by Kate Forsyth
To her surprise, Isabeau was led to the stables. Although she loved horses, she had had little time to visit the mews since her arrival at Lucescere Palace. Gladly she breathed in the rich odour of horse, hay and manure, lifting her skirts clear of the straw-strewn cobblestones. In the central courtyard ostlers were rubbing down steaming horses, carrying buckets of water and vigorously cleaning tack, while a group of excited grooms surrounded a bent, bow-legged old man sitting on a barrel. At the sight of Isabeau they fell back in confusion. Once they would have shouted ribald greetings, but now that they knew Isabeau was the Banrìgh’s sister, they bowed and touched their tam-o’-shanters and murmured shy courtesies.
‘Riordan!’ she cried. ‘It’s grand to see ye!’
The old groom gave her a gap-toothed grin and waved away the others with a testy comment. Once the stablehands had gone back to their work, he struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his gnarled staff. ‘Grand to see ye too, my lassie. Sorry indeed I am to be calling ye away from your book learning, but I thought ye might like to ken the lairds are taking out a hunting party to ride down a herd o’ horses that’s been running wild through yon Ban-Bharrach hills. They say a red stallion is leading the herd …’
Isabeau, following the old man into his quarters beside the carriage house, stopped with an exclamation.
Riordan Bowlegs looked back at her with a knowing grin on his wrinkled face. ‘Aye, if I remember rightly, ye often came back to Rhyssmadill wi’ red hairs on your skirt after one o’ your trips into the forest, no’ to mention a strong smell o’ horse.’
The apprentice witch sat down by Riordan’s fire with a troubled expression on her face. ‘I wonder if it is Lasair,’ she murmured.
‘Is that your horse?’ he asked. ‘The one ye used to ride?’
‘Aye,’ she answered, ‘though he is no’ mine. He is a free horse.’
He nodded wisely. ‘Ye sound like a thigearn when ye say that. They too think o’ horses as friends and colleagues, no’ slaves to their will. The Rìgh’s cavalry master does no’ think so, though, and ye ken the Rìgh, Eà bless his heart, needs horses for his army. They ride out tomorrow at dawn wi’ whips and ropes to capture them and mean to break them this week.’
‘I canna let them do that,’ Isabeau said, distressed.
‘I canna see how ye can stop them,’ Riordan replied. ‘They need the horses, and the red stallion has been stealing mares from the farms for his herd and breaking into barns in search o’ oats and corn. They say he is a rogue indeed.’
‘I must warn him,’ Isabeau said, getting to her feet.
He glanced at her quickly. ‘Obh obh! It’s talking to the horses, are we?’
She nodded. ‘Lasair is my friend. I promised him he’d never again be subject to whip or spur.’
‘But that is the way o’ the world, lassie,’ Riordan said, troubled. ‘The cavalry master will be angry indeed if ye stand in his way—it’s a fine herd o’ mares the stallion has gathered together and we need them for the war. I have a better thought. If ye and the stallion have a connection, why do ye no’ ride out wi’ us in the morn and speak to him? It’s hard pickings in the mountains this winter and here we have hay and corn. Happen he’ll be happy to bring the mares in and that’d save us all a might o’ trouble.’
Isabeau hesitated. Already an early dusk was dropping, bringing with it a flurry of sleet. She had been up since before dawn and she had no wish to ride out into the chill darkness in search of the stallion, even if she could persuade the head groom to lend her a pony. Under her arm was the book Daillas had lent her, and her inclination was to curl up with it by her fire. So she nodded and agreed, hoping Lasair would not find her arrival with a mob of men a betrayal.
Isabeau and the stallion had been friends and comrades from the time she had first seen him in the Sithiche Mountains, soon after she had set out alone from the secret valley where she had grown up. The chestnut stallion had helped her rescue Lachlan the Winged from the Awl and had carried her willingly in her desperate flight to Rhyssmadill with one third of the Key that Meghan now wore at her breast. They had always understood each other easily and, just before Isabeau had fled the siege at Rhyssmadill, had achieved that deeper level of communication normally reserved for witches and their familiars. There was some strange link between them that kept the stallion near her, despite his hatred of men and his determination to run free.
Early the next morning, Isabeau dressed in a pair of sturdy breeches, pulled on a woolly tam-o’-shanter, and wrapped herself up in her plaid before venturing out into the freezing darkness. In the stable yard horses were neighing and prancing as the men mounted up, well pleased to be riding out of the city in search of some sport. Since the hunting of wild boar and deer had become a task of necessity rather than pleasure, many of the lairds had lost their taste for it and were looking forward to a different quarry.
Isabeau caused some comment by refusing to ride with bridle and saddle, particularly since Riordan Bowlegs had led out a feisty, high-spirited mare for her. She controlled the horse easily, however, whickering in her ear before vaulting smoothly onto her back. Some of the lairds whistled in appreciation, and Isabeau smiled and pulled off her tam-o’-shanter to bow in acknowledgment, the mare rearing in a graceful levade. They rode out of the courtyard with a clatter of hooves and trotted through the quiet city towards the Bridge of Sorrows which crossed the Ban-Bharrach River to the south. By the time they had ridden into the forest on the other side of the river, the sun was rising over the snowy hills.
Isabeau nudged her sorrel mare up beside the black stallion of Anghus MacRuraich, the Prionnsa of Rurach, and one of Lachlan’s most trusted advisers. The MacRuraich had been instrumental in the success of the Samhain rebellion and was spending the winter at Lucescere with his daughter, Fionnghal. Like many in the MacRuraich clan, Anghus had a Talent for searching, and it was his responsibility to lead the hunting party to the wild horses. Isabeau wanted to make sure she was among the first to find the herd and had already used her authority as the Banrìgh’s sister to make the cavalry master promise he would not try to lasso the stallion until she had first tried to use her influence upon him.
It was long past noon when the MacRuraich at last reined his stallion to a halt. ‘The herd is just beyond that rise,’ he said softly.
The cavalry master tested the wind, then nodded. ‘We’re downwind still, which is a bonus,’ he said. ‘Come, let us ride to the top o’ the rise and see what we find there.’
He nodded rather brusquely at Isabeau. ‘Ye may try and approach the stallion then, but I warn ye, if the herd runs, we’ll be quick in pursuit, no matter your objections,’ he said shortly. ‘The Rìgh needs those horses!’
She nodded and whickered to the mare who broke into a light trot which took them rapidly to the copse of trees on the hill. From their shelter she looked down into a wide, open valley where a large herd of horses grazed. Many were the rough-coated, nimble-footed horses that had roamed these hills for many years, but here and there among them she saw the glossy hides of domesticated mares, some still with halters trailing a broken rope. A tall chestnut stallion was scraping away the snow with his forefoot to reach the thin grass below, and Isabeau’s face brightened at the sight of him. She dismounted and warned the mare to keep quiet with a pat of her hand. Then she slowly began the descent into the valley, carrying with her a small sack of oats.
Lasair’s head immediately lifted, and he sniffed the air with flared nostrils. Isabeau gave a welcoming whinny, and the stallion tossed his bright mane and broke into a canter which took him round the herd of mares, urging them closer together. She whinnied again, and he danced a little and whinnied in response. From the copse of trees on the slope another whinny came, and Isabeau cursed under her breath, for she had hoped to keep her companions hidden for the time being. Lasair’s head swung in that direction, and he gave a cry of challenge, rearing back on his hind hooves. Isabeau whickered placatingly, moving slowly an
d steadily across the valley floor towards him. He cantered back and forth, and she spoke with him softly and confidently, slowly undoing the neck of the sack so he could smell the oats. He came to her willingly, pushing his nose against her breast before burying it in the sack. She made no attempt to hold him or mount him, just told him with her voice and her mind what she wanted him to do. He was quick to understand there were men nearby, and his eyes rolled back and he danced away skittishly.
Isabeau spoke on, her voice as soothing as she knew how, her body movements slow and assured. In her mind’s eye she pictured the cosy stables, the mangers filled with oats, the loose straw in which to roll. A few of the mares clustered close, whickering, their ears pricked forward. Lasair was undecided, and Isabeau had to make many reassurances and promises before he at last lowered his head and allowed her to mount. With the herd of mares streaming behind, they cantered across the valley to where the cavalry master and his men waited.
Many of the lairds were rather disgruntled that the expected chase and tussle had not been necessary, but the cavalry master was pleased, and his tone was far more respectful on the long ride back to the city. He had no wish to risk his horses in a gallop across rough terrain, or any desire to spend a night out in the forests, which were still infested with bandits. Most importantly, he reserved his respect for those who could manage a horse, and Isabeau had more than proven herself in his eyes.
It was dark by the time they came back across the Bridge of Sorrows, and they had to hammer on the gates to be allowed back into the city. Lasair tossed his head nervously, and many of the mares grew skittish as the reek of the city met their nostrils. The tall, narrow houses loomed over them, almost meeting overhead in some places, and Isabeau had to exert all her will to keep the herd of wild horses from breaking and running. At last they reached the open space of the palace grounds, and the horses were herded into a large meadow where hay and fresh oats were scattered for them. The stallion’s eyes rolled white as the bars of the gate slid into place, but Isabeau stayed with him, rubbing him down with a twist of hay and soothing him with her voice. At last the horses were settled for the night and, stiff, sore and tired, Isabeau was able to make her way back to the palace.
The next morning Isabeau was down at the meadow before dawn. Lasair was waiting for her by the gate, his mane and tail bright in the light of the rising sun. She rode him through the quiet garden, cantering along the boulevard. He had been pleased to see her, but as they went further away from the home meadow, he grew tense and nervy, shying at the rattle of bare twigs in the wind. She held him steady with her knees, but as the ruins of the Tower of Two Moons loomed up through the trees, he bucked and reared, tossing back his head. Isabeau was almost thrown and had to cling to the stallion’s mane with both hands. He gave a terrified whinny, rearing again. She soothed him with her hand and voice, but he bolted, hooves ringing sharply on the pavement. For a while she could only cling to his back as he galloped wildly away from the ruins, while in her mind’s eye she saw visions of fire and death, and felt the stallion’s uncontrollable dread. Danger! Lasair shrieked. Betrayal!
At last she was able to slow his headlong gallop and direct him back towards the stable. He was trembling, his flanks flecked with foam. Isabeau made him warm mash and rubbed him down well, leaving him at last in the warmth of the stall, his head hanging down in exhaustion. Usually she looked in on the infirmary first thing every morning, but today she made her way back to the Tower instead.
‘I canna understand it,’ she said to Meghan, sharing her morning porridge. ‘He had such a strong reaction to being close to the Tower. I know horses are meant to have a strong extrasensory perception, but sixteen years have passed since the tragedy there, would he have been able to sense the fear and horror so clearly after all that time?’
‘I do no’ know,’ Meghan answered, holding up a nut for Gitâ the donbeag to nibble. ‘The woodland creatures have always been my specialty, no’ horses. I would ask Riordan, he spent some years in Tìreich, ye ken, and has a true Talent with horses.’
‘I saw it all so clearly,’ Isabeau mused. ‘There were soldiers hacking down witches, others carrying burning torches. People were running and screaming, and smoke was billowing everywhere. It was horrible! It was almost as if I was there.’
‘Happen horses are like people, and some have a greater sixth sense than others,’ Meghan suggested. ‘Still, it would be a rare Talent in a human to see so clearly. This be an uncommon horse indeed. I have always wanted to know how it is he came to find ye in Aslinn when ye were sick indeed with the fever. Cloudshadow was convinced he travelled the Auld Ways, and indeed he had sense enough to take ye to the Tower o’ Dreams where Cloudshadow and Brun could tend ye. I will come down today to speak with him and see if I can read his mind. Has Riordan looked in on him?’
‘I do no’ think so,’ Isabeau responded, ‘but I can ask him to.’ She finished the last of her porridge and reluctantly stood up to go. She loved Meghan’s rooms in the Tower of Two Moons. The spinning wheel in the corner, the piles of books and scrolls, the crystal ball on its clawed feet, and the faded globe of the world on its wooden stand, all reminded her of the tree-house where she had grown up. Isabeau missed the serene beauty of the secret valley, where all the animals were her friends and every track and cave familiar to her. She would have liked to stay with the Keybearer, listening to her tales of the heroic past and playing with the little donbeag, but Isabeau’s day stretched before her, crammed with duties and responsibilities.
‘Bide a wee, Beau,’ Meghan said suddenly. ‘I wish to talk with ye a moment.’ Isabeau gladly sat down again, though the old sorceress’s face was creased with concern. ‘I am troubled in my heart about the Ensorcellor’s babe,’ she said. Immediately Isabeau stiffened. ‘Ye did no’ come to the meeting last night and so ye missed the latest news from the countryside. It was no’ good. Ye remember Renshaw the Ruthless, the last Grand-Seeker? Well, news came in last night from Blèssem. Apparently he’s gathered together an army and raised Blairgowrie against us. They have proclaimed Bronwen the true Banrìgh, and call Lachlan the Pretender. The Rìgh was in such a rage last night, I have never seen him so black and bitter.’
Isabeau clenched her fingers together, fear coiled cold as an adder in her stomach. Gitâ crawled from Meghan’s lap to hers, patting her wrist with his black-tipped paw and nestling his silky head into her palm. She ignored him. ‘Do ye think he means to harm Bronwen?’ she asked harshly.
Meghan hesitated. ‘I do no’ know. My heart rebels at the thought that he might harm her, his own niece, but he has always hated the very thought o’ her and indeed he casts dark looks at her, especially since wee Donncan was born. He thinks o’ her as Maya’s spawn, no’ Jaspar’s, and indeed she will always be a threat to him while she lives.’
‘But she is only a babe!’
‘That does no’ matter, Isabeau. Have ye forgotten all I have taught ye o’ history and politics? Do no’ forget Jaspar named her heir and she was proclaimed Banrìgh at his death. Banrìgh for only a few hours, it is true, but Banrìgh nonetheless. Lachlan’s hold on the throne is slender indeed with the countryside torn by war and famine and the threat o’ the Fairgean closer than ever. He canna afford rivals to the Crown.’
‘So ye think he is right to fear and hate her!’ Isabeau cried.
‘O’ course he is right to fear her, he is Rìgh, Isabeau, and must always be thinking o’ the future. Eileanan needs a strong Rìgh, and one with a secure claim to the throne. We canna afford to be fighting our own people as well as threats from without! If he canna settle such counterclaims and rebellions, Eileanan will be at war for many a long year. Nay, Isabeau, he is right to be angry.’
‘What will he do?’ she whispered.
‘First he must put down the uprising and wipe out Renshaw once and for all. The Grand-Seeker is a dangerous man indeed, and we canna afford to allow sympathy for the seekers to run unchecked. Lachlan will have to ride into Blèssem
and take back Blairgowrie, a distraction we could do without at this time, for Blairgowrie lies right on the edge o’ the land held by the Bright Soldiers, and we have no’ the strength to be taking Blèssem back piece by piece just yet.’
‘I mean about the babe.’
Meghan sighed. ‘What the young fool should do is keep Bronwen by his knee and treat her kindly, raise her to love him so that she would never want to stand against him. She and Donncan would grow up together, and happen they would grow into love and be married, then any dispute over the throne be laid to rest, for they would rule together. But I fear Lachlan is no’ a man to see so clearly. He has always had a bitter, impatient temper and his hatred o’ Maya is so deep, so profound, I canna see him laying aside his prejudices so easily.’
‘What am I to do?’ Isabeau whispered.
Meghan reached out her thin, gnarled hand and patted Isabeau’s knee. ‘Watch her well and keep her safe, my dear, it is all ye can do. I will speak to Lachlan and remind him that any misfortune to befall the babe would always be suspect and would turn many against him who would otherwise support his rule. He is no’ entirely a fool and has much to occupy him these next few years. Once the country lies easy under his hand, he will no’ fear her so much.’
Isabeau nodded and gave the velvety fur of the donbeag a final stroke before passing him back to Meghan. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘My students in herb lore will be waiting and I have no’ yet looked in on the infirmary. What time shall I meet ye at the stables?’
‘I have much to do today,’ the Keybearer replied. ‘Make it just before sunset, for I have to be at the palace soon after anyway.’ Isabeau nodded and hurried away, much troubled in her heart.
She made her way back to her rooms to gather up her herb bag, hurrying through the palace halls which were as always thronged with people. Her gait hastened as she reached the upper corridor, for she could hear Bronwen wailing in distress. She swung open the door and halted in shock on the threshold. The Rìgh stood inside, scowling angrily, holding the baby awkwardly above a deep bowl of water, one hand gripping her neck so tightly the flesh bulged between his fingers. Water dripped from her naked limbs all over the floor. The golden-red light of the leaping flames played over her scaled body making her gleam opal and mother-of-pearl and sharply defining her delicate, flowing fins. Bronwen twisted her head towards the door, recognising Isabeau’s step, and the young witch could clearly see the gills fluttering just below her ear. Her mouth was wide open and roaring, her whole face wrinkled in distress, her eyes squeezed shut.