riding-breeches!
Inside the hawk-house, she went directly to the block, slipping on her old gauntlet and taking Preciosa up on her arm. With her free hand she stroked the hawk’s breast with the feather kept for that purpose - the touch of a hand on the hawk’s feathers would take the coating from the feathers and damage them. Preciosa sensed her agitation and moved uneasily on her wrist, and Romilly made an effort to calm herself, taking down the hanging lure of feathers and signalling to the boy Ker.
“Have you fresh meat for Preciosa?”
“Yes, damisela, I had a pigeon just killed for the table and I kept all the innards for her, they haven’t been out of the bird more than ten minutes,” Ker said, and she sniffed suspiciously at the fresh meat, then threaded it on to the lure. Preciosa smelled the fresh food and jerked uneasily and fluttered; Romilly spoke soothingly to her, and walked on, kicking the skirt out of her way. She went into the stableyard and loosed the jesses, whirling the lure high over her head; Preciosa flung herself upward, the recoil thrusting Romilly’s hand down, and wheeled high into the sky over the stableyard, stooping down swiftly on the lure, striking almost before it hit the ground. Romilly let her feed in peace for a moment before calling her with the little falconer’s whistle, which the bird must learn to associate with her food, and slipping the hood over her head again. She handed the lure to Ker and said, “You whirl it; I want to watch her fly.”
Obediently the hawkmaster’s boy took the lure and began to whirl it over his head; again Romilly loosed the hawk, watched her fly high, and descend to Romilly’s whistle to the flying bait. Twice more the maneuver was repeated, then Romilly let the hawk finish her meal in peace, before hooding her and setting her back on the block. She stroked her again and again tenderly with the feather, crooning nonsense words of love to her, feeling the sense of closeness and satisfaction from the fed hawk. She was learning. Soon she would fly free and catch her own prey, and return to the wrist…
“Go and saddle Windracer,” she said, glumly adding, “I suppose you must use my sidesaddle.”
The groom would not look at her.
“I am sorry, damisela - The MacAran gave strict orders. Very angry, he was.”
So this, then, was her punishment. More subtle than a beating, and not her father’s way - the delicate stitches set by Luciella’s hand could be clearly seen in this. She could almost hear in her imagination the words her stepmother must have used; see, a big girl like Romilly, and you let her run about the stables, why are you surprised at anything she might do? But leave her to me, and I will make a lady of her….
Romilly was about to fling at the groom, angrily, to forget it, a sidesaddle was an insult to any self-respecting horse … but on her arm Preciosa bated in agitation, and she knew the bird was picking up her own rage - she struggled for calm and said quietly, “Very well, put a lady’s saddle on her, then.” Anger or no, sidesaddle or no, Preciosa must be habituated to the motion of the horse; and a ride on a lady’s saddle was better than no ride at all.
But she thought about it, long and hard, as she rode that day. Appeal to her father would be useless: evidently he had turned responsibility over to Luciella, the new riding-habit had been only a signal showing which way the wind now blew. No doubt, a day would come when she would be forbidden to ride at all - no, for Luciella had told her of his plans to give her a good horse. But she would ride as a lady, decorously because no horse could do anything better than a ladylike trot with a lady’s sidesaddle; ride cumbered in skirts, unable even to school her hawk properly; there was no proper room for a hawk as there was on a man’s saddle where she could carry the block before her. And soon, no doubt, she would be forbidden the stables and hawk-house except for
Inside the hawk-house, she went directly to the block, slipping on her old gauntlet and taking Preciosa up on her arm. With her free hand she stroked the hawk’s breast with the feather kept for that purpose - the touch of a hand on the hawk’s feathers would take the coating from the feathers and damage them. Preciosa sensed her agitation and moved uneasily on her wrist, and Romilly made an effort to calm herself, taking down the hanging lure of feathers and signalling to the boy Ker.
“Have you fresh meat for Preciosa?”
“Yes, damisela, I had a pigeon just killed for the table and I kept all the innards for her, they haven’t been out of the bird more than ten minutes,” Ker said, and she sniffed suspiciously at the fresh meat, then threaded it on to the lure. Preciosa smelled the fresh food and jerked uneasily and fluttered; Romilly spoke soothingly to her, and walked on, kicking the skirt out of her way. She went into the stableyard and loosed the jesses, whirling the lure high over her head; Preciosa flung herself upward, the recoil thrusting Romilly’s hand down, and wheeled high into the sky over the stableyard, stooping down swiftly on the lure, striking almost before it hit the ground. Romilly let her feed in peace for a moment before calling her with the little falconer’s whistle, which the bird must learn to associate with her food, and slipping the hood over her head again. She handed the lure to Ker and said, “You whirl it; I want to watch her fly.”
Obediently the hawkmaster’s boy took the lure and began to whirl it over his head; again Romilly loosed the hawk, watched her fly high, and descend to Romilly’s whistle to the flying bait. Twice more the maneuver was repeated, then Romilly let the hawk finish her meal in peace, before hooding her and setting her back on the block. She stroked her again and again tenderly with the feather, crooning nonsense words of love to her, feeling the sense of closeness and satisfaction from the fed hawk. She was learning. Soon she would fly free and catch her own prey, and return to the wrist…
“Go and saddle Windracer,” she said, glumly adding, “I suppose you must use my sidesaddle.”
The groom would not look at her.
“I am sorry, damisela - The MacAran gave strict orders. Very angry, he was.”
So this, then, was her punishment. More subtle than a beating, and not her father’s way - the delicate stitches set by Luciella’s hand could be clearly seen in this. She could almost hear in her imagination the words her stepmother must have used; see, a big girl like Romilly, and you let her run about the stables, why are you surprised at anything she might do? But leave her to me, and I will make a lady of her….
Romilly was about to fling at the groom, angrily, to forget it, a sidesaddle was an insult to any self-respecting horse … but on her arm Preciosa bated in agitation, and she knew the bird was picking up her own rage - she struggled for calm and said quietly, “Very well, put a lady’s saddle on her, then.” Anger or no, sidesaddle or no, Preciosa must be habituated to the motion of the horse; and a ride on a lady’s saddle was better than no ride at all.
But she thought about it, long and hard, as she rode that day. Appeal to her father would be useless: evidently he had turned responsibility over to Luciella, the new riding-habit had been only a signal showing which way the wind now blew. No doubt, a day would come when she would be forbidden to ride at all - no, for Luciella had told her of his plans to give her a good horse. But she would ride as a lady, decorously because no horse could do anything better than a ladylike trot with a lady’s sidesaddle; ride cumbered in skirts, unable even to school her hawk properly; there was no proper room for a hawk as there was on a man’s saddle where she could carry the block before her. And soon, no doubt, she would be forbidden the stables and hawk-house except for
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