by Glenda Larke
“Rest assured,” Marsh Bedstraw said, inclining her head in polite deference, her voice low and husky and calm, “no one of black heart is ever sheltered by the shrine, or by Va. Search if it please ye, and if y’find the person y’seek, she has no place here.”
Mathilda turned to look at the woman to see how she reacted, but there was no one there. She stared at the trunk, her mouth gaping. There was no way Sorrel Redwing could have moved without drawing attention to her presence. Marsh Bedstraw’s hold on her arm tightened. Mathilda shook her off, torn between scolding the shrine-keeper for daring to lay a hand on a member of the royal family, and asking her what in Va’s name had just happened.
Hilmard doffed his cap and made a sweeping bow in her direction. “Forgive me, milady, I’d not disturb you if it weren’t urgent. The miscreant we seek needs to be apprehended for your safety, and to see justice served.”
Mathilda tilted her head in acknowledgement. Her mouth was as dry as dust.
“With your permission, milady, may I ask my men to enter to search the building?”
Ryce interrupted. “You may, now that I am here to maintain the safety of the Princess. Please do what you must and leave us in peace.”
For once, Mathilda was glad of his intervention. Everything had suddenly become confusing and frightening. Surreptitiously she glanced back at the tree. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a blurring of the bark. Sorrel was there, she was sure she was, but when Mathilda looked straight at the oak, she saw nothing. No one did, except perhaps Marsh Bedstraw.
As Ermine’s hunters filed into the shrine, the shrine-keeper leaned over and whispered in her ear, “’Tis in the hands of the unseen guardian now. If the lady’s heart is pure, the men’ll not see her, and their blindness is Va’s will.”
Mathilda shivered with pure delight. She was seeing a Va-inspired miracle at first hand! Superbly pleased, she seated herself and allowed Marsh Bedstraw to tuck the quilt around her once more.
The hunters, together with several of the liveried men from the outriders, scattered through the shrine looking for their quarry. Outside, the hounds howled and yipped their frustration. Hilmard strode around the tree trunk, his features distorted with rage and determination. By the look of him, he’d been drinking in the tavern. His gait was unsteady, his face flushed. He even stopped to stare at the trunk of the tree, frowning.
“She’s close,” he muttered. “I can smell her. Smell her fear. She’s here somewhere, the slut.” Slowly he raised his head to look straight up the trunk into the tree canopy. “Comfrey,” he said to one of his men, “that’s where she is. Climb up and have a look.”
“The tree is sacred,” the shrine-keeper said in an implacable tone of prohibition. “’Tis the realm of birds and bats, squirrels and butterflies and the unseen guardian. No one climbs it. Ever. And that includes the woman you seek.”
“How dare you question my decision,” Hilmard Ermine said, his tone close to a snarl. “This shrine is mine as much as it’s yours, woman. And I’ll search it until I find the murderous whore who attacked my brother. One of my men saw her enter this place and you must have seen her too! Unless you tell me where she’s hidden, I’ll see you charged with the crime of aiding a felon.”
Mathilda rose to her feet, drawing herself up in a way she had practised in front of the mirror to appear older and more imperious. She made sure her next words ripped through the air like an executioner’s axe. “Are you going to charge me as well? Do you accuse a princess of Ardrone of aiding a felon? It is impossible for me to have failed to see someone entering the building! What do you accuse me of, Hilmard Ermine, landsman? I’m sure my brother here would be delighted to relay your accusation to our royal sire the King.”
There was a startled silence. Everything stilled, as if everyone had stopped breathing. Ermine’s face turned ashen. Even Ryce was speechless, although he was the first to move, to stand protectively at her side.
When Hilmard did find his voice, it quavered like that of a sick old man. “Milady, I abjectly beg your pardon. Of course you would have seen someone enter had they done so. I did not think. My grief for my brother has disordered my senses. Forgive my foolishness.” He bowed his head.
“Begone from this place,” Mathilda said coldly. “There is no one here who is not under Va’s guidance and protection.”
The men filed out, leaving her standing with Ryce and Marsh Bedstraw.
“It’s all right, Ryce,” she said brightly. “You can go back to your tavern now.”
“No, I’ll stay,” he said. “Who knows where that mad woman might have got to.”
“Va will protect me. This is a shrine! Did you not see how even the hounds could not enter? ’Twas amazing! They couldn’t bear to put their paws on the fallen oak leaves. Truly, I need to pray and sit at peace for a while. Mistress Bedstraw here will take care of me.”
He glanced out of the doorway towards the tavern. “Well, if you’re sure…”
“Of course I’m sure.”
He kissed her on the cheek with unusual solicitude, and left.
“Those fellows will be poking around outside for a while, I reckon,” Marsh Bedstraw said, addressing the bare bark of the oak. “Best I get you into my cuddy, lass, out of sight. Then y’can clean up a bit.”
“What happened to her?” Mathilda whispered. “She disappeared!”
“That’s oaken witchery,” Marsh Bedstraw said. “She’s been granted the gift of the glamour. You’re still there, aren’t you, lass?”
Mathilda stepped over to the oak. With a hesitant hand she reached out, her fingers groping. When her thumb tip touched the woman’s shoulder, she gave a laugh of delight. “You are there! You were there all the time, but invisible! How did you do that?”
Slowly Sorrel Redwing reappeared, still standing with her back to the tree. Her eyes were closed, her face unnaturally pale. In spite of the autumn cold and her wet clothes, perspiration had beaded on her forehead. When she opened her eyes, she blinked and took a deep, calming breath. Her gaze held traces of horror, as if she had seen the inside of her own grave.
“Y’are safe now,” Marsh Bedstraw said. “The men have gone.”
The woman stepped away from the bark, looking from the shrine-keeper to Mathilda. Her gaze focused and settled on the Princess. “My thanks, milady, for your protection.” She spoke quietly, with a soft country accent, and sank into a deep curtsey. “And yours too, mistress,” she added to Marsh Bedstraw.
Mathilda watched her, assessing. Her curtsey was practised. Her dress with its overskirt was without lace or brocade, but even covered in mud and soaked with rain, it was clear the material was fine velvet and the bodice was embroidered. Her stockings were torn and she’d lost her shoes and her coif, but she held herself well.
And she’d apparently committed a murder.
“Did you really kill your husband?” Mathilda asked.
Marsh Bedstraw intervened, scolding. “What’s past is past. This lady is under the protection of Va, and what happened is no business of yourn.”
Mathilda, unused to being thwarted by anyone outside her family, was about to remonstrate, but something in Marsh Bedstraw’s face stopped her.
“Va’s business,” the shrine-keeper said. “The Way of the Oak. No right of yourn to question.”
Chastened, Mathilda nodded. Having seen an example of witchery, the idea of angering Va and his shrine guardians was unnerving.
The shrine-keeper hustled the woman away into her dwelling, came out again with the promised bread and cheese for Mathilda, then disappeared once more.
Mathilda spent the time deep in thought. If this trip with Ryce had proved anything to her, it was how powerless she was. She was royal, yet had no say over her own destiny.
I have to change that, she thought. I have to, or I’ll go mad. I have to use whatever ways are available. And perhaps, just perhaps, she now had the means to do it.
Half an hour later, seeing Sorrel Redwing’
s new appearance, she was shaken once again. Somewhere the shrine-keeper had found her a plain grey gown and matching coif, hose and some battered shoes. None of that surprised her nearly as much as what had happened to Sorrel’s face.
The woman who’d disappeared into Marsh Bedstraw’s cuddy had memorable, strong features; rich ebony hair; startling eyes, deep and blue. The person who emerged was of indeterminate age, a grey-eyed, plain-faced woman with greying fair hair.
“Oh!” Mathilda exclaimed. “How … Is … Are you Sorrel Redwing? But you look so different!”
“That’s the glamour,” Marsh Bedstraw said. “A glamour can make the lass appear to be what she wills.”
“She doesn’t look too glamorous,” Mathilda said doubtfully. “She looks like a – a meek grey mouse!”
“That she does,” Marsh agreed. “And now she can leave the shrine without them men hunting her down like game.”
“She must leave under my protection. It is quite obvious to me we were Va-fated to cross paths today. I am momentarily in need of a lady to attend me, and you, Mistress Sorrel, obviously need to leave this place. You shall come with me to Throssel!”
“Milady, that’s very kind of you, but—”
“Oh, tush! Va protected you. How could I possibly do otherwise? I will tell my brother you’re the shrine-keeper’s niece. We’ll think of a new name for you.”
“That’s a generous thought,” Sorrel said quietly, “but milady can’t have considered the complications. I’m wanted for murder. If—”
Mathilda waved away her protests. “Where else can you go? What else can you do? Do you have relatives who will take you in?”
Sorrel was silent. Marsh Bedstraw looked from one to the other and said nothing.
“Va planned for me to be here in the hour of your need,” Mathilda said. “The shrine’s unseen guardian would not have aided you unless you are a virtuous woman. Am I not correct, Mistress Marsh?”
The shrine-keeper inclined her head in agreement.
“Then that’s settled!” She creased her brow in thought. “If I make you a lady-in-waiting, there will be far too many questions about your lineage. Yet you’re too genteel for a maid. So you have to be somewhere in between. A handmaiden. You shall be my handmaiden. Now, let’s see what we can call you. Your present name means you are Shenat, does it not? So a flower and an animal, I think. Celandine is pretty. You shall be Celandine Marten.”
6
A Witan Goes Home
He ought to have taken passage on a flat-boat south to the Ardronese port of Betany, where he could hire a hack and ride to Throssel. That was the quickest route.
Instead, Saker had bought a horse in Vavala, an old and staid animal which was all he could afford, and headed through the principality of Valance, and so into northern Ardrone across the Shenat Hills. Had she known, the Pontifect would not have approved. He didn’t care.
Pickle it, he needed to go home.
He was so riled. He was furious with both his father, whom he hadn’t seen for eight years, and with Fritillary because she’d made that ridiculous bargain not to tell him about his mother. And she’d kept the bargain, kept it even though it was made with a man who knew nothing of honour.
But most of all, he was enraged by his younger self. How could he have been so feeble as to never demand information about his mother? Iris Sedge Rampion had died when he was three, and he’d never paused to wonder why nobody spoke of her. That was too much to expect of a young boy perhaps; what shocked Saker was that he’d never insisted on knowing more once he was older. What had she done that merited being so obliterated from his life?
He sighed, remembering his ten-year-old self. Arbiter Fritillary Reedling had dangled the idea of a university education in front of him and he’d grabbed the opportunity without a second thought. At fifteen he’d returned to the farm for a short visit, then gladly turned his back on that life forever, walking away from his inheritance rights.
On that last visit, he’d asked his father a vaguely worded question about his mother’s family, the Sedges, only to be told none were still living, and they’d all been worthless layabouts anyway. Now he wanted better answers.
As his elderly mount plodded its way south into Ardrone five days after leaving Vavala, he expected his heart to rejoice. These rugged hills framing long valleys of farms and fields, those rippling stony rivers and soughing pine-forested slopes – this was the landscape of his childhood. Here nestled the heart of Shenat belief. At each shrine he was welcomed as a witan, offered food and wine, the company of local people come to hear the latest news, and a bed for the night. He expected to feel at peace, suffused with the calm of being back in the world of forest and field and fell.
Instead he was uneasy, anxious. The lascar’s dagger at his belt was still a brooding presence, reminding him of Ardhi. Often it stirred in its sheath, like an animal stretching in troubled sleep. He didn’t quite believe the blade was malevolent. No, it was more … watchful. Not alive, but not quite inanimate either. It spied on him. And he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t told the Pontifect of its existence.
When he crested the Branchwood Pass and gazed down on the valley he grew up in, the thoughts that came were not memories of childhood, but nebulous worries of a future that brooded, promising turmoil and plague. Sometimes he thought he could feel the dying man’s grip on his wrist, and hear his voice speaking of A’Va the devil.
Absurdly, he found himself looking behind from time to time as he rode, as if there was some dark menace there. You’re as bad as a child waking up from a nightmare, imagining the horrors under his bed, he thought. What’s the matter with you?
He was still half a day’s ride from his father’s farm when the weather turned bleak and miserable. By its lacklustre pace, his mount was registering its disapproval of the muddy track and driving rain. Sympathetic, Saker pulled into a wayside inn. After stabling the horse, he ran for the inn door through the rain, lugging his saddlebags. He scrambled inside shaking the water from his cape and hat, before realising he had walked into the middle of an altercation.
A woman was standing on one of the tables. Pewter mugs and plates were scattered at her feet, liquid dripped on to the floor. She held a sword as if she knew what she was doing, but Saker doubted it would do her much good. Surrounding her table were three men of varying ages, all armed with staves. They were poking and swinging at her feet, and there was little she could do except dodge. The inn’s patrons had backed away from her and were now arranged around the walls, some watching, some inciting the men, some protesting the attack.
Galls ’n’ acorns, he knew her. Gerelda Brantheld, by all that was holy. He couldn’t begin to imagine why she was here and in this predicament. He dropped the saddlebags and his cloak and hat without a second thought. As his hand sought the hilt of his sword, he asked the ploughman standing next to him, “What’s it all about?”
“Those Primordial fanatics don’t like city women,” the fellow said. He eyed Saker up and down, and his gaze settled on his witan’s medallion. “Might not be over fond of you, either. Watch your step.” He took another bite of the pie he was holding, and turned his attention back to the fight.
Saker drew his sword and picked up a wooden stool in his other hand. “Enough!” he roared, addressing the men with the staves. “Is this any way to behave?”
Their apparent leader, a thin man with long tousled hair and the intense gaze of a zealot, scowled at him. “Keep your witan nose out of our business lest you want it bloodied,” he said, and swung his stave at Gerelda’s ankles. She jumped over it with ease.
“Three men harassing one woman?” Saker rejoined. “Where is Shenat chivalry? Leave her be, or answer to me!”
“Blister your tongue,” Gerelda said disgustedly. “When did I ever need saving by a witan?”
One of the other men stepped towards Saker, waving his stave. “Witan of Va! Befouler of true Shenat faith! Begone from the heart of Shenat country, you per
verter of our ancient—”
Saker threw the stool at him.
The man ducked, his stave dipping. Saker leapt forward to stamp hard on the wood. Unbalanced, the fellow let it go.
Saker raised his sword and his opponent backed off. Gerelda leapt down from the table to pink the neck of the leader while his attention was diverted. The third fellow, a young lad who looked vaguely familiar to Saker, retreated towards the door with an appalled expression.
“Take your men and go,” Saker told the leader. “Believe what you will, and naught will be said, but if you can’t live peaceably with your neighbours, you’ll find yourself in trouble with both Va and the earthly followers of the Faith.”
The leader snatched up his stave and headed towards the door. “Stone-lover! Street swain! Cobble-fancier! Your chapels will fall to rotted ruin, mark my words.”
As the three disappeared outside, the patrons of the inn drifted back to their tables and the potboy began to clean up the mess.
“Street swain?” Saker asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow at Gerelda Brantheld. “Cobble-fancier?”
“They hate town-dwellers. Primordials have brains pickled in vinegar.” She shook her head in a gesture of disgust and thrust her sword into its scabbard. “Hello, Saker.”
He righted a couple of stools and offered her one. “Good to see you again, Gerelda. Sit down and I’ll buy you a drink. I had heard there was a resurgence of Primordial idiocy, but I didn’t know it was a problem around here.”
“Ah, there’s always some Shenat hothead who decides Va doesn’t exist and our interpretation of the Way is wrong, so we should all return to the purity of the bucolic paradise of a thousand years ago. Va preserve us from that, and a pox on the Pontifect for asking me to investigate.” She sat down opposite him.
He blinked. “The Pontifect? I thought you were a lawyer.”
“Yes. I’m her roving legal proctor, didn’t you know?”