The Witches of Eileanan (27 page)

Isabeau had never ridden with a bridle and saddle before, being used to riding the wild horses of the mountains, not these tame, domesticated beasts. After some time struggling with the straps, she managed to unharness the stallion, and he tossed his beautiful head, and pawed the ground. She then unharnessed all the ponies, and as quietly as she could, dropped the bridles into a pile by the fire.

"Come," she said, and helped the prisoner to his feet. He stumbled, and she saw he was a hunchback, barely able to stand without assistance. One shoulder was humped higher than the other, and he could not straighten his back under the huge black cloak he wore wrapped close about him. Isabeau groaned to herself, knowing how much harder their escape would be, then led the sturdiest of the ponies to his side. She managed to hoist the prisoner onto its back, listening intently to the quiet snores of the men. He slumped forward, and for a moment the black cloak flared outward, as if caught by a fresh breeze. But the air was still in that quietness that comes just before dawn. Isabeau knew they must hurry.

Isabeau twined her hand in the bright mane of the chestnut stallion, which she guessed must belong to the woman in red, and indicated that the other ponies should follow. Once they were out of the clearing, Isabeau halted the stallion and, with soft whickers and nose-blowings, asked it to wait. Then she slipped back into the clearing, fumbling in her herb bag for the little parcel of valerian powder. She gently tapped some more into the palm of her hand, trying to judge the amount by instinct. Then she carefully scattered the powder into the slumbering fire, whispering, "Sleep, sleep." The fire flared up, blue and green, before dropping lower than before. Isabeau ran from the clearing before sleep should overcome her too.

Even though she had delayed the waking of the men for some hours, Isabeau was determined to put as many miles as possible between them. Riding the finely bred stallion, and leading the pony that carried the semiconscious prisoner, she whacked the other horses across the rump with a branch so they scattered. She then headed east, back into the mountains, then south again to avoid a narrow, treacherous ravine, at the bottom of which thundered a fast moving river. She had been forced to postpone the long, difficult journey through the Pass into the valleys below for they had a much better chance of concealing themselves in the forests than out in the open.

The man she had rescued was barely able to keep his seat, falling forward across the gray pony's neck. "Do no' let him fall," she warned the pony, who tossed its mane and trotted forward sturdily.

At last Isabeau felt it was safe to stop, and she busied herself making a fire and boiling some water, into which she cast a selection of herbs. The talisman was still burning and tingling, even through the material of its pouch, so she wrapped it up in her plaid and put it to one side so it would not bother her so much. The hunchback had fallen from the gray mare's back and now lay, half conscious, in the shade of an old tree. Isabeau was tired since she had slept little that night, but she ignored her own aching body and began to clean the scrapes and bruises around the young man's wrists and on his battered face. His arms were heavily muscled and she wondered if he was a blacksmith or miner to have developed his upper body so powerfully.

"What is your name?" she asked in her own language. He stared at her suspiciously.

"My name is Isabeau," she said, trying to sound kind and friendly. He did not respond, so she finished tying up his chafed wrists in silence, then gave him the herbal tea to drink in her wooden cup and refilled the saucepan with water. For a moment she almost dipped her finger in the water to boil it, before remembering with a blush, and hanging the saucepan on its hook over the fire.

The young man slumped forward again, his chafed wrists in his lap, his hairy black cloth covering him from throat to ankle. His hair was dark with an attractive white blaze at his brow, and his eyes were a curious yellow. Under the dirt and scratches, Isabeau thought he would be a very personable young man, if it were not for his deformity. She was glad she had rescued him from his captors.

"Who were those men?" she asked. "Why were ye their prisoner?"

He did not answer, looking down at the cup sullenly.

"They said they were taking ye to the Rìgh's palace. Why? Are they taking ye to the Banrìgh?"

Still there was no answer. Isabeau felt her temper rising. "I'm your friend," she said. "I rescued ye. Surely I have a right to ken what I rescued ye from?"

"I do no' ken who those men are," he said at last. "I do no' ken what they wanted with me."

"So ye can speak," Isabeau said, and tossed a handful of oats into the boiling water. "What is your name?"

There was a long hesitation, before he muttered, "They call me Bacaiche."

"Bacaiche," Isabeau said. "Does that no' mean . . . cripple?"

He gave her an angry look and snapped, "What o' it?"

Isabeau was quickly losing patience with her ungrateful charge. She stirred the porridge, and watched him as he raised the cup to his face and tentatively sniffed the liquid. "It's quite safe," she said sarcastically. "I havena poisoned it or anything." He shot her a quick glance, then just as tentatively sipped the fragrant brew. After a moment, apparently gaining confidence, he sipped again.

"Please tell me why ye were those men's prisoner," Isabeau cajoled. "I canna help ye if I do no' ken what's going on."

"I do no' need your help," he said rudely.

"Och, sure," Isabeau rejoined. "Ye were trussed up as neat as a chicken going to market when I first saw ye. Ye'd still be there, no doubt, if I hadna stupidly taken it into my head to rescue ye. And I suppose you're no' hungry. Ye wouldna like any o' this porridge now, would ye? Or some more tea?"

For once he had started, Bacaiche had gulped down the tea greedily, and was now looking rather longingly at the porridge bubbling away in the little saucepan. Isabeau had seen how little food his captors had given him the night before, and how hungrily he had devoured it. She swung the saucepan away from the fire, and spooned its contents into a bowl, stirring in some honey so the porridge turned brown and sticky. "Delicious," she said, swallowing a spoonful, her back now lodged comfortably against the fallen tree trunk.

He watched her, and said nothing. Slowly she ate another mouthful, staring off at the jagged peaks towering against the fresh morning sky. How many days would she be delayed, she wondered, by her decision to rescue this stubborn young man? She ate another mouthful, glad of the warm food after her sleepless night, and wondering how long he would sit there, mouth shut tight, eyes following every move of the spoon. Just as she was about to give in and pass him the bowl, he broke.

"I do no' ken who those men are," he said. "They rode me down and tied me up and said they were takin' me south."

"Why?" she asked.

He shrugged, and looked away.

"Who are ye that they would want to do such a thing?"

"Nothing. Nobody. I am just a poor herdsman."

Isabeau remembered the strange song he had sung last night, and how he had spoken in the language of the birds. She sat with the bowl in her lap, unsure whether to pass it to him or keep eating in the hope he would give her some more information. She knew he was no mere herdsmen. His face was so bruised, though, and his body so obviously painful, that her kind heart eventually won and she passed him the bowl.

He swallowed the porridge so greedily, scraping the bowl clean and looking at the empty bowl so wistfully that Isabeau put the saucepan on to boil again. Casting a glance at her companion, she saw his eyes were closed, and so she risked giving the water a swirl with her finger to make it boil faster. Making another round of porridge emptied her calico bag of oats, and her anxiety deepened. Her stores were running low, and she could not travel without food. She would have to forage as she went, and that would slow her considerably. Again she doubted the wisdom of her impulse. However, what was done was done, and she would just have to face the consequences.

The consequences came much sooner than she had expected. As she was packing away the meager remains of her rations, and rinsing out the saucepan, the stallion raised his head and whickered. Isabeau swung round and listened intently. Through the bird song and the soft wind, she heard the sound of horses' hooves and the clink of metal.

Quickly Isabeau gathered up her belongings. "We must hide," she said, and looked at the slumped figure of Bacaiche with grave worry. The bruises on his face were livid in the bright light, and he was obviously stiff and sore. "Hopefully it's nothing to worry about, but we canna be too careful. I canna see how it could be your captors— they couldna have found us so quickly, since we left them without horses."

Bacaiche struggled to his feet and stood leaning against the gray pony's flank, breathing roughly. The dark cloak he wore dragged in the dust behind him. With great difficulty, Isabeau helped him to mount. "This way," she said, leading the way out of the clearing and up the wall of the valley toward an outcrop of rock that would both afford them protection and allow them to see the whole valley.

Though small, the pony was sturdy and the stallion fleet of foot, so Isabeau urged them on without respite, her anxiety deepening as she realized that it was quite a large party riding up the path toward them. She could hear the jingle of at least six bridles, and the sound of men's voices. Once at the top of the hill, she called a halt and, hiding behind the rocky outcrop, looked down at the narrow valley. At the entrance a group of horsemen had stopped. Twelve wore the bright cloaks and helmets of the Red Guards' cavalry, and for the first time Isabeau felt a real prick of fear. According to Meghan, these men were her natural enemies, sworn to hunt down witches and magic creatures. The others were dressed in the brown wool and leather of local men. At the front rode the woman Isabeau had seen last night, her crimson dress buttoned high to her throat. She looked up at the mountains, and raised her head in a curious manner, as if smelling the wind. After a moment, the woman pointed south, and they all rode toward the clearing where Isabeau had made breakfast. It would not take them long to find the smoldering ashes of their fire beneath the dust she had kicked over it. The soldiers would know they had left only minutes before.

"They be the men who caught me," Bacaiche said hoarsely, pointing down at the two men in brown wool who were leaning out of the saddles, looking for hoofprints on the ground.

"How did they catch up with us so fast?" Isabeau wondered. Her sleeping spell must have worn off more rapidly than she expected, and they must have had friends nearby, though that still did not explain how they were able to follow her so quickly. For a moment, Isabeau could not decide whether they should try to outrun their pursuers or just hide and wait for them to leave. Then the memory of the woman smelling the wind came to her, and made the decision for her—if she was a seeker, escape was their only chance. Isabeau wished now she had not displayed her magic so obviously. Sleeping spells! Heating water with her finger! Would she never learn caution?

Isabeau wheeled the stallion round and led the way deeper into the forest. The shadows of great trees fell over them, and the ground began to steepen. Shaking their pursuers was not as easy as Isabeau had expected. The Red Guards were fast and determined, and seemed to see through every trick Isabeau used to hide their passage. She had stopped long enough to tie branches to the two horses' tails, yet the group of riders on their trail seemed hardly baffled by the scuffled marks left in their trail. Beginning to feel panicky, Isabeau let the stallion leave clear hoof-prints on the bank of a stream, indicating they had crossed the water and were still heading south, when in reality the two horses splashed upstream for some considerable distance before doubling back. Sure that trick would mislead them, Isabeau was deeply troubled when the party followed them upstream with only a moment's hesitation.

She hastened their pace, glancing at Bacaiche, and wondering why he should occasion such a determined pursuit. The dark-haired man was swaying in the saddle, his face gray with exhaustion. Isabeau would not let them rest, however. All day they rode hard through the hills, till the horses were in a lather and she was herself almost faint with tiredness. She stopped only to check the position of the sun and to hide their trail, which had now looped back onto itself. After using every trick Meghan had ever taught her, Isabeau was now bearing back toward the Pass, not wanting to lose too much ground from her original direction. They did not stop for a meal till the sun was setting and they were only a few hours' ride from the spot where they had started out. Their pursuers, she hoped, would have continued riding to the north, and they could slip quietly down the Pass and into the great valley below.

During the brief stops to watch their trail, Isabeau had dismounted and foraged for food in the clearings. It was early in the season, though, and the winter had been harsh. She found only a few tubers which, even with the contents of her knapsack, could make them only a scanty meal. As she prepared the food, the stallion came and leaned against her, blowing gently in her hair. She fondled his soft nose, and looked up to find Bacaiche's yellow eyes fixed upon her. Again Isabeau told herself she must be careful. She knew nothing about her strange companion other than that he had been captured by the Red Guards, and that he spoke the language of birds. Although this seemed to indicate he was an enemy of the Banrìgh as well, she had no way of knowing whether she could trust him. Meghan had said to trust nobody.