“Alice,” Redric said, being the oldest, almost thirteen, “’twas an accident. Let me help you up.”
Tears filled Alice’s eyes. “Who asked her to play anyway?”
Ceidre felt a familiar stabbing and backed up a step. “I’ll go get Granny,” she offered, wanting to help Alice, wishing with all her heart that she hadn’t hurt her sister, wanting desperately to make everything all right. The only problem was that it would never be all right, for Alice seemed to hate her.
“No!” Alice screamed. “Mama says she’s a witch, and I won’t have that witch touch me!”
It was a hated word, and Ceidre felt herself tensing up inside. It was a word she had been hearing whispered around her for her entire life. In confusion and dread, she had always shut her ears and turned away. “She is not,” Ceidre managed.
“Mama says so, everyone says so,” Alice cried, glaring at her. The children ringing them began shifting uncomfortably, and there was a murmur of agreement. “My mama said so too,” blond Jocelyn said quickly.
Alice stood up. “Go away, Ceidre. You can’t play with us.”
Ceidre didn’t move, but she felt a slow flush creeping up her face. She darted a glance at the others. “She can play,” Redric said. “C’mon, let’s start.”
The children dispersed.
“I won’t play with a witch!” Alice shouted.
Ceidre froze, confusion rearing up, dread ballooning. She blinked at her sister, not understanding, sure she had misheard. Alice sneered. “Witch!”
Ceidre folded her arms, shrinking up inside. “I am not.”
“Witch! Everyone says so! Witch!”
She was going to cry. Alice didn’t mean it. It wasn’t true. She fought the tears. The children were staring at her, the little ones with curiosity, but Redric and Beth with unease. A long silence descended, then Redric broke it. “It’s not true,” he decided.
Beth, also twelve, looked at him. “I’ve heard it too. Maybe we shouldn’t let her play with us.”
Ceidre looked at the ground. “I’m not,” she managed. Hot tears burned her eyes. But she could hear the echoes of Alice’s words, a familiar haunting echo, so familiar it was frightening. She was frightened. She looked up, wiping her eyes.
And then it happened.
“Look,” Alice screamed. “Look! Look! She is a witch!”
Ceidre backed up, truly afraid. The children were staring at her in horror. “It’s the evil eye.” Beth gasped. “I’ve never seen it afore!”
They were all staring, staring….
Ceidre woke up.
Her heart was pounding, and she felt the heat of a crimson blush. As always, there were tears in her eyes, tears, she supposed, for a little girl’s first brush with ugly reality. For the dream was not just a nightmare. It had happened, exactly as she dreamed it.
And after that, the children veered away from her. They would not let her join their games, and if she tried, they would stop playing and disperse. And then there was Alice, always hurling that vile epithet, flinging it in her face. “Witch!”
Ceidre sat up. She wished, this once, her father were still alive. She could remember running to him in tears, and when he had picked her up, swinging her into his arms, she had begged to know the truth. “Am I a witch, Papa? Am I?”
He had hesitated. Ceidre had clung to him, waiting for the worst, suddenly knowing it was true, so confused. “No, sweet one,” he had said, lifting her chin. “You are not, and don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise.”
A child’s instincts are perhaps more accurate than an adult’s, unfettered with preconceived notions, and Ceidre sensed his own turmoil, his own lack of sureness. She was not soothed. She was not reassured. She was more confused than ever, and now, now there was no turning her back on the whispers that followed in her wake. It was a harsh reality for a child to face, but everyone believed her a witch.
She did not know if it was true or not. She clung stubbornly to her father’s denial, and she began avoiding the other children, who, quick to follow Alice’s lead, too young to be afraid, also called her vile names. She spent more time with her granny, helping her prepare her concoctions for healing, and much time alone, in the woods or the stables, always with Thor, Edwin’s favorite new wolfhound, who became her constant companion.
Time heals all wounds, and Ceidre adjusted to her status. The persecution of her peers ceased as they became young adults, marrying, making families, taking on a serf’s responsibilties. Ceidre became as adept as her grandmother in the arts of healing, and was much sought after. She was treated with a combination of awe, nervousness, and familiarity that was friendly as well. And then her father decided it was time she marry, and he began to seek a groom for her.
So life had dealt her another blow, another ugly reality to face. Ceidre had survived that one too, just as she would now survive this. She got up and folded back the door to the tent, letting in the first pink rays of dawn. She performed her ablutions with the urn of water left her, then stepped outside.
The man guarding her instantly stepped aside, with a hasty glance in her direction. Ceidre ignored it but, having withstood his kind of behavior her entire life and fresh on the heels of her dream, she was pierced with hurt. She looked out at the Normans breaking camp. And, as if metal drawn by a magnet, or the eye seeking the sun, she found herself gazing at him.
