by Kate Forsyth
‘What are ye doing?’ Isabeau cried.
‘Seeing if my memory served me well,’ Lachlan snarled. ‘I thought I had no’ been mistaken at Samhain! See, she is clearly a Fairge, this niece o’ mine. This is the babe they wish to place on the throne, this black-blooded uile-bheist!’ His fingers tightened and Bronwen screamed louder, her scrunched-up face red as beet.
Isabeau flew across the room and tried to seize the baby, but Lachlan would not release her.
‘This is the babe they wish to rule the land!’ he cried, shaking her. ‘For this, they would disinherit me and my laddie?’
Isabeau managed to wrest the screaming child from him, clutching her to her breast. Lachlan picked up the sceptre from the table, the Lodestar blazing white, and held it before him like a sword. ‘Keep her away from me,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘By the Centaur’s Beard, keep that uile-bheist away from me and my son!’
Once he was gone, Isabeau sank down into her chair, wrapping the wailing child in a warm shawl and soothing her with rhythmic pats. Fear held her throat closed so she could hardly breathe. The soft sound of the door opening made her jerk her head up in fear. It was only Sukey, though, hurrying back inside with her arms full of linen, her pretty, apple-cheeked face pink and rather anxious.
‘Where have ye been?’ Isabeau asked harshly. ‘What made ye leave the babe all alone?’
‘It was the Rìgh, my lady. He sent me off to run an errand for him and said he’d mind the babe while I was gone. I did no’ want to leave her, men never knowing wha’ to do wi’ a babe, but he insisted.’ She hesitated, then said stumblingly, ‘I be sorry, my lady, if I did wrong, but he was so insistent, and he was in such a temper I dared no’ argue but just tried to be quick as I could.’
‘His Highness was in a temper?’ Isabeau asked carefully.
‘Black as thunder, he were, my lady,’ Sukey answered earnestly. ‘Prowling about as he does and clutching the sceptre so tightly I feared the hilt would break. And the babe were bawling her wee heart out, bless her soul.’
Bronwen stirred, rubbing her closed eyes with tiny fists and making a whimper of protest. Isabeau stroked the baby’s damp, soft hair and tried to keep her voice level as she thanked the maid and dismissed her. Despite the warmth of the fire, she was cold and huddled her shoulders into her plaid. She would never leave Bronwen again, she vowed, rocking her. From now on, the baby banprionnsa would go everywhere she did.
Isabeau made her way to the mews just as the sun was settling down behind the tall rampart; the baby was on her back, wrapped in a shawl Isabeau had tied over her shoulder. She could hear Lasair’s shrill whinnies and the stamp of his hooves on the cobblestones as she entered the dim stables.
Riordan Bowlegs was leaning over the side of the stallion’s stall, smoking a long pipe. He looked up as she came in and gave her a gap-toothed smile. ‘How are ye yourself, Red?’ he asked. ‘Looking a wee pale. Did ye no’ sleep well last night?’
‘I be well, Riordan, and ye?’ Isabeau answered, mustering a smile.
‘Och, I be right dandy,’ he replied. ‘Fine horse ye have here, though nervy and bad-tempered. He will no’ let anyone near him, no’ even myself, and ye ken I learnt the horse-whispering from a thigearn himself.’
Isabeau nodded absent-mindedly, and the old groom went on, ‘He almost killed one o’ the lads today when he tried to slip a halter on him. We wanted to check his hooves, but there was no getting near him. He just about kicked the back wall in, and puir Owen got a right nasty blow to the stomach.’
‘Is he all right?’ Isabeau asked, whickering to the red stallion to quieten him as he reared and tested his weight against the wooden wall.
‘Aye, he’ll be just grand. Lucky he’s a nimble lad and got out o’ the way fast enough. The head groom is no’ happy, though; he says all the neighing and rearing is disturbing the other horses and he fears for his men.’
Isabeau laid the baby down in a nest of hay and slipped into the stall, whickering reassuringly. Lasair danced nervously, backing away from her. ‘He does no’ like being confined to the stall,’ she answered. ‘And he has no desire to be harnessed by a strange man.’
‘Ye had best keep him calm,’ Riordan said, ‘for the stable master will no’ allow him to distress the other horses.’
Isabeau nodded and ran her hands over the nervous stallion, soothing him and telling him all was well. He leant against her, shoving his head urgently against her breast. The sound of a halting step on the cobblestones made him start and back away nervously, and Isabeau stroked his nose gently with her hand.
‘So this is the one?’ Meghan said, coming to stand next to Riordan.
Immediately Lasair reared, eyes rolling white, hooves threshing the air. Isabeau staggered back and fell as the stallion bucked wildly, smashing his hooves into the wooden wall behind him. Again and again he plunged, and deep in Isabeau’s mind, she heard him scream: It is ye! False, treacherous witch! Breaker o’ faith!
He threw his weight against the wall, then spun and kicked the door. The wood splintered and broke. Again and again he kicked out with his powerful hindquarters, until the door was smashed into fragments. Then, with a wild toss of his mane, he leapt over Isabeau and out of the stall. He reared over Meghan, hooves flailing the air as she scrambled back in shock and fear, Gitâ shrieking from her shoulder. Foam flew from his bared teeth, and he neighed in resounding challenge, sending the other horses whinnying and plunging. Isabeau scrambled to her feet and ran to catch his head, but he was bucking and rearing so wildly she could not get near him. He kicked out viciously; but with a cry, the old sorceress had fallen. He pawed the air over her prostrate body and would have brought his heavy hooves pounding down upon her if Riordan had not seized a long pitchfork and menaced him with it. In utter shock and dismay, Isabeau called his name and tried to get near him to calm him, but the stallion leapt away from the sharp tines of the pitchfork, eyes staring white, and galloped down the stable. One of the grooms tried to stand in his way but the stallion knocked him over and fled out into the courtyard. Isabeau could hear screams and frantic neighs as he churned through the yard.
‘Lasair!’ she cried despairingly. ‘Whatever can be wrong?’
Far across the mountains, curled in a nest of her own hair, Ishbel the Winged stirred in her sleep. ‘Khan’gharad?’ she murmured. Slowly her eyes opened and she looked blankly about the Tower room. Grey stone curved about her, sculpted round the tall windows with the delicate shape of single-petalled roses. Impossibly long strands of silver hair floated about her. ‘Khan’gharad?’ she said more firmly.
Deep in her mind she heard a stifled cry of hatred and fear. False, treacherous witch! Breaker o’ faith!
Ishbel sat bolt upright. ‘Khan’gharad!’ she called. ‘Where are ye, my love?’ She caught only a fading echo of that frantic voice, but her blue eyes lit with ardour. ‘Wait, Khan’gharad!’ she cried. ‘I’m coming!’
‘Meghan!’ Isabeau cried and knelt by the crumpled body of the sorceress. Meghan sighed faintly, and one hand groped for her heart, then she slid into unconsciousness again. White as whey, Isabeau called desperately for help and the grooms came running. A wet cloth failed to revive the old witch, and Isabeau was distraught to see a red patch growing on the shoulder of her dress. Meghan had been stabbed in the heart by Maya the Ensorcellor during the Samhain rebellion and had only been saved from death by Tòmas’s powers. The jolt of her fall must have pulled apart the lips of the slowly healing wound.
The anxious donbeag crooned over Meghan as she was carried to the Tower on a stretcher made from an old door. Isabeau was hanging over her in distress, the baby clutched tightly in her arms.
Tòmas came and laid his hands upon the old sorceress, and the bleeding stopped, the lips of the wound slowly sealing over again. He shook his head, though, and said in his solemn way, ‘She is auld and has no’ much strength. I do no’ know how many more times I can heal her. She should lie quietly and rest and try
to restore her strength.’
Isabeau wept silently, for she knew Meghan would never submit to lying quietly in her bed. Lachlan and Iseult had hurried to the witch’s side as soon as they had heard she had fallen, and the Rìgh turned on Isabeau as soon as the young Tòmas had left the room. ‘Ye cause nothing but trouble and strife!’ he cried. ‘Ye should never have let Meghan near such a savage creature as that horse o’ yours! Ye think o’ nothing but yourself.’
Isabeau was too distressed to defend herself but Iseult uttered a quiet reproof. Lachlan would not listen. The shock of Meghan’s last encounter with Gearradh, the goddess of death, was too fresh in his mind and he was tired and bitterly disappointed with the latest news from the countryside. Isabeau’s protection of the little banprionnsa was an unacknowledged goad to his anger, and he lashed out at her in sullen frustration.
‘The horse shall be shot!’ he cried, slamming one fist into his hand. ‘He is a danger to us all! Meghan could have been killed, and six grooms were injured in his subduing! I canna allow him to rampage through the stables any longer. I’ll have him put to death in the morning!’ He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Meghan turned her head, muttering in her sleep, and Iseult rose to follow her husband. ‘I’m sorry, Isabeau, but indeed it would be for the best,’ she said. ‘Truly he is a savage and unpredictable horse.’
‘I do no’ understand it,’ Isabeau cried, but her twin’s mind was already turning back to her sleeping son, and she smiled a little wearily and left the room.
Isabeau dropped her head into her arms and wept, so tired and upset she could not think straight. A soft touch on her arm made her jump, and she raised her head to see Meghan staring at her with dazed black eyes. ‘A most strange and unaccountable horse,’ the sorceress whispered. ‘Almost I remember … he seems …’
‘Hush, Meghan,’ Isabeau whispered, scrubbing her hot eyes. ‘Ye must rest.’
‘I seem to remember … but surely he canna be …’
Isabeau lifted her guardian’s head and gave her some soothing poppy syrup to sip. ‘Sleep, Meghan,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘Ye must rest and get well. We need ye.’
The sorceress looked as if she was going to say more, but then her wrinkled eyelids slowly closed and she sighed, slipping again into sleep.
The whore slipped out the back door of the brothel, a shawl wrapped close about her head, and struggled down the back alley, her boots sinking deep into the mire. Despite all her efforts, she could not keep her skirts from dragging in the thick mud. Flaring her nostrils in distaste, she toiled on, stepping when she could on the broken crates and sacks that littered the ground. Deeper into the maze of stinking alleys she went, down into the slums that clustered like a suppurating sore on the lip of the cliff. The stench of refuse, urine and excrement almost made her gag, but she pushed on grimly, holding the shawl close about her face.
At last she came to a warehouse, built so close under the surge of the waterfall that the spray dampened her face. Casting a quick glance about her, she pushed open the door and slipped inside. Within was a long room, piled high with trash and treasure from the back streets and sewers. There was a strange smell, like long-dead mice, mingled with a sharper scent, like pungent bay leaves. From the shadows an old man came shuffling, his hands clasped high before him, his bleary eyes peering to make out her face hidden behind the fold of her shawl.
‘And wha’ can I be finding for ye, missus? A bolt o’ cloth, hardly mildewed at all, or a pot for the porridge? A stool for your weary bones, or a spindle for the spinning?’
‘Ye know what it is I want, auld man,’ the whore said, and at the husky tones of her voice, he cringed back.
‘Aye, aye, I ken, I ken wha’ it is ye want. Cantrips and curses, spells and soothsaying, that be all they want, the fine ladies. Philtres and potions, glamounes and ghost-raising, that be all they want, the fine ladies.’
She followed his bent muttering form through a dusty, cobwebbed shop, piled high with broken furniture and damaged goods, to a cupboard pushed in one back corner. Casting a furtive glance about him, the old man opened the wardrobe door and ushered the whore inside, closing the door behind her.
She felt forward with her hand, found the secret catch and lifted it, her heart beating rapidly. The back of the wardrobe slid noiselessly aside and she stumbled forward in the darkness, climbing a narrow flight of stairs, steep as a ladder. The secret door closed instantly behind her.
Above was a long, overheated room hung with rich silks and furnished as richly as any merchant’s house. A gilded candelabra hung from the ceiling, while bright tapestries covered every wall. The woman made her way forward, lifting her mud-stained skirts clear of the intricately woven carpet.
‘Look at ye, tracking mud and filth into my fine house,’ a high, petulant voice said. ‘Obh, obh! Could ye no’ have left your boots at the door?’
From a low chaise-longue pushed against the wall, a gaudily dressed dwarf hopped to his feet and came fussing around the whore, insisting she remove her caked boots and brush the mud from her skirts down the stairwell. He came no higher than her waist and wore a crimson doublet slashed with purple and green. His head was far too large for his body, the effect exaggerated by a huge round cap of purple velvet embellished with bhanais feathers. With the matt white skin of his face dusted with no more than a few fine, fair hairs, he looked like an absurd child.
He reclined back on the chaise-longue, his short legs taking up barely half of its velvet-upholstered length, and looked her over with a lewd glance. ‘So it be Majasma the Mysterious come to visit her auld friend, the Wizard Wilmot, master o’ the magical mysteries. Wha’ is it this time, my bonny?’
The whore sat on the chair opposite, letting the shawl drop from her head. The light fell full on her face, revealing its alien cast—the flat nose with its flaring nostrils, the thin, almost lipless mouth. Her pale skin was moist and had an iridescent shimmer like mother-of-pearl. One cheek was marred with a fine spider’s web of scars. She cast the dwarf a scornful glance from her pale eyes and lifted one webbed hand to her cheek.
‘Another spell o’ glamourie to wrap your fair features in youthful charm, my bonny? To hide the cruel scars that mar your perfection?’ He gave a high-pitched chuckle. ‘Do your lovers cringe at the sight o’ ye, my bonny?’
‘No’ as much as all who see ye, my wee manikin,’ she replied harshly. ‘Ye know why I am here, let us cease these pleasantries and get down to business.’
‘Aye,’ he answered with another shrill giggle. ‘Show me your gold and we will begin to spin ye the spell.’
‘What do ye need gold for, Willie the Wee?’ She waved one hand at the richness that surrounded them. ‘Ye have a house stuffed with every imaginable luxury, ye wear the finest silks and the rarest perfumes and drink only the best whiskey. What more could ye possibly want?’
A look of petulant anger screwed up his hairless face and he cried shrilly, ‘Ye want my wizardry, ye must pay the price!’
The whore pulled a small, jingling bag from her basket and tossed it to him with a scornful gesture. He caught it nimbly, and at once began to count it into his tiny hand. Twice he counted it, and then he snapped his fingers and the coins disappeared.
‘It is no’ enough, my bonny,’ he said with a lewd sneer. ‘I find the price o’ my expertise has risen. Times are hard in Lucescere, and the winter has been long.’
‘We agreed on the price!’ she cried, and he answered with another chuckle, ‘That was then, this is now, my bonny. Pay the price or find yourself another spellmongerer.’
Reluctantly she fished another small bag out of the basket, and he counted the coins with glee, tossing them between his pudgy little fingers and letting them disappear one by one. Only then did he swing his legs round and begin to rummage in a chest by his side. She leant forward and watched what he did intently, and he turned his gaudy body so she could not see.
With another snap of his f
ingers he extinguished the candles so only the four-branched candelabra on the table between them was still alight. The light of the black and white candles danced over the paraphernalia arranged on the table’s gilded surface. There was a three-dimensional circle and pentagram, a brazier of odd-smelling incense, bowls of water and sea salt, an urn of ashes, piles of crystals and coloured stones, and bottles of dried dragon’s blood, powdered herbs and desiccated insects.
When he turned to face the whore, the dwarf held in his arms a fat book bound with leather so old it was cracking and discoloured. He propped it on a stand held ready for it, his eyes gleaming with excitement, and held out his childlike hand for the whore to reluctantly pass him one of her silky black hairs. Just as reluctantly she unbuttoned her dress and drew it down over her arms until she was naked to the waist. He glanced at her, giggled obscenely, and licked his lips. Swaying back and forth, muttering strings of rhymes, he threw pinches from many different bottles and jars into the brass bowl, then waved his hands over it. Foul-smelling smoke billowed up, and he threw the disgusting mixture over the whore’s face and body.
Although she had braced herself for it, she still gagged and choked, wiping her face and torso clean with a look of distaste. The wizard chortled, rocking back and forth still, the feathers on his absurd hat nodding. At last her skin was clean and she held out one imperious hand for the mirror.