Daughter Of The Forest (38 page)

“Yes, my lady,” said Megan, bobbing again, and her eyes were demurely downcast. But as we left the hall, I in her wake, and the gray dog trotting after me like a small shadow, her glance was full of a lively curiosity, touched with fear.

“Don’t forget this,” said Red as I passed, and he slid my small pack from the top of his own and put it in my hands. I nodded thanks, and left. Behind me, I heard his mother speaking again, and I think I was glad I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

I suspect somebody chose for me a bedchamber deemed suitable for a barbarian: small, remote, sparsely furnished, located very close to the servants’ quarters and in earshot of the clatter and bustle of the busy kitchens. If they thought to insult me thus, they miscalculated. For I loved, instantly, the tiny, square room with its stone walls and its hard pallet on a wooden frame, with its heavy oak door that opened straight out into a neglected corner of garden full of tangled herb bushes shot to seed. As soon as it was light, I would go out and see if starwort grew there. An old rose clambered up the wall just outside the door, and a tiny, blue-flowered creeper carpeted the stone steps. There was a mossy pathway choked over with weeds. Through the single round window, set high in the wall, the moon would look down on my slumber. There was a wooden chest, and a pitcher and a bowl. Megan brought me warm water, and another girl, furtive-eyed, brought a platter with bread and cheese and dried fruits and then scurried out of the room. I put my bag on the end of the bed, and waited for Megan to go. The dog checked all corners of the room with care, snuffling quietly; at last, satisfied, she gathered her strength and made a heroic, scrambling leap onto the pallet, where she settled, nose on forepaws.

“Where are your bags?” asked Megan awkwardly. “Your nightrobe, your other things?” I shook my head, indicating my little pack.

“That’s all?” She looked quite shocked. I could hear the unspoken questions. Where on earth did he find you? What possessed him to bring you back here, and with nothing but the clothes on your back? Why?

Megan spoke again, surprising me. “That was Simon’s dog,” she said. “My lord Hugh’s brother. Alys, he called her. She’s old now; he had her since he was no more than an infant. Never let anyone near her since he went away. Fends for herself, mostly. She’d snap your fingers off, if you went to pet her. Until now.” She reached a tentative hand toward the small hound; it responded with a deep growl, baring its teeth. “See?” said Megan lightly. “Vicious little thing. Seems to like you well enough, though.”

I managed a smile of sorts, and she grinned back, her natural curiosity overcoming her wariness.

“I’ll speak to my lady Anne,” she said. “Find you a nightrobe and some other things. And I’ll come back for you in the morning, show you where to go. We rise early here.”

That night I slept; but bone-weariness and the effects of the wine were not enough to blot out entirely the night terrors that still beset me, and I woke suddenly from a dream that is best left untold, a dream that I had often, the sort of dream that wove its way into my daily thoughts, so that I still shuddered each time a man touched me, the sort of dream that made my whole body cringe, and tremble, and my heart pound in my chest. Alys lay heavily on my feet; she had not woken. A dim light from the waning moon shone into the room. And there were low voices outside.

I got up and went softly to the window. Both doors were barred, although I would have been happier to leave one ajar, to smell the night scents of lavender and woodbine, to feel the cool breeze on my skin. But I had lost the ability to trust; I was no longer protected by the sweet cloak of innocence. So I had bolted my doors. But I stood on tiptoe on the wooden chest, and looked out into the garden. Two shadowy figures were exchanging quiet words; both wore dark clothing, and I saw the glint of weapons in the faint light. One of them went out through a gate in the wall; flaxen-haired, somewhat jaunty in his gait, even in the middle of the night. The other was taller, and walked with a slight limp. He settled by the wall at the far end of the garden, relaxed but alert, one leg stretched out, barely visible in the shadows. It was a long watch till daybreak.

I couldn’t tell if I felt better or worse, knowing I was under some sort of guard. Where did they think I could escape to, here in the middle of their country with neither a pair of boots nor a water bottle to my name? Besides, after the reception I’d got so far at Harrowfield it seemed unlikely the local folk would offer me much help if I tried to make it to the coast. And what was I supposed to do then, swim for home? No, I was stuck here whether I liked it or not. So why the guard?

I wondered, for a moment, if these men ever slept. Then, I remembered Red lying in the cave, his face white with pain and exhaustion. He was human, I thought; he just didn’t like people to know it. And it seemed he set a very high value on the information I could give him; he would make sure it did not slip through his grasp, while he was waiting for me to talk.

They rose early, but not as early as I. Before dawn I was up and about, washing my face in the last of the fresh water, finding the privy, unbolting the outer door and walking out into the neglected garden. Little Alys followed me, but slowly, her joints stiff with age. Someone had planted this garden well, once. But there was no starwort here; later, when I needed more, I must look further afield. I cursed myself for neglecting my task, before I left the forest. There was an old water trough under the wormwood bushes, half full of mud. I could use that to soak the fibers I had brought from the priory. There were still herbs aplenty here; enough, if I tended them, to stock a good set of shelves with salves and ointments, tinctures and essences. I wondered if they would let me have a mortar and pestle, and some knives, and beeswax and oil. Then I thought, there is no time for this. What of Finbar, and Conor, and the others? Time runs short for them, and it is already autumn. Nonetheless, I could not help myself, and when Megan came to find me I was pulling up weeds, separating out the newly seeded children of the overblown plants, planning how it might be if I pruned, and dug, and planted. I had forgotten, almost, where I was. Of my nighttime guardians there had been no sign, save for the print of their boots in the soft earth. They had vanished with the first light.

The attitude of the folk of Harrowfield toward me could best be described as a sort of frozen courtesy. The lady Anne led by example. There was no denying that her son was the head of this household and expected to have his way, and even she would not challenge that. So she spoke to me only when circumstances made it unavoidable. When she looked at me, the hostility in her bright blue eyes was thinly masked. She provided for me, but only so far as basic hospitality demanded. I told myself that this suited me well enough. I had been living wild for the best part of two years now; I had become unused to luxury, if indeed our life at Sevenwaters could be called that, for in our household of men we had lived simply enough. I had no wish for fine gowns, or wheaten bread, or a bolster filled with goose feathers. So I told myself, and it was true enough.

It was the company that was difficult. I had been alone a long time, alone save for those few precious nights when my brothers could take human form, when we might again speak mind to mind, when we might touch and gaze and store up memories for the long, lonely times between. Now I was surrounded by women, women who chattered constantly among themselves, who were always there, who broke into my thoughts and made my task harder, and slower, and more painful, because I must work doubly to remember why I was there, and what I must do. And the looks; the looks were sidelong, and bitter, and full of fear. I was the enemy; it did not really matter what the lord Hugh had said, for the long sunny room where we met each morning to sew and spin and weave was the women’s place, and I read in the women’s faces what they thought of me.

I am the daughter of the forest
, I told myself as I drew the long, barbed strands of starwort out of my little bag and began to spin, with borrowed distaff and spindle.
I am the daughter of Lord Colum of Sevenwaters. I have a brother that is a fine leader, and one that is an adept in mysteries more ancient than any your people could imagine. I have a brother that is a fearless warrior, and one the wild creatures know as a friend. I have a brother that—that once had a smile that would charm the birds from the trees, and will again one day
. And as the thread snapped once more, and I joined it yet again, with its fine barbs piercing my skin like strands of hot wire, I told myself,
I have a brother that knows how to heal the spirit, that will give of himself till there is nothing left. What have you, with your smooth hands and your fine embroidery? With every twist of this sharp thread, I cry out to my brothers. With every thorn that stabs my flesh, I call them back home
.

The Britons thought me touched in the head. After the first shock, there was disbelief as they saw my work and realized I was in earnest when I twisted the spines of this plant between my fingers. When they saw me choke back the cry of pain and will my face to calm, they drew away from me, and clustered together, glancing from time to time, furtively, at the corner where I sat alone. I heard their talk, even though their voices were hushed. Because his mother was there, they would not openly question what the lord Hugh had done. But they told tales, terrible tales of how the chieftains of Erin had killed this good man, and maimed that one, how the flower of their people had come to grief in the long feud between us. Glancing at me over their shoulders, they told of good men bewitched and betrayed by women of my kind, women with pale skin and hair as dark as night, and a way with words. All of it was meant for my ears. I could have told them our side of the story—my father’s story. For Colum was a seventh son, and how often does such a one inherit his father’s lands? Only when all his brothers are lost to war, falling one by one in defense of what they hold precious. But I was silent.

Among the raised eyebrows, the pursed lips, there was one who dared to be different. She was John’s wife. She had been watching me, and hers were the only eyes that made no judgment. On the third day, as I sat on a high stool in my corner wrestling with spindle and distaff and trying to hold back the tears, she moved to sit by me, bringing her work with her. She was hemming a tiny gown; its bodice and sleeves already bore a finely embroidered trail of leaves, with here and there a yellow bee or scarlet flower. I could see her love for her unborn child in every stitch of this small garment. I reached out to touch it with my wretched, swollen hands, and smiled at her.

“Your name’s Jenny, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “I’m Margery, John’s wife.”

I nodded, picking up my spindle again. There had been a pointed hush among the other women; now they resumed their talk.

“I’m told you have quite some skill with healing,” she went on, giving me a sideways glance. “That gash of Red’s—of Lord Hugh’s—cannot have been easy to treat out there. He owes you much.”

I looked at her, and my surprise must have been obvious. She was amused.

“These men do talk from time to time, my dear,” she said. “You’d be surprised how much I hear. And though John keeps himself to himself, he is not blind. He’s been Red’s—Lord Hugh’s—friend for a long time, since well before I came to live at Harrowfield. He understands what Hugh does not speak aloud. Your coming has put a stir in this household that will not settle quickly.”

I thought about this. We had seen the men at the evening meal, and all three whom I knew had acknowledged me courteously. Ben had grinned, and tweaked my long plait, almost as Cormack might have done. John had greeted me by my new name, and seated himself by me at table, ignoring the lady Anne’s frown. I wondered if the guard were to be continued, in one form or another, even during the day. Of Red, seated at the head of the board as was fitting, I saw the least, but I felt his eyes on me as the meal progressed, and as I endured the noise and the smells and the nearness of so many strangers, and longed for night to come.

John did not talk much, but I noticed he stopped the servants from putting roast meats on my platter, and made sure I did eat something, and when some of the young men grew boisterous with ale and began to aim ribald comments in my direction, he silenced them with a few carefully chosen words. As Red’s friend, he had authority. He was, I learned in time, some sort of distant cousin of the family, and had lived at Harrowfield all his life. I was glad enough of his protection, and I noticed again in the days to come, as there was no sign of any mellowing in the household’s attitude to me, that there was always someone watching me. While I sat with the ladies, Margery was there, always kind, always ready to step out of the charmed circle and sit by me, happy enough to hold a one-sided conversation, her eyes full of concern as she watched my painful progress with distaff and spindle, never passing a word in judgment. I was sure her motives were kindly, but I also wondered if somebody had asked her to keep an eye on me. The nightly guard continued. One of them would watch from the time I went to my room until midnight, and another from midnight to dawn. Each of them, I supposed, had one good night’s sleep in three. I observed them without their knowing it, and noted that this task fell only to Ben, and John, and Red. I wondered if, in all this large and obedient household, there were just two people that Red thought he could really trust.

I noted as well that they were never far away, no matter what the time of day. I could not force myself to spin and weave constantly, though I might wish to, for my hands, part healed through my neglect of my work, now grew raw and swollen again, and I was forced to take some time away from my task each afternoon, before resuming my slow labors alone by candlelight after the evening meal. I tried to start on the garden, but made slow progress, for my hands would have to harden again before I could wield knife or hoe. But I did a little; the soil was dark and rich and the weeds were not so hard to pull out. When I could manage no more, I went out, with stocky Alys trotting behind, and explored as far as I might, while trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. It was amazing how often one of those three happened to be nearby; Ben, putting a young horse through its paces in the field right by where I chose to walk; John, directing the storage of winter vegetables in the barn just as I went that way. The lord Hugh himself, seated on an old bench in the apple orchard one morning, an ink pot by his side, a small oaken board balanced on his knee, with a scrap of parchment laid there. He had a quill in his hand, and was concentrating hard on his work. Alys growled at him.