The Herb of Grace (13 page)

She got up and rummaged in a chest by the wall, while her son strummed the violin's strings, totally absorbed. The smell and the darkness and the sound of the wind in the ruins seemed to grow thicker, heavier, nastier. She turned from the chest with something in her hand.

‘See? It is a sprig of rue, wrought in silver. It is very, very old. I do not wear it, for it's meant to guard against black magic.'

Emilia stirred. ‘Why, what do you mean?' she asked, even as she took the charm from Marguerita's hand. It felt very light and flimsy.

The witch laughed. It was a high, shrill, scary sound. ‘I would not want it to stop me,' she murmured.

Abram stopped strumming the violin strings.
The only sound was the rush of the wind through the trees, and the low crackle of the fire.

‘Stop you from doing what?' Luka asked.

‘I shall have my revenge,' the witch answered. ‘Oh, yes. He shall suffer the agonies of grief, like I have, and then he too will die.'

‘Who?' Emilia whispered.

Marguerita stared at her without seeing her. ‘Cromwell,' she answered, as if it was obvious. She lifted down a box from the shelf and took out what looked like two small rag dolls. They smelt bad, like rotting nettles. Emilia shrank away, feeling suddenly sick. One was a limp little doll in the shape of a man, dressed in a scrap of dark material crudely cut to look like a jacket and breeches. It had a tuft of gingery hair sewn to its head, and features roughly drawn with charcoal. The other wore a grey dress and carried a baby in its arms. Two long hatpins protruded from their breasts.

‘The daughter and her little baby gone already,' Marguerita said softly, ‘and soon you too, Big Man.' And she took out another pin from the box and jabbed it cruelly into the rag doll, over and over again. ‘Shall you die tonight, Cromwell? Or shall I make you suffer a little longer?'

‘What are those?' Luka asked roughly. Emilia wondered if he too felt the thick, dark odour of hatred and menace that writhed out of the rag dolls like smoke.

Marguerita smiled. ‘Poppets,' she answered. ‘After they killed my husband and took away my boys, selling them like cattle, I walked all the way to Fernhurst, where I had heard the general was staying. It took me days, with Abram on my back. My feet were so sore and swollen I could barely take another step, but I went up to the house, and I went into his bedroom, and I took the hair out of his brush, and I cut some material out of his suit, the bit that would rest just over his heart, and then
I went into his daughter's room, and I took her hair too, and I cut up her dress, and then I walked all the way home again. No one saw me, no one stopped me, for I'd changed into the shape of a black rat.'

She laughed wildly. ‘And then I made my little poppets, and I stuffed them with nightshade and belladonna, and I sewed them up with black thread, and chanted every curse and evil spell I knew over them, all in the dark of the moon, and every day I take them out and I jab him and stab him and jiggle and wriggle the pin, and laugh as I think of him shrieking and falling about in agony. And then I take the pin out, and let him rest awhile. For I want it to be slow. I want him to feel every bit as much pain and grief and horror that I have felt since they hanged my mother for telling true what she saw, and murdered my husband, and stole my sons away.'

Emilia and Luka were horrified. They backed
away from her. Emilia had the charm clutched in her hand.

The witch stared at her. ‘You can have it,' she said indifferently. ‘What good has it done our tribe? I'll make my own magic, a stronger, blacker magic! But I must have something in return.'

‘What?' Emilia spoke through stiff lips.

‘We have nothing to give,' Luka replied unhappily, though Emilia saw how he clutched his little monkey closer.

‘But you do,' Marguerita said.

‘What? We have nothing.'

She pointed at Luka's violin, which Abram held pressed to his chest, staring at them wide-eyed and frightened. ‘He spoke for the first time since his father died,' she said. ‘One word! Only one word, but it is the gladdest word I ever heard. Give him your fiddle.'

‘No!' Luka cried.

‘Give it to him, else I'll curse you with all the
power at my command,' she said menacingly. ‘You came here wanting my rue sprig. Well, now you have it, so go. Go!'

Luka cast one last look at his beloved violin, then he seized Emilia's hand and they turned and ran.

If ghosts pursued them through the moonlit ruin, they were not benevolent. As she ran, her breath sobbing in her throat, Emilia clutched tightly in her hand the sprig of rue, the bitter herb of repentance, and trusted in it with all her heart to guard them against such black magic.

The duke and his men had been watching for Luka and Emilia anxiously, wondering what was taking them so long. Everyone was eager to hurry on their way, all too well aware that soldiers would still be hunting them. Besides, Beaulieu was an
eerie place to be at dusk, with mist rising from the river and twining about the pale broken stones, and frogs croaking weirdly in the rushes.

All night the fugitives stumbled through the thorns and tangles of the forest, the twigs and briars weaving themselves into nets that caught at their feet as if the trees themselves were alive and hungry. Sometimes roots writhed up out of the ground to trip their feet and send them sprawling. Other times they found themselves trapped in a thicket of brambles, sharp as teeth and claws. Each time Emilia's fingers found their way to the rue charm that she had hung from the chain at her wrist. In the darkness, it was incomprehensible. Yet as her fingers traced the sinuous knot of metal, they would suddenly burst free of the thicket and find a moonlit path winding through the black murmuring shadows.

By the time they reached the shore, the darkness was fading. Delicate colour bloomed in
the eastern sky. Fishing-boats were already out on The Solent, and smoke was rising from the chimney of every cottage. They dared go no further. Huddled together under some bushes by the shore, the men argued in low voices, their faces pale and drawn. Luka lay curled with his back towards them, his arm flung over his eyes, his mouth twisted in misery. Zizi was curled up against his neck, patting him consolingly. Emilia would have liked to try and comfort her cousin too, for it must have been a dreadful wrench for Luka, giving up his beloved violin. But she knew he would rather she kept away.

So Emilia lay in the grass, examining the charm they had won from the witch of the New Forest. Her grandmother had told her it was very old and very powerful. Emilia certainly found it mysterious. Forged from silver, and no larger than the circle she could make with her first finger and thumb, it was formed by slender coiling tendrils,
tarnished and black. Entwined within the rue leaves were a flower, a dagger, a rooster, and a crescent moon twined about with a snake. Tracing their shape with her finger, Emilia wondered what they meant. They gave her an odd, shivery sensation, as if she crouched outside a forbidden door, listening, wondering, scenting danger.

Baba had told her the charm of the Wood tribe was imbued with the power of all growing things, which all the Rom knew had a potent magic of their own. All her life Emilia had been taught to look out for certain leaves and flowers and roots and berries, some to boil up with water to make gypsy tea, some to throw into the pot with meat to make stew, some to tuck inside their chests to keep their linen sweet-smelling, some to use as remedies for all sorts of illnesses. All the Rom were taught the lore of the hedgerow – it was their larder and their apothecary.

Yet sometimes the most gorgeous flower was
the most dangerous. Foxglove was grown in many a garden for its tall spires of bright, drooping bells, yet make gypsy tea from its leaves and your heart would beat so fast it felt as if it would burst from your chest, until eventually it failed to beat at all. Black hellebore was called the Christmas rose for its delicate winter beauty, yet its roots, powdered, could kill a man. Deadly nightshade was also called belladonna, for it was a beautiful plant with bell-shaped purple flowers and round black berries. Many a small child had died from popping a few of those juicy-looking berries into their mouth, and every part of the plant was poisonous.

Yet all these plants, if used wisely, could heal too. Baba made a potion from foxglove leaves that could restore a stilled heart to life, and she added just one of the toxic berries of bittersweet to the tea she drank for her rheumatism. Even deadly nightshade could be used in a poultice to ease the inflammation of a wound.

Life, death. Healing, hurting. Curing, cursing. Growing, dying.

Emilia traced the delicate silver tendrils of the rue charm with her finger, round and round, thinking and wondering. She and Luka had travelled so far already, the two of them, and yet their journey was only half over. Three charms hung on her chain, and another three were yet to be found. Emilia could not help being afraid of what lay ahead. They had paid so dearly for what they had won that her spirit quailed within her. Yet . . .

Rue for pity's sake, Baba had said.

Emilia smiled a little wryly. Certainly she and Luka had seen cruelty and malice, but they had seen courage and kindness too, and found friends in unexpected places. They had the beginnings of a plan, at least, and promises of help.

She gave the sprig of rue one last thoughtful rub, then got to her feet. Through the sunlit
groves she wandered, picking handfuls of leaves from various plants that grew wild in the forest – creeping thyme, meadowsweet, lemon balm, and then, with a glad leap of her heart, a bunch of dried angelica flowers. Tea made with angelica comforted the heart, blood and spirits, her grandmother had told her, and indeed Emilia thought they could all do with some comfort now.

‘Can we light a fire?' she said to the duke. ‘There are so many charcoal-burners in the forest already, no one will notice one more bit of smoke.'

The Duke of Ormonde looked dubious, but there were indeed many columns of smoke rising up from the forest and shore. ‘Are you cold, sweetling?' he asked.

‘A little,' Emilia replied, and indeed her bare feet were numb from the dew, and it was too early for the sun to have yet taken the bite from the air. ‘But I thought I'd make us some gypsy tea. It'll help warm us and cheer us.'

‘We could all do with some of that,' Father Plummer said.

‘I'd rather have a cup of ale, but since Gypsy Joe neglected to give us any, I guess gypsy tea is better than nothing,' Lord Harry said with a grin.

‘What's in it?' Tom asked suspiciously.

‘A little of this, a little of that,' Emilia said with a grin, and showed him the herbs she carried. ‘It'll be delicious,' she promised him. ‘And better than cold water from the stream.'

‘Very well then,' the duke said. ‘Nat, light us a fire, would you?'

Soon a cheery blaze was dancing away under the tree, and Emilia boiled up some water then tossed the herbs into the pot. When the water had turned a rich, fragrant brown, she carefully scooped out the leaves and twigs and flung them away. They had no mugs, so she deftly made cups from bark that she cut from the tree, much to the amazement of the others.

‘Really, a very useful little girl,' Lord Harry said.

‘I can make a torch from the bark too,' Emilia said proudly, pouring the tea into the bark cups.

Everyone sniffed the tea cautiously, then sipped very suspiciously, but almost immediately their expression cleared and they drank thirstily.

With a cup in both hands, Emilia went and sat down next to Luka, who glanced at her moodily then, seeing the steaming tea, rolled over and sat up. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and gave his face a surreptitious scrub, then took the cup and drank. Emilia drank too, pushing her cold feet into Rollo's thick fur to warm them. The big dog thumped his tail in response, but did not open his eyes.

‘Better?' Emilia asked after a while.

Luka nodded and shrugged, draining the cup to its dregs, then tossing it into the undergrowth. Bark cups did not last very long.

Emilia reached out to pick a leaf out of his hair.
He was looking as grubby and disreputable as ever after a night slogging through the forest.

‘We'll go on east, shall we, looking for the Wells family?' she said.

‘Aye. Joe said they were smugglers, didn't he? They could be really useful! They'd have men, and ponies, and weapons, and be used to all sorts of skullduggery.' Luka's eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

Emilia gave a quick smile of relief. She had not liked seeing her cousin so still and quiet and miserable.

‘Maybe they'll have the next charm,' Emilia said. ‘It's some kind of shell, Baba said, a cat's eye shell.'

Luka grunted in response, rummaging in the bag for some food to share with Zizi and Rollo.

A cat's eye shell
, Emilia thought dreamily, sipping the last of her gypsy tea.
Whatever could that be?