packed
in barrels, then carted to the deeper water port of Camelford, from
where the barrels were sent by ship to Spain or Normandy.
“I saw a few boats at sea yesterday,” Emma
said, “but there are none today.”
“They were after some other fish,” Dain said.
“The pilchard don’t arrive until later in the summer, which is a
good thing, for we need every man here on land to work at
rebuilding the houses.”
The entire village consisted of no more than
two dozen houses spread along a rutted, gravelly road that branched
off the cliff road and ran straight to the beach.
“It’s the path used by the heavy fish carts,”
Dain said when Emma commented on the deep ruts. “Agatha’s house is
the little building you can see across the meadow, just next to the
river. She prefers to live apart from the village proper.”
The men-at-arms and servants who had come
with Dain to help with the rebuilding stopped at the two houses
that were being restored from the ground up, while Dain and Emma
rode on to Agatha’s home. It was no more than a hut, sheltered
within a stand of willow trees that were all badly stunted by the
continuous wind from the sea.
As Emma and Dain approached, a tiny woman
came around the side of the house. Agatha’s face had been weathered
by sun and wind, covered with fine lines, and her hair was thin and
gray. But her silver-pale eyes were bright with intelligence and
her voice and step were both firm.
“So, this is your new lady,” Agatha said to
Dain. She touched Emma’s cheek with a wrinkled hand, and where her
fingers trailed, Emma’s skin grew warm.
“Teach her what you can,” Dain said to
Agatha. “Emma has some idea of being useful to Penruan. Lady Emma,
I will send a man-at-arms to escort you home at day’s end. I will
be staying here at Trevanan for several days.” With a hasty nod to
the women, he remounted and rode away, heading for the work
site.
“How that boy has changed since he was
younger,” Agatha said, looking after him.
“Have you known Dain all his life?” Emma
asked.
“Aye. There was a time when Dain was often
here at my cottage, despite the way his mother continually spews
hatred against me into his ears, warning him to keep his distance.
But Dain quietly defies his mother’s wishes. He allows me to live
here in the village because I am expert at healing the ills and
injuries of his men, and because I keep the villagers healthy.”
With a hand on Emma’s arm, Agatha drew her
around the little house and into the fenced herb garden at the
back. The fence was woven of irregular branches, apparently picked
up during Agatha’s walks in search of herbs, the branches bound
together with vines. Within the confines of the fence herbs grew in
wild abandon. At one corner, where the fence had almost collapsed,
it was held up by a great, spreading rosebush. A few late roses
bloomed pink on the untidy canes, but most of the canes bore large,
bright red hips.
“For jelly,” Emma said. “I love the taste of
rose hip jelly. Do you dry and powder the hips for a hot drink in
winter, as we do in Lincolnshire? Oh, there is lavender next to the
rose, and there’s thyme, and rosemary and mint over there, in the
shade.”
“You do know the herbs,” Agatha said, nodding
her approval. “Come, sit with me and tell me how you plan to
circumvent Lady Richenda’s disapproval of any effort to minister to
the earthly ailments of men and women.”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Emma said.
She took a seat on the bench Agatha indicated, a black stone slab
laid on two rocks and placed beneath an aged apple tree. All three
pieces of the bench were obviously cut from the nearby cliffs and
were worn smooth by years of use. “Agatha, how long have you lived
in Trevanan?”
“Since I was a little girl,” Agatha said,
settling herself next to Emma. “My granny was the healer before me.
At least, she called herself my granny, so no one would act
spitefully toward me while I
in barrels, then carted to the deeper water port of Camelford, from
where the barrels were sent by ship to Spain or Normandy.
“I saw a few boats at sea yesterday,” Emma
said, “but there are none today.”
“They were after some other fish,” Dain said.
“The pilchard don’t arrive until later in the summer, which is a
good thing, for we need every man here on land to work at
rebuilding the houses.”
The entire village consisted of no more than
two dozen houses spread along a rutted, gravelly road that branched
off the cliff road and ran straight to the beach.
“It’s the path used by the heavy fish carts,”
Dain said when Emma commented on the deep ruts. “Agatha’s house is
the little building you can see across the meadow, just next to the
river. She prefers to live apart from the village proper.”
The men-at-arms and servants who had come
with Dain to help with the rebuilding stopped at the two houses
that were being restored from the ground up, while Dain and Emma
rode on to Agatha’s home. It was no more than a hut, sheltered
within a stand of willow trees that were all badly stunted by the
continuous wind from the sea.
As Emma and Dain approached, a tiny woman
came around the side of the house. Agatha’s face had been weathered
by sun and wind, covered with fine lines, and her hair was thin and
gray. But her silver-pale eyes were bright with intelligence and
her voice and step were both firm.
“So, this is your new lady,” Agatha said to
Dain. She touched Emma’s cheek with a wrinkled hand, and where her
fingers trailed, Emma’s skin grew warm.
“Teach her what you can,” Dain said to
Agatha. “Emma has some idea of being useful to Penruan. Lady Emma,
I will send a man-at-arms to escort you home at day’s end. I will
be staying here at Trevanan for several days.” With a hasty nod to
the women, he remounted and rode away, heading for the work
site.
“How that boy has changed since he was
younger,” Agatha said, looking after him.
“Have you known Dain all his life?” Emma
asked.
“Aye. There was a time when Dain was often
here at my cottage, despite the way his mother continually spews
hatred against me into his ears, warning him to keep his distance.
But Dain quietly defies his mother’s wishes. He allows me to live
here in the village because I am expert at healing the ills and
injuries of his men, and because I keep the villagers healthy.”
With a hand on Emma’s arm, Agatha drew her
around the little house and into the fenced herb garden at the
back. The fence was woven of irregular branches, apparently picked
up during Agatha’s walks in search of herbs, the branches bound
together with vines. Within the confines of the fence herbs grew in
wild abandon. At one corner, where the fence had almost collapsed,
it was held up by a great, spreading rosebush. A few late roses
bloomed pink on the untidy canes, but most of the canes bore large,
bright red hips.
“For jelly,” Emma said. “I love the taste of
rose hip jelly. Do you dry and powder the hips for a hot drink in
winter, as we do in Lincolnshire? Oh, there is lavender next to the
rose, and there’s thyme, and rosemary and mint over there, in the
shade.”
“You do know the herbs,” Agatha said, nodding
her approval. “Come, sit with me and tell me how you plan to
circumvent Lady Richenda’s disapproval of any effort to minister to
the earthly ailments of men and women.”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Emma said.
She took a seat on the bench Agatha indicated, a black stone slab
laid on two rocks and placed beneath an aged apple tree. All three
pieces of the bench were obviously cut from the nearby cliffs and
were worn smooth by years of use. “Agatha, how long have you lived
in Trevanan?”
“Since I was a little girl,” Agatha said,
settling herself next to Emma. “My granny was the healer before me.
At least, she called herself my granny, so no one would act
spitefully toward me while I
Similar Books
