I sat extremely still. I was afraid to breathe.
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” He rose in a single fluid movement and laid his hands on my basket. “Not that I believe in magic, myself. But still, I made a promise. How many have we, four, five?”
I sprang to my feet, and my hands went out, clutching desperately at the basket, but I had grown weaker than I realized and he brushed me aside like some troublesome insect.
“One, two, three, four, five. We have been working hard, haven’t we? And most of another. Well done, little sorceress. Still, there’s not long now. I shouldn’t think I’ll have much difficulty complying with the lady’s request. Make sure you do it before the girl finishes, she said. Gather them together, the little sorceress and her work. Burn them together. And bring me back a report, she said. I want a full description.” He smiled at me. “Neat conclusion, isn’t it? Tidy for all of us. Hugh would approve. He always liked a tidy life.”
Go away. Go now, before shock and fear and loathing overwhelm me. Go now, before rage makes me try something foolish. Breathe, Sorcha. In, out. In, out.
“Tidy in every particular. Well, almost. The witch girl dies; the valley is saved. Elaine marries Hugh. Richard of Northwoods establishes his outpost on the far shore. Eamonn of the Marshes adds a nice little stretch of forest to his territory. The mysterious red-haired lady gets her wish. We all live happily ever after. Pity about Simon. He’s the one piece that doesn’t quite fit. There could have been a handy spot for that boy under my command, if he’d been able to learn a little discipline. Good skills in the field. Somebody taught him well. But he got too inquisitive for his own good. Overheard what was best kept silent. Saw something he shouldn’t. Couldn’t be trusted with what he knew. Interested, aren’t you?”
I could not bring myself to pick up my work again, but remained crouched by the basket, my arms stretched over it in protection. Go away. His presence contaminated the very air we breathed. And yet, I needed to hear the end of his story. The end of this particular truth.
“Unfortunate, it was. Own nephew, and all that. But I knew the boy; straight back to his brother, it would have been, and out with the information. And even Hugh couldn’t have ignored that. For as you know, our kind don’t mix with yours. Sworn enemies. Chalk and cheese. But he’d seen me, and heard me, with Eamonn’s man. Heard who knew what? So I had to issue an instruction for him to be—removed. Silenced. Eliminated. Fortunately, I have a man who’s expert at these things. Problem was, I left it just a little bit too long. Big mistake. The boy up and vanished. Went off on his own, who knew where and why? I expect he thought he’d be some sort of hero. Simon was always like that, acted first, thought afterwards. Of course I went after him, had to be seen doing the right thing, close kin and so on. Besides, with what he knew, every moment he was out there was one too many. Fruitless search; and when I got back, they were all dead. Every one of my men. Severed limbs, shredded flesh. Scattered bones in the mud. Every last one. Take years to build up my special force to that level of skill again.”
His tone was bitter. I thought, this is the measure of the man, that he values his people merely as tools in his quest for power.
“Colum. It had to be Colum and his sons. The elusive, evasive warrior lord, who seemed to be able to sweep his opponent’s pieces from the board whenever he chose, and disappear as silently as he attacked. Colum of Sevenwaters. No wonder so many men hate and fear him. I came to the conclusion Simon had been captured, and had squealed. Who else could have revealed my men’s position? The boy turned out as weak as his brother, all bravado on the surface, no iron underneath. Handy enough with a sword or a bow, or with their fists; but you can’t rely on them when things get tough. Wouldn’t you agree? Where’s Hugh now, when you need him? Hasn’t exactly rushed back to rescue the little wife, has he? Got better things to do. Whatever they are, and I’d dearly love to know what they are. Well, I came home. Reported to my sister, your boy’s lost. Nobody knows where. That part was true enough.
“Bit of a worry when Hugh went off looking for him, some time later. As if he didn’t believe what I’d told them. I was worried about that small piece of information that might just get out, assuming the boy was still alive somewhere. Thought maybe you knew something about it; why else would my nephew drag an Irish brat home with him? I wanted to make you talk. If you were kin to Sevenwaters, it was important to make you talk, before you blabbed the truth to my nephew. I thought that. But I couldn’t get near you, he guarded you like some precious jewel. I watched you. After a while, I began to change my mind. You’ll never talk. The boy’s fooling himself, if he thinks so. You’re a girl; girls scream when they’re hurt. They cry when they’re upset. Girls don’t hold out for days and moons and years with never a squeak out of them. You’ll burn without uttering a sound. And I will take immense pleasure in lighting the fire, my dear. A slap in the face for Colum. He may not want to pay for your return; I understand that. But he won’t like the tale I send back for his ears only; of how his daughter perished by a very special kind of fire. That tale will keep him awake at night.”
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Yes, it’s turned out very neatly,” he said. “Only one loose end, really. Not at all like your work, my dear, which looks woefully awry; are you really concentrating on what you’re doing there? Still, maybe it doesn’t matter. Fire will take you, and your pitiful shirts, in one great satisfying burst of heat. Spindle, distaff, loom, and cloth. Gown, hair, skin, nails. At first slowly, and then faster and hotter as the flames flow around you and work their way inward. By the time your husband returns, there’ll be no trace of you left at Harrowfield. You’ll be gone. Obliterated. He will pick up the pieces of his life and move on. Men forget. They forget easily. Elaine will soon pull him into line. Capable girl. She’ll take charge here, and as for me…”
He glanced up at the window.
“It’s getting late. Time for a flask of wine, perhaps a cutlet or two, I’m always a little peckish at this time of day.” He got up, stretching. “Must fly, my dear. So nice chatting to you. Talked longer than I realized. Oh well, tomorrow’s another day, as they say. Be ready when they come for you. I’ve had a word to the Bishop’s man about your case; your hearing will likely take the full day, and he wants an early start.”
One night, I thought, my heart pounding. Only one night, and then my fate would be decided. I had to be strong, I must keep my mind away from fire, and from death. I thought about Richard’s words. It was as well, I thought, that the man was so self-absorbed. Had he watched me more closely during his astonishing recital, he might have read on my face more than I wished him to know. For the rest of the day and on into the night, my mind turned the things he had told me over and over. Red’s uncle in collusion with a chieftain of my own people, one whom my father had considered a friend. I found I could believe that. Power games were what they all did best. This was just another game. Lady Oonagh involved; that must be true, for I had already recognized her hand in John’s death, and in the slowly rising tide of fear, suspicion, and unhappiness that threatened to overwhelm the valley, taking the family at Harrowfield with it. And it seemed Red had been right about one thing. Richard had lied to them. He had no evidence that Simon was dead. His story had been fabrication, based on surmise. Designed to placate, invented to draw a line at the end of that particular tale. This is finished. You need seek for answers no longer. I was glad Richard had not read my face closely. He had not guessed where Red had gone, and why. He must not know. For in my heart, I knew Richard would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. He enjoyed the game while it lasted. But winning, in the end, was the only thing that mattered. All pieces were disposable. The loss of a whole unit of fighting men was hard, but Richard saw this merely as a setback, able to be remedied with time and a bag or two of silver. Good men could be bought and trained. I had been a particularly awkward and unexpected challenge for him. But I had played into his hands, and he had me now. I had no
doubt he would sacrifice, without qualms, anyone who stood in his way. Anyone. If one nephew could be—what word had he used, eliminated?—then why not the other, if he learned the unpalatable truth about his uncle? And who was poised to take control then? Between my father’s men and his uncle, poor Simon had not stood a chance.
It was just as well he had given me plenty to think about. Timing it over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of it kept back those other thoughts. Images of burning flesh, as the flames licked at bare feet and charred at the embroidered hem of a gown. I saw the fire catching a dry willow basket and consuming the five shirts of starwort, and the sixth, which now lay incomplete as I wove its first sleeve. Front and back were finished, held together by a rough stitch or two at the shoulder. It was shoddy work, as Richard had observed; my youngest brother would be shortchanged. But tomorrow. Tomorrow they would question me. Did that mean that tomorrow I might die? How could you face your last day in the world, and not be afraid? I thought about the old tales, about the way the hero’s spirit would complete its journey in this earthly form, and move onto the next at the allotted time.
A good death. The wheel turns, and returns. I thought of Liam’s tale of our mother, slipping away from the world, calmly bidding her sons farewell. Serene, orderly, inevitable. I did not feel like that at all. I was angry, I was terrified, my heart thumped and I had trouble breathing. My head hurt. I was not ready to die. Not yet, not now. Not before I held my brothers in my arms again.
I did not sleep at all that night. There must be time to finish. There had to be. Did the Fair Folk set a task, and then make its completion impossible? I could not believe that it would be taken from me, so close to the end. I must finish. I would finish. I did not tell myself stories, as the night raced on toward dawn. Instead, working in the dark, I filled the space around me with mind pictures, shining images to keep out the shadows, as Finbar had once done for me to his own cost. To keep out the flames. To keep out the cruel news that my father knew where I was, and would not ransom me. So I fixed my mind elsewhere. There was the white beach, and the great solemn seals with their soft eyes. There was Red, watching me with his heartbreaking smile and his bright hair like a beacon against the gray and green and blue of the sea. I saw, for an instant, an image of John lifting his tiny son in his arms, love and pride written bold on his weathered face. Margery, plaiting my hair with deft fingers. It suits you. You’ll have to stop hiding yourself. Well, it seemed my ending would be public enough. Everyone would be out to see a sorceress burn. No, keep those thoughts away. There was the forest, filtered sunlight between leaves, high, high overhead. There was a child dancing down the path, barefoot on the soft earth, her hair dark and wild on her shoulders. There was her brother watching with eyes like clear water, that saw far, so far. There was a girl running on the sand; there was her image done small and neat in careful pen strokes. The very last image in the book.
My hand came up to clutch the two precious items that still hung around my neck, under my stained gown. Lady Anne had said her son loved me. But it was not love, not if you did what you did only because you must, only because of a command laid on you which you could not understand. He would return, and I would be gone, gone as if I had never been. Perhaps he could still weave together the broken threads of his life. And yet, I wanted him here now. I needed him here. In the darkness, if I sat very still, I could almost feel his presence by me, quite near, but not too near. Didn’t I promise to keep you safe, he would say softly. I have never broken a promise. Don’t look so worried, Jenny. And yet, he would be careful. Careful not to move too close. Careful not to frighten me. Waiting still. I am your shelter. Don’t be afraid.
Chapter Thirteen
Then it was morning, and they came for me. It was the first time I had been outside my tiny prison since midsummer, the day I had held Conor in my arms and heard him promise to bring my brothers back when I was ready. Now it seemed I might never be ready. Blinking in the brightness long denied me, stumbling on legs reluctant to obey me, I was conveyed none too gently down to the hall, which was set up for a formal hearing of the folkmoot. There was a long table across the end of the room, with four oak chairs in place, and here sat Richard of Northwoods, attired in his black velvet, and beside him a rotund man in the plain dark robes of a cleric. This, I supposed, was the bishop’s man. There were two record keepers seated there, one a tonsured youth with a pale, serious face, the other the household scribe of Harrowfield. Ink pots, quills, and neat piles of parchment were set on the board before them, with small trays of fine sand to sprinkle on for drying. Lanterns were lit near the doorways, for the sun had not made an appearance between the rain clouds and the room was quite dark. A warm fire burned on the great hearth. Around the other three sides of the hall benches were set, and here sat the tenants of Harrowfield, as required by the law. There were many there that I had seen before, and some that were strangers. There were a fair bit of noise, what with old friends catching up on news, and swift bargains being struck over a few pigs or a fine ewe while the opportunity offered. As they watched me walk to the high stool in the very center of the hall, all of them went quiet.
Richard rose slowly to his feet.
“This moot commences,” he pronounced. “In the absence of my nephew, Lord Hugh of Harrowfield, master of these estates, I will be presiding over the hearings. There are various matters to be heard, and all of these bar one I carry over to tomorrow, or the day after. Food and drink will be provided to all, for as long as the business of the moot takes.” A mutter of approval. “For today, there is a single, deep, and weighty matter to be decided. This concerns the young woman known as Jenny, who stands before you accused of several offenses, each one of which is punishable by death, should the case against her be proven.” All eyes turned toward me, where I sat on the stool, swaying slightly. I did feel rather strange. Whether it was from lack of sleep or lack of food, or the unaccustomed presence of so many people, so much light and noise, my sight was blurring and my head fuzzy. I must try to concentrate.
“As you are aware, these proceedings have been carried over several times before,” Richard went on, “since the matter is so grave. It was hoped Father Stephen of Ravenglass might grace us with his presence, so that the opinion of the church might be obtained, especially on the charge of sorcery.” There was a little gasp of horror from the assembly as this word was spoken. “I am advised that this will not now be possible, and the matter can be delayed no longer. I welcome Father Dominic of Whitehaven, who has traveled here as the bishop’s representative in Father Stephen’s place.” Was I imagining things, or did Richard sound just a little out of sorts at this change? “The proceedings will be as follows,” he went on, and now I was sure of it. There was an edge to his voice, the same tone it took on when he debated a point with Red and came out worse off. Something had rattled him. “This morning the evidence against the girl will be heard and assessed. Later in the day she will be given the opportunity to make what case she can in her own defense. I will question her, and Father Dominic also may choose to do so. If any member of this moot has a real concern in this matter, he too may speak in turn. I will deliver judgment and pronounce the penalty this same day, and this troublesome case will be settled once and for all.”
“Very well, very well.” Father Dominic was reaching across, helping himself to a sheet of parchment, picking up a quill. Apparently quite used to this behavior, his scribe edged the ink pot closer. “What exactly are the charges against this young woman?”
“Firstly, spying, for the purpose of passing on information to her husband’s enemies. She has made no denial of her origins among those Irish chieftains who battle us for control of the islands. Second, the reception of an outlaw, one of her own kind with no business in these parts. Thirdly, the use of the sorcerer’s art for purposes of mischief and disturbance of this household. All three offenses are part of the same plot. The penalty for each of these offenses is death.”
“
I’m aware of that. And what witnesses are to be called?”
“Several, Father. I myself am the principal witness in the case against her.”
I saw Father Dominic nod, his face impassive. Above the collar of his dark robe, there were rolls of fat under his chin. His small eyes were very shrewd.
“Very well. You had better proceed.” He turned to me. “Listen well, young woman. For in due time you will be called upon to account for yourself.”
I stared back at him, and his eyes narrowed.
“Can this girl understand our tongue?” He turned toward Richard with a little frown. “She seems scarcely to hear what is said around her. And she looks unwell. I would hazard a guess that something is amiss with her. She can hardly be expected to make a case for herself if she cannot comprehend the evidence.”
“She understands well enough,” Richard said curtly, and this time it was quite obvious he was annoyed. “But she does not have the power of speech. Some malady has afflicted her tongue, I’m told.”
“If this is so, how can she account for herself? How can a fair hearing take place, if the accused cannot make her case? Has she someone to assist her?”