Of Sorrow and Such Page 5

  I’ve spent the afternoon in the cellar reading my mother’s book of Magica, adding in the notes I took from Selke’s instruction, the things I learnt about her use of herbs and the waterweed in particular, of the living clay and all the things it might do. She said it was harder and harder to find nowadays, fewer and fewer suppliers, fewer folk willing to be caught digging in the saturated, sacred earth of a graveyard to harvest it, few willing to risk being found by either the church authorities or the corpse-wights that wait for unwitting souls. Hours passed without my noticing, so that by the time I put the tome securely away and came back upstairs, night had already fallen.

  When there is a battering on the front door I think how tired I am of that sound, how it seems to have become so regular in such short order. I curse the night Flora Brautigan came to me, I curse Ina Brautigan for sending her here, and I curse myself for offering help as it seems the demands for it will never end. I suffer no surprise to find Ina on the doorstep, her face whiter than usual so she looks like a ghost against the black of the evening, a hooded sable cloak held close about her. I suppress a sigh as I draw her into the house.

  “What has Flora done now?” I ask, and my tone is brisk and bitter.

  “Gone to the old mill. Or I think so. I can’t find her.”

  I shrug though I feel ill. “Why, for gods’ sake?”

  “You know why. That’s not the worst of it.” She gulps back her fear. “Cotton was meant to leave today, indeed he set off on his horse after lunch, but I just saw him return, then he and Karol left again, three men with them. They were heading to the old mill.”

  “Flora will talk. Flora is weak,” I say.

  “Gilly is with her.”

  It seems, in that moment, that the world splits open beneath my feet.

  Chapter Eleven

  I wrap a dark cloak around myself, then press a long nail into my palm to draw the blood needed: a whispered incantation makes the night cling to me, and another dampens the sound of my footsteps; I press a few drops of red against Ina’s attire. Small spells, a small price. Ina blinks, then squints to see me properly, her face lit by wonderment, perhaps not realising that she now shares this camouflage for a while. I take her hand and we move through the house, out the back door into the kitchen garden. Rather than take the open road we creep along the hidden way behind the overgrown brambles and shrubs I cultivate thick and bushy. Those hunters who share our destination will take the direct route, and come up the other bank of the river, sticking to the avenue in plain sight.

  As we approach, I hear the smack of water against the blades of a wheel that hasn’t turned in a long time. If Karol Brautigan plans to reopen this place considerable repairs will be required. We reach the great oak which stretches sturdy limbs over the Tey and nestles their tips against the plastered wall of the building. I climb the trunk with ease and Ina follows with equal litheness. We can move unseen through the thick foliage and the branch beneath our feet does us the kindness of not creaking. There is a high window below our perch and we look down into the hollow shell of the mill, into the area that was once used as both a work and living space.

  Gilly struggles in the grip of Balthazar Cotton, who seems pleased with his catch. Karol Brautigan stands before Constable Haddon Maundy, who grapples with an equally struggling creature, a huge white tib-cat. Brautigan’s expression is something to behold. I expect he saw his wife transform; surely that was it. Horror and shock, awe and disgust, all mingled with not a little fear, not a little despair.

  “Flora,” he says in a strangled voice, yet one of the gentlest tones I’ve ever heard. The cat hisses and tries to scratch the constable, who gives it a violent shake that drags a protest from Karol. “Don’t hurt her! Flora, I know it’s you. Change back. You must change back, my dear, so we can mend this.”

  A man steps into my line of sight: he wears the purple cape of an ecclesiastic. Another joins him, their expressions identical self-righteous mirrors. The archbishop’s men out of Lodellan, no doubt.

  The tib-cat hisses again but this time it sounds less like defiance and more like defeat, as if it is deflating. The lines of the animal blur and in a moment there is only Flora sagging in the arms of the constable.

  Karol faces the churchmen, swallows. “Neither of these is the woman you seek. You may leave.”

  “You are correct, Master Brautigan, only in that they are not whom we seek,” says one smoothly. “But we may not leave. There is witchcraft afoot in this town and we must needs weed it out. Where there is one witch, more will be found.”

  Even at this distance I can see the colour fade from Karol’s cheeks. I think, if he’d been alone here, he would have covered up for his wife, though I’ve no doubt he’d have thrown Gilly to the wolves. He looks at Cotton to see if there is any support, but the man simply says, “We shall not suffer witches to live. Let these good friars do their duty. Fear not, Brautigan, new wives are easy to acquire.”

  Oh, Gilly, my Gilly-girl.

  “Take them away, to the gaol. Let them stew overnight,” says one of the churchmen, a gleam in his eye.

  I wait, heart in mouth, for Flora to start talking, spilling forth everything she knows like a burst fountain, betraying all and sundry to save herself, but she does not do it. Her eyes are dull as if she’s disappeared inside herself. It seems her sense of invulnerability is gone, and I am grateful for small mercies. If she but keeps her lips sealed I will do my best to help her. I saved her life: she is my responsibility.

  Gilly stops fighting. She raises her eyes and, though there is a screen of leaves between us, I feel she senses my presence. I almost raise a finger to my lips, but remember she cannot see me. All I can do is plan and plot. I look at Ina to signal a retreat and find her strange: her outline is not solid, it blurs and trembles between that of the woman I know, and that of a sleek black cat. Seeing my expression brings her back to herself and she solidifies. We move even more cautiously.

  Through the mess of undergrowth, we tread quickly and quietly to my home. At the kitchen door, I point out a path between the houses.

  “They may leave the girls to fret, but I feel they will come to us tonight, if only to see how we react to the news. It’s important to act normally, Ina. Run to your own cottage; when they come, make it appear you’ve been asleep. How long will Flora hold out, do you think?”

  “She will not give us away.” Her voice carries no conviction.

  “We’ve got these few hours. Deny everything, deny Flora if you must. Your brother will not be happy to give up both his wife and sister—he’ll fight to protect you, though Flora is lost.”

  “Wife and sister-wife,” she says bitterly. I do not say I’m sorry, though I am. Sorry to know how her brother regards her, and sorry, so terribly sorry about the small bundle in the depths of Edda’s Bath.

  “Go. If you are able, warn your shifter-sisters,” I say and gently push her into the night.

  Inside I tear up the stairs to my chamber, shedding cloak and dress. Staying here is dangerous. Staying is foolhardy. Staying is the stupidest risk I can take. But whatever else I may have told her, I will not leave Gilly behind.

  I pull on my nightgown, dishevel my hair, and rub at my eyes to mimic the dazed look of one pulled from deep sleep. Fenric, curled at the foot of my bed and sulking that I went out without him, slits a single eye. I gather the things I need, slip them into the many pockets of the cloak I drape across a chair, then linger in the darkness, watching through the diamond panes of my bedroom window as the torch-lit procession from the old mill crosses a bridge and proceeds down the street. All but one of them passes by, and that single figure breaks away and moves reluctantly to my house.

  The knocking is deferential. I wait until it becomes louder, more insistent, then run down the stairs and fling open the front door, looking for all the world like a woman recently and rudely woken. The ties at the neck of my gown are undone, and the constable’s gaze goes there before he seeks my face.

&n
bsp; “Constable Maundy . . . Haddon . . . what is it? Is someone ill?” I reach out and touch his shoulder. He shivers beneath my fingers as does a horse beneath a kind hand, and doesn’t pull away.

  “Mistress Gideon . . . it’s Gilly—”

  “My Gilly?”I laugh to his surprise. “My Gilly’s abed, like all good girls. Don’t be silly, Haddon.”

  “Patience, I swear to you she is not. She’s been arrested.”

  “No. Don’t be ridiculous! Come with me!” I grab his hand and drag him along behind me, as I’ve done before, up the stairs. I triumphantly throw open the door to Gilly’s room. The bed is empty and I allow my expression to slowly change, to first show utter incomprehension, then distress, then fear. I fall against his bulk, look into his face and kindly eyes. “Where is she, Haddon? Oh, where is my Gilly-girl?”

  Chapter Twelve

  I don’t even bother to dress, just wrap the cloak—its ensorcellment dissipated—around me again and insist that Haddon take me to see Gilly. I will demand an explanation, I tell him, for whatever she’s done. I am angry, but not for the reason he thinks, and he tries to soothe me, although in this situation we both know there is no reason to be calm: who’s ever heard of a woman accused of witchcraft being acquitted? There are enough hours before daylight for me to do something. I’m just not sure what.

  Haddon’s house is part of his living: the ground floor is a mix of office and kitchen, the upper level his living space, bedroom, and washroom; in the basement are two small cells. Edda’s Meadow is not really prepared for an outbreak of lawlessness. Maundy’s job is usually a simple, straightforward one: he locks up the drunks, makes an example of the petty thieves with the stocks on the edge of the market square, and acts as bailiff when a dispute must be settled by the taking of goods. No one expects much but for him to obey the mayor and the rich folk. He’s not a bad man, and he tempers what he must do with a goodhearted kindness. Nor is he the smartest of men, but he is easy company, which makes him popular with the men of the town, and he is handsome, which makes him popular with the women. He’s shared more beds than just mine, and he’s a worthwhile mattress-mate. Guileless and trusting as he is, he’s told me that the girls are being left at the gaol and the churchmen will question Flora and Gilly in the morning, and that Karol Brautigan and his guest are going to break the dread news to Ina in her little cottage. I’d prefer not to hurt him.

  The office holds several mismatched chairs around a long, wide table, but no desk. Dusty ledgers from previous constables take up space on and off shelving. Bridles and saddles are hung on one wall, the only things that seem cared for, polished and tended, the leather looks soft and the brass fixings bright. Through a slender archway I see the untidy kitchen, and across from where we pause at the entrance is the thick iron-bound door that leads down.

  “Let me speak to her alone, Haddon, I beg you.”

  “Patience . . .”

  “Please, Haddon. It will . . . will be easier for me to get the truth from her if we are alone.” I lean my head against his chest. He does not answer, but moves away and unlocks the door, pulling it open so the blackness of the staircase lies before me. Haddon lights a lamp and hands it to me. I place each foot carefully on the rickety stairs, breathing a deep sigh of relief when I step off the last one—but then above me comes the snap of the lock, which near stops my heart. What if he is smarter than he seems? What if I am taken, having walked myself into a trap? I tamp down the fear, and press forward, holding up the lantern to illuminate the space where the women have been left in darkness. Without windows there’s no ventilation and the air is a dense fug. I find a nail in one of the walls and carefully hang the lantern.

  In the closest cell is Flora. I note that the bars are thick and narrowly spaced, so not even a small cat could pass between let alone the monster she turns into. I wonder if the thought crossed her mind, to flee this way. She sees me and starts; I put a finger to my lips and move on. In her own little cage Gilly is huddled in the corner on a pile of grubby straw.

  “Gilly,” I say.“My Gilly-girl.”

  She’s at the barrier in a moment, slim fingers reaching through to grab at me, tears pouring down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Aunt Patience, so sorry, so sorry, sosorrysosorrysosorry—”

  “Hush, my girl, hush. Weeping solves nothing.” I wrap my hands around hers, and our foreheads press together in the small lacuna between the metal palings. “What were you doing there?”

  “Flora told me she could help me, help me be different, that she believed I was a shifter deep down, that I had it in me. She said no one else would go with her to the mill for this full moon and so it was the perfect time for her to teach me . . .”

  I hate Flora so much in that moment that I would happily strangle her, would revel in the sensation of squeezing the life from her. My poor Gilly, wishing so hard for something that will make her life dangerous. My poor lost girl.

  “Didn’t I warn you? Have all my cautions fallen on deaf ears?” I cannot help but say.

  She shakes her head, tears spatter across my bare hands.

  “Be ready, when I call. Be ready. And Gilly, you must do whatever I tell you to. Promise me this. No arguments.” She nods, but I think We shall see. “Now, be patient, my girl.”

  I step away and walk back towards the stairs. Flora presses herself against the bars and hisses, “You cannot leave me!”

  As if her fate should be of abiding importance to me! I glare, spit sharp words at her, “Shut up, Flora, or so help me I will do precisely that.”

  She subsides and I carry on. Halfway up, I pause and yell, “How could you do this to me?” before breaking into sobs. There’s the sound of hobnail boots on the floor above and the door is flung open, Maundy a large silhouette against the dim light. I flutter into his arms, a weakened butterfly—my enervation’s not entirely faked, for I was not certain of release—and he half-carries me to a chair.

  I notice a goblet on the table, red wine in it. I nod at it. “I am parched . . .”

  He leaps to appease and when he goes into the kitchen I retrieve a pouch from the inside of my cloak, and add two pinches of mandrake and poppy dust to his beverage. After a slight hesitation I add a third for good measure: he is a large man. I swirl it to mix everything in, and am back in my seat when he returns and offers me a drink of my own.

  The five minutes it takes for him to succumb to the opiate seem the longest of my life, but when he is done I take the time to empty his cup, rinse it so no one might discover the concoction for what it was, and then refill it partway with more wine. The keys at his belt come free easily, and in a trice we three are sneaking outside, past darkened homes and barns, past the new mill and along the river Tey, past the farms, and finally through the woods to Edda’s Bath.

  I take in deep gulps of air as if I’ve not breathed in hours. Flora collapses and begins to laugh. Gilly holds on to me as if she will never release me. I hug her back for as long as I can, then push her to arms’ length. “You must go.”

  “We must go.”

  “I shall follow.”

  “I’ll not flee without you, Aunt Patience!”

  “Gilly, you promised. You promised to do as you’re told. Go into the greenwood, you know where the things are. Head north. Take only the old roads. I will follow, I swear, and I will find you again.”

  She gulps but nods.

  I look at Flora. “You must leave with her too.”

  Flora shakes her head. “Oh, no. Not without my things.”

  She doesn’t say Not without Ina.

  “You can always acquire more things, Flora. You’ll find another stupid rich husband and he’ll buy you more things. Accompany Gilly, for your life depends on it.” Your life, Ina’s life, the lives of all the shifter-sisters still in Edda’s Meadow. My life.

  She shakes her pretty head again, certain that she will get her way, for nothing that’s happened to her in this past month has taught her any better. She is invincible once again. I mo
ve away from Gilly and stand over Flora.

  “You will go now or not at all.” My voice is low, but she takes no warning from that.

  “Aunt Patience . . .” says Gilly, who knows well enough the pitch that signifies the terrible anger I am sometimes gripped by, the note of finality that indicates the end of all argument.

  “Not without my things!” Flora shouts in high temper. I step around her quickly and draw a paternoster from my pocket. I twist it swiftly once, twice around her throat and pull tight, tight, tight.

  She makes surprisingly little noise, just a sort of hissing as life seeps from her; barely enough noise to cover Gilly’s weak pleas. When the smell of her bladder and bowels letting go fills the air, I know she’s gone and unwind the garrotte. I turn to Gilly and put the strand of beads away. In her eyes is something I’ve never seen before: fear. Fear of me.

  “Gilly, head north.” I do not speak gently, there is no point. My tone is hard to cut through her distress; to make her obey for her own sake. “Collect one of the satchels from the alder grove, then go north. I will find you, I promise.”

  And she does not argue. She gives me one final hug, gives Flora’s sad form a final glance, and then is gone into the darkness, moving silent as a shadow, just the way I taught her. I look at Flora, briefly consider weighting her down and sending her to the bottom of the pond, but I do not have the time to spare. I must slip back into Edda’s Meadow, back to my house.

  I can leave behind neither Fenric, nor Wynne’s book. I’ll be in and out before dawn cracks the sky.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sky is still dark when I reach my home, though there are wisps of pale light streaking up high. Inside, Fenric sits by the front door, whimpering at being left alone yet again. He follows me to my room, where I change into trousers, a thick shirt, and stout boots. He’s at my heels as I run down to the cellar, and there’s something of a dance in his step as if he senses we will be travelling once more. I lever up the flagstone with a twist of bent iron, and heave aside the slab. I brush away the thin layer of soil and there it is, Wynne’s book wrapt tight in an oilcloth. Next I push the panel to the hidden room and grab one of the satchels therein, for there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to reach the alder grove. I seal the chamber once more; no reason why anyone else should benefit from my hard-earned savings, and I cannot carry too much. I slide the book into the bag, then stretch, feeling the ache in my bones that comes with age and insufficient exercise. The evening’s activities have reminded me how sedentary I’ve become. The thought of the open road, of running, holds a strange anticipation that I do not quite understand. Perhaps it’s a taste of what Wynne loved so much, of what kept her on the move.