by Kate Forsyth
‘I’ll go and check the horses, Nina,’ Lewen said, pulling on his boots. ‘We were so tired last night it was all we could do to get their tack off them. I want to make sure the grooms have fed and watered them properly.’
‘I’ll come too,’ Rafferty said.
‘Me too,’ Rhiannon said. She had been standing by the window with her forehead pressed against the glass, staring at the hail, but now she turned and looked at the others.
‘Ye’ll get wet,’ Lewen said to no-one in particular.
‘Think I care?’ she answered.
‘We willna melt,’ Rafferty said with forced cheerfulness.
Nina nodded and gave a ghost of her usual merry smile. ‘Thanks. Would ye mind bringing me some stuff from my caravan? I’m worried indeed about poor Maisie. I wish I were a better healer. I wish Isabeau were here, or your mam, Lewen.’
‘Me too,’ he said. After Nina had told him what she needed, he led the way down the dimly lit stairs and out the door into the outer ward.
‘Poor Maisie!’ he said. ‘Even if Nina can clean out the infection, she’ll be left with nasty scars. It’s such a shame, she’s a sweet lass.’
Rhiannon frowned, but said nothing. Rafferty made a murmur of agreement, then said anxiously, ‘Do ye think Maisie will be fit to ride out soon? Because glad as I am to be safe behind high walls, I canna wait to get away from here. It’s creepy. I wish we’d never come this way.’
‘I’m sure everyone does,’ Lewen answered. ‘But how were we to ken? I mean, they may have tried to tell us, back in Ardarchy, but who was to ken how bad it really was? I am just glad we’ve come through safely.’
‘We’re no’ through yet,’ Rhiannon said harshly.
‘No,’ Lewen answered, looking at her thoughtfully. Rhiannon did not return his gaze. They came to the door to the outer ward and pulled up their hoods against the rain.
Rhiannon could not have explained why, but she was angry with Lewen, and with all the others too. When she thought over the tumultuous events of the previous day, she felt such a confusion in her emotions that anger and fear, her two most familiar emotions, were the only ones she recognised. Since Rhiannon hated to feel afraid, or to have others know that she felt fear, her only refuge was anger. She stayed angry all through the trip to the stables, a vast stone building constructed within the double ring of walls that encircled the castle, and protected by its own gatehouse and bailey. In times of war, the horses could be fed and exercised within the outer ward, and if the first wall was breached, either taken inside to the castle grounds, or used to escape through the back gate. The stable itself had room enough for a hundred horses, though most of the stalls were now empty.
An old, wizened groom called Shannley, with a face set in lines of sour suspicion, grunted at the sight of them. He and his stablehands had not been pleased to be roused in the early hours of the morning, and by the expression on his face, he was not pleased to see them now. Even Lewen, who could win over most people with his deep warm voice and pleasant ways, could not soften the head-groom’s manner. Shannley showed them where the bins of grain were with a jerk of one spatulate thumb, then shuffled back to his rooms, grumbling under his breath. The stablehands, meanwhile, got on sullenly with their work, casting many a curious look at Lewen, Rhiannon and Rafferty.
The horses were tired and bad-tempered after their hard usage, and so Rhiannon tried to work away her own ill-temper with a stable rubber, curry-comb and tack-brush. She groomed horses and carried buckets of mash and polished tack till her arms ached and her head throbbed, but it did not help. She was in a fouler temper than before, with most of her rancour directed at Lewen. If it was not for him, she would never have made this ill-starred journey into a land haunted by evil spirits and the walking dead. All night she had thought she could hear the sound of a young boy crying, and sobs of grief, and wails of fear, and the moans of the dying. It had done no good telling herself it was only the wind, or Maisie crying out in her fevered sleep, or her own overwrought imagination. Even driving her fingers into her ears or pulling the musty-smelling pillow over her head had not helped. She had not been able to silence the echoes in her brain.
Rhiannon was shaken to the core by these supernatural terrors. Dark walkers stalked her imagination, and not even the slicing open of her wrist and the spilling of her own blood on the hearth had relieved her dread.
As they went about their business in the stables, she often felt Lewen’s eyes on her face, puzzled and questioning, but in his usual fashion he did not say anything, which only infuriated her more. By the time they were making their way back to the gatehouse, loaded down with supplies from the caravans, even unobservant Rafferty was shooting her anxious glances, and beginning to be wary of addressing remarks to her.
They came into the dormitory to find Fèlice doing her best to keep Roden and Lulu occupied and out of Nina’s way as the witch tended to the sick and injured. The sunbird was asleep on the back of a chair, its head tucked under one iridescent green wing as it was so dark and cold in the long room the bird thought it was still night-time. The fire flickered dully on the hearth, for all the wood was wet, and sent out unpleasant puffs of smoke every time the wind shifted.
‘Iven’s gone up to the castle, to speak with the laird,’ Nina said, looking tired and pale. ‘I dinna ken what we are to do, for Maisie is only getting worse, and I havena all the medicines she needs, and I’m worried about Landon too, he’s no’ as sturdy as ye other lads, and he was chilled through last night. I do no’ ken if we should go on, and seek help from the apothecary in the nearest town, or wait here until the bairns are feeling better. I must admit I’d rather no’ stay. This place makes me uneasy. It’s like a fortress! The laird sent down soldiers to insist Iven attend upon him, and the gatekeeper seems to dread his displeasure. If only it would stop raining! I canna feel easy about going on in such weather but I just want to get away from this place!’
Seeing how anxious they all looked, Nina laughed ruefully, saying ‘I’m sorry, I’m all out o’ sorts from such a late night and the anxiety over poor Maisie. I’m sure there is no need for us to worry.’
Poor Maisie, Rhiannon mimicked and then realised that Lewen had been watching her, as usual, and had seen her expression. He frowned and she glared at him, wondering what right he had to disapprove of her behaviour. His frown deepened, and she turned away and went to stand by the fire, pretending to warm her hands before its sullen glow. Tears prickled her eyes.
‘The laird sent down soldiers? That seems odd,’ Lewen said.
‘I suppose it’s no’ so peculiar when ye think o’ all those missing and murdered,’ Nina responded. ‘They must be suspicious o’ strangers. I must admit I dinna like to see Iven go, however, flanked on all sides by guards armed to the teeth. If they decided to keep him, I’d never get him back!’ She sighed, unconsciously pressing her hands together in a gesture of rare anxiety.
‘I canna help but wonder how it was the Red Guards were able to take the Tower o’ Ravens by surprise on the Day o’ Betrayal,’ Lewen said. ‘If the only way in and out is through the castle’s own gatehouse, ye would’ve thought the witches’ tower impregnable to surprise attack.’
‘They could’ve come over the Stormness River like we did,’ Rafferty pointed out.
‘Aye, I suppose so. Only … well, the tower looks over the Fetterness Valley, any force o’ arms coming that way would have been seen. And they would’ve had to have passed the town.’
‘There was some kind o’ trickery, or betrayal,’ Nina said. ‘I do no’ remember the tale. It all happened afore I was born.’
‘Heavens, that long ago?’ Fèlice said teasingly.
Nina cast her an amused look. ‘Aye, hard to believe, is it no’?’
They heard Iven’s quick steps running up the stairs and turned to him expectantly as he came in, looking a far different figure than the drenched and dishevelled man of the night before. He had changed into his very best coat, a long-tailed
blue velvet and silver-buttoned creation, over a fresh white shirt with a fashionably soft and flowing collar. His boots were rather worn but had been freshly polished, and he wore baggy black satin trousers tied under the knee with ribbons. The ends of his moustache curled upwards and his beard had been forked and plaited into two, with his long hair tied back with a ribbon.
‘So what was the laird like?’
‘What did he say?’
‘Was the castle very grand?’
‘Iven, what did he say? Those guards were so grim-faced, I’ve been afraid …’ The last question came anxiously from Nina, who had gone to him and grasped his arm tightly.
‘What, did ye think he meant to throw me in his dungeon? Nina! Ye must be tired to fall prey to such imaginings.’
Nina quirked her mouth. ‘I ken, I’m sorry. I am tired, I must admit, and this place is grim enough to make anyone imagine horrors.’
‘Well, that’s true enough,’ Iven said affectionately, and looked around the circle of expectant faces, as always enjoying having an audience. ‘The castle is just as grim, and very grand – or may have been, half a century ago. Now it is damp and cobwebby, and very much out o’ style. The servants are either auld and grouchy or young and nervous, and there are far too few o’ them for such a large place. The laird himself is a very affable gentleman and surprisingly well informed on court matters, considering how far away from anywhere we are here. He was most distressed to hear o’ our misadventures and has offered us his hospitality until we are all fit to travel again. Indeed, my love, even if Maisie was well enough to travel we couldna leave, for he says the storm has caused a big auld tree to fall across the road, which may take a few days to clear, as it’s awkwardly placed. We are stuck here, willy-nilly, and so I thanked him most graciously. He is having rooms made up for us, and has promised to send over some sturdy footmen with a pallet for Maisie, and some auld nurse who he says is as good as any skeelie with her herbal remedies, that he swears will break the infection quick smart.’
‘Well, that at least is a relief,’ Nina said. ‘I am no healer, as ye ken, and I’d begun to imagine us wandering the countryside looking for succour while gangrene ate away poor Maisie’s leg. I suppose, if we must be marooned somewhere, it may as well be at a castle! Come, lads and lassies, let’s pack up our things and make ready. I wish we could have a bath and scrub ourselves clean afore we need meet this laird. I feel damp and itchy and slovenly indeed, even with a quick wash and a change o’ clothes.’
‘Ye look most bonny,’ Iven said.
She seized his nose and tugged it. ‘Why, thank ye, sir! I could say the same about ye.’
Iven twirled his moustache. ‘Aye, indeed ye could,’ he answered complacently, so even Rhiannon had to smile.
Fettercairn Castle loomed high behind its battlemented walls, a great grey fortress with narrow slitted windows and two round towers, one looking into the Fetterness Valley, the other down into the lowlands of Ravenshaw, many hundreds of feet below. It had stopped raining, though the sky still looked ominously dark and the wind was strong enough to drag the girls’ skirts sideways and blow their hair wildly.
The gatehouse led into the inner ward, a large square courtyard surrounded on all sides by lofty walls. To the south were the kitchens, staff quarters and workshops, all built no more than one storey high so that the sun could strike in over the peaked roof and fall upon the garden built in the centre of the yard.
A long, green rectangle of lawn with an apple tree at one end and a greengage tree at the other, the garden was surrounded by low hedges and bushes sculpted into balls and spirals. Narrow beds ran the length of the garden, filled with white roses underplanted with blue lavender and thyme. An old lady bent over the storm-ruined roses, tying them up with some twine. She turned her soft, crumpled face towards them as they made their awkward progression round the courtyard, all of them carrying bags and bundles, and craning their necks to look up at the crenellated towers looming over them.
‘A garden planted for peace,’ Maisie murmured, gazing at the sweetly scented flower beds with pleasure. She was lying on a makeshift stretcher carried by two footmen, and had been much more comfortable since drinking a pain-killing elixir given to Iven by the lord’s old nurse. In fact, since swallowing the elixir, Maisie had had a strange, dreamy smile on her face and had even hummed a few bars of an old folksong as she was carried along. Only the feverish glitter of her eyes and her scarlet cheeks showed the insidious advance of the poison through her bloodstream.
‘There’s another garden behind the kitchen,’ Iven told her, walking along beside her, holding her hand. ‘When ye are better I’ll take ye there and show ye. Ye’ll like it. It’s full o’ herbs as well as vegetables, for the laird’s nurse is as skilled a skeelie as any I’ve seen. She has hyssop and sage and pennyroyal planted there, and comfrey and feverfew, and many others I do no’ ken.’
‘Hyssop, sage, pennyroyal, feverfew,’ Maisie repeated vaguely. ‘A garden for healing. Will I ever walk there? Will I ever walk again?’
As she hummed a few more bars of music, Iven said uncomfortably, ‘O’ course ye will,’ and exchanged a glance with Nina, who walked on the other side of the stretcher, Roden skipping along beside her.
‘Can I go play in the garden, Mam? Please?’ he asked, pulling against her hand. The old lady was regarding them with great interest, the twine falling from her hand, and he smiled at her brilliantly, for she looked like the sort of old lady that kept a box of sweetmeats in her pocket.
‘No’ now,’ Nina said absently. ‘Remember we are guests here, Roden.’
‘Aye, Mam,’ he answered in a long-suffering tone.
The procession rounded the garden and came into the paved area before the main part of the castle. Surrounded by a square of chains was a pyramid of rocks, a little higher than Rhiannon’s knee. A raven perched on top of the cairn, head tilted, regarding them all with one bright black eye. The deep, plaintive cry of ravens echoed all round the courtyard and, glancing up, Rhiannon could see black-winged birds circling the towers far above.
‘Have ye heard the tale o’ the ravens o’ Fettercairn?’ a deep, melodious voice said at her elbow.
Rhiannon turned. An elderly man stood beside her, dressed in a black kilt under a black velvet jacket. Under the skirt he wore long black hose and black brogues with silver buckles. Only his stiff white collar and the crisscross of fine white and grey lines in the kilt broke the severity of his dress. He was clean-shaven, an unusual trait in a country where men were proud of their beards, and his short dark hair glinted with silver.
‘Nay, I have no’,’ she answered warily.
‘It is said the first laird o’ Fettercairn was a page in the service o’ Brann o’ Ravenshaw. One day, during the building o’ the Tower o’ Ravens, Brann and his retinue came to oversee its progress. As always, Brann had his familiar with him, a large raven he called Nigrum. He had brought the raven with him in the journey from the Other World, and so it was a very auld bird but still went everywhere with Brann, sitting on his shoulder and whispering cruel nothings in his ear. Or so they said, those who served him. They also said Brann loved this bird more than his own children and indeed, as ye ken, his eldest son did in time rebel against him, and so their saying may be true.’
Rhiannon did not know, but said nothing, regarding the old man gravely.
‘The raven Nigrum flew from Brann’s shoulder, whether because he was hungry and wished to find food, or because he was bored, who kens? Anyway, a screech o’ gravenings nested nearby and saw the auld bird and came flying out to attack. My ancestor, who was then a lad o’ sixteen, picked up a large rock and flung it at the gravenings, striking and killing the one which had seized the raven in its claws. Rock after rock he threw, until the gravenings fled and Brann’s raven fluttered back to Brann, injured but alive.’
Everyone was listening now, and the old man moved his piercing black eyes, set deeply under strong black brows, from face to face,
smiling a little as he noted their interest.
‘The sorcerer was most impressed with his page’s quick thinking and strong arm, and knighted him then and there, naming him Sir Ferris, which means “rock”. He then promised the lad a nestling from the raven’s next breeding which, given the bird’s age, was to be his last. “Ye shall stand guard over my witches’ tower as ye stood guard over my raven,” Brann said then, and ordered that a great castle be built to defend the approach to the tower, and that Sir Ferris be its laird and protector. The rocks Sir Ferris had thrown were gathered together and made into a cairn to mark the spot where the castle was to be built.’ He indicated the little pile of mossy rocks with a graceful gesture and everyone turned to gaze at it.
‘Brann always had a wry sense of humour, and so he decreed the castle be named Fettercairn, for Sir Ferris and his heirs would be bound here for always, guarding the pass. Then he made a prophecy, as Brann was wont to do. He said, “As long as ravens on Fettercairn dwell, tower and castle shall never be felled.” So we let the ravens nest on our towers and feed them and protect them, so that Fettercairn Castle shall always stand. They are quite tame. Look.’
The old man held out his arm and whistled, and the raven on the cairn spread its wings and flew across to land on his outstretched wrist. It was an enormous, glossy black bird, with a cruel curved beak and knowing eyes. Fèlice gave a little shriek and jumped back, and everyone else exclaimed in surprise. The old man smiled and stroked the raven’s back.
‘But the tower did fall,’ Rhiannon said abruptly. She was frowning, for while the old man spoke the air had seemed to thin about her so she could hardly breathe. She had heard faint cries and screams and the clash of arms, and the sound of a woman wailing in such terrible and profound grief that every hair on Rhiannon’s body had sprung erect and she had shivered with sudden acute cold. She was shivering still.