Corncockle, the black-haired whore, chaffered with Mai over the price until they settled on less than the dame had paid, for a good many more berries. Then Corncockle said, “Mai, I need you to make a virgin for me.”
Mai laughed. “Why bother? There’s none of you could pass.”
Corncockle waved her hand and called, “Come here! Come on!” in a sharp voice, and a naked girl came out from behind the beds. She was thin save for a belly round as a porridge pot. Her breasts had yet to swell, and there was no woman’s beard to hide the smooth lips of her quim. She didn’t try to cover herself; I supposed she had no use for modesty, living in a whore’s tent. She stood beside Corncockle, resting one foot on the other, and I could see the resemblance. Her hair was black, in a long plait over her shoulder.
“Your daughter?” Mai asked.
“Yes, and just look at her! She’s been sulking ever since she lost her maidenhead. What a pruneface! Who’d want her now?”
The girl did have a sullen look, and dark pouches under her eyes like an old woman’s.
“She’s young, isn’t she?” Mai said.
“She’s been on my tit for ten years. It’s time she earned her keep.” Corncockle gave her daughter a shake, and the girl scowled at the floor.
I’d been lulled, thinking the harlots were amiable women—forthright enough to blister my ears, but harmless nevertheless. Here was the harm.
I asked the girl her name and she wouldn’t look at me.
Her mother said, “I’ll call her Prune if she doesn’t mend her ways—but for now she’s called Catnep. She has firepiss, or so she says, and she’s shirking—aren’t you, my heart?—but soon we’ll have her good as new.”
“No wonder she’s sour,” Mai said. “What did you expect? A big pestle in that little mortar, grinding away. Of course she has firepiss. Many a grown woman catches it after her wedding night. It would be worse for a little one like her.”
Corncockle said, “It’s that crone, Hobblen. She aimed a curse at me, because she has a fancy for Sire Trasera and he fancies me instead. I’m shielded, so it struck Catnep instead.” She touched the tattoo she wore at the base of her throat.
Mai said, “No need to look so far for cause, when the cause is she’s too young.”
“No younger than I was when I started,” Corncockle said.
I went to the girl and took her hands in mine. Her palms were dry and her fingers cold: no fever, then. She let me hold her hands as if they had nothing to do with her, and Corncockle didn’t object, though she rolled her eyes at me when the girl looked away.
I asked Catnep, “Does the piss burn on its way out? Do you have to use the pot many times in the night?”
She nodded and looked at me from the corner of an eye.
“Is the piss cloudy or clear?”
Catnep shrugged. I leaned closer. She smelled frowsty, like unaired sheets. Her pulse quickened under my fingers and I let her go. She sidled away and put the bed between us. I asked her which pisspot she used and she pointed to a cot in the darkest corner.
Corncockle spoke up. “Well, as you said, Mai, plenty of women get firepiss when they’re first broken to riding. And they get over it.”
I stooped and found the chamber pot. An acrid smell hit me when I raised the lid. There was a milky look to the piss, but no sign of blood.
I was angry and didn’t trouble to hide it. “No more men,” I said. “I’ll make a tisane for her that should help—but no more men.” I looked at Corncockle straight. “It’s true that most get over it, but sometimes after the burning goes away and a woman seems cured, fever sneaks upstream and brings a pain deep in the kidneys, and before you know it, the fever has carried her right off. So have a care, will you? I’ll come back, and meanwhile you must sacrifice to Torrent, who rules the waters of the body. Ask the priestess of Wellspring, she’ll tell you what’s owing. And feed Catnep coddled eggs and a mash of parsnips—parsley root too, if there’s any to be found—to strengthen her kidneys.”
I took up my headcloth and hid my hair again. “Give her plenty of warmed wine, very much watered, with a spoon of honey and verjuice in every cup. She must drink and drink until her piss runs clear.” Honey was good for almost anything, but more than that, it would keep the girl drinking and make her mother (or her pander) fish deep in the purse. They should pay, and pay dear. “Make sure it’s honey from the linnflower tree,” I added, for that was the hardest to obtain.
Catnep stared at me openly now; they all stared. Corncockle looked to Mai, saying, “She has costly notions, your friend. Does she suppose we sleep on sacks of coins?”
Mai said, “Spend a little now to earn a lot later.”
Corncockle answered just as quick. “Spend a lot, you mean—to earn a little.”
Mai cocked her eyebrow. “Do as you please. But I shan’t make the girl a new maidenhead until she’s cured. And I expect you’ll find Firethorn gives good advice. She may be a bit country in her ways, but is it a fault in a greenwoman to be green?”
Outside the tent I said to Mai, “Do you think Catnep has even had her first tides?”
“Likely not.”
I thought Mai was vexed with me, because her voice was curt. We walked on in silence with our attendants following behind. Then she sighed. “They’ll sell her three or four more times as a maiden. Each man will pay a steep price to be the first, and never know his prick has drawn pig’s blood from a little bladder hidden up her quim. No doubt one will give her the canker, and her price will fall. But she’s blessed, you see, to have a mother to look after her, and so many aunts. And I’ve heard their pander is too lazy to beat them; he lets his whores do as they please.”
“You call that blessed?”
“In a manner, I do. And when you’ve gone to war and back, then you can judge—for you’ll see worse, much worse. But blessed as you or me? No. Desire smiled on me long ago, or I’d still be a whore and not a sheath. As for you,” she said, beginning to grin, “all the bawds have been clamoring to see you, for you’ve won a notable victory in the war between the sheaths and the dames. Sire Galan may think he won the wager, hmm? But we know better.”
I’d spoken up boldly in the whores’ tent, but that night, lying awake while Galan slept, I wondered if I’d misspoken. I feared I didn’t deserve the trust I’d demanded of the whores, of Corncockle and her daughter. The Dame was in my thoughts. All day she’d been there, as if her tiny shade perched on my shoulder. I felt her scorn to see that dame with her hunger so naked, and all those whores, to see me take money for childbane, which had always been free for the finding. Now I wanted her in the flesh to tell me what to do. I felt between the feather bed and the cot to find the pouch of bones I hid there, and clutched it in my hand.
The Dame used to say that the gods send no malady without also sending a remedy, and they’re not to blame if we fail to discover it. But neither are the gods to blame for every ailment. We bring some on ourselves by way of folly or neglect; we wish them on others out of malice, or they’re sent by shades who have their own reasons for plaguing the living. So with Catnep’s illness. A man’s lust may have caused it (and that was Desire’s domain, and therefore her busywork), but it was the mother who sold her daughter to that man, who opened the gate that affliction entered.
Surely Corncockle hadn’t set out to hurt her daughter for spite. Yet she’d caused her injury, and now she blamed Catnep, as if the sickness were her fault, even as if she were to blame for being born. So the mother did further harm. No need for a curse to burrow under her daughter’s skin—such a cloud of ill feeling must make it hard for the girl to breathe, make her weak and her ailment strong. What remedy for that?
I wished I had some oil of savin. Twice I’d helped the Dame distill it from the dark blue berries of the evergreen shrub. It was sovereign for cleansing the waters. The girl would need but a few drops a day for a few days—yet those drops were impossible to come by here in the Marchfield. Even if I could gather enough berr
ies, I had no alembic for distilling, no charcoal, no fresh running water … Perhaps oil of savin could be bought? There were herb sellers in the market, but I distrusted their wares. How could I be sure an herb was picked when the signs were right and prepared properly if I didn’t do it myself?
Tomorrow I too would make sacrifices on Catnep’s behalf: to Wellspring, the avatar of Torrent who lies sleeping underground, who let the girl’s waters get muddy, and to Ardor Wildfire, who brought on the burning. Water and fire, fire and water. These gods were opposed in their natures, not their wills. In striving against each other, neither strove to get the upper hand. Victory was in the balance, and there I’d find the cure.
And Carnal Desire, she must be mollified too.
I should have demanded some greater sacrifice from that whore Corncockle. In the village, to be called a whore had the sting of a slap, but how could it sting her when it was plain fact?
Perhaps she would mind, at that. Mai had told me that such quality of whores, with their own tents and beds, called themselves queans or joybirds and the like, and prided themselves on their many accomplishments, such as singing, dancing, playing instruments, and conversing. Still, they’d lie under any man with enough coin—so long as he was of the Blood. Corncockle and her sisters were particular.
I knew what Mai meant when she called us blessed. I knew my good fortune, he was lying beside me, and I wouldn’t quibble over which god had shown me favor: Hazard or Ardor or—for that matter—Carnal. I turned into Galan’s warmth and he stirred and pulled me closer, tucking me between his arm and his body.
“You’re restless tonight,” he murmured. “All elbows.” He stroked my back. I could feel the light scrape of his calluses and my skin quickened in the wake of his touch.
I nuzzled the corner of his jaw and put my knee over his legs. “Your pardon, Sire. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He turned his face toward me and I felt him smile. The featherweight of his breath brushed my temple. “Indeed?” he said.
When Wellspring wakes, which she does rarely, she makes the earth shake. While she lies sleeping under blankets of rock, she dreams and visits us. So she came to me as I dreamed, and in the way of dreams, she came disguised, for even gods must take other forms when they visit Sleep’s domain.
I dreamed of Mai’s lazy piebald hound. He was standing before me and I reached out my hand to pat him on the head and he shook it off. I reached out again and he shook his head and snarled, and the next time he tried to catch my hand in his mouth, and I couldn’t tell if he meant to play or fight. He frightened me so that I woke up. I thought, It’s only Mai’s old dog, and I went back to sleep.
He was still there, and this time I understood when he took my hand in his mouth and tugged. He wasn’t menacing; he was insistent. He trotted off and I followed, out past the Marchfield, over the hills and down to the sea, where part of the cliff had crumbled into hillocks covered with stiff brown grass. The dog lay down with his tongue lolling and I sat beside him.
When I awoke I had a line from a song in my mind, one the Dame had taught me: Seek it by restless waters, shun it by still waters. And I knew—of course I knew, why hadn’t I thought of it at once?—that the girl could be helped by the roots of dog grass, so called because dogs eat the green shoots to make themselves spew when they’re sick. And that I’d find it growing somewhere by the restless sea. The roots would be benefi cial in any season, for the song said: In Wellspring’s larder it keeps year ’round.
Before dawn, while Galan was arming for the day, I went to the dog pen to find Fleetfoot. I knew I’d have to catch him early or he’d be gone, for he was always running about the Marchfield doing errands or making mischief. I hated to go near the manhounds, though they were penned behind a stone wall, a thorn fence, and high netting, and sure enough they started to clamor when I went to the gate. Fleetfoot came when I beckoned, walking among them fearlessly. I asked him to inquire of Dogmaster where dog grass could be found.
Fleetfoot said, “Oh, I can show you. I’ve often fetched it when the dogs needed a purge.” He wasn’t a dogboy yet, but before long I thought Dogmaster would claim all his time, for he was willing and quick.
“Is it far?” I asked, and he shrugged.
Not so far. Before the morning mists had cleared, we found it down by the shore, above the highest tide but below the cliffs, on a hill of sand and gravel very like the one in my dream. Then I saw through Wellspring’s disguise and gave thanks.
Back in the tent Noggin groused about having to walk such a long way before breakfast, but as soon as he ate, he went back to sleep. I swear he could sleep anywhere, even standing up like a horse; his wits were always dozing. Fleetfoot stayed with me—for I fed him well—and I put him to work pulling maythen flowers from their stems. Maythen had been underfoot when we walked along the top of the cliff, the flowers gone brittle, dried to a dull gold, and the sweet smell had reminded me of the rinse I’d promised to Cowslip for her hair. On the way back I found new shoots of stinging nettles, bright green at the foot of the old faded stalks. Juice pressed from the stems would strengthen the rinse. I marveled at how all I needed was in my path that day.
I stripped and scrubbed the dog grass roots. I’d come back with a sackful of them. They are of the sort that runs sideways underground, with clumps of rootlets growing down and stems growing up. Fleetfoot and I talked of the village and the Marchfield—or rather, Fleetfoot talked and I listened with one ear. In the other I heard the tune of that song I’d risen with in the morning.
My dream had shown me where to look for the dog grass roots, not how to prepare them. I put them to steep in water just off the boil, asking Hearth-keeper to bless the fire and Wellspring the water. But how much root, how much water, how long to steep? I went on by taste, by smell, by guesswork, until I’d made a weak infusion that Catnep might drink by the glassful. It was slippery on the tongue and tasted worse than boiled turnip peelings, so I added some sprigs of esdragon and some spoonfuls of honey. Later I’d boil the infusion to make a decoction strong enough to take one spoonful at a time, but for now it was best that she drink plentifully.
The task was familiar. The Dame had shown me all manner of preparations. How I missed her stone basins, her distillery, her drying room, with its pungent smells and warm hearth in winter! I felt her beside me, a guardian. What I did seemed fitting and I didn’t fear error. A god had favored my work. And the roots themselves seemed to have their requirements, and to make them plain to me.
When I returned to the whores’ tent, I made sure to go with Mai. Fleetfoot had found her after searching half the Marchfield; he was an excellent messenger, for he’d never walk when he could run, he took such joy in going fast. She met me by the shrines around the king’s hall, where I’d turned some of my gold coin into sacrifices: two doves for Carnal, one on behalf of the girl, one for me, and a vial of precious thymoil for Torrent. I gave Ardor three fat candles that would burn a day and a night.
Catnep made a face, but she drank down a cupful of the medicine straightaway. She was clothed today, but to little purpose, being in a gown so filmy her dark nipples stared out like eyes behind a veil. The tent was hot from many braziers and the heat of bodies.
It was late in the afternoon and Corncockle had a customer. Her long black hair was spread over the pillow. She’d raised her legs so high they were over the man’s shoulders and next to his ears (which I’d never thought to do), and his buttocks were going up and down and she was moaning. She saw me and nodded and kept on about her business. When the man was done and gone, Corncockle pulled on a gown without tightening the laces and came over. Her forehead had the sheen of sweat, but her breathing was calm.
She greeted me and said, “Catnep had a hard night—up twenty times and whimpering. It was all the drinking that did it.” There was worry in her eyes I hadn’t seen yesterday, and accusation.
Catnep said, “It burns, it burns.”
“I know,” I said, “and I’m
sorry for it, but it must be done.”
Catnep let me take her hand and draw her to one of the empty beds, and when I asked her to lie down, she did. She still had a sulky look; it was so habitual with her, it was graved on her face. I drew her gown up about her waist and couldn’t help but think of the man who’d done so before me. Catnep squirmed and tried to push my hands away, but Corncockle sat beside her and took her hands to keep them still. I pressed on the girl’s abdomen and then turned her over and pressed on the small of her back, above her narrow haunches. I asked if she was sore anywhere—for I feared the firepiss might enflame her kidneys.
She mumbled into the bedclothes, “No, but your hands are too cold.”
“The better to put out the fire,” I said.
I glanced up and saw Mai standing there with her arms crossed and her head tilted. A quizzical stance, but her face was sober.
Catnep’s flesh was firm and warm under my hands, but she began to shiver. I bade her turn over again, faceup, and I laid my palms over her groin and spread my fingers over her belly. I trusted that infusion I’d given her to drink, but medicine alone will not cure, if the gods do not relent, or better yet show us favor.
There is no healing without prayer. Prayer is in the herbs, in the harvesting and preparation; prayer is in the healer’s soothing touch. But I’d never before presumed, as I did now, to lay my hands on someone and call upon a god to heal her. I was no priestess, to send prayers on strong wings. But surely my prayers and my touch could do no harm, and might do more, in all humility—for I prayed to the god who’d once favored me enough to save my life.
So I sang over Catnep the wordless song the firethorn tree had taught me, and underneath, in silent counterpoint, I prayed to Ardor Wildfire to take the burning away and to spare her the scourge of fever. When I was done my hands were hot. I pulled Catnep’s kirtle down and helped her sit up, and I put my arm around her shoulders. She was crying silently, still shivering. She stiffened against me and wouldn’t take my comfort, so I let her go, and she went to Corncockle and stood clutching her mother’s skirts like a much younger child.
Firethorn Page 20
