Chapter Eleven: The Banshee's Brother.
An unearthly shriek woke him. Neb sprung upright, ready to flee, but it was too late. A banshee stood over him and howled with rage.
'What –' He plucked at the blanket puddled around his waist, meaning to cower beneath it, when he realised the banshee wasn't after him. It swooped and in the same movement, stood, dragging Samara upwards by her hair. From the other side of the hut, Blain shouted. Samara screamed and the banshee continued to howl.
Neb twisted awkwardly, trying to keep the blanket from slipping, but wanting to help Samara. Fortunately within two strides a bleary eyed Blain joined in the tussle.
'Kattin, stop this!' he roared and untangled the claw-like fingers from Samara's hair by snapping them backwards. The banshee shrieked even louder and Neb realised it was in fact a woman. Her face was contorted with hatred and fresh droplets of blood formed in the gouges raked across her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and red-rimmed, they bulged as she glared at Samara.
'My brother's dead – murdered in his bed!'
'Vander? Vander's dead? But how?' Blain released his grip on the woman and glanced from Neb to Samara, as though seeking answers from them too. Samara's face was white and her hair muzzy, but otherwise, she seemed unmoved by this news.
Kattin choked back a sob and spat: 'Ask this murdering chit!'
Samara caught the older woman's hand as it flashed towards her. 'Don't,' she warned. 'I've been here all night. I tended to the griffin boy's hurts, and then I was tired and lay down on the floor and slept.'
Vander's sister screamed into Samara's face 'You liar! You're a liar!' Her fingernails raked at her own cheeks again.
Blain picked her up, and carried her to the far wall of his hut. He set her on her feet, but kept her imprisoned in his arms. Lady Lydia, followed by one of her women, ducked through the doorway. 'What is all this noise! And in front of our guest!' she scolded.
Kattin turned her face into Blain's chest, and sobbed. Blain patted at her rat's nest of hair with a clumsy motion. 'There there, Kattin, there there.' Over her head, he shrugged at the Chieftain's wife.
Lydia cast a glance towards Samara, who had climbed onto the bed to huddle behind Neb's back.
'What have you done Samara?' she whispered. Samara hugged her knees closer to her chest, Neb felt her trembling.
'I've done nothing, I was here all night.'
'She's murdered my brother! That's what she's done! My Vander – my little brother! Yesterday he was happy and full of life; today he's dead!' Kattin spat, and turned to wail into Blain's chest again. Lydia tapped her serving woman's hand, 'Helda, go and see, take Alfred with you.' Helda nodded, and scurried away. Lydia meanwhile, extracted Blain from Kattin's grip. The woman gave a last sob, sniffed and dragged her arm across her eyes. Then she glared at Neb, as though she could see through him to Samara.
Neb looked to Blain for guidance, but the big man appeared as confused and uncomfortable as he felt. Blain shrugged again, and in answer to Lydia's unspoken question said 'She could have been here all night – I – me and Rommey – well – you saw us. I've no idea where Romulus is – with his griffins I suspect, I slept in the chair over there.'
Lady Lydia's pale blue eyes surveyed Neb. He shivered, and pulled the blankets up and around his bare chest. 'Did Samara lay by your side all night?' she asked tonelessly. Behind him, Samara caught her breath. Neb thought for a second and then answered truthfully: 'She was here when I fell asleep, and here when I woke up just now.'
From the doorway, Helda gasped. Excitement flushed her cheeks. She seemed to be having a wonderful morning. Lydia turned to her, and Helda nodded vigorously. 'He's dead all right!' She confirmed, just as a swarthy middle aged man, presumably Alfred, jostled her aside and entered Blain's hut, followed closely by Chief Wulfstan.
Lady Lydia addressed her husband: 'Kattin has accused Samara of causing her brother Vander's death, but it seems our ward spent the night here, on the floor.'
Samara's ragged breathing evened and quietened.
Chief Wulfstan looked first at Blain and then towards Neb and Samara. 'Is this true?'
Uncurling herself, Samara placed her feet on the floor, and stood up. She wore only her sleeveless knee-length under-shift, and looked very pale and very young. 'It's true. I did as Lady Lydia asked,' she rested her hand on Neb's shoulder 'he fell asleep, it was noisy outside.' She lowered her eyes to the floor, as though she found something interesting crawling around in the straw. 'I – it sounded as though – some of the men were drunk, so I thought it would go better for me to sleep here.' She raised her chin defiantly, and looked directly at Kattin. 'I did not want to be bothered by any unwanted attention, the griffin's boy was asleep.'
'A drugged sleep!' Kattin screeched 'and then you crept outside – '
'Silence!' Roared Chief Wulfstan. 'I've heard enough – you shame us in front of our guest.'
'My brother is dead,' Kattin reminded him in a dignified tone, but her eyes glittered madly.
'This is women's business now.' Wulfstan jerked his head towards Blain, then towards the door, and ducked out of the hut, with Alfred at his heels.
'My brother was a man of the village!' Kattin hurled after his back.
'No, he wasn't,' Lydia replied. 'Our village faced starvation, and he thought first of his own pocket.'
With an apologetic look at Neb, who still clutched his blanket around his chest, Blain shuffled out, performing a curious half dance with Kattin who grabbed at him. 'Blain – please – speak up for my brother, or no-one will.'
But Blain merely detached her hands from his arms and ducked out of the door without a backwards glance.
With the men gone, the room felt almost empty. Apart from Samara's slight trembling and Kattin's sobbing, all five remaining occupants could have been frozen.
Lydia broke the spell. 'Dark spirits were abroad yesterday. They wanted to snatch a soul. Thanks to our guest, whose word we do not doubt, and Samara, they were denied my son's soul. So they took another.'
Samara gave a last convulsive tremble, and ducked her head in a bow of gratitude and thanks to Lady Lydia.
'You! You're all in this – it's a plan to cheat my brother of the gold you owe him – you're just as bad as her!' Kattin flew at Lydia, her hands outstretched, and her fingers hooked into claws. Helda rushed to intercept the mad woman. She grabbed at Kattin's hands, pushed her arms down and held her in a wrestler's grip.
'We will overlook your remarks, caused by your grief. Any monies owing to your brother will be paid to his estate, and split evenly between his heirs.'
Kattin's eyes widened – spittle flew from her mouth and she screeched 'Heirs?! I am his only heir – unless you mean that murdering chit!'
Lydia nodded at Helda, who began dragging Kattin, now screaming wordlessly, from the hut.
Lady Lydia waited with her hands folded into her sleeves for the screams to die away. Then she addressed Samara: 'Pack a bag. Romulus spoke of a new Chantress at Cherub Conventus. She is skilled in the art of healing. Lillian has expressed an interest in becoming a griffin scout.' She paused, as though dubious that her giddy headed daughter had the right attitude for study. 'We shall see. In any case, it will do both you girls good to see a little more of the world than this village.'
Samara pursed her lips together in a thin line, and said 'I'm not running away. I didn't lay a hand on Vander.'
Lady Lydia merely stared at the girl for a second or two. Then she repeated, 'pack a bag and be ready to leave after breakfast.' She left without another word.
Now that they were alone, Neb sneaked a glance at Samara, she seemed so young and so frail. No doubt Chief Wulfstan was right; this was "Women's business". The older woman was obviously crazed with grief, hurling accusations like punches. In the dimness of the hut, Samara's eyes seemed to shine with tears. Except there was a trace of a smile in the curl of her l
ips, and the shine in her eyes could be mistaken for malice.
Neb shrugged internally, women and girls were complex creatures and the morning galloped on. Samara couldn't stand there all day and neither could he remain in bed any longer. There were Griffin Masters to face.
Wishing he had some water to sip, he cleared his throat and said, 'Would you mind passing me my clothes? Balkind will be wanting his breakfast.'
Samara swivelled her head and glared at him. 'What? Your griffin wants its breakfast?! I've just been accused of murder; I've been exiled to a Conventus, and all you can think about is your precious griffin and its stomach?!' Curling her hands into fists, she stormed across the room, heading for the door.
Neb shrugged again, and leaning over the side of the mattress snatched up his tunic. He grimaced at the renewed pain across his arms and shoulders. Surely there were a few drops of potion left in that flask? He investigated his tunic's inner pocket. The flask wasn't there. He moved his hand from side to side, sweeping every inch of the deep pocket, and feeling only rough material. The pocket was empty.
The door handle rattled. Neb looked across the room to see Samara struggling with the door latch. She glanced back over her shoulder and then turned to face him.
'It wasn't there when I folded your tunic away on the floor.'
She misinterpreted his frown. Pushing her hair back from her face irritably, she stamped her foot and repeated. 'The flask – it must have fallen from your pocket – I didn't take it.' She turned back to the door, and tugged at the handle with extra vehemence. This time the door swung open and Samara left, slamming the door behind her.
Dust motes swirled in the slice of sunlight that slanted through the hut's one small window. Neb watched them, thinking What did I do? What did I say? He shook himself mentally. Women and girls were even more complex than he'd originally thought. He pushed upright from the bed and then pushed the pain from his back, and Samara's bad temper, from his mind: The Chief and his wife believed Samara and for her to attend Cherub Conventus was a reward, not punishment.
He got dressed quickly; pulling his vest over his head, inserting his arms into the tunic's sleeves, he tied the laces, and sat on the bed to pull his trews over his legs.
Next, he inserted his bare feet into a pair of treated leather soles, and began binding the attached softer leather straps around his feet and ankles. But still one question continued to swill around in his mind.
Out-loud he muttered 'She didn't know that the flask was in my pocket, it was a lucky guess – that's all,' and he vowed never to think of the missing flask again.
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