I stared in wonderment in his wake, noting as I did that never once had the Fool said the child too was dead.
Seventeen
Young Douglas put out abouttown that Thomas Shepherd was living with a cunning woman, a true healer in the manner of Mairi Grieve. The Douglas boy himself came to me after he sliced his thumb open, and I stitched it up neatly, though he grimaced from the pain. Afterwards, his mother came with her daughter, who had fallen and got a bump on her head. I looked the wee bairn in her eyes to be sure they were not enlarged, and made a poultice to put on her forehead, which I also tied with a rag. I told her mother to watch the little one while she was sleeping, and report if aught unusual happened. A week later she returned, with a freshly baked loaf of bread. Her daughter was as lively, happy, and pain-free as she ever had been, she told me. As good as new.
I smiled weakly when she expressed her gratitude, but the fae inside me wriggled in discomfort, as if I were stabbed and nauseated at the same time.
I would have to get used to those thanks, for soon my neighbors were coming to me in droves. Among them were those who had scarce given Bess Grieve a second glance or who had stared openly at my birthmark before. I ought to have held a grudge, but I could not forget how I’d longed for their approval, or at least their notice. Now I had their respect. And for every pain I eased, every life I saved or disease I cured, Mairi Grieve’s ghost seemed to stand beside me, guiding my hand. And if in the darkest of nights, I heard the eerie sound of piping or the plaintive howl of a wolf in the distance, I curled against the shepherd, not from fear, but to reinforce my claim.
The fame I earned as a cunning woman was not without its downside, however. It came one afternoon, shortly after midsummer. Thomas had returned from taking his flock out early, to spare them the heat of the day, and I stirred the pottage on the hearth. A young matron came to see me, wearing a well-cut kirtle and plaid, the clothing of a prosperous yeoman’s wife. She carried a rough sack filled with fresh vegetables; her cheeks were rosy against her wimple, but her lips thin and disapproving. I recognized her at once: ’Twas my sister-by-marriage, Broca.
Tavish’s wife.
And behind her, dragging a stick along the ground, was his wee bairn Jamie.
As soon as Broca stepped into the cottage, Jamie pushed past her, forceful enough to knock one of her onions out of the sack, and ran straight into my arms.
Thomas chuckled as the lad waved his stick in the air. “Och, do I have competition for ye, my wood nymph? Have ye found yourself another swain?”
I ignored his teasing and gave Jamie a kiss on the cheek. “Good morrow, young sir. How is your finger doing?”
Jamie grinned at me and held it up for me to examine.
“Oh, quite fine, I see.” I tickled him under the chin before setting him down. He then plunked down upon the dirt floor and began drawing with his stick.
His mother groaned and shook her head. Catching sight of Thomas, she inclined her head. “Good morrow, Master Shepherd.”
“Good morrow, mistress.”
She grabbed Jamie’s arm too roughly, startling a whimper from him as she yanked him to his feet. “Up, lad! No mucking about in the dirt, unnatural whelp.”
“Have a care,” I protested. “He’s but a child.”
And Thomas took a step forward, arms pressed tight to his sides.
Broca seemed to notice me for the first time. “Oh,” she said flatly. “Good morrow, Bess.”
I have never felt less welcome, and I was the one who lived here.
Broca and I were never friends. I sensed Tavish had poisoned her ears against me, but she had been sour even before they wed.
“What can we help ye with?” Thomas asked, without warmth. His fists unclenched, but his posture was tense. “Not reavers, I hope. Surely, they’d not venture forth in broad daylight and such overwhelming heat.”
“Nay, our cows are still our own. ’Tis not reavers.” Broca wrinkled her nose at me. “Perhaps I am in the wrong place after all. I heard a cunning woman could be found at the home of Thomas the Shepherd.”
“You heard rightly.” Thomas put his arm around my shoulders. “My Bess is a fine healer. Not even the doctors who serve at the baron’s estate can compare.”
My insides turned to warm butter at his words. Thomas had called me his, conferring a sort of respectability upon me, though not so much as a wedded wife. “Are ye surprised?” I asked Broca.
“I suppose I should not be. Huirs do always land on their feet.”
Thomas’s eyes flashed angrily, and his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. He released me and took Broca’s arm, hardly more gently than she had Jamie’s. “Good day, mistress. We have work to do.”
But Broca planted her feet and cried out, “Wait!”
Jamie stared up at me, taking my hand in his.
“He doesna speak,” Broca said roughly.
