Chapter 17
With the child deposited safely back with his mother and nursemaid, with loud thanks and quiet apologies ringing in my ears, and my forearms festooned with baskets of bread and fresh produce, sweet soaps and cheeses, I turn towards home.
Yet by the time I get there, all these gifts will weigh me down and I’ll be exhausted; I’m not the witch I used to be.
It’s probably time to make my life a little easier; my old feather-foot won’t be around forever, and he’s not fit for riding, hasn’t been for years; getting him into the plough harness requires a long negotiation.
No sign of Faolan lurking, but in the main enclosure behind the smithy, out of the stables, are his pride – the forge work is his labour, breeding horses is his joy.
Baskets at my feet, I lean my forearms on the top rail of the fence and admire the mares.
One in the back corner, darkly dappled, most dignified and disinterested; three others all heavily pregnant, black, white, red.
All beautiful. The black creeps closer but not close enough to be petted.
I fish a ripe peach from one of the baskets and take a bite – it’s a little tart still, perfect.
The black mare paces over; I hold the fruit out to be snatched from my palm.
She dances away, snorting with glee. The other two seemingly have no interest in risking their dignity even for a treat.
‘Well done. Sorrel usually won’t come near anyone except me.’
‘Do you ever get any work done?’ I don’t turn to look at him until I sense his presence right beside me. I must be buoyed by the finding of Matthias Peppergill because the blacksmith’s presence barely annoys me.
‘Not when you’re around. Fortunately, that’s not often. Or rather fortunately for the purposes of my work ethic, less so for my amusement and distraction.’
‘Gods, if I were an idiot I’d fall back into your bed with that talk. Such charm!’ The words burst out and I don’t mean them to; he only grins. I jerk my chin towards the mares. ‘When are they due?’
‘A month, for the red and Sorrel; the white, Birch, another month after that.’
Idly, I say: ‘I’ll be needing to replace my old feather-foot soon, I think.’
‘You want to turn one of my very fine beauties into a cart horse? Plough horse? Have you gone mad?’ His offence is genuine.
I laugh. ‘No, I’ll need a heavy horse for that, but you don’t have any of those.’
‘No, but I can find one for you, though. Bargain for a good one.’
‘What cost?’
‘A kind word, Mehrab, perhaps a smile.’
‘Too expensive by half.’ I snort. ‘I might take one of the foals when they’re old enough, though. For riding.’
‘Taking up hunting, Mistress Mehrab?’ He nods at the mare nibbling at my hair. ‘Sorrel and Birch’s offspring might be gentle enough. The red? Blister? Unlikely.’
‘Blister?!’
‘Well, she was Rowan but I called her Blister because she’s fast and unpleasant. My lad’s the only one she likes. He’s got a rare gift with horses, shame he can’t settle to anything.’
I laugh hard, feel a muscle in my stomach pull a little. I don’t say that my hips and knees and ankles are getting tired of the walk into and out of Berhta’s Forge. That it’s time I gave myself a rest. ‘What if I am taking up hunting, old man?’
He bows. ‘Ah, now I’ve learned that the answer is “none of my business”, old woman.
I can keep the finest foal aside. And I’ll talk to Gaderian Beck up north at Sarith’s Ford – I’m up there soon – about another heavy horse for you – you don’t want one too young for plough and cart, too flighty, too much trouble to train, you want them working right from the start. ’
‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’ The black and white mares begin to prance, finally coming within reach, nuzzling at their master’s neck, and the tips of my fingers – still wary, still teasing; the red maintains her distance.
I can’t help but smile. There’s enough money hidden around my holding for a horse or several.
If I’m honest, there’s enough coin and gems buried to buy a castle, all carefully hoarded, by me and my predecessor.
Safer than a big city bank, the forest earth.
No one looks for it there. And fleeing witches, rebels and mothers and maidens, crabbed crones, all need coin at some point.
‘Doesn’t solve your current problem, though.’ He gestures at the baskets at my feet.
‘No. It doesn’t.’
He nods towards the dappled mare. ‘Take Rosie. I’ll saddle her.’
Before I can argue, he’s in action, talking the whole while so I can’t get a word of an argument in edgewise. I am, for a change, too tired to bicker much. Soon I’m seated on the broad back of the mature mare, baskets and sacks hung about her like festival decorations.
‘She’s calm of nature, won’t startle, and fast if need be – for short spurts, mind.
’ I wonder if he suspects something’s wrong in the woods.
That things have been looking for me there.
No. No reason he should. He’s just being charming, in hope of a later benefit, as was his way once; idly I wonder when he’ll begin to play the merry widower of Berhta’s Forge.
I’ll take this benefit now, be picky about how I pay him back when he calls in the favour – as is my way.
‘Thank you, Faolan. How will I get her back to you?’
He grins. ‘Keep her until harvest home. I’ll have a feather-foot for you by then that you can ride around like a queen in a sedan chair.’
‘What about you?’
‘You want to ride me around like a sedan chair?’ Mock surprise. ‘Well, it’s not the most flattering—’
‘What’ll you do without Rosie?’
‘Ah, not to worry. Plenty of horses here in the stables; got another half a dozen out to graze with Orin in the forest. I’ll not go short.’
I nod, urge the mount towards the path that’ll take me home. ‘Then thank you again.’
‘And I’ll see you at harvest home?’
I don’t reply, but grin knowing he can’t see me.
‘Mehrab? Mehrab?’ His chuckle is loud and rolls after me.
* * *
I shouldn’t let Faolan help me. I shouldn’t even be thinking of him, let alone owing him favours.
Then again, he is the only source of horses for leagues and leagues, and I do not propose to leave the forest – or even go just as far north as Sarith’s Ford – to buy one.
I remind myself of the hurt and burn of being cast away by him.
I wonder, again, if I’d had a child – been able to carry a child to term – would it have been different?
Would he have stayed? Would we have lasted?
I let my mind wander paths it’s not been allowed on for long years.
Then I stop.
I remind myself of his wife, the woman he chose over me.
Younger than I was, far less worldly, less questioning, far less independent.
Like most women in places like this, she took all that such a life offered: a husband, children, housework, cooking, perhaps grandchildren, then death – although in her case, death came sooner than expected.
And if she’d wanted anything different – yearned, dreamed – she buried those desires lest they interrupt the flow of existence.
She knew of me, resented me because I’d been first – it’s only a natural thing – but she still came to me when she couldn’t fall pregnant, just as Deva Peppergill had.
Children are an anchor for women such as they.
Easier to help her than Deva, with youth on her side, but in the end there was only one child.
Orin. And I’d never seen her again, not even to hear her say thank you.
Easier to help such women when I couldn’t do that for myself.
So, I remind myself now: he did not choose me. He is not mine. He hasn’t been so for a very long time, if indeed he was ever mine at all.
Still…
Harvest home.
On the green, dancing and feasting after the last of the wheat is taken to the mill for grinding and turning into flour before being returned to each householder for the coming wintertide, and spring and summer after that.
The burning of corn-dolls, the roasting of meats and vegetables, a round of meeting and mating inside and outside of matrimonial bonds with not much offence caused.
An event which I’ve never attended, except my first year in Berhta’s Forge, under Yrse’s watchful eye – or at least until she fell asleep under a tree after too much mead.
I think about Faolan, the contours of him, the feel of his skin, where it’s lighter protected from the sun by his clothing, the scars from stray embers, careless knife cuts and occasional hammer bruises; the marks where horses have taken their ill-temper out on the big man who’s nothing but gentle with them.
I shake my head. My attention is needed on the path homeward.
I remind myself I’ve had several near scrapes in recent weeks, although to be fair this morning’s was merely a stalking child.
Mooning like a lovesick girl won’t keep me safe.
So I think again about all the wrongs done me by Faolan, how my heart was broken to hear him say he would be married but not to me (even though he had asked, and I’d refused).
That he believed, though, that we would continue as we had been, but because I wouldn’t give him children (couldn’t carry one to term, and he’d not noticed, and I’d kept the secret of each miscarriage), he must have a wife.
A proper wife. And I, with no desire to ever marry, suddenly found an utter bereftness inside me that only hatred could fill, especially when I saw the girl he had replaced me with, in looks a younger version of me, sweet of face and voice.
How I avoided the village and her until the day she appeared on my doorstep, begging aid – and then again after that, avoiding the smithy and any place I might see either her or him.
Quite the feat, for all those years, to know nothing about them, to never enquire after their health or otherwise, for no one in Berhta’s Forge to ever offer gossip about them.
The memories work, and by the time I reach the cottage, I’m in a much worse mood, resenting the loan of the horse, the talk of buying a foal, of him bargaining for a heavy horse on my behalf.
Of having to speak to him again, of returning Rosie, of harvest home.
When I dismount, I see Arlo and Rhea coming out of the trees.
I wonder if they’ve hidden there all day.
I’ll warrant no work’s been done, and even though I know it’s irrational – I told them to hide – I’m irked.
I remind myself that one of the unforeseen advantages of the summer husband is that he’s kept Rhea uninterested in the village.
She no longer asks about accompanying me and no one’s seen her except Anselm and Gida, and they think her family.
‘Mehrab! What happened?’ Rhea rushes up, trailed by the summer husband; her expression is one of relief. ‘Are you all right? Whose horse is this? Who was the child?’
She rattles out her questions rapid and staccato as a hailstorm – I think the fact that her summer husband cannot speak is wearing, the conversation a lack.
Rather than answer, I say: ‘Arlo, the vegetable patch – there’ll be ripened things that need picking before the birds find them. Off you go now.’
I say it as I have to previous summer husbands over the years – possibly even more politely since this one’s not really mine – and they’ve all obeyed with alacrity.
Today it’s the garden, in a week more it’ll be the wheat needing to be scythed, gathered up, tied by Rhea and me in the wake of Arlo’s cutting, ready for threshing.
A week after that, the hay must be cut and baled and stacked in the barn.
The small fields grow enough to see two to three mouths through winter snows, and enough set by for spring and summer, but it’s the job of several days to harvest and thresh it, then put it in sacks and load it into the cart, hitch up old Fyren and coax him along with the right treats into the village mill.
There’s a schedule to be adhered to so we don’t get behind, don’t miss the best chance for harvest, at least a dozen other tasks needing to be done.
And, in spite of my temper, I’ve said it casually, kindly enough; bitten down on my ill-humour for it’s not their fault I’m in a mood, not this time at least. Not to start with.
And this is the work he was made for, his very reason for existing. When he looks away from me to Rhea for her word, it’s such a tiny thing, such a slight gaze, such a glancing blow, but it has the effect of a punch. He does as he’s meant to, but it’s at her command, not mine.
It’s all I can do to keep my temper, to throw Rhea the reins and tell her to take care of poor Rosie while I heft baskets inside.