Frida nodded, not trusting herself to speak until the tight bars of tension in her chest eased. “I will go and gather some comfrey for my dear brother.” Her last words were laced with sarcasm, which Mirrie acknowledged with a lifted eyebrow.
“You are not enjoying Jonah’s company?”
“I am not enjoying his constant demands for attention.”
“He is afflicted,” Mirrie began.
“And we have all sympathised.” Frida’s voice rose higher. “I am sure the days are not easy for anyone born with a wasted leg. But Jonah has many blessings, which he declines to count.”
Mirrie looked down at her hands. “He has always lived in Tristan’s shadow.”
“Then he should go and stand somewhere else,” Frida retorted. She folded her arms, rigid with annoyance. “I too know what it is to live with pain.”
“You bear it bravely.” Her friend’s words were softly delivered and Frida felt some of the fight draining out of her.
“I bear it because I have no choice. And because I do not believe that anyone else should be made miserable by it.”
Mirrie’s mouth twitched. “Jonah does not have your strong will.”
“Aye, well.” Wind rattled down the chimney and Frida waved away a plume of smoke that billowed towards them. “He will have to strengthen his will if he wishes to remain here long.”
“Mayhap that is why God brought him to this beautiful place? So that he can learn to appreciate all that he has, rather than all he has not?”
Muffled, slightly uneven footsteps from the gallery above heralded the imminent arrival of Jonah, the object of their discussion. Whether he was sent to them by God or not, Frida was in no mood to converse with him just now.
She bent down to whisper in Mirrie’s ear. “If that is so, let us hope that he learns his lessons quickly.”
With a wink to acknowledge Mirrie’s hastily repressed smile, Frida swept from the hall as gracefully as her ankle would allow. Her stride shortened as she reached the vaulted kitchen, where Agnes was studding the day’s meat with thin slivers of freshly-cut garlic.
“Jonah is up and about,” she announced.
Agnes nodded. “He’ll be wanting a tray to break his fast.”
Frida took a deep breath and tasted smoke from the sputtering fire. “He will have to serve himself, like the rest of us. Don’t wait on him, Agnes.”
The old woman straightened up, her palms pressing against the small of her back. “Are those your orders, milady?”
“Those are my orders.” Frida grinned, suddenly carefree. She snatched up Mirrie’s basket from the table. “Is there anything you need from the herb garden?”
“Anything that this cold spell hasn’t already killed off you mean?” Agnes thought for a moment. “Rosemary, if any can be found.”
“I will dry whatever is left.” Frida plucked her cloak from a peg near the doorway. “Is it customary for the temperature to fall so low before Michaelmas?”
“Aye, winter comes upon us early this far north. That is why the farmers couldn’t welcome you and Miss Mirabel when you first arrived. They were busy with the harvest.”
“There is still the orchard crop to bring in.” Frida tied her cloak tightly with the basket hanging off her elbow, regretting once again the impulse that had driven her to declare she would see to the orchard crop herself.
“Mayhap you will need extra help?”
Frida grimaced. It seemed every day they moved further from her dream of a quiet, self-sufficient life. “I shall consider it.”
She nodded farewell and stepped out into the mist, squinting to make out the squat shapes of the wattle-and-daub barns across the courtyard. Beyond those, silent figures moved atop the high battlements which her father had insisted on building around the outer edge of Ember Hall. When Frida protested against fortifications in a home that had never been attacked, Angus, her father, had been quick to point out their proximity to the troubled Scottish border. And the vulnerability of two women making a home without a father or husband’s protection. His message was clear; if Frida did not agree to guards and a constant look-out at Ember Hall, then she would stay at Wolvesley where he could keep her safe.
Frida had reluctantly agreed, even though the presence of the guards interrupted the peace and healing she had hoped to find in her mother’s ancestral home. They were protected by more than mere weaponry up here, amidst rolling hills and woodlands. As a child, Frida had been able to feel the tangible pull of energy around the ancient standing stones nearby. She knew, deep in her bones, that Ember Hall was a place of safety. These soldiers, with their sharpened swords and heavy booted feet, disturbed the tranquillity.
But Frida knew enough about compromise to give up railing against those things she could not change. She had grown used to the guards now. Had even learned their names.
She pulled her cloak about her and walked through the mist to the small store where she kept her herbs and medicines. The pungent scent of dried sage calmed her thoughts as she tied the mint into small bunches and strung them from the ceiling. A quick glance at her orderly shelves confirmed they were well stocked; aside from the comfrey which she would go and gather. Frida breathed deeply; the herb store was evidence she could act with order and purpose, even while everything seemed to be spiralling out of her control.
