. . . . .
Richard’s troops received no orders from their king and so were content to limit their patrols to the lowlands around Dublin in an attempt to avoid skirmishes with the rebels. Emboldened by Richard’s unexpected lack of offense, Liam and Art soon harried the English even there.
It had been three weeks since Richard reached Dublin, but he had not left his bedchamber when Nottingham brought unwelcome news. Richard was lying on the floor next to the coffin. The diptych depicting Isabella as the Virgin Mary sprawled broken in the corner. “Why do you disturb Us?” Richard mumbled. He pushed himself up, stood in his disheveled robes, and gazed down upon de Vere’s decaying face.
Without formality Nottingham said, “A messenger just arrived with news that Henry of Bolingbroke has landed in Yorkshire and marched unopposed to London. He is accompanied by Thomas of Arundel.”
Richard looked up, confused. “Henry? Landed?”
“Yes. Of the Lancasters. Remember, you exiled him and Thomas?”
“Unopposed?” Richard’s stance straightened.
“All those lords still loyal to you accompanied you here,” said Nottingham. “Henry’s allies are burning out the last of your vassals in Cheshire. Henry has already petitioned Parliament to name him king. He has imprisoned your heir and the queen.”
“No. No. No. This cannot be happening.” Richard pounded both fists on the edge of the coffin until it tipped off the trestles, spilling de Vere’s body across the floor, causing one if its arms to break off.
An eerie calm settled over Richard. He walked around the broken body to within inches of Nottingham’s face. “Ready Our ships,” he ordered.
“Your Royal Majesty,” said Nottingham, reverting to a formal tone and taking a step back, “we cannot sail against London. Where will we go?”
“Do We still control Wales?” asked Richard.
“Wales? I have no word of fighting in Wales.”
“Well, go find out,” Richard commanded.
. . . . .
Less than two months after he had left in a fury for Ireland, Richard returned to Britain, landing in Wales on July 24. He climbed the sea stairs and walked across the garden and into the back gate of Conwy Castle. His ship was anchored in the estuary. No other ships accompanied it. Previously, upon hearing that Parliament was likely to side with Henry’s claim to the throne, all the loyal lords and knights who had sailed with Richard to Ireland abandoned him and pledged their fealty to Henry in an attempt to keep their stations and their heads. Many had taken ships and slipped off in the night. Nottingham and a few others who still valued their honor had told Richard to his face that they were disavowing him. He had accepted their betrayal with uncharacteristic grace. Now, holed up in Conwy Castle with only two companies of his Cheshire archers, he would await the coming siege. He did not have to wait long.
Five days later sixteen ships arrived flying Henry’s banner. The estuary was blockaded while companies of fighting men disembarked and took the walled port town without resistance. A siege line was set outside the castle’s main gate. Thomas of Arundel’s ship arrived the next morning. After meeting with his captains at the inn that had been conscripted for his headquarters, Thomas retired upstairs to his private chambers.
Jordan and Najia rose in greeting when Thomas entered, slamming the door behind him. “I should have known—no, you should have foreseen that Richard would hole up in Conwy,” fumed Thomas. “We don’t have time for a siege! Every day that Parliament does not finalize Henry’s right to the throne increases the chance that the earls opposing Henry will mount a counteroffensive. They may even try to rescue Richard to use as a puppet. Richard needs to abdicate or be killed—quickly.”
Thomas sank into a chair at the table and poured himself a goblet of wine. “Just before I left London, Henry summoned me. He expressed . . .”—Thomas searched for the right word—“a distaste for further use of your magic. He also told me that the Vatican had offered to recognize him as the true king if he turned you over.”
“Henry was happy enough with our magic while we suppressed the spells and potions of Isabella, but now he plans to betray us?” said Jordan, stiffening. “If we burn, you burn.”
“It’s not yet time to worry. I convinced Henry that you and your woman remain more useful than the Vatican in his quest to be king.” Thomas drained the last of his wine. “Now prove me right.”
Najia leaned over and whispered in Jordan’s ear. They conferred for a moment.
“Thomas, does Richard still trust your word?” Jordan asked.
“Richard knows I’m true to my bond.”
“Then swear to him that no man will harm him if he comes out for a conclave.”
Thomas fetched a sheet of parchment, a quill, and ink from the sideboard and scratched out a letter. “If this works, you’ll both need to return to Ireland as soon as possible, for your own safety as well as mine. Now tell me what we do if Richard comes out for this conclave.”
30
London, England
February 1400
“Have you come to be my valentyne?” asked Richard, breaking into manic laughter as Najia entered his dark, windowless cell in the undercroft of Pontefract Castle, Yorkshire, carrying a torch and a small wooden box. His laughter stumbled to a halt as Najia closed the door and set the torch into a wall bracket.
. . . . .
At the same time, in the grand hall of the Palace of Westminster, London, Chaucer was standing at the podium reading his seven-hundred-line poem: “‘Ye knowe wel how, seynt Valentynes day . . .’” It was one of Chaucer’s favorite days of the year, as it was for much of the English court: February 14. Years earlier he had persuaded the now-usurped Richard to allow him to designate a date to celebrate courtly love. His new king, King Henry IV, was a strong proponent of the emerging English language, going so far as to give his coronation address in English instead of French, the first king to do this in over three centuries, so he had retained Chaucer’s services as Poet to the King, and the holiday had survived.
Chaucer spied yet another couple slipping through a side door of the hall as he continued reading: “‘Ye come for to chese—and flee your way—your makes, as I prik yow with plesaunce . . .’”
“Plesaunce” was one of the hundreds of words he had proudly added to the new English, this one meaning to give pleasure to the senses but without sustenance. Indeed, this was the day when all were liberated from their vows of marriage or betrothal and permitted to seek physical diversion with whomever they chose. For his festival of debauchery, Chaucer had selected the ancient feast day of St. Valentyne—who, in the third century, had given parchment hearts to Christians about to be sent to their death in the arena. Chaucer was looking forward to finishing his reading so he could join the men and women of the court, each with red hearts stashed about their persons. A heart, when offered and accepted, secured a few minutes of passion in one of the many nooks and crannies of the palace.
. . . . .
Richard’s cell stank of rotting straw, the waste bucket in the corner, and Richard’s unwashed body. His robes were mildewed and shabby, and a long chain led from one bloody ankle to a bracket in the wall against which he sat.
As he watched Najia, his thoughts turned to the last time he had seen her, seven months earlier, when Thomas of Arundel had misled him. “Tricky Thomas,” he quipped to himself, and his laughter sputtered out again. He had known he would be able to defend Conwy Castle for months, even with his small force of archers, but Thomas had sent a letter: “I only wish to negotiate your abdication,” Thomas had written. “You know I hold no love for you, but you also know of my unwavering love of Christ, and I swear on the True Cross that no man shall harm you or lay hands on you if you come out for a conclave.”
So he had gone out, dressed in his most regal robes, and this woman—his valentyne—had approached him. He was enraptured by he
r deep eyes and gorgeous swarthy body, a feeling he was not accustomed to with women. She reached out and stroked his neck, sending tingles of excitement down his spine, unexpected and delicious. The tingles grew almost to the point of pain. He had wondered what was happening, until he fell to the ground, conscious but immobile. This woman then bound him and dragged him into an open wagon.
Richard’s laughter turned to sobs. Tears carved tracks down his grimy cheeks.
. . . . .
Najia watched Richard cry. She did not hate him. He was a king and did what kings do—invade and destroy. But he had not invaded Damascus or enslaved her; others had done that. He just needed to disappear in order to protect her new adopted land, the land that had freed her and freed her lover from a slavery he had not even known he was bound by.
Najia squatted down, opened the box, and removed the seven candles it contained, standing them on the stone floor in front of Richard. They were not quite clear, just so pale that the torchlight glowed through them. Richard stopped crying and watched her.
“You were once brilliant and brave,” said Najia. “You once inspired loyalty in many of your lords and fear in the rest. I cannot free your body, but I can free your spirit to fight once more.”
“I will not fight for Henry,” Richard croaked.
“Good. I offer you the chance to fight against the usurper. But you must want that with all your heart. You must be willing to leave your body behind. I cannot work this enchantment without your desire for it.”
Richard regarded her, considering her proposition. “There is nothing I desire more than revenge against Henry, even if I have to get it as a ghost.”
Feeling the truth of his wish, Najia touched her left index finger to the wick of the first candle and said, “Battle.” A stream of light flowed from Richard’s chest into the candle, filling it with red. He looked down at the light and smiled. She touched the second candle and said, “Cunning.” Light streamed from one of his eyes, filling the candle with black. Najia touched each candle down the line in turn. Light flowed from Richard’s other eye, his mouth, stomach, genitals, and finally, his forehead. He did not struggle; he just withered.
Najia placed the candles carefully back in the box. Three were deep red, three were the dusty black of shadows, and one was solid white. She removed the torch from the wall bracket and paused, looking down into Richard’s eyes, which stared back with the peace of indifference, dead eyes in an emaciated corpse.
Jordan was waiting for Najia outside with their horses, still weary from his long, secret journey from Scotland. Najia pressed the box into his hands and leaned in for a kiss, relieved that they had made it this far and that, finally, the end was in sight. They rode back north toward the home of Robert Stewart, illegitimate brother of Robert II, king of Scots. Stewart was known to experiment with enchantments in his duties as Protector of the Kingdom.
. . . . .
After a withered, unidentifiable corpse was discovered in Richard’s cell, speculation became rumor, and soon a story circulated that Richard was alive and well and allied with Scotland. Newly crowned King Henry was determined to subdue Scotland before diverting resources to put down Art’s Irish rebellion, a strategy developed by his trusted adviser Thomas of Arundel—who had quietly received it from Jordan back when they were plotting to usurp Richard’s throne. However, each time Henry’s army seemed about to defeat the Scots, a young knight would ride forth and turn the tide, a knight who seemed to glow with an inner fire, a knight whose fighting skills and innovative battle tactics were reminiscent of a young Richard, when he was whole in body and mind. The knight would not stay long—only so long as a candle might burn—but faith in him kept the Scottish forces energized. The myth that Richard lived would plague Henry throughout his reign, and he would never lead an army back to Ireland.
TWO MONTHS AFTER Najia and Jordan transported candles possessed by the spirit of Richard to Scotland, they departed the port of Stranraer in a chartered boat for the short crossing to the north of Ireland. It was a bright April afternoon; Najia put her arms around Jordan’s waist and kissed his neck, which was salty and wet with spray. Just ahead lay the Irish fishing village of Larne and, beyond that, home.
“Was this our last war, do you think?” she asked. “I’ve missed Ireland, though not our underground cave. It’s time for us to find a true home.”
“So long as it can hold all my books. Do you think my library missed me?”
A brown hawk circled the mast, calling down to them, and then flew toward shore.
Reaching the wharf, they disembarked to find Liam and Rhoswen waiting. Jordan was surprised to find Rhoswen holding an infant. “Yours?” he asked Liam, as Rhoswen let Najia hold the baby.
“Ours,” replied Liam, smiling at Rhoswen.
“He’s beautiful,” said Najia, looking tenderly at the baby now cradled in her arms. “More Sidhe than human, I think.”
“A splash of human blood will surely help him in this increasingly Christian world,” said Rhoswen.
“His name is Lasair. We named him after Brigid; her birth name was Lisir,” added Liam. But the women were not listening. They had wandered off the wharf, cooing and playing with the baby. Jordan stared after Najia, enchanted by the sight of her with a child.
“You don’t have to say it,” said Jordan.
“It’s time you had one of your own.” Liam said it anyway.
“You’re right,” said Jordan. “I’m just waiting on Najia to agree. Perhaps she will now that we don’t need to hide belowground.”
They followed Rhoswen and Najia, Jordan savoring wisps of Irish Ardor. Liam, understanding, walked silently beside him.
“What news of Aisling?” Jordan finally asked. “Are you still checking on her?”
“She hasn’t been seen since Richard’s aborted return.”
. . . . .
In the light of the next full moon, John Cooper was awakened by a pounding on his door. On his doorstep was a dark-skinned woman, who said her name was Najia, claiming to have news of his missing wife. She urged him to grab his ax and follow. Deep in a wood, they joined a Gallowglass and a Sicilian who were already hacking at the tough, dense knot of branches on a strange, dead tree. There was another woman helping who he suspected was a Sidhe. After an hour of intense effort, they were able to pull Aisling’s mangled body out. John gave them the privacy they requested to say their pagan rites over her, but then they avoided his questions, leaving him to bear his wife home alone. Her body was so broken that he did not notice the fresh cut where her heart had been removed.
The priest prohibited John from burying Aisling in consecrated ground before he could even ask, but John knew she would not have found rest there anyway, and he found a beautiful meadow for her grave. He did not delude himself, thinking he had loved her, but he wished her peace in her afterlife, a peace he had never known her to have in this life. It was Deirdre he loved, deliberately forgetting she was not his own daughter.
When his company had been dissolved, the men ordered back to England, he had planned to take her with him. At that time Aisling had long since disappeared, and he thought her dead. However, when the time came to go, he could not bear the thought of parting Deirdre from her homeland, so he had stayed and bought an inn.
Now John stood in the meadow watching a plain coffin being lowered into a hole, while five-year-old Deirdre clutched his pant leg from behind. The gravediggers began shoveling dirt onto Aisling’s coffin, and the mourners—all hired, as Aisling had no friends—tapped a cask and filled their cups. As the ritual toasts to commemorate the dead commenced, a brown hawk landed in the grass behind the group. It stood watching Deirdre until she turned, meeting its eyes. Unnoticed by John, she let go and took a few cautious steps toward the bird. It hopped away. She took quicker steps. It stayed out of reach. Soon they were in the trees.
Deirdre watched as the hawk stretc
hed into a woman. Rhoswen picked up her cloak, which she had left folded on the ground with her other clothes, and wrapped it around herself.
“Were you a real bird?” exclaimed Deirdre.
“Don’t be scared. I am an old acquaintance of your mother.”
“I’m not scared. I know you won’t hurt me.”
“And how do you know that?”
Deirdre drew her shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug. “How’d you become a bird?”
“Did it look like fun?”
Deirdre nodded vigorously. “Show me how to do it.”
“Well, that’s my special skill. It may not be yours,” replied Rhoswen. “Didn’t your mother teach you about such things?”
Deirdre shook her head.
“Would you like to learn what your special skill is?”
“Oh, yes, please. Does everyone have a special skill?”
“No, but you’re not like most girls.”
John’s concerned voice came, calling for Deirdre.
“Whenever a hawk swoops down and brushes against your hair like this . . . follow it. It will be me, and I will teach you. Now, go back to your father.”
Deirdre hesitated.
“Go on.”
Deirdre bounded through the trees toward the funeral and was quickly out of sight.
“Was that really wise?” asked Liam, emerging from the shadows to join Rhoswen as she dressed. “I thought we were meeting here only to pay our respects.”
“Deirdre is carrying great power and has no one to teach her. She’ll need to learn to control it, or it may become a problem for her. Most of Ireland is safe enough again for a witch. Besides, I am sure the Morrígna wants me to watch over her. She conveys the bloodline of the Goddess into the future.”
The Last Days of Magic Page 38