Woburn Village to Luton, Bedfordshire
NOAH SPEAKS

I had not expected that agony. That was foolish of me, I am sure, but I had truly not expected it. As Caela, whether as herself or in her glamour as Damson, I’d seen the terrible effects of Swanne’s imp on her body, and I’d seen the suffering in Swanne’s eyes. I should have known that Weyland would visit a similar anguish on me.

And yet, still, both the pain and the attack came as a shock. I’d harboured the imp for so many years, through two lives, with little to show for it save some discomfort during my monthly menstrual cycle that when it did strike…oh, merciful heavens…

I could feel that imp crawling through my body. Feel him reaching out his claws and raking them slowly down my inner back, delighting in my terror and pain.

Hear him giggling, the sound horribly distorted by its passage through my flesh.

All I could think of was Catling’s statement that she could help if the imp troubled me during my monthly menses. All I could think of was how Catling seemed able to control the imp. All I could think of was that she could now call a halt to this terrible tearing…this terrible agony.

That she didn’t came as no true surprise. She was right, of course, to say that if she stopped the imp then Weyland would know that the black horror was beyond his control.

But even so…to have her refuse to aid me…

Marguerite and Kate did what they could. Cool herbal poultices and love and compassion, applied in equal amounts, eased much of my suffering. By dawn the overwhelming agony had gone, but my flesh still pained considerably. Marguerite said the welts in my back had bruised a deep purple, and when she gently laid her fingers to one of them I yelped and jerked my body away.

Catling had returned to her bed for the night, but now came to me. At one point, when both Kate and Marguerite had left to prepare our breakfast, she said to me, “You are leaving for London today.”

It was no question.

“Aye,” I said.

“I shall accompany you,” she said.

I said nothing. I wondered what she wanted, and what her purpose was.

I wondered what she was.

I was so tired from my night of suffering, so drained, and still so terrified of what might lie ahead of me that I said nothing. I knew full well that if I said “No” then Catling would nonetheless accompany me.

Marguerite returned eventually, carrying a fresh dish of herbs to apply to my back, and Kate came with her, bearing a tray of food for myself and Catling.

Both women were very quiet, very reserved. “I wish…” Kate said as she handed me a bowl of thick, warm porridge. She leaned back to her tray, hesitated, then handed a second bowl to Catling.

“Aye,” I said, trying to smile at her. “I wish also.”

“When will you go?” asked Marguerite. “How shall you travel?”

“I will leave as soon as I have finished this porridge,” I said, trying to keep the despair out of my voice, “and I shall take one of the horses, and Catling and I shall ride it well enough.”

“But,” said Marguerite, accepting without comment that Catling should accompany me, “travelling the roads to London for a woman and child is dangerous. I thought you would…walk the land.”

She was being obtuse, but I knew what she meant. Why risk physical travel along the roads when I could use my power well enough to walk the land as Eaving?

“I do not want Weyland to see it,” I said. “He knows too much as it is. I do not want him to see all that I can do. Besides, he wants me in London. He shall make sure I get there alive.”

“Alive,” Marguerite said, her tone harsh, “but not necessarily well and whole. We all know the extent of his cruelty and I can well believe he shall have several ‘surprises’ for you on the journey south. Sweet heavens, Noah, the journey will take you three days at least. Where will you stay? Who shall protect you? And Catling? What of her? You are so terribly injured you cannot look after yourself, let alone her. I—”

“Peace,” I said. “I will travel to London, and both myself and Catling shall arrive there safely enough.”

“And then?” said Kate.

I fell silent, not wanting to think of what would happen once my daughter and I reached London.

And then?

I shivered, and turned my mind away from it. I would think no more of London, but only of the journey there.

I rose. “Marguerite, will you aid me to wash? I do not want to set out unwashed.”

She nodded, and, as she aided me to first bathe and then don some loose-fitting underclothes beneath a lightly laced bodice and skirt, we talked of some of the necessities I should take with me in a pack.

Such preparations did not take long. What could I take save a change of clothes for Catling and myself, along with some food for the journey? If I travelled too heavy, then I risked not only slowing myself down, but exposing myself to theft. Better to journey light, and poorly, than to invite attention.

We were all subdued. I felt sickened, not merely with the ache in my back, nor only for the fact I should so soon be leaving Marguerite and Kate, but for what I walked towards.

By the time dawn had made its mark, I was ready. The horse was stabled at the back of the house and was saddled and bridled and standing by the front door, Catling’s and my small bag of belongings tied behind his saddle. I took my daughter’s hand and smiled somewhat wanly for Marguerite and Kate.

“It is farewell for the time being, then,” I said, a little lamely.

Marguerite’s eyes filled with tears.

I gulped, and then all three of us were crying, and huddled together in as close an embrace as we could manage.

“We will come to London after you,” said Marguerite once she had regained some semblance of control.

“Charles and Catharine shall be here soon,” Marguerite continued, “and then all Eaving’s Sisters shall be together, and near you. We will find a way to touch you and comfort you, Eaving.”

I touched Marguerite’s face, then Kate’s. Then I turned for the horse, and managed to mount with as much grace as my painful back and voluminous skirts would allow me.

Marguerite handed Catling up to me—I settled her in the saddle before me—and then, with nothing more than a nod, I put my heels gently into the horse’s flanks, and turned his head for the road, and we were off.

That day was but a gentle ride, paced at a walk. I had no heart for a joyous canter southwards towards London, nor did I have the strength. With one arm about Catling at all times, and the other being tugged at constantly by the horse (who had patently decided to repay me for his early morning’s awakening by leaning his head down into the bit the entire day), by midmorning my body ached and my back throbbed horribly. The road was relatively quiet, for which I was thankful, and Catling kept quiet, for which I was even more grateful. I did not think I could bear some false, daughterly chatter.

It was a dreadful ride. This was not merely because of my aches, nor because of what I rode towards, but because I think I was finally forced to confront the fact that Catling was not all that she should be. Had her journey into the Otherworld and back to this world changed her so much? Had she learned, perhaps, to hate me somewhere on that long and terrible journey? I didn’t know what it was, I didn’t know what was wrong. All I knew was that Catling bore me no more love than she bore the most inanimate pebble, and that I regarded her with disappointment, even some slight fear, rather than with love.

I had hoped for so much for her and from her. What I had instead was such a vast realm of disappointment that I felt a complete failure, as both a mother and as Eaving.

Thus we continued. The pain in my body grew increasingly worse, and eventually I had to grind my teeth together to prevent myself from begging Catling to do something about it.

By late morning we had passed through the town of Toddington. The town was bustling with market day, and it took a good hour for us to thread our way through the crowded streets. Every time someone jostled the horse I winced, and once a stab of pain so agonising seared up my spine that I only barely managed to restrain myself from falling off the horse.

When we emerged into the countryside again I was weeping, not only with pain, but with fear: how was I going to continue on as far as London in this degree of pain? Damn Weyland! He did not need to be so vicious.

We continued on, Catling gripping the pommel of the saddle with both hands, as if she could not trust me to keep hold of her, and she kept her face determinedly ahead, ignoring every gasp that escaped my lips.

Gods…

By late afternoon we had reached Luton, and I knew I could go no further that day. I reined the horse in at a roadside inn, wanting nothing more than to be able to stretch out on a bed and close my eyes and somehow sleep away the aches and pains and worries.

But my day in the saddle, coupled with the injury to my back, meant that my muscles had cramped badly and, as I tried to first lift Catling from the saddle, I felt myself waver before inexorably tilting over the horse’s near shoulder.

Then, just before Catling and I plummeted to the ground, I heard a marvellously familiar male voice call my name, and the next instant strong arms lifted both myself and Catling down, and I blinked, and looked into John Thornton’s dear face.