Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

“To me, it looks clear enough.” Richard sounded almost petulant.

  I heard no more, as my guards gripped me by the arms and I was taken back to the small cell. Someone brought bread and water, and I ate and drank, and shortly afterward my stomach rejected even this simple fare, almost as if I really were with child. In the cold, damp cell, in the darkness, I groped for my work and found it. I knew this was the last night. My hands gripped the small loom, felt for shuttle and ball of spun fiber, and began to work.

  It was hopeless, of course. There was no way I could finish one sleeve, and make the whole of another, and sew all together in a single night, without even a candle for guide. But still I worked on. Strong-minded, aren’t you? Maybe I would have a little longer. Richard had described the special mixture given him by Eamonn of the Marshes, which burned so hot it destroyed all but bone. He might wait until dusk, to make a more spectacular sight. Outside the rain still fell. It would be good for the small oak trees. Richard would be hoping for dry weather. You did not get a nice hot fire in the rain.

  Toward morning, as if in preparation for a burning, the rain ceased and a cool breeze came up. I heard an owl cry, calling in the last silence before the dawn. Then she was gone, fled to the deep shelter of the trees. The sun rose, and daytime birds began their sweet chatter. I tried with no great success to keep out the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm me. The last rain. The last owl. The last dawn.

  They came early to get me, two big men in the colors of Northwoods. Nobody told me what the verdict had been, and I could not ask. The first sleeve was roughly finished, and held to the other pieces of the shirt by a stitch or two. The second was not even begun. Let it not be now, straightaway, I begged silently. Not now, not yet. Please.

  They did not take me down to the hall, to hear my punishment read out before the assembled moot. Instead, I was led to a private chamber upstairs, and the only person there was Lord Richard of Northwoods. I was numb with fear, almost beyond further feeling, but my face must have registered surprise.

  “Change of plan, I’m afraid,” he said smoothly. He stood by the window, an immaculate figure from his fair curls to his polished boots. Today he wore a tunic of soft green, with snowy linen beneath. I stood before him in the middle of the floor, hands by my sides. Obeying some unspoken order, the guards retreated outside the door. “Our learned friend was unexpectedly called away. Left just after supper last night, in fact. Seems somebody took a knife to the parish priest, across the hill at Elvington. So Father Dominic’s gone. Didn’t even have time to help me announce the verdict. No great loss, I must admit. Set in his ways. Hard man to convince. Not that he left without giving me his opinion.” He paused for a few moments. It was exquisitely timed.

  “Of course, there was never any doubt of your guilt.” Richard said, and he was no longer playing, but deadly serious. “Guilty of passing secrets to the enemy. Guilty of cheating your husband and breaking your marriage vows. And guilty of sorcery. The weight of evidence against you was overwhelming. Come closer, Jenny.” His use of this name made my flesh crawl. “You won’t? Then I must come to you.” He strolled across to stand before me, eyes alight with anticipation. “You know the penalty for these crimes. No simple banishment; no sequestration in a convent where you can live out your days in comfort. Oh, no. You have done damage here. Serious damage.” He lowered his voice. “You have been a thorn in my flesh, and I take great delight in ripping out this thorn once and for all. Your penalty is death. You know the method already.” His finger came out to run up my neck, rather slowly. The last time he had tried that, Red had nearly broken his arm. But Red was not here.

  “The nice thing is, we have all day to look forward to it,” he said softly. “So while I go out and see to the building of a very special fire, I’ll allow you to stay here, under guard of course. This room is warmer and more comfortable; and you’ll be able to watch me from that window there. We might even arrange a little food and drink; a last meal for the condemned. Well, goodbye, my dear. It’s been—interesting—knowing you. At dusk, we’ll meet again, all too briefly. I thought dusk would be best. More atmospheric, don’t you think? Give Folks a real show, something to tell their children about. Good-bye, my dear.”

  My heart lurched. But—but—I broke my own rules and reached out to him, clutching his sleeve, gesturing wildly. My things—spin, weave—here? Bring here? He could not do this to me. He could not. His little smile was a triumph of hatred and satisfaction.

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so. I must keep my part of the bargain. Too bad if you managed to finish this task. Can’t risk that, not if I’m going to get what I’ve been promised. Besides, you’ve been working much too hard, my dear. Take the day off. Enjoy yourself for a change.” He swept out the door, and the two guards followed him, locking it behind them.

  Of all the days of my long time of silence, there are two that remain in my memory clear in every detail. One is the day I ran along the seashore in my blue dress, and heard the story of Toby and his mermaid, and got my wedding ring. The other is the day of the burning.

  For a little, I stood at the window and watched them building it, a neat stack of ash logs that would burn hot without smoke, arranged around an upright central pole. They built it in the courtyard, far enough from the house so the fire would not spread uncontrolled; near enough to allow a fine view of the spectacle from the ground and from the windows above.

  It was hard to believe Harrowfield had sunk to this. I could not imagine Lady Anne, or Megan, or Ben, or Margery, relishing such a sight. Most of Red’s men would turn their backs on such barbarity. But Red’s men were strangely absent. As the day passed, a steady line of Richard’s workers came and went, and the pyre took shape and was almost finished. You could see how the condemned one would be bound to the pole, her feet resting on a narrow ledge built there. You could see how the wood might be lit from the bottom, where plenty of dry twig had been wedged between the great logs, and how the flames would catch, and lick upward at first slowly, and then more rapidly, and…Richard was busy, directing a worker here, adjusting a faggot there; and when it was done to his satisfaction, he had two of his men carry out a small chest, which he unlocked with care. They had built a platform beside the fire, a makeshift structure that would surely be consumed itself once the flames rose to a certain point. Perhaps it was intended to burn, to add to the spectacle. Now Richard climbed the steps to this platform, and had the men set the chest beside him, and he reached in and drew out what appeared to be plain lengths of wood. He stepped neatly across to the pyre and began to place these with some care on the topmost tier, one here, one there, all the way around. He took his time, stopping frequently to admire his handiwork. They were, I supposed, the logs he had told me of so gloatingly, logs obtained from Eamonn of the Marshes, a traitor of our own people. Prepared by soaking in a carefully calculated mixture of special components. When those caught alight, then you would really see something.

  It became apparent that I was not going to get my work back. Not in time. I knew it was to burn with me at dusk. There was no real choice. Once I was gone, my brothers had no chance at all. The Lady of the Forest had been very specific. The six shirts must be made from start to finish by my own hands. Then, when all were ready, I must place them over the necks of the swans myself. All six in the same place, one after the other. Only then, if I had remained silent, would the spell be broken. I would not let them kill me, not without having tried. I must try, though it seemed hopeless, for this would be my brothers’ very last chance. I could not finish the sixth shirt. But I must call them anyway. Maybe, just maybe this would be good enough.

  I moved away from the window, sitting on the floor so I looked straight out into the sky, westward. So that I could not see the men, and what they were building. I made my breathing slow, and cleared my mind until it was still and calm as a stone in the heart of the forest. Then I bent my energies on my brother Conor, somewhere beyond the sea. Every shred of thought. Every fiber of wi
ll. Pictured him in my mind. Tall, pale, an ancient spirit in a young man’s body. Gaunt-faced, wild-haired, dressed in rags. Conor. You must come now. It is today, at dusk. A deathly silence, save for the faint sound of hammering.

  Conor. Please hear me. Come to me in the courtyard of the great house, where I showed you. You must be here by dusk. Bring them. Bring them all. No answer. Perhaps, after all, it was too far. Bring them. This is the last chance. You must bring them. A little wind stirred outside the window, and a bird called. That was all. Maybe he could not hear me. But he had said, call, and we will come.

  Men seemed to make a lot of promises. Finbar had said once, I will always be there for you, and I had believed him. Red had said, I will come back.

  I shivered. What if Richard’s men had intercepted him, what if…? Without Red, Harrowfield would become cold and lifeless. Already it was changing.

  Later in the day they took me out to use the privy, and brought me back again. On the way I heard women’s voices arguing downstairs. I heard someone say, Father Dominic, but I could not catch the rest. I saw nobody. Then they brought me food, but I could not touch it. Finally, I curled up on the floor in a corner, half sleeping, half waking. Outside, the hammering had ceased and all was quiet. Soft light slanted in through the windows, catching particles of dust in a warm haze.

  It might have been a dream, or something else. I thought my eyes were open. But I saw it clear and bright as an image painted in some great book. At first I believed I was remembering a time long ago, a time when I sat with my brothers on the smooth rocks by the lake’s edge, watching the silver shining bodies of the fish as they slid by in the water. But these children were not the children of Sevenwaters. There was a girl, tall and sturdily built, with rosy cheeks and a fall of bright hair like a sheet of flame. There was a dark-haired boy who lay flat on the stones and looked up, up into the sky with eyes like clear water, that saw far, so far. “The swans are coming, Niamh,” he said, not moving. “They’re coming today.” The girl lay down beside him, on her stomach, and trailed her fingers in the icy lake water. “How can you be so sure?” she said. “You’re always so sure.” It seemed to me there was another child there, on the edge of the picture, but I could not make out this figure clearly. Then the image blurred and was gone. Your children, the little voice said. And was silent.

  My children, that might have been, I thought, as my hand crept up to hold the ring that hung around my neck, and the pierced stone with its runic markings. My son, my daughter. The little stone was carved with the secret sign Nion, for ash tree. But it was also N for Niamh, which was my mother’s name. Niamh, my daughter, with hair like a bright beacon, flame on the water. Then I could not stop the tears from flowing, and I wept and wept until my face was swollen and my head ached, and the light through the tall windows began to fade and die. The day was almost over.

  By the time they came for me, I was empty of tears. And so I walked, blank faced, between guards out to the courtyard, as someone beat slowly on a drum, and one after the other, torches on poles flamed on either side all the way to the pyre. A big crowd had gathered, and I heard snatches of their words as I walked by…holds her head high…not quite human, that’s what I heard…me, I’d be screaming…wait till the flame catches…then you’ll hear her sing right enough…

  Once, I looked back, and saw a man carrying my basket and another bearing distaff, spindle, and handloom, and everything else that had been mine. Even my old walking boots were there. It seemed all were to burn. There would be no trace of me left here to poison the household of Harrowfield. Please, I begged silently. Please put the shirts where I can reach them. Please don’t bind my hands. The guards were grim-faced. I sensed they took no pleasure in their duties, but were bound to obey. They were good men, I supposed; after the fire, they would go home to their wives, and kiss their children goodnight, and maybe reflect for a moment or two on what they had done. It was a measure of the power Richard wielded, that all would obey his orders without question.

  The sky was changing color; the first purple tint of dusk began to wash across its late afternoon blue. We had reached the pile of ash wood, and the platform with its neat steps. And Richard was there, resplendent in a fresh velvet tunic, with silver glittering at his throat. He wore a ring shaped like the head of a kestrel, with gleaming ruby eyes. The drum stopped. The crowd hushed. I saw few familiar faces. There was no Lady Anne, no Ben. I could not see Margery. But Megan was there, her round face white in the torchlight, her freckles standing out against the pallor. She had dark rings under her eyes.

  They led me up to the platform where Richard stood. A small torch burned in a bracket at the base of the pyre. I was in no doubt as to its purpose. My heart thumped its own fast rhythm; there was no need of a drumbeat. The sky darkened to lavender gray; out in the west, the setting sun touched the clouds to the color of a rosy apple.

  “You are gathered to witness due and lawful punishment,” announced Richard grandly. The crowd shuffled. “The case against this girl, known as Jenny, was heard in full yesterday. Witnesses were called, and evidence produced that was damning and irrefutable. You already know the verdict. The girl stands before you guilty of receiving an outlaw, of spying, and of practicing the arts of the devil, in addition to her adulterous conduct. The penalty for her offenses is death. In this, Father Dominic and I were in complete accord. The girl’s refusal to defend herself was a clear admission of guilt. Good people, with this burning we remove the evil canker that has eaten away at the very heart of Harrowfield. With her death, peace and prosperity can return to this household and to the valley. I call on you to witness.” There was a scattering of applause, and somebody yelled, “Get on with it, then!”

  But the crowd seemed uneasy. There was mumbling and muttering, as if, now that they had finally got what everyone had been saying all along should happen, they were not so sure about it. And a familiar voice called out, “Shame! Shame! Jenny saved my life, and my child’s! You cannot do this!” Margery was there, somewhere, and she at least was not afraid to speak up for me. Then someone else shouted, “What about Lord Hugh, then? What does he think about this?” Richard made a small movement with his hand and all of a sudden there was a line of his men, right around the front of the crowd, holding back the press of bodies. The dissenting voices were drowned out by shouts of “Burn the sorceress!” “Death to the filthy spy!” “Let’s see her burn!”

  The noise built as I was dragged across the platform and onto the narrow ledge around the central pole. The pyre had been deftly stacked about this point, its top tier lying just below the ledge. Here and there I could see the little logs that Richard had placed with his own hands so carefully. There was an oily sheen to their surface. The guard took out a stout rope and bound me tightly to the pole. Once, twice, three times around the waist, and fastened at the back where I could not reach. But he left my hands free.

  Down below, the excitement was growing. Some whistled, and some called foul names, and one threw a soft fruit, which fell short, thudding down between the logs. People were arguing. The guards were struggling to hold the crowd back. I could see Margery now, just behind Megan, her face running with tears. She was shouting, but I could not hear the words. The drum began again, and I thought stupidly, now a whistle, and a fiddle, and dancing. The guards who held my things were standing at the foot of the pyre. One of them threw the spindle, and the distaff, and the small loom onto the pile. I heard the cracking as they landed and splintered. The guard with the basket hesitated, looking at me. It was the same man who had brought me blackberries in my tiny cell, when I had thought myself without a friend in the world.

  “Make haste, man,” said Richard testily.

  His hands, I thought, are itching to pick up that torch. In the west, the clouds had the faintest rim of pink. A little wind rose, sending leaves scurrying across the courtyard. People started putting on their cloaks.

  Please. Please put them in my hands. Oh, please. The guard could no
t hear me; I tried to speak with my eyes, with my heart. He lifted up the basket. Just a little closer, I cannot reach. Please, oh please.

  “No need for that,” said Richard sharply. “Just toss them on the fire with the rest. All must burn.”

  But the man stepped up onto the ash logs, and higher, and lifted the basket onto the ledge beside my feet, and I gripped it with both hands like a lifeline.

  “What are you doing, man?” Richard snapped. “Step down, unless you, too, wish to burn.” The man glanced at him, and at me, and his honest eyes showed both compassion and distaste.

  “Last time you catch me doing this job,” he muttered. “Only a youngster, she is.”

  He took his time to climb back down, while Richard’s fingers twitched with impatience. The last sliver of sun slipped below the horizon. The wind came in little gusts, making the torches flare and fade, flare and fade. Leaves blew in circles on the ground. Whipped by that wind, the fire would burn hot.

  Come now. Come now. Where are you?

  I could hear nothing, nothing but the howl of the rising wind, which blew strangely, this way and that. It tugged at the basket in my hands. Richard was making his way down the steps. The wind whipped at his tunic and ruffled his neatly combed hair. The torches blazed.

  A sudden hush fell over the crowd. I closed my eyes. Now. It must be now. Hurry. The people were waiting, waiting as Richard walked steadily to the foot of the pyre, where the small torch burned in its holder. They were silent. Then, bright, clear and innocent through the dusk, a child’s voice rang out. “Look, Mother! Look up there!”

  Like ghosts, like great, soaring spirits they moved across the sky, spread out in file behind their leader, long-necked, broad-winged, white as the crest of a wave, their wings beating in solemn rhythm. They circled the courtyard where we stood, and the eyes of the crowd followed their flight. One, two, three, four, five. Finbar had always been the last to come.