Eva nodded. She had sent her husband off to battle on many an occasion. She knew the risks, even if this fight used magic and not swords for weapons.
‘Go.’ She gave her half-brother a gentle push. ‘I need to convince the Priory to give me the Blood of Christ. A substantial donation should be enough of an inducement. I will send for you when I have it.’
Blod was a druid. She used another kind of magic, the natural kind, the kind that belonged to the wild places and the light. It changed everything.
For the first time in many years, hope’s small ember burned in my chest. I had a real chance of freedom. This bold plan of ours may well work.
I had forgotten the gods liked to laugh at best-laid plans.
Chapter 29
Eva stretched on tiptoe and kissed her brother on the cheek. He gave her a hug, a foolish grin lighting his face, and she pushed him away, glancing around the bailey. I wondered if William knew his companion was leaving.
‘Where is Lord William?’ I asked Eva.
‘Overseeing the birth of his favourite bitch’s puppies. I told him Hugh is escorting his grandmother back to Pembroke and will celebrate Christmas there.’ She turned to Hugh. ‘He will not look for you for several weeks, so you have time to complete your mission. I’m counting on you not to fail me.’
I looked away, not wanting to see the fear in her eyes.
‘You’ve got the Blood of Christ?’ she asked Blod for the fifth time.
Blod patted her scrawny chest. She carried the tiny, precious jar of oil in a pouch strung from her neck and hidden under so many layers of clothes the old woman resembled a fat, disgruntled hen. She was perched on top of her horse, fluffing at her skirts and fidgeting as much as a chicken preparing to lay.
I swung into the saddle with Hugh’s help, and gathered the reins. The mare tossed her head, eager to be off. I bet she wouldn’t be as eager after a few hours of hard riding through slushy snow, and neither would I. I had a feeling this journey might be brutal. The depths of winter was not the best time to travel any distance. Still, Hugh had coin aplenty to pay for bed and board, and the roads were well-travelled. Shelter should not be a problem.
The route had been planned with the aid of a stick of charcoal and a wooden floor. We knew how far we needed to ride each day to find lodgings for the night, and we estimated a six- to seven-day journey if the conditions didn’t worsen.
We achieved eighteen miles on the first day, riding along the broad valley of the River Usk for some of it, before branching off north when the river swung east and following a smaller watercourse towards the town of Bronllys and its round turret of a castle.
The sun hid behind lowering clouds, and the light, what little there was at this time of year, remained sullen and dull. I disliked winter intensely, and rode with my nose buried in the folds of Eva’s beaver-trimmed cape, its hood pulled tight around my head. The sky was grey, the mountains were grey, my horse’s twitching ears were grey; everything was painted in grey, including my heart and soul. I already longed for this journey to be over, yet we had hardly begun it.
Hugh held up a hand. My horse bumped up against his stallion, her nose on his back. The destrier tolerated her, but Blod’s gelding kept a respectful distance. The stallion had lashed out at the smaller horse several times already, so we fell into the pattern of Hugh leading the way, me in the middle, and Blod bringing up the rear. She spent most of the journey twisted about in the saddle, peering behind her, convinced we were about to be beset upon by bandits. Hugh tried to reassure her that not even bandits would be abroad in these conditions, but she stuck to her conviction.
The River Llynfi lay across our path. The fording would be an easy one were it not for the steepness of the bank on our side and Hugh searched for a way down.
‘We can attempt it here, or seek a less slippery crossing elsewhere,’ he suggested.
The turrets of Bronllys castle, visible between the trees lining the river banks, were enticingly close.
‘Here,’ Blod and I chorused, eager to be out of the saddle and in front of a warm fire with our bellies full of hot food.
Hugh’s destrier made short work of the descent, but my mare baulked and shied, turning in tight circles as I dragged her head around, trying to point her at the water. I kicked her flanks in encouragement, but her snort of indignation conveyed her thoughts on the matter.
A flash of dun, and Blod’s plucky gelding pushed past, almost sliding on his haunches as he skidded down the banking. A whoop from Blod, as he splashed through the shallow river, kicking up plumes of spray, and he was across. Hugh’s stallion pricked his ears forward. I hoped his opinion of the gelding had risen.
Scared of being on one side of the river while the rest of her herd were on the other, the mare bolted to the edge and started down it.
Taken unawares, I tumbled off backwards.
The grunt as I hit the ground and the sound of the air whooshing out of my lungs startled a couple of ducks. They shot from cover with frantic flapping and alarmed calls. The mare, already unnerved, reached the bottom of the bank in a clatter of hooves, spraying pebbles and small stones to splash in the water. She took to her heels and ran.
I had no luck with horses. Or perhaps, the problem was my lack of skill.
Hugh wheeled his mount around and galloped after her, Blod almost falling off her own horse with laughter, and I clambered to my feet, rubbing my behind and fully anticipating a bruise come morning. Bloody horse. My feet were about to get wet too, and I only had the one pair of boots with me. I grimaced at the thought of cold, wet leather tomorrow if they failed to dry overnight.
Lifting my skirts high to keep them out of the slushy snow, I eyed the bank, seeking a way down, before slipping and slithering my way to the bottom. Then I ran, as fast as I could, through the freezing dark water.
The river came over the tops of my boots and, as I picked a route across the pebbly shore, the squelch made me wince. The sound made Blod laugh harder. I felt like pushing her off her own horse and seeing how she liked it.
‘Lord Richard knows he has guests tonight,’ Hugh called, appearing through the trees. ‘Your mare ran hell for leather to the gates and alerted the guards to our presence. At least there will be a fire and a hot meal awaiting us.’ He drew up next to me. ‘Here.’
I grabbed his outstretched hand, and he hauled me up behind him.
Déjà vu.
~~~~~
Richard Marshal and his wife, Gervaise, were gracious hosts.
‘How is my sister?’ the lord asked. ‘Well, I hope?’
Eva and Richard were full-blown siblings. I sat quietly beside Blod and listened to the flow of conversation, thinking of the challenge ahead. For the present, in English-held lands we were safe, but as soon as we ventured onto Welsh soil, Hugh would have to be careful what he said. We all would. Blod suggested we keep our mouths shut and say only that we had important news to convey to Llewelyn. We did not want to risk anyone questioning Eva’s supposed death. However, the closer we came to Criccieth, the less chance of news filtering through. We would be believed. We had to be believed.
The next night saw us beg shelter from Builth Castle before we attempted to cross the mighty River Wye, and the following day we swung west and onto Welsh soil. Immediately, the land became wilder and its people fiercer. Or was it my imagination projecting my apprehension onto our surroundings?
‘Stop,’ Blod called from behind.
‘The village of Argoed lies between those two hills. We can refresh ourselves there,’ Hugh said.
‘I said “stop”.’
I looked back to see Blod sliding off her horse.
‘Wait for her,’ I called to Hugh, thinking the old woman needed to relieve herself.
Blod tied the animal’s reins to a bush, rummaged in a saddle bag, drew forth a small axe, and set off into a copse of trees. Hugh and I exchanged glances. What on earth did she intend to do with an axe? Rhythmic chopping and the occasional curse so
unded from the copse.
‘Don’t just sit there,’ she yelled. ‘I could do with some help.’
Hugh dismounted with an exaggerated sigh, threw the reins at me, and stomped off in Blod’s wake.
‘Oh, for the love of the virgin,’ I heard him say, and my eyes widened at the sight of a small bush trundling out from between the trees, followed by Hugh dragging half the wood behind him.
‘Surely a token twig will do?’ he asked.
‘No, it won’t,’ the bush answered, spitting leaves. Blod deposited an armful of mistletoe and ivy at the gelding’s feet. He snorted and shook his head.
‘Exactly how do you intend to carry this?’ Hugh asked, disentangling himself from the holly branch he was hauling.
‘Carefully,’ Blod retorted.
I flatly refused to be burdened with the best part of a forest, so Hugh and Blod split the load between them, Blod shooting me filthy looks and muttering under her breath as she used strands of ivy to tie the foliage into bundles and strap them on the back of her horse. I chewed on a piece of dried, salted fish and shook my head. Hugh was right – a token twig or two would have sufficed. I knew she was a druid, but I’m sure her gods would understand. She could hardly do justice to the celebration of the longest night on a journey such as this.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten just how much the gods did expect.
~~~~~
Night closed in along with the weather, and we were forced to seek sanctuary from it. The best the farmhouse could offer was the animal shelter underneath their own dwelling. The two-storey structure of crude timber and clay, had a single room on the top floor, housing the farmer, his wife, his mother, and a horde of grubby, inquisitive children. None of us wanted to oust them from their home, so we offered to bed down alongside the animals. At least the heat from the three pigs, a cow and her half-grown calf, two goats, and a scattering of chickens warmed the barn, even if the noise and the smell were not to my liking. Getting in out of the driving rain was enough.
I left Hugh to deal with the farmer, bartering coin for food, and scrambled down off the horse. My legs ached abominably. Blod looked pitiful, perched on her mount, a drenched and miserable crow. Sleet fell in icy shards, melting on skin and cloak and leather, until all of us wore sodden clothes and water-logged boots. My hands had turned to frozen claws inside fur-lined leather mittens, and my legs were numb from toes to knees. Blod must be faring worse. For all her energy and enthusiasm, the woman was at least three times my age and did not have enough fat on her to warm a mouse.
I let one of the farm children see to my horse, and I went to see to Blod, hefting her from the saddle with surprising ease. She weighed less than a seven-year-old. I swear her soaked cloak weighed more than she did.
‘Fetch the evergreens,’ she instructed.
‘Let’s get you inside first.’ I held her up as she tottered and shivered.
‘Evergreens.’
‘In a while. After you are dry and warm.’
‘I will bring them.’ Hugh’s voice at my shoulder was filled with concern.
Blod allowed me to lead her into the barn, and after I deposited her on a bale of straw, I kicked away the loose stuff, clearing a patch of dry, bare, hard-packed earth.
Hugh piled saddles and bridles in a corner, pushing a goat out of the way. It eyed him with a devil-slitted stare.
‘He has eyes like yours, when you are a cat,’ Hugh pointed out.
‘Mine are not yellow,’ I retorted.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, watching me kick, sending straw-dust into the air to drift back to the ground in a prickly, discoloured snow.
‘Making a fire. Blod needs to get warm. We all do.’
‘Not in here. One stray spark and you will have more fire than you know what to do with. Strip her off. I will ask Aldred, the farmer, to dry our clothes upstairs.’
‘You had better ask if his wife or mother has a spare dress.’ The one in Blod’s saddle bag dripped when I held it up.
While Hugh obtained dry clothing, I removed Blod’s wet garments. All the time I worked, she said nothing. Very unlike Blod.
Hugh threw several bundles of cloth down the rickety wooden steps and waited above until Blod was made decent.
She was thinner than I imagined. Divested of her garments, she resembled a skeleton loosely draped in parchment. I poked her stick-like arms into a threadbare chemise. At least it was dry and vaguely clean.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
A good sign; Blod had a healthy and hearty appetite, although what her body did with all the food she consumed, was a mystery. She looked as though she hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks.
Her hands flapped and slapped at mine. ‘I can do it.’
Another good sign.
‘Fetch me a cup of warmed wine,’ she demanded, and I laughed with relief.
‘The farmer might stretch to some ale, but I doubt if he has wine,’ I said.
‘I have wine.’
The sneaky madam! ‘Where?’ I asked.
‘In one of your saddlebags.’
‘How—? When—?’
‘I stole it from the cellars at Builth Castle.’
‘And stashed it in my saddle bags? Thank you.’
‘I didn’t want to get caught with it.’
‘Caught with what?’ Hugh’s feet on the stairs were quickly followed by the rest of him.
‘Wine,’ Blod said, shuffling to the corner and rooting through a bag. She held up a half-full goatskin. It gurgled.
‘Ask them to heat it. It has to be warm,’ she said. ‘Make sure the kettle is clean and free from whatever they boiled in it previously. You can pour it out into this.’
Blod handed him a tiny silver chalice. Intricately carved, the runes shone and shimmered in the light seeping down the stairs.
‘Why? Hot food will warm your insides better than any wine,’ I said.
‘Alban Arthan,’ Hugh said, taking the goatskin from her.
Of course. Alban Arthan – the Light of Winter. The ancient ceremony took place on the longest night, the winter solstice. It was a time to mourn the death of the sun and to pray for its rebirth. Blod intended to keep a vigil throughout this night, until the sun rose and the wheel of life turned once more.
A vision of my mother, dressed in a white robe and chanting, danced across my inner eye. The memory was an old and deeply buried one. I had known she worshipped the old gods. I recalled her prayers, so unlike the words spoken by the Christian priest. Once, I had followed her to her secret shrine dedicated to Brighid, the goddess of fire and light, and I wondered if she knew I watched her. But had she been a druid like Blod?
Is that what Herleva had seen in me all those years ago? Is that why she chose to ensorcel me? Plenty of other poor souls must have crossed her path who would have served her purpose. Why hadn’t she turned any of them into a cat? Had she seen something in me she had not seen in others. I wondered if the spell only worked in certain people; people with the old magic running through their veins.
Was I my mother’s daughter?
Chapter 30
‘I need a Yule log, an unlit candle, and warmed wine,’ Blod said, ‘but first, we all need food.’
The fare consisted of a vegetable stew and hunks of coarse black bread, and a boiled chicken’s egg floated in the middle of each bowl. I devoured mine with relish, and the soft goats’ cheese which followed. Still hungry, I could have eaten the whole meal over again, but I suspected there would be little enough left for Aldred’s family as it was. I hoped Hugh had given the man sufficient coin to buy provisions to see them through the rest of the winter.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘We wait,’ Blod said, ‘until the darkest part of the night. Then I will pray to the gods for the return of the light.’
She put her bowl on the floor and lay down, wrapping a threadbare woollen blanket around her shoulders. I should do the same. The night promised to be a long one, especially if Blod
intended to wake us in the middle of it to dance naked around her candle, or whatever it was she planned on doing.
Hugh collected the bowls and placed them on the step. Blod had left most of her stew. I wish I had known before it went cold – I would have eaten what she had not. My stomach gurgled. A chicken fluttered to the top of the bale I was leaning against, and I fantasied about seeing it divested of its head, feet, and feathers, and turning juicily on a sharp spit over a hot fire. I would eat it all; the others could find their own chickens.
Blod snuffled and coughed, turning restlessly on her bed of straw.
‘Try to get some sleep,’ Hugh said to me, shoving an armful of dried stalks into a pile to make a pillow and lying down. His clothes steamed in the faint light.
‘You should take those off,’ I said.
He propped himself up on one elbow. His teeth gleamed. ‘It is about time you succumbed to my manly good-looks.’
‘Huh. I don’t think so. And certainly not with Blod as an audience.’
‘My grandmother is fast asleep. Listen.’
Snuffly snores emanated from the blanket-wrapped woman, but I wouldn’t put it past her to fake being asleep.
Hugh draped an arm across my waist. My instinct was to push it away, but its weight and warmth comforted me, so I let it be. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.
I didn’t want this conversation. He had already confessed his love for me, and we both knew the chances of me surviving death were slim. There were three possible outcomes for our wild plan: we failed to divest Joan of her powers and I remained enslaved to her; Joan lost her magic and I became someone else’s cat; I died. At no point in any of these scenarios was I free to live and love. What was there to discuss? The brief hope I had felt when I learned what Blod was, had disappeared – all that was left in its wake was resignation.
Hugh’s grip on my waist tightened when I drew in a breath to speak. ‘After this is over I want you to be my wife,’ he said, quickly. ‘No, hear me out. Blod is right.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘She is always right. I don’t know why I try to fight her. She knew before I did that I loved you. It is the reason she came to Abergavenny. She saw you in a vision.’
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