Daughter Of The Forest (55 page)

“Today,” he said, “I finished the last page of this record. It’s time to begin another. Each set of bindings holds one year. They go back a long way. Every oak they planted, every barn they built, the breeding lines of sheep and cattle. The battles they waged; the fires and floods they braved. The story of the valley. It was all I ever wanted, to carry out the work they had begun; for my beasts to thrive, for my crops to grow healthy and my people to be safe and content. That, I believed, was what I was born for.”

There was a pause. I glanced at him sideways. His profile was very stern.
But?
my hands signaled.

“But—since Simon went away, since—since I found you, and brought you to Harrowfield, it’s as if I have been walking through shadows, and dicing with ghosts. As if I have lost my way. Or—or as if the way I always believed to be mine is changing before my feet. Always, before, it seemed enough, for my life to follow this path, as my father’s did and his father’s before him. But I have stepped out of the pattern, and there is no going back. I am not afraid, not for myself; but I am uneasy, for the real and the unreal draw ever closer together, tangling and twining so that I cannot tell them apart. I hear two versions of the same story, and do not know the truth from the falsehood. Here I am telling tales, and half believing them. For I think sometimes that you, too, will go back one day, hear the call of the sea and slide away under the water as Toby’s mermaid did. Or maybe one night, as I watch outside your window, I will see an owl fly out and vanish into the forest; and when I look for you, all that will be left is one small feather on your pillow.”

My hands were unable to speak for me. Since that night, when I had tried to comfort him and had made him so angry, I had given up hope of his ever speaking to me like this again. Had believed the shutters closed forever. Why had he chosen, now, to reveal so much of himself? I needed words. I could have told him, it is the spell. The enchantment they laid on you, to keep me safe. To accomplish the task. Now, the task is nearly finished, and my brothers will find me, and then your doom too will be lifted. You can go back to your valley, and the ordered pattern of your life, and I—I will go home.

“You’re not saying much,” said Red. I made no effort to respond. I thought, whatever I try to say, or do, it will be wrong, and the mask will come down again. Perhaps if I sit here very still, I can hold this moment, with the sky and the sea and the day’s warmth, with my brother’s voice in my head and Red sitting by me and talking as if—as if—

“Ask your questions now, if you like,” he said diffidently. “I owe you an explanation. Several explanations. And I have something to tell you, and something to ask you. There’s no hurry. We have the rest of the day.”

This worried me. So my first question was,
sun goes down—ride—home?

“That’s of no concern,” he said, frowning a little. “I said we would make sure you got back safely, and we will. You can trust us on that, at least.”

I mimed exasperation. He was skilled at framing answers that were no answers. I showed him,
you—wedding—today?

“By now,” he said, glancing up at the sun high in the sky, “Elaine and her father will be on their way home. There will be no celebration at Harrowfield.”

I conveyed to him that I thought this answer quite inadequate.

“They will waste no time in questions,” he said carefully. “Elaine was to break the news to Richard this morning, and to my mother. She will not wish to stay any longer than she must. Yes, Jenny, she knew. I am not quite so heartless as you would believe me.”

Elaine—sad, angry?

He gave a grim little smile. “No. Disappointed and inconvenienced, maybe. But it was never me she wanted. Elaine will do well enough. Her father, now that’s another matter.”

He still had not answered the real question, the only one that was important.
Why?
There was no clear gesture for this, but I did not really need one; the question must have been written in my eyes.

“I—I will explain, in time. There are reasons. It’s complicated. I—”

You will have to do better than that
.

“Why this day? Why not tell them, and be done with it? Will you believe me if I say, because I wished to bring you here, and show you this place, and see you run on the sand? Because I could do this only if I kept this day secret from all but those whom I trust with my life?”

I shook my head.

“Nonetheless, that is a good part of the reason, Jenny. Since—since the day John died, I—no, I don’t have the right words for this.”

I mimed,
take your time. I’m listening
.

“You have suffered, since that day. I am not blind to it, I—you must understand, on that day, when it happened, when we first came there, I thought—I thought you both—and then, I found I could not—I’m sorry, this is—I have no skill with words, and I can only hope you understand me. I have been unfair to you. I did not protect you as I should. What happened, it was not your fault. Each of us blamed himself. If only I had done this, or had not done that—but it was the fault, only, of him who ordered it done. He was clever, there was no proof. But I think, now, he has set a trap for himself that can be sprung. Only—” he fell silent again.

I waited.

After a while he said, “It’s getting hot. You should not be in the sun too long.”

I followed him up the beach, and we sat again, under the headland, where the shadows were starting to creep across the sand. Out by the water, the tide was lapping at the mermaid’s tail, coaxing her back into the sea.

“I must ask you a question,” said Red, turning a small shell over and over in his hands. “You need not answer, if it is forbidden to you. But answer if you can.”

I nodded. It sounded serious. But I thought, on such a day as this, surely there is little more that can surprise me.

“The thing he made for you, the carving,” said Red, and for a moment I could not think what he meant. “The carving with the arms of Harrowfield—I want to know, did my brother give this to you? Did he place it in your hands, did you know what he intended?”

I shook my head. No, he left it for me, though I had deserted him when he needed me most, and when I came by it he was long gone. I could not tell that part.

“Can you tell me,” he said, and now he looked me straight in the eye, “that my brother still lived, at the time I first met you?”

The question had been carefully worded. I shook my head. I believe his bones lie scattered in my forest. But I have not seen them. I would not tell that part.

“Do you know, with certainty, that Simon is dead?” His eyes were very pale, under the summer sun. Pale as tidal pools at first light. Deep as memories not to be spoken.

I shook my head again.

“Then you are not sure,” he said, looking away. “You wonder, perhaps, why I have chosen this moment to ask you. I must tell you that—that there may be an end to your captivity. That the answer I seek may be found elsewhere. You have noted, I suppose, the return of my messengers? For I have informants spread wide, as does my uncle; but I do not tell of mine.”

By now he had my rapt attention, though I could not tell what was to come. I felt he was more at ease now, setting out a strategy, forming a plan; in safer territory.

“I thought all trace of Simon lost. The trail cold, the clues rubbed out by time. My uncle spoke of seeking him, and I dismissed it as idle words, thrown out to keep my mother happy. Nonetheless, I bade my messengers listen out for word of him. And at last, just now, word came.”

What? What word?
How could there be word of Simon, now, so long after?

“My informant heard a tale,” said Red, “of a young man with golden hair and bright blue eyes, a man as foreign to your land as any might be; he was living in a community of holy brothers, on a small island off the west coast of Erin. It is a very long journey from here. This was a young man who seemed unhurt, who seemed to be in his right mind, and of good spirit. Only—only it was as if his memory had been wiped away, and he knew only the present. Innocent as a newborn babe; but, they said, eighteen or nineteen years of age.”

Whoever it was, it was not Simon, I told myself. Unhurt? In his right mind? This could not be the boy I had nursed, whose spirit was as scarred as his wretched body. But I could not say this.

“I believe it must be my brother,” said Red, watching me. “And so I must go and find him. Go, and quickly, so I reach that place before any other.”

Now he was scaring me.
Why?

“Because,” he said, “that was not the only news I had. After you had retired last night, my uncle called us together, and told us he had proof that Simon was killed, soon after the troop he accompanied was ambushed in the forest. Captured, tortured, and killed. His body buried under trees, where the forest growth would soon cover it. He had a firsthand account, from one who witnessed it and later turned against his own master.”

Both tales are false, I thought. But as I could not deny the one, so could I not refute the other. Not without telling him the truth of what I knew. And I would not do that Not until I had words. Even then, it would be hard enough.

“Richard’s lying,” Red said bluntly. “For some reason he does not want my brother found. So I must go alone, and secretly. Even my mother does not know of this, for it would be cruel to raise her hopes until I am certain. Besides, she is still Richard’s sister. I have told only Ben and now you. There is a wide expanse of hostile territory to be crossed. Jenny, I have to tell you, I must leave tonight. I will not return to Harrowfield. Not until I have found him.”

I was overwhelmed, instantly, with the most terrible panic. It was all wrong, it could not be his brother, someone was setting a trap for him, and—I thought of my return to Harrowfield, and how it would be if he were not there. I thought that he might not return at all. My hand went out of its own accord, and took hold of a fold of his tunic, over the heart, and I bit my lip to keep back frightened tears. What was wrong with me? Was I not the strongest of seven, she whose feet scarcely faltered on the path?

“Which brings me,” said Red in little more than a whisper, “to the last part of what I must say. Believe me, I have thought long and hard about this; it has cost me many nights of sleep. I would not willingly leave you alone, for the threat to your safety is real enough. But if my brother lives, I must find him. I—I have guarded you as well as I could. Often, not well enough. I have wished to do more, but you don’t always make it easy. This time, I’m leaving Ben behind, somewhat against his will. I go alone; I can pass unseen, I think, through the best part of this journey. Ben will watch over you, and there are others who will stand by you. It may not be so long. Don’t look so worried, Jenny.”

I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.
It will be too long
. There was a weight of foreboding in my heart, a powerful sense of bad things to come.
Don’t go. Not yet
. But I would not say it.

“I said to you once, there was a solution, to the problem of your safety, that is,” he went on, rather awkwardly now, as if picking his way over broken glass. One false step, and damage was inevitable. “I have seen the way they treat you, even my mother, how they look at you, and speak behind your back. How they distrust your presence in the household. They cannot accept you as a friend, because they do not understand why—that is, your place in my house is unclear to them. That leaves you vulnerable to their tricks, their unkindness and prejudice. To worse. I can change that, I will do so, if you agree. But I have said, this solution will not be to your liking.”

What?

“Promise me,” he said, “that you will listen. That you will hear me out, will not run away, or block your mind, until you have heard all I have to say.”

I stared at him. My hand loosed its deathlike grasp on his tunic and fell to my lap. I nodded mutely.

“As my guest,” he said carefully, “your status is—is subject to the whims of others; your security cannot be guaranteed, if I am not there to watch over you. As my wife, you would be safe.”

My heart lurched, I sprang to my feet, my skirts spraying sand in his face. My answer must have been clear in my eyes as my hands moved convulsively to reject his words.

No. You cannot do this. No
.

“You promised you would listen,” he said quietly, and I had. So I sat down again, very slowly, and I found I had wrapped my arms around my body as if for protection.

The sunny spring day was suddenly chill, its brightness dimmed.

“You’re frightened. I expected no less. Jenny, I know—I understand that—that someone has hurt you, has been cruel to you—I know you still shrink from me, though I hope, despite all, that we are friends. This marriage would be—would be in name only, a marriage of convenience, you might call it. I offer you the protection of my name, so that you may complete your task in safety. No more and no less.”

You cannot do this. It is wrong, all wrong. How can you even think—
oh, for words to tell him properly. The threads of this story were tangling, knotting, falling into chaos. It was one thing to break the pattern, another to tear it boldly apart.

“At least consider this,” Red went on, his voice very quiet, very level, as it was when he was exercising the utmost control. Me, I wanted to hit him, slap his face, force him to see reality. Didn’t he know this was no answer? Couldn’t he see that it was impossible? I imagined myself living at Harrowfield as the lady of the house. I would have found the picture comical, if it didn’t hurt so much. “At least give it some thought. We still have a little time before Ben returns.”

I realized then, with dawning horror, that he meant this to happen straightaway; today would indeed be his wedding day. For he was leaving to cross the sea; he would not return; and he intended me to be as well protected as I could be, before then. But—

“Look at me, Jenny,” said Red, and I looked. Looked at the strong planes of the face, the pallor of the skin, the flame of hair cut short as the pelt of a fox. The deep, serious eyes.