Daughter of the Forest

  I endured the evening meal. This time I was better protected, for the family sat together, Lady Anne in her habitual place on her son’s right, Elaine on his left. Lord Richard was seated by his sister, and if I felt his eyes on me, I did my best not to look at him. Well down the table, I found myself between John and Ben, with Margery opposite. That effectively cut off any need to hear what was being said, or to school my expression. The three of them kept up a lively conversation on a variety of topics, ranging from the winter fair at Elvington, to whether sycamore or walnut was really best for fine furniture, to the merits of Red’s new breeding sow. They managed to include me, and a variety of imaginative expressions and gestures came into use, causing a certain amount of merriment among our small party. Once or twice, glancing up the table, I caught Red’s gaze, neither approving nor disapproving, just noting how things were. He spent much time in quiet conversation with Elaine. They were well suited, I thought. Childhood friends, they knew their place in the world and would work well together to keep what they had. She had impressed me, with her attempt to stand up to her father. Besides, both were tall and well favored, and they would breed handsome children. But I remembered the expressions on the faces of Liam and Eilis on the night of their betrothal; how they gazed into each other’s eyes as if there were no other in the world. I saw no such expression on Red’s face, nor on Elaine’s. Perhaps it is the way of the Britons, I thought. You do not show what you feel. Instead, you shut it away inside, locked in tight, lest it be seen in the light. But there were exceptions, I thought, watching Margery as she shared a joke with her husband, seeing John’s face as he passed her a platter of bread and she took a piece, touching his hand. There were those whose love spilled over into their every gesture, and so was shared by all who knew them. But they were rare folk indeed.

  I slept badly; the night demons were strong, clutching at me even in sleep, and it was a relief to wake, finally, cold and clammy with sweat, and see through my around window the first dim traces of dawn light in the sky. I washed in cold water and threw on a cloak over my nightrobe, for the walls were closing in and I was desperate for air. I unbolted the outer door and went softly out into the garden, barefoot on the cold stones of the path. Alys followed with some reluctance, moving stiffly in the early chill. There would be frost within days, I thought. That was good; maybe in spring I would see the earth carpeted with jonquil and crocus. Today would be fair; I could still see stars in the lightening sky, where purple faded to pink and to the first touch of dawn gold.

  Alys gave a tiny growl as we neared the foot of the garden. On the bench under the wall, Red lay asleep. It was scarcely large enough to accommodate his long frame; his arms were crossed behind his head, one leg lay stretched out along the bench and the other dangled to the ground. He would have a few aches and pains when he woke. He had his sword, and the small knife in his boot; but right now, any passing stranger could have finished him off. I stood there quietly, as the dawn touched his face with rosy light, and played over the straight nose, and the well defined bones, and the wide, relaxed mouth. All right for some, I thought.

  He did not take long to wake. When he did, it was in one smooth movement, aches and pains or no, springing to his feet instantly alert, hand ready on sword hilt. Alys gave a yelp of fright. Then Red saw who it was and sat down again, scratching his head ruefully.

  “Sleeping on the job. Not good,” he said, blinking. “Must have been more tired than I thought. Yesterday was not the best of days.”

  I nodded. It was an understatement. Now he was looking at me properly, searchingly.

  “You look terrible,” he said.

  Thanks. My expression must have told him how I felt.

  “And your feet must be freezing. Sit down here.” I sat, tucking my feet under me on the bench, drawing my cloak around me to cover them. It was cold on the stone path, but it was a good cold, that winter chill that sets a sleep on the garden, to dream of spring’s new growth.

  “You haven’t been sleeping,” said Red, and he reached out a hand toward my face. I flinched away, and he dropped it without touching me. “You have deep shadows under your eyes, and you’re white as chalk. I’m sorry about yesterday. They are leaving this morning. I don’t want you to be frightened.”

  What I wanted to say could not be put into gestures. You weren’t much help. Why didn’t you stop him sooner? I could think of no way to convey this to him. I gave a shrug instead.

  “I mean it, Jenny. I will ensure that he does no such thing again. It was not fair to you, or to my mother.” I studied his face. I thought that he was wrestling with himself, unsure how much to say.

  “He—no, let me put this another way. My uncle is kin. I must accept that. I can go just so far, for now at least. I wished to let him talk, in case—no, I need not burden you with this.”

  What? Burden me with what? Of that man, with his smooth tongue and his creeping hands, with his ready smile and poisonous words, I could believe anything. Having him as your uncle must be bad enough. I would not have him as father-in-law, if I had the choice. But it seemed that for Red, that choice was already made.

  “I know why Simon went away,” said Red in an undertone. I felt, again, that he was really talking to himself, not to me. Setting his thoughts in order. Saying the things one did not say aloud. “I’m not sure I understand why he did not return. There are ways of conducting a campaign, and Richard knows them well; whatever you might think of his motives, he is a professional with years of experience in the field. This campaign was different. You don’t set up camp in the heart of your enemy’s territory, not if you know what he’s capable of. You don’t put all your men together in a vulnerable position, to lose them in a single ambush. When you sleep, you set a watch. And it is not, usually, the newest and rawest recruit that is singled out for special treatment. Why didn’t he die with the rest of them?” He ran his hand over his short-cropped hair, frowning. “Simon had hostage value, I understand that. But there was no demand for ransom, no contact, nothing. And not a word of him, when I went there. Nothing; except—”

  Except what I carried, I thought. And that was precious little good to you.

  “And when Richard himself went to search,” Red went on, and I thought he had almost forgotten I was there, “what he told us—it did not ring true. John said the same. What he told us, of how they were slain, how the men of Erin came on them by night—it just doesn’t happen to men of experience. Not like that. Richard said—implied—that it was Simon’s fault, that my brother somehow betrayed them, brought the enemy down on them. But I know my brother. He may be foolish, headstrong, overyoung for his years. But he is not a traitor.”

  I nodded. I knew Simon was no informant. I had had faith in him, even when he had lost faith in himself.

  “There is a truth to be found, somewhere in all this,” said Red. “Among the many versions of this tale, one must be right. I hoped, in searching for Simon myself, to find the truth, although after so long, I had little real hope that he would still be alive. But there were no answers there. I came away with no answers, and a head full of questions. In letting my uncle talk yesterday, I hoped for another clue. And so I let him go too far, and I regret that. I used you as a pawn in this game, and you were hurt.”

  It was getting lighter. The sky was pale and clear, and the voices of birds spoke in the trees around us. Alys rolled on her back, stretching and scratching. There was something I had to tell him.

  You could go back. This could be conveyed by pointing, and the movement of hands. You could go back there. Look again. Perhaps find him. You could take me back. And then, I thought, when my brothers come back, I will be there waiting.

  Red regarded me seriously. Evidently he had understood me quite well. “I cannot go yet awhile. There is much to do here; I was away too long, and had to leave others to oversee the harvest, and the culling of stock. The river may flood before midwinter, and—” he broke off, seeing my expression. “I don’t want to go
back, not yet,” he said. “My absence from Harrowfield leaves vulnerable all that I hold dear. This is a time of change, with a new king in the south who is as yet untried. I doubt Ethelwulf has the strength of his father, and that leaves us open to the Danes. My duty lies at home, for now. My brother chose to go. He chose that way. I will not lose all that I have in the quest to bring him back. But I have not forgotten. Nor do I fear spilling blood, whatever my uncle says. If Simon is to be found, I will find him. If I must wait, then I will wait.”

  Before he left, he told me to go back inside and bolt the door, and stay there until it was fully light.

  “Do as I say, Jenny,” he said. “There is danger here. You have seen it at work. Perhaps I am wrong; perhaps I misjudge my uncle. I hope I am wrong. He leaves this morning, but I have no doubt he will return, and try again. He has seen you now. I know how his mind works; your strength will be a challenge to him. Remember your promise.”

  I did, and, sitting quietly in my room with only Alys for company, I remembered a lot of other things too. In particular, I remembered the Lady of the Forest, as she told him Make sure she is not hurt again. And as she told me You may not have to be so strong, now. What game were the Fair Folk playing, that they used even Britons as their pawns? That they laid a command on Lord Hugh to protect me, when doing so went against every logical choice he should be making? Well, there was nobody here to ask. Nobody but me and little Alys. I took out needle and sharp thread, and as the morning light came up I began, laboriously, to finish off the woven square I had made, stitch by painful stitch. The first part of Conor’s shirt.

  After that, things settled down for a while. The weather turned toward winter, with the frosts I had anticipated a mere prelude to days of storm, and a bone-chilling sleet that turned the ground to mud. Farm carts were bogged, and men got filthy shifting them. The river overflowed, and stock were moved to higher ground. In the kitchens, a cauldron of soup simmered constantly on the hob, ready for the next contingent of exhausted men. I noticed without surprise that Lord Hugh and his friends worked side by side with cottager and farmer, clearing fallen trees, shoring up banks, quieting horses crazed with fear when lightning struck the stables. My opinion of Lady Anne rose slightly when I observed her packing baskets with food and, on occasion, venturing out herself to deliver them, accompanied by a maidservant. It went up further when she began to use my name, instead of ‘girl,’ and reprimanded a servant who suggested the accuracy of the lightning strike might have something to do with my presence in the house. There were rows of muddy boots before the fire, and wet cloaks hanging in the kitchens. My room was freezing and I begged an extra blanket.

  At least the foul weather meant we had no visitors for a while. The road from Harrowfield to Northwoods was impassable, flooded deep by the swollen river. There was no going in or out, for now. It was the time of year when at home I would have gathered with my brothers to keep away shadows, and to ask a spirit blessing for the dark season to come. There was a Christian feast day, which the household kept, but with no great ceremony. There was no priest here; quiet prayers were spoken for the dead, and candles lit. Nobody spoke the name, Simon. But he was there among us; you didn’t need to say it to feel it.

  In my room, that night, I lit my own candle. I had not undressed, it was too cold. The dog had tugged the blankets into a sort of nest and lay there snoring gently. The light danced over the stone walls, sculpted by the draft into fantastic shadows. Silently I spoke their names. Liam, Diarmid, Cormack, Conor, Finbar, Padriac. I saw their faces in my mind, six versions of the same face, but all so different. They swam together, blurred by my tears. It was not long till midwinter. How would I find them? There were still but three shirts in my little bag, and part of the fourth. Soon enough I would have no starwort left. How would I gather it, when the wind outside whipped the bushes to the ground, and water froze hard in the furrows of the bare fields? Finally I fell asleep, still staring into the candle flame, curled up by small Alys for warmth, with my brothers’ names sounding over and over in my head, as if by saying them I could keep them alive a little longer, just a little. Just long enough.

  Chapter Nine

  The weather grew fouler and the days shorter. In the mornings the ground was crisp with frost, and the eaves of the barn sparkled with icicles. It had been hard enough in the warmer weather of autumn for my swollen hands to manipulate distaff and spindle, to pass the shuttle through the loom, to thread a needle for the final sewing. Now I felt a dull throbbing in my joints that would not go away, even when I rested. On the worst days, when snow fell soft outside and lanterns lit the room where we worked even at midday, I had to fight hard to keep back tears as I forced myself to go on. Margery had learned by now that I would not accept help from anyone. All she could do was sit by me and talk quietly of one thing and another, and I found her presence reassuring. But my progress was slow, too slow. There was a fire on the hearth, and the women would sit near it to work. But I did not move closer, for I did not like the suspicious glances or the wagging tongues, which were silent only in Lady Anne’s presence. I did not like the little signs they made with their fingers, when they thought I was not watching. I worked as steadily as I could, and I watched through the window as midwinter came ever closer, and because I no longer dared to consider how long the whole task might take, I set myself a smaller goal. I would finish Conor’s shirt by Meán Geimhridh, the winter solstice.

  Cooped up indoors, the men found a new way to occupy themselves. The great hall was cleared of its benches and tables and became a center for various forms of combat, armed and unarmed. After a day or two and some near misses, Lady Anne ordered the tapestries removed for safekeeping.

  I began to see where Red had developed those skills I had observed during our flight from lake to sea. The men practiced with swords, and with sword and dagger together, and with staves. They wrestled and used hands and feet as weapons. My brothers could have picked up a new trick or two.

  Bored with the morning sewing routine, the girls were often discovered clustered in the doorway, gasping as Ben executed a low dive under John’s sword stroke, followed by a flying kick that sent his assailant’s dagger sailing through the air perilously close to the viewers’ admiring faces. Or exclaiming, as Red demonstrated his method for breaking a headlock applied by a very determined enemy—an effective maneuver, if unethical. And it was not only these three that used their time thus. Red had a small but lethal fighting force, any of whom, I thought, could have given Cormack a good run for his money. And that was saying something. It intrigued me that these cowmen and foresters and millers were able, in a matter of moments, to transform themselves into skillful warriors of deadly purpose. Lord Richard had scorned Red for his reluctance to confront the enemy. But I thought, he will be ready when the time comes. As he was before. If I were his enemy, I would not be making slighting remarks. I would be getting ready for the combat right now. It took me some time to remember that I and my kind were the enemy; I had almost fallen into the trap of thinking I belonged here.

  That this was far from the truth was demonstrated to me soon enough. Lady Anne had thawed a little since her brother’s visit, but only a little. She shared my concerns, I think, watching her son put his newly mended leg to such energetic use. I had been pleased with my handiwork, for the stitches had come out cleanly, and the wound looked healthy. He would never lose the long scar his assailant’s blade had cut into the flesh, but he was demonstrating daily that the leg itself was as good as new. I was somewhat relieved. But this success did not earn me the respect of the household. Instead, there was muttering about how I had done it, and a half-spoken suggestion that one so young and witless could not have achieved this spectacular result without the use of sorcery, or something so close to it that you would not notice the difference.

  As it drew ever closer to midwinter eve, I knew I must plan carefully. For I must be ready and waiting, between dusk and dawn, for my brothers’ return. No matter that I h
ad crossed the sea and left them behind. No matter under whose roof I now sheltered. I must set aside the knowledge that they had no map, no sign, no light to guide them to me. I had taken this path and they would have to follow. Strange things had happened; stranger still might come to pass. So I kept their names in my mind, as a kind of litany, and I planned my escape. If they came, it must be to water, and so to the river. I could not go far undetected, and had but a small span of time to do it. I could not be there by dusk. It must be between the evening meal and the time when the guard was set outside my door. I would light a candle in my room, and bid Alys be silent. Then I would shut the door and cross the garden stealthily. I could make my way to the river’s edge in the dark. I hoped they would wait. Then, in the morning, I would bid them farewell, see them safely on their long way home, and make sure the guard was gone before I slipped back into my room. It should work. It had to work. I tried not to think that they might not come, that there might be a long empty night of waiting.

  Midwinter eve dawned clear and cold. With a good fire lit in the long room, and low sunlight slanting through the windows, we managed to coax our chilled fingers into work. In the main hall, a great oak log had been laid on the hearth to be lit that night with ceremony, and boughs of greenery, holly, ivy, and goldenwood hung above each doorway. This much was familiar to me from home. But I did not imagine I would see bonfires on the hills, or find these folk around them drinking midnight toasts to the spirits of field and tree. They would stay safe in their warm beds and lock the doors. That was to my advantage. I should be able to slip out and in by night quite unseen.