“It’s not a trap. Why are you so distrustful, Tess?”
“And why are you so trusting after all that’s happened to us? I’m the one responsible and I tell you I’m wary.”
“Leave, then.” Poppy turned her back and ladled water into the cook pot.
I marched out to the henhouse to confront Cackle.
“What is your master’s plan, Cackle?” I demanded.
He looked up from his whittling. “Plan, missy?”
“Has he gone to fetch a healer like he said, or gone for the sheriff?”
“Why’d he go ta sheriff?” he asked, perplexed. I could see Cackle knew nothing of our situation. Fuming, I raced for the barn. All I could think to do was to hide there. Should the huntsman return to arrest us, I’d escape unseen and come after my friends wherever they were jailed. A flimsy plan, but for what it was worth, I squatted in the corner, to peer out a low knothole.
Tupkin padded in and settled purring by my feet. “You’ll come away too, will you?” I whispered, but even he would stay with Poppy if it should come to that. In the straw I waited, spying foreyard and lodge till our host returned.
AN HOUR BEFORE sunset Garth rode in with the lady leech. How glad I was. I’d give the woodward a thick slice of freshly baked bread this eve. I was surprised the leech was a woman. Most leeches were male, but Mistress Aisling inspected Tom’s wounds and she went right to work.
Meg stood and swayed, exhausted from her long vigil with Tom. Crying with relief, she stepped away from the bed and leaned against me. I eased her onto the bed on the opposite side of the room, where I removed her shoes. Poppy rolled up her sleeves and helped Aisling without a word between them as if they’d often worked together. The lusty leeches on Tom’s chest grew fat with foul blood, sucking out the corrupt humors. Would God they might restore Tom’s health.
Garth entered the sickroom, leaned against the corner wall, and watched us with arms crossed. He was completely still, yet his eyes darted from Poppy’s face, to her profile, to her small waist and round backside. The man stared hungrily at her as if she were made of pudding. I knew Poppy’s seductive beauty worked like a love-hex on most men.
The room grew hot. I headed for the well. Steam rose from the fresh horse droppings on the muddy ground. In the sty, Garth’s pigs rolled joyous in the muck. I should be glad Garth was besotted with Poppy. If he liked her well enough to wed her, I’d have one less friend to worry about. Poppy would be safe here at the hunting lodge, and didn’t she deserve this after all I’d put her through?
At the well I breathed in the pine-scented wind. Morgesh Mountain towered in the distance. The fairy realm lay somewhere in those foothills. All this time as I’d run from the witch hunter, I was drawing closer to DunGarrow. The thought eased me a little.
“I am glad Garth likes her,” I said to myself as I filled the pitcher.
I returned to the sick chamber, where Poppy thanked me for the wet cloths for Tom’s fevered head.
“Will Tom strengthen?” I asked.
Aisling set a third leech on Tom’s shoulder, and shrugged off her shawl. “We will see.”
Now her shawl was off, I was surprised at the quality of her deep blue gown laced up the front with leaves embroidered on the sleeves. Truth be told, the only female leech I knew lived with her ailing husband by the docks, grubbing what coins she could for her service. Folk mostly used Tidas Leech, trusting a man’s powers over a woman’s. But Mistress Aisling was no ordinary healer. With full lips, blond hair touched with gray, and dark eyes, she was uncommonly pretty.
“Will your husband miss you while you are away?” I asked.
“I’m not married. I live alone and travel as I please.”
She’d chosen leeching over marriage and motherhood? How had Mistress Aisling managed to ply her trade without arousing suspicion? Jane Fine made her own livelihood without a man. She burned.
I cringed as she dropped a bulbous leech in the bowl. She might be independent, but I couldn’t bear such a profession. Poppy’s face was calm, even interested. She was at ease around blood and pus. I was sickened by it. Back in the cave while she and Meg had doctored Tom, I’d scrounged for food, kept the fire going, told tales, sketched pictures on the rock wall to entertain them, anything but tend Tom’s seeping wounds.
Mistress Aisling pulled a jar from her pouch. “Have you a wooden spoon?” she asked. I ran to fetch it, glad for the coolness of the kitchen. When I returned, Meg was awake and by the bed with Poppy and Aisling. Garth had stepped deeper in the shadows. The man liked corners and was standing still enough to gather dust.
Poppy uncorked the jar, sniffed the mixture, and frowned. “Can you tell us what is in your posit, Leech Aisling?”
The leech took my wooden spoon and listed her ingredients. She was not secretive about her mixtures as some are.
“Nettles?” Poppy narrowed her eyes at me.
The leech nodded. “Seethed an hour, then strained and cooled. It’s a fine cure.”
It was the very thing Poppy had suggested earlier. Her eyes said, See? See, Tess? Blushing, I left the room.
GARTH FOUND ME in the stable.
“The stallion’s shoe is loose,” I said. I’d come to the stable to curry the horses after their day’s journey, saw the black stallion’s awkward stance. The huntsman poked his head in soon after.
“I see which hoof it is. There, there, friend,” Garth said, patting the horse’s muscular shoulder. “We’ll fix that.” He went out and came back with a hammer. “You have a good eye, Tess.”
I stepped away so he might fix the shoe. “I grew up above a blacksmith’s shop. All the horses in Harrowton were shod there. I came to know them all by name.”
“Well, that explains it.” Garth skillfully lifted the stallion’s leg. “Just needs a new nail. Could you hand me one?” I found a nail and watched him pound it into the horseshoe. “His name is Goodfellow,” Garth said. “And she’s Seagull.” He pointed with the hammer to the blond mare in the next stall. She nodded at him as if to say hello, and we laughed. I liked the name well, her coat gray white as an ocean gull’s.
Garth shelved the hammer. “I can finish currying Goodfellow,” he said. “I was in a hurry to bring Mistress Aisling in to see to Tom, but I can tend to them now.”
I kept the brush. “I don’t mind doing it.” The stable was open to the air, the horses pleasant, and I’d spent too many hours between kitchen and sickroom today. I ran the brush down Goodfellow’s shoulder; his silky mane was as black as the huntsman’s hair.
“How good a rider are you?” he asked.
“I rode a few times returning horses to their masters after they were shod. Goodfellow’s a beauty,” I added.
“He is that.” In the next stall, Garth used a pick to clean the clogged dirt from Seagull’s hooves. “They’re strong. You wouldn’t think we’d ridden close to twenty miles today by the look of them.”
“Is Aisling’s home to the north?”
“Aye, she’s from the north. Why?” He gave me a curious look.
“No reason,” I said. “She doesn’t dress like a leech.”
“How do leeches dress?” he asked wryly.
I huffed. “You know what I mean.”
“Not really, Tess.”
I could not say more. She had the demeanor of a fine lady, and a costly gown a wealthy husband might afford, yet she’d led me to believe she’d paid for it with her own earnings. I would not share my curiosity over her with Garth Huntsman, who only seemed amused by it. What did he know of a woman’s fortunes? We are trained up to wed, enter the nunnery, or become servants. None of us can live alone and earn our own bread without suspicion, yet Aisling had done so and prospered. I would like to know how she’d managed it. Were women freer up north? Was there some small chance I might do the same, only with my art? Monks drew leaves and animals illuminating holy manuscripts. What if I plied my craft illuminating books?
I’d been lost in thought when Garth said, �
��Tess?” He pointed to my brush. “If you’re done with that, toss it to me, will you?”
I finished my last few strokes and heaved it over the stall. Garth caught it with his left hand. He’d not rolled up his sleeves to work as most men do. His muscles would not be as thick as my father’s, who daily beat hot metal into submission, but muscled still, I thought.
“I like a lady who can ride.” Garth’s back was to me now and his head tipped as he swept the brush along Seagull’s side in a wide arc.
Give me a man who lets his wife ride out when she likes. I’d said that once; still I imagined the sort of ladies Garth was speaking of: rich maidens who rode delicately sitting sidesaddle. Mistress Aisling had ridden so this afternoon. To my mind dangling one’s feet over one side made for an awkward perch. Long skirts and modesty made it necessary. I’d seen two females sit astride as a man does: the witch hunter, and a fey maiden I glimpsed, riding a dragon one night in the refuge. I considered my own short jaunts through Harrowton. “I’m not a skilled rider, sir,” I confessed.
Garth laughed. “So no fox hunts for you.”
“None for me no matter how well I’m saddled,” I said gruffly.
Garth said no word, but finished currying Seagull, shelved the brush, and left.
There was something of the wildwood in the man who came and went illusive as moonlight moving through the branches.
Chapter Thirteen
MORNING SUNLIGHT GLISTENED on the frozen puddles. The wind smelled of pine and coming snow. I walked around behind the lodge. The pond in the open field was iced about the edges. Water trembled in the middle. Ducks flew down and skated across the ice, fluttering and skidding. It made me laugh. Some blackbirds sang on the icy edge. I could hear it only in my right ear, not my left. My hand went to my cauliflower ear. It did not hurt. Not anymore. But I’d have the reminder of my father’s punishments all my life. Garth appeared walking Horace and saw me rubbing my ear.
“I’ve been wondering who did that to you,” he said.
I wondered if he meant my thumbs, still misshapen, the nail still missing on one. But he was looking at my ear.
“My father. He used to beat me.”
“Men who beat the weaker sex are brutes.”
“We are not the weaker sex,” I snapped.
He put up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, Tess.”
He looked at me again. I glanced away, surprised by my own outburst. Turning, he led Horace out beyond the pond and disappeared in the oaks.
I’D BEEN RUDE to our host early in the morn when we were the only ones awake. Later at the breakfast table, I thought to catch his eye, and say a word or two, hoping he’d forgive my rudeness. Garth ignored me and watched Poppy as he spooned more jelly. Morning sun poured through the window, sweetening Poppy’s hair and face.
“Poppy,” I said, “did you tell Aisling how you helped us forage food in the wood?” She’d worked well with the leech. She might become Aisling’s apprentice if the woman needed the help.
Poppy blushed at my praise.
“It’s true,” I went on. “She senses where to find herbs, mushrooms, and berries. What food there is, she finds. And,” I said, looking at Aisling, “Poppy brought nettles here wanting to make the very tincture you have in your jar for Tom.”
Aisling wiped her mouth. “Where are the nettles?”
“I threw them out,” I confessed.
“A waste,” Aisling said sternly. She looked fondly at her helper. “Tess is right. You have a gift. And your hands are steady with wounds. Any eye can see it.”
Garth asked, “Tell us where you learned this, Poppy.”
“Sir, I can’t say as I know. It… comes to me.” She batted her eyes. The two would be wed within the month if she continued looking at him thus. I cleared the table and went outside for air.
That night I made a tasty stew from the dried peas and meat bone I found in the cupboard and turnips from the garden. There was food aplenty here compared to our kitchen back home, where Mother and I were always scraping meals from nothing. Each day we were anxious, fearing we’d not enough to satisfy Father, who’d pound us for the meager meals. It mattered little that Father drank most of our market money, that we took in sewing and scribed letters for pay so we could afford to buy more food.
Stirring the savory stew, I thought of Mother and wondered how she was doing back home without me. Steam wet my face, and tears. I said a little prayer for her safety.
When all was ready, I was glad to serve the hot dish. For the feast day of Saint Placid, who was saved from drowning and invoked against chills, hot stew was a proper meal.
“Mm,” Aisling said. “You’re a fine cook, Tess.”
Garth ate, but did not say a word. Aisling, Meg, and Poppy put their heads together, talking over Tom’s condition. Meg took him a steaming bowl of stew. I could not offer medicine, but I hoped the meal would strengthen him. Later, when I’d finished scouring the pot, I headed down the hall with a gift for Horace. Garth was in the library with his hound. I paused at the doorway, suddenly uncertain.
“Come in, Tess. What is it you want?” It was not a warm greeting.
Horace met me with wagging tail and snuffed the back of my hand. I produced the soup bone and his tail wacked the table legs.
“He’ll be your champion forever now,” Garth said. I smiled to hear a softer tone from him at last, and at the idea of the old bloodhound as my champion. By the fire Horace gnawed the bone. I edged to the desk and touched the feathered quill.
“Do you wish to write something?”
“Sir? No, I—”
“You don’t know how,” he said matter-of-factly.
Many people, even lords and ladies, did not know how to read or write, so I shouldn’t have taken offense; still, I barked, “Of course I know how! I can read and write and do mathematical sums. I used to keep my father’s accounts; the clodpole couldn’t do his own.”
“Pardon me, mistress.”
I blinked down at the floor. Leave now before you embarrass yourself further.
“You’re welcome to take a few pages.” Garth met me at the desk. “You might like this.” He pulled a small ink block from the drawer with an elegant dragon carved along the top. “Just take a little black powder from the edge like this…” He demonstrated for me, using a penknife to scrape powder into a small dish. “Add water and you have ink.”
Give me a man who buys her ink that she might draw or write, books that she might read…
“It’s wonderful,” I whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A traveling man’s ink, no worries over spilling the ink bottle. What will you write?”
I looked up at him. He was tall and lean, though muscled in the right places and his shoulders were broad. His dark hair curled about his ears. My skin tingled strangely. A feeling I’d not had before and one I couldn’t name. I wanted to say I had no plan to write a letter, but to draw. “M-may I mix the ink now?” I stammered.
“You have a lover you wish to send a note to telling him you’re safe now?” Garth asked, arms crossed. My hand slipped, I spilled the ink dust from the dish onto the table. “Oh, sorry. So clumsy of me.” Garth smiled and swept the dust back into the dish, the side of his hand blackened.
“May I go?”
He turned back to the fire. I rushed from the room, took a little water from the kitchen bucket. Behind my door, I breathed hard. Why run from the library like a coward? Cramps came as I drew. My courses would be here tonight. I would have to gather rags to catch the blood, find a private place to wash them out. I supposed this huntsman was not familiar with women’s troubles. The cramps strengthened as I filled the parchment page, but I was soon lost in the picture forming under my hand.
I was halfway into the first sketch before I saw I was drawing the great old dragon rescuing the burning girl. He winged over the sea, dipping her in the water to put out her burning gown. I showed her flailing in his claw, screaming, as I re
membered her, though he meant to help her and not harm her. I added the dragon’s long tail and arched neck with its jagged scar, the moon above, the fishing boats to his left, the harbor. I did not sketch the fey man Poppy saw.
I still did not understand how Poppy spied a fey man on dragonback when I did not. I was the one who’d slipped into the sanctuary night after night, hoping to glimpse a fairy or a dragon.
When the page was full in every detail, I quickly hid the work behind the wardrobe. All the art I’d done back in Harrowton was in the witch hunter’s hands. Had she kept the dragon sketches, the drawing of the green man?
One page left. My hand knew what to do if my mind did not. A man sprawled comfortably before the fire with his faithful dog beside him. Garth’s face was less challenging in side view. I caught the way his brow tipped when he was deep in his own thoughts, the small ridge high on his nose, his strong chin and cheekbones, his mouth, which turned up a little. He could go very quiet, then of a sudden, rush into action. He is like the deer that way.
My hand flew. But I found I could not capture the man’s mysterious nature, his readiness and ease. Some ink pooled near his boot as I drew his long legs crossed by the fire. I paused, not completely happy with my sketch.
You have a lover you wish to send a note to telling him you’re safe now? Why presume that? What I did next confounded me. Did I mean to prove I was not writing a lover? Why else would I find myself again at the library door with the parchment in my hand. Garth was gazing out the window. I nearly ran off again, but he turned and crossed the room.
“It’s not finished,” I said, blushing. Then why did you bring it here?
“You’re an artist, Tess,” he said. There was no jest in his tone. He took the drawing and set it up on the mantel above the hearth. “Look Horace, you’re in it too.” Horace lifted his head, tail thumping at the pleasant sound of his master’s voice. I leaned up against the wall by the window. Garth’s brown eyes questioned. You didn’t want the quill to write to a lover?
Dragonswood Page 8
