Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  Æthlric’s hands started to twitch. Gudrun sat forward, making a soothing noise, stroking his fingers. Bluebell stood and paced towards the window, cracking open the shutter and taking deep breaths. She could bear his long, silent sleeps, but his raving was like needles under her skin. Sometimes he wept: she had never seen her father weep once, not even when her mother had died. She hadn’t even thought it possible he could weep, and it loosened every nerve in her guts to hear it. She gazed out across the square to the hall, watching a sparrow clean its feathers on the corner of a tile. Spring drizzle fell on the tight little buds that covered the hawthorn hedge below the window. Life renewing itself.

  A loud noise from behind drew her attention. Her father was moaning and thrashing now, calling out words with urgent precision. Only they weren’t words; just noises, as though he were commanding an imaginary army of madmen. Gudrun leaned over to touch his hair and he sat up fast and flung his arm out, pushing her off him. She landed in a heap on the floor, crying out. Æthlric kicked off his blankets and rolled out of the bed, shouting and hurling his arms around, making for the door.

  Bluebell was fast on her feet, intercepting him. ‘No, Father, you can’t go out there.’

  He turned to her, eyes blazing, and released a spittle-laden stream of meaningless abuse in her face. He pushed against her, unbalancing her, and reached for the door.

  Bluebell didn’t think. She launched herself at him, grabbed him around the waist and tackled him to the floor. He shouted and lashed out, but she sat astride him, pinning him down, bony knees nailing his arms. ‘Stop it!’ she shouted at him. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  I’m stronger than him. The thought was sudden and piercing. She had brought her own father down. Beneath her, Æthlric went soft. She glanced down. His eyes were fluttering closed.

  ‘Fuck,’ she spat, climbing to her feet. She turned to see Gudrun behind her, her lip split and bleeding. ‘Go and see Byrta,’ she said. ‘She’ll tend to your lip. I’ll get him back in bed.’

  ‘You’ll need help.’

  ‘I don’t need help. I can manage. You’re bleeding on your dress.’

  Gudrun touched her lip, glanced down at Æthlric. ‘I can lift his legs if you —’

  Bluebell leaned over, scooped her sleeping father into her arms, then took him back to his bed. ‘Go and get your lip fixed,’ she said, settling him on the mattress and smoothing the blankets back over him. ‘Take a rest. I can look after him.’

  Gudrun wavered. The dark rings under her eyes told Bluebell she was longing for proper sleep.

  ‘Go,’ she said. ‘I know you don’t like me, but you cannot deny I love him and will care for him well.’

  ‘Very well. I will rest.’

  She didn’t answer. Gudrun slipped out.

  Bluebell dropped her cheek onto Æthlric’s hands, closed her eyes and lay still a long time while her heart slowed. She could hear birds, hooves and wheels, shouting from the marketplace, the clang of the smithy ringing a rhythm. And in the room, her father’s breathing, her breathing, winding together. A memory stirred. She had been sixteen, on her first real campaign with Æthlric; finally he had relented, after she’d begged him for years to be able to see battle. Her mother’s death had unleashed in her a violent restlessness and fighting alongside her father — her lord, her king, the famed Storm Bearer of Blicstowe — was the only thing she could imagine would soothe her. They were stamping out small incursions by some of the lower lords of Netelchester. At the end of the first week of the campaign she became tired. She was barely out of her childhood, still growing an inch a year. Somebody should have noticed she was too tired to fight; perhaps she should have noticed, or at least admitted it. Somehow, she had got herself cut off from the hearthband with three enemies surrounding her. She killed the first while fending off blows from the other two, but her hot heart told her she wouldn’t survive five more breaths.

  And then, he came. Æthlric had seen her, fled his place in the skirmish. She took a blow to the leg, fell to the ground, only to look up and see her father. Death in a whirlwind: his bright sword weightless, two bodies thudding to the blood-soaked grass next to her. And then he was gone, back into the fray, leaving her nursing her bleeding thigh.

  The desire that infused her then was monumental. She wanted to be him, not be like him. This mighty bond with her father was more than love, more than kisses and comfort; indeed she could not remember the last time he had kissed her. It was how she assembled herself. Without him, how would she know how to live, how to rule, how to grow old?

  The door opened, startling her from a near-doze. A little girl’s voice rang out clearly: ‘It smells bad in here.’

  Bluebell leapt to her feet. It was Rose, with Rowan and Heath.

  ‘You’re here,’ she said, crushing Rose in an embrace.

  ‘Enough,’ Rose said, laughing, pushing her away. ‘The oil from your byrnie won’t wash out of this dress.’

  Bluebell crouched to Rowan’s level and grasped the little girl’s upper arm. ‘Your muscles have grown, little chicken.’

  ‘I’m not a chicken,’ Rowan said defiantly. ‘I’m a bear. Roar!’

  Bluebell feigned fright and fell on her backside among the rushes. Rowan shrieked with giggles.

  Bluebell climbed to her feet, dropped her voice and rested a gentle hand on Rowan’s head. ‘I don’t want the little girl in here with Father. He’s unpredictable.’

  Rose turned her eyes to Heath. ‘Could you take Rowan to Byrta?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Bluebell couldn’t bear the soft voices and hot eyes they shared with each other. Did they not know it was obvious they were saying one thing and thinking another? She took a short tone with Heath. ‘Find Ash for us. She’s likely with Byrta, anyway. And then take a room above the alehouse,’ Bluebell added pointedly. ‘Only family will be near the king.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord.’

  ‘I’ll speak with you tomorrow. You can either go home to Folcenham for a few weeks, or straight back up to the garrison. But we don’t need you here any longer.’

  Rose’s eyebrows drew down in annoyance with Bluebell, but she offered Heath a smile. Bluebell returned to Father. She could hear Rowan complaining all the way down the lane.

  A moment later, Rose was kneeling next to her. She and Ash were very alike in some ways — same dark hair and eyes, same pretty smile — but Rose was soft and curvy like their mother, and always wore her hair loose.

  ‘How long has he been like this?’ Rose asked, reaching out for Father’s forehead.

  ‘He’s been ill for over a week, but he’s not always sleeping. He’s often raving.’ Bluebell dropped her voice low. ‘There are matters of extreme urgency to discuss.’

  ‘What matters?’

  ‘Not now.’ Bluebell glanced around. ‘When Ash comes.’ Bluebell returned her gaze to Rose. ‘Are you still cock-charmed by your nephew?’

  ‘He’s not my nephew, he’s my husband’s nephew.’ Even in the dim room, Bluebell could see Rose’s cheeks colour. ‘And, yes, I still love him.’

  ‘After three years apart?’

  Rose’s heavy-lidded eyes grew dark. ‘Yes,’ she said shortly, ‘and if I wasn’t stuck in this arranged marriage with Wengest —’

  ‘You would never have met him,’ Bluebell pointed out quickly.

  ‘You have never loved,’ Rose said.

  ‘And I don’t expect to. That would fuck up just about everything.’ She touched Rose’s hand. ‘I’ve got my mind on Ælmesse’s security, Rosie. Wengest won’t be friends with me if he finds out you’re being poked by his nephew and it will start over again. Skirmishes along the border, quarrels over trade routes. The icemen will hear of it and take advantage of it and then I’ve got a war on my hands. So be a little more careful, won’t you? If the next royal bastard of Netelchester has red hair, you can count on thousands of lives lost.’

  A muscle beside Rose’s mouth twitched. ‘I tried to do the right t
hing, but once I fell in love it wasn’t clear what was right any more.’ She glanced away. ‘You haven’t told anyone, have you?’ she said.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Why would I tell him? He’d be ashamed.’ Bluebell stood and strode to the shutter. Immediately, she felt bad for what she had said, though Rose had given no outward sign of being hurt by it. ‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ she said. ‘We pay a price for our privilege. You’re not a milkmaid, you’re a king’s daughter.’

  ‘Would I were a milkmaid.’

  Bluebell opened her mouth to argue further. Heath would not have looked twice at a milkmaid; he was a king’s nephew and had a high opinion of himself. But she sensed Rose hadn’t the heart for such an argument. Silence fell on the room for a few heartbeats. The light was dim and, Rowan was right, it did smell bad. Yesterday, she’d stoked the fire high and opened the windows to let the fresh spring air in, but still the staleness clung. It made her think of the bad magic Ash had sensed, clinging to his sheets and clothes and hair the way grass seeds clung to the hem of a cloak. Deep in her gut, the fury prickled but she did not let it form. Plenty of time for that, once Father was well. She would find the person who did this. Their fate was rushing towards them even now and it smelled like cold iron and hot blood.

  The door opened. Ash stood there, dark circles drawn deep under her eyes.

  ‘Ash!’ Rose exclaimed, throwing her arms around her sister. They held each other tight a few moments.

  Ash pulled away and smiled weakly. ‘We have much to discuss.’

  ‘Here?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Someone has to stay with Father,’ Bluebell said. ‘He won’t hear us.’

  Ash went to the other side of the bed to sit on Gudrun’s stool. Rose and Bluebell sat across from her. Æthlric slept on between them, oblivious.

  ‘Father is elf-shot,’ Bluebell said. Every time she said it, it burned her afresh. ‘Ash says so.’

  Rose’s eyebrows shot up. ‘But who?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Ash said. ‘It could be anyone. He’s a king, kings make enemies. We mustn’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘But somebody must have been near him to cast a spell on him,’ Bluebell said.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Ash said. ‘It might have come with a package or a messenger.’

  ‘I think we should look to Gudrun,’ Bluebell said, ‘or, at least, we shouldn’t take our eyes off her.’

  Ash shook her head. ‘It’s ridiculous. She loves him.’

  ‘We know nothing about her. She’s —’

  ‘We’ve known her more than three years.’ Rose put her hand on Bluebell’s wrist. ‘You know she’s not capable of killing Father, surely. Examine the facts, Bluebell, not your feelings.’

  Bluebell noticed her heart was thudding at her throat.

  Ash leaned forwards. ‘Bluebell, if you keep too close a watch on Gudrun, you might not see who the real culprit is.’

  Bluebell vowed then not to mention Gudrun again. Nobody would believe her, so she would keep her opinions to herself. She was tired of being treated as a fool.

  ‘In any case,’ Ash continued, ‘who did this to him is not as important as making him well again. Rose, we’re going to move him in the hopes it will dislodge the elf-shot.’

  ‘We’re leaving Dunstan in charge of the city and telling everyone Father and I are going to a King’s hearing on the border,’ Bluebell added. ‘Nobody will miss us for a few weeks.’

  ‘Has Gudrun agreed to this?’

  ‘Gudrun knows nothing,’ Ash said, indicating Bluebell with an upraised palm.

  ‘The only people I trust with the king’s life are my sisters, Dunstan and Byrta,’ Bluebell said. ‘You cannot convince me otherwise.’

  ‘She will worry,’ Rose said. ‘She will fret.’

  ‘We’ll send her word when we’ve arrived safely.’

  ‘Arrived where?’ Rose asked.

  Bluebell and Ash exchanged glances.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Ash said.

  ‘Thriddastowe?’ Rose suggested. ‘There are counsellors there who might understand the magic.’

  Ash was already shaking her head. ‘This isn’t common magic. This is undermagic. Besides ... I’ve sort of run away from study. There will be trouble waiting for me there.’

  Æthlric stirred, his eyeballs skittering behind his eyelids. Bluebell’s body tensed. His hands moved on the blankets and she was about to warn Ash to stand back when he fell limp again, quietly sleeping. The adrenaline in her body, with no action to burn it up, ached along her veins.

  ‘And all the undermagicians are in Bradsey,’ Ash continued.

  ‘Do we know anyone in Bradsey?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know who we can trust,’ Bluebell said. ‘The underfaith is amoral. You can’t predict what they’ll do. And so we are undecided what to do next.’

  They fell to silence, watching Æthlric’s chest rise and fall. Where was his dignity, when his daughters sat around him arguing for his future and he knew nothing of it? What Bluebell wouldn’t give for this not to have happened, to be on the first morning of a campaign with him, riding out by his side on Isern with her weapons rattling against each other.

  ‘I know someone we might be able to take him to,’ Rose said, but she said it slowly, as though she had been thinking it for a long time but was unsure whether she should say anything at all.

  ‘Who?’ Ash asked.

  ‘I think he has a sister.’

  Bluebell thought, at first, she had misheard. ‘He doesn’t have a sister,’ she said.

  ‘He does. I mean, he might.’

  ‘What do you mean, Rose?’ Ash asked.

  Rose twisted her hands together. ‘When I was pregnant with Rowan, I had a sending from a woman who said she was Æthlric’s sister ... an undermagician named Yldra. She tried to warn me Wengest was going to take the trimartyr faith. She was right.’

  ‘Father doesn’t have a sister,’ Bluebell said again. ‘He would have told us. He would have told me.’

  ‘He may have had a reason to keep it secret. I asked him. He was ... evasive.’

  Bluebell was torn between wanting to believe she had an aunt who could possibly cure her father, and not wanting to believe her father had kept such a secret from her. She was angry, but she didn’t know who the anger was directed towards.

  ‘Do you know anything more?’ Ash said. ‘Where she is?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. I know nothing more.’

  ‘But they all live in Bradsey,’ Bluebell said, slowly. ‘They worship out on the plains and they live in the forest caves. Ash, can you reach out with your sight and find this woman?’

  Ash wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘I can try,’ she said.

  ‘Do more than try,’ Bluebell said. All of a sudden she couldn’t bear to be still. She rose and strode from one side of the dim room to the other. ‘We will head north then, the morning after tomorrow.’ She thought about Sabert’s aunt’s flower farm, seventy miles north. Quiet and well away from the road. ‘We can decide where we go next once we’re moving, but we have to get him away from Blicstowe,’ she said. ‘His life depends on it.’

  The night air was cool and soft, and the smell of damp earth and flowers rose up around her. Rose stood in the centre of the garden, looking at the swelling moon and fighting a losing battle with good sense. Rowan was asleep in Byrta’s bed. Bluebell was in discussions with Dunstan. Ash had pleaded a headache and taken herself away somewhere quiet.

  And somewhere in the alehouse, Heath was alone. Tomorrow, he would be gone.

  What was she to do with this turmoil of longing in her body, tugging her in seven directions at once? When she’d seen him once more for the first time in years, it had started again. His long absence had not diminished the weight of desire, but it had dulled the edge of it. Now, though, every moment she lived in two worlds: the real one, and the one built of clouds. She could be eating supper, wiping snot off Rowan’s face, havin
g a conversation with one of her sisters, but in her mind she was bare-skinned with Heath, his mouth against her shoulder, his hands firm and hot on her thighs ...

  Rose made up her mind. The only way to make the turmoil go away was to give herself to him, once. Then she could go back to the blunted yearning she was used to: it was misery, but it didn’t threaten to tear her apart.

  She slipped out of the garden and through the night-time alleyways of Blicstowe. Cold mud squelched underfoot. From inside the wooden buildings, warm firelight glowed, cooking smells brewed. The alehouse was ablaze with lanterns and noise. She opened the front door. The room was smoky and brightly lit. She found the alehouse wife tending to a spitted deer at the hearthpit.

  ‘Princess Rose?’

  Rose swallowed hard on her guilt, opened her mouth to say the words she had rehearsed: I have a message to deliver to the nephew of Netelchester. Which room is he staying in? But the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘How’s that little girl of yours?’ the alehouse wife said with a smile.

  ‘I ... she’s well. She’s strong and growing. Exhausting.’

  ‘Ah, they always are at that age. Might I suggest a little brother or sister will sort her out? That will make her realise she’s not at the centre of the world.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Now, how can I help?’

  There: her womb, always a topic for public speculation. What went on between her legs could never be private, nor secret, nor truly her own. The danger of her situation burned on her lips as she tried to speak. Bluebell’s words came back to her. You can count on thousands of lives lost. One shred of suspicion, passed from someone’s lips to someone else’s ears, and she would have let down her sister, her father, her daughter. The whole kingdom.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she muttered, withdrawing, backing away. Her skin ached as though bruised from the inside.

  She could feel the alehouse wife’s curious eyes on her as she returned outside into the empty dark.

  Nine

  Ivy didn’t much care for travel. She didn’t much care for the smell of horses or carts or the constant bumping or even the pretty countryside. She didn’t want to be heading up the hill towards Blicstowe to see her dying father; she wanted to be back home at her Uncle Robert’s in Fengyrd where she could keep an eye on William Dartwood’s strong, suntanned hands. But here she was, sitting on a fur that did nothing to soften the shuddering bounce of the cart, sucking the last of the flesh from a plum and confined to the company of her sister Willow, who had become duller than a brackish pool since their fifteenth birthday.