Daughter Of The Forest (43 page)

“Jenny! You’re here!” she said in a faint little voice. “Why didn’t you come? I wanted you. Why wouldn’t you come?”

I glanced at Lady Anne, and she looked away, unable to meet my eyes. I think she realized, despite herself, that she had done the unforgivable.

Midwinter is a long night, but this seemed the longest night of my life, as we battled to help this child make its way into the world. Margery tried and tried but grew more and more weak. And yet, it was a night that went fast, too fast as I worked on, and outside, above the tops of the winter trees, the stars brightened and steadied and then began to fade. And as my hands became wet with blood, and my body soaked with sweat, and as I worked to instruct the women and to reassure Margery without benefit of words, a part of my spirit was calling out to my brothers.
Wait for me. Wait just a little longer. Before dawn I will be there
.

It was much too late to turn the child around, for it lay too low now to be moved. So it must be born breech first, if at all. Margery had little strength left. I could not make the women understand what I needed, and so at length I left the room, taking Megan with me, and went to their stillroom to find the ingredients myself. I must get this just right. Something to make her relax first, a short respite to gather her strength. And something to aid that strength, just long enough for one, two, three short pushes. And pray to the goddess that the cord was not around the baby’s neck. I had no doubt who would be blamed, if this child never took its first breath. Besides, I did not think I could bear to see Margery’s face, or John’s, if I could not lay their infant safely in its mother’s arms.

Megan held the lamp as I worked. The house was well stocked, but whoever had stored away these herbs so neatly cannot have known their efficacy in aiding childbirth, or how to mix them precisely. There was still some time until dawn, but not much.
Wait for me
. I scooped the dry mixture I had prepared into a small beaker and headed for the kitchen fires. These herbs must be steeped in hot water. It should be much longer, but time was running short for Margery. The child, too, would be weakening by now, worn out by the struggle. As I crossed to the stairs, I saw the three men grouped in semidarkness by the hall fire. John had his head in his hands, and Ben was talking softly, a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Red stood by the hearth, and he was the only one who saw me. His eyes asked a question. Mine could not lie.
I will save them both, if I can. I will do my best
. I think he understood me, but he said nothing, for John’s sake. He gave a nod of acknowledgment, and I went on up the stairs and out of sight, Megan bobbing ahead with the lamp.

The fire was glowing warm in Margery’s room. At my bidding, Megan untied the bundle of dried lavender she had brought from downstairs and cast the silvery stems and faded blooms onto the coals, and a sweet healing scent rose in the air. The infusion had cooled enough; I lifted Margery to sit and watched while she drank it obediently. There was thyme and calamint. And brooklime, a herb of last resort. There had been no time to sweeten the mixture, to render it more palatable with honey or spices. But she took it all, her shadowed eyes looking into mine with an expression of such trust that it terrified me. Then for a short time she rested.

As the sky outside turned to violet blue and then to soft gray, the child was finally born. The infusion had given Margery just enough strength for the last wrenching push. My hands, rough as they were, knew their job, and I eased her son out into the world. He was limp and silent.

“What’s wrong?” said Margery in a small voice. “Why is it so quiet?” And the women muttered among themselves. Lady Anne was wiping Margery’s brow, and she had tears in her eyes. As the light in the room grew ever brighter, I put my mouth over the babe’s tiny face, and blew gently into his body. And again. And once more.

The midwife clawed at my arm, trying to stop me, but Lady Anne said, “No, leave her be.” One more breath. Just one more. And at last the infant gave a gasp, and a small delicate cough, and then he let out a yell of outrage. Then there were many voices exclaiming, and many hands to wrap the babe and lay him on his mother’s breast as the joyful tears flowed. There were many helpers to deal with the afterbirth and make up the fire and run to let the men know the good news. Nobody noticed me as I fled soft-footed down the stairs in my bloodstained gown, and slipped the great bolt on the front door, and ran, ran, down the avenue between the tall poplars, past the neat walls and the sheep huddling for shelter, down toward the gleaming curve of the river where the first light of dawn turned the water to liquid silver under the leaning willows. But before I reached the water’s edge the sun pierced the canopy of naked trees and burst over the valley and the world was filled with light. Many creatures left their tracks on these soft river banks, ducks and geese, fox and otter. But it was early; the ducks were still asleep. And there were no swans on the rippling water. There were no human footprints save my own. If they had been here, they were here no more.

My heart was cold with grief and rage.
Why didn’t you wait for me? I did the best I could. Why didn’t you leave me a sign? I cannot tell if you have even come here at all!
I found the tears pouring down my cheeks, all the tears I had not shed before, a flood of weeping that racked my whole body, and I stood with my head against the trunk of a willow and beat my fists against its bark until my hands bled. If I could have screamed my anguish I would have done, until the whole valley echoed with my pain. I stood there a long time. At last I sank to the ground by the great willow and covered my face with my hands. My shoulders were shaking, and my nose was running, and the tears would not stop. If I sat there long enough, perhaps I would become part of this tree, a weeping tree-girl that cried each night by the water. Perhaps I would vanish into the soft earth of the riverbank, and in my place reeds would grow, slender and silver-gray, and if a man fashioned a pipe from these reeds, it would sing
too late, too late
.

“These are not tears of one night’s making.”

Perhaps, without thinking, I had known he would come. There was the crunch of boots on the frozen grass as he moved closer. Then I felt the warmth of his cloak as he laid it around my shoulders, very carefully so his hands scarcely touched me. It felt good, very good. I had not realized how cold I was, out in the morning frost in my gown and indoor slippers. It was as if the cloak passed the warmth of his body into mine.

“I would know the reason for these tears,” said Red quietly, and he sat down near me, but not too near. “One day I will know. For now, I bring you John’s thanks, and my own, for what you have done. We owe you a great debt. Will you come back home?”

I sniffed, and opened my eyes, but he was not looking at me. His fingers were twisting a length of grass, and he was gazing out over the water. A mallard drake and his mate were swimming by the rushes, leisurely in the first clear light of day. The feathers of his head shone glossy green above his snowy collar. The female moved in his wake, demure in her speckled brown.

The silence stretched out, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. After a while, Red took the little knife from his boot, and an even smaller piece of wood out of his pocket, and began to carve, narrowing his eyes against the sun in intense concentration. I could not see what he was working on. I wondered who had taught them this skill, the lord Hugh and his brother. The day grew ever brighter and the gleaming expanse of water was soon broken by busy duck and goose and moorhen. My thoughts became gradually calmer. Half a year. Two seasons more, before I would see them again. Yesterday had been my fifteenth birthday, and I had not even thought of it until now. Somehow it no longer seemed important. Back home, I might have been married by this time. I wondered who my father would have chosen for me. A strategic alliance, no doubt. But that was a path become so distant now that it seemed like something from a story, the tale of some other girl. Not my story. I was here, and my brothers were not here, and once again but a single choice presented itself. I could go on spinning and weaving and sewing; I could go on waiting. Perhaps, if I worked very hard, if I got quicker, by midsummer my task would be almost complete. Then I would come to the river again, on the eve of Meán Samhraidh. But would they be here? Could they be here? It was such a long flight. How would they know, before the sun dipped below the horizon and they became men again, that they must make this journey? For while they were in that enchanted state, they had no human awareness.

Except for Conor. How strong was Conor’s skill? Could it be that, to command the will of wild creatures thus, even a druid’s craft was not enough? All might be in vain. Why then should I remain here and toil, and endure the bitter stares of the household, and hear the evil names they called me? Why tear my hands to shreds on the starwort plant, until even I started to believe I was crazy, why spend my days indoors longing for the forest? For deep in my heart I recognized this headlong flight to the river had been for nothing. They had not been here. They would not come, and leave, without a message for me, Ogham signs carved on a willow trunk, a pattern of stones on the riverbank, or a white feather. If they had been here I would have heard the inner voices of Conor and of Finbar.
Sorcha, Sorcha, I am here
. It had been a long time. But I was their sister, and the seven of us were of one flesh and one spirit as surely as the seven streams of our childhood flowed and mingled in the great shining heart of the lake. They had not come. And it was a long time, such a long time, until midsummer.

“Do you want to go back so very much?” asked Red quietly, still intent on his work, “Is it so hard for you here?”

I was surprised. He’d been silent for a long while. Another man would have told me what I should be feeling; that I should be glad Margery and her child had survived. Would have bid me cease weeping and dry my eyes. Another man would have told me to stop sitting on the frosty ground on midwinter’s day and go back to the house at once. Would have told me to stop wasting his time. I had no reply to Red’s questions. Of course I wanted to go home. My heart yearned for the forest, and my spirit longed to be close to my brothers, whether they could see me or no. But I was not stupid. Common sense told me that staying here was my best chance of finishing the task. I had a roof over my head, good food, and more protection than I wanted or needed. I had the tools of my trade, I even had a couple of people who might be called friends. And I had endured far worse than the sharp tongues and sideways glances of Lady Anne’s women. So, the spirit said go. The mind said stay, for now. If your brothers do not come, next time, then go and find them. You would not get far in midwinter. Besides, he would follow you and bring you back. Always.

I got up rather stiffly, and limped down to the river’s edge. There I knelt to cup clear water in my hands, first to drink and then to splash my face. As it settled I saw myself reflected on its surface, red-eyed, tear-stained, and pallid with exhaustion. The water was freezing.

“I’ll make you a promise,” said Red, and when I turned to look at him he had put away his work and was watching me. I wondered why I had thought his eyes were blue. Today they seemed to match the river water, a light, shifting color between gray and green. “I promise I will take you back, no matter what happens. I promise I will see you safe home when it’s time. As soon as I learn the truth about my brother, I will take you there. I never break my promises, Jenny. I know it’s hard for you to trust me. If ever I find the man who did this to you, who made you so frightened, I’ll kill him with my bare hands. But you can trust me.”

I stared at him. How could he make such a speech in everyday tones, as if he were telling me how to build a haystack, or describing the best way to dig up a row of turnips? But there was something in his eyes, something hidden so deep that it would be easy to miss it, an intensity that told me he meant every word. I felt a shiver run down my spine. Something had changed; but I couldn’t tell what. It was as if the world tilted, and nothing was quite as it had been. Or as if there were the very smallest turning in the pathway, just a tiny deviation, but to take it meant you would end up somewhere quite different. And it was already too late to go back.

My response came without thinking. I made a gesture that said,
I know. I believe you
. And when he held out his hand to help me up the bank, I took it without flinching, as I had done once before in a torrential downpour, when that hand had been my only grip on reality in a flight from death. I trusted him. He was a Briton, and I trusted him. Perhaps he really would keep me safe until I finished the shirts, and then—but that was the point at which my mind reached a blank wall. Red might be all kindness now, with his promises and his protection. But he was still waiting. Waiting for me to tell him Simon’s story. Waiting for me to tell him how his brother was burned and violated, and driven half crazy by my own people. How I had left Simon alone in the forest, alone with his demons, how I let him go out into the dark and perish from cold and hunger and terror under the great oaks. What price Lord Hugh’s kindness, when he had heard this tale? How easy would it be to keep his promise, knowing what we had done to his young brother? I had seen the strength in that implacable mouth, the hardness in that uncompromising jaw. I had seen how cold those eyes could be. And just once, I had heard the passion in his voice, as the Fair Folk teased him with their talk of Simon. He would set little store by my safety, and that of my kin, when he learned the truth.

So we made our way home, slowly, because I found I was suddenly terribly tired, so tired my feet would scarcely take me in a straight path.

“I could carry you,” offered Red. “It worked quite well last time.” But I shook my head at that. Trust went just so far. He was a man, after all. “Oh, well,” he said as I walked grimly on, “I expect you’re too heavy now, anyway. Amazing what a bit of good food can do.” When I glanced at him I surprised the fleeting hint of a smile on his face, just for a moment.