by Kim Wilkins
He heard Thrymm barking outside in the rain, but pushed it to the back of his mind. Yes she would hate being out there. She was old and used to being around people, but there were too many injured; she would be in the way.
He was barely aware that the door had opened. It had opened and closed so many times in the past hour, and one of the volunteers was deciding who should be admitted, and who could be treated on the long bench out under the eaves.
Then Thorkel nudged him and Skalmir looked up and saw his wife.
He put down the bucket he was holding and strode over to her, stepping over prone bodies and reaching for her, crushing her against him.
‘What is this I hear from the walking wounded?’ she said against his chest. ‘You have put one of Hakon’s generals in charge of the infirmary?’
Skalmir took a step back and smiled down at her. ‘Not all who come from the north are bad people,’ he said.
‘No, for that is where you were born.’
They stood a moment, smiling at each other. The rain continued to drive down behind them. Then she took his hand – so gently, more gently than she had ever touched him – and led it to her belly, flattening his palm across the cold, hard mail.
‘Many have died,’ she said, ‘and yet there is always new life. Sometimes … unpredictably.’
Realisation was swift. His cheeks went warm. He indicated the bogle axe at her hip. ‘Will you thank Niamma now?’
‘Not on your fucking life,’ Bluebell said.
How strange it was to be so quiet in the dark little room, when far away such noise and violence were happening. Linden lay on the floor at Rose’s feet, drawing. Ivy embroidered a pinafore for Goldie while Goldie held her thread for her, laying her head on Ivy’s shoulder. Eadric and Edmund played a game of dice, occasionally giggling or pushing each other. The fire crackled softly. A cold breeze licked through the open shutters. Outside the sky was soft blue.
Rose could not relax.
She knew that Rowan had been sent out on a mission for Bluebell that morning, and it had sounded dangerous. Clambering up onto roofs and taking on armed raiders. It was not what Rose had imagined for her daughter when she had first emerged, soft and tiny, from her body.
But she didn’t pace. She didn’t ask Ivy over and over, ‘What do you think is happening?’ She sat, almost unnaturally still, and smiled at the children and pretended that all was well. Even though the dread that stirred inside her stomach told her that something was not right. Not at all.
Then she heard it, the sweetest sound. Rowan’s voice in the hall.
She leapt to her feet, nearly tripping over Linden. The door opened. Rowan stood there, absolutely sodden.
‘Rowan!’ Rose exclaimed. ‘I’m so relieved! Why are you wet?’
‘It’s raining in Blicstowe,’ Rowan said, but something was wrong because Rowan wasn’t running into the room to hug her, or saying hello to Linden, and behind her other people were moving. Men. Carrying something.
‘Rowan?’ Rose asked, her knees beginning to shake.
‘I’m sorry, Mama. I tried to save him …’
Rose moved closer to the door. They were carrying a board. A board with a body on it, covered in a bloody cloak.
‘Rowan, no,’ Rose heard herself say, but it seemed so far away. Everything seemed so far away and she was spiralling down further and further from it.
But Rowan was reaching for her, pulling her back to the world – the unbearable world – and crying, ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ over and over; and all her spirit turned cold and bleak as winter rain.
By evening, the inns of Æcstede were emptying, the crowds were moving. Blicstowe, Ivy had heard, was battered and bruised, but liberated and standing. No refugee wanted to wait one more moment to return, even if that meant walking hours in the dark. There were reunions to be had. Ivy envied them. She did not know where her home was now, so she could not have a homecoming.
She could, however, have one of the largest rooms at an inn. By now, she had been so long without luxury that she promised herself she would not take the large soft bed for granted, nor the shutter that sealed shut all the way around, nor the polished brass of the many lamps. She and the children enjoyed a hot meal of oats – game and vegetables were still in short supply – and then they ordered a tub and she bathed them two at a time, including shy Linden, whom Rose was in no condition to look after.
Poor Rose, who sat staring into the fire, as dumb as her child. What would become of that boy now Wengest wanted him back? Ivy glanced at her boys in the bath, and could not imagine being parted from them. She glanced at Goldie, still damp and pink from her bath with Linden, and found she felt the same.
A gentle knock at the door had her putting aside the fresh nightclothes she was arranging, and going to answer it.
‘Vex, well met,’ Ivy said, opening the door wide to show her in.
‘I will not stay, Princess Stupid,’ Vex said. ‘I will head off before the dawn to meet my companions.’
Ivy found herself inexplicably disappointed. ‘You really are going back to living in caves, then?’
‘I feel safer there than in the towns,’ she said. ‘If he found me …’
‘Tell me his name. I know powerful people. We can find him and jail him. Or worse. Whatever it takes.’
But Vex was shaking her head. ‘I am happy in my life. I am free.’
At this, Rose looked up. ‘Free?’ she said.
Vex, not aware that Rose was lately bereaved, smiled and said, ‘Yes. I am no man’s servant, for all that I sleep under stars.’ She returned her attention to Ivy. ‘What will become of you, Princess Stupid?’
The question filled her with dread. ‘I will do my sister’s bidding, but I do hope she bids me to go away somewhere quiet and raise my children in peace.’
Vex nodded. ‘I see.’
‘But if you find where I am, you are always welcome. I will always help you. You don’t need to steal one of my children to blackmail me.’
They both laughed, then Vex enclosed her in a brief, violent hug and was gone.
‘What were you and Vex laughing about, Mama?’ Edmund asked curiously. ‘Can you tell us the joke?’
‘There is no joke, my darling. We are relieved that the worst of the horror is over. The war is done, and we are safe.’ Her glance flicked to Rose. ‘Most of us.’
Goldie looked at her with big, scared eyes, but said nothing.
Rowan sat by the bonfire, close to Niamma, but felt outside the revels of her tribes. She ought to be with her mother, but as the leader of this army she was expected to stay and celebrate victory, and drink to the dead.
A young soldier who could not have seen fifteen winters sang a mournful song across the camp, then when every eye was damp, broke into a bawdy chorus that made everyone roar with laughter. Rowan’s face couldn’t seem to smile.
Niamma looked around and saw her, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you not enjoying being one of us tonight, Rowan?’
‘My mother is bereaved. I should go to her.’
Niamma’s gaze went over her shoulder, her eyes widening. ‘No need. It seems she has come to you.’
Rowan turned her head and saw Rose approaching, with Linden in tow. She climbed to her feet and intercepted her. ‘Mama? Why are you out? It’s dark.’
Rose had a look of haunted resolve on her tear-stained face. It made Rowan’s heart lurch.
‘I am sorry, Rowan. I have to go.’
‘But go where? What do you mean?’
Rose adjusted her pack on her shoulder. ‘One day I will find you and explain.’
‘One day?’
‘And perhaps you will forgive me, but I cannot …’ She trailed off, her eyes going to Linden.
Rowan understood. Her mother had lost Rowan to Wengest, and couldn’t bear losing Linden too. But in running away with Linden, Rose had to abandon her daughter.
The mournful song had started again, but this time the crowd knew what was coming, and they sho
uted and laughed. Even though the happy commotion was only twenty yards away, it felt very distant.
‘I had thought you might come back to Druimach with me,’ Rowan said, trying to keep the plaintive edge out of her voice. ‘I will need you now … he is gone.’
‘Linden needs me more,’ Rose said firmly, and it was an arrow in Rowan’s heart.
‘I would have your good counsel. Should I remain unwed? Should I marry Renward? It would cement everything and he would give me my freedom …’
‘You are not free. None of us are free. Marry him or not, you will always be caught in a snare of duty and obligation.’
Rowan came to understand her mother was bitter and unable to see past her grief. Instead of pushing the point, she said, ‘Where can I find you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mama, please … don’t be hasty. Take a day or two to decide. We haven’t even burned Heath’s body.’
At these words, Rose froze, her hands balled into tight fists.
‘Please?’ Rowan said.
‘No,’ Rose answered, grasping Linden by the arm. ‘Now. Now is the time. While I can. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ She put her free arm around Rowan and squeezed her once, fleetingly. Then tugged Linden towards her. She turned, took a few steps, then turned back. ‘When they burn him, say goodbye for me. He will understand why I cannot be there, and he said he would forgive me anything.’
Rowan didn’t answer. She watched as her mother disappeared among the fires and tents of the camped armies.
And so Heath was dead but Wengest lived, and Rose knew what she should do. For while Heath would have protected and loved Linden, Wengest would punish and find fault with him. The king of Netelchester had a particular idea about what a man and a king should be. There was only misery ahead for Linden, being misshapen by Wengest’s expectations. He would be better a commoner.
Better sleeping under the stars.
Wengest’s tent was under guard but she approached it from behind, where she left Linden sitting on a rock. ‘Don’t move,’ she told him.
He settled, eyes drawn to a rhythmic drip from the corner of the tent. She felt her way along it to a seam, and bent to find the knotted thread that kept it together. With her scissors, she cut the knot and pulled the seam apart. The gap had opened only two feet from the ground when a hand caught hers.
Wengest crouched at the opening. ‘Rose?’
‘I need to see you. Privately,’ she said, positioning her body so he couldn’t see Linden.
He lifted the oilskin and helped her under. A moment later she stood in front of him.
He smiled, but warily. ‘What is it?’
‘I thought about what you said. About still loving me.’
His eyes darted away. ‘Did I? Well … it’s not …’
She reached out and pressed her finger to his lips. The heat and presence of him alarmed her. He was real. This was real. ‘I made you a gift.’
He nodded curiously and waited as she withdrew the shirt from her pack. She shook it out by the glow of the firelight.
A smile spread across his face. ‘Very fine indeed. You embroidered this?’
‘I have been working night and day. Here.’ She offered it to him. ‘Try it on.’
He paused a moment. Her heart thudded. Then he was unpinning his cloak, letting it fall to the ground. Untying the front of his tunic, pulling it off over his head. His body was familiar but different. Hairy, softer. She handed him the shirt and he pulled it on.
‘It suits you,’ she said, her voice constricting in her throat.
He admired the sleeves. His right hand crossed to his left cuff. ‘The thread … it’s itchy.’
‘It is?’
Then his hand went to the collar. ‘Oh … I think I’ll have to …’
Before he could say ‘take it off’, the magic began to work. The thread contracted, cutting into his throat. He opened his mouth to call out, but all that emerged was a strangled cough.
‘Rose,’ he wheezed. The cuffs cut into his wrists, turning his big hands red. A smell of burning skin. His face contorted. She realised she couldn’t watch, couldn’t listen, and closed her eyes, clapped her hands over her ears.
The muffled ringing of her silence, her grief, her guilt. She felt him hit the ground, his weak hand flailing against her foot. Then stillness.
She turned without looking, crawled out of the tent, and raced down to Linden.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Time to disappear.’
Rose waited at the hem of the wood, on the road out of town, for two fearful hours. Surely somebody would find Wengest, raise the alarm. Would she be under suspicion? Would they come for her? But all was busy and happy; people heading off in the rain and dark for their homes.
Then she saw Vex, left the shadow of the trees and fell into step next to her. Linden firmly clutched his mother’s hand.
‘Princess Rose,’ Vex said with a smile.
‘Not any more,’ Rose said. ‘My name is Duty. I’m coming with you.’
Vex was unperturbed by this revelation. ‘As you wish. Your boy looks tired.’
Rose glanced at Linden, and for the first time on this awful day she saw how it had taken its toll on him too. She bent down. ‘Climb on my back, my love. We have a way to go.’
Linden did as he was told, arms around her neck, face in her hair.
And then he spoke. For the first time in his life, in a soft sibilant voice. ‘We are free, Mama,’ he said.
Rose was too astonished to reply. Her ears rang.
Vex grinned up at him. ‘Yes, you are,’ she said. ‘Stick with me and you always will be.’
All of the shining lamps were dimmed but one, which Goldie had insisted on. The children slept, Goldie at the foot of the bed and the boys on each side of Ivy, and she drifted in and out of sleep, into dreams about Crispin and Vex and a cave in the woods that she knew she could take shelter in if she could run fast enough.
Her heart jumped and woke her. She lay for a moment, wondering why she had startled. The room was dim but she could see nothing moving.
But the door was open. Ivy knew she hadn’t left the door open.
Ivy sat up. She didn’t want to wake the children by calling out, but she watched the door for a few minutes, making sure nobody came through it.
Nobody did. Perhaps a stiff breeze had opened it, though she could hear that it was a calm night. She rose and padded over to close it.
That’s when an iron band snapped around her wrist.
Only it wasn’t an iron band, it was Willow’s hand.
‘Where is she?’ Willow hissed.
‘Who?’
But it was too late. Willow had already spotted the little sleeping bodies in the bed and cast Ivy aside, stalking towards them.
Ivy looked around for something to hit Willow with; her hand closed over one of the brass lamps. She dashed after her twin and smashed it over her head. Glass shards flew everywhere. Willow turned, a small cut bubbling blood on her forehead, and looked at her in arrogant shock.
‘Help!’ Ivy screamed. ‘Help!’
The children stirred. She heard Goldie yelp. Willow slowly drew a sword from behind her, under her cloak. Ivy’s stomach turned to water. She ran for the door, but Willow caught her by the sleeve of her nightgown and threw her to the floor. Willow’s knees on the inside of Ivy’s elbows pinned her down.
‘Heathen!’ Willow spat. ‘Whore!’
‘You forgot Stupid,’ Ivy retorted, and spat in her face. She willed the children to run. She could hear voices and footsteps downstairs, but they were too far away to save her. They may yet save the little ones though.
Willow wiped the spit off her face with the back of her hand, and rolled her wrist to bring the sword around.
Then Ivy heard the most unexpected sound. The tiny chirp of a bird.
The bird flew out of nowhere and struck Willow in the temple. Then another came and another. They flew at Willow’s head and hands, like sharp st
ones with wings.
Ivy stared in astonishment. They were sharp stones with wings. Goldie stood on the other side of the room with her apron open and the collection of stones the children had been working on were flying out, darting at Willow, smashing into her knuckles so she dropped her sword.
Willow stood up. ‘Avaarni!’ she bellowed, enraged. ‘Stop that at once!’
Ivy could see Goldie cringe. The girl had heard that voice before. Eadric and Edmund had hopped out of bed and joined her.
‘Get her, Goldie,’ Edmund said. ‘Kill the crow mother.’
Ivy glanced at the dropped sword. She had never handled one in her life.
The birds flew once around the room then doubled back, and flew as one into Willow’s head. She threw her hands up and cried out, stumbling over. The birds pummelled her face. Her nose smashed, her eyes grew bloody.
The sword was in Ivy’s hand, heavy in her unschooled fist.
She struggled to her knees and plunged the pointy end into Willow’s chest, falling on it with her whole weight. There was a crack, resistance, give. The little birds fluttered up to the ceiling then flew back into Goldie’s apron pocket.
Ivy stared at her twin sister, dead in a rapidly expanding pool of blood on the floor, her face beaten beyond recognition. A vision came to her of them playing on the beach together as children, building a sandcastle for them to live in when they grew up, because they never wanted any friends but each other. They had joined their hands and made promises about forever love and never hurting each other.
‘You deserved that,’ Ivy said, and she dropped the sword as if it had seared her skin.
Bluebell’s state room was missing part of its roof, but the clouds had finally cleared away so she took her meetings there anyway. With the familiar grain of the wooden table underneath her fingers, and her father’s war treasures all around her, she felt she could start putting in place the plans to unite Thyrsland after the war.
Ivy came at the appointed hour, her trio of children in tow. Bluebell showed them the puddles in the corners of the room, and they seemed quite happy to plop pebbles in them while Ivy spoke with her.