Strands of Starlight (4 page)

“What's this?”

The soldier leaned over the side of the cart. Mika turned around and nearly gasped: she had thought Miriam completely hidden, but the healer had obviously thrashed about enough that her coverings had been dislodged.

The soldier looked up inquiringly. The cold wind caught the red scarf about his neck and whipped it out straight. Belroi glittered in the bright, morning sun, and the waters of River Malvern were deep and cold.

“My daughter,” explained the midwife. “She's been ill.”

“Sure.” The soldier glanced at Miriam again. “Doesn't look a thing like you.”

“She took after her father.”

“Sure.” The man did not look so much suspicious as lecherous.

Mika sat up in her seat. Prostituting an injured girl for a ride across the river was not what she had in mind this morning. “Is there some problem, m'lord?” She addressed him in the tone of a mother, with an edge to the rising inflection.

“No problem at all, unless you want to make one.” He sounded unimpressed. “You're just two women and you got no men with you. Now, I'm a man who could use a little comfort this cold morning. Do you want to get across this river?”

His words were not without threat: Belroi lay on a tongue of land south of the juncture of two great rivers, Malvern and Bergren, and its ferry was the only crossing for several leagues. To the south of Belroi was open land, and another day's journey to Furze, where Mika kept her house. But first the river had to be crossed.

“Of course I want to get across this river,” said the midwife tartly. “I have a sick daughter, and she needs to come home and be tended. I've given you the three-penny toll, and you have no reason to keep us from our journey.”

The soldier looked at Miriam again, “Scrawny,” he said with some distaste.

“Consumption does that to people.”

The man blinked. “Consumption?” He looked a little shaken.

“Yes,” said Mika. “We were visiting our folk around Lake Onella, and the air of the marshes is not good. The fog comes up at night.”

His mouth tightened. “I was born near Lake Onella,” he said flatly. “There aren't any marshes there.”

Mother of Mercy, thought Mika. Just let us over. “What do you want?”

“Wake her up.”

“She's ill.”

“Consumption, eh?”

Behind Mika, a dark man with a cartful of geese shouted angrily: “Will you hurry up? I have a market to get to!”

The soldier looked at him. “You won't get to anything quick if you don't shut up.” He turned back to Mika. “Wake her up.”

Miriam stirred.

“I'll report you,” said Mika. She felt sick. There was nothing she could do. The soldier was correct: two commoner women without patronage or defense had no recourse. She could cause a commotion, but it would do no more than call attention to Miriam. But the thought of what the soldier had in mind . . . “This is barbarous—“

“So it's barbarous. So report me.”

“Give . . .” Miriam fumbled under the blankets, her teeth clenched in pain. “Give him this.” Mika realized that she was hunting for her purse.

Reaching down to the bag that still bulged with George's gratitude, Mika came up with two gold florins, each stamped with the ensign of Saint Blaise. She put them into the hand of the soldier. “Enough? May we cross?”

“Lady, you just bought me ten girls, all prettier than your daughter. Or whatever she is.” He laughed and waved Mika and her cart onto the ferry. “Pass.”

Mika urged Esau onto the wooden deck. “Pass yourself, you devil,” she muttered. “You'll have a fine time explaining how you came by that much Free Towns money.” Miriam had opened her eyes. “It's all right, child,” said the midwife. “You're safe.”

“I'm not . . . a child.” Miriam shuddered, then lay still, her face buried in George's cloak. Her head swam, and the rocking of the ferry in the swift stream did not help, but she was aware of the slap of waves against the pier, the call of ducks, the cries of fishermen and rivermen. She was aware, too, of what the soldier had wanted, and of Mika's attempts to thwart him. Anyone else, she thought, would have given her up, glad to be rid of her. But Mika . . . not Mika . . .

She summoned her strength and managed to roll over. She saw the upper stories of houses, painted balconies, windows. The air was damp, but the buildings shielded the streets from the wind, and the sun was warming the town a little. Maybe spring would come after all.

“Where are we?” she managed, her voice hoarse with three days of fever.

“Belroi,” said Mika. “Another day and we'll be home.”

“I heard you back at the ferry. Thank you.” She said the words with an effort. Thanks were not something she had occasion to tender very often in her life.
What does she want? She must want something.

The cart rattled along the cobbled streets. “How do you feel?”

Miriam heard the passage and talk of many people: men and women, the voices of street vendors, the screams of playing children. “My legs hurt.”

“The fever must be abating. I found wormwood day before last. You were beyond feeling any pain in your legs by then, I'll tell you.”

“Is that what I'm tasting? It's awful. . . .”

“Hmmm.” Mika took a turning and breathed easier when the south gate came into view. “Odd. You didn't complain when I forced it down your throat that night. Lie still and sleep. You need to rest.”

Miriam did not reply, but she did not sleep, either. She watched the buildings pass, saw the immense bulk of the cathedral that lifted marble pinnacles toward heaven, saw, at last, the roof of the gatehouse pass over her.

Then they were out on the open road again, the stray houses and outbuildings of the great dairy city thinning quickly into pasture land. Miriam watched the sky and the wheeling crows for some time, lifted a bandaged hand and rubbed her face.

“What do you want, Mika?” she asked.

The midwife was not flustered by the question. “You,” she said. “Alive.”

“Why?”

“We've been over that before.”

“Christian charity isn't a reason.”

“Reasons can be as plentiful as blackberries and mean even less. Why must I have a reason?”

“Because . . .” Miriam pushed herself up, frowning at the pain in her hands. “That soldier back at the ferry wanted me. Those people I saw on their balconies want their fine houses and their rich clothes. The local bishop wants his big cathedral. Sinner, saint, pope, prince: everyone wants something. And you're no different. So don't say otherwise.”

Mika allowed Esau to find his own pace. The shaggy little pony plodded on. Miriam looked out at the bare landscape: stripped trees, dry grass. “What about you?” said the midwife. “What do you want?”

“Who cares?”

“I care.”

Miriam said nothing for some time. The wagon creaked and Esau snorted, and those were the only sounds. The land was open and bare, stretching from nowhere to nowhere and back again. If her life were a landscape, this was it. Eight years before, she had stumbled through the streets of Maris, ten years old and homeless, her eyes nearly swollen shut from tears. She had stopped crying, but that was the only change.

“I want . . . I want people to leave me alone.” The emptiness of the pastures suddenly frightened her. Was that all? Was that her life? Her tongue loosened. “I want to be able to walk into a marketplace and not worry that the Church is going to drag me off before I can say an Ave Maria. I want a . . . a home. I want a mother who won't throw me out of the house because I can heal like I do. I want . . .” The fever must have weakened her, because she felt her throat constricting. There was dampness in her eyes, but she fought the emotion down.

“Those are good things to want,” said Mika. “I can't supply freedom from the Church or from other people, and I can't change the past, but I can supply a home. Will that be sufficient?”

“You're still not telling me why?”

“Do I have to? Well, then, let this be my reason: when I found you by the side of the road you were bloody and broken and wet, and you look about thirteen, which is how old my Esther was when they dragged her from the river . . . bloody and broken . . . and . . . wet . . .except that you're alive and she—“

Miriam could feel that the midwife was weeping. “I'm not your daughter,” she said.

“That's not the point,” said Mika softly. “I couldn't save her. But I could save you. I do what I can.”

“I won't be able to stay with you.”

“As long as you like, child.”

Miriam flared. “I'm not a child, dammit.”

Mika looked over her shoulder. “I don't know what else to call you,” she said. “You never told me your name.”

Miriam saw kindness in her eyes and wished that she could acknowledge it, but her heart had grown cold, as though the iron of the blades that had torn her legs had imparted something of themselves to it. She looked away quickly, back at the landscape, and noticed that it was not totally empty: there were trees, low shrubs, even an occasional house. And to the west was the dark forest of Malvern, and beyond that the mountains.

“My name is Miriam,” she said.

***

Miriam said little more the rest of the day. Toward evening, they came in sight of Furze, but Mika was still unwilling to risk an inn, and they spent a third night by the side of the road. Miriam fell asleep over a supper of gruel and a little salt meat. The weather was cold, but the dark green cloak was warm.

Mika's house was set back a distance from the road, overlooked by two tall oak trees, and surrounded by well-tended gardens. Winter was not yet done, but there were green shoots poking up and even a spot of color here and there at the borders where an optimistic crocus was blooming. The house itself was good and sturdy, of woven willow carefully plastered with mud. The crucks supporting the roof were tall and straight, and the thatch had recently been beaten in.

Mika helped Miriam to the door and began loosing the latch fastening. “Jeanne has been here today,” she said. “Smell the straw? I told her I'd be home. She's always doing things like that for others.” She swung open the door to reveal a clean, well-kept room. There was fresh litter and herbs on the earth floor, and the fire on the hearth had been carefully banked.

Miriam smelled something else, too. “Fresh bread! Who is Jeanne? A neighbor?”

Mika put some cushions by the fire and made Miriam comfortable while she talked. “A neighbor, yes. Her sister is due in another month or so, and Jeanne is helping her.” She straightened, hands on hips, and surveyed the house. “And taking care of her midwife, too, I see. Here, ch—Miriam, have some bread, and I'll be back as soon as I've seen to Esau.” She put the basket of fragrant loaves by the small woman and went back out into the yard. Miriam heard the creak of the cart and the whinny of the pony as he was unharnessed and led away to a full manger.

She was hungry, but she left the bread untouched and stood up, blanket clutched around her shoulders. The house was like any other—hearth and kitchen, barrel and bench—and as such could not but remind her of the home she had left eight years ago. She did not remember it very well: it was no more than a vague recollection of a kinder time. But she did not require specific memories, for to describe it she needed only to enumerate those things that she wanted and did not have. Safety. Continuity. Surety. Company. And—if she dared even think of such a thing—love.

Still wobbly, Miriam moved about the house, peering at walls, hangings. Smoked hams dangled from the kitchen beams, and the pantry was stocked not only with roots and sacks of grain but (yes, Jeanne had been here, too) with apples fresh out of storage, wrinkled but sweet, and a large Bergren cheese. One wall was all shelves crammed with pots and jars capped with parchment and leather, each neatly labeled in a firm, even hand. Miriam squinted at the letters for a moment. She could not read, but she guessed that they were Mika's medicines.

The idea of resorting to herbs and infusions seemed strange to her. She had always been able to heal by a touch. For a moment, she smiled wryly. If she had used herbs, if she had only clumsy and inconsistent methods with which to work, she would not have been hunted, her legs would be unmarked, and she would have to worry far less about winding up at the stake. As it was, her gift demanded no effort, on her part or that of the sick, and the cure was instantaneous. Such efficiency was not rewarded.

She sat down on a stool, bandaged hands to her face. She could not hope. She had given up hoping. Oh, she might hide for a time, but before long her reputation would spread—as it always did—and the Church would hear about her. Aloysius Cranby would arrive with his court and his questions, and she would be taken . . . back to Hypprux. . . .

She cried out involuntarily, wishing she could kill a certain churchman.

Don't hope, Miriam. Just survive.

“Miriam?” Mika stood in the doorway.

“I was just remembering something.”

“The Chateau?”

She shrugged. “And Bishop Cranby.”

Mika closed the door, went to the hearth, and stirred up the fire. “I meant what I said on the road. You're safe here. You can stay.”

“And you want to train me as a midwife.”

Under Mika's hand, the flames quickened, stirred, crackled among the dry sticks. “If you'd like that,” she said. “My last apprentice went off to Belroi with a new husband before the snows came.”

“It won't work.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” Mika opened the pantry door and smiled. “That Jeanne.” She took out the apples and cheese and began slicing them.

“I told you: I can't control my power. If I see any illness, I have to cure it. Don't you understand? I have no choice. People talk.”

“Not if they love you.”

“Don't talk to me about love.” Miriam pulled at her bandages, examined the raw skin of her hands, wrinkled her nose. “People can't love someone who does miracles.”

“They can love someone who heals.”

“There's a difference. A big one.”

Mika let the argument hang. “Do you want to study midwifery?”

Miriam stood, made her way back to the cushions by the fire, accepted a plate of bread and cheese from Mika. “I'll do what I have to to earn my keep.” Hopes and fantasies swam in her mind. She shoved them down with an effort. “Will that be enough?”