My True Love (2 page)

She reached the island finally just as her palms, reddened and sore, began to hurt. Placing the oars in the bottom of the boat, she jumped onto the shore at a place that looked to be well trod. There was no dock as at Dunniwerth, only another small boat tied to a post embedded in the earth. She tied the rope of hers to the same stake and followed a path that led away from the shoreline.

A few moments later Anne came to a clearing. In the middle of it was a tidy cottage. The thatch was so thick upon the roof that it draped down the walls, shading the small structure before touching the ground and blending into the grass. It was as if the cottage were part of the earth itself. A meandering path set in a necklace of smooth stones led the way to the front door, now ajar.

The old wise woman was said to be privy to all manner of knowledge. She could reduce a boil simply by looking at it. Or ease an aching limb by the touch of her hand. Too, she was known for the mixtures that eased a winter’s cough and the bitter tea that soothed a bellyache. But most of all, she could see inside a person’s heart and divine the future. Anne had heard some girls whispering about having their fortunes told.

This pleasant-looking, mushroom-shaped cottage did not appear to be a place of mystery but one, rather, of laughter. From somewhere came the sound of singing, a tune so light that it urged her closer.

As Anne neared the door, the song ceased. Inside, a shadow turned, came toward the door, was bathed in a shaft of sunlight.

Hannah, the wise woman, was neither old nor frightening. Her face bore a type of sweetness not unlike that of Anne’s mother. Her smile was coaxing, gentle, her eyes the color of a summer sky. Her blond hair was wound into braids and sat upon her head like a crown. She’d adorned the coronet with tiny blue and white flowers. The dress she wore was a simple one, flowing to her ankles and topped with a spotless apron.

She stood quiet and still with her hands folded together at her waist, a tall, slender woman who bore Anne’s wondering inspection with a simple grace.

“Did your father send you?” Even her voice was different from what Anne had expected. It seemed crafted of small bits of melody.

Anne shook her head and dared a word. “No.” She looked away, then back at the woman, who stood motionless before her.

“Then why have you come? To have your future told?”

Anne could not frame the answer. It was some thing more important than the future that she wished to learn.

“Give me your hand, then,” Hannah said kindly.

Anne slowly extended her hand and placed it in the wise woman’s. Hannah looked down at the palm. Her smile never faltered as she studied it.

“You will have a long and prosperous life. You will be happy all your days.”

The words tumbled from Anne’s lips before she could catch them. “Am I a witch?”

The smile disappeared from Hannah’s face, and once again there was the impression of stillness.

“Why would you think that?”

“I see things,” Anne whispered. Visions that made her hurt, they were so real.

Hannah stepped aside, a wordless invitation, and Anne slowly entered the shadowy cottage. It was small and tidy, with a scent of spice in the air. A rack of hardening candles sat near the lone window. From somewhere came the chirp of a bird, and she finally located the sound coming from a wicker cage along the far wall. A sparrow sat at the bottom, his wing wrapped with a length of cloth.

“He’ll be fine in a week or two. He flew into my door. Didn’t you, little one? I think he was trying to impress a lady bird.”

Hannah reached out and placed her hand upon Anne’s head, the fingers warm against her scalp. The other hand tipped up Anne’s chin. Her blue eyes softened with some emotion Anne could not discern. It was not anger, nor was it pity. It looked not unlike her mother’s glance when she’d done something well, pride mixed with love.

“What sort of things do you see, Anne Sinclair?”

“How do you know my name?” Fear sat like a cold and solid thing in her stomach.

Hannah’s smile broadened. “You have your father’s eyes and the color of his hair.”

“Will you tell my parents that I’ve come here?” She stepped away from the wise woman, trying to hide her fear.

“If you do not wish me to, I shall not.”

“They would not understand.” Silence, while she met the woman’s gaze. “Please do not tell them. My mother would cry and my father think me evil.”

“Evil?” The word seemed to hang in the air between them, drifting there in the silence. Hannah’s hand felt cool as she reached out and cupped Anne’s cheek.

“I must be,” she said softly. To want to be at a place she had never seen, with a boy she did not know. But when the visions came, they seemed to take her from Dunniwerth, and make her wish with all her heart not to be here. To be, instead, with him. Wasn’t that evil?

“Then tell me, Anne. Tell me what you see and why you think yourself evil.”

Silence while Anne wondered how to frame the words. Then she realized it did not matter how she spoke them. The wise woman would either believe her or she wouldn’t.

Twice more she’d seen pictures of the boy, Stephen, in her mind. Just before sleep he came, until she could almost believe it was a dream.

“I see a boy,” she said, reaching into the wicker cage with one finger. The bird uttered a sharp little chirp of alarm, then subsided. He did not flee from her gentle touch upon his head, but instead seemed almost to lean into it. “A boy named Stephen.”

She turned and looked at Hannah. “I feel like I know him.”
As if he was my very best friend
.

Hannah went to a jar, filled two tumblers from it, then placed them on the table. Sitting on one chair, she smiled and gestured to the other.

“Come,” she said, “share some cider with me. It comes from Dunniwerth fruit.”

Anne pulled her fingers free of the cage, held them out as if they belonged to someone else. They still trembled, and she curled them close to her palms.

She sat opposite the wise woman, taking a piece of warm bread when the plate was held out to her.

“I am a witch, aren’t I?” she asked. The words were whispered, as if she could not bear to speak them aloud. She did not look at Hannah. If she did, the wise woman would see tears in her eyes, and a Sinclair did not weep in front of a stranger. “I cannot be a good one. I can’t see the future like you. I know no spells.” She traced a finger along the scarred wooden tabletop. “Is there no tea I could drink, no herbs I might take? Are there no words you could say over me to take this away?”

“I am no witch, Anne,” Hannah said, her voice kind.

Anne glanced up at her, blinking rapidly.

“Young women come to me to have their futures told, and I speak the words they want to hear. In truth, their destinies are their own. But I cannot tell the future and I have no potions.”

Hannah placed her hand on Anne’s. “I don’t think you’re a witch, Anne Sinclair. If you were a witch, there would be other signs. What have you done that harmed another?”

“I lost the brooch my mother gave me,” Anne confessed, staring down at the table.

“That is carelessness, not rancor,” Hannah said with a kind smile. “Who have you bedeviled?”

Anne thought of Ian and his taunts. If she were truly a witch, she might have silenced him. Turned him into a spider, just like the ones he liked to throw at her.

She shook her head. “But Ian says there are witch finders about,” Anne whispered.

“Not at Dunniwerth, Anne Sinclair.”

She nodded. That much was true.

Hannah reached out and tipped her chin up. She blinked, but then forced herself to meet the wise woman’s eyes. “You are not a witch, Anne. Do you believe me?”

She wasn’t completely sure that she did. But she’d been raised to respect her elders, to listen to their words and heed their instructions. So she nodded her head and made herself smile.

Chapter 1

Dunniwerth Castle, Scotland

March, 1644

A
nne tied the rope to the post erected for just such a purpose, then reached into the bottom of the boat for her basket.

She and Hannah had become friends in the fifteen years since a frightened child had gathered her courage and ignored myth, legend and the dictates of a father she adored.

As Anne had feared, her original journey across the loch had been discovered. Her father had, surprisingly, not prevented her visits to the wise woman. However, he had insisted that she learn to swim the loch, and be taught in the proper manner of rowing the small skiff.

Anne took her short cut through the trees, glancing at the odd circular building in the clearing as she did so. She’d discovered it on her third visit to the island. Once a year she and Hannah tended to this place, removing the weeds, straightening the stones that lay in front of the building. It seemed the proper thing to do. The small structure with its arched doorway and elaborately carved keystone looked to have once been a chapel. And the gravestones were sad markers that turned the clearing into a place of reverence.

Anne stepped through the opening in the scraggly bushes, past the large stone in the shape of a boot. Still further up a small incline, and she was there, the path to Hannah’s door more worn but just as inviting as it had been all those many years before.

“You are late,” Hannah said as she entered, her smile taking the sting from her words.

“You say that every time I come,” Anne said, placing her basket on the table. “Just as I refute it.”

“I am older than you. You are supposed to give me respect, not arguments.”

Anne smiled at her friend. This, too, was a constant complaint. “You would dislike it if I conceded every point to you, Hannah. You would then have no one with whom to debate.”

Hannah laughed, the gentle sound of it cascading through the cottage.

“You know me too well, Anne.”

Anne smiled, placed her basket on the table. “I have the flour you wished, Hannah, and a bit of honey from the cook. She says that she will take a few of your candles in trade.”

“Will she?” A raised eyebrow accompanied the remark.

“You know, of course, that she sells them,” Anne said, glancing at her friend. The years had been kind to Hannah. There were few white strands among her blond hair, and her face showed its lines only in the bright sunlight. At this moment, however, there was a furrow on her forehead. A precursor to irritation. She’d been the brunt of it too many times as a child not to know the sign.

Hannah nodded. “I’ve heard as much.”

“Why, then, do you not confront her?”

“There are some situations that are better left alone, Anne.”

“Because you never come to Dunniwerth?”

Hannah glanced at her. It was a subject rarely raised between them. Anne’s curiosity occasionally bubbled beneath good manners and the empathy she felt for the older woman. Even as a child she’d known that there were some topics that made Hannah uncomfortable. Today, however, the answer was important. Not solely because of a cook with trickery on her mind.

“Your loyalty to me is admirable, Anne. But it is a trifling matter.” Hannah turned away, busied herself with checking the rising of her dough.

Anne said nothing, only stared down at the surface of the table. The wood was scarred, and a few marks had been caused by her own youthful exuberance.

She walked to the lone window in the cottage, looked out over the clearing. It was a peaceful place, this glade. A friendly place to spend a life. Still, she could not help but wonder if it had been enough. But that was not a question she could ask. Instead, she spoke of other things, circling the true reason for this visit for a few moments.

“I saw him again last night,” she said. Her voice did not betray how deeply the vision had moved her. She stood still and waited, however, for Hannah’s words.

“Your Stephen?”

Anne nodded.

“It has been a while since the last time. I had hoped he would be gone for good.”

Anne glanced over her shoulder. Hannah was looking at her, the frown hinted at now fixed in place.

“I remember when you were a child and terrified of him. When did it change?”

“I was never terrified of Stephen, Hannah,” she said with a smile. “Only of what was happening to me.” She’d seen him often enough over the years, a friend who’d visited her in the moment just before sleep.

Anne stared out at the view before her. A clearing, a small knoll of land surrounded by large trees. The day was chilly, spring was on the horizon but not yet here. There had been fog upon the loch this morning. Some days it wreathed the small cottage in a cloudlike miasma. She held her hands tight at her waist.

It might have been easier to have been granted the ability to hear thoughts or predict the future. She might have turned her skills to warning people of their fate, to issuing cautions. A child birth could be predicted, a marriage foretold, a crop saved. But what she saw was of no use to anyone.

Her visions were like looking through a window just as she did now. Only this view was of Stephen living his life. She could not choose what scenes she might see. Nor had she any knowledge of when the window might open. At times she yearned to see him. But the visions came when they willed, not when she wished.

She’d been captivated by the small glimpses into a life so alien from her own. He lived in a castle so unlike Dunniwerth that it had enchanted her. Langlinais. Even the sound of it seemed exotic. She had watched him racing over the hills on his black stallion and seen him in quiet times when he sat and sketched the castle. She had even seen London through his eyes and felt his wonder at seeing the port so filled with ships.

Hannah spoke from behind her. “Pay attention to those men who pay court to you, Anne, not someone in your mind.”

The words were like small pinpricks. Little wounds that Anne ignored. They had been said too many times.

“Sentiments that echo my mother’s words, Hannah. Is this mania to get me wed because my birthday will be soon?”