Alys Clare - The Enchanter's Forest

Safe.

Without any conscious prompting, an image of her little hut in the forest slid into her mind. She felt utterly safe there, for as well as being right out in the wildwood she had set it about with spells for safety and for concealment. Nobody — not even Josse, whom she loved — could find it if she did not want them to. But she was not in her hut now: she was approaching the north coast of Armorica with someone hunting for her who wished her dead.

Against her will she saw more images. Horrible images, of the arrest, trial and execution of a woman condemned for killing her husband by witchcraft. The woman had been kept awake far beyond her endurance, her body naked and shaved of hair from when they had searched for the Devil’s Mark. She bore both physical wounds from her long torment and also mental wounds, for they had raped and abused her. Now, still naked, she was being led out to the thick stake surrounded by brush and bundles of wood where, very soon now, they would tie her up and burn her to death.

She saw the woman’s face and the woman was her.

She gave a low moan, and felt a great keening wail rise up in her throat.

She gritted her teeth and kept her silence. I will not allow this weakness, she commanded herself fiercely. His man did not succeed back there in the forest, either in killing me or Josse my protector, or in taking me prisoner and marching me off to Dinan. We killed the killer, Josse and I. Josse is wounded now and cannot fight as he did then, so it is up to me.

Slowly she rose to her feet, careful not to disturb either Josse or Meggie, sleeping peacefully beside her father. Then, already beginning on the long, low chant that would carry her into the right frame of mind, she delved into her leather satchel and began assembling the tools and the ingredients she would need.

Then she began to work her spell.

In the morning they followed the inlet down to the sea. To Joanna’s relief, Josse looked better after his night’s rest. She had ensured, by slipping a light sedative into his herbal infusion, that his sleep was profound; the sleeping draught, combined with strong pain-killing herbs, had knocked him out like a felled ox and both she and Meggie had been disturbed by his snoring. But now she had her reward for interrupted sleep, for here was dear old Josse, bright-eyed and claiming the pain was much reduced, holding out his arm to show her that his wound seemed to be healing well.

So far, so good.

On the right bank of the inlet, on a promontory guarding the bay, was a great castle, granite-built, threatening. Neither knowing nor caring to whom it might belong, Joanna and Josse ignored it and instead went down to the shore, where several boats of varying size were tied up along a wooden quay. Their requests for passage for two adults, a child and two horses seemed doomed to failure until one man, an ageing sailor missing one eye whose face was chestnut-brown and deeply seamed with creases, offered the remark that his wife’s cousin’s son had a boat and that sometimes — only sometimes, mind — he sailed over to England, where he knew a man with a weakness for Breton oysters. He might — just might — be setting off on such a venture quite soon and he might see his way to taking some passengers. For a consideration, naturally.

After parting with the price of several flagons of cider and the meals to go with them, Josse managed to elicit the information that the seaman’s relative by marriage sailed out of somewhere called St Cast and that this port was maybe another four, five miles up the coast; they couldn’t miss it, claimed the old sailor, and his wife’s cousin’s son was called Andre and his boat was the Sacree Vierge .

Josse, Joanna and Meggie rode on. They found both Andre and his boat and, just as the old man had said, Andre was loading boxes of oysters. He eyed his would-be passengers, nodded and suggested a price for their fare to England. It was not unreasonable but for pride’s sake Josse haggled and beat him down a little. Then, for Andre was eager to utilise the tide and the south-westerly wind to the very best advantage, Josse and Joanna got the horses on board and into the hold and, sitting up in the prow with Meggie held securely between them, watched as the Sacree Vierge slipped her moorings and pulled away from the shore.

The wind strengthened as they entered open water and soon the sails were scooping it up, filling and billowing over their heads. The boat was a smallish craft, lightly built, and she sped along as if she were flying. Andre, relaxing somewhat now that they were well on their way, came to pass the time of day and told them the ship was bound for New Shoreham, where his lordship the lover of Breton oysters lived. They expected to make landfall in time for supper the next day, Andre said, adding that there would be little point in even contemplating the voyage unless it were at a time when conditions meant it could be accomplished swiftly. Even his magnificent and freshly collected oysters, he said, didn’t keep longer than three days.

After supper Josse and Joanna settled Meggie down to sleep, wrapped in her blankets between them in their place in the prow where she would be perfectly safe. The little ship neither pitched nor rolled and Josse reckoned that they were in for a comfortable night.

Putting his undamaged left arm out so that Joanna could lean into his shoulder, he said quietly, ‘Have we, think you, accomplished what we set out to do?’

She raised her head to look at him briefly before relaxing against him once more. ‘I had almost forgotten our mission,’ she replied. She reached to kiss his throat. ‘These past few days with you have been a joy.’ She laughed briefly. ‘Not to mention the slight distraction of someone trying to kill us.’

He did not want to dwell on how wonderful their time together had been because that thought would lead directly to a far less happy one: that it was about to come to an end. So, acknowledging her remark with no more than a squeeze and a soft kiss dropped on the top of her head, he said, ‘But what of the reason why we made this journey?’

She thought for a moment and then said, ‘It’s up to you, Josse. The Abbess and the Domina hoped that by showing you the place known in Armorica — Brittany — as Merlin’s Tomb and by telling you the legend attached to it, you would be convinced and therefore able to state conclusively that the Broceliande tomb is the true one and the one in the forest at Hadfeld must therefore be a fake.’ She paused. ‘Are you so convinced?’

Slowly he shook his head. ‘I wish I knew, sweeting. Your people at Folle-Pensee are good, honest souls and they would not tell me that I must believe in the spring being Merlin’s burial place.’

‘No, we leave that sort of command to the church,’ she murmured. ‘Our way is to set out what we believe and then let others make up their own minds. In our view, all men and women have been given a brain and it is up to every one of us to make up his or her own mind on matters of faith. To us the concept of telling people that they must believe or else they’ll suffer damnation is faintly absurd since faith comes from the heart, not the head, and it simply doesn’t work that way. Besides,’ she added, warming to her theme, ‘who wouldn’t claim to believe in just about anything if the alternative were the threat of being roasted in hell for eternity with devils sticking red-hot pitchforks in your private parts?’

Josse chuckled. ‘I can think of one or two priests who would fall into a swoon at the very idea of independent thought on matters of faith.’

‘So can I,’ she agreed wryly.

He was still pondering her original question. Had he seen enough to say without doubt that Florian of Southfrith’s tomb was nothing more than a confidence trick? He did not know. There was nothing fraudulent about the tomb at Folle-Pensee, that was for sure, and he had been left in no doubt that there was a power source there beneath the vast granite slab and in the sparkling water. If he was honest with himself, that moment when Huathe had stood up on the stone and summoned the elements had scared Josse more than virtually anything in his life. He had been a fighting man, aye, but you knew what to expect with a flesh-and-blood opponent. That — that spirit, or presence, or whatever it was at the spring in the Broceliande was not of this world, or if it was, it was from a part of it that Josse had neither experienced before nor wished ever to meet again.