She found at last an old tree whose massive roots rose into large cavities like shallow caves. She propped her satchel inside the largest, then hid her pouches of herbs at the back. Carefully she built a fire and, with her finger, lit the twists of dry leaves and bark so a tiny blue flame sprang into life. Blowing gently upon the embers, she fed in more twigs and dry leaves until a small fire blazed between the roots of the tree. She thrust some sweet roots into the embers and put on her little pot to boil. Shadows danced like goblins over the twisted roots and the trunks of the trees about her, but Isabeau was not afraid.
During the night she was woken suddenly by a presentiment of danger. The fire had died, but the talisman she carried in its black pouch was burning hot, scalding her through the cloth of her shirt. Carefully she stretched out her hand and touched her knife, trying to scent what was in the air. She thought she could smell horses, and the next moment she could hear them, crashing through the undergrowth.
Quietly Isabeau tied her boots to her waist and gathered together her belongings. She could hear the riders now—they were swearing, and the bridles jingled. She kicked dust over the remains of the fire and, bare-footed, swarmed up the tree. It was easy climbing, since the roots provided many handholds, and Isabeau was safely concealed in its branches by the time the party reached the clearing.
She heard the riders enter the clearing and, peering through the branches, could make out the shapes of men as they dismounted. There was a thud as some bundle across one of the horse’s saddles was thrown to the ground, and the clink of metal as the horses were unbridled.
‘In Truth, I hate this wood,’ one of the men said. ‘It fair gives me the creeps. If I did no’ ken better, I’d swear there were spirits abroad this night.’
‘What sort o’ spirits?’ a woman’s voice said, and the silky, menacing tone made Isabeau shiver. ‘If ye are no’ careful, Carldo, people might start thinking ye believe in … spirits. People might start talking, and talk travels. Talk can travel places ye’d rather it was no’ heard.’
There was a tiny pause, and then Carldo said in a startled tone, ‘Och, but my Lady Glynelda, no-one would think … everyone kens I was brought up right, I’ve been taught the Truth. No-one would think otherwise.’
‘Still, one should be careful,’ Glynelda said. ‘The Awl does no’ like those that speak against the Truth.’
Carldo made a grunt of fervent assent, but the woman cut across him with a gesture. Then she spoke, very low, so that Isabeau could hardly hear her. ‘I can smell … enchantment.’
Isabeau froze. A witch-sniffer! Terror ran like ice through her veins. What bad luck to come across a seeker. It might even be the one that had discovered the secret valley where she and Meghan had lived, forcing them to flee. She wished now she had lit her fire with flint, not magic, and she pressed back deeper into the shadows of the branches. The talisman seemed to be branding her skin, it burnt so hot.
Another man spoke up. ‘This forest is probably stiff with enchantments, m’lady. Think on the monster we have already found. The Truth alone kens what evil things have bred up here in these cursed mountains. We’d better keep our wits about us.’
The group began to settle for the night. Isabeau heard the sound of other parcels being thrown down, and a whickering snort from a horse, which sounded like a rumble of discontent. She heard one of the men take his boots off, and another said something about starting a fire. Isabeau shrank back further into the concealing branches, afraid the light would reveal her to the men below. She could escape them, of course, but would rather no-one saw her passing.
By the light of the flickering flames, she saw eight men, six in the red cloaks of the Banrìgh’s Guard; two dressed roughly in brown wool and leather, who sat together at one side of the fire. By herself on the other side was a woman wearing a severe red dress, buttoned high to the throat. She had a stern face, and sat with her back as straight as a ruler. Backed into the trees stood the horses, most of them rough hacks, one a finely-bred chestnut. One of the men hung a black pot over the fire, and Isabeau could smell meat. She wrinkled her nose in distaste.
‘Should we feed the uile-bheist?’ Carldo asked hesitantly.
‘Feel sorry for it, do we?’ another man said snidely.
Carldo shook his head violently. ‘No, no, I just thought it’d be better if it did no’ die afore we got it to the castle. Surely she’d rather it be alive?’
After a moment, the seeker said, ‘True. Feed it then, if ye want.’
Carldo got to his feet clumsily, and approached the shrouded bundle they had thrown down earlier. Isabeau leant forward, watching him struggle to undo the rope that was passed several times around the object. At last Carldo managed to undo the knots, and pull aside the cloth. A young man lay inside, his mouth gagged tightly.
‘Are ye hungry?’ Carldo asked gruffly, pulling aside the gag. He was answered with an unearthly cry of despair and defiance that rose into the night like a clarion call. Quickly Carldo kicked him into silence.
‘What in dragons’ balls was that?’ Carldo muttered.
‘Keep it quiet!’ Lady Glynelda snapped, her voice frightened. ‘Do ye want all the creatures o’ the forest down upon us? Feed it if ye must, only keep it quiet!’
Carldo looked as if he did not want to go near the prisoner again, but reluctantly he spooned some of the stew into a bowl and gave it to him, undoing his bound hands first and menacing him into silence. The prisoner ate hungrily, shovelling the food into his mouth with both hands. Carldo stood over him with his claymore in hand, looking uneasily out into the forest, which rustled and murmured with all its night sounds of wind and bird and branches tapping. Isabeau wondered if Carldo could still hear the echo of that strange song, as she could.
At last the bowl was empty, and although the prisoner gave a short squawk and motioned for more, Carldo took the bowl away and tied him up again. Isabeau busied her mind with plans of rescue. She wondered uneasily whether Meghan would approve if she knew—her guardian’s instructions had not included the saving of a stranger with the voice of a bird. Then she smiled and shrugged. She had always been one to go her own way.
After a while, the party slept, the prisoner again bound and gagged. One man stayed on watch, but he sat with his back to her, staring uneasily out into the night. Slowly Isabeau slid out of the tree, and waited, crouching in the shadows, until his head was nodding. Then she slowly shook some valerian powder out of one of her pouches into her hand and lightly scattered it over him. He gave a snort and a start, but almost immediately began to snore. Isabeau smiled, and scattered a pinch over the others. She waited until the rhythm of their breathing had deepened, then slipped silently over to where the prisoner lay awkwardly on his side with the rough cloth draped over him.
‘Do no’ sing,’ she breathed into his ear, first in her own language, then in the language of birds. At the sound of the bubble of music, one of the men shifted uneasily, and Isabeau froze. She waited a few minutes, before saying again, ‘Do no’ sing.’ She hoped he had understood.
Quickly the girl sliced the rope around his ankles and wrists, and rubbed them urgently, knowing how painfully circulation would return to his limbs. In the faint firelight, she saw that he was naked beneath the rough cloth, which made her blush with confusion. Isabeau had never had much to do with men, and the obvious differences between her body and his filled her with embarrassment. He clutched the cloth to his body and, looking the other way, she tried to help him to his feet, which were roughly bound in sacking instead of shoes. But it was no use, the prisoner was crippled by the long hours spent bound, and could not walk. Isabeau looked around quickly, and saw the horses resting in the shadows. They were awake, and watching what she did with some interest. The chestnut, a tall stallion with a fiery mane and tail, pawed the ground, then stepped forward daintily and nuzzled against her arm. She stroked his silky nose and said, ‘Thank ye,’ knowing the horse had understood what she wanted.
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 outwards, 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 grey 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 grey 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, despite his deformity, and 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 Rìh’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.
&nbs
p; The consequences came much sooner than she had expected. As she was packing away the meagre 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 grey 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 towards 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 realised that it was quite a large party riding up the path towards 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 towards the clearing where Isabeau had made breakfast. It would not take them long to find the smouldering ashes of their fire beneath the dust she had kicked over it. The soldiers would know they had left only minutes before.