Of Sorrow and Such (6 page)

The sky is still dark when I reach my home, though there are wisps of pale light streaking up high. Inside, Fenric sits by the front door, whimpering at being left alone yet again. He follows me to my room, where I change into trousers, a thick shirt, and stout boots. He’s at my heels as I run down to the cellar, and there’s something of a dance in his step as if he senses we will be travelling once more. I lever up the flagstone with a twist of bent iron, and heave aside the slab. I brush away the thin layer of soil and there it is, Wynne’s book wrapt tight in an oilcloth. Next I push the panel to the hidden room and grab one of the satchels therein, for there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to reach the alder grove. I seal the chamber once more; no reason why anyone else should benefit from my hard-earned savings, and I cannot carry too much. I slide the book into the bag, then stretch, feeling the ache in my bones that comes with age and insufficient exercise. The evening’s activities have reminded me how sedentary I’ve become. The thought of the open road, of running, holds a strange anticipation that I do not quite understand. Perhaps it’s a taste of what Wynne loved so much, of what kept her on the move.

It’s not lost on me that I’m doing precisely what I wouldn’t let Flora do: go back for something. But I tell myself it’s not frivolous, not jewellery or clothing or any other kind of replaceable frippery. My mother’s book is the only link to her I’ve got left, apart from my blood, the only inheritance she ever gave me, and keeping it has been a balm to my conscience over the years, the only sign of loyalty I’ve been able to make in all this time, the sole apology I could give for setting her aside.

As I take to the stairs again, I wonder if I should torch the place, draw attention here while I slip away, but then there is the sound of someone at the front entrance. Not a polite knocking, either. Out through the kitchen and into the garden, Fenric close by me. I’m almost at the bramble way when there’s a noise to my right. As I turn to look there’s a pain in my head, an explosion of light, which soon becomes black and I know nothing more.

“Is she awake?”

It takes time for me to come fully to my senses. The left of my skull aches infernally and I cannot open the eye on that side. I panic, try to touch it and find that I cannot move. I take a deep sobbing breath, try to clear my mind: my hands are tied behind my back, the fingers grown numb. I am sitting on a chair, or rather am bound to it, and have been for some time judging by the heaviness in my legs and the ache in my back.

Have I been blinded? It takes me a moment to figure: dried blood from the head wound, a crust has formed over the lid and held it in place. Just a little warm water and I shall see perfectly well once again. I let the breath out and with it some tension, some fear. I’m not dead yet and while there is a skerrick of life in me I will fight for it, fan it into a great flame that will blaze upward and consume anyone who tries to hurt me.

I focus on those in front of me. The two churchmen, both grey-haired, grey-faced, merciless; their eyes brown as shit. Thin men, puffed with the importance of what they do for their idea of God. One bends to look into my face.

“Are you awake?” he asks loudly as if I’m an idiot. His breath smells like rot and I flinch instinctively, to find death seemingly so present.

“Of course I am, you dullard.” Indignantly, I say, “What is this? Why are you treating me thus?”

“You know very well, sorceress,” thunders the other, but I notice he doesn’t get too close. Loudest declamation equals the greatest fear. He’ll be most dangerous. I choose to ignore him, direct my remarks to the first man; not that I think he’ll be any more reasonable, but it will annoy the fearful one.

“I only know I was set upon after I left my home to return to my adopted daughter at the gaol. We’d spoken earlier and I wanted to take her something warm and clean—those cells are cold even in full summer.”

“Surely she could shift herself a fur coat?” sneers angry-frightened.

I don’t even deign to look at him. “I’ve no idea who did this to me. I’ve done no wrong.” I will lie and lie and lie for as long as I can. “Where is Gilly? Have you hurt her? I wish to speak with her. And where is Fenric? Where is my dog?”

“The beast is safe, but the girl . . . well, perhaps she is safe too. She’s gone, Mistress Gideon, but you already know that. You let her out.”

I shake my head. “No, Haddon Maundy took me to see her. She asked me to get her some warm clothing. When I went back upstairs Maundy had fallen asleep.” They look uneasy at that; it sounds like the truth. “If I’d let her out I’d have done it then and we’d be far from here, but she was still in the cells when I left. Ask Flora Brautigan what happened.”

“Mistress Brautigan has met her end,” intones a voice from behind me. I don’t recognise it, but imagine who it is. I’d not thought anyone would find her so soon, but if they came with dogs . . .

“Her poor husband. He did not deserve such disloyalty from her. Is he coping? And his sister, how is she?”

“Enough of this! This is not a social gathering.” The aggressive churchman pushes his fellow aside and waves a piece of yellowed paper at me. I recognise one of the flyers Charity Alhgren showed me, with Selke’s lovely face sketched so poorly on it. “This woman is the principal reason for our visit here. Where is she?”

“I don’t know her—how would I know where she is?”

“She was seen in your house not long ago. You harboured her.”

“It’s a lie, and a stupid one at that.”

“Beau Markham would have it otherwise.”

Little shit, I should have buried him.

“Beau Markham will say anything to hurt me, for I warned him away from my daughter.”

“The daughter who was in the company of a known shifter-witch.”

“So you claim, but I’ve seen no evidence of it. She was never in the company of Flora Brautigan before last night.”

“Ina Brautigan would have it otherwise,” says the voice from behind me. I swallow hard.

Ina.

Balthazar Cotton moves into my line of sight. He’s got none of his brother’s beauty, none of the charm. He’s a blunt creature, as subtle as a hammer blow, and as unpleasant.

“Miss Brautigan says Flora and Gilly have consorted for some months, though she knew not for what purpose.” He grins and it’s an ugly thing. He holds up Wynne’s grimoire. “But perhaps you know more about it than we do and could be encouraged to share your knowledge?”

Now I’ve a swollen lip to go with my injured eye. Whenever I try to open the lid there’s a slight cracking of the crust, weak pinpricks of light show, but it hurts too much to continue. My ears still ring with the blows administered by Balthazar Cotton, who’s offered his services as willing enforcer for the men in purple. They’ll not get their hands dirty, but they’re more than happy to watch while the merchant goes to work, piety disguising his pleasure in causing pain; strangely, he is careful not to break anything—perhaps concerned that it might hasten my demise and curtail his enjoyment. Bless their black little hearts, they’ve told him
no rape.
Not because of any great moral stand, but because they tremble at the thought of any kind of intercourse, shudder at the idea that any sort of contact with a witch might turn their man’s head and heart. The clerics don’t care about the torment inflicted, they think anything done in the service of their God is holy, but they’re smart enough to recognise when a person can’t take much more agony, and they’ve elected to spend some hours in respite, eating and drinking, sleeping, gathering their energies.

In those hours of misery I’ve kept my mind focused on a single thing, swearing to myself over and over that I will have revenge. I have no elaborate plans; any death at my hands will please me well enough.

I drowse, trying to effect some kind of recovery while I can. When I hear the door open—these aren’t the cells beneath Maundy’s house, and I don’t recognise where I’m being kept—I tense, feel my heartbeat kick up to rabbit-pace. Whoever enters remains to the left and I must turn my head, slowly, painfully, to see the visitor. Ina, dressed in full mourning, wears a thick veil over her face; it’s attached to her hair with pins of jet shaped like daisies. Finery I’ve never seen on her.

“My, what pretty baubles,” I manage with my parched throat and fat lip.

She lifts her veil and it is slow movement. Under her right eye is a bruise, purpling with a dark red edge.

“A gift from my brother,” she says. “An
apology.
”

“You sold me cheaply. I do hope there’s a necklace and brooch to go with them. Surely I’m worth a set of earrings, too?”

“Did you do it?” she asks softly and it gives me some comfort, that she speaks quietly so any conspirators outside might not hear. “Flora . . . ?”

The truth is that I would lie if I could, if I could see that she did not already know. I would lie to her and swear that Balthazar Cotton had done it in his thwarted desire. I might even convince her now, if my heart were in it. I nod slowly and swallow with the little spittle I can muster.

“I released her and Gilly. Took them to Edda’s Bath, told them to run, but Flora would not leave.” I see a spark of hope in her eyes. “Would not leave without
her things.
She did not mention you.”

Her face collapses. I do not say anything that might soften the ache. She’ll need the pain if she’s to survive.

“She would have returned to gather her jewels and dresses into travelling trunks, would have taken the carriage and possibly a servant to do her hair. She’d have been caught and given us all up to God’s hounds.” Breathing too deeply hurts my ribs. “As you gave me up to them.”

“Karol asked who would have killed her,” she says, pointing to her eye. “I wanted to do the least damage possible. They already had you.”

“You could have defended me,” I say bitterly. “For all you have owed me.”

“They said you had a grimoire. To support you would have been to taint myself. There are no sinless women as far as these men are concerned, only those who are too afraid to keep secrets. I gave them you in order to make others safe. It’s what you would have done.”

“You’ll burn as surely as I will, Ina Brautigan. The flames are no great respecters of either position or innocence,” I hiss bitterly. “I can throw you to the wolves as easily as you did me.”

“You killed Flora!” she howls in a voice that must be heard.

“And you should thank me, otherwise it would be you here beside me and all of your shifter-sisters.” I sigh, a long trembling thing. “Did you warn them?”

She nods. “Most are remaining here, better not to draw attention by fleeing. The churchmen have you, perhaps they will be content.”

“I don’t know their names, true. But I know you, Ina, and I’d welcome your company when they roast me in the town square.” Her eyes turn black with panic. “So, you’ll tell me what I want to know.” She gives a short, sharp nod. “Where am I?”

“In the cellar of Pastor Alhgren’s house.” She gives a mirthless grin. “He’s been lamenting the loss of Gilly. If he weren’t so scared of the archbishop’s men I think he might argue that she’s been led astray by you, might yet be redeemed. I think he’s terrified of having no replacement wife.”

“Poor Charity,” I say. “And they’ve not found my Gilly-girl? Or Selke?”

“The woman the clerics seek? No. No sign of either.”

“And Fenric? Where is he?”

“They’ve got him chained in the yard. He’s not best pleased.”

“Release him, if you can, Ina. Please.”

“I shall.”

“I’ll ask one last thing of you: I need waterweed from Edda’s Bath.” She looks askance at me. “Don’t come here again, they will be suspicious. Give it to Charity.”

She opens her mouth, perhaps to protest.

“Ina,” I say softly. “I know what lies at the bottom of the pond. I know what lies beside the man you killed and I know why you bind your breasts each morning and wear such heavy perfume.”

Her eyes grow wide. “How can you . . . ?”

“Just do as I ask. Remember that I hold secrets for which you might well burn.”

She nods slowly, then leaves, the door softly thudding behind her, and I am alone once more.

Every ill feeling in me calls out to hurt her, to betray her in turn. Every stabbing breath tells me I’m a fool to protect her, but I cannot help but think she’s right: she did what I might have done, sacrificing one life to protect others. Why else did I kill Flora?

The door opens again and I am surprised to find Karol Brautigan before me.

I seldom see him, for he does not come to me for medicine, nor for social reasons, and in general I avoid him as best I can. He’s one of those insecure men who wields his money like a weapon, buying a pretty bride, and keeping his sister in a state of financial dependence. A man whose determination to have what he wanted sent Erika Strauss out of her wits, ground her down and ruined her business when she refused his demand that she sell the mill that had been in her family for seven generations. And she, finding neither funds nor friends to hand—none would cross Master Brautigan—saw no hope for herself or her offspring. While her husband was out chopping wood that he thought might keep them through the coming winter, she put their three small children to bed and strangled them before throwing a rope up over the beam in the kitchen, looping the noose around her neck, and stepping off the stool she’d climbed upon. Her husband, returned to find his family eradicated, his home smelling of shit and piss and death, took another rope and made a place for himself beside his wife.

Dark glances were cast at Karol for a long time after that. He bought the mill for a song from the town council in which all heirless estates rest, then increased his almsgiving fivefold. People accepted it but watched him with suspicion:
Keep an eye on both his hands,
they said,
the one gives over the benefaction and the other might hold a rope or a knife.
This is the story I had from Haddon Maundy after one of our first encounters when I’d not been long in Edda’s Meadow. He told it with shame and fear, and I wondered how many other townsfolk felt the weight of Erika Strauss and her family swinging at their necks because they’d done nothing to help. How many prayed extra hard over their babies’ cribs that Karol Brautigan wouldn’t get an idea in his head or a desire in his heart that would set another such tragedy in motion?

Ina and I had joked about him being troll-like, loving nothing but his gold and his bright, shiny, selfish spouse. He should look like an evil creature, all his sins should be writ large upon his round plain face. But now, Karol Brautigan looks like nothing so much as a sad, crumpled man lost without his silly wife.

I think he is here to ask questions about Flora. But there’s no sign of anger, only anxiety; there is sweat on his brow and he is pale and shaking. Strangely his breath smells like mint as he breathes out, “Ina? Is Ina one of them?”