by Kate Forsyth
‘They’re the men who caught me,’ Bacaiche said hoarsely, pointing down at the two men in brown wool who were leaning out of the saddles, looking for hoofprints on the ground.
‘How did they catch up with us so fast?’ Isabeau wondered. Her sleeping spell must have worn off more rapidly than she expected, and they must have had friends nearby, though that still did not explain how they were able to follow her so quickly. For a moment, Isabeau could not decide whether they should try and outrun their pursuers or just hide and wait for them to leave. Then the memory of the woman smelling the wind came to her, and made the decision for her—if she was a seeker, escape was their only chance. Isabeau wished now she had not displayed her magic so obviously. Sleeping spells! Heating water with her finger! Would she never learn caution?
Isabeau wheeled the stallion round and led the way deeper into the forest. The shadows of great trees fell over them, and the ground began to steepen. Shaking their pursuers was not as easy as Isabeau had expected. The Red Guards were fast and determined, and seemed to see through every trick Isabeau used to hide their passage. She had stopped long enough to tie branches to the two horses’ tails, yet the group of riders on their trail seemed hardly baffled by the scuffled marks left in their trail. Beginning to feel panicky, Isabeau let the stallion leave clear hoofprints on the bank of a stream, indicating they had crossed the water and were still heading south, when in reality the two horses splashed upstream for some considerable distance before doubling back. Sure that trick would mislead them, Isabeau was deeply troubled when the party followed them upstream with only a moment’s hesitation.
She hastened their pace, glancing at Bacaiche, and wondering why he should occasion such a determined pursuit. The dark-haired man was swaying in the saddle, his face grey with exhaustion. Isabeau would not let them rest, however. All day they rode hard through the hills, till the horses were in a lather and she was herself almost faint with tiredness. She stopped only to check the position of the sun and to hide their trail, which had now looped back onto itself. After using every trick Meghan had ever taught her, Isabeau was now bearing back towards the Pass, not wanting to lose too much ground from her original direction. They did not stop for a meal till the sun was setting and they were only a few hours ride from the spot where they had started out. Their pursuers, she hoped, would have continued riding to the north, and they could slip quietly down the Pass and into the great valley below.
During the brief stops to watch their trail, Isabeau had dismounted and foraged for food in the clearings. It was early in the season, though, and the winter had been harsh. She found only a few tubers which, even with the contents of her knapsack, could make them only a scanty meal. As she prepared the food, the stallion came and leant his head against her, blowing gently in her hair. She fondled his soft nose, and looked up to find Bacaiche’s yellow eyes fixed upon her. Again Isabeau told herself she must be careful. She knew nothing about her strange companion other than that he had been captured by the Red Guards, and that he spoke the language of birds. Although this seemed to indicate he was an enemy of the Banrìgh as well, she had no way of knowing whether she could trust him. Meghan had said to trust nobody.
Isabeau looked at Bacaiche as he huddled over the fire. He had wrapped the coarse material he had been found in around his waist like a loincloth, and the black cloak still draped his shoulders. However, it was bitterly cold at night in the mountains, with snow still glistening on the upper slopes. With the rest of his body naked, Bacaiche must be freezing. Not only that, how could Isabeau get through the Pass unnoticed with Bacaiche dressed like that?
She leant over and began to rummage in her knapsack, pulling out her spare pair of breeches and a shirt. ‘Ye must be cold,’ she said. ‘Ye are no’ that much taller than me, these should fit ye grandly.’ To her surprise, an expression of intense discomfort crossed Bacaiche’s face. He shook his head. Surprised she urged him, explaining her reasoning. ‘From now on there’ll be villages, we canna afford to draw too much attention to ourselves. We must look like normal travellers.’
As soon as she said it, she regretted it. As far as Bacaiche knew, she was a normal traveller, though only a moment’s further reflection disabused her of this idea, leaving her rather cold and scared. She had not once acted like a normal traveller. A normal traveller would not rescue complete strangers from the Red Guards, or talk to horses, or know the tricks of evading capture. For the first time Isabeau doubted her ability to do as Meghan had asked.
However, before she could try to backtrack, Bacaiche had responded. ‘I am no’ going to Rionnagan,’ he said. ‘I must head deeper into the mountains.’
Isabeau was taken aback. It had not occurred to her that Bacaiche might have his own plans. ‘But … there’s nothing in the mountains …’
‘I have a journey o’ my own to make,’ he said. He looked directly at her for the first time. ‘I came up through the Pass two days ago. They caught me coming through. The Pass is guarded.’
Isabeau’s heart sank, but she said, ‘We’ll try and go through early tomorrow, at first light.’
Bacaiche shook his head. The rosy firelight slid off his chest, highlighting his powerful muscles. ‘I must head back into the mountains.’
‘But why?’ she asked in frustration. ‘I ken these mountains, there are few paths through them and those are still closed with snow.’
He scowled. ‘All ye do is ask questions. Ye do no’ need to ken what I do.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Isabeau said indignantly. ‘I was only trying to help.’
‘I dinna cross-examine ye,’ he retorted curtly.
‘I just wanted—’ she began, and then stopped, unwilling to explain further. ‘Very well, then, I’ll ask no more questions. However, it’s freezing in the mountains, ye must have some clothes. Will ye no’ take them?’ Isabeau held out the bundle again.
After a moment, Bacaiche took them and limped painfully out of the clearing, his black cloak trailing behind him. When he returned he had donned only the breeches, and the shirt hung from his hand. ‘It did no’ fit,’ he said awkwardly, and looking again at the breadth of his shoulders, Isabeau could well believe it. He had wrapped the coarse cloth over his shoulders and around his chest, however, giving him some added protection, so Isabeau was a little easier in her mind. She had not rescued Bacaiche for him to come down with pneumonia, she told herself sternly.
As they ate, Isabeau tried to find out more about Bacaiche without actually asking. However, all her conversational gambits were repulsed by her surly companion, so that she was quite exasperated with him by the time they had finished eating. Bacaiche, who had nodded over his stew, fell asleep almost immediately, but Isabeau was too anxious to sleep, although she had chosen their camping place carefully.
It was a clear, cold night. Lying on her back, Isabeau stared up at the starry sky and the two moons hanging close to the white peaks of the mountains. She thought about all that had happened to her in the last few days. Three weeks ago, the greatest excitement in her life was watching otters teach their babies how to swim. Now she was outrunning the Red Guards and rescuing ungrateful strangers. A smile curved her lips, and she clenched her fingers about the talisman that Meghan had entrusted to her care. Isabeau was pleased with the changes in her life.
When Isabeau blinked her eyes open the next morning, she saw it would be a fresh, blue day. A thick dew had fallen, so her plaid was silvered and damp. A few stars still glimmered above the mountains, though the valley beyond the Pass was beginning to show dimly as the night faded. She stretched and yawned, then looked instinctively over at her companion to see if he was stirring yet. He was not there. There was not even a hollow in the grass to show where he had been lying. Chagrin filled her. Her unwilling companion must have slipped away during the night.
Sitting upright, she saw that he had taken the pony, and was very annoyed. Since she had been the one that had stolen the pony, the least he could do was ask her if he could
take it, Isabeau thought crossly. She scrambled to her feet, then saw with dismay her pack open and its contents rifled. It took only a few minutes to realise he had taken her witch knife and the last of her supplies. Tears rushed to her eyes. She had been proud of her knife, forged in the fire of her Tests. Its loss, and her stupidity in trusting the stranger at all, saw the exultation and confidence she had felt during the lonely night dissipate in the morning light like the dew.
Since Isabeau had not undressed or taken off her boots, and she had no food to make breakfast, getting ready to move on was a simple matter of splashing her face with the icy-cold water of the stream and tightening her belt in the hope that would ease the dull ache in her stomach. The stallion was grazing the sweet meadow grass, but trotted towards her readily enough when she called. She wondered why Bacaiche had not stolen the stallion, but then thought the horse might not have let himself be caught. Crippled as he was, Bacaiche could not easily chase an untethered stallion.
Isabeau leant her head against the horse’s flank for a moment, enjoying his warmth and smell. ‘Well, we’re better off without him. All he did was get us into trouble and eat all our food.’
The stallion began to crop the grass again, unconcerned.
‘What are ye going to do?’ Isabeau asked. ‘I have to head south if ye would fain come with me.’
The chestnut raised his head, and blew gently through his nose. He then rubbed against her again, almost knocking her off her feet. Tears of gratitude stung Isabeau’s eyes. She told herself it was because she had a much better chance of escaping any Red Guards if she was on horseback, but in her heart she knew she had been dreading the long and lonely journey through the highlands. Already the stallion was as much a friend and companion as Lilanthe had been.
The quick and easy communication that had developed between Isabeau and the stallion was most unusual, for to speak the language of any beast was to understand and duplicate its subtle gradations of sound and movement and smell, and this was impossible for any human. No matter how Isabeau tried, she had no tail, no hooves, no ability to delicately shift the muscles under her skin as a horse could. Therefore, the accent of Isabeau’s speech was necessarily odd and stilted, and occasionally incomprehensible. It usually took time and patience on both sides to establish understanding, which was one of the reasons why few witches ever learnt the dialects of creatures such as sabre-leopards, who were not known for their patience.
So although Isabeau spoke the language of horses fluently, she had never found it so easy to convey her meaning before. She and the horse had quickly developed a sort of pidgin language, composed of words, whickers, and body language. This shorthand usually took great familiarity to develop, but was nothing like the communication between a witch and her familiar, which operated on a much more profound level. However, the ease with which they had established a connection made Isabeau wonder whether the horse would one day become her familiar, a thought which filled her with pleasure.
Riding bareback was not the most comfortable way to travel, and Isabeau was already sore from their hard riding the day before, so she slung her plaid and pack across the stallion’s back, and walked beside him down the long, green meadow. ‘I shall call ye Lasair,’ she said, stroking his red shoulder. ‘Ye’re as bright as a flame. Your hair is almost the same colour as mine. Maybe a wee darker.’ The stallion whickered in reply, and bumped her arm with his head.
Behind them were tier upon tier of mountains, the highest edged with snow; before them, the two high cliffs that marked the narrow Pass, the only path between the mountains and the highlands. She was nervous, remembering that Bacaiche had been captured here only a few days earlier. There was no sign of anyone else, though, and it was still very early. If there were Red Guards about, perhaps they would all still be asleep.
The meadow narrowed, the slopes about grew steeper and higher, and the sky shrank to a narrow slice of pale blue between the cliffs. Isabeau’s heart was hammering. There was no point in stopping, however, for she had to leave the protection of the mountains eventually. At last there was no meadow left, only a narrow chasm between the cliffs, the path winding along beside the rocky burn. When it became difficult to walk along beside the stallion, Isabeau mounted with the help of a large boulder, wincing a little as her sore bottom came into contact with his spine.
The path wound its stony way through the chasm, with nothing but the occasional raven to see her. At last she came to the far end of the Pass and stopped to observe the northern heights of Rionnagan, home country of the MacCuinns, Rìghrean of Eileanan. For miles they stretched, bare and grey, before dipping down into the more fertile valley below. There was no sign of life, not even a coney. All Isabeau could see was greygorse bushes and wild grasses, lonely outcroppings of rocks and the wide blue sky.
‘Let’s go,’ she said to Lasair, and the stallion obediently began to trot out from the shadow of the cliff, his ears pricking forward. They had only covered a few yards when a challenge was shouted out. Her nerves jumping, Isabeau looked round to see a sentry standing up in the grass, his red cloak whipping in the breeze.
The stallion danced a little and gathered his powerful muscles as if about to run. ‘Better no’,’ Isabeau said. ‘That would be suspicious.’
Obediently the stallion halted, and the sentry strode towards them, his hand not far from his claymore, though it was obvious he did not expect any trouble. ‘Who are ye?’ he asked. ‘Wha’ are ye doing here?’
‘Wha’ I dae every spring,’ Isabeau replied tartly. ‘I’ve been huntin’ for herbs and flowers. My gran says now’s the best time t’gather for the sap runs strong in spring.’ She knew that here in the highlands women who understood herbs and plants were well regarded, being often the only ones who knew the secrets of healing. Every village had its skeelie, some more knowledgeable than others, though they were careful now to avoid any taint of witchcraft.
‘Wha’ sort o’ herbs?’ the sentry asked suspiciously.
Isabeau smiled coyly. ‘Harshweed for the healing o’ bruises; and juniper, awful good for indigestion; and black hellebore for auld Jento, who gets a mite queer in the spring.’ As she spoke, she showed him some of the plants in her pouch, one of which still had damp earth clinging to its roots, for Isabeau was too well trained to pass the rare hellebore plant without plucking it.
‘Wha’ does that do?’ the sentry asked.
‘Stops the fits and madness,’ Isabeau said succinctly. ‘Only a wee bit, though. Too much be worse than the fits.’
The sentry now seemed mollified, and though he asked her a lot more questions about where she lived and what she was doing in the wild Sithiche Mountains by herself, Isabeau was able to satisfy him. At last she was allowed to pass through unmolested, except for an overfamiliar squeeze of her knee and an offer to come and visit him if living with her gran got too boring. ‘For this be a queer uncanny place, and it gets tha’ lonesome ye wouldna believe,’ the sentry confided. ‘There were a whole troop o’ us here till a few days ago, but there be uile-bheistean in the mountains and I’ve been left here all alone.’
Isabeau smiled sweetly again, and rode off across the moor, her confidence much restored by the successful hoodwinking of the sentry. Bacaiche could no’ manage that much, she thought smugly.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, however, her confidence was swamped by her hunger. Several searches through her pack found nothing but a few empty calico pouches and flour dust. Isabeau always had her herbs, though, and so she cooked herself up a thin but nourishing tea while the horse cropped at the short brush. Although it renewed her strength, the tea did not fill her empty belly and Isabeau knew she had to face one of the villages, despite what Meghan had said. ‘I must eat,’ she rationalised, and set about finding a village.
The moors were a high and lonely place, and so Isabeau set her back to the mountains and her face to the fall of the land. As soon as they stumbled across a little burn, Isabeau began to follow it and just
as the sun was beginning to set, it lead her into a grey, dour village. A few women stood about the village pond, buckets at their feet, while thin children ran barefoot about the muddy village square. The houses were huddled together around the pond, threadbare chickens scratching at the dirt. As far as Isabeau knew, she had never been to this village before, since she and Meghan frequented the bigger towns on their excursions into the highlands, for there the villagers were less fierce and the news more plentiful. However, these highland villages were all very similar, with their grey stone walls and high-pitched thatched roofs. This one seemed very poor, for many of the walls were broken and patched with mud, and the women wore sacks over their shoulders instead of plaids. Their bare feet and legs were grey with mud to above the knees, and all had an expression of exhaustion and fatalistic acceptance. One was heavily pregnant, and she hauled the bucket up with a hand in the hollow of her back, dark smudges under her eyes and cheekbones.
As she rode in, Isabeau wondered what story could she tell and what she could trade for food. There were only her herbs, and many of these women would know as much about plant lore as she did herself. Nonetheless, she gave it her best, spreading out some of the buds and leaves on the ground, and slipping easily into the patter. ‘I also have some mother-wort, which as ye ken is excellent for calming the heart and settling the babe in the womb—’
‘If I wanted mother-wort I’d just gae and ask the skeelie,’ the worn-faced mother-to-be said dismissively.
Isabeau’s eyes brightened, for she might have something rare in her pouch that the skeelie would need and, in any case, one skeelie would always welcome another.
‘Where’s your skeelie?’ she asked, and was told that she lived in a small cottage a few minutes’ walk away from the village. ‘The skeelie will help ye, lassie,’ they all repeated. Isabeau thanked the women and set off down the muddy street, thinking how skinny the children were and how broken-down the houses looked. The winter here, on the edge of the highlands, must have been harsh.
