Hunted Page 3

  I tighten my hold on her frail hands. “Does your husband like tea or is he a man of ale?”

  Marigold snivels and looks up at me with desperate eyes, though her pain seems lessened by my promise of help. “A-le…Why do you ask?”

  I search her eyes a moment, I want to know how desperate she is. Then, I find it. The shimmer of hope behind the tears.

  With a gentle smile, I shift closer to her. “There are methods…I have not tried them before, but I am aware of them.” I pause and doubt myself a moment. It passes. “There is a way to stop a man’s sperm from … performing. It’s a remedy,” I add at her sudden shock. “A mere concoction that can be slipped into his ale once every full moon. It causes no harm and he should be none the wiser.”

  Marigold wants this. Her eyes light up as the shock slips away and she thins her lips. Her gaze moves around my home, as if to make sure no one is here, then slides closer to me until our knees touch.

  “I cannot pay for that,” she whispers. “You help me, Red. More than I deserve to be helped. But to take something so potent from you each month, I cannot do so for free.”

  A smile slips onto my face. “I promised no free remedy but the one I give you now. I shall want payment each full moon for this concoction—it is a dangerous one to brew, and even more difficult than any I have tried before. But,” I add, “I shouldn’t want your payment in pennies or shillings.”

  “How else can I pay you?” She wipes a tear from her pasty cheek and shakes her head. Limp orange hair waves around her freckled face, some strands falling loose from the up-do. “I have no possessions, nor a garden to bring you vegetables and fruits. I am but a wife to a merchant—and he doesn’t even sell what belongs to us. He works for Knight Bennett up the hill there.”

  “I know,” I say, and it shames to admit I cannot hide the glitter from my eyes or my voice. “I imagine you visit the Knight’s estate often, yes?”

  Her brows knit together as she nods. “But I will not steal. My hands will be cut off!”

  I wave away her distress. “I ask that you do small favours for me, that is all. Perhaps one month, you might sneak a strand of Lady Bennett’s hair for me. Another, I could ask that you pluck a leaf from a tree on their grounds. Small tasks, here and there. I am sure there will be whole months that pass in which I won’t need anything from you, Marigold. But on those months,” I say, my smile softening, “I shall still offer you the brew.”

  She hesitates. I have lost her.

  I almost curse myself, but then she warms all my insides and squeezes my hand in return. “I shall think it over.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  Marigold relaxes by the fire as I brew what she needs to expel the pregnancy from her unwilling body. I prepare it as a warm tea—strongly infused with mugwort and a pinch of belladonna. The belladonna will strengthen her sleep and take her away from most of the discomfort.

  “Drink it now.” I push it into her hands. “Hurry home and sleep well.”

  Fresh tears well in her eyes and she gulps it down.

  Marigold is an emotional woman. She cries often. Perhaps it is normal given her troubles, yet I cannot bring myself to understand why she cries. I have shed no tears in my life. Grandmother tells me that I was even a quiet baby, curious and calm.

  After I see Marigold out to the snow storm that is dawning on our village, I am ready for a night’s rest. But Abigail has not yet come for the valerian. Hours have gone by since nightfall, so it is strange that she is not on my doorstep, desperate for another of my special beverages.

  I wait a while.

  I rest by the fireplace, I have a tea of my own—perfectly safe, of course—and tend to my herbs. A half-hour passes before I start to skin, wash and prepare the rabbit. There is more to be done, but once I hear the chime of midnight come from the church, I pack up the rabbit’s meat in paper and leave the rest for the morn’s chores.

  Sleep is distant to me tonight. My thoughts stay on Abigail. But soon, I drift off and sag under the thick fur blankets that are heavy on my body, and I dream of Abigail swimming in a lake of valerian.

  Abigail drowns.

  Valerian: pink and white petals, sedative.

  6.

  To concoct Marigold’s infertility brew, there are many ingredients I need. Many that I don’t have within the confines of my home or even in Grandmother’s garden. In the dead of winter, I find it will be difficult to source most of these. Still, I write them down:

  1.Hedgehog liver;

  2.Tail of newt;

  3.Shrew testicles;

  4.Rabbit new-born;

  4.Two wolf fangs.

  I do not allow myself to be disheartened. Yesterday, I should not have seen an adder so far into the snow season, yet a freshly caught one is crammed into a mason jar to my left. The foetuses inside it will come in useful for this concoction.

  Coincidences, I do not believe in. But fate, I do, and it dances all around me.

  My lips bunch to the side as I drum my fingernails on the workbench. Where can I find these ingredients? Rabbit burrows shouldn’t be difficult enough to locate, but that would mean to betray my bargain with Colton. Is it a bargain I care much for?

  I’m not certain.

  Though, should I betray him, he could steal back the adder or cause more trouble for me than I want. At the thought, I draw away from the workbench and grab my coat from the rack by the door. The sun is not yet above the horizon. It is early enough to catch Colton before he heads into the woods for the day.

  I slip on my soft-soled boots, tuck my waves into the nape of my coat, then I am out the door and down the lane. At least the wind has settled somewhat. It no longer whistles through the gaps between the houses, and it has stopped its assaults on my face. All that is left of the storm last night is the snow on the ground that comes up to the tip of my boots and the nip of the calm air against my cheeks.

  I’m quick to reach the Square, where all the market stalls stand alone in rows. Soon, the merchants will be out in the chill to serve up the day’s offerings. My stockings are beginning to wear and I might like to replace them—and if my fancy takes me, I should like to buy grain and some fabric for my dress making.

  Those matters come later. Right now, I have business.

  As I rush through the cold, my legs bang against my petticoat and the miniscule hairs on my exposed cleavage prickle with goosepimples. Beneath my breasts, my cloak is fastened with buttons and I consider perhaps buying fabric to bring the coat’s neckline up to my collarbone. But to buy matching fabric could perhaps cost some shillings, and I am not certain how much I can afford to spend after I pay my month’s rent to my landlord, Knight Bennett.

  My eyes drift from the stalls to the shutters drawn at the windows around me. Above the tavern is one set of shutters painted white that lures my attention. Behind them, Abigail should be resting in her above-tavern dwellings. Though how she finds rest without valerian, I cannot guess. It is possible she sought treatment from the Priest Peter, or even the dreadful physician who runs the apothecary shop beside the tavern. The physician knows sweets better than he knows medicine. Hence, why my penny-jar only grows heavier as more villagers come to me.

  Since I moved into the village last autumn, I have built my list of patrons with a gradual success. Soon, I hope to steal all of the physician’s patrons for my own. That should secure my place in the village so much that even the Priest Peter cannot run me out. And who knows, I might want to open my own shop one day—a shop not unlike the apothecary.

  A witch can dream.

  I pass the shop I have my future eye on and draw my hood further over my head to hide my face. Gaze on the ground, I veer off into a lane at my right.

  Metal gates greet me at the end of the lane, standing tall, foreboding and proud, not unlike the man I have come to see. The fire behind the gate burns strong in the stone pit, so I know he is inside.

  I rap my un-gloved fist on the gate and wince at the icy metal’s touch
on my bare knuckles. Seconds tick by before I knock again, louder. I will not knock a third time—I will call out his name for all in the homes above to hear my visit to him.

  A third knock is unneeded.

  Colton steps out from a door behind the firepit and the orange light catches his dark his earthy eyes. There is a pause in him, a moment of surprise to see me there at his blacksmith shop. Well, he hardly sees me, but he would be colour-blind to not notice the only red cloak in the village at his gate.

  Coming to his senses, he storms toward me and unhooks the gate. It creaks so loud that I wonder if it will wake his neighbours. Before I find out, I slip inside and shuffle to the fire, where my spread-out hands seek instant warmth.

  Huddled by the pit, I let a shudder run through me as though the cold is ejected from my body. The clang of the gate behind me comes before the loud thuds of Colton’s footsteps.

  He rounds on me, but I face the firepit still.

  “Why have you come here, witch? I told you I would bring the bounty to you. Was I not clear about the terms of our arrangement?”

  I rub my hands together and stare at the flames. “No,” I say. “You weren’t. In fact, you said nothing about such details being absolute. And,” I turn my cheek and smile at him, a dark one that sometimes has villagers scurrying away from me, “I am not here about our bargain. I want something from you, something I hope to barter for.”

  Colten sneers, a horrid twist to his otherwise pretty lips. He draws away, his gaze on me, and moves around the pit until the fire is all that is between us.

  “There is nothing you hope to tempt me with. Nothing you can offer me.”

  “Now, let us not lie,” I say. “There are many things I can offer you that you might be tempted to accept. I am open to suggestions.”

  My hands are warm enough to slip into my cloak pockets. I am quiet a moment as I run my gaze around the room, from worktops to iron rods and sheets of metal. There is a door in the corner. Behind it, his mother lurks. Ever since her husband ran off all those years ago with whatever pennies and shillings they had, she wears black to mourn, and rarely does she walk the streets of the village. Colton does much of the work. His mother stays in the home behind and above their shop.

  I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of her.

  I wander over to a row of daggers, not yet finished. He follows me like a shadow.

  “You once killed a wolf,” I say. “What did you do with its remains?”

  As I reach for a silver blade, he hits my hand away then slides in between me and the daggers. “What could you want with wolf bones?”

  I tap my canine tooth with my sharp fingernail. “I want these.”

  “Its teeth?”

  “Do you have them?”

  “I might.”

  He runs his gaze over me, a brief pause on my bosom, then meets my gaze again. The flush of his cheeks betrays his thoughts. The very thoughts that allow me to feel safe enough to visit the hunter. Colton might claim to loathe me, and perhaps he does. Still, he is a mere man and his desires are easy to read.

  “I also require a new-born rabbit,” I say and count with my fingers, “a newt, a shrew, and a hedgehog.”

  “I wonder what I have done to mistake you, so.” Colten steps forward, and I step back once. “For you to assume I am some lacky of yours is most puzzling to me. Our bargain is what it is, no less and certainly no more.”

  “And what of a new bargain?” My eyes glitter as slip back my hood. “You have the woods, and there are certain things in those woods that I need by the full moon. A most unfortunate time for our bargain. Alas, I hadn’t thought ahead when I agreed to it.”

  “My answer is no.” He is firm in voice, his gaze harder still. “Now, begone. You are not welcome here.”

  This is not how I expected the visit to play out. Last night, he wanted something from me. A brew, a concoction, whatever it may have been. It could have been silly hope that led me to think he would want the mysterious favour come morn, too.

  “Fine,” I say and draw up my hood. “I will leave. But I ask you to remember that these items are only useful to me before the full moon. Mere days from now. After then, my services will no longer be available to you.” I level my gaze and lower my lashes. “Ever.”

  His face betrays nothing as I sweep out of the shop. Just to frustrate him, I don’t close the gate behind me, and when I reach the mouth of the path, I hear it slam shut.

  It is impossible to know whether my threat has any impact on him at all. At least until the night of the full moon. Should Marigold want the infertility draught, she might have to wait another month for me to source the ingredients and brew it under the moon. And who knows what could happen to her body—her womb—in that time?

  Not to mention, I already have a favour in mind for her to carry out as payment.

  Belladonna: Deadly Nightshade.

  7.

  The markets will have to wait. Some merchants have emerged from their homes and I know Abigail’s father should be among them to peddle his fine ales and wines. Yet, I see no sign of him among the greying and balding platter of wrinkles before me.

  Above the tavern, her shutters are still closed and I recall my dream.

  Often, my dreams merge with my talents. Abigail’s death in a lake of valerian did not strike me as one of those dreams. After I woke, I let the tension from my sleep drift away from me as I dismissed the dream as a mere reaction to her earlier desperation.

  Now, my certainty slips away and in settles an unease that chills my bones.

  The sun has just touched the sky with pinks and sea-blues. I steal away down an alley that lines the tavern and curves to the back stairs. The pungent stench of the nearby latrine poisons the air—and though I shield my nose with my sleeve, the smell of bodily waste still seeps up my nostrils.

  I take a moment to gag, then a shudder runs through me.

  This.

  This is the reason I had a privy built at the back of my home. I only have to carry the bucket underneath to the cesspool outside the village walls every day to avoid smells. Though, I am certain my neighbour the widow Gunhilda uses my privy. I say nothing about it. She is a frail old woman, too weak to walk the distance to our nearest latrine, and too poor to have her own.

  There is no private privy here. It is one long stretch of a wooden shed. Inside, there are seats with holes in them. One’s waste falls down the hole to the cesspool, which is emptied twice per week.

  The stench is nauseating.

  To stop from retching, I burrow my nose into the soft dip of my elbow and scurry up the stairs.

  My free hand pounds on the door. Much too hard to be polite. I don’t stop until the door whips open and I’m hit with the heat of a roaring fireplace. Abigail’s youngest brother of eight and some stands in the threshold, hope softening his youthful face. Then he notices my red cloak and hugs closer to the door.

  “Mama?” he calls. “Mama, the wi—the red girl is here!”

  There’s a crash from inside, then a stumble. Muttered words come closer until the boy is dragged behind a plump woman with full cheeks and a fuller belly. She eats well. They live a comfortable life from their tavern and market earnings.

  Abigail’s mother faces me and blood rushes to her blotchy cheeks. Above the red patches are bloodshot eyes and eyebrows in need of combing. Her lip curls just before she hisses at me, “What are you doing here? On my doorstep…I have a mind to tell Priest Peter!”

  My lips thin as I drag my gaze past her to the inside of the warm home. To hope for an invite inside might be foolish of me.

  “Good morn, Mildred,” I say and incline my head. “I am here to check on Abigail’s wellbeing. She asked to meet with me the night last, but I have not seen her.”

  Mildred’s cheeks grow so hot that I ponder spontaneous combustion a moment. It would be a fascinating death to witness. Alas, she pulls back her mounting outrage and inches closer to me—as close as she dares, with a half-metre between
us still.

  “You stay away from my girl,” she snarls. “Had to tie her to the bed last night, we did. Caught her tryin’ to sneak out to see you—I won’t have it. I won’t. No woman like you should be around my girl.”

  I understand my dream now.

  Abigail is inside, drowning in her need for valerian. Maybe I gave her too much for too long, and she craves the effects of my brew always. Have I made an addict out of her?

  I hum a high-pitched sound and lift my shoulders. “All is well,” I say. “I only thought to check on her health. You shall not see me on your doorstep again, Mildred.”

  She blanches at the way I roll her name off my tongue, long and slow, like the start of a haunting song of melancholy of the heart. For a moment, she thinks I have cursed her or that I mean to.

  The mere suspicion of it will keep her away from Priest Peter.

  I make to leave back down the creaky stairs. But then I catch glimpse of something in Mildred’s eyes, not far beneath her sweaty brow.

  Lies.

  There are secrets behind her eyes.

  I wave my hand in front of my face and crinkle my nose. “You should really do something about that smell, Mildred. Some of the villagers might think you are dirty to live in such a stench.”

  My dark smile returns before I take my leave and head to the markets.

  Mildred might deny me to Abigail, but I trust my senses. They will be begging for my help before the week is out.

  †††

  Sadness fills me as I see that the pinks and blues have drifted from the sky. Instead, a sheet of cloudy grey settles above us to tell the people of England that it shall be another cold, dark day. Beside the stone platform that holds the stalls, I linger with my gaze upwards. Only when I bring my gaze back down do I see Colton.

  He moves for the gate, his barrow carted beside him by a black horse sheathed in furs. Though he walks the opposite way to where I stand, Colton seems to sense my stare. He turns his head enough to catch my gaze, then his brows lower.