The Apothecary's Daughter
The dark bay horse threw his head up and snorted as Sara Keelan dismounted with a rustle of skirts. The animal’s high-pitched, frantic whinny pierced the twilight, and he reared, pawing the air, his flailing forelegs almost striking Sara.
“Whoa! Steady, Saffron.”
The horse’s hooves clumped to the ground, and his ears swiveled, searching for sounds his handler could not hear. Sara ran a gentle hand over his nose before lashing his reins to a stout tree branch.
“What’s the matter with you?”
The uneasy horse danced, pulling the reins taut.
The waning crescent moon did little to illuminate the gathering gloom, but as Sara scanned the field edging the village of Whitereach, she saw nothing that should alarm her mount. Good Zandorians all, Whitereach’s residents were closeted in their houses as darkness teased the skies and stars poked holes in the thickening canvas of night. Only Sara and Saffron, out on their neglected errand, stirred.
Saffron’s eyes rolled, revealing the whites, and his nostrils flared.
“Easy, Saff. You’ve no call to get so agitated.” Sara reached into the leather pouch fastened to the saddle and removed a small package wrapped in brown paper. Tucking this under her arm, she double-checked that the horse was secure and patted his neck.
Her hand came away wet with sweat, though the May evening was chilly, and she had not ridden her mount hard.
She strained her ears and rechecked their surroundings, but found nothing peculiar. Impatience with the horse’s stupidity rose, mixed with a sense of unease that he knew something she did not. “Stay put. I won’t be long.”
Saffron whinnied again as she walked away, an urgent cry that ended in a squeal and a snort. Sara’s stomach tightened at his obvious distress. Saffron did not spook at shadows, and she had ridden him to Whitereach many times to deliver medication. She always tied him here, where the residents of Whitereach were unlikely to spot her and report her to the authorities for riding a horse. Saffron had never fussed.
Alert to any movement or sound, Sara pushed back her hood as she approached the Eathains’ tiny house from the rear. Lights peeked from the windows of neighboring homes, revealing through cracks between thick curtains families at supper or reading by a lantern’s glow. The homey, comforting images failed to settle the jittery feeling in Sara’s gut.
Crickets chirped, and an owl hooted nearby, making Sara jump. The decorative white boulder that bore Whitereach’s name stood out ghostlike in the deepening twilight beyond the little house where Sara opened the front gate.
The Eathain home sat in darkness, but when Sara knocked at the door, feet shuffled within.
“Who’s there?” a woman called, her words distorted through the keyhole.
“It’s Sara Keelan, Mrs. Eathain. The apothecary’s daughter. Myrhiadh didn’t come for your package when we expected her, so I’ve brought the preparation for your eyes.”
“Oh, the ointment—we are almost out—I had forgotten…” The lock clicked, and the door opened, allowing a candle’s feeble light to spill onto the threshold. Molly Eathain, a slim woman with thick chestnut hair, greeted Sara with a warm smile, while her clouded eyes struggled to focus on her visitor. “Good evening, Miss Keelan.”
Sara passed the brown paper-wrapped package into Molly’s hand. “Five encomiums, please, Mrs. Eathain.”
Molly blanched. “Is that what she pays for it?”
The reaction startled Sara, and she rushed to explain. “The price includes a small delivery charge, but the preparation is costly. Myrhiadh arranged for us to bring it to you if she didn’t collect it within a few days of her regular order.”
Molly’s lips drew into a thin line. “Maeve, get the money for Miss Keelan, please.”
A girl of about thirteen looked up from the worn garment she was stitching in the candle’s feeble glow. “What money?”
“The money Myrhiadh…” Molly grimaced. “You know where we put it.”
Saffron whinnied again, and several thuds indicated his frantic pawing at the ground.
“What’s that?” Molly poked her head out the door.
“Just a horse.” Sara shot an irritated glance in Saffron’s direction.
“No, not that horse.” Molly cupped her hand at her ear. “Listen.”
Sara strained her ears but heard only metallic clinks from the kitchen sideboard where Maeve rummaged in a small wooden box brimming with coins.
Sara had often wondered how the widow Molly Eathain could afford to purchase her eye medication from the best and most expensive apothecary in Grymwalde. The late Michael Eathain had been a hunter—a man of modest means, dealing in meat and hides—and he had passed away several years ago. His wife and daughters should have long spent anything he had left for them. Women in Zandor had few opportunities to earn a living wage, yet Myrhiadh’s arrangements with the Paragon Apothecary inferred that no expense was too great to save her mother’s eyesight. Myrhiadh paid her bills and had never once begged for credit.
Sara shook herself. The Eathains’ finances were not her concern. She cocked her head at Molly. “I only hear crickets.”
“No. It’s horses—two dozen of them, at least. I hear their hooves tramping on the road.”
Had Saffron heard them, too? “Your ears are sharper than mine. When one sense dulls, the others strengthen to compensate for it.”
Maeve approached the door with five encomiums in her palm and gave them to Sara.
A concerned frown creased Molly’s brow. “Troops move a few times a week since the war started. But they don’t relocate at night unless they’re making a covert attack.”
“They must be our men, going to thwart Langdon somewhere north of here. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.” Sara slipped the coins into the inside pocket of her cloak, and as they clinked into the depths, she heard the steady tramp of hoofbeats, too. Horses approached Whitereach, and the jingle of bits and the creak of leather drowned the crickets’ song. “Thank you for your business, Mrs. Eathain. I bid you goodnight.”
“You won’t tangle with the troops on your way to Grymwalde?” Molly leaned out the door as the horses drew nearer.
“I’ll return the way I came—across the fields. It’s a shorter walk.”
Myrhiadh had ridden a pony to the apothecary on many occasions, wearing breeches and quite oblivious to the critical stares and whispers her actions prompted. But Sara was still reluctant to reveal to Myrhiadh’s family that she, too, had broken the Moral Laws by riding a horse.
“Slip away unnoticed,” Molly advised as she closed the door. “Soldiers can be a rough bunch.”
Sara gathered her skirt and hurried along the fence that bordered the field where the Eathains kept their pony.
She reached the tree where she had tied Saffron, but the horse was gone. He had pawed a rut in the dirt, and his broken reins, still secured to the branch, bore testament to the frenzied pull that had freed him from his bonds. A flattened track through the long grass led toward the road.
“Saff!” Sara hissed his name through clenched teeth, not daring to raise her voice for fear of drawing the approaching troop’s attention. “Saffron, you little bastard! Get back here!”
The only movement was the military unit—iron shoes clattering and torches blazing in the night. Sara guessed the company at fifty men, half mounted and half on foot—all soldiers—no packhorses or camp followers. This troop’s assignment was nearby.
With a sigh, Sara resigned herself to the unpleasant idea of walking to Grymwalde. She tucked her skirt’s hem into the waistband of the breeches she wore beneath her dress, so the excessive fabric would not hinder her as she negotiated the rough terrain. Then she scanned the darkness once more for Saffron as the lead military horses turned into the village at the Whitereach boulder instead of continuing along the main road.
“Citizens of Whitereach!”
The shout stopped Sara in her tracks.
“Caledon approaches! Less than two miles away! For your safety, leave your houses and head to the church. The Crown will protect you there while we defend the village from the barbarian invaders!”
Sara’s heart leaped in terror, and she ducked into the long grass for cover. Caledon! Pagan residents of the western part of the island and usurpers of Zandor’s throne in Ampleforth. Caledon had allied with the military powerhouse of Langdon when her Witch Princess had married King Andrew, uniting with a sworn enemy to overthrow Zandor and prevent the Crown from claiming its rightful place in the island’s ancient capital.
The foot soldiers abandoned formation and traipsed from house to house, rapping on the doors and repeating the captain’s message, while half the horsemen fanned out to flank the village. The other half continued along the main street and dismounted before the church, where the tall spire with the iron cross speared the stars.
Sara crouched, watching the activity in an agony of indecision. Caledon must not discover her alone and unprotected in the fields. Her brain screamed at her to run, but her feet refused to move. If the enemy troops found her, they might beat her, rape her, imprison her, or kill her.
Should she stay in the church during the battle? She might be stuck in Whitereach for days, and she could not warn her father of her predicament. He was unaware that she had delivered Molly’s medication, and he would struggle to run the apothecary alone.
Vacillating between her choices, Sara watched the townspeople emerge from their houses—dark shadows that trickled into the street and formed a stream of humanity heading toward the church. Still, the warning cry rang out.
“Caledon approaches! An attack force of a few hundred! We haven’t much time!”
Where were the Zandorian soldiers to reinforce this unit? Sara hoped they hurried. Without reinforcements, Whitereach was doomed. An Imperial troop of fifty had no chance of holding the village against hundreds of enemies, and Whitereach lay near Grymwalde; Caledon must not claim it.
Two huddled figures slipped through the Eathains’ gate and joined the procession. Sara stayed parallel to Molly and Maeve and moved through the shadows toward the church, avoiding the torches’ glare and the horsemen guarding the village’s outskirts. If only Saffron had not bolted! With him, she could have made a fast escape.
A post and rail fence surrounded the church and the graveyard beside it. Sara crawled under the fence and hid behind an ornate tombstone, eyeing the church’s open doors, while almost resolved to seek refuge.
She was unlikely to meet Whitereach-bound troops on her way home, but only if Whitereach was Caledon’s target. The tiny village contained little of value for a foreign nation. If the enemy had its sights on Grymwalde instead, they might overtake Sara on her journey, making staying here in the church a wise decision. Yet the enemy troops were some distance away, and the sooner Sara abandoned the Zandorians’ protection in Whitereach, the better her chances of reaching home unmolested.
She weighed her choice in an agony of uncertainty. She must decide before Caledon decided for her!
The flickering torches moved through the streets, approaching the church. A line of foot soldiers followed the residents from all sides of the village, leaving no one behind.
The Catholic church might seat a quarter of Whitereach’s population in comfort. The building would burst with every resident inside.
“Hurry along. Not to worry. We’ll protect Whitereach, but you’ll be safer here while we do.” A ponderous fat man stood on the church’s threshold, ushering the frightened villagers through the doors.
Sara squinted. A priest?
Molly hesitated at the door. “Praeceptor! You came to protect us, as Myrhiadh said you would. Thank you, sir.”
The Praeceptor! Sara’s mouth went dry. Why was he in Whitereach if an attack from Caledon was imminent? He seldom left the safety of the palace, and only ever quit Grymwalde on political business.
“Myrhiadh’s mother and sister, I presume?” The Praeceptor placed a gentle hand on Molly’s back, ushering her and Maeve into the whitewashed structure. “I always keep my promises, Mrs. Eathain. The Crown’s hand is upon you.”
Sara clutched the weathered gravestone. How did the Praeceptor know Myrhiadh Eathain? Why put himself at risk to protect lowly villagers from Caledonian forces? Throughout history, whenever an enemy attacked a town, the residents fled if they could and perished if they could not. The Imperial Army had never mobilized to secure citizens before a battle.
The line of soldiers reached the church. Sara absorbed their brown and silver uniforms, emblazoned with the symbol of the Crown: a capital letter Z with dragon wings out to each side and a crown on top. The familiar image comforted her. She could trust these men to protect Zandorians with their lives and keep Caledon’s troops from advancing to Grymwalde.
“Have you got everyone?” the Praeceptor inquired.
“Everyone’s here, Praeceptor.”
“Are you certain?”
“Every house is empty, sir.”
Sara decided. Several miles of uninhabited fields stretched between her and Grymwalde. In any part of them, enemy soldiers might discover and capture her. Her safest choice was to trust the Imperial troops to protect her. She would ask them to let her into the church with the villagers.
“Secure them inside and enclose the perimeter.” The Praeceptor lumbered down the wooden steps, and two dozen soldiers surrounded the church, weapons trained on the building.
Sara froze in a half-crouch behind the shadowed tombstone. Why were they pointing their arrows at the church, where the innocents had taken refuge, instead of at the roads west, where Caledon would approach?
Two soldiers wrapped a stout chain around the door handles.
“Burn it.”
“Whoa! Steady, Saffron.”
The horse’s hooves clumped to the ground, and his ears swiveled, searching for sounds his handler could not hear. Sara ran a gentle hand over his nose before lashing his reins to a stout tree branch.
“What’s the matter with you?”
The uneasy horse danced, pulling the reins taut.
The waning crescent moon did little to illuminate the gathering gloom, but as Sara scanned the field edging the village of Whitereach, she saw nothing that should alarm her mount. Good Zandorians all, Whitereach’s residents were closeted in their houses as darkness teased the skies and stars poked holes in the thickening canvas of night. Only Sara and Saffron, out on their neglected errand, stirred.
Saffron’s eyes rolled, revealing the whites, and his nostrils flared.
“Easy, Saff. You’ve no call to get so agitated.” Sara reached into the leather pouch fastened to the saddle and removed a small package wrapped in brown paper. Tucking this under her arm, she double-checked that the horse was secure and patted his neck.
Her hand came away wet with sweat, though the May evening was chilly, and she had not ridden her mount hard.
She strained her ears and rechecked their surroundings, but found nothing peculiar. Impatience with the horse’s stupidity rose, mixed with a sense of unease that he knew something she did not. “Stay put. I won’t be long.”
Saffron whinnied again as she walked away, an urgent cry that ended in a squeal and a snort. Sara’s stomach tightened at his obvious distress. Saffron did not spook at shadows, and she had ridden him to Whitereach many times to deliver medication. She always tied him here, where the residents of Whitereach were unlikely to spot her and report her to the authorities for riding a horse. Saffron had never fussed.
Alert to any movement or sound, Sara pushed back her hood as she approached the Eathains’ tiny house from the rear. Lights peeked from the windows of neighboring homes, revealing through cracks between thick curtains families at supper or reading by a lantern’s glow. The homey, comforting images failed to settle the jittery feeling in Sara’s gut.
Crickets chirped, and an owl hooted nearby, making Sara jump. The decorative white boulder that bore Whitereach’s name stood out ghostlike in the deepening twilight beyond the little house where Sara opened the front gate.
The Eathain home sat in darkness, but when Sara knocked at the door, feet shuffled within.
“Who’s there?” a woman called, her words distorted through the keyhole.
“It’s Sara Keelan, Mrs. Eathain. The apothecary’s daughter. Myrhiadh didn’t come for your package when we expected her, so I’ve brought the preparation for your eyes.”
“Oh, the ointment—we are almost out—I had forgotten…” The lock clicked, and the door opened, allowing a candle’s feeble light to spill onto the threshold. Molly Eathain, a slim woman with thick chestnut hair, greeted Sara with a warm smile, while her clouded eyes struggled to focus on her visitor. “Good evening, Miss Keelan.”
Sara passed the brown paper-wrapped package into Molly’s hand. “Five encomiums, please, Mrs. Eathain.”
Molly blanched. “Is that what she pays for it?”
The reaction startled Sara, and she rushed to explain. “The price includes a small delivery charge, but the preparation is costly. Myrhiadh arranged for us to bring it to you if she didn’t collect it within a few days of her regular order.”
Molly’s lips drew into a thin line. “Maeve, get the money for Miss Keelan, please.”
A girl of about thirteen looked up from the worn garment she was stitching in the candle’s feeble glow. “What money?”
“The money Myrhiadh…” Molly grimaced. “You know where we put it.”
Saffron whinnied again, and several thuds indicated his frantic pawing at the ground.
“What’s that?” Molly poked her head out the door.
“Just a horse.” Sara shot an irritated glance in Saffron’s direction.
“No, not that horse.” Molly cupped her hand at her ear. “Listen.”
Sara strained her ears but heard only metallic clinks from the kitchen sideboard where Maeve rummaged in a small wooden box brimming with coins.
Sara had often wondered how the widow Molly Eathain could afford to purchase her eye medication from the best and most expensive apothecary in Grymwalde. The late Michael Eathain had been a hunter—a man of modest means, dealing in meat and hides—and he had passed away several years ago. His wife and daughters should have long spent anything he had left for them. Women in Zandor had few opportunities to earn a living wage, yet Myrhiadh’s arrangements with the Paragon Apothecary inferred that no expense was too great to save her mother’s eyesight. Myrhiadh paid her bills and had never once begged for credit.
Sara shook herself. The Eathains’ finances were not her concern. She cocked her head at Molly. “I only hear crickets.”
“No. It’s horses—two dozen of them, at least. I hear their hooves tramping on the road.”
Had Saffron heard them, too? “Your ears are sharper than mine. When one sense dulls, the others strengthen to compensate for it.”
Maeve approached the door with five encomiums in her palm and gave them to Sara.
A concerned frown creased Molly’s brow. “Troops move a few times a week since the war started. But they don’t relocate at night unless they’re making a covert attack.”
“They must be our men, going to thwart Langdon somewhere north of here. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.” Sara slipped the coins into the inside pocket of her cloak, and as they clinked into the depths, she heard the steady tramp of hoofbeats, too. Horses approached Whitereach, and the jingle of bits and the creak of leather drowned the crickets’ song. “Thank you for your business, Mrs. Eathain. I bid you goodnight.”
“You won’t tangle with the troops on your way to Grymwalde?” Molly leaned out the door as the horses drew nearer.
“I’ll return the way I came—across the fields. It’s a shorter walk.”
Myrhiadh had ridden a pony to the apothecary on many occasions, wearing breeches and quite oblivious to the critical stares and whispers her actions prompted. But Sara was still reluctant to reveal to Myrhiadh’s family that she, too, had broken the Moral Laws by riding a horse.
“Slip away unnoticed,” Molly advised as she closed the door. “Soldiers can be a rough bunch.”
Sara gathered her skirt and hurried along the fence that bordered the field where the Eathains kept their pony.
She reached the tree where she had tied Saffron, but the horse was gone. He had pawed a rut in the dirt, and his broken reins, still secured to the branch, bore testament to the frenzied pull that had freed him from his bonds. A flattened track through the long grass led toward the road.
“Saff!” Sara hissed his name through clenched teeth, not daring to raise her voice for fear of drawing the approaching troop’s attention. “Saffron, you little bastard! Get back here!”
The only movement was the military unit—iron shoes clattering and torches blazing in the night. Sara guessed the company at fifty men, half mounted and half on foot—all soldiers—no packhorses or camp followers. This troop’s assignment was nearby.
With a sigh, Sara resigned herself to the unpleasant idea of walking to Grymwalde. She tucked her skirt’s hem into the waistband of the breeches she wore beneath her dress, so the excessive fabric would not hinder her as she negotiated the rough terrain. Then she scanned the darkness once more for Saffron as the lead military horses turned into the village at the Whitereach boulder instead of continuing along the main road.
“Citizens of Whitereach!”
The shout stopped Sara in her tracks.
“Caledon approaches! Less than two miles away! For your safety, leave your houses and head to the church. The Crown will protect you there while we defend the village from the barbarian invaders!”
Sara’s heart leaped in terror, and she ducked into the long grass for cover. Caledon! Pagan residents of the western part of the island and usurpers of Zandor’s throne in Ampleforth. Caledon had allied with the military powerhouse of Langdon when her Witch Princess had married King Andrew, uniting with a sworn enemy to overthrow Zandor and prevent the Crown from claiming its rightful place in the island’s ancient capital.
The foot soldiers abandoned formation and traipsed from house to house, rapping on the doors and repeating the captain’s message, while half the horsemen fanned out to flank the village. The other half continued along the main street and dismounted before the church, where the tall spire with the iron cross speared the stars.
Sara crouched, watching the activity in an agony of indecision. Caledon must not discover her alone and unprotected in the fields. Her brain screamed at her to run, but her feet refused to move. If the enemy troops found her, they might beat her, rape her, imprison her, or kill her.
Should she stay in the church during the battle? She might be stuck in Whitereach for days, and she could not warn her father of her predicament. He was unaware that she had delivered Molly’s medication, and he would struggle to run the apothecary alone.
Vacillating between her choices, Sara watched the townspeople emerge from their houses—dark shadows that trickled into the street and formed a stream of humanity heading toward the church. Still, the warning cry rang out.
“Caledon approaches! An attack force of a few hundred! We haven’t much time!”
Where were the Zandorian soldiers to reinforce this unit? Sara hoped they hurried. Without reinforcements, Whitereach was doomed. An Imperial troop of fifty had no chance of holding the village against hundreds of enemies, and Whitereach lay near Grymwalde; Caledon must not claim it.
Two huddled figures slipped through the Eathains’ gate and joined the procession. Sara stayed parallel to Molly and Maeve and moved through the shadows toward the church, avoiding the torches’ glare and the horsemen guarding the village’s outskirts. If only Saffron had not bolted! With him, she could have made a fast escape.
A post and rail fence surrounded the church and the graveyard beside it. Sara crawled under the fence and hid behind an ornate tombstone, eyeing the church’s open doors, while almost resolved to seek refuge.
She was unlikely to meet Whitereach-bound troops on her way home, but only if Whitereach was Caledon’s target. The tiny village contained little of value for a foreign nation. If the enemy had its sights on Grymwalde instead, they might overtake Sara on her journey, making staying here in the church a wise decision. Yet the enemy troops were some distance away, and the sooner Sara abandoned the Zandorians’ protection in Whitereach, the better her chances of reaching home unmolested.
She weighed her choice in an agony of uncertainty. She must decide before Caledon decided for her!
The flickering torches moved through the streets, approaching the church. A line of foot soldiers followed the residents from all sides of the village, leaving no one behind.
The Catholic church might seat a quarter of Whitereach’s population in comfort. The building would burst with every resident inside.
“Hurry along. Not to worry. We’ll protect Whitereach, but you’ll be safer here while we do.” A ponderous fat man stood on the church’s threshold, ushering the frightened villagers through the doors.
Sara squinted. A priest?
Molly hesitated at the door. “Praeceptor! You came to protect us, as Myrhiadh said you would. Thank you, sir.”
The Praeceptor! Sara’s mouth went dry. Why was he in Whitereach if an attack from Caledon was imminent? He seldom left the safety of the palace, and only ever quit Grymwalde on political business.
“Myrhiadh’s mother and sister, I presume?” The Praeceptor placed a gentle hand on Molly’s back, ushering her and Maeve into the whitewashed structure. “I always keep my promises, Mrs. Eathain. The Crown’s hand is upon you.”
Sara clutched the weathered gravestone. How did the Praeceptor know Myrhiadh Eathain? Why put himself at risk to protect lowly villagers from Caledonian forces? Throughout history, whenever an enemy attacked a town, the residents fled if they could and perished if they could not. The Imperial Army had never mobilized to secure citizens before a battle.
The line of soldiers reached the church. Sara absorbed their brown and silver uniforms, emblazoned with the symbol of the Crown: a capital letter Z with dragon wings out to each side and a crown on top. The familiar image comforted her. She could trust these men to protect Zandorians with their lives and keep Caledon’s troops from advancing to Grymwalde.
“Have you got everyone?” the Praeceptor inquired.
“Everyone’s here, Praeceptor.”
“Are you certain?”
“Every house is empty, sir.”
Sara decided. Several miles of uninhabited fields stretched between her and Grymwalde. In any part of them, enemy soldiers might discover and capture her. Her safest choice was to trust the Imperial troops to protect her. She would ask them to let her into the church with the villagers.
“Secure them inside and enclose the perimeter.” The Praeceptor lumbered down the wooden steps, and two dozen soldiers surrounded the church, weapons trained on the building.
Sara froze in a half-crouch behind the shadowed tombstone. Why were they pointing their arrows at the church, where the innocents had taken refuge, instead of at the roads west, where Caledon would approach?
Two soldiers wrapped a stout chain around the door handles.
“Burn it.”
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(c) 2023 Christine Stobbe
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The Apothecary's Daughter
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