Marillier, Juliet - Sevenwaters 01 - Daughter of the Forest by Marillier Juliet

Author:Marillier, Juliet
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter Ten

Then followed what I looked back on later as the last good time at Harrowfield. Richard was gone, and spring burst on the valley as if celebrating his departure. My little garden bloomed with brave crocus and tiny pale daffodils and fragrant herbs. The sun warmed the stone walls and the old terrier stretched her stiff limbs and ventured out to explore under the blossoming lilacs. I took to rising early and walking forth while the air was crisp and the day new. This way, I could almost imagine I was back home at Sevenwaters, and that everything was all right again. Almost. As often as not, I would walk to the orchard with its lichen-covered walls to find Red already there, cloak over his shoulders against the cold, ink pot on the bench beside him, quill gripped somewhat awkwardly in his large hand. Sometimes I would sit there for a while, and he would give me a grave nod of acknowledgment, and go on with his work.

It was clear to me that what he made with such care was some kind of record of the estate, where purchases and profits were marked down methodically year by year. And yet, I could see it was more, for I glimpsed intricate diagrams that seemed to show the layers beneath the soil, and the different roots of plants, and the way the rain fell and nourished them; and here and there a tiny representation of tree or leaf or flower, done with a delicate control. This was the man whose uncle chided him for playing peasants; whose hands were so big mine were swallowed up by them. I liked sitting there quietly with my back against the smooth stones of the wall, watching him work. It came to me how much easier such a task would be if he knew how to write. I began to realize what a rare gift we had been given, I and my brothers, when Father Brien chose to share his skill with us. For it had become plain that there were none at Harrowfield, save the household scribe, with the ability to set down letters and to decipher them. And the scribe himself seemed to struggle when asked to make out a message of any complexity. Had matters been different, I could have offered to help. That would have raised a few eyebrows.

Some mornings I felt the need to keep moving, and Red would put away his quill and ink, and walk with me up through the fledgling oak forest to the

hilltop from which he had first shown me the broad acres of his estate. From river to skyline, from road's end to far horizon, the valley was clothed in its first brave green. They were good times, quiet peaceful times. There was no need for words between us. Slowly, the poison of Richard's tongue slipped away from my mind, and I began to trust again.

Elaine came, and her behavior was as impeccable as her elegant, plain gowns and her glossy, smoothly braided hair.

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