by Kate Forsyth
All the warmth and spontaneity died out of Rhiannon’s face. Sitting straight-backed and stiff as a poker, she hissed, ‘Get your hand off me else me cut it off for ye!’
Her words rang out in one of those little lulls that sometimes come in a noisy room, and everyone turned and stared down the table. Cameron went scarlet and hurriedly moved his chair away. Rhiannon stared at him for a moment longer then went on eating as if nothing had happened, but Fèlice and Edithe gave little embarrassed titters and Lilanthe drew her brows together in a look of trouble.
After the meal had been cleared away, the group broke up. Lewen and his father showed the other men around the farm while Lilanthe took the girls out to her herb garden and then to her simple room, lined with bottles of home-made medicines and potions.
They met again for high tea in the kitchen, then all crammed together in the sitting room as dusk rolled over the garden.
Nina sang for them, her long-billed sunbird amusing everyone by accompanying her with melodious little trills and call notes. There was much animated talking and laughing, with Iven easily dominating the conversation, telling tales and teasing the others good-naturedly. He tried to draw Rhiannon out but she stared at him suspiciously and answered only in monosyllables, so at last he gave up and concentrated on entertaining his crowd. Rhiannon sat as still and wary as a bird hiding in bracken, frowning, her mouth set firmly, her luminous blue-grey eyes moving from face to face. It was clear to Lewen that she could understand little of what was said. They were all speaking too quickly, and at cross-currents, drowning out each other’s voices as they insisted on having their say. The conversation was mostly concerned with politics and court gossip, none of which meant a thing to the wild girl from the mountains.
As the night wore on Edithe and Cameron, who had both obviously taken a strong dislike to Rhiannon, began to mock her more openly, asking her opinion on the appointment of the new Fealde in Tìrsoilleir or rumours that the treaty with the Fairgean was under strain. To each question Rhiannon said only, ‘Dinna ken’, which they seemed to find exquisitely funny. Edithe appeared most concerned about Rhiannon’s lack of a private independence, and asked her a great many questions about how she hoped to manage in Lucescere without an allowance.
‘But, my dear, ye simply must have some income,’ she said. ‘Although we all have to wear an apprentice robe while at school, there will be lots o’ parties and balls and picnics and one must have clothes. It is the royal court, after all.’ She looked Rhiannon up and down, and then said delicately, ‘But happen ye do no’ care for clothes?’
Cameron laughed.
Rhiannon said nothing.
Fèlice and Edithe then fell into an animated discussion about the latest fashions at court.
‘I heard the Rìgh’s niece wears her bodice cut very low, with barely a sleeve at all, to show off her fins and gills,’ Edithe said. ‘Who would have imagined fins and gills would become fashionable! And it is most unfair, for she does no’ feel the cold, ye ken, so that she wears her dresses so even in the very midst o’ winter.’
Rhiannon sat silently, listening, ignoring the fixed unfriendly gaze of Cameron and the fixed longing gaze of Landon as best she could. It was clear she was going to have to get used to Landon’s eyes upon her face. He had spent all afternoon staring at her. Occasionally he dug out a scruffy little notebook from his pocket where he would scribble a few words, before staring in agony at the ceiling as he mouthed half-rhymes and mangled phrases. At one point Lewen heard him muttering, ‘Breast, west, best, nest?’ and he blushed for both Landon and himself.
He heard a burst of mocking laughter a little later, and looked across the room to find Fèlice and Edithe hiding their smiling mouths behind their hands, while Cameron grinned, looking very pleased with himself.
‘What, naught to say?’ Cameron was saying. ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’
Rhiannon stared at him in obvious bewilderment. ‘Uh? Cat? What cat? There no cat. And me have my tongue. See?’ She poked it out at him.
They all broke into peals of laughter, even shy, sweet Maisie. Only Landon did not laugh, looking at Rhiannon in obvious pity and sympathy.
Glancing at Rhiannon, Lewen was surprised to see her eyes were swimming with tears. He got up at once and said gently, ‘Rhiannon, ye must be weary still, would ye like to go to bed?’
She nodded at once and got up, so tall and awkward in her too-tight green dress that Edithe twisted her lip in scorn, hardening Lewen’s dislike of her into something hotter and fiercer. He showed Rhiannon out of the room as quietly and unobtrusively as he could. Her fists were clenched and her cheeks were flushed, and she did not look at Lewen but caught up her mass of entangling skirts so she could stride out with ease. Lewen did not speak at all as he gathered up the clean nightgown Lilanthe had laid out for her, and the pile of warm blankets, and carried them all out to the stable. She went straight to the black mare, which turned its head and whinnied eagerly at the sight of her. Rhiannon flung her arm about its neck and buried her face in its silky flowing mane. The mare nudged her with its nose and blew gustily through its nostrils but she did not look up.
By the time Lewen had made up her bed for her, she was calm again, though her eyelashes were spiky with tears. She wiped her nose on her green silk sleeve.
‘Thank ye,’ she said with some difficulty.
‘My pleasure. Sleep well,’ Lewen answered. He hesitated, then said in a rush, ‘And do no’ fear. None o’ those louts shall trouble ye tonight, for I’ll set Ursa herself to guard your door.’
She laughed. ‘That bear? Ye want horses mad with fear all night?’
Lewen said valiantly, ‘Then I’ll guard your door myself.’
‘Me no afeared,’ she said derisively. ‘Those boys ken no more about mating than a babe.’
Lewen’s blood surged. He had to turn away, pretending to busy himself checking the food and water of the other horses, until the heat in his face and his groin had subsided enough that he should not betray himself. In the meantime he could hear Rhiannon ripping off the despised green dress and splashing about in the water. He dared not turn round until all was quiet again. When at last he faced her she was sitting cross-legged in the straw, eyeing him speculatively, dressed only in the thin white nightgown, the laces at the bodice undone.
‘I’d best get back.’ He could not meet her eyes. ‘Are ye sure ye’re grand?’
She dragged up her nightgown to show her knife strapped to one long, pale thigh. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘What about ye? Need me to guard ye from those cursehags?’
Lewen grinned despite himself. ‘I hope no’,’ he said.
‘Call me if ye need me and me come,’ she said.
‘Ye too. Call me, I mean. If ye need me.’
‘Me no need ye,’ she said.
‘I guess no’,’ he said, feeling miserable. ‘Good night then.’
She wrinkled her brow. ‘What this “good night”?’
‘It’s what ye say last thing at night, afore ye sleep,’ Lewen said. ‘It means have a good sleep, keep safe, have sweet dreams.’
She smiled, radiantly and unexpectedly. ‘Me see. Good night to ye then.’
He nodded and went out into the darkness. He did not go back to the house at once, though, finding a tree to lean against in the chilly darkness of the garden, pressing his forehead against its smooth bark, crushing its new fresh leaves in his hands so he could smell their sharp smell. His body ached, his skin was hot, his mind was all confusion. He had heard of men addicted to moonbane, who kept on tasting it for its sweet, giddy delirium when all the time they knew it was poisoning their blood and destroying their reason. Rhiannon was like moonbane, he thought, and already it was too late for him. He was addicted.
Rhiannon woke slowly, feeling deliciously warm and comfortable. She cuddled her cheek against the soft black feathers that lay over her like a counterpane, aware of a strange new feeling inside her. She did not know how to name this feel
ing, but when she thought of her horse it warmed and deepened within her, and when she thought of the boy, with his quiet, deep voice and steady, watching brown eyes, it caused her to curl her toes, her mouth lifting at the corners.
She stretched and reluctantly slipped out from underneath the sheltering wing. The mare lifted her head and regarded her with a great, black velvety eye. When Rhiannon stared into that eye, she saw within a greater blackness, a slit, an abyss without an end. It fascinated her, this black slit that did not reflect the light like the rest of the eye, but seemed to suck it inside. Everything about her mare fascinated and allured her. Every line and curve of her body, every movement she made, every twitch of ear or flare of nostril was filled with grace and strength and power, and it was hers, all hers. She did not care what the big bearded man said, the winged mare was hers.
The mare gave a soft whinny of agreement and nudged her with her nose.
Rhiannon had not had much time alone since arriving at Kingarth. When she was not sleeping, there was always someone watching her, talking at her, demanding her attention.
Even though Rhiannon was accustomed to having no personal privacy, having grown up in the midst of a large herd, nonetheless she was used to long periods of quiet and solitude. Satyricorns did not talk much. Their language was simple and used only when a grunt or gesture would not suffice. Rhiannon had always been isolated within the herd because she looked so different from the other satyricorn children. Their eyes were yellow with an oblong iris, not a soft grey-blue like the dawn sky. They had hard cloven hooves and a ridge of hair that ran down their spine, ending in a tufted tail. Her torso had been smooth and hairless, and her feet were soft and flexible. She had never been able to run as fast, or leap as far, or fight as roughly as any of the other satyricorn children, and so she had learnt to keep herself apart, spending her days roaming the high meadows alone.
Here there was no quiet and no solitude. Rhiannon had been spinning in a whirlwind of words from the moment she arrived, grabbing here and there at sounds she thought she understood, only to find they had many more meanings than she could ever have imagined. Eyes could be daggers, cats stole tongues, air could be put on like a garment. The only clue she had to meaning was the voice with which the words were uttered, and even that was deceitful. Many of these humans said one thing with their words, and quite another with their faces and bodies and voices. It was exhausting and bewildering trying to decipher it all, and to make it worse, Rhiannon did not believe them when they kept telling her she had nothing to fear. There were so many threatening undercurrents to the things that they said, so many traps in their words.
Lewen was the only one that she did not fear. His voice was deep and slow and thoughtful, and he never made any sudden jerky move to startle or frighten her. He smiled at her, and was kind, and he never said one thing with his words and another with his eyes. When Rhiannon was alone with him, she found herself relaxing the tension of her muscles and the fierceness of her concentration.
But for now she had only the drowsy horses for company. She could think over the happenings of the last few days and begin to prepare herself for the journey ahead. Rhiannon was conscious of trepidation, for she did not know what lay ahead of her, and she was suspicious of these shrill, noisy humans with their complicated ways. She meant to keep her dagger close to hand, and her wits about her, for she could see there were many pitfalls ahead if she was unwary. At least she could always escape any trouble on the back of her beautiful winged horse. As long as the flying horse was with her, Rhiannon would be safe.
She stroked the black velvety nose, then got down her saddlebags from their hooks. She had not had a chance to go through her things and make sure they had not been interfered with. She did not believe these humans when they said they would not touch her treasures. It did not matter that they had many strange and beautiful and useful things of their own. In Rhiannon’s experience, the more you had, the more you wanted.
She spent a happy half-hour turning over her treasures and arranging them to her liking in the saddlebags. She caressed the gleaming brooch of the running horse, and hid it right down the bottom of the bag along with the music-box, the silver goblet, the medal with its device of a hand haloed in light and her other treasures. If anyone saw those they would take them, she knew. Anyone would.
Then she sharpened her two beautiful daggers and put them ready with her bow and quiver of arrows. She wanted them close to hand at all times. The blowpipe and pouches of poisoned barbs she tucked just inside the pocket of the saddlebag that hung on the right, so she could reach them easily. Everything else she stowed away neatly, all except her clothes and the grooming kit in its leather wallet. She was turning over the currying combs and brushes and sponges in puzzlement when she heard a noise and looked up, muscles tensing instinctively.
Lilanthe was in the doorway, carrying a basin and jug of warm water, a big portmanteau dangling awkwardly from the crook of her elbow. Outside, birds were beginning to test their voices for their coming hosanna to the sun, and mist was eddying in a rising breeze.
Rhiannon frowned and closed the flap of the saddlebag, thrusting it behind her.
Lilanthe came in and laid down her burdens. ‘What is it ye wish to hide, lassie?’
Rhiannon did not answer.
Lilanthe sat next to her and wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘I am troubled about ye, Rhiannon,’ she said. ‘I canna read your mind. Are ye so secretive and suspicious because ye have reason to fear honesty? Or is it just your nature? I wish I kent what it is ye are frightened o’.’
Her voice was so gentle and her eyes so filled with compassion, Rhiannon felt an urge to make her understand somehow.
‘In herd, must fight for what yours,’ she said.
‘Aye, I understand that. But we are no’ o’ the herd, we have no desire to take what’s yours away from ye.’
‘Aye, ye do,’ Rhiannon said fiercely. ‘Ye say clothes no’ mine, ye say horse no’ mine.’
Lilanthe was quiet for a moment. ‘I think ye can say the horse is yours,’ she said at last. ‘Certainly Lewen calls Argent “his” horse, and I call the garden “mine”, and Niall calls Ursa “his” bear. I think it is natural in us to want to own things, to forge strong bonds with them. Niall’s problem with ye calling the mare yours is a philosophical one, because a winged horse is no’ like other horses. But he is no’ acknowledging the fact that ye and the horse have clearly forged some kind o’ bond, happen even the bond that is felt between thigearn and flying horse. Certainly none o’ us would dream o’ trying to separate ye.’
Rhiannon grasped at the words she understood. ‘Ye say horse mine?’
‘Aye, lassie. That is, if ye think ye belong to her as much as she belongs to ye.’
Rhiannon shrugged. ‘O’ course. She mine, me hers.’
Lilanthe smoothed her rough brown gown down over her knees. ‘The clothes are a different matter, though, Rhiannon.’ As the girl immediately stiffened, Lilanthe glanced up, smiling a little ruefully. ‘Nay, hear me out, lassie. I understand that the clothes are important to ye, but ye canna keep them. They are no’ yours, they belonged to the Yeoman, and after his death they belong to his family.’
‘Me won them,’ Rhiannon said, scarlet with suppressed fury. ‘Blood-right!’
Lilanthe leant forward. ‘What was that? Blood-right? What does that mean?’
‘They mine,’ she said flatly.
‘Nay, Rhiannon, tell me, what does that mean? Did ye kill the soldier? Is that why ye claim the clothes as yours? Ye must tell me. Canna ye see how important it is that we ken? We saw the hole the arrow made in the cloth. He was shot through the back. Did ye shoot him? For that’s a hanging offence, Rhiannon. That would be treason. Ye must tell me, ye must explain to me how it happened. For I do no’ want … I would no’ like to send ye to Lucescere without at least … canna ye tell me how it happened, Rhiannon?’
‘Clothes mine,’ she said sullenly.
Li
lanthe sat back, her face setting hard. ‘Nay, they are no’, Rhiannon. Now, I have a compromise to offer ye, for I do no’ wish to be taking anything away from ye against your will. Look what I have here.’ She turned and opened the portmanteau she had brought from the house. ‘See, these are auld clothes o’ Lewen’s. There are breeches and shirts, and quite a good coat, and an auld shawl o’ mine, and some underclothes, and a few other things I think ye’ll find useful.’
Lilanthe then turned and, before Rhiannon could stop her, picked up the blue cloak from where Rhiannon had laid it ready in the straw. She turned it in her hands. ‘Now, look. Here is the cloak o’ the Yeoman. It is no ordinary cloak. See how it is grey on one side and blue on the other? The cloaks o’ the Blue Guards are woven with spells o’ concealment and camouflage by the witches. In need, ye can turn it inside out and it will help ye blend into mist and darkness, or against grey stone and bracken.’
With an inarticulate growl, Rhiannon snatched back the cloak and huddled it against her. ‘Mine!’
‘No need to fret,’ Lilanthe said with a smile. ‘I have no other cloak for ye to wear and so my idea is ye should wear it till ye reach Lucescere and then give it to the Yeoman’s family with everything else.’
Rhiannon looked stubborn, and Lilanthe went on quickly, persuasively, ‘And the tam-o’-shanter too. If ye will give it to me for just a wee while, I’ll unpick the cockade from it, and so then it will be a cap just like anybody else’s. When ye get to Lucescere ye shall no’ need them, for if ye are admitted to the Theurgia to study along with Lewen and the other apprentices, ye shall wear an apprentice’s gown like everyone else. And if ye are no’ … well, I have asked my friend Isabeau to give ye all ye will need. I will no’ insist ye give these things up to me, Rhiannon, if ye will promise to submit them to Dillon, the captain o’ the Yeomen, when ye arrive in Lucescere. Believe me, it is the best thing to do.’