The Woman Inside

The Woman Inside

by

Autumn Dawn

(c) copyright June 2003 Autumn Beaudreault
Cover art by Eliza Black
(c) copyright June 2003
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake
Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter 1

In a land long ago, and far away....

Ceylon stared at the deep red paste in her mortar. Twenty-three years of
being ugly was about to change. Twenty-three years of being the ‘horror of
Marksheath’ was nearly over.

Eyes on the mirror, Ceylon briskly rubbed the bloodroot paste over the red
stain on her left cheek. She’d been born with it, had endured the pity and
revulsion of strangers over it, but by all that was holy she would not endure it
another day.

Herb lore had fascinated Ceylon since she was a little girl, and she’d spent
a great deal of time accumulating knowledge and experimenting on herself. The
results of her studies filled several journals that she was combining into a
book. Many tomes, both ancient copies and modern translations by other authors,
filled several of the shelves in her workplace. Jars of herbs and pots of
ointments, pills and tinctures took up the remaining space.

Her jaw tightened as she replaced the tiny pot’s lid. Ugly, reclusive and a
spinster, she knew she might have been perilously close to being labeled a witch
had she had anyone but the Squire for a father. Even when they fought he was a
wall between her and any who would harm her.

Those he knew about, anyway.

She closed her eyes on the memory of old hurts and reassured herself that the
paste would work. The small mole she’d tested it on had gotten red, scabbed and
fallen off, hadn’t it? Better yet, with a little help from her healing salve it
had healed without a scar. The wretched birthmark would go, too.

She stared at herself in the mirror, anticipation making her breath come
fast. It was time to discover what hid beneath.

One year later....

“It’s said she can turn the sorriest hag into a beauty to rival Venus.”
Seeing that all eyes were on him, the velvet-clad courtier bowed low before her
Majesty, Queen Callion of the Nine Kingdoms. Queen Callion inclined her head, a
slight frown on her face as she listened. She’d heard such promises before.

Her sisters, the princesses, were far more eager. “Tell us more!” The eldest,
and largest, of the three demanded, leaning forward. “Was she truly the ugliest
maiden in the land?”

“Worse,” assured the courtier, who had never laid eyes on the woman in
question. He hoped it was true, for the anticipated reward for success in this
matter would be rich.

The middle sister, as scrawny as her sister was plump, eyed him suspiciously.
The lower half of her face was covered in a veil to hide the many warts on her
chin. Even exorcism hadn’t been able to cure the stubborn affliction. “You say
she cures warts?”

He snapped his be-ringed fingers. “As easy as this.”

“And skin blemishes?” Breathed the youngest, who was covered in terrible
pimples.

“Of course! And for a basket of eggs she’ll even cure boils.”

The princesses exhaled as one and turned hopeful eyes to their sister, the
Queen.

Her majesty suppressed the urge to sigh. What would it hurt? It was a
certainty that she would never be able to arrange marriages for her sisters in
their present state.

She caught the courtier’s eye and lifted one imperious finger. “Bring her to
me.”

* * * *

Ceylon eyed the caged chicken. The chicken stared back in dismay. It was
clear that the relationship was never going to work.

Loath to let down the hopeful peasant woman, she said reluctantly, “I’m
afraid that I have plenty of chickens just now....”

The woman’s face fell.

“But if it were to come back in the form of a pie....” Ceylon had eaten one
too many chicken pies lately, but surely she could choke down another. Most of
the people who came to her for help didn’t have much, but their pride insisted
that they pay her however they could. Unfortunately, livestock was the method of
choice.

The woman beamed, revealing two missing teeth. “Bless you, lass! I make a
chicken pie like no other. This fellow will be ready for you by supper.” She
patted the wicker cage.

Ceylon slanted the alarmed bird a wry look, popped her lips and looked away.
“Right. Now how can I help you?”

The farmer’s wife planted her bottom on the kitchen bench and bent over, her
frowzy head disappearing beneath the table as she did something with her shoes.
“It’s me feet.” She freed one and held the large appendage up where Ceylon could
see it. “I’ve got fungus.”

Ceylon bit her bottom lip and raised her brows, swallowing a laugh as the
woman plopped her foot in Ceylon’s lap and looked at her expectantly. She
cradled the ankle in her hand and raised the foot to the light. “All right,
then. Let’s see what we can do for you.”

The fungus had eaten into the woman’s toenails and spread all over the foot,
but Ceylon had confidence that they could cure it.

“Just remember to soak it in vinegar, keep it dry and use those herbs I gave
you,” she instructed the woman as she walked her to the door. A line of six
people waited on the firewood rounds she had stacked along the stone walk.
Ceylon nodded to them. “Sunset’s coming, so you will be my last patients for the
day. Tell whoever comes next to take a marker to be in line tomorrow.” She
gestured toward the peg in her wall that held the wooden vouchers that indicated
the line up order for the morning. Of course, that was up to her discretion.
Often she took someone who was badly injured or very sickly in ahead of everyone
else.

Ceylon considered it bad form to let a patient expire while waiting for her
services.

She hadn’t set out to become the village healer. Certainly she’d never seen
herself birthing babies or dispensing cures for sexual diseases. In her quest
for a cure for herself, she had simply gathered all the knowledge she could
find, on whatever subject. It had become second nature to share that knowledge
with others, and after word got out about the miraculous cure of her face,
everyone had wanted to consult with her. Now it was all she could do to keep up
with the demand.

Not that I mind terribly, she thought with a smile as she sat down to her
solitary dinner later that night. After all, the occasional wealthy customer
paid in good coin.

She snorted and cut a flaky bite of pie, careful not to think about who was
in it. The rich were a carbuncle on the face of the land. Ceylon didn’t have
much use for them, but she wasn’t above taking their money. Compassion dictated
that she treat them as she would anyone else, but it burned her that the very
women who’d shunned her now came to her seeking beauty treatments. Oh, how
satisfying when she had a legitimate reason to send them away, for she had no
desire to play the beauty consultant. And if she too often had exactly what they
needed? Well, there was the soothing clink of all that money.

Mmm. Nice gravy. She’d have to compliment Mrs. Prawn.

She’d hardly tasted the first bite when a rapping sounded on her chamber
door. “Who is it?” she called, already guessing who the visitor might be. She
rose to get another plate.

The door swung open and a tall lad of sixteen stuck his head in. A lock of
his shaggy black hair, haphazardly tied back in a queue, flopped into one blue
eye. Immediately, his gaze fixed on her pie. “Evening, Miss Ceylon.”

Ceylon smirked and slid the plate across the table. The lad had a habit of
showing up just at mealtimes, but in truth, she didn’t mind the company. “Have a
seat, Raven.”

He didn’t waste breath pretending he was there by coincidence, but sat down
and helped himself to a big slab of pie.

Half amused, half sympathetic, Ceylon watched as he wolfed down the pie and
then stared longingly at what was left in the pan. She gestured to it with her
cup. “Have another.”

Raven, as he was called for his scavenger ways, had been on his own since a
falling tree limb had felled his woodcutter father. She’d fallen into the habit
of feeding him in the last few months. In return, he helped her out by doing
some of the wood-cutting and other chores, freeing her time to spend with her
books and patients.

She eyed his ragged tunic and boyish beard, barely suppressing the urge to
mother him into cleaning up. He’d resent it, no doubt. Still, someone had to do
something about his situation.

“You know, Raven, I’ve been thinking.” She sipped her coffee, forming the
words carefully in her mind. “I know you’ve got no interest in herb lore--”

He snorted. “Witch’s business.” At her glare he added hastily, “Not that
you’re a witch, but woman’s work is no way for a man to spend his time. Grubbing
around in the woods, collecting flowers.” He grimaced. “I can’t be seen doing
that.”

Her lips twitched. A man, was it? Well, let the boy have his dignity. “Hm. Be
that as it may, there are still plenty of things around here that need doing. If
you’re interested I wouldn’t mind hiring you as a permanent hand.”

Raven’s eyes lit up, but he was careful not to seem too eager. The chance at
a regular meal in these hard times was too rare. “What did you have in
mind?”

Just like a fish on a hook. Ceylon spread her fingers and studied her blunt
nails critically. “You’ll need to learn sums and letters. I can’t have an
assistant who isn’t good at taking notes and managing transactions.”

A pained look crossed his face. “Sums and letters? I thought you needed
someone to do chores.”

“Certainly. But a bright lad such as yourself is capable of so much more. The
more skills you have, the better your chances of success in this life. You do
want that, don’t you?” she added when he looked reluctant. Raven had once told
her of his dream of becoming a knight, an ambitious thing for a lowborn lad.
What she offered was nothing like that, but at least it would keep him fed
better than the occasional odd job.

“Aye.”

“Besides, you may get a chance to practice some of those fighting skills
you’ve picked up from brawling with the village lads.” Her hands tightened on
her cup. This really was too much to ask of a boy, even one so large for his
age, but the situation was becoming tense. “I’m having a hard time keeping Lord
Tennyson’s sons from bothering me lately. It might make it easier if I had a lad
hanging around when I went shopping and such.”

Grim as a judge, Raven stabbed his last piece of pie and stuffed it in his
mouth. “Eville doesn’t dare touch you with the entire town looking on. He’d be
stoned.”

“Yes, but it’s when the town isn’t looking on that I worry.” Eville had come
by one night with his drunken brothers, banging on her door and shouting
something about needing her services. Lucky thing for her that she’d been
consulting with the rector and his wife at the time about the rector’s gout.

She would have been very unpopular with Lord Tennyson if she’d been forced to
put a crossbow bolt through his heir.

Ceylon eyed the lanky Raven somewhat doubtfully. If it came down to a
confrontation of arms, Raven could only do so much. Even if he could use the
knife at his waist he wouldn’t dare attack a lord’s son with it.

What she truly needed was a man. A hot blooded, bad tempered brute of a man
who was putty with women and all fire and brimstone with others. Preferably a
eunuch or a warrior priest with a peerless sword arm and no interest at all in
seducing a woman.

A monk. She needed a monk.

* * * *

Uric of Shardsvale was no monk, but he was in a foul temper.

“You don’t have to do this, Uric.”

Uric tracked a red bird’s progress across the dreary sky. It flew directly
over the distant castle they were fast approaching. “Yes, I do.” The tramp of
iron shod hooves and the jingle of their escort’s gear was the only sound. All
the residents of that place had taken shelter from the coming storm.

His friend Roland scanned the prosperous fields and cottages at either side
of the road as if seeking inspiration. Light glinted off the inlaid silver in
his black leather eye patch. A slight scar nicked the smile groove beside his
mouth and his straight black hair whipped in his face as he raised his battle
roughened voice to carry over the wind. “She might be ugly. A veritable troll.”
His accent made him roll the t and r.

“Then I won’t choose her.”

Roland’s squinted at the blond warrior dubiously. “Why do I have my doubts?
You’re running out of options.”

Uric stared straight between his stallion’s ears and said nothing. A
decorated war veteran of eleven years, at twenty-seven he’d fought in more
battles than he could count. As reward for his service, the queen had granted
him a rich tract of land with a fine castle. The only requirement, she’d
cheerfully told the determined bachelor, was that he marry and produce an heir.
That fact that she had three unwed sisters who would each love to be his bride
might have influenced the stipulation.