“Are you all right?” I ask, quickly slipping from my saddle. “I didn’t see you!” I extend my hand to help the girl from where she is lodged, her delicate hand hesitantly accepting me. Then, with a couple of tugs and maneuvering, she steps out of the feral shrub line, pulling at the leaves and thorns that cling to her. Her skirt is dotted with dozens of tiny tears, yet she straightens it, bringing her hands to her face for a moment while staring at me with intense brown eyes.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you all right?” I ask again.
“Yes, I think so,” she says, nodding slowly.
“I’m sorry, I suppose I’ve pulled you out on the wrong side of the hedge. You’re obviously going
into
the village, not out of it. My horse can take you over, if you’d like.”
She looks at me with surprise, and I cannot help notice she is stunning despite her current disheveled state. But I am staring too long, and this makes her uncomfortable.
“No. I’m headed the right way.” Her voice quivers slightly, but is light and beautiful, like little birds have escaped the dreadful forest and gathered in her throat. I have just come from the forest, spending nearly an hour trying to find my way out of it. Why would anyone wish by choice to go into it? And then I spy her empty basket lying on the ground.
“I suppose you’re spending the day gathering?” I reach down and retrieve the basket. “I’m not sure what you’ll find growing in there. I would think plants need sunlight in order to grow, but what do I know?”
She ignores the basket I offer her and suddenly drops her eyes to the line of red growing beneath my sleeve.
You’re bleeding.”
“Look at that, I suppose I am. Thorns are sharper than they look, aren’t they?” I pluck a few thorns from my torn sleeve, flicking them to the ground.
“Let me help you with that.” Before I can object, she is pushing my coat sleeve up and rolling my cuff away from my wrist, exposing my forearm, which is indeed sliced and trickling with blood.
“It looks to be clean,” she assesses softly, then leaves my arm to scoop something green from the ground, then presses it lightly to my skin.
“Is that…sanitary?”
“It’s quite safe,” she replies. “It’s called Sphagnum Moss. It will stop the bleeding and prevent infection.”
Her hand is warm and gentle as it holds my arm still, and I can’t help watching her closely, noting how softly her dark hair coils at the nape of her neck, how smooth her cheek appears.
“So something good comes from this forest after all?”
I don’t receive a spoken answer, just a hesitant nod accompanied by a slight blush. For all the forest is associated with, I wonder if I’ve assumed incorrectly, and then, I take a quick glance behind me and see how the darkness creeps along the edge of the tree line, deepening as far as I can see. I am not quite ready to say it doesn’t make me uneasy.
“Forgive me,” I whisper, hoping she isn’t regretting helping me. “My name is Laurentz, or rather, should I say today I am a bumbling idiot. I know nothing of…Stagnant Moss.”
She laughs at my terrible pronunciation. “Sphagnum Moss,” she corrects me. In an instant, the mood is light again, and I am mesmerized by her agile touch as she treats the cuts on my arm.
My name doesn’t seem to register with her, which is fine by me. I’d much rather learn more about her than blurt out the fact that I’m the son of the Electorate of Eltz.
“Rune,” she answers back after a few seconds, and continues to press the strange spongy moss into my cut.
“Rune…” I repeat her name, letting it roll on my tongue, feeling how unusual it sounds. My arm feels oddly warm all of a sudden, and just as I am about to ask if I could be reacting to the moss, Rune lifts the green bandage. My skin sticks to it for a moment, then releases. She pulls the moss away.
“Good as new,” Rune says in a quiet, nervous voice.
I hold my arm out in front of me, and turn it over then back again. There is no blood. There is no sign that my arm has been cut in the first place, save for the garnet stain on my sleeve.
“How…?”
A peculiar look blooms across her face that tells me I’m on the brink of asking too much. She takes the empty basket and steps away from me. But I cannot let it go, and am about to ask again when her face pales. She looks frantically toward the village instead of answering me. My horse stamps her hoof, suddenly agitated. A breeze stirs on the village side of the hedge, then cuts through the middle of it, disappearing into the trees. I am left staring after it as if I’ve just witnessed something that has a mind of its own; then, I look down at my arm again and touch it with my finger. It is hot, but not feverish or alarming, and my skin is smooth, as if the thorns never cut me.
A whisper of white snagged on a thin branch within the green border distracts me, and I pluck it away between my fingers. It is crumpled, but still delicate, and although the handkerchief briefly reminds me of the one the bishop carried earlier in the chapel, I suspect it might belong to Rune.
“Is this yours?” I ask as I turn to her, but she is gone, and I am left with the shadows between the trees.
Chapter 6
Rune
M
y side hurts from running, and I press my hand to my ribs once I am safely hidden behind the tree. I peer around the thick branches to see if he’s watched me run away, but he is far from sight. I’ve never spoken to a man before, alone, and I am terrified and thrilled all the same.
Was I too obvious, watching him closely while I tended to his arm? I hope he didn’t notice and think me strange. I couldn’t help myself. I planned to keep my head low, thank him politely for saving me from the brambles, and make my way home. But he was hurt. I couldn’t ignore that. And from the moment I’d pulled at his sleeve to survey the damage the hedge had inflicted, I could barely concentrate.
He was handsome, with a shock of unruly chestnut hair, and very tall, with wide, broad shoulders. The look upon his face was impish, yet he was more man than boy. He was dressed impeccably for a rider—his boots not too soiled, and the knees and elbows of his trousers and waistcoat not too thin, except for where the thorns had ripped through the fabric.
But I should have watched where I was going. How was I to know a person would be on the other side of the hedge, the
forest side
of the hedge, the very moment I leaped across? Thank goodness he noticed my basket and not the vaporous laughter I was trying to run from. It made going along with his assumption, that I was out for a day of gathering, easier than explaining what I was really doing, which was running off to hide from the voices I’d heard. My insides tighten at the very thought that he might have heard. I am certain his horse did, the way she whinnied and stamped.
I let myself steal a few moments, sitting upon the soft pine needles, and suddenly I am unsure of containing the emotions flooding through me—fear, delight, confusion. I only wanted to help him. I can’t explain why the cut on his arm disappeared beneath my touch. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life, yet I believe I made it appear as if such a thing was normal.
My head is still spinning at the way he smiled at me. He was certainly beautiful for a man, and I wonder if that was my luck today, to find beautiful things I would feel oddly about. Frowning, I reach inside my basket to find the handkerchief gone. I scan the ground, but it is nowhere to be found, and I realize it has been left behind. Maybe it’s just as well. I don’t deserve it anyway, although it would have been nice to have studied it and quietly learned the stitches on my own. I would like to make one for myself one day, or one I could give to Matilde at the end of the summer harvest, just before the first snow, or perhaps for Yule. It would be something special to have during the cold months, something pretty to look at when the sun is not growing flowers for us to admire.
I stare at the hedge that divides the forest from the village. As much as I wanted to pretend I belonged on the other side today, it is clear to me where my loyalties should lie. I will always belong here, among the protection of the shaded trees, instead of in the open, pretending I am someone I’m not.
I stand up and brush the needles from my dress and apron, then set about scouring for herbs. I plan on honoring at least one of Matilde’s wishes, and begin filling my basket while I wait for the sun to sink behind the tree line, just like she told me to.
There are butterflies and dragonflies diving in and out of the dappled light around me. How could I possibly wish to be anywhere else on a day like today? Little white and yellow Chamomile blossoms poke their heads up from the ground between beds of Sphagnum Moss, and I can barely contain my excitement. Matilde will be more than happy to have it once again. Only last week, Matilde used her last mound of the spongy pale-green moss to dress a patient’s leg wound; since then, it’s been difficult to find enough to replenish her supply. My basket is nearly overflowing, yet I continue to fill it. Finally, when it can hold no more, I add a few strips of Silver Birch bark on top and make my way home.
The sky is a blood-red glow between the treetops when I hear the butcher’s wagon behind me. I groan beneath my breath. In the midst of my trek to the village I had forgotten he was still coming today, and of all places to run into him, he is steering his mule up the very path I walk.
“Pleasant evening,” I grumble lightly as he pulls up alongside me. I don’t plan on standing on this path for the next hour or so discussing the weather, so I hope he is happy with that and continues on.
Unfortunately the wagon creaks beneath his weight and slowly rolls to a stop. Rolf glares at me, and although I’ve never liked the man, I can’t bring to mind why he would appear so rude right now.
“Have you come from the cottage?” I ask, trying to be nice. “I laid out the Blessed Thistle for you. It should help with your…troubles.” I can’t stop my eye from following the thick brown belt he tries to fit around his middle, knowing his appetite is the cause of all his pain. It is one thing to be wealthy and robust, but to look like him, well, that’s another.
He harrumphs loudly, and spits over the side plank of the cart, nearly missing my shoe.
“Do you see what’s strapped there to the back of the wagon, young miss?” he hisses.
I don’t want to, but I look anyway, expecting to see something bloodied and meaty hanging from the hook, but what I find is neither, and I’m not sure what I am looking at.
I wrinkle my nose. Obviously, this is a guessing game.
“Don’t know, do you?” He spits again, and I step back. “It’s the swine your…your… What is she to you, anyway?”
“Matilde?”
“Yes, the old woman. She’s too old to be your mother, but then again…”
“She’s adopted me, raised me. I have no mother, just her.”
After all these years of helping him, he still doesn’t have a clue. It’s really none of his business, but I hope it satisfies him enough to leave, although if he hasn’t delivered the swine yet, then it means I’ll have a good chance at having him for company on my walk home.
“That there swine’s not for sale, at least not to the likes of you and the old crone.” He spits again.
“And why is that?” I stare at the hideous, emaciated slab that hangs in front of me. “It doesn’t look like a pig. What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he mocks me, repeating my question. “Why not ask what’s wrong with all my animals? Why not ask the old crone if she knows anything about that?”
It’s not that the pig is no longer for sale. It’s how he says the word
crone
, for a second time. It makes my skin raise and feel pinched.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
Rolf looks me up and down a few minutes until I feel my clothing has all but disintegrated.
“My horse fell ill.” I watch him twist the leather strap between his meaty hands.
“Well, then I’m sure you’ll share your stock of thistle, won’t you?”
“My horse is
dead
, Miss. Lying down, hooves up, dead, and it’s that crone’s fault.”
I can feel my eyes widen. He’s mistaken. He has to be. Before I can jump to Matilde’s defense, he’s leaning over the side of the wagon, his eyes bulging as he tells the story. Whether I like it or not, he’s got me now, and I’m going to listen until he’s through.
“All I know is my horse made a meal out of those little mushrooms just outside your door the last time I was here, and now I’m driving this mule. You tell that old crone she owes me a horse.”
My throat thickens. “Did you say mushrooms?”
He looks at me as if I’m a stupid girl, and begins twisting his hands in an effort to somehow describe what he means. “Yes, mushrooms, those little brown things the ground spits out when it’s soggy.”
Like the ones that grow in the patch just off the step of our front door. The same I picked just this morning and traded to…
I swipe my hand across my forehead. I couldn’t have mistaken the variety, could I? I’ve always paid close attention to what is edible and what is not, and yet I was in too much of a hurry to place something in my basket, regardless of what it was.
The wagon passes, its wheels squeaking as they roll away, the butcher still complaining. My hand is over my mouth and I’m afraid to take it away. I no longer feel sick, but there’s something building deep inside of me that I know I won’t be able to contain for very long.
Forcing myself to stand, I stare after the wagon as it grows smaller and smaller, rattling along toward the break in the hedge. He’s going to the village, of course, to see if he can sell the swine that was meant to be ours, that sickly withered beast Matilde was counting on. Now we’ll have to scour and scavenge for small game at night, hoping we find food before larger and more dangerous animals come along.
Only that pales in comparison to what will happen once the butcher reaches his shop. What’s much, much worse, is that the first person who wanders into his Metzgerei to buy the swine will hear the story about his poor horse. He’ll be happy to tell it from the very beginning, going on and on, because Rolf is quite the storyteller, and eyes will roll because, frankly, it’s just a horse.