HUNTINGDON CASTLE
A YEAR EARLIER, ARABLE had been washing laundry in Nottingham Castle when her friend Gunny approached, with a grin and a torn piece of parchment. On it was a hastily drawn sketch of a bird’s head, and Arable had no idea what was so exciting about it. Gunny asked her several times to describe the picture, as if she were a blind old woman who needed help reading, and Arable explained over and over that it was a boring old bird and that they needed to return to their work.
Eventually Gunny pointed at the picture and said it was a hare. Arable thought she was insane, until a moment later her perception shifted, and the drawing transformed into something it wasn’t. The beak became ears, the head snapped around, and Arable suddenly had difficulty seeing the bird that was so obviously there a second ago.
For the past few months, as far as Arable was concerned, Lady Marion Fitzwalter had been a bird. A bitter, vindictive little bird whose arrogance would get them all killed.
And now she was a hare.
“I am eager for your thoughts,” Marion continued, as if the silence that followed her speech had not been devastating. Her words had moved Arable to tears, she was still wiping them from her face. But apparently nobody else in the entire room could be bothered to so much as look up from the table. “This council is met to discuss all our ideas, not just to listen to mine.”
There were no ideas. The same faces, empty, waited for Marion to either continue speaking or dismiss them with seemingly no preference. There were neither approving nods nor angry head shakes. No laughter, no grumbling. Arable had watched it all from the side of the room where she stood with the other servant girls, ready to pour from her decanter of wine should any of the attendants be brave enough to drink.
“I’m afraid this will be a very boring day if no one else has anything to contribute.” Marion tried to laugh, earning herself absolutely nothing. Arable saw in her now the cunning politician rather than the shrew.
Marion picked a face, seemingly at random. “Norfolk, you are all too familiar with the danger that faces us. Roger Bigod struggled for years to claim his rights as earl of your county, after King Henry refused to confirm his earldom for utterly political reasons. It set Norfolk back a decade, which you have only now begun to recover from. That was a clear overreach even for a king, but it’s the same overreach we allow daily from the Chancellor. Do you wish to see Norfolk suffer more, when Longchamp chooses to steal your master’s title again?”
The man who represented Roger Bigod remained silent, as if he did not even realize he was supposed to answer. When it became painfully obvious others were waiting upon him, he startled innocently. “Oh, my apologies! I am here only as an observer.”
A motto for the man’s life, Arable considered.
But Marion did not seem rattled, instead pivoting to another. “Lancashire. The Baron of Hornby has long been a friend to Prince John, making him an obvious target for someone such as Longchamp. This meet is in your favor, too, it would promote your allies and secure your own barony. Surely you cannot claim to be impartial.”
Roger de Montbegon’s portly surrogate raised his hands in abstention. “I cannot claim anything, I am afraid. My instructions are simply to listen, and to report back to the baron the results of this council. I dare not presume to speak for him, nor his intent.”
“There will be no results of this council,” Marion smiled, though her tone did not, “if everyone refuses to have an opinion. May I ask your name?”
“I am here on behalf of the Baron Roger de Montbegon…”
Marion silenced him with a raised finger. “I know that. I don’t care. I mean your name. You.”
The man only fidgeted, as if an acorn had suddenly appeared between him and the plush seat.
“Yes, you. I am looking at you. You have a name. It simply isn’t possible that your parents forgot to give you one.”
After an awkward swallow, “Roger.”
“Roger?” Marion’s face slacked. “That’s your baron’s name, and it’s also your name?”
“Yes.”
Arable had to stifle a laugh. The whole country was full of Rogers and Roberts and Richards and Williams and Johns. Her hand moved down to her belly, to the slightest curve she was now actively ignoring. She had not considered any names yet, because that would make it too real. But she took this moment to remind herself to name her child something exotic, like Clytaemnestra—or something equally mundane, but at least unique. Table. She could name her daughter something like Table, and then at least no one would ever have to wonder which damned Table she was.
And just like that, there was now a daughter in her belly rather than a question mark. And in her eyes, hot tears.
“Very well, Roger, forget that you are here to represent your baron,” Marion was saying. “I promise we will not mistake your own opinion for his. I ask for your thoughts on this, which no one will hold against you. Do you believe Chancellor Longchamp should have the authority to take land and coin at his whim in order to keep his position, acting as king? To appoint his own undeserving men to positions of power while the king rots in an Austrian cell? Or do you think that power should return to the royal bloodline, to a rightful heir?”
Roger’s mouth opened and closed. Twice. “I haven’t thought about it,” he said.
Arable had not much thought about it, either. She hadn’t thought about what life meant five months from now. About what the world would be like that she would bring her daughter into. About what life she could provide.
About what sort of person Arable would be proud to watch her become.
“I’m asking you to think about it,” Marion said to Roger.
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know? What questions do you have? I am eager to help you understand.”
“I don’t … I’m not the right person to ask.”
“Are you human?” Marion attacked him, barely able to contain herself. “Do you breathe? Have you somehow blundered your way through life without ever harboring an opinion, or a thought, on anything at all? I am not asking you for the correct answer, I’m asking for your answer. You have lived for years, and in that time you have felt something nobody else here has—you have experienced something unique and captivating, your life is utterly yours. At this moment, right now, I want the sum of your experiences, the result of every decision you have ever made to give one informed opinion. Is it right, Roger? It can be yes or no or a thousand brilliant shades between, just open your damned mouth and decide!”
Roger opened his damned mouth, but he had nothing to say.
Someone had raised that Roger from a child, just for him to become a useless sack of man who had nothing to say. Nothing to contribute.
Arable could do better.
“This is not a performance,” Marion lamented. “You are all of you only invited because your houses have every reason to be allies. This is not a hostile environment. It should not be a profound act of bravery to agree, not in this room of friends. Will no one so much as admit that their house is sympathetic to this cause?”
“I will,” Arable said, stepping forward.
Heads turned, chairs groaned against the stone floor, to look at her. Once they saw her, the usual bevy of reactions broke the silence. Snickering, haughty scoffs. A servant girl, they laughed. Who is she? A few whispers about the scars on her cheeks.
“My house supports you,” Arable said, tilting her head back slightly.
Marion was a statue, her eyes alone burning an intense fire across the room.
“Most of you do not know me, but my house was once as notable as any here represented. My father, Lord Raymond de Burel, lost his life in service to his king in 1174, and our estate was unfairly seized from us as a political punishment for my father’s failures. It was gifted to Lord Beneger de Wendenal, who razed it to the ground. We lost everything, because a man like the Chancellor simply decided as much. Any one of you could lose everything, as my family did. Any one of you could become the next servant at the edge of the room, rather than a voice at the table. But since none of you are willing to exercise that right, I will.”
She took one second to turn and take in the room’s reaction, finally making eye contact with Margery d’Oily, perched in absolute alarm at the elevated table. That gave Arable all the courage she needed to finish.
“My name is Lady Arable de Burel, I am the head of the once-great house of Burel of Derbyshire. And though we have no land, no soldiers, no coin, and no power, we do have our dignity. I pledge my house to this cause.”
Marion had not moved, though her jaw was locked tightly forward, her teeth bared. It would not have surprised Arable in the least if she leapt forward like an animal and tore Arable into tiny unidentifiable pieces, set to a deafening applause.
“Lady Arable,” she said, one eyebrow flinching upward. “You should sit down at the table with us. Roger, go get her a chair.”