The Swan Maiden (4 page)

“I will,” Anfos said, and strutted toward the tent.

“I'm sure we will enjoy the baker's gift.” The wool mistress pinned each of the brothers with a stern eye.
“After”
—she leaned on the word—“our work is done. You brought your own shears, I trust?”

“Aye, Na Soufio.” Jaume opened a leather pouch at his belt and gave Tinou the shears. “Go to it,” he said. “Fidele! Osco!”

The dogs barked, one high, one low. Jaume pointed to his brother. “Mind Tinou.”

Tinou scowled. “What, while you stuff your face?”

“No,” Jaume said patiently. “While I walk Lady Doucette back to the castle.”

His brothers hooted. “Think you'll catch a court lady's eye?” Tinou said.

Vitor pinched his nose with his fingers and spoke in a high, squeaky voice. “What is that smell? Pray take it away!”

“Lady Doucette?” For the first time, Na Soufio appeared to notice the young woman standing behind Osco. The wool mistress curtsied. “Ah. Good day. Lady Sarpine sent you to inspect the pens? I'll show you around myself; you'll find all in order.”

“I'm sure of that, Na Soufio,” Doucette said. “Perhaps another time? I'm not dressed for a tour.”

“Not dressed? Move, you.” Na Soufio shooed the dog away from Doucette. The grooves beside the wool mistress's mouth deepened as her eyes traveled up and down the once-gorgeous gown, inventorying the windblown ribbons, the mud and slime that spotted the purple velvet.

Following the woman's frown, Doucette glanced down and winced. Osco had left giant paw prints on her hem.

“Criminal mistreatment of a fine fabric,” Na Soufio pronounced. “About time Lady Sarpine assigned you a turn with the laundresses, if you ask me.”

Doucette stiffened. “I am familiar with their work.”

“And an insult, besides. Silk and velvet! What, honest wool's not good enough for you?” Na Soufio clicked her teeth. “A chastelaine suits her attire to the task, Lady Doucette, not to her vanity.”

“It was a spell.” Doucette could see Jaume's brothers grinning behind the wool mistress's back. “I was wearing a different dress before Azelais and Cecilia changed it.”

The woman sniffed at Doucette's explanation. “Swan maidens are moody creatures, by all accounts. You should know better than to provoke them.”

“I provoke them by living,” Doucette said under her breath.

“Eh?” the woman said sharply. “Speak up, little lady. A chastelaine doesn't mutter.”

“No, Na Soufio.”

To Doucette's relief, Jaume eased between her and the critical Na Soufio. One look sent his mocking brothers off to the shearing pen, and then Jaume unleashed his sweet smile on the wool mistress.

She blinked. “Yes, Jaume?”

“Well, now. You're a busy woman, and a capable one, to manage this lot on your own.” His nod encompassed the tent encampment and pens beyond it, where a distant yapping and bleating announced new arrivals. “A flock from Mardèche county is here, looks like. We'll not keep you.”

“Mardèche?” Na Soufio turned and bunched her hands on her hips. “None of them were expected until tomorrow, and making for Saint-Rafel pens? That'll need sorting out. A rude bunch, little lady, so it's as well you can't stay. Come back tomorrow. But”—her finger wagged in warning—“dress decent, or for your own good, I'll have a word with your mother.”

Doucette bit her lip and curtsied. “Yes, Na Soufio.”

“Velvet, by the saints,” the woman huffed as she stalked toward the river.

“Shall we?” Jaume said.

“Thank you.” In an agony of silent humiliation, Doucette put her hand on his offered arm.

How stupid she had been, trying to avoid her sisters' leave-taking. If she had just endured it, she wouldn't have let Cecilia frighten her witless, disrupted the Vent'roux flock's arrival, incurred a scolding from Na Soufio, taken Jaume from his work, or made him the target of his brothers' ridicule. How flighty the handsome shepherd must think her—not at all the impression she wanted to leave.

Not for the first time, Doucette wished she knew a spell that would make the earth open up and swallow her, ruined velvet gown and all.

Chapter Four

Unfortunately, Azelais's prediction had been correct. The beautiful gown was not suited for a country ramble. The tight bodice made it difficult for Doucette to breathe; the elaborate skirts tangled around her feet. Jaume shortened his long stride without comment, and Doucette hobbled along as quickly as she could. At least the grass was soft underfoot. The rocky road ahead would be more difficult.

Surreptitiously, Doucette unfolded Cecilia's Animated handkerchief and shook it. It fluttered limply, a flag of surrender. Doucette put the thing away, realizing that even if she knew how to make the spell work, it would have returned her and Jaume to the sheep pen, not taken them up to the castle.

When they gained the road, Doucette looked north toward Luzerna, Tante Mahalt's county and her sisters' destination. She didn't see the party of riders or even the dust of their passage. Between them, her sisters would have pushed their escort hard. Unspoken, but understood by all, was the hope that the childless Queen of the Birds would soon name her heir. Both Azelais and Cecilia must be eager to curry her favor.

Doucette kicked a dirt clod. She had never seen her aunt's castle and had only met Tante Mahalt once. Lady Sarpine permitted her two eldest daughters to visit the Château de l'Île every summer, in hopes that one of them would inherit the childless woman's estate. The comtesse's mistrust of her sister-in-law precluded more frequent visits between them.

The road climbed toward the ridge. Panting in her tight dress and having to pick her way through stones that cut her bare feet, Doucette walked ever more slowly. “Have you been to Luzerna, Jaume?” she asked.

“Oh, aye,” he said. “Summer pasture's over the border.”

“What's it like?”

“Green.”

When she wanted to hear more, he pushed his hat back on his head and scratched his neck. “I've not been upriver quite as far as your aunt's castle. Our flocks stop at the meadows, where the Immeluse empties into a lake between the mountains. Beautiful country. Wildflowers everywhere in the grass, red anemones, rockrose, yellow cowslips and primrose, peonies and valerian. And when the lilies bloom—ah.” He smiled. “Best smell in the world, field lilies.”

“It sounds lovely,” Doucette said. She stubbed her toe hard on a rock and closed her lips over a cry of pain. The soles of her feet felt like they were on fire.

“And hot pools on the way,” Jaume continued. “Hidden-like, tucked in the rocks above the road. After a day's march, we'll take turns minding the flock and climbing up to soak. It's grand, steaming water to your neck, crushed mint for a pillow, stars overhead.… Why, what's the matter, little lady?” he said in quite a different tone.

“Nothing,” Doucette said.

“You're limping.”

“No,” she lied.

“My job to notice.” As if she were an errant lamb, Jaume lifted her onto a boulder.

Doucette tucked her feet under her skirts, afraid to find out whether they looked as bad as they felt. “Nothing you can do,” she told him.

“Can't say for sure,” he countered. “A good shepherd has ten remedies for blisters on man or beast. Let's see.”

Doucette glared at him, but Jaume leaned on his crook, the soul of patience.

“I'm not showing my bare feet to a stranger,” she said.

“That's plain cruel. Hardly a stranger, am I? You've seen me every spring since Cousin Toumas first carried you down on his shoulders to play with the lambs.” Jaume's dark eyes narrowed. “Bare feet? What about your shoes?”

Doucette clamped her lips together. Cecilia had a lot to answer for.

Not that she would.

“Show me,” Jaume said.

As his attitude made plain that she'd sit on the rock until she did, Doucette hiked her skirts and gingerly extended her legs. Jaume's hands felt warm on her ankles as he turned her feet up for inspection.

Though his face darkened with anger, his touch was gentle as he lowered her feet. “I'm a blind fool, yammering about flowers!” he said. “Why didn't you say you were hurting?”

“What could you have done?” Doucette replied with equal bluntness. “Azelais scolded me already for not riding, and as Cecilia said, I can't f-fly.” To her dismay, her voice quavered and her eyes filled with tears.

“Hush.” Jaume threaded the shepherd's crook through his belt, picked up Doucette, and settled her against his chest.

“What are you doing?” Doucette rubbed her eyes.

“Carrying you.”

“But—”

“You're not walking another step until we wash out those cuts.” He strode up the road, much faster now that he didn't have to match her careful pace.

“I'm too heavy. Put me down.”

Jaume snorted. “Got ewes that weigh more than you. They don't squirm so much, which helps.”

“Oh.” Doucette held herself still. “Your pardon.”

“No trouble,” he said, and kept walking.

His tunic smelled of wood smoke, sheep, and, faintly, of garlic. Slowly, Doucette relaxed into the homey smells. She could hear Jaume's heart beating under her ear, slow and steady. His breath ruffled her hair.

It felt strange to be carried, but it was a great relief to be off the sharp stones. Though her feet still throbbed, the pain wasn't getting worse with every step, as it had before.

Jaume climbed the steep hill and threaded his way through the town's narrow streets. As they traversed the artisans' quarter in companionable silence, Doucette heard the
tap-tap
of goldsmiths' hammers, the cheerful haggling of cobblers and tailors with patrons in street-level booths. She kept her eyes lowered so she wouldn't have to see the speculation in the shopkeepers' eyes.

When she smelled a whiff of sulfur, she knew they had almost reached their destination. The only fountain in town that tapped a hot spring was located near the castle gates.

“Could we stop here, Jaume?”

“Good idea.” The shepherd set Doucette on a bench near the fountain. Above the water's flow, steam wafted out of a hole at the top of the giant, moss-covered boulder, as though the rock itself breathed.

Jaume filled cupped hands from the tiled catch-basin and bathed Doucette's feet.

She winced at the sting of mineral-laden water.

“Almost done,” he said. “There.”

“Thank you.” Doucette glanced down the street lined with narrow stone buildings. Her hands plucked at her muddy skirts. “I wish I didn't have to go on,” she surprised herself by blurting out loud. “Mother will be furious.”

“Why's that?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

Jaume rocked back on his heels and frowned thoughtfully. “Gown's none too clean, I'll grant you.”

“I'm hideous!” Doucette wailed.

“Hideous?” The laugh lines crinkled around Jaume's eyes. “Not hardly, with that hair the color of a dove's wing and the same soft, pretty way about you. Ask me, you look very nice.”

“I do?”

“Oh, aye.” The shepherd pulled the crook out of his belt and scratched the back of his neck. “I've always thought so.”

“You have?” Doucette said, diverted. “You never said!”

“What cause has a shepherd to be telling a comte's daughter that he admires her?”

Abruptly, Doucette recalled who and where she was. She had been so comfortable in Jaume's company, she had forgotten the social gulf that separated them.

Jaume gave her a wry look. “You see?”

Slowly, Doucette nodded. Even if she liked him better than any of the nobles at court, the two of them had no future together. Unlike a sorceress, who loved where she pleased, a virtuous young noblewoman married as her parents directed.

“I will ask a favor, now that you know,” Jaume said.

“Yes?”

“If you ever … if you need…” He turned his hat in his hands.

She found it rather endearing to see the confident shepherd tongue-tied. “Yes?”

“If you're in trouble, or one of your sisters plays a trick like today”—he frowned at Doucette's battered feet—“any reason. You know you can call on me, Lady Doucette?”

“Thank you, Jaume,” Doucette said, touched by the unlikely offer. Really, no matter how strong or kind or handsome he was, how could a shepherd help a noblewoman? “I'll remember.”

“Good,” he said. “Best get along to the castle. No, wait.” He fumbled in his belt pouch and came up with a small clay jar. “Use this salve on the cuts.” He pressed the jar into her hand.

Doucette pried off the cork lid and sniffed. Mostly rosemary oil, she thought, but with a wilder smell underneath. “You're giving me sheep rub?”

“Made it for sheep, but people use it, too. There's herbs shepherds know, places we pick them. This and that. It'll help the skin heal cleanly.”

Doucette sniffed again. The ointment's scent made her nose tingle in a way she almost recognized.

And then she did recognize it, despite Jaume's bland explanation. “This stuff is magic,” she said. “Herb magic! You know my mother doesn't approve of the Low Arts.” Or the High Arts. It was Lord Pascau who had encouraged Azelais and Cecilia to practice sorcery, which caused a certain tension in the family. Doucette was always caught in the middle. Not that it was a shepherd's concern.

Jaume straightened from his casual stance. “Low Art, High Art, it's the noble folk draw those lines in the sand.” He rapped his crook on a paving stone. “Transformation, Animation, Divination—showy spells, I'll grant you. But really, compared with healing, how useful are they to most folk?”

The casual dismissal of her sisters' sorcery—the magic Doucette so longed to learn and never would—nettled her. “Father's very proud of Azelais and Cecilia,” she said.