I hate being woken up by shouts. It’s bad enough when
they’re my own, and Jack is whining and licking my face to bring me out of the
nightmare.
But when it’s outside, it means the screaming won’t end when
I wake up.
Jack spent the night wandering the woods, searching for
signs of spring, so at least I don’t trip over him as I roll off the mattress
and grope for the bucket. I get confused for a minute, thinking I’m seeing
double in the pre-dawn light. But no,
the second bucket is for my piss, which the tanners find delightful. Frankly, if
anyone had told me a pregnant woman’s piss had alchemical properties a year ago,
I’d be thinking they’d been working on their hides too long and needed more
sunlight and fresh air.
But it means the tanner’s guild sends a poor young apprentice
loping up the road every morning to collect it, which saves me a job, so I’m
not complaining.
I barf into the proper bucket, because anyone who says
morning sickness ends when you start to swell has not been blessed with my
anatomy and can take theirs to the nearest boghole. With or without the
assistance of my boot.
Another muffled yelp, and I am up and pulling back the bolts
on the front door while three figures are still dragging themselves into the
courtyard. The goat lifts her head, but she’s almost as gravid as me so watches
this morning’s entertainment from the comfort of her straw bed at the east side
of the clearing.
I’m not sure what I expected, but this isn’t it. Usually if
I’m woken up in the middle of the night it’s a white faced young man who’s
about to be a father… or, more often, a white faced young woman who does not
want to be a mother. Not… Well, two strapping young lads dragging their friend
between them, and even from here I can tell the embroidery on their cuffs could
feed our little household for a month of feast days.
I glance down at my own dark red apron. On the one hand, the
cloth is nothing much, and I haven’t seen fine embroidery up close in over ten
years. On the other hand, my dark red apron means I promise not to turn three
bloody strangers away at my door, and that is its own kind of respectability.
A warm hand on my shoulder, and I don’t need to turn around
to know that Bram is awake, too, and will stand with me in this as he does in
all things. He is another kind of respectability I never thought I’d find, and
I lean back just a bit, to feel his warmth across my whole back.
“Sister!” one of the men shouts, slightly shorter than the
other two but still holding up his friend as high as the taller man on the far
side, “We beg your mercy!” The man slung in between has stopped shouting, and
gone limp. Another sort of mercy, that.
I nod, “You are welcome,” and prop the door open with the
nearest heavy object. Ah yes, the bucket. Something about the formality of
their greeting and our… modest… surroundings makes the smile on my face less
serene and more twisted than it strictly should be, under the circumstances.
They bring their burden in and lay him down on our mattress.
I’m relieved I filled it with fresh straw a few weeks ago, when I realized the
goat’s bed smelled better than my own.
And now, all other thoughts are set aside as I go to the
work, “What happened?” I ask, because what they don’t tell me and what the poor
fellow’s body does will bring me different sorts of truth. I hear Bram going to
the fire and stirring the coals to coax some heat into the kettle of water positioned
there. I hope we will only need tea.
The shorter one coughs. He has knelt down on my right side,
hovering protectively but not yet in my way so I don’t move him. “He… was
injured.”
I raise my eyebrows but keep facing the young man before me.
I carefully pick out bloody fabric pressed into the shallow wounds on his
forearms. The blood makes my nose tingle, and I wonder if I’ll need one of the
buckets. But no, my stomach stays settled, though the tingling extends across
my cheeks and scalp and then down my spine.
His skin is paler than mine used to be, and I was a swan
swimming in milk or moonlight, depending on the wandering poet’s gift for
metaphor. It is soft, too, to match the
elegance of his very fine embroidery. I frown a little; the design is familiar…
but not quite right. Certainly not the red and gold of our baron, long may he
benevolently neglect his people, nor the silver and black of the next closest
barony on the other side of our dark mountain.
“Were you there when he was injured?” I ask, though from their drawn faces I
doubt he would be so far gone if they had.
“No,” the taller one steps forward and kneels on my other
side. His hand drifts forward, but only hovers above the silk and velvet. His
hand is much darker even than Bram, marking him an outlander. The golden signet
ring on his hand shows he is high ranking—perhaps a foster child between high
houses, for I know in my bones these are more than prosperous merchant sons. “We
found him thus.”
I find what I was looking for, then… head wounds bleed, but
the damage is inside his thick skull. This is what even the best priced blood
sucker in the city could not heal, the wounds deep inside.
I turn to Bram, and he’s already pouring the tea, “Thank
you, my love,” I murmur, and take the cup he offers me. The other two wait
until I’ve sipped from my little mug before they sip from theirs.
Yes, more
than merchant sons, if they live with that sort of fear riding their shoulders.
I smile to myself, or maybe I’m paranoid in my old age and they were just being
polite, letting a lady drink first.
The tea has a refreshing quality, stimulating the blood, and
is my own special recipe. The young men’s eyes lose a little of their haze and
they watch me more intently as I put my cup down and start humming. It is a
small weaving song I learned two lifetimes ago, and it helps me find my center before
I venture out.
I press my hands against his bare chest, with the elegant
bones sticking out a little more than is fashionable, and I wonder at someone
who wears velvet and goes hungry.
And then I stop wondering, and bite my tongue. I might have
pulled out a silver blade forged by the full moon’s light if I were more
ambitious or catered to other people’s fancies. But there is something primal
about tooth and bone that appeals to She who gives the gift and provides the
work, and I try to keep her amused above all things.
I stop humming and spit my blood into his shallow arm wounds.
They aren’t the source of his head injury, obviously, but they are the quickest
way to them.
I feel the tingling across my whole body, set it aside as
one notices the rising and falling of a pale, skinny chest. Natural and noted
and politely dismissed. My blood in his body, his body becomes known to me like
my own. I’m suddenly grateful he’s gone unconscious; while it’s only a shadow
of what I feel, I know that my patients get a sense of my own body in this
moment of transition, and I am not sure what he’d think of feeling briefly but
thoroughly pregnant.
His body… hurts. Oh yes. I send the tingling through the
connection between us and feel the pain soak it up and ease. I dive deep,
dodging the old scars and knots on his back, and inside his poor skull. There I
pause, and wait for Her guidance. Perhaps I wait one heartbeat, perhaps one
hundred.
Slowly I feel Her love for this young man bone deep, and
begin shivering. Bram brings my body a blanket, but I can’t speak thanks. She
takes him to Her heart and lets him rest his burden at Her breast, and then… he
gasps, his eyes flying open all unseeing, and we both are stunned by the pain
of Her sudden, terrible absence.
Tears leak from our eyes, then, before the young man slips
into a deeper, healthier sleep.
Bram wraps his arm
around me and shuffles me to the table, where my mug of tea awaits me. The
tall, dark man stays at his friend’s side; the shorter one follows us
diffidently.
“Thank you, Lady.”
I smile crookedly into my mug, but only shrug, “It is Her gift, and it flows
freely or not at all.”
He is too well trained to shift his weight from foot to
foot, but his eyes are bright, “Simeon will be …alright?”
I put my mug down, and glance at Bram. His eyebrows are
furrowed. We both know what the visible wounds mean—he was defending his head,
while someone thrashed at him with a blunt, narrow weapon. Not a cut purse, not
a highwayman, not the duels that young men of spirit sometimes find themselves
falling into against all odds and carefully away from where the city
magistrates might stop them.
Bram opens his hand palm up towards me, and I nod, “He needs
to stay here to finish healing. She has taken him to Her bosom, I cannot
release him into the wilderness until he has the strength to bare it without
Her.”
The young man bites his lower lip, unsure how much of what
I’m saying is pious nonsense or gods’ truth. Frankly, I don’t know either but
She hasn’t withdrawn Her blessing from me yet, so I smile placidly and sip my
tea again.
“George,” says the man still at Simeon’s side, “Let him stay
here as long as the Blood Sister allows.”
I take pity on the young men, now, “I can keep him safe from
whatever hounds him while he rests within my walls. When he is strong enough to
leave, I suggest he goes on a pilgrimage to give thanks to Her who healed him. A
very long pilgrimage, very far away from …here.” My oblique gesture takes in my
cottage, the woods, perhaps even the person who dealt those wounds.
They glance at each other, their dissimilar faces twinned by
their obvious relief. I lean briefly against Bram, wondering if he and I were
ever that young, ever that relieved an adult would handle things from this
point on.
They nod and Bram and I finish our tea and go out to do our
chores. The chickens are unimpressed that She visited us this morning and
merely want their feed. If ever I feel the need to be humbled, I spend time
with our handful of hens.
Bram works on repairing the fence around the rabbit hutch,
while I move through the yard. I think I have some neck bones I can make a
broth out of; that will do nicely for our injured guest when he wakes. Homemade
cider and cheese will have to do for our other guests; I meant to bake fresh
bread yesterday, but the child growing within me had other ideas.
I pause in the doorway to see if I will be rewarded with a
kick or punch, the life inside me bursting out in spasms of joy. Instead of the
quiet roiling in the deep I feel the earth vibrate with iron-shod hooves. I
look back over my shoulder but Bram is already turned towards the path in the
forest; hammer slung casually over his shoulder but his knees bent slightly,
ready.
“Come to me,” I murmur past the knot in my throat, and for a
moment I fear he doesn’t hear… but then Bram turns towards me and smiles and I am
relieved of my doubts. He strides through the yard and puts his left arm around
my waist, holding me snug. He holds his hammer loosely at his side, but he
doesn’t put it down.
The friends of my patient notice the commotion outside, and
I can feel their nervousness fill the space between us. They don’t seem
surprised, which tells me what I need to know.
I take what pride I can from my reputation: if someone is in
dire need of medical attention, they know they can seek it in my clearing in
the woods without question or fortune. Unfortunately, that means everyone else
knows where they likely went, too.
Bram murmurs in my ear, “Do you need to face them alone?”
I shake my head no. Not that Her presence in my veins ever
leaves me truly alone; my tongue is still tender from this morning’s work. My
voice feels as thick as my sore tongue, but he deserves words, “I don’t know
yet what She will ask of me, but I would like your help with it.”
He nods and gives me a little private squeeze and my veins
thrill with more than just Her glory.
The riders, in matching green and gold livery, finally come
up the path. The modest company of a dozen or so guards make no effort to still
their noisy harness or protect themselves from unseen attackers. Their horses,
wiser than they, stop at the edge of the clearing. The riders’ careful formation
stumbles and I tamp down my own childish glee at their consternation.
They get themselves back in order professionally fast, but
despite surreptitious spurs and then more obvious urging, the horses brace
themselves and take no further steps within the clearing.
Finally, one of the guards accepts things as they are and
calls, “Greet you. We seek your assistance.”
My eyebrows rise, and I consider my options. Frankly, I feel
tired, and that is what settles me on my path. Perhaps others would be filled
with righteous anger or pity or something more appropriate for the ballad
makers, but I just shake my head, “I’m sorry, but we cannot help you.” I turn
towards Bram and we both go inside the cottage and close the door, latching it
firmly behind us.
Bram stirs the coals in the fire again, while I prepare the
broth. I don’t recognize the crests on the guards’ tabards, though that
shouldn’t mean much to a hedgewitch who’s never left her hedge. Lani, the tanner’s apprentice who is most often sent to
gather my morning bucket, has been full of the gossip from the Baron’s keep. He
recently called a noble hunting party there; that gathering would certainly explain
the interesting collection of velvets and signet rings before me, and that will
have to do until one of the young men divulges more.
“Um, Lady…” says George, his face a complicated mess of
barely repressed confusion and dismay, “What are you doing?”
“I am making soup for your friend… Simeon, was it? Yes,” I
feel pleased I remember my patient’s name, and smile warmly at George, “Once
that’s sorted out, I’ll put together something for you and your friend. I don’t
think I caught his name…”
The tall one unfolds from the floor and stands up. His thick
crown of tiny braids almost brushes the crossbeams of the cottage, but he holds
himself straight after his deep bow of formal greeting, “Isidore Bellencamp, my
Lady. But… perhaps you don’t understand? Those guards at your gate… they have
come for Simeon.”
“Yes, well, they can’t have him,” I smile as I chop onions.
Bram chuckles behind me, and it warms me to my bones.
“Lady,” George’s voice turns patient, almost coaxing, “They
are of Simeon’s household. They will claim you have no right to keep him.”
I shrug and smile again, “It’s true, I don’t. He is his own
and he has a right to sleep undisturbed and that is what I shall do until he
asks me for assistance in some other way.”
George opens his mouth to argue again, but Bram interrupts
him and gestures at the wall, “They cannot see inside, with the lantern turned
low and it bright out there. Go, see what they are doing if you cannot trust
the Lady.”
Isidore stands still, watching my knife flash. George goes
to the window and looks out of it. I hear him suck in his breath.
“Are they all still bunched up like nervous sheep, or have
they spread out?” I ask.
“The ones I can see are spread out around the edge of the
clearing.”
“Testing for gaps they can push their poor horses through,”
says Bram, brushing off his knees,
“Eventually they’ll find that nothing passes
into our clearing without Her permission, and they’ll either all leave or send
back a runner for new orders.”
I finish preparing the soup and Bram pours out the cider. He
also finds some smoked sausage in the loft and a few green peas from the back
garden. I suspect he enjoys going out the back door and pointedly ignoring the
outriders lurking in the woods there. I do like peas, though getting them before
the pigeons and deer do can be a fierce battle. She may keep out armed men, but
She welcomes deer and pigeons and squirrels and rabbits, curse their velvety
pink noses.
I check on my patient, but he still sleeps and I hope his
dreams are restful.
We sit down to lunch, and George launches into some
complicated story in which he is the butt of every jest and we can’t help but
laugh until our sides ache. We are about halfway through the cheese, and more
than halfway through the cider, when I hear Jack’s happy bark outside.
He is a curious dog, and horses hold no fear for him. I
stand up, but Bram is faster. He opens the front door, but a quick soldier
grabs Jack by his collar. I clench my fists, prepared to do what I must—but the
thin collar breaks in the soldier’s grip and Jack runs to us, eager for an easy
lunch after all the forest squirrels were too fast for him.
I exhale and Bram rubs Jack’s ears.
Isidore breaks the silence, “We are grateful for your
hospitality, Lady, but we cannot stay here until the guard grows bored of their
assignment. We have already put you in unexpected danger, our continued
presence risks too much.”
“Will your family—can your family—protect you from whomever
gives orders to those guards?” Bram asks them. They look at each other, then
down at the floor.
“Do the guards know what part you played in getting Simeon
here? If you were to get home safely, unseen, would you be pursued past your
family’s walls? Would there be repercussions for your families if you were
discovered here?”
Isidore frowns, but George shakes his head, his mouth wide
open to deny, when I hear another shout outside—a child’s yelp, and I’m at the
doorway as the soldiers lift the poor tanner’s apprentice into the air.
Unfortunately, the child’s tunic is made of thicker hide than Jack’s collar,
and Lani looks white with fear though some native intelligence has made her go
silent as her feet dangle in midair.
“Maybe I can talk to them,” says George, and I’ve no doubt
his golden tongue has talked many an explosive situation down, but… no.
I am done.
The blood in my veins burns.
And so, ten times fiercer, does the blood running in the
veins of all the soldiers that ring my home.
The child gets dropped, finds her feet, and pauses for a
moment, unsure which way to bolt.
“Go home!” I shout to her, for the fewer folks they have
trapped in my cottage the safer we all are. Her eyes grow big, but she knows
what all those fancy matching uniforms mean as well as I do, and disappears
into the woods along rabbit runs and deer paths that only the local children
know.
The horses, sensible beasts, decide that I mean this command
to them, as well, and run off with their riders dangling helplessly as they
beat at non-existant flames burning their bones. Eventually the heat will
dissipate, but hopefully they will remember not to harass helpless children
long after today is but a warm memory.
I grab the doorframe to steady my own feet, suddenly unsure
under all the extra weight I carry, and turn to face these familiar strangers.
The young men look at me as if I have all the answers. Their
faith makes me feel wretched, for I only know how to live my own life, not save
theirs.
Bram breaks the silence, putting a hand on George’s
shoulder, “If you wish to return to your homes, now is the safest time to do
so. Whether they return to their barracks for new orders or come straight back
here once their horses are calmed, the guards will take some time to regroup.”
Isidore looks out the empty window, desire flashing over his face, but then he
closes his eyes and shakes his head, “Lady, we brought him here, we cannot
abandon him—or you—and call ourselves honorable men.”
George blinks, but nods silently a moment later.
I nod slightly at his adorably noble words, then go back to
my cider. Burning soldiers to almost-death takes a lot out of a person.
The men lean together, murmuring tactics between themselves,
and I settle into myself in my chair by the hearth, humming.
I do not know the name or face of the person who hurt
Simeon, but I know the outline of them: physically weak, or the welts would
have cut deeper, but holding some great power over the boy so that he doesn’t
fight back or run away. What that power is—filial duty, a younger sibling, a
lifetime of harsh words and weak faith—will tell me much. As it is, though, I
fall asleep while pondering this face in shadow.
I wake up from a vague dream of of searching for something
precious I’ve lost, when Simeon suddenly coughs and looks around himself
blinking. His friends leap up and go to him faster than my hips will let me,
but that’s fine. His healing is less about potions and tinctures, at this
point, and more about comrades anyway.
I do bring him a mug of my good tea, and he sips at it
cautiously. His friends say something teasing about not holding his liquor, and
color—a good, healthy color—springs to his cheeks. I dump out the bucket Lani
was unable to collect, then I wander around the table, gathering dishes, but I
feel restless and leave them behind only half stacked.
I find Bram outside, chopping wood we don’t need. I wait
patiently until he finishes splitting the log into kindling, then hand him a
mug of tea.
“It’s cold,” I apologize.
“It’s good cold,” he says, shrugging.
“Are you well?”
He gulps the rest of the tea, “No. But I will be. I… I
thought it would help if I cleaned Simeon’s wounds while he slept…” he shakes
his head, and I put my hand on his arm to give what comfort it can. He doesn’t
shake it off. He just stands looking blankly at the empty road until a chuckle
escapes him.
“Hmm?”
“The guard who held Lani… did you do it on purpose?”
I frown, “What?”
He laughs properly, now, and I have to grin even though I’m
not sure why, “Oh, it’s Her own sense of humor, then, or the worst bad luck a
pauper can buy. Lani must have stopped at Becca’s house first, which would
explain why she was so late to ours…”
I giggle, now. Becca’s so big she suspects there are two
little babes wrestling inside her, though considering her other children take
after their mountain of a father, it’s no real surprise she’s so much bigger
than me. She also is the best baker this side of the river. No doubt Becca was
making a big batch of something so delicious that Lani thought it was worth
lingering overlong by her oven, for the chance at a fresh baked treat.
I wander over to the edge of the clearing, and sure enough
there is a very empty bucket lying on its side, much like the one I emptied into
the midden earlier.
Bram follows close behind me, and nudges the bucket with his
toe. The ground is dry beneath it, and we giggle like children, imagining the haughty
guard covered in a bucketful of piss.
Isidore and George find us leaning against each other,
wiping the tears from our eyes. We explain our good humor, and they chuckle too,
though not quite as gaily.
Bram’s voice is still filled with mirth when he changes the
subject, “If you’re going to be staying with us, then I insist you let us
extend our hospitality a little further—My spare shirts won’t fit you at all,
but they will smell better than your crushed velvet does.”
They grin abashedly, and suddenly my heart opens and they
fall into it. Oh, I may barely be a mother but I know that fierce love and
anyone who intends to hurt my little, temporary family, should tremble in fear.
They duck back inside the cottage and play dress up in the
rag bin, until all three young men are clothed in more comfortable clothes.
Simeon chuckles weakly at his faded, patched tunic and
insists on getting up from the mattress. I set a place for him at the table
chopping the last root vegetables from the back of the cellar while I start
making journey bread. Bram raises an eyebrow when I get the biggest bowl out,
but turns to the other young men and announces it’s time for them to earn their
keep.
Bram sets them to chopping wood, while Jack watches from the
doorway with his tongue sticking out, laughing at their near misses. I can hear
a lot of swearing and not many clean breaks, but it keeps them out of mischief
while I knead the dough and hum my baking songs.
While the dough rises I make more tea. I show Simeon how to
shape a knob of dough into a snake or the sun, little childish games that my aunt
played with me. His smile is polite, but there is too much tension around his
eyes for bread to fix.
The wood thunking takes on a different quality, and when I
peek out the window I see Bram is pulling one of his throwing axes out of a
tree next to the road. Simeon has finished all the little tasks I’ve set him,
so I suggest we go outside and watch my man show off. He smiles agreeably
enough and after I set the bread in the oven we join the others outside.
It feels good in the sun, and it feels better to watch the
men play. Simeon is offered a chance at the ax, but waves off his friends and
sits down on the chopping block before I have to embarrass him by insisting he
is still too weak to try.
Eventually, laughing, Bram hands me the ax and I throw and
miss the target by such a wide margin even Simeon chuckles quietly behind his
hand. I take that as my cue to check the bread in the oven, and leave Bram to his
work.
The bread is a lovely golden brown color, like my hens’
feathers in the sun. I set the bread to cool and make a quick pie from lunch’s
leftovers and some greens from the back garden. I finish the abandoned dishes
and sweep the floors. The men show no sign of coming in. I feel unsettled,
still.
I rummage in my chest at the bottom of the bed and find old
paper and older ink. The oxblood needs just a touch of water, though, and it’s fine
enough to write out the various messages I suspect need to be written.
Hopefully my precautions will be unnecessary, but hope is a thin soup to rely
on.
With the last heat of the oven warming more broth and the
last sun lighting their way, the men stomp into the house. Bram clucks at me
for doing too much, and I admit I’m tired. Abashed, the boys—for the afternoon
has wiped any signs of age from their faces-- insist I sit down by the fire and
then serve up dinner themselves. I am tired, it’s true, but I also feel content
with this day’s work. Simeon still does not move as carelessly as his friends,
but I’m sure some clarity has settled upon him, or at least some comfort. She
leaves a mark, invisible to the eye, that still can be seen.
Our stomachs full, we sit quietly enjoying the peace for a
bit. Then Bram sets the others tasks to put the animals right before bed or to
scrub the dishes. He insists I stay by the banked embers and I don’t feel like
arguing. I close my eyes, as my mind goes over the day’s events, seeking patterns
or explanations.
The face in the shadows draws closer, and I consider the old
scars on Simeon’s body. Of course, just as Her passage leaves no mark but still
affects us, the dark’s power is just as real even if there isn’t a scar for
every golden chance the shadow devours.
I am not as old as I look to Simeon and his friends, but I
have studied the dark and the shadows it casts as deeply as any scholar with a
beard as long as his robe. It has sent soldiers to scare us, and we showed no
fear. It will send at least one more creature to try and bend our wills before
it comes itself, I think. There are variations on the tale, of course, and
maybe the shadow will cloak itself in a mask or three, to trick or seduce us
itself rather than send a minion.
But I consider the velvet, and the weakness of the arm that dealt the blows,
and I think the face in shadow will wait a little longer, safe in its shadow.
We may have unexpected guests for a week or longer before the shadow gives in
to curiousity or is consumed by fear and lashes out with its bejeweled hands.
The young men sleep on pallets on the floor, and Bram helps
me up the ladder into the loft, where we make a cozy bed below the garlic and
herbs, hanging from the roof beams. We whisper between ourselves, just as the
young men do, and fall asleep content we are of one mind.
I almost knock over my bucket, and bite down a curse when a snore below reminds
me we are not alone this early morning. Bram squeezes my hand but lets me do my
business before pulling me back to bed. Maybe the chickens can wait a little
longer for their breakfast.
I wake again when someone trips over a bench, and Bram and I
grin at each other in the morning’s lazy light. He is out of bed first, and I
smile to see the peace on his face. If I do no other good thing, I think
rescuing his soul from the dark future he thought was his fate will be enough
to grant me a star in the sky. A small one, but especially shiny.
Bram shimmies down the ladder while I’m still addressing my
morning bucket. I wonder if I should save it for Lani, or if she will stay away
for fear of what new monsters my clearing might have attracted. I peek out from
under the eaves, but there are no soldiers pointing swords in my direction, so
I shrug and go carefully down the ladder.
George has mastered the fire, and is pouring out tea with a
great sense of accomplishment. Simeon, Isidore and Bram have gone out to deal
with the livestock. This leaves me at loose ends, so I pull out a small blanket
I’d saved for the baby and hem it by the fire. All the doors and windows are
open wide, and the day is bright and fine, so when the men come back I suggest
we build a big fire and boil the dirty clothes that have been piling up. The
young men’s velvets I never did learn to clean, between one thing and another,
but their underthings can be boiled and scrubbed as neatly as mine.
We usually get our drinking water higher up the stream,
where it is a little sweeter, but for wash water there’s no reason to leave our
clearing; the swimming hole at its southern end will do fine. With all the
extra help, Bram doesn’t mind hauling the fire wood or the water, and I avoid
answering his raised eyebrows when I instruct the young men how to wash all the
fabric in the house.
Isidore has no trouble taking down the curtains, and George
and Simeon strip the mattresses and collect the wash rags, too. I throw in some
of the good soap flakes, made from last autumn’s butchered pig and scented with
lavender I grew myself.
Bram laughs and scrounges up extra rope from the lean-to, as
our regular clothesline is just right for two. He hangs a temporary rope from
the back door to the apple tree I hope to sit under when the babe comes.
The men are damp and sweating, and for once on wash day I
feel bright and cheerful. I take the scrubbed clothes and hang them out to dry,
and promise them that their clothes will be ready to wear again, after they
spend the afternoon swimming in the pond.
Bram collects some rabbit snares and fishing nets, though he
grumbles the boys’ noise will chase off any game that might otherwise stumble
his way. I give him a hamper with wrinkled fruit and fresh cheese and a jug of
cider and shoo them off. I have work to do.
I use the warm water to wash the windows and scrub the
floors. Jack decides that, lovely though the patch of sun by the front door is,
it would be wiser to seek a drier bed and dances towards the men at the pond.
When the floors are scrubbed I make my own hamper, and include an almost-dry
change of clothes and follow the forest path until it meets the stream, a good
ten minute walk away from my cottage.
I lay the clean clothes on the bank to finish drying, and
place my short boots next to them. Then, with a brave breath, I march into the
stream. The water here is cold, but I’ve worked up a sweat and don’t mind its
bite as much as I did a month ago, when the air was colder and my ankles
weren’t as swollen. I wade out to the middle of the stream, where it’s just past
my knees. I plop down in the water with a handful of soap flakes and scrub my
hair and all the rest of me, including the underdress and smock I’m still
wearing.
They get a bath too, and then with a quick shy glance around
me for appearance sake, I strip all my wet clothes off and lay them on the
bank, too.
I ease myself back into the water. My stomach’s roundness
still surprises me, and I rub it gently when I wash it. I duck my hair under
the water a few times, and when it’s clear I sip the sweet water from my cupped
hands. I can feel the baby swim in me, as I swim in the stream, and I wonder
what She thinks of all this life in life.
There’s a rustle in the bushes, but it’s just Jack come to
check on me. His other human found he whuffles off and I sigh. My fingers are
wrinkled, it’s time to leave the water.
I dress in my clean clothes, and stretch out on the bank
with a slice of leftover pie from last night. The water’s soft music almost
puts me to sleep. Instead, I roust myself and walk back to the cottage, humming
a lullaby the water reminded me of.
I pause on the forest path when my cottage is in view. I
can’t remember if I left the door open or shut, but I’m sure the windows were
open when I left. I wanted to make sure the fresh air did its part to dry out
the floor. Now, everything is closed tight as a miser’s purse.
I listen, but I don’t hear anything but birds and the wind
through the fresh green leaves. I get about ten feet away from the cottage and
call out, “Hello the house!”
Bram opens the top half of the door, and motions me closer.
I trust him, but I also trust my blood and it isn’t buzzing like a bees’ nest
of warning, so I come close.
“We weathered an attack, but I think it would be good if you
give us more time before you return,” he murmurs, softening the parting with a
kiss. I smile and nod. I don’t need to be part of every significant moment, after
all.
“There’s some weeding I need to do,” I say, and kiss him
back. I toss my other clothes on the branch of the apple tree to finish airing out
among its blossoms, and take my empty lunch basket with me to the garden.
I weed around the herbs, the occasional bruised leaf’s smell
entertaining my nose. When the bed looks good enough, I gather a few herbs for
a treat for the hens. They cluck and scratch and I check on the goat but she’s
got a few more days to go and just blinks at me as she chews her feed.
I’m leaning on her fence, wondering if I should try to find
something else useful to do when Bram comes out and leans next to me.
“Safe to come in, yet?”
“Soon,” he says, staring into the darkly green woods, “Soon.
She sent his brother.”
“Which she?” I ask, considering the woods as well.
“His mother. She sent his older brother to check on him,
make sure Simeon was alright. He couldn’t get into the clearing, though, which
seemed to shock him.”
“He probably needed a good shocking. I expect he hasn’t had
many ways blocked to him.”
“He is the oldest son of a great lord.”
“Of course he is.”
“And he insisted she was worried and then he warned that she
was angry.”
“Of course she is. And I wonder if, without Simeon to take
her anger out on, she’s treating her older son less well.”
Bram shrugs, “I didn’t see any marks on him, but he
certainly wasn’t happy that Simeon didn’t immediately pull his forelock and follow
him home with his tail between his legs.”
“What about George and Isidore?”
“They had gone back to the cottage for more lunch, so they
missed most of the encounter.”
“But you were there.”
“I was.”
I sigh, “Oh, Bram, don’t tease me.”
He chuckles and bumps my shoulder with his, “When coaxing
and warning didn’t work, he lost his temper a bit. Started shouting that Simeon
was a worthless baggage and not worth all the money his doting parents had
invested in him.”
My lip curls up into a snarl. As if people—one’s own children,
even—are only as valuable as their usefulness.
“So I turned my back on him and smiled at Simeon and said, ‘Isn’t
it interesting how, for someone so worthless, your mother is spending so very
much trying to get you back.’ And Simeon laughed. It wasn’t the greatest guffaw
I’ve ever gotten, but it will do.”
My eyes gleam with pride, “And how did his brother take
that?”
“He took himself off, after he threw some words about blood
being thicker than water at us.”
I harrumph a little, “It may be, but if I was wandering in a
desert, I know which I would rather drink.”
We glance at each other and smile, and one of his hands reaches
over to caress my belly, “Of course, our family will be different.”
I sniff, “Of course. And we’ll make mistakes and our
children will get angry at us and we’ll get angry at them. But they will be
their own people and we will apologize when we are wrong and they will always
know they can laugh.”
“Children, eh? How many are you thinking of, my love? Am I
going to have to build another room on our house?”
I lean into him, “We’ll figure it out as we go along, I
expect.”
We spend some time figuring things out, until George coughs and
we pull away from each other slowly.
“We’ve been talking. Simeon seems much better, now,” says George,
his voice a little rougher than the golden tones I’ve already become used to, “And
Isidore’s family of birth wouldn’t mind if he came home a little early from his
journey, especially if he brought a friend home. And they live far enough away that
they wouldn’t care what Simeon’s family thought about it.”
“That is a good plan,” Bram says slowly, after I squeeze his
hand, “Simeon is much improved and has Her blessing, but one more night under
our roof will be very important for his ongoing health.”
George frowns, so I put my hand out, “Come inside and at
least have another meal with us before you go.”
George acquiesces as we each take an elbow and propel him
back into the cottage. I collect all the journey bread I made yesterday, and
wrap it carefully in waxed paper parcels. The young men gather their clean dry
clothes from outside. Their movements are not urgent, but they are firm in
purpose. Bram and I catch each other’s eye many times, but all we can do is
shrug. They will find their path with or without us, the least we can do is not
throw broken glass in their way.
We have spare bags from market days that we give them,
filled with bread and Bram’s old clothes. It isn’t much, but it certainly is
better than what they came with. The sun will set very soon, and Bram gets them
to agree that heading out once the sun has set and the full moon has risen is
the safest thing.
We fill their bellies up on thick rabbit stew and sweet
bread and make sure they know how to get from here to the next town big enough
they can trade some of their smaller rings for fast, sound horses. We pull
benches outside under the apple tree, to watch the sun set beyond the woods,
and Isidore pulls out a reed flute he made while the men paddled in the pond.
The music he plays for us is not like the simple songs I sing to myself, but it
has a beauty that calls to me nonetheless. The baby kicks as it dances inside
me. Jack howls along with the song, and we laugh a little sadly at the parting
that comes too soon.
Then Jack’s howl is taken up by other, darker voices, and we
stop laughing.
George stands up from the bench first, but I’m happy to see
that Simeon is right behind him, while Isidore and Bram flank the other two,
scanning the woods. The howls get louder, and clearly come from the forest path
that the guards took this morning.
I sit where I am, and watch.
Grey and white and tan hunting hounds tumble to a stop at
the edge of the clearing. Even by the tricky light of the setting sun, it’s
clear their ribs stick out as much as Simeon’s do. I don’t growl, but Jack does
and I don’t shush him.
A few guards and masters of the hunt, in matching green and
gold livery, pull up on either side of the path. Perhaps other guards wander
around the edge but I know we can safely ignore them. I watch the path, and
finally the face I have been waiting for comes out of the shadows.
She is here; the way Simeon’s back stiffens in front of me I
know who she is.
One of her guards helps her down from her huge white horse.
She marches to the edge of the clearing and glares at our little party.
“Simeon, come,” she orders, in the same tones I’ve heard
masters of the hunt use on their hounds.
He breathes in sharply, and I hope the apple flower scented
air steadies him. I have to believe something does. Maybe the nearness of his
friends, or maybe the last whisper of Her passing. She feels close to me this
evening, and my blood sings like the songs Isidore played on his pipes.
“No,” he says. Bram has turned slightly toward Simeon, so I
can see the big smile on his face and I silently cheer the young man on, “I
will not. I will stay here until I am ready to go elsewhere, and then I will go
there.”
Her mouth would drop open if it were not so well-bred. Her
eyes flash, and I know that she may be thwarted but she is not done, “Simeon! You
owe it to your family to return. You owe me, your father, the luxury you have
grown up in, the tutors we have thrown at your feet!”
“No,” he says again, and I can feel him savoring the word
like a fine wine in his mouth, “I did not ask for luxury. I did not ask to be
your child, and I did not want the things you gave me.”
I hear the unspoken words, the ones asking for love and care
and gentleness, the birthright of every child. The things I doubt he got.
She stiffens and looks around her at the silent audience her
grand ego required. I hope she regrets them now.
“You… must…” I can’t see his face, but clearly she can see
that this line of attack won’t work any longer. Quickly she shifts, because she
is not actually stupid. Just the wrong kind of clever, “Simeon, I am your
mother. I need my son with me by my side.”
Her voice has changed again, sweet and loving. Simeon’s arm twitches,
and then I see that he has grabbed George’s hand. Or maybe George has grabbed
his. Either way, their hands hold each other tight.
“You have a son, Lady Caroline, and a daughter, too. They
will have to be enough, I want no more of you and your mothering.”
Her eyes flash, and her arm also twitches. There’s movement
behind her, in the gathering dark. I can’t see well, but Bram’s eyes are
trained well and I feel frightened when I see his dear face go cold.
Then I see. I see a small figure, even smaller than Lani.
Her robe is long and dark green, more like the guards than the woman’s court
garb.
“Iris, Simeon doesn’t love you any more.”
The girl trembles, staring at Simeon with dark eyes.
The woman’s arm comes down, and her riding crop hits the
girl’s narrow shoulder right where the seam of her gown would dig in most, “If
he loved you he would make the pain stop. He is making me hurt you because he
has hurt me. He is a bad son and a bad brother.”
Simeon’s back is unreadable. The tiny girl, Iris, does not
weep aloud but I can see tears running down her cheeks.
Thwack, thwack. The crop comes down. We watch.
The woman pauses, I think more because her arm is tired than
because the moment is right. She calls softly to Simeon, “You can make it
stop.”
I hear his shuddering breath, and I wonder if Iris was the
only one crying silently in my clearing in the dark, “No, I cannot. I could
never make you do anything you didn’t want to do. Something in you wants to
hurt me, to hurt all of us, and I can’t understand that. I… I will not
understand that. I will not let you turn me into a monster like you. I do not
give you permission.”
This doesn’t sound like a magnificent battle cry to me, but
he knows his mother better than I do.
“Kill!” she screams at her hungry dogs, and they lunge… but
they cannot come past the boundaries of my clearing, “Kill!” she screams again,
and they do what they have been trained to do.
The guards still on horseback do best, as their horses
decide to run away and take them with them. The handlers who keep their wits
about them, and perhaps who also were kind or maybe just lucky, manage to calm
and control the animals who turn towards them.
I get up and Bram takes my elbow and we approach the edge of
the clearing. The young men rush ahead of us, all three focusing on Iris. The
girl ran away from her mother, as soon as she could, and made it most of the
way into my clearing before the dogs got her. Her right foot is barely a foot
anymore, though.
Simeon looks at me, tears in his eyes, “Sister… Lady…
please.”
I take his hand, for blood calls to blood, and place it on
her leg. She is with him, as I suspected, and we feel Her pass through him and
into his sister. I remove my hand, for it is a gift She has given him, now, and
none of my doing. We all stare as the skin under his hand knits together over
sinew and bone.
“What,” says George.
Iris’s eyes are huge in her face, and she stares up at her
brother with something firmly between fear and relief.
“I…” says Simeon, and then he collapses next to his sister
on the ground.
“Take them inside,” I say, “She has given Simeon her blessing,
twice in two days. They need to rest. And I must clean up this mess.”
Isidore frowns, “Is he now a Blood… Brother?”
I shrug, “Ask him when he wakes. Now he needs to rest.”
Bram coaxes the others along and they all go in while I
survey the damage.
There are only three dead, their throats ripped out, and I
see that none of their fellow handlers have made any move to cover their faces
or offer the smallest death blessing, so I must assume the dogs chose well. The
handlers have certainly moved on past any blessing I can give.
“Sister, I beg your mercy.”
I glance around at the handlers still standing, but none of
them are bloody enough to chance my touch. I turn, and look down at her broken body,
and the mess she has made. So much blood on her hands, and she would still seek
more.
I kneel down, but do not touch her bloody skin; I shake my
head, “No.”
Her eyes widen in shock, but I get no thrill of pleasure in
seeing her surprise.
“But, Blood Sisters cannot take a life!”
Her breathing slows, gutters like a candle almost out.
“It’s true, we do not take life. But sometimes, Lady
Caroline, we give death.”
I watch in silence as her last breath leaves her body and whatever
is left after that steps into the last great merciful dark. Someone must watch
and make sure, to give what comfort this certainty can give to those she has
hurt.
I hear footsteps and Bram’s familiar breathing, “Is she
gone?”
“Yes," I sigh.
Bram tugs me by the
elbow, and I rise slowly to my feet, facing her corpse. I wonder if we should
build a bonfire, to throw the bodies on before they stink. That might do for
the dead dog handlers, but the Baron might frown at us burning up his guest, even a dead one. I glance at the carnage around us, and wonder what the Baron will think of it all. I sigh again.
Bram squeezes my elbow, “Iris will heal.”
“Skin heals much faster than hearts,” I reply
absentmindedly. Maybe just a little fire, on her right foot.
Bram wraps his whole arm around me, though gives up trying
to drag me away. Finally his warmth burrows through my dress and skin and
reaches my heart. I inhale, and lean against him.
"I don't know what to do with all these... people."
He chuckles and murmurs into my ear, “Does our babe need an
older sister?”
I laugh, and finally let him turn me away from the dark
woods, “I did say I wanted a big family.”
“Come into the house, my love, and I will make you tea.”
I lean into him, and see the bright lanterns burning through
the windows of our home. There are people inside the cottage waiting for us. Maybe they will have bright ideas, or maybe they will just tell us jokes and make music and the dark will listen and laugh along with us.
“Yes, it is definitely time for tea.”
