Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

  We went to the cave, and you were gone. We could not find you. A mind picture of my brothers frantically searching; finding my belongings still scattered around the cave, my little hand loom, my warm cloak and boots; the fireplace blanketed in snow. Diarmid cursing. Finbar standing alone by the lake, silent.

  The others—Conor, are they all right? What of Finbar?

  They still live. But you should make haste, if you can. As soon as you are ready, you must call me. We can come only once.

  He was holding something back; still expert at the arts of the mind, weakened as he was, my brother was veiling the full truth in order to protect me.

  What is it? Conor, what is it you’re not telling me?

  Hush, Sorcha. When you call, we will come. This I promise you.

  I wept, my head against his chest, my arms around his waist, his wrapped about my shoulders. He was my brother. I had to believe him.

  It was a measure of my distress, and of his weakness, that neither of us heard the sounds of men approaching until it was much too late. Then, very close by, a twig cracked under a boot heel, and I heard Ben’s voice.

  “Jenny? Are you all right?”

  My head came up with a jerk. There he was, sword in hand, face almost comical in its shock, with dropped jaw and staring eyes as he looked across and saw me in my brother’s arms. I opened my mouth and shut it again.

  “Seize that man!” Now there were lights, and the sound of weapons being drawn, and behind Ben was Lord Richard of Northwoods, his face a wondrous blend of gloating excitement and righteous outrage. “Take the girl too. You see how he repays Lord Hugh for his trust!”

  Still I stood there gaping stupidly, numb with shock. But Conor possessed skills none of these people had ever dreamed of, and before ever Lord Richard’s men advanced across the open ground, he had slipped from my arms like a shadow, and vanished back under the willows in total silence. It was as if he had never been there.

  “After him!” hissed Richard. “Don’t let him escape!” Three men crashed off into the undergrowth, eager for the chase. But Richard stayed behind, and I felt his grip close around my arm like an iron fetter.

  “That was exceedingly stupid of you, my dear. Put quite a dampener on the family picnic. What, oh what would our Hugh say? What I wouldn’t give, to see his face when he finds out. Less than two moons wed, and already she’s off into the woods like a bitch in heat, wrapping herself around another man. And not just any man, either; one of her own kind, somebody that’s avid for the information she can give him, and—well, come on, boy. Give me a hand. Let’s take the little slut back to my sister, and see what she thinks of her son’s new bride now.”

  And the cruelest thing, as Richard dragged me along after him, was to look into Ben’s face and see the expression of wounded betrayal and shocked incomprehension there. What could he do but believe the evidence of his own eyes? He had come after me, concerned solely for my safety. He had found me out in the darkness, locked in the arms of a young man of my own people. He did not want to believe it, but my guilt was plain to see. I could give no explanation. I walked back with him on one side of me, his distress written plain on every feature, and Richard on the other, his viselike grip telling me plainly, you thought you could outwit Richard of Northwoods? You made a big miscalculation, little witch girl.

  Richard believed in swift justice. That way, you showed your people you were in control. So, you identified the culprit. If there was no hard evidence, you made sure there was a confession. Promptly extracted. Then you carried out the appropriate penalty. For adultery, a whipping might do, or some other form of public humiliation. For the reception of outlaws; it was death. It was almost superfluous to add sorcery to the list. As for the punishment, there were various methods. He would enjoy selecting the most appropriate. However, in my case things were not so simple. It appeared certain members of the household had dug their heels in, holding out for any proceedings to be carried out strictly according to the law, as Lord Hugh would certainly wish. The matter could be heard at the next folkmoot, less than two moons away. Before that assembly of all the tenants of Harrowfield, the lord of the estate could hear the points of view of all parties, make a decision and deliver his judgment, according to the king’s law. For there was but one king here now, since Wessex had placed its hand on the north. But this case was a tricky one, involving a close family member of the landholder, and combining three charges. Perhaps the hearing should wait for a shiremoot, run by King Ethelwulf’s own alderman. And the next shiremoot was not likely before Lord Hugh’s return. Best to wait until then, some people said.

  But Richard did not see the need to wait so long. The people were unsettled, unable to apply themselves properly to their work, and things must be put right before Lord Hugh’s return, not after. Besides, Richard owned the neighboring estate. He was, by marriage, as good as master of Harrowfield in Hugh’s absence. The decision was rightfully his to make. It seemed that daily he took greater control of the shocked and divided household. Locked in a tiny upstairs room. I heard of this only in snatches, as a man unbolted the door to bring me bread and water, or take away the bucket that furnished the cell, along with a pile of straw and a thin blanket. The room had a single, very small opening to the light, high in its outer wall. Through this I could glimpse a little patch of blue by day; at night, one star shone against the dark. Had I truly possessed the power of transformation, perhaps the small owl might just have managed to squeeze out through this slit in the stones. Out into the dark, over the water, back to the deep embracing arms of her forest. My heart longed to cry out to my brothers. But I bade my inner voice be silent. There could be but one call; one summons, when my work was finished, and they could go free.

  At first I was in utter despair, for they cast me into this tiny prison with nothing but the gown I wore; even my boots were taken away. I imagined Richard’s men searching my room, throwing distaff and spindle to one side, tossing the contents of chest and basket on the fire. That first night, I sat in the corner with my arms wrapped over my head and my knees against my chest, and let the tears pour down my face. I feared Conor’s capture. I feared that I would never save my brothers; and yet, while I lived there was still a chance, and so I might not speak to protest my innocence. But if guilty, I would die, and nobody could save them then. I feared to be put to torture; I had seen what they did to Simon, and knew I could not withstand it as he had. Like some foolish girl whose head is full of fancies, who dreams of a hero on a white charger, I longed for Red to come back and rescue me. And yet, I dreaded his return, for would he not believe, as Ben believed, that I had betrayed them all? I did not want to see that look of pain and shock in his eyes. Better that he did not come back, until…Toward dawn, I ceased rocking and weeping, and sat like a hollow shell, blank minded. A bird flew by the window, calling to its mate. A voice within me spoke, at last. One foot before the other. Straight ahead. This is the path. Straight ahead, Sorcha. You knew it would be hard. It will become harder still. One foot, then the other. And again. Into the dark.

  When the men came again, bringing water and a lump of dry bread, I heard their talk and knew that Conor had eluded them. For they scoured the riverbank all night by torchlight, but never hide nor hair of the wild stranger did they find. Vanished into thin air, he had. Like a ghost. You’d hardly believe he’d been there at all, if you hadn’t seen him with your own eyes. Big fierce fellow, he was; one of them Irish chieftains you heard about, wring your neck with a single twist if you gave them the chance. Privately, most of the men were glad they hadn’t run into him, out there in the night. But Lord Richard wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy at all.

  For a long time nobody came to see me. The door would creak open and the empty bucket would be thrown back in, or the used one taken. A meager meal would be left. That was no problem. I was used to going hungry. Worse was the lack of light, the blank stone walls, unbroken save for the small window high above my head. Worse still, the agony of idl
e hands. For I had been close, so close to the end of my task. Five shirts finished, and only one to make. To have this snatched from me, to be locked up without the means to complete my work was cruel indeed. Close to despair, I resorted to telling tales, an old, much-used device to occupy the mind and keep out what was not wanted. Culhan’s quest for the Lady Edan. The four fair children of Lir. No, maybe not that one. Niamh of the golden hair. The cup of Isha. That story had a hero who was extremely good at waiting. Medb, the warrior queen with a penchant for lusty young heroes. Simon had laughed at that one. And the tale of the man Toby and his mermaid. Of all the tales I had ever told, of all the stories I had ever heard, that was the one I loved best. Who would have dreamed that Red could tell such a story?

  I had lost count of the days, but many passed and I saw nobody but my guards. Then one morning the door opened and it was Lady Anne, with a couple of women behind her, bearing my distaff and spindle, my basket of starwort, my needles and thread. On top of the basket, somebody had tossed the five completed shirts. I restrained myself from snatching these precious items and clutching them to my breast. Kept my face calm. Lady Anne glanced around the cell, and a slight frown creased her brow. The women eyed me furtively. I must have been quite a sight, filthy, my hair tangled, my eyes blinking in the sudden light from the hallway. Lady Anne dismissed the women and shut the door behind her.

  “You realize,” she said quietly, “that this will break his heart.”

  It was as if she had slapped me on the face. I stared at her as she took a step forward, wrinkling her nose. I supposed I did not smell as a lady should.

  “My son loved you,” she went on, astonishing me still further. “Loved you as he has never loved any living being; more than he loves the valley itself. I dismissed it as passing fancy, youthful passion, owing more to the urges of the body than to the feelings of the heart. He proved me wrong by giving you his name, though it went against everything he believed in. How could you do this to him? How could you do this to us? We have sheltered you, we have been kind enough to you, considering what you are. Is the hatred in you so bitter against our people that you must destroy all that we hold dear? Was it for this that you were sent here?”

  I shook my head slowly. I do not hate you. I never did. I seek only to complete my task. And you’re wrong about your son, quite wrong, he—Without words, I could explain nothing.

  “Your people killed Simon,” said Lady Anne wearily. “You have destroyed Hugh. What more do you want?”

  How can you say that, when you hold me imprisoned here? It was your son who brought me here. But for him, I would never have come to Harrowfield. This was not of my choosing. I was mute. She gave a sigh.

  “Despite all, I find myself bound to act by my son’s wishes. In spite of all. He set great faith in this strange task of yours, he bound us all to keep your work safe, and you with it. You did, indeed, cast a net over him from which he cannot escape without harming himself and all that love him. I have brought your things. I have done what I must. Work on, if you have a mind to it.”

  I forced a smile, gave a nod. Thank you. She did not realize how much she had done for me. Now she seemed to be turning to go. I grasped her sleeve, for I must ask a question. She shrank away from me as if my touch would poison her. I—door, out—what, when?

  “Your future is not in my hands, Jenny,” she said. “I would not even have taken this step, to bring your work here, had not Hugh extracted a promise from me that I would allow you to go on with it, whatever happened. I am too close to this, too distressed, to judge you with any fairness. It is for my brother to hear your case, and to decide your fate. In Hugh’s absence, he is the head of this family, and must judge as he thinks fit. But he, too, wishes to avoid any suggestion that the proceedings will be less than equitable. So he plans to await Father Stephen of Ravenglass, whose business should bring him here after Lammas. On the matter of sorcery, it is prudent to consult a man of the cloth.” She looked around the cell again. “It would hurt my son to see you housed here. But not so much as the truth will hurt him.”

  What truth? I thought bitterly as the door closed behind her, and I heard the scrape as the bolt slid across. Didn’t Red once say, there are as many truths as stars in the sky, and everyone of them different? Perhaps that was the only real truth.

  The rats were my only companions. They crept out at night and nibbled the straw bedding. It was the one time in my life that I was grateful for the spiny barbs of the starwort plant, for that the rats would not touch. With nothing else to occupy me, with nothing around me but the four stone walls, I worked as long as the light lasted, and tried to sleep when it was dark. Many days passed, each like the last. I found that if I disregarded the way my hands stiffened with the pain, if I forced the fingers to move, I could make reasonable progress. I paid for it at night, for my hands ached fiercely, denying me sleep. The sixth shirt slowly took shape. It was not as well fashioned as the others, for the light was poor and my vision sometimes blurred, but it would do. It must do.

  By the changing light through my small window I judged it to be around the time of Lugnasad, close to summer’s end, when I began to receive visits from Lord Richard. He had taken his time before he came to gloat over me, but once he started, it became a regular occurrence and one I came to dread. Perhaps foolishly, I had allowed myself to feel hope when Lady Anne had given me back my work. The task was within my grasp, and had she not said they were waiting for Father Stephen so that I might have a fair trial? Then Richard came, and I saw that the truth was quite different.

  “Well, my dear.” He could have been greeting me over a sociable goblet of mead. His tone was affable. His gaze went around the tiny room, and back to me. “Your reign as Lady of Harrowfield was indeed short. I had credited you with more cunning; seems I was wrong. Very silly mistake, my dear, very silly indeed. Played right into my hands.” He gave a delicate sniff. “Odd sort of smell in here. Reminds me of pigswill.” He fished out a snowy white square of linen, and dabbed at his nose. There was a faint scent of bergamot oil. “Shouldn’t bother you, I suppose. I imagine things at home were quite—rough? I’ve heard your kind have no aversion to wallowing in their own filth. Scum will find scum.”

  I set my teeth and fixed my eyes on my work. If Red could hear you say that to me, he would kill you. Uncle or no uncle.

  He laughed. “Oh, I do like that grim expression, the spark in the eye. What is going through that little head of yours, I wonder? Think Hughie boy might come galloping back to the rescue? Don’t think so. Not a chance. Wherever he’s off to, it’s far, far away. You can tell by their expressions. Very anxious, they are, certain individuals—very keen to reach him, I’m told, but seems nobody quite knows where he is. Haven’t done him a mischief too, have you?” His eyes narrowed. “I trust that’s not part of the plan. I have a role for Hugh and I intend to see he carries it out according to my wishes. Don’t hope for salvation in that quarter, girlie. He’s not coming. Not until you’re done with, dead and buried, out of my nephew’s life and mine for good. My network is extensive. When he’s on his way home, I’ll know; and he may find himself—delayed. Nothing harmful, mind; just a little diversion to keep him away long enough.”

  My hands stopped momentarily, the shuttle between the threads. One foot after the other. I breathed again, and pulled the weft tight.

  “That stopped you in your tracks, didn’t it? Surely you didn’t imagine—no, even you couldn’t be so stupid. Death is the only possible penalty, my dear. It’s only the method that gives cause for reflection. So many to choose from, each more—piquant—than the last. There’s carrying a weight of hot iron over a marked distance. Not for you, I think. There’s plucking a stone from a vat of boiling water. Seen that one carried out, fellow required a certain amount of—persuasion. There are the quick methods, hanging, drowning, various things with a knife. Less entertaining, those. I rather fancy something with heat. So hard to decide. So I’m waiting for divine assistance. Fath
er Stephen of Ravenglass is the bishop’s man, a learned cleric and a very old friend. The Reverend Father is skilled in the driving out of demons, and cleansing, and dealing with the art of sorcery. I rely on his judgment totally. I cannot think of a single occasion when we have found ourselves in disagreement. We are of one mind. His support will give my verdict—respectability. Essential, I think, for when your husband returns.”

  A shiver ran through me. I would have trusted my life to Father Brien, and I had seen wisdom and kindness in the face of the man who had heard my wedding vows, that night in the woods. But something told me there would be no such understanding in Father Stephen’s eyes. I began to believe, finally, that I was going to die. But my fingers kept on with their steady movement, in and out, in and out, as I wove another square for the sixth shirt.

  “You know,” observed Richard, “perhaps you really are a fool. Perhaps you really don’t understand our language as well as Hugh thinks. Aren’t you afraid? Wouldn’t you like a chance to save yourself? Any other girl would be on her knees pleading by now. And it would be easy. Quite easy.” He was almost purring, like a satisfied cat; but no cat would stoop so low.

  “Under the filth, you’re still quite a succulent little slut,” he said softly. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that you still have some goods to trade? I’m a man, my dear. I might be bought, as Hugh was. Undo your buttons, let me see the flesh where your clothing hides its whiteness. Or shall I do it for you?”

  I spat, accurately, on the toe of his polished boot. He responded with a gust of laughter.

  “Oh, dear! She took me seriously! Well done, little whore! Standing on her dignity! You don’t really think I’d dirty my hands on you? Smeared with your own filth, and with those great rough paws? Once, I might have done. But I’m not desperate enough to take my nephew’s leavings. I have far brighter prospects in sight; that young widow, for instance, what was her name, Molly, Mary? Showing a great deal too much interest in your fate; makes me wonder if she’s a proper person to bring up a young boy. Must do something about that. Take steps. Needs a good strong man in her life, straighten her out, teach her a few tricks. Well, my dear. I’ll leave you now. Enjoy yourself. It won’t be much longer.”