The Witches of Eileanan Read Online Free PDF Page B

in their finest clothes. Minstrels strummed their guitars and sang of love, and jongleurs juggled colored balls and did backflips, while performing bears nursed their sad heads. Isabeau had never seen anything like the jongleurs, who entertained the crowd with jokes and magic tricks, fire-eating, sword-swallowing and juggling, their bright cloaks covering tattered clothes. One was a young boy, thin and quick, who could turn along the road as quickly as a wheel. Isabeau was openly envious, hanging back against Meghan's hand to watch him. She thought she would like traveling from town to town in the gaudy little caravan, juggling oranges for a living. Meghan's hand was firm, though, and Isabeau was gently pulled away from the square with its bright swinging lamps and the flickering shadows.
It was dangerous for them in the towns. This Isabeau understood. The Red Guards were everywhere, suspicious of strangers, and brutal in their dealings with suspected witches. Isabeau knew she must not play with the One Power or speak of it. She knew she must always be quiet and unobtrusive and never draw attention to them. When they entered a town, Meghan's limp became more noticeable, her body somehow more frail. She draped her plaid about her head so her thick braid was concealed, her face half in shadow. In the towns, Isabeau discarded her breeches and dressed in gray wool, her hair covered by a linen cap— a model girl-child.
Isabeau was only eight, however. She had not yet learned how to melt into a crowd so cannily that afterward no one could be sure whether or not she had been there. And with her unruly red hair and her bright blue eyes, it was not easy for Isabeau to pass unnoticed. But it was not Isabeau's striking coloring which was her downfall. It was her playing with the One Power. She and Meghan were staying at an inn in the center of town. Because it was Candlemas, the streets were full of travelers come to dance the fire with other young people, and visit relatives and trade with the pedlars. Meghan said she was there to try to buy powdered foolsbalm, shepherd's spikenard, black hellebore, and maybe some murkwoad if by some chance a pedlar had some. Isabeau knew, though, that she also came to gather information, whether it be market gossip, the stories the jongleurs and minstrels told, or old books and manuscripts.
The inn was full of people. Meghan was hunched in a chair by the fire, nodding over her knitting as bawdy jokes and tales of sightings of the lost prionnsachan rivaled the mournful tales of the highland crofters. At first Isabeau was tired from the long journey and the heat of the fire made her sleepy. However, after obediently eating a bowl of watery stew and resting her aching legs, Isabeau grew restless. Slowly she eased her body off the bench and began to creep away, only to receive a stern glance from Meghan that proved the witch was not really asleep. Isabeau pretended not to see it, of course, and knew the talk of trouble between the Rìgh and Banrìgh was too riveting for Meghan to leave. However, the glance was enough to keep Isabeau quiet and unobtrusive for a time. She wandered around the common room, listening to the minstrel strum his guitar as he sung of quests and magic swords, watching the maids flirt with the customers.
After a while she slipped out through the big doors into the courtyard behind the inn, where grooms and stable-hands rushed around unloading bags and boxes from coaches and carts, brushing down horses and carrying heavy buckets, water sloshing onto the bricks. In the center of the courtyard a big stallion was causing an uproar, rearing and dancing about, grooms ducking to avoid hooves as big as dinner plates. Black as coal, Isabeau could see the red rims of his eyes and the red roof of his mouth as he whinnied. She was not frightened. She liked horses, and often rode some of the wild horses that lived in the mountains around the secret valley. She had never tamed one, though, since