by Kim Wilkins
‘You are more than brave,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘Today you called me a thoughtless child.’
He hesitated before saying, ‘Soldiers get called names.’
‘Child,’ she repeated.
‘I’m sorry.’ He glanced around the square. Maewyn and her mother were being comforted by a large-busted woman with a long, thick plait. ‘How did you do it?’
She knew she oughtn’t tell him. She knew Maewyn was only two and would never be able to describe what happened. Certainly, Rowan hadn’t told her mother that she’d used Maewyn as bait. But a perverse desire to shock Heath gripped her. ‘I lured the hag to the crossing.’
‘How?’
Rowan nodded towards Maewyn.
Heath’s eyes followed her gesture, then he turned back to her. Shock. Fury. ‘Tell me you didn’t put the child’s life at risk.’
‘Bold action was required.’
‘You could have –’
‘You did nothing. You did not fix this.’
She must have said this last too loud, because a small group close by were now eyeing them curiously.
‘We will discuss this later,’ Heath hissed, then turned and walked away.
Rowan watched him disappear into the crowd, but she could not feel shame or regret. She had done the right thing and she had triumphed. The fact that Heath couldn’t see that only proved that her judgement now exceeded his.
Twenty
Within two days of Tolan’s visit, Rose and Linden were moved into a spacious bowerhouse in Tolan’s compound. Blue and amber rugs were nailed to the floor, and the hearth was built in stone at one end, with a tall stone stack above it to funnel out the smoke. A box bed stood on either side of the hearth, and a large wooden table with finely carved chairs sat between them. There was enough space for Linden to spread out on the floor, and an overflowing toy chest. Because the area wasn’t choked with smoke, Rose could smell the dried lavender posies hung about the room and the flax oil that had been used to oil the wooden posts and roof beams.
Linden ran to the toy chest and began pulling things out on the floor. Wax soldiers and toy horses and woollen bears and a wooden cart with wheels. Rose went to one of the beds, where three dresses were laid out for her. The finest wool, in blues and deep reds. She had been wearing the same dress for so long now that she exhaled in joy.
Alder, the guard who had brought them here, opened the shutters. Rose could see a profusion of green from the yew trees that surrounded the bowerhouse. The weather was fine, and a soft breeze blew. The soft tang of yew drifted into the room.
‘These dresses?’ she asked, picking one up and holding it against her body.
‘Yes, they are for you. They were the queen’s, before she …’
A dead woman’s clothes. It took the shine off the moment a little. She laid it back down, smoothed it, as Alder left, closing them in carefully. Rose heard the lock click and knew she was still a prisoner.
Linden had discarded his box of maps on the floor, so Rose picked it up and placed it on the table. She glanced over her shoulder at her son, who was loading the wooden cart with bears and horses. She idly flipped the lid of the box up. On top was not the map of the tunnels under Winecombe that he had been working on so diligently, but another she hadn’t seen before. The page was still mostly empty, with rivers and forest marked in sketchily.
A moment later, Linden was by her side, firmly closing the lid of the box.
‘Where does that map lead to?’ she asked, knowing she would not get an answer.
Linden returned to his toys, and Rose watched him: the little stranger whom she barely knew, and who barely seemed to know or care about her world.
Worry kept her awake most of the night, and she and Linden were slow in rousing themselves the next day. The day was grey and cold, with the insistent thrum of rain on the roof. Rose stoked the fire and stirred the porridge left over from yesterday until it began to plop and bubble. Linden peed and emptied the night pots in the bucket by the door, and then sat at the table in his short tunic, his arse bare.
‘Put some pants on,’ she said, placing a bowl of porridge in front of him.
He ignored her and started eating. She found herself without an appetite, so withdrew the shirt she was sewing from under her pillow and sat back on the bed with her sewing box. The embroidery around the cuffs and sleeves was all but finished. Soon it would be time to start on the collar. The thought made her tingle a little with anticipation, or perhaps the tingle was from the thread, soaked in Yldra’s potion, as it drew softly against her fingers. She admired the sleeve. Amber and blood red patterns, fine and detailed against the blue. She had wanted it to be the finest work she had ever done, for the shirt to be more beautiful than any king had seen. A gift any man would be delighted to receive.
She was roused by a peremptory knock at the door and Tolan had cracked it open before she had a chance to call out, ‘Come in.’
‘My lady Rose,’ he said, with a little bow of his head.
Rose climbed off the bed. Her hair was unbrushed and unpinned. She had been expecting a servant, not the king.
‘Linden. Pants,’ she said to her son.
Tolan closed the door behind him. He wore a deep red cloak, edged with green in swirling patterns. His fingers were jammed with gold rings.
Rose combed her hair with her fingers self-consciously. Linden continued eating his porridge, pants free.
‘My,’ Tolan said, stopping by the bed to admire the shirt. ‘That is fine handiwork, Princess Rose. A gift for your husband?’
Rose tilted her head but did not answer directly. He was right, in a way. ‘Why have you come so early?’
Tolan pulled out a chair to sit on, spreading his long legs in either direction. ‘I thought you might be in need of company. Though I assume idle gossip is not your style, as a daughter of the Storm King. I always think of the five of you spilling blood and summoning demons.’ He smiled when he said it, yet Rose recognised it for the trimartyr insult it was.
‘Ivy and I are quite normal,’ Rose said, a little regretfully.
‘We could talk about politics. You have finally accepted the truth of Queen Bluebell’s situation?’
‘Somehow, I don’t think we’d find much in politics to agree upon,’ Rose said, deflecting talk of this mythical conquest of Blicstowe.
‘Why do you stand there? Sit down,’ he said.
Rose perched on the edge of the stool by the fire. Linden rose and went to the porridge bowl. Tolan didn’t notice his bare skinny legs. He had his eyes on Rose.
‘Bluebell is better off not ruling,’ he said. ‘Women are not good at it. They have babies. Babies make your brains go soft.’
Rose glanced at Linden, who returned to the table and continued to eat. ‘Is that why you beheaded the rightful queen of Tweoning?’ she asked, annoyed with him.
‘Queen Dystro? That was more than ten years ago. And it wasn’t about her being a woman, you know. She was a tyrant, a rabid heathen. Trimartyrs who wanted to worship in peace were hounded, punished cruelly. I did not simply step into her hall and take over. I was put there, by a large and strong movement. We here in Tweoning are quite civilised.’
Rose remembered Dystro; she had met her in childhood. A big, warm woman, with huge, strong arms and an insatiable thirst for mead. She was no monster. Tolan had rewritten history. People who won wars always did.
He plucked at a loose thread on his trousers with his long, pointed fingers. ‘She was my cousin, you know. My uncle never forgave me. Cursed my name on his deathbed.’ Tolan looked up and smiled. ‘Which was in the dungeon.’
Rose’s revulsion must have been apparent because he cackled loudly.
‘Oh, the business of kings, Rose. Don’t pretend it was any different for your father or Bluebell or Wengest. We do what we must.’ He leaned forward. ‘She was a treasure hoarder, you know.’
‘Queen Dystro?’
‘Cousin Dystro. She stashed it e
verywhere. When she knew the uprising was coming, she hid everything. We’ve found some of it, but some …’
For the first time since he arrived, Tolan looked at Linden. Linden, seeming to sense he was being watched, lifted his head.
‘How is that map coming along, boy?’ Tolan asked.
Linden bent his head, spooned the remaining porridge into his mouth, then stood and reached for the box, his bare bottom once again peeking out under his tunic.
‘Pants, Linden,’ Rose murmured.
Linden withdrew a map and slid it across to Tolan. The king beamed. His face almost shone.
‘This is it, then?’
Linden said nothing.
Tolan traced his fingers over the map, a puzzled expression crossing his brow. Deep furrows appeared, but his bald scalp remained smooth. ‘What is this? You have drawn four men.’
Linden didn’t answer. Didn’t even look up.
Tolan sighed. ‘This is vexing. How do you get on with him?’
Rose bristled. ‘He has drawn you your map. I presume the picture means you need to take four men with you.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know.’
Linden glanced at her sidelong, then stood up and went to where his pants lay on the floor.
While Linden dressed, Tolan examined the map, then banged a flat hand on the table. ‘Well, I had better gather four men and be off. The lad can come too.’
‘Linden is no part of this.’
‘Yes, he is. I want him there in case he has to explain something.’
‘He can’t explain anything.’
Tolan rose, towering over her. ‘I want him there.’ His voice had dropped darkly and his nostrils flared.
Rose swallowed her retort. ‘I must come too then.’
‘As you wish. I will return for you in an hour.’
Linden was alert and interested as Rose clung to his cold hand. They followed Tolan and four soldiers away from the king’s compound and through a back alleyway past the stables, then down to a thick hawthorn hedge that grew along a tall stone wall.
Tolan stood back and allowed the men to go ahead. They began hacking at the hawthorn’s branches with their axes.
‘We have already explored this tunnel thoroughly,’ Tolan said. ‘As you can see, we let the hedges grow over it. The lad seems to think there’s another chamber behind where we have explored. I don’t see how it could be so, but nonetheless …’ His gaze landed on Linden. ‘I do like his maps.’
Rose squeezed Linden’s hand. Would Tolan be angry with him if he found no treasure today?
The smell of earth and rain and cut twigs surrounded them. Rose’s moleskin kept the drizzle out, but a split in the seam of her shoe let in icy damp. She longed to be back inside by the fire, with Linden safely away from Tolan. They waited, the wind blowing wet mist into their faces, until the hedge had been cleared sufficiently for Rose to see the mouth of a tunnel leading down.
‘Go ahead and light the way,’ Tolan said to the soldiers.
Rose and Linden followed.
The soldiers each dipped a rag in fire oil and stuffed it in the cradle of a torch. A flint was struck, and each torch lit from the previous one, until the tunnel was well lit enough for Rose to see a low ceiling, the shapes of boulders with shadows flickering over them and Linden’s round-eyed wonder.
‘Straight ahead,’ Tolan said. ‘The route to the ninth chamber.’
The company headed off. All Rose could hear were footfalls and the occasional drip. It was cold under here, but at least it was dry, and she relaxed her grip on Linden’s hand. He happily slid free, and stooped here and there to pick up a rock or examine something that had caught his eye.
‘The ninth chamber was the largest treasure we found,’ Tolan explained over his shoulder. ‘Heathen gold of course. Icons of the Horse God and that hideous fat woman you call the Great Mother.’
Rose shuddered at his disrespect.
‘Coins, of course, both silver and gold. Cups and torques. Some of these rings.’ He wiggled his fingers over his shoulders. ‘But I know she had more. Much, much more. Her father – my uncle – had been in crooked dealings with merchants his whole life. Made a fortune, but Maava saw to it he lost his sight.’
Rose concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. She could not see how far ahead the tunnel stretched, but the ninth chamber sounded as though it must be some distance away.
Perhaps half an hour passed, perhaps it was less. Walking on and on in the dark made her lose touch with time. But the soldiers veered to the left and under an arch, and then they were inside a cave with uneven walls.
Tolan pulled Linden’s map out from his cloak and spread it between his hands. ‘Bring me light,’ he barked, and a soldier stood close. Tolan’s face was lit eerily. ‘That boulder,’ he said, pointing. ‘The boy says we need to move it.’
Tolan folded the map away and took a torch. Linden was handed one, and Rose found herself holding two.
‘You be careful with that,’ she said to Linden.
Linden gazed at the flame, enraptured.
With much grunting and cursing, the soldiers shifted the boulder, grinding against the stone floor, out of the way. Behind it was indeed an entranceway to another place, but it was blocked from the inside by another boulder.
‘Get on with it,’ Tolan growled, excitement making him impatient.
‘But how could this boulder have been placed on the inside of the doorway?’ one of them asked. ‘This can’t be an entrance.’
‘I said, get on with it.’ Tolan had not raised his voice, but his tone was so menacing that even Rose’s heart sped up.
Shoulders against the rock, the four men heaved and sweated, their feet losing purchase on the gravelly ground.
Tolan was as immoveable as the boulder: ‘Keep going,’ he said, over and over. ‘Keep going.’ The torches would burn down soon. Rose’s heart thumped.
Then, slowly, the boulder began to move, crunching away over the ground until there was a gap wide enough to let them through, one at a time.
In the new chamber, Rose saw how the entrance had been sealed: four skeletons lay around the room. They had moved the boulder into place, then died behind it. She wondered if these were volunteers, or if Tolan was right: all kings and queens were cruel if they needed to be. She tried not to think about them, in the unbroken darkness, waiting to die.
Tolan strode past the remains and around a bend, both torches held forth. Then he began to laugh. The rest of the company ran to catch up with him, Rose included, and she found herself looking into a low-ceilinged cave piled with gold objects, coins, bejewelled weapons and armour.
‘Well done, my lad!’ Tolan said, scooping Linden off the ground and directing his attention to the hoard. Linden dropped his torch in alarm, but Tolan didn’t care. ‘Look what you helped me find!’
Rose was not sure if Linden understood that the feast was in his honour. He had been told it plenty of times: by Tolan, of course; by the servants who were partial to him; and jealously by one of Tolan’s bastard children, who was about twelve. Rose could have happily boxed that boy’s ears.
The feast was so little like the ones she had experienced elsewhere. A small crowd, one minstrel quietly plucking his harp, nobody drinking too much. But everything about Tolan was quiet, considered. Rose thought about his pride in being ‘civilised’. This certainly was a civil affair.
She sat directly at Tolan’s side, where the queen would have sat had she still been alive. Linden sat on her other side, happily picking the blackberries out of his pie to eat separately, then peeling off the layers of bread and dropping them one by one into his mouth. Rose gulped a cup of mead and allowed herself to feel hopeful. Now that Tolan had his treasure, he might let her go.
A well-dressed storyteller rose to his feet, preening over his cloak and pins, then stood proudly in the centre of the room and boomed, ‘Lo, I can a tale.’
Conversation hushed. The gatheri
ng turned their attention to him.
He began his tale, which was a trimartyr tale of some saint or other who had been boiled in a pot and then eaten by a lion – Rose was highly dubious that any of it was true – so she only half-listened, instead letting her attention stray around the room. Who were these people and did they know she had been held against her will? Would they care if they knew? She looked for the most sympathetic face, for a woman with a sweet smile or a man with kind eyes. But there was something about all of them, an air of superiority. That was it. They were civilised. Too civilised for Rose’s liking.
She noticed a few hidden smiles and glances starting to come her way, and at first thought her opinions had been too apparent on her face; but then she tuned in to what the storyteller was saying and realised he spoke of Bluebell.
‘That heathen sinner, that insult to Maava, Bluebell the Fierce of Ælmesse.’
Rose’s stomach burned. She wanted to jump to her feet and scream at him that Bluebell was a thousand times more valuable than him, but fear for Linden’s safety kept her quiet.
Tolan, to his credit, stood and said gently, ‘Enough.’ He made a cutting motion through the air. ‘We have heard enough of this story.’
The storyteller directed a supercilious glance at Rose, then smoothed his cloak and strode back to his seat. The music and quiet conversation started again.
‘I am sorry,’ Tolan said, leaning close enough that Rose could smell onion on his breath. ‘Your sister is rather a favourite villain in some of Tweoning’s stories.’
‘She never did anything to you,’ Rose said gruffly.
‘She has threatened us more times than I can count, Rose. Don’t be naïve.’ He raised his cup to his lips, smiling. ‘That’s what kings do.’
‘If she is your enemy, then I am your enemy. Nobody wants me here. I saw how they looked at me. You have your treasure. Will you let me go home?’
‘Home? To Blicstowe? It’s a little crowded at the moment.’ He snorted.
‘Home to wherever I want to go,’ she said. ‘Away from here.’