Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 71: Satinalia
"…and Teyrn Loghain sent word, wanting you to report to him as soon as possible."
Bronwyn, elated to come back to Denerim the day before Satinalia and find so much done for her, kissed Mistress Rannelly's rosy, withered cheek.
"Dearest Rannelly, you are a queen amongst housekeepers. I really tore my hair, worrying about the Satinalia gifts."
Bronwyn dashed out to the courtyard and then round to the steps leading to the upper palace. What a relief! Rannelly had seen to everything just as she wanted: gifts for the Compound servants, gifts for the Wolf clan, and gifts for the Wardens, all already purchased and beribboned, and waiting in her room to be presented tomorrow.
Certain gifts she had seen to herself. For Loghain, who quite simply had everything he could ever need or want, she had commissioned the carving of an exquisite little dragon, left over from a piece of Flemeth's flayed bones. It looked quite jaunty with a little bow of green ribbon tied around its long red neck. It was a frivolous gift on the surface; not so frivolous after a moment's thought.
It was, after all, customary to give sensible, useful, or expensively decorative gifts to servants or friends who were not on the same footing in society. Among the aristocracy, it was considered more appropriate to give pretty or amusing trifles.
For that reason, in Amaranthine, she had snapped up the ridiculous Black Fox chess set for Fergus. How many times as children had they acted out that rascal's adventures?
Anora's gift required more care and tact. Bronwyn was not certain that Anora's sense of humor was equal to Highever-style presents and pranks. She must be indoctrinated in it, but carefully. Therefore, Bronwyn dug into her chest of loot and selected something she had found in Orzammar: a little dwarven figurine representing a paragon, cast in silver. It was of the Paragon Varen, the one who had discovered that nugs were edible, so there would be an anecdote to tell about it, in her note enclosed with the gift. A plump crystal nug stood by the paragon's left foot.
For the rest of her noble friends she had other keepsakes and oddities, amethyst geodes, curious boxes of malachite, silver paperweights in the form of mabaris, of bears, of horses. And of griffons, of course.
But all these would be given tomorrow. Now she must see Loghain, and then dress for the Satinalia Eve service in the Cathedral. Her new green gown, she supposed, so she could wear the more vivid, festive red one tomorrow.
Scout trotted in ahead of her, tail wagging, glad to see Loghain. Scout had always liked Loghain. As was typical, Loghain greeted the dog and gave him a scratch behind the ears before turning his attention to Bronwyn. He granted her a slight smile and a grave kiss.
"You look well. You found everything you were looking for?"
He led her to the settee by the fire. It was all infinitely preferable to him interrogating her from behind his desk. He even poured her some Antivan brandy. That was very welcome. The last days in the saddle had been cold. She took a warming sip, and told her story.
"Surprisingly yes. And more. The fortress was not a crumbling ruin, but in fairly good condition. No, I don't mean it was currently the abode of foreign infiltrators. The demons had preserved it with their magic. We slaughtered them and the mages repaired the Veil. The castle is no longer magically preserved, so now we'll have to maintain it in the ordinary way. With a modicum of coin and effort, it can be made quite habitable. It might be very useful as a training garrison, since it's not far from that entrance to the Deep Roads in Amaranthine. I must look up the exact land grant that was attached to it. I dare say it's not much, but it would be nice to have pasturage for our horses, at least."
"Hmph!" Loghain was not pleased at the idea of giving the Grey Wardens so much as an acre of Fereldan soil. He wondered what Nathaniel Howe would think of it. Any territory held by the Grey Wardens would be his loss.
"And what about that Archdemon blood of yours?"
Bronwyn felt very smug. "Found it! The old Wardens had hidden it behind a wall. While we were scouring out the demons, I put my foot through the place. They had the Archdemon blood preserved there, along with their old correspondence and recruiting records. The latter are of interest only to antiquarians now, of course, but I plan on reading it all. I'd love to know if the First Warden then was as distant and unhelpful as his successor today."
"As you say, of antiquarian interest only. You've made it clear that the head of your order will not lift a finger to aid us. The question is, to what degree will he seek to harm us?"
"I don't think he will at all. Not directly anyway, since that, too, would require effort and resources. He might not mind if someone else did, of course."
"What about the Deep Roads entrance?"
"Nothing going on there. We sensed darkspawn, but only faintly. They haven't used the entrance to reach the surface. It can be marked off the list of possible dangers, at least for now. So what's happened here since I've been gone?"
"Politics and more politics, of course. The night before last we met the Kendalls claimant for Denerim."
"What did you think?"
Loghain's face soured. "I suppose he'll do. For those who think blood is everything, he'll have to do."
"You were unimpressed."
"I was unimpressed. Not a fool, but not someone raised to administer our capital city. I should be the last one to denigrate a Fereldan freeholder, but I'm not sure the fellow will have much interest in urban problems. He has …" Loghain paused, brows knit. "….no ideas. No great plans. It's just another sort of farm to him, with profits to be wrung from it. Bryland is backing him, but only because Kendalls has agreed to take on Habren."
"Ugh! Poor fellow."
"I know that you dislike her, but possibly 'poor Habren.' The man has a hard look to him."
"Maker!" Alarmed, Bronwyn sat up straight. "You don't suppose he's another Vaughan, do you?" Briefly, she thought about her schemes for improving the Alienage, and hoped that this stranger would not hinder them…or follow in the footsteps of his predecessor.
He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "No. I wouldn't say that about any man without knowing him better. He's a respectable, hard-working farmer, from all accounts. I'll say this, he looked Habren over like a brood mare at a horse dealer's. He all but examined her teeth—" He broke off, with a harsh laugh. "Well, for all I know, he did that, too. They sat next to each other and talked a bit. He might have managed it then."
"He'd do better to examine her temper, rather than her teeth! Still, it sounds like he'll do his best, and not simply squander his tax income. What about the rest of the family?"
"We don't know. He didn't bring them with him. The little girls are in school. The younger brother is back at the farm. I told Kendalls that the Landsmeet will want a good look at them, as they're heirs presumptive. He didn't like it, but agreed to send for them. Complained bitterly about having to hire a tenant to farm the freehold. Mind you, in his shoes I wouldn't care for it, either."
He could have said more. In point of fact, he did not like Aron Kendalls at all. Had he grown vain in his old age? It had rankled a bit, just the least bit, when the man was presented to him and showed not the merest hint of being impressed. That had not happened to Loghain in a long, long time. The man was not impressed much by any of them, other than obviously noting Anora's physical beauty, and the prettiness of the young girls at the table. Instead, his manner reminded Loghain once again of a horse dealer…or perhaps more of a shrewd card player, assessing the other players for weaknesses, noting their 'tells,' pursuing his own advantage with no regard for the rest of the world.
How could he explain to a daughter of the Couslands, the descendant of generations of high nobility, that he did not think a man like Aron Kendalls —a man whose only claim rested in an accident of birth—belonged in the Landsmeet at all? He was a sound freeholder. Well and good. That gave him no qualifications whatever to rule Denerim. He had no ties there…no love for the city and its people. In fact, like many Bannorn peasants, he had a real antipathy toward city folk. Loghain knew all about that, and had grown up with such ideas stuffed in his head, until the Rebellion had knocked them out of him.
Aron Kendalls did not care about Denerim, nor did he feel any responsibility toward it. He would collect his rents and his taxes and not a copper would escape his eye. He would vote his personal interest in the Landsmeet, never considering the greater good. Maker knew that the Landsmeet already had too many nobles like that. All in all, though it disgusted him to admit it even to himself, he would rather see a rank opportunist like Adam Hawke in the Landsmeet than Aron Kendalls. Hawke, at least, had risked himself in battle for the country's welfare. Kendalls had the look of a man who never risked anything.
Perhaps he was being too particular. Perhaps he had become snobbish as well as vain. Kendalls was an outsider, and a fresh eye might well see much to scorn in Denerim. The man had not been indoctrinated in the fine art of courtly bootlicking, after all. Even if he became no more than a tight-fisted, hard-working landlord, he would be superior to many in the Landsmeet. Loghain had no illusions about the Fereldan nobility. For every Rendorn Guerrin, sacrificing wealth and security for his country's freedom, there was a Rendon Howe. For every Rowan or Bronwyn, there were a dozen empty-headed Habren Brylands, good only for spending coin.
Bronwyn's voice roused him from his thoughts.
"Was anything interesting said over the dinner?"
"What? Oh, the usual rubbish. The guests were more interesting that the conversation. Bryland thinks a lot of that Hawke mage girl, you know. Actually invited her to dinner, along with her mother and her cousin. I hadn't met any of them before. They're all extremely good-looking."
"I agree. A remarkably handsome family. The girls, especially, are very nice—very decent. It's bold of Bryland, accepting a mage on a social basis. And I thought I was the radical!"
"The Hawkes are certainly on the rise. Habren was very haughty with them, but I got the distinct impression that Wulffe was encouraging his son to pursue the cousin."
"Charade?" Bronwyn thought that over. "It's true there aren't a lot of appealing marital prospects of suitable age, unless Rothgar marries someone very young and waits a few years. But no: Wulffe is greedy for grandchildren and wouldn't like that."
"Bryland seemed to be doing his best to show the girl in a good light. He had his young boys brought in to meet us after dinner, probably to show Wulffe how good the Hawke women were with children. And they were: I have to grant that. It seemed sincere, too."
"I hope he understands that Charade hasn't a dowry. She and her father lost everything when they left Kirkwall. At least that was my understanding."
"With her brother proposed for the city of Amaranthine, perhaps Wulffe feels he can get something later. " Loghain snorted. "And thus, he's likely to support Hawke for the bannorn for just that reason!"
Bronwyn began laughing, carelessly draping herself over Loghain. Her thick long braid of dark hair trailed down across his hand and over the arm of the settee. Amused but puzzled, Loghain gave the braid a tug.
"It's not all that funny."
"No," she said, wiping away tears. "it's not. Carver will absolutely go raving mad if his brother is made a Bann. Lots of sibling rivalry there. I feel for him, but it's just too ironic."
"I've never understood sibling rivalry at all. I always wished for a brother. Surely they understand that they're stronger together!"
"I don't suppose you do. You're an only child, aren't you? And the father of an only child. I love my brother very much, but I can tell you that from the day you are born, your siblings are the first, most ferocious competition for everything precious in life. It's bitterest in childhood, but even after, it can sink its claws into you. I've often wondered if Fergus and I would have been such good friends, had we been closer in age, or had I been a son."
"You must be good friends, or he would not have yielded you the throne so readily."
"There's something in that, certainly; but also the fact that Fergus really and truly has no desire to be king. If it were something that he wanted—or if he disliked me and wanted to thwart me—then things would be even more chaotic than they are at the moment."
A relentless pounding awakened Anders and Morrigan in the first light of dawn. Morrigan opened one eye to assess the time, and then groaned and buried her head in the pillows. The noise continued.
"Come on!" shouted Carver Hawke. "Breakfast!"
"Carver," groaned Anders, "stop knocking right now or we'll curse you. The sun isn't even up."
"It's Satinalia!" Carver whined, thumping the door again. "Everybody's got presents!"
A pause. Morrigan sat up in bed. "'Tis a consideration indeed..."
"Too right it's a consideration," Carver announced. "Come on!"
Zevran emerged from his quarters, not a hair out of place.
"I thought you were going to have breakfast with the charming ladies of your family."
"I am," Carver replied, unabashed. "I want to have breakfast here, too. We're going to have pancakes! I can smell them."
Most of the junior Wardens were already assembled in the Hall. Aveline had not yet made it down, not particularly excited about celebrating her first Satinalia since her husband Wesley died. The rest were gleefully poking at the piles of gifts, trying to guess what lay under the traditional red scarves.
"Pancakes?" wondered Soren. "D'you suppose they'll have nug in them? I love nug pancakes."
"Not a chance," Hakan growled. "Haven't seen a nug since we left the Deep Roads. They'll probably put some sort of surfacer fruit in them instead."
"Fruit?" quavered Soren, probing the horror. "They'll make us eat fruit? Did we sign up for that?"
"Berries," said Jowan, sitting comfortably on a bench, rather excited about the holiday. "They're really little fruit."
The dwarves' expressions indicated that no fruit could be small enough to suit them.
But in the end, there was something to suit everyone. When the problem was explained, Mistress Rannelly saw no trouble whatever in ordering the cook to make some pancakes with sausage in them. They still seemed foreign and exotic to the dwarves, but quite toothsome. Especially with spicy sauce.
"Anything left for me?" wondered Leliana, drifting sleepily into the Hall. The Satinalia Eve service at the Cathedral had been rather prolonged. She noticed a big steaming crock on the table and gave it a sniff. "Oh! Soufflé de maquereau! How marvelous!"
"This is Orlesian?" Toliver asked suspiciously. "I thought it was Feast-Day Fish!"
"It is." Bronwyn sat at the head of the head, and reassured him. "It is. Fluffy and delicious mackerel pudding. Leliana just told you what the Orlesians call it in their language."
Zevran immediately spooned himself a helping. "It smells divine. The sliced hard-boiled eggs are a delightful garnish. We have something a little like this in Antiva, but it is not so light." He took a bite. "Ah! But it contains Antivan pepper, all the same! Delicious!"
Cathair tried some, and politely did not spit it out. "It is very..." Words failed him. He poured cream into a bowl and submerged a thick slice of apple bread in it.
Aveline arrived at last, rather surprised that everyone was up so early when they had been told they could sleep in. Her fellow Wardens eagerly helped her to everything on the table.
"What about presents?" Carver complained.
Bronwyn pointed her spoon at his heaping platter. "Eat everything on your plate first. Then presents. Then everyone gets paid for the quarter."
A pleased murmur rose up. Carver turned his attention to his plate.
"Oh. Right, then."
There was a pause in the conversation, broken only by the sound of diligent, contented consumption. Bronwyn began with porridge, because she had been trained to fill up with porridge before taking any of the richer foods. It was very good porridge, too, with butter and salt, just as she liked it. Scout liked porridge, too, though he generally needed his muzzle wiped clean afterwards.
Then the red scarves were whisked away, and there was a general dive into the presents. Most were very simple: clever folding knives and traveling gaming sets; pencils with little cases and drinking flasks; holiday hand puppets and scented soaps.
Bronwyn smiled over her own charming haul. She loved anything scented, and Leliana had even found her some scented candles tinted green, which she liked very much. Morrigan had created a wonderful pomander filled with dried herbs and flowers. Cathair had carved her a delicate little figure of Mythal the Protector out of fragrant whitewood. The most amusing present was from Anders, which was a hairclip as wide as her hand that concealed a tiny dagger. She said nothing about the presents that had been delivered to her private room: the gifts from Fergus and Loghain and her fellow nobles. Fergus had sent her "your very own grappling hook." Bryland had sent her a pair of miniature portraits of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, based on a group painting at his Keep that had been made at the end of the Rebellion. Anora had sent her an exquisite windharp of crystal and silver wire, to be hung in a window. Loghain, in a fit of wry humor, had sent her a cookbook: Mother Blandula's Compleat Housekeeper. Bronwyn had laughed, and considered thumping him over the head with it. On the other hand, there was a very interesting section in it on camp cookery...
"There's going to be a puppet show in the Market," Carver told them, in a weirdly high voice. One of his presents was a Kiveal the Trickster puppet, and he was using it to annoy Aveline. "Around noon. Everybody should see that!"
"Have fun however you like," Bronwyn said, "As long as no one dies or is seriously hurt. And don't go anywhere alone! I'm serious about that. Be back at sundown to change for the feast."
Leliana looked up from the pretty dancing slippers given to her by Bronwyn, and asked, "Who do you suppose will be the Fool?"
Bronwyn's hand paused over a flask of very nice perfume. At home in Highever choosing a Satinalia fool was as simple as someone getting the silver coin in their slice of pudding. At the Palace feast, it, like everything else, was political. No one wanted to risk labeling the Queen a fool.
"The Fool will be Pol Pollen, the professional puppeteer and clown," she told them. "He will come in when the pudding is served and put on a show. He's a well-known Ferelden entertainer, and his people have been carefully vetted. The musicians, too, will be searched for anything resembling weapons. They'll be lucky if they're allowed eating knives."
Carver snorted, "Nobody wants anything like the Dead Arl's Wedding to happen again."
"Exactly. I've got to get my presents delivered to everyone—"
Zevran said, "I would be happy to deliver the little girl's gifts to the Alienage."
"I shall go with you," Cathair volunteered.
"Thank you. You can ride on the cart I ordered," said Bronwyn. "The chest with her name goes to little Amethyne, but I am sending the Alienage some provisions to improve their cheer, since they have no Arl to see to them. Valendrian is also due the money for the child's keep. If the two of you will deliver it, that will be one less thing for me to worry about. Carver," she added. "I have presents for Highever House, but I'm going there, too. Perhaps in an hour or two. You can help me carry them. All the rest of my gifts are being sent by courier."
"Er..." Jowan hesitated. "Leliana and I have presents for our friends there, too."
"Wonderful!" Bronwyn said. "Then I'll have lots of help. I'll be there for quite a bit of the day. Everybody's invited as soon they can make it. You should all try Highever Holiday Punch."
"What's punch?" Hakan whispered to Aveline.
"It's a drink," Aveline told him. "It's served in a big bowl."
"Sometimes it has fruit in it," sniped Jowan.
"Ewww. But why did do they call it 'punch?'" the dwarf persisted.
The well-traveled Anders smirked, "Because, my little friend, that's what it packs. A punch."
The dwarves took that in. Soren shrugged. "Sounds...good. I can pick the bits of fruit out first, can't I?"
Bronwyn then got everyone paid, and hoped that wherever they were, her Senior Wardens were paying everyone else properly, too.
At least everyone here was happy with their gifts. For her Wolf people, she had asked Rannelly to put together a variety of leather flasks, folding knives, and silver spoons for the men. For the women, there was a huswife apiece: a sewing kit comprised of thimble, a measure, two good needles, small scissors, small reels of black and white thread, and a little pincushion with a dozen straight pins. These had also been given to the Warden servants, and were regarded as treasures. Rannelly explained to Bronwyn that any woman with such an object had the means of self-support.
So they were regarded when she distributed the gifts at Highever House. Bronwyn was glad to learn that Fergus had been generous with them as well. In a few days she would get her ex-werewolves together and find out how they felt about going north to serve the Wardens. If they were amenable, it would solve some her problems with Soldier's Peak.
The second breakfast at Highever House was fairly hilarious, as Fergus had already mixed the punch, potent and fragrant, in a huge silver bowl. There was more hilarity, when the dwarves grasped that the bowl was for everyone to share, not an individual portion. They soon discovered that a goblet or two was quite strong enough for holiday cheer.
"Lady Bronwyn! May I speak to you? In private?"
Bronwyn found Lady Amell bearing down on her, and smiled. She hoped the Hawkes realized how fortunate they were to still have their mother; and that their mother was so affectionate and devoted to each one of them
"Of course. I believe my old room is vacant at the moment."
It was not only vacant. Bronwyn was disturbed to find it nearly empty. Of course with all the people staying here, much of the furniture had been moved and rearranged. The ladies could at least sit in the window seat and have a chat unheard. Leandra Hawke, now Lady Amell, was fidgeting, wringing her hands in distress.
"I hoped to ask your advice on a personal matter of great importance. The most extraordinary thing has happened!"
Bronwyn smiled. Wulffe had no doubt given his son a push. Charade was quite a pleasant girl, and would no doubt—
"I have had an offer of marriage!" Leandra confessed.
Bronwyn blinked, trying to rearrange her thoughts. This woman was as old as her own mother. And someone had asked for her hand?
"You...yourself...have had an offer?"
"Yes! It was so utterly unexpected...not unwelcome, of course, not that...but such a surprise! I have not even told my children. I'm not sure how they would react." She reddened like a maiden. "I'm afraid they would laugh, at first. But then..."
"First of all, I suppose it depends upon the gentleman. Do you like him?"
"Yes! Well...I hardly know him, but he has been such a good friend to our family. And considering his position, one would not like to refuse him..."
Bronwyn stared at her, wondering who the woman could possibly mean. Who was so prestigious as to not be easily refused? Loghain? He was promised to Bronwyn.
"Who is—"
"Arl Bryland. The Arl of South Reach!" Leandra burst forth. "He came to here yesterday and made his offer. A handsome one. He understands that I have...no fortune. He understands that all our estates in Kirkwall were lost. He does not care that I am probably too old to give him more children, and said very kindly that three were quite enough for him to manage. He thought I would be a pleasant companion and a kind stepmother to his sons. And I would... I mean...they are darling little boys..."
Still too surprised to compose a rational reply, Bronwyn tried to make sense of this new development. She imagined Loghain's reaction, and nearly burst out laughing. If he thought the Hawkes ambitious before, what would he think now? This marriage, on the surface such an unexceptional union between two pleasant, middle-aged people, was rife with political implications.
Leandra Hawke, Lady Amell, would become Arlessa of South Reach. That changed everything. With Bryland as his stepfather, there was no longer any doubt that Adam Hawke would be made Bann of Amaranthine. Nor was there any question that Charade Amell, even without a dowry, would be considered a suitable match for the heir of West Hill. Honors and titles would fall to the Hawkes like dominoes. From penniless peasants and adventurers a few months ago, they would abruptly become one of the most influential families in the kingdom. Clearly, Lady Amell understood this at some level, which was why she was more or less asking for Bronwyn's permission. For that was what this was all about, it seemed.
And Bethany. Mistress Bethany Hawke, a mage outside the Circle, would become the stepdaughter of one of the most powerful men in Ferelden: one who had declared her free of Chantry control in the Queen's name. Marrying her mother would wave a red battle flag in the Chantry's face, and declare to all Thedas Bryland's surprisingly radical stance on the issue of Chantry control of mages.
Not thinking so deeply on the matter, the Landsmeet likely would approve the marriage automatically, thinking it of little consequence, since Bryland already had heirs. The Chantry, however, thinking three steps ahead as they generally did, might actually refuse to solemnize it. Would that do them harm or good? Bethany was popular with a lot of influential Landsmeet members, even a devout woman like Bann Alfstanna. Refusing to allow her mother to marry would look to them like petty spite. The Chantry in Orlais already seemed opposed to Ferelden, but they could not easily use such an event to raise indignation in other nations. If the Arl of South Reach were actually to marry a mage, yes, perhaps: but not the mother of a mage.
Was the marriage a good thing for the people involved? Personally, she could see it being very nice for Cousin Leonas. Maybe not so nice for Leandra herself once she got to know Habren.
Habren! Andraste's nightgown! There were no end of stories about wicked stepmothers, but Habren would likely be the wickedest stepdaughter of all time. Bronwyn hoped that Bryland intended to wait until Habren was out of the house and settled before introducing a wife into his household. There was a place to begin.
"My cousin is a wonderful man, and I am sure he would be a kind and considerate husband. Did he say when he would like to marry?"
"Oh, of course after his daughter's wedding. He has so much on his mind. With her gone, he'll have no one to help him with the boys and the household, and of course he'll be lonely. And he lost his sister, as you know, in such a cruel way so recently. Now his daughter will be marrying. I'm sure he'll miss her very much."
"Cousin Leonas loves his family deeply, and I am sure he would not offer marriage to a woman without some sincere regard for her. He could, after all, simply engage a housekeeper. That he wishes to give you his name and his rank is a profound personal compliment."
"I know it is!" The woman absolutely glowed, and looked years younger than her age. "I had never thought of marrying again after losing my dear Malcolm, but this... he's such a fine man, and so very kind. I'm sure my children would respect him as they should."
"Yes, I believe they would." Why not? They were sensible people. Not only was Arl Bryland a decent man in himself, but he was the gateway to a life of power and wealth for them.
Except for Carver. He was a Grey Warden, and would not personally profit from the marriage. However, Bronwyn could not see Carver giving his mother any difficulty if she wished to marry. Or did she? Even grown children could be difficult if they thought a beloved parent was being replaced. And boys could be possessive of their mothers, just as daughters were of their fathers.
Bronwyn considered it. She saw no valid reason to oppose the marriage. If Cousin Leonas fancied this woman, why should she take steps to thwart him? His sister had done enough of that over the years. In fact, it would be a bad idea for Bronwyn personally, since he was one of her strongest political supporters. She needed to tell Loghain about this—very soon—but did not like the idea of interfering in the personal lives of a grown man and a grown woman.
"As soon as you can," she advised instead, "I think you should gather your children—-and Charade, too—together, and tell them your plans. Better to clear the air at once and find out if they have strong feelings against it."
"Then you don't think it...a bad idea."
Should she warn her about Habren? Bronwyn's conscience gave her a hard nudge.
"For you and the Arl personally? No, not at all. My cousin has been alone too long. The boys might be thrilled to have a maternal figure in their lives. They have evidently taken to your daughter, and might well be happy to acknowledge her as a sister. Lady Habren, however..."
The glowing face dimmed briefly. The nudge of conscience renewed. Habren could be so very nasty. Bronwyn was convinced that this marriage would enrage her.
"I think you must be prepared for some jealousy there. Forgive me for speaking plainly. After being so doted on by her father, it might be...difficult...for Habren to accept that he has affections for any lady other than herself. Of course, she will be married by then and distracted. Nonetheless..."
"I think I understand. Poor girl. Of course it would hard for her. You don't oppose it yourself?"
"No. Not at all. I'm sure you'll be a good wife to my cousin. You realize, surely, that you will have heavy responsibilities as Arlessa, but I know that the Arl will do his best to help you. You should visit South Reach as soon as possible and get to know your new vassals."
"How exciting it will be!" Leandra's glow was in evidence once more. "He is such a good and pleasant person! So manly and brave! His house in town is so charming, and there is so much to do! He suggested the end of Firstfall, It will be a very quiet ceremony, but I feel I can hardly wait!"
She touched Bronwyn's hand in a moment of affectionate, grateful enthusiasm, and then excused herself. Bronwyn was left in her echoingly empty room, musing over this new upheaval.
Loghain was suspicious of the Hawkes, but could not say anything publicly against the marriage. He would not dare raise the issue of Leandra's déclassé status, and the fact that she had been living on a little farm in Lothering with her commoner husband for the past twenty years. Loghain had married a commoner himself, and Teyrna Celia had had no trace of the noble Marcher blood that Leandra Hawke could boast. The fact that the lady had no dowry to bring the marriage was a matter between bride and groom. With the difficulties with the Chantry, Loghain would be the last man to bring up the fact that the lady had given birth to a mage.
Someone would, of course.
Zevran grinned at Cathair, enjoying the celebration swirling around them. They were the most popular men in the Alienage today.
The carter, paid extra for working on Satinalia, helped unload the cargo, and then smartly snapped his whip and was away from the knife-ears as fast as his ox would move. Valendrian came out of his house, and threw up his hands in astonishment at the bounty before him.
Bronwyn had based her gifts to the Alienage on what her father had traditionally given the Highever elves. Had she asked, she would have found that Arl Urien had never been anywhere as generous...and Bann Vaughan had always expected a certain quid pro quo in exchange.
Thus, the cask of ale, the hams, the keg of salt fish, the big fruitcake, and the heavy bolt of blue wool were looked upon as the serendipitous gifts of the Maker. Valendrian did his best to attribute them more specifically to the kindness of the Girl Warden; especially when he was given the quarterly maintenance for Amethyne, and the wonderful chest was taken into his house to be opened and exclaimed over.
The little girl, when not interrogated by a tall and terrible shemlen lady, was talkative enough, excited about her music lessons with "Mistress Zoe;" and thrilled to have a chest of her very own, inscribed with her name, which she could spell out for them very proudly.
"And it has a key!" she said, examining that bronze object in wonder. "I have a chest that locks!"
Zevran explained to her that she should open the chest, because it had rattled a little and might have something inside. The womenfolk crowded around, urging her to have a look.
And then there were cries of excitement at the contents. Zevran reflected on little, how very little it took to make a child happy. For that matter, how little it took to inspire gratitude in these poor people.
A redhaired girl named Shianni quickly tied the green hair ribbon to the end of the child's long plait, and the effect was much admired. Red mittens were declared to be the last word in winter fashion for a little elven girl. The new green stockings, however, were judged too pretty to wear.
"I should wear them to my lessons," the little girl pleaded. "I should look nice for Mistress Zoe."
Cathair was curious about the cup-and-ball toy. For that matter, no one else knew what it was, so Zevran demonstrated.
"That's clever, that is," said one of the women. "If my man could put his hands on a bit of wood, he could whittle one himself for the children. I can always find a bit of string somewhere."
At the sight of the little tambourine, its drumhead painted with a red and green dragon, Amethyne was struck speechless. Then she snatched it up and was off, dancing out the door, rattling and jingling.
"Children love music," Cathair observed, "Almost as much as they love to run about and make a noise."
Bryland looked gravely at himself in the mirror, and decided he would have to do. Leandra would not mind his greying locks, since she had gone grey herself. He took a breath and strode out of his private apartments. He must gather up his guest. It was time for Aron to meet the rest of the Landsmeet present in Denerim.
Alas, Habren was waiting for him just outside her own door. Mourning did not become her, nor did the expression on her face.
"I thought we couldn't go to the Ball! I thought we were in mourning!"
"Habren," he said, his voice deliberate and calm, "I have to go. Aron needs to be introduced to the Landsmeet members here in Denerim. He won't be confirmed unless they know him."
"Then I should go, too!"
"No," he said, calculating the distance to the doors leading to the guest wing. He kept walking. "You're a recent widow. It's not possible."
The expected explosion was all he had dreaded. Habren ran after him screeching. "Then you shouldn't go either! How can you go and leave me here? Nobody cares about me. If I'm in mourning, so are you!"
Quite suddenly he snapped. Turning, he stalked up to her, and snarled. "I wasn't married to bloody Urien! I'm doing this for you, you little fool. Now go to your room and bloody shut up!"
He was relieved to see her shocked into silence, and then ashamed. Quickening his pace, he left the family wing and gave strict instructions to his guards.
The Satinalia Feast and Ball was held in the Landsmeet Chamber. The long open space left plenty of room to dance, and the raised galleries on either side provide a vantage point both for the musicians and for people who wanted to watch rather than dance, or play cards without distraction.
Anora thought it looked quite nice, and not at all as overdone and decadent as the decorations for Arl Urien's wedding. Of course, the decorations were the same ones that had been put up, year after year, since long before she had come to Denerim. They still looked quite splendid, thanks to the assiduous care of the staff.
Red was the theme, of course. Red and harvest gold. Knowing that Bronwyn was going to wear red, Anora had opted for a gold gown, which became her better than red would have, and attracted quite a few eyes; most especially the warm brown eyes she most wished to attract. Fergus was looking quite handsome himself. Like his sister, he was wearing red; but in his case it was a red and gold doublet. They would lead the dancing tonight, and would make a handsome couple. Anora was ridiculously fluttered at the prospect; fluttered as she had never been as a young girl.
Bronwyn's stunning headpiece had roused the spirit of competition in her. She was wearing it again tonight, and it really was a lovely bit of jewelry. Anora had gone through her own jewels at length, and eventually found some pearls that she put to good use. One string was twined through the braided mass of her chignon, and another was fastened over her brow, with a tear drop pendant in the middle. She quite liked the effect. She would be Queen for only a little over a month now, and wanted to look the part until the very last moment.
"You could not look more beautiful, Your Majesty," Fergus said softly. She smiled in response, unable to moderate her expression. She was just able to restrain herself from taking his hand. It would not do, not with so many eyes upon them.
"Thank you. Perhaps it is the pleasant evening. I find myself in astonishingly good spirits, and I expect the dancing to be more agreeable than on the occasion of Arl Urien's wedding."
"Yes, not being shot at should certainly enhance the general festivities. The guards are on the alert. You should have no unpleasant surprises, unless I tread on your toes when we dance."
She laughed, her eyes surveying the cheerful crowd. "Look at how soliticitous Leonas Bryland is of those Hawke ladies! He's quite taken them under his wing."
"Leonas isn't one to forget a service—especially since he owes his son's life to Mistress Bethany. She's a very sweet girl, and a formidable mage from all accounts."
"There's that, of course, but it's clear that he likes them personally. Of course, they are all remarkably attractive, and rather raise the whole average of good looks here."
"The broad-shouldered young man in the sober doublet...is that Aron Kendalls? He looks rather disapproving. Or is he simply feeling out of place?"
"Possibly a bit of both. It must be all very new and confusing for him. I'm sure the Arl will introduce him to you later. Or sooner, it seems," she said, as Bryland and his party approached.
"Your Majesty! Your Graces! My lords, ladies and gentlemen! Dinner is served!"
The first course, an appetizing array of lighter delicacies, was set before the guests, to loud appreciation.
Bronwyn studied the noisy room from her vantage point at the high table. Her Wardens seemed to be in good spirits. Loghain was placed next to her, of course. She leaned close and smiled mischievously. "Did you like your little dragon?"
"Very much," Loghain answered blandly. "A formidable guardian for my private papers. Did you like your cook book?"
"How very amusing. No recipes for dragon in it, though. I shall have to substitute ingredients. I noticed there were some blank pages at the end for the creative housekeeper."
"While you're at it, you can devise something to be made from nug. Anora was amused by the little Paragon."
"Oh, there are heaps of recipes for nug. I'll pick the brains of my dwarven Wardens, too. One of them was talking this morning about nug pancakes, though I shuddered a bit. In my opinion, nug tastes like an unnatural union of pork and hare."
"Really? I didn't think it was all that bad. I was starving at the time, of course, which might have prejudiced me in its favor."
Bronwyn laughed. Loghain thought she looked very pretty. Red was certainly her color. "I'm glad you wore that gown again. How did you come by it? One of the quartermasters in camp?"
"No. This is the gown that Teagan gave me. Yes, really. He was in the process of giving away a great deal of Isolde's vast wardrobe to my friends and his betrothed, but nothing of Isolde's fit me, so the maid's found an old gown of Queen Rowan's. It was lovingly packed away with sweet herbs, and had hardly been worn. With a few alterations, it was as good as new. I wear this cape with it since bare shoulders are no longer in fashion."
Loghain looked at her in silence throughout this speech, his face unreadable. "Rowan's gown? I...see."
Bronwyn glanced at him from the corner of her eye, sipping her wine nonchalantly. She hoped the fact that the gown had once been the property of the late Queen Rowan did not make Loghain dislike it.
Loghain's relationship to the Queen had been the subject of some speculation within her family. While Bryce Cousland had fought the Orlesians himself, he had spent little time with the forces directly under Maric's—which was to say Loghain's—command. Everyone knew that the King, Queen Rowan, and Loghain had been inseparable during the Rebellion and had saved one another's lives on many occasions. However, when the usurper Meghen was killed and Maric took the throne, Loghain had quickly departed to his new teyrnir in Gwaren, and had stayed there for years. In fact, he had remained there until after Queen Rowan's death. At that point, he had gone north to support the grieving King, and Maric had demanded his nearly constant attendance ever after.
Had there been some sort of ill-will between Queen Rowan and Loghain? Had she commanded him to absent himself from her presence...and from that of the King? She was the daughter of an arl, and Father had wondered if she had resented Maric's friendship—his near brotherhood—with a jumped-up freeholder. No one could question Loghain's brilliant military gifts, but it might be only human to feel some resentment of the closeness between the two men. Mother agreed with Father, and got a rather unpleasant, disapproving look on her face when she spoke of King Maric's friendship with Loghain.
Once, at the breakfast table one day, she had even voiced her opinion. Bronwyn remembered it as taking place around the time that the betrothal between Cailan and Anora had been made public.
"One can hardly blame the Queen for wanting Loghain out of their lives once she and Maric were finally married. And for all that, she was never happy. Never!"
Father glanced at Bronwyn and Fergus, as if thinking this was a conversation they did not need to hear. "Eleanor, that's all in the past, I'm sure. And once the Queen is dead, Maric naturally turned to his best friend..."
"Well, I think it's disgusting. It all fits, Bryce. And then nothing must do but they must seal the bond by the marriage of their children!" She subsided, seeing his anxious frown. "But I see your point. And of course none of this is Anora's fault. She's a wonderful girl. There's nothing to be done about it now."
At the time, Bronwyn had been most interested in her share of the events: the fact that she would not have to marry the heir to the throne, because Anora Mac Tir had already gobbled him up. It had not disturbed her unduly, since she was only eleven years old, and thought the idea of marriage to anyone perfectly revolting.
While she loved and revered her parents, Bronwyn now felt they had been a little narrow-minded in disliking the King's friendship with Loghain. They were proud of their noble lineage and their ancient heritage. That was understandable. Bronwyn was proud of it, too. However, she had now had the opportunity to meet and make friends with people from all races and degrees, and many of them were very fine people—better than many with a title and a Landsmeet vote. Loghain had risen to lordship and honors in Ferelden, not because he was the king's friend, but because he, more than anyone else, had driven out the Orlesians and restored the true king to his throne. These were mighty deeds, and deserved the noblest rewards.
Loghain spoke softly, quieting her concerns about her clothing's past provenance.
"It's a splendid gown, though I'd rather see what it looks like by firelight in your private room."
She pressed his hand, and whispered. "Then you will come to me? You will come to me tonight?"
"Nothing could keep me away. We can slip out later at the end."
"Not until you've danced with me at least once!"
"I suppose that's fair." He turned away discreetly, but the side of his mouth that Bronwyn could see was still smiling.
Voices rose around them, excited and pleased. The minstrels played a fanfare, and the herald announced the start of the dancing.
Anora, with Fergus as her partner, led the train of dancers with an opening pavane, stately and slow enough not to stifle conversation. Bronwyn and Loghain followed just after.
"I hope you will be satisfied," he said, rather grimly. "Not even a great deal of wine changes my opinion of dancing as a bloody silly thing to do."
"It's good exercise," Bronwyn disagreed, with a mocking smile. "And actually, you dance quite well."
"I'm not about to make a fool of myself doing anything badly. I can get through a pavane all right, but after that, I'll have to leave you to the gilded youth of Ferelden."
"What about the antivanel?"
"I am not," he growled, "going to be seen with bells on my wrists."
A long series of dances followed, and Bronwyn had partners for them all. A revolve with Bryland, a gathering dance with Bann Sighard's son Oswyn, a corrento with Rothgar Wulffe. Nathaniel surprised her by asking her to join him in the Miller's Dance. It suited him, slow and melancholy as it was. She remembered watching him dance when she was a young girl, and admiring his dancing. They matched well as partners. Nathaniel said little as they danced, but she was glad they were recovering a little of their old ease together.
Afterward, circles were formed for the antivanel: women in the inner circle and men around them, and the bells jangled in a delightful, ear-splitting racket. The circle widened and the set finished with the wild dance, punctuated with kicks, appropriately called a "brawl."
Another course was served, and the guests, feeling they earned some refreshment, plunged their knives into the hapless roast geese with abandon.
"Here," Loghain said, handing Bronwyn a cup of wine. "You look like you need it."
"I feel wonderful," she declared, smiling. All the same, she took the cup. "Did you see my cousin Leonas? He danced with Lady Amell three times!"
Loghain had noticed. It was always very interesting and informative to watch Landsmeet members while dancing. He had noted Wulffe urging his son to dance with the Hawke cousin, and had noted that the young man seemed to like the girl well enough. He had noticed the way Fergus and Anora looked at each other over a dance floor. He had noticed all sorts of flirtations and guarded hostilities. He had noticed Nathaniel Howe's grave partnering of Bronwyn. He had certainly not missed Bryland making an ass of himself over the Marcher lady.
"I saw," he replied. "He's seems…infatuated."
Bronwyn leaned close and whispered. "He's asked her to marry him! Yes! The lady told me herself this morning and was concerned that I would disapprove. I didn't, of course, though I thought it only decent to warn her about making Habren jealous."
Loghain stared at her, brows knit together, taking in the various consequences of an Arl of Ferelden marrying such a woman. "The Chantry won't like it much. Nor will all the ladies who had set their caps at Bryland over the years. And you're right: his daughter is going to be a problem."
"It could get very nasty."
"None of our business of course...unless someone makes it our business."
They ate quietly, for the moment lost in thought. Loghain scowled, a little put out at the undeserved good luck of the Hawkes.
There was a stir among the musicians. The herald and the seneschal had a brief conference, and the herald rapped his staff on the floor once more, giving notice that the entertainment was about to begin. Voices stilled, and all eyes were on the side door.
With a blare of trumpets (one of which played a wrong note loudly and repeatedly) and a thunder of drums, Pol Pollen made his entrance, wreathed in evergreen, his gaudy doublet padded to make him look even fatter than he was. At his heels lumbered a big mabari: grizzle-jowled, battle-scarred, and sublimely bored. A sprig of evergreen decorated his stained and studded collar.
Scout sat up, ears pricked, staring intently at the dog. Perhaps there was something in this 'entertainment' business after all.
"Behold the crowned king of the festival!" bawled the Fool. "And his faithful hound, Grump."
Amidst applause, the musicians burst forth in a march, and the official fool paraded through the ranks of the amateurs, juggling the traditional nuts and sweets, then tossing them to the guests. A troupe of dancing girls, wearing headpieces—not Orlesian masks—to suggest deer, bear, badgers, birds, rabbits, and wolves, followed in his wake, trailing bright red scarves.
Loghain caught one of the walnuts on the fly, and ceremoniously presented it to Bronwyn. Others, lacking his dexterity, scrambled on the floor in undignified enthusiasm.
At the foot of the tables, the Fool halted and spread his arms wide. His dog looked up at him quizzically.
"Right!" He bellowed. "We all know why we're here!"
A cheer.
"And to celebrate the day, Grump and I plan to amuse ourselves with the noble sport of hunting!" He looked about him, puzzled. "—if I can find my bow."
And assistant appeared, and with an elaborate salute, presented the Fool with a ludicrously outsized bow and matching arrow. Laughter rose up.
With supercilious assurance, the Fool sneered at the guests. "A big man needs a big bow! And now, amidst the lofty crags and swift-flowing streams of our native land, I take bow in hand," he slapped his padded belly, "to earn my supper."
Lutes and drums struck up, and the Fool, bouncing ponderously on the balls of his feet, began to sing in a powerful, gravelly bass:
In Darland's time the hunt was fine, and the birds did sweetly sing.
Then Orlesians came, and all the game became the right of the king.
But Fereldan lads saw sport to be had, and swift to poaching turned,
And so in that way have we even today our pleasant supper earned.
One for the partridge, two for the hare, and three for the buck and doe,
The hunting of the usurper's game shall feed us through the snow.
One for the partridge, two for the hare, and three for the buck and doe,
The hunting of King Meghren's game shall feed us through the snow.
Seeking deer or hare in the greenwoods fair, the chevaliers do ride.
But rebels few are a-hunting too, though cleverly we hide.
Time and again come Meghren's men chasing poachers 'round hill and dale
But our prey we've shot and we'll not get caught as we lift our cups of ale.
So there's one for the partridge, two for the hare, and three for the buck and doe,
The hunting of the usurper's game shall feed us through the snow.
One for the partridge, two for the hare, and three for the buck and doe,
The hunting of King Meghren's game shall feed us through the snow.
Men say that port is the finest sport, that poaching's far too cold
And they pass the year drinking fine dark beer or else some whiskey bold.
But they'll find that wine is the thief of time and ale is a bitter foe
And the Fereldan man has no better friends than his arrows and his bow.
One for the partridge, two for the hare, and three for the buck and doe,
The hunting of the usurper's game shall feed us through the snow.
Oh, it's one for the partridge, two for the hare, and three for the buck and doe.
The hunting of King's Meghren's game shall feed us through the snow!
The audience joined in on the last chorus, and the Fool bowed to cheers and more applause at the end. Bronwyn glanced at Loghain and saw him smiling, perhaps remembering simpler—if equally dangerous—times.
There was a comic dance, as the Fool, armed with his mighty bow, attempted to shoot the forest creatures. All but one of them fled, leaving the smallest and prettiest of them— the Rabbit—cowering before the Fool and his dog.
"Mercy, Ser Fool!" She batted her eyes, and lifted her hands in graceful supplication. "You wouldn't shoot me, would you, dear, kind, brave Fool? Think of my poor grey mother! Think of my eight fluffy little children! How will they learn to steal carrots, without their mother's tender care? Think of your own mother, Ser Fool! Would you want some terrible huntsman to threaten her?"
"My mother!" The Fool paused, and sniffed enormously, wiping his eyes. "My sweet, darling mother!" He produced a huge red handkerchief, and blew his nose like a trumpet. "Oh, memories so tender of years gone by! I can't do it, Grump! I couldn't hurt a mother!"
The dog sat down and stared up at his human, all but rolling his eyes.
"I know…I know!" whimpered the Fool. "But it seems so cruel. Why can't we live in peace together? Why can't we just...get along?"
"Oh, Ser Fool, put aside your bow!" pleaded the Rabbit. "Spare me, dear Fool, and let us be friends!"
"I suppose I could…" the Fool hesitated. "but should I?"
"Of course you should," the Rabbit urged. "A new dawn will dawn for man and rabbit! Set aside your bow, and let us clasp hand...and paw... in fellowship! "
"That's a fair offer," the Fool granted. "But…unarm myself, in a forest? Surrounded by enemies? Is that sensible? Would…for instance…Teyrn Loghain approve?"
"No!" Loghain replied, very distinctly.
A surge of laughter. Wulffe slapped the table, guffawing. Bryland laughed uproariously, turning to Leandra Hawke and her daughter to see their amused expressions.
Grump glared at the audience, and then back at his master, uttering a deep low growl. Scout, now quite interested, gave a short, sharp bark. Bronwyn hushed him, and scratched his ears.
"It's just a story, Scout!" she admonished him in a whisper.
"Give me your bow," the Rabbit implored, eyes full of cunning, "I can hold your bow, while you open the wineskin you carry. We will drink to our new alliance!"
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt…" the Fool considered. "For once, in a way…"
Grump lay down on the floor and put his paws over his eyes. There was more laughter, loud and prolonged. The Fool turned his back, fumbling with the stopper, while, one by one, all the wild beasts crept out from the doorway and surrounded him.
"I've got it!" he shouted. "Here, dear Rabbit, try some of this—Maker's elbows!"
The beasts lunged at him, and wine spurted out in a blood-red arc. Merry music crashed out again. Lords and ladies nearly slid from the benches, laughing helplessly, as the Fool fled in four-quarter time from the badgers, wolves, and furious bears, squirting wine on the downbeat.
After the cheers died down, the bows were taken, and the rewards paid with a generous hand, another course was brought out, and the guest settled down to serious eating. Down the table, they could hear Arl Wulffe booming out a proposal.
"There's many a true word spoken in jest. A hunt! A hunt is just the thing! Get us all out, get a little exercise…get some of those boars the farmers have been complaining about. I'll host it, too. What about it, Rothgar?"
His son Rothgar, tall, impossibly gangly, and with a wry sense of humor, agreed. "If we're not drenched or frozen, Father, we'll have a splendid time!"
"'Drenched or frozen,' indeed! What a pack of sweet young damsels lads are today! Let's see—can't put it on in less than five days…need that much to organize the servants. I've got a hunting lodge not far from the city that might be large enough…"
"If you mean Stonycroft," Fergus put in, "it marches with mine. Rackley Fell. On the approach to Dragon's Peak. That would give us a wide hunting field."
"That's very handsome of you. How about the eighth?" asked Wulffe. "Give me enough time to get everything ready, and still give someone—" he positively winked at Bronwyn "—time to get the dirt out from under her fingernails before her wedding."
Anora did not particularly care for hunting, but she knew that Fergus did, and so raised no objections. Bronwyn was as eager as her brother. Loghain agreed that the boars up in the fells were becoming a problem.
Besides, he really liked smoked boar.
There was more dancing, for those who still had legs to dance. Loghain became engrossed in Wulffe's plans for a hunt, while Bronwyn danced and danced some more. She only smiled when young Lord Oswyn attempted to partner her for the faveline, and fell flat on his face instead.
A quick galliard followed. Bronwyn danced it with Anders, who had somehow learned to dance in the intervals between being rounded up by the Templars.
"What a handsome man!" commented a noble lady to her friend. "One of the Wardens. I declare that I wonder if Bronwyn did not choose her Wardens for their looks!"
Loghain looked up at that, and watched the dance to the end. He did not mind if Bronwyn danced with her Wardens, but there were those who knew that Anders was not only a Warden, but a mage.
When Bronwyn sat down again, flushed and happy, he inquired, "Whatever would the Grand Cleric say?"
She laughed, and was about to make an arch reply, when a servant approached and bowed. In a low voice, he whispered. "Beg pardon, my lady. I was sent to give this to you without delay."
Bronwyn took the proffered parchment, opened and read it, and blew out a breath.
Warden-Commander—
I have found a worthy subject for your proof. A child lies dying. Come to see me early tomorrow.
Muirin,
Grand Cleric of Ferelden
Bronwyn looked up from the parchment, her face a mask of false brightness. "Invoking the Grand Cleric seems to have drawn her attention. She wishes to meet with me tomorrow." She nodded to the servant. "I shall be there. Inform her Grace."
Thanks for my reviewers: Rexiselic, Kira Kyuu, Phygmalion, Oleander's One, Guest, Jyggilag, Have Socks. Will Travel, JakcOfBladesX, almostinsane, EpitomyofShyness, MsBarrows, KnightOfHolyLight, Blinded in a bolthole, Zute, amanda weber, Mike3207, Shakespira, Halm Vendrella, Chandagnac, mille libri, Psyche Sinclair, Tsu Doh Nimh, Josie Lange, Koden21, anon, le-maru, Patchworker, and Mike3207.
I had several interesting reviewers from "Guest." Remember that you need to be signed in for me to be able to answer you.
The recipe for Feast Day Fish is in the Dragon Age Codex.
Fluffy Mackerel Pudding
2 stalks celery
1 green pepper
Half a pound of poached mackerel
1 small onion, finely diced
2 tsp mustard
1 tsp salt
half tsp ground Antivan pepper
eighth tsp ground mace
dash ground cardamom seed
2 eggs, beaten
2 eggs, boiled and sliced for garnish
- This book, found in Arl Eamon's Denerim estate, naturally falls open to this page.
I believe that Antivan pepper is black pepper. I also believe that the fish must be boned and finely flaked. All the recipes I have found online used smoked mackerel.
As to the huswifes (aka housewifes): in pre-industrial society, good needles were precious. There's a Restoration comedy partly built around a household trying to find a needle. Having your own personal sewing kit was a big deal.
Yes, Bronwyn is young, and still doesn't quite get what her parents were talking about. In this story, the elder Couslands completely misinterpreted Loghain, Rowan, and Maric's relationship. I suspect they were not the only ones.
The song is adapted from Heather Dale's "The Poachers" from her album The Green Knight.
"Exit, pursued by a bear," is Shakespeare's famous stage direction in Act 3, scene III of A Winter's Tale.