Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 02 by Forsyth Kate

Author:Forsyth, Kate
Language: eng
Format: epub

The Captive

Meghan was led through the streets of Dunceleste with her wrists in iron shackles. She walked with her head high and her black eyes scanning the crowd with interest. Her gray plait was pinned at her nape, and a huge emerald clasped together the folds of her finely woven plaid. Despite the chain, the jeering crowd, and soldiers riding all around her, she looked more a banprionnsa than a condemned outlaw.

Every now and again a stone or egg or rotten fruit was thrown at her, but always the missile reversed its flight mid-air and flung itself back in the face of the thrower. The more forceful their heave, the harder the corresponding blow. The witch did not even look, or move a finger, or show any sign that she had noticed what was happening.

She reached the main square and saw there a crudely built platform with a large wooden cage hung from a gallows. She smiled in genuine amusement, and the soldiers nearest to her felt their uneasiness increase.

"Get ye in," they ordered gruffly, moving to grasp her arms, but a strange dizziness came over them. As they paused to recover their balance she stepped forward and climbed the stairs unassisted. She was small but had to bow her head to enter the cage, which rocked wildly at her weight. Showing surprising nimbleness for one of her age, she sat down cross-legged in the very center, lifting her plaid clear of the straw and manure which littered the floor.

"Charming," she said. "Quarters fit for a banprionnsa. I gather from this that Humbert o' the Smithy fancies a public discussion. I had heard he was no' very wise and now I ken it is true. Tell him I am looking forward to speaking with him. In the meantime, I would like some water."

"No water for the prisoner," the sergeant ordered.

"Och, it is no' for me."

He ignored her, and she pulled her large bag toward her and undid its buckle. First she pulled out her knitting, causing one of the soldiers to smile involuntarily. Then, to their bemusement, she withdrew a bundle of gardening tools. She took out her little rake and spade and began raking the floor of the cage, pushing the dirt to the four edges. Fastidiously she swept underneath her, dusting off her skirt and wiping her fingers on a cloth.

As she labored, a flock of pigeons flew down, circling the cage and settling along the top of the gallows.

A fat gray cat with orange eyes gracefully bounded up the steps and slipped in between the bars to curl up on her lap, purring loudly, paws kneading. Dogs threaded through the crowd, tails wagging, and a great carthorse ignored the cries and whip-blows of his driver to drag the huge dray right up to the platform, nudging the cage with its roman nose. She patted it through the bars, and it nudged again,

setting the cage swinging and the cat miaowing in protest.

Tucking her tools away neatly, Meghan pulled out a little canvas pouch and poured a selection of seeds into her palm.

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