‘It’s late, Henri. Time for bed.’
‘What burden, Grandmother?’ I repeat so she cannot pretend not to hear.
‘Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after, I’ll tell you. We shall see what time reveals.’ She leaves the room and I sit for a while longer, watching the fire die, wondering that Susannah could have let this house fall.
***
I venture out to see if the chickens have, by some miracle, laid. There are no eggs, which means that Agnes will have to traipse to the nearest neighbour and buy some at ridiculous cost. I could go but she does not yet trust me to haggle the price down.
I turn and see a horse, watching me from the edge of the forest. At first I think it is one of the animals we acquired on our journey here, but neither of those mounts is white. At its hooves lies a green basket, woven of vine and leaf. The beast snorts and stamps, dips its head to beckon me closer.
The hamper contains a dozen or so eggs, large and brown, bigger than chickens’. I wonder at this gift, run my hand down the horse’s nose and notice that its eyes are blue. I step back in surprise and it neighs, then trots away into the Wood, glancing at me once or twice before it disappears.
When I put the receptacle in front of Agnes she stares, disbelieving. I repeat my tale twice, then refuse to do so again and storm out of the kitchen. Not too much later she finds me, flicking idly through books in the library. She sits beside me.
‘You wanted to know, Henri, why this house is so diminished?’
‘What did my mother do wrong?’ I ask, all plans for subtle inquiry flown.
‘She refused to be the bride of the Angel Wood.’ Her voice dips low. ‘On her sixteenth birthday she should have entered the forest, and come out a bride. She should have born a child to the Wood, but she chose not.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps fear. Perhaps she simply didn’t want to.’ She shrugs, an old woman’s movement, replete with weariness; she is dissembling and there are things she will not tell.
‘How can someone be the bride of the Wood?’
‘The prosperity of this family depends upon the provision of a daughter, to own this house and protect the forest and its people. After that, the bride can marry whomever she chooses—as I did. The eldest Woodville girls have been brides for centuries. Your mother chose otherwise.’ She leans close. ‘Will you be different, Henri?’
I stare at her, at this offer of inheritance, then walk away from her again, unable to breathe in the close air of the library.
***
The boughs of the forest creak although there is no breeze. Dark green shapes dart between the trunks of trees, and the occasional flash of an inhuman eye gleams at me.
‘They will grant you a boon, you know.’
I leap high in fright though it is only Agnes. I swallow air, feeling sick.
‘What?’
‘They will give you a boon. Those who dwell in the green, the forest folk.’ She moves nearer, her hand touching my elbow gently. ‘They will grant you a wish as your bride price.’
‘What would I ask of them?’ I demand.
‘Your mother’s life.’ Her answer hits me like cold water. ‘Susannah’s fever is high and I fear death will draw her down.’
I stare, wondering if she has determined to deceive me.
‘I would not force you, Henri, though our salvation depends on it. If you do not choose willingly then there is no power in forcing you.’ She smiles. ‘You have the look of the brides, Henri. If you do this, we will all be indebted to you, but you must choose quickly.’
Upstairs, Susannah is the colour of milk on the turn, the hue of death feathering her skin. I lean across the bed and whisper to her that she must hold on, that all will be well, that I will do my duty.
Agnes and the white horse wait in the stable yard. My grandmother hands me a coronet of golden leaves and emerald stones, and a silver knife, its handle cunningly wrought like twining vines. I settle the coronet on my brow, and a sweat breaks out over my body, a dizziness spins in my head and a darkness seeps across my eyes.
***
I blink, moments later, my eyelids fluttering like the wings of startled birds. The courtyard is gone and I’m somewhere deep in the woods, although I have no memory of movement.
He sits in the clearing, naked and unmoving. He is tinged green and brown (more brown than green, as if he is dying), and his hair is leafy. I touch his skin and find it rough, like new bark. The wings on his back are branches, and where feathers would sprout on a real angel, leaves and vines grow in a tight thatch.
Still, he does not move.
He has the look of a neglected thing, of an unloved husband, and that, I suppose, is what he is. A beard, straggling, the colour of dead grass, covers the lower part of his face and I can barely see his mouth. His eyes are closed, heavy-lidded, and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes is almost imperceptible.
I don’t know what to do.
I kneel before him and take one of his large hands in my own. It moves stiffly and only with great effort on my part. There is a loud creak as I shift it. I touch my lips to his palm.
‘My lord, I am here. Your bride has come.’
For a moment there is nothing, no acknowledgement, and I feel the bitter sting of failure pricking. I squeeze my lids tight, but salt water creeps out.
A hand touches my face and I open my eyes to see a tear, carefully lifted from my cheek, trembling on the tip of his index finger before it disappears, soaked into his skin. His lips brush mine.
I fear he will absorb me as he did my tear, suck my youth away until I am a husk, but I feel nothing except pleasure in his touch. He tastes sweet, and smells as sharply fresh as newly cut grass. When we part, his handsome face is beardless, his flesh decidedly greener, the dead brown fading away. He reaches for me again but I rest one hand on the broad plane of his chest.
‘My bride price, lord.’
He nods, but does not speak.
‘My mother’s life. Heal her.’
His face splits into a smile, as if this is the smallest thing he has ever been asked. Relief surges through me and I fumble with the fastenings of my gown, eager to fulfil my part of the bargain, and perhaps not only for the sake of my family. His hands are gentle as he helps slip the fabric from my shoulders and his lips, on my pale breasts, are hungry.
***
When I open my eyes again, Agnes is kneeling before me, the pavings of the courtyard hard beneath her knees. She smiles at me with pride, relief, no fear. She lifts her head, offering her neck. I grasp her long white hair and pull it back firmly so the skin is tight under the dagger as it slips across her throat. Slowly, my grandmother folds forward, a crimson necklace dripping down, the warmth of her lifeblood spurting on the hem of my dress.
Susannah, pale and silent, watches me from the open door. This is the price my mother would not pay. She would not replace the old blood with new. The tears on her face are matched by those on my own, but I will not be ashamed of doing what was needful. I lift my chin in defiance.
***
The house is mine now. I don’t think Susannah expected that (although she should have), and I think she may resent it. She is my mother, but I am the bride of the Angel Wood. In choosing not to do her duty, she lost the right of inheritance.
The child grows quickly inside me and I am thankful that I am young and strong. She kicks often and with great force and I wonder if she will look like her father. My mother sometimes runs her hand across my distended belly in wonder, but does not mention what I have done. I want to remind her, sometimes, that first things are hardest.
We buried Agnes under one of the oak trees. I like the idea of her enriching the soil. She knew this would come, what I would have to do and she chose her own end. One day, I too, will choose such an end.
Those who live in the Wood bring us gifts, offerings for the bride. Sometimes it is ancient gold and gems found who-knows-where, other times it’s fresh silver fish or a brac
e of rabbits. The hens have begun laying madly, giving more eggs than we can ever use, and every cow is brimming with life, heavily pregnant.
This is not the life my parents would have chosen for me. My memories of before fade quickly, and their loss troubles me not at all.
I often walk in the Wood—the child is most active then, sensing this is her place as nowhere else can ever be. Leaf and bough, sap and stream will flow in her veins.
Sometimes I sense him, my husband, but I can never quite see him. Agnes told me that brides do not meet him again. Once we have done our duty we are free, but I live in hope that I will touch him once more. I do not like to think that there will only be that one moment, in the gentle green hollow on a bed of soft moss, when I felt connected to every living thing in the forest.
I live in hope in the Angel Wood.
ASH
THE WATER flowing beside this small, remote castle runs as cold as a serpent’s blood. The mist curls up from the surface of the river, reaching into my lungs, and drawing out deep, damp coughs. I shiver, a tremor that goes through every part of me. The autumn night gives a hint of what winter will bring. I pull the shabby fabric of my old cloak close around me.
The first time I came here I had nothing to fear, no crimes to regret, no sins to repent. I was an invited guest, honoured and, most of all, needed. But even a short span has wrought changes I could not foresee.
Eyes no longer linger on me; they slide away. Scars mar my skin, pulling tight like unevenly placed stitches. They itch and ache, remind me constantly of their presence.
Three years ago, I was still young. Three years ago, I had a countenance that made men pause. The last time I floated in under this stone arch, the boat rocking as we moored, the man-at-arms with brown hair and worried eyes stared a long time at the pale moon of my face, troubled by what his mistress might want with my kind. Then he wrapped me tightly against prying eyes and tugged the hood of the fine grey cloak I then wore far down over my features so no one would see me and later know me.
That day led to this one. I go before the same woman, by the same secret ways, under the same witch’s moon. I do not think I will walk out alive. My bones will sleep under dirt and stones somewhere within these stout walls. No one will look for me; no one will care. Some bargains, once made, should not be revisited. Indeed, some bargains should not be made at all.
Stairs are hard for me. My bones were never properly set. I ache. I might forget, sometimes, that my hair has faded, and my face is other than it was—that no man will share my bed willingly—but the pain reminds me. It is merciless. I tell myself I do not care about the loss; that it makes no mind to me, what is there and what is not. When I am alone, I can oft-times believe it. No one has been there to gainsay my lies. Until now.
The room has not changed, really—a tad richer, more luxurious. Her lover is generous, perchance to make up for his long absences. He does not often leave Lodellan and she is left to while away her time far from him. I wonder how her days pass; a loom waits silently in a corner and the walls are hung with tapestries. Perhaps my question is answered thus. How many days, how many wall hangings to measure a life? How much time in front of the tall silver mirror, watching her face change, her beauty slowly lessen? How does a woman so lovely that men fought for her favours bear this?
Gwenllian occupies a comfortable chair near a wide window, and the moonlight angles in upon her. She, too, has aged, though less dramatically than I. She is older than me but looks younger. Her existence has been cushioned by wealth. There are lines on her face but her make-up cunningly disguises them. There are no flecks of silver in her dark hair. The sleeves of her dress are slashed (not for fashion, but I know why she wears them thus) and I can see the skin there. Her face, neck and forearms are peaches-and-cream, youthful, expensively bought. My best work.
She surveys the cross-hatching of my face, the uneven set of my shoulders. Does she wonder why I have not healed myself? Does she think I could not? That I have lost my gift?
‘It has been a long time, Blodwen.’ The voice lilts, a flower on the breeze, her low origins almost disguised by practise. I merely nod. This is less courteous than she is used to and it makes her frown. Here in her castle, with her servants, she is queen and law. Perhaps her isolation has made her think herself God as well. ‘You have been ill?’
‘My lady is observant.’ My tones, once dulcet, are no longer so. There was a time when I could bewitch with my speech alone. Now I sound like a crow in human form.
‘Your tongue is still sharp.’
‘It’s all I have left.’
We stare at each other for a moment, the Lady Gwenllian and I. There are no attendants—just like before. No witnesses to our bargain. Her eyes drop to stare at her arms, then she raises her hands to touch her cheeks and the smooth curve of her throat. When last I came here, they were still weeping from the burns she’d suffered, the flesh red and raw like a side of half-burnt beef, and the stench septic.
Her lover was here three years ago, just before Gwenllian’s accident. He has sent word that a tour of the surrounding countryside will bring him this way. He wishes to see their daughter, who should be six. This much I have from my surly escorts, the men who sought me out in the cesspit of a village where I have lived these last few years. This much and no more.
‘Your face …’ she begins.
‘I was dragged behind a wagon. My legs were broken, too. Not everyone is kind to my sort.’ I sit, without invitation, on a chair opposite her. She says nothing; she knows that this small comfort is the very least she owes me. There is the low sound of my joints cracking as I bend.
‘You did not …’ she gestures, once again not finishing her question. ‘You could not?’
I am silent, thinking of the pain of those days and months. Of the strange weight of loss—how is it that in having something taken away from us, we suddenly feel heavier? Now there is merely the lightness of ceasing to care.
‘What I do carries a price—I would not pay it,’ I say. ‘I am not you. My blood is still warmed by conscience.’
Guilt shimmers across her face then dissolves in a cloud of rage. She starts violently from her seat, looms over me, but I am a tired woman. Anything she does to me will be a lifting, a relief. I think she sees in my face that I will welcome any end.
With an effort she speaks quietly. ‘What you did for me,’ she lifts her arms (as if I do not know her skin as well as my own). ‘What you did for me was a miracle and I judged the price fair.’
‘But?’
‘But I need what I gave you. I need her.’
I laugh so loudly it hurts my ears; the stretching of my mouth makes my jaw ache. My stomach convulses with bitter mirth. It takes me a long time to calm myself and by then her fury is palpable, uncontained. This is why she had me found, hunted like a fox and brought here. I have not strictly hidden, but I have not lived in plain sight.
‘I want the child back. I need the child back,’ she hisses.
The daughter she gave me in return for her healing. Three years ago she was eager to sacrifice the little girl if only she herself could be smooth and whole again.
‘I no longer have her,’ I say. ‘She is not mine to return.’
‘Her father comes and he will wish to see her.’
‘Tell him what you did.’
‘I cannot!’
‘Show him another,’ I say.
‘No other has her birthmark,’ she spits the words out. I remember the small red crown on the child’s shoulder. Her father saw her when she was born; he will know if his mistress tries to substitute another.
‘Tell him she died—he will forgive that.’
‘He will not! She was my price.’ She gestures around us, to the room, to the comfort of her surroundings. ‘He warned me to keep her safe.’
‘You should have thought of that when you were giving her to me.’
Her fingers are at my throat, strong and warm and tight.
‘Whe
re is she? Tell me and I will send my men to collect her. I will keep you in my household for the rest of your life. You will be safe and warm.’ Her soft words belie her cruel hands. If I had a child I would not give it to this woman.
‘I will not tell you.’
She presses hard against my windpipe. The edge of my vision blackens. She lets go, quickly. That would be too easy a release, and she still has hope she can pry information from me.
‘You would not have given her away. It was the child you asked for. Life is too important to you—or you would not have been able to do this.’ She throws back at me every lie I once told her as she points at her face, her neck as triumphant proof. She does not know me as well as she would like to think.
‘I will not tell.’
She snarls, and her teeth are sharp and white.
‘If you do not give me the child, you will burn. You’re a witch, it’s only fitting. You have until daylight.’
She sweeps from the room and the door is bolted behind her. I lean back against the soft padding of the chair and try to swallow the ache in my throat. I think of the little girl laughing, those chubby arms and the smell of warm child. And gone so quickly.
In truth, I do not tell the mother what happened to her daughter, for I do not wish her to know how alike we are, Gwenllian and I. How my contempt for Gwenllian is so firmly rooted in contempt for myself.
The child I demanded for my services I paid to another in turn. I made a deal with an old man who taught me every scrap of magic I knew. I lived in his house for two years learning everything I could, but I did not warm his bed. When first I asked him to teach me, he refused my offer of the usual favours; told me he would have his recompense but that he would name it later. Was I prepared to not know what it was?
Blinded by the desire for knowledge, I said Yes.
When at last he said it was time for me to clear my account and sent me to Gwenllian’s lonely bower, I did not argue. He told me what to ask for in return. I came back to the cathedral-city, in love with my own power, floating on the cloud that healing Gwenllian brought, feeling as if nothing was beyond me. The child was on my hip and my heart felt full. I wondered why he did not take the girl himself, but who was I to question his long game? Who was I to gainsay such a powerful man?
Sourdough and Other Stories Page 8