Daughter Of The Forest (56 page)

“I have never taken a woman against her will,” he said. “Never. And I’m not about to start now. Especially—” he did not finish this particular thought. “Do you believe this?”

I nodded.
It’s not just that; though that is a part of it
.

“Will it help, if I tell you that others know of this, that your return to Harrowfield has been prepared? You will not have to break this news to my mother. Elaine has done so, before she returned home.”

I had thought I could be shocked no further; I was wrong.
Elaine knew? Who else? Does the whole household know, before ever you ask me?
He gave a grim little smile that did not reach his eyes.

“I spoke only to those whom I could trust. Elaine, yes; she deserved an explanation, and I gave one. She is not only my cousin, Jenny, but an old friend; I have known her since we were children. She bore a burden for us today, in telling them; it is a source of wonder to me that my uncle produced such a daughter. Ben knows too; his part in this is vital. He will take you home, and be your protector while I am gone. And—and I spoke of my intentions to John, long since.”

There was silence. A weighty silence. At length I got up, and walked down to the sea again, and the sand was still good under my bare feet, and the afternoon sun still benign. But everything was changed. At the time, I had not understood John’s last words, had dismissed them as the jumbled ravings of a man dying in intense pain. What had he said?
Red, right choice. Say yes
. Something like that, when you put it together. And I had nodded to him, mindlessly hoping to soothe his distress. I had agreed. You did not break a promise to a dying man. Especially when his death was your fault.

I walked along the beach again, as the shadows lengthened and the sea grew dark. Down by the water, the mermaid was almost gone. All that was left of her was a strand of dark, knotted hair and one delicate, reaching hand. I sat and watched as the ocean took her back, down to its secret places. I cleared my mind; sought for answers. But this time no wise inner voice came to my aid. There were only hard, cold facts. My brothers were returning There was still one shirt to finish, and another yet unmade. Someone had burned my work, someone had killed my friend. Red was going away. And I had promised John. There was but one conclusion. I had to trust that Hugh of Harrowfield had made another of his sensible, calculated decisions. That he was, as they described him, a man who could not make a wrong choice. I had to say yes, though it made my heart cold to think of it.

Nonetheless, as we stood together on the rocks a little later, watching the great sea creatures one last time as they made their slow way down the beach and slipped into the water, transformed instantly into magical, graceful swimmers, there was one more question I had to ask. One he knew well.

You—promise—me, home? Me, across the water, home?

“I will not break my promise, Jenny,” he said. “When it’s time, when you are ready to go, I will see you safe home. When it’s time, you must ask me, and—” he did not finish this sentence. But it was enough.

It was getting late. The beach was half in shadow, the sky darkening. I realized there would be no return to Harrowfield that night. He did not press me for my answer; he just stood there, watching the seals, waiting. He had done a lot of waiting. A scrap of parchment lay on the rocks behind him; the rising breeze threatened to snatch it away from the around stone that had held it there while the ink dried. There he had made his final meticulous markings that morning as he sat there in the sun; that morning that seemed, already, so long ago. But there were no tallies of cattle or crops on this page, only pictures, small delicate pictures in careful pen strokes. I had watched him at this task before, and marveled at how he could choose to work, and disregard the wonder of the place that surrounded him. But it seemed he had not needed to look, to know its beauty. For this sheet showed the open sky, and the smooth, shining surfaces of wet stones, and the curling lace of breakers. It showed the great seals with their knowing eyes, and the flight of the gull against tiny scudding clouds. At the foot, very small, was the last image he had made. A young woman running, her hair blown out behind her like a dark, wild cloud, her gown whipped against her body by the breeze, her face alight with joy. Red reached across and picked up the parchment, slipping it out of sight between the boards and away into his pack. I thought, after all this time, I do not know this man. I don’t know him at all.

There was a sound from above, beyond the cliff top. The hoot of a bird; one I had heard before. Red put his hands to his mouth and echoed the call back.

“It’s time to go,” he said; but he wasn’t moving. I drew a deep breath. Never had I wished so strongly that I need not answer. My hands set grimly to work. I indicated myself; pointed to the left hand, third finger. Nodded briefly. Could not help adding a shrug and a frown. I watched him to make sure he understood. There was a quick flare of reaction, deep in the pale eyes, instantly suppressed. He nodded gravely, face devoid of expression.

“Good. I hoped you would agree to this. Come on, then. We don’t have a lot of time left.”

It had all been planned, down to the last detail. He had assumed, I thought with some bitterness, that I would say yes. Had known I had no real choice. Ben was waiting; we rode a short distance, stopped in a clearing by a little stone building where another man waited. Tonsured head, homespun habit. A holy father; a solitary hermit like my old friend, Father Brien. It was over quickly, so quickly there was no time to think. He spoke the words of the ceremony, we responded as we must. There was an awkward moment, then it became apparent I must make my vow without words. The shrewd-eyed priest looked at Red, looked at me, and hesitated. But he asked me, kindly enough, if I understood the words; if I knew what I was doing. And I nodded, and nodded again, and before long I had taken Hugh of Harrowfield as my husband, in holy wedlock. Ben stood by as witness, and he said little and kept his hand on his sword hilt. Only in that enchanted cove, it seemed, had we been safe. Only for a single day.

It was growing dark. Ben led the hermit aside, speaking in low tones. What now? I thought. Do we wait here, in the woods, until daybreak?

“I have something for you,” said Red, who still stood beside me. He was fishing in his pocket. “I want you to wear this, if you will. A bride should not return home with no token of her marriage, though she returns without a husband. Here, take it.

Something small, light, strung on a strong, fine loop of cord. It was a ring; but, as I held it up in the fading light, I saw that it was a ring such as I had never seen before. This tiny object had been carved from the heart of a great oak. It was thin and delicate, the work of a master craftsman. Its inner surface was smooth as silk, its outer patterned with an intricate design wrought over many long evenings with fine strokes of the knife; a circlet of trailing oak leaves right around, with tiny acorns here and there, and a single, small owl perched solemn-eyed in the foliage. This ring had not been made for Elaine. I slipped the cord over my neck, and the token inside the neckline of my gown, over my heart, where it hung beside another, older talisman which had once been my mother’s, and then Finbar’s. I looked at Red. His face gave nothing away. I thought, this does not make sense. He was working on this before John died, all winter before the fire, long since. But that meant—

“The boat’s waiting for you.” Ben’s voice came out of the darkness. “Boatsman says he can land you before dawn, plenty of time to go to ground. Are you ready?”

“No,” said Red. “But I must go anyway. Farewell, Jenny. Be safe till I return.”

I was frozen, unable to move.
Don’t go. Not yet. It’s too soon
. But my hands were still, my tongue, as ever, silent.

“I’ll bring you an apple,” he said, and he turned and disappeared into the shadows. “The first apple of the autumn.” And he was gone. I had not said farewell, and he was gone.

A tale can start in many ways. Thus, it is many tales, and at the same time each of these is but one way of telling the same story. There were once two brothers. This is the tale of the elder brother, a man who had everything. He was good, strong, wise, and wealthy. He was a man who always made the right choices. He was a man contented with what he had; more than contented, for he was bound by both love and duty to nurture his inheritance. Until, one day, he realized it was not enough. There were once two brothers. This is the tale of the younger brother, who was clever and skillful and wild, a man with curling hair the color of summer sun on a barley field. There were people that loved him, but he didn’t see this. There was a place for him, but he never felt welcome there. Always, he saw himself as second best. His brother would inherit the estate; he, a little parcel of land nobody wanted. His brother would marry well, to safeguard the estate and consolidate his power; but who would want a younger son, with no future? His brother always got things right. He, on occasion, made mistakes of epic proportions. This is also the tale of a young woman. Who she was, nobody was quite sure, except that she had strange green eyes and hair like midnight, and she came from over the water. In a moment of uncharacteristic folly, the elder brother took her for his wife. Then he disappeared, just as the younger had; and all they left in their place was the witch girl, spinning and weaving and sewing her strange cloth of spindlebush, and not a word out of her, not a single sound. They said she wouldn’t speak, not even when the rocks fell right by her, and a man lay dying. They said she was a woman with no human feelings, a sorceress, and that when she snatched Lord Hugh from right under the nose of his betrothed, with never a by-your-leave, she tore the heart right out of the valley. That was what they said.

It had been a difficult homecoming. Red’s confidence that Elaine could prepare the household had not been entirely justified. She had done her best; everyone knew the wedding was off, and that instead, Hugh had done the unthinkable and married me. Elaine was gone, and so was Richard, and I owed her a great debt for that. What she hadn’t told them, and couldn’t, because nobody knew but Ben and me, was that their beloved Hugh was not coming back home with his new bride. It was an uncomfortable homecoming, as Ben explained as well as he could, without saying exactly where Red had gone, and I stood wearily in the hall, encircled by shocked faces and curious eyes. Lady Anne was a strong woman. She recovered first, outwardly at least. Servants were despatched for ale and mead. Ladies were dismissed, hovering men-at-arms sent on their way. For Lady Anne, duty was paramount. So she gave me a chilly kiss on the brow, and said, “Welcome, daughter,” in a voice choked with restraint. It was only at that moment I remembered that it was just one day since Richard had told her that Simon was dead. Then she sat me down, and put a cup of mead in my hands; and after a while she called Megan to show me where my new quarters would be. I had not thought so far ahead. But all was prepared, in a spacious chamber upstairs, which I suspected had never been Red’s, for it was too comfortable by far. There was a wide bed, blanketed in fine wool, and a small cheerful fire burned on the tiled hearth. There were tapestries on the walls, and candles lit. Garlands of flowers decorated bed and hearth and door frame; these had not been placed there for me, that was certain. But in the corner stood my little wooden chest, and my distaff and spindle, and my basket and bundles of starwort. Alys was at Megan’s heels, and did not take long to settle gratefully before the warmth of the fire.

I did not sleep much that night, or on many nights to follow, as summer advanced and the days grew less and less before my brother’s return. I would sit at my work all day, going down only when I must, to take my place at the table on Lady Anne’s right, and eat my small meal under her watchful eye. I knew there were things she wanted to say, questions she was burning to ask. But that was not her way. Besides, she knew she would get no answers from me. I wondered, sometimes, if she had some idea where her son had gone, for Ben’s explanations had sounded thin indeed. An old friend; a territorial dispute. Where, they asked? Ben wasn’t sure where. But it wouldn’t take long; he’d be home soon. But if it were for that, people asked (as the season advanced), why wasn’t he back? And if it were so, why tell nobody his plans? Not even his own mother? Rumors abounded, and I was in all of them. So I kept myself to myself, and when I returned from the table, I worked on in my large, candlelit chamber with only Alys for company. Time was growing very short.

Sleep continued to evade me. I paced the room at night, my head full of visions of Red captured by my father’s men, and subdued with hot iron. Of the swans flying over storm-tossed water, the movement of their wings becoming ever more difficult. Of Red sustaining some injury, out in hostile territory with nobody to help. Alone in the forest. There would be no handy girl with needle and thread. I had not even had time to sew a rowan cross into his garments, before he left me. I pictured Finbar as I had last seen him, too weak to walk. Too weak to fly. I imagined Red’s face, when he at last found the young man with no past. The man he believed to be his brother. It could not be Simon. If I had been able to tell him that, perhaps he would not have gone away and left me alone. Then my little voice, the sensible one, spoke up.
Make haste, Sorcha. Make haste. There is no time for this. Spin Weave. Make your shirts. Time is shorter than you think
. Nonetheless, I had less control over my thoughts than I’d have liked. The little ring hung around my neck, under my gown, where nobody could see it. When I was alone, I took it out sometimes, wondering how he had judged the size, with nothing but my swollen, knotted fingers to go by. Wondering if my hands would ever be as they once were, small, white, and fine. By the time that happened, if it ever did, I would be long gone from here. I would have left behind both husband and wedding ring. It mattered little whether the size were right or no. Yet, when I thought this, I found my hand closing around the ring as if I did not want to let it go. It’s mine, something inside me would say. This feeling troubled me greatly.