Had it been just an idle comment provoked by her unfortunately lewd-sounding remark? Or had it been more than that? Certainly on their trip he had been attentive, caring and thoughtful towards her. But she sensed that was his nature – that was how Hanairean men were brought up to be. Was there anything more to it than that?
She glanced surreptitiously across at him to find him watching her, a small smile on his face. The smile widened as he saw her look over and he gave her a little nod. She smiled back hesitantly, then turned her attention back to the rocky path, now covered with a light dusting of snow. The jollity of the night before slunk away like a cat, and she gazed into the falling snow before them with a sigh, wishing they were nearer to their destination.
The road had climbed steadily higher, shadowing the mountainside, and the snow was beginning to fall more thickly. The party fell quieter as the path became narrower, and they had to travel single file and watch their step. The horses ploughed on solidly but the pace became slower, and the mood of all the companions seemed to darken with the weather.
They spent that night in another lodge but this time there was no jovial atmosphere, no teasing or laughter around the fire. Even Audax was subdued, and Lalage’s babble reduced to a trickle of conversation in hushed tones. Fionnghuala said very little as they ate, and afterwards went out to tend to the horses, enjoying the peace of the blanketed world, and the company of the horses who snorted and stamped as she rubbed them down.
It was some time later that she looked up, hot and sweaty from the activity in spite of the cool air, and saw Bearrach standing just outside the makeshift stable, cloakless, his hands in the pockets of his breeches, his blond hair covered with a layer of snow.
Fionnghuala stood and brushed back stray strands of hair, using her cold hands to cool her flushed cheeks. She waited for him to speak but he said nothing. Eventually she said, “Is there a problem?”
“No. I just came to make sure you are all right.”
She smiled. “I am fine, thank you.”
He did not move, however. He leaned against the side of the lodge and looked out at the snow, falling softly like ash on the road. He opened his mouth to speak.
Fionnghuala, however, came over to him and put her hand on his arm. “Dear friend,” she said gently. “Do not.”
He looked at her, his green eyes puzzled. “I…”
“I know,” she said. “But I am a High Council member, and I do not want to give that up. I will never marry, Bearrach. But I am flattered by your attention, and I thank you for your offer.”
He stared at her for a moment, his face unreadable. She felt she had hurt him terribly, and something twisted inside her stomach. But still, it had to be done. She could not allow him to go on thinking she was a suitable wife.
Suddenly his lips twitched and his eyes twinkled. “I only came out here to ask you if you wanted a drink,” he said.
She smiled, knowing from the look in his eyes his words were untrue. “In that case, yes, I will join you.”
He held out his arm and she took it and went back into the lodge, thankful he had not tried to press her for a reason why she did not wish to commit herself to a relationship.
She had thought turning him down would lift her mood, relieving the pressure she felt had been building, but as they settled down for the night, she felt restless, as if sleep were an animal that had scuttled over the mountain and was refusing to come back when called. The breathing of the others in the room soon became relaxed and light snores filled the air, but still she remained awake, staring into the embers of the dying fire.
It was as her eyelids were beginning to droop that she heard the baby cry. It came far off in the distance; a high, thin wail. Her eyes flew open and she lifted her head, straining her ears. There was a moment’s pause and then it came again, the small cry of a newborn, cutting through the air.
She pushed herself up, looking around the room to see if anyone else had heard it, but they were all sleeping, the room almost in darkness save for the fire and the light from two small lanterns. She sat for a moment, puzzled, wondering who on earth would bring such a young baby up through the pass at this time of year. Was it a band of travellers who were spending the night on the mountain? But the nearest lodge was at least half a day’s ride, and the baby’s cry would not carry from there. Were they out in the cold?
Getting quietly to her feet, she gathered up her cloak and swung it around her shoulders, stuffed her feet into her fur boots, then picked up one of the lanterns and moved silently through the sleeping bodies to the door. Gently she opened it, letting in a brief flurry of snow as she slipped outside, pulling it shut behind her.
Outside, the mountain was in darkness. The light from the lantern spread out from her in a small circle like melted butter at her feet, illuminating the snow which fell in front of her face like a blanket, muffling all sound.
All sound, that was, except the baby’s cry. It came again, from somewhere in front of her, high and thin as the reed pipe she had played as a child. Clutching her cloak around her neck with her left hand and holding the lantern aloft with her right, she started to walk along the mountain path towards the child. She wore heavy leather boots that made no sound on the snow-muffled path, and for a moment she felt as if she had no more substance than a wraith, a ghost moving through the spirit world.
The cry continued to come from in front of her, but seemed to be getting no nearer. Her heart thundered in her chest and she began to doubt the wisdom of coming out alone as the lodge disappeared into the darkness behind her. She stopped and turned, finding herself in a well of blackness, the only light coming from the small circle that spread around her as if she herself were the candle. The cry now seemed to come from the north. She hesitated, struggling to get her bearings. That was off the edge of the path. It didn’t make sense. She turned again, beginning to lose her sense of direction. Which way was forward and which way back to the lodge? Her breathing came more quickly and her mouth went dry. Snow fluttered down onto her eyes and lay on her lashes, and her ears were numb with cold.
Then something happened which sent her into a blind panic – a sudden gust of wind whipped open the door of the lantern and blew out the candle.
She was plunged into darkness. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded. The baby’s cry seemed to echo all around her; she could no longer tell which direction it was coming from. She clutched her cloak with numbed hands, biting her lip, terrified to take a step in any direction in case she plunged off the edge of the path. Her teeth started to chatter with the cold. She was going to freeze right there on the spot, and in the morning she would just be another shape under the snow.
And then suddenly, off to her right, she saw a small light like the flare of a tinderbox. She stood still, not knowing from which direction it was coming, but it gradually began to grow in size and she knew it was coming towards her.
It was Bearrach. She saw his blond hair illuminated in the darkness as he held the other lantern out in front of him, even before his face became clear. Running up to him, she threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his neck as he put his free arm around her.
“It is all right,” he soothed, “you are safe now.”
“I heard it crying,” she sobbed, “but I could not find it.”
“I know,” he said, taking her hand and beginning to lead her back to the lodge. “Come on, we must get you inside or you will freeze to death.”
“But the baby,” she said, casting a last look over her shoulder.
He strode out along the path, the lantern held out in front of him, his grip so firm on her hand that for a moment she was not sure which fingers were his and which were hers. “Nothing could survive out here,” he said. “That is not the cry of an earthly child.”
Fionnghuala stumbled along behind him, his words ringing in her ears. No earthly child…
So what was it she had heard?
IV
Beata saw Caele
stis slipping from her horse and thought for a moment she was reaching down for something, so by the time she realised Caelestis was actually falling it was too late to catch her. The knight fell heavily to the ground without making a sound.
Beata called out to Peritus, who was a few feet in front. He turned and, seeing the scene, leapt off his horse and ran to help. Together they turned Caelestis over, smoothing back the hair from her face. Her eyes were closed and her face flushed with fever, and her breathing was harsh, sounding like bellows squeezed to fan a blacksmith’s fire.
Peritus cradled her in his arms and looked around wildly. They were over half a day’s ride from the place they had stayed the night before, and did not know how long it was until the next hamlet. “What are we going to do? We cannot stay here. She will die in this weather.”
“We will have to get her onto my horse and continue until the next stop.” Beata hoped it wasn’t far. It would be a struggle for the mare to carry both of them, sodden and heavy as they were with rain. Peritus stood with the unconscious knight in his arms and then together they struggled to lift her in front of the saddle. Luckily the mare seemed to understand what was happening and stood patiently, letting the knight lean heavily on her shoulder and neck. Beata mounted behind her and clasped Caelestis around the waist. It was uncomfortable and far from ideal, but it was the best they would be able to do.
Peritus caught the reins of the spare horse and tied them to his saddle, and they set off again.
This time Beata felt every bump in the road, every dip in the ground. She tried to brace herself to keep some of Caelestis’s weight off the mare’s neck, but soon realised she would not be able to continue like that for very long – she didn’t have the strength. She just had to hope the horse could continue to bear the weight, and did not dip her head, or else Caelestis would just roll off.
Luckily, there was not much grass for the mare to nibble at the side of the road. Everything seemed to have turned to mud, and the river rumbled to their left, now a deep brown colour, carrying with it the earth and stones it had picked up coming down from the mountains. It had risen by about six inches, Beata thought, and it would not be long until it reached the top of the bank. They would have to be careful – a flash flood could easily sweep them away.
They plodded along for another hour or two, and then to Beata’s relief ahead of them she saw a hamlet straddling the road, grey and quiet in the insistent rain. It was slightly bigger than the one they had left behind and had a small but pleasant inn, which clearly catered for those travelling from the coast to the towns by the mountains.
As soon as the innkeeper heard from Peritus that they had a sick Heartwood knight with them, she came out and lifted her down herself, carrying her into the warmth of the inn and placing her by the fire in one of her rooms.
Beata followed her in, exhausted but knowing she must attend to her fellow knight, but the innkeeper would have none of it. “You will be ill too if you do not take care of yourself,” she said crisply. “My name is Ida and you shall do as I say while you stay in my inn. Take your horses around the back – my boy Waldhar will look after them. Then come back in here and get out of those wet clothes. My daughter Gisila will prepare you a bath, which you will get into immediately. After that, you will eat.”
“Yes, madam,” said Beata meekly, leaving Caelestis in her capable hands and going out to Peritus, who looked as fatigued as she felt. Together they led the horses around the back and found Waldhar, who took the reins and promised to rub the steeds down and feed them well, and then they went back into the inn and up to their room, where Gisila had already started pouring pails of hot water into two large wooden tubs.
Beata looked at Caelestis by the fire but, seeing Ida had already removed her wet clothing and wrapped her in blankets, knew there was little she could do and instead stripped herself, stepping into the hot water and lowering herself with a sigh until she was immersed up to her neck.
Gisila took her wet clothes, wrung them out, then hung them on a rack over the fire to dry. She did the same for Peritus, who also climbed into his hot tub, sighing with pleasure as his aching muscles relaxed in the hot water. Gisila came over and offered them a cup of ale, which they accepted gratefully, taking a long swig before settling back, their heads resting on the edge of the tub.
Beata unpinned her hair and washed it, then spread it over the back of the tub as she soaked, letting it dry. She looked across at the two figures in front of the fire. Ida was dipping a cloth in water into which she had put some herbs, and was sponging Caelestis’s face and body.
“Will she be all right?” Beata asked.
Ida looked across at her. She was a big woman with a frank, no-nonsense face, and was clearly not going to sweeten the news. “She is very ill. She has a high temperature and her lungs are thick. How long has she been coughing up blood?”
Beata looked startled. “I did not know she was.”
Ida nodded. “I thought as much. She has been hiding it from you – she did not want you to know how ill she was. It is not a good sign. I will do what I can, but… you must prepare yourself for the worst.”
Beata sat up in the bath, shocked at the news. Obviously, Caelestis had been ill, but she had not thought she was that ill. All pleasure in the bath now dissipating, she got out and dried herself, then put on the loose tunic and breeches Ida had lent her until her own clothes were dry. Coming over to Caelestis, she sat beside her and stroked her face, which was flushed and covered with a sheen of sweat.
“Come downstairs and have something to eat,” said Ida.
“I should stay here with her,” said Beata hoarsely, awash with emotions as she looked at the ill knight.
“There is nothing you can do, and she needs her rest now. Gisila will empty the tubs and then sit with her for a while. Come on, you need to eat or else you will be ill, too.”
Peritus was now out and dressed, so reluctantly they followed Ida down the narrow stairs and into the main room of the inn.
It was a pleasant-enough establishment, thought Beata, and she knew it would probably make a fair amount of money, being on the only real route from the mountains to the coast for many miles. The room had a bar at the end behind which Ida now prepared them some food and drink, and there were four or five tables with chairs dotted around the sawdust-covered floor, and more chairs in front of the open fire at one end. There were a couple of other visitors at the inn, travelling to Lornberg, but they kept themselves to themselves, and Beata and Peritus sat by the fire and stared into the flames, quiet with their own thoughts.
Ida brought them a plate of bread, cheese, cold meats and pickled vegetables, and they ate these slowly and drank their ale, the thought of Caelestis ill upstairs weighing on them like the heavy grey clouds outside in the sky.
Afterwards they stared sleepily into the flames. In spite of the warmth, Peritus shivered, pulling his too-big tunic close around him. “Do you think we will find him?” he asked.
Beata did not have to ask to whom he was referring. There was a time when she would have offered him platitudes, for as a Dean that was her job, to make people feel better, but she did not feel like a Dean now. That life felt like a million miles away, and after the mistakes she had made she wondered how she could ever have felt like she could help other people.
“I do not know,” she said honestly, watching the way the flames seemed to dance on the log resting in the grate. “I do not know anything any more.”
Peritus said nothing else, and after a while they both fell into an exhausted sleep.
They were awoken some time in the middle of the night by Gisila, who touched them both gently on the arm. “Mother wants you to come upstairs,” she said, holding up her lantern to illuminate her worried face. “Your friend… she… well, you had better come and see.”
Beata and Peritus got to their feet hurriedly and followed Gisila up the stairs. Going into the room, they saw Ida kneeling by Caelestis, holding her hand. The fire had
been kept going and its light illuminated the unconscious warrior. Beata came over and knelt beside her. Caelestis’s skin was waxy and pale, her eyes sunken like two stones pressed into dough. She breathed very shallowly, and her chest rasped.
Ida looked up at them. “I have done all I can, but I do not think she will last long. The infection has spread into her lungs.”
Peritus sat in a chair and put his head in his hands. Beata took Caelestis’s other hand. It was clammy and limp like a fish in her fingers. She began to pray, finding the wooden oak leaf around her neck and clutching it until it bit into her fingers, asking Animus and the Arbor to help Caelestis and make her well, but even as she prayed she knew it was hopeless, that the knight would not be well again. Instead, she changed her prayer and prayed Caelestis would find peace and be welcomed into Animus’s arms, where she deserved to be.
Caelestis died just before daybreak, the coldest, darkest hour. Beata and Peritus wept as Ida tried again and again to get a pulse, eventually announcing the knight had finally slipped away.
Ida covered her with a sheet and, taking the arms of the two knights, led them downstairs. She poured them a mug of her strongest ale and made them drink it, then led them in front of the fire. “I will prepare her for burial,” she said. “You must get some more sleep.”
“I could not sleep now,” Beata protested, but it was a feeble argument – her eyelashes felt as if they had horseshoes attached and hung heavily on her cheeks. Peritus was the same, grief and tiredness sapping his energy, and eventually the two of them slept, as the sun crept slowly over the horizon.
When they awoke, Ida was waiting for them. She told them she had said goodbye to her other customers and Caelestis had been bathed and prepared for burial.
“Where shall we bury her?” Beata asked hoarsely, rubbing her face, which felt tight, the skin stretched across her bones.
“We have a small graveyard just down the road, under an oak tree,” said Ida. “But before we take her down there, I want to show you something.”
Heartwood Page 20