“You have my word.”
29
Kellistown, Ireland
July 1398
Dressed in his finest armor, helmet hanging in his hand, de Vere looked out the second-story window and across the scattered houses of Kellistown. All the houses were new, as was this one, the house of a wealthy English wool merchant and the only two-story structure in town. Kellistown, halfway between Waterford and Dublin, had been razed during the invasion and was being rebuilt by the freshly appointed baron of Forth—a land grant to a minor English lord’s son. The new timber-and-plaster buildings showed what English rule could bring to this backward country, de Vere thought, if only Richard would send reinforcements. Mortimer and he had been making the same fruitless demands for the last seven months: for Richard to send more fighting men or money to hire mercenaries. In his last letter, de Vere had pleaded with Richard to return himself with an army.
Art’s annoying hit-and-run raids had grown into a full-blown rebellion. De Vere pressed his lips together and shook his head. Art, who should have drunk himself to death by now, was forcing English-occupied towns and villages to pay black rent, protection money to guarantee against attack.
Well, I prohibited young Baron Forth from paying Kellistown’s black rent, de Vere thought, and today Art will be in for a fatal surprise when he arrives to forcibly collect it. De Vere made a mental inventory of the pikemen on the floor below, the longbowmen hiding in two adjacent houses, and Mortimer waiting with a company of mounted archers in the stables and wool sheds. He felt confident of victory.
There was movement in the distance. Yes, it was Art, and a surprisingly small group of rebels. De Vere’s pulse quickened. Once Art is dead and the rebellion broken, he thought, I’ll return to London. I don’t care if Richard has not sent for me. He is enthralled with that little eight-year-old bitch of a queen. She probably still looks like a boy. Poor, dear Richard, so susceptible to anyone who charms him. I’ll return and win back his heart. That little girl can’t know how to please him the way I do.
De Vere watched Art cautiously approach the outskirts of town. Shouting came from the floor below. He flashed to anger; he had not given the command to attack.
De Vere turned from the window and froze. Liam was behind him. The helmet slipped from de Vere’s hand. He did not hear it land on the floor. The room had become suddenly silent and bright, every detail in sharp focus: the texture of plaster walls, the grain of wood beams, the sharply angled features of the Sidhe woman near the far wall. Why was Liam standing so close, as if he were going to lean in for a kiss? De Vere felt a compulsion to look down. He saw with surprise that Liam’s sword was thrust up under his breastplate. The thought that it must be in his belly wandered through his mind. Fascinated, de Vere watched as Liam withdrew the sword, blood streaming down the groove in the center of the blade. Then pain, as viscous as syrup, flooded up from his gut through his chest, arms, neck, face, head. The stench of his own bowels filled his nostrils. De Vere tried to scream, thought he should be screaming, but he had breath enough only to release a weak groan. He pushed both hands under his breastplate against the wound and took a step past Liam toward the door. His legs failed, and he fell to his knees. He felt Liam grab his hair and pull his head back. De Vere looked into Liam’s eyes and saw no mercy. Terror multiplied the pain. With a surge of desperate strength, he gasped, “Please, no.” Liam’s sword flashed down toward his neck. His pain vanished with the light.
IN LONDON, Richard skipped into his private meeting chamber holding the hand of his newly designated heir, six-year-old Edmund, son of Roger Mortimer. Shortly after marrying Isabella, Richard had changed his will, replacing Roger with Edmund as the next king. Rumor was that when Richard died, Edmund would inherit more than just the throne, that he would also inherit Isabella as his wife and queen.
Queen Isabella, now eight, sat on a miniature replica of the throne, dressed in her royal robe and holding a small scepter, waiting for them. “What are you wearing?” she demanded of Richard.
“Our royal robes, Our sweet queen,” Richard replied, stopping mid-skip.
“You call those royal?” Isabella sneered. “They are not fit for Our husband or the heir. Take them off. All of them.”
Obediently, Richard and Edmund stripped, tossing their clothing into a corner.
“Parchment and paint,” ordered Isabella.
The naked king and boy complied and fetched a stack of parchment and a box containing paint and brushes from a cabinet. She pointed to the floor. “We will describe how a king should dress.” Richard and Edmund plopped down on their stomachs and unpacked the supplies. As Isabella described fanciful robes, they began to paint crude representations of them.
Chaucer threw open the door and rushed in, then halted, embarrassed by what was before him. It was not the first time. “Your Majesties.” Chaucer bowed to Richard, then Isabella. “I bring grave news.”
“Get out,” said Richard. “We are busy.”
“My most sincere apologies, Your Royal Majesty. I must report that Roger Mortimer has been murdered in Ireland,” said Chaucer. “A foul death, little Lord Edmund, to befall such as your beloved father.”
Edmund continued with his painting, the news of his father’s death having no apparent effect. Richard glanced up. “Have de Vere take over as Our lord lieutenant of Ireland.”
“No,” said Isabella firmly to her husband. “We do not—you do not—love de Vere anymore. Send someone else.”
Chaucer inched toward Richard. “Your Royal Majesty, there is more I must report.”
“We are becoming tired,” said Isabella, with a dismissive flick of her tiny hand. “No more news today.”
“De Vere was also killed,” Chaucer blurted out, “by a band of rebels led by Art MacMurrough. He is calling himself high king again.”
Richard ceased painting, a visible tremor running through his body.
“My sweet king, de Vere does not matter to Us,” Isabella said.
Richard crumpled up his parchment, smearing wet paint on his hands, and threw it at Chaucer. He scattered the rest of the parchment pages while letting out a scream. Leaping up, he shouted, “We will kill Art Ourselves! Muster Our armies! Assemble Our ships!” Richard pulled on his clothes.
. . . . .
That night Isabella wrote a letter to her mother. The Grande Sorcière’s reply instructed Isabella to do everything in her powers to delay Richard until she could gain control over more of the English court.
Isabella persuaded Richard to hold extended auditions for minstrels, ostensibly to accompany him back to Ireland. There was also a nationwide competition for a new royal embroiderer, followed by work on a portable diptych depicting the Virgin Mary, a Mary bearing a striking resemblance to Isabella. The need to raise taxes to fund a new army postponed Richard’s departure as well; the Vatican, having already taken firm control of all the monasteries that once belonged to the Irish Church, felt no compulsion to finance another war.
During these months, as Richard’s mind slipped further from his grasp, it also slipped from Isabella’s. So she switched to potions, but they seemed to have no effect. It was as if all her efforts were being countered by some force, some witch or sorcerer whom she could not identify. The other lords and ladies of the Court whom she tried to influence were also strangely resistant to her enchantments. She resorted to gold, and bribed a guard to steal an infant from an orphanage so she could render the child into tallow for a coven candle, which remained unlit.
Finally, desperately needing help and not being able to fulfill the requirements for lighting her candle, Isabella sent an urgent plea for help to her mother. The High Coven dispatched Joanna, the Second Sorcière, to London with her magic flames. But in a sudden rush, in early June 1399, Richard loaded his most loyal lords and knights, led once again by Nottingham—plus his new embroiderer and minstrels—onto a small fleet and sa
iled for Ireland before the witch could arrive.
ART AND LIAM had established their base of operations on a crannog—a man-made island fort—in a marsh outside Kildare. In the small, crowded hall, Rhoswen handed Liam a note from Najia in London: “Richard is on his way without Isabella. Jordan will soon sail for England from the coast of Normandy with Thomas of Arundel and Henry of Bolingbroke. They are joined by a group of disgruntled earls and barons. Their army is small, but Jordan believes it to be sufficient. Stay safe—Richard will have his men hunt for you.”
“This fight is about to become a lot more dangerous,” said Liam, folding the note into a small square and tucking it into his pocket.
“I think it’s time,” said Rhoswen.
“I still disagree.”
“We need Aisling on our side,” she pressed.
“You haven’t seen what she’s become,” Liam said. “She has nothing left to offer us.”
“On the day Aisling rode into the English camp, I foresaw that she still had a role to play,” Rhoswen said. “Trust me in this. There is something she has to do—I don’t know what—for you to succeed with the rebellion.”
“Us, you mean.”
“It related to you.”
“That’s it, no other details?”
“No.”
“And no premonitions since?”
“No,” Rhoswen admitted. “But that one was very strong. It still feels true.”
“All right,” Liam said. “I should at least warn her Richard’s returning, for Deirdre’s sake.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Liam shook his head.
. . . . .
Twilight settled on the trail through one of the last remaining woods in an area still firmly controlled by the English, northwest of Dublin. A pair of grouse broke from an elderberry bush with a flurry of wings. Aisling climbed out of a witch path, brushed the dirt and twigs from her black wool dress, and sauntered down the trail. She came to a cleared area, a stone-walled field where a dozen dairy cows grazed, their udders full in anticipation of the evening milking.
Aisling reached an open hand toward the herd, called out, “Siccata peri,” and half closed her hand while twisting it. A cow let out a woeful maaawwwuer as its udder shriveled. It collapsed, convulsed, and then stilled, its eyes open and its thick tongue lolling out onto the grass.
Aisling laughed. She became aware of a presence and added, “Not like fighting demons, though.”
“No,” said Liam, approaching from behind her.
“No, but it has its charms. You see, the lord next door covets this farmer’s land. With the loss of his cows, he will be forced to sell cheap.”
“Why do you bother with this?”
“For silver, of course.” She pulled out a handful of coins. “Or maybe just because I can. I’m not really sure.” She let the coins slide through her fingers onto the ground.
“Richard’s coming back,” Liam said softly. “I thought you should know. There’ll be more fighting. If he decides that you’re a risk—if he even thinks you might become one—he’ll have you imprisoned or killed. Even Deirdre is in danger.”
Aisling twisted her hand, and a cow lowed in pain and died. “Are you having fun with your little rebellion?”
“Aisling, come away from the English.” He touched her shoulder, but she twitched off his hand. “You don’t have to be the Morrígna or even a priestess. Just come be with your kinsmen.”
“I don’t have kinsmen!” Aisling shrieked. “I am not a Celt, or Sidhe, or even human. I was a Goddess.” She spun to face Liam. “I was a Goddess until you failed me and left me as this half-dead thing. You let Anya die, but then you didn’t let me die.” She turned back to the field. Another cow collapsed.
“I tried to live up to my vows, tried to protect you.”
“Stop watching me. Go fail someone else.”
Liam turned away from her and left.
As soon as he was gone, Aisling thought of all she wished she had said. Kinsmen? How dare he suggest I return with him? Two cows crumpled. She vibrated with frustration. How dare he make any demands of her? No. No, she thought. He cannot leave yet. He must repent for all he did to me. Enraged, she spun and ran down the path, changed her mind and cut through the trees. A vision rose unbidden, of her and Conor gliding through the woods together hunting a stag. She forced it back down.
Approaching the edge of the woods, she spied two Cheshire archers just inside the tree line. In the open beyond, Liam swung up on his horse. She eased behind the men.
“Recognize him?” whispered the first archer.
“Never seen him, and he is not wearing the badge of any lord,” replied the second. “Must be Irish.”
“You know what that means?”
“Target practice.”
“A flagon of ale says mine strikes closest to his heart.”
“Let’s make it two.”
They plucked arrows from their quivers.
Not like this, Aisling thought. Liam can’t die like this.
The archers drew their longbows and aimed for Liam’s back.
Aisling, acting on instinct, thrust out her hands, and the bowstrings disintegrated, the bows snapped forward with a loud thwack, and the men stumbled with the sudden release. Aisling leaped forward and broke the neck of one with a touch, the back of the other. A feeling of exhilaration rushed in along with another memory, a memory of her and Conor fighting Woodwose. As the surviving archer struggled on the ground, Liam disappeared over a hill, unaware that Aisling had saved his life.
“I like killing men more than cows,” she said to the archer who was trying to drag himself away. “Makes me feel a bit more vital. Or was it saving that miscreant’s life? Better check. How did I kill that one Woodwose?” She brushed her hand across the archer’s back, and his heart jerked to a stop. Aisling tried to suppress her laugh, yet a snicker forced its way out.
“Sorry,” she said to the dead man, “but that felt . . . right. I was trained to be a warrior, you know, born to it. Better than selling spells. People are always wanting one to bring a disfiguring goiter to a rival. What use is that? Doesn’t make me feel like this.”
She paused. What am I saying? she thought, and she leaned against a tree, sighing heavily. What did I just do? My darkness is leaching away the last of my will. Too often I don’t recognize my actions as my own anymore. To her surprise she found herself contemplating joining the rebellion. Might it give her a purpose that she could hold on to while she still had some access to her old self remaining? Killing brought its own power—the corpses at her feet reminded her of that. Could she use it to channel her darkness into a different outcome? At the thought of rejoining the Celts, fear rose in her throat, tasting of bile. No, I cannot do that, not reconcile with them, not yet, she thought. She had to protect Deirdre above all else.
She looked at the dead archers and made a decision. She would work from within and attack the English when their backs were turned, as with these two, or in the night. First she would have to hide Deirdre somewhere away from the English and the Celts. Liam would help with that. Even if they were not reconciled, he was that type of man. She hurried toward the witch path, anxious to make a start before she changed her mind.
She was about to climb in when her dress snagged on a low tree branch. She tugged at it. Another branch coiled around her arm. She tried to pull free. A tangle of branches and twigs wrapped around her and pulled her against a fragmented trunk, each branch a composite of bits of wood, the whole thing resembling a haphazard puzzle. She cast a spell, shattering a number of limbs. They quickly reassembled and reconnected with the tree, drawing her in tighter.
“You will not escape,” said a Skeaghshee appearing from behind the tree.
“What do you want?” Aisling demanded.
“To fulfill my king’
s last wish. I constructed this tree from broken pieces of those felled by the English. I animated it by releasing the latent hate each shard bore from the Skeaghshee who died with it. Then I bribed that farmer to hire you, so you would come through this path.”
“Order this tree to release me or I’ll burn you where you stand. You don’t have the power to bind my enchantments.”
“None can stop what has started. This tree wants nothing more, and nothing less, than your death. And it will have it. I am the last of my clan. This was my last task. I go now to the After Lands.” The Skeaghshee pulled a dagger and slit his own throat.
Aisling cast enchantment after enchantment. Branches broke and reformed, flashed to ash and regenerated, each time tightening their grip upon her. She abandoned that tactic. “Please,” she pleaded with the tree, her breath labored. “Please. I have decided to fight the English, those that hurt you. Give me one more chance to help your land. Help our land. Please.”
The tree was pitiless. It closed its branches around her, crushing her. She attempted to send out a call through the Ardor, but the tree was drawing all in the area into itself. The limbs squeezed, and she felt a rib crack. She tried to cry for help, but it came out as a gasp: “Liam . . .”
UPON ARRIVING at Dublin Castle, Richard immediately ordered de Vere’s body brought to his bedchamber. Members of the VRS League carried the coffin up from the cellar and placed it on two trestles in the center of the room.
“Remove the lid,” Richard ordered. “Now get out. Get out! Get out!” The exorcists retreated from Richard’s flailing arms and out the door. He stooped over the coffin and stared at his old lover. How could he have forgotten this man? How could he have left him here?
One of de Vere’s cheeks was mostly gone, revealing emaciated muscles and black teeth. Despite the cold of the cellar and the best efforts of the VRS League, without Orsini’s knowledge of the Egyptian method to preserve the dead, de Vere’s body had begun to rot. Richard pulled off his gold ring and placed it on de Vere’s finger, carefully positioning the withered hand so the ring would not slide off. Then he kissed what was left of de Vere’s lips.
The Last Days of Magic Page 37