Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

  I shook my head. No, he left it for me, though I had deserted him when he needed me most, and when I came by it he was long gone. I could not tell that part.

  “Can you tell me,” he said, and now he looked me straight in the eye, “that my brother still lived, at the time I first met you?”

  The question had been carefully worded. I shook my head. I believe his bones lie scattered in my forest. But I have not seen them. I would not tell that part.

  “Do you know, with certainty, that Simon is dead?” His eyes were very pale, under the summer sun. Pale as tidal pools at first light. Deep as memories not to be spoken.

  I shook my head again.

  “Then you are not sure,” he said, looking away. “You wonder, perhaps, why I have chosen this moment to ask you. I must tell you that—that there may be an end to your captivity. That the answer I seek may be found elsewhere. You have noted, I suppose, the return of my messengers? For I have informants spread wide, as does my uncle; but I do not tell of mine.”

  By now he had my rapt attention, though I could not tell what was to come. I felt he was more at ease now, setting out a strategy, forming a plan; in safer territory.

  “I thought all trace of Simon lost. The trail cold, the clues rubbed out by time. My uncle spoke of seeking him, and I dismissed it as idle words, thrown out to keep my mother happy. Nonetheless, I bade my messengers listen out for word of him. And at last, just now, word came.”

  What? What word? How could there be word of Simon, now, so long after?

  “My informant heard a tale,” said Red, “of a young man with golden hair and bright blue eyes, a man as foreign to your land as any might be; he was living in a community of holy brothers, on a small island off the west coast of Erin. It is a very long journey from here. This was a young man who seemed unhurt, who seemed to be in his right mind, and of good spirit. Only—only it was as if his memory had been wiped away, and he knew only the present. Innocent as a newborn babe; but, they said, eighteen or nineteen years of age.”

  Whoever it was, it was not Simon, I told myself. Unhurt? In his right mind? This could not be the boy I had nursed, whose spirit was as scarred as his wretched body. But I could not say this.

  “I believe it must be my brother,” said Red, watching me. “And so I must go and find him. Go, and quickly, so I reach that place before any other.”

  Now he was scaring me. Why?

  “Because,” he said, “that was not the only news I had. After you had retired last night, my uncle called us together, and told us he had proof that Simon was killed, soon after the troop he accompanied was ambushed in the forest. Captured, tortured, and killed. His body buried under trees, where the forest growth would soon cover it. He had a firsthand account, from one who witnessed it and later turned against his own master.”

  Both tales are false, I thought. But as I could not deny the one, so could I not refute the other. Not without telling him the truth of what I knew. And I would not do that Not until I had words. Even then, it would be hard enough.

  “Richard’s lying,” Red said bluntly. “For some reason he does not want my brother found. So I must go alone, and secretly. Even my mother does not know of this, for it would be cruel to raise her hopes until I am certain. Besides, she is still Richard’s sister. I have told only Ben and now you. There is a wide expanse of hostile territory to be crossed. Jenny, I have to tell you, I must leave tonight. I will not return to Harrowfield. Not until I have found him.”

  I was overwhelmed, instantly, with the most terrible panic. It was all wrong, it could not be his brother, someone was setting a trap for him, and—I thought of my return to Harrowfield, and how it would be if he were not there. I thought that he might not return at all. My hand went out of its own accord, and took hold of a fold of his tunic, over the heart, and I bit my lip to keep back frightened tears. What was wrong with me? Was I not the strongest of seven, she whose feet scarcely faltered on the path?

  “Which brings me,” said Red in little more than a whisper, “to the last part of what I must say. Believe me, I have thought long and hard about this; it has cost me many nights of sleep. I would not willingly leave you alone, for the threat to your safety is real enough. But if my brother lives, I must find him. I—I have guarded you as well as I could. Often, not well enough. I have wished to do more, but you don’t always make it easy. This time, I’m leaving Ben behind, somewhat against his will. I go alone; I can pass unseen, I think, through the best part of this journey. Ben will watch over you, and there are others who will stand by you. It may not be so long. Don’t look so worried, Jenny.”

  I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. It will be too long. There was a weight of foreboding in my heart, a powerful sense of bad things to come. Don’t go. Not yet. But I would not say it.

  “I said to you once, there was a solution, to the problem of your safety, that is,” he went on, rather awkwardly now, as if picking his way over broken glass. One false step, and damage was inevitable. “I have seen the way they treat you, even my mother, how they look at you, and speak behind your back. How they distrust your presence in the household. They cannot accept you as a friend, because they do not understand why—that is, your place in my house is unclear to them. That leaves you vulnerable to their tricks, their unkindness and prejudice. To worse. I can change that, I will do so, if you agree. But I have said, this solution will not be to your liking.”

  What?

  “Promise me,” he said, “that you will listen. That you will hear me out, will not run away, or block your mind, until you have heard all I have to say.”

  I stared at him. My hand loosed its deathlike grasp on his tunic and fell to my lap. I nodded mutely.

  “As my guest,” he said carefully, “your status is—is subject to the whims of others; your security cannot be guaranteed, if I am not there to watch over you. As my wife, you would be safe.”

  My heart lurched, I sprang to my feet, my skirts spraying sand in his face. My answer must have been clear in my eyes as my hands moved convulsively to reject his words.

  No. You cannot do this. No.

  “You promised you would listen,” he said quietly, and I had. So I sat down again, very slowly, and I found I had wrapped my arms around my body as if for protection.

  The sunny spring day was suddenly chill, its brightness dimmed.

  “You’re frightened. I expected no less. Jenny, I know—I understand that—that someone has hurt you, has been cruel to you—I know you still shrink from me, though I hope, despite all, that we are friends. This marriage would be—would be in name only, a marriage of convenience, you might call it. I offer you the protection of my name, so that you may complete your task in safety. No more and no less.”

  You cannot do this. It is wrong, all wrong. How can you even think—oh, for words to tell him properly. The threads of this story were tangling, knotting, falling into chaos. It was one thing to break the pattern, another to tear it boldly apart.

  “At least consider this,” Red went on, his voice very quiet, very level, as it was when he was exercising the utmost control. Me, I wanted to hit him, slap his face, force him to see reality. Didn’t he know this was no answer? Couldn’t he see that it was impossible? I imagined myself living at Harrowfield as the lady of the house. I would have found the picture comical, if it didn’t hurt so much. “At least give it some thought. We still have a little time before Ben returns.”

  I realized then, with dawning horror, that he meant this to happen straightaway; today would indeed be his wedding day. For he was leaving to cross the sea; he would not return; and he intended me to be as well protected as I could be, before then. But—

  “Look at me, Jenny,” said Red, and I looked. Looked at the strong planes of the face, the pallor of the skin, the flame of hair cut short as the pelt of a fox. The deep, serious eyes.

  “I have never taken a woman against her will,” he said. “Never. And I’m not about to start now. Especially—” he did no
t finish this particular thought. “Do you believe this?”

  I nodded. It’s not just that; though that is a part of it.

  “Will it help, if I tell you that others know of this, that your return to Harrowfield has been prepared? You will not have to break this news to my mother. Elaine has done so, before she returned home.”

  I had thought I could be shocked no further; I was wrong. Elaine knew? Who else? Does the whole household know, before ever you ask me? He gave a grim little smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “I spoke only to those whom I could trust. Elaine, yes; she deserved an explanation, and I gave one. She is not only my cousin, Jenny, but an old friend; I have known her since we were children. She bore a burden for us today, in telling them; it is a source of wonder to me that my uncle produced such a daughter. Ben knows too; his part in this is vital. He will take you home, and be your protector while I am gone. And—and I spoke of my intentions to John, long since.”

  There was silence. A weighty silence. At length I got up, and walked down to the sea again, and the sand was still good under my bare feet, and the afternoon sun still benign. But everything was changed. At the time, I had not understood John’s last words, had dismissed them as the jumbled ravings of a man dying in intense pain. What had he said? Red, right choice. Say yes. Something like that, when you put it together. And I had nodded to him, mindlessly hoping to soothe his distress. I had agreed. You did not break a promise to a dying man. Especially when his death was your fault.

  I walked along the beach again, as the shadows lengthened and the sea grew dark. Down by the water, the mermaid was almost gone. All that was left of her was a strand of dark, knotted hair and one delicate, reaching hand. I sat and watched as the ocean took her back, down to its secret places. I cleared my mind; sought for answers. But this time no wise inner voice came to my aid. There were only hard, cold facts. My brothers were returning There was still one shirt to finish, and another yet unmade. Someone had burned my work, someone had killed my friend. Red was going away. And I had promised John. There was but one conclusion. I had to trust that Hugh of Harrowfield had made another of his sensible, calculated decisions. That he was, as they described him, a man who could not make a wrong choice. I had to say yes, though it made my heart cold to think of it.

  Nonetheless, as we stood together on the rocks a little later, watching the great sea creatures one last time as they made their slow way down the beach and slipped into the water, transformed instantly into magical, graceful swimmers, there was one more question I had to ask. One he knew well.

  You—promise—me, home? Me, across the water, home?

  “I will not break my promise, Jenny,” he said. “When it’s time, when you are ready to go, I will see you safe home. When it’s time, you must ask me, and—” he did not finish this sentence. But it was enough.

  It was getting late. The beach was half in shadow, the sky darkening. I realized there would be no return to Harrowfield that night. He did not press me for my answer; he just stood there, watching the seals, waiting. He had done a lot of waiting. A scrap of parchment lay on the rocks behind him; the rising breeze threatened to snatch it away from the around stone that had held it there while the ink dried. There he had made his final meticulous markings that morning as he sat there in the sun; that morning that seemed, already, so long ago. But there were no tallies of cattle or crops on this page, only pictures, small delicate pictures in careful pen strokes. I had watched him at this task before, and marveled at how he could choose to work, and disregard the wonder of the place that surrounded him. But it seemed he had not needed to look, to know its beauty. For this sheet showed the open sky, and the smooth, shining surfaces of wet stones, and the curling lace of breakers. It showed the great seals with their knowing eyes, and the flight of the gull against tiny scudding clouds. At the foot, very small, was the last image he had made. A young woman running, her hair blown out behind her like a dark, wild cloud, her gown whipped against her body by the breeze, her face alight with joy. Red reached across and picked up the parchment, slipping it out of sight between the boards and away into his pack. I thought, after all this time, I do not know this man. I don’t know him at all.

  There was a sound from above, beyond the cliff top. The hoot of a bird; one I had heard before. Red put his hands to his mouth and echoed the call back.

  “It’s time to go,” he said; but he wasn’t moving. I drew a deep breath. Never had I wished so strongly that I need not answer. My hands set grimly to work. I indicated myself; pointed to the left hand, third finger. Nodded briefly. Could not help adding a shrug and a frown. I watched him to make sure he understood. There was a quick flare of reaction, deep in the pale eyes, instantly suppressed. He nodded gravely, face devoid of expression.

  “Good. I hoped you would agree to this. Come on, then. We don’t have a lot of time left.”

  It had all been planned, down to the last detail. He had assumed, I thought with some bitterness, that I would say yes. Had known I had no real choice. Ben was waiting; we rode a short distance, stopped in a clearing by a little stone building where another man waited. Tonsured head, homespun habit. A holy father; a solitary hermit like my old friend, Father Brien. It was over quickly, so quickly there was no time to think. He spoke the words of the ceremony, we responded as we must. There was an awkward moment, then it became apparent I must make my vow without words. The shrewd-eyed priest looked at Red, looked at me, and hesitated. But he asked me, kindly enough, if I understood the words; if I knew what I was doing. And I nodded, and nodded again, and before long I had taken Hugh of Harrowfield as my husband, in holy wedlock. Ben stood by as witness, and he said little and kept his hand on his sword hilt. Only in that enchanted cove, it seemed, had we been safe. Only for a single day.

  It was growing dark. Ben led the hermit aside, speaking in low tones. What now? I thought. Do we wait here, in the woods, until daybreak?

  “I have something for you,” said Red, who still stood beside me. He was fishing in his pocket. “I want you to wear this, if you will. A bride should not return home with no token of her marriage, though she returns without a husband. Here, take it.

  Something small, light, strung on a strong, fine loop of cord. It was a ring; but, as I held it up in the fading light, I saw that it was a ring such as I had never seen before. This tiny object had been carved from the heart of a great oak. It was thin and delicate, the work of a master craftsman. Its inner surface was smooth as silk, its outer patterned with an intricate design wrought over many long evenings with fine strokes of the knife; a circlet of trailing oak leaves right around, with tiny acorns here and there, and a single, small owl perched solemn-eyed in the foliage. This ring had not been made for Elaine. I slipped the cord over my neck, and the token inside the neckline of my gown, over my heart, where it hung beside another, older talisman which had once been my mother’s, and then Finbar’s. I looked at Red. His face gave nothing away. I thought, this does not make sense. He was working on this before John died, all winter before the fire, long since. But that meant—

  “The boat’s waiting for you.” Ben’s voice came out of the darkness. “Boatsman says he can land you before dawn, plenty of time to go to ground. Are you ready?”

  “No,” said Red. “But I must go anyway. Farewell, Jenny. Be safe till I return.”

  I was frozen, unable to move. Don’t go. Not yet. It’s too soon. But my hands were still, my tongue, as ever, silent.

  “I’ll bring you an apple,” he said, and he turned and disappeared into the shadows. “The first apple of the autumn.” And he was gone. I had not said farewell, and he was gone.

  A tale can start in many ways. Thus, it is many tales, and at the same time each of these is but one way of telling the same story. There were once two brothers. This is the tale of the elder brother, a man who had everything. He was good, strong, wise, and wealthy. He was a man who always made the right choices. He was a man contented with what he had; more t
han contented, for he was bound by both love and duty to nurture his inheritance. Until, one day, he realized it was not enough. There were once two brothers. This is the tale of the younger brother, who was clever and skillful and wild, a man with curling hair the color of summer sun on a barley field. There were people that loved him, but he didn’t see this. There was a place for him, but he never felt welcome there. Always, he saw himself as second best. His brother would inherit the estate; he, a little parcel of land nobody wanted. His brother would marry well, to safeguard the estate and consolidate his power; but who would want a younger son, with no future? His brother always got things right. He, on occasion, made mistakes of epic proportions. This is also the tale of a young woman. Who she was, nobody was quite sure, except that she had strange green eyes and hair like midnight, and she came from over the water. In a moment of uncharacteristic folly, the elder brother took her for his wife. Then he disappeared, just as the younger had; and all they left in their place was the witch girl, spinning and weaving and sewing her strange cloth of spindlebush, and not a word out of her, not a single sound. They said she wouldn’t speak, not even when the rocks fell right by her, and a man lay dying. They said she was a woman with no human feelings, a sorceress, and that when she snatched Lord Hugh from right under the nose of his betrothed, with never a by-your-leave, she tore the heart right out of the valley. That was what they said.

  It had been a difficult homecoming. Red’s confidence that Elaine could prepare the household had not been entirely justified. She had done her best; everyone knew the wedding was off, and that instead, Hugh had done the unthinkable and married me. Elaine was gone, and so was Richard, and I owed her a great debt for that. What she hadn’t told them, and couldn’t, because nobody knew but Ben and me, was that their beloved Hugh was not coming back home with his new bride. It was an uncomfortable homecoming, as Ben explained as well as he could, without saying exactly where Red had gone, and I stood wearily in the hall, encircled by shocked faces and curious eyes. Lady Anne was a strong woman. She recovered first, outwardly at least. Servants were despatched for ale and mead. Ladies were dismissed, hovering men-at-arms sent on their way. For Lady Anne, duty was paramount. So she gave me a chilly kiss on the brow, and said, “Welcome, daughter,” in a voice choked with restraint. It was only at that moment I remembered that it was just one day since Richard had told her that Simon was dead. Then she sat me down, and put a cup of mead in my hands; and after a while she called Megan to show me where my new quarters would be. I had not thought so far ahead. But all was prepared, in a spacious chamber upstairs, which I suspected had never been Red’s, for it was too comfortable by far. There was a wide bed, blanketed in fine wool, and a small cheerful fire burned on the tiled hearth. There were tapestries on the walls, and candles lit. Garlands of flowers decorated bed and hearth and door frame; these had not been placed there for me, that was certain. But in the corner stood my little wooden chest, and my distaff and spindle, and my basket and bundles of starwort. Alys was at Megan’s heels, and did not take long to settle gratefully before the warmth of the fire.