I will not make my nest in the library tonight. Mistress Ballantyne will take a while to pack her trunks and rouse her coachman from the warmth of Alys’s blankets. The household will be in uproar this night and I shall take the chance to have a sleep uninterrupted by late-night forgery at least; there will be no guarantee that I will not dream of Gwern. One night without copying the Compendium will not make much difference.
Orla’s grace has deserted her.
All the patience and fine humour she’s displayed in the past is gone, replaced by an uncertain and somewhat foul temper, as if she’s been tainted by the subject she’s forced to teach. The Misses, wedded to their schedule, decided not to try for the woman Magnus, and it is as Fidelma threatened: Orla, having caused the difficulty, must now deal with the consequences.
Open on the desk in front of her is the Compendium as if it might solve all of her problems. I wonder if Mistress Alys with her fondness for herbs wouldn’t have been a better choice. I keep looking at the book, suppressing shudders each time Orla’s hands—filled with a toxic powder, wilted stalk or simple spring water—pass anywhere near it. It is unique, alone in the world, and I feel it must be protected. Coiled, I wait to leap forward and save it from whatever careless fate Orla might bestow upon it.
The ingenuity and patience, which is so fully in evidence when teaching us how to kill using unthought-of weapons, has left no trace as Orla makes us mix concoctions, elixirs and philtres to cause subtle death. She forgets ingredients, tells us to stir when we should shake, to grind when we should slice, to chop when we should grate. We are not halfway through the first lesson when our tutor swears loudly and knocks over a potion, which pours into an alabaster mortar and mates with the crushed roots there. The reaction is spectacular, a fizz and a crack and smoke of green then purple fills the alchemy room like a sudden, vitriolic fog.
I throw open the windows, shielding my mouth and nose with the bottom of my skirt, then I find the door and thrust it to—the smoke begins to clear but all I can hear are the rasping coughs of my fellow students and teacher. Squinting against the tears the smoke causes, I find them one by one and herd them out into the corridor, where Mistress Alys and Fidelma, drawn by the noise, are in a flurry. When Orla is the last one out, I dive back into the room and rescue the book—it tore at me not to save it before any mortal, but common sense prevailed and no suspicions are aroused. I hold it tightly to my chest as we are all hustled outside into the fresh air.
‘Well done, Mercia,’ says Fidelma, bending down to pat her sister’s heaving back. Orla vomits on the grass, just a little.
‘There’s no fire, Miss, just the smoke. It should clear out soon—there’s a good enough breeze,’ I say.
‘Indeed.’ She stands and surveys the lilac-tinged vapour gently wafting through the door behind us. ‘We are nothing if not adaptable. I think we shall leave the rest of our poisons classes until such time as Mother Magnus or a suitable substitute might be found—lest my sister kill us all.’
Orla makes an unladylike gesture and continues coughing. Mistress Alys, having braved the smog, reappears with a syrupy cordial of black horehound, to soothe our throats and lungs. We swig from the bottle.
Some time later, order has been restored: the house has been cleared of the foul smelling fumes; pleural barks have been reduced to occasional rattles; Orla’s dignity has been stitched together for the most part; and I have (with concealed reluctance) handed back the Compendium and been given by Fidelma a letter for Mother Magnus and instructed to deliver it to the coachman who resides in Alder’s Well, begging him to deliver it to the poisons woman and wait for her reply—and hopefully her agreement to return with him.
I walk slowly there and even more slowly back, enjoying the air, the quiet that is not interrupted by the prattle of girls too silly to know they will be going to their deaths sooner than they should—too silly to know that now is the time they should begin mourning their lost futures. Or planning to run away, to fade from their lives. Gods know we are taught enough means to hide, to provide for ourselves, to change our appearances, to earn a living in different ways, to disappear. Sometimes I am tempted to tell Veronica about Cwen’s Reach and the Citadel, about the Little Sisters of St Florian and how they offered my family refuge, and how, for a long time, no one found us, not even Cenred’s ghost. How she could just as easily come with me and become one of the sisters or live in the city at the Citadel’s foot as Delling and Halle do, working as jewel-smiths. But I know better. I know she would not want to lose her soft life even for the advantage of longevity; she will play princess while she may, then give it all up not for a lesser lifestyle, but for death. Because she thinks with death, everything stops.
I could tell her otherwise. I could tell her how my mother was pursued by her brother’s shade for long years. How he managed somehow to still touch her, to get inside her, to father me well after he was nothing more than a weaving of spite and moonlight. How I would wake from a dream of him whispering that my mother would never escape him. How, even at her death bed, he hovered. How, until Delling did her great and pious labour, he troubled my sleep and threatened to own me as he had Wulfwyn. I could tell her that dying is not the end—but she will discover it herself soon enough.
I had not thought to go back by the clearing, but find myself there anyway, standing before both well and alder. They look different to that first night, less potent without their cloak of midnight light. Less powerful, more ordinary. But I do not forget the burning of the well’s water; nor my first sight of the alder and the man who seemed crucified against it, wormed through with vines and mistletoe.
‘Have you read it? The little book?’
I did not hear him until he spoke, standing beside me. For a large, limping man he moves more silently than any mortal should. Then again, he is not mortal, but I am unsure if he is what he would have me believe. Yet I have seen his blood. I give credence to things others would not countenance: that my father was a ghost and haunted my dreams; that the very first of the scribes, Murciana, could make what she’d heard appear on her very skin; that the Misses are older than Mater Friðuswith although they look young enough to be her daughters—granddaughters in some lights. So, why not believe him?
I nod, and ask what I’ve been too shy to ask before, ‘How did you come here?’
He taps the trunk of the alder, not casually, not gently, but as if in hope that it will become something more. It disappoints him, I can see. His hand relaxes the way one’s shoulders might in despair.
‘Once upon a time I travelled through these. They lead down, you see, into under-earth. Down to the place I belong. I was looking for my daughter—a whisper said she was here, learning the lessons these ones might teach.’
And I think of the little yellow book, written by some long-dead parson who doubled as the town’s historian. The Erl-King who rules beneath has been sighted in Alder’s Well for many a year. Inhabitants of the town claim to have seen him roaming the woods on moonlit nights, as if seeking someone. Parents are careful to hide their children, and the Erl-King is often used to frighten naughty offspring into doing what they’re bid. My own grand-dam used to threaten us with the words ‘Eat your greens or the Erl-King will find you. And if not him then his daughter who wanders the earth looking for children to pay her fare back home.’ Legend has it he travels by shadow tree.
‘Did you find her? Where is she?’
He nods. ‘She was here then, when I came through. Now, I no longer know. She had—caused me offence long ago, and I’d punished her. But I was tired of my anger and I missed her—and she’d sent me much… tribute. But I did not think that perhaps her anger burned brightly still.’
No one is what they seem at St Dymphna’s. ‘Can’t you leave by this same means?’
He shakes his great head, squeezes his eyes closed. It costs his pride much to tell me this. ‘They tricked me, trapped me. Your Misses pinned me to one of my own shadow trees with mistletoe, pierced me
through so my blood ran, then they bound me up with golden bough—my own trees don’t recognise me anymore because I’m corrupted, won’t let me through. My kingdom is closed to me, has been for nigh on fifty years.’
I say nothing. A memory pricks at me; something I’ve read in the Archives… a tale recorded by a Sister Rikke, of the Plague Maiden, Ella, who appeared from an icy lake, then disappeared with all the village children in tow. I wonder… I wonder…
‘They keep me here, bleed me dry for their poison parlour, sell my blood as if it’s some commodity. As if they have a right.’ Rage wells up. ‘Murderous whores they are and would keep a king bound!’
I know what—who—he thinks he is and yet he has provided no proof, merely given me this book he may well have read himself and taken the myths and legends of the Erl-King and his shadow trees to heart. Perhaps he is a madman and that is all.
As if he divines my thoughts, he looks at me sharply.
‘I may not be all that I was, but there are still creatures that obey my will,’ he says and crouches down, digs his fingers firmly into the earth and begins to hum. Should I take this moment to run? He will know where to find me. He need only bide his time—if I complain to the Misses, he will tell what he knows of me.
So I wait and, in waiting, I am rewarded.
From the forest around us, from behind trees and padding from the undergrowth they come; some russet and sleek, some plump and auburn, some young, some with the silver of age dimming their fur. Their snouts pointed, teeth sharp, ears twitching alert and tails so thick and bushy that my fellow students would kill for a stole made from them. They come, the foxes, creeping towards us like a waiting tribe. The come to him, to Gwern, and rub themselves against his legs, beg for pats from his large, calloused hands.
‘Come,’ he says to me, ‘they’ll not hurt you. Feel how soft their fur is.’
Their scent is strong, but they let me pet them, yipping contentedly as if they are dogs—and they are, his dogs. I think of the vision of the crucified man I saw on my first day here, of the halo of ebony hair, of the eyes briefly open and so black in the face so pale. Gwern draws me close, undoes the thick plait of my hair and runs his hands through it. I do not protest.
I am so close to giving up everything I am when I hear voices. Gwern lets me go and I look towards the noise, see Serafine, Adia and Veronica appear, each one trailing a basket part-filled with blackberries, then turn back to find Gwern is gone. The foxes melt quickly away, but I see from the shifting of Serafine’s expression that she saw something.
‘You should brush your hair, Mercia,’ she calls slyly. ‘Oh, I see you already have.’
I walk past them, head down, my heart trying to kick its way out of my chest.
‘I suppose you should have a husband,’ says Serafine in a low voice, ‘but don’t you think the gardener is beneath even you?’
‘I’d thought, Serafine, you’d lost your interest in husbands after Mistress Ballantyne’s instructive though brief visit,’ I retort and can feel the heat of her glare on the back of my neck until I am well away from them.
Alys is rolling out pastry for shells and I am adding sugar to the boiling mass of blackberries the others picked, when Fidelma calls from the doorway, ‘Mercia. Follow me.’
She leads me to the library, where Orla waits. They take up the chairs they occupied on the night when their nuncheon with Mistress Ballantyne went so very wrong. Orla gestures for me to take the third armchair—all three have been pushed close together to form an intimate triangle. I do so and watch their hands for a moment: Orla’s curl in her lap, tighter than a new rose; Fidelma’s rest on the armrests, she’s trying not to press her fingertips hard into the fabric, but I can see the little dents they make on the padding.
‘It has come to our attention, Mercia,’ begins Fidelma, who stops, purses her lips, begins again. ‘It has come to our attention that you have, perhaps, become embroiled in something… unsavoury.’
And that, that word, makes me laugh with surprise—not simply because it’s ridiculous but because it’s ridiculous from the mouths of these two! The laugh—that’s what saves me. The guilty do not laugh in such a way; the guilty defend themselves roundly, piously, spiritedly.
‘Would you listen to Serafine?’ I ask mildly. ‘You know how she dislikes me.’
The sisters exchange a look then Fidelma lets out a breath and seems to deflate. Orla leans forward and her face is so close to mine that I can smell the odour of her thick make-up, and see the tiny cracks where crow’s-feet try to make their imprint at the corners of her particoloured eyes.
‘We know you speak with him, Mercia, we have seen you, but if you swear there is nothing untoward going on we will believe you,’ she says, and I doubt it. ‘But be wary.’
‘He has become a friend, it is true,’ I admit, knowing that lies kept closest to the truth have the greatest power. ‘I have found it useful to discuss plants and herbs with him as extra study for poisons class—I speak to Mistress Alys in this wise too, so I will not be lacking if—
when—Mother Magnus arrives.’ I drop my voice, as if giving them a secret. ‘And it is often easier to speak with Gwern than with the other students. He does not treat me as though I am less than he is.’
‘Oh, child. Gwern is… in our custody. He mistreated his daughter and as punishment he is indentured to us,’ lies Orla. To tell me this… they cannot know that I know about Gwern’s blood. They cannot know what Mistress Alys has let slip.
‘He’s dangerous, Mercia. His Ella fled and came to us seeking justice,’ says Fidelma urgently. Her fingers drummed on the taut armchair material. Whatever untruths they tell me, I think that this Ella appealed to them because they looked at her and saw themselves so many years before. A girl lost and wandering, misused by her family and the world. Not that they will admit it to me, but the fact she offered them a lifeline—her father’s unique blood—merely sweetened the deal. And, I suspect, this Ella found in the Misses the opportunity for a revenge that had been simmering for many a long year.
‘Promise us you will not have any more to do with him than you must?’ begs Orla and I smile.
‘I understand,’ I say and nod, leaning forward and taking a hand from each and pressing it warmly with my own. I look them straight in the eyes and repeat, ‘I understand. I will be careful with the brute.’
‘Love is a distraction, Mercia; it will divert you from the path of what you truly want. You have a great future—your Guilds will be most pleased when you return to them for they will find you a most able assassin. And when your indenture to them is done, as one day it shall be, you will find yourself a sought-after freelancer, lovely girl. We will pass work your way if you wish—and we would be honoured if you would join us on occasion, like Mistress Ballantyne does—did.’
The Misses seem overwhelmed with relief and overly generous as a result; the atmosphere has been leeched of its tension and mistrust. They believe me to be ever the compliant, quiet girl.
They cannot know how different I am—not merely from their idea of me, but how different I am to myself. The girl who arrived here, who stole through the night to drink from the alder well, who regularly picked the lock on the library and copied the contents of their most precious possession, the girl who wished most dearly for nothing else in the world but to join the secret sisters. To become one of the wandering scribes who collected strange knowledge, who kept it safe, preserved it, made sure it remained in the world, was not lost nor hidden away. That girl… that girl has not roused herself from bed these past evenings to copy the Compendium. She has not felt the pull and burn of duty, the sharp desire to do what she was sent here to do. That girl has surrendered herself to dreams of a man she at first thought… strange… a man who now occupies her waking and slumbering thoughts.
I wonder that the fire that once burned within me has cooled and I wonder if I am such a fickle creature that I will throw aside a lifetime of devotion for the touch of a man. I know
only that the Compendium, that Mater Friðuswith’s approval, that a place among the dusty-heeled wandering scribes are no longer pushing me along the path I was certain I wished to take.
‘Here, you do it!’ says Mistress Alys, all exasperation; she’s not annoyed with me, though. Gwern has been dodging her for the past few days. Small wonder: it’s bleeding time again. She pushes the brown case at me and I can hear the glass and metal things inside rattling in protest. ‘Don’t worry about the little bottles, just bring me back one full bell. I’m going in to Alder’s Well and I’ll take the Misses Three with me.’
‘But…’ I say, perplexed as to how I might refuse this task of harvesting. She mistakes my hesitation for fright.
‘He’s taken a liking to you, Mercia, don’t you worry. He’ll behave well enough once he sees you. He’s just like a bloody hound, hiding when he’s in trouble.’ Alys pushes me towards the door, making encouraging noises and pouring forth helpful homilies.
Gwern’s cottage is dark and dim inside. Neither foul nor dirty, but mostly unlit to remind him of home, a comfort and an ache at the same time, I think. It is a large open space, with a double bed in one corner covered by a thick eiderdown, a tiny kitchen in another, a wash stand in another and an old, deep armchair and small table in the last. There is neither carpet nor rug, but moss with a thick, springy pile. Plants grow along the skirting boards, and vines climb the walls. Night-flowering blooms, with no daylight to send their senses back to sleep, stay open all the time, bringing colour and a dimly glimmering illumination to the abode.
Gwern sits, unmoving, in the armchair. His eyes rove over me and the case I carry. He shakes his head.
‘I cannot do it anymore.’ He runs shaking hands through his hair, then leans his face into them, speaking to the ground. ‘Every time, I am weaker. Every time it takes me longer to recover. You must help me, Mercia.’
St. Dymphna's School for Poison Girls / Pale Street. Page 4
