The Ground She Walks Upon

by Meagan Mckinney

  The gaggle of boys grew quiet, as if Ravenna had just voiced their thoughts.

  “Are you a witch, Ravenna?” Malachi whispered. “Me mam says you must be ’cause you’ve had too much schoolin’ for a girl and ye never come to Mass.”

  “That’s right!” Sean, the tall, thin boy, backed him up.

  “What’s goin’ to Mass got to do with being a witch?” Ravenna’s scowl grew darker. “And if I know more than you, it’s because Grania wanted me to be a fine lady one day and she found me tutors. What’s wrong with that? I’m no different than anyone else.” She turned and a curtain of jet-black hair hid her hurt expression from the boys.

  “Why don’t you come to Mass, Ravenna?” Malachi, slightly older than Ravenna’s thirteen years and perhaps six inches shorter as well, touched the young girl on her shoulder.

  Ravenna stepped away, giving him a peek at her pale oval face. “I’ll not be goin’ to no Mass. Those old biddies already sneer at me in town. I won’t have them kickin’ me out of church because I’m a bastard.”

  The boys silently watched her walk toward the lake. When they grew to be men they would no doubt marvel at her delicacy, but right now, though Ravenna wasn’t tall, she towered over the lot of them, her flashing blue-violet eyes terrorizing them, and the mystical, mysterious power of her budding womanhood keeping them in their place.

  “Ravenna,” Malachi said to her stiff, unwelcoming back, “I don’t care if you’re a witch. In fact, if you are, I’m glad. For you are the one who can prove or disprove whether Trevallyan is a warlock.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. You think I can put a spell on him, don’t you?”

  Malachi stepped back from the dark flashing gaze, but his chest puffed with adolescent bravado. “I don’t need your help, Ravenna. I can prove Trevallyan a warlock without your magic.” He spun around and faced the clan of young, dirty-faced boys. “Which one of you is brave enough to face Trevallyan in the castle?”

  “Malachi, what are you thinkin’ of?” The thin boy stood, darting glances at Ravenna, who looked down upon them all, her hands on her slim hips.

  “I need a man with the courage to get a lock of Trevallyan’s hair.”

  Feminine laughter rippled across the small lake. “What will you do with that once you get it?” Ravenna asked.

  “You need a man’s hair to prove he is a warlock. Why else do you think I need it?” Malachi’s sandy-colored brows nearly met from his frown.

  Ravenna laughed, the sound as clear as a silver bell. “How ridiculous! Who told you that? I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

  Malachi gave her a suspicious look. “’Tis a fact as old as these fields of Lir: A warlock be known by his hair. Has Grania never told you?”

  “We don’t speak of such things.… the cauldron keeps us busy as it is.…”

  At the boys’ astonished expressions, Ravenna nearly doubled over in laughter.

  “Aye, it’s a witch you are, Ravenna,” Malachi cursed, his cheeks red with embarrassment, “but what kind, we haven’t discovered yet.”

  “I’m no witch, for if I was, I would know how to tell a warlock from a mortal man, and I cannot tell, and neither can you.”

  Malachi balled his hands into fists and jammed them to his sides. “I can prove Trevallyan’s a warlock, and if there’s a man here brave enough to get me a piece of his hair, I’ll bloody well show you!”

  “Fair knights,” Ravenna said, circling the cowering young boys, “you’ve heard Malachi’s dare. So is there one here brave enough to face Trevallyan and ask for a lock of his hair?”

  The boys stared at her, wide-eyed and silent.

  Ravenna looked at Malachi and raised one fine dark eyebrow in scorn. “Sir, your quest is noble, but your knights are weak.”

  “Why don’t you go, Malachi MacCumhal?” chimed the tall, thin lad.

  “Why don’t you, Sean O’Malley?” Malachi spit back.

  The two boys were nose to nose when Ravenna stepped between them. “You war for naught, brave knights, for Sir Malachi, with or without Trevallyan’s hair, cannot prove the lord a warlock.”

  “I bloody curse you, Ravenna! I can do it! Produce the hair, and I will do it!”

  “All right. You prove it. I’ll get some of Lord Trevallyan’s hair.”

  All the boys held their breath as they stared at Ravenna.

  “Have you gone mad, girl?” Malachi squeaked.

  “I’m not mad,” Ravenna answered, her skirts swaying as she circled the lads again. “’Tis a simple enough task, if you think about it.”

  “To cut the hair from a warlock?” Sean whispered.

  “Nay, I needn’t cut the hair from his head. I’ll get it from his comb, when I know the lord is away from the castle. Fiona McClew is a servant at the castle. She’ll let me know if all is clear.”

  “You mean to enter the lord’s bedchamber?” Malachi asked reverently.

  “’Tis the only way to make you look a fool, Sir Knight. For when I return with the hair and you cannot work your magic, I will be vindicated.” Ravenna’s eyes flashed.

  Malachi glared at her, his green-gray eyes never leaving her. “If you bring me the hair, I’ll be provin’ the master of Trevallyan is a warlock.” He leaned closer to her, butting his nose to her own. “Just bring me the hair.”

  “Ravenna, what are you up to, me girl?” Fiona McClew stood in the Trevallyan kitchen door, yards away from the bailey and the entrance to the castle.

  “I saw old Griffen O’Rooney ranting and raving over in the master’s graveyard again. I thought Lord Trevallyan should know. Is he gone?” Ravenna stared down at her grimy bare feet. She hated lying. Grania always told her the elves would come and take away her tongue if she told too many. The elves would be busy tonight.

  Fiona swept gray wisps of hair from her eyes and looked at her. “The third time this month! Poor Mr. O’Rooney! When will he let the Trevallyans rest?” She made a sympathetic clucking sound and said, “The master went to Galway. He’s not expected back until tomorrow. I’ll tell the footman to inform Mr. Greeves about Mr. O’Rooney.”

  “Thank you, Fiona.… and how are the children?” Ravenna gave her an innocent gaze.

  The kitchen servant looked down at her bulging stomach. “This makes four. I just hope I don’t have fifteen like me mother.”

  “Grania says children are a blessing from God.”

  Fiona glanced at her and then away as if embarrassed for her. Ravenna knew the Catholic Church didn’t look upon her birth as a blessing, but Grania did. And that’s all she cared about.

  “Well, I’ll give Grania your greetings—”

  “Grania? Yes, Grania!” Fiona’s eyes widened, and she disappeared into the dark recesses of the castle’s kitchen. She returned with a small tin vial. “Here. This is for your grandmother. It’s cinnamon bark from the castle’s spice hoards, to bake with or whatever she likes. Will you tell Grania to send over a potion of clover honey and rosemary? I’ve been sick in the mornings, and what with the work I’ve to do, I just cannot bring meself to face another day.”

  Ravenna pocketed the cinnamon bark and nodded her head. “Aye. I’ll bring it by first thing this evening as soon as I return to the cottage.”

  “God bless you, Ravenna. You’re a good girl, in spite of your mother’s sinnin’.” Fiona tried to smile and shut the door.

  Ravenna faced the closed door, her heart strangely heavy. She didn’t like it when people said things like that about Brilliana. Her mother couldn’t have been such a bad woman, she was sure of it, but no one in Lir was ever going to take kindly to Brilliana giving birth out of wedlock. Fifteen children were fine as long as the woman was married proper in the church, but one child born on the wrong side of the blanket—even if the woman had died valiantly giving birth to that child—made the woman a harlot, a creature not morally worthy of even a decent burial, a dark stain that must ruin her daughter, too.

  Ravenna turned away. She would never convince others th
at her mother had been no harlot, no matter how she defended her. Especially when even she had difficulty shrugging off the niggling little doubt that her bastardy gave hard evidence to what they believed. The thought, as always, made her melancholy. She was just like her grandmother. She would never really fit into Lir. Lir held no place for the likes of her and Grania. And so it was natural that she and Grania kept to themselves, creating speculation for the gossips about whether or not Grania was a witch.

  Her eyes darkened with anger. But her beloved grandmother was not a witch, and Malachi could go to the devil for saying she was. She was going to get that hair for him and laugh while he tried to work his spell. It was foolishness. Children’s foolishness that she was beginning to tire of. Perhaps she was growing too old for it. She looked down at the two swelling mounds of her bosom and covered them with her arms, embarrassed. She didn’t like her body doing these strange things. Everything was out of control of late, and now her mind was changing, too. She was leaving childhood behind. Going forward into … what?

  She stepped across the courtyard to the back entrance of the castle, her mind on the future. It was a sore point between her and Grania. All the townfolk said Grania had the Sight. They said Grania could see into the future, but if the old woman could, Ravenna had never induced her to tell her hers. Every time she had asked, Grania had denied she could do it and told her that instead of wondering about her future, Ravenna should mind her studies and wear her shoes, neither of which was a satisfactory answer to a thirteen-year-old who every day found her body undergoing another strange blossoming. Ravenna was desperate to know what lay ahead. Was she to turn out like Brilliana? Or were better things in store for her? She thought of all the tutors Grania had paraded through the cottage while she was growing up. Ravenna was sure her father was paying for it. Grania wouldn’t speak of her father, but how else were they getting the money for such frivolities as tutors? It had to be her father. It had to be. He cared for her, and if she could just find him, she knew he would take her as his own. Then she could have a life of carriages, fine dresses, and a father who loved her—like Kathleen Quinn.

  Ravenna’s expression grew dreamy as she grasped the rough iron door latch. To live the life of Kathleen Quinn had always been her fondest wish. Kathleen’s father was Ascendency. The Quinns were members of the privileged Irish class that had land and built mansions and lived in castles. They were all originally from England, or so she was told by Malachi, who professed to hating the Ascendency with all his heart, but she didn’t understand how someone could be born in Ireland and still be considered English. The issue invariably confused her. It was even said Lord Trevallyan’s own mother was of common Irish stock, but he was the most hated Ascendency of all, for he owned most of Lir and no one spoke kindly of him. Yet Niall Trevallyan was probably more Irish than she was—she, who didn’t even know where Grania came from, for her grandmother was a rare stubborn old woman and refused to ever speak of her roots.

  Ravenna wondered if she would always have difficulty sorting it out. All she knew was she was not like Malachi and the other townfolk. But neither was she like Kathleen Quinn, who lived in a grand house in the next county over; Kathleen Quinn, who Ravenna spied every Sunday after Reverend Drummond’s service, sitting in the Quinn coach with her younger brother and their parents. Ravenna had first spied Kathleen years past in the same carriage sitting between her parents, her girlish hands clasping a velvet-gowned fashion doll with lovely golden tresses. The doll exactly matched Kathleen, right down to its fox muff, and Ravenna had never seen such a lovely sight. She talked about the doll until Malachi fair wanted to sew her mouth closed, but there was no keeping it inside. She had never seen such a beautiful doll. It looked like the imaginary girl Ravenna had always wanted to be, and she had worshipped it and dreamed of it for years.

  But now she no longer dreamed of dolls. Instead she dreamed of being a girl like Kathleen; a silk-beribboned girl who sat in a carriage protected by her father. A girl who could afford to turn her nose up at the countryside. A girl who didn’t have to walk the rock-strewn paths, or run with the county hooligans, or wipe the splash of mud from her eyes as the Quinn carriage wheeled past.

  Ravenna lifted the latch on the ancient iron door. No one was inside the passage, the echoes of servants’ voices long dead and gone. A swell of fear gripped her. If she got caught they would believe she was stealing. The master of Trevallyan would see that she was punished. He might even do the punishing himself. She thought of all the talk of him being the devil, but then she swallowed her fear. Malachi’s spell awaited, just like her future. But she would show them all they weren’t within a roar of the truth. Trevallyan hadn’t the power of a warlock and it was up to her, the “witch’s” granddaughter to prove it. Quietly, she closed the castle door behind her.

  “Griffen O’Rooney is driving me mad. I want you to talk to him.” The master of Trevallyan turned a rancorous gaze toward the countryside. The carriage was making good time. They had just passed the standing stone and Lir’s four fields spread out below like a marriage quilt. They would be at the castle in minutes.

  “Griffen does the best he can, my son. He’s gettin’ old, like the rest o’ us.” Father Nolan leaned both hands on a blackthorn walking stick he’d been forced to rely on these years. The glossy Trevallyan brougham was well-sprung, but he grimaced with every jolt as if it pained his bones.

  “You speak for yourself, Father. I’m not getting old.”

  Father Nolan laughed. “No? Why, ’tis must be the light in here that makes me think I see a man before me and not a boy.” His smile faded as he watched Trevallyan stare morosely out the window.

  Niall had changed in the years since the meeting of the council. Anger had twisted the man’s insides like the wind twisted the yews in the graveyard. Happiness was the only balm for Trevallyan’s wounds, and sometimes, such as now, the father feared it might come too late. “You’re thirty-three, Niall,” the priest remarked quietly. “’Tis young to many, but you look older. The living has made you hard.”

  Trevallyan’s cold aqua gaze settled on the priest. “Just keep Griffen O’Rooney out of my graveyard.”

  “He feels responsible.”

  “For bloody sake, he is not responsible!”

  The priest, used to the flare of Trevallyan’s temper, said calmly, “’Tis no secret you didn’t love the lassie. You went and married her in your haste to spite us and the geis. We all feel responsible for that. And you forget … Griffen was the one to bury them, to look upon them—”

  “Put it to rest, old man,” Trevallyan said, cutting him off. “Tell your friends to do the same. My wife died thirteen years ago not because of a geis, but from complications of a pregnancy, a pregnancy that you had nothing to do with.”

  “And a pregnancy that you had nothing to do with.”

  The frigid silence turned the warm ruby-velvet interior of the carriage into a mausoleum. Trevallyan pinned him with his hellish, cold stare.

  “My son,” Father Nolan said gently in a voice that croaked with age, “come to Mass this Sunday. ’Twill help with your anger.…”

  The schooled emotion in Trevallyan’s eyes grew hard and distant. “My anger will be duly abated when you manage to keep O’Rooney out of my graveyard.”

  Grim-faced, the father watched him. Trevallyan ripped his gaze away and returned it to the countryside.

  They rode on in silence, until the silence became so thick Father Nolan was compelled to break it.

  “Do you still hear her laughter?” he whispered.

  Trevallyan closed his eyes, anger chiseling his every feature into stone. He did not answer.

  “I remember the anguish in your voice when you told me about the honeymoon. When she could keep the secret no more. She laughed, you said. Your rooms overlooked Montmartre and you told me you felt as if all of Paris rang with her laughter. She knew she was pregnant. She’d known all along.…”

  Trevallyan’s hand slammed agai
nst the upholstered wall. “Enough of this.”

  “But you must listen. You didn’t cause her death—their deaths,” Father Nolan pleaded.

  Trevallyan flicked him a glance of ice. “You would know better than I, Father. You gave her last rites. Tell me, when she died, did Helen absolve me of blame?” The words were more cruel than usual.

  “’Twas fate how it ended,” the father replied, grief darkening his own aged eyes. “’Twas a merciful act of God. You must accept it.”

  Trevallyan’s laughter was haunted and lost.

  The priest took one hand off the blackthorn—the hand that had once worn the gold ring that was exactly like Trevallyan’s—and he reached across the carriage and grasped Trevallyan by the shoulder. “In your haste to find a wife, the girl trapped you into marriage. You could not have known she carried another’s bastard. She was a calculating, black-hearted creature, Niall, and only God’s love could have saved her. I say prayers for her daily. And the babe.”

  “I could have saved her,” Trevallyan whispered harshly. “I could have made it work. In the end, I would have taken the babe as my own, as that tombstone in the graveyard proclaims.”

  “You would have done the right and noble thing, my son.” The priest’s words were heavy with despair. “But try as you might, you’re not God, Trevallyan. You can’t correct every evil. You can’t pull blood from a stone.” The priest’s lips hardened. “What happened was God’s will.”

  “Was it God’s will for me to banish her as I did?”

  The question needed no answer but Father Nolan felt compelled to answer it anyway. “You were angry. It was the only thing you could think of to do when she revealed how she had tricked you. Take comfort that you didn’t annul the marriage and leave her in poverty as a lesser man would have done. Instead, she had Trevallyan Castle with all the luxuries of London.”

  “My wife hated this place and you know it. It was her version of hell to be stuck in a desolate Irish county so far from the things she loved. I knew that when I sent her here. And as to the luxuries.…” Trevallyan’s face became rock-hard. “She had every one except the luxury of a physician to tell the blithering fools attending her that five weeks without a birth is too long to go after the water breaks.”