by Kate Forsyth
In the dark underhang of rock by the cliff a horse was lying, its head drooping. Its breath was harsh and laboured, rasping in its throat. Its coat was so black it was hard to make out its shape in the gloom of the deep little dell, but Lewen was able to see at once that someone was draped over its withers. He scrambled over the rocks, his concern growing as he noticed the yellowish scum that streaked the horse’s damp hide, the trembling of its limbs and the twitching of its hide, signs that it had been driven to exhaustion. Then Lewen was close enough to see and recognise the blue jacket and cockaded hat of a Yeoman of the Guard, and he broke into a run. The movement spooked the horse. It shook its head, eyes rolling white in terror, and tried to rise but was too weary, collapsing back to the ground. The attempt to rise had shown Lewen two more, very strange things. The horse had wings, magnificent black feathered wings, each as long as he himself was tall. And the body slumped heavily over the horse’s back had been tied on with rope.
Lewen went forward slowly, holding out one hand, whickering softly under his breath. The horse’s ears twitched and it rolled an eye towards him.
‘Gently now,’ he said. ‘Gently.’
Slowly, step by step, Lewen came closer. Again the horse tried to rise and shy away but Lewen reached forward and caught it by the bridle, steadying it. He smoothed one hot, damp shoulder, distressed to see the slobber round the horse’s mouth was stained with blood. Gently he eased the bit out of the horse’s torn mouth, keeping a firm hand on the bridle as the horse tried to drag its head away, whinnying in distress.
Once he had calmed the horse again, Lewen turned his attention to the unconscious soldier. There was a nasty gash on one temple, with blood drying thick on one pale cheek, and the leather reins had cut deeply into the flesh at the wrists. Although Lewen had his witch’s knife sheathed at his belt, he was reluctant to cut the bonds here in the gloom of the spray-misted basin, so far from home. He did not think he could carry the wounded soldier all the way home as well as lead the weary horse, and he knew his parents were the best people to tend both man and horse.
Gently Lewen urged the black mare to rise. He knew it was dangerous to let the horse lie still after such exertion, so he dragged on the cheek-band and pushed at the horse’s flank until at last she summoned the energy to stand. He encouraged her to walk the few steps down the slope to the pool then, without letting go of the bridle, he reached down to the pool and cupped water in his hand, letting the horse drink from his palm. The poor beast drank thirstily, and would have drunk more if Lewen had not restrained her, knowing too much water could be dangerous in her overheated and weakened state.
Keeping all his movements slow and steady, he rubbed the mare down with a handful of grass, then covered the horse and its unconscious rider as well as he could with the warm woollen cloak tied before the pommel. Then, regretting his jar of ale growing nicely cold in the pool, he began the long, wearisome walk home.
It was fully dark by the time he and the exhausted horse plodded out of the forest and into the orchard by the lake. Both the moons were half-full, and their mingled radiance cast a cool, colourless light across the garden. The trees were all very black, the loch was a strange glimmery silver, and warm orange light streamed from Kingarth across the dark lawn. Lewen lifted his gaze to the light, finding new energy in the closeness of home. He was bone-weary himself. Many times it had only been the strength of his hand on the bridle and his shoulder against the horse’s flank that had prevented the mare from foundering. The forest at night was a frightening place, besides, for it rustled and whimpered with mysterious sounds, and occasionally was rent by the howl of the hunter and the death-wail of the hunted. He was glad to have left the nerve-racking darkness of the forest behind.
Suddenly a huge shape loomed up out of the darkness beside him and he smelt the strong stench of bear. The horse did too, and reared and whinnied in terror, almost wrenching his arm out of its socket.
‘Ursa! Back!’ he cried.
‘Ursa, down,’ his father said gently. ‘Go back.’
The bear gave a sad-sounding snuffle and lumbered away towards the house.
‘What is it, laddie?’ Niall said in his deep, calm voice. ‘Ye’re home so late, your mam was worried.’ He came up out of the shadows, moving quietly for so tall a man. He saw at once the stumbling horse with its heavy burden and his son, trudging wearily at its bridle. ‘What is this ye’ve found? A horse?’
‘A winged horse,’ Lewen said.
‘Winged? With a thigearn astride?’
‘He wears the coat o’ a Yeoman.’
‘Indeed?’ Niall’s voice rose in interest.
‘He’s been tied on cruelly tight. I dared not cut him loose; the bonds were too tight and the light too bad. I am afraid though …’
‘Ye did well, my lad. Bring them to the stables. I’ll call Lilanthe. She’ll ken what to do.’
Lewen knew his mother had learnt her healing arts from Isabeau the Red, who was now Keybearer of the Coven. Lilanthe’s knowledge was so deep, she was often called away to help at a difficult birthing, or to splint a shattered bone. His family’s trip to Ravenscraig a few weeks earlier had been to help ease the last painful days of the old MacBrann, who had died slowly and with ever-increasing madness.
The final few yards to the stables seemed to take forever, with the horse barely able to put one hoof after another, and Lewen’s boots seeming very hot and heavy. At last they were within the dim, hay-smelling vastness, and Niall was kindling lanterns and exclaiming aloud at the sight of the winged mare in the golden fullness of their light.
She was a magnificent beast, even as worn and tired as she was, with great black wings shading through blue to violet at the tips, and long scrolled horns with the iridescence of dark mother-of-pearl. Every curve was beautiful and proud. She was delicately made for such a long-limbed animal, with a luxuriant mane and tail, and feathered hocks. She was so weary she hardly flinched as Niall drew his dagger and carefully sawed away at the ropes that bound the rider to the beast. At last the ropes frayed and fell away, and they were able to lift the rider down and lay him in the straw and lift the lantern to examine him.
There was a long silence.
‘She’s a girl,’ Lewen breathed at last.
‘And no’ so very auld,’ Niall said. ‘What is she doing in the uniform o’ a Yeoman?’
‘And tied on to the back o’ a winged horse?’
‘Eà kens! Come, let us leave her for your mam and look to the horse. She’s a noble beast and cruelly used. Look at her bleeding mouth.’
Niall had been a cavalier for many years and knew just what to do for the exhausted beast. He kept Lewen busy mixing warm mash, applying poultices and anointing the horse’s many cuts and abrasions but, despite his fascination with the winged horse, Lewen could not help casting many a glance at the girl lying in the straw. She was so dirty and bloody it was hard to see much of her face, especially with all that black, matted hair straggling all over it, but her figure was tall and lithe with a deep curve from breast to hip, and her mouth had as sweet a shape as any he had seen on a girl. She was beginning to stir as Lilanthe gently bathed her swollen, lacerated wrists, and Lewen stopped to look again as her eyes slowly opened.
They were not black, as he might have expected with all that raven hair, but a clear blue-grey colour, and fringed with very long, dark lashes. For a moment she stared up at Lilanthe blankly, and then she glanced round the dimly lit stable, seeing the winged horse tethered in its stall, and the man and boy cleaning the tack nearby.
With a vicious snarl, the girl was on her feet, knocking Lilanthe over with the violence of her movement. The girl looked about desperately, seized a pitchfork from its place on the wall and raced at Niall, her lips drawn back from her teeth.
Niall dropped the saddle, holding up both his hands in a pacifying gesture, but the girl only growled and drove the pitchfork towards his heart. Niall lunged forward, caught the handle just below the tines, and wre
sted it from her. As he flung it away into the straw, she leapt at him with her nails raking at his eyes. He managed to block her with one arm, but he was knocked off balance by the speed of her attack and fell back onto the straw-scattered cobbles, the girl on top of him.
Lewen dropped his polishing rag and leapt to his father’s aid.
Though he was able to drag the girl off his father, she turned on him, biting the tender skin where his neck met his shoulder. Lewen yelped and shoved her away. She kicked him hard behind the knee and he almost went over. Niall had scrambled to his feet again and caught her from behind but she kicked back with her heel, catching him smartly in the groin. He reeled back for a moment, as much shocked as pained, and the girl then turned on Lewen, grasping a lock of his curly brown hair and pulling so hard she almost ripped it out by the roots. Lewen had to wrap his arm about her throat, trapping one arm to her side, while he held her still against him with the other. She squirmed and wriggled like an eel, and he almost had to throttle her to keep her still.
Niall rubbed his abused private parts ruefully then took the pitchfork and threw it out the stable door. Lilanthe was trembling and he put one arm around her shoulders to comfort her. ‘What a wildcat!’ he said. ‘I never thought I’d be tempted to hit a woman before, let alone a wee slip o’ a girl.’
‘She’s no’ so wee,’ Lewen panted, having to tighten his hold on the girl as she struggled again to break free. Indeed, she was near as tall as he was, though slim and softly curved. She kicked back savagely with one booted heel and he leapt back, inadvertently loosening his hold. She spun and tried to escape, but Lewen caught her again, holding both her hands in one hand and seizing her waist with the other. ‘There’s no need to fight and squirm so,’ he said gently. ‘We mean ye no harm. We’re trying to help.’
She made a disbelieving noise but, when he tightened his grasp, stopped her desperate struggling, straining away from him, panting and trying to hold back tears. He loosened his bruising grip a little, moving away so she was not held so tightly against him. ‘There’s no need to fear,’ he said in the same deep, gentle voice he had used to soothe the horse. ‘Come, ye’re sorely hurt. We do no’ wish to harm ye any more than ye’ve already been harmed. Will ye no’ sit and rest and let my mother tend ye?’
She looked up at him suspiciously, and he eased his grip and gestured to her to sit back down in the straw. ‘Your wrists must be sore indeed,’ he said kindly, ‘and happen ye’re thirsty? Can I get ye some water?’
She moistened her parched lips with the tip of her tongue but did not answer. Carefully he let her go and moved across to the barrel of water, scooping out a cup of water for her. She snatched it from him and scrambled away, then drank thirstily, staring at him through the tangle of filthy black hair.
Lilanthe regarded her with troubled eyes. ‘She’s like a snow-lion cub, all teeth and claws. I wonder where she came from.’
‘What is your name, lassie?’ Niall asked. ‘And why do ye fight so? What do ye fear?’
She cast him a sideways look, wary and distrustful, then returned her gaze to Lewen’s face.
‘What is your name?’ Lewen said very gently.
She licked her lips again, her eyes darting from one face to another, then said haltingly, ‘Lassie.’
‘Aye, we ken you’re a lass, we’ve eyes in our head,’ Niall said. ‘But what is your name? What are ye called?’
‘Lassie?’ she said again.
Niall, Lewen and Lilanthe exchanged rueful glances.
‘Happen she’s a wee touched in the head,’ Niall said.
The girl frowned and, with a puzzled air, lifted a hand to touch her head.
‘Nay,’ Lilanthe said. ‘I dinna think so. There’s intelligence in those fierce blue eyes. I wonder … there’s something strange about her. I’d say she’s a faery child. Or at least, she has faery blood in her. And we are far from anywhere here. She must have come down out o’ the mountains.’
‘Then what is she doing wearing the uniform o’ a Yeoman?’ Niall said gruffly.
The girl stared at him uncomprehendingly. He bent and took a fold of her jacket between his fingers, saying, ‘Where did ye get it? Who does it belong to?’
Immediately she flinched away, scrambling out of reach.
‘Nay! Mine!’ she cried.
‘Yours?’ Niall asked, his eyes on the silver stag badge of the Yeomen. ‘Ye say the clothes are yours?’
She crossed her arms about her protectively. ‘Mine! No touch.’
‘Well, she seems to understand what we say well enough,’ Niall said. He bent towards her. ‘Lassie? Are ye hungry?’
She nodded her head voraciously, though she sidled back nervously, keeping a fair distance between them.
‘Lewen, lad, why do ye no’ go and find our guest something to eat? And happen make up a bed for her? She must be sick and weary. We can question her again in the morning. For now let her sleep and recover.’
‘I’ll fill up the bath too,’ Lilanthe said with a quick smile. ‘She’s filthy.’
‘Nay!’ the girl said emphatically.
‘Ye need a bath, my lass. Ye’re no’ sleeping in my good sheets until I have all that blood and muck off ye.’
‘Nay!’ the girl said again, gripping her hands into fists. She pointed one finger at the winged horse, now drowsily lipping at the bucket of warm mush with a blanket over its back. ‘Me stay. She mine. Mine!’
‘Ye want to stay here with the horse?’ Lewen asked.
She glanced at him and nodded, her expression clearing for a moment. ‘Mine.’
‘We do no’ seek to take your horse away from ye,’ Niall said sternly. ‘Though they say one canna own a winged horse. They canna be tamed with spur and whip, or broken to bridle and saddle, like ye have tried to do.’ He gestured with one hand to the bridle in the straw where Lewen had dropped it, its bit befouled with blood and foam. ‘A thigearn wins the trust and respect of his horse, he does no’ bloody its mouth and whip it till it founders.’
It was clear she understood his meaning, for a crimson blush swept up her throat and face, and she dropped those disconcertingly luminous eyes. ‘Dinna mean to hurt,’ she said haltingly, searching for the right words. ‘No … no other way.’
‘No other way for what?’ Lewen asked. ‘Ye have ridden a long way. Where have ye come from? Are ye fleeing from someone?’
She shook her head, not looking at him, and made another emphatic gesture. ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘Leave me. Me go. Soon me go.’
‘But ye are hurt still,’ Lewen said. ‘Will ye no’ let us tend ye, and give ye some food? And your mare? Ye canna mean to ride her anytime soon. She is sick and exhausted, and sorely hurt too.’
She looked at him in alarm. ‘Hurt?’
‘She’s exhausted,’ Niall said in cool tones of condemnation. ‘And her flanks have been flayed cruelly.’
The girl flashed him an angry look. ‘No’ me. Thorns.’
Niall grinned, his teeth flashing white in his dark bushy beard. ‘Ye’re rather thorny yourself, my prickly lass. Nay, do no’ look daggers at me. Ye may stay here in the stable if ye’d prefer. Indeed, somehow I think I’d sleep sounder tonight if ye did. It’d be like trying to cage a snow-lion cub to bring ye into the house. Lewen, lad, will ye go and get her some blankets and something to eat?’
Lewen nodded and tried to smother a yawn. He had to admit he was tired and hungry after the long walk through the forest.
As he turned to go, Lilanthe knelt down in the straw beside the girl, reaching for one lacerated wrist. At once the girl snarled at her, baring her teeth like a wolf. Lilanthe started back in alarm. Lewen turned back in sudden concern for his mother.
‘Do no’ be afraid,’ Niall said, surprised. ‘My wife is a healer. She shall no’ hurt ye.’
The girl glared at them through the matted knots of her hair, her whole body tensed and ready to spring. Lilanthe made a tentative move towards her and the girl lashed out, raking Lilanthe�
��s cheek with her filthy nails. Lilanthe gasped and shrank back, blood beading on her cheek. With a roar of outrage Niall strode forward, drawing his wife into the shelter of his arm with one hand and menacing the wild girl with his other fist. ‘How dare ye?’ he cried. ‘Leave her be! She was only trying to help.’
The girl pressed herself back into the wall, her eyes blackly dilated, her hands held up before her face as if seeking to protect herself from a blow.
‘Do no’ fear,’ Lewen said softly, stepping between his furious father and the wild-eyed girl. ‘No-one here will hurt ye. Ye are safe, I promise ye. Will ye no’ let us help ye? We mean ye no harm, there is no need to be afraid.’
She lifted her eyes to his face, her hands dropping. He took a few slow steps towards her, repeating his words in a low, gentle voice, and although she leant away from him she did not strike as he dropped to one knee before her. ‘There, there, ye see? I mean ye no harm. We only want to help. Your poor wrists look so sore. See, the cool water feels good, doesn’t it? It’ll wash away the dirt and make sure your wounds heal cleanly.’
As he spoke, Lewen very gently took one hand and trickled the water over her abused wrist. She crouched very still, not taking her eyes off him. He turned her wrist in his big hand, and blotted it dry with the soft cloth, staining it with streaks of mud and blood. ‘See, is that no’ better? Let me wash the other one too. It must be so sore. Look how much it is swollen. Now let me put some lotion on it. Does that no’ feel better?’
She breathed out in a long sigh, and nodded her head.