He dreams. A stable. The warmth and smell of horses. Flickering
darkness. Fair hair blending with straw, silken strands splayed over the rough
wheaten weave. Brown eyes in stark contrast to the hair, and a breezy smile
accompanied by laughter as free and infectious as the smile. He dreams of a
hand over her mouth (his hand?) and a spearing sense of alarm. Behind him, a
towering shadow, looming rage, a single word:
Mine.
Then, nothing.
The children have returned. Joel tends a small fire built of dry moss
and twigs. Roanne has brought water. She presents the skin on seeing him awake.
He takes it, studying his own hand as his fingers close on the vessel. A large
hand. A strong hand. The same hand from the dream.
He drinks until his belly cramps and Roanne signs for him to stop. She’s
brought a sack of oddities—apples, bread and hard cheese, and a jar of
vile-smelling unguent that she rubs over his wounded hip. Her touch pains him,
but when he sidles away, Joel reassures him. The children’s eyes are dark, so
dark, dark as the eyes of the straw-coloured hair, but their manes are black.
No relation, surely. And no means to communicate if there was.
Still, he tries.
“What am I doing here?”
The words feel thick and awkward on his tongue. They are not the lyrical
song of the children’s banter. Four legs or two, he is still a stranger among
them. Still … a fugitive?
He thinks back to the meadow, to the archers who fired on him from the
clifftop. Were they mounted? He can’t even recall their numbers. Just the hail
of arrows driving him to run, and the lightning strike of one piercing his
flesh.
The children are talking to him and to each other. Roanne puts the pack
in his hands, preparing to take her brother back to camp. Before they are
missed. Sian nods, but is suddenly loath to let them go. The boy’s laugh
charms him. The girl’s liquid eyes and fluid touch … they remind him of the
straw-coloured dream.
He busies himself with the arrow still protruding from his hip. Roanne’s
unguent has helped to ease the pain, but the head is barbed and he dares not
yank it free. His golden hide is thin and fragile, more sensitive than his
human skin. Fearing a tear and infection, he abandons the notion of removing
the arrow.
The fever comes on him in the night. The children return the next day to
find the manhorse restless in his nest of moss, his skin flushed and limbs
twitching. His brow is hot to Roanne’s touch and it’s clear to her that the
arrow wound is festering, just as he had feared.
“We could fetch Mam,” Joel suggests.
Roanne shakes her head. If Mam comes, she’ll ask why the children chose
to hide the manhorse, and Roanne has no answer—except that Da might decide to
tell someone outside the camp. Bounties are offered for unusual prizes. Much of
their livelihood comes from such sources; Roanne knows that the manhorse will
fetch a staggering price even if he isn’t being hunted.
She wonders if the reeve at the manor might be able to help. If she
might be trusted.
“You can’t go there!” Joel argues. “Our kind aren’t welcome at the
manor. The lord will make a servant of you!”
Or worse.
Roanne remembers her sister Norra, who went up to the manor and came back with
a belly. Her father sent her back, but the lord refused her. Norra disappeared
soon after. Roanne doesn’t want to follow Norra’s fate, but she might find a
way to creep into the yard and coax the reeve into helping. She must do
something; Sian is feverish and fretful. And so beautiful. She must find a way
to save him.
*
* *
The manor sits near a hill, in a rolling green valley lush with fruit
trees and sprawling meadows. Roanne and her brother often play near the stream
that runs through the grounds and waters the orchard. Occasionally, she
accompanies Da when he is summoned to tend an ailing horse. The lord is particular
about his horses; word is that he treasures them above all things. All things,
that is, except his lady.
Roanne has no care to meet the lord. She follows the stream to the
orchard and pauses to fill her basket with apples. Summer is almost over and
there’s a chill in the air. She loves the scent of fresh-pressed apples,
especially tangy on a frosty sunny day. The press is housed in an outbuilding
off the stableyard—the apple pulp is mixed with feed for the horses, so close
proximity is an asset. It could be dangerous for a little Lirosi girl, though.
Sure enough, as Roanne peers around the woodpile, the lord leads a party of
riders into the yard at a gallop.
He’s a fine man, mounted on a finer steed, but Mam doesn’t like him. Mam
is not alone—her ten-year-old daughter senses something cold and unyielding in
him. With her heart beating in her throat, Roanne watches him dismount. He
throws the reins to a groom and strides toward the manor house, barking orders
as he goes. The rest of his party trails, laughing and ignorant of his mood,
after him.
A jab in the ribs makes her jump. Whirling, she meets Kev’s mischievous
green eyes. “What are you doing out of the wood, Roanne?”
She brandishes the basket full of apples. “I came to ask for cider.”
Kev narrows his gaze on the fruit. “Those aren’t wild apples.”
She shoves him to make him shut up. He’s twelve years old and she has a
mad infatuation with him, but he treats her like she’s simple. It doesn’t occur
to her that he’s remembered her name. He’s not usually good with them, but he’s
never forgotten hers. Between the taunts and pranks, it’s all she can do to
keep her good humour. She wishes he wasn’t so cute. He’d be easier to dislike
if he wasn’t so cute.
He endures the shove and snatches at her basket. “I’ll take you in,” he
offers.
The cider press smells of raw apples. Huge stone wheels mash the fruit
to pulp and the juice runs down a narrow channel into the barrel. Kev is
horrible; he likes to slurp straight from the mouth of the channel, which makes
Roanne wrinkle her nose in disgust. But he knows the cider-maker, so she
resigns herself to trying in secret for an existing jug—if she gets any cider
at all. She’s not worried about that; she’s worried that she’ll miss the reeve
and the manhorse might die.
Can she tell Kev? He’s chattering at the bony youth working the press,
her apple basket hooked over his forearm. The youth gives her a sullen look,
but takes the basket and tumbles the apples into the press. Kev is such a bother, but he lives at the manor and he
knows the reeve. She hits him a lot, but he knows her. Roanne’s chances are
better if she can recruit an ally on the inside.
The stones grind the apples to mush. They make too much noise to talk
over unless you shout, so Kev is shouting. His voice squeaks and cracks like
breaking ice and Roanne wants to laugh because he’s trying to sound important.
The youth working the press ignores him. Kev gives up and fetches an empty jug.
“Hold it to the channel mouth,” he tells Roanne, and she obeys.
The juice trickles merrily into the jug, a cloudy amber ribbon flecked
with bits of pulp. Joel will like that; he likes to chew his cider, but Mam
says he just can’t keep his jaws from moving for even an instant.
The bony youth is half-Lirosi, but looks like a marauder, fair-skinned
and light-eyed. He knows enough of his mother’s tongue to get his point across.
“These aren’t wild apples,” he observes, letting Roanne know that he’s on to
her.
“I’m taking it up to the house,” she replies, boldly.
“Did Mistress Reeve send you?”
Roanne nods. Kev stands with his mouth half-open, disbelief plain on his
face. To stop him from betraying her, she quickly adds, “Kev offered to walk
with me.”
His mouth falls all the way open before he can snap it shut, which he
does as soon as the youth looks to him for confirmation. “That’s right,” he
says, his voice leaping higher than a girl’s.
“I don’t know why the reeve would send a Lirosi girl to fetch up
cider, but I guess it’s not my concern,” the youth remarks. He helps the last
of the juice along the channel with a wooden spade.
“Lord Derrick has guests,” Roanne says.
“Lord Derrick’s guests won’t be drinking cider.”
“The ladies might.”
This earns a derisive laugh. “Not if they know what’s good for them.”
Roanne is about to ask what he means by that, but Kev grabs her arm more
forcefully than he needs to. “Let’s go, before Mistress Reeve comes looking for
us.”
“You’re welcome,” the youth calls after them. He mutters something under
his breath, probably a spell against the Lirosi taint—some people think
Roanne’s folk bring bad luck, but the bad luck actually came with the marauders
who drove them into the wood—then Kev drags her into the yard and demands to
know why she wants to get him into trouble.
“I don’t,” she says. “You can stay here if you want.”
“Where are you going?” he asks, trotting alongside her.
“I’m taking this cider up to the house.”
“Roanne, Mistress Reeve didn’t send you to fetch cider for Lord
Derrick’s guests. What are you up to?”
She pauses, considering. Kev moves in front of her, his sparkly green
eyes suddenly serious. She wants to trust him, but he has such a big mouth and
he’s always telling her things that he hears about the manor; not secrets,
exactly, but things that she shouldn’t know, so what’s to stop him from spreading
stories about her? The manhorse is precious. She can’t risk him becoming a
novelty, and if Lord Derrick hears about him, a novelty is what he will become.
Or worse.
She doesn’t know why she thinks this, but she thinks it nonetheless.
“Tell me,” Kev says, urgently.
She grabs him by the hand. “Come with me.”
To be
continued …
copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig
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