Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) (5 page)

Maythorn inhaled an unsteady breath. The intensity of Ren’s gaze had left her feeling light-headed.

Hazel closed the door and came to stand alongside her. She was grinning. She murmured in Maythorn’s ear, “So . . . Ren Blacksmith, hmm?”

Maythorn’s cheeks grew even hotter.

“A fine-looking man,” Hazel said, her voice teasing. “And in need of a wife . . .”

“Hush,” Maythorn whispered. The lightheadedness was fading. She took a deep, steadying breath, composed her face, and went to sit at the trestle table. “Hello, Gavain. May I help with your lesson?”

Gavain gave her a sunny smile. “Of course.”

Maythorn had to stop herself reaching out to stroke his soft, dark hair.
To him, I’m a stranger
.

SIX-YEAR-OLD
GAVAIN WAS
a quick learner. By the end of the lesson, he knew how to spell
bonfire
and
dance
and
spring
and had inscribed a full sentence on the wax tablet:
On the last day of spring we dance round the bonfire
. Maythorn stood on the doorstep and watched him walk home, hand in hand with Larkspur. She loved all the children in the village, but Gavain was her favorite. He had his mother’s dark coloring and slender build, and his father’s kind heart. “I wish . . .” she whispered.
I wish Ren would love me. I wish I could be his wife. I wish I could be Gavain’s mother
.

Hazel came to stand alongside her. “I never knew you felt that way about Ren.”

Maythorn debated her answers. Evasion? A tart response? An outright lie? In the end she settled on the truth. “I was a lot older than him. And crippled.”

“Not that much older,” Hazel said. “He’s what? Thirty-six?”

“Thirty-five.” Six years younger than her yesterday—and nine years older today. She watched Gavain and Larkspur vanish from sight around the bend of Bluebell Brook.

“For what it’s worth, you have my blessing,” Hazel said. “There’s no better man in the village.”

There’s no better man in the whole vale
. Maythorn looked down at her hands and rubbed her thumbnail. “He may not be interested in me.”

Hazel snorted. “You saw his face. He’s interested.”

A shuffling, thumping sound came behind them. Ivy, with her crutch. “The way he looked at you, Mother . . . Maythorn. It took my breath away.”

Maythorn’s chest constricted in memory.
And my breath, too
.

“I’ve never seen two people look so poleaxed before,” Hazel said. She turned back into the cottage. “You’ll be married by midsummer. Mark my words!”

I hope so,
Maythorn thought. But she didn’t want to lie to Ren. And lie she must, if she was to win him. In fact, the first lies had already been uttered.

“You have my blessing, too,” Ivy said quietly.

Maythorn turned to her. “Ivy . . .” She bit the tip of her tongue, uncertain how to say what she wanted to say.

Ivy gave a soft laugh. “Don’t look so worried! I’ve never wanted to marry Ren.”

Maythorn looked searchingly at her eldest daughter’s face.

“I know you thought he might offer for me after Maud died—and of all the men in the village, Ren would make the best husband for a cripple like me; he is so
very
kind!—but the man I’ll marry—if there
is
such a man—is no one I’ve yet met.”

Ivy appeared to be telling the truth. Her gaze was level and serious and utterly candid.

A worry that had been lurking at the back of Maythorn’s mind dissolved like a wisp of smoke blown in the wind. She reached out and took her daughter’s hand. “I hope with all my heart that you find this man.”

A smile lit Ivy’s face. “So do I!”

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS TRADITION
in Dapple Vale to usher in each summer with bonfires and dancing. Gone were the cold, dark days of winter, gone were the spring frosts and mud. The days were growing longer, the wildflowers blossomed, and the great trees in the forest were clothed in fresh green leaves. Summer beckoned, full of warmth and sunlight, ripening crops, and fat livestock. And to mark this—to
welcome
it—bonfires blazed high, animals were roasted on the spit, ale poured, voices raised in song—and not a few children were conceived.

On the afternoon of the last day of spring, Maythorn and her daughters put out their hearth fire, swept up the embers and ashes, and laid fresh kindling; they’d bring home a brand from the bonfire and light their fire for the year ahead. They bathed in the cool, clear brook, dressed in their most festive clothes, threaded flowers through their hair, and set out for the village. Bess stayed protectively close, but Bartlemay ranged joyfully ahead, his tail windmilling.

Their pace was slow—it always had been—but now it was only Ivy who struggled.
Six more weeks,
Maythorn told herself.
She will run again before midsummer
. But even so, she felt guilt. Guilt that she walked freely, and Ivy hobbled.

They walked alongside Bluebell Brook and across the village common. The smell of roasting meat reached Maythorn’s nose. Her guilt twisted into nervousness. Suddenly Ivy’s pace seemed much too fast. This was it: the moment when she had to deceive her friends and neighbors.

They passed the millhouse, where Ivy and Hazel and Larkspur had been born, and the millpond where her husband had drowned. They passed the cottages of Humfrey Walleye and Alard Mason. Maythorn’s stomach tied itself into a tight knot.
It’s not too great a lie,
she told herself.
I truly am Maythorn of York.
They passed Dapple Bend’s smithy. The great forge was quiet; Ren Blacksmith had put out his fire.

The smithy hound, a stiff-limbed brindled mastiff, uttered a gravelly bark and levered himself to his feet.

Bess and Bartlemay stayed at a prudent distance—ancient though he was, Tibald was still the largest dog in the village—but Maythorn crossed to the great hound and held out her hand. “I know I look different,” she whispered, as Tibald sniffed her hand. “But I smell the same. See? It’s me.”

Tibald seemed to recognize her. His tail wagged.

Maythorn stroked his large head, and scratched behind his left ear, just how he liked it. Tibald groaned with pleasure and nudged her hand, a silent
Do that again
. “You’re a great silly,” Maythorn bent and whispered in his ear. “As big as your owner, and as soft-hearted.”

Tibald wagged his tail in agreement and leaned heavily against her hip. Maythorn laughed softly, glanced up, and froze. Ren stood in the darkness of the smithy, watching her.

She stopped scratching Tibald’s ear and straightened. Her chest was suddenly tight.

Ren crossed the smithy yard. He didn’t wear his blacksmith’s scarred leather apron, but instead his best tunic and hose. His jaw was newly shaved, his flaxen hair neatly combed. “I give you good day, Ivy,” he said, with a dip of his head. “And you, Hazel, Larkspur.” He turned to Maythorn last. “Maythorn.”

Maythorn bobbed her head in return. Her throat was too dry to utter any greeting other than a squeak, so she kept her mouth shut.

“Afternoon, Ren,” Hazel said cheerfully. “Where’s young Gavain?”

“Helping build the bonfire.”

“Are you finished here? Come with us!”

“I’ll be along shortly.” Ren dipped his head again and turned back towards the smithy.

“You’ll dance with us each?” Hazel called out.

Ren raised his hand in a silent
yes,
before disappearing in the shadowy gloom of the smithy.

“Good,” Hazel said, and winked at Maythorn.

Maythorn didn’t wink back. She felt queasy with nervousness. How could Hazel be so blithe, so unafraid?

They made their slow way past the smithy, past Robin Thatcher’s cottage, past the home of the village alderman, old Phillip Whitelock, and turned the corner. Hazel was singing lightly, merrily, under her breath. In the market square, Maythorn saw a towering heap of firewood, saw people gathered round. Hazel’s singing faded from her hearing. Her nervousness grew until she felt that she would vomit from it.

The bonfire drew close. Closer. Heads turned. She saw surprise on some faces, curiosity on others.

Maythorn’s step faltered. She came to a halt. For a cowardly moment, she wanted to scurry back to the safety of her cottage. Larkspur halted, too, and Ivy. Hazel continued on two steps, and then swung back to look at them, her dark brows raised in query.

“They’re our friends,” Ivy said. “We have nothing to fear.”

“
I’m
not afraid!” Hazel said.

Maythorn glanced at Larkspur. Larkspur’s face was milk-pale.
She’s as nervous as I am
.

Maternal instinct kicked in. Maythorn squeezed Larkspur’s fingers and gave her a reassuring smile. “All will be well.” And then she lifted her chin and stepped forward resolutely.
Tonight I shall be as calm as Ivy and as bold as Hazel
.

IT WASN’T AS
terrible as Maythorn had feared. The lie came more easily the more often she told it, and it wasn’t
really
a lie—she truly
was
Maythorn of York—and if a few of the older villagers exclaimed at the resemblance between her and the young Mistress Miller, most people seemed oblivious to it.

Maythorn slowly relaxed. A mug of ale helped. Stout, good-natured Mistress Thatcher waylaid them, full of cheerful conversation, and she relaxed still further.
Ivy was right: these people are my friends
. She tensed again when Ren Blacksmith arrived, but he made no effort to approach her. Maythorn watched him obliquely. Ren stood a good head taller than the other men. With his physique—the breadth of chest, the great slabs of muscle—he should have been intimidating, except that nothing about Ren was intimidating. He was simply too
Ren
.

When he’d been a young man, shortly after taking over Dapple Bend’s smithy, word of his strength had spread through the vale. Men had come to Dapple Bend in ones and twos to test themselves against him. They’d tried to goad him into fighting, taunted him, even struck him—but Ren had simply turned his back on them all and walked away.

“You’re staring,” Hazel whispered in Maythorn’s ear.

Maythorn jerked her gaze away, turned back to the conversation with Mistress Thatcher, and took a hasty gulp of ale.

“You never traveled all that way
alone
?” said Mistress Thatcher, her eyes round with alarm.

“Father came with me. My Aunt Miller went back with him.”

“And you had no trouble?” Mistress Thatcher persisted. “The roads outside the vale are terrible dangerous, so I’ve heard!”

“No trouble at all,” Maythorn said. And that wasn’t a lie. Her journey all those years ago had been utterly without incident.

“But how did you find your way?” young Annis Thatcher asked, wide-eyed.

“My Aunt Miller sent a map and a pebble from the Dapple,” Maythorn said, and that was the truth, too; she
had
sent a map and a pebble home to York, when she’d come to Dapple Bend as a bride. She didn’t know whether her family had kept them or not. Certainly, no one had come to visit her. Or perhaps they’d tried, and failed to find the path?

“Ah.” Mistress Thatcher nodded wisely. “The pebble, that’s the trick.”

Maythorn nodded, too, and sipped her ale. Her gaze slid back to Ren. He was built on a different scale than the men he was talking to, as if he had a drop of giant’s blood in him. The only two men in the whole vale who matched him in size were the Ironfists of Dapple Meadow, father and son. They’d never tried to brawl with Ren; they were the Lord Warder’s liegemen, sworn to stop fights, not start them.

She took another sip, not tasting the ale. Hazel was right; Ren was a fine-looking man. It wasn’t just his height and build, it was the way he moved, the way he held his head, the directness of his gaze, the laughter lines at his eyes and mouth. Ren’s face was good-humored and honest and kind. He wasn’t handsome, the way her husband had been, but she wasn’t a foolish girl to fall for good looks any more. She hadn’t been that girl for a very long time.

“Staring . . .” Hazel muttered in her ear.

Maythorn flushed and brought her attention firmly back to Mistress Thatcher and her young daughter.

AT DUSK, THE
bonfire was lit. The flames roared up and the dancing began. They danced as a village—men, women, and children. Even the dogs joined in, bounding and barking, and young Annis’s pet sheep.

It was a joy to dance again after so many years. Maythorn laughed out loud with the sheer pleasure of it. And then she glimpsed Ivy, sitting with old Dowse, and the laughter died in her throat. How many years had she sat to one side with Dowse and Ivy, clapping and smiling and wishing she could join in? Too many. And now she was dancing again—and Ivy was still sitting there, lame.

Ivy caught her gaze and grinned. It wasn’t something Ivy did often, grin. There was no bitterness on her face that Maythorn could see, no sadness.

She’s happy for me
.

Maythorn smiled back, but her guilt didn’t entirely vanish; a tiny nugget of it sat beneath her breastbone, as if she’d swallowed a plum stone—and then the dance swung her sideways and she found herself opposite Ren.

She stopped thinking about anything at all except remembering to breathe.

Ren held out his hands. His expression was serious, his gaze intent on her face.

Maythorn placed her hands in his. Her throat was dry, her heart thudded in her ears, and she felt as shy and awkward and tongue-tied as a young girl. She desperately wanted to say something to Ren, to make him smile, to make him laugh, to make him
like
her, but her mind was utterly blank. All she could think about was how large his hands were, and how his fingers seemed to burn her skin, and how she mustn’t fall over her own feet.

The dance moved them on again. Ren went left and she went right, and the man facing her was beaming, grizzled Alard Mason. Him, she had no difficulty exchanging laughing comments with.
Why can’t I talk to Ren like this?
Laugh with him like this?
She’d been able to when she was Widow Miller; she should be able to now. She was the same person inside that she’d always been. And so was Ren.