wanted."

Philip chased after them. "What is it? Is someone hurt?"

"The village," Maggie panted, "it is on fire." And she exited through the smaller of the two kitchens. They were greeted by more chaos as maids frantically dashed from the scullery to the fireplace and back again. Pots rattled as servants shouted from one kitchen to the other, their raised voices echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Here," the cook said, handing Cordaella a basket. "Inside is root of peony, holly seed, sage, rue, poppy, parsley—" She broke off, "I think that's all now. You are needed to take it down to her ladyship. She is already in the village. Horses are waiting. Hurry now!"

Philip took the basket from Cordaella. "Since Father is gone I better go and take an account of the fire. "A stable boy waited with the horses and the lad helped Cordaella up while Philip swung into the saddle. "Do you know what happened?" he asked the stable boy. "Can you tell me anything?"

"I heard it said that a fire swept through three houses. There were six children inside."

Philip glanced at Cordaella who simply shook her head. They set off at a canter, Philip shouting to her. "Why would the children be alone? Where were the parents?"

The wind caught at her cloak, pulling her hood low on her shoulders. "You know how it is," she called to him. "But both parents are needed to work the fields. It's the only way they can break even. The taxes are becoming heavier each quarter."

"Don't let my father hear you."

She ducked her head as they rode beneath a low tree branch. "I think it is hard for you to understand them."

"Harder for me than you?"

"They love their children, Philip, but they take greater risks. They have to."

He reined his horse in at the muddy road running into Buxton. "So much smoke! It burns my eyes."

Her eyes were already watering as large ashes drifted down, dusting their cloaks and horses' manes. "Look," she coughed and pointed, "Mary waits for us there."