Dragonswood

by Janet Lee Carey

  The bonfire burned. The girl was gone.

  Chapter Six

  WE FLED HESSINGS Kottle, walking all night north on Kingsway Road.

  “Why would a dragon take her?”

  “To save her, Meg. That’s plain enough. Saint Thecla escaped from burning at the stake when God sent a storm to put out the flames,” I added.

  “Would God send a dragon?” Meg argued.

  “God can do anything he pleases, Meg,” said Poppy wistfully.

  “But where would the dragon take her?” Meg had gazed left toward Dragonswood.

  “Someplace safe?” I suggested.

  “But why? Why would the dragons care to rescue anyone?”

  Had they not seen the dragon drop the turtle into the millpond? We’d never spoken of it. Perhaps they thought as I had at first that he’d dropped a stone.

  Poppy said, “Maybe it was the fairy riding on the dragon’s back who wanted to help rescue the girl.”

  I stopped her on the road, staring hard at her face. I could not read her expression well in the pooling moonlight. “It’s not like you to jest about such things, Poppy.”

  “I’m not. I saw a rider. A fey man on his back.”

  Meg offered, “I didn’t see anyone.”

  Nor had I. “It was dark,” I argued gently. “I think you mistook the ridge along the dragon’s backbone for—”

  “It wasn’t a ridge, Tess! I saw a fey man clearly. His hair was as red as Meg’s!”

  We could not tarry any longer to bicker over it.

  By dawn we were worn and hunger-gripped; still, the horror of what we’d seen drove us on toward the safety of Grandfather’s. At midmorn a laborer rumbled past on his oxcart. We begged for bread.

  “Contagion!” he called. “Get back, lepers!”

  Wind whistled through the trees. I was cold even in my leper’s robe.

  “Sing a song to cheer us, Meg,” Poppy said.

  “I can’t,” Meg said. “It’s not in me.”

  Poppy tugged her arm. “Please Meg, you sing so well. It will help me walk.”

  Meg grumbled. But at last she began. Meg had a sweet voice and loved to sing. Poppy croaked a tune as well as any toad.

  In the enchanted woodland wild,

  The Prince shall wed a Fairy child.

  Dragon, Human, and Fairy,

  Their union will be bound by three.

  And when these lovers intertwine,

  Three races in one child combine.

  Dragon, Fey, and Humankind,

  Bound in one bloodline.

  “You think it’s true?” Poppy asked.

  I considered a moment. “It’s just a song. Grandfather’s tales never mentioned any marriage between human and fey.”

  Meg fingered her tangled hair. “Fey men take lovers.”

  “And leave a girl alone with child.” We’d heard the tales that began with dancing under the moon at Midsummer Night’s Fair. They did not end well, not for the girl, at least.

  “A Pendragon prince might wed a fey maiden,” Poppy said. “And she might go to him. The royals are different from the rest of us.”

  We Wilde Islanders were proud of our royal family. No other rulers in all the world had dragon’s blood in their veins. They had since Queen Rosalind’s day, the first Pendragon born with a scaled finger and dragon’s talon. It was said her children had scaly green patches. Her son, King Kadmi, had a patch on his wrist; his two sons bore scales hidden on neck or arm. Even King Kadmi’s daughter, the smallest Pendragon princess, had scales, though folk did not like to speak of her.

  Poppy hummed the tune off key. “Maybe after Prince Arden sails home, he’ll seek a fairy princess for a wife,” she said. “It’s not like we have other princesses lining up here on our island. Think of it.” Her eyes sparkled. “A fairy princess for our own Pendragon queen.”

  “It’s only a minstrel song,” I said again.

  “It was Alice’s favorite,” Meg said.

  Days when we used to meet down at the river to wash our clothes, Alice always asked her mother to sing. I’d pound wet cloth on the rocks, loosening the dirt and keeping rhythm with Meg’s song while Alice twirled round and round on shore. Last time I saw Alice she was crying, clinging to Meg’s skirts.

  THAT AFTERNOON THE sky was gray as boiled pig meat. The sun hung pearl white behind it as we headed north, eating a few wormy chestnuts.

  We found no food when we reached Margaretton, where a riot broke out in the market. Outraged townsfolk overturned sellers’ tables, angry over the king’s regent’s new grain tax. A pack of men stormed the Dragonswood wall with bows and arrows, shouting, “Meat! Meat!” We fled as fast as we could, but still we saw the sheriff’s men leap the wall on horseback, and hack the rioters to pieces.

  I’D PROMISED MEG and Poppy Grandfather would hide us, that he’d find a way for Meg to be with Tom and Alice again. But when I stood trembling at his seaside inn in Oxhaven two days later, the innkeeper’s wife said, “He’s not here. Old man’s gone off to sea on some mapmaking expedition.”

  A knife went through me. “When will he be back?”

  “Never, I should think, the old salt. Who wants to know?”

  WRETCHED, WE HID that night in a cave just outside of town. Poppy would not speak to me. Meg wept.

  Alone, I sat by the fire in our small cave. Gone. Without a word. Grandfather loved the sea, but I was desperate for his help. I needed him now. I cried for the first time since we’d fled the witch hunter, covering my mouth with both hands so my friends wouldn’t hear.

  Sometime past midnight, the fire popped and sparked, pulsing with life the way it did when strange visions slid into the flames. In the heat my skin went chill, and though the sea was nearby, the pounding waves hushed as my world grew small and still around the fire.

  The lulling flames changed from gold to green where the man’s figure emerged swinging his bright sword. Sparks flew in flurries over his head as if his sword stirred stars. His face was all in shadow, and look as I might, I could not make out his features, but I’d seen him once before in the burning leaf pile the day we buried Adam. Another shape grew and I saw someone before him in leper’s garb. My heart chilled. I wanted to pull away from the blaze, but I could not move when the sight was on me.

  The girl in the fire had her back to me, but the fire-sight never lied. I knew I was seeing myself at some future time. Why wasn’t I running from the green man? Why stand there dull-witted as he threatened me with his sword? I’d not been in the vision the first time I’d seen this swordsman. Again he swung his weapon as if to slice me in two. No sound came. If I screamed on that future day, I did not hear it now. Our bodies faded. Orange flames bloomed where the green ones had been.

  Chapter Seven

  LOOKING BACK, WE should have kept moving after that and never stayed near town. But it was harvest time; the tempting fields were rich with wheat. Manor lords were bound to bring the harvest in before Michaelmas, for the weather was already changing. We watched the reapers swinging scythes. Folk followed after, gathering the wheat into sheaves.

  Meg slipped into the bushes by the wattle fence and stripped off her disguise. “I’m gone,” she said.

  “Gone to where?” asked Poppy.

  “Landlords pay folk with food after a day’s harvest,” she said, nodding at the wheat field.

  “You can’t, Meg. The witch hunter’s looking for us.”

  “She looks for three girls. I’ll be alone.”

  Poppy ducked in beside her and shed her robe. “Now we are two.” Her blond hair and pale face stood out amidst the green brambles.

  “Wait.” I tugged Meg’s sleeve. “Think of the danger.”

  “I’m sick of midden scraps and mushrooms!” she shouted.

  Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes ringed. We’d all grown thinner on the run. “What if Lady Adela comes?”

  “I’m too hungry to care. She knows your face, Tess, not ours. Poppy and I can work in the field. We’ll
blend in with harvesters.”

  Poppy took Meg’s hand. “Let’s go.”

  “No one is going. It’s too dangerous. We’ll find food another way!”

  Meg hopped over the wattle fence with Poppy close behind. Tupkin slunk through the wheat. I was furious. “Think of Alice, Meg! What if something happens to you?”

  Meg linked arms with Poppy as they headed for the reapers. “You should have thought of that before you gave our names to the witch hunter, Tess. Today my name is Hester, and, Poppy, yours will be Violet.”

  I hid my leper’s robe in the bushes with the others. In my own cloak I’d worn underneath, I jumped the fence and crept into the field to keep an eye on them and make sure they were safe.

  Children raced by. Barking dogs chased rabbits through the field. I fingered the wheat, which was the color of my mother’s hair, thought of her at home and ached. Her face was often pinched from the hard life she led, but her eyes were blue as day. She used to sing to me when I was small, her voice raspy and low for such a slender woman. Was she safe? Was Father beating her more often now I was gone?

  Chewing raw grain, I followed my friends, hidden in the tall rows, anxious all through the day till the work was done, and the harvest king sat atop the cart. A broad-shouldered youth with sandy hair, he grinned down at the laborers, who shouted, “Richard! Richard! King of the harvest!” They clapped, hooted, and sang on their way to the storehouse.

  “And who be harvest queen?” one called.

  Sunlight rinsed the fields, spreading a circle around them. Poppy shone as if she were a lissome fairy. She’d escaped men’s notice in her leper’s robe and cowl, but now . . .

  “Violet!” he shouted down.

  Poppy tried to get away. Workers pushed her forward, laughing and hooting. The king of the harvest scooped her up to sit beside him on the cart. Meg saw me hiding and shot me a fearful look as Richard crowned Poppy with a laurel wreath.

  Folk escorted the harvest king and queen into the barn, where they jumped down from the cart to great applause. I darted inside and hid behind the hay bales stacked near the open barn doors. The tables in the barn were laid out for the harvest feast. At the high table, the manor lord presided over all. I reeled at the sight of so much food. I had to keep myself from grabbing. There was meat aplenty (ham as well as mutton), trencher bread and round rolls alongside waxen wheels of cheese, fresh butter, mounds of fruit and cakes.

  The lord of the manor stood and said the blessing. “Good folk, let us be thankful to God for a plentiful harvest. God bless Prince Arden, our future king. Grant him safe passage home from the crusades, and swift.”

  “And may the treasure be found in time to crown him king!” a man shouted.

  All said, “Amen.”

  Pipers and fiddlers played, some danced, others went for the tables first.

  With my hood up, I took a mug of ale, stuffed cheese and rolls and apples into the lining of my cloak to share with my friends later, snatched a knife, then ate my small feast behind the hay bales.

  A tall young man entered and slipped behind the haystack in the corner opposite mine. He hid in shadow, but I saw by his green tunic he was a woodward. I stared at him from behind my hay bale as I chewed my apple. Why was he holding back, not feasting or dancing like the others? These woodwards were curious. The one I’d seen by the Harrow River had kept apart too, before he’d vanished in the crowd.

  He watched Poppy dance and flashed a wicked smile. Why keep in the corner unless he’s no woodward at all but an outlaw, come to steal from the rich lord in his time of plenty? The man could have slit a woodward’s throat, pilfered his purse and clothing. A woodward’s garb would disguise a cutpurse perfectly.

  A sunbeam slipped in through the open barn door and lit the man. I bit right through the apple core. It was he. The dark man with cinnamon eyes I’d noticed at the river. He’d spied me in Harrowton when the witch hunter came. If he saw me now, he would turn me in. I ducked deeper into the shadows, damp with sweat. His attention was on the dancers. He had not turned my way, thank God. His face drew me in as it had before with its wide brow and angular features, yet there was also an ease around his mouth as if he knew how to laugh. My fingers tingled. A man to draw.

  A trumpet blared outside, announcing the arrival of a noble. Music stopped. Dancers paused, breathless. Not her. Please, God not her.

  The crowd parted as Lady Adela rode in through the wide barn doors on her white mare.

  Chapter Eight

  MIGHTY GOD! WE were trapped! The witch hunter hadn’t gotten a good look at my friends before we fled, but she’d been hunting the three witches who’d gotten away. She would be on to us if Meg or Poppy bolted suddenly. Their only hope was to blend in and play the part of harvesters as they slipped back slowly toward the barn door. Revelers opened the dance floor to the lady who steered her white mare right up to the lord’s high table. Behind her, the Gray Knight rode helm down, the Sackmoore shield strapped to his back. Eight more armored knights marched in on foot followed by the pimply lad leading the lady’s deerhounds on their long red tethers. The barn was silent now but for the horses’ snuffing and the hounds’ jingling collars.

  Poppy and the harvest king were to the witch hunter’s left, Meg to her right. I saw them catch each other’s eyes. Fear in the looks, but all being still, they could not run yet. I gripped my newly stolen knife. Merciful God, we’ve come so far. Don’t let her take us now!

  The lord of the feast stood. “Good eve, Lady Adela.”

  Lady Adela drew back her hood. Her back was to me, so I did not see her eye patch but saw the thin strap above her dark plaited hair. She wore it now as she had the day she arrived in Harrowton. “Lord Norfolk. There’s much work for all of us to do before Prince Arden returns. No time for idle feasting. Our isle’s infested with witches and thieves. Is that something to celebrate?”

  “My lady?” Sweat beaded Lord Norfolk’s brow.

  Poppy inched toward my corner, but Meg was still too terrified to move.

  “Go,” I whispered. “Now.” Meg was like a stunned rabbit. Would I have to dart out and pull her back? Such abrupt movements would cause a commotion Lady Adela would be sure to notice.

  I glanced left. The woodward had vanished.

  The witch hunter said, “I’ve come to reward any here who could lead me to a band of escaped witches. Three of them together and all of them young. I am ready to pay up to fourteen shillings whether they are brought to me alive or dead.”

  My breath caught. Such a high bounty on our heads! Excited murmurs passed through the crowd. Fourteen shillings was more than two months’ wages for a skilled craftsman like the blacksmith; to the peasants here, it was a fortune. Why hadn’t I fought more to keep Meg and Poppy away from this cursed harvest?

  Lord Norfolk frowned. “We’ve found no witches here in Oxhaven, my lady.”

  Bless him for saying that. The musicians moved uneasily on his right, checking their bows and gently plucking strings, awaiting his command.

  Lady Adela was not finished. “No witches? You might be deceived in that, my lord. If not the three I seek, there are likely others. I look for ones with powers. Witches breed with Satan in Dragonswood,” she reminded, “and their numbers grow.”

  Sighs and mumbled agreements came up in waves from both sides of the room. Lord Norfolk cleared his throat. “Our sheriff will know any news either of witches or thieves, my lady.”

  “I have already spoken with the sheriff, sir,” Lady Adela said. “My company stays at his manor. I have inspected his new jailhouse and noted too many empty cells there. Your district is lax in our time of trouble, sir, but the cells will not be empty long.”

  I willed Poppy and Meg to step slowly and carefully toward the back door. Neither of them moved. Lady Adela leaned down and spoke to one of her knights, who marched outside. A servant followed him back in, leading a horse with a body hanging limp over the saddle. I could not tell if the man was alive or dead. His bloody c
lothes hung in shreds, a filthy hood draped over his head. He’d been dragged behind a horse for some distance, by the look of him.

  “I have here a man who consorts with witches,” Lady Adela announced, sweeping the crowd with her good eye. “His soul might yet be saved if the witches be found.”

  Meg was nearly to my hay bales now. I put out my hand. Seeing me, she clasped it. Poppy was now past the ale barrels and nearly to us. Come on. Hurry.

  “Bring him forward!” ordered Lady Adela. Two knights pulled the man down and dragged him to the front of the room, where they lifted him onto the platform before the high table. Facing the crowd, they held the shrouded man up between them lest his knees give way.

  Poppy reached us. Now we were all behind the bales ready to flee, but it must be done stealthily so no one noticed.

  “Do you see any here you know?” Lady Adela demanded of the prisoner.

  The man’s head sagged. The knight to his left raised the man’s head puppet-like first by yanking back his hood, then tugging on his matted red hair.

  By heaven! Tom. It was Meg’s husband, Tom!

  Behind the haystack I clapped my hand over Meg’s mouth, and felt her body’s full weight against mine as she fainted.

  “See you anyone you know?” the witch hunter asked Tom again with steely voice. The crowd moved under his gaze. Some stood straighter, some backed up slowly.

  Tom moaned. Mouth swollen. Face bloodied. God. Oh, God. What would happen to us? We had to get outside, yet we couldn’t move now. All eyes scanned the room wherever Tom was looking.

  “Saints protect us,” whispered Poppy.

  Lady Adela leaned down from her saddle toward Tom. “Cooperate, wastrel, or hang!”

  POPPY AND I were dragging Meg over the boundary wall when she woke from her stupor. Three times she tried to bolt and run back to her Tom. I kept my hand firmly pressed over her mouth as we forced her deeper into the trees. She kicked and clawed us every step of the way, mad as a wildcat fighting for her mate.