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 sailed 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 brou
ght 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.
. . . . .
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.
“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.
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 37