The song ends. A quicker tune begins. My partner breaks away. I turn to find myself facing none other than the young Mortain. He is slightly shorter than me. He bows and offers his hand.
“I should introduce myself. Adam of Mortain.”
“It is an honour to meet you, sire. I am Brya of Gisbourne.”
“The honour is mine. If I may, you dance beautifully.”
“Thank you.” The compliment unsettles me. He is softly spoken but his eyes bear a brightness, a wisdom, that makes me want to listen to his every word.
In the dance our palms come together and then away. When we are close again, Adam frowns. “You remind me of someone.”
“I do?” I know of what he means. It is like I have met him before.
“Have you ever visited the castles of Wessex?”
“No, sire. Is that where you live?”
“I do not know what it is.” His fine features remain in this state of mild confusion, as though searching my face for a clue. Our palms release. We each turn a full revolution. As I do, I catch Beatrice watching. Her nostrils flared. With a flash of guilt, I can imagine how she sees us. Close together. Adam’s eyes focused on me.
“I believe you met Beatrice earlier,” I say, as we lock elbows again.
“I did.”
For the first time Adam smiles – an unguarded pleasure at the memory. I feel an unexpected drop of jealousy. “She is your sister?”
I evade the question. Too complicated to explain, let alone during a dance. The song reaches a lull. Partners come together. Adam’s hands find my shoulder and my waist. It is awkward. My eyes go anywhere but to his – to the band, to the dancers in their fine suits and gorgeous gowns. I wonder if Beatrice is watching us still.
When the song ends I bow and step away.
“Thank you for the dance, Adam. Perhaps you could ask Beatrice?”
He smiles a little. “Thank you as well, Brya. Perhaps I will.”
Another song begins. The melody of the lyre is deep with rises and falls. The singer’s words tell of the forests and the rivers, the earth and the sky. It is a lovely song, but I suddenly feel very alone. I contemplate leaving the floor, the ball, when a young woman comes up to me. Her hair is shorter than the other girls’: a golden-brown that just meets her shoulders. Her eyes are warm, the same summery colour as her hair. She offers her palm.
I glance around, a little taken aback. All the other pairs are man and woman, of course, boy and girl. But I know this dance. It is one where the partners change. More than this, I do not wish to refuse her gesture. She was not one of the noble-daughters earlier. I would have remembered her, with her cropped hair and her smile that lifts slightly crooked at the corner of her mouth.
With a tickle of nerves I take her hand. She is smaller than me. We turn once and again.
She says, “You have a lovely dress.”
“Thank you.” For some reason, I add, “It is not mine actually.”
I take in hers. It is a silver-grey gown with a flower lacing that stretches from the neck to her waist. “Yours is very nice.”
“Thank you. My father approves of it.”
A mischievous gleam in her eye. “Who is your father?”
“Lord Bale of Satherowe.” Her liquid brown eyes roll to the right, towards a short, flaxen-haired man in red velvet. He is staring at us with furrowed eyebrows. Now that I look around, more than a few people, men and women both are observing us.
“We are being watched,” I say to the girl.
She seems unsurprised. “Does it bother you?”
It is unsettling, the gazes upon us. Hers is, too, though in a different way. Part of me regrets accepting the dance.
“Do you not mind?”
“I suppose. But I decided to try to ignore the stares of others.”
My eyebrows lift. “I’ve never found that very easy.”
She nods. Spins around, her arms lifting above her lithe frame. Her palms press mine again.
“It is like anything,” she says. “Practice helps.”
In spite of the attention upon us, I cannot help smiling at this. The way she seems to move unaware of observers, including her own father. It is quite a skill. Certainly one I do not possess. I cannot help wondering how many of the noble-daughters are watching us. What if Lady Ariel is?
My eyes trace the hall. The lilac of her dress catches the candlelight.
She, for one, is not watching us. But my relief is temporary. The girl and I turn again and Lady Ariel comes back into my view. She is dancing with the Lord Sheriff. She is smiling. My body tightens. His fingers are moving on the side of her neck. He leans in. Whispers something in her ear. Her smile widens.
I look for Lord Anson. He is dozing in a chair in the corner.
The melody drops to a lull. Signalling the moment at which partners are to change. The Lord Sheriff and Lady Ariel separate. But they continue staring at one another. It is as though nobody else is here. As though they are alone, in a bedroom even.
“Are you alright?” the girl says because I have stopped dancing.
I am not. I do not know whether I should say or do something. Two young men step up to us. One takes me by the hand without waiting for my reply. The other sweeps the girl into his. She catches my eye. She speaks low. Words that only I can hear.
“The dress may not be yours,” she says, already spinning away. “But you make it.”
By the time I realise I did not get her name she is half way across the hall. I am in no mood to keep dancing. I tell the boy, who is frowning in focus at the steps, that I should like a rest. He snorts and seeks a new partner. I find a chair beside the wall.
I am barely sat when there is a great excitement from the doors. The music stops. A number of men in the red-and-blue of the Sheriff’s guard enter. The Lord Sheriff meets with their leader. I momentarily forget everything else. My heart rushes when I see Guy at the back of the group. I cut through the crowd to reach him. His fair hair is darkened. Matted from the rain. His suit is damp.
I do not care. I embrace him.
“That is a fine welcome,” Guy says, pulling back. His cheeks are ruddy from the night.
“I was worried.”
“No need,” he says, though he is touched. He sighs. “Though I’m afraid we did not find the outlaws. We did find an old lair. It was abandoned. But we will ride again tomorrow. How is the dance?”
I think of what I saw across the room: Lady Ariel and the Lord Sheriff, locked in intimate embrace. Should I tell Guy? I do not wish to hurt him. Not unless I must.
“Better now you are here.”
The Sheriff announces that the expedition has made an important discovery: a hiding of the outlaws in Sherwood. This is cause for celebration! He orders the band to play again.
“Shall we have that dance?” Guy says.
I nod, glad that I do not have to decide anything yet.
Guy is a stiff dancer. His grace is in riding Farragut and in the joust. Not the subtle sway of music. But I am safe in his hold. I like the way his hand sits at my side, gentle yet firm. I like even more his eyes on mine. How they gather the candlelight into the blues and gold of spring sunset. As we dance they become serious.
At the end of the song Guy asks if we may speak somewhere else.
“Of course.”
He leads me to an alcove away from the main hall. Here, the music and the voices fade. The alcove is quiet but for the wind outside. Guy stops beside the open glass. Night rain falls. The wisp of a moon hangs over distant Sherwood Forest.
“There is something I have been waiting to say.” He swallows. I have rarely seen him like this. So tense that his full lips press together. “I am not great with words. Not these. Please bear with me.”
His hands clench. I feel a rush of…something. Excitement. Nerves. Whatever they are, they flicker in my stomach and my calves and at the tips of my fingers. Make it hard to stand still.
“I have spoken with Father. He is getting old
er. He knows that I wish my own lands, my own home. I believe I am ready. He agrees. But.”
The flickers grow. But the mention of his Father adds a different sensation. The disquiet I felt during the dance at the sight of Lady Ariel and the Lord Sheriff. I hate hiding a secret from Guy.
His eyes narrow. He is about to tell me something of great significance.
“When I see my life ahead, Brya, I see it with you. We have grown up together. You have been like my kin. But you are not. You are more.”
He takes my hand in his. My chest is hot. No. All of me is hot.
“Brya…”
Suddenly my nose crinkles in disgust. Slipping in from the window, unmistakable: the raw smell of sulphur. I am not dreaming it. The deep scent of burning, it sinks into my throat.
“Do you smell that? The air is like brimstone…”
Guy frowns, pained. Thrown by my question. “Are you not listening, Brya?”
“Yes, I am!” But I am distracted. The sulphur thickens. It is impossible to ignore.
“You are the one I want to join me, Brya,” he says, with force. “I wish you to be my wife. Will you take me?”
It is like I am split into two beings. One half is overwhelmed by his words. That Guy should ask me this. That he should want me – forever! I cannot imagine a better man than he. I want to hug him. Kiss him. Tell him: yes, yes, yes.
But the other half of me is pulling away. It is lost. I do not even know myself. Why do I feel this way? Why do I smell sulphur when he does not?
“Brya…”
My lips are closed. I want to tell Guy that I care about him more than anything. I love him and not as a brother. But the words catch at the back of my throat.
I see the Sheriff whispering in Lady Ariel’s ear. His hand caresses her neck, the smile on her lips. Are they lovers? I need to know before I can give Guy my answer. Perhaps then, I will be ready. I will be able to tell him.
“I need a moment.”
It is barely a whisper. His broad shoulders slide. His blue eyes are bluer than ever.
“Brya. Please.”
“I’m sorry. I need a moment,” I say again.
From somewhere I find the strength to lift on my toes. Plant a single kiss on his lips. They feel as I always imagined they would: soft yet firm. Then I turn away.
“Wait for me.” And I leave before he can stop me.
6.
I arrive in a state at the Sheriff’s chambers. The room is dim, lit barely by the fragile moon. I listen for any sound of the Sheriff or Lady Ariel. There is none. I stand there and wonder what to do next. My heart betrays me. Why must I know this before I can give Guy an answer? It seems like madness – or cruelty.
Guy is the finest person I know. He will protect me. He will love me.
I am set to run back to the banquet hall, from where I can hear the floating song of the lyres, when a chill wind casts down the corridor and envelops me. It carries the scent of rain. But it carries more than this. The sulphur smell is rife. Shivers kiss down my neck. They pool in the sickle-shaped marks at the base of my throat, those that I have had since I can remember. The ones that embarrass me still: that I hide beneath tall dresses and scarves.
As flesh they have turned cold as winter.
I follow the scent like Wolf would. It leads me down the corridor to an open door. The smell is thicker. I peer in. It is a bare room. There is a table, a chair, and a man. He does not see me. Beside an empty flagon of wine he is sleeping facedown on the wood. What is he guarding? The room appears to serve no purpose. It has no bed. No desk. There is not even a window. It is a closed box.
Could it be a prisoner room perhaps? But there is nobody kept here. And I have a distinct feeling that the Lord Sheriff would keep those he punishes elsewhere, or below the ground. Out of sight.
Then I notice a second door in the corner. In the dark I almost missed it. Careful not to wake the guard, I move across the stones. The sulphur smell is even more potent. I can almost see the yellowish fumes slipping through the gaps around the wood. I try the black ring that forms the handle. It stops on a bolt. At the clunking sound I spin round. The guard mumbles in his dream but does not wake.
A bolt key is knotted on his belt. I cross the room and kneel next to him. My fingers work the knot. The steadiness of my hand surprises me. It seems to remove itself from the nerves firing in my chest. The guard stirs. I hold my breath. The knot falls open and I step away with the ring-key.
The bolt falls with a thud. The door is heavy. I pull it open just enough to slide through the narrow gap. I dare not close it behind me. What if this is the only way back? I pray that the wine will keep the guard dreaming a while longer.
It is a downward stairwell. Pitch black. But it is certainly the way. Sulphur stings my nostrils. I taste it in the pit of my stomach now. It is deeply unpleasant: a poisonous dram. Yet it pulls on me too. Calls me to descend. The lyre-music fades until the twinkling notes, like the banquet and the dance – even Guy – all seem very far away from me: memories of a night that I have left behind.
The stairwell leads down to a sloping corridor. Distant placed sconces of fire offer enough illumination to see that it narrows as it goes further into the ground. I hesitate. The base of my neck throbs coldly. The marks there seem to pulse. They are taking on a life of their own. I press my fingers to them. It is like another’s hand is touching my neck. The corridor: it begins to resemble a tunnel. Suddenly, in my mind’s eyes, I am somewhere else entirely. Looking back to my childhood home. Looking back through the tunnel into the darkness of that room. A reddish light flickers and grows…
I gasp as the memory rips into me with a force. It is all I can do to push myself to walk on. Though the walls are damp, the corridor is strangely warm. Sticky. Sweat prickles on my forehead. The midnight blue gown drags over the stones.
The opening is on my right. There is a kind of thrill at seeing it. Like I am approaching some truth. But it scares me too.
At the doorway my eyes take a long moment to adjust to the light that grows from a single fire on the wall. The devil’s light, I think, and suck in a breath. The chamber is big. Cavernous. Dark air hovers. Dust. Clouds of it: gold and red, silver and blue. A half dozen cauldrons spit out fumes that twist up to holes – chimneys – puckering the upper walls and ceiling.
There is something wrong about these cauldrons. I cannot put my finger on what.
In the very middle of the room is a single raised slab of stone. It has hooks along the top. Manacles. I feel sick. Swamped. What in heaven’s name is this room?
My thoughts are interrupted by a whimper: soft and remote. Where does it come from? There are only the cauldrons with their dark waters. Nobody could be alive inside them. As my eyes scan frantically about the room for the source, it hits me what is so wrong about the cauldrons. They are boiling. Yet there is no fire beneath any of them.
Before I can try to make any sense of this mystery, there are sounds at my back. Footsteps. A voice: low and guttural. They come from the corridor.
Panic knifes my skin. I have no choice but to enter the chamber. My eyes dance around the space. There is nowhere to hide but the large slab in the middle of the room. I run over. Drop behind it. The sulphur dust is thick, stinging my lungs with each hungry breath.
The footsteps echo nearer. I pray they will keep going. Pass by.
Nobody hears my prayer.
The footsteps stop at the doorway. The voice ceases. Lying low behind the slab, my body aches with fear. My heart is surely too loud. They will hear it in the quiet of the chamber!
I fumble for my flint-blade under my dress. As I do, I get the strangest sense that they can see me even behind the stone; that whoever is there is staring right at the slab –through it – at me. I have to look. I have to see. I crawl to the edge of the slab. I peer around.
The first man I see makes my throat shrink. A pointed nose protrudes from his hood. The rest of his face is vague as mist. The man from the clearing
. Vesilly…
But he is not alone.
My eyes are drawn to the shape of one behind him. Stood in the shadows of the corridor. It does not seem possible but this man is even taller. Cloaked also. From inside his hood there emanates a glow: a faint, reddish aura like the dying ember of a flame.
All the air goes out of me. I am shaking. Everything I have tried to resist since the clearing. Since I tasted that sulphur stink in the long grasses in Wormsley Wood. It swells over me. Drowns me.
This is He. The Burnt Man who lives in my nightmares.
*
Quick it happens and yet with the slowness of a deep dream.
But I am awake. I am lying on my side, watching my mother. She is working until suddenly she ceases. She stops utterly. Her gaze fixes on the door. Her face is rigid. Before I can blink she is running over to me.
I close my eyes. Pretend I am asleep. I still think this is our game.
From afar a branch snaps.
“My child,” Mother says. I have never heard her so. Her voice is full of rush and fear. I do not understand. Then she places her hand around my neck. Her fingers are wet. Hot. They sting the flesh of my throat. They burn. I begin to cry.
She hushes me. Holds me.
“You must into the hole and go!”
She lifts me. Her breath is warm but her breathing is harried. I squeeze her arm as tears run down my face and over my burning neck. I am beyond afraid.
Into my ear she whispers, “Shush…be still, my child…”
From outside: wood breaking – and another sound, low and rising. A song.
No. A chant.
Holding me, my mother kneels. She shifts the boards beneath my bed. I am placed in a long dark space behind the hanging cloth. She gives to me a rabbit-skin pouch that encloses something hard and sharp. I grip it in my small hand.
“Be careful with this, always,” she whispers. “Use it only when you must. But do so with courage and faith in your heart.”
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