Page 140 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
Lord Wellington made ahmmsound. At least he found the situation complex.
I was feeling remarkably normal, all things considered. The horse was a smallish, gentle animal, well-groomed and content to pull a light cart for miles. Dappled forest light rolled across his back. Other than some scrapes and a sore side where I was kicked, I was hardly the worse for my adventure.
“Why were you visiting Mr. Darcy?” I asked.
“He desires to divest himself of Pemberley. He asked if I would acquire it. I was honored by the offer. Pemberley is an extraordinary estate.”
“I trust you told him that giving up Pemberley is an absurd idea.” That came out more sharply than I intended.
“Of course.”
Well, that was good.
“May we stop for a moment?” he said. I reined in. He studied a hazel bush twenty paces ahead, then called out, “Well met!”
Leaves rustled, and a grinning boy of fourteen or fifteen stepped out and walked to us. He was tanned, ropey and fit, and barefoot below rough-spun shirt and trousers.
There were regular streaks of blue on his cheeks and forehead. Dried mud, I thought, until he came closer and I saw it was a stain on his skin. He had dyed a pattern onto his face, neck, and arms with woad, a flowering weed used to dye cloth.
“Sir,” he said to Lord Wellington with a bobbing, inexpert bow.
“You make an excellent sentry. Has there been any action?”
“Not a peep. Haven’t even seen a man cross the hill from the house. They are a poor lot of hunters, is all I can say.” The boy looked at me shyly. “Ma’am.”
“Good afternoon,” I said. Late afternoon by now.
We set off again, the boy chattering inconsequential cottage news to Lord Wellington, who listened seriously.
The blue streaks on the boy’s face were pulling at a memory, but I could not place it. Something important. “May I ask why your face is decorated?”
“?’Tis eve of Beltane. Afore them folk come to trouble Mr. Darcy, we was preparing for the Pemberley festival.”
“Are we within the estate?” We had come several miles at least.
“?’Course, ma’am. Pemberley is the biggestestate in the world.”
I smiled at his enthusiasm, even though I knew there were larger. “Do you work the land?”
“Not like farmers. We’re Britons. Hill folk.” I cocked an eyebrow and he explained, “We live the old ways, and keep the true gods. Hunting. Fishing. Raising goats. Pulling up what grows natural.” He added a wry grin. “Sometimes, we trade with the house. Get some bread and tea.”
“Mr. Darcy lets you hunt his land?”
“He does. That’s why we’re on Pemberley. Most lords don’t let nobody hunt. They want to ride about and shoot foxes. Pemberley’s different. Honors the old ways. There’s us!”
He ran ahead. We followed at the horse’s plod and entered a village. There were a dozen small homes scattered, each with walls of wattle and daub, and thatched straw roofs dotted with green where stray seeds had sprouted.
In the center was a clearing, and within that rose an unusually thick maypole cut from a birch trunk. The top reached as high as the thatched roofs.
Lord Wellington went to speak with a pair of men, their faces also striped with blue woad. I clambered off the cart, shook out my stiff legs, and took a closer look at the maypole. The top foot of the birch was stripped of bark and beading with sap. At the height of my head, a wreath of flowering rowan and pale honeysuckle wrapped the pole in white froth.
I stuck my nose in and took a sniff. The scent of rowan was rich and musky. The sweetness of honeysuckle dripped beneath. I pulled my face out, feeling a little dizzy.
“You’ll be asked to dance, you do that,” a woman’s voice said beside me. I turned to find a smiling, yellow-haired woman a few years older than me, wearing a simple linen dress. “I’m Agnes, but everyone calls me Aggy.”
“I am Lizzy,” I said, deciding that a French invasion justified informality, and curtsied. I felt foolish as Aggy bit her lip and returned an inexpert imitation. Obviously, curtsies were not done here. I gave her an apologetic shrug and grin, and she chuckled.
“Guess you ran from them soldiers,” she said, looking me over. “You’re a bit of a mess.”
