Love-Chattel of Tormunil by Aran Ashe

Author:Aran Ashe [Aran Ashe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2012-12-13T00:00:00+00:00

13

Shivering in the Rain

‘WHAT PLACE IS this?’ Iroise whispered, peering at the dank, musty walls and crooked roof beams.

‘A cottage of some sort. It should be safe. It seems deserted.’

She crept back to the door, her feet rustling across the straw-strewn floor. Out in the dusk was dense woodland and a barely trodden path. The horses were hitched in a tiny patch of mossy grazing. Streams of water ran from the reed roof. A pool lay across the doorstep. The sodden mendicant’s habit clung to her like a heavy shroud, chilling her bones. The hood was her only protection.

‘Come inside, you’re shivering.’ She did not move even when her rescuer stood beside her. ‘The trees, the quiet,’ Dariun whispered. ‘It’s like the place I first found you.’

Iroise stared silently at the ground then edged her bare foot into the little chill pool of rainwater. She heard his troubled sigh, then turned and looked at his anxious, frowning youthful face. ‘I’ll light a fire, then you’ll feel better,’ he said in a tremulous whisper.

She remained by the door. He found tinder and sparked it and there were dry sticks in the corner; at least he knew of this. He went outside and plucked herbs from the edge of the clearing. Soon a little pot was simmering on an iron bar above the hearth in the middle of the room. From the saddlebags he took bread and strips of meat and arranged them with the rest of the leaves on a small cloth by the fire.

‘My lady, shall you grace my table?’ He bowed exaggeratedly then seemed embarrassed. Iroise smiled wanly. She came across and crouched by the fire, drawing back her hood. He was staring at her with that same anxious expression. Her hair hung cold against her neck. The clinging, isolated raindrops began to scurry down her face; her hands were limp, soaked and weak.

He hooked the pot from the fire on to a flat stone. ‘It has to cool.’ He cut a chunk of bread and dressed it with some of the leaves and a strip of meat and then gave it to Iroise. ‘Your hands are stone cold. We’ll have to get you dry.’

While he rigged a frame on the far side of the fire to support the damp blanket, Iroise stared into the flames. She felt so tired; the flickering flames were mesmerising. The straw in front of her felt warm. Wisps of steam began rising from the blanket. She put the bread down.

‘Eat your bread. You must eat something.’

She lifted the handle of the pot with her cuff and used a handful of straw to steady and tilt it, pouring some of the aromatic liquor into the tin cup. ‘Here, take it,’ she said.

‘No, you,’ he answered.

Resolutely, Iroise proffered the cup, forcing Dariun to accept it. He took a sip then a measure then gave it back. The warmth spread through her hands as she clasped it. It tasted like scented water. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

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