Old Magic(51)

We edge our way around the outside of the first cottage without any trouble. There’s only one window, closed with timber shutters, which we avoid. As we approach the rear of the second cottage, we hear a distinctive male voice, gruff and too close.

Not ready to make our first appearance, we hide behind the trunk of a huge tree, probably an elm, thickly losing its leaves. As the rough voice nears, so too do other noises, scurrying sounds and angry grunts. Dirt and the scent of moist earth and grass hits my nostrils, making me want to sneeze. A short thick man with hunched shoulders and a roughly-cut beard suddenly appears, panting, and cursing at a dozen or so grizzling pigs. He is apparently attempting to herd them into the cottage with a crooked wooden staff. Unfortunately for him the pigs, with minds of their own, decide they’d rather stay outside. One moment the herd veers towards the cottage opening, when all of a sudden it races around the back again.

I stop breathing in case the slightest noise gives us away. But hiding proves useless in the end, as one particularly thoughtless swine starts acting individually, and charges into our hiding tree. Both of us jump back with the impact, startled. The man’s head swivels at the sound, suddenly alert. His hunched shoulders straighten as much as they can, and the stick begins to resemble a lethal weapon.

‘Who’s out there?’ he calls.

Uncertainty has us tongue-tied.

‘Show yourselves,’ the man draws nearer, his swine, now that they aren’t being chased, gather around their master, snorting and grunting. ‘’Tis cold and late to be out, unless ye’re a pair of lovers delighting in a moonlight tryst.’ The man glances up at the heavy bank of dark clouds totally obscuring the night sky. ‘’Twill rain, sure it is.’

He has almost reached us at this stage. His breathing, now that he isn’t chasing his pigs, starts slowing down. I realise this means the man has his wind back, and will be in a better position to defend himself if he feels the need.

I grab Jarrod’s hand, taking the lead. Hiding like thieves or lovers only raises this man’s suspicions. Together we step from behind the tree. ‘We’re weary travellers from afar.’ Jarrod’s head swings to mine, his face registering surprise at my fluency of the ancient language.

The man is carrying a burning torch. He steps nearer, raising the torch to our faces. His gaze, narrow and suspicious, slides astutely over the two of us from head to foot. It has my pulse leaping wildly. Jarrod’s hand in mine is icy cold.

‘Where are ye headed? Surely not this village, by the looks of them fancy clothes.’

‘We’re looking for Thornton Keep.’

The man’s head lifts and turns in the direction of the dual-peaked headland, his eyes practically bulging from their sockets. ‘I knew it,’ he mutters, his rough voice filled heavier with scorn. In a sudden gesture that takes us completely by surprise he grabs our joined hands, lifts and examines them closely. ‘Look at this.’

We glance alarmingly at our hands thinking they must somehow give us away. Just how much could hands change in eight hundred years?

Then he says, ‘Not a day’s work in either of them.’ With these words he flings back our hands as if they burned his callused fingers. ‘What is your business with the Lord?’

Lord? This stuns us a bit. Then I remember Jillian’s warning about Jarrod’s family being wealthy and how the poorer townspeople might scorn us.

‘If it’s coin ye’re after, ye’d have better luck with the devil himself.’

Jarrod’s head lifts and shifts backwards. I can’t blame him. Besides rancid breath, this pigman breathes hatred; but we need information on where we can find Jarrod’s ancestors. ‘Can you tell us where to find Lord Thornton? We’re distant relatives.’

‘Relatives!’ He splutters the word as if he’s just swallowed poison. It starts sprinkling, icy cold droplets. The pigs grunt and run about again. The man curses them, but I feel it’s meant more for us. I wish now I hadn’t mentioned being a relative.

The pigman starts waving his stick about as one pig runs off, then he comes right up to Jarrod and looks him straight in the eye, even though he is well below Jarrod’s eye level. ‘Aye, ye have the look of them,’ he mutters angrily. And then he spits, a huge gulp of steaming saliva, right in Jarrod’s face.

I am totally stunned. The pigman switches his glance to me and my reflexes have me cowering and shielding my face. I do not want this man’s spittle on me. But he doesn’t do it, he just stares, unblinking. Then he says, ‘Thorntyne Keep stands alone on the southern peak. And beware, the northern peak is not for strangers.’