by Kate Forsyth
He put his arm about her, but she jerked away. ‘Call this cold?’ she jeered. ‘It’s no’ even snowing!’ She huddled her arms about her body, trying to control the shudders that racked her.
Nina paused on the top step of the caravan. ‘Let her come into the caravan with me. I canna heat us a hot drink, but I do have dry clothes and warm blankets. We’re all exhausted.’
‘No’ exhausted,’ Rhiannon said stubbornly. ‘I fine.’
‘Rhiannon, ye’re trembling,’ Lewen said. ‘Go in with Nina and get dry and warm.’
‘Nay. I stay with horse, I ride. Ye go in and get warm, if ye so cold.’
‘But Rhiannon …’
‘I said I ride!’
‘But it’s raining …’
‘Ye think I melt in a wee drop o’ rain?’
‘Nay, o’ course no’! I just –’
‘Ye no’ worry about rain, why must I? I just as strong and brave as ye.’
‘O’ course ye are, I dinna mean to –’
‘Then shut up and ride. Horses get cold.’
‘What’s all this clishmaclaver?’ Frowning, Iven came up to them, the other boys close behind him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Naught,’ they both said stiffly, moving away to grasp their horses and swing themselves back up into the saddle.
‘Rhiannon?’ Nina called from inside her caravan. ‘Will ye no’ come in and get warm?’
‘I plenty warm,’ Rhiannon said through her chattering teeth. ‘I ride.’
‘Are ye sure?’ Iven said.
‘Aye, I sure,’ Rhiannon snapped, wheeling Blackthorn round abruptly. ‘Why ye doubt me?’
‘I do no’ doubt ye,’ Iven said, taken aback. ‘I just –’
‘Talk, talk, all any o’ ye ever do is talk,’ Rhiannon said and kicked her mare into a gallop. Mud sprayed up from Blackthorn’s hooves and splattered against Iven’s face, but by the time he had indignantly wiped his face clean and opened his mouth to retort, girl and horse had vanished down the road.
‘She’s got a shocking bad temper, that lass,’ Iven said, shaking off gobs of mud from his hand. ‘Well, we’d best get after her. It’s a bad night to be galloping about in.’ He cast a shrewd look at Lewen, who was so baffled and angry that he felt unable to speak or look at anyone, then sighed.
‘I guess she doesna like admitting she’s afraid,’ Iven said to no-one in particular. ‘Silly lass. Everyone feels fear sometimes. May as well admit it. It’s like love. No point trying to hide what ye feel. It’ll break through in the end, regardless.’
Lewen felt a slow burn of shame and embarrassment spread over his body. He stared through Argent’s ears grimly, saying nothing.
‘Come on, let’s get on the road,’ Iven said, clambering up into the driver’s seat and clicking his tongue at the big, grey horse standing so patiently between the shafts. Landon was hoisted back onto the driving seat of the girls’ caravan, and the other boys forced themselves to remount, groaning as their aching muscles complained. Only their fervent desire to get away from this place of death gave them the strength they needed. They rode on into the damp gloom of the wood, staring all around them, flinching at every creak of branch or rustle of wind. Lewen could not help peering anxiously down the shadowy road, looking for Rhiannon, but when she came cantering back up to them, jeering at them for being so slow, he neither spoke nor looked at her, instead concentrating on spying out the road ahead. She fell in behind the caravans on the other side, as far away from Lewen as she could get. Lewen’s chest tightened with misery.
He did not understand what was wrong with her. One minute she had been fighting by his side, kissing him passionately, laughing as they galloped side by side through the rain-swept forest. Then, the very next instant, she was cold and angry, rejecting him fiercely.
Lewen did not know what he had done to offend her. He hoped it was not his kiss that had changed her so profoundly. He had not meant to kiss her. He knew how much she hated to be touched. He had longed to take her in his arms from the very moment he had seen her, but she was like a wild creature caught in a trap, ready to bite any who tried to free her. He knew she needed gentleness and patience before she could be tamed, not the urgency of desire that sometimes threatened to overwhelm him. And she was only a lass, and she had been placed under the protection of one of his mother’s best friends.
It did not matter that Rhiannon was unlike any young lady he had ever met, half-wild, and innocent of society’s etiquette. He knew that if Nina should find him kissing Rhiannon, she would be troubled and upset. He knew his mother would be horrified.
If he was to do what society expected of him, he would wait till Midsummer and then ask her to jump the fire with him. When they were properly handfasted, he could take her to his bed and keep her there, at least for a year, when he would ask her to jump the fire again. If she said yes, then they would be wed, and he could have her in his bed for ever after. He could not imagine anyone approving. Not his parents, nor his Rìgh, nor the Coven, who liked their apprentices to finish their training before they got distracted with affairs of the heart. Certainly not Dillon of the Joyous Sword, captain of the Blue Guards.
Yeomen of the Guards swore to serve the Rìgh as their first and only master, and those who wished to marry usually left the Rìgh’s service, as Lewen’s father Niall had done when he jumped the fire with Lilanthe. Often they were given a small estate to manage, or given some other role at court, but they forfeited the right to wear the blue cloak and the badge of the charging stag.
He did not need to marry her, of course. The people of Ravenshaw were not like the Tìrsoilleirean with their fear and hatred of the natural desires of the body. Indiscretions of the heart were usually smiled at, unless there was a babe, and even then neither party was reviled if they chose not to marry. Witches of the Coven were even more relaxed in their attitudes. If Lewen decided to stay with the Coven, he could do as he pleased, as long as his affairs did not cause too much disruption. The Yeomen did not have the same freedom. Dillon of the Joyous Sword kept very strict discipline and would frown on any amorous indiscretion. Particularly one with a wild half-satyricorn who was suspected of being implicated in the murder of a Yeoman of the Guard. Lewen could not imagine it helping his career prospects.
Lewen would never have kissed Rhiannon if he had not spent the last few hours at the very extremities, fighting for his life and facing death squarely in the face. She had not seemed to mind. She had kissed him as passionately, opening her mouth to his, pulling him closer with an urgent hand, curling her body into his. The memory of it was enough to make hot blood flood Lewen’s groin. He stifled a groan and shifted in the saddle, glancing sideways at her cool patrician profile. She did not glance back.
On and on the horses plodded with hanging heads, following the swaying lantern at the back of the caravans. They came out of the false dusk of the wood into the true dusk of the sinking sun, the sky behind them flaming with brilliant reds and oranges that slowly faded to crimson, and then to pink and at last to violet, as they rode through untilled fields, past abandoned crofts and ruined cottages, all gaping open to the wind and rain.
On and on they rode in the darkness, till Landon was asleep on the bench, the reins flapping loose, and Rhiannon and the boys were jerking about on the backs of their horses, only kept awake by the cold rain trickling down their necks.
Then the jongleurs’ caravans ground to a halt. Lewen, jolted awake by the cessation of movement, looked up, rubbing his eyes. They had come to a gate in a high wall, topped with upright shards of glass that glinted in the light of the lanterns. Inside the wall was a steep, peaked roof, and a low window from which candlelight shone, welcoming and warm, and the soft sound of voices.
Shivering in their damp cloaks, the boys watched hopefully as Iven climbed down from the caravan and went up to hammer on the gate. Lewen smelt wood-smoke on the breeze and something delicious that made saliva spring in his mouth. He had not realised he was hungry.<
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At the sound of Iven’s fist, the faint murmur of voices faded away. Iven hammered louder. There was no response. At last he cried out angrily, ‘For pity’s sake, open the gate! We have an injured girl here and we are all exhausted. Please, let us in!’
There was an exclamation and then a swift exchange of low voices. Then they heard a soft, cautious step, and a man said, ‘Who’s there? What do you want?’
‘Just shelter for the night,’ Iven said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. ‘We were set upon by a pack o’ ravening dogs and were hard pressed to fight them off. One o’ us was badly mauled, a girl. She’s no’ yet sixteen. Please, let us in!’
There was no response.
‘Please!’ Iven called. ‘It is raining and we are all cold and hurt. We can pay. We have money.’
‘Who are ye?’ The man’s voice was surly with suspicion.
‘I am a jongleur, called Iven Yellowbeard. I have my wife and son here, and a party o’ lads and lasses, who have ridden far and fought hard today. Some o’ us are hurt. Please, for Eà’s sake, have mercy and let us in.’
‘A jongleur? Here in Fetterness?’ They heard the bolt scrape back and the gate opened barely a crack. A man’s face peered out at them. He was dark-eyed and dark-haired, like most people in Ravenshaw, and carried a long double-bladed sword, nearly as tall as himself. He held it out threateningly, his eyes running over the garishly painted caravans, the weary, mud-spattered horses and the hunched shapes of Rhiannon and the boys, the youth of their faces evident in the glow of the lanterns. The doors of the caravans had opened, Nina looking out of one and Fèlice out of the other, her dishevelment not disguising her fresh young beauty.
‘By my beard and the beard o’ the Centaur!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, ye look live enough. I suppose ye can come in.’ He dragged the gate open, staring suspiciously out into the darkness, his sword held high. Gratefully they rode through and the man shut the gate quickly behind them, slamming home the bolts.
‘The stable is over this way,’ he said. ‘Ye’ll have to pay me for the hay. We have little enough left after the winter. Your horses look fair foundered. Come, I’ll help ye unharness them and rub them down. Look, those lads are riding in their sleep! What on earth are ye doing out after sundown? Do ye no’ ken the dead walk these hills?’
‘Aye, we ken … now,’ Iven answered heavily.
‘I guess ye meant to make Fetterness afore they shut the gates,’ the man said. ‘They willna open after the sun has gone, no’ even for the laird o’ Fettercairn himself. Here, lad, take this bucket. There’s a well in the yard. We’ll just get these horses settled and ye can come in and rest by the fire. It’s late, we’ve eaten our supper already and were readying ourselves for bed, but I’m sure my wife can find something for ye to eat. There’s always bean soup.’
Bean soup sounded heavenly.
They were all so tired, the settling of the horses seemed to take forever. For once Iven did not insist on every piece of leather and steel being polished to a high sheen, but let them wipe away the worst of the dirt and hang the tack on pegs to be cleaned in the morning. He then carried Maisie out of the caravan and into the house, trying hard not to jolt her as he hurried through the pelting rain. Maisie was white with shock and pain, and the bite wounds on her arm and legs and head were still bleeding sluggishly through their bandages. The others trailed behind, too worn-out and hungry to notice more than the warmth of the fire in the candlelit kitchen and the good smell of soup.
The farmer was named Tavish MacTavish, and his wife, all bones and cavernous hollows, was named Alice. For a while all was bustle and hustle, as Maisie’s ugly bite wounds were cleaned and re-bandaged, Iven’s arm and Edithe’s head and sprained ankle attended to, home-made healing potions and a few mouthfuls of soup swallowed, and the two injured girls tucked up to sleep in the sitting room, where the fire still glowed on the hearth. The others were allowed to wash in the scullery and then fed black bread and soup in deep bowls. Nina was so exhausted that she sat in silence, Roden asleep on her lap, wrapped warmly within the shelter of her plaid. Iven managed to coax her to eat a few mouthfuls of the soup, and then Alice, noticing her pallor, got down a bottle of goldensloe wine and poured her a tiny glassful. Nina drank it obediently and a little colour came back into her cheeks and she stirred, reaching for her spoon. The plaid fell away from Roden’s head of chestnut curls, nestled sweetly into Nina’s breast, and Alice stopped in mid-movement, staring at him, her sudden pallor making her face seem gaunter than ever.
‘A wee laddie,’ she whispered. She put down the precious wine bottle with such nerveless fingers it almost toppled from the table. Tavish reached out and caught it.
‘Now, now, Alice,’ he said anxiously.
She sat down, staring at the sleeping boy with an expression of such pitiful yearning on her face that her husband came round to stand behind her, resting both hands on her skinny shoulders.
‘We lost our boy,’ he explained awkwardly. ‘Just afore Hogmanay. She grieves still.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ Nina said, so tired and overwrought that quick tears of sympathy welled up in her eyes.
‘What are ye doing riding the moors at night wi’ a laddie?’ Alice said accusingly. ‘Do ye no’ ken? How can ye no’ ken?’
Nina made a helpless gesture. ‘We heard stories but …’
‘No lads are safe in this valley, do ye no’ understand, ye fools?’ Her voice rose hysterically. ‘We thought we could keep our boy Dooly safe, with our high walls and our long sword and the strength o’ our love, but nay! He was taken from his bed, even while I slept only a few feet away, and though we searched high and low, calling and calling, we did no’ find him, no’ for weeks, and when we did he was dead.’ She began to weep, slow desperate tears that did nothing to relieve the hot knot of her grief. ‘I should have kent! I should have kent! The moment he began to toddle about and call me “mam”, I should’ve taken him and gone.’
‘Alice had a brother that was stolen too,’ Tavish said. ‘When she was just a lass o’ six or seven.’
‘Twenty-six years ago, he disappeared,’ Alice said, raising her gaunt face from her hands. ‘By the Truth, ye’d think I would’ve kent better than to stay near that witch-cursed tower. It casts its foul shadow over us all.’
Iven frowned at her words. ‘Why did ye stay?’ he asked.
Tavish flashed his wife an unhappy glance. ‘My father farmed this land afore me, and his father afore him, and his father afore him. There has been a Tavish MacTavish living in this house for six generations. I could no’ just abandon it.’
‘There’ll be no Tavish to inherit when ye’re dead and gone,’ his wife said brutally. ‘Our wee Tavish would be alive still if ye’d only agreed to go. I should’ve taken him and the lasses and gone. But like a fool I stayed with ye and now we have no son, no wee Dooly!’ She began to weep again.
Everyone was silent, not wanting to even move or cough, embarrassed to be witnessing this scene.
Alice turned to Nina, her face ugly with grief and spite. ‘Have ye no care for your wee laddie that ye risk being out after dark? Do ye no’ ken the dead will no’ sleep here, but walk the hills, looking for live bodies to take wi’ them? We buried our Dooly, when we found him, but he would no’ rest in his grave, did ye ken that? He dug his way out and came sobbing back home, wanting us to let him in, though the flesh rotted on his bones. We shut the gate on him but he knocked and cried all night, every night, for a month, until at last my man could bear it no more and cut his head from his body with his sword. Can ye imagine doing that to your son?’ Her eyes turned feverishly from Nina’s horrified face to Iven’s. ‘We buried him again, head and rotting body together, but his spirit will no’ rest. I hear him sobbing outside every night, crying for his mam. Do ye wonder that every croft in the Fetterness Valley lies abandoned, when our dead will no’ rest, no matter how often we kill them?’
There was a long, strained silence. The wind howled in the c
himney and rain rattled the shutters. Rhiannon, her nails cutting into her palms, thought she could hear a little boy’s voice, crying pitifully outside the wall.
‘I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry,’ Nina said at last, helplessly.
‘Why should ye be sorry, when your son still lives?’ Alice said. She stared longingly at the profile of the sleeping boy, his soft curved cheek flushed and rosy. ‘Ye canna love him like I loved my Dooly, when ye bring him into our valley without a care.’
‘We are just passing through,’ Nina said pleadingly. ‘We heard the stories but … I thought I could keep him safe.’
Tavish gestured towards the window. ‘Keep him safe against them? No-one is safe!’
Nina frowned. ‘Do ye mean the dead who walk? But they are no’ the ones who took your laddie. It is no’ the souls o’ the living they seek, but peace. They have been ensorcelled from their natural rest, those poor dead people.’
‘What would ye ken?’ Alice said scornfully.
‘We met with some in the wood,’ Nina said gently. ‘They came to us begging us for help. They did no’ seek to hurt us. I went down among them and I saw they walked against their will, compelled by some unnatural spell. So I sang the spell o’ reversal, to unbind them from the enchantment, and then I sang the songs o’ death and o’ farewell, so their bodies could rest and their spirits go free.’
Tavish and Alice stared at her, taken aback and horrified. Then a dark mottled flush spread up Alice’s thin, bony face. ‘Ye sang spells? I thought ye were jongleurs!’
‘We are,’ Iven said. ‘Though that is no’ all we are. My wife is also a journeywitch, who travels the land working on behalf o’ the Coven. These bairns that travel with us, they are apprentices travelling to the Theurgia to study.’
‘A witch!’ Alice spat. She got to her feet, backing away from the table. ‘Get out,’ she cried. ‘Get out o’ my house and take your witch-brats wi’ ye.’