The Witch Queen's Secret

WHAT THEY DID was send the two fighting men off to the kitchens and then bandage the wounded man up. He woke about halfway through, and Lady Isolde had Dera prop his head while she got him to swallow some poppy syrup that had him unconscious again before the final bandage was tied. Lady Isolde sat back on her heels. Dera looked over at Jory, but he was still asleep, curled up with Lady Isolde’s dog.

  “Will he live?” Dera nodded at the man at their feet.

  Lady Isolde pushed a stray curl of black hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. She looked tired, like she hadn’t been sleeping well. Her eyes were sad, too—sadder, somehow, than they’d been three months before. “I don’t know.” She looked down at the man’s face, hard, as if she was trying to memorize what he looked like. “Hardly any man survives injuries like his. Maybe one in twenty. If that many.”

  Then she shook her head, like she was trying to get the thought out of it, and said, “I haven’t thanked you properly for your help. If he does have a chance, it’s because of you.”

  Dera felt her cheeks go red. “I didn’t do much, my lady.”

  “Still.” And then Lady Isolde stopped, searching Dera’s face with her eyes. “Do you think you could—would you want to do something like that again?”

  Just for something to do, Dera had started folding up the man’s belongings that had tumbled out of his pack in a heap when his fellows had set him down. A spare set of breeches, shirt, traveling cloak. He must not have a wife back home. Or if he did, she wasn’t any too fond of him. The wedded men usually had a bundle of rowan twigs or a love knot sewn into their clothes somewhere.

  Other women were quick enough to call Lady Isolde the Witch Queen—but they weren’t above trying out a bit of magic, themselves, and buying a wise-woman’s herbs or a peddler’s charm, hoping to keep their men safe in battle. Dera had gotten good at noticing things like that, because she always tried—unless she and Jory were too hungry to help it—not to say yes to the men with wives waiting back home.

  Not that she’d have been anything but grateful if her own dead husband had ever gone and spent his nights in someone else’s bed. But she wasn’t going to be the one to let a man break his vows to some poor woman waiting patient for him to come back to her.

  Anyway, there were no charms or anything like them among this man’s things, and his clothes were mended with stitches so clumsy it looked like a blind man with two left thumbs had put them in. Dera folded the cloak, then shrugged. “Usually when I get this close to a man, I have to pretend I’m enjoying myself. So this was at least one up on that.”

  Lady Isolde’s mouth dimpled at the corners, and then she laughed. She’d a pretty laugh, pretty as her speaking voice—though it sounded surprised, like it had been a long time since she’d thought about smiling or finding the fun in something.

  Dera looked up at her, “Why do you ask me that, though, my lady?”

  Lady Isolde looked down, smoothing the blanket over the wounded man’s chest. And then she said, “I was wondering whether you’d like to stay here—you and Jory, too, of course. Space is tight, these days, with so many fighting men quartered here at Dinas Emrys for the winter. But we could set up a space for the two of you to sleep in my workroom. And—if you were willing—you could help me for part of the day. When Jory doesn’t need you. Help grind herbs and prepare ointments. Sometimes lend aid as you did today, when I need an extra set of hands.”

  Dera felt her jaw drop open. Lady Isolde must have misread the look, because she said, still speaking quick-like, “You can say no if you don’t like the idea. I know it’s hard, seeing what battle does to these men. Treating wounds all day.”

  Dera took a breath and got her voice back. “Say no? I’d have to be soft in the head to say no to an offer like that. I just—”

  Lady Isolde stopped her before she could finish. “I have to be honest, Dera. Because you’ve Jory to think of. And because of … because of what happened to you three months ago because of me. You know the stories told about me—you know what I’m called. If you stay here and help me, there’s always a danger you’ll be accused of witchery, as well.”

  Her eyes met Dera’s, and a shiver slid down Dera’s spine, because she did remember—remembered being dragged in front of the King’s Council when the Lady Isolde was put on trial for witchcraft. All because she’d escaped from Lord Marche, after a day and a night of being his wife.

  And yet Lady Isolde had stood up there, right in front of all those men with their axes and fur cloaks and broad swords, and said, clear and strong, “Let Dera go, and I’ll confess to the charge.” And she would have done it, too. Would have gone to the stake and burned for a witch, just so Dera could go free.

  Dera could feel the words wanting to spill out of her, now, to ask Lady Isolde why she’d done it. But she said, instead, “Surely things are different now, my lady. You were the one who proved Lord Marche a traitor—warned the King’s Council in time of what he planned.”

  “Maybe.” Lady Isolde’s mouth twisted again, though it wasn’t in a smile, this time. “But I’m not exactly holding my breath on the changed public opinion lasting. Especially not with the way the war has been going, these last months. Our armies driven back and back into the last strongholds in these hills. Cornwall and Powys lost to the Saxons and”—Dera heard her voice waver just slightly as she spoke the name—“Lord Marche.”

  Dera didn’t know what made her do it. She was just a common camp follower. And even in her old life, it wasn’t like she’d ever been anything like on a level with Lady Isolde. But something about the look in Lady Isolde’s face made her touch Lady Isolde’s hand and say, “Are you … are you all right, my lady?”

  Lady Isolde’s eyes went wider. Like that question had startled her even more than her own laughing had. She was quiet a moment—and even when she spoke, she didn’t answer, exactly. Just looked down at the man they’d just finished bandaging and said, “There’s always a chance he’ll be one of those who gets better, isn’t there? Even if it’s only a tiny one.”

  Somehow that brought the lump back to Dera’s throat, and she swallowed hard.

  “Are you a witch, my lady?” The instant the words were spoken, Dera could have kicked herself for letting them slip out. She hadn’t even known she was going to ask the question until she heard herself say it. And now she’d just bollixed her chances of actually getting to stay here good and proper.

  But Lady Isolde was still looking down at the wounded man, and if she was angry it didn’t show. She shook her head. “No. That’s what’s so funny.” Her voice didn’t sound like she meant it for a joke, though. “My grandmother was Morgan, daughter of the Pendragon. You’ve probably heard of her. The great enchantress. That’s what all the fire tales call her. She taught me about the Sight. But I … gave up any power I had. After the Battle at Camlann. When my father killed King Arthur, and died himself. Everyone said it was a judgement from the Christian God. Because my grandmother Morgan—my father’s mother—was an evil witch, who’d ruined all Britain with her spite. That’s what the priests and … and everyone else claimed, at least. And my grandmother … she died, as well. Of the plague that followed the battle. So I gave up the Sight. I’m sorry for it, now—because whatever else my grandmother was, she wasn’t evil. But the Sight’s never come back, except once. Other than that one time, I just … just pretended to have it. To make the council afraid of me. Because I was completely on my own after my grandmother died. And a woman on her own in a time of war—” She stopped. “Well. You know what it’s like—even better than I do, probably.”

  Lady Isolde stopped again, and finally looked up at Dera. She didn’t speak. And as the silence stretched, Dera could have almost screamed with thinking, Here it comes, she’s not going to let us stay after all.

  But Lady Isolde said, “Does that make a difference in whether you want the job of helping me here?”
r />   Dera’s breath went out in a rush that felt like a bellows. “Saint Joseph’s hairy left toe, I don’t care if you boil newts and turn men into frogs, so long’s you let me and Jory stay.”

  And then she stopped sharp. Because she might not know a whole lot of fine ladies, but she was pretty certain that wasn’t how you were supposed to talk to one.

  Lady Isolde laughed, though. Still with that little wrinkle of surprise about her eyes, like she was only just starting to remember how it was done.

  “Trystan used to say that. Well, something like it, anyway. When I had to go off for lessons with my grandmother. He’d ask if I’d have learnt how to change him into a toad when I was done.”

  Her eyes had gone distant, like she was seeing something a long way off. Dera tongued the cut on her upper lip, then risked saying, “Trystan?”

  Lady Isolde shook her head, and her eyes came back from wherever they’d been. “A boy I knew growing up. He was a … a friend. The only friend I had, really. But that was a long time ago. He’s gone now.”

  * * *