Dragonswood

by Janet Lee Carey

  MY CONFESSION WAS not complete. Within the hour I was hauled outside, trussed like a chicken with my wrists tied in front and palms pressed together, and tossed into a dogcart. The jailor drove me through town. My arms and shoulders ached from the hours I’d hung from the ceiling, my thumbs, purple black as leeches, throbbed against my chest as the cart bounced along. “Where are we going?”

  “Millpond fer yer water trial,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  FOLK FOLLOWED THE cart out of town to see me thrown into the pond. By law, if I should float, I would clearly be a witch. Sink, accepting the waters as any good Christian does in baptism, and I’d be deemed innocent, though dead if left under too long.

  Clouds mounded up and rain pricked my face by the time we reached Miller’s Pond. The noise of the bumping cart sent the geese flying and honking over our heads. I searched the crowd for Meg and Poppy. I’d named them an hour ago. Were they already caught? Please God, let them be here, give me a chance to warn them.

  The jailor lifted me down from the cart, and, there! I spied Poppy sobbing into her hands, Meg trying to tug her back toward the yew trees at the edge of the assembly. I wanted to shout, Run! But that would only turn the crowd’s attention on them. I struggled with my bonds. The jailor boxed my ear and passed me to Sheriff Bollard. “Make way!” the sheriff said. The crowd rived in two as he marched me toward the millpond.

  Fishmonger called, “Witch! She gave my boy a harelip!”

  That got others shouting. One man leered at me. “Too bad, she’s such a pretty thing.”

  Mad Jack raced up giggling. Folk said he lost his mind after he was fey-struck. “Oh my sweet,” he crooned, then he planted a snotty kiss on my cheek. Tidas Leech pulled him back and kicked him in the groin. Tidas hacked and spat at me. The gob stuck to my face.

  “Enough,” said the sheriff, and, “Back away!”

  The witch hunter rode to the pond, flanked by three men-at-arms and her Gray Knight. She wore a pale blue cloak against the rain, the hood up, shadowing her face, but I saw she did not wear her eye patch. Her left hand rested on her sword’s hilt.

  The sheriff forced me through sucking mud, wet grass, and goose droppings. Rain pocked the gray millpond. I wept as he removed my cloak and tossed it by the tall rushes. He untied my wrists as another man pressed my arms down hard. The jailor wrapped a thick rope around my arms and waist, pinning my arms against my sides.

  How could I escape now to warn my friends? “The rope’s too tight.”

  He cinched the knots, and I swelled up to fatten my belly like a toad, hoping to give myself a little more room later on.

  More folk had come down the road and my father was among them. Oh, why did he have to come? At least Mother wasn’t here. It would break my heart to see her. The mob pressed in closer behind us, knocking us into the shallows.

  “Get back, rabble!” Sheriff screamed. Pulling his foot from the mud, he led me like a leashed dog to the end of the dock where the water was deep.

  Poppy and Meg were still behind the rabble. Run. She’ll come after you next.

  The people sent their farewells.

  “Throw her in why don’t ye?”

  “Let’s see if the witch can swim!”

  “She’s innocent. Let her go!” Father shouted in his gruff voice.

  “Curse the witch. She kissed Satan’s arse.” The leech’s voice was the last thing I heard before the sheriff pushed me over the side of the dock.

  The chill pond sucked me down. I held my breath and heard muffled cheering from my few friends as I went under. Sinking proved I wasn’t a witch. The weight of water pressed in. I tugged and tugged trying to free my bound arms. Then I popped up to the surface, gulping air.

  Cheers from the wretched folk who thought floating proved me a witch. I sank, sucked in my stomach, tugged. I did this two more times, popping up and down in between, and glory—the rope did loosen enough to pull one arm free!

  I floated upward. The sky had of a sudden gone crimson. Screams on shore. Gasping for breath, I saw townsfolk running for the bushes. A dragon winged over with yellowed scales and a long neck scar. The one I’d seen in Dragonswood after Adam died. Skimming down, he dropped a large stone in the water. The splash sent waves. I went under. In the green gloom I fought the bonds, squirmed the rest of the way out, and looped the rope around a rock. I kicked against the muddy bottom, waved my arms, did not rise. I flailed, kicked. Nothing. God! My lungs would burst!

  A stone swam up. Not a stone, for it had a face and stunted arms. I grabbed hold of the large turtle shell, watched his short green arms paddle. Angels. Mercy. He swam me to the surface under the dock. I grabbed a post. Sucked in air. My feet touched the bottom. Unseen under the dock, I breathed and breathed. The turtle blinked at me as if to say, Safe now? I nodded gratefully, and he left me with a quiet splosh.

  The dragon had sent me this turtle. I knew it in my heart, though it seemed too large a thing to believe. How had he known to come? There was no time to wonder at it. I had to get away and warn my friends.

  From my hiding place under the dock I could see the townsfolk reassembling back at the water’s edge now the dragon was gone. All heads were turned, all eyes riveted on the pond where the rope still dipped.

  My father shouted, “It’s all wrong! Bring Tess up afore she drowns!”

  Tidas Leech called, “Let the witch be. She’ll float up soon!”

  Father dove for Tidas and punched him in the jaw. Both men went down in the mud, rolling and fighting like dogs. The townsfolk gathered, cheering the two men on. While backs were turned, I slithered through the rushes, grabbed my cloak that the sheriff had dropped. While he and his men ran in to break up the fistfight, I darted to the nearest juniper bush, ran bush to bush around the edge of the crowd all the way to the thick-trunked trees.

  Behind a prickly hedge, I made a hissing sound. Meg and Poppy had their backs to me. Poppy had her cat, Tupkin, in her arms. The black cat peered back, curious. I threw a stone, missed. Threw another and hit Fishmonger’s wife. She grunted and walked toward me. I dove into the scratchy greenery.

  “The rope moved,” Poppy screamed.

  Fishmonger’s wife retraced her steps. “Is she comin’ up?” She headed closer to the water to get a better look.

  I threw another stone and hit Meg’s rear. “Ouch!”

  I popped up enough to show her my face. Meg gasped, grabbed Poppy’s arm, and dragged her behind the juniper hedge.

  “Tess!” she said in a hissed whisper. Both crouched low with me.

  “Thank God, Tess,” Poppy whispered. “But how did you—”

  “Quiet.” I peered through the foliage. The boisterous mob moved in a wave around the fighting men. But higher uphill, Lady Adela sat in the saddle, focusing hawk-like on the rope in the millpond, the place her prey went down.

  Wet as a dog and shivering, I hurriedly confessed what I’d done under torture.

  Meg’s freckled face grew blotchy as I told them both I’d named them, how sorry I was, that I hadn’t meant to, and that I’d do anything to take it back. Her eyes went colder and harder with every word till she right out slapped me.

  By the saints! I slapped her back! And we rolled in the grass behind the hedges. All the venom I had for Lady Adela seized me. I had Meg by the hair, tugging at it mightily till Poppy cried, “Stop it now.”

  We froze. Peering through the bush, I saw the miller turn toward us.

  “Go, Poppy,” I whispered. “Make it right with him.”

  Poppy stepped around the hedge.

  “What’s going on, girl?” he said, suspicious.

  “I… I said stop it!” she pleaded. “Make those men stop fighting before someone gets hurt!”

  “Look away then, wench!” the miller said, then went back to the skirmish. Poppy returned, heaving a sigh. I checked again. Lady Adela had ridden closer to the shore, accompanied by her Gray Knight. The sheriff had come up from the dock to speak with her.

&n
bsp; I turned to my friends. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to give you away. You have to believe me.” Poppy shook her head, still reeling with the news. There was no forgiveness on Meg’s face, only fear and hardened anger. Even the sight of my swollen purple thumbs did not move her to pity, but we’d no more time to talk other than to make swift arrangements. “You can’t stay here in Harrowton any more than I can now. Both of you will have to come with me.”

  “Come where?” asked Poppy, grabbing her cat.

  “Into Dragonswood for now.”

  “Dragonswood?” Meg snorted and tugged my wet hair. “A pox on your plan, turncoat!”

  She’d never called me a turncoat before, but then, I’d never set a witch hunter on her.

  Meg stood up. “I’ll run home to Tom.”

  “No time for that.”

  “My Tom will know what to do.” She darted to the next tree before I could argue more with her.

  Poppy and I raced behind, tree to tree, heading for Tom at Old Weaver’s cottage on the edge of town.

  In the cottage, Tom was weaving on his loom. On the floor at his feet, Alice spun a red top. “Mama!” She leaped up.

  Tom saw Meg’s tears, me in my dripping clothes, and stopped his work. “Meg? What is it? What’s happened?”

  I hurriedly explained. He pushed me up against the wall. “Woman, you have ruined us!”

  “Tom!” Meg cried. “What are we to do?” Tom swiftly locked the door. “Hide,” he said. Alice was crying, “Mama! Mama!”

  I shook my head. “They’ll find us, Tom. We have to run away. Now.”

  “Run? They’ll catch you!” he shouted, slapping his hands up to his face. “God!”

  There were shouts from down the road outside. “Witch vanished. They pulled up a stone!”

  “Hurry!” he cried. Then, “Wait. Here!” He grabbed a pile, threw robes at us. “Leper’s robes I was weaving for Saint Cuthbert’s infirmary!”

  We swiftly put them on.

  “I don’t want to go!” Meg cried, hanging on to him. Alice clung to her mother’s skirts, sobbing. We heard more shouting down the lane. Doors slamming.

  “They’ll do a house-to-house search,” Tom said, pushing Meg away. He grabbed Alice. “Go. Into the woods! Now!”

  We raced out the back door and ran for the trees.

  Chapter Five

  I’M STARVING, TESS.” Meg glared at me across our small fire. We’d gathered greens and berries, raided stinking midden piles for scraps our first four days on the run; still we curled up each night morbid with hunger. Tonight we’d made camp on the cliffs above the town of Hessings Kottle, shared a dead songbird I’d wrested from the seagulls, chewed seaweed.

  “Try not to think of food,” Poppy said. Tupkin was curled up on her lap, purring. “At least we are alive.”

  “For now,” Meg snapped, throwing back her leper’s cowl and combing her tangled hair with her fingers. We’d have been caught straightaway if it weren’t for the leper’s robes. People feared contagion and kept their distance from us. And we tied rags over our noses as lepers do to cover gaping holes where their noses had once been. My friends had no sores to show, but my oozing purple-green thumbs were enough to give anyone a fright. Donating the robes to the monk’s hospital would have earned Tom one year and forty days’ indulgence for the forgiveness of his sins. What sins Tom sought indulgence for I didn’t know, but we owed our lives to him.

  Thunder boomed in the distance. Lightning lit up the sea. No rain fell. Meg sniffed. I shifted uncomfortably on my log. She’d cried every night since we’d left Harrowton, missing Tom and Alice.

  “How much longer till we get there, Tess?”

  “Another three days or four if we travel fast,” I guessed.

  “Hasn’t all this walking counted for something?” She rubbed her grimy ankle. “Are you sure your grandda can help us?” Her voice wobbled. I braced myself for tears. “What if he doesn’t? What if we have to wander on and on as lepers with the witch hunter always at our backs?”

  Poppy put her arm around Meg. She shrugged it off.

  My grandfather worked as a mapmaker north in Ox-haven and had friends in many ports who might hide Meg and Poppy from the witch hunter. Our hope lay in him.

  I broke a stick over my knee. Always, after the year my father broke my arm, the snapping sound reminded me of breaking bones. I added the kindling to the blaze and watched the flames lick the wood.

  Meg was still in tears. She left the fire. When Poppy stood to follow her, I held up my hand. “I’ll go. It’s my fault we are here.”

  I found Meg leaning up against a boulder crying into the crook of her arm.

  “Meg?”

  “Go ’way.”

  “Meg. It will be all right. I promise.”

  “Go before I slap you, Tess!”

  “Hit me, Meg.”

  “It won’t help.”

  “Pull my sore thumbs.”

  “Shut your gob. Leave me be!”

  I put out my hand but she drew back. “When Grandfather finds you a new home, he’ll see to it Tom and Alice are sent for. You’ll be together again. I promise.”

  Meg wept into her hands. I held her and felt her shudders shake me to my core. Angels in heaven, how could I promise her such a thing and be sure of it?

  Back at the fire, Meg scooted close to Poppy, seeking comfort from the friend she still trusted. I hated myself for breaking up her little family, for dragging her and Poppy into my troubles.

  Later, when they curled up to sleep with Tupkin between them, I kept vigil by the campfire. The road was different for me, though I did not say so to my friends. I was frightened enough, and hungry, but fleeing Harrowton I’d slit the cords that bound me to my life under my father’s roof. Gone were his fists, his marriage plans for me.

  Years I’d longed to run away to Grandfather’s. Only love for Mother made me stay. I’d feared Father would beat her more often if I left. Now I’d been forced to run. On my own with my friends, in constant danger, I’d never felt so alive.

  If I could truly escape, start again, might Grandfather help set me up in my own business, scribing for a living, or better still, illuminating manuscripts? A cottage near Dragonswood would be my choice. I would be at home under the whispering trees, with a view to the mountains where the fey folk dwelled.

  Even now I felt the forest’s pull. Dragonswood was just across the road from our camp here in the cliff. I’d tried to convince Meg and Poppy we’d be safer walking inside the refuge. Dragonswood’s eastern wall traced Kingsway north to Oxhaven, where Grandfather lived, and beyond that all the way to Pendragon Castle. But my friends wouldn’t go over the wall. Poppy feared we might be fey-struck like Mad Jack, who’d gone off hunting one day, and returned a week later, singing, snarling, and pissing in public. Meg believed the gossip that the fey cruelly punished trespassers, casting spells on them and turning them into Treegrims. All the years I’d gone to Dragonswood, I’d never seen a dragon or a fairy harm a man or find a person magicked into a tree. Still, in our four days running north, I’d stayed on this side of the wall.

  We’d not gone far enough; spent too many hours searching for food, begging in our leper’s garb. Tomorrow I would make my friends walk faster no matter how hungry we all were. I was thinking this, stirring the coals, when a woman’s high-pitched screams cut through the night. We all jumped up, alert and trembling.

  “Where’s it coming from?” Poppy cried.

  We raced to the cliff edge overlooking town and harbor. Far below us, smoke rose from the town square. At first I thought a cottage was alight. Thatch roofs easily catch fire, and when they do, the house burns swiftly. But from our lookout spot, I focused on the rising smoke and saw now it came from a witch fire in the middle of the town square.

  Townsfolk dressed in black moved in a great, slow circle around the bonfire. The girl they’d bound to the stake shrieked louder as the blaze raced across the logs, catching her white gown at the hem. Up on the cli
ff under the hawthorn trees, I clung to Meg and Poppy. Her screams ripped through us.

  Two mounted figures rode in, the bonfire bathing them in golden light. Meg saw who it was and yelped. Poppy quickly covered her mouth. “The witch hunter can’t see us so far away up here,” she said. “And these trees and bushes will hide us.”

  From behind us, I heard the deep woofing sound of pumping wings. A massive shadow swooped overhead. Against the night the dragon’s scales seemed black. Tail whipping in the wind, he dove for town. At first the townsfolk did not see him, so when the dragon swept into the square, tearing the girl and staff straight up from the burning pyre, the folk below had little time to run. Some few scrambled into shop doorways. Most dropped to the cobbles, covering their heads.

  The dragon spooked Lady Adela’s horse, who galloped off full speed, the Gray Knight racing behind. High above the town, the dragon dipped up and down awkwardly, trying to reach the sea. The tip of his left wing burned, and so did the girl in his claws. He made it just beyond the harbor. Skimming but a few feet above the bay, he dipped both girl and wing in the water, and put the fire out.

  Meg and Poppy stayed by the hawthorns, but I stepped out a little, watching the great dragon. Twice lit by the moonlight above and reflected in the sea, the dragon was the same old one I’d spied from the branches, the same one who’d dropped a turtle in the millpond. His yellowing scales and the long neck scar confirmed it.

  His flight was so ragged from his damaged wing, I feared he might drop the girl, yet he kept aloft. Over the sound of waves, I heard the girl sobbing. She was injured from the fire and, no doubt, feared her rescuer, but I was sure the dragon meant to save her. I saw how he pressed her against his coppery chest scales as he soared closer to our cliff.

  Somehow the dragon had unbound the stake the girl was tied to. He dropped the charred pole, and I jumped back as it hit the grass, tumbled off the cliff edge, and landed on the rocks below.

  Too late the church bell down in Hessings Kottle rang out a dragon warning. He had already flown back to the sanctuary.