The Queen’s Resistance. Rebecca Ross
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have announced myself. It was wrong for me to linger at the door without your knowledge.”
But the girl shook her head. “No, Mistress. That does not excuse our words.”
But you were the only one to speak well of me, and yet you are the one to come and ask for forgiveness, I thought.
“May I ask why you came to see us today?” she inquired.
I hesitated before saying, “Yes, of course. Lord MacQuinn has asked me to help gather grievances of the people. To take to the Lannon trial next week.”
“Oh.” She sounded surprised. Her hand fluttered up to her hair, and she absently wrapped the ends around her finger, a slight frown on her face. “I am sixteen, so Allenach was the only lord I ever knew. But the other women … they remember what it was like before Lord MacQuinn fled. Most of their grievances are held against Lord Allenach, not the Lannons.”
I looked to the fire, a poor attempt to hide how much this conversation rattled me.
“But you are not Allenach’s daughter,” she said, and I had no choice but to meet her gaze. “You are Davin MacQuinn’s daughter. I have only thought of you as such.”
“I am glad to hear that,” I said. “I know that it is difficult for others here to regard me that way.”
Again, I was overcome with the cowardly urge to flee, to leave this place, to cross the channel and sink into Valenia, where no one knew whose daughter I was. Forget about establishing a House of Knowledge here; I could easily do such in Valenia.
“My name is Neeve,” she said after a moment, extending a beacon of friendship to me.
It nearly brought tears to my eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Neeve.”
“I do not have a grievance for you to write down,” Neeve said. “But there is something else. I wanted to see if you could write down a few of my memories from the dark years, so one day I can pass them down to my daughter. I want her to know the history of this land, what it was like before the queen returned.”
I smiled. “I would be more than happy to do that for you, Neeve.” I rose to gather my supplies, dragging my writing table before the fire. “What would you like me to record?”
“I suppose I should start at the beginning. My name is Neeve MacQuinn. I was born to Lara the weaver and Ian the cooper in the spring of 1550, the year of storms and darkness …”
I began to transcribe, word for word, pressing her memories into ink on the page. I soaked in her stories, for I longed to understand what life had been like during “the dark years,” as the people here referred to the time of Jourdain’s absence. And I found that I was grieved as well as relieved, for while Neeve was forbidden some things, she was protected from others. Not once had Lord Allenach physically harmed her, or allowed his men to do so. In fact, he never once looked at her or spoke to her. It was the older women and men who were given the harsher punishments, to make them bend and cower and submit, to make them forget MacQuinn.
“I suppose I should stop for now,” she said after a while. “I’m sure that is more than enough for you to have written down.”
My hand was cramped and my neck was beginning to tighten from stooping over the desk. I realized she had talked beyond an hour, and we had accumulated twenty pages of her life. I set down my quill and bent my fingers back and dared to say, “Neeve? Would you like to learn how to read and write?”
She blinked, astonished. “Oh, I don’t think I would have the time, Mistress.”
“We can make time.”
She smiled, as if I had lit a flame within her. “Yes, yes, I would like that very much! Only …” Her delight faded. “Could we keep the lessons secret? At least for now?”
I couldn’t deny that I was saddened by her query, knowing that she would not want others learning of our time together. But I thought again on ways I could prove myself to the MacQuinns—I needed to be patient with them, to let them come into their trust of me in their own time—and I smiled, stacking the pages together, handing them to her. “Why don’t we begin tomorrow night? After dinner? And yes, we can keep it a secret.”
Neeve nodded. Her eyes widened as she took the pages, as she gazed down at my handwriting, tracing it with her fingertip.
And as I regarded her, I helplessly thought back to what I had overheard that morning. I believe she is part Valenian, one of the weavers had said of me. They were seeing me as either southern or as an Allenach. I worried this would always set me apart from the MacQuinns no matter how much I might attempt to prove myself to them.
“Neeve,” I said, an idea coming to mind. “Perhaps you can teach me something in return.”
She glanced up, shocked. “Oh?”
“I want to know more about the MacQuinns, about your beliefs, your folklore, and your traditions.”
I want to become one of you, I almost begged. Teach me how.
I already harbored head knowledge of the MacQuinn House, courtesy of Cartier and his teachings at Magnalia House. I knew their history, the sort that could be found in an old, dusty tome. They were given the blessing of Steadfast, their sigil was that of a falcon, their colors were lavender and gold, and their people were respected as the most skilled of weavers in all the realm. But what I lacked was knowledge of the heart, the social mores of MacQuinns. What were their courtships like? Their weddings? Their funerals? What sort of food did they serve at birthdays? Did they harbor superstitions? What was their etiquette?
“I don’t know if I am the best one to teach you such things,” Neeve said, but I could see how pleased she was that I had asked her.
“Why don’t you tell me about one of your favorite MacQuinn traditions?” I offered.
Neeve was quiet for a moment, and then a smile emerged on her lips.
“Did you know that if we decide to marry someone beyond the MacQuinn House, we have to choose them with a ribbon?”
I was instantly intrigued. “A ribbon?”
“Or, perhaps I should say that the ribbon chooses for us,” Neeve said. “It is a test, so we may determine who is worthy beyond our House.”
I settled back in my chair, waiting for more.
“The tradition began a long time ago,” Neeve started. “I do not know if you are familiar with our tapestries or not …”
“I’ve heard that the MacQuinns are known to be the best weavers in Maevana.”
“Aye. So much so that we began to hide a golden ribbon in the tapestry wefts as we wove. A skilled weaver can make the ribbon melt into the design, so that it is very difficult to find.”
“Every MacQuinn tapestry holds a hidden ribbon, then?” I asked, still very confused as to how this corresponded to choosing a mate.
Neeve’s smile widened. “Yes. And this is how the tradition began. The first lord of MacQuinn had only one daughter, one that he loved so greatly he did not believe any man—MacQuinn or beyond—would ever be worthy of her. So he had the weavers hide a ribbon within a tapestry they were making, knowing that it would take the most determined, dedicated of men to find it. When the lord’s daughter came of age, man after man arrived to the hall, desperate to win her favor. But Lord MacQuinn called forth the tapestry and his daughter challenged the men to bring her the golden ribbon hidden in the wefts. And man after man could not find it. By the time the twentieth man arrived, Lord MacQuinn believed the lad would only last an hour. But the man stood in the hall for one hour searching, and then one hour turned into two, until evening stretched into dawn. By the first light of the sun, the man had pulled the ribbon from the tapestry. He was a Burke, of all people, and yet Lord MacQuinn said he was more than worthy should his daughter choose to marry him.”
“And