Fourteen

Gone With the Wind

That night Gale lay awake in bed, Gratia beside him. He found it impossible to sleep. Why had it shocked him so much to see her again? He had known all along that she would come back with the fair and yet it was like he had seen a ghost in an alley. He knew that she’d seen him, there was no doubt about that. She’d even smiled. Her beauty hadn’t faltered, either. She was still as he’d remembered her: shoulder-length chestnut hair and warm hazel eyes. She had been leaning against the side of a wagon looking directly at him as if she had been watching him for some time. When their eyes met, for that brief second, a subtle, amused smile crossed her lips, as if she had just understood a joke.

It stung. Had it really only been a year since he had been lying here with her? He looked over to Gratia who was sleeping so peacefully, like an angel, innocent and unknowing of the turmoil that was making a game of his innards. He sunk back into the eiderdown and tried in vain to sleep. He didn’t want her here, he was happy now. It wasn’t that he wanted to love her again, quite the opposite, but it still hurt to see her smiling like that as if they shared some eternal soul. They didn’t, they hadn’t. She’d run away from him, left him looking foolish, and now he just wanted to forget her for good.

He rolled over and buried his head in the pillow.

The next night, Gale returned from the fields and changed. Gratia was already home and fully dressed. She was ironing Lizzy’s hair and they were chattering away like a gaggle of geese. Despite his inner discomfort, Gale couldn’t help but smile. 

When he had dressed, he escorted the two women out to the green. The scene that greeted them was stunningly different to that of the night before. Not only were there vast numbers of tents varying in size, colour and shape, but there were clusters of stalls everywhere. Music was coming from all corners of the fair, and at least two-thirds of the population of Lariaan had turned up to join the festivities.

They stayed until well past dusk. As the night air closed in around them, a large arena was erected in the centre of the green. Beefy men in strong armour danced with bears and rode on tigers. There was a woman who walked in with a huge fur coat on and performed a highwire act. When she came down, the coat erupted into hundreds of stoats which ran off into the crowd. Gratia had never seen anything like it. They applauded with great enthusiasm and moved on to the stalls. One curious wooden shack held an amusing attraction: several playing cards pinned to a board. The idea was to throw small metal darts at the cards and hit three of the same suit. After two goes, Gale won and handed her a young nightingale in a reed cage. Gratia looked at it with delight as it started to sing.

“Sir, sir!” came a small voice from Gale’s side. They looked down to see a young boy in ragged cap and jacket. “Sir Ashfain?” He was pulling at Gale’s sleeve.

Laughing at the young boy’s respectful tone, Gale replied, “Aye, that’ll be me.” But his smile soon faded.

“There’s been a terrible accident, sir!”

“What? What do you mean?”

“It’s the crop, sir! The crop’s on fire!”

Gale looked puzzled for a moment, as if deciding whether the boy was a reliable source.

“The calamint?”

“Yes, sir. It’s on fire, sir!”

“Fire?”

“Yes, sir. It’s your brother, sir. He knocked over his lamp and it went up like a haystack, sir!”

Gale’s expression froze. He looked as though he were having difficulty comprehending what the child was saying. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, he looked to Gratia and implied that he would return soon. He ran off in the direction of the road that led to the fields on the outskirts of Lariaan.

Gratia looked around, unsure what to do. The boy had disappeared back into the crowds. 

Sighing, she went in search of Lizzy.

Gale was running as fast as he could now. His heart was pounding in his head and he was out of breath, but still he kept running. If what the young boy said were true, they would lose all this year’s crop, and with it, the money to feed themselves. The mere thought of it struck terror in him. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe if they formed a chain to the well...

From out of the bushes came a large white steed. It was all he could do not to cannon into it. Gasping for breath, he started, “Please sir, may I borrow your mount–” 

His breath caught in his throat as he looked up into Delighla’s eyes. Time stood still as the horror of his stupidity slowly dawned on him.

She dismounted, lowering herself from the stirrups and slapping the creature’s flank hard. The beast bucked slightly and trotted off back in the direction of the green.

They stood for a moment, facing each other. In the half-light of the moon, her amused smile looked more like a sneer.

“What do you want?” he growled.

“Only to catch up with an old friend.” She giggled, an annoyingly relaxed sound that bit deep into Gale’s ego.

“There is no fire, is there?” he said, dully.

“Gods, no. I only wanted to see you.” 

She took a step towards him.

“Where’s lover boy?”

“Oh, Gale. You know I didn’t love him. You were always the one. You knew I’d come back.”

Gale couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She was obviously mocking him. She had to be, yet it sounded so sincere.

“Obviously. That’s why you left me.” He looked at her in what he hoped was an impartial gaze.

“Oh, Gale. I had to go. My father was ill. I couldn’t leave him–”

“Odd, only he looked fine when he left.”

She paused for a moment and took another step towards him.

“I’m not interested,” he said, putting out a hand to keep her back.

“Who was that woman you were with?” she asked. “The one with the black hair?”

“My wife,” Gale said without thinking. The shocked look on Delighla’s face was enough to justify his small lie.

“Your– your wife?” she said, incredulously. “You’re married?”

“You didn’t think I’d wait around for ever now, did you?”

“But it’s only been one year!”

Gale smirked. “You weren’t the one for me.”

Delighla’s jaw dropped. “But you knew I’d come back to you!”

“You left me for another man. Somehow that thought never crossed my mind.”

“I– But– Gale! We were lovers. Joined souls. You can’t just forget me like that!”

“We were a joke, and I have. You passed the time, that’s all.” Oh that felt good. That felt really good. But it was causing her only half the pain he had felt when she’d left him.

She stood there, staring at him in a state of shock.

“Kiss me,” she said. “Kiss me like you used to. I still love you, I made a terrible mistake–”

Gale laughed. “I wouldn’t touch you again for all the gold in Lariaan!”

Delighla shut her mouth and a tear trickled down her cheek. “But we were special!”

Gale’s thoughts were grim. It wasn’t in his nature to hurt people like this, but it was unforgivable. She expected him to jump hoops for her after what she’d done to him? Besides, he was happier now then he had ever been before in his life. Why would he ever want to sacrifice that?

He shrugged. “Were we?” he said, and turned back in the direction of the green. 

He heard her sobs as he walked down the path, but he never turned back.

It was early morning by the time Gratia and Gale stumbled back to Lizzy’s house in Crabber’s Street. Dawn was breaking over the horizon and both of them were quite merry on dandelion and plum wine. Giggling, they made their way upstairs trying desperately, under their clouded minds, not to wake Lizzy, who had returned earlier. Once upstairs, they collapsed onto the bed and were soon sound asleep. Neither of them heard the faint scratch at the window.

Waking at early afternoon, Gratia stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, but neither Lizzy nor Gale were in the house. Gale, she knew, had gone to the fields, a task she knew she would have found impossible with such an ungodly hangover. Lizzy, obviously, had been called away. Groping in the pantry, Gratia pulled some cold rashers of bacon and a duck egg from behind a sack of flour, but her stomach and head, in unison, thought better of it, so she hastily replaced them.

With wobbly steps, she sluggishly ascended the stairs again and was grateful to find that her beloved had put the pitcher on the windowsill to warm the water in the mid-day heat. After washing at leisure, she pulled on a white satin embroidered dress and decided to go to the central pump to refill the water holder.

When she arrived, the place was an uproar of bickering and squabbling townsfolk, arguing over who was first in line and who had left their broken pail in the road. It was the main meeting place of the town, and wasn’t in fact one pump, but two pumps and a huge well, which supplied the citizens of Lariaan with most of their water. Almost everyone, at one stage or another, had to visit the pump in the course of a day, yet it was busier at this time of year due to the large number of craftspeople and entertainers who had come with the fair. It was a place where gossip thrived almost as much as the mosquitoes.

“It was a terrible shame, she was so nice when I met her. Pretty, perfect health, and a rosy complexion...” one woman bantered. 

Usually, Gratia paid little attention to the collection of old women who gathered there like flies. There was always some mountain to be made out of a molehill and these were the brooding hens who could do that better than anyone. It wasn’t that she disliked knowing what was going on in her town, it was just that she resented hearing it from old cattle who she knew greatly exaggerated the merest sneeze into a typhoon, and would most likely have gotten herself burned as a black witch if they caught wind of her gypsy origin. They were also 'gentlewomen,' who were well enough not to have to work for a keep. That, too, Gratia resented.

However, the women were talking in such excited tones that, standing in the stagnant queue, it was almost impossible for her to ignore them.

“You actually met her?” exclaimed one old baggage in a grey silk dress, trimmed with lace and silver thread.

“Oh, yes! We’d talked at length that very same evening! Her father is a wine merchant with the fair. She was explaining to me the finer points of elderberry gathering.”

“That same evening? Well, I never! And she was pleasant, you say?”

“Oh yes, very pleasant. If one hadn’t known better, she could have passed as a respectable citizen!”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the well-dressed posse that had gathered around the tall, dominantly carried woman.

“Indeed. She was unusually well mannered, and spoke with such a literate, well educated tone, that we spent at least an hour together. Why anyone would wish her harm is a mystery to me.”

The group nodded, empathising with the woman even though it was quite clear from the dazed expression in a couple of the onlookers' eyes that they had no idea who she was referring to.

“When I heard the news, I was, quite naturally, devastated. Her poor father must be out of his mind with grief.”

By now, Gratia was firmly fixed on the conversation. Although it was clear that the woman speaking was addressing as many people as were in earshot, she was talking about something that was highly relevant, no matter how exaggerated. It appeared that many others seemed to have the same impression.

“I can assure you, good woman,” came a mournful voice, “that he is.”

“Oh? And who might you be?” enquired the ‘good woman,’ peering at him through her jewel-encrusted monocle.

“A friend of his, m’lady. Edward Filligran.” The wiry man gave an awkward bow as he presented himself to the Duchess. “And I can inform you that, as we speak, he is getting men together to search every nook and cranny in Lariaan!”

The gaggle of women erupted into excited babble with gasps and astonished cries. Eventually, and after some consideration, the Duchess opened her mouth to speak again and everyone else immediately fell silent.

“You are going to search our town?” she asked, quirking a finely plucked eyebrow at the man.

The tone of her voice took him a little off guard. He was unsure quite what she was implying. Eventually, seeming to dismiss it as just another one of the gentry’s eccentric ways, he replied, “Yes ma’am, every last bit of it.”

It was obvious from the look on the gentlewoman’s face that she had found a dilemma. Clearly, having spoken so fondly of the tradesman only a moment ago, and in full view of everyone else, she could not very well object to a bunch of travelling riffraff running all over her town to find a lost member of their group.

Reluctantly, she gave a resigned nod and, with a falsely helpful gesture, offered them three of her footmen to aid their attempts, leaving herself with only nine left. Completely puzzled, the wiry Edward Filligran trotted off back to the green, pursued by three men in red-tailed coats and tights.

Gratia snorted inwardly at the gentlewoman’s pomp and blatant insincerity, but nevertheless found herself curious of the event in question. On returning to the house with her pitcher freshly filled, Gratia heard a plate smash.

Placing the pitcher by the stairs, she drew her knife and gently pushed open the door to the kitchen. She froze. Gale was standing there with three plates reduced to dust around his feet and another one in his hand, poised ready to drop. He too, froze.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, barely able to comprehend what her eyes saw. She had never seen him like this. He looked oddly calm. The irritation that was driving him to such destruction was portrayed little in his expression. “Those are Lizzy’s plates.”

“Gratia, my love,” came another voice from one corner of the room. “Could you possibly leave us be, only for another moment or so?”

Gratia’s frown was puzzled as she nodded in compliance with Lizzy’s request. She glanced back at Gale momentarily and left the room, closing the door behind her. There was another crash of breaking crockery.