Preview Follow Me to the Yew Tree
PREVIEW: FOLLOW ME TO THE YEW TREE
CHAPTER 1
I ’m a long way from home.
I’ve exchanged éire’s rugged coast for a far-swept moor, and I don’t know why I’ve been sent, only that I’m needed. And I’m nothing if not a faithful servant.
The road’s been quiet—I haven’t seen another soul in days—but now there’s a lone man on horseback heading West, toward me.
All he has is what can be carried on his horse—bedroll, canvas tent, a saddle bag presumably filled with provisions. A cutlass dangles from one hip, a pistol is strapped to the other, and I’ve met enough sailors to know they are Navy-issue.
Auburn curls frosted white roll across his brow, ruffled by the breeze, the first splotch of color upon a drab landscape. With proper sunlight, the moor’s green and purple grasses might’ve been better served, but today it’s overcast and drizzling.
He tips his head in polite greeting, the small gold hoop in his ear catching the muted light. To say it glinted would be generous. Compared to the tattered, blue frock coat he wears with scuffed navy buttons and cuffs frayed and salt stained, or the tarnished compass that hangs from his belt, it’s the most polished thing about him.
He doesn’t smile as our eyes meet, and yet a gentle wave of warmth settles in my chest, dripping slow and syrupy as honey. It’s a bizarre sensation. Usually, when I find the one I’m meant to meet, the emotions strike cold and harsh. Why this is different, I can’t say, and it doesn’t begin to make any more sense even as a glowing vision follows.
It hits so suddenly my eyes swim with tears, as if I’ve dared to stare at the sun. Squinting and blinking doesn’t help, but eventually my sight clears on its own, giving way to two distinctly recognizable figures.
They stand beneath the twisted boughs of a tree, their hands clasped, and heads bowed, backlit by an early morning sun. Beneath their bare feet, the moor grasses are still damp and glittering with dew.
Years of knowing imbue that touch, one of people whose understanding is marrow deep. And maybe that explains why their clothing is unfamiliar. Why it displays a scandalous amount of skin neither acknowledge. It’s a glimpse at the times to come, a time when fabric molds and accentuates the body rather than hides it.
His lips curl into a sweet smile as he gazes at her mouth. Whatever he whispers brings a bright flush to her pale white cheeks, but she rises on her toes, boldly closing the distance. Her raven-dark hair is ever shifting, blown about on some ghostly breeze, and her eyes are a paler green than the Lily of the Valley that grows in the tree’s shade.
He captures her face in both hands, the words “Hold Fast” inked across his fingers, sailors tattoos, as much a part of him as the calluses on his palm that now scrape across her cheeks . It’s not the first time they’ve done this, but he slowly sips at her mouth, savoring her like it is, stroking the column of her throat with his thumbs. It’s a tender dance of lips pursued by the languid glide of tongue, and the easy tempo endures even when he presses her against the tree, trapping her body with his own. The way he sucks her lower lip into his mouth, tugging lightly with his teeth, is so deliciously obscene, it’s a surprise when he abruptly pulls away, leaving her red and swollen.
His eyes hold hers as he sucks two of his fingers into his mouth, cheeks hollowing out, before pulling the wet digits free and reaching down. It takes so very little effort to get beneath the skirt she wears. A garment that falls above the knee, not below.
Everything is quiet save for birdsong and soft, hitched gasps.
The vision’s gone in a flash, a snapshot in time that leaves me breathless and stunned. It takes me a moment too long to realize I’ve been given a glimpse of the future. Of my future.
I see much but never something intimate. And never for me.
My horse whickers nervously, yanking me back into the present. I pat its neck, murmuring soothing words, even as my cheeks burn. “There, there. All is well.”
I’ve never had reason to doubt my visions before, but if this one’s to be trusted, the frowning man on the road ahead is my paramour-to-be.
Is this why I was sent? A reward for my centuries of faithful service? A balm to ease the weight of endless days and the long road ahead?
Hope burns bright in my chest. After witnessing so much pain and suffering, here’s finally something good to hold onto. Someone to cherish, to keep. To call my own.
Love is the greatest gift of all, and if it’s been gifted to me, I am well-appreciated indeed. All these long centuries spent grieving may finally be worth something, culminating to this moment.
Our horses draw near. I’m close enough to the man that I spy the constellation of freckles spanning his nose and the slight widening of dark brown eyes. Perhaps I stare too long because he hastily looks away, eyes bashfully averted, weather-and age-worn cheeks blooming a rosy color.
He couldn’t have seen the vision. Could he?
Glancing down at myself, I’m quickly reminded of the fact that my long skirts are pulled up in front, revealing the men’s riding trousers worn underneath. No skin is exposed, but well-regarded ladies don’t dress as such.
There’s nothing for it. Comfort and practicality must supersede some conventions.
I clear my throat and say, “Tráthnóna maith.”
He looks up, surprised. Perhaps it’s been a long time since he’s heard the language of home. Seems just like the sort of thing a British naval officer would forbid, and I mourn the loss. “Tráthnóna maith.” The surprise quickly dissipates, replaced by a flash of grim, troubled panic before falling into a more neutral expression. Did he not want to be recognized? “You’re a long way from home.”
“So are you.”
A pause. His horse snorts, impatiently side-stepping.
“How did you know?” he asks.
“I had a feeling.” What I don’t say is that I wouldn’t be here in this foreign country, sent to find him, if we didn’t share a homeland. éire, the place the English call Ireland .
A dark pallor drops over his face, obscuring his features in shadow. It’s not an expression, or a change in mood, but a sign. A sign only I can see, and the warm feeling in my chest chills. He’s not the first I’ve seen bearing such a portend, not by far, and he won’t be the last. But after that beautiful, promising vision, I thought he was meant to be mine.
I thought I had a future that wasn’t steeped only in sorrow.
I never should’ve assumed this meeting would end any differently than what’s come before, that the one I serve would deign to bestow a gift. One pretty vision doesn’t mean I know the man, or have any right to him, but to dangle hope and possibility in front of me like this, only to yank it away is unusually cruel.
It’s all I can do to keep my voice even when I ask, “What’s your name, sailor?”
His jaw clenches, and a haunted look steals the light from his eyes. “Don’t.”
I stiffen, taking him in. His eyes all at once turn wary and weary. He’s a bit paler, too, beneath the damning shadow that hovers over his face.
“I’m not…I didn’t choose that,” he says.
I know that look. I’ve seen it before.
Many young men were impressed into His Majesty’s Royal Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. Some are returning, but many will not. Just knowing this is the pain his past holds, calls to the part of me that wants to offer comfort, but never can. That doesn’t mean I won’t try. “I’m sorry. How long?”
“Too long. Enough to appoint me Gunner on a Man O’ War.”
“I take it that’s not an easy accomplishment.”
“From landsmen? Shouldn’t’ve been possible, but enough men die on a ship, and someone’s got to step in, take a place they never would’ve filled before. Many years of learning the hard way and eventually someone notices and decides it’s worth something.”
“Was it worth something to you?” I ask softly. In this, his opinion is the only one that matters.
He gives the question some thought, brows pinched, before answering, “Better pension, maybe.” He frowns. “But I don’t consider the proficiency of my position an accomplishment.”
More death.
We’re quiet for a long while, wind whipping about the moor grasses. I watch them sway. They remind me of waves, and I wonder if that thought crosses his mind, too.
“Elin,” he says after a time. “That’s my name. Da was an Englishman with a sense of humor.” He runs a hand through his curls, burnished red against roughened, inked knuckles. “Like the sound, though.”
A grown man with a name usually given to girls. While it’s Welsh for “shining light,” I can’t decide if his father’s humor is cruel or something else, but I like the sound, too, despite it.
Nodding to his horse, I say, “You’re taking the long way home.”
“If I never see another ship again, it will be too soon.” There’s a hint of wry humor to his words, a reluctant acknowledgement that he will eventually have to sail again if he’s to make it the rest of the way home, hopping from one island to the next.
“It must be a relief to be on solid ground again.” It’s not a particularly insightful response, but it’s the first one to come to mind, and I find myself wanting to hear more of his voice and its gruff timbre.
Tipping his head back, and baring his face to the sky, Elin breathes in deep, serenity falling over his features. It’s an open expression that softens the lines of his face, shaving away years of hardship, making him almost beautiful. When he finds my eyes once more, his are glittering coals closer to onyx than brown. “It’s all I’ve wanted, even if it’s not my own.”
We’re quiet a moment before Elin asks, “How is it at home, now that the war’s done?” His voice is hesitant, as if he’s afraid to know the answer.
I wish I could assuage his fears, but he’s right to be worried.
Our country is in recession.
Manufacturing has decreased. Merchants are falling bankrupt, leaving so many unemployed, and what employment there still is comes at the cost of steeply slashed wages.
During the war, éire supplied the English with beef, pork, and grain, but now that Napoleon has been defeated, competition from foreign exporters has made our trade dismal. éire is no longer England’s sole granary, and with the demand down, our farmers are already suffering. And so, so many of our people are farmers.
His expression darkens. My lack of a ready answer is telling. “It’s not good, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” And even harder times ahead. It’s a pattern with which I’m woefully familiar; centuries of living have taught me that war, famine, plague, and death are frequently grim companions.
Crop failure is coming. The next two years will yield so little, the people will dig out and eat their seed potatoes in desperation and be forced to scrounge for nettles and wild vegetables, whatever they can do to put something in their aching bellies. But it won’t be enough.
It’s a future filled with so many ghostly faces, people with sunken cheeks, and hollow, haunted eyes. If starvation doesn’t claim them, fever and disease will.
“It’s difficult to find work,” I add, reluctantly. As a frequent bearer of bad news, you’d think I’d be used to it, but I loathe sharing this information. His homecoming should be a cause for celebration, joy. “Manufacturing and farming’s not looking good.”
He sighs. “Not sure they’ll be keen, but I suppose the lads coming home can be fishermen.”
I wince, and he notices, jaw clenching. “That, too?” he asks.
“Afraid so.”
His expression is grim, resigned. “Seems the war has found a way to keep killing us after all.”
I wish I could offer him comforting words, some sort of reassurance, but I’ve none to give. There’s nothing left to do but march forward and make the very best of it as we can. I gesture behind me from the way I came. “I was just about to turn around. Mind if I join you?”
Elin tenses, his horse pawing at the ground. “Suppose you must, if we’re headed the same way.”
So much for clasped hands and heated kisses. I’ve no right to feel hurt by his lack of enthusiasm, but it stings, nonetheless. With a light jerk on the reins in my hands, I spin my mount around to lead the way. “I’m not such bad company.” Might not be what he’s expecting, a lone woman on an unmarked road, but I’m not unpleasant, and we share a language and a homeland.
He follows. “I meant no offense. It’s just, I’ve traveled a long time alone.”
If his crew didn’t count—those that survived, that is—it must’ve been a long time indeed. My feelings aren’t made of stone, but I take his meaning.
We ride in silence, miles passing through mountain and glen, the light of an already dim sky falling toward night. It’s a peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that should only come from knowing someone a long time, or perhaps the things Elin has seen have made his spirit as old as mine.
As the sun dips near the horizon, my new travel companion brings his horse to a stop.
“Let’s make camp.” He angles toward a copse of trees, as if called by instinct to buttress against something firm, rather than boldly claiming open ground.
The shadowy pallor still hangs over his face, a grim warning of doom to come, but it hasn’t worsened. Whatever’s coming isn’t imminent. Not yet anyway.
Casting a surveying look around just to be sure, I sense nothing amiss and follow without a word. Here is as good as any.
Elin takes the lead, tending to the horses and setting up a simple, canvas tent. He tackles each task swiftly and efficiently, the years at sea having done nothing to dull his landside skills.
He’s busy unfurling a bedroll when he says, “I can take one side, you the other.”
A generous offer to a stranger. Or maybe it’s because I’m a woman and some chivalrous need dictates the gesture. As I unstrap the bedroll from my saddle, I feel the weight of his eyes on me, their presence warming me from behind. I’m not sure why I like that he looks, or why I like it even more that he doesn’t avert his gaze when I turn around, his assessment continuing from a comfortable distance away.
“What brings you out here?” He watches me carefully, cautiously, like he might not wholly trust my intentions.
My inner turmoil returns. He’s right to be wary. Why had I been sent? And what good were visions of a future that would never come true?
“I haven’t figured that out yet.” It’s evasive, but also the truth as I know it, and I want to put him at ease, even if I’m beset by uncertainty. “But it’s nice to have company for once.”
A tiny smile lifts the corners of his lips, so it must work. “You wander often?”
“Spent a lot of time along éire’s east coast—Wicklow, Dublin—wherever I’m needed. I’m part of a courier service of sorts.”
His brow ticks up a fraction. “Would I know it?” There’s something teasing now about his tone.
I shrug.
“Do you like what you do?”
“Depends on the day. These are hard times. But on the good ones, I like to think I’m preparing people, letting them know what’s to come. No one likes to be completely caught off guard.”
Elin’s smile fades. “No, I don’t think we do.”
While I arrange my bedroll inside the tent, contemplating overlong on the narrow space between mine and his, he gathers wood and builds a fire. By the time he’s done a sheen of sweat coats his forehead, his cheeks pale. Before I can ask if he’s feeling okay, he curtly excuses himself, snatching a saddle bag from the ground as he stalks tightly away into the dark of night.
Some call of nature beckons him away, but it isn’t any of my business.
When he returns, he seems less strained, but his color hasn’t returned, and his movements seem heavier. I dig into my rations. The bread I hand him in small chunks shouldn’t be as fresh as it is, but he doesn’t question it. Just murmurs his thanks and takes the first piece, popping it into his mouth, eyes closing, before chewing and swallowing. Bits of smoked, dried meat follow.
He eats a little but declines the rest. “I’m turning in.”
There’s no reason to sit here alone, not when curiosity about this man pulls at my chest.
He doesn’t even turn around, just holds open the tent flap to let me in after him.
We shuck our shoes and lay down, tucking into our separate spaces—him on the left, me the right. Under the cover of my blanket, I slip out of the men’s trousers, and though I try to be discreet about it, Elin’s skyward stare is much too deliberate, his cheeks pink. Something about his shyness plucks at my heartstrings. There’s so little between us in this shared space, and for all that society would consider me a woman of ill-repute just for the pragmatic way I dress, this land-starved sailor is respecting my privacy.
Even though it’s not me who’s shy, I leave the rest of my clothing be, and settle in.
Elin’s lashes flutter, then fall closed, and he does a little shimmy getting into a more comfortable position.
We are close. So close I can feel his heat. I’d only need to turn over my arm to touch him, but I don’t.
His breathing softens, deepens. Just when I think he’s fallen asleep, he asks, “What’s your name?”
“I’ve had many.”
“Your favorite?”
I think a moment. “éireann.”
“Will I see you in the morning?”
An odd question. Where was there to go in the middle of the night? Did he think I was a thief? That I would steal his things and run off while he slept? Surely, he wouldn’t have invited me to sleep next to him if he suspected that. “You’ll see me in the morning.”
Burrowing beneath his blanket, he turns over, back facing me. I know there’s trust in that, but it makes my heart twinge, nonetheless. “In that case, oíche mhaith, éireann.”
“Oíche mhaith.”