The Well of Shades (18 page)

“N
O
!” E
ILE PROTESTED
, her voice rising to a shriek despite her efforts to control it. “She’s frightened! Don’t take her away, please—”

“She can’t stay here the way she is, and nor can you, girl.” The speaker was a large woman in plain, good homespun, a snowy linen apron wrapped around her waist. “I can see the vermin crawling in your hair. Nobody’s putting her head on one of my mattresses in that state.”

“Let me go with her—”

“In the name of Brighid, girl, stop your caterwauling, will you? It’s only a bath. The nursemaid will
tend to the child and I’ll keep an eye on you. Anyone would think
the two of you had never seen hot water before. Now hush your mouth and come with me. The girl’s not crying, is she? Good as gold, quiet little thing. And if she’s not upset, why would you be?”

Saraid was in the arms of a sweet-faced young serving woman, being borne away to some other part of this enormous dwelling. She was silent
all right; she had learned the necessity for that over three years in Dalach’s cottage. Eile hesitated a moment, then wrenched free of the large woman and darted across the chamber to snatch her daughter back before she could disappear forever.

“No!” she said. It was not quite a shout. “If we have to wash, we will; but together.”

The two serving women seemed perplexed, but something in Eile’s
face stilled their protests.

“Come on, then,” said the older one. “Aoife, is it? Funny name for a girl like you. And what’s your little sister’s name?”

“Squirrel.”

The woman eyed her strangely. “Oh, yes? Poppet, isn’t she? So quiet. Can she talk?”

“She’s three years old. Of course she can talk.” Eile gritted her teeth. “She’s scared, that’s all. Where is this bath?”

The woman led the way
into a chamber that seemed to be a scullery or wash room, though it was bigger than the whole of Dalach and Anda’s place. There was a fire burning on a hearth. There were buckets and brushes and cloths, racks for drying things, pots and bottles and crocks on shelves. A large pan stood in the center of the flagstoned floor; vapor arose from it.

“I’m Maeve,” the large woman said. “The housekeeper.
Take off your things. The child, too. Then get in. We’ll have our work cut out, Orlagh. You’d better find some oil of rosemary for the hair. And ask one of the maids to seek out some fresh garments for both of them. What’s this you’re wearing, anyway, lass? Some fellow’s trousers?” Her nose wrinkled.

“None of your business,” muttered Eile, eyeing the steaming tub. She could not remember the last
time she had bathed in hot water. It had been before she came to live with
them
, certainly. Anda had only allowed cold, except for Dalach, and he didn’t wash much anyway.

Saraid had a fist to her mouth and the doll clutched in her other hand.

“All right, Squirrel,” Eile murmured, crouching beside the child. “We’re going to take off our clothes and have a wash, and these nice ladies are going
to help us. Put Sorry over there; let me take her. See, she can sit up on the chest and watch us. Now I’ll take off this shirt and you do yours…” She tried to let neither her daughter nor this alarmingly capable woman see that she was afraid. Nobody had said who their captor was or what was to become of them. These folk knew what she had done; that man back at the bridge had told them. They might
take Saraid away any moment. They might lock Eile up and throw away the key, and she would never see her daughter again. There was no knowing. Since they had come here, nobody had said much at all except orders like:
Through there! Give me the bag! Sit down!

“Do you know…” she began, shivering as she slipped Faolan’s shirt over her head. “Yes, that’s good, Squirrel… I wonder if you know where
the man is who came here with us. The one they slung over a horse. He’s our friend.”

“Can’t tell you.” Maeve was waiting, arms folded, foot tapping. “Quick now, get those things off, I don’t have all day. Orlagh! Where’s that oil?”

But Orlagh wasn’t moving. She was standing there staring as Eile stripped off the trousers and her ragged smallclothes. For a moment Eile could not understand why;
it was bad enough having to be naked in a house of strangers without some woman gawking at her. Then she realized it was the bruises. She was so used to them, old ones fading to gray and yellow, new ones blue and purple,
she’d never really thought how many her body wore, or that perhaps women like this well-fed housekeeper and her inquisitive assistant did not have men who held power over them;
men who beat them as a matter of course. Anda had bruises, too. Being on Dalach’s side had not spared her his fist. Eile tried to cover herself with her hands, feeling a sudden sense of shame and, with it, a curious defiant pride.

“It’s all right, lass,” the housekeeper said quietly. “Orlagh, I said get the oil.”

Eile took Saraid’s hand and stepped over to the tub. The child stiffened; a tiny
whimper emerged from her.

“It’s not as hot as it looks,” Eile said, dipping in a cautious hand. “See, nice and warm. Come on, Squirrel: one, two, three.”

A little later, sitting in the warm water and feeling the comfort of it seeping through her weary body, Eile wondered if the whole thing was some kind of strange dream. Maybe she would wake up and be back in the hut with Dalach, and she’d have
to do it all over again. But this time there would be no knife… She jerked back to reality. The woman, Maeve, was scooping water over her hair, then rubbing something in with vigorous fingers.

“You do the child,” Maeve ordered. “The whole scalp, mind, we want every one of these creepy crawlies out before either of you sets foot in the rest of the house. This’ll take a lot of combing. Brighid
save us, girl, who’s been looking after the pair of you? This is criminal.”

“We look after ourselves,” Eile retorted, stung by the criticism. “She’s well enough, isn’t she? What’s a few bugs?” She saw Orlagh exchange a look with Maeve; there was no reading it.

The housekeeper’s fingers made their painful way across Eile’s scalp; a sweet herbal smell filled the steamy air. Saraid was up to her
neck in the bathwater, sitting between Eile’s knees; she submitted silently to the hair wash, but Eile could feel the anxiety in the small body,
the same restless urge for flight that she felt in her own limbs, for all the delight of being warm again. She was naked, wet, and among strangers. She did not know what was coming. And she was full of questions, but they were all ones she couldn’t ask.
What will she do to me, this fine lady? They’ll punish me, won’t they
—
lock me up, hurt me? Don’t let them take Saraid, please, please…

“Where must we go, after this?” she asked. It seemed reasonably safe.

“I’m bid get you clean, suitably dressed and fed, no more.” Maeve was rinsing off the oil now, a hand keeping the water out of Eile’s eyes. “You can have a pallet in a corner for tonight, if
she doesn’t send for you before then. The two of you look as if you could do with a good sleep.”

“Send for me?” Eile made sure her voice sounded strong.

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? The law’s after you, and in these parts the Widow
is
the law. She’ll expect you to account for yourself, and then she’ll decide what’s to become of you. Don’t look like that, lass. She’s no reason to be anything
but fair with you. Here, use this scoop to rinse the poppet’s hair, then we’ll get dry. She can’t keep this thing here, it’ll be crawling with vermin.”

The housekeeper walked across and picked up the rag doll gingerly between thumb and forefinger. She turned toward the crackling hearth fire.

Saraid screamed. The sound tore through Eile like a knife, and she jumped from the bath, sending a wave
over the clean floor.

“No! She needs it!”

Maeve had blanched. Silently, she held out the limp scrap of cloth with its dark staring eyes, and Eile snatched it.

“Saraid, shh, shh. See, I’ve got Sorry here, she’s safe. Hop out and let the lady dry you, and then you can have her. She’s fine, Saraid. Hush, now.”

There were thick cloths to get dry with and then garments to wear, not as fine as Faolan’s
things, but of good quality, with hardly any patches or mends. Saraid got a little gown and stockings and a woollen shawl in which she cocooned the doll tightly. Eile donned a shirt, a skirt, a kind of overdress. It was a long time since she had felt so warm, and her skin was tingling and strange from the hot water and scrubbing. She felt tired, as if she could sleep right now, although it
was still day.

They were led to a different chamber, and while Orlagh combed out Eile’s long hair with painstaking thoroughness and a considerable amount of muttering, Eile tended to Saraid’s, an easier task by far since the child was used to having her dark curls brushed daily. It came to Eile how short of the mark her pitiful attempts to maintain standards at Cloud Hill had been. It was plain
to her that these women, servants themselves, thought her and Saraid wretched, weak, and filthy. The shame of that was hard to bear. She had tried to keep Saraid nice. She had done the best she could.

“You don’t need to stare,” she snapped, intercepting Maeve’s look as the housekeeper came back in with a tray in her hands. “We’re not wild animals!”

“Is it true what they’re saying?” Orlagh’s
voice was tentative. “That you killed someone?”

“Orlagh!” Maeve’s tone was a sharp warning.

Eile pulled free of the comb, wincing. “If you think I’m going to answer that, you’re stupid. I’ll do this for myself, thanks. I don’t need folk tending to me. If this lady of yours thinks we’re not good enough to be in her fine house, maybe you can just let us out the back door and you never need clap
eyes on us again. Nobody asked for a bath.”

“Orlagh, we don’t need you any longer.” Maeve set down her tray and the younger woman withdrew at the frosty look in the housekeeper’s eyes. “Lass, maybe you don’t understand. Come, sit here by the fire, get some food into you, and I’ll try to explain it. I’m sure the little
one would like a bowl of soup and a bit of bread. Come on, now.” She might
have been coaxing a wild creature out of hiding.

Eile remembered something. “Our dog; the dog that was with us. Where is it?”

“Dog? I couldn’t tell you. I suppose it’ll be in the yard somewhere, if it hasn’t wandered off.”

“Could you find out?” The soup smelled wonderful; as good as the breakfast Faolan had brought them, two very long days ago. “You can eat it, Squirrel. Sit up straight and
take small mouthfuls.”

“A dog’s the least of your worries, lass. What I’ve been told is that you’re accused of an unlawful killing. You’ll need to explain yourself to the lady first and then, depending on what she decides, you may have to go up before a brithem, a lawman.”

“I know what a brithem is. I’m not ignorant.”

“Eat up, girl. You look half starved.”

Eile broke her bread into four pieces
and set one back on the platter, then hunted for pockets in her borrowed garments; the three remaining bits would last Saraid a day or two. She looked up and met Maeve’s sharp eye.

“No need for that,” the housekeeper said. “We feed folk properly here. There’ll be supper later. This is for now. Your little sister has pretty manners. I couldn’t have trained her better myself.”

Sudden treacherous
tears sprang to Eile’s eyes and she sniffed, willing them not to fall. Why would this stranger decide to be kind unless she wanted something? “I’ll answer this lady’s questions,” she said. “But only if you let Saraid—Squirrel—stay with me. I’m all she’s got. I can’t let her be frightened.”

“There are children here in the house; playthings; nursemaids. No need for her to—”

“Nobody’s taking her.”
Eile had set down her spoon with the delicious soup, full of grains and vegetables, barely begun. “I don’t go anywhere or do anything without
her. And I want to know where Faolan is. They hurt him. I didn’t like that.”

Something suspiciously close to a smile was hovering on Maeve’s lips.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Eile lost her precarious control.

“Eat your soup, child. One word of advice. It’s best
to hold on to your temper with the Widow. She admires strength. She likes it even more when it’s properly harnessed. You may find her intimidating, but you’ll do all right if you’re courteous and honest. That’s what will help you most. Come on, eat that, it’s good for you. Your sister’s already finished and she’s only half your size.”

“She’s my daughter,” Eile muttered. If she was supposed to
be honest, this seemed a good place to start.

“Brighid save us,” said Maeve mildly. “You poor little thing. Now listen. I’m going to stand here and watch until you finish every scrap of that, and the bread, too. Then I’m going to tuck the two of you in bed for a rest. The lady won’t want to see you until later; there’s time.”

Saraid’s eyelids were drooping. Before the fire, her hair was drying
to glossy curls.

“Will you ask about Faolan? Please?”

“We’ll see. Come on now, do I have to spoon-feed you like a baby?”

Not long after, Eile was conveyed to a bedchamber that seemed to her quite grand, with pallets in rows and chests for storage. A ewer and bowl stood on a side table, and there was a window with blue-painted shutters.

“This is where Orlagh and the other maidservants sleep,”
said the housekeeper. “You take this bed, pop the child in the next, and I’ll make sure you’re left alone awhile. You look worn out and she’s half asleep already. Here, give her to me, I’ll tuck her in—”

“She can go in with me.” Eile held the child firm. “That’s what we’re used to. Are you sure—?” She could not quite name what she feared: the sudden coming of strangers less kindly than this one,
curses and blows,
folk who would take her away from Saraid. It did not seem safe to sleep; not without Faolan to watch over them.

“I’ll call you in plenty of time. You won’t be disturbed.”

When Maeve was gone, Eile put Saraid in one of the beds and sat by her, humming while the child fell asleep with the shawl-swathed Sorry held in a tight embrace. She could remember making Sorry from one of
her mother’s old gowns, and how cross Anda had been at the waste of materials. Eile thought maybe she could remember a doll of her own, from long ago in the house on the hill. Woolen hair long enough to plait; little shoes made from scraps of leather; green eyes like hers. Maybe it was only in her imagination. Sorry was a poor thing, bits and pieces stuffed into coarse homespun, and getting less
and less like a human shape the longer she survived. To Saraid, she was the most beautiful doll in the world.