Free The View From the Cart by Rebecca Tope Page A

it was difficult, but I gave her a pot of honey to take back with her. Before she went she gave me some news.
    â€˜Bran’s sick, did you know?’
    â€˜No. What ails him?’
    â€˜A cut went bad, and the place is getting bigger.’
    â€˜Where?’
    Spenna put a hand on her upper arm. ‘About here. He says it was nothing - a blackthorn scratched him when he was pulling a sheep out of a thicket. He gave it no thought until it started to hurt him. The poultice seemed to draw it at first, but then it got worse. He can scarce move his arm now.’
    I pursed my lips. ‘That shouldn’t have got so bad. Who’s tending him?’
    â€˜That’s the thing. Maggy is away to see her girl, in the Zummerlands, so there is none left with the skill to draw the poison. They tried pressing it out, but ‘twas too sore. He knocked them all away.’
    â€˜Sounds bad, Spen. Is that what you’re telling me?’
    She shrugged. ‘Bad enough, I reckon.’
    I told Edd as soon as he came in, and said maybe he should go and see his brother. Cuthie heard me, and came close. ‘No need to go there,’ he said. ‘I shall pray for my uncle. That will heal him.’
    Edd made the mistake of laughing. ‘So I’ve a miracle worker for my son, have I?’ he said. ‘Too many ideas in that head, boy, is what I say.’
    Cuthman whipped round like a snake. ‘‘Tis true, for all that. If I pray for him, then he will live. If I do not, then he’ll die. Which will it be?’
    Edd narrowed his eyes. ‘Take care, lad. I’ll have no such words under this roof. A man dies when his time is right, not for your saying whether or no.’
    â€˜Hush!’ I ordered them. ‘What’s this talk of dying? Bran has a stiff arm, is all. Maybe he could use some help till it be better.’
    Cuthman looked at us both, his lips twisted in a sneer. ‘Then I make no prayers for him. And see what will happen.’
    Bran died two weeks after that. Cuthman loudly insisted that his lack of prayers, at our ordering, had been his uncle’s death knell. Edd and I glanced uneasily at each other, saying nothing. Forbidding prayers for the sick seemed then a foolish act - though neither of us could recall exactly forbidding Cuthman anything. The sickness in Bran’s arm had gone to his neck and chest, turning him black and putrid, stinking so foul that no-one could get close to him. They buried him with his green story-telling gown and cups, plates and other grave goods. Bran had been a figure of some renown, and there was a crowd at his burying. His sons carried him to his resting place, and his wife, Raga, seeming old and shrunken now, wept – though taking care not to come too close to his body.
    The family shared his goods, but every one of the sons had his own prosperous holding, and no real need for further stock. They took the cattle and hogs between them, but seemed indifferent about the sheep. Holding our breath, we waited for a decision from Raga. Finally, she told Rannoc to drive the whole flock up to us.
    â€˜Edd has always been an outsider,’ she said. ‘But he is a good man, with a hard life. Take him the sheep and may they bring him joy.’ Rannoc relayed the message carefully.
    Edd so forgot himself as to give a whoop of triumph. ‘Twenty good ewes!’ he cried. ‘With lambs besides. It’s a fortune, wife!’
    Rannoc looked uneasy. The bounty seemed to him, as to us all, to be excessive. But sheep were plentiful throughout the village, and some were being killed before their time, or taken further onto the moors for their grazing.
    Cuthman came forward. ‘I shall be the shepherd now,’ he announced. His tone left no opening for contradiction. ‘I know what to do.’

Chapter Six
    It quickly became plain that Cuthman had to be our shepherd, whether he wanted to or not. The new ewes required daylong