Return- Hansel and Gretel Retold

by Demelza Carlton

  Now it was Rhona's turn to grin. "I will fly up those stairs, and back. You'll see!"

  Up she went, but she slowed her steps as she heard voices. Specifically, her father's and Doireann's.

  "I said no!" Her father sounded weary.

  "But I need you in my bed, for 'tis not a proper marriage if it not consummated. You do want me, don't you, Ronin?" Doireann wheedled.

  "I need you to take care of my daughters. My poor motherless girls."

  "I could give you sons, if you but lie with me. Much better than girls."

  "Watch your words, woman. I love my daughters, and if it were not for them, I would have left you to the charity of Scitis Isle. They need a mother, a woman to take care of them. Rhona is too young, no matter what she may think. Besides, she will one day leave us to have her own children, and then what? Nay, take care of the children you have, woman, and leave me alone!" Father threw the door of Doireann's chamber open and stormed out.

  Rhona ducked into the shadows, where no one would see her.

  "But anything could happen to them. Like my family, taken from me in a single raid, and you will go from four girls to none. If you had more children, at least some would survive…" Doireann continued, reaching for Father. "Lie with me, Ronin. I promise I will bring you pleasure, and perhaps one day a son…"

  "Lie with yourself!" He shook her off and shut the door to his chamber. Shutting her out.

  Rhona felt a perverse pleasure at seeing her stepmother humiliated so, but if Doireann knew she had overheard…

  "Anything could happen to them, Ronin. And when it does, then you will come to me. I swear it." Doireann's eyes glittered.

  Rhona shivered, hugging the shadows even more fervently. If Doireann meant her and her sisters ill, then she would protect them any way she could. Doireann would not harm them. This Rhona swore, hoping the fire in her soul would hold her oath stronger than her stepmother's. For only one of them could win, and Rhona could not lose her sisters. Not now, not ever. And as for marriage? There was no way she'd leave her sisters at the mercy of her stepmother for some man.

  Ten

  Lord Lewis rose and the hall fell silent. "It is with great pleasure that I announce the betrothal of Lord Calum's daughter, the Lady Bedelia, to my son, Mahon."

  What? Grieve tried to shout the word, but somehow before it left his throat his voice died.

  Bedelia was to marry his brother? How?

  The hall erupted in cheers and calls for more ale, so that they might drink to the health of the happy couple. Grieve drained his own wine cup, but his voice wasn't at the bottom of the cup, either.

  He forced a smile as the toasts went on and on, until he finally found a chance to escape from the hell that the hall had become.

  The moment he reached the yard outside, Grieve leaned against the wall, ready to throw up every bite he'd eaten. She was marrying Mahon? Why?

  "Grieve!"

  He thought he'd imagined her voice calling his name, but when he raised his head, there she was, haloed in the golden light spilling out of the hall. No, not a halo – hellfire, for that's what she was to him. Terrible temptation that would damn him forever.

  He turned away.

  "Why are you not happy for us? As my only friend here, I thought you would be the first to congratulate us, and wish us well."

  Grieve moistened his lips. He prayed his voice had returned. "I thought we were friends, and maybe even more. But I was mistaken. We spent every day together, talking, laughing, as I showed you Myroy Isle, while my brother was too busy to spare even a moment for you. Yet you choose him, the brother you barely know, over me."

  She drew herself up, dark eyes flashing. "I know he is the man I love, and the man I shall marry."

  Grieve couldn't believe what he was hearing. "How can you love him? You've barely spent more than a moment in his company. It is those fairy stories you told me about – you have read too many of those, where a pair meet and fall in love in less than a moment. Such stories are not real!"

  "I knew it the moment he kissed me," Bedelia insisted. "There was magic in his kiss. I felt it from my lips right down to the tips of my toes."

  "You haven't been alone long enough with him for a kiss!" Grieve protested. "You've been with me every day! If I'd been forward enough…forgotten common courtesy…and stolen a kiss, would you have chosen me instead?"

  He'd considered it, many times, but he'd always stopped himself. Now he regretted it more than ever.

  "On my first night here, he asked if he might kiss me good night, to apologise for being absent from my side all day. His lips touched mine and…my heart was his." She stamped her foot. "He stole nothing I did not freely give. Not that first kiss, or anything after." A rosy blush coloured her cheeks.

  Realisation dawned. Last night, Grieve thought he'd heard a woman's voice in Mahon's chambers. A maid or one of the girls from the village, he'd thought, and dismissed it. But it had been no maid. His brother had bedded the wanton Bedelia.

  Grieve wasn't sure what came over him. Anger and bitterness and longing all collided and he couldn't think any more. He seized Bedelia's shoulders and pressed his lips to hers, desperate to show her how much he loved her.

  She shoved him away, swiping a hand across her mouth.

  "Your brother has more honour than you'll ever know," she snapped.

  "Honour? What honour is there in taking you to his bed before you are married, treating you like a whore?"

  Her hand landed on his cheek, a sharp sting from such a small hand. "I came to his chamber, to give him my answer to his proposal. I asked him to prove that he would be a good husband to me. This is still the Southern Isles, not Alba. A woman is free to choose, and I have. I chose well." She spat at his feet and stormed off.

  "Bedelia, wait – "

  Bedelia strode past a man whose face was in shadow. A man Grieve could not afford to ignore.

  "Good night, Father," he said as he attempted to follow her.

  Father caught his arm. "No, leave the girl. She will be your brother's wife soon enough, and you'll only make trouble for them. It seems you leave me no choice but to take you to the Council meeting with me, for I cannot leave you here."

  Grieve hung his head. "She played me for a fool, Father."

  The grip on Grieve's arm tightened. "No, you made a fool of yourself, son. Better men than you have made fools of themselves over women, and I'm sure you will not be the last. Better to learn wisdom, and not follow those who do not want you. Perhaps one day, a woman will invite you to her bed as readily as Bedelia did your brother. But until that day comes, stay away from your brother and his wife. Or I've no doubt she'll bruise your other cheek to match the one you'll have in the morning." Father laughed. "Pack your things. We leave on the morrow. Better to be early to this meeting, for I fear the Albans are preparing for war, and we must be ready when they come."

  "I'll take war over women any day," Grieve muttered. Maybe he wouldn't need to marry at all. Not with Mahon and Bedelia rutting like rabbits. Why, they'd have a litter of heirs in no time.

  Father only laughed. "Spoken like a man who knows little of either. But that will change."

  Eleven

  Father frowned over the message a breathless courier had just delivered. He'd run all the way from the harbour. "I must leave now – the Council meeting has been called early. The Alban king is looking at the Southern Isles again, and the raids are getting more and more brazen. Lord Angus and Lord Lewis believe it means war, which we must plan for." He seized Rhona's shoulders. "If you see boats coming, take Doireann and your sisters and hide. The caves will be well stocked, so you may hide there until my return."

  Doireann hurried up. "What is this? What are you hiding?" She addressed Rhona, not Father, but it was Father who answered.

  "Doireann, I must go to a Council meeting. If Alban raiders come as Lord Lewis says they will, you all must hide. Rhona knows the way." Father turned to go.

  Doireann dug her claws i
nto his arm. "You cannot leave me here with raiders on the way!" she screeched. "They will kill us all! I demand you take me to this hiding place at once!"

  With difficulty, Father pried her off. "I do not have time. I must sail with the tide. Rhona will take you there, if it becomes necessary." He headed upstairs to pack.

  Doireann followed him, her loud protests and pleadings audible to everyone in the household. Rhona pitied the woman, who had every right to fear a raid, for she had lost everything in one before. But Scitis was a barren rock, nothing like Rum Isle. Rum Isle protected its own.

  Finally, Father departed, riding off at a gallop before Doireann got the idea in her head to go after him.

  Doireann fumed for a moment, before she turned her fury on Rhona. "Take me to this safe place. Now!" She dug her fingers into Rhona's arm, much like she'd done with Father.

  Rhona looked deep into the crazed woman's eyes, and saw something other than fear. Desperation, perhaps? She did not know. But she would not stand for being manhandled by this woman. Fury burned deep within her, and it was almost like Doireann felt it, for she released Rhona with a hiss of pain.

  "If you insist, I will take you to Sanctuary in the morning. It is a day's journey, for we can only ride so far, before we must proceed on foot. But we will never find it in the dark." Rhona turned and headed back to the stillroom.

  To her relief, Doireann did not follow.

  Twelve

  Grieve stayed on the shore of Loch Findlugan among the other lords' sons and retainers. Servants busied themselves with preparing tents and food for their lords, but like the other sons, Grieve had little to do.

  Not for the first time, he wondered why his father had bothered to bring him to the meeting, if there was nothing for him to do. Only the lords of the isles were allowed on Council Island.

  Father should have left him at home. Bedelia had been sent back to her father's house to prepare dresses and such things for her wedding to Mahon, so it wasn't like Grieve would have been in the way at home. Maybe Grieve shouldn't have mentioned his desire to challenge Mahon for Bedelia. But what else did a man do when his brother had stolen the affections of the woman he loved?

  The familiar thwack of metal finding its mark roused Grieve from his dark thoughts. He'd always enjoyed archery – so much so that his father had allowed him to train some of the other local men to hit a target. If the Albans invaded, it would be by sea, and every arrow that found its mark before the Albans reached shore meant one less man to fight.

  Laughter greeted Grieve as he joined the men assembled in front of the target. He soon saw why.

  "Has a witch cast a spell on the target so that no one can hit it?" he asked.

  More laughter. Someone handed the bow to Grieve. "Let's see if you can do better."

  They backed up, allowing him space to line up his shot. An unfamiliar bow, when he'd been too busy riding with Bedelia or sailing to practice…Grieve would be lucky to hit the target at all. Yet he refused to back down from the challenge. Notch, draw, breathe…release.

  His arrow thwacked into the target, slightly left of the centre.

  A smattering of applause broke out.

  "Who's next?" Grieve asked, holding out the bow.

  Someone snatched it from his hand, muttering that they could do better.

  The man beside Grieve stuck out his hand. "I'm Damhan. Lord Roe's son."

  Grieve shook his hand. "Grieve. I'm Lord Lewis's."

  "Are you the one Bedelia's going to marry? She's fallen hard for you. Singing and hugging herself and talking of nothing but going home to Myroy," another man said, eyeing Grieve with interest. "I'm Dermot. Lord Calum's my father."

  Grieve hung his head. "No, she's to marry my older brother."

  Dermot grinned. "Lucky escape for you, then. She's Father's little princess, leading him around like he had a ring through his nose. She'll do the same for your poor brother, I've no doubt. You're better off finding a girl more biddable, or one who has no brothers, and a claim to an island that'll come to you when you marry. They say one of Lord Angus's three daughters will inherit Isla."

  "You mean the Three Little Pigs?" Grieve blurted out. Everyone had heard the tales of the girls, who must be homely as hell to have kept such a terrible name.

  Damhan waved his hand, as if dispelling an unwelcome odour. "Ah, they only got called that for the day they played in the mud. Comely girls, all three of them, with their mother's red hair. Though with a dowry like Isla, none of them need to be more than tolerable. I'd court any of them, if they looked my way."

  "My father says Isla had best be held by a Viken after Angus, and he's keeping the oldest girl for an alliance with the Viken king."

  The bow had come back to Grieve, and he took his turn. His second shot was better than the first – and much better than any of the others.

  "She's still a woman of the Southern Isles, or she will be, if she's too young to be a woman yet. No Viken will have Lord Angus' daughter against her will while a single Islander draws breath. If she falls in love with an Islander, she'll marry where she pleases. Much like her mother did, to my father's endless sorrow," Dermot said, drawing back the bow. His shot landed in the dirt three feet in front of the target.

  "Try again," Grieve urged him. "Only this time, aim a yard higher. The arrow will naturally fall to earth, so you need to let it soar more first."

  Dermot nodded, and did as Grieve suggested. A moment later, his arrow thwacked solidly into the centre circle of the target.

  More applause and a couple of cheers.

  "Who's next?" Dermot asked, lifting the bow up in invitation.

  "Me," said a boy. "But only if Grieve here can offer me some coaching. So that next time I shoot an Alban, I hit him right between the eyes instead of between the legs."

  Laughter erupted, and cries of, "There's nothing to hit between an Alban's legs, anyway!"

  Grieve grinned. Maybe Father had been right to bring him along after all.

  Thirteen

  Rhona did not sleep well, so she slipped into the stillroom for some willow bark to ease her headache on her way to breakfast. Dealing with Doireann and a headache was more than any saint could be expected to endure, and Rhona was certainly no saint.

  Yet as she entered, she had the distinct feeling that something was wrong. The drawers were not all closed properly, and she made a particular point of shutting her jars away from all light so that the herbs might keep for longer. The books were out of order, too – Blanid's carefully drawn herbals, listing every plant she'd ever heard of, and quite a few that Rhona knew would never grow on Rum Isle. Rhona knew them by heart, of course, but occasionally she still checked some of the more exotic ones before administering them to anyone. She didn't know how her grandparents had procured some of the plants they possessed, but they'd made sure Blanid's stillroom held everything their own garden could supply.

  "Lady Rhona, her ladyship demands to know when you are ready," Ciara said.

  After Belen took up the title, they'd all started doing it, and Rhona could not bring herself to tell them to stop. They didn't look at her differently, nor curtsey at her like she was some princess, but now they came to her as they must have once come to Blanid. The message was clear – the staff saw Rhona as the lady of the house, not Doireann. It earned her more of Doireann's dark looks, even as it lessened the weight of her father's disappointment, just a little, but not enough to make her feel safe in her own home again.

  And now someone had been through her herbs – since she'd left the stillroom last night.

  "Ciara, did you or any of the others come in here last night, or this morning? Perhaps to get some willow bark, or herbs for cooking?"

  Ciara shook her head. "Not me, mistress. I wouldn't know one herb from the other."

  "But the herbs are all in my books, and I was still abed. You or one of the others might have opened one of the herbals to read…" Rhona stopped when she realised Ciara has trying to smother a laugh. "What is i
t?"

  "You forget, Lady Rhona, that the only ladies who can read in the house are you and your sisters. Unless it was a matter of life or death, we would all let you sleep, and ask you for what was needed when you woke."

  Of course. No wonder the girl laughed. Her sisters would wake her if they wanted something, knowing they would have it faster from her than from a lot of tiresome reading. "What of Doireann?" Rhona asked urgently.

  Ciara shrugged. "I do not know. But surely she would summon you if she wanted something…"

  Unless Doireann wanted something she did not want Rhona to know about. Medicines could be poisons if used in the wrong dosage, as Rhona knew well.

  "Have my sisters come down for breakfast?" Rhona asked.

  "Yes. Her ladyship insisted. Then she asked for some small cups so that they could all drink a special cordial…"

  Rhona swore. Whether by design or mistake, Doireann might have poisoned the girls already. "Tell her I'm coming." She rummaged through the bottles, but she couldn’t be sure which one Doireann had taken. Unlike the cupboards, the bottles appeared untouched. Everything seemed to be there, unless Doireann had poured the contents of one into a bottle of her own. And Rhona wouldn't know which bottle to check – it wasn't like she kept track of how much was in each one. Blanid might have known, but she wasn't here now.

  Rhona paused to grab a cloak before heading outside, where Doireann sat on the box seat of a cart. A cart full of chests and casks, which were occupied by her bleary-eyed sisters. Sleepy from being woken too early, or because they'd been drugged?

  Please, don't let it be the second, Rhona prayed silently as she approached the cart. "It will take longer by cart," Rhona said.