That wasn’t enough for Davy. Going to stand by her, he said, “What reasons be they, Mistress?”
She was too sensible a woman to refuse to answer him. “Davy, I brought him sad word. About Joan.” He frowned beneath his helmet and she explained, as simply as she could, how the Sterkarms had come to the Yonstones, asking for an alliance against the Elves. “We laughed them from the tower for their impudence, but after they had gone, there was no trace of Joan.”
“They took her?” Davy said.
“We searched every corner of tower,” Sandy Yonstone said.
“I rode through night to bring Richie word,” Mistress Crosar said. Davy thought she looked exhausted. “And when I told him”—she stretched out a hand toward her brother, who was lifting turfs to a wall top—“he said never a word, but began this.”
“Have you asked what he’s about?” Davy said.
Mistress Crosar closed her eyes in exasperation. “Aye! Many times—and no answer have I had!”
Davy turned and strode toward his laird. Both Mistress Crosar and Sandy followed.
Richie Grannam was in his shirtsleeves. A cloud of flies hung around him, attracted by his warmth and sweat. He glanced around, saw his captain coming, and ducked into the bothy’s dark interior.
Davy stopped short, surprised. Mistress Crosar went to the door and stooped, peering inside. A smell of earth met her, but she saw only darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she saw her brother lying down on the bothy’s turf bed. He wrapped himself in his cloak and put down his head, as if to sleep. “Richie!” He ignored her. “Richie—thine daughter!”
There was no answer.
Mistress Crosar turned from the door, throwing up her hands, confounded. Davy straightened from looking through the door himself. He shook his head.
Inside the bothy, behind closed eyes, Richie Grannam looked deep into his own dark mind. If the Sterkarms had taken his Joan, for spite or sport, then, most likely, she was already used, dead, and thrown away on the moor. If they’d taken her for ransom, then the best that could be said was that she wasn’t yet dead. His heart swelled painfully in revolt at these thoughts, but he could not evade their truth.
If the Sterkarms were pursued, they would kill Joan to keep her from slowing them. Even if she was somehow rescued, no one would believe her still a maid. There’d be no future for her, no husband, no security, but only a lonely and despised spinsterhood.
And he, her father, could expect smirks and sneers whenever he came into company. Laird Brackenhill, whose daughter was a whore.
He was tired. He wanted nothing of riding, thinking or fighting. He wanted to lie in the dark and remember his university days.
16th-Side A:
The Sterkarm Shieling
The Native Sterkarms • Changeling Per • Joe Sterkarm
“Kengahrrrew,” Changeling Per repeated, to the bafflement of most who heard him. “I shall ride up to Elf-Gate and say to them ‘kengahrrrew.’ That be their safe word. They’ll think me on their side still and let me in.” Changeling Per nodded toward Joe. “If I have with me an Elf, they’ll trust me more.”
For Joe, who’d planned to stay with Kaitlin and rest, this was an unpleasant shock.
“If you want rid of Elven,” Changeling Per said, “you must close Elf-Gate. They’ll no let us in. We must be crafty.”
Wat Gobbysson nodded slowly, reluctant to agree with the Changeling but finding he had no choice.
“Elfie-Cho talks English and Elvish,” said Changeling Per. “He can help us.”
Joe, thinking of soft beds of fern, said, “Even if you get inside, what can you do? They have Elf-Pistols.”
All the Sterkarms, native and Changeling, fell silent. They never favored heroic battles against the odds. They favored winning, by any means, and living to fight again.
“Ambush,” Wat said.
Faces brightened until Joe repeated, “Elf-Pistols. When they open fire …” He remembered a line from a Sterkarm ballad. “They’ll cut you into pieces small.”
“It’s no weapon that counts,” Gobby said, “but man using it.”
“Master Sterkarm, you were lucky when you fought Elven before. Luck is a thin branch to lean your weight on.” A nudge at his side made Joe look down, into Kaitlin’s eyes. Trying hard to say his name correctly, she said, “Shyo, tha telled me, at Elf-House, they have a kitchen for making themselves bits to eat?”
He nodded, smiling. He’d thrilled her with fireside tales of Elf-Land’s wonders, of how even the “bothy” in the 16th-side compound had running water that was safe to drink, a kettle that boiled without a fire, and a box that cooked food.
“And tha could gan in there, and talk to them, like? And they’d maybe offer thee a bit to eat and drink?”
Joe nodded.
Kaitlin smiled. “Come and talk with Mammy.”
16th-Side A:
Grannam Land
Mistress Crosar • Davy Grannam • Sandy Yonstone
After a long silence, Davy Grannam said, “I ken where Lady Joan be.”
Mistress Crosar and Sandy, slumped on the turf bench, roused themselves. “How canst tha ken, man?” Mistress Crosar asked.
“If Sterkarms took lass, they’ll no have stayed together.” His brown eyes glinted among wrinkles. While they’d wasted time waiting for Richie Grannam to recover from his sulking fit, Davy had been putting himself in the Sterkarms’ place. He’d tried out many routes and plans in his mind. “They’d split ride to be harder to follow.”
“Aye,” Sandy said and nodded.
Davy fell silent again. He saw it pictured in his head, bright and clear. He saw both parties, one on foot, one mounted. He saw the streams they crossed, the hillsides they climbed, the woods they hid in.
He couldn’t know for certain that he was right, but experience told him he was. Not for his life, though, could he make the pictures in his head into words. He could only repeat: “I ken where she be.”
Sandy Yonstone piped up. “We mun ken for sure, and not hare off on some wild-goose chase.”
Mistress Crosar looked at Davy, who gave her a slight nod. She knew this about Davy: When others were quick to sing out their opinions, he was silent. He’d snap out orders, demands, jokes, and insults readily enough, but with anything else, he faltered into silence. Some mistakenly thought him stupid because he lacked a glib tongue.
But her brother had him to lead rides, and men willingly followed him. Men who led rides weren’t stupid. If you looked at Davy’s decisions and their outcomes, you realized that he was neither stupid nor thoughtless. His tongue was slow, but his mind quick and clear. And how much longer could they wait on her brother?
“Well, Davy,” she said, “if tha ken where she be, let’s busy ourselves to find her.”
Davy, grinning, grabbed her hand and pulled her up. She gasped, both in pain from her hips and shock at the man’s forwardness. If she had asked for help to rise, well and good, but to yank her unceremoniously to her feet … Then she saw Sandy’s disapproving face.
“We must find my brother’s daughter! If neither thee nor my brother have stomach for it, then Davy and me shall!”
16th Side:
The Sterkarm Shieling
The Native Sterkarms, Joe Sterkarm, Changeling Per
Gathered near a smoking outdoor fire, the Sterkarms discussed poison. “Mushrooms,” Changeling Per said. “They be in season.”
Yanet, arms folded, nodded. “Hast time to sit a day, waiting on ’em to sicken? Mushrooms is no thy tool.”
“Foxglove,” Kaitlin said.
Her mother nodded encouragingly. “Aye, but foxglove stinks like mice and be gey bitter. Hard to hide.”
“Then what?” Changeling Per demanded.
Yanet eyed him for two slow eye blinks. “Bide.” She turned to her daughter. “Think
now. Something that’ll work in a heartbeat, with a wee sprinkle—but’ll no stink nor be so bitter none can face it.”
Kaitlin lowered her head in thought, then looked up, her pretty face gleeful. “Wolfsdeath!”
Yanet nodded, smiling agreement.
Wat said, “This be sneak work—women’s work!”
“Aye, women’s work!” Yanet agreed. “Doing what’s needed with no shouting nor fuss and burying only them that needs to be buried!” She turned to look at Wat, and they glowered at each other. “Would tha rather let Elven loose?”
“It be a bad business!” Wat said.
“Then take no part in it,” Changeling Per said. “Stay home, nursing thine honor. Elfie-Cho and me shall close Elf-Gate.” To Yanet and Kaitlin, he said, “Canst find me this stuff?”
“I have it ready by me,” Yanet said. “Time was when wolves were more about, we made it to poison arrows—so folk cry it ‘wolfsdeath.’ But it be no just for killing.” She had turned to lead them to her bothy. “It be good for easing pain—though take a mite too much, and tha’ll feel no pain ever again.”
While the others stood outside, she ducked into her bothy’s dark interior and rummaged through packs she’d brought from the tower. It took a while, and Changeling Per was pacing before she crawled out clutching a small cloth bag. Standing, she untied the bag and tipped hazelnuts into her palm. She laughed at Per’s surprise.
“This be how my Granny always kept it,” she said. “Mouse-nibbled nuts. A wee hole in every one, and nut stolen. At leaf fall, we take wolfsdeath roots, grind them, and mix them with fat and honey. Then we fill hollow nut and seal it with wax. And there it sits until we need it.”
“I’ll no take nuts from thee, mistress!” Changeling Per said.
“I keep well in mind which nuts these be and where they be. To dose some poor body for pain, I scrape out a wee, wee bittie on a pin. But mostly I use it for them there be no help or hope for. A wee, wee bittie takes away all their pain and gives them rest. But if tha’ve no care whether they live or die—”
“Drop one of those nuts in hot broth,” Kaitlin said, “and wax melts …” She smiled up at Joe, and he felt a chill.
Yanet tipped the nuts back into the bag and gave them to Changeling Per. “Do not forget and take them for hazelnuts. And let not wax melt.”
“Pretty Kaitlin should carry some,” Changling Per said.
Joe was not happy to see the Changeling smile at Kaitlin, and he was even less happy to see her smile back. “Why? She’ll stay here.”
Changeling Per’s silver-blue gaze turned on him. “We need Kaitlin. Men fear less where a woman be. And she kens poison—her mammy taught her.”
Kaitlin moved close to Joe and looked up at him. “I’ll gan,” she said.
“Kaitlin!” Yanet said. “Tha bairn—”
“Maudie will look after him,” Kaitlin said. “And I’ll keep him safe by slamming shut Elf-Gate.” She put both arms around Joe.
Yanet said, “I’ll close my mouth.”
Changeling Per tossed up the bag of deadly hazelnuts and caught them with a rattle. He smiled at Wat. “Keep Wat safe behind thine skirts, Yanet, while we’re away at our women’s work.”
Wat walked away.
To his men, who waited at a little distance, Per said, “First light.” They groaned but quickly went their separate ways to make the most of the little time they had before riding again.
Joe folded Kaitlin to him in a close hug. “I mean to stretch out my tired old bones on thy bed for as long as I can. Come and lie with me?” She hugged him with a tight squeeze.
From the other end of the huddle of bothies came Toorkild’s voice, asking, “Why does my Per no come? Where does he bide?”
21
16th-Side A:
Wild Country
Joan Grannan • Sterkarm Changelings Ecky and Sim
Joan, sore, tired, hungry, cold, wet and utterly miserable, noted that Per never even glanced her way. He gave Andrea his hand and hauled her up steep slopes. He hugged her in sympathy for her blistered feet. He even had the energy to joke with the men, making them laugh despite everything. But it was as if he didn’t see or hear Joan.
It was hard for her to keep up and the others were out of sight. What if they left her? She might be found by some wild loose man. Or by wolves. She was afraid that, if she fell and was hurt, they would leave her lying there. … She tried to move faster, but all her muscles ached and the steep slope was slippery. She’d climb a step or two but then slither down further than she’d climbed.
It came to her, crushingly, that this was her life now.
The thought halted her. With cold, sharp clarity, she realized that never again would she be treated with courtesy. By running from the Yonstone Tower and joining the Sterkarms, she had arranged her own dishonoring. She had ruined her own life.
And why? Standing there on a wooded side, dirty, scratched, and cold, she couldn’t recall why it had ever made any kind of sense to do as she’d done. Because the sunlight had shone through a window onto Per Sterkarm? She’d been nothing but a mawkin, an utter fool.
Oh, she’d been going to unite the Grannams and Sterkarms against the Elves? Any donkey could see that would never happen.
A little, fleeting thought whispered that she’d planned to unite the families by wedding Per Sterkarm. Her own stupidity made her blush. Per Sterkarm was no more interested in a dishonored woman than any other man—except in the worst way. There would be no wedding.
Her future stretched before her as clearly as if she had second sight. It would be endured in cold, dirty huts, among fleas, lice, and ticks, eating the worst food, surrounded by people who despised and hated her. How many tens of years would drag by like that?
I was mad, she thought. I must have eaten mandrake.
Or—her head lifted—she had been bewitched. In the Yonstone’s hall, the Elf-May had looked at her across the table. And then she had seen Per May and felt Love’s arrow strike. It was Elf-Work. She had been captured by Elf-Work.
She turned and looked behind her. A little while before, she’d seen a withered flower spike rising from a shady hollow near the stream they followed. Her aunt’s teaching had been thorough.
She looked ahead, up the steep slope. None of the others were in sight. Well, let them go. They wished her no good anyway.
The plant, when she found it, grew in a damp hollow between boulders. Water splashed and trickled over stones and there was a smell of wet earth and greenery. If its stalk hadn’t withered, the herb would have been as tall as Joan. Its leaves were like long, skinny hands with five long fingers, except that each finger went back as far as the hand’s wrist and was fronded.
She sat on a stone and considered the plant. It was, her aunt said, the most poisonous plant that grew in their woods. She almost bowed to it, as if paying her respects. Then she looked around for some large, thick dock leaves and a stick strong enough to use for digging.
Using the stick, she prodded the ground around the plant, loosening earth before clawing it up with her gloved fingers. The leaf mold and damp earth released rich scents as she unearthed the dark-brown, knobbly tubers. She still wore Ecky’s sheepskin cloak and used a corner of it, together with the stick, to brush and poke the tubers onto the dock leaves. She wouldn’t touch them with bare hands until she was certain that she was ready to leave this world. Crouching, she wrapped the dock leaves into a bundle and tucked it into the purse on her belt.
Make ready against thy time of need was another of her aunt’s sayings. She’d thought it tedious, but saw its wisdom now. When she was locked in some Sterkarm tower, she wouldn’t find that plant neatly made up into pills or ointment, nor would it grow under her window. The Sterkarms might be too ignorant even to know about it.
Eating that plant could mean a day of vomiting and pain if she misjud
ged the amount. But even then, after the pain would come a long peace. It was sin to kill yourself, but then, she’d already sinned by disobeying her elders. She’d be suspected of worse sins, too, since she’d been tricked into joining the Sterkarms.
She would wait a little while. … But there might come a time, and soon, when she would be glad of those tubers in her purse. It took so little of that plant to kill. If you sought a fast, certain death, it was the flower to pick.
She left the hollow, clambering over boulders beside the stream. She was so weary, she grudged every lift of her foot. She felt as old as her aunt.
“What dost do?” The hoarse voice, rough and sudden, made her almost leap from her bones. Looking about wildly, she saw a man: the tall figure of a man, sprung out of nowhere. She started back, fearing attack.
Clambering down to her, he caught her arm in a tight grip, holding her as she flapped to get away like a fish on a line. “What matter?” he said. Then, seeing her fear, he spoke more gently: “Lass, hold.”
It calmed her a little, and she recognized him. It was Per Sterkarm, staring at her with those large glass-blue eyes. Her heart leaped. He had worried about her, he had come back to find her. …
He said, “Tha can no fall behind.” Jerking on her arm, he towed her up the slope. “Fall behind and we shall leave thee, understand?” Neither his tone nor expression were friendly. Angrily, she tried to pull free—and became angrier when she could not.
“I can keep up with thee, Master Sterkarm.” Or with any Sterkarm. “… had business to attend.”
He dragged her on. “When tha mun piss, tell us. We’ll wait.”
She felt her face flush. “Thanks shall thou have, Master Sterkarm, for thy kindness.”
“Give thy thanks to Entraya. It was for her I came to fetch thee.” Letting her go, he turned his back on her, adding, over his shoulder, “For myself, I should leave thee to rot.”
Joan stood still, watching him climb the slope. His words repeated in her mind. At her waist, she felt the clutch of her belt, made heavy by the purse filled with tubers of wolfsdeath.
16th-Side A:
A Sterkarm Tryst Page 19