Read Online Dragonswood by Janet Lee Carey - Free Book Online Page B

coals. Does that satisfy you?” His chin was high, and shoulders tense. He glowered at me for pushing him to this confession.
    She’d made an old woman walk the coals? That practice was outlawed in Queen Rosalind’s time. “I am sorry to hear it, sir,” I said clumsily.
    Garth Huntsman took up a stick and nudged the pigs out of their wallowing hole. “Stay here if you like. It’s all the same to me.”
    “Tess!” Meg pleaded. “Think of Tom.”
    So it was we followed Garth Huntsman, his pigs and old hound, Horace, to the king’s lodge. On the way the huntsman bid me herd the pigs so he could help Meg with Tom. “One of you was clever enough to come up with a way to break the law and spring your man here.”
    “That’s Tess,” said Meg proudly, nodding in my direction. The huntsman looked at me with something close to admiration. I felt my cheeks flush, and covered my unsightly cauliflower ear with my hair.
    The king’s hold was but a few miles from our cave. On a windy hilltop we gazed down at the fenced land where sheep wandered in the grassy fields. The large, central lodge was built of river stones, but barn, kennels, and other outbuildings were all of wood. No smoke rose over the lodge, though the day was chill.
    I marveled that food and shelter was so close by. If the huntsman had come upon us a few days later, he’d have likely found four dead souls within. The thought sent cold fingers up my spine. We went downhill, through gate and snow-covered garden. A toothless old man leaning against the chicken coop smoking his pipe hailed us as we passed.
    “That’s Jim Cackler, or just plain Cackle if you like,” said Garth Huntsman. “He keeps an eye on the animals for me.” The bent man looked too feeble to walk much farther than from house to barn and back. He stood to bang his pipe bowl against the coop, the effort seeming to take something out of him; still, he took the stick from my hand and herded the pigs into the pigpen.
    We crossed the muddy yard through scattered rugs of melting snow and waited on the porch for Garth Huntsman to pull out his iron key. The iced-over vegetables and herbs in the side yard had wilted in the unseasonable cold. The sight of any food, however spoiled, made my stomach growl. I blushed at the sound.
    Tupkin saved me further embarrassment with a loud meow. He bounded up to the porch, ready for a cozy spot inside by the master’s hearth. Horace bumped him aside and barked indignantly; that got him a loud hiss and a good scratch on the nose. The dog’s surprised yelp made me jump. I bumped Tom, who moaned.
    “Sorry, Tom,” I said. “We’ll have you in bed soon. See? We’ve arrived.” Tom did not even have the strength to raise his head.
    “Cat stays out,” the huntsman said, pushing open the kitchen door.
    “Oh, but sir,” Poppy pleaded. “Tupkin meant no harm.”
    “Tell that to Horace.”
    Tom’s room was close to the kitchen, the more to tend to his wounds with what ointments and herbs we might mix and boil. Garth built a fire in the room. Poppy and I turned our backs while Meg undressed Tom, so our host might view the full extent of his wounds.
    “I’ve seen this type of thing before,” he said. “Infection causes fever. We must cleanse the wounds to bring the fever down.”
    “Will he be all right?” Meg whispered.
    “We’ll do what we can,” Garth said.
    I went out to the well for water and hung my head over the side, breathing in the dark underwater smell. Don’t give in to this hospitality no matter how tired you are. Stay alert. Guard your friends. I sucked in the damp air praying for courage.
    It took two buckets full to clean the wounds. Meg and Poppy worked patiently. I stood aside, feeling useless as ever in the sickroom. I could have been helpful in some other way if this were my house, my kitchen, but it was not. Anon the huntsman used wine on the abrasions and spread egg whites on the sores. We left Tom sleeping soundly in the