The Protector

by Becca St. John

  Healers did not consort with men.

  Veri’s marriage was a blasphemy in Rose’s eyes, far from the way of healers. They were their own world, inclusive, exclusive. Healing was a woman’s skill. A demanding gift of dedication and hard, diligent, work. Dedication beyond the scope of husbands or babies.

  The Women found their babies among those not wanted, doomed to die. Veri had been such a one. Her mother weakened to lust, succumbed to the charms of a man, Veri was the result. Easily, gratefully, handed over to the midwives, the Women in the Woods.

  Veri pulled back from her reverie, looked, once again, at the letter she held and the script that brought back the memory of one woman and the remembrance of old ways.

  She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

  Our Dearest Vervain,

  The letter started. Not ‘our dearest Veri,’ as any other would have addressed her, but Vervain. The plant. Veri’s full name. All the healers were named for herbs. Veri was no different. Rose alone knew that.

  Vervain, virtue against poison. A plant warriors took into battle to help them escape from their enemies. Four leaves and four roots in wine and sprinkled about the table would ensure that all would be merry. Vervain, said to be a holy herb. Her namesake. Veri shook her head against the truth of it. Far from holy, unable to save one man from poison, the bringer of fear rather than mirth, Veri felt the futility of naming one in hopes of gaining a likeness.

  We miss you greatly, pray daily for your plight. We were greatly distressed that we could not see you, once more, before leaving Oakland Castle. Our anguish relieved only by the knowledge that God would not forsake you. You must remember this also.

  It is in answer to our prayers that lady Cynthia came to us. She wishes to learn more of healing. I have sent her to you, to keep you close to that which is most important. One learns much in teaching. It is the Lord’s way of humbling us.

  Teach her what you can but do not despair if she learns but little. Her heart is not that of a healer. She is still of the world, wishing for a husband, mother of a son. Light knowledge will aid her in future years, ‘twill be enough.

  Stories abound of your marriage. They say you do not fare will within Oakland. ‘Tis said your husband bades you sleep alone and there will be no heirs. God has been gracious. Perhaps one day your husband will free you and you can return to us.

  May God, in His infinite wisdom, keep you close in His heart.

  God Bless you, Vervain. We are with you in heart.

  Your teacher, Rose.

  The fire crackled the mist, now turned to rain, pelted against the window shutter. Veri sat, staring at the parchment she held so lightly.

  ‘Tis said your husband bades you sleep alone and there will be no heirs. God has been gracious.

  The letter fluttered to the floor, unheeded.

  God has been gracious.

  Veri stifled a sob, afraid of what those words evoked.

  CHAPTER 10 ~ DIVISION

  Roland stared at the closed portal.

  Damn the day!

  He’d entered the room to find her reading. Reading!

  “Would you like me to decipher that for you?” He’d never imagined she could read, herself. Few women did.

  Not looking at him, she had tucked it away. “There is nothing of concern for you to decipher.”

  She was insulted, when he meant to help.

  “Where did it come from.”

  She had looked up then, stood up. “It is mine.” Simply said, not so easily explained. She’d left the room before he could question further.

  She had come to Oakland with nothing but the clothes she wore. Nothing. There was no reason to send for her things. He could provide whatever she wanted and he would have known if anything had been sent.

  No, the missive was new. From who? From where?

  Cynthia, of course. There was no one else. He would keep her away from Veri. In time, his wife would tell him what her missive said. He would trust that. He had no choice.

  But he could make things right, so she would trust him again. Past time he proved her worth to him.

  Jewels from ten years of crusading, diamonds, rubies, sapphires. He’d given her little things, a jewel encrusted belt with pearl chains dangling down for her scissors, a delicately glistening knife, a money pouch filled with gold coins. Around her head, she wore a filigreed gold band sparkling with diamonds and sapphires. Priceless rings adorned her fingers. Chains of precious gems hung about her neck.

  He’d encouraged her to wear it all, as the sign of a fine lady, as a token of his worth as a husband. Totaled, they were worth a small kingdom.

  None as priceless as Veri. His true wealth.

  Still, there were caskets with single jewels worth as much as the total he had given her. One such gem today, would be proof of his affection. It was the way with women. Stores of riches just payment for love. Soon she would see what tokens she warranted.

  Perhaps the pearl, as large as his fist, in symbol of her softness, her beauty. Or the emerald, nearly equal in measure to a goose’s egg.

  Bracing against the balcony railing, which overlooked the hall, he watched the people below. Servants dismantled tables, putting them aside until the next meal. Rushes swept, sifted, new ones to replace the old. Margaret stood near the great fire, speaking with Dori, their ladies waiting at a discreet distance. Hannah stood apart, overseeing the servants. All going about their business. None felt the need to stay within their rooms.

  Just Veri, the brightest star of them all, stayed hidden within the shadows of her chamber.

  He would give her the opal.

  He knew it then, understood why. Small, delicate, yet valuable. Gently rounded, soft and white, until one looked to its center. There, under the surface, a rainbow of color flashed, fiery, alive. Just like Veri, his wife. Gentle, soft, yet full of fire.

  His wife. Veri.

  One day he would make it right for her.

  One day.

  Until then, the opal, and an emerald, and whatever else her heart could desire. He would give her all the things he had in his store. Anything to distract her, to please her, to give her joy.

  He would send the opal to her. Forfeit witnessing the reception, wait until the supper hour before meeting with her again. Then he would see her pleasure, her joy. Her gratitude and understanding that he should prize her so greatly.

  Now, she needed time.

  He needed time.

  Tonight, they would talk.

  Until then, the opal.

  **********

  Roland was hunting.

  Veri looked to Cwen, same size as herself, and over to Cynthia, Roland’s sister-in-law. A woman he would prefer Veri didn’t speak to. He did not know of Mother Rose’s missive, of the request for Veri to train the woman as a healer.

  Tall, elegant, Cynthia dressed as a grand lady.

  “You will not do,” Veri told the regal blonde. “Maida,” she gestured for the young maid, leaning toward her conspiratorially, “do you know of any lads Cynthia’s size, who would lend her some clothes?”

  Maida shrank away, shaking her head.

  Cwen tsked, stepping forward. “I do, milady.”

  Of course, Cwen would help her. But she needed, hoped Maida might enjoy the game. “Tell Maida, then, where she might find them. And mind, the both of you, be quiet about this.”

  She took a risk, involving Maida or even Cynthia. Too late now. As her waiting maid, ‘twould be difficult to keep secrets from Maida.

  Cynthia was another matter, claiming to want a teacher. To what end? She was a mother, had a son, a distraction. Healers never married, birthed no children. Neither she, now married, nor Cynthia, could ever be dedicated healers but they could help.

  They would go into the village, assess needs, then go beyond the walls, to gather. Getting past the guards required stealth.

  Maida and Cwen could pass without notice. Cynthia, with all her fine fabrics and delicate adornments, drew
attention. Too tall to borrow from any of the women, they needed to find her a costume.

  Veri, in her simple, unadorned homespun from the convent, would be ignored.

  She thought of the opal. A worldly burden, another ploy to make her into what she was not, the gracious and elegant lady Lord Roland desired. A woman of pearls and diamonds, silks and velvet.

  Not a healer, rich within, poor without.

  Teaching Cynthia would help her. Such values, to be simple and plain, were easily lost.

  “Have I burdened you?” Lady Cynthia questioned, a comforting hand upon Veri’s shoulder. “I should not encourage you to go against your husband’s dictates. He will not be pleased to know I am within your rooms, let alone aiding you in escaping the castle grounds.”

  “He would not,” Veri agreed, a slow smile slipping into place, "he would not be pleased at all, but then, if we are careful, he will not know.”

  Unconvinced, Cynthia queried, “Do we need to go out crafting today? Could we not tend to those you spoke of, give them herbs, potions you already have, without braving this rain?”

  Veri shook her head. “I have no store of plants with me.”

  “But there is a room, below stairs, where Hannah keeps all she uses.”

  At that moment, Cwen and Maida hurried into the room thrusting a parcel of clothes at Cynthia.

  “They belong to Maida’s sweetheart.” Cwen laughed. “Won’t he be wondering what Maida’s doing with his clothes?”

  Maida softened enough to smile.

  Once ready, all four of the women went into the village, visiting the blacksmith’s and then the baker’s. Cynthia’s role, hiding her men’s clothes beneath a cape, was to query the people, as Veri and the two maids hung back, ready to serve.

  Of course, Cynthia needed to consult with Veri often, but no one took much notice when they all huddled within a corner, or out in the lane. Veri never once pulled her cowl free from her face. She would not go against Roland so forcefully.

  When they finally made it to the baker’s, the baker himself left his apprentice and led them past the ovens into a small room at the back. The only light came through a small window high on the wall. Joan lay abed, much worse than the few days before. Pale, clammy, her lips cracked and parched. An older daughter sat by her side.

  “She was with child, lost it and’s been bleeding near on a month.”

  “Bleeding?” Cynthia asked. Veri struggled to stay near the doorway, Maida and Cwen behind her.

  “Her menses, m’lady, started when his Lordship’s wife returned.”

  Maida gasped, started to turn, to run. Cwen grabbed her with a claw hold to her arm.

  “Shush.” Veri warned, listening to the daughter.

  “My aunt’s been bringing teas and compresses, but nothin’ works.”

  Cynthia, in her fine soft wool cloak, knelt by the lady’s bed, took her hand.

  Veri, impatient and restless, eased into the room, pulling her cowl close around her face despite the sweltering heat that rolled in from the oven room beyond. Cynthia rose, met her halfway in that small space.

  “Tell the daughter to fetch water and find some blankets.” Veri whispered.

  “It’s too hot already.” Cynthia argued.

  Quelling exasperation, Veri explained. “The blankets should be rolled and placed under her hips, to raise them, and ask what is in the teas and the compresses, where the aunt gathers them.”

  “Is there any hope?”

  “Possibly. I don’t know yet. But she is too dry. She should be sweating and she’s not.” Veri looked to the woman again. “Give the daughter instruction and let’s be on our way. We will need gloves to gather the nettles. Did you bring any?”

  “Yes, I did, I have some.”

  “Good. ‘Tis a good time for the yellow dock. If we can’t find Lady’s Mantle, there might be some in the gardens.” Veri paced as she spoke, blind to Maida’s quaking and Cwen’s grim hold of her.

  “We must be careful,” Cynthia warned, “Care, such as this, is exactly what Roland fears. Should she die,” she looked back at the failing woman, “it will plague the one acting as healer.”

  “If it comes to that, I will step forward.”

  “Not you, m’lady. She,” Cwen gestured toward Cynthia, “could get by but you will be called dangerous things.”

  Veri looked up at Maida, as though she offered the cautions. “Do I not already wear dangerous names?”

  “I just don’t know.” Cynthia worried.

  “It is in our power to try, at the least,” Veri pressed. “May God forgive us if we are too late.” She left the shelter, left Cynthia to speak with the daughter, and stood, her face lifted to the rain, thinking, remembering.

  Laughter, low, sensuous, interrupted, coming from the hut before her. The hut Roland exited with Tanya.

  A man’s voice rumbled. Veri stiffened, listening. Not Roland’s, but it could have been. Veri headed for the hut, for she suddenly had an idea, a way to show Roland her frustration.

  “Lady Veri?”

  Veri stopped, a hand on her arm. Cynthia.

  To be a healer one must be focused. She turned back to Cynthia, her brow tight with worry.

  “No,” Veri reached up, smoothed the furrow. “Fear, especially when healing, is like a great hulking log. It can bar your way, make matters more difficult, insurmountable or become your battering ram.” Cwen and Maida joined them. “‘Tis your choice, which way you use it.” She turned away from Tanya’s hut, from the baker’s, to face her calling.

  To face it without distraction.

  “You may come with me now, to the woods, or you may stay here. But, rain or no, if we are to help Joan, we must be gone. What we need is beyond those gates.”

  Veri looked back, to see if Cwen and Maida followed. She saw, instead, a grave Sir Albert leave Tanya’s hut.

  Veri pulled her hood closer to her face, hurried the women along. They fell in with a farmer with a small cart, jumped on the back of it to ride as far as the fields.

  On foot, they followed the same horse path Veri rode with Roland and his men, so many weeks before. Spring deepened in that time, saps were running high. Plants were fresh and fragile and powerful. The perfect time to gather what she needed

  Further blessed by the right phase of the moon, as well.

  In all ways, a good sign.

  As they walked, Veri pointed out different plants. She explained their uses, gathered some for the day, some for storage. Others were taken for the kitchens. Cynthia could deliver them without question.

  Cynthia, tall and elegant, moved swiftly along in her men’s dress. Veri laughed, delighted to be free in a world she understood.

  Free to do what she did best.

  Not even sour- grumbling Maida could mar the day. She griped at the rain, fussed about the mud. Yet it did not dull Veri’s spirit, not even when the foolish girl hissed about witches when Veri found a plant, without rhyme or reason for knowing it would be there.

  “‘Tis training and instinct,” Veri corrected, having overheard the girl. “It grows in a shady, damp spot with plenty of dead leaves above it. There is no more to finding it than that. No knowledge beyond observation and common sense.”

  The girl refused to listen, pulling back, shivering within her cloak. Cynthia scowled, shaking her head as if in warning. Cwen remained mute, standing by herself, concern shadowed in her eyes each time Maida slanted her a fearful look.

  Veri pretended ignorance and continued to talk of the plant, of the woods and the gifts it bestowed. The earth, how it offered a different climate for growth, dependent upon the vegetation that grew, lived and died in each area. She spoke as if each plant healed or tainted the soil it depended upon and, all the while she knew of the discomfort surrounding her.

  Her joy faded, as she began to understand Roland’s fears.

  Yet, she could not stop, found the instruction brought her to life, made her feel even more useful than when healing. She came to
know that without such sharing, all her knowledge would die, with her. There were so few of the healers left. More and more were being burned, tortured, just as Father Ignacious had tried to do to the Women of the Woods .

  Something must be done to preserve the knowledge.

  “Come,” she said, finally, “‘tis time to get back.”

  They found the path once more and fell into step, appearing as little more than a straggling line of rain sodden women with one man for safety.

  As such, their reaction was no different than any others’ would have been when there came the great rumbling of horses. Dressed like peasants, they bowed, as riders and beasts burst from the woods, charging toward them.

  “‘Tis Roland,” Cynthia warned.

  Both women held their heads low, urging Maida and Cwen to do the same.

  Roland and his men never stopped, took no notice of four peasants standing to the side of a well-beaten track. He passed them by. And as he did, Veri sent a prayer to the heavens for Joan and the blessings she had received. ‘Twas the right time for picking the plants she would need. It was the right season, weather, phase of the moon. All this without danger encroaching, though it came so close.

  Yea, ‘twas a good sign.

  CHAPTER 11 ~ GIFTS

  Veri lifted the necklace Ieuan delivered with much pomp and circumstance earlier in the day. A gift from Roland. An opal set in a gentle ring of filigreed gold on a delicate rope matching the setting.

  Veri knew nothing of jewels, could not judge value but she understood the worth, even without the exclamations of the women who gathered to see Roland’s latest gift. An extraordinary gift, a token of esteem. Something Roland carried, protected , across great distances for a special woman.

  A woman Veri could never be.

  “Cwen,” she said, as she lay the opal down on its bed of velvet.

  “Aye, milady?” Cwen placed a deep blue kirtle upon the bed, lightly stroking the sunset red inner sleeve. A particular favorite of Cwen’s and now a perfect foil for an opal.

  “I have a message for you to take into the village.”