The being lifted its hand, pointing towards a wall that seemed to enclose another garden. Through an archway mantled by a white-flowered creeper wafted a scent of familiar herbs: basil, thyme and wormwood.The inner wall was covered in honeysuckle.
“In there? Thank you.” I scuttled away, eyes averted. You need this job, Caitrin.You need this hiding place.You vowed you would be brave.
The walled garden was almost as unkempt and overgrown as the area outside, but I could see it had once been lovely. A birch tree stood in the center, and around it were the remnants of a circular path lined with stones, and beds of medicinal herbs hedged with bay. The bay was running riot and the herbs were sorely in need of a trimming, but it was clear that this little garden had been more recently tended than the wilderness beyond its walls. An ancient stone birdbath held its share of avian visitors; someone had cleaned and replenished it not long ago. A wooden bench stood under the tree, and on it lay an open book, face down. I froze. But there was nobody in sight; it seemed the reader had tired of study and left this sanctuary.
I put my bundle and writing box on the bench and walked slowly around the path, liking the methodical way the garden had been laid out. Its untidiness did not trouble me; it was only in the practice of my craft that my mind required complete order. This haven had been planted by a skilled herbalist. There was everything here for a wide range of uses, both culinary and medicinal. Belladonna for fever, sorrel for the liver. Figwort, meadowsweet, heart-of-the-earth. And over there . . .
Heart’s blood. In an unobtrusive corner, half hidden beneath the spreading silvery-gray leaves of a gigantic comfrey plant, grew a clump of this rarest of herbs. I’d never seen the real thing before, but I knew it from an illustrated treatise on inks and dyes.
I moved closer, crouching down to examine the leaves—they grew in characteristic groups of five, with neat serrations along each delicate edge—and the stem with its unusual mottled pattern. No buds yet; this rarity bloomed only in autumn, and then briefly. It was the flowers that made it an herb beyond price, for their crushed petals, when mixed in specific proportions with vinegar and oak ash, produced an ink of rich hue, a splendid deep purple favored by kings and princes for their most regal decrees and beloved of bishops for the illustrated capitals in missals and breviaries.The capacity to produce a supply of heart’s blood ink could make a man’s fortune. I brushed my fingers gently against the foliage.
“Don’t touch that!” roared a deep voice from behind me. I leaped to my feet, my heart thudding in fright.
A man stood on the pathway not three arms’ lengths from me, glaring. He had come from nowhere, and he looked not only angry, but somehow . . . wrong.
“I wasn’t—I was just—” Suddenly I was back in Market Cross, with Cillian’s cruel hands gripping my shoulders as he shook me, and Cillian’s abusive words ringing in my ears.“I—I—” Pull yourself together, Caitrin. Say something. I stood frozen, my stomach tying itself in knots.
The stranger stood over me, fist clenched in fury, eyes glowering. “What are you doing here? This place is forbidden!”
I struggled to find the words I had prepared. “I’m a ... I’ve come to . . .” Get a grip on yourself, Caitrin.You are not going back to that dark place. “I’m a . . . a ...” I forced the memory down, making myself look up at the man. His appearance was unsettling, for although his features were above the commonplace in beauty, they were at the same time somehow skewed, as if the two sides of his face were not a perfect match for each other. I noted the red hair, as ill tended and overgrown as his garden, and the fair complexion, flushed by anger. His eyes were of an intense dark blue and as inimical as his voice.
“You’re a what?” he snarled. “A thief? Why else would you be here? Nobody comes here!”
“I wasn’t trying to steal the heart’s blood plant,” I managed. “I’m here about the work. The position. Reading. Scribing. Latin.” I faltered to a halt, backing away. I could feel his rage quivering in the air of the peaceful garden.
He stood there a moment, staring at me as if I were the oddity and everything else here completely normal.Then he lurched towards me, one arm outstretched as if to seize hold of me.The cold fear washed through me again. “It doesn’t matter,” I squeaked. “I must have made a mistake . . .”
I backed further, then fled for the archway. Curse it! Curse this place, and curse Ita and her son, and most of all, a pox on me for daring to hope that I might have found sanctuary and for being wrong. And now I had to go all the way through that wretched forest again.
“Wait.” The man’s tone had changed. “You can read Latin?”
I halted with my back to him, my stomach churning. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. My lips refused to form the simple word yes, but I managed a nod.
“Magnus!” the man roared behind me, making my heart jolt with fright. I drew a shaky breath and turned to see him heading off towards a door at the other end of the garden, an entry direct into the most substantial of the buildings backing onto the fortress wall. Despite his height and strong build, the man’s gait was markedly uneven, and the odd slope of his shoulders was quite pronounced. Warped and twisted like thread gone awry on the loom. If that had been Anluan, neither of us had made a good first impression.
As I’d been told to wait, I waited, but not inside the forbidden area. I collected my belongings and went to stand just beyond the archway, one eye out for any further oddities.That was where Magnus found me a little later. He had shed his weaponry but still made a formidable figure with his twists of hair, his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. One of the gallóglaigh,Tomas had called him.They were mercenary warriors, islanders descended from Norsemen and Dalriadans. I wondered how this one had ended up at Whistling Tor.
“A scribe,” the big man said flatly, fixing shrewd gray eyes on my face, which no doubt was unusually pale. “How did you know about the work we needed done?”
“I’m sorry if I’ve upset anyone,” I said. “My name is Caitrin, daughter of Berach. I stayed last night at the village inn. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Tomas.”
His gaze had sharpened as I spoke. “I’m told you were attempting to steal a precious plant from our garden,” he said.“That’s not the act of someone who’s seeking employment.”
“I told that man I wasn’t stealing! If you’re talking about heart’s blood, the time to steal it would be autumn, when it’s flowering.The value’s all in the blooms. For the ink, you know.”
There was a moment’s silence; then Magnus’s strong features creased into a smile. He looked like a man who didn’t smile much.“All right, maybe you are a scribe,” he said. “That doesn’t explain how you got here.”
“I walked. I did lose my way, but a man helped me. A man with a dog. Olcan and Fianchu.”
Magnus’s eyes widened.
“As you see, I got here safely,” I added.
“Mm. No fear of dogs, then. Well, I’ve been ordered to take you indoors, and I imagine he’ll want a sample of your writing.This way.”
“I’m not sure I want to stay.That was him in the garden, wasn’t it? Lord Anluan? He scared me. He was so angry.”
“You look cold,” Magnus said. “My name’s Magnus. I do everything here, more or less. Steward, guard, farmer, cook, cleaner . . . You may as well come in and have something to drink, since you’ve got this far. Don’t let Anluan upset you. He’s not used to folk, that’s all. We’re a bit out of practice.”
I drew a deep, unsteady breath. His manner was reassuring: blunt but kind. He seemed the sort of man who would be truthful.“All right,” I said. “If you’re sure it’s safe. There are some very odd-looking folk here. Not that looks should matter, but . . .”
“I’ll take that for you,” said Magnus, pointing to my bag. I passed it to him and we headed along the path.“If you’re planning on staying to do the job, you’ll need to learn not to let appearances upset you,” my companion added. “We’re all oddities
here.”
“The folk in the settlement said you were the most ordinary person on the hill.”
Magnus gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Ordinary, what’s that?” he said grimly. “As it is, you may not be here long enough to meet us all. Once you see the job he wants doing, you’ll very likely change your mind. Anyway, you may not be up to the standard he requires.”
“I was trained by the best.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?” Now he sounded amused. “There’s one thing you need to remember.”
“Oh?” I fully expected the kind of instructions people got in dark tales;Whistling Tor seemed just the place for them. Don’t touch the little key third from the right. Don’t go into the chamber at the top of the tower. “What is that?”
“Stay out of Irial’s garden,” Magnus said. “Nobody goes in without Anluan’s invitation.You broke that rule.You upset him. He’s had enough people take one look at him and run off in disgust, without you adding yourself to the number.”
“I wasn’t disgusted, just scared. He came out of nowhere and he shouted at me. I’d already seen Olcan and the dog, and a scarecrow that walked around and showed me the way. And there were voices. And hands. They were all around me in the forest, trying to entice me off the path.”
“If you’re so easily frightened,” Magnus observed,“you won’t last here more than a day or two. Might be kinder to leave without getting his hopes up too much. I don’t want you to get started on the work, then bolt because you can’t cope. I’m surprised you plucked up the courage to come at all.”
“I can cope,” I said, stung by the criticism. “I didn’t know I was trespassing. I walked up intending to find you and ask you about the job.The folk in the village had plenty to say about this place, but I dismissed most of it as wild exaggeration. After Fianchu, and those voices, I realize I may have been wrong.”
“Ah. No doubt Tomas regaled you with stories about Anluan’s disfigurement and his general ineptitude as a leader?”
“More or less.” I was ashamed now. My parents had taught me not to judge on appearances. “They implied his—condition—was part of a family curse.”
“Make your own judgments—that’s always been my philosophy.” Magnus’s mouth was set in a tight line now. “Maybe that’s why I’m still here and nobody else is.”
When I had looked at Anluan’s curiously unbalanced features, had my own face shown a revulsion that was all too familiar to him? What must he have thought of me? “I heard that the scribing work will take the whole summer,” I said. “I know you experience some difficulty in getting people to stay here. I am available to work right through until autumn if that’s what is required. Provided you can assure me that I will be safe here, I won’t bolt. I’ll stay until the task is completed.”
“Mm-hm.” Magnus ushered me up some steps and into what was evidently the living area. I followed him along a dark hallway and then through a series of chambers of austere appearance.There were no rushes on the floor and the rooms were almost bare of furniture.The stone walls had a damp look about them. I spotted a tall bronze mirror propped in a corner, its surface partly covered by a cloth. Images moved in it, things that most certainly did not exist in this near-empty chamber. I hesitated, my gaze drawn towards it, my flesh crawling with unease. “We’ll go to the kitchen,” Magnus said. “You’ll be wanting to get warm.”
The kitchen was down another hallway and through a heavy oak door. A meager fire struggled on the hearth. On a well-scrubbed table lay the bundle of supplies Magnus had carried up from the village, its contents as yet unpacked. My companion hung a kettle from an iron support over the hearth and added wood to the fire. I watched him, my head full of awkward questions.
Magnus rummaged on a shelf, produced a little box and spooned something from it into an earthenware cup. As he worked I looked about me, noticing that this chamber, too, had its mirror, a three-sided, polished piece of some dark metal I could not identify. It seemed an ordinary one, the reflection showing a section of wall and roof, but the light was odd, as if the image within the metal showed the room at a different time of day or in a different season. It was hard not to stare at it.
“This is a restorative mix,” Magnus said, stirring. “Should put a bit of heart back into you.You look as if you need it.” When the kettle was steaming, he filled the cup and put it on the table beside me. “It’s safe to drink,” he added. “By the way, you might want to avoid looking in the mirrors for a while.They can be confusing.You’ll get used to them in time. If you stay, that is.”
“I see.” It was troubling how strongly the polished surface drew the eye, as if it might have enticing secrets to yield. I changed the subject.“Are you the one who tends the herb garden, Magnus?” I asked. “Irial’s garden, is that what it’s called? I noticed it’s quite well kept compared with . . .” My voice trailed away as I realized the implied insult in my words.
“That garden’s his domain,” Magnus said. “But I do everything else.” He glanced around the kitchen, plainly seeing it through my eyes. It was clean but remarkably bare, the shelves near empty, the cooking pans, platters and cups lined up neatly. My sister’s kitchen, at home in Market Cross, had been a place of warmth and light, savory smells and bustling activity. That was before Father died; before Maraid abandoned me to Ita and Cillian. Going into that kitchen had felt like being hugged against a mother’s heart.This chamber was cold, despite the fire.There was no heart here.
“I meant no criticism,” I said awkwardly.
“Not your fault, is it? At least, now you’re here, I can take looking for a scribe off my list of duties. That’s if he’ll have you. I’d best go and speak to him.”
I sat alone before the fire while he went off to find his master. I tried the herbal draft, which was bitter but not unpleasing. I imagined Maraid here, setting a jug of wildflowers on a shelf, hanging a bright weaving on a bare wall, singing as she chopped onions and leeks for a pie. But then Maraid would never be in my current situation. She was far too practical. All she had done was fall in love with a traveling musician and end up poor. She’s her mother all over again, I could hear Ita saying. A slut born and bred, can’t help herself. And you’ll be the same, mark my words.Your kind of looks attract the wrong sort of man, the sort with only one thing on his mind.
I was about halfway through the drink when my gaze crossed the mirror once again and I saw reflected in it the form of a woman standing very still in the doorway behind me. Somehow she had got there without a sound. I jumped up, spilling the contents of my cup. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking around for something to clean up with. “You startled me.” When she did not reply, I added, “My name is Caitrin, daughter of Berach. I’m here about the scribing job.”
She stood watching in silence as I found a cloth and wiped the tabletop. Under her scrutiny I straightened, turning to face her. This was no serving woman. Her manner was regal and her clothing, though plain to the point of severity, was expertly cut and fashioned of finest wool. The gown was dove grey, the overdress a slightly darker shade; her hair was concealed by a light veil. Under its neat folds her expression was coolly judgmental. Anluan’s wife? She was quite young, perhaps not much older than me. How old was the chieftain? Between the unkempt hair, the scowl and the oddity of his features, all I could say was that he was probably no more than thirty.
The woman clasped her hands together, gazing at me with lustrous gray eyes. Her features were neat and small. She held herself very straight. Anluan’s sister, perhaps? Could she be Magnus’s daughter?
“I’m just waiting for Magnus to come back,” I said, forcing a smile. “He said I could sit here.”
The woman did not smile. “I’m sorry,” she said crisply. “We won’t be needing you.”
After a moment’s stunned silence, I protested. “Magnus implied that I could have the job if I was able to do it. I should at least be given a trial—”
She took a step back, as if t
o allow me to pass her on my way out.“We won’t be needing you. It was a mistake.”
I stared at her. The promise of work, of funds, of safety from Cillian, the hope of a refuge for a whole summer, all dashed because of a mistake? “But Magnus came down to the settlement asking for someone who could read and write Latin,” I said, feeling my face flush. “I can do that. I should be given a chance to prove myself, my lady.” I considered telling her the truth and casting myself on her mercy. Somehow I didn’t think that would get me very far. “Even if there has been a mistake, I’m certain I can make myself useful here.” After all, Magnus had said they needed a boy for the farm and a woman for the house. If I could be safe, I’d be prepared to scrub floors all summer, even with this chilly woman giving the orders. “Please, my lady,” I said. Her intense, wide-eyed scrutiny unnerved me.“At least let me speak to Magnus again.”
“There is no need to speak to anyone else,” she said. After a moment she added, “You are disappointed. Understand that it is best that you do not stay.”
Tears stung my eyes. I was reaching for my belongings when Magnus strode in the back door and set a quill, an ink pot and a scrap of parchment on the table. “Write something,” he ordered. “Straightaway, he said, to prove you can work quickly as well as accurately. If it’s good enough, he’ll consider giving you a few days’ trial.”
I glanced over at the woman. Her lips were pressed tightly together; a little line had appeared between her brows. “I was told I wasn’t required,” I said quietly.
“It’s all right, Muirne,” said Magnus. “Anluan wants to see her work.”
I drew a shaky breath. “You said if it’s good enough. Good enough for what?” I asked, putting my writing box on the table and undoing the clasps. “Unless I know what this task is, how can I judge what sample to provide? Latin or Irish? What hand? What size?” I got out a medium goose quill and a pot of the black ink I had mixed myself. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll use my own things.”
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