Page 77 of Exile's Return
The woman sat down in one of the chairs, laying her stick down beside her. She reminded Daniel of his own nursemaid — pink-cheeked and round. The sort of motherly arms that would wrap around a small child and instantly make them feel safe and loved. She should have been up at the castle, not here in this lonely cottage.
‘My name is Daniel…’ He hesitated, wondering if he should reveal his identity.
‘Daniel’ll do,’ the woman said. She frowned. ‘You bring trouble on your heels.’
The back of his neck prickled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t need any gift of sight to know that Agnes’ return means trouble for Ashby.’ She waved at a chair. ‘Take a seat, my lad. Ye’ve been ill. I can see it in yer eyes.’ She smiled, revealing toothless gums. ‘It’s not every day handsome young men come a-calling, so humour an old woman. Give me your hands.’
A shiver ran down Daniel’s back and he hesitated. He had seen a woman in Martinique, an old African woman who was rumoured to be able to tell a man’s fortune in his hands. He had laughed it off and refused to be drawn into her circle. Now he could not resist.
She took his hands in hers. Although gnarled with age, their touch was soft. She caressed the back of his left hand, turning it over in her palm. ‘I can see a person’s past, and…’ She did the same with the right hand, ‘…and his future. You choose.’
‘My past,’ Daniel said. If she were a fraud then he would tell soon enough by what she purported to see there.
With her thumb she caressed the back of his hand again, turning it over and running her fingers along the lines of his palm. Her face grew serious and she shook her head.
‘I see pain and loneliness. Too much suffering for one so young.’ She looked up and he returned her gaze with a sceptical lift of his eyebrow.Easy enough in such troubled times to say such things. ‘You carry the scars of a great wrong.’ This time she closed her eyes, holding his hand between both of hers, rocking back and forth as she spoke. ‘There is a long journey across the sea. Heat and sickness and terrible crimes. Darkness, thirst, pain…and death.’ Her eyes opened, looking at him but not seeing him. ‘Ye’ve looked death in the face — more than once.’
Daniel pulled his hand away, a trickle of sweat running down his face. ‘How can you know…?’
The woman slumped back in the chair with her eyes closed and didn’t appear to hear him. Daniel jerked to his feet and strode out into the cold, crisp air, where he leaned against the stone wall of the house, his breath coming in short gasps as he fought back the wave of conflicting memories and emotions her words had conjured.
‘Ye’ve faced yer demons boy.’ The woman stood at the door. ‘And ye beat ‘em down but they’ll keep trying. All your life they’ll come a-knocking at the door.’
Daniel turned to look at her. ‘You can tell me my future?’
She met his eyes. ‘Aye, but not now, not today. There are still words to be written on that page. Go back to the castle. Back to Agnes. She’ll need you sorely in the days to come.’
‘I have two friends. Agnes has told them to come here. She told them they would be safe here.’
She nodded. ‘Aye, as safe as anywhere around here. Tobias Ashby’s coming was a bad day for us all. When will they be here?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Daniel replied as he swung himself into the saddle.
She shook he head. ‘Tis a bad business up at the castle. I’ll be glad to see that man gone. Is that why ye’ve come?’
The memory of their recent conversation still fresh, he said with some asperity, ‘You are the seer of all — you tell me.’
She laughed. ‘Ye’ve a tongue to you, young man. Go in peace.’
He turned his horse back toward the road, glad to be away from the cottage and its strange inhabitant. He turned his mind to all that had to be done in the next twenty-four hours.
Ashby’s absence was a blessing. God willing, they could accomplish what they came to do and be gone before he returned. However, he acknowledged, the whole plan relied on Agnes finding her way into the children’s room, and it didn’t appear that the Turners were going to allow that to happen.
‘Out of the way!’
He had been so lost in his thoughts that he’d not heard the sound of a coach coming up behind him. He managed to move his horse to the side of the lane as the coach, drawn by four perfectly matched chestnut horses, rushed past him, the horses labouring under the coachman’s whip. The blinds were drawn but he recognised the arms on the door as those of Elmhurst and his heart sank. It could be none other than Ashby, returned early from London.
Mud churned up by the hooves and wheels spattered both him and the horse. He cursed aloud but the coach had moved on.
Dusk had closed in as he led his filthy horse into the stable.
The stablehand snickered. ‘Bin for a swim in the mud?’
Daniel jerked his head at the coach, which stood in the stableyard; two other stablehands were busying themselves with the exhausted, mud-spattered horses.
‘Whose is the coach?’ Daniel enquired. ‘Nearly ran me down.’
