Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  ‘Then Rowan would have to defy her father and the alliance would be broken. No, Rose, Wengest needs you to have a son. He wants that more than anything. It solves every problem he has.’

  Rose glanced at Rowan, who was still soundly sleeping. ‘He can’t.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’

  ‘He does not suspect it, though. Do you see? He has Rowan: proof of potency.’ She shook her head. ‘Our speculation is meaningless. Bluebell will have thought of this, I’m sure. She will know what to do.’

  ‘Will she? When I brought her news of Æthlric, she looked to me as though she had never considered it possible he might die.’

  A pang of compassion for her sister. Rose fell silent, turning Heath’s words over in her mind. The weight of her own responsibility was crushing. Other women loved, married, bore children and nobody cared how many or to whom. All her decisions, however, were chained to the fates of kingdoms. She wanted more than anything in that moment to run. She and Heath could bundle up Rowan and disappear into the west. She pulled her horse to a stop. Heath rode a few yards ahead and then returned, reining in his horse and looking at her curiously. The sun was behind him, gold in his hair. His hands were folded across Rowan’s chest protectively. ‘Rose?’

  ‘There are bandits on these roads. Violent bandits. If we were ... if all of us were to disappear, Wengest might never find us. Our horses, perhaps, some of our belongings. But us ... eventually, he would stop looking.’

  Already Heath was shaking his head. In a low voice, he said, ‘You think I have not imagined a thousand times what it would be like to be ...’ he searched for a word, ‘free? But my happiness is not more important than Wengest’s, nor Bluebell’s.’ He glanced down at his daughter’s sleeping head. ‘Nor Rowan’s.’

  Rose felt chastened. Her cheeks flushed and tears pricked her eyes. ‘I am sorry, but ...’

  ‘But the longing is like madness,’ he said, his mouth pulling down at the corners. ‘I know. I have been so far from happiness.’

  She gazed at him, noting how deep the furrow in his brow had become. He had once been a farmer, but then the northern wars had intensified and he had been pressed into military service by Wengest, garrisoned on the freezing border by Bluebell. Duty was as heavy for him as it was for her. Heavier, because for him it smelled like death.

  She risked leaning forward, reaching across the distance between them to touch his cheek. ‘Poor Heath,’ she said. ‘What have you been through?’

  He leaned his cheek into her palm. ‘You cannot imagine the weight, Rose. We train for any situation, but then in battle unpredictable things happen. Dust and blood blur my eyes. In a two-minute skirmish, all can be lost. I have seen ... I could not repeat what I have seen near the ears of a child.’

  How she wanted to hold him, then. Against her heart. She dropped her fingers to Rowan’s dark hair, shining in the sun. ‘She is precious. The most precious thing I have ever owned.’

  ‘And she loves her papa. I will return her to him safely at the end of this sad journey. Come.’ He picked up his reins and turned. ‘We still have a long way to go.’

  Six

  The first glimpse of Blicstowe always filled Bluebell’s heart with fierce pride. Across the newly ploughed fields that smelled of lingering winter damp, and above the fair, bright slopes where wildflowers were starting to bloom, the tall wooden gates with their fine carvings stood firm against the world. Behind the town stood the giant ruins of some other place now fallen into history. Tall, crooked teeth of dirty white stone; the remains of an arch no living man had the knowledge or skill to fix. When the rising sun touched the ruins, they flushed to orange-gold. Beneath them, she could see the high horned gables of her father’s hall, like a pair of mighty arms crossed in defiance of the pale streaky sky.

  With the last of her energy, she booted her horse forwards at a gallop. His hooves churned the muddy ground of the ring-road that led around the back, through the rear gatehouse and to the stables, closer to the family compound so she wouldn’t have to walk through the town. She wasn’t in a mood for greetings. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pounded up the hill and through the gatehouse. She didn’t ride into the stables. She dismounted and let her horse drag its reins. Somebody would find it. She began to run over the wooden boards that led towards the back of the compound, her dogs a few feet behind her, barking happily. Past the back entrance to the hall, and straight to her father’s bower. Then she stopped, her hand on the door. Perhaps he would be inside, sitting up, looking well again, laughing at her for rushing all this way. Or perhaps he would be dead already, laid out pale and cold. A spear of pain. She reached for her sword, unsheathed it and flung the door open.

  In the second before they moved, Bluebell saw two people by her father’s bed: Gudrun and her pompous, oily-skinned physician, Osred, heads bent in urgent discussion. Then they saw Bluebell at the door and jumped apart. Gudrun swallowed a shriek.

  From the corner of her eye, Bluebell could see her father. Not dead yet, but not well. He groaned and writhed; she shielded her heart. She would not look at him while these foreigners were in the room with her.

  Bluebell turned her attention to Osred. ‘You will leave. This room. This town. This kingdom. You will return to where you came from, and you will never speak of your time here.’

  ‘I’m only trying to help. Your father is mortally sick, he —’

  She lifted the point of her blade, balancing its weight so it came to rest gently beneath his chin. His face was reflected and distorted in the welding patterns. ‘I do not repeat myself for anyone,’ she said.

  Osred took a step away from her blade, then took a wide berth around her and out the door. Gudrun remained rooted to the spot, thin hands pressed hard into one another.

  ‘Surprised to see me?’ Bluebell said to Gudrun, keeping her voice low. ‘Expecting your son?’

  ‘Bluebell, I ...’

  ‘Leave me alone with my father.’

  Gudrun set her chin. ‘He’s my husband.’

  ‘He was my father before he was your husband. Get out.’

  ‘He needs me.’

  ‘You don’t know what he needs!’ Bluebell shouted. ‘Get out or I will fucking kill you!’

  Gudrun began to sob, but she scurried out nonetheless, covering her face with her sleeves.

  The door swung shut behind Gudrun. Bluebell sheathed her sword and closed her eyes. Robins twittered outside, the wind played with a loose shutter somewhere in the distance. The room was still, quiet except for his soft moans. Then she turned, opened her eyes.

  ‘Father?’ She sank to her knees beside the bed. His fair, wavy hair was spread out on the pillow, streaked with white. His strong hands lay on top of the covers, clutching and unclutching. She focussed very hard on the gold rings trapped behind his knuckles. Then she dared to look directly at his face. His eyes were fixed on a point above her forehead; they did not see her or know her. He was drawn and grey, his thin lips muttering words that were not words. His proud, straight nose looked too big for his face. She reached for one of his hands. ‘My lord, it’s Bluebell.’

  And then, for a moment’s moment, there was a flash of recognition: a pull of his eyebrows, a pressing together of his lips as though they might form a ‘B’ sound. Warm relief crossed her heart and then went cold as his eyes rolled back and he slumped against his pillow, still now.

  Panic. ‘Father? Father?’ But she could see that his chest still rose and fell. He was asleep.

  Bluebell laid her face against the rough blanket and allowed herself to sob. She tried to remember the worst pain she had ever felt. Once, three mail rings had been driven into the soft flesh of her belly during a skirmish with a band of Wengest’s men, long before the peace deal Rose had secured. Four days and four nights she had sweated with an agonising infection. Yes, that had been painful. Or there was her sixteenth birthday, when she’d commanded a friend to smash her nose to pieces during training. It had seemed an easy way
to avoid a husband. That pain had nearly blinded her. She tried to hold onto either of those memories, to make the agony of this moment diminish. But it did not, and she was both appalled and amazed she could suffer so much without a blow having been struck to her body. Without an enemy she could see or repay.

  But was that true? Was there really no enemy? The image of Gudrun and Osred, heads bent together in conspiracy, flashed into her mind. And the fury began to spark awake in her veins. What kind of illness was this, if not an elf-shot? If not bad magic?

  A sound near the door had her lifting her head, palming away the tears she would allow no living man to see.

  Byrta warily peered in. ‘Bluebell?’

  Bluebell was relieved to see her. ‘Byrta,’ she said quickly,’ I think —’

  Then Byrta pushed open the door and Gudrun stood behind her. Bluebell clamped her mouth shut and climbed to her feet, her hand going to her sword.

  ‘Please be calm, Bluebell,’ Byrta said.

  ‘Don’t tell me to be calm. Ælmesse’s security has depended on me losing my fucking temper. Don’t ask me to drop my weapons and be soft and womanly now, when I have suffered such a great blow to my heart.’ With her free hand she pounded her chest.

  ‘Yes, yes, but our security also depends on you knowing when to keep your head cool.’

  ‘What is wrong with my father, Byrta? In your opinion?’

  ‘A brain sickness of some kind. He raves, then he sleeps. Osred thinks —’

  ‘Osred? Why should we trust him?’

  ‘Because he has seen such an illness before.’

  ‘I believe he has. I believe he knows the illness intimately.’ She fixed a deathly gaze on Gudrun, who shrank behind Byrta. ‘Did you put him up to it?’

  ‘Bluebell, get hold of yourself,’ Byrta said sharply. ‘This is your stepmother. You have flown past reason.’

  Bluebell was trapped in the hot moment, she knew it. She was primed for battle, not diplomacy. She forced the muscles in her arms to relax, released her sword.

  Gudrun stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry I sent for Wylm and not for you. I had need for comfort, and I thought of myself before I thought of you. Read nothing more into it.’

  ‘I do not know I should believe you,’ Bluebell said, refusing to soften. ‘You may stay with my father, but only under watch. I will send Dunstan up here to sit with you.’

  ‘I don’t want that man in the room with us. This is private, this is —’

  ‘He is a king, you fool. There is no “private”,’ Bluebell spat. ‘What happens in here from now on is a matter of state. Should my father die, all of Thyrsland will shudder. Do not think you own him. Ælmesse owns him.’ She turned to Byrta. ‘I will fetch Dunstan. Stay with her until he comes, then meet me at the hall. We need to speak urgently. And get someone to send to Fengyrd for Ivy and Willow. Ash and Rose are already on their way.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Byrta said, ushering Gudrun ahead of her.

  Thrymm and Thræc waited outside the door and pounced on her when she emerged, tails thumping madly. ‘No, you stay here,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back.’ Straightening, she headed towards the stables to retrieve her horse and ride to Dunstan’s farm. Her father’s former second-in-command had traded his shield for a plough after being speared in the thigh by a raider. He had four acres of land at the bottom of the hill and worked his own farm still, despite arthritic joints and half-lameness. He would come quickly and he would do what she asked. The animosity between him and Gudrun was no secret in Blicstowe.

  As she entered the stable, the sunlight was swallowed by wooden walls and the smell of old straw. She saw a figure at the back door, saddling a horse. It was Osred.

  ‘Where is Isern, my lord?’ This was her steward, Tom. He and his father had served her family for twenty years.

  Bluebell, distracted, took her eyes off Osred. ‘Hmm? Oh, he’s back in Æcstede. He’ll be home in a day or so. Did anyone find the horse I brought in about half an hour ago?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Go look for it, will you, Tom? He’ll be wandering behind the hall, still saddled.’

  Tom nodded and slipped out, leaving Bluebell alone in the stable with Osred. Osred was concentrating very hard on saddling his horse, but Bluebell knew he was aware of her presence. She approached him, standing tall. He turned, looked up at her.

  ‘I’m going,’ he said. He was terrified.

  ‘What did you do to my father?’

  ‘I tended to him. But there’s little that can be done —’

  ‘Did you give him an elf-shot?’

  ‘Elf ...? I don’t believe in elf-shots, princess. I’m a physician, not a village witch.’

  ‘Why do you know so much about his illness?’

  ‘I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘I haven’t. It’s mysterious to me. He doesn’t cough, he has no fever. It doesn’t look like illness at all; it looks like bad magic. And that makes me wonder about who administered it.’

  Panic crossed his brow. ‘Surely you don’t think —’

  ‘I do think,’ she said, pressing two fingers against her temple. ‘I do.’

  ‘Princess, I would never —’

  ‘Don’t call me princess,’ she said. ‘I’m not a fucking princess waiting to be married off to a foreign prince. I am the latest in a great line of warrior kings. I will rule this country as my father does, through skill in war and deathless courage. Whatever mad plan Gudrun has, she will not take this kingdom from me, with your help or anyone else’s.’

  He was frozen in front of her. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to kill him so badly it made her brain ache and her thoughts bend and she was losing her grip on reason. He is not armed, Bluebell, and if he is not armed it is murder. Forcing breath into her lungs, stilling her hands.

  ‘I will go,’ he said in a little voice. ‘You will never see me again. I will go immediately.’ In his terror, he did not look like a man who could poison a king. And yet, any overweening weakling like him would be afraid to taste steel. Innocence and desperation looked very much alike.

  ‘You are too dangerous to let go,’ she said. ‘I am sorry.’

  Serpents and birds were carved into the round beams that held up the roof of Æthlric’s hall. Bluebell thoughtfully traced the swirling patterns with her fingers, considering her dirty nails in the half-light. The hall was the largest in Thyrsland at forty yards long and seven wide, big enough for a great feast. But now it was quiet, the mead benches stacked away, the hearthpit cold, the cauldron on its long chain empty, the smell of ash and animal fat lingering in the air. The door opened and a shaft of light fell across the stone floor, then disappeared again as the door swung closed behind Byrta.

  The older woman approached, stopped in front of her with arms folded. ‘Gudrun is terrified of Dunstan.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You are cruel.’

  ‘It’s my job to be cruel.’

  ‘Not to your family.’

  ‘She isn’t my family.’

  Byrta made an exasperated noise. ‘You have never liked her, but she is a good woman. Your father loved her, so she can’t be all bad.’

  ‘Perhaps that was also an enchantment.’

  Byrta narrowed her blue eyes. ‘What do you mean “also”?’

  ‘Father is elf-shot, Byrta. Don’t you see?’

  Byrta’s mouth opened and closed once. Then her soft hand reached out to encircle Bluebell’s wrist. ‘Oh, Bluebell, no. He isn’t elf-shot. He is sick.’

  ‘What kind of sickness is this? I’ve never heard of anything like it.’

  ‘The brain is mysterious, but some say it can block up and fill with pressure, with unpredictable results. I’m almost certain that is what’s happening to your father. But I disagree with Osred that it will be over quickly. I think he will see out the spring with us. There will be plenty of time for you to say goodbye, to grow used to the idea.’

  Bluebell formed a fist with her right hand and pun
ched the pillar. ‘I do not intend to grow used to it. I intend to find somebody who will make him better.’ Osred had denied until blood was shed that he had elf-shot Æthlric, then denied until locked away that he could fix it. A week in a muddy hole in the ground with a festering wound and rats for company might change his mind. But if it didn’t, she would need to find somebody who could cure bad magic.

  Byrta was shaking her head, pity in her eyes.

  Bluebell grew furious. ‘Don’t you look at me like that, old woman.’

  ‘Respect somebody who has had feet in the world longer than you, girl,’ Byrta responded hotly. ‘Your father isn’t elf-shot; he is brainsick. He will die, as do we all. You are familiar enough with death, surely. You don’t fear it like a baby.’

  ‘Pity you if a soul heard you speak to me that way,’ Bluebell muttered. ‘I’m not a child any more.’

  ‘You will always be a child to me. I was the first person who held you, covered in your mother’s blood.’

  Bluebell crossed her arms tight over her body, shoved her hands in her armpits. ‘You are certain it’s not bad magic?’

  ‘I am almost certain.’

  ‘Almost?’

  Byrta shrugged. ‘There is always possibility. But don’t look to Gudrun. Gudrun loves your father.’

  ‘I don’t trust her.’

  ‘You have never trusted her. Are you mad? Do you think she wants to harm your father? Take his throne? Give it to that oily boy she calls her son? She’d no more be able to achieve that than jump to the moon.’

  Bluebell fell silent. Those possibilities did seem remote, now they were voiced.

  She needed her sisters here. She needed Ash.

  ‘Bluebell,’ Byrta said, her voice softening, ‘I know this hurts. But he doesn’t suffer. He doesn’t know who he is, what he has lost. And when the time comes, you shall be our king, as you have been preparing to be your whole life.’

  Bluebell thought about this a while, then said, ‘He recognised me.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘He did, I know it. For a moment, but certainly.’