by Kate Forsyth
Lilanthe chose her words with care. ‘Do ye fear this lass may have killed the Yeoman?’
Niall’s frown deepened. ‘Did ye notice the coat has been torn at the breast and back, as if by an arrow? And the tear cobbled together again? And she carried bow and arrows.’
‘They may no’ be hers,’ Lilanthe said.
Lewen remembered the callouses on her right palm but said nothing, staring at his plate in dumb misery.
‘No, they may no’. And she is only a lass.’ Niall sighed heavily.
‘No’ really,’ Lilanthe said. ‘She must be seventeen or eighteen. And certainly she kens how to fight.’
‘No’ to mention fight dirty,’ Niall said.
‘Aye. I’ll never forget the look on her face as she went for ye with that pitchfork. I almost fainted!’
‘Ye almost fainted! Think how I felt when she kicked me. I thought I was going to pass out. I’m afraid I willna be much use to ye for a day or two, leannan, I’m swollen up like a pair o’ pumpkins.’
‘Why? Where did she kick ye?’ Meriel asked, wide-eyed.
Lilanthe gave her husband a reproving glance and got up to clear the plates.
‘She bit me on the shoulder,’ Lewen said, as much as to distract his little sister as because the wound was throbbing nastily.
Lilanthe put the plates down and hurried over to look. She pulled back the collar of his shirt and exclaimed at the round, purple-red bruise.
‘What a wildcat,’ Niall said admiringly.
‘I’ll put some arnica cream on it,’ Lilanthe said. ‘It’s a nasty bite. What could make her behave so? It was no’ as if we were threatening her or trying to hurt her. We were trying to help! She just went mad like a rabid dog.’
‘Happen she was frightened,’ Niall said.
‘Or angry because ye held her saddlebags. Happen she thought ye were trying to steal her things. “Mine” seems to be her favourite word.’
‘She had only just woken up,’ Lewen said defensively. ‘She dinna ken where she was or who we were.’
‘Aye, that’s true enough,’ Niall said placatingly. ‘Well, we’ll question her in the morning. Let’s leave the conjectures till then, shall we? Let’s no’ forget this is our last night together as a family for what may be a very long time. Merry, sweetling, why do ye no’ serve us some of that special pie ye made for Lewen? And I’ll get down some goldensloe wine, to toast our lad on his last night at home.’
She’ll probably be gone in the morning anyway, Lewen said to himself. The thought was cold and heavy as a stone, but he squared his shoulders and took the glass his father gave him with a grin of thanks. No sense dreaming o’ a lass I’ll never see again.
Lewen woke early the next morning, and was at once sitting up and reaching for his clothes. The house was quiet and dim. He went down the stairs in his stockings, carrying his boots. His feet were numb by the time he reached the kitchen, for the stone floors were cold, and so he built a fire on the grey ashes in the hearth and willed it into life with a snap of his fingers. Flames roared up, and Lewen warmed the soles of his feet before pulling on his boots.
Ursa yawned and stretched, and raised her enormous head, gazing at him with questioning eyes. He reached up to rub her greying snout. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he said affectionately. ‘All is well. I’m just going out to the stables.’
She moaned softly but put her head back down on her heavy paws, for she was a very old bear now and content to sleep before the fire and amble after Niall as he went about his chores. Lewen swung the kettle over the fire then, pulling on his coat and gloves, went quietly out into the early morning mist. The whole garden was wrapped in cloud. The silence was uncanny. Lewen moved with great gentleness, afraid to disturb the stillness. He eased open the door of the stable and stepped quietly inside.
The stall door had been smashed to pieces, and a length of frayed rope dangled from the ring where the mare’s halter had been secured. The bucket of water had been kicked over, and the dirt floor was a churned mass of hoof prints. The stall was empty.
Yet in the mound of straw where he had made up a bed for the girl, she slept, curled within the curve of the winged horse’s body, the blanket slipping from one shoulder, her hand tucked under her cheek. The horse slept too, its head resting on its forelegs. One wing sheltered the girl, like a black feathered quilt. In the other stalls, the horses all stood drowsily, Lewen’s stallion Argent raising his head to look at him, the others sleeping on.
Lewen stood very still. Surely it was not safe for her to sleep there, so close to those sharp hooves? The mare was wild. Everyone knew it was near impossible to tame a winged horse, and this one must surely hate the rider that had ridden it so hard and so far. Yet there she slept, tucked up against the mare’s side like a foal.
As if sensing his regard, the girl stirred and sighed and opened her eyes, lifting her hand to rub away the grit of sleep. Her movement roused the horse and it moved its head, blowing gustily through its nostrils. The girl looked up and saw Lewen standing there, gazing at her. Immediately she tensed, pushing herself away from him, pressing deeper into the horse’s side. Lewen put up a warning hand, but it was too late. The mare at once scrambled to her feet, rearing back on her hind hooves. She trumpeted a defiant neigh, came down, and kicked out behind.
The girl had rolled herself nimbly away, and now stood and stepped forward, her hand held out flat. ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘No need to fear. Me here.’
The horse rolled a white-rimmed eye towards her and shied away, but the girl stepped closer still, one hand going to cup its velvet nose, the other moving up to seize the mare’s ear. ‘Ssssshhhh,’ she crooned. ‘Ssssshhhh. No need to fear.’
Amazingly, the winged horse quietened at once. It breathed in the girl’s scent with flared nostrils, shivered a little and danced uneasily, but did not rear again or neigh. The girl moved closer still, smoothing the mare’s satiny neck with her hand, whispering to her. The mare flicked her luxurious long tail and dropped her nose into the girl’s hand, and the girl laid her cheek against the mare’s neck, caressing one of the long scrolled horns, as blue as a dusk sky. ‘Aye, ye’re bonny, aye, ye are,’ she whispered.
Lewen could only stand and stare. He had never seen anyone calm a horse so easily. Lewen was a horse-whisperer himself, and had tamed his own bad-tempered stallion in record time, but even that had taken him days, not hours. As he wondered and marvelled, she turned towards him and said coldly, ‘Ye be more careful. She kick hard, she would. She afeared here.’
‘It was ye I was worried about,’ Lewen said defensively. ‘What were ye thinking, sleeping up against her like that? She could’ve killed ye.’
‘She mine,’ she said flatly. ‘I guard.’
‘Guard? Guard her against what? There’s naught to fear here.’
She gave him a contemptuous stare and turned back to the mare, stroking her nose and neck. At some point during the night she had removed the halter and blanket, for the mare was unfettered now. Lewen came forward a few small steps, fascinated by the mare’s exotic beauty. The mare shook her mane and pranced a little. The girl laid her hand over the mare’s nose again and she quietened so the girl could run her hands gently down her slender legs to check for hotness or swelling.
‘Ye ken horses,’ Lewen said. ‘Ye’ve ridden them afore.’
‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘I call them, they come to me.’
‘They just come? Any horse?’
She shrugged. ‘All I’ve called.’
‘The mare too? Then why …?’
She shook her head. ‘Me no’ ken if she carry me like the wild ponies do. And if she let me, me no’ ken if me stay on long enough. Me fallen off afore. Me no’ want to fall off while she flying.’ She made a high, flowing gesture with her hand.
‘Nay, o’ course no’,’ Lewen said with a grin. He came forward another few steps and at once the girl backed away, fists clenching, baring her teeth at him warningly. The horse whinnied and side
stepped uneasily. Lewen put up both hands placatingly, stepping back. ‘I mean ye no harm. I just wanted to check … I was worried. Are ye hungry? Would ye like some porridge?’
She was suspicious. ‘What … porridge?’ The word stumbled on her tongue.
‘Ye do no’ ken porridge?’ Lewen said unbelievingly. ‘It’s oats … hot, and with milk and honey. It’s good. If ye’ll come …’ He gestured out into the brightening morning. ‘I can make ye some, and happen some griddle-cakes too, and tea.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why? What ye want?’
Lewen was distressed. ‘Naught! I mean, I just … I thought ye might be hungry.’
‘Me hungry, sure enough, but what ye care?’
‘Ye’re our guest here … ye’re sore hurt … I wanted …’
‘What?’
‘Naught! Just to be kind.’
To his surprise and secret hurt, he saw contempt in her eyes. ‘True me hungry. Bring food here,’ she commanded.
He drew back, his eyes hardening. ‘I am no’ your servant,’ he said. ‘I thought ye might be hungry so I offered ye some breakfast, but if ye want it, ye can come and get it yourself.’ He turned on his heel and began to walk out, his back very straight. She said nothing, but he could feel her gaze burning into his back.
He was out of the stable and halfway through the barnyard when he heard her say imperiously, ‘Stop!’
He turned, still smouldering with anger. She stood in the doorway of the stable, dressed only in a long white nightgown and bare feet, her black hair a matted rat’s nest. She looked so young and vulnerable his anger melted away, but he held himself stiffly still, meeting her gaze. ‘Me very hungry,’ she said forlornly, ‘but canna leave what mine.’ She gestured behind her.
‘Ye mean, the horse?’
‘All what mine.’
‘Ye’re afraid someone will steal your things?’ Lewen did not know whether to feel anger or pity that she should be so filled with suspicion and distrust. He said more gently, ‘No-one will steal your things, or even touch them, I promise. Ye and your things are safe here. Ye must learn to trust us if we are to help ye.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why ye want help me?’
Again Lewen could not find the words to explain. He said stiffly, ‘Ye are our guest. Ye’ve broken our bread and tasted our salt. We may no’ harm one who has partaken o’ our hospitality.’
She seemed to accept this, for she nodded, turned back into the stable and said, with one imperiously pointed finger, ‘Horse, stay. Me come back.’
Then she came out onto the dew-frosted grass, her bare feet leaving dark streaks.
‘Wait! Ye must be cold. Where are your clothes, your shoes? Happen ye’d best get dressed first.’ He tugged at his own clothes and indicated his own stout boots.
She looked surprised, but shrugged and went back inside, coming back a few minutes later with the long black boots pulled on under her nightgown and the plaid wrapped negligently about her shoulders. Lewen felt a now familiar bemusement. No other girl of his acquaintance would be so nonchalant about being seen in her nightgown, or so careless of her appearance. His curiosity about her continued to grow.
‘So why did ye tie yourself to the mare? Did ye just wish to ride her, to tame her? Or are ye fleeing from someone?’
The girl’s lips pressed together firmly and she did not answer.
‘Did ye come down out o’ the mountains? Where is your family?’
Still she would not answer. Lewen looked at her sideways, marvelling at the stubbornness of her patrician profile, the line of brow and nose so straight, the mouth below so softly and deeply curved. It was a face of contradictions, and he did not know which part to believe, the cold severity of the upper, or the warm sensuality of the lower.
They came into the warmth of the kitchen and at once Ursa lifted her snout and moaned a greeting, lumbering to her feet. The girl froze. Suddenly a sharp silver dagger was in her hand and she had dropped into a killer’s crouch, her teeth bared. Ursa hardly noticed, so accustomed was she to gentleness and affection. She padded forward, lowering her head for a scratch behind the ears. Quick as a snake, the girl struck. Lewen was so taken aback his brain refused to respond. His muscles were well trained, however, and he lunged forward and caught her wrist, the sharp point of the dagger a scant inch away from Ursa’s shaggy breast. For a moment they struggled silently, barely moving, but exerting their strength against each other. Then she submitted, allowing him to draw her away from the puzzled old bear, surrendering the knife into his hand as she rubbed at her bruised wrist.
‘Ye strong,’ she said with approval. ‘Ye hurt me.’
Lewen swallowed his instinctive apology. ‘Why did ye stab at poor auld Ursa like that?’ he said.
She was regarding the enormous woolly bear with narrowed eyes. ‘Bear,’ she said, gesturing with one hand.
‘Aye, o’ course she’s a bear, anyone can see that!’
He took a breath to berate her further, but the look on her face made him pause and reflect. ‘Did ye think her a wild bear, strayed into our kitchen searching for food? I suppose she could have been, but … canna ye see how tame she is, how gentle?’ He gave a low growl of frustration, unable to express how troubled he was by her fierceness, yet knowing he was being unfair. Anyone raised in the mountains knew to fear woolly bears, known as much for their savagery as their stupidity.
If he had not been raised by his parents, if he was someone else, someone normal, and he had walked into a strange house and seen such an immense, long-toothed, sharp-clawed, strong-shouldered creature in the kitchen, would he not have reacted instinctively to defend himself? And this strange feral girl from the mountains had clearly not been raised with gentleness as he had been. She flinched instinctively when anyone came too near, she carried a knife under her nightgown, she was the nastiest fighter he had ever seen, more unprincipled than even the beggar-boys down near the ports. It was wrong of him to wish her something different, it was wrong to long for her to have the gentleness of his father, the sensitivity of his mother, the merry heart and sweet trustfulness of his sister. She was what she was, and he should not want her to be different just because she had a mouth that fascinated him.
She was watching him now with a calculating expression, as if reading and interpreting the play of expressions on his face, and he took a deep breath and brought his thoughts back under control.
‘Ursa is my father’s familiar,’ he said. When she clearly did not understand what he meant, he said rather vaguely, ‘His friend, his helpmate, his …’ He did not want to say ‘pet’, but could not think how to explain. ‘Like your horse,’ he said at last.
She moved her clear, intent gaze from his face to the bear’s. Ursa was patiently waiting to be petted and Lewen choked back a laugh and put his hand up to scratch behind her ears. She slitted her eyes and growled deeply in her throat with pleasure. He stroked her snout and she ambled back to her place by the fire. ‘She’s very auld now,’ he said, almost as if wanting to excuse her docility.
After that he did not know what to say to her. His hands suddenly felt large and clumsy, his face hot, and his tongue thick. He busied himself making breakfast, but even that felt wrong and difficult. He dropped the porridge pot, and slurped in too much milk and had to add more oats, which turned to glue, and then he forgot to add the salt and, when he hurried to remedy the omission, fumbled the opening of the canister and spilt in too much, and all the while his ears got hotter and hotter. She sat at the table in silence, watching him with interest, her arms wrapped round her knees, the nightgown slipping off one bare white shoulder as she did not know how to tie up the laces properly. By the time Lilanthe came in, the buds of her twiggy hair bursting into green overnight as if to signal the surge of spring that Lewen was feeling in his blood, her son was as red-cheeked and miserable as she had ever seen him. She tasted the porridge, cast him one whiplash glance but said nothing, swinging t
he pot off the fire and beginning to swiftly mix up some batter for griddle-cakes, all the while asking the girl gently how she had slept, and was she not cold in her nightgown still, and did she prefer honey or greengage jam? Lewen could only retire in grateful confusion.
Hand-in-hand with her father, Meriel came scampering in, bright-eyed with curiosity. Her chatter filled the silence so that Lewen was able to retreat to the table and busy himself eating and drinking. Meriel peppered the blue-eyed stranger with questions, not at all disconcerted by her reluctance to answer.
‘Did ye sleep well? Were ye warm enough?’
‘Aye.’ The girl crammed a whole griddle-cake into her mouth.
‘And ye really have a winged horse all o’ your own? How did ye catch her?’
No answer.
‘Can I have a ride o’ her?’
‘Nay,’ she mumbled through her mouthful of crumbs.
‘Oh, please? I’ve always wanted to have a winged horse o’ my own. Please?’
‘Nay.’
‘Will she only let ye ride her? Are ye from Tìreich? How did ye get here? Did ye fly over the mountains?’
No answer. Another two griddle-cakes disappeared.
‘Mam says ye were sore hurt by tying yourself on so tight. Do your wrists still hurt?’
‘Aye.’
‘Why did ye do it?’
‘So no’ fall off.’ Her voice expressed weary contempt. She wiped jam away from her mouth and reached for another griddle-cake.
Meriel was not abashed. ‘But if she’s your horse, surely she wouldna let ye fall? Thigearns do no’ tie themselves on.’
‘She no’ my horse then. Is now.’ She flashed the little girl a sharp warning glance.
‘So have ye only just caught her? She’s no’ really your horse then, is she?’
‘Mine.’
‘But, I mean, flying horses canna be tamed so easily. Thigearns must ride their flying horses for a year and a day. Ye only stayed on one day and one night. That canna count.’