Daughter Of The Forest (59 page)

By the changing light through my small window I judged it to be around the time of Lugnasad, close to summer’s end, when I began to receive visits from Lord Richard. He had taken his time before he came to gloat over me, but once he started, it became a regular occurrence and one I came to dread. Perhaps foolishly, I had allowed myself to feel hope when Lady Anne had given me back my work. The task was within my grasp, and had she not said they were waiting for Father Stephen so that I might have a fair trial? Then Richard came, and I saw that the truth was quite different.

“Well, my dear.” He could have been greeting me over a sociable goblet of mead. His tone was affable. His gaze went around the tiny room, and back to me. “Your reign as Lady of Harrowfield was indeed short. I had credited you with more cunning; seems I was wrong. Very silly mistake, my dear, very silly indeed. Played right into my hands.” He gave a delicate sniff. “Odd sort of smell in here. Reminds me of pigswill.” He fished out a snowy white square of linen, and dabbed at his nose. There was a faint scent of bergamot oil. “Shouldn’t bother you, I suppose. I imagine things at home were quite—rough? I’ve heard your kind have no aversion to wallowing in their own filth. Scum will find scum.”

I set my teeth and fixed my eyes on my work.
If Red could hear you say that to me, he would kill you. Uncle or no uncle
.

He laughed. “Oh, I do like that grim expression, the spark in the eye. What is going through that little head of yours, I wonder? Think Hughie boy might come galloping back to the rescue? Don’t think so. Not a chance. Wherever he’s off to, it’s far, far away. You can tell by their expressions. Very anxious, they are, certain individuals—very keen to reach him, I’m told, but seems nobody quite knows where he is. Haven’t done him a mischief too, have you?” His eyes narrowed. “I trust that’s not part of the plan. I have a role for Hugh and I intend to see he carries it out according to my wishes. Don’t hope for salvation in that quarter, girlie. He’s not coming. Not until you’re done with, dead and buried, out of my nephew’s life and mine for good. My network is extensive. When he’s on his way home, I’ll know; and he may find himself—delayed. Nothing harmful, mind; just a little diversion to keep him away long enough.”

My hands stopped momentarily, the shuttle between the threads.
One foot after the other
. I breathed again, and pulled the weft tight.

“That stopped you in your tracks, didn’t it? Surely you didn’t imagine—no, even you couldn’t be so stupid. Death is the only possible penalty, my dear. It’s only the method that gives cause for reflection. So many to choose from, each more—piquant—than the last. There’s carrying a weight of hot iron over a marked distance. Not for you, I think. There’s plucking a stone from a vat of boiling water. Seen that one carried out, fellow required a certain amount of—persuasion. There are the quick methods, hanging, drowning, various things with a knife. Less entertaining, those. I rather fancy something with heat. So hard to decide. So I’m waiting for divine assistance. Father Stephen of Ravenglass is the bishop’s man, a learned cleric and a very old friend. The Reverend Father is skilled in the driving out of demons, and cleansing, and dealing with the art of sorcery. I rely on his judgment totally. I cannot think of a single occasion when we have found ourselves in disagreement. We are of one mind. His support will give my verdict—respectability. Essential, I think, for when your husband returns.”

A shiver ran through me. I would have trusted my life to Father Brien, and I had seen wisdom and kindness in the face of the man who had heard my wedding vows, that night in the woods. But something told me there would be no such understanding in Father Stephen’s eyes. I began to believe, finally, that I was going to die. But my fingers kept on with their steady movement, in and out, in and out, as I wove another square for the sixth shirt.

“You know,” observed Richard, “perhaps you really are a fool. Perhaps you really don’t understand our language as well as Hugh thinks. Aren’t you afraid? Wouldn’t you like a chance to save yourself? Any other girl would be on her knees pleading by now. And it would be easy. Quite easy.” He was almost purring, like a satisfied cat; but no cat would stoop so low.

“Under the filth, you’re still quite a succulent little slut,” he said softly. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that you still have some goods to trade? I’m a man, my dear. I might be bought, as Hugh was. Undo your buttons, let me see the flesh where your clothing hides its whiteness. Or shall I do it for you?”

I spat, accurately, on the toe of his polished boot. He responded with a gust of laughter.

“Oh, dear! She took me seriously! Well done, little whore! Standing on her dignity! You don’t really think I’d dirty my hands on you? Smeared with your own filth, and with those great rough paws? Once, I might have done. But I’m not desperate enough to take my nephew’s leavings. I have far brighter prospects in sight; that young widow, for instance, what was her name, Molly, Mary? Showing a great deal too much interest in your fate; makes me wonder if she’s a proper person to bring up a young boy. Must do something about that. Take steps. Needs a good strong man in her life, straighten her out, teach her a few tricks. Well, my dear. I’ll leave you now. Enjoy yourself. It won’t be much longer.”

There was no time for hate. No time for fear. After a while, I found that there were some tasks I could do in the dark, and I stopped sleeping. There was no time for rest. I finished the front of the last shirt, and began to weave the back. Outside, the season was well advanced, and early leaves were blown across my tiny patch of sky. I judged that it was close to Meán Fómhair, and that I had been imprisoned here for three moons. In my mind I saw the late roses in full bloom, the berries fat and glossy on bramble and currant bush, bees busy among swathes of lavender. I thought, the apples will be ripening. He said…but I would not let myself finish the thought, for there was no time for foolish hope.
Spin. Weave. Sew. One foot before the other. And again. On and on into the dark
.

Almost every day, Richard came. Sometimes it was only for a few moments, but more often he was in expansive mood, wanting to talk. Now that he had me, as he thought, in the palm of his hand, he grew less cautious. For after all, I could hardly repeat what I heard, could I, even supposing I had the opportunity, which was unlikely. And so, piece by piece, as if solving a puzzle in small steps, I began to learn another side of the story.

“So, here we are again. Can’t say you’re looking well, my dear, that would be stretching the imagination just a little far. Feeding you enough, are they? Just enough. I want you kept alive, until the hearing. Justice must be seen to be done, after all. Unfortunate that Father Stephen has been delayed so long. Busy man. But he’ll be here, never fear. Mind you, if it’s too long, we’ll go ahead without him. Hugh’s weak. Besotted, that’s the word. Can’t risk waiting till he gets back. Even after this, even after you run out to satisfy your itch with another man, and sell his secrets under his nose, the boy can’t be relied onto do the right thing. No, it must be soon, and public. Decisive. Final. That’s what people expect, and that’s what I’ll give them. Something spectacular with fire, I think. That way, we get rid of the sorceress and her spells in one dizzying, dazzling display of heat and light. Orgasmic. Blissful. I shall so enjoy myself.”

My hands plied their steady trade; I made myself breathe slowly. But something must have showed on my face.

“I was tempted,” he said, leaning back against the wall, the stool tilted on two legs. “Sorely tempted. This handiwork is very important to you, isn’t it? What would you have done for me, to get it back? Would you have…” his next remarks I will not repeat here, for they were scarce fit for the lowest of drunken gatherings. “Might have tried that. But my sister forestalled me. Following her dear Hugh’s orders. Unbelievable. After I told her what your people did to Simon. Well, there’s a sort of perverse enjoyment in watching you hurt yourself, little whore. Why do you do it? Does it excite you? Do you crave pain, to satisfy you? You married the wrong man, daughter of Erin. He would never have been enough for you. Besides,” and his tone changed, “he was promised. He chose to forget that, but I do not forget. I know the way it should be. The way it will be, when you are—disposed of. Hugh will wed Elaine. Harrowfield will wed Northwoods, and in one grand gesture the largest and richest estate in Northumbria will be established. Easy, so easy. And think what holding that much power does to a man. At one stroke, he takes all pieces on the board. That satisfies him in a way no woman ever could. Who will his neighbors turn to for protection? Who will they trust to train their fighting men and purchase their arms? Who will they pay, to ensure good will?” He was grinning, stretching his arms expansively behind his head. “Believe me, girl, a man that scents such power lets nothing stand in his way. Nothing.”

Is this Hugh of Harrowfield we speak of here?
I could not prevent my brows rising in scornful disbelief.

“Hugh is malleable. Cares only for his trees and his cattle and his tidy little life. Elaine, she’s like me. Must have her own way. Problem was, what she wanted didn’t suit my plans, didn’t suit at all. Everything was smooth as silk until she started to grow up, thirteen, fourteen, used to getting what she wanted, no need to say no up till then. New pony, deerhound, jewels, finery. But she broke the rules. Fell for the wrong brother.”

Elaine and Simon? That was a possibility I had never thought of. But it explained much. It explained, in particular, her manner toward Red, for I could see now that she had indeed treated him like a brother. Poor Elaine. One of them was dead, and the other had married me. She had not deserved to lose them both.

“Once she set her heart on it, wouldn’t let go of the notion,” Richard went on. “Had to tell her, finally. You can’t. No. Simple as that. She didn’t like it. But I’m her father. Hugh’s a milksop, doesn’t have that killer streak, that bit of meanness a man needs in him to survive, to get on. Runs a pretty farm, I’ll give him that. But he’s weak. Suitable. You’d understand that better than most, slut. Bent him to your own will easily enough, didn’t you? If he couldn’t withstand that, how well do you think he’d deal with Richard of Northwoods? So, he marries my daughter, and the whole valley is mine. If she’d taken the younger brother, that would have been quite another matter. Hopeless. For one thing, he wouldn’t inherit, not unless…besides, he was too wild. Unpredictable. Unstable, you could almost say. Not at all a safe option. No, it’s better this way. Or was, before you came into the picture…”

He sat forward suddenly, the wooden stool thumping down heavily on the stone floor.

“You know, I thought Hugh brought you here for information. That was how it looked. You were holding something he needed. He was waiting for you to talk. Cat and mouse game. I could understand that. But my nephew’s never shown the slightest interest in that sort of strategy. Never lifted a finger to help in the campaigns, never made the smallest contribution to the cause. Couldn’t care less. So why would he involve himself now, I wondered? Had to be about his brother. Young Simon. Somehow, you were tied up in that. Had something you could tell him. Seemed to me, back then, that you could talk if you chose to. Not much wrong there, I thought. There were times when I saw you, about to speak, opening your little mouth and then choking back the words.”

I wound the thread onto the spindle, feeling the fibers sharp against my fingers, knowing my hands were becoming raw and stinking again, from lack of light, from filth and neglect and abuse.

“But then there was the unfortunate accident. It happens. Rocks fall, people get hurt. Freak of nature. They told me you didn’t utter a sound, no call for help, no screams, nothing. Can’t believe you wouldn’t cry out. No girl has that sort of control. Had to come to the conclusion the malady’s real. You genuinely can’t talk. Mute. Dumb. Silent as the grave. Adds a certain spice to the current situation. Means I can chat away to my heart’s content, bare the secrets of my soul, and you can’t tell them a thing. Not a thing. Be a shame, though, not to hear you screaming when the fire licks your ankles, and catches your gown, and turns that soft white flesh into an overcooked slab of meat. I’d have enjoyed hearing that. Oh well, can’t have it both ways.”

When he was gone, I allowed myself to cry, just for a little. I allowed myself to stare up at the window, where rain was coming down sideways, and a cool breeze gusted in fitfully, and I let myself think, if he were here, he would kill you. It was just as well he was not here. If he were here, he would face a choice that would break him. Better that he did not return, until after…. But I was frightened. Frightened to die, frightened of the fire. Terrified that I was working too slowly, that I would not be ready in time…I did not weep for long. The little voice was there all the time now.
Spin. Weave. Sew
. I worked on, and the half-made shirt, which was the last of six, was stained with blood from my hands, and filth from the room, and it was wet with my tears. He who wore this garment would wear my love, my pain and my terror. These things would set him free.

I can remember one good moment in those dark times. I had become used to my guards. I did not know their names, but there was one older man whom I had seen with Ben earlier. He did not come often, and when he did his distaste for the dirty, lightless cell and the duty he must perform was evident in his expression. There was one day when he brought the bucket, and threw it in the corner as usual, and then he took a little package from his pocket and slipped it furtively into my basket.

“Chin up, lass,” he muttered, and then he was gone, the heavy door slamming to behind him. In the little parcel was fresh, good bread with grains in it, and a small around of cheese, and a handful of blackberries. I made it last, knowing my stomach might reject such fare after so long a time of hunger. I shared the crumbs of bread and cheese with the rats, thinking they might as well have a little enjoyment. After that I did not see this guard again, but his kindness warmed me. And I still remember the wonderful taste of that food, the mellow ripeness of the cheese, the tart juicy berries, the bread with its smell of open fields. Every mouthful.