The Swan Kingdom (19 page)

Another time I saw him leaning on battlements of white stone, staring into the night sky, his expression pensive. I watched his hair ruffle in the brisk wind and, in the dream, reached out to touch him. For a moment it was as if the dream was real – he stiffened at my tentative hand on his shoulder and whirled round, shock and joy on his face. But his eyes looked through me until the happiness faded from them, and after a while he turned away again with a muffled groan, kicking the stone wall before him. When I got up that day I accidentally dropped a bunch of my painstakingly dried herbs into the fire, and then spent half an hour crying into my skirt before I pulled myself together.

One night I had a dream of phantom hands – familiar hands – stroking gently over my body. Of the moistness of lips and tongue, the warmth of breath on my skin, and the sharp, playful nip of teeth. I woke sobbing, and from then on my sleep was light and restless. Perhaps I did not trust myself to dream.

On a slightly frosty morning I woke from my restless slumber shivering under my spread cloak to find that I had allowed my store of dried nettles to become low. Not stopping for breakfast, I took up my pack and went out to harvest more wanton’s needle.

My cheeks tingled with the snapping air as I travelled along the now well-walked trail through the trees, kicking up fallen leaves and stamping my feet to rid them of the cold. Since an unfortunate incident with some curious pine martens who had tried to nest in the cottage, I carried the completed and half-finished tunics with me whenever I left the house; and they cushioned my back against the sharp edges of the salve box as the sack bounced on my shoulders.

A morning of hard work cutting the nettles banished the remains of the chill, and I was in quite good humour as I sat on a rocky boulder at the edge of the granite escarpment and rubbed salve into my smarting forearms. I was so used to the sensation by now that it hardly consumed any of my attention – which is why I heard the distant call of the hunting horn so clearly on the still autumn air.

I froze, fingers ceasing their familiar movement. Nothing. Had I imagined it?

Just as I was about to dismiss the noise as nothing more than a figment of my imagination, the horn rang out again. Its rich, deep tone was closer this time – and in its wake I could now make out, very faintly, the belling of hounds.

A hunting party.

In all the months I had inhabited this patch of forest I had not seen so much as the shadow of another human being, nor heard a human voice. The thought of other people, –
strangers
– filled me with an odd, panicky sense of fear. My months of isolation had changed me. I could not bear to face others now, tatty and mute and scarred as I was. I wasn’t ready! I
couldn’t
see anyone.

I’ll go back to the cottage; they won’t mind me.

But as stood, another feeling tugged at the back of my mind. It was familiar and yet strange – like the sensation of welcome I had felt when I first arrived in Midland, but also like the disturbing feelings that had sometimes upset my dreams so badly. I thought I heard the rushing sea and the keening cries of seagulls. Something – someone – called out to me, not with curiosity, but with recognition.

The touch of that presence held me in place even as I strained against its claim on me. Torn between the equally strong desires to run and to stay, I hesitated too long.

Hounds broke through the trees and streamed around me, their brown and white speckled bodies wriggling with delight as they greeted me. I heard the crashing of undergrowth as the riders followed them and pushed the dogs away frantically.

No, no!
I told them, head swivelling as I pushed my way through their furry mass, avoiding a dozen eager tongues.
Your people aren’t hunting for me – you’re supposed to be sniffing out bears or stags. Go away!

The dogs persisted, one very large one going so far as to leap up and place his large muddy paws on my shoulders to swipe my face with his tongue.

They
were
looking for me, the big dog said. The others agreed in chorus as he continued. The pack
had
been looking for wild boar, but just now Dog-Master-Man had changed his mind and given them her scent instead, and so they had found her. Dog-Master-Man would be so pleased with them! He would scratch them behind their ears and tickle their stomachs.

I gave up. It was too late to make it back to the cottage now. I pushed the big dog off me and jumped up onto the first rocky ledge on the granite cliff, climbing to its peak with fear-born speed. I huddled down, hoping the dull green of my dress would fade into the vegetation. The crown of saplings certainly masked my sight; apart from brief glimpses as the leaves caught the wind, I could only listen to what was happening below.

I heard the deep pounding of hooves as the riders broke through into the clearing, and the frighteningly alien sound of human voices. I was too far up to make out their words, but tone I could distinguish. Two hunters calling to each other, and a lighter voice belonging to a woman, answering them with amusement. The horn rang out again as the horses stamped and snorted. I huddled deeper, longing for them to be gone.

Then I heard a new voice. It was different from the others, lower, filled with authority and bringing with it the quiet echo of familiarity that had tugged at me before. Unconsciously I tensed, coming up onto my knees and leaning forward through the trees. I knew that voice. It was impossible … but I knew it.

I couldn’t see anything. I leaned forward still more, craning sideways to try to catch a glimpse of the speaker below.

Then I heard the voice again, this time raised in a shout. “Alexandra!
Alexandra!
”

Stunned recognition hit me.

My fingers slid off the damp moss and I skidded forward on my knees, teetering on the top of the cliff. I could have caught myself – except for a suddenly vivid memory of the hundreds of gently waving wanton’s needle below, and the intense wish to avoid peppering my whole body with their stings.

So I threw myself backwards, remembering a moment too late that the drop on the other side was a sheer one. I flipped over the edge, plummeting straight down. There was a blinding flare of pain across my forehead as I glanced off something sharp, followed abruptly by darkness.

Sensations swam up through the darkness slowly. First came a pleasant, herby scent, mixed with the smell of freshly laundered linen. There was coolness on my head, followed by a nasty ache. The pain pushed down on my floating consciousness, flattening me with such enthusiasm that I finally woke up in protest.

The first thing I saw was sunlight, filtering in thin, silky ribbons through a pierced marble screen before a trio of arched windows to my right. The wall was smooth, white stone. I turned my head, and found myself staring up at a vaulted ceiling, carved in the same white stone. Little faces smiled or leered down at me from the cornices.

I was lying on a huge raised wooden bed. The counterpane under my body was the palest shade of blushing rose, so soft and smooth that even my crabbed fingers couldn’t snag it. I blinked blurrily, and raised a hand to the dull throb of my head. My fingers met a pulpy coolness, and I pulled it away to see a herb poultice – ragwort and flowering ester. Deprived of the soothing coolness, my forehead thudded with warning pain as I lifted my other hand and gingerly explored the area. I could feel a tender bump on my hairline and broken skin. Someone had washed the blood away; my hair still felt damp.

What had happened, and where was I?

There was a rustle to my left. I tensed, and felt a sharp twinge as my head responded.

“Hush now.”

The light, warm voice belonged to a woman. Before I could find the energy to turn my head, I heard the scrape of chair legs on stone, and a figure dressed in deep rose wool appeared at my side. Her pretty face showed the lines of a woman in her late forties, but her long black hair, pulled back to tumble over her shoulders, held no more than a gleam of silver.

She smiled reassuringly, and her grey eyes showed compassion and friendliness. “There’s no need to panic. You’re with friends now.” She sat down beside me on the bed, her voice a soothing murmur. “My son tells me you’re called Alexandra, from Farland. I’m Rose, and I’m a cunning woman too – though not as good as you are, if my son’s stories are anything to go by. Do you mind if I look at your head?”

I shook my head, then winced as my vision swam dizzily.

“There now.” She touched my brow lightly, and I felt a gentle flow of warmth – her gift, scented with roses and the patter of cool rain – settle into the throbbing hurt, easing away the worst of the pain. “You had a nasty fall. Just let me look after you.” A momentary pause. “Hmm. Well, the ester’s taken down the swelling, but this is still a raw cut. I’ll put on some more ragwort to help it along.” Delicious coolness as she daubed on the sharp-smelling ointment.

I sighed silently, then opened my eyes again to meet hers as she hovered over me.

“Do you think you might sit up? There’s someone outside who’s pacing a runnel in the flagstones waiting to hear you’re well.”

I nodded, very gently, and let her help me into a sitting position. Her voice – was this pillow too thick? I must say if I felt uncomfortable – washed over me as she tucked pillows behind my back and made me comfortable, before walking to the door and pulling it open.

From the moment I had seen my healer’s grey eyes – no, from the moment I had woken – I had been expecting this. But when the familiar figure stepped into the room, I still felt as if the sea was thundering in my chest.

His shoulders had broadened, and he must have grown half a foot. He was browner. But his dark hair, untousled by the sea wind, still curled stubbornly at the ends and the smattering of golden freckles decorated the bridge of his nose as always. He had changed so much, and yet he was just as I remembered him, just as I had dreamed him. I met his steady silver gaze and felt my lips curve into a grin of pure happiness.
Gabriel.

The next moment he was across the room and his arms were around me, hugging me fiercely. I breathed in as I buried my face in his shoulder, inhaling lye soap and his own warm scent. Oh, to be
held
again, oh Ancestors, to touch him again… I wanted to weep in his arms at the sheer joy of that embrace. But I couldn’t.

The awareness forced me to let go before I broke.

Gabriel pulled back reluctantly, leaving his hands on my shoulders. “Alexandra,” he murmured, staring at me as if he could hardly believe his own eyes. “I waited for you on the beach every night for hours, until Anne came to tell me you had gone. Even when we came back here I kept thinking I could … could
feel
you, just around the corner. I dreamed about you.” He flushed.

Me too,
me too
… I longed to say the words. I met his eyes and nodded.

He flushed more deeply. “When I sensed you in the forest, I thought I was going mad. But the dogs felt it too, so I sent them after the feeling, never really believing… Dear Ancestors, Alexandra! What happened to you? Where have you
been
? Talk to me!”

I stared back at him, and silently shook my head.

He frowned. “Alexandra?”

“Her head is probably buzzing,” said Rose, who had kept her place by the door. “What with my gabbling and now yours, she hasn’t been able to say a word since she woke up.”

Something must have shown in my eyes. Gabriel’s expression turned grave. Without taking his hands from my shoulders, he twisted his head to look at Rose. “She hasn’t said anything, Mother? Not a word?”

“Why … no. She’s only just awakened, and she must be feeling ill.” Rose stopped abruptly, perhaps struck by the realization that she was speaking for me again.

“I don’t think that’s why she hasn’t spoken.” He turned back to look at me and asked quietly, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

I bit my lip. Then I raised a hand – hidden in a fold of my sleeve, so that only my fingertips showed – to my throat and shook my head.

He swallowed. “You can’t talk?”

I shook my head again.

“Is this … something to do with why you were living all alone in the woods?” he asked.

I nodded hesitantly.

There was a long pause. Then he said, “They never came, did they?”

I knew whom he meant. My lips quirked as I shook my head again.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

How on earth could I possibly explain? I tilted my head and shrugged helplessly.
Sort of.

Rose came closer, looking thoughtful.

“There’s no scarring on Alexandra’s throat, and I sensed no injury there when I reached into her. I did sense one of the strongest – perhaps
the
strongest – healing affinities I’ve ever come across. There’s something … I don’t know. I think this silence may be part of an enchantment, a very powerful healing spell.”

I nodded at Gabriel, then smiled at Rose gratefully. She smiled back, her eyes twinkling wryly. Then a considering look crossed her face, and she turned from us and stooped down beside the bed. When she stood back up, she held in her hands a very familiar, battered leather pack. “Perhaps this is part of it?”

Of course. It had been on my shoulders when I climbed the granite cliff. With mixed feelings of relief and guilt – for I had completely forgotten it – I took the pack. I opened the fastening and pulled out the fresh nettles, barely feeling the stings on my calloused hands as I rummaged to make sure that the finished and half-finished tunics were still there. I found them safe at the bottom, and relaxed.

I looked back up to see Gabriel staring at my exposed hands in horror. “What have you done to yourself?” he cried, grabbing my left hand and examining it. The purplish ripples of scar tissue stood out lividly. I felt my face burning and tried to tug my hand away, but he held fast.

Rose was staring with wide eyes at the nettle tunics, half pulled from the sack. “Ancestors. I think Alexandra has answered our question. Let me see.” Reluctantly I yielded up my hand to her. My fingers had curled into a fist of embarrassment, but she carefully unfolded them, examining the scars. Then she returned my hand to my lap and looked at the nettles spilled over my skirt.