Return- Hansel and Gretel Retold

by Demelza Carlton

  "I am not leaving my things here to be stolen by raiders. Show me to the place where we will be safe!" Doireann insisted.

  Reluctantly, Rhona climbed onto the cart beside her sisters and they set off down the road, or what passed for one on Rum Isle.

  "Which way?" Doireann demanded every time they reached a fork where the cart tracks went more than one way.

  Rhona would respond with right or left or to continue straight, until she felt as drowsy as her sisters in the summer heat. She'd brought a cloak, but perhaps she should have thought to bring a hat.

  "I'm thirsty," Sive announced.

  Before Rhona could stop her, Maeve uncorked a flask and held it to her sister's lips. Sive gulped the liquid down, her eyelids drooping, before she slid off her box and lay down on the bottom of the cart, sound asleep. Beside Nuala, Rhona realised in horror. Then Maeve picked up the flask and drained the contents. She toppled to the floor, too.

  Rhona snatched the flask from Maeve's slack fingers. "What did you give them?" She inhaled deeply at the lip of the bottle, trying to discern the contents. Strong spirits burned the inside of her nostrils, softened by the scent of lavender. That couldn't be all she'd given them. Some poisons had no odour, but one could taste them…

  "Just a draught to put them to sleep, so that they will stay quiet. Now, tell me where Rum Isle hides its riches, and nothing worse will happen to them," Doireann said, her eyes flashing.

  "Rum Isle's secrets are known only to its own. You may have married my father, but you will never be one of us," Rhona spat. She tipped up the flask and let a drop of the treacherous liquor fall onto her tongue. Spirit burn and lavender sweetness, without the one thing Rhona dreaded – the bitter gall of opium from the Holy Land. Perhaps Doireann had not found it yet. As it was, the liquor was a strong sleeping potion, no more, that would leave the user with a hangover and headache when they awoke, at worst. She let the flask slip from her fingers.

  Just in time to see something dark blot out the sun before it collided with her head, and all the lights went out.

  Fourteen

  It seemed almost no time at all before the final feast was over and the Council dispersed to go home. Grieve rode with Dermot, Damhan and the boy whose name was Brian, while his father lagged behind, discussing serious matters with Lord Ronin. At least, they looked serious – Father could be discussing a chess match with the man, for all Grieve knew.

  Ships lined up in the harbour, waiting for the tide to take them all home.

  Grieve made to follow Father to their vessel, but Father shook his head. "You're to go with Lord Ronin. He needs an archery instructor for his men, as he has no sons of his own. Albans will strike at Rum Isle before they make it to Myroy, you may be sure, so it behoves the lords of the inner isles to keep up their defences to give the rest of us warning in the event they send more than a raiding party."

  Lord Ronin inclined his head. "Your father tells me you have the makings of a good master-at-arms, young Grieve, and some skills with a bow."

  Grieve lifted his chin proudly. "I have trained my father's men since I came to manhood, Lord Ronin, and I was easily the best archer among the boys on shore today. But with practice, they might be able to match my skill."

  Father laughed. "He'll never be good at chess, like I told you. Too forthright for playing at politics. But I hope he will be just the man you need, Ronin." He gave the command for his crew to raise the sail and was soon out in the bay, out of earshot.

  No word of farewell, or when Grieve might be allowed to come home. Maybe never.

  Lord Ronin eyed Grieve. "We shall see. Come, boy. You're too old to be a proper page or fosterling, but still young enough that I can call you my squire. Master-at-arms and other such offices can wait until you've had time to prove yourself."

  "Yes, my lord. And I will," Grieve swore.

  Lord Ronin smiled. "Good man. Climb aboard." He gestured toward his boat.

  For a moment, Grieve was lost. An unproven boy, a new squire, a good man…what was he really? He had no home, and no family around him any more.

  Time to choose his own fate. Grieve strode aboard the ship bound for Rum Isle, vowing to show Lord Ronin, his father and any other man with eyes to see that he would prove he was every bit as good as his brother. Better, maybe. And Bedelia? She could be miserable with Mahon, for Grieve would not give the girl another thought.

  Fifteen

  The bright summer's day had given way to miserable weather, but the rain pattering on the ground was nothing to the drumming inside Rhona's head. Rhona groaned, sat up, then groaned again.

  "Where are we?" Nuala asked.

  Rhona blinked. Her sisters huddled together under a pine tree. Of course, they hadn't thought to drag her under shelter, too. Then again, if they'd drunk enough strong spirits to send them to sleep, they wouldn't feel much better than she did right now. In no shape to be dragging anyone's body.

  "Not at home, where we should be," Rhona grumbled. She shuffled under the tree with her sisters. Only now did she realise fog had crept over the island, as it did on days like this. They could be spitting distance from home, and she would not be able to see it.

  Rhona bit her lip, hoping to stir up a breeze to improve visibility.

  "I'm cold!" Sive moaned, climbing into Nuala's lap.

  Rhona let the breeze swirl away into the woods. Yes, the fog lifted just enough to show the tree trunks before it was all whiteness once more. They could not be far from the edge, if Doireann had dumped them from the cart. She would not have had the strength to drag Rhona far from the road, unless she'd had help.

  But who on Rum Isle would help Doireann against Lord Ronin's children? No one Rhona knew. And as the mistress of Blanid's stillroom, she knew everyone on the island.

  "We must wait for the fog to clear, and then we will find shelter from the rain. I'm sure there is a cottage or croft quite close, but we might miss it in the mist. Once we know where we are, we can go home," Rhona promised.

  "Can you tell us a story to pass the time?" Maeve asked.

  "The Three Little Pigs?"

  Maeve shook her head. "Something else. Something new. We have heard that tale too many times."

  And there would be no nurse come to save them today, Rhona knew. It would be up to her and her sisters to find their way home. She thought of the tale Belen had told her, the first night she'd called her Lady Rhona. That might do. "Have you heard the tale of Hansel and Gretel?"

  The girls shook their heads.

  Rhona drew in a deep breath. "Once upon a time…"

  Sixteen

  Grieve eyed the huddle of buildings on the clifftop as they approached Rum Island. "You'll need better fortifications than that," he observed. "Plus a barracks hall or two to accommodate your people if you are invaded. Father had me build a new hall at the beginning of this year, so we'd be able to house the women and children, not just the menfolk."

  Lord Ronin laughed. "Rum Isle may be closer to Alba, but we are not as numerous as the people of Myroy or Isla. I think you'll find we have shelter enough for all of us, but the fortifications are not a bad idea. When we get the island men assembled, we can discuss it then." He nodded at the house. "First, I must greet my family, for they'll have missed me."

  Butterflies rioted in Grieve's belly. Lord Ronin had spoken affectionately of his wife and daughters, but meeting them was another thing entirely. What if they did not like him? He managed with strange men and boys just fine, but girls? Bedelia was the only one he'd shared a house with since his mother had died, and he didn't want to remember how badly that had gone.

  "This is Doireann, my wife," Lord Ronin said, wrapping an arm around a woman who resembled Bedelia. Well, small and dark, at least – she was thinner, without the luscious curves that had attracted him to Bedelia. And Doireann did not smile.

  "Where are the girls?" Lord Ronin asked her.

  Doireann's frown deepened. "I must speak to you about them. The oldest one, she turns the oth
ers against me. Not three days ago, they disappeared, and I could find no trace of them. I have not seen…"

  "Father!" The same word cried by three different voices, as three girls raced along the path to embrace Lord Ronin.

  The three girls looked like they'd been playing in the woods, judging by their muddied clothing and the twigs and leaves that clung to them.

  Their mother looked like she was building up to give them a good scolding. One Grieve did not intend to witness.

  "I'll go see about some timber to start those fortifications, shall I?" he said to no one in particular, and headed off in search of an axe.

  Seventeen

  They'd seen Father's ship arrive in the harbour, and hurried to get to the house before he did. Alas, they'd been too slow.

  Doireann and Father stood outside the house, at a distance where no one could stand close enough to overhear them without being seen.

  At least, no one who did not have magical means of hearing.

  Rhona bit her lip, letting a little of her magic out to create a breeze that brought back the sound of Father's conversation with Doireann. As she suspected, the woman was telling lies again.

  "You girls run ahead. Father is home," she said to her sisters.

  Nuala and Maeve seized Sive's hands and took off up the hill, shouting Father's name.

  Rhona longed to run with them, but it was more important to make sure Candace arrived safely. The old woman had grown an alarming shade of pink as she huffed and puffed her way up the hill. Still, she waved away Rhona's offer of assistance.

  "If I cannot walk up this hill under my own power, how will I ever run around after those three little fillies? Nay, if you are as spry when you are my age, girl, then you will thank the heavens yourself." Candace grinned and continued ambling, ever upward.

  "You must not let them eat or drink anything she has touched. Nor let her touch them, either," Rhona said. "She tried to poison us once. There is no knowing what else that witch will try next."

  "It's been a long time since there's been a witch at Rum Isle, or any of the Southern Isles," Candace said, shooting a sideways glance at Rhona. "Not since your aunt, Brigid, died. But she was a good witch, always willing to help. Perhaps this one is not as experienced, and gave the children the wrong dose or the wrong herb. She is young, you said, not much older than you."

  Rhona tossed her head. "I would not make such a mistake. Mother taught me better than that." No, Aunt Blanid, she corrected in her head.

  When they reached the house, Doireann had left, and Father stood alone.

  "Widow Candace," Father greeted her, before offering Rhona a kiss. "It is a long walk from your cottage. What brings you here?"

  "Doireann poisoned us, then left us in the woods," Rhona snapped. "I managed to get the girls to Candace's cottage, but Maeve took a chill, so we stayed a little until she recovered enough to walk home. Candace has agreed to come and help take care of the girls, as their nurse."

  Father blinked. "I'm sure it is all a mistake. She's such a sweet girl, she would never…" He shook his head. "I apologise, Widow Candace, for the stories my daughter has been filling your head with. I shall send you home on horseback, with gifts from my cellar to repay you for your time."

  "My cottage is cold now my daughters are all married. Seems I could be useful here, if your daughters are giving you trouble," Candace said.

  Rhona opened her mouth to protest, but a hard look from Candace silenced her.

  "Your new wife is just finding her feet, after all. I'm sure I shall be a great help to her. I am used to work, and the lady of Rum Isle has enough cares resting on her shoulders." Candace moved toward the house. "I shall start by seeing those girls wash up. They look a fright, after walking in the woods. You'll see. I'll take good care of them." This last earned Rhona another look from Candace before she vanished inside.

  Whatever Candace believed, at least she would watch over her sisters. Rhona couldn't ask for much more than that.

  "I must speak to Doireann," Father said. When Rhona stepped forward to follow him, he held up his hand. "Alone, Rhona. I will speak to you later."

  Damn right, he would. And she'd have just as much to say. In the meantime, Candace would keep an eye on the girls, while Rhona changed out of her soiled gown. Something brighter and cleaner was needed, as befitted a dinner that would double as her father's welcome home after the Council meeting. Ugh, and a clean shift. One that didn't have leaves in it, or mudstains in places where no mud should be.

  Rhona marched toward her chamber, intent on making herself presentable once more.

  There was still some water in the jug, so she stripped off and washed. The fresh shift clung to her still-damp skin, letting off a faint whiff of lavender. The shift had not lain in the chest long, then – those in the bottom would smell much stronger.

  She reached for the blue gown she'd worn at the last feast day, when Mother – Blanid – had presided over the feast with all the joy of a woman who'd had no idea it would be her last celebration. Blanid had clucked over the gown that day, telling Rhona she needed to wear more womanly things, for the hem of the gown that had been suitable for the girl Rhona had been was far too high for the woman she had now become.

  The dress fell from Rhona's nerveless fingers back into the chest. She should give it to Nuala, but then what would Rhona wear? Blanid had promised to make her new gowns that fit her better, but she'd died before she could even cut the cloth, and Rhona was no seamstress.

  The only womanly gowns Blanid had left had been her own. Gowns that would be wasted on Doireann, who had no right to wear them, either, Rhona fumed.

  For the first time since Blanid had died, Rhona knelt beside the chests she'd moved from Blanid's chamber to her own. She opened the first, and breathed in the rose scent that Blanid had made wholly her own. Not least because her precious roses, which were carefully tended in the sheltered southern herb garden, had come with her to the island when she'd married Father. Other women had dowries of cloth and jewels, lands and houses, but Blanid and Brigid's parents had been renowned for their glorious garden, modelled on the one where Rhona's grandmother had grown up. So it was no surprise that Blanid had arrived with as many medicinal plants as her parents could provide.

  Or had that been Brigid's doing?

  Rhona would never know, now, for the two women who might have told her were now dead, silenced forever.

  But with them both gone, she had a responsibility to remind her father who ruled here. And it wasn't Doireann, the conniving widow from Scitis.

  Rhona dug through the dresses, looking for the sky-blue gown Blanid had worn which matched her own. Instead, she found one of yellow-gold silk, so soft to the touch she'd lifted it out of the chest before she knew what she was doing. It was lined with cream lambswool, as soft inside as out. Rhona had never seen Blanid wear this gown, yet when Rhona pressed her face to the fabric, she smelled an unfamiliar scent – sharp and fresh, tingling her nostrils as though it was something she should remember, but had forgotten. Citron, was that was this was called? No, the word was lemon. A kind of fruit that grew in warmer climes than here.

  In her grandparents' garden, most likely.

  Rhona slipped the gown over her head, letting the lambswool embrace her like it had been made for her. Only her waist was narrower, so she tightened the laces a little before tying them again. Blanid's bronze mirror stood in the corner, polished to a high sheen so that Rhona might see how well she looked. Or how well she might look, if she picked the bird's nest remnants out of her hair.

  Swearing, Rhona unbound her hair and found a comb. It would take some time to get all the twigs and leaves out, but she would need to if she wanted to remind Father that she was a woman grown, and every bit as worthy as Doireann of being believed.

  When she had finally freed her hair of snarls, tangles and twigs, she had to decide whether to pin it up, or leave it loose. Loose would attract more leaves the moment she ventured into the woods again,
but that's how Blanid had worn hers at every feast day. A few pins, or a headband fashioned from a pair of narrow braids, were all that restrained the golden mane Blanid had proudly worn loose as she presided over the people of Rum Island.

  The thwack of an axe hitting wood reached Rhona's ears. She peered out the window, wondering why anyone would be chopping wood so late in the day. They had cut turf enough to feed the house fires well into next month – no one should be cutting precious timber.

  But there was no one at the chopping block, and besides, the sound was coming from down by the river. The only timber by the river was the willow trees, bred from the one that had been part of Blanid's dowry. The only source of willow bark on the island. If anyone was cutting into those trees, they'd have her to answer to. Especially if they wasted any of that precious bark.

  Rhona slid a pair of boots onto her feet and marched out for confrontation.

  Eighteen

  "What in heaven's name are you doing?"

  The voice was feminine, but authoritative. Accustomed to being obeyed. It could only belong to Lord Ronin's wife, Lady Doireann. Grieve let the axe hang by his side, no threat to the lady. "My lady, Lord Ronin wishes to build better fortifications to protect your house and all those who live there." He lifted the axe for another swing.

  "Touch that tree again, and I promise you shall regret it. Even more so when I refused to give you any willow bark for the pain."

  Grieve whirled, shocked. Lady Doireann had looked so small and docile – not the sort of woman who would threaten him with pain for touching a tree, of all things. "M-my lady?" he stammered.

  He glimpsed the tall figure coming toward him, before the sun chose its own moment to enter the fray. The rays blinded him, and appeared to set fire to her. One moment a woman, the next a golden pillar of flame, heading inexorably for him. The axe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Grieve wanted to run, but at the same time, he didn't dare take his eyes off the terrifying spectre before him.