by Kate Forsyth
Finn scrambled up the secret stairway, through the dark labyrinthine passageways and out the hidden doorway closest to the dining hall. It had been hours since she had eaten and she was very hungry indeed.
The secret doorway was concealed within the huge fireplace that took up most of one wall of the landing. Given the warmth of the day, the fire had luckily not yet been lit so that Finn was able to scramble out without too much trouble.
Unfortunately, she was just crawling out of the fireplace, the elven cat at her heels, when her cousin Brangaine came demurely down the stairs, dressed in leaf-green silk which brought out the colour of her eyes, her long blonde hair shining in the candlelight. She looked Finn up and down, then said sweetly, ‘Has my lady sent all the chimneysweeps out to fight the sea demons, that ye must be sweeping up the cinders yourself, Fionnghal?’
The daughter of Gwyneth’s younger sister, Brangaine had been brought to Castle Rurach after being named laird of the MacSian clan. Although Gwyneth said Brangaine needed to be taught her duties and responsibilities as banprionnsa of Siantan, Finn knew her mother hoped some of Brangaine’s poise and civility would rub off on her. Nineteen years old, Brangaine had been brought up in seclusion at her family’s country estate by three maiden aunts who had instilled in her every rule of courtly deportment. Brangaine knew what fork to use when eating quail, when to say ‘Your Honour’, the exact degree of curtsy required for every rank of society, and how to be civil to the servants without being too familiar. Brangaine never spilled food down her clothes, or tore her skirt playing chase-and-hide with the servant lads, or was caught stealing honey cakes from the kitchen. Her hair was always smooth and shiny, her boots were always well polished, and she always had a clean handkerchief. The very sight of her was enough to put Finn’s teeth on edge.
At first Brangaine had been polite to her cousin but Finn had been uncomfortable in her newfound place in life and had been quick to take offence at what she saw as Brangaine’s smirk of superiority. Brangaine’s comments and suggestions had gradually become edged with mockery, though always delivered with such sweetness of demeanour that only Finn had heard the derision beneath.
At her cousin’s words, Finn glanced down at herself in some dismay, only then realising how very dirty she was. Her skirt was covered in dust and ashes, and the hem was dangling where she had caught it on her heel. Her knees were black and her brown curls all in a tangle. She eyed Brangaine with dislike, saying loftily, ‘No’ at all. I just dropped something and had some trouble finding it.’
Brangaine smiled her superior smile. ‘Happen ye’d best brush the cobwebs out o’ your hair and change your clothes afore your mother sees ye. That is, if ye have a dress that’s not all torn and grubby, which I doubt.’
‘At least I’m no’ some muffin-faced prig, scared to lift a finger in case I break a nail,’ Finn flashed back.
Brangaine’s eyes lingered on Finn’s hands, the nails all broken and black as a blacksmith’s. ‘No, no-one could accuse ye o’ that,’ she said coldly. ‘Though I’m sure we all wish ye’d wash your hands occasionally. It’s disgraceful the way ye run about looking ye’re the daughter o’ a swineherd instead o’ the MacRuraich …’
Finn’s temper snapped. With an inarticulate cry, she sprang forward, punching Brangaine in the jaw. Her cousin fell back with a shriek, falling over a little gilded table and smashing the vase of flowers that stood upon it.
At the sound of the scream and the crashing porcelain, the door to the dining hall swung open and the court ladies looked out. When they saw Brangaine sprawling amongst the flowers and the shards of broken vase, Finn standing over her with clenched fists, they cried aloud in consternation, fluttering forward with raised hands and mouths open in dismay. ‘Oh, my lady, how are ye yourself? Are ye hurt? Gracious alive, ye be bleeding, poor lassie!’ they cried.
Gwyneth came out after them, her beautiful face tense with anger. ‘Fionnghal, what in Eà’s name have ye done?’
‘I punched her in the gob,’ Finn replied inelegantly. ‘And she deserved it too, the polecat!’
‘Ye did what?’ Gwyneth cried. ‘I canna stand any more o’ this wild behaviour, Fionnghal! Is this the way a lady behaves? Look at ye! Ye look like ye’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. What am I to do with you?’
Finn glowered back at her, the elven cat crouched at her feet, tail lashing. Across the room Brangaine was being helped to her feet, her eyes bright with tears, her lip split and bleeding.
Brangaine pulled her lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and daintily patted her lip, glancing down at the bright stains with consternation. She said, rather breathlessly, ‘Och, please do no’ be too angry with Fionnghal, my lady. Indeed it was my fault; I was teasing her.’
Finn flashed Brangaine a look of surprise and resentment. That’s right, make me look even worse, ye slyfaced prig, she thought. The elven cat hissed, her tufted ears laid back along her skull.
‘No matter the provocation, a lady should never lose her temper,’ Gwyneth said, trying to control her own. ‘There is no excuse for striking ye like that. Look at your mouth, ye poor wee lassie. Nan, will ye ring for some ice and a cloth? Fionnghal, I want you to apologise to your cousin at once.’
‘I shall no’!’ Finn cried passionately. ‘She deserved to be thumped, the slimy sneaking toad!’
‘That’s enough!’ Gwyneth cried. ‘Fionnghal, ye are no’ a street-bairn any more. Such conduct is absolutely unacceptable! Ye shall stay in your room until ye have the grace to apologise to your cousin and beg forgiveness for your rude, uncivilised behaviour.’
‘I’d rather eat roasted rats!’ Finn cried. ‘She does naught but needle me and sneer at me and make me look a gowk.’
‘Ye mistake her,’ Gwyneth said icily. ‘Brangaine is a lady born and raised, and has far too much courtesy ever to speak or act unkindly. Ye are too quick to take offence.’
Finn protested passionately but Gwyneth would not listen. When her daughter still refused to go to her room, she called in the guards and bade them escort her away. Eyes flashing, Finn drew her little eating dagger but they disarmed her and marched her away with hard hands clamped around her arms. She stared back at her cousin with hostile eyes, not believing the look of guilty apology which Brangaine cast her way.
The heavy oaken door slammed shut behind her and she heard the key turn in the lock. Finn turned and pummelled it with her fists, then flung herself down on her bed, burying her hot face in her pillow. It’s no’ fair, she said to herself, reliving Brangaine’s superior smile as she had called Finn a pig-girl, her contemptuous glance from Finn’s cobwebbed curls to her dirty, scuffed boots.
The sting in Finn’s eyes subsided as she remembered with satisfaction the moment when her fist had met Brangaine’s jaw. Finn had spent much of her life fighting for survival on the streets of Lucescere. Her punch packed some power. Finn grinned, then rolled over and stared up at the ornate ceiling. I must get out o’ here afore I go stark raving mad!
Goblin was sitting at the end of the bed, delicately washing one paw. She watched as Finn leapt to her feet and rushed over to one of the tall narrow windows that lined the wall, then began to wash her hind leg. Finn flung open the window and leant out.
The castle was built on a high rocky crag overlooking Loch Kintyre, which lay dark and shadowy some three hundred feet below. The castle was virtually surrounded by water, with the swift, turbulent rush of the Wulfrum River curving round the base of the crag on the northern flank. The walls of the crag were as steep and straight as any sea-cliff, broken at the base by sharp rocks that glistened black with slime.
The road to the castle ran up through thick forest to the edge of a deep, shadowy ravine, carved out of the rock by a fast-running burn that tumbled its way down to the loch in a series of white rapids and waterfalls. The only way to traverse the ravine was across the castle drawbridge, which remained closed at all times. Of all the strongholds that Finn had seen, Castle Rurach was sur
ely the most impregnable.
Although Finn was confident of her ability to climb in and out of any tower or castle, the height of the walls and the wicked rocks below made her reluctant to brave the drop unless she really had to. She had no rope and even if she tied every curtain and sheet in her room together, they would not be long enough to help her even a quarter of the way down. Most important of all, the valley below was sunk in shadows as the sun sidled down behind the mountains. It would soon be night and Finn had no desire to attempt that descent in darkness.
Finn gave another little sigh of frustration and crossed the room to kneel down before the arched doorway and peer through the keyhole. All she could see was the bulk of the manservant set to guard her door. She wished she had something sharp to poke him with but they had not given back her little jewelled knife. If only she had allowed her mother’s ladies-in-waiting to teach her how to knit! A long, sharp knitting needle thrust into his posterior would really make that block-headed, stone-faced footman yowl.
‘Just ye wait,’ she muttered at the footman’s rear end. ‘I hope she has ye whipped for dereliction o’ duty once I’m gone. I hope she has ye sent to fight goblins in the mountains.’
She kicked the door but that only served to bruise her foot. Finn cursed and began to stride along the length of her suite, staring out the tall windows at the star-pricked sky. Her skirts swished as she paced. Impatiently she swept them up in one hand so they did not hinder her steps. I shall no’ apologise to that lamb-brained, mealy-mouthed corn-dolly! There mun be some other way out o’ here!
As Finn reached the end of the room and flung herself round to pace its length again, Goblin raised her black triangular head and observed the pacing girl through slitted aquamarine eyes. The elven cat then yawned, showing a long pink tongue, and put her head down again, eyes closed.
Nay, I shall no’ be calm, Finn hissed. I wish my daidein was home, he’d take my part. He wouldna believe that muffin-faced prig!
She rummaged around in one of the chests in her dressing-room until at last she found a little bundle shoved right down the bottom. Wrapped up in a square of yellow-embossed blue cloth were a pair of gloves tipped with steel claws and two odd contraptions of leather and steel that were designed to be strapped on over a pair of boots. Tangled up with them was a handful of long spikes and some pulleys and rope. All this was Finn’s climbing equipment, which had been made for her on the orders of Iseult of the Snows, Lachlan’s wife, in the days when they had been rebels together, plotting to overthrow Maya the Ensorcellor, the Fairge princess who had bewitched the former Rìgh Jaspar into marriage and had ruled the land so cruelly.
Finn gave a little hiss of satisfaction as the tools clattered onto the floor, but almost immediately she bit her lip in consternation. The gloves and boot racks were now far too small. Finn had been only twelve when she had climbed the two-hundred-foot rampart behind Lucescere to let Lachlan and his rebel troops into the city. She was now almost seventeen and her limbs were much longer than they had been five years earlier. In addition, the rope had decayed in the damp atmosphere of the old castle and was rotten in parts.
She sat back on her heels, and smoothed the cloth out over her knees. A rather odd-looking yellow hand was sewn clumsily onto the sky-blue cloth, with broad yellow stripes angling out from it, meant to signify rays. It was the original flag of the League of the Healing Hand and it brought a sting of tears to Finn’s eyes. After a long moment, she folded it up again and thrust it into the pillowcase with the spikes and pulleys and her little hammer.
Eventually Finn’s temper died and she was left feeling very low and dispirited. She sat in her chair in front of the fire, moodily jabbing the logs with the poker. The sound of a key in the door brought her flying upright but it was only her maid-in-waiting, Raina, with a tray of food. Accompanying her were two stern-faced guards. Finn stood silently, her chin up, her hands clenched before her, as Raina put the tray on the table before the fire and retreated with a mocking glance that said, more clearly than words, ‘Serve ye right, ye muffin-faced brat.’
At first Finn decided she would not touch any of the food but after a while the smell of the mutton stew broke down her defences and she ate hungrily, telling herself she needed to keep her strength up if she was to escape the castle. She wrapped up the bread, cheese and fruit in one of her pillowcases, and wished that she had not been so hasty in drawing her knife, since she would surely need one on her travels. Despite her isolation all afternoon, Finn had not lost her resolve to quit the home of her forebears.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. Finn hung out the window, smelling the wind and cursing fluently. Here it was, as still and warm as summer, and she was locked up like a criminal in her own castle!
Suddenly her eyes lit with excitement. A procession of caravans was winding up the steep road to the castle, their parrot-bright colours vivid in the sunshine.
‘Jongleurs!’ she cried. ‘Happen they’ll have news o’ the court!’
The little cat perched on her shoulder gave a plaintive miaow. Only then did Finn remember her incarceration and her smile faded. ‘Surely mam will let me out to see the jongleurs?’ she said to the elven cat, who only slitted her aquamarine eyes in response. With a sinking heart, Finn watched the jongleurs’ brightly painted caravans cross the drawbridge and disappear within the thick walls of the castle.
All day Finn paced her rooms, waiting for her mother to relent and send someone to let her out. When Raina brought her a tray of black bread and cheese, she begged the maid to tell her when she would be set free. Raina shrugged, lifted an eyebrow and went away without a word, and Finn suddenly wished she had been nicer to her maid. She had thought of her maid as the front line of her gaolers, however, and had often spied on her to gain information that she could use as leverage to stop Raina reporting her movements to her mother. Now Finn was paying for her underhand ways—and the debt was high.
She watched the guards shut her bedroom door with mingled fury, frustration and misery choking her throat. It seemed Gwyneth’s determination was as great as her own. Unable to help feeling a new sense of respect for her mother, Finn sat and toyed with her meagre rations, making and discarding one plan after another.
Without a reliable rope or climbing equipment, Finn was loath to attempt the perilous descent from her window. She was more determined than ever not to apologise for thumping Brangaine, yet she longed to escape the confines of her room and enjoy the rare entertainment the jongleurs offered. There had been six caravans in the procession, which promised a wide variety of performers. There would be music and singing without a doubt, and juggling and acrobatics, and maybe even a performing bear, like Finn had seen in Lucescere. The jongleurs would bring news as well, which Finn was hungry to hear. She could escape her rooms by trickery but that would only make her mother angry and she would be locked up again as soon as she was found—and how could she watch the jongleurs and listen to their tales of the court and the countryside if she was being chased all over the castle? Unless, of course, they could not see her …
Finn whiled away the long, dreary afternoon as best she could, waiting until it was time for Raina to bring her dinner. At last the sun sank down behind the mountains and darkness fell over the rank upon rank of serried pine trees. Finn flung open the window so that the evening breeze swept into the room, sending the heavy curtains swaying and riffling the pages of her books upon the table. She knotted the rope about the post of her bed and threw it out the window, then drew out the little square of silk she always carried with her in her pocket. Finn shook it out into the long black cloak and wrapped it about her, pulling the hood over her head. A little snap of static, a shudder of cold, ran over her. She rubbed her arms, moving her shoulders uneasily. Goblin miaowed, and she bent and picked up the little cat, sliding her into the cloak’s deep pocket.
At last Finn heard the bolt sliding back and the grate of the key in the lock. She stood silently in the shadows, trying to br
eathe as shallowly as she could. Then the door swung open and a ray of light struck into the dark, cold room. Raina’s portly form was silhouetted against the lantern flare. She stepped forward hesitantly, a tray in her hands. ‘My lady?’ she called. When there was no response, she called again. At the note of alarm in Raina’s voice the guards stepped forward, one holding up the lamp. Its flame leapt and guttered in the wind.
As Raina and the guards searched her rooms, Finn slipped silently out the door and down the corridor. A deep thrill of gratification ran through her veins. They thought to keep Finn the Cat locked up but I’ve shown them now, she thought.
As she hurried down the back staircase, Finn could hear the sound of music and laughter from the grand hall. She slipped soundlessly along one of the side passages and in through the servants’ door at the back. She hid herself behind the heavy velvet curtains hanging down from the gallery and peeped out through the crack.
Down three sides of the great vaulted room ran long tables where the men and women of the castle sat, the boards before them loaded with platters of meat and bread and roasted vegetables and jugs of ale and spiced wine.
Gwyneth sat at the high table with her niece and son and the principal gentlemen and ladies-in-waiting, while at the two long side tables sat the bard and the harper, the seneschal, the sennachie, the purse-bearer and cup-bearer, and the other men and ladies-in-waiting, all sitting according to their rank and position. Behind most of the nobility stood their personal servants, all wearing their master’s livery and expressions of the utmost superciliousness. As the kitchen staff brought in the heavy trays and dumped them on a side table, the squires would all leap forward and squabble over the choicest pieces of meat or game, which they would then present to their master or mistress with bent knee.