Read Online The Penwyth Bride (The Witch's Daughter Book 1) by Ani Bolton - Free Book Online
Authors: Ani Bolton
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quarters of an hour.
My annoyance must have shown, for a faint color rose up through the tanned skin of his cheeks. He said, a little defensively, “Cranes are rare on the moors these days. I had to seize the opportunity as it came.”
“Of course.”
His mouth tightened. As he secured the sketchbook away in the saddlebag, he hesitated in a mannerism that was beginning to irritate before he continued. “The older folk say that the sky used to teem with cranes, so many that they would blot out the sun. The flock would cover this area when they landed, packed wing to wing, and their brakes and croaks were loud enough to be heard in Bodmin. But no one would hunt them, even in the Starving Time.”
A vision burst into my head: emaciated women hunched behind the rock, watching the stilt-legged birds with indecision and fear.
“I thought that cranes preferred marshland,” I said quickly. “At least they do where I come from.”
He swung up behind me again and clucked Avallen forward. “This valley used to be a marsh, Miss Eames. All of it, as far as the eye can see, and over the hillock there used to be a lake. But the cranes gave up looking for it at last.”
A chill, despite the warmth emanating from Roger behind me, crawled over my spine.
“You’ve wandered onto land that used to be part of Lyonesse. We are riding over all that is left of it.”
###
In a shorter time than I thought possible, we achieved the larch cluster screening the Hermitage from its wild neighbor, the moor.
Instead of guiding Avallen to the courtyard as I expected, we clopped toward a pair of slate-roofed outhouses. Here, he allowed me to slip down the side of his horse.
“Safe and sound,” he murmured, his eye avoiding mine again as he fiddled with a loose buckle on the reins.
“Thank you.” I stepped away from his thigh which was flexing powerfully as he controlled his animal, nodding in both gratitude and dismissal.
He took the hint. “Stay away from the lights, Miss Eames,” he said, pulling the corner of his tricorn in farewell. “Sometimes they belong to those who practice the art of shipwrecking, but you would be lucky in that instance. The alternative is far more unpleasant.”
And without explaining what the alternative was, he touched silver spurs to Avallen’s glossy hide and cantered away.
I watched him depart, relived to be away from his uncomfortable society, happy to be close to a cool drink and a dry shift when suddenly I realized that I did not know in what part of the grounds he had left me.
I did not have to wonder long. Before the beats of Avallen’s hooves faded, I heard whistling. A gardener, smocked and muddy, appeared from behind the end of a long yew hedge. His face was seamed with age and the stolid unflappability I was beginning to recognize as the mark of the Cornish common folk. He showed no surprise at seeing me in this remote part of the property.
“Be that young Penwyth?” he asked me with a polite pull at his forelock.
“That was indeed Mr. Roger Penwyth. Do you think you could direct me--”
“Eh, he don’t linger much at the Hermitage, do ’ee? Mistress up at the house don’t like him, nor he her, and so he leaves them be.”
I was impatient to be at the house myself, but the gardener did not seem to notice my battered state. He spat comfortably and leaned upon his spade.
“He were riding the piebald,” the old man said with a touch of wonder.
“Do you mean the horse? Indeed he was. Do you think you might--”
“Piebalds are tricky beasts, t’fairies and knackers ride their mothers in secret afore they foal and so the piebald marks their hides as a fairy’s mount. Never saw anyone save Roger Penwyth ride a piebald horse a’fore.”
I was beginning to realize that the old gardener was deaf and probably crazed with loneliness. He smelled of smoked chicory and years of long labor.
His mouth split to show me nubbed teeth. “You were riding the piebald, weren’t
My annoyance must have shown, for a faint color rose up through the tanned skin of his cheeks. He said, a little defensively, “Cranes are rare on the moors these days. I had to seize the opportunity as it came.”
“Of course.”
His mouth tightened. As he secured the sketchbook away in the saddlebag, he hesitated in a mannerism that was beginning to irritate before he continued. “The older folk say that the sky used to teem with cranes, so many that they would blot out the sun. The flock would cover this area when they landed, packed wing to wing, and their brakes and croaks were loud enough to be heard in Bodmin. But no one would hunt them, even in the Starving Time.”
A vision burst into my head: emaciated women hunched behind the rock, watching the stilt-legged birds with indecision and fear.
“I thought that cranes preferred marshland,” I said quickly. “At least they do where I come from.”
He swung up behind me again and clucked Avallen forward. “This valley used to be a marsh, Miss Eames. All of it, as far as the eye can see, and over the hillock there used to be a lake. But the cranes gave up looking for it at last.”
A chill, despite the warmth emanating from Roger behind me, crawled over my spine.
“You’ve wandered onto land that used to be part of Lyonesse. We are riding over all that is left of it.”
###
In a shorter time than I thought possible, we achieved the larch cluster screening the Hermitage from its wild neighbor, the moor.
Instead of guiding Avallen to the courtyard as I expected, we clopped toward a pair of slate-roofed outhouses. Here, he allowed me to slip down the side of his horse.
“Safe and sound,” he murmured, his eye avoiding mine again as he fiddled with a loose buckle on the reins.
“Thank you.” I stepped away from his thigh which was flexing powerfully as he controlled his animal, nodding in both gratitude and dismissal.
He took the hint. “Stay away from the lights, Miss Eames,” he said, pulling the corner of his tricorn in farewell. “Sometimes they belong to those who practice the art of shipwrecking, but you would be lucky in that instance. The alternative is far more unpleasant.”
And without explaining what the alternative was, he touched silver spurs to Avallen’s glossy hide and cantered away.
I watched him depart, relived to be away from his uncomfortable society, happy to be close to a cool drink and a dry shift when suddenly I realized that I did not know in what part of the grounds he had left me.
I did not have to wonder long. Before the beats of Avallen’s hooves faded, I heard whistling. A gardener, smocked and muddy, appeared from behind the end of a long yew hedge. His face was seamed with age and the stolid unflappability I was beginning to recognize as the mark of the Cornish common folk. He showed no surprise at seeing me in this remote part of the property.
“Be that young Penwyth?” he asked me with a polite pull at his forelock.
“That was indeed Mr. Roger Penwyth. Do you think you could direct me--”
“Eh, he don’t linger much at the Hermitage, do ’ee? Mistress up at the house don’t like him, nor he her, and so he leaves them be.”
I was impatient to be at the house myself, but the gardener did not seem to notice my battered state. He spat comfortably and leaned upon his spade.
“He were riding the piebald,” the old man said with a touch of wonder.
“Do you mean the horse? Indeed he was. Do you think you might--”
“Piebalds are tricky beasts, t’fairies and knackers ride their mothers in secret afore they foal and so the piebald marks their hides as a fairy’s mount. Never saw anyone save Roger Penwyth ride a piebald horse a’fore.”
I was beginning to realize that the old gardener was deaf and probably crazed with loneliness. He smelled of smoked chicory and years of long labor.
His mouth split to show me nubbed teeth. “You were riding the piebald, weren’t
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