Chapter 19 #2
Around the manor proper were clustered farm buildings of many sorts, almost like a smaller village within the town. Here stood a brewhouse and several stables, henhouses and cookhouses and cottages for those who worked the baron’s demesne. And finally, we came to the manor itself.
Which was cut off from the rest of the town by an enormous iron portcullis.
My gorge rose, my blood seemed to retreat from the surface of my skin.
Every fiber of my being cried out to get away, get away, this is no place for you, Bess-who-is-not.
I should have listened to the Fool, should have stayed close to Carterhaugh, should not have allowed this mortal shepherd to drag me so far away.
I should have stayed in the woods and waited for twilight, for the Veil to open and let me go home.
The choice was all mine. I steadied myself with these words, breathing deeply as we followed a cart bearing timbers across the drawbridge, though I could think of nothing but the portcullis slamming down, spikes of iron piercing into my flesh.
Would the iron cauterize my wounds even while it pierced my skin?
Would I die, or remain forever skewered by those rods of the poisoned metal?
I swallowed hard not to become sick.
But the portcullis did not fall, and soon we found ourselves standing in a square courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls.
Before us stood the manor house itself, several stories high, with rounded corners and roofed battlements.
The walls were rubble, the windows were few, some of them covered with iron bars.
I could not imagine being cut off from the outside world so.
Sequestered from all nature, from the living plants which fed and nourished us, the creatures of the wild who were our kin.
At the front of the building was a small chapel, raising in me discomfort of another sort.
Ever would I grow ill from the symbols of the Christ. Even the acceptance I had now gained among the Christians could not change that.
And the door was bound with iron bands. I could not have felt less welcomed to the baron’s home if he had filled it with traps!
But I was committed now, and let Thomas lead me inside.
We found ourselves in an enormous hall, with servants in blue-and-gold livery scurrying about like Thomas’s sheep freshly let from their fold. Iron stank all around me; keys hung at the throat and waist; buckles and brooches. It filled my lungs like smoke from a poorly vented hearth.
There could surely be no place more toxic for me, no place less welcoming save the kirk itself. And speaking of kirks, had not the chapel been one of the first structures we encountered when we entered the courtyard? The sight of the cross had burned into my eyes and sickened me to the bone.
The shepherd does not know how I suffer for his sake. But he will learn, and he will pay.
No.
Thomas was my own true love, and ignorant of my suffering. It had been my choice to come.
I kept my breath steady and my face placid, calming myself against the unwholesome miasma around me. I put a hand to my forehead and stared at Thomas with beseeching eyes.
But he gazed around himself with a studied lack of curiosity. His eyebrows twitched, as if they wanted to raise but he would not allow it. “This house,” he said, in a distracted tone. “It seems smaller somehow.”
I found that hard to believe.
Thomas swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I was twelve when I left,” he continued. “Just me and Cullen. A boy and his dog against the world.”
Nearly the same age as I had been when Mairi Grieve took ill, and I changed from not-daughter to full-time caretaker. Such burdens we had faced, so very young.
“You have done well for yourself.” I placed a hand upon his shoulder. “If the baron cannot see that, it is his folly, not yours.”
Thomas covered my hand with his own and we stood a moment, while the liveried servants bustled about.
Suddenly Thomas shook his head and looked at me. “My Bess,” he said. “How weary you must be. Let me find someone to announce us and show us to our rooms.”
My sore feet cried out in relief, and I gave him a sweet smile and nod. And yet: Rooms? He meant two. Must we ever be plagued by mortal ideas of propriety? But I was too exhausted to argue the point.
“Beg pardon.” Thomas hailed one of the grooms who scurried past. The man did not notice. Thomas waved at another servant, who headed down the corridor towards us, but the man turned and went another way. It seemed rude.
“We have entered a house of illness,” Thomas said, by way of explanation, “and at harvest time to boot.”
I considered our bedraggled clothing. “I suppose they do not recognize the young boy who left the manor many years ago.”
“But I do,” said a female voice behind us.
We both turned to face the most elegant young woman I had ever seen.
Her gown was fitted, though not snug, and in two colors: red and blue. I had only ever seen kirtles of one hue. She wore a diaphanous veil over her coiled and braided hair, a cross at her throat, and a belt at her waist dangling with small tools and keys. All iron, of course.
I took a step back.
Thomas, on the other hand, did drop to one knee before her, removing his hood.
I stared a moment, not seeing my merry shepherd in this reverent young man. Then I dropped to one knee myself.
When we stood again, Thomas met the young woman’s eyes. “Little Maggie?”
She laughed demurely. “No one has called me that in many years.”
Little Maggie? My belly sunk. I cleared my throat.
“Where are my manners?” Thomas asked. “Margaret, this is Bess. Bess, this is Margaret of Roxburgh, my old friend.”
And my heart clenched, as though it were trapped in an iron vise.