by Alison Adare
~o~
It was late in the afternoon before Janet remembered the witch.
There were far too many people in the courtyard for her to make a quiet and discreet search of that dead space between church and wall. She went looking for Glyn, instead, finding him inspecting the armory with a dour expression.
She closed the door so they would not be overheard. “At night, in the courtyard,” she said slowly and carefully in the local language, “I saw a woman.” What were the words for sneaking around? She mimed it instead, hunching her shoulders and looking furtively from side to side.
“Elen,” Glyn said. “Elen fersh Dylan.”
“The needlewoman?”
He nodded. Janet caught little of his next sentence, except the name Lew. Glyn repeated himself, and then made a circle of his fingers and thumb with one hand and pushed the forefinger of his other hand through it.
Light dawned. “Oh,” Janet said. That certainly explains why a woman might be sneaking around in the middle of the night, taking care not to be seen.
It didn’t explain how she’d vanished into thin air — although in the light of day, rendered slightly flat and bright by lack of sleep, it was easier to believe that the woman she’d seen had slipped away somehow, while Janet herself was climbing down the ladder perhaps.
“I want the guard strengthened,” Janet said. “Three at night, two on patrol and the gate man.” She held up three fingers to be sure she was understood.
It would stretch them, and Glyn’s expression told Janet he was not best pleased, but he nodded.
She meant to rise early the next day and take that opportunity to search for traces of witchcraft, but the previous night caught up with her. Tom didn’t even set up the chessboard, and Janet was asleep as her head touched the pallet she’d laid out just inside his door.
She slept heavy and late, woke with a stab of panic that didn’t abate until she sat up and saw Tom safe in his bed.
He was sleeping easily and quietly, one arm flung out with his hand dangling limply over the edge of the bed, his head turned from her so all she could see of his face was the fine line of his cheekbone. And Jesus, she wanted to trace that sweet slope so badly her fingers ached with it, wanted to run her fingers through his disheveled hair —
Christ on the cross, Janet!
She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. God’s breath, she’d slept in the same tent as him for months and managed to keep her imagination under control! She’d watched him shave in his shirt, and yes, she’d enjoyed the sight, she’d cleaned his boots and helped him don them, she’d even seen him all-but-naked as the surgeon probed the wound that was now just a memory and an ugly scar on his arm —
His face, chalk pale and beaded with sweat as the surgeon pokes and digs. Her own hands, white-knuckled, holding him still against the pain. And Thomas, trying to swear, in his polite, ladylike way. Gog’s beard, the virgin’s veil, until Janet couldn’t bear it any long. Saint Peter’s flea-infested beard, she supplies. Saint Theodosia’s holy nose-hair. Saint Lucy’s lice-ridden purse.
His eyes, dark as peat and dazed with pain, gaze fixed on hers as if the words were some charm with the power to ease his torment. “Mercy, Jack, your language…”
Saint Margaret’s malkin, she says, and she’s praying to every saint she names that the surgeon will find the arrow-head and draw it out. Saint Lawrence’s length. Saint Julian’s jockey —
And he goes limp beneath her hands, eyes crescents of white, and she is about to scream at the surgeon but he is showing her a jagged chunk of metal on the palm of his hand, babbling Got it, got it, got it —
Days of fear, then, a knife twisting slowly in her gut, as she waited to see if the wound would heal or turn, until the morning he woke clear-eyed and asked if there was anything to eat.
Janet had said yes, I’ll fetch it, gone outside the tent and given way to tears, for she’d loved him then —
Loved him at a safe, impossible distance.
The distance between them now was just as impossible, more so, Saint Theodosia’s teats, he’s betrothed to another woman, but she had to admit to herself, it was no longer safe.
Janet sighed, rolled out of her blankets, and made a noisy business of putting her pallet away. When she next looked at Tom, his eyes were open. “Food,” she said, jerked her head toward the door, and went.
That night, as had become his habit, Tom stayed at table with Lady Modron as the others finished their meals and sought their beds. Janet told herself she was glad of it as she made her way across the hall. She spends so much time with him, she’s sure to agree to a date for the wedding soon. At the door she glanced back, saw Lady Modron attentively filling Tom’s wine cup, a sweet smile on her face. And that will be one more problem solved.
It was late when he came to his chambers, waking her by tripping over her pallet. “You’re … here,” he said, puzzled.
Janet sat up. “To keep you from wandering in the night, remember?”
“Oh.” Tom scrubbed his hand across his face. “Yes. I — I need to lie down.”
He all but staggered to his bed and fell face down on it.
Well, at least he’ll sleep soundly, Janet thought.
But in fact she was woken in the depths of the night by his voice. “I — don’t, I —”
“Tom?” She sat up. “Wake up, Tom.”
“They’ll all die,” he said quite clearly. “They’ll all —”
Janet crossed to his bed and put her hand on his shoulder. “Tom, you’re dreaming. Wake up, now.” She shook him gently and he woke with a shuddering gasp. “All right?”
“Yes,” he said, after a long silence. His hand closed over hers where it rested on his shoulder, gripped it hard. “Thank you, Jack.”
“Have you thought … have you thought it might be the wine that’s making them worse than they have been?” she asked. “Your lady fills your cup more often than perhaps she needs.”
“I can’t hear a word against my betrothed,” Tom said immediately.
Well, of course. Janet ignored the hard little pain in her chest at one more piece of proof that she would, in all things, forever be second in Tom’s eyes to a beautiful woman with black hair and green eyes. “She means to be kind, I’m sure. But does she know how bad your nights are?” His silence was an answer. “Do you mean to tell her?” Or let her find out for herself when she shares your bed?
“I’d hoped that by the time we wed there’d be nothing to tell,” Tom said. “And any rate, I can manage it that she needn’t know. The expectation will be that I’ll visit her chamber, not move in to it.”
And that gave Janet a picture clear as a bible’s illumination, far clearer that she wanted, or needed. “That’s as may be. But you can’t go on like this. Take a little less wine in the evenings, Tom, see if it helps.”
“Aye,” he said at last, letting go his grip on her hand. “Aye, that’s probably wise.”
But he was unsteady on his feet by the time he climbed the stairs of the tower the next night, and the night after, and the night after that, and Janet was woken again and again by his low, pained voice as he thrashed and muttered in his bed.
The fourth night, she came deliberately late to table. The food was served, the drinks poured. Tom’s wine cup sat by his plate and the jug by Lady Modron’s hand.
Janet was appropriately embarrassed when she clumsily knocked both to the floor with her scabbard as she took her seat. Lady Modron was charming and gracious in accepting Steward Cooper’s apology.
There was no reason at all for Janet’s heart to be hammering, her palms sweating as if she faced a cavalry charge as she took her seat across from Modron.
And yet they were.
Lady Modron retired early, that evening, and for the first time in several nights Janet and Tom played chess by his fire and talked easily over the day, the manor, as they had used to. He did not wake her, that night, and in the morning she thought he looked better th
an he had in weeks. And that evening, when Lady Modron moved to fill his cup, he moved it away with a small shake of his head. Janet tried to keep the small thrill of triumph she felt out of her expression, although when Modron’s cloudy green gaze lingered on her a little too long, she was not sure how successful she’d been.
Chapter 10
As the summer turned towards autumn, as Tom came clear-eyed to his chamber most nights and slept sweetly and soundly as a child, Janet felt as if the wheel of the year was bringing them all at last out of the clouds that had hung over Brinday since she’d arrived. The weather turned warm and clear as the flocks were driven in for shearing. With the sun out, Janet found the land had a sweet wild beauty to it, only made keener by her understanding of how hard it was to pull a living from the craggy hills.
She would have wished that month to last forever, but she knew it could not. That it was borrowed time only made it sweeter. She found herself ridiculously, absurdly happy at foolish things like watching Tom invariably pick the meat out of his pottage in the morning and eat it first; or at watching him waste time trying to sharpen a quill that had long since passed the point of usability; or on the rare mornings when they could both escape the press of Brinday’s business and go out riding, Masie and Nightfoot pulling at the reins until their riders gave them their heads and let the horses race each other along the long valley below Brinday fort.
And then it was over. Tenants from all over Brinday began to drive their flocks in for shearing, and the fort became a hive of activity both early and late. With so many people about, Janet went back to sleeping in her own room, not wanting to make Tom the subject of gossip. She did set a broom slantwise across his door each night, so the sound of it falling would wake her if he walked in his sleep again.
He did not, but the pinched look returned to his mouth, and the shadows to his eyes. Nor did he refuse, when Lady Modron offered wine, so often as he had. Janet mentioned it to him, but he only frowned at her. I’ll not hear a word against my betrothed.
When Janet did manage to find a morning to make a discreet search of the empty corner between the blacksmith and the church, the sounds of people in the courtyard behind her warned her to be quick. The well-handle clanked as someone lowered the bucket and a child’s high voice was followed by running footsteps. Probably playing kick.
There were no arcane markings on the walls, no markings at all as far as Janet could see, nor anything traced on the ground, or at least as much of it as was visible under the accumulated refuse.
Glyn was right, Janet thought as she squeezed herself back out into the courtyard. I saw Elen fersh Dylan on her way to Lew’s bed, and missed the sight of her going into his house while I climbed down the ladder.
A ball of knotted rags shot past her, a handful of children in pursuit. They scattered the hens and an angry shout came from the woman at the well.
Janet had not gone more than a few steps toward the stairs to the great hall and breakfast before a scuffle and a cry of pain caught her attention. The children were in a pile on the ground, wrestling and on one boy’s part, punching.
Janet strode over to them, seized the puncher by the back of the shirt and hauled him up with a shake. “That’s no …” what’s the word for rule? “Law that I know, lad. Up, you lot!”
The squirming mass disassembled itself into five children, variously disheveled. The child at the bottom of the pile, half the size of the others, clutching the ball to her skinny chest and bleeding from a graze on her cheek, was Emlyn.
Janet narrowed her eyes at the boy trying to escape her grip. Bullies and young thugs in training, these lads. It was quite possibly within her rights as steward to give the boy a thrashing, or order his father to do so, but memories of her own childhood suggested it might do more harm than good. During those long afternoons spent in rambling gangs of children dodging household chores, any arguments had been adjudicated by the general consensus. There had been a united front against any adult interference, and anyone thought to have brought it could be sure of being on the receiving end of rough justice.
Janet turned the boy loose with a shove. “Give me that, Emlyn.” That brought glowers at the thought she was going to confiscate it and end their game, directed equally at her and Emlyn. Emlyn handed the ball over. “The gate is the target, yes?”
“Yes,” Emlyn confirmed.
Janet took one long stride. “It seems this game needs a little evening up,” she said, dropped the ball and hit it with a long smooth kick before it could land.
She was out of practice: it struck the side of the stable instead and rebounded back into the courtyard. The children pelted towards it, weaving through adults in the courtyard, Janet just behind. One of the boys reached it first and kicked it away from her, but her longer legs gave her an advantage and she reached it before it could go far. They crashed into her, but she was too much bigger than they for them to knock her over, and she won clear of them, lined up the ball with the gate, and sent it straight through.
Emlyn cheered. One of the other girls raced off to retrieve the ball, while the boy she’d hauled out of the scrimmage glowered at Janet. “Not fair,” he said sullenly.
“When a person is too much bigger than you?” Janet said cheerfully. “No. Is it?”
“What’s this, then?” Tom said behind her.
Small eyes widened, small bodies stood up straight, at the sight of the young lord in his finery. Janet tried to brush some of the dirt from her trousers, then gave it up as a bad job. “A game, my lord.”
“My steward playing children’s games?” Tom said sternly. The girl returning with the ball stopped dead, and Tom beckoned to her, held out his hand. She crept forward and gave the ball to him, and he tossed it in his hand, frowning.
And then he grinned at Janet. “And playing so badly, too,” he said, and dropped the ball, kicking it past her to one of the watching boys.
And so it was that the assembled tenants of Brinday found themselves watching the lord of Brinday and his steward engaged in the life-or-death matter of getting a ball of knotted rags between the posts of the gate, with the encouragement and dubious assistance of an increasing number of children.
It was exactly the sort of game Janet remembered. The rules were extremely flexible, and the only players who were consistently on the same team as they’d started were herself and Tom. The players occasionally ran in the wrong direction. More frequently they got in each other’s way. They tackled each other, and Janet and Tom, with great enthusiasm but lesser technique. Occasionally, rolling piles of players developed — sometimes while the ball was entirely elsewhere. Janet had to turn away to hide her laughter at the sight of Tom standing patiently with two of the littlest boys clutching his knees ferociously, trying to find the words in the local language to explain that yes, it was a good tackle, but usually it was not necessary to tackle one’s own team captain. Tom didn’t even try to pretend that the sight of Janet going down beneath the combined weight of the entire opposing team was less than hilarious.
Eventually the combination of the growing number of people in the courtyard and the exhaustion of the players brought the game to an end. Janet leaned her hands on her knees, panting for breath, taking inventory of the assorted stains and smears on what had been her best tunic.
“You look as if you’ve rolled the length of the courtyard,” Tom said, and she looked up to see him smiling at her.
Janet gave a pointed look at his own clothes. “Pot, kettle, and so on.”
He grinned. Janet could see no lines of strain around his eyes, no tightness to his mouth. He looked entirely relaxed, almost young, as if he could be any yeoman farmer with the day’s labor behind him and nothing before him but ale and a meal and a night’s sweet sleep.
“We should do this again,” she said impulsively.
“We should,” Tom said softly.
Then Lady Modron’s voice came from the stairs, and Tom squared his shoulders and turned towards her, once mor
e the lord of Brinday.
~o~
Midsummer shearing was part of the pattern of life at Brinday that stretched back, unchanged, through generations. All of Brinday’s shearing took place in one place, and all the people of Brinday worked together as if all the flocks belonged to them collectively. Those from the further-flung households slept on the floors of the locals — or in the great hall.
It made sense: watching the shearers sweating and wrestling the sheep into position, the speed of their hands on the shears, Janet could see it was work that took both strength and skill, and there was more than one household who would have struggled to find anyone among them capable of the work.
Every man, woman and child knew their role. Some drove the sheep brought down from the high pastures through the stream to wash their wool. Some worked in the pens erected to keep the flock in, some on the long platform set up outside the walls with shears or a pot of Braelyn’s salve when a sheep was nicked. In the kitchens, Caris furiously supervised the production of meals for all, the fort’s stores supplemented by what the tenants had brought. Even Emlyn didn’t try to dodge her duties, running on her skinny legs from her mother’s house in the village to the shearing platform with a fresh pot of salve, or lugging a bucket of water and dipper around the pens for the men sweating in the sun to refresh themselves. There was beer, as well, for shearing week, although weak and watered.
The old men trimmed any unusable wool from the fleeces, set them out to dry, and then separated the longer, coarser wool from the finer. Janet watched Davith marking off a count of fleeces, tallying each family’s yield. She herself could not tell how he could be so certain, but the tenants accepted his decision without question.
Great tubs were filled with hot water, the kitchen boys staggering back and forth with kettles, as well as stinging lye and stinking piss. The wool was washed, and washed again, then laid out to dry before being stuffed into sacks and carried indoors.