“Your gait—it’s well done.”
Henry paused, confused.
“Oh, don’t stop!” she cried.
He looked to me for help. I complied. “You see, we ladies are taught how to walk.” I made a great show of demonstrating. “Small steps, gliding, gliding. You cannot appear to move when you move.”
He laughed. “And here I was, believing you all floated above the ground so naturally. If I had only realized a walk could be studied and scrutinized, I would have taken up the sport earlier.”
“Oh yes.” I grinned. “It’s quite studied. Just as a scholar studies text and a gardener tends to their blossoms, an excellent walker is most often the result of dutiful consideration.”
“But that contradicts my point entirely,” Sigrid said. “Henry’s walk is the result of no studying at all. It is quite natural.”
“I am very lucky, then, that such a natural act comes naturally,” he said.
Certainly, I wanted to confirm, complimenting a man’s walk could not actually endear a man to the flatterer. But Henry appeared pleased and was walking across the glade with bravado.
I whistled and called the tiercel back to my glove. I saw, in Sigrid’s eyes, a quick fear of the movement.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I said to her, loudly enough to ensure Henry could hear me.
He paused his marching and went to Sigrid. “Are you sure you do not want to try holding one?”
In his question, I heard an echo of our meeting the year before. The tiercel, I was sure, felt rage, too, for he went slick and tight on my glove. But Sigrid shook her head, emphatically. “I can admire better from here.”
“Look.” I held out my gauntlet. “They’re harmless.” If I hadn’t been wearing the gloves, the talons would have pierced my skin.
“Not to the mice and the grouse.” Sigrid pursed her lips.
Henry shrugged, quickly losing interest, and turned back to me to discuss how I was doing with the male falcon. But I gave him only half my attention, for I had realized where I might have an advantage.
“You seem uninspired by hawking,” I called to Sigrid.
Her gaze lingered on the bird on my hand before she looked away. “Hawking is a fine sport.”
“But not one that stirs your passions.”
She looked at me shrewdly. “I do not find hunting to be a… delicate… activity.”
“We have been very unfair to tax you so!” I could feel Henry watching us, back and forth, and continued: “We’ll have to do something different tomorrow.” Resolving to spend more time in places that framed Sigrid’s character unfavorably, I turned to Henry. “Perhaps a walk through the gorge? It’s quite steep and rugged, but I am certain we are all up to the task.”
He shook his head. “Best avoided in the rainy season. It gets slippery.”
“We could take a rowboat out on the lake,” I suggested.
He frowned. “Too precarious.” After a moment’s pause, he proposed: “Perhaps we could go for a ride?”
Sigrid stood from her rock and dusted her hands. “I am an accomplished rider.”
“Of course you are,” I responded, quiet enough so no one could hear.
We met the following day in the Tremaines’ stables. I had brought my own mare and Henry’s stood outside, saddled and waiting. We walked along the stalls, looking to pick a horse for Sigrid.
She stopped in front of a black stallion, twice as tall as she was. “How about this one?”
Henry shook his head. “That is Cedric, and he belongs to one of my father’s men-at-arms. I do not think he would take kindly to him being borrowed.” He moved forward to the next stall. “Here, this one is Old Bess. She’s friendly.”
“No one wants to ride a horse named Old Bess.” Sigrid wrinkled her nose. The stable smelled of hay and animals: mud and old leather and the distinct ammonia of horse urine.
