Snow White and Rose Red Page 4

  She could, however, explain those fears to her daughters, and warn them to take more care than usual. On the morning after Rosamund’s encounter with the peddler, the Widow did just that, while the uncanny and impossible rose nodded at them over the edge of a tin cup in the center of the table.

  The girls listened closely, and when she finished, Rosamund asked, “Thinkest thou that the peddler would try to carry me off to Faerie, then?”

  “Belike,” the Widow replied. “Thou hast what safeguards I can give thee, yet that may not suffice to turn a determined attempt. And ‘tis not for thyself alone I fear.”

  “Blanche?” Rosamund paled, more disturbed by a threat to her gentle sister than by one to herself. “Thou thinkest they might take her in my stead?”

  “An they’re minded to,” the Widow said. “Wherefore, I counsel you both to keep a watch upon each other. When you go out, go together, and do not stray from each other’s sight. The folk of Faerie work most often by trickery and guile, and ‘tis easier to befool one pair of eyes than two.”

  “We’ll stay together, Mother,” Blanche said with quiet determination. Then she smiled. “‘Tis no great hardship.” Rosamund nodded her agreement.

  “You may prove your promises now, ” the Widow said, rising from the three-legged stool where she sat. “I’ll bring you both with me into Mortlak this morning, and you shall practice your watchfulness. ”

  The girls scrambled to their feet, and for a few moments the cottage was a whirl of locating baskets, straightening linen caps, donning extra petticoats, and tucking up the top layer of their skirts to keep the hems out of the dirt.

  They set out as soon as the girls had finished. The Widow led the way along the narrow footpath. Rosamund and Blanche followed, side by side as they had promised. The day was grey and rainy, and by the time they reached Mortlak all three women were half covered in mud. The Widow sent her daughters to the apothecary, to try and trade some of their extra herbs for tooth-soap.

  The girls departed happily enough, and the Widow was left to pursue her own errands. She began by stopping at one and another of the tall, half-timbered shops and houses to deliver various mixtures they had requested, then went on to make brief calls upon some of the women who had not made orders. At each house, the Widow found an excuse to open the subject of her daughters, then probed delicately for misgivings on the part of her companion. In several places, she led her listeners to the subject of witchcraft, and joined with them in deploring the existence of such a vile pursuit.

  The results of this haphazard examination reassured the Widow greatly. Everyone spoke highly of Blanche and Rosamund, and though one or two remarked Rosamund’s “high spirits,” the comments were plainly meant to be kind. No one seemed more concerned than usual with witchcraft, though there were the usual grumblings about the presence of Master John Dee in the town. It was all very well to call him the Queen’s Astrologer and to point out that Her Majesty had actually ridden into Mortlak several times to visit him, one disgruntled taverner told the Widow, but the man was still nothing less than a sorcerer, and no honest man would deal with him. And that friend of his, Talbot or Kelly or whatever he called himself, was no better than a common thief and lecher. Why, word was that Joan Cooper of Chipping Norton had had to marry the man last spring, and she a good, respectable girl until Kelly had taken up with her!

  As the Widow was not at all concerned with Master Dee’s affairs, much less Edward Kelly‘s, she greeted these grumblings with well-concealed relief. So long as the rumors of magic named anyone but her family, they did not disturb her. It was with a much lighter heart that the Widow went to meet her daughters for the trip home.

  The girls were already waiting just outside the church when the Widow arrived. Rosamund was in a state of high excitement, and she burst out almost at once, “Mother! One of Master Hinde’s ewes has borne twins, and will not feed them both, and he said that he’ll give us the other lamb, if we think we may save it.”

  The Widow’s eyes widened and her face took on a thoughtful expression when she heard this. Since her husband’s death, she had steadfastly refused to accept charity from anyone, but Master Hinde’s offer, strictly speaking, was not charity. A lamb born out of season and rejected by its mother would die without careful tending, and neither Master Hinde nor his servants had the temperament for such work. If the Widow did not take it, the lamb would probably die and do no good to anyone. On the other hand, if the Widow took it and could manage to save its life, her trouble would be well repaid. The lamb would grow to provide wool for her and her daughters, and if it was female, it would give milk and bear other lambs that could be sold or kept to increase a flock.

  “I’ll look at it, and see what may be done,” she said. “There’s no reason to carry the creature home, an the effort’s to be wasted.”

  “Thou canst save it, Mother,” Blanche said with confidence. “Thou didst as much for Goodman Garret these two winters past.”

  “Goodman Garret’s sheep suffered of the scab,” the Widow cautioned. “This task is not so simple.” But she allowed herself to be swept along with Rosamund and Blanche in the direction of Master Hinde’s.

  Master Hinde had gone out, but he had left instructions with his man. The Widow and her daughters were taken to see the rejected lamb. It was a sickly-looking creature, and the Widow was not surprised that Master Hinde did not wish to expend the effort it would take to keep it alive. After a close inspection, however, the Widow pronounced herself satisfied that she could indeed save the tiny creature’s life. As she was unwilling to wait for Master Hinde’s return, she left a message expressing her profound thanks and gratitude, and she and her daughters were soon on their way back to the cottage. The return journey was even more uncomfortable than the trip into town. The rain had not stopped, and now the wind was in their faces. Blanche and Rosamund had to take turns carrying the lamb and trying to shield it from the cold.

  They were all glad to reach the warm shelter of the cottage. Their first concern was with the lamb. The girls dried it, wrapped it in their oldest blanket, and set it near the fire before they removed their own wet and chilly clothing. The Widow set to work at once to brew a posset for Blanche to feed the lamb, while Rosamund hovered solicitously in the background. Finally, the Widow told Rosamund rather sharply that she would be of at least some use, did she go through the jars of herbs and set aside those that would be needed.

  Rosamund took the reproof in good part, and set to work with a will. The Widow made an enormous kettle of vile-smelling liquid, and Blanche and Rosamund took turns coaxing the lamb to suck on an old dish-clout that had been soaked in the brew.

  These efforts continued throughout the night and into the following day. At last the Widow announced that the lamb was in no immediate danger of dying, and that she would assume temporary responsibility for its care while Blanche and Rosamund caught up with some of their neglected chores. The girls were jubilant, and their good spirits carried them quickly through the worst of their tasks. Still, they were glad when they could finally settle themselves by the hearth with their mending.

  “Thou‘rt certain the lamb is well, Mother?” Blanche asked, looking across at it with a troubled expression. “It lies so still.”

  “‘Tis sleeping, Blanche,” the Widow said. “Young creatures must do so a great part of the time.”

  “I know, but—”

  Blanche’s reply was interrupted by a knock at the cottage door. The Widow smiled reassuringly at her daughter, then went to open the door herself. Standing on the step outside was Joan Bowes, a sharp-eyed, ruddy-cheeked young woman of eighteen who had lately hired herself to Mistress Rundel as a serving-girl.

  “Oh, Widow Arden, I’m so glad you’re here,” Joan said as soon as she saw the Widow. “‘Tis Elanor, Mistress Rundel’s youngest; she’s taken with a fever and the rheum. Mistress Rundel’s half frantic. She sent me to beg that you give her a soothing draught as quickly as may be.”

 
“Calm yourself, Joan,” the Widow said. “Come in and warm yourself a little, and as you do you may tell me more, and in better order. I’ll do what I can, but I must be certain what to send.”

  Joan had had a long, cold walk from Mortlak to the cottage; she accepted the Widow’s suggestion with alacrity. As she walked slowly to the hearth, her eyes darted around the room, but she found very little to hold her interest. With a disappointed sigh, she seated herself on the stool by the fire and began answering the Widow’s questions.

  “I believe I have something that will help Elanor,” the Widow said at last. “I’ve only a little here at hand; I’ll give you that, and send Rosamund and Blanche with more tomorrow.” She reached up to the shelf where she kept her remedies and took down a tiny vial, sealed with beeswax. “Tell Mistress Rundel to give the child a few drops of this, but no more than five at once, and no more frequently than every third hour.”

  “Thank you, Widow,” Joan said, taking the vial. “I’ll keep it—oh!” She jumped and nearly fell over the stool as the lamb, awakened by all the activity and conversation, struggled out from under its blanket, bleating piteously.

  Blanche hurried to comfort the little creature, while the Widow caught Joan’s arm just in time to keep her from losing her balance completely. “My apologies, Joan; I should have warned you,” the Widow said. “‘Tis but a winter lamb whose mother will not keep it. ”

  “O-of course,” Joan said, eyeing Blanche and the lamb doubtfully. She rose and backed toward the door, clutching the precious vial in one hand. When she reached the door, she hesitated visibly for a moment, then took a deep breath and said to the Widow, “I’ve done my errand for my mistress, but I’ve one of my own to you, an you’ll hear me.”

  “Surely I’ll hear you,” the Widow said gently. The girl’s circumspection did not surprise her; she’d had enough customers with various kinds of women’s complaints to know that they rarely came directly to the point. The Widow nodded encouragingly to her visitor.

  “I want—I have heard—‘Tis Master William, you see,” Joan said all in a breath.

  “William Rundel?” the Widow said, puzzled.

  “Aye,” Joan said eagerly. “Can you give me something, some potion for him? I can pay you well.”

  “He’s not sick as well!” the Widow said. “Why didn’t you say so at once? I could—”

  “No, no, he’s not ill,” Joan said. She kept her voice low, despite her evident impatience. “‘Tis I who am ill for wanting him, yet he sees it not. He has eyes only for his whey-faced wife. So I have come to you for a love-draught, to bring him to my bed at last.”

  “Go home, girl,” the Widow said coldly. “I mix no potions of that kind, nor ever have, nor will.”

  Joan looked at her with an expression of shock that changed quickly to anger. “You’ll not help me, then?”

  “No,” said the Widow implacably, “I shall not. And if you’ve any wisdom in you, you’ll go home and pray on your knees that God will forgive your wicked thoughts. Now leave.”

  With a backward look of hatred, Joan left. The Widow shut the door behind the girl with unnecessary vehemence and latched it, then turned to her wide-eyed daughters. “Neither of you will speak of this to anyone,” she commanded. “Not even to each other.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Rosamund said in a subdued voice. Blanche could only nod.

  The Widow went back to her shelf of herbs and began taking down various jars with hands that still shook a little. Blanche and Rosamund exchanged glances and returned silently to their mending. After a time, the Widow said, “Is this all of the elecampane we have put by?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Blanche said. “‘Twas all the second-year plants that survived the frost last spring. Is’t not enough?”

  “‘Tis not even enough to make more syrup for little Elanor,” the Widow said, sounding much disturbed. “These roots are rotting; they must not have been well dried.”

  “There are one-year plants still in the garden,” Rosamund offered doubtfully.

  “An we harvest those now, where shall we get our elecampane next fall?” the Widow said. “And first-year roots are small.” She shook her head. “No, I fear you must go to the forest tomorrow and search out a wild clump, if such there be.”

  Rosamund’s face lit up. “The forest?”

  “But thou hast warned us against it, Mother,” Blanche said, frowning slightly.

  “And shall I say to Mistress Rundel that I’ve naught to give her daughter because I fear to let mine own go walking in the woods?” the Widow snapped, as much to persuade herself as to convince her daughter. “And shall I say the same to all who sicken of a cough this winter, or to those who’re short of breath?”

  “Nay, Mother, I see the necessity,” Blanche said in a tone that clearly indicated her surprise at the strength of her mother’s response.

  The Widow sighed and said more gently, “I know thou dost, and I know likewise that I have no choice but to send thee and thy sister for’t. Yet I like it not. Tomorrow eve’s All Hallows‘; ’tis like the fay will be at their mischief.”

  “Oh, we’ll be wary, Mother,” Rosamund said with buoyant confidence. “We’ll not go near the Faerie lands, and we’ll be home by dusk.”

  “With thy assurance I must rest content,” the Widow said, but her frown did not lighten as she turned back to her jars of herbs.

  The Queen of Faerie’s elder son was as concerned with leaving Faerie as the Widow Arden was with keeping her daughters from entering it. His face showed little of his disquiet; in the two days since John’s return to Faerie, his expression had grown less revealing, making his Faerie heritage more plain. Even so, something in his stance and gestures, something in the very air about him, proclaimed his difference from the other inhabitants of his mother’s palace. Only in his brother’s presence did he seem well suited to his company, and he remained restless even there.

  “Thou hast no need for such disquiet,” Hugh said soothingly as he watched John pace the length of the palace library. “She’ll speak with thee tomorrow.”

  John paused and looked at Hugh, who was lounging elegantly against the carved rosewood paneling between two windows. “And that’s not cause for care?”

  “If thou dost not demand too much of this reunion, no,” Hugh answered in a serious tone. “She’s Queen, remember, and not our mother only. ‘Twill be enough if her manner with thee’s not reserved. ”

  “Enough for thee,” John said, exasperated. “Thou art not banned from thy diversions for small cause, or none.”

  Hugh’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline in a parody of polite incredulity. “Thou dost not find the court diverting?”

  John’s answering laugh lacked humor. “Thy antics distract, certainly, but ‘tis a temporary thing. And do not tell me again that ’tis my custom to spend winter here, and sometimes longer. ‘Tis lack of choice that frets me, not my presence here.”

  “There’s a mercy,” Hugh commented. “I think—”

  The muted sound of the latches at the library door resonated through the room, interrupting Hugh in mid-sentence. As the two men looked up, the double panels swung open to reveal a wiry youth with an unruly fringe of black hair above dancing black eyes. His doublet was brown and badly rumpled, as if it had been slept in, though his ruff was as stiff and white as if it were made of porcelain.

  “What’s this?” the youth said with mock sternness. “Laughter, in the Queen’s library?” He studied John’s face a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. “I thought it could not be. ‘Tis the planning of a funeral, by the look on’t. Shall I stay and give you guidance?”

  This time John’s laugh was clear and unconstrained. “Indeed thou shalt, Robin; thy wit’s a welcome change from Hugh’s sermons.”

  “Sermons?” Hugh said, affronted. “I but wish to explain to thee what pleasures thou mayest find at court.”

  “What pleasures, indeed!” Robin said enthusiastically. “Fresh and fair as morning, every one;
‘tis what’s expected in the Queen’s companions.”

  “‘Twas not the Queen’s ladies that I was speaking of, thou panderer,” Hugh said.

  “Oh?” Robin said in the tones of one eager for enlightenment. “Hast thou spent time with others of the court when my attention’s elsewhere?”

  “Enough, Robin,” John said, though he could not help smiling at Hugh’s disgruntled expression. “The Queen’s ladies are but small temptation to me.”

  “Ah, but thou hast not yet seen Selena,” Robin said wisely. “She’s small enough to suit thee, I’ll be bound. And there are others, who’ve appeared since thy last visit, who may alter thy opinions as to height. Tallis, and Marvenna—”

  “And Madini,” Hugh put in, giving John a sly look. “Though I must tell thee that she’s made it plain she finds no pleasure in my company; belike thou wilt have better fortune.”

  “Nay,” Robin said, suddenly serious. “Look not to that lady, or if thou dost, have one hand near thy dagger. ‘Tis not alone thy company that she mislikes; ’tis the half thy blood that’s mortal. She’ll be no fonder of thy brother, for it seems he has the greater liking for the mortal world.”

  “Have done,” John said sharply. “I’ve told you, I’ve no interest in these ladies; turn your tongues to other things, if you’ve no wish to bore me.”

  Hugh and Robin turned to stare at him with identical looks of patent disbelief, and in spite of himself John laughed. His dislike of the topic, and of the ladies of the Faerie court, was, however, quite sincere. The beauty of the fay was undeniable, but somehow in its precise and icy perfection it had always left some part of him unwarmed. Then, too, the Faerie court was far more conscious of John’s mortal heritage than of Hugh‘s, and there had been slights enough to make John hold himself aloof for the most part. For all that John loved his mother’s land, he had few real friends there.