Daughter Of The Forest (36 page)

“Nonsense, of course,” he said to himself. The others were at the cave entrance, Ben keeping a lookout, John clearing away branches to make a safer path. “Nothing but dreams. And yet, such dreams. A man could lose his mind in this accursed country.”

Then he turned and went out, and I followed him, since that seemed to be the only thing to do.

I wondered, later, why it did not break my heart to go away across the sea, far from the forest, leaving no sign my brothers could read, no map or chart by which they might find me. The boat went east, and perhaps a little south; I supposed that we were heading for Britain. But where? Had I been able to think, had I been myself, that would have been a day almost beyond bearing. But the sea, as well as being wide beyond imagining, was stirred by freakish winds, and before long I was lying across the side of the small sailing boat, retching convulsively, as my body rejected what little food it had in it. Between the spasms, I heard the caustic comments of the two men, Ben and John, and the dour boatman who held the tiller. Red kept himself busy and said nothing. I wondered how much he’d let them get away with, before he decided to inform them that I could understand their jokes and curses. For all this, they took their turns in holding my head, and wiping my face, and shielding me from the wind. The voyage seemed to take forever, and I vowed to myself that when at last I returned home, that would be the one and only time I would ever go by water again. I felt so wretched, I hardly thought beyond my churning gut and my aching head. And so my homeland slipped away, and I scarcely felt the pain of parting.

At last the rocking stopped, and the boat was still. It was dusk, and I could hear gulls calling. The men were keeping their voices down.
Norsemen
, they said, and
lie low
. Then I was plucked out of the boat and carried into the shelter of a shallow cave, little more than a shelf of rock under which the wind was slightly less biting. I lay there wrapped in my cloak, shivering. I had not even the energy to look around me in the last light, to try to work out where we might have landed.

“No fire,” said Red. “John, you’ll take the first watch. Then wake me. We must be off again before dawn; the less attention we attract in these parts the better. The islands provide safe anchorage, but once out in open waters again we are easy prey for Dane or Pict alike.”

My heart sank. Off again by dawn. So there was to be more. This was only some midway point, and we must sail on, up and down, up and down…

“The girl’s not well,” John said bluntly. “You’d best get some water into her, at least, if you expect her to last the journey.”

There was no response to this, but some time later a cup of water was placed beside me, and I took it and drank it, knowing what was good for me. I managed to keep it down, and I began to feel a little better. But I was cold, and my limbs were cramped and aching. I sat up and looked around me.

The pale expanse of sand and the jagged rocks around it were bathed in cool moonlight. We were quite close to the water’s edge, for the stretch of shore that sloped up to this half shelter was narrow; and above the gentle whisper of the small waves, as they advanced and retreated, I thought I could hear the deep, hollow voices of strange creatures, far out in the darkness, calling to one another. Along where the rocks ran into the sea, John stood looking out across the water.

“Here.” The other two, Ben and Red, were sitting near me, backs against the rock wall, and they were eating. The boatman seemed to be asleep. Now Ben offered me a strip of the dried meat, and I shuddered in response.

“She eats apples,” said Red. “Here, try this.”

My stomach was starting to settle, and I realized I was very hungry. He cut the fruit neatly and passed it to me piece by piece, until it was all gone.

“Good,” he said approvingly. “Now get up and walk to ease the cramps from your legs, for we’ve another sea voyage tomorrow. But keep quiet. We may be in safe mooring here, but we can’t afford to take any chances.”

I walked along the sand and stretched my aching legs, and I looked out over the water, trying to see what lay beyond. But it was night, and I was not sure if I saw land, or if I simply wished it were there in the darkness. Later, cold as I was, I slept, and then it was dawn, and time to set out again.

I heard Red tell the boatman to make straight for the priory. I heard the men talk about horses, and how quickly they might make the ride home, and cheerfully anticipating food and wine and a warm hearth. And then I looked back the way we had come. Looked back at the place where we had sheltered, and realized what it was. The waters were calm, the dawn turning them pearly blue and gray and pink. There was a big island somewhat to the north of us; low, wooded, and dotted with signs of human habitation. But that was not the place we had landed.

“We don’t put in there,” said Red, who was watching me. “Land in one of those coves, and you’re as likely to run into an Ostman or a Dane as you are a friend. That’s why we use Little Island.”

I had missed it before, when he spoke of it. I had been too tired and sick to think. But there behind us in the shining waters, already vanishing from sight as our small craft made its way east, were three islands. They were not much more than rocks in the wide expanse of sea, places where birds might nest and weeds might take precarious hold on slippery surfaces. They were places a fisherman might pass by, without paying much attention at all, save to take care near the sharp rocks that encircled the tallest one. But even without the name, I recognized what they were. Greater Island, Little Island, and the Needle. I had slept on the mystic ground of the islands, and I had not even known it until I was gone. I looked back until the tall pillar of stone that was the Needle had disappeared from view; and then my stomach heaved and I leaned over the side and it all began again.

It took a good part of another day, sailing east and then a little north, before land came into view again. There were cliffs and breakers, and beyond them a rolling, rising, green hill dotted with groves of oak and beech. There was a long, low building set high, and a tower with a cross. It seemed we were to shelter there overnight before going on.

It was a house of women; holy sisters, dedicated like Father Brien to the Christian faith, but living together communally, unlike my solitary friend. What they thought of our sudden appearance on their doorstep was hard to tell. It seemed they knew Lord Hugh, whom they treated with some respect, almost deference. Quite soon, I was bundled off inside and the men retired to some other area to await refreshment. John had carried me up from the landing; the good sisters took one look at me and ordered him to hand me into their care. As they took me away, I looked around wildly for my bag; it had been on the boat, I knew that, but in my sickness I had forgotten it. There must be no neglect of my task from now on, the Fair Folk had made this plain. Where were my three shirts of starwort? They must be kept safe, that was the only thing that really mattered. Swans could die so easily; the huntsman’s arrow, the jaws of the wolf, the bite of winter. How could I have left this so long? As the sisters led me away, I strained to look back over my shoulder. The men were just leaving the building. As he went out the door, Red turned back for a moment. He met my rather wild look, and gestured to where he had my small pack tucked into the top of his own. Then he was gone. Within the cloisters, only women could come. We would see the men later, the sister informed me, at the evening meal. Now I must come with her, for, the twitch of her nose told me, I was in serious need of cleaning up.

I was sick and exhausted. I let them pour warm water over me, and wash me from head to toe, exclaiming at the way my bones stuck through the flesh, at my damaged hands, noting with tight lips my other injuries, not yet fully healed, questioning me kindly but shrewdly about who I was and where I came from. They washed my hair with rosemary oil and rinsed it with lavender. They found me a homespun gown and a girdle, and they fed me bread and milk while a young novice with a fresh, rosy complexion undertook the long and thankless task of combing out my hair. They were careful not to let me eat too much; I myself knew well the effect this might have on one long starved of proper nourishment. After this I rested, with my newly braided hair down my back, and my clean clothes harsh and uncomfortable against my skin. Gradually the world stopped wheeling and turning around me, and my stomach settled. For a while a tranquil-browed sister sat by me, but when she thought I slept, she left me alone in the tiny whitewashed cell, with a plain cross of ash wood its only ornament. I could not sleep but lay there thinking; and later I got up and went out into the garden which now lay dim and peaceful in twilight. It was well tended, with culinary herbs in neat hedges, with flowers for drying and vegetables for the table keeping harmonious company in its narrow space. I was happier sitting there on the earth among the cabbages, my hands around my knees. It had been a long time since I had slept inside.

There was a wholesome smell of new-baked bread, and a savory soup cooking. Lights showed in the building at the far end of the garden, and dishes clattered. There had been bells, before; maybe the sisters were at prayer. However, I heard voices outside the garden wall.

“…would be best to leave her here. She hasn’t the strength for further travel. She needs a long rest, proper food and spiritual counseling.”

“That’s not possible. We have been away too long already. Your hospitality for tonight is very welcome, but we must move on in the morning.”

The sister’s sigh was audible. “Forgive me, Lord Hugh. I hope you will heed an old woman’s advice, and not take my words amiss. This is just a child, and she has been hurt, I think, more than perhaps you know. Leave her with us, and travel on if you must. It will be better for her here, and better for you if you leave her behind.”

There was a pause.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “The girl travels with me.”

“Have you considered how it will be for your family, if you return with her to Harrowfield? Her kind are not welcome here; and you have powerful enemies.”

“You think I cannot protect her?”

“My lord, I have no doubt of your strength, and your integrity. I think, rather, that you do not fully understand what you are taking on here. Perhaps you do not fully appreciate the depth of feeling against these people. You cannot house an orphaned owl among your chickens, and expect no worse than ruffled feathers. By insisting on this, not only do you lay the girl open to attack, but you risk your own safety and that of your kin.”

There was no reply to this. I heard their steps on a gravel walkway, which must pass up and down just outside the kitchen garden.

“I must ask you,” added the nun in diffident tones, “and you should not take this wrongly. I have known you a long time, my lord, and it is in the awareness of this that I speak of such a delicate matter. I said before that the girl had been hurt. She is not much more than a child; tired, hungry, and heartsick. But for all that, she is a woman; and some man has used her ill in recent times. I must ask you how well you trust your companions. I will not insult you by suggesting—”

Red swore explosively and I heard the crunch of boots on the stones of the path as if he made a sudden violent movement.

“In the light of this,” went on the sister calmly, ‘perhaps you will reconsider the wisdom of taking her back to your household? The silence and contemplation we practice can provide healing for both body and spirit. And she will not be frightened here.”

There was another long pause.

“Thank you for your advice,” he said finally, and his tone distanced her with its formality. “I will wait another night, maybe, until the girl is rested. Then we move onto Harrowfield.” And with that it appeared the conversation was closed, and they walked away out of earshot.

During the day and two nights I spent in that place, I acquired two things. I walked in the garden, early in the morning, and there behind the neat rows of vegetables, the stakes and strings ready for their creeping blanket of peas or beans, the freshly turned dungheap, I saw a familiar plant growing. It was not so out of place here in this domestic scene, for its leaves give a pleasant yellow dye, if you are prepared to handle the unforgiving stems. There were two sisters working quietly in the garden, and I managed to convey to them in dumb show what it was I wanted. There was serious consultation between them and one of them went off, perhaps to ask the prioress’s advice, maybe to ask Red. At any rate, when she returned she held a sack and a knife, and she gave these to me without further question. My delight must have shown on my face, for the sisters smiled back, and went methodically on with their labors as I set to with all my strength. By the end of the morning I had a good sackful of starwort, enough to last me until midwinter, I thought. I tried not to think what would happen, if they would not let me spin and weave and sew, where we were going.

The second thing I acquired was a name. The priory might be a place of quiet contemplation, but the holy sisters were not lacking in good humor, and the evening meal was a chance for relaxed, even spirited, conversation. Some of them, I thought, took great enjoyment from the unexpected presence of three men at their table, and I supposed their elders thought a little mirth not so bad for the soul, after the long days of quiet meditation. As we sat at table on the second evening, one of the sisters brought up the subject.

“Your young lady needs a name,” she said. “You can’t keep calling her ‘girl’ as if she were a dog following your steps. Has she a name?”

“If she has, she can’t tell us what it is,” said John. “But you’re right, Sister. Every living thing needs its name.”

“She should be given one before you return home,” said the prioress. “A good Christian name, Elizabeth perhaps, or Agnes. Agnes would suit well enough.”

One of the young novices spoke up. “She reminds me of a small bird, perhaps a jenny wren,” she said, smiling, “with her fine bones and bright eyes. Jenny would be a good name.” She caught her superior’s eye and fell silent, blushing.