It was not until we extricated ourselves from this joyful, painful welcome, and retreated inside, that the lady really noticed me. A servant was sent for wine; we moved into a hall within the house, where a great hearth was set with logs of ash and hawthorn, but not yet lit, for the day was mild. She seated herself on a settle near the hearth, and beckoned her son to sit by her. There were others of the household present, but at a discreet distance. Our traveling companions had vanished. Each, I supposed, had his own particular welcome waiting. So Red sat down by his mother, stretching out his injured leg with some care. The long ride had been the last treatment it needed to mend properly. And I was left standing by his chair, feeling quite alone in a circle of curious stares. He still held me by the wrist, so I could not move away. His mother looked me straight in the eyes. Her face was round and soft under the delicate lawn of her veil; there was a network of fine lines around eyes and mouth. Small curls of hair escaped the headdress and showed a faded gold. She had once had hair the color of her younger son’s; and her eyes were the same bright periwinkle blue. I read shock in her expression, and fear, and something like revulsion. She did not speak. Red dropped my wrist.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hoped to bring him home. Even after so long, I believed it possible. As you see, I did not find him. And I have no news for you. I regret that I could not—that I—”
“I’ve learned not to hope too much,” said his mother, and she was blinking back tears. If there were to be weeping, it would be later, when she was quite alone. “You are home safe. We must be grateful for that.”
“It was as if he had vanished into thin air,” said Red. “It is indeed a strange country, and abounds in tales of just such happenings. Nonsense, of course. But we went close, very close to the place where so many of Richard’s men perished. That he was once there is beyond doubt. But there was no trace, no sign that Simon had ever been with them. We spoke with whom we could, under cover of darkness. None knew of prisoners taken, or of fugitive or hostage. I come back empty-handed, Mother. I am sorry, sorry for the trouble my absence has caused you; sorry to bring no answers.”
“I confess, I had hoped for something,” she said. “Not that he would come home, not now, after so long. But something, some small token to tell me if he lived or died, any answer to end this terrible waiting.”
There was a small pause.
“There was nothing,” said Red. “Nothing at all.”
I found I had been holding my breath, and let it out in a rush. But I was not safe yet.
“It appears you have not returned entirely empty-handed,” said his mother, and she looked me up and down as if inspecting a cut of meat for the table that was not to be her satisfaction. I stared back steadily. I was not ashamed to be Lord Colum’s daughter, in spite of everything he had done. My people were old, far older than hers, and I was the daughter of the forest.
“How can you bring one of—one of them into your house? How can you bear even to be near her? These folk took your brother; they killed Richard’s men in the most barbaric way imaginable, with unthinkable cruelty. Their ways are not just strange; they are lost to all goodness. How can you bring her into my house?” Her voice was quivering with emotion. Here it comes, I thought. Now he tells her I’m the one link with her younger son. Now she demands my information right away, anything to convince her that her boy still lives. And they try to get me to talk, any way they can. How can he deny his own mother? Strangely enough, I understood just how she felt.
Red stood up and moved behind me, and I felt his big hands on my shoulders.
“Her name’s Jenny,” he said levelly. “She’s here in my household as my guest, for as long as it suits her. It may be quite a while. And she’ll be treated with respect. By everyone.” His mother was staring at him, her mouth slightly open. My expression must have mirrored hers, for I had not expected this. A job in the kitchens, maybe, scouring pans; that was the best I had hoped for. “I mean no insult, Mother. I’m just telling you how it will be.” He raised his voice, just enough to be sure all those present heard him. “This young woman is welcome in my house. She will be treated as a member of the household. You will offer her the kindness and hospitality that befits any guest of mine. I’ll tell you this once only. Let it be understood.” There was a hint of threat, I thought, in these last words, but he needed to say no more. A deathly hush fell over the room.
The servant appeared with wine. Red made me sit down and take a goblet, but I had only a sip or two. My stomach was still unsettled, and I was very weary. And there were too many people here, too much light, too many sounds. All I wanted was to be alone for a while, and rest. And then I wanted a distaff and a spindle and a loom, and time, lots of time.
“She hasn’t much to say for herself,” said Red’s mother, sniffing slightly. “What’s she to do here? Can she make herself useful?”
Red’s mouth curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“I think you will find Jenny can occupy herself well enough,” he said. “She’s very handy with the needle and thread. But she is not to be employed as a servant here; I expect your women to make her welcome as an equal.”
“I am shocked that you ask this, Hugh. Perhaps I did hope, beyond hope, that you would bring Simon safely back home. Instead you bring the enemy that destroyed him, and ask me to make that enemy a friend.” Under the mask of gentility, she was furious with him.
Red looked at her, and then at me. “Jenny does not speak,” he said, “because she cannot. But she makes herself understood very well, you’ll find. And she understands everything you say.” With that answer, which was no answer at all, she had to be content, but there was a delicate frown between her arching brows, and I saw the depth of anguish in her eyes.
“You give us no choice,” she said wearily.
I thought about Simon, and the things he’d said about his family. In his tale of two brothers, the younger had never been quite good enough; never been quite the equal of the elder. Why had he thought they did not love him? Why had he seen himself as second best? Even in his absence, he stood between this mother and son as vivid as if he had been there in the flesh.
Their talk moved to safer ground. They spoke of the business of the estate, of crops and livestock, the harvest and the welfare of their folk. Red asked question after question; he seemed eager to take up the reins of his household once more. My mind wandered, reliving those days when Simon was in my care, remembering the long telling of tales, the fevered, demon-filled nights, the slow healing of mind and body. I remembered his knife at my throat; I remembered his tears of furious self-loathing. These mind-pictures were strong; I scarcely saw what was around me. Besides, I was growing drowsy with the wine and the long day, and so I started when I felt something cold and wet against my leg, under the hem of the homespun gown that the sisters had given me. I looked down. Peeping out from under the bench where I sat was a very small, rather elderly gray dog, who gazed up at me with sad, rheumy eyes, wheezing gently. I bent over and offered her a hand to sniff; she quivered and put out a small pink tongue in a lick of greeting. Then, with a sigh, she settled down heavily on my feet as if there for a long stay. I stifled a yawn.
“You’re tired,” said Red to me. “My mother’s women will find you somewhere to sleep. It’s been a long day.” He got awkwardly to his feet again.
“Your leg,” said his mother, noticing for the first time that he had some sort of injury. “What happened to your leg?”
“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Red predictably. “A small cut. Not worth worrying about.” He glanced at me and saw my expression, and I caught, fleetingly, that slight quirk at the corner of his mouth that might, in some other man, have been a well-suppressed smile. His mother was watching us both, and her frown deepened.
“Megan!” she called. A young maidservant with a head of unruly brown curls came forward, bobbing a curtsy of sorts.
“Find a suitable chamber for—for—our visitor, Megan,
” said the lady of the house, and I felt she had to force the words out. “Water for washing, something simple to eat. Show her where to find us in the morning.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Megan, bobbing again, and her eyes were demurely downcast. But as we left the hall, I in her wake, and the gray dog trotting after me like a small shadow, her glance was full of a lively curiosity, touched with fear.
“Don’t forget this,” said Red as I passed, and he slid my small pack from the top of his own and put it in my hands. I nodded thanks, and left. Behind me, I heard his mother speaking again, and I think I was glad I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
I suspect somebody chose for me a bedchamber deemed suitable for a barbarian: small, remote, sparsely furnished, located very close to the servants’ quarters and in earshot of the clatter and bustle of the busy kitchens. If they thought to insult me thus, they miscalculated. For I loved, instantly, the tiny, square room with its stone walls and its hard pallet on a wooden frame, with its heavy oak door that opened straight out into a neglected corner of garden full of tangled herb bushes shot to seed. As soon as it was light, I would go out and see if starwort grew there. An old rose clambered up the wall just outside the door, and a tiny, blue-flowered creeper carpeted the stone steps. There was a mossy pathway choked over with weeds. Through the single round window, set high in the wall, the moon would look down on my slumber. There was a wooden chest, and a pitcher and a bowl. Megan brought me warm water, and another girl, furtive-eyed, brought a platter with bread and cheese and dried fruits and then scurried out of the room. I put my bag on the end of the bed, and waited for Megan to go. The dog checked all corners of the room with care, snuffling quietly; at last, satisfied, she gathered her strength and made a heroic, scrambling leap onto the pallet, where she settled, nose on forepaws.
“Where are your bags?” asked Megan awkwardly. “Your nightrobe, your other things?” I shook my head, indicating my little pack.
“That’s all?” She looked quite shocked. I could hear the unspoken questions. Where on earth did he find you? What possessed him to bring you back here, and with nothing but the clothes on your back? Why?
Megan spoke again, surprising me. “That was Simon’s dog,” she said. “My lord Hugh’s brother. Alys, he called her. She’s old now; he had her since he was no more than an infant. Never let anyone near her since he went away. Fends for herself, mostly. She’d snap your fingers off, if you went to pet her. Until now.” She reached a tentative hand toward the small hound; it responded with a deep growl, baring its teeth. “See?” said Megan lightly. “Vicious little thing. Seems to like you well enough, though.”
I managed a smile of sorts, and she grinned back, her natural curiosity overcoming her wariness.
“I’ll speak to my lady Anne,” she said. “Find you a nightrobe and some other things. And I’ll come back for you in the morning, show you where to go. We rise early here.”
That night I slept; but bone-weariness and the effects of the wine were not enough to blot out entirely the night terrors that still beset me, and I woke suddenly from a dream that is best left untold, a dream that I had often, the sort of dream that wove its way into my daily thoughts, so that I still shuddered each time a man touched me, the sort of dream that made my whole body cringe, and tremble, and my heart pound in my chest. Alys lay heavily on my feet; she had not woken. A dim light from the waning moon shone into the room. And there were low voices outside.
I got up and went softly to the window. Both doors were barred, although I would have been happier to leave one ajar, to smell the night scents of lavender and woodbine, to feel the cool breeze on my skin. But I had lost the ability to trust; I was no longer protected by the sweet cloak of innocence. So I had bolted my doors. But I stood on tiptoe on the wooden chest, and looked out into the garden. Two shadowy figures were exchanging quiet words; both wore dark clothing, and I saw the glint of weapons in the faint light. One of them went out through a gate in the wall; flaxen-haired, somewhat jaunty in his gait, even in the middle of the night. The other was taller, and walked with a slight limp. He settled by the wall at the far end of the garden, relaxed but alert, one leg stretched out, barely visible in the shadows. It was a long watch till daybreak.
I couldn’t tell if I felt better or worse, knowing I was under some sort of guard. Where did they think I could escape to, here in the middle of their country with neither a pair of boots nor a water bottle to my name? Besides, after the reception I’d got so far at Harrowfield it seemed unlikely the local folk would offer me much help if I tried to make it to the coast. And what was I supposed to do then, swim for home? No, I was stuck here whether I liked it or not. So why the guard?
I wondered, for a moment, if these men ever slept. Then, I remembered Red lying in the cave, his face white with pain and exhaustion. He was human, I thought; he just didn’t like people to know it. And it seemed he set a very high value on the information I could give him; he would make sure it did not slip through his grasp, while he was waiting for me to talk.
They rose early, but not as early as I. Before dawn I was up and about, washing my face in the last of the fresh water, finding the privy, unbolting the outer door and walking out into the neglected garden. Little Alys followed me, but slowly, her joints stiff with age. Someone had planted this garden well, once. But there was no starwort here; later, when I needed more, I must look further afield. I cursed myself for neglecting my task, before I left the forest. There was an old water trough under the wormwood bushes, half full of mud. I could use that to soak the fibers I had brought from the priory. There were still herbs aplenty here; enough, if I tended them, to stock a good set of shelves with salves and ointments, tinctures and essences. I wondered if they would let me have a mortar and pestle, and some knives, and beeswax and oil. Then I thought, there is no time for this. What of Finbar, and Conor, and the others? Time runs short for them, and it is already autumn. Nonetheless, I could not help myself, and when Megan came to find me I was pulling up weeds, separating out the newly seeded children of the overblown plants, planning how it might be if I pruned, and dug, and planted. I had forgotten, almost, where I was. Of my nighttime guardians there had been no sign, save for the print of their boots in the soft earth. They had vanished with the first light.
The attitude of the folk of Harrowfield toward me could best be described as a sort of frozen courtesy. The lady Anne led by example. There was no denying that her son was the head of this household and expected to have his way, and even she would not challenge that. So she spoke to me only when circumstances made it unavoidable. When she looked at me, the hostility in her bright blue eyes was thinly masked. She provided for me, but only so far as basic hospitality demanded. I told myself that this suited me well enough. I had been living wild for the best part of two years now; I had become unused to luxury, if indeed our life at Sevenwaters could be called that, for in our household of men we had lived simply enough. I had no wish for fine gowns, or wheaten bread, or a bolster filled with goose feathers. So I told myself, and it was true enough.
It was the company that was difficult. I had been alone a long time, alone save for those few precious nights when my brothers could take human form, when we might again speak mind to mind, when we might touch and gaze and store up memories for the long, lonely times between. Now I was surrounded by women, women who chattered constantly among themselves, who were always there, who broke into my thoughts and made my task harder, and slower, and more painful, because I must work doubly to remember why I was there, and what I must do. And the looks; the looks were sidelong, and bitter, and full of fear. I was the enemy; it did not really matter what the lord Hugh had said, for the long sunny room where we met each morning to sew and spin and weave was the women’s place, and I read in the women’s faces what they thought of me.
I am the daughter of the forest, I told myself as I drew the long, barbed strands of starwort out of my little bag and began to spin, with borrowed distaff and spin
dle. I am the daughter of Lord Colum of Sevenwaters. I have a brother that is a fine leader, and one that is an adept in mysteries more ancient than any your people could imagine. I have a brother that is a fearless warrior, and one the wild creatures know as a friend. I have a brother that—that once had a smile that would charm the birds from the trees, and will again one day. And as the thread snapped once more, and I joined it yet again, with its fine barbs piercing my skin like strands of hot wire, I told myself, I have a brother that knows how to heal the spirit, that will give of himself till there is nothing left. What have you, with your smooth hands and your fine embroidery? With every twist of this sharp thread, I cry out to my brothers. With every thorn that stabs my flesh, I call them back home.
The Britons thought me touched in the head. After the first shock, there was disbelief as they saw my work and realized I was in earnest when I twisted the spines of this plant between my fingers. When they saw me choke back the cry of pain and will my face to calm, they drew away from me, and clustered together, glancing from time to time, furtively, at the corner where I sat alone. I heard their talk, even though their voices were hushed. Because his mother was there, they would not openly question what the lord Hugh had done. But they told tales, terrible tales of how the chieftains of Erin had killed this good man, and maimed that one, how the flower of their people had come to grief in the long feud between us. Glancing at me over their shoulders, they told of good men bewitched and betrayed by women of my kind, women with pale skin and hair as dark as night, and a way with words. All of it was meant for my ears. I could have told them our side of the story—my father’s story. For Colum was a seventh son, and how often does such a one inherit his father’s lands? Only when all his brothers are lost to war, falling one by one in defense of what they hold precious. But I was silent.
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