The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  I stumble to my feet. “I should not tarry. I must reach Inverness Castle . . .” My voice trails to silence as I cast a longing look toward the fire. The thought of food sends a mating call to my traitor stomach. I try not to think of how good hot stew would taste.

  “Cub, so must I, but you will never reach the castle tonight. The mist grows as thick as the vapor from hell’s mouth, and the stars are blown out. Stay here tonight, and tomorrow you may ride with me and my men to Inverness.”

  I look at him with more interest, knowing he is headed to His castle. I cannot make out this man’s features in the dark, but he seems no more than thirty. Surely he is not one of the castle’s men at arms—he seems a great lord in his own right. I ask, “What business have you there” —I quickly add— “sire?”

  “A strange peasant boy—to quiz a lord.”

  I am torn between my need to make my peasant guise believable and my desire to find out the information. I hesitate, unsure of what to do.

  But the man says, “And a strange peasant boy to be out in the wood so late at night. I thought all peasants were snug in their cottages by vespers. Let me pose the question—what are you doing out abroad so untimely?”

  I cast about in my mind for an answer, but I am saved by a lady’s voice.

  “Let the lad be, my lord.” A young woman appears. She is small—shorter than I—and slender as a wand except for her swollen belly. Her hair falls down to her waist without the covering usually worn by married noble ladies. Her voice is sweet and gentle. “The poor lad looks as starved as a wizard’s cat. I warrant his tongue will flap more readily after he has a good measure of mutton stew in his belly. Come to the fire, lad. I’ve already ladled up your portion.”

  I follow her to the fire. The members of the crowd drift back to their bedding, leaving me alone with the lady and the lord. In thelight of the fire, I see that she is only in her late teens or early twenties. She has a dainty fairy quality about her, like a willow wand turned into a princess. I have never seen such a delicate lady, all spun sugar and silk, except for her great lump of a belly that bulges with a child soon to be born. Never have I felt so scruffy and awkward.

  “ ’Tis best you begin with some broth. Drink this, and then I will fill the bowl with the good meat.” She hands me a bowl of stew, and I begin to sip the savory, thick broth. The curly-haired man gives her shoulders a little squeeze, and then he settles down by the fire and begins to polish a dagger. She sinks down on a pile of skins beside him. They both watch me eat. Then I see we are not alone at the fire. A boy of perhaps six summers clings to the lady’s skirts. In the flicker of the firelight, next to her feet, a pile of sheepskins are made into a bed. Snuggled together like sleeping fledglings in that cozy nest are a little girl of about four, a boy a little younger, and a baby too small to be walking.

  “No one will hurt you here, lad,” the lady says. “Eat your fill.”

  I finish my bowl and shyly hold it out for more. She ladles up another portion, this one rich with bits of onion and meat, but before I start to eat it, she takes my chin in her hand and turns my face up to hers. She studies it as if it were a map to a secret treasure. She hands the bowl to me, but looks troubled.

  “Eat, child, and then I think we should have a talk.”

  I try to eat daintily, but after a few bites, I start wolfing the food. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the lady whisper to the man, and they stroll down to the sea, her hand wrapped around his arm.

  As I slurp down the hot stew, a child’s voice pipes up, “You eat like our dog Trey.”

  The oldest little boy is staring at me in the peculiar way small children stare.

  His voice is not critical, but I feel myself flush.

  He adds, “Do you always eat like that, or are you just very, very hungry?”

  “I am very hungry,” I say.

  He nods, pleased to be right. “We are on our way home. We have been staying with my mother’s brother, but a messenger from my father came to say that our home is safe again, so we rode to meet my father. We are camping here tonight. Tomorrow my father must go to wait upon the king, and my mother and brothers and sister and I will go home. It will take us four days.”

  I nod, my mouth full of food. He smiles at me. “You must be very brave to travel by yourself through the woods. My little sister would be too frightened to travel through the woods by herself, but I daresay I would be able to do it. Mother doesn’t let me travel anywhere by myself, but if she did, I would be brave enough to travel through the woods as you have done. I think my mother would be frightened as well, but I would protect her.”

  I nod again.

  He says, “I saw you fighting with old Padric. I would like to learn to fight with a stick the way you did. Can you teach me?”

  My belly feels full, and I smile at him. “It takes a lot of practice.”

  “I am very good at practicing. Will you teach me?”

  My smile grows broader. “I do not think there is time to teach it tonight.”

  The lad draws himself tall with offended dignity. “I did not mean tonight. But you will be coming with us, will you not?”

  The lady walks back up to the fire and stands behind the small boy. Her fingers ruffle his curls. “Has my little orator been chewing your ears off?” She bends awkwardly—because of her swelling belly—and plants a quick kiss on the top of his head.

  The boy says indignantly, “I do not chew ears!”

  She smiles fondly. “Run to Papa, my little monkey.” To me she says, “Would you care for another bowl of stew?”

  I look longingly toward the cauldron on the fire, but I do not want to seem greedy.

  The boy says, “We were having a very good talk, this boy and I. I do not wish to run to Papa.”

  “Ninian, there are sweetmeats in my satchel by the fire. I thought perhaps you would take one to your papa—and have one yourself. But if you would rather that I wake your sister and send them with her—”

  The boy stands up. “I believe this boy and I have finished our conversation. I also believe Papa is longing for a sweetmeat.” He bows to me. “We will talk again later, you and I.” He gives me a hard look as if we share a secret.

  His mother holds out three sweetmeats. “Give one to our guest, Ninian.” He takes them and carefully hands one to me. I bite into it, a chewy cloud with a faint flavor of almonds. Then Ninian races off into the darkness beyond the fire. The lady watches him go with a fond expression on her face. When he is out of sight, she turns to me.

  “He is a bright lad, is he not? Already Father Ralf has taught him some of his letters. His father and I—we cannot read. My lord has no interest in such matters—monk’s broth, he calls it. As for me, my father believed that teaching a girl to read was like teaching a pig to dance. But my son is so quick. When his sister is a little older, she will be taught to read, too.” She smiles at her sleeping daughter, then looks at me. “Can you read?”

  Her words catch me off guard. I answer cautiously, “Yes, I—I mean—a bit. I have picked up a bit of—”

  “So your father did not object to a girl’s learning to read?”

  “No, he—” I catch myself and change my course. “I mean, since I was a lad—am a lad—I am sure he—”

  “My girl,” she says softly, “we need to have a talk.”

  T W E N T Y - S I X

  I DO NOT KNOW what to say. No one else has seen through my disguise. How can she tell I am a girl? I feel unprotected. I blurt out, “My lady, this is foolish talk. I am not a girl. I am—”

  The lady puts a hand on the small of her back and stretches. “May I sit down? This little one inside me will be a warrior like his father—he kicks and pulls so.” She lowers herself awkwardly to sit next to me. “My favorite sister, Nerida—the eldest of us all—she wanted to be a boy. ‘Boys have a better time of it,’ she said. ‘Boys get to see the world.’ Poor Nerida. She was married at twelve to a lord who had already survived three wives and sixty sum
mers. Then in less than two years, she died in childbirth.”

  I say nothing but continue to regard her, transfixed. Could I see myself, I am certain I look like a frozen rabbit.

  She continues in her soft voice. “Me, I am quite content to be a woman. I like fine dresses and having my hair combed and threaded with jewels. I was so happy to be married—and to be married to the finest man in all Scotland. After Nerida’s death, my father was afraid that his daughters might be poor breeding stock, but I am a few days short of my twentieth year and all four of my children have lived.”She gives a little laugh. “Sometimes I believe I am the most fortunate of all women. Oh, I pout when my lord has to go off to one of these endless wars, but he always brings me a pretty gift when he comes home, so I have no cause for complaint.”

  I say bitterly, “Then you have indeed been fortunate, lady.”

  She catches my tone, and she lowers her eyes. “Indeed, ’tis true.” She lowers her voice. “I know I am a silly woman, but even I can understand that ’tis safer for a girl alone in the world to wear the weeds of a man. Especially a woman of gentle birth.”

  I am uneasy, but I choose to bluff it through. “I do not take your meaning, lady. While I agree that it might be a hard life for a girl alone—”

  She pats my hand. “I will not reveal your secret, if that is your wish.”

  I cannot decide if it is safe to trust her, but I do not have any other choice.

  “Only,” she says, “I must tell my lord. I never have secrets from him. But will tell no one else.”

  I quickly ask, “Who will your lord tell?”

  She laughs, a light trilling laugh like a southern bird. “My lord is the most silent of men when it comes to talk of other folk. When he returns home from King Duncan’s court, I beg him to tell me what this lady was wearing and how that lord fared. But my lord merely wrinkles his brow and tries to remember if these folk were even there. My lord will talk of his children and battles, his land and his king, but he has no conversation beyond these four subjects.”

  For several minutes we sit silent, watching the fire. Then I ask, “How did you know, lady?”

  “To say true, I am not quite sure how I know. But I am sure of what I know.” She sighs. “ I was very fond of my sister, Nerida. She had the heart of an eagle.” She pushes her hair back from her face. “Sometimes I wish she had indeed disguised herself in male garb and run away the night before her wedding. Perhaps she would be alive today.” She sighs again and shakes her hair back. “But ’tis foolishto question God’s will. Nevertheless, there are times I miss her fiercely.” She smiles at me. “There is something about you that reminds me of Nerida.”

  This lady is indeed silly. She is pampered and soft, but still I find I like her. I ask, “Will you keep my secret?”

  “If ’tis your wish, I will keep it to the grave.”

  She interrupts my thanks with “But be wary of disguises, lass. A person begins by wearing the disguise, but far too soon ’tis disguise that begins to wear the person.”

  All I can think to say in reply is, “My condolences, lady, on the loss of your sister.”

  She looks up at the sky. The wind has blown the mist so that a few patches of stars appear. “ ’Tis very late. I must bring my son and my husband back to the fire so they can get some sleep. ’Twill be hard to see my lord leave again, but I know he will soon be home with us.”

  I eye her rounded belly and offer to fetch them for her.

  She thanks me, but adds, “In return for my promise to keep your secret, I would ask something of you.”

  I tense myself against her request, but it takes me by surprise.

  “Come with me to Fife,” she begs.

  “Fife?” I cast about in my mind, trying to discover where I have heard mention of Fife.

  She nods. “Fife. My husband’s home.”

  Then I remember. Back at His castle, He talked of Fife and its feckless lord when I was curled in the chest. So this is the wife of that man who stayed away from the war, even when it threatened his own lands.

  The lady continues, “I will give you fine gowns, and you can be a girl again. Fife is the loveliest place on earth. So many beautiful trees and flowers—my lord has made me a swing in the orchard and you can swing nearly up to the sky. My nurse is old, so she would be glad of help with the children. Since you can read, you can tutor my sons and daughter. You and I can talk and play music, and when my lordis at home, we will have such dances and revelry. I will find you a fine, strong young husband.” She smiles mischievously, and a dimple dances in her cheek. “If you wish, you can even teach my son to fight with a stick.”

  A picture swims unbidden into my mind. I see myself at Fife— wearing a fine blue silken dress. My hair is long and hangs down my back. The lady’s children scamper around my legs, and we play together. Then the lady, carrying a fifth babe, walks up and joins us. We all stroll through a beautiful garden to a tree in an orchard. The lady motions for me to sit in the swing. The oldest boy starts to push the swing, and I swoop higher and higher. Suddenly my swing is seized and lowered to the ground. I turn around. A handsome young lord stands there. He helps me rise to my feet, and then he seizes me in an intense embrace. And then I pull back to smile at him—

  The face of the handsome young lord dissolves into the face of Him, the man I seek to destroy.

  “I cannot, lady.”

  “Can Not is the brother to Will Not,” the lady replies.

  I make my voice as hard as granite. “Then I will not.”

  The lady lifts a hand to silence me. “You are tired. Do not answer yet. We are both tired. Tomorrow, when the mist has lifted, give me your answer.”

  We hear her son and husband approaching. The little boy is prattling about a large spider he saw at his uncle’s castle. The lady leans toward me and says, “Quickly, before my husband gets here, will you not tell me your true name?”

  “My name is Gilly.”

  “Is that your true name?”

  I repeat, “My name is Gilly.”

  She attacks from another direction. “I know you are not a peasant. Will you not—at the least—tell me your station?”

  I shake my head.

  Then her lord runs up and pulls her to her feet. He sweeps her into his arms and gives her a fierce hug. Their son dances aroundthem, laughing, and his laughter wakes up his sister, who sleepily demands to know what is going on.

  Envy twists my belly so much that it aches.

  I slip away, down to the servants’ fire, and find a place to lie down. I close my eyes and try to sleep. I am at the end of my plan, I tell myself. Soon He will be destroyed.

  But my brain, like Judas in a castle, whispers, You can turn back. These schemes of revenge are but the play-dreams of an angry child. In this world of flesh and stone, there is no way that one lone lass can bring down the most powerful warrior in all Scotland.

  My heart, too, sings out its longings to go with the lady to Fife and be a girl again. I’ll have naught to worry about other than simple, homely amusements.

  It takes all of my willpower to hush my brain and heart. I must take my revenge, I whisper over and over as I wait to fall asleep. I will take my revenge. I have made my life an arrow. . . .

  But when I finally sleep I dream I am swinging back and forth in a soft, green, flowered land.

  T W E N T Y - S E V E N

  IN THE MORNING the lady asks me again to join her at her castle at Fife.

  “I cannot,” I say. “There is something I must do first.”

  “Join us after you have finished your task,” she says.

  I do not tell her that I do not expect to survive my task.

  Her husband is anxious to be off. “Do not wake the little chicks, my lovely hen,” he tells the lady. “ ’Twill break my heart to say farewell to them. Let me kiss them as they sleep.”

  After he kisses each babe, he holds his lady tight and whispers to her. I stand with the five or six men at arms who will be
riding with us. The rest of the company is to travel with the lady and her babes to their home at Fife.

  Finally the curly-haired man pulls apart from his wife. “Would that I did not have to go to my king. I have been away so long of late that I would not desert you now.”

  “Go,” she says laughing, but there are tears in her eyes. “The sooner you go, the sooner you will return to us.”

  He signals us to mount our horses, and we ride away. I see that his eyes, too, are filled with tears.

  It is a marvel how swiftly the miles fly by when you travel on horseback. I had forgotten how free and glorious it feels to fly across the countryside when you’re perched atop a horse. The men talk among themselves, and I ride behind them and listen. I learn that the curly-haired man in charge is Lord Macduff. Once or twice he throws me looks brimful of amusement, and I gather his lady has revealed my secret to him, but he says naught about it.

  I soon adjust to the bumping of the horse ride, and my mind begins to worry about my plan for revenge.

  I do not see how our spell can work, but since I have no other plan, I try to put my faith in it. It is true that Nettle and Mad Helga have never lied to me. So let their spell work. Let their spell work.

  For all that, my new longings are wasps that flit in and out of my mind. I keep seeing myself in a red silk gown, sweeping up and down the corridors of a castle, a handsome warrior at my side, his strong warm fingers resting on my waist.

  I have made my life an arrow—

  I see myself playing hide and seek with the laughing children—

  I have made my life a dagger—

  —or picking apples while a strong, handsome warrior holds my ladder steady.

  No!

  I wipe these pictures from my mind. I force myself to see Him— to see sword after sword being thrust into His body. I picture myself watching, and then I picture myself picking up a sword and moving toward Him—the blood from the other wounds spattering my face and tunic—

  I click my heels into the horse and gallop toward Inverness Castle.