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.
“She never did think much of me,” he commented, apparently quite unsurprised to see me. “You’re abroad early. I don’t want you to go too far alone.”
I felt annoyed, suddenly. He was so sure he was right, so used to having every single person doing what he told them. I thought, it can’t be good for him, always to have his own way. Why should I not go out alone? Was he afraid I might slip away forever, and take my information with me?
He read something of this unspoken message in my face, and put down his work carefully. On closer inspection, I saw that there were two flat pieces of wood, with strips of leather to hold them together, and between he kept many small pieces of parchment, each marked with a careful tally of some sort, groups of four lines with a fifth across, repeated until fifty were recorded, or twice fifty. Here or there was a tiny image, or hint of an image: a horned sheep, a sheaf of barley, a series of curves and lines that might perhaps indicate the position of the sun. A little tree.
“There are risks. I wish you to stay close to the house. Your safety cannot be guaranteed if you venture further.”
I wanted to say to him, you took me away from the forest. Let me at least walk under your trees, feel your river run over my bare feet, lie in your fields and watch the clouds pass overhead. Let me at least be somewhere quite alone. For in your house I cannot feel the air or sense the fire. I cannot smell the earth or hear the water. I will not run away; I cannot. For without your protection, I will not complete my task.
“This is not easy for you, is it?” he commented. “You could decide to talk to me, of course. That would be helpful. But I see in your expression that you will not.”
I cannot.
“Tell me something,” he said, regarding me closely. “If you wished, could you speak to me now? Could you talk to me of my brother, and what became of him?”
I have never been able to lie. I nodded miserably, not wanting him to pursue this.
“Why not tell me?” he said, quite softly. “I would let you go, you know. Whatever happened to Simon, it cannot have been your doing. You are only a child. I would let you go. But I must know first. If he is dead, then I can tell my mother, and so his shadow is laid to rest, and let that be an end of it. This feud is not mine, and I will not pursue it. I have no wish to meet blood with blood. If he lives, he can be found, and I will find him. Would you not wish to know, if this were your own brother?” I gave a nod and then turned abruptly away, so that he would not see my face. There was a long silence. I did not feel I could walk on; but his words had made me deeply uneasy. I did not understand why he would ask me this, when he had kept what he knew of me to himself, telling neither his mother nor, it seemed, his closest friends. Perhaps, I thought, the Fair Folk really did put a spell on him that night. Perhaps he was called to protect me while I complete my task, and so he acts against his true will. If not for that, surely he would make me give him the information, surely he would force it out. He had no need for kindness, no need for patience. But even if I could have spoken, I had no real answers for him. When I looked back at him, he had closed the book and put away his pen and ink.
“I should keep this leg moving,” he said, getting up. “Walk up this way, I want to show you something.” He still limped, and so I managed to keep pace, despite his long legs. We followed the path around the lichen-covered orchard wall and up a hill beneath young oaks still bearing the last of their russet leaves. Alys plodded gallantly b
ehind.
“I was five or six years old when my father and I planted these,” he said. “He had a great respect for trees. When you felled, you planted. An oak takes a lifetime to grow. Like his father before him, he saw a long way ahead.” The path went on upward, and the trees stretched out on either side in orderly rows. Alys grew weary and lagged behind, and we waited for her to catch up. She was too old to go further, but refused to be carried. In the end, I convinced her by gesture and expression that she was to wait for me, and she settled, grumbling, in the fallen leaves by the path. Her liquid eyes followed us reproachfully as we continued to climb. There was a crisp dawn breeze; looking back, I saw the first curls of smoke from newly kindled fires in house and cottage. The folk were beginning to stir.
We reached the hilltop, where a single great stone stood twined around with wild creepers. There was a wide view; I noted again how tidily kept his lands were, how neat and controlled and—well, how right was the only way I could put it. No wonder they had all been surprised when he’d decided to bring me back. That had been no part of this neat pattern. The river wound lazily through the valley; from up here, you could see the vast extent of his domain, the broad fields of stubble with their neat conical stacks of straw, the sweeping pastureland dotted here and there with grazing beasts, the mills and barns and the whitewashed cottages nestled among trees. So many trees; and the oaks, I saw, were not only young, but half grown, and full grown, and to the east they were thick and ancient, almost a forest.
“When Simon was still an infant, I was up there with my grandfather, collecting acorns, watching him set a drystone wall, delivering the early lambs. When Simon was a boy throwing sticks for his dog, I was planting trees with my father, and learning to stack straw, and thatch a roof to keep the storms out. When Simon was finding out how to kill a man quietly and leave no trace, I was taking the cottagers wood for their winter fires, and learning the name of every person on the estate. My brother and I passed each other like strangers. Time changes things. My father died early, and it broke my grandfather’s heart. Now they are both gone.” He said this quite matter-of-factly; there was no telling if he cared or not. I thought he must. It is hard to make yourself understood without words, unless what you want to say is very simple. I tried anyway, using hands and eyes. Those trees; so ancient, they surely held the knowledge and wisdom of all that had passed in this valley. They surely held the spirits of the men who had worked their love into the land with the labor of their hands. I tried to show Red this. Trees—old—young. Men—old—young. Growing. Heart. Valley—heart.
At least he did not laugh at me, but watched me gravely and gave a nod when my efforts were finished. “Simon never understood,” he said. “He was always busy somewhere else, always pushing, challenging, trying something new. What we had never seemed to be enough. And yet we have so much.” He lowered himself to the ground; the leg was clearly still not comfortable. I pointed to it and raised my eyebrows as I sat down beside him, not too close.
“The wound looks all right,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll call you when it’s time to undo your handiwork. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.” I used my fingers to tell him. Twenty days. My stitching must stay for twenty days undisturbed. Wrap and rewrap the wound. A poultice. Perhaps I could…And then I would undo my work, and it should be well. Red nodded; the message had been easier to convey this time.
We sat in silence for a while, watching the day come up, hearing the faint sounds as household and farm awoke and came to life. It was a good place, near enough to the sky, far enough from man.
“I want to warn you,” said Red, twisting a strand of grass between his fingers. “For I’m not sure you understand how important it is to do as I say; to stay close to the house, and not go off on your own. It is safe enough here, though I fear not all of my household treat you with kindness. That can be changed. It is not this household that bothers me.” He pointed to the north, to the head of the valley. “That way lie my uncle Richard’s lands,” he said. “He is my mother’s brother, a powerful man, a man of great wealth and influence. It was his battle that my brother ran away to fight; it is his feud that costs so many women their sons, their husbands, and lovers. My people are bitter; it will be hard for them to make you welcome. What they cannot see is that it is this man’s quest for power, his lust for blood that keeps the old war alive, that poisons men’s minds so that they follow him to death or destruction. My brother was young; too young to pledge himself to such a cause. There was no need for him to hate. But Richard dazzles them, these young men, with his ready words. Maybe you know that. Maybe you have heard this story from my brother’s lips.”
I shook my head, amazed that he had chosen to tell me this. Not this story. For a man that usually said so little, he had revealed more of himself than he knew.
“You wonder why I tell you this,” said Red, appearing to catch my thoughts. “I tell you because my mother’s brother will learn soon enough that you are here. He has informants everywhere, and a sharp ear for rumor. He will be interested. More than interested. We can expect a visit. You will find it difficult, but there are those of my household that will help you. I wish to ensure that we are prepared for such a visit. That’s why I want to know where you are, always. He’s a clever man. It would suit him well to run into you, as if by chance, when you’re out riding or walking alone, with nothing but that apology for a hound to protect you. I want your promise that you will not allow this to happen.”
It’s easy, I said silently, and I mimed it for him. Why not lock me in my room, and keep the key in your pocket?
The strangest look crossed his face, as if he were trying not to laugh.
“I don’t think so,” he said, getting to his feet. “The light’s not so good in there, for spinning. Besides, how would I keep Ben and John busy, with nothing to do at night? Idleness is not healthy for them. No, I don’t think that would do at all. Now, do I have your promise?”
I nodded. I was sure he expected no less. Didn’t everyone always do what he told them?
The conversation seemed to be over. He reached out a hand to help me up, and I took it without thinking, suppressing a yelp of pain as he grasped it firmly with his own. This was not lost on him. The pale blue eyes focused sharply on my hands as he opened them out for inspection. His own hands were big enough to close around mine completely; but he had relaxed his grip to the merest touch, examining the rawness of my flesh, the start of an open wound, the remnant barbs of the starwort plant. My hands were not a pretty sight. I felt uncomfortable, standing so close to him. His face showed little indication of his thoughts.
“I don’t like this,” he commented without emphasis. “Perhaps I should lock you up after all. But I doubt that would stop you. It wouldn’t really matter what I did, would it?”
I shook my head. Don’t ask too many questions. There are things I may not tell. Don’t come too close.
“I must have been mad,” he said to himself, and dropped my hands, and we started to walk back down the hill. “They all think so. Crazy, or bewitched. There are plenty of theories. I don’t concern myself with them. We can, at least, do a little better than this.”
The terrier was rested and greeted us with a sharp barking and violent wagging of the tail. She pranced ahead of us back to the house, full of self-importance. There were eyes on us as we walked back together, but no more was said than a “Fine morning, my lord!” and a “Looks like fair weather.” I thought, there is a charmed space around him, and while I stay in there I am safe. Venture out, and it will be a different story. This did not comfort me, for I had no wish to be dependent on any man, least of all this sharp-eyed Briton who had given me no choice but to leave my own place. And I did not delude myself that his efforts to protect me were in anyone’s interest but his own. In the end he would get what he wanted from me, and that would be it. You suck the juice from a ripe fruit, and then you throw away the husk, and the crows come and peck apart the remnants until the
last of the life is gone from it. Still, in the picture of things, that hardly mattered. For never a word would I speak to him, until the shirts were finished. And when they were finished, then—then all would change. When my brothers came. If they came.
I became surer, as time passed and the moon waxed and waned, that there was a small and very effective net of protection around me that was tightly under Red’s control, as was all else in his domain. There was Margery, who soon became a friend. That was a novelty for me. I had never had a woman friend, unless you counted Eilis, whom I’d always thought rather boring and silly, although I could not fault her taste in men. Margery was sweet, but she was also strong, in a way that became apparent to me as day followed day, and she parried the other women’s comments with firm politeness, and continued with her small kindnesses to me. She was strong as she admonished the girl who said, only half joking, that Margery had better not let me touch her stomach, where the unborn child now grew large and heavy, lest I put a curse on it and it be born dead or deformed. She was strong as she asked Lady Anne, very courteously, if I might have another change of clothes and a good oil lamp for my room in the evenings. She began to talk to me about other things; about how much she had missed John when he was away, and her baby growing fast in the womb. About how eagerly they awaited this child, for she had once had another that had lived but a few moments in the world, and it was many moons now since they had laid their tiny daughter to rest under the great oaks. About how Red had not wanted John to go with him across the water, for, he said, a man should stay by his woman at such a time, and he’d do well enough with Ben by his side. How John had gone anyway, for he had been dreaming strange dreams, and he had misgivings about the whole idea, and feared for Red’s safety. And how John worried now that Red had abandoned the search half done, so his companion could come home in time.
It wasn’t as if nobody had tried to find Simon when he first went missing. Lady Anne’s brother Richard had instigated a search, and not in vain, for he had discovered twelve of his own men slain. But the younger son of Harrowfield was not among them. So, eventually, Red had decided to go and see for himself. And for his mother. Margery told me they had been relieved that the worst that happened to Red was splitting his leg open, and coming back with me. John had said he hoped there would be no more surprises. With Red you didn’t usually expect surprises. He was the strong, unchanging center around which the whole of this small world revolved. I began, gradually, to realize the magnitude of his decision to bring me back home.