by Kate Forsyth
She returned some time later, her blue eyes bright with excitement. ‘His Highness has just ridden into the city, my lady! They say the skirmish went off just as planned, and they have wagons full o’ oats and barley, and flocks o’ goats and barrels o’ ale and everything, my lady! Everyone is dancing and laughing, and they say it is a good omen indeed to win such a blow on New Year’s Eve!’
Iseult sighed with relief. ‘Thank the gods! Was His Highness well, Sukey? No sign o’ any wounds?’
‘I did no’ see him, Your Highness, but they say our casualties were light indeed, and the Bright Soldiers in retreat from Dunwallen in much confusion, and the town ours again!’
Isabeau laughed in relief and pleasure. Dunwallen was a small town on the far side of the Rhyllster, which had been overrun by the Tìrsoilleirean soldiers only a few weeks previously. Built close on the banks of the river, it was in a strategic position, controlling both the river and the main road from Blèssem, and therefore much of the highlands’ supply routes. For the Rìgh’s first blow against the enemy to have met with such success would greatly hearten the whole countryside and was bound to swing popular opinion towards Lachlan. Best of all, it would do much to relieve the food shortage in the city, for Dunwallen’s storehouses had been well stocked with the produce of the autumn harvest.
Together Iseult and Isabeau went down from the royal quarters to greet Lachlan, leaving the baby banprionnsa in Sukey’s care. The grand hall was filled with the tired and dirty lairds who had ridden out with the Rìgh, all toasting Lachlan with whiskey and talking over the battle. The winged Rìgh was lounging in his carved chair, his shirt stiff with blood and grime, his mail-shirt much battered and stained. He was alight with the thrill of the battle, his topaz-yellow eyes blazing in his swarthy face. At the sight of the twins he leapt to his feet and rushed excitedly into an account of the skirmish, the blows he had struck, the tactics they had employed.
‘… Iain called up a mist so they could no’ even see their own hand in front o’ their face, and we crept right up to the walls under its cover. They hardly knew what hit them, leannan …’
‘Gwilym and Dide sent fireballs w-w-whizzing about so the Bright Soldiers were th-th-thrown into c-c-confusion,’ Iain stammered, his Adam’s apple bobbing madly.
‘Your husband fought like a pride o’ elven cats,’ Anghus MacRuraich called.
Duncan Ironfist, the captain of the Yeomen and seanalair of Lachlan’s army, came to make his bow to Iseult and assure her he had watched over the Rìgh well. ‘Though I was hard put to keep up with him,’ the huge soldier said. ‘Especially when he flew to the top o’ the barbican. I thought my heart would fail in my chest, but he had the guard disarmed and the portcullis raised in moments!’
As Iseult fired questions at Duncan and Lachlan, Isabeau ordered some food for the lairds and prionnsachan and sent a page to find Meghan, who would be busy preparing for the Hogmanay festivities. The old sorceress was determined that all the key dates in the witches’ calendar would once again be properly celebrated. Traditionally the last day of the year was a time of feasting and first-footing, a difficult event to arrange with their food stocks so low.
The victorious soldiers spent most of the evening drinking and carousing, while out in the city long tables were set out in the squares with breads and stews, barrels of well-watered ale on either side. The palace was ablaze with lights, the trees in the gardens strung with lanterns. Overhead the stars were diamond hard, diamond bright in a clear, frosty sky, while the snow underfoot was crisp and white. The children of the Theurgia ran whooping through the palace grounds, beating each other’s bare arms and legs with holly till the blood sprang up, for all knew that every drop of blood meant another clear year of life assured.
By midnight the streets were virtually empty and everyone had gone home. Much misfortune in the coming year could be caused by the wrong person being the first to cross a house’s threshold. That privilege was reserved for the First Foot, usually a young man chosen for his strength and health and comeliness, who went from house to house in his street, laying evergreen branches upon the mantelpiece and a fresh piece of peat upon the fire. Only then would he break the silence, gravely greeting the household and handing over his gifts of bread, salt and whiskey. Once the ritual had been observed, jests and laughter would again break out, and the First Foot would be toasted with a heady mixture of hot spiced ale, whiskey, eggs and honey known as the Het Pint.
Up at the palace the First Foot had been chosen with great care, for everyone wanted to make sure all omens for the coming year were as auspicious as possible. Cathmor the Nimble won he privilege for, apart from his tall, well-muscled stature and dark, handsome looks, he had again and again proven himself a loyal supporter of the new rìgh. Stiff-backed and crimson-cheeked, he solemnly crossed the threshold on the last stroke of midnight, laid his evergreen wreath on the mantel and his handful of coal upon the flames, then presented his gifts to Lachlan. Apart from the usual, he carried combs of honey to ensure a year full of sweetness and peace, flower-scented candles to fill it with light, and a pouch of gold to bring prosperity.
Cheers and laughter rang out as the big wooden bowl of Het Pint was passed from mouth to mouth. Then the musicians started to play again, the hall began to fill with dancers, and the servants refilled empty goblets with wine or ale or passed around trays of sweetmeats. New Year gifts which had been carefully chosen for their luck-bringing qualities were exchanged. Meghan gave Isabeau and Iseult snowy white plaids she had woven with her own hands from the soft fur of the geal’teas. The fine material had pale bands of red and blue running through it, and the old sorceress said with great solemnity, ‘It is the MacFaghan tartan, my dears. Ye are the first to wear it in a thousand years, so wear it with pride.’
Lachlan must have known what she was planning for he gave them both a gold brooch to pin it with—a circle made from the writhing form of a winged dragon rising from two single-petalled roses. The dragons’ eyes were made from tiny, perfect dragoneye jewels which matched the rose-carved rings the twins wore on their left hands.
Isabeau pinned the plaid about her shoulders with a constriction in her throat and a burning in her eyes. She had only just discovered the secret of her parentage after sixteen years of wondering, for Meghan had found her as a baby, abandoned in the forest. Isabeau now knew she and Iseult were the daughters of Ishbel the Winged, the flying sorceress of legend, and her faery lover Khan’gharad the Dragon-Laird. The lovers had been cruelly separated on the Day of Betrayal, Khan’gharad falling into a pit that Meghan had opened below his feet. Her intention had been to kill Maya, but somehow the Ensorcellor had escaped and the sacrifice of Khan’gharad’s life had been in vain.
Although the queen-dragon had told Meghan Khan’gharad still lived, Ishbel had refused to believe her, falling back into her enchanted sleep that had lasted for sixteen years.
Although her father was lost and her mother was sunk in grief-stricken sleep, it meant a great deal to Isabeau to know she was no longer a foundling child without a name or ancestry, but a banprionnsa, the descendant of Faodhagan the Red, one of the First Coven of Witches. This meant she was of the very finest blood, as nobly born as Lachlan himself.
Isabeau was still examining her plaid with pride and satisfaction when Dide found her. She looked up at him and said huskily, ‘It is odd what a difference it makes, knowing my real name and who my parents are.’
He gave her a shadowed smile and bowed deeply to her. ‘May I have this dance, Isabeau NicFaghan o’ Tìrlethan? If ye are no’ too proud to dance with a mere jongleur now that ye ken ye are a banprionnsa.’
‘Thank ye indeed, Dide the Juggler, I would love it, as long as ye do no’ mind me stomping on your toes,’ she replied wryly. ‘I never had much chance to learn to dance in the depths o’ the Sithiche Mountains!’
‘I shall be glad to teach ye,’ he cried and swept her away into a vigorous reel. Panting and laughing, Isabeau skipped down the r
oom, Dide’s arm about her waist. She waved to Lilanthe who was watching enviously from one corner. Although tree-changers loved to dance, theirs was a far statelier promenade, and Lilanthe was too self-conscious about her broad, gnarled feet to ever display them so freely.
As the fiddles and flutes began another tune, Cathmor the Nimble leapt up onto the musicians’ platform. ‘Come join the wassail,’ he cried, lifting the over-brimming bowl of Het Pint. ‘Wassail, wassail, all over the town!’
With cries of delight, many of the younger people left the floor, streaming out behind Cathmor as he danced out of the hall and through the great front doors. Dide caught Isabeau’s hand and dragged her after, lifting up his voice and singing:
‘Here we come a-wassailing
among the leaves so green
Here we come a-wandering
so bonny to be seen.
Here we come a-wassailing
wi’ our bowl o’ ashen tree
Here we come a-wandering
love and peace to all o’ ye.
For it’s your wassail and it’s our wassail,
wassail, wassail, all over the town,
wi’ the wassailing bowl we’ll drink to thee!
Love and peace to all o’ ye!’
Through the snowy streets of the city they ran, trailing coloured ribbons. Everyone whose paths they crossed was invited to drink from the great bowl of hot spiced ale, which was replenished frequently from the bubbling cauldrons set up in every square. They met other wassailing parties, not so grandly dressed but with as much good cheer and enthusiasm as the young lairds and ladies from the palace. The lantern-hung streets of the city resounded with song, as voices both rough and refined carolled the refrain.
‘For it’s your wassail and it’s our wassail,
wassail, wassail, all over the town,
wi’ the wassailing bowl we’ll drink to thee!
Love and peace to all o’ ye!’
Isabeau danced and laughed with genuine pleasure, her doubts and anxieties melting away in the atmosphere of joy and expectancy that had transfigured the war-stricken city. She thought how wise it was of Meghan to plan this night of celebration which had fallen out of favour under Maya’s rule. Everywhere she heard people toasting the new Rìgh and Banrìgh, the return of the Coven, the birth of a new year and a new era.
The heady warmth of the spiced ale pervaded Isabeau’s body, making her head spin and her throat bubble with laughter. Dide’s arm was warm and strong around her back, his black eyes, bright as polished jet, smiling into hers. As he spun her into another strathspey she felt how lithe and slim his body was against hers, how fluidly they moved together.
Through the icy darkness of the palace gardens the dancing promenade wound, then back into the hot, crowded hall. The flaming torches and laughing faces spun in a whirl as Dide swept Isabeau around. She was helplessly dizzy, having to clutch at his arms to keep her feet. He laughed and kissed her. Somehow they danced out of the ballroom and into the shadowed halls behind. His mouth on her throat was hot as a brand. He spoke broken words of love she hardly heard, so feverish was her response.
They were lying entwined together on her bed when Lilanthe opened the door. Unable to find her friends and shy of so many strangers, the tree-shifter had thought to seek her tub of earth and go to sleep. The light from the open door streamed across the bedchamber, and Lilanthe was unable to stifle an exclamation as she saw Dide and Isabeau tangled together in a welter of unfastened clothing. The jongleur lifted his mouth from Isabeau’s breast while she stared dazedly at Lilanthe across his bare back. The tree-shifter stood frozen for a moment, colour flaming into her face, then she turned and ran.
With a cry Isabeau clutched her clothes to her and scrambled after, calling ‘Lilanthe!’ Dide cursed, and struggled to pull on his shirt.
The tree-shifter ran down the corridor and plunged down the stairs, only just managing to avoid colliding with the numerous couples who stood chatting on the landings or kissing in the corners. Trying desperately to do up her bodice, Isabeau hurried after, still calling her friend’s name.
Dide caught her at the top of the stairs. ‘Come back to bed, leannan,’ he murmured, sliding his arm about her waist. ‘There is nothing we can do now …’
‘But did ye no’ see her face? She looked absolutely stricken.’
‘It was just the shock. She was no’ expecting to find us so. Let it be, leannan. She’ll be a wee embarrassed, but she’ll get over it. Come back.’ He pulled her towards the bedroom, his other hand sliding up her back to cup the nape of her neck.
Isabeau hesitated, staring down the stairs. The candles were all guttering in their sconces, but enough light remained to show there was no sign of Lilanthe. With a sigh she let Dide lead her back towards her bedchamber.
Suddenly a ripple of pain ran over Isabeau and she cried out, clutching her abdomen.
‘Wha’ is it, wha’ be wrong?’ Dide cried, and had to support her as she swayed, her face bleached of colour.
She bent over, arms crossed over her stomach. ‘It’s Iseult,’ she moaned. ‘The babes must be on their way.’
A door at the other end of the corridor swung open, and Lachlan burst out, clutching a sheet to him, his black hair wildly tousled. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelt of stale alcohol. ‘Isabeau!’ he cried. ‘Quickly! It’s Iseult! I think her time has come.’
Another undulation of pain washed through her, and she groaned. ‘Call … Meghan,’ she said through stiff lips. ‘Quickly!’
Reluctantly Dide let her go and hurried to call the guards. The pain passed, and Isabeau followed her distraught brother-in-law into the royal bedchamber. Iseult was sitting up in the great bed, her face white, her blue eyes dilated. She cried out in relief at the sight of her sister and held out her hand. Isabeau ran to her side, gripping her fingers tightly.
‘Did ye feel it?’ Iseult whispered, and Isabeau nodded.
‘The babes are getting ready to be born,’ she said. ‘I’ve sent for Meghan, she’ll be here soon. If I am to feel all ye do, I do no’ think I’ll be much help to ye.’
‘It’ll be enough to have ye here,’ Iseult answered.
Isabeau nodded and kissed her sister’s tense fingers. She knew how much the admission must have cost her proud twin. ‘I know, dearling,’ she whispered back. ‘But everything will be fine and soon ye shall have two bonny babies to show for your effort.’ She busied herself stoking up the fire and rang the bell for her sister’s maid.
Another sharp ripple of pain swept through her and she groaned, clutching her stomach. Glancing up, she saw Iseult bowed over, her hands mirroring Isabeau’s. ‘They come quickly,’ she managed to say. ‘Fear no’, Iseult, it shall be a swift birthing.’
Iseult’s maid hurried in, rubbing her eyes and exclaiming, her face anxious under the frilled cap she had pulled on askew in her hurry. Isabeau told her to call Sukey and ask her to bring her mistress’s herb bag as quickly as she could. ‘We shall need clean linen and a kettle to boil water, and see if ye can find any raspberry leaf tea in the cellar, it is helpful indeed with the contractions. Oh, and send someone to wake Johanna—if she truly wishes to be a healer, she may as well witness her first birthing!’
Another contraction saw Iseult clutch at Lachlan’s hand. Isabeau had to hold the mantelpiece to keep on her feet, biting her lip hard. Then Meghan was there, her grey-white hair streaming about her shoulders, her plaid clutched around her nightgown. She ordered Lachlan away from the bed, telling him sharply to get out of her way. ‘Wash yourself and dress, for Eà’s sake!’ she snapped. ‘Ye stink o’ the brewery.’
Scowling, Lachlan went through to his dressing-room, catching up his kilt and shirt from where they lay on the floor. Meghan picked up the sceptre from where it had rolled against the wall and put it on the chair, muttering under her breath. Then she bent over Iseult, feeling her grossly distended stomach with delicate fingers, murmuring reassurances.
The maids arrived laden
down with water jugs, baskets of herbs and tinctures, and piles of clean linen. Sukey carried a wailing Bronwen in one arm and Isabeau’s herb bag in the other, her face flushed with anxiety. ‘I be sorry indeed, my lady, but I couldna wake Ketti from her sleep, and the babe is that upset, I dared no’ leave her …’
‘Has Ketti had too much o’ the Het Pint that ye canna be waking her?’ Meghan asked sharply.
Sukey blushed even pinker and bit her lip, nodding and shrugging at once. ‘Indeed, she snores and snores, and there is an empty mug fallen from her hand …’
‘We shall have to find ourselves another wet nurse,’ the old sorceress snapped. ‘Never mind, Sukey, ye have done well. Ask Latifa to make a weak gruel to feed the wee one with, then give her some poppy syrup to soothe her and bring her cradle in here. Be quick, though, I can feel these babes are ready to be born!’
Indeed, by the time Sukey had returned and put a sleepy Bronwen to bed in her silk-hung cradle, Iseult was in the last stages of her contractions, her red curls wet with perspiration. She was pacing the room, magnificent in her swollen nakedness, her jaw set with determination. It was just on dawn; through the half-drawn curtains the flowers of frost on the windowpane were stained rose. Isabeau, limp from sharing her twin’s pain, paced with her, arm about her back, as Meghan explained to Johanna, the eldest of the League of the Healing Hand, exactly what she was doing.
Iseult smothered a groan and clung to the mantelpiece. Isabeau supported her weight as her twin bore down with all her strength.
‘I can see its head!’ Johanna cried. ‘Look!’
Iseult bit her lip and pushed again, and Johanna knelt behind her. Her plain face transfigured with amazement, she cradled the baby’s head between her work-worn hands and, under Meghan’s watchful eye, guided the baby out. ‘It’s a boy!’
They heard the cock crow the coming of the dawn, and light illuminated the window as the sun rose. The baby gulped for breath and uttered a thin, wailing cry.