Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

  From that night on, until May Day when everything changed again, I set myself apart from the household, as if in some invisible, protective shell. I applied all my will to my task. For I sensed my enemy all around me, drawing ever nearer as spring blossomed and burgeoned into summer, as berries set on bushes, and young birds tried their wings, and the household of Harrowfield swallowed its grief and put on a brave face, in readiness for a wedding.

  Instead of walking out in the early mornings, I sat in my garden spinning, for Lady Anne had provided me with distaff and spindle as she had promised. If I did venture forth, it was not to the orchard, or the fledgling forest of young oaks. At night, the guard remained outside my door. I did not look to see who it was, and the door stayed closed. I took to working in my room, even at the times when the women would gather upstairs; I did not wish to hear them talk, or endure Lady Anne’s frowning distrust or, worst of all, sit by Margery as she went mechanically about her work, blank eyed. She did not ask to see me again, and I would not go where I was not wanted. So I sat alone and told myself tales, and when I had no more energy for that, I repeated my brothers’ names over and over to myself in silence. My hands got worse, from long misuse without respite; without the daily treatment Margery had administered, they were sore and wretched. I kept on working. The pain was not important.

  I could not isolate myself entirely. Lady Anne required attendance at supper. I attended, and sat silently, and ate what I must. There was no John to coax me into finishing what was set in front of me; though once or twice I found Ben slipping an extra wedge of cheese or slice of fruit onto my plate, with a comment about how there was so little of me left, soon I’d be gone altogether. I looked at him sharply, and he winked. Perhaps not everyone hated me. Gone were the cheeky grin and flood of bad jokes, since we had lost John, but Ben was not capable of malice, and I believed he still felt some kind of responsibility for me, born perhaps of being witness to my undignified rescue from drowning. Born also from his failure to prevent Hugh of Harrowfield from making the one wrong decision of his life.

  Once or twice I passed Red in a hallway, for we could not avoid one another completely. I lowered my eyes and went by like a shadow, close to the wall. When he had to speak to me, his manner was polite but distant; of what had passed between us that night, not a word was spoken, not a look exchanged. It might never have been, save for the guilt it had made between us, that neither of us tried to bridge. It was better that way. I had a job to do, and no time for distractions. He had his house to put in order, and quickly, for May Day drew on at an alarming pace.

  I learned, at thirdhand, of his investigations into the rock fall and John’s death. That the second man, who had watched from above, was on loan, so to speak, from Northwoods, having accompanied Elaine on her visit and remained at Harrowfield. That he had taken the place of another, on the day it happened, without informing John. That there had been no sight or sound of him since. There was a question over it all, for it could still be that his body lay beneath that great, remaining stone. No accusations were made. But things changed subtly. There were more men about the place, and most of them were armed. Foodstuffs were checked and tasted. Red and Ben talked long in the evenings, and started looking at maps. Other men came from time to time, some of them strangers, and were questioned intensely, and given food and drink, and sent away again. All of this I watched, and failed to understand, but I would not ask. I spun and spun, and counted the days as they sped by.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was May Eve, and the weather was perfect. At home, folk would have been up and out in the night, gathering flowers to hang about their doors and windows, to honor the first rising of the sun. Gifts of milk would be left in the hollows of certain stones; fires lit on hilltops. I remembered my brother Conor coming home with a burning brand, which he had carried from deep in the forest, and lighting our hearth fire anew. Here the folk seemed to have little time for such rituals, perhaps not understanding their importance. And yet, to my surprise, I saw ribbons woven in the bushes by the pathway, and heard the girls in the kitchen chattering about a spiral dance, and which of the young men they might like to take into the woods when the dancing was over. Perhaps the old ways were not quite gone from these parts after all.

  The house was full of flowers and greenery, and folk smiled, for a wedding meant renewal, and stability, and another generation to learn the careful husbandry of tree and beast, the wise and protective nurture of the good folk of the valley. At home, you would never choose Beltane for a wedding, not if you wanted the marriage to last. I sat in my garden sewing by lantern light, and imagined Red showing a small son how to plant an acorn; showing a tiny daughter how a sheep’s wool could be shorn, and grow again. Elaine was not in this mind picture; perhaps, I thought grimly, even when wed she would be kept occupied by her father, who was overkeen to display an interest in the affairs of Harrowfield.

  He had arrived that morning, a few days after his daughter. I saw little of him, but I heard his expedition had not gone according to plan, and he was in an ill temper. The supper was festive. The household ate and drank and laughed, and made the sort of jokes you would expect, but in good humor. Richard sat back in his chair and watched me with hooded eyes. Red and Elaine maintained a quiet, exclusive conversation. Ben seemed unusually withdrawn. He was drinking sparingly and frowning into his goblet, his thoughts far away. Margery did not come down.

  Lady Anne had done us proud, with course following course on silver platters, roast meats and fresh poached fish, neither of which I could touch; vegetables carved into cunning shapes, soups and sauces and sweetmeats. I longed for the quiet and privacy of my room, but would not offend the family by leaving early. And then they brought on the prize dish, stuffed and garnished and glazed to a warm, glistening gold. A great roast bird, flanked by carrots and turnips and onions, the savory smell of it filling the nostrils and causing a small cheer to go around the festive board. I suppose I was slow to react. I did not think, for long moments. And then I realized what it was, and my stomach heaved and my brow was suddenly dripping with sweat and the whole room reeled and danced before my eyes. I knocked over my chair in a headlong dash for the door, and upset a serving woman with a jug of gravy. At least I did not shame them by spewing the contents of my stomach on the floor of the great hall. I made it outside, just, and stood shaking, shivering and retching till my body had rejected every morsel of food it had in it, and long after. The terrible sight was still before my eyes, the ghastly smell in my nostrils, clinging to my clothing, all around me as their voices came in snatches through the open door.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Somebody slip something nasty in the food? Come on then, who’s the culprit? Been tempted myself, sometimes.”

  “You’d never get away with it, not now. Everything’s checked. Makes you wonder.”

  “Tell you what I reckon.”

  Voices lowered. “…bun in the oven…that’s what I heard…just as well he’s…keep him out of trouble…old married man…”

  “…not the first…”

  “Wouldn’t be his, if she is. More likely one of them traveling men that comes and goes by night. Who else’d look at her?”

  I had heard of such things before. A roast swan; inside the swan you put a turkey, and inside that a chicken, and so until the smallest quail. A masterpiece of culinary skill. I would never eat food from that kitchen again, I would never put on this gown that smelled of it, I would never…

  “Feeling any better?” It was Ben, a cup of water in one hand, a clean cloth in the other. “Got a pretty delicate stomach, haven’t you? Well-chosen moment, I thought. The wedding jokes were getting weaker by the moment. Come on, drink; your stomach has to have a little bit of something in it. There, that’s better. Now, I don’t suppose you’re keen to rejoin the festive party. How about an escort to bed? Maybe I should rephrase that. I’d be delighted to see madam to her door. Smile, Jenny. It’s not that bad.”
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  He was a kind boy, well meaning. And how could they know? I let him walk me to my room through the garden and we sat on the bench a while looking at the stars. I wondered why he did not leave, go back to the party. Not that I minded his company. Anything was better than thinking of that—that—

  “I’ve been asked to give you a message.” Ben was suddenly serious. “He said—he said he hoped you’d do as he asked, and not have too many questions.”

  What? What message?

  “He said, be up early tomorrow. Really early, just before dawn. Put on a cloak and good boots, and be ready to ride out. And leave the dog indoors. That’s what he said.”

  What? But tomorrow is—

  “Don’t look so worried,” said Ben, a frown creasing his own brow. “He said, tell her it’ll be all right. And it’s safe to leave your—your work behind.”

  So he was not sending me home. Was not sending me away. He would not send me away, on his wedding day, without my things?

  “It’ll be all right,” said Ben as if trying to convince himself. “And now I’d better go. I’ll be missed. And I hear our friend of Northwoods has some sort of news for us. Just what, I’m not sure. But I’d better be there when he breaks it. Good night, Jenny. Don’t look so worried.”

  One of the things the folk of Harrowfield liked and respected about Lord Hugh was how reliable he was. Reliable, stable, predictable. No surprises there. If he said he’d do something, he did it. If he made a promise, he kept it. Solid as an oak, was Lord Hugh. You did not have to live there for long to hear them say so. That was why my arrival had shocked them; for it was a break in the long, unchanging pattern. Well, one aberration was all right, folk said. They could tolerate one mistake. Once he was wed, things would settle down. Fine girl, Elaine of Northwoods. But it did happen again. It was astonishing, considering the sort of person he was, that he acted in the way he did. It could scarcely have been designed to have a more dramatic impact, to offend more people, to distress his family more greatly. Yet that was just how he planned it. And in the long run it seemed that even for this, he had his reasons.

  I had no problem waking early, having slept but fitfully. Alys was pleased to have the bed to herself, and made no protest at being left behind. I would not wear the homespun, for I imagined it still smelled of roast meat; so I had to put on the blue dress, and my sturdy outdoor boots. It was early enough to be chill, and I wrapped a cloak around myself and went out, with a very strange feeling in my stomach. Nerves? Foreboding? Maybe it was just the aftermath of retching on an empty gut. It was quiet. The house was still sleeping.

  By the gate were three horses, and two men in cloaks, with weapons by their sides. Red put a hand to his lips, to signal quiet; there was hardly a need for this with me. Ben helped me onto the mare, and we rode off in silence, keeping to grass and earth where the horses’ feet would make less noise. Before the sun rose, we had traveled over the rim of the valley and into a dense woodland, riding on paths visible only to an experienced woodsman. Harrowfield was far behind us, and the day dawning bright. I was quivering with frustration, bursting with questions I could not ask. They stopped briefly to pass around a flask of water. I seized the opportunity.

  Where are we going? What is this? Today—you—wedding! Today—you—home! Where?

  There was a ghost of a smile on Red’s face, though he looked as if he, too, had gone without sleep.

  “So many questions! It’s all right, Jenny. We have quite a long ride ahead of us, until midmorning at least. I want to show you something. We’ll make sure you get back safe. And I have—arranged—for your work to be well guarded. That fierce hound of yours will assist, no doubt. Now, can you ride further? Not too tired?”

  I shook my head, but I was not finished. He had not answered me, not really.

  Today—you—wedding? The message was surely clear on my face, if the gestures were not sufficient. How could you do this? How could you do this to them?

  Red shrugged, not meeting my eyes. “It’s of no concern,” he said. “It’s under control.” That was all. We rode on, and I found that despite my confusion and anxiety, despite my deep shock at his action, I was enjoying the freedom of this ride, the sweet scent of the woodlands, the thud of hooves on a soft carpet of fern and moss, the silent company of the two men. It was almost like—it was almost like the time we had made a journey together before, Red and I, when we had rested under an apple tree and shared its fruit. When we had sheltered in a cave and seen more than we bargained for. Despite the fear and the uncertainty, there had been a bond between us even then, when I had scarcely known him. Red glanced at me and looked away, and I believed he shared my thoughts.

  When I had first come to Harrowfield, the ride from the sea had taken the best part of a day. I realized, now, that the coastline must be deeply indented, or curve back on itself, for the way we took was far shorter, though a more difficult ride. The horses seemed to know the path, but it was clearly little traversed. It was not so very long before we emerged from under trees to see the broad, shining expanse of the sea below us, and to hear the breakers’ roar and the screaming of gulls. A track led down, between rocks, toward the water. It was steep, too steep for riding. Wooded headlands projected on either side of us; the place was sheltered, almost secret. The two men dismounted, and after a moment, I did likewise, somewhat awkwardly, for I was unused to riding so long. Nobody spoke, but I saw Red grip Ben’s arm, as if in thanks, and Ben gave a nod and then took the reins of all three horses and led them back under the trees.

  “This way,” said Red, heading off down the narrow, ill-defined path. I had no choice but to follow. My ankle was still a bit sore, but it held up quite well. There were places where the track was steep and crumbling, and he had to take my hand once or twice, but he let it go as soon as he could. I concentrated on not slipping, and did not look about me. At last we paused on a small flat outcrop of rock, some twenty feet above the beach.

  “Look that way,” said Red. The place where we stood was the midpoint of a sheltered cove, where the sand was white and fine, and an abundance of low plants scrambled over the cliff face behind. At either end, the tall headlands blocked wind and weather, cutting off the bay from the rest of the world. Before us a pile of weathered stones divided the beach into two parts. I followed Red’s gaze to the left, and my mouth fell open in amazed delight.

  I had heard of such creatures, but only in tales. They were basking in the summer sun, huge, sleek, elegant in repose; they fixed their great, liquid eyes on us as if to say, this is our place. The mystery of the ocean was in those eyes. There were perhaps ten or twelve of the creatures there, and as I watched another came out of the water, moving up the beach with a ponderous grace. It shook its long, heavy body from side to side, and a shower of silver droplets made a dazzling halo around it. Then it settled, with a sigh, next to its fellows. I sat down very carefully on the rocks, moving slowly in case I startled them. For this was one of those places where the harmony of natural things is quite untouched; where worlds meet and speak; where man and woman must tread with the utmost care. One of the creatures moved its head, watching me; then laid its head and neck across another’s back, eyes closing slowly. I felt a grin of pure delight spread over my face. A long time passed as I watched the creatures, as I sat there under the May sky with seabirds wheeling overhead. I felt the power of that place all around me, soaking into me, soothing my spirit and filling me with joy. It was a feeling not easily told in words; the same feeling that had come to me at times in the deepest, most secret places of the forest, or sitting on the rooftops of Sevenwaters, talking to Finbar without any words. All is well. All will be well. The wheel turns, and returns. This was a place of soul healing.

  After a while I remembered I was not alone, and turned to look at Red. He was sitting on the rocks behind me, and he had his book, and his quill and ink pot, but he was not working. He was watching me.

  “We’ll stay here awhile,” he said quietly. Then he o
pened the book and uncorked the ink bottle. “Ben returns later; he has business in these parts. You are quite safe here.” At that, the questions came back to me all at once. How could he be so infuriatingly calm? Would he offer me no explanations? How do you use your hands to ask why? Why did you bring me here?

  “Later,” he said. “We have all day. Later, we’ll talk, and I’ll tell you—for now, can you understand that I wished to see those hands at rest, just for a day? That I wished to set my prisoner free, just for a little? Enjoy your day, Jenny. Tomorrow it begins again.”

  Why this day? What of Elaine, and your mother, and—But I could not put this into signs. Besides, he knew quite well what I wanted to ask, but he brought out from his pack the leatherbound boards which housed his farm records, and extracted a piece of parchment already half filled with neat markings. He dipped the quill into the ink and set to work, seated there with the open sky above him, and the wide seas before him, and it seemed he had eyes only for his orderly record of the way things had been, and were, and always would be.

  So I took off my boots, and climbed down to the other side of the beach, which lay quite untouched save for the light feet of birds. Here there were no great sea creatures basking, but delicate, intricate shells thrown up by the tide, fragments of bleached wood and complex nets of weed. The sand was good under my bare feet, so good that I picked up my skirts and began to run, sore ankle or no, with the breeze in my hair and, at last, the cold touch of the sea around my feet, and my heart beating with the thrill of freedom. I ran through the small waves, and the hem of the blue dress grew wet and gritty with sand; I ran along the beach and the gulls followed high above, crying one to the other. I ran until I was dizzy and breathless, until I reached the far end of the beach, where the rocky headland rose from the white sand. There I leaned my back against the stones and listened to my heart pounding and drew in breaths of wild sea air. I had not realized, had not known how painful a burden had been laid on me, until now, when for a single day I was free.