Dragonswood (5 page)

Chapter Nine

M
EG AND
P
OPPY
hid in the juniper bushes with me at the sheriff’s walled-off manor. “Saint Barbara
watch over us,” I prayed. Jailed by her wicked father, and later murdered by same, Barbara was avenged when God in his goodness struck the man with lightning for his crime.

Meg and Poppy crossed themselves. “Amen.” Meg stripped off her robe. “Let me come.”

“No, Meg.”

“Give me your knife.”

“What for?” This wasn’t in my plan.

She put out her hand. “I only need it for a moment.”

Shearing off a small lock of her hair, she tucked it in the hood and handed me her robe. “Tell Tom—” She couldn’t finish. Crying soundlessly, she kissed me on the cheek. “Oh, Tess, thank you, Tess.” Her kiss bolstered me as nothing else could. It also doubled my fear. I knew Meg would be deeply crushed if we failed. She might even do something foolish like turn herself in for the love of Tom.

“Ready, Poppy?” I whispered.

“I wish I had a basket for these rolls,” she said, holding out the three I’d taken from the harvest table.

“You’ll do fine.” Pulling Meg’s extra robe over mine, I felt along the wall, found a handhold, and started up. Once on top, I lay flat, taking in the sheriff’s manor house, the lit windows where dark figures moved. The building was a long way from the wall, so the figures looked quite small. The stone jailhouse was set apart on the opposite end of the expansive yard. I knew it by the barred windows all at ground level.

Someone approached. Knife in hand, I held still and heard laughter as men passed through the rose garden, their feet crunching on the pebbles. In the distance, a door slammed. When all was clear, I held my hand down to Poppy. It took her a while to scale the wall even with my help, but she made it and we jumped down into the dark garden and raced through the roses with our heads low.

We waited behind a garden bench, where Poppy removed and hid her leper robe. Straightening her skirts, she boldly went up the stairs and opened the door.

“I brought some rolls from the kitchen. I don’t think the sheriff will mind.”

“Well now, isn’t that nice of ye?”

The voice of a single guard. Good.

“Oh, I should’ve brought some honey along.” The word
honey
was Poppy’s signal that she’d gotten the guard to turn away from the door. I flew up the steps and slipped inside on silent feet.

“Well, you’re sweet ta think of honey, missy. I’ll wager you’re sweet all round.”

Even now his hands were on her waist. Poor Poppy. Still, she laughed and batted her pretty blue eyes at the man so I could snatch the key ring from the wall and slip down the steps for the cells.

The torchlight from the walls fell in piss-yellow pools on the floor. I peered cell to cell. Most were empty, but a few housed prisoners huddled on straw in a corner: men or women, it was hard to tell. Around the corner I spied a sleeper through the bars with a shock of red hair. Tom. My breath quickened. I fiddled with the keys, trying one after another with sweaty hand. At last the iron lock clicked. Inside, I closed the door quietly. Tom slept on his back in the straw with arms out wide like Christ crucified. I thanked Saint Barbara for guiding me safely thus far.

“Tom?”

A stirring in the straw, a head looking up, a disgusted gasp. “Unclean! Do they send a leper to infect me now?”

I ran to him, whispering, “Hush. It’s me, Tess.”

He sat up drunkenly, his torso swaying side to side, though wounds, not wine, caused the sway. “Tess? What now? Is Meg here?” It was a strangled whisper. “What cell did the fiend witch hunter put my Meg in?”

“Meg is safe,” I whispered. “I’m here to rescue you.”

Tom crawled back a little toward the corner.

“Trust me. I did not turn Meg in.” On my knees I told him my plan. “Do you think you can walk?”

“I am a man.” He was offended. Perhaps I should not have asked, but even in this gloom I could see his cuts and oozing sores.

Putting a hand to the wall, he stood, the hay coming off his person in hunks as he leaned against the wall for support.

I took off Meg’s leper robe. “Put this on.”

He stared at it.

I fished a curly red lock from the folded hood. “Meg sent this to you for luck.” Tom kissed it once, and painfully put on the robe: His every limb was raw.

“What now?” he asked.

“Tear what clothing you can from beneath your robe.” He tore easily. His clothes were already in shreds.

“Use this one to cover the bottom half of your face. I’ll take the rest.”

Tom hid his face in the smelly rag. I piled the straw again, laying the larger rags in clumps overtop in the appearance of a sleeping man. I helped Tom across the cell, whispering my plan to him, locking the door behind, then peered through the small window bars placed high in the door to satisfy myself the rag pile might pass for a prisoner. We crept round the corner for the stairs.

“You will see Poppy entertaining the guard above.”
Entertaining?
I thought, disgusted, but went on. “Follow my lead out the door, then do as we planned.”

I waited on the top stair with Tom a step below. Poppy caught my eye. “Now you make a girl blush, sir.” She opened the door as if to go.

“Aw, don’t go just yet,” said the turnkey. Poppy shrugged and deftly lured him to the opposite corner. With the turnkey’s back to us, I hung the key ring and scurried out the open door with Tom behind. If we’d cleared out unseen, Poppy could leave soon after, but the turnkey spotted Tom on the stairs.

“Hey!”

“Now,” I whispered.

Tom lurched back inside as if he’d just burst in from the cold. I watched his performance from the shadowy porch.

“Please.” Tom thrust out his bloodstained hands. “Take pity on a leper. Put me in a cell.”

Poppy backed away. “Get back, leper,” she cried.

The startled turnkey shouted, “Unclean!” covering his face in the crook of his left arm.

“A cell,” insisted Tom. “Have mercy, sir.” He took another step toward the frightened guard. “I’m starving. Even prisoners are given bread.”

Poppy fled out the door and down the steps; behind the bench she slipped on her robe and tied a rag about her face. Now if any more men should come upon us, we were three lepers here to beg for shelter, though Tom was the only one within. I drew my knife outside the door. The turnkey sliced the air with his sword. “Outside, leper, before I plant this in your chest!” Sweat melted a buttery slime down my neck. I envisioned Tom impaled at the end of the sword.

“Take pity on us lepers,” I called from the door.

“Another one? By the saints, where are you vermin coming from? Get away now before I kill you all!”

Moaning, Tom backed up and stumbled down the steps with me.

“And don’t come back!” The turnkey slammed the door.

Saint Barbara took pity on Tom, lending him the strength to make it through the garden. Poppy and I propped him between us. Feeling his weight, the metal scent of blood, I prayed lightning would strike Lady Adela for what she’d done to Tom just as God in his mercy struck Saint Barbara’s murderous father.

Fresh blood seeped from Tom’s wounds as we helped him over the wall, yet when we reached the bushes I saw such kisses as I’d never seen between man and woman. Poppy looked down, quietly giggling, but I did not turn away. Tom could barely stand, yet he had his arms about Meg and sought to hold her up as they kissed. The more I watched, the hungrier I became for what they had. But all hope of love between myself and a man had been beaten out of me years ago.

W
E FOUR HID
in a cave I found in Dragonswood. It was too dangerous for us to be so near Oxhaven with a bounty on our heads, but we’d no choice. Tom was too sick to move. I couldn’t look at his festering wounds without my stomach turning. I was ashamed of my reaction, seeing how carefully Poppy and Meg tended him.
Poppy’s used to it,
I told myself. Didn’t I always come to her after a beating?

Poppy used her herb sense, though it was mostly guesswork. First she found thunderbesem to tie about Tom’s neck to quell the fever. We searched for knapweed or ox-eye. Finding none, she and Meg bathed Tom’s wounds in water we’d taken from a nearby stream.

The sun hid all the next day. We finished the cheese and apples I’d pilfered from Lord Norfolk’s table. Meg wouldn’t leave Tom’s side. Poppy searched again for healing herbs. Alone, I begged on the road. A boy threw stones. One cut me just below the eye. I returned hours later with only a few mushrooms and snails. We all gagged on the roasted snails. Tom couldn’t keep his down. Rain froze in gray puddles, then snow drifted to the forest floor.

That night we were awakened by a dragon’s cry that shook me to my bones. The piercing sound sharp as a kestrel’s scream echoed through the wood. Tom moaned. Meg and Poppy sat up, hugging each other, shaking in the dark. I shivered, listening to the pumping wings somewhere above our cave.

Was it the elder dragon who’d helped me in the pond, who’d rescued the burning girl? If so, should I run out and show myself, ask for his help? We needed help, especially Tom. He would die without intervention soon. Ah, God. I was all confusion huddling with my friends.

Another cry overhead. Meg and Poppy rocked. What if it wasn’t the old dragon but another one out patrolling his sanctuary? We were trespassers. Under the law a dragon could oust us, leave us stranded on the road, where Tom would surely die and we’d be captured soon enough. Our fire had gone out. No telltale smoke rose from our hiding place. Rhythmic pumping wings drummed over us, then they diminished as the dragon flew away. After that we huddled in the dark, too fearful to start another fire.

More snow fell our third day of hiding. Poppy left for herbs. When she’d not returned by twilight, I began to worry. I searched the darkening forest, calling
Poppy?
in a half whisper, lest my voice carry all the way out on the road. I saw her figure walking slowly in the snowfall and ran to her, relieved. “Poppy, it’s cold. Come back inside by the fire.”

She did not seem to see me, could not hear me. Her eyes were wide, and glassy.

“Poppy?” I stopped her. She tried to push ahead. “Poppy, what’s the matter, are you ill?”

“North,” she said. “Come north.” Her face was wet, her lashes flecked with snow. “Poppy, wake up.” I shook her.

She blinked, began to weep. “Let me go, Tess. I have to go.”

“Go where, Poppy?”

She put her face in her hands and sobbed. I led her back to the cave.

“What’s wrong with her?” Meg asked, alarmed.

“I don’t know, let her sleep.”

Poppy curled up in the corner. She awoke an hour later, sat up, then went right to work helping Meg with Tom. The glassy look had left her eyes. I watched her, still troubled by what I’d seen out in the wood.

That night Tupkin brought us a mud-clotted dove, which I hurriedly plucked, cooked, and shared among us. Two morsels each and we sucked the tiny bones. Tom ate nothing at all. His fever worsened.

Meg asked, “Will you tell us one of your grandfather’s stories, Tess?”

I shook my head.

“One about the fairies in DunGarrow,” Poppy said, narrowing her eyes at me.
Meg needs a story now,
her look said
. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see Tom’s dying?

Poppy was right. Meg needed cheering. We all did. I could not bear the idea that Tom might die. But if we tried to move him and find help, we were sure to be captured.

Trapped.
I tried to breathe. The smoky air was sour with the stench of Tom’s wounds. “Which story shall it be?” I’d tell them any story at all except one about a fairy turning a man to a Treegrim. I wasn’t childish enough to think the fey were innocent, far from it. But my friends were scared enough hiding here in Dragonswood.

Meg said, “Tell ‘The Whistler
.
’”

I cleared my throat. “This is the tale of a young girl who should have known better than to follow a bright bird into the forest, but follow him she did, for his song was like none she’d ever heard before, and she couldn’t stop her feet from going after him. How far she walked, she couldn’t tell, for day and night seemed the same to her as long as the bird sang. Her hair grew longer as she walked, and the seasons did no harm to her at all, neither rain nor snow bothered her as long as she followed the whistler north. In time she came upon a castle pressed up against a mountain with a waterfall tumbling right down the side of it.”

“DunGarrow,” whispered Poppy, her face open. I saw her yearning as she listened.

I’d taken up a piece of charcoal from the fire and had begun to draw as I told the tale. It was like being caught up in a dream, the drawing and the telling. I’d been sketching the castle spires when Poppy said
DunGarrow,
and my hand kept moving as I spoke—the story coming alive on the rough cave walls.

“And though she’d reached DunGarrow Castle late at night, she heard music playing in the high meadow across the bridge, and saw figures swirling under fairy lights.” I drew dancing fairies as I’d always imagined them. Maidens with their twirling skirts, fine men in well-cut tunics. I even sketched the tiny will-o’-the-wisps. I longed for bright colors to fill in the charcoal lines. My friends’ eyes were wide by the fire, and even Tom had one eye open as if he were listening. Where our doctoring had failed, the story might ease his pain.