Spindle's End (7 page)

She sat down. She had to sit down. If Pernicia herself had appeared in that little grove and ordered her to hand the princess over, Katriona would still have sat down. She tried to arrange the princess on her knee, but sleeping babies are intransigently floppy, and Katriona, while she had had a good bit of experience with babies, was not at her best, and her hands were shaking. The princess lay like a little crushed parcel, snoring faintly.

Katriona tried to take stock. Most of her few possessions were back in the little cubby at the pub with no chance of reclaiming them. She would have to hope that no conclusions were drawn about their abandonment. She was wearing her charm-skirt (now tucked tactfully under her ordinary skirt, so that she didn’t look such a bumpkin), and her few remaining ha’pennies, her small folding knife, and her flint and tinder were in her pocket with Barder’s egret. She was wearing her best clothes, which she had been a little ashamed of as not at all best enough for a princess’ name-day, but their lackluster appearance now would be useful, when she had no others, and they were, furthermore, both comfortable and durable. Better yet was the fact that she was wearing her cloak, not because she had thought she would need it, but because it was the newest thing she owned; she would miss her blanket at night, but at least with the cloak they wouldn’t freeze. Nearer home even in midsummer there was no guarantee of warm nights. She unwound the scarf that went round her neck, crossed her breast, and tied at her waist; it was not ideal for the purpose, but she could use it for a baby-sling.

Then she lifted her outer skirt and detached one of the charms, the one that made the wearer look too poor and ordinary to be worth a passing glance. She hoped that all her charms would include a baby that she carried—not a contingency she had thought to verify with her aunt beforehand—but this one she tucked down inside the princess’ clothing. It had been made up with robbers and thugs in mind; she hoped it would include royal messengers desperately searching for some sign of the missing princess and her kidnapper. It was the best she could do.

She unwrapped, and snipped off, the long ribbons of gold and lavender, and the pink rosettes, that the princess was wearing; even her smallclothes were so white as to be dazzling, and far too finely made to be anything other than what they were, clothing for a princess on her name-day. Well, there was nothing to be done about that; she didn’t have a charm for producing baby clothes out of oak leaves; and after a few days they would be as grimy as she could wish—rather more grimy than she could wish—and she wasn’t planning on letting anyone near enough to examine the quality of the stitching. After a moment’s hesitation she stuffed the bright ribbons into another pocket in her petticoat. She didn’t want to leave them to be found, and she had no good way of disposing of them; furthermore she had some unhappy sense that they might be the only symbols of her heritage the poor little princess had remaining to her.

Lastly she tucked the sabre-bearer’s amulet under her dress, wondering what the small person—she didn’t even know her name—had meant by “That explains one thing.” Did the small person know the sabre-bearer, and his tendency to befriend undistinguished strangers with gifts of great magic? Or was she only referring to the fact that the amulet had let Katriona cross the barrier Pernicia had not been able to break? At least the weight and throb of it were gone; it rested lightly against her, almost too lightly, as if the string that held it together were all it was made of, and the queerly translucent stones were mist or imagining.

Then she stood up and started walking. She did not know what else to do. The sun told her which way to walk; she was going home.

There were, that evening, surprisingly few people on the roads, and those there were seemed absorbed in their own concerns. There was an air of tension everywhere, but Katriona was not sure if this might merely be the tension she carried with her. Her legs were used to heavy loads, but she was accustomed to panniers or backpacks to carry them; after a few hours of carrying the princess her shoulders and arms were tired, and her back sore. She would get used to it; she had to.

When a flying wedge of horsemen wearing the royal livery shot past her—the bugler giving warning for everyone to fall out of the way—it was all Katriona could do not to shriek out loud; and she wasn’t at all sure that what she wanted to shriek wasn’t, “Here, I’ve got her! It’s all a terrible mistake! Please, take her back to her poor parents!” But she didn’t; and no one looked twice at the young woman with the anguished face carrying the sleeping baby in a sling.

As twilight deepened into night and Katriona trudged on, she thought, I must have milk for her. I dare not ask to buy milk while we are still so close to the city because I do not want anyone to wonder why I am carrying an unweaned baby not my own; but . . .

Perhaps it was some lingering effect of the small fairy’s charm; perhaps it was merely Katriona’s own dogged determination. But she did not stop that night, and the princess never woke. Katriona knew she should wonder if the princess were sick; but she was too grateful for the respite. Once they were out into wilder country it would be easier.

 

It was easier, but it was not easy. At the end of that first centuries-long night, Katriona struggled into a bit of hedgerow with a shaggy bank that hid them from the road, and fell into an exhausted sleep. She was awoken too few hours later by a thin, miserable, hungry wail from the princess, who was sopping and dirty besides. Katriona dealt with the more immediately disagreeable problem with a few strips hacked from her petticoat, and then, since she couldn’t spare anything potentially reusable, rolled up the smelly, disgusting mess of the princess’ underclothes, wrapped it in another strip torn from her petticoat, and tucked it grimly into the sling under the baby. The princess, still fretful, found motion distracting, and only whinged and grizzled as Katriona staggered down to the road again and set off, looking sharply round her for any sign of water.

There was a stream, fortunately, not far away, and she fought her way upstream through low-hanging shrubs till they were a little out of sight of the high road, drank deeply herself, splashed her face savagely in an attempt to wake herself up, laid the princess’ discarded nappy in the stream and put a stone on it to soak, and set about trying to persuade the princess to drink a little water. It wasn’t food any more than it was for Katriona, but neither of them had had even water since midday the day before, and breakfast was still somewhere in the future.

She contrived a twist out of another bit of her petticoat—it was disappearing fast, and she needed its pockets—which the princess seized on with no hesitation and sucked eagerly till she discovered it wasn’t what she wanted, whereupon she spat it out and began to scream with real rage, turning red with effort and throwing herself round.

“Oh, magic and glory, what do I do now?” said Katriona aloud, beginning to panic; but her ear registered certain little rustlings in the bushes and forced her mind to take note.
Good morning, sir,
she said, because the old dog-fox was watching her and the princess with interest.

Hungry baby,
he said, surprising her; foxes generally wanted to talk about butterflies and grass and weather for a long time while they sized you up—if they would talk to you at all. Even in that country foxes didn’t much like having human beings who could talk to them—and even in that country those who could were rare enough—and were not inclined to be helpful to any fairy. Katriona was already a little surprised that this one had brought himself to her attention in the first place; but she was always polite to animals, and a fox might know where the nearest field with calved cows in it was.
Yes,
she said sadly,
and I have no milk.

Not your baby,
said the fox.

No,
she began, and then said firmly,
I am not her mother, but she is mine to care for.

Foxes have a sense of humour, and she felt this one expressing his, since she manifestly was not taking good care of the princess at present. She looked at him, scowling, reminding herself that she still had a favour to ask him.

Wife had pups, fifteen days ago,
said the dog-fox.

Katriona managed not to say, Well how nice for you both, but she thought the fox could guess what she hadn’t said, and if foxes laughed, he would have laughed louder. She had picked the princess up, and was trying to cradle her, but the princess wasn’t having any of it: she wanted breakfast—she wanted yesterday’s tea and supper—and she wanted them
now.
Tiny fists can hurt quite a lot when they hit you in the face. Katriona lowered her to her lap, and hung on. Maybe she would wear out soon.

Wife has milk,
said the fox.

Katriona’s head shot up and she stared at him. He was crouched on the bank above her, his red coat perfectly camouflaged by the last winter’s leaves still caught in the hedgerow, below this year’s green. She was so startled she forgot to be polite.
Why do you want to help us?
she said.

Not foxy, to help human?
said the fox, smiling a fox smile.
No. Like babies. Even human babies. Yours makes too much noise.

Katriona knew what he was saying; noise in the wild was dangerous—and he didn’t know the half of it.
I don’t know how to make her quiet. She’s angry because she’s hungry.

The fox jumped down from the bank and put his nose to the princess’ screwed-up, beetroot-coloured, shrieking face, and stoically withstood two bashes from those heavy little fists before she registered the arrival of another presence. Katriona held her breath. The princess opened her eyes, and her shrieks fell off into more hesitant wails. She grasped one of the fox’s ears and pulled. He flinched, but put his tongue out and licked her, and she laughed. It was rather a hoarse laugh, but it was a laugh.

Quickly now,
he said, withdrew his head (giving it a shake, as if to resettle his ears, and his nose, where the princess had struck him), and trotted off, upstream. The princess gave another cry at her new toy being so abruptly withdrawn, but her tantrum had worn her out, and on a too-long empty stomach she didn’t have the strength to start in again. Almost as suddenly as blowing out a candle she fell asleep again, although she grizzled in her sleep, and her little face was frowning, her mouth set and the corners turned emphatically down, in the unequivocal way of unhappy babies.

Katriona snatched up the nappies from the water, and held them at arm’s length while they streamed—at least the running water had cleaned them fairly well—supporting the baby sling with the other arm. She ached all over, and was herself dizzy with hunger, and her held-out arm kept dropping involuntarily to her side, wetting her skirt and that ankle and foot. The foot began to squelch in its shoe.

Katriona expected an argument from the fox’s wife, but she followed him out of their den almost as soon as the fox had gone in, with motherliness radiating off her like heat from a fire. She licked the princess’ face, and the princess woke, and obligingly pulled her ears, but she was weeping before she was properly awake, a thin, despairing wail, and it hurt Katriona’s heart to hear her.

Put her down beside me,
said the vixen.
Lay her as if she were—a puppy. She’s too big for me to move. I’ll do the rest.

And she did. Katriona wondered if the fox cubs whimpered for their breakfast that day, for the princess emptied the contents of several nipples before she fell asleep again, this time smiling and rosy.
Thank you,
said Katriona.
Thank you, thank you. Can I . . .
she hesitated.
Is there anything at all I can do for you? I—I’m not a real fairy. I can’t do much. I’m sorry.

What’s your name?
said the dog-fox.

Katriona,
Katriona said in surprise.

Well, Katriona,
said the dog-fox,
if a fox ever calls you Katriona, you must come to its rescue. Will you do that?

Yes,
said Katriona, and felt the fox’s sense of humour again, although it had a bitter edge.
Yes,
said the dog-fox.
I believe you. I had been watching you some time before I spoke, this morning, and I might not have let you know I was there.

Sleep here now,
said the vixen, as Katriona wearily began shrugging herself back into the sling.
We’ll keep watch. I can give her one more meal before you set out again. But only one. Or
my
babies will howl.
Fox cubs didn’t howl, but Katriona acknowledged the joke. She fell asleep so quickly she cracked her head against the ground lying down.

 

She opened her eyes to the sound of delighted infant laughter: the princess was playing catch with the dog-fox’s tail. The rest of him was lying just out of her reach—she couldn’t quite roll over yet, although she was trying—and he tickled her face with his brush, and then flicked it away as she grabbed for it. She thought this was a delicious game, and waved and kicked, and sneezed. Katriona couldn’t see any obvious tufts of fur gone, and she rather thought the old fox was having a good time. Fleas, she thought. Never mind. I will find some wild garlic for the fleas.

The thought of wild garlic made her stomach give a sudden shriek of its own, almost as loud as the princess’ as she once again missed her grab, and equally suddenly Katriona realised she was smelling food. Fox dens do tend to be a bit redolent of past fox dinners, but this was . . . she sat up and turned round and saw a meat pie lying on a bit of bare earth near her. It looked as if it had had a rather hard journey, but it was indubitably a meat pie.

The dog-fox said,
It’s for you. Sorry about the teethmarks. I was in a bit of a hurry.

Katriona had eaten it all almost before the fox finished speaking. She sighed.
I can only thank you again,
she said.
And again and again.