Chapter Seven
The first indication that Rowenna Danby was in trouble was the honking of the geese. She froze, standing on the sturdiest branch of the pear tree, with her hand outstretched towards one particularly ripe specimen. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the determined mass of white heading at speed towards her. Some devil had let the geese loose and they were making for their favourite forbidden place: the orchard where Rowenna was currently standing. She reached the tip of her fingers out and managed to pull the pear free, only for it to slip from her grasp and fall to the ground.
‘Bull’s pizzle!’
No one was around to hear her use her father’s favourite exclamation of annoyance, otherwise she wouldn’t have dared say anything so unladylike. She sat down and lowered herself until she could drop to the ground. The sound of ripping cloth accompanied her gasp as she landed in a heap, scuffing her knees and palms. She swore again, partly from the pain but mostly because of the large tear she now had in her already grubby skirt. She spat on her palm, rubbed it down her bodice and picked up the pear. The windfalls she had gathered before being tempted by the perfect fruit above her were heaped against the trunk of the tree.
The excited honking was growing louder and closer. Rowenna hesitated, caught between the urge to escape and the knowledge that if she returned without the pears it would earn her a whipping from Lady Danby. She scooped the pears up into her grass-stained skirt, then turned towards the path back to Wharram Manor.
Too late. A dozen geese blocked her route to safety. Avarice and determination gleamed in their beady eyes. Their honking became a crooning of anticipation.
‘Shoo!’ Rowenna stamped her foot. That did nothing to deter them. She clutched her skirts tighter and backed against the tree. ‘Hissssss! Get away! They’re mine.’
The ugly creatures only saw this as a challenge and edged closer, spreading out to surround her. Rowenna pressed against the tree. She found the smallest pear and threw it overarm, hoping to create a diversion. It disappeared beneath a flurry of feathers but all she had done was confirm that she had what they wanted. Now the geese knew she was the source of food they advanced on her with an alarming turn of speed. She hissed again, hoping to drive off the mob, but knowing she would never be able to get past without a severe pecking.
She bit down a sob of fright, but at that moment a dark-haired figure caught her attention. Rowenna’s spirits lifted.
‘Robbie! Help me!’
Her cousin Robbie was ambling towards the beck at the bottom of the village. He looked around to see who had called him and grinned at her predicament. Merriment filled his usually serious eyes.
‘Are you having trouble, D-Dumpling?’
‘You can s-s-s-see I am having t-t-t-trouble, you lumbering oaf!’ she retorted, mimicking his hesitant speech. The description wasn’t strictly accurate, but his nickname always made her blood boil. He didn’t lumber and he wasn’t an oaf, but Robbie was going through the awkward stage that afflicted most thirteen-year-olds where his limbs were too long. He moved gracefully, but with maddening slowness. Now he began ambling away from her.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked in alarm.
He scowled, looking hurt.
‘If you’re going to insult me, I’ll leave you to fend for yourself.’
Guilt prickled Rowenna’s neck. Robbie hated the fact that he struggled over some sounds. He would often go for hours without speaking if he was in company with people he didn’t know. Robbie had reason enough to be worried today, without Rowenna taunting him.
‘I’m sorry, Robbie. Truly, I am. You know I don’t think you’re an oaf. Please, don’t stand there laughing.’
Robbie strolled over, taking his time in retaliation for her meanness. He gave her another slow grin. Uncle Roger often said Rowenna was the only one who made Robbie smile, but now she would happily slap the smile from his face.
‘You do look stuck, Dumpling. Lady Stick isn’t going to be pleased when she sees what you’ve done to your skirts.’
Tears filled Rowenna’s eyes. The private nickname she and Robbie had for his grandmother reminded her of what was certain to happen when Lady Danby discovered what she had done to her dress and to the fruit.
‘Stop jesting! A fine knight you’ll make, leaving a woman in distress.’
Robbie frowned and Rowenna knew her arrow had hit the target. He was determined to be a knight like his father and grandfather before him.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well then, Lady Rowenna, if I’m going to be a knight, you must give me a favour.’
‘You can have a pear. Not one of the windfalls. I picked a good one from the high branch.’
Rowenna gave him a smile she hoped looked suitably ladylike. One of the few areas her mother and Lady Danby agreed on was that Rowenna should grow up with the accomplishments expected of a guildsman’s daughter. She knew by now how to dip a curtsy and show a man how wonderful she thought he was.
Robbie folded his arms and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. She wondered if she had gone too far in her flattery. He was more used to Rowenna beating him at scoring points with the lance and rings or kicking his ankles as they sped round the field after a ball. While the village boys drew back instinctively when tackling her, Rowenna showed no such hesitation and most of them surrendered the ball voluntarily rather than risk being on the end of her solid boots. She vowed to try being a little more gentle in future games, at least towards Robbie.
‘Please,’
