Harrow's Wife Ch. 01

Note: Something from the Fantasy genre, this adventure will run at seven chapters, minimum. A work of fiction. All feedback is gratefully accepted; please let me know what you like or what you'd change. Thank you for reading!

*****

One

Gwen dragged herself up into consciousness, clawing her way past the pain, thirst and disorientation.

Her first lucid thought was of her daughter Ana, stripped to a flimsy cotton shift and bound in manacles, eyes wide in terror as two burly Guardsmen dragged her away. Ana...her baby...ripped away from her. Gwen would find her. She'd find her baby, no matter the cost, and visit a terrible vengeance for any harm done.

She groaned and forced her eyes open, or tried to. The left one opened, the right one not quite. There was agony under her right eye, throbbing and persistent. She remembered the brand, the red-hot iron searing into the delicate flesh of her face, and the rest of the memories came flooding back.

The witchcraft trial - a sham if ever there was one. She'd been convicted of witchcraft, while her daughter succumbed to the lesser charge of association with witches. At least Ana had been spared the pain and disfigurement of the branding before the girl was carted off to places unknown to begin a long sentence of hard labour.

The bleary vision in Gwen's left eye cleared enough to take in her surroundings. She was covered in a wool blanket and lying on a straw-stuffed mattress bounded in an oak bed frame. The room was small, with a dim light cast through a tiny glass window on the far wall. A sturdy set of oak cupboards stood against the wall to her left and a small bed table and chair sat between the bed and the open doorway to her right. A water pitcher perched invitingly on the bed table next to a small metal cup. If this was a prison cell, it was a comfortable and well-appointed one.

She struggled to sit up and realized she was naked under the blanket. A quick check confirmed the that iron manacles on her wrists and ankles were gone. Free of the iron, she tried to call her magic but there was no response. The brand had done its job and locked her magic inside her where she couldn't reach it. She'd have to learn to get by without it.

The stinging wound on her face threatened to consume her attention, but her desperate thirst won out and she reached for the water pitcher. Her grip was weak and her muscles quivered unsteadily as she struggled to pull it toward her. Finally she gave up and slunk back down under the blanket, surrendering to the inevitable. She'd need help, and hoped her captors were in a helping mood.

"Hello?" she called, her voice hoarse and raspy.

There was silence, then the sound of movement from outside the room. A tall man appeared in the door frame and looked down at her with a concerned expression that quickly broke into an easy grin. His brown eyes were friendly.

"Welcome. You had a bit of a rough go there - I wasn't sure you'd find your way back." He filled the cup with water and passed it to her as she again fought her way into a sitting position while holding the blanket modestly against her breasts. It didn't take her long to down the drink and two refills besides.

She regarded him again. He was a big man with thick arms and legs, and even through his loose cotton tunic she could tell his sturdy chest was more muscle than fat. A farm labourer, perhaps, or a smith? His shaggy head of brown hair was graying slightly at the temples. He wasn't a young man but certainly not much past his prime. Forty, perhaps? Not much older than Gwen herself.

"Where.." she croaked, then stopped and cleared her throat, "Where are my clothes?"

"Your smock - what's left of it - is drying on the line outside." He pulled the chair up to the side of the bed and sat down.

"How did I get here?"

"I found you half-dead in the woods and brought you in. You had a bad fever, took you a couple days to fight it off."

"I've been unconscious for that long?"

"Yup."

He reached for her face and she instinctively drew back. He pulled his hand away and instead peered intently at the ruined, throbbing skin under her right eye. Did he know the significance of the brand? If so, why had he saved her? Giving aid to a witch was a death sentence.

"I have some paste I can put on that burn. Won't do much for the pain, but it'll keep the wound from going sour. If you're up to eating I can bring you some soup." Without waiting for a reply he rose from the chair, filled her cup again and left the room.

She sipped the water and took stock of her situation. Being naked, weakened and branded narrowed her options, at least in the short term. The Guardsmen would be searching for her, patrolling the town on foot and on horseback. She hoped they wouldn't go door-to-door, or her moments of freedom would be fleeting indeed.

Beyond her immediate plight was the question of how she'd find her daughter, who might be imprisoned, assigned to a convent or even indentured to a landowner. Gwen didn't know who would ultimately make the decision regarding Ana's hard labour, so finding her seemed a daunting task. How to even begin the search? And even if she could find Ana, how would she rescue her given that Gwen's powers were locked away by the brand?

The man entered the room again holding a shallow, clay bowl and resumed his seat next to the bed. He swirled his index finger through the brown paste in the bowl, then beckoned her closer. She shuffled nearer to him. Her state of undress left her feeling acutely vulnerable and she hugged the blanket protectively.

"Hold still - this will sting," he said.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. His touch was gentle but even the faint contact with her burned flesh caused her to hiss through her teeth. He worked quickly and in a few moments he'd coated the whole brand with the sharp-scented salve. He set the bowl aside.

"What's in the paste?" she asked. Her burn continued to throb painfully and it was hard to keep her fingers away from it.

"Ginger, dog-root leaves, neckel cloves and brandy."

"You're a chemist then?"

He laughed. "Not even close. But I'm no stranger to open wounds, and this stuff works. Saved my life a few times, I figure."

"You're a soldier," she said, and her hopes fell. A solider in the king's army would be honour-bound to turn her over to the Guardsmen at the first opportunity. Without her magic she'd be powerless to prevent it.

"A soldier-for-hire. Or I used to be, anyway. Got out of the business a few months back. I'm trying my hand at raising chickens now."

Gwen's hopes rebounded. Mercenaries were notoriously dismissive of the rules that bound the common soldiery; they held to their own code of honour. While not openly contemptuous of the king's law, a mercenary wouldn't necessarily go out of his way to enforce it either.

"I'm Gwen," she said with a brief smile and nod. "Thank you for saving me. I hope I can repay you for your kindness." She hoped a change in tone would help endear her to the man whose whims could determine her fate.

"Harrow," he said, returning the gesture. "Can you eat? I've got some lamb soup heating. You might feel better with some food in you."

"Lamb? I figured it would be chicken." She tried to infuse the remark with wry humour.

He made a face. "Can't stand chicken, myself."

****

The soup wasn't tasty but it was edible and it went down easily. Harrow sat beside the bed and watched her eat, which meant Gwen had to keep the blanket in place with her arms as she held the bowl and spoon. When she handed the empty bowl back to Harrow she felt drowsiness creeping up on her but she fought to keep it at bay.

"So what's next?" she asked, meeting his eyes.

"Get some more sleep, I'd say. You're not well yet."

"I meant what are your plans for me?"

He held her gaze and gave a shrug and half-smile.

"This house needs a woman's touch, and so do I. You're not in a position where you can show your face out of doors on account of that brand. I propose you stay here and live as my wife."

"Your...wife?" she said, stunned. Was he proposing?

"Well, we can't have a formal marriage. But you can live here, tend the house and share my bed. I'll keep you safe, provide the essentials and treat you kindly. Not a bad arrangement for either of us."

Gwen was silent as she considered. Her position was weak, her options limited. She had to rescue Ana, and that meant she needed to recover her strength and devise a plan. Living with Harrow would give her time to do both. It was a practical arrangement, and she could endure whatever was required to get her daughter back.

Besides, she'd been married once, many years ago, and it had been pleasant enough at first.

"That's quite an offer, and I'm grateful to accept it...for now."

"For now?"

"They took my daughter away, Harrow. Dragged her off in chains. I'm going to do whatever needs doing in order to get her back." Her voice was grim.

A moment passed and he nodded his understanding.

"Can't fault you for that. You're free to leave whenever you please - I've got no interest in keeping someone who'd rather not be kept. But as long as you're here, you'll perform what duties would be expected from a wife. Agreed?"

She had no illusions about what those duties would entail. For Ana's sake, no sacrifice was too great. "Agreed."

Harrow smiled, then stood.

"Get some sleep. When you're stronger I'll show you around the place. Call if you want anything - it's a small house so I'll hear you. There's a chamberpot under the table if you need it." Harrow had barely made his exit when sleep rose up to claim Gwen once again.

****

It was another full day before Gwen felt strong enough to stand, and even that required Harrow's strong arm to steady her as she walked. Her prisoners' smock was tattered and gore-stained so Harrow had given her one of his larger gray tunics - it covered her from collarbone to shins - as well as a pair of leather sandals that were ridiculously oversized. It felt good to be dressed again, despite the ill-fitting clothes.

The house was small, as he'd said, but finely constructed with stone-and-mortar walls, wooden floors and even glass windows in each room. There was a sparsely-furnished central room with a stone fireplace, a separate kitchen with an iron wood-stove set on a sandy patch of floor, and the bedroom. The roof was mostly wood-framed with straw thatch. It was clear a lot of thought - and a lot of money - had gone into building the little house.

"There's a coop and a chicken run out back, a small garden and the latrine, of course. We've got a fast-moving creek within easy distance as well," he said, pointing to each through the window. "The edge of the forest is a little closer than I'd like it - we get foxes and coyotes coming in for the chickens - but the trees provide good cover from the wind and I can hunt up rabbits for stewing."

The pride in his voice as he described his own tiny kingdom was obvious and not unjustified. He'd found a good spot and built a good house.

"You've done well," she said, and the compliment was genuine. "Where did you want me to start?"

"Well, we need curtains for the windows. There are clothes that need mending. Winter's coming and we can always use another wool blanket. I'll happily surrender the cooking and cleaning as well. I don't get many visitors, so you could spend time in the garden - the last of the tomatoes and beans are coming in now."

"Plenty to do."

He shrugged. "You won't be bored."

"After four days in bed, I'm actually eager to start."

"Maybe begin with the mending until you're stronger. Do as much as you feel up to."

"Show me where you keep the supplies."

Harrow got her settled in a chair in front of a window with the mending supplies, a pile of damaged clothes and a thick blanket to ward off the early-autumn chill, then excused himself to go out to the coop to tend the chickens.

She picked a pair of linen breeches from the top of the pile. The stitching had come undone along one of the seams - an easy fix with needle and thread, but Gwen had other ideas.

She held the linen gently in her hands and took a deep breath. She could feel her power swelling inside her, eager to do her bidding. She focused her magic and directed it at the hole in the fabric.

Nothing.

The magic was there, simmering beneath the surface, but the rune branded into her cheek was blocking it. She relaxed her power, then re-focused. For a minor application like linen repair not much magic was required. She tried to call it forth gently, in a weak form that might be unaffected by the rune.

Still nothing.

She sighed in exasperation. Her cheek throbbed. She drew another breath and took the opposite approach, calling her power in a strong blast, hoping to smash whatever blockage the brand was causing. Few sorceresses could summon power on the scale that she could - surely it would be enough to overcome something as mundane as a wound on her cheek!

At first she had no effect so she bore down even harder, gritting her teeth and pummeling the linen with all the magical energy she could muster. Slowly, almost grudgingly the ends of the fabric began to knit themselves together. She felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead and roll down the side of her cheek as minute after minute of intense effort crawled by. Pain began to pound in her temples, then slowly spread through the rest of her skull. As dark spots began to dance in her field of vision she relented, dissipated her power and panted for air.

The two-inch gap in the fabric had mended. Her magic was accessible after all, although the potency was greatly diminished. Even a trifling application like fabric repair had almost exceeded her capacity.

Still, at least she knew she had it as an option - a last resort, perhaps.

She set the breeches aside and took up the next garment in the pile. Her head still ached and she resolved to finish the job using manual methods. It had been a couple of decades since she'd last sewn anything - she hoped her skill with the needle hadn't deserted her entirely.

****

She'd left the sewing half-done and re-heated the lamb soup for their lunch, chopping some peppers and tubers and letting them soften in the simmering broth. Doing things manually after twenty years of magical convenience was like regressing to early childhood - she had to re-learn even the most mundane tasks. She found to her surprise the work was pleasant if not actually enjoyable. After two weeks of pain, terror and hardship, the dull chore of chopping vegetables was a welcome respite.

Harrow was effusive in his praise of her cooking, and she found herself cheered by the kind words. Given his history as a mercenary she supposed his standards were modest, but his praise brought a smile regardless.

After lunch he applied another generous coating of ginger paste to her cheek after carefully appraising the burn for signs of souring. He seemed satisfied that the swelling had gone down some, although the paste stung as badly as before.

"You're getting stronger. Could you just conjure your daughter here or something?" he asked, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"Magic doesn't work like that, and besides..." She paused, debating how much to share with him, then decided to continue. "...The brand seals my magic inside me. That's its purpose."

"Completely?"

"Almost."

He paused to consider the options.

"After lunch I'll go into town and pass some time at Hardin's Pub. Old man Hardin hears news from all over and can't wait to tell it. If there's been word about you or your daughter, he won't be able to contain himself."

She was touched by his unexpected offer of assistance but caution quickly asserted itself.

"Don't make any inquiries or show any particular interest. If they even suspect you have information they won't hesitate to rip it out of you by force."

He nodded. "I've dealt with Guardsmen before. They're a rough lot, it's true. I won't be asking any questions - just drinking my spiced cider and listening to Hardin flap his lips."

"My daughter's name is Ana. If Hardin has even a general sense of her whereabouts it would be a godsend."

Harrow put on his town clothes and left for the pub. Gwen considered resuming the sewing but finally decided a midday nap was in order - lunch had brought with it a pleasant wave of drowsiness. She fell asleep still wearing Harrow's tunic.

****

Harrow was going out of his way to be helpful in her search for Ana, so Gwen decided to return the kindness. Dinner that evening was substantial; rabbit, tubers and greens, bread with sweet preserves. As they ate, Harrow shared what he'd learned at Hardin's Pub.

"Tongues are wagging all over town," he said between mouthfuls. "Two witches escaping custody within a couple of days? Not a good look for the Guardsmen."

"Ana escaped?" Gwen could scarcely believe the great news.

"So they say. Killed a slave boy and ran off into the woods north of Blythe's Pass."

Gwen frowned. "That's not Ana. She wouldn't have killed anyone, least of all a slave."

"Maybe not. Could be she escaped and the Guardsmen are making up stories to keep up appearances."

"Are they hunting her?"

"Yup. No luck so far. There's even talk The Hound will get personally involved."

"The Hound!" Gwen stopped eating and gaped at Harrow, eyes wide.

"Uh-huh. The town council's hoping he'll make an appearance, maybe give a speech. It'd be the biggest thing to happen here since...forever, I guess."

Gwen considered the grim news. By reputation The Hound was the greatest witch-hunter of them all, with an almost supernatural gift for tracking down and apprehending magic-wielders. Some said he was the son of a witch himself. Some said he was touched by divinity. No one doubted his abilities.

"She's no threat to anyone, too young to have much mastery. Why would they send The Hound after her?"

He shrugged. "The Order moves to its own music. Who knows?"

Gwen rose from her seat and began to pace across the small room, dinner forgotten. If The Hound was involved, Ana's plight was urgent. The girl didn't have the skills to elude him for long, and when he caught her she'd be convicted and branded like Gwen had been. But how to help?

"Do we know for sure when The Hound will involve himself? Did anyone say?"

"We don't know anything for sure. All of this is just farmers and tradesmen spittin' words. Not sure The Hound would dirty his boots coming to this backwater town."

Gwen continued to pace as she considered and rejected plans for a rescue. She had no idea where Ana might be, no way to find out and no means of getting there in any case. And even if she somehow found Ana before The Hound did, how would that help? Gwen's magic was sealed inside her and not accessible in any useful sense.

"Gwen, sit down, finish eating," Harrow said, regarding her calmly.

"I need to DO something!"

"The best thing you can do right now is sit down and eat. Rebuild your strength. If you get a chance to help your daughter, you need to be strong enough to act on it."

She growled in frustration but had to concede Harrow's point. She needed to act with patience and deliberation. She sat down heavily and shoveled a piece of tuber into her mouth.

"Also, before you think of running off half-decided, you should know there's a reward for your head. One-hundred crowns," he said.

"A hundred? You jest!"

"Saw the poster myself at the pub. A lot of folk are awfully eager to claim the money."

"But not you?" she said, then regretted it. Why question the motives of the man who had done so much - risked so much - to help her? Maybe because she was no naive child and it bothered her that a former mercenary was acting in a very un-mercenary fashion. A man who didn't want money was doubtless seeking something else.