by Kim Wilkins
Byrta didn’t respond, but Bluebell knew the counsellor believed her self-deluded. Bluebell cared little: she had seen her father’s brow furrow at mention of her name. He wasn’t so far from life as they all believed. And she would bring him back.
After the second night with no sleep, Ash was raw behind the eyes. The journey seemed interminable as the river weaved its winding pattern through fields and forests. She grew used to the smell of the donkeys, she ate the rough chewy bread offered her by the crew, she even managed to raise a smile at their dirty jokes. But she did not sleep. Because every time she veered close to sleep, the dream was waiting. It was inescapable now, she knew. And yet, here she was, still trying to escape it.
She was nodding into her knees, pinching herself awake at dawn on the third day. The clouds had cleared and the sun was fiery orange as it can only be when rising directly over a cloudless horizon. The sail turned black in silhouette in front of the burning sunlight, and Ash’s heart spiked. The colour reminded her of something ... something ...
She stood, hurried to the side of the vessel, grasped the heavy wood with her hands for safety. But it was no use, sleep or no sleep, the dream was coming, roaring down on her ...
Thriddastowe is alive with panic. They rush to the sea, to the rough rocky beach, shouting and crying. The end of everything is here. I am among them, confused, blinking in every direction, crushed on every side by swarming, frantic bodies. They look to the sea, where steam rises in a thin curl. They point and scream. Then the thin curl disappears and a mighty spout of steam shoots up, and the noise grates against my brain like iron against stone. The sea ruptures, a scream tears my throat. Something vast and terrifying is coming. From within the churning ocean rises a great dragon, dark as cinders, cruel hooks tipping its tail, water sheeting off its wings as they spread and black the sky. The people turn and begin to run away, back to the town. I am buffeted by the crowd but stand to watch as the dragon opens its jaws and spews sunbright fire, bloody amber across the crowd. Charred bodies fall.
But I know this fire is intended for me and nobody else. As soon as the dragon sees me, he will leave the others alone. My body is shaking to pieces with the fear. The dragon rises like the sun, mighty and cruel and scorching, and I turn to run with the crowd, before those ancient glassy eyes can see me.
But he will see me, because it is only me he seeks. And I know this as certainly as I know I am breathing.
‘My lady?’
Ash startled back into the world, heart thudding. She became aware of a pain in her hands, looked down and realised she had driven her fingernails into the wood so hard that splinters had shafted up inside them. Her body ached from nape to ankle, as though she had been trampled. In some way, perhaps, she had.
‘Are you well, my lady?’ the donkey trader said to her.
‘I ... I am ...’ Her mouth was dry, her head swam, her ears rang. ‘Not well,’ she said.
‘We’ll have you home within a few hours,’ he said kindly. ‘Come back to your seat. I’m afraid you’ll fall and hit your head.’
She allowed herself to be led back to her seat, took a drink of ale from him. He returned to work and she found herself alone, icy-skinned and terrified. For, certainly, she had seen her own Becoming and it was blighted beyond redemption.
Seven
The weather held and the afternoon was fine and clear as Wylm rode up towards the gatehouse and into Blicstowe. He wasn’t expecting the gatehouse guards to step out in front of him and shout for him to stop.
He reined his horse, skin prickling with irritation. This was Bluebell’s doing, no doubt.
‘The queen sent for me,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see my mother, the queen.’
‘Bluebell said we are to accompany you to the family compound,’ one of the guards said, while the other held his horse firmly around the bridle. ‘Dismount. My friend here will take care of your horse.’
Wylm slid from his saddle. His mouth was dry. Damn his stepsister. One of the guards moved off with his horse, the other held him firmly but respectfully around the upper arm.
‘Please,’ Wylm said, ‘I won’t run. Let me go. Everyone will see and think I’ve committed some crime.’
The guard released him, but did not stand back. ‘Stay close,’ he said.
‘Or what?’ Wylm laughed. ‘Will you kill me?’
The guard didn’t answer, and Wylm resigned himself to the shame of being walked through the main thoroughfare of Blicstowe under guard. He kicked a passing chicken in frustration. It squawked and dashed off, shedding feathers in the mud.
Outside Æthlric’s hall, the guard instructed Wylm to sit on one of the long benches beneath the overhangs and wait. Wylm slumped in the seat petulantly, expecting Bluebell to come and chastise him. Again, his thoughts turned to how things might be if Mother were free of both Æthlric and Bluebell, if he were the king. Nobody would dare treat him as though he were a naughty child. He passed the waiting minutes entertaining this fantasy in detail. Footsteps nearby. He turned; it wasn’t Bluebell, it was his mother with the same gatehouse guard.
‘My son!’ she said, rushing towards him.
He stood and took her in his embrace. She seemed very pale and thin, her normally tidy hair working its way loose of its plaits. ‘Mother,’ he murmured against her hair, ‘are you well?’
‘No, no. I’m not.’ She stood back and looked at him, and her eyes were moist. ‘I’m so glad you’re finally here.’
Wylm looked over her head at the guard. ‘Go on. Leave us be.’
He looked uncertain.
Gudrun turned. ‘Leave us,’ she said. ‘Neither of us are under arrest, are we? Or is unhappiness a crime in Blicstowe?’
The guard inclined his head slightly to the side, then said, ‘I will leave you be, my lady. Remain in the town.’
‘I would not leave my husband’s side,’ Gudrun said. ‘Don’t offend me.’
Wylm waited for him to move off then said, ‘They marched me here like a prisoner.’
‘It is Bluebell,’ Gudrun said. ‘She has gone mad with sorrow.’
‘Bluebell is always mad. She needs no excuse.’ Wylm took her upper arms in his hands gently. ‘Mother, why did you send for me and not her? Who gave you such bad advice?’
‘I took no advice. I wanted you near me, before she came.’ She glanced away, not meeting his eyes. ‘Now she thinks I meant her harm. Æthlric says I will come to love her, but she is a monster. How is a monster to rule a kingdom as important as Ælmesse? Æthlric deserves an heir who people will love, not fear.’
‘She commands a mighty army.’
‘And I am to be impressed? She has done nothing good for me. She has done nothing good for you, either. She sent you away from me, to a remote outpost, probably hoping you’d meet your death.’
Wylm considered telling his mother Bluebell had saved him from death at the hands of the bandit. But he decided not to. Everyone else sang her praises, why should he? ‘Was she cruel to you, Mother?’ he said.
‘She only threatened me at swordpoint! She sent Osred away. She has me under watch in my husband’s bower by that one-eyed monster who calls me “the Twit from Tweoning”.’ She dropped her voice low. ‘I hate myself for being so afraid of her, Wylm. I am soon to be widowed for the second time; I want to be at my husband’s side, to count his breaths. I should be thinking of him, but instead my thoughts are always on her. What will she do to me next? What will she do to me when Æthlric dies? I’ve nowhere to go ...’ She descended into sobs and Wylm pressed her close, shushing against her hair in the same fashion she had comforted him in his childhood. He led her to the long bench to sit and let her cry a while.
‘Where is Bluebell now?’ Wylm asked, when her sobs eased.
‘I don’t know. She hasn’t been near her father since she first arrived. She mustn’t love him. Perhaps she thinks her other business is more important.’ Gudrun snuffled against her sleeve, and gazed up at the sky. ‘Why have I lost two husbands, Wylm? Am I car
eless or unlucky?’
Some childish part in him took offence. ‘You still have me, so perhaps you are neither.’
A shadow fell over them, and Wylm glanced up to see the guard was back.
‘What is it?’ Wylm asked.
‘Queen Gudrun may return to the king’s bower, but you are to accompany me now to lodgings above the alehouse.’
‘On whose orders? Bluebell’s?’
‘Dunstan’s.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No, but we ... ah ...’ He looked sheepish. ‘Nobody can find Bluebell and we can’t let you go free until we’ve spoken to her.’
‘You won’t treat my son like a prisoner!’ Gudrun shrieked, shaking her pale fists. ‘I am your queen.’
‘He’s not a prisoner, my lady. But Bluebell was very clear she wanted to speak with Wylm and ...’ The guard dropped his voice. ‘It is a tense time for Blicstowe. I mean no disrespect, my lady. Your good favour is important to me, too.’
‘But I’m unlikely to cut your head off. Is that what you mean?’
The guard didn’t answer.
Wylm squeezed his mother’s hand. ‘I’ll go, Mother, don’t spare a thought for me. I’m not a prisoner, for all I feel like one.’ He smiled at the guard, but it was his fake smile: the one where he crinkled up the corners of his eyes to feign warmth. Nobody ever picked it for a forgery. ‘Come, my friend, I’ve been travelling all day and I look forward to ale and rest.’
He allowed himself to be led off, glancing back with a wave. His mother seemed very small, sitting by the hall. Bitterness hardened in his heart and its name was Bluebell.
For Bluebell, rage and sorrow, even great happiness, were best expressed physically and that meant one of two things: fighting or fucking. Byrta had strictly forbidden her from the first until her head cooled, so she found herself at Sabert’s house on a millet farm a half-hour’s ride from Blicstowe. She lay on her back on his straw mattress, body still tingling, and watched a spider spinning a web in a dark corner above the roof beams. Sabert lay on his side, running his rough fingers up and down her arm.
‘Is something troubling you?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer him right away. She didn’t feel like talking yet. Sabert had been a friend for many years. He was trustworthy and as stocky as a draughthorse, four inches shorter than her, but it mattered little lying down and the salty, spicy scent of his skin never failed to inflame her desire. Her secrets were locked inside his breast as well as her own, and she knew they were safe there. As safe as she felt now, lying under the warm blanket while a lark sang in the distance and a shiver of breeze muttered in the rowan tree outside the shutter. Her blood slowed and cooled. She let herself be still.
‘It’s my father,’ she said, at last, turning on her side to face him. ‘He’s sick. They think he’s dying.’
Sabert lifted a strand of her fair hair and wound it gently around his fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Bluebell.’
‘He has fits of madness and fits of deathlike sleep. It looks to me like bad magic.’
‘He is a king; he has many enemies.’
Bluebell nodded emphatically. ‘Yes. I suspected Gudrun, but you are right. It could be anyone.’ Stillness evaporated; her stomach knotted with anxiety. ‘I need to find somebody who can fix him. And then I’ll find out who did it to him and make them swallow my blade.’
‘Are you sure he’s not simply ill?’ Sabert said.
‘I’m sure. Byrta argues otherwise, but what if everyone accepts her opinion? Then nobody goes out to look for a cure.’
He didn’t respond, and she took his silence as confirmation he agreed with her. Any shred of self-doubt vanished. She sat up and reached for her clothes. She dressed quickly, pulling pants over her long legs, tying up her gaiters, wriggling back into her shirt, encircling her hips with the familiar weight of her belt and scabbard. Sabert took his time. He was a person who moved at a different pace. Long-held sorrows had stolen any need for haste in his life.
‘Papa?’ A little voice from outside the door.
Bluebell turned to him and smiled weakly. ‘Eni’s back.’
‘He’s a good lad,’ he said, pulling down his shirt over his hard, hairy stomach. ‘But he can only stay busy for a little while collecting sticks. Coming, Eni!’ he called through the door.
Bluebell cracked open the door to the main living area, where Eni waited with a handful of twigs. Eni was Sabert’s son; his mother, Edie, who had been Bluebell’s closest friend in her youth, died eleven years ago giving birth.
‘Hello, Eni,’ she said, taking the twigs from him. ‘What a fine job you’ve done collecting these.’
The boy frowned slightly. He was the image of Sabert, with his thick black hair and florid cheeks.
‘It’s Bluebell.’
‘Papa?’ Eni said, in a quavering voice. The birth had been hard on Eni, also. He had gone too long without breath and now he was blind and simple. Many men would have pressed a folded blanket across his face by now, but Sabert adored his boy and was infinitely gentle with him.
‘Sabert is coming, Eni. He’ll make you some supper,’ Bluebell said. There was always a little guilt, but she knew Eni’s mother would have thought this convenient relationship a great joke. Neither Bluebell nor Sabert had the stomach for love and promises. ‘Here, I have a present for you.’ She knelt in front of him and pulled out of her pocket a gold ring. Her father had given it to her in her youth: it was the dragon insignia of Ælmesse, curling around to grasp its own tail. She had found it last night, back in her old chamber, when she’d moved the dresser against the door in fear of imagined enemies. She placed it in Eni’s hand and his grubby little fingers ran over it carefully.
‘It’s a dragon,’ she said.
‘Dragon,’ he echoed, and she had no idea whether or not he knew what a dragon was or what they were said to look like. He tried to give the ring back, but she refused it.
‘No, it’s for you,’ she said, sliding it onto the index finger of his left hand. She pushed it over his knuckle and it sat firmly enough that she was confident he wouldn’t lose it. ‘It’s too small for me now.’
Sabert emerged from the bedroom and squatted by the hearthpit to stoke the fire, then stood to stroke the boy’s head.
‘Dragon,’ Eni said, holding up his hand.
Sabert considered the ring by the firelight. ‘Very nice.’
‘How has he been?’ Bluebell asked.
‘He was terribly sick this winter,’ Sabert replied, going to the corner to fetch a block of wrapped cheese and a half-loaf of bread. ‘Something got hold of his lungs. He coughed till he was blue. I feared he would die.’ He stopped, ran a hand over his beard. ‘I once thought it would be the best thing for both of us if he died. But when it nearly happened ...’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what will become of us. I hope I outlive him.’
‘Your brother, Seaton, will take him.’
‘Seaton barely speaks to me.’
‘Take heart. Long life is in your family. Your Aunt Lily is eighty or ninety, isn’t she?’
‘Aunt Lily died two months ago,’ he said.
Bluebell winced. ‘Sorry.’
‘I have used up my grief, Bluebell. Don’t feel sorry for me. She left me her farm.’
‘The one up past Stonemantel?’
‘Yes. Remember? We spent the summer up there, you, me and Edie.’
‘Of course. When was that? Twelve years ago?’
‘It must have been. Before you broke your nose.’
‘Before you broke my nose,’ she said. ‘Will you move up there?’
‘No. I’m busy enough with this farm. And she gave most of the land over to flowers in the end. She was mad for them.’
‘It would be nice to take Eni up there. The farmhouse is so big. He might like the flowers. Spring is here.’
Sabert fixed Bluebell in his gaze. ‘He can’t see them.’
‘He can smell them.’
‘It will mea
n nothing to him. It all means nothing to him. It’s not worth uprooting him. Upsetting him.’ He sat on the stool next to the hearth and cut some chunks of cheese with the knife on his belt. Misery lined his face.
Bluebell considered him a while, then said, ‘The child is lucky to have you. Let me help. Come up to live in the town. I’ll find you a nice place, a nurse a few days a week.’
He shook his head. ‘We look after ourselves, Bluebell. We need nobody’s pity or mercy. He can still help on the farm, if only a little. I never stop hoping ...’ He trailed off, shrugged.
I never stop hoping. Bluebell thought of her father. The prickling unease made her restless. ‘I should get back. I’ve sent for Ash and Rose and they will surely be here soon.’
He looked up and raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Don’t stay away so long next time. Remember your old friend has needs.’
She shrugged. ‘Use your right hand. Then your left when your right grows tired.’
‘Good advice, my lord. Give my best to your sisters.’
Bluebell left, closing the door on the smoky little house behind her. The sun was low over the fields, catching the soft green plants. She had been away too long from Blicstowe, from the malcontent that brewed there. But she felt a little better, a little lighter. And once Ash and Rose were here, she’d feel better again. They would believe her, as Sabert had.
Ash’s bones rattled as the cart pulled her up the rutted hill and into Blicstowe. She had been longing for the end of the journey, telling herself she wouldn’t spend another thought worrying until she came to rest. But now the end of the journey was here and her tired brain struggled to comprehend what had to be done next. Father was dying. She had run away from Thriddastowe. Her future was blighted.
First, though, she had to pay the donkey trader. The cart driver waited as she dashed into the alehouse, intending to borrow a few coins from the alehouse wife. Instead, she saw Bluebell sitting in the back corner, elbows on a table, staring into a cup of ale.
Ash approached curiously. ‘Bluebell?’
Bluebell looked up blearily. The recognition flashed and her face transformed into a grin. She leapt to her feet and squashed Ash in her arms. She was all bone and sinew. ‘You’re here!’