The Lady's Choice

by Bernadette Rowley

  Hetty reached into her apron pocket, removed a velvet-wrapped object and uncovered a flat amber stone the size of her palm. She dropped it into the pot over the fire, muttering under her breath.

  The hairs on Alecia’s arms stood up as an orange vapour rose over the pot. She longed to ask what Hetty knew of the captain but the witch would not welcome any interruption.

  Alecia suppressed a yelp as Hetty whirled from the fire, virulent ochre mist oozing from the hearth pot that hung from a wooden hook in her hand. The old woman plonked it in the centre of the table then removed the amber stone with wooden tongs, rewrapped it and placed it in her pocket. She poured the concoction onto a saucer, soaked a small piece of linen in the potion, picked it up with the tongs and turned to Alecia.

  ‘That smells terrible.’ Alecia leaned back in her chair.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d let a small thing like this upset you,’ Hetty said.

  ‘I am not upset,’ Alecia said, sitting up straight so that Hetty could reach her. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Ah, that would be giving away my secrets, and I wouldn’t do that unless you were my apprentice. Tilt your head to the side, please.’ Alecia complied and Hetty laid her poultice over the wounded eye and cheekbone. ‘It must stay there while the sand timer empties.’ She dragged the large wooden timer from a hook on the wall and placed it on the table.

  The bile rose in Alecia’s throat at the smell; she concentrated on the feel of the cloth to distract herself. The gentle warmth of the poultice changed to a tingling. Something was happening but would it be enough to fool her father? ‘You mentioned the man with the gilded eyes. When did you see him?’

  ‘Hetty doesn’t miss much.’ The old woman shook her wild silver hair. ‘He chased you into the alley and came here looking for you.’

  ‘He came here?’ Alecia didn’t quite manage to keep the squeak from her voice.

  ‘Yes, he barrelled in as if he owned the place. He charged up the stairs to my bedchamber, asking all sorts of questions about a lad with lilac eyes who fought a mercenary in the square. When he didn’t find anyone, he looked as though he would do murder. His eyes turned fully golden, and I don’t mind saying he frightened me. I have my little secrets but I’m no match for the likes of him.’

  ‘Why would he come here, Hetty?’

  The old woman’s eyes dropped from Alecia’s and she studied her calloused palms.

  ‘Hetty?’

  The dark eyes rose again. ‘I saw him chase you. He would’ve caught you. I made him think you were in this house.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I emptied my chamber pot over his head and ensorcelled him so he believes he saw you at the window.’

  ‘Hetty, he could have throttled you.’ Alecia’s lips twitched at the thought of the dashing captain covered in slop.

  ‘He’s one of your father’s soldiers. I thought I was safe until he fixed me with those eyes and called me a witch. He knows what I am, Princess.’

  ‘Does he know what you did?’

  ‘I can’t say. But he’ll return. He said so. You must be careful. There is something about that one. Something wild.’

  Alecia chewed her bottom lip, the cloth on her face forgotten. She recalled the unease she’d felt when he spoke to her. A sixth sense warned her he was more dangerous than the mercenary he had killed. Alecia had never seen Hetty frightened, even when she had been tried for sorcery. The witch maintained her anonymity with a thin veneer of magic that changed her appearance, but if the captain knew her true identity, she was in danger. But what to do? Housing was scarce in the town and Hetty was fiercely independent. She would not want to leave her home.

  ‘Let’s see what we have under this cloth.’ The old woman slid the linen from Alecia’s face, her eyes darting over the area around the damaged cheek. Then she lifted a silver-edged mirror from the table. What Alecia saw astounded her. All the puffiness and most of the bruising had vanished, leaving the soft skin of her cheek and temple near perfect. Her left eye looked back at her with a clear lilac gaze.

  ‘Thank you, Hetty. A little powder and rouge and Father won’t know a thing. I owe you a huge debt for the potion and for risking yourself with the captain.’

  Hetty shook her head. ‘It’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me, child, or that you haven’t already done.’

  Alecia smiled. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I’m going nowhere, Princess.’

  Alecia shook her head. ‘He will come back. He said so.’

  ‘I’ll not run from him or anyone else,’ Hetty said, a familiar stubborn set to her jaw.

  ‘No, you must listen to me. You are not safe here —’

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Hetty said. ‘I’ve enough tricks up my sleeve to fool a stupid man.’

  Alecia couldn’t believe her ears. ‘But you said you were scared, Hetty. So am I. I do not want anything to happen to you.’

  ‘Then stay away. Now you must go.’ Hetty pulled Alecia up from the table, her grip strong for one so withered. Alecia barely had time to collect her bow and quiver as she was ushered to the back door. The witch unlocked the heavy metal padlock, slid the bolt aside and peered into the alley.

  Alecia slung her weapons about her person and checked her knives, reluctant to leave.

  ‘It’s clear,’ Hetty said and while Alecia still struggled to think of a way to keep Hetty safe, the old woman shoved her though the door and slammed it in her face.

  The soldiers’ barracks lay on the hill just outside the castle walls. Vard dismounted, tossed his reins to a groom and strode towards the guardhouse bonfire. Swift, his brown horse, shied away from Vard as he handed the horse over, bringing the familiar surge of frustration and sadness. After ten years of training, the gelding still feared him and Vard had to face the fact that despite all his careful nurturing, the horse would never overcome its instinctive terror. It was just another price he had to pay as a member of the ancient and mysterious order to which he belonged, the Defenders; they were destined to live out their lives in isolation and secrecy while protecting the innocent. It was a high price to pay and, as Vard was yet to find a mentor, he risked losing his human core with every transformation –worse, he endangered those around him.

  The stench of human waste soured Vard’s stomach as he swept the soiled cloak from his shoulders and hurled it into the flames. His shirt and tunic followed. Clad only in fitted black breeches and boots, he grabbed a pail of water that lay near the flames and tossed it over his head. Goosebumps sprouted on his chest and shoulders.

  A crowd of soldiers laughed. Vard ground his teeth; he must reek if his misfortune had come to the notice of men who only washed when it rained.

  ‘Bring me a cake of soap,’ he said to a gawky youth who didn’t look old enough to be free of his mother’s apron strings. He’d probably lied about his age to join the army. The boy scampered to obey and then stood watching.

  Vard soaped his hair and upper body and rinsed with a second bucket. The stink was a little less, but Vard knew he’d smell like the inside of a chamber pot for the next week. He bent to collect his weapons and found the boy still stared.

  ‘What are you doing here, boy?’ Vard asked. ‘You can’t have seen your fifteenth summer.’

  ‘I’m thirteen, sir. Prince Zialni took me instead of the shield money my mam owed him. Said he’d come and take one of her boys every year that she couldn’t pay. He’ll do it too, sir.’ The boy’s voice trailed off as he realised he could be flogged for the words.

  Vard felt the tug he always did when an innocent was at risk. ‘Am I right in thinking your tenure here is unpaid?’ He gripped the amber talisman at his throat, seeking the inner calm of the wolf to control his anger.

  ‘The prince feeds and clothes me and gives me a place to sleep, Captain. But there are no wages to send back to Mam. Things are terrible hard for her.’

  Vard reached into the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a silver penny, which he shov
ed into the boy’s grimy hand. ‘You give this to your mam,’ he said gruffly.

  Tears welled in the lad’s eyes as he clutched the coin to his chest. ‘Thank you, Captain.’ He looked around fearfully. ‘I better go. The sergeant beats me if he catches me slacking.’ He dipped his head to Vard and jogged away to the smithy on the other side of the yard.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Billy,’ the lad replied, before ducking through the wide door into the shadows of the forge.

  Vard turned to stare at the miraculous shining walls of the castle above him; walls that had given Brightcastle its name and were rumoured to have been magic-wrought centuries ago. Today they seemed just like their master, their flashy exterior hiding a cold, cruel heart. Billy’s wasn’t the first tale of its type he’d heard since his arrival in Brightcastle. Rumours abounded of beatings and hangings of common folk for little reason. The familiar rage burned in Vard’s gut, inspired by Zialni’s cruelty. The man deserved death and Vard would be only too happy to oblige, once he’d figured out the when and the how. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. He had to remain calm.

  The rage subsided and Vard strode to his room in the barracks, shedding his breeches and donning a fresh pair. The odour of the chamber pot swirled up his nostrils and he thought of the lad he’d chased that morning. His quarry had taken refuge in the house of a witch. Vard had heard whispers of bold rescues of prisoners, including one of a witch whom the prince had ordered burnt at the stake. Was the lad somehow linked with the rescues, or just a stupid young man who had interfered with someone too powerful? He shook his head, the familiar tightening of his gut warning him that he wouldn’t be able to walk away from this mystery. He had to find that young man, and the witch was the key.

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