by Kim Wilkins
When she opened her eyes again, the rocks were still, the water was red and two bodies floated downstream. Bluebell had another body under her arm, dragging it out of the river. She thrust the raider’s body, limp as a doll, face down on the ground by the river and crouched next to it, searching it.
‘Wait there,’ Ash said to Rose, hurrying down the grassy slope towards her sister.
Bluebell was wet, smeared with blood, and lifted off her helm to cast it aside. She pulled aside the raider’s long, wet hair and revealed a raven tattoo on the back of his neck.
‘Explain this, Ash?’ she said, panting.
‘You want me to touch it?’
Bluebell nodded, sitting back on her haunches.
Ash reached for the raven. She was already sick and aching from the magic, but found opening up again to it was easy. All her inner sight focussed down on the man’s cold skin.
His father had tattooed this on him, in a stone house with a grass roof, north and west and over the sea. Hakon is our king, now. The Crow King, alive and hidden on a birdshit-stained island far from his twin brother, where he drew his followers to him: the hard, the bitter, the cruel. Third sons and murderers and failed farmers. Hakon stirred hate in their hearts, hate for Blicstowe and everyone in it, but especially for the woman who had brought him so low. He sent them out in bands, south, but not to raid: to assassinate Bluebell.
‘The alehouse husband alerted them,’ Ash said. ‘Hakon is alive and he has gold on your head, Bluebell. The Crow King’s followers won’t rest until you’re dead.’
Bluebell sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Fuckers.’ She picked up her sword and touched Ash’s shoulder. ‘I want you two to head for the woods. I’m going to get our horses and my dogs. And I’m going to pay a visit to the alehouse husband. It’s best you don’t see.’
Ash nodded.
‘And tonight,’ Bluebell said with a slight narrowing of her pale eyes, ‘we will talk about what happened.’
‘I don’t know what happened. Not really,’ Ash said.
Bluebell stood, nodded once and strode off.
Bluebell sat on a rock, sharpening her sword. The rhythm of the simple task soothed her. Today she had seen many strange things and she needed to speak to Ash about it. But Ash looked tired and shaken.
They had travelled a long way today, mostly through gloomy yew woods, picking their way over fallen branches on the road: it seemed few people came along this route to and from Bradsey. Except, of course, the raiders who were paying good coin for information on her whereabouts. Assassins. She wasn’t afraid of them, but Bluebell missed her hearthband. Even jumpy Ricbert and mouth-breathing Gytha. Mostly Sighere. People who could wield a blade. They’d emerged from the woods into cleared, stone-scattered land. Nobody could farm here, so Bluebell didn’t understand why the trees had been felled. But there was a steep incline, a rocky overhang, and a perfect place to sleep. Enough shelter to be safe, and a clear view of what was coming from the woods. Bluebell had built the fire and Ash soaked it in fire oil and lit it. The warm glow chased away the shadows under the overhang, but it could do little about the shadows that gathered around Ash in Bluebell’s mind.
She watched as Ash gently cleaned Rose’s wound.
‘Is it feeling any better?’ Ash asked.
‘The stitches sting and my skull still aches.’
‘It was quite a blow,’ Bluebell said, passing the whetstone back and forth over the blade.
Ash touched Rose’s cheek. ‘There, Rosie. All clean. I’ll leave the bandage off it now. Some air might make it heal faster.’
Rose looked up, touched the wound gingerly.
Ash leaned away, but Rose caught her hand. ‘Ash, can you tell me if Rowan’s well?’
Bluebell glanced over. ‘I don’t know that we should be asking her to use her second sight for —’
‘Hush, Bluebell,’ Rose said. ‘I know you ask her to use it often.’
‘Rowan is fine,’ Ash said, quickly. ‘I have no feeling otherwise.’
Bluebell sheathed her sword and shifted closer, so she sat with Ash and Rose on the spread-out blanket. Her eyes returned to Ash’s face. ‘And can you tell me if Ash is well?’ Bluebell asked.
Ash smiled weakly. ‘Yes, I am healthy as a horse,’ she said.
‘But you did something today that frightened you,’ Bluebell said. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what happened.’
Ash took a deep breath. Her slight shoulders heaved upwards, as though warding off a blow. ‘It seems I have some power over nature.’
Rose looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Can you show her?’ Bluebell asked.
Ash shook her head. ‘I won’t do it if I don’t have to. It hurts me. It bruises me from the inside.’
Bluebell’s heart clenched. Ash’s voice seemed so thin, so frightened.
Bluebell turned to Rose. ‘When the raiders were closing on me, Ash saved me. She made the rocks and water move.’ She rubbed her chin with the back of her hand, fighting off the small shiver of uncanniness. ‘I swear for a moment I thought I saw watery hands and fingers.’
‘How is this possible?’ Rose asked.
Ash shrugged. ‘I have ... abilities growing within me. I barely understand them. But today, I was desperate and I called on the elements ...’ She lapsed into silence, staring at her hands.
Bluebell considered Ash in the firelight. Her long dark hair was neatly plaited off her small oval face. She remembered Ash as a child, her bonny sweetness. She never made demands, had tantrums, or said hurtful things out of spite. Her face had barely changed since childhood, but the sunniness was missing from her eyes. ‘You look unhappy,’ she said simply.
Ash nodded. ‘I am unhappy.’
‘Many wouldn’t be, with such ability at their disposal.’
‘I am not in control of it,’ Ash said. ‘I don’t know when the sight will come and when it won’t. If I try to focus it, it bends me as I bend it. I’m frightened by it.’
Bluebell pushed her feet hard into the ground. It bends me as I bend it. What kind of power did her sister possess? For a cold instant, Ash seemed unfamiliar, a chill stranger who belonged to the shadows. But then the feeling passed.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ Rose said. ‘When the Great Mother made you, she made you this way. Nothing that comes from her is wrong; it only seems so until it is understood.’
‘But who can help me understand? The Thriddastowe elders disapprove. Even Byrta was afraid and unsympathetic.’
‘Perhaps Yldra can help you understand,’ Bluebell said. ‘It is probably from her you draw this talent.’
Ash dropped her eyes to the fire. ‘I would give anything for good advice,’ she said.
‘I can only give you a sister’s advice,’ Rose said, ‘and that is to worry less. It will be fine. You will see.’
Ash nodded, but her eyes darted away.
Bluebell shifted her position, her gaze going to the edge of the woods, a mile in the distance. Ash, you know we are being followed, don’t you?’
Ash nodded. ‘Yes. We’ve been followed since we left Sceotley.’
‘It isn’t raiders. I’ve listened to the hoof-falls. Somebody light, somebody alone.’
‘I haven’t been able to focus my mind on it, Bluebell. Whether it’s because I’m tired or because ... the somebody doesn’t want me to focus my mind.’
‘Do you think it’s human?’
Ash spread her palms. ‘I can’t tell. It is horsed, so probably human.’
Rose’s eyes were wide. ‘Are we safe?’
‘I can’t tell,’ Ash said again. ‘I’m sorry.’
Bluebell returned to sharpening her sword. ‘You are safe as long as I still draw breath,’ she said, knowing that, among the undermagicians, sharp steel was not necessarily a ward against danger.
Eighteen
Rowan had finally cried herself inside out and was sleeping in a heap in the middle of the bed. Ivy didn’t da
re move her, in case she woke again and cried some more. She was sick of the sound of the child sobbing. If she was ever forced to bear children, she would farm them out to somebody with much more patience than she had. What irrational little beasts they were, so selfish and one-eyed.
Ivy lurked near the door to their room at the inn. The first day of travel had gone well: no rain, not too many hills and valleys to negotiate. Sighere had said barely a dozen words to her and most of the time she simply pretended he wasn’t there. Rowan had cried the whole way, of course, but as Ivy had no sympathy, the pain was only on her ears, not in her heart.
She ventured out to the landing and peered over the railing. From here, she could see the entranceway to the inn. Men coming and going. She could hear their voices from the alehouse. They laughed and shouted, they talked in low voices, they argued. Men. Dozens and dozens of them. And here she was, stuck in a room with the baby. She imagined herself descending the stairs with her shining fair curls catching the lamplight, her white bosom swelling invitingly from the low front on her gown. How their heads would turn.
Ivy retreated back into her room. It was dimly lit by greasy candles in metal sconces, and smelled of old sweat and damp wool. She wanted to be home. She wanted to be around William Dartwood and ... no, she didn’t. Already, she had grown beyond wanting William Dartwood. Her infatuation with Heath had finished off her desire for anyone back home. But she couldn’t have Heath. The thought made her angry and sad all at once. She’d never much liked any of her sisters, apart from Willow. Ash, she supposed, was kind enough. But Iron-tits was an arrogant thug, and Rose ... well, Rose had Heath. That was reason enough to hate her.
But Ivy would get over Heath. Somehow. It would help if she could get downstairs and flirt with some other men.
A loud knock at the door made Rowan stir.
‘Please, no,’ Ivy said under her breath. She opened the door to see a serving woman there, with a tray of food.
‘Sighere sent food for you and the child,’ she said.
‘Bring it in.’ She looked around. Rowan was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. ‘Are you hungry, child?’
Rowan nodded. She was staring at the serving woman, who was Ærfolc with the typical ginger hair, green eyes, and freckled white skin. Rowan had clearly never seen Ærfolc before.
The woman left and Ivy closed the door and sat on the bed with Rowan to eat.
‘She had orange hair,’ Rowan said.
‘She was Ærfolc. There are small tribes of them around here. You don’t tend to see them in Netelchester or Ælmesse.’
‘What’s Ærfolc?’
‘You don’t know?’
Rowan shook her head, chewing noisily on a piece of cheese. Ivy didn’t want to be bothered making conversation with a three year old, but at least she wasn’t crying for once. ‘Before our people came to Thyrsland, when there were still giants and dragons, the Ærfolc lived here. The first people. They were weak and disorganised and now there aren’t so many left.’ Ivy smiled. ‘They are still weak and disorganised. That’s why they always end up serving us food and cleaning our horses’ hooves.’ Ivy took cruel pleasure in planting the notion in Rowan’s mind. Rose, no doubt, would be horrified. Bluebell doubly so: she and Æthlric ruled on the basis all men were entitled to the same rewards, if they cared to take the same path to achieve them. What a nonsense, especially coming from the mouths of kings.
‘Do they all have orange hair?’
‘Mostly. Some half-breeds have golden hair.’
‘Like Heath?’
Heath. Of course. She hadn’t really noticed. He must be a half-breed. ‘Yes, like Heath.’
‘I like Heath. I wish he could have come instead of Sibhere.’
‘Sighere,’ Ivy corrected her. ‘Yes, I rather wish he could have come, too.’ Though what use it would have been to her, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was better she didn’t see him or think of him again; didn’t put her own body in place of her sister’s when she reimagined that scene in the woods.
And now Rowan was prattling about Heath and riding on his horse and some other incomprehensible childish rambling, when Ivy’s attention suddenly caught on something she was saying.
‘What was that, Rowan?’
‘Mama said Heath is a good friend of our family and he would help me if I’m scared.’
Ivy’s suspicion prickled. ‘Did she, now?’ She was looking at the little girl much closer now. Dark hair and eyes like Rose, like Wengest. But was there an auburn sheen in her hair? Or was that the candlelight? And that dimple in her left cheek, so like the one in Heath’s? And Bluebell’s animosity towards Heath? Could it be?
Ivy smiled. She knew. She didn’t need proof. Rowan was three years old; Heath had told her he’d been away at the border garrison for three years. And in all that time Rose hadn’t fallen pregnant again.
‘Go on, stop talking and eat,’ she said to Rowan, sitting back on the bed to watch her. It felt so good to close her fist around a secret, especially one about Heath.
Just past noon on the third day, Ivy’s mood lifted dramatically. Perhaps it was the sunshine catching on the wings of bugs that skimmed across the flower-dotted meadows and shining on the stained white ruins of a magnificent arch overgrown with vines. Or Rowan’s sweet observations now she had given up on crying. Or the knowledge that within a day, they would be in Wengest’s court and she would finally come to rest for a while.
Rather than camping out overnight, Sighere had brought them to a village in northern Netelchester with a small guesthouse that overlooked the stream and the watermill. Near the edge of the stream, the stable stood, and at the door to the stable, the stable hand stood.
He was her age, with thick dark hair that fell in untidy curls. His hands were clean and strong, and his cheeks were flushed. Most importantly, he noticed her straightaway, offering her a bold smile as she handed him the reins of her horse.
She smiled back, but then Sighere was there, ordering the boy around and waving Ivy and Rowan out of the way. ‘Go inside the guesthouse. Leave this to me.’
Ivy didn’t want to leave it to him and be hidden away from the world again, so she lingered near the stable door, stealing glances at the boy. He would be a good way to purge her unfulfilled desire for Heath.
Then Rowan squealed happily and ran away, directly for the stream, and Ivy had to give chase.
She caught the little girl easily when she stopped to examine a ladybird. Ivy crouched next to her and glanced across the stream to the mill, its wheel turning slowly in the sunstruck water. The long grass waved in the breeze, and a robin sang sweetly in a tree. Ivy realised she was behind the stable here, right about where Sighere and the stable hand were standing talking. She brought Rowan with her, told the child to crawl in the grass to find another ladybird and positioned herself near the shutter to see if she could hear anything.
Sighere, in typical boring fashion, was giving the boy a rundown of the tasks that were expected and how much he’d be paid for them.
‘I can’t find any, Ivy,’ Rowan whined.
‘How about over there?’ Ivy said, waving her away.
A happy shout told Ivy that Rowan had been successful. She strained to hear the voices over Rowan’s chatter. But then, she was rewarded.
‘Who is the lady that travels with you, sir? Your wife?’
Ivy lifted her chin slightly, flattered to be the topic of conversation.
Sighere snorted. ‘Hardly. A friend’s sister.’
‘Tell him I’m a princess,’ Ivy muttered under her breath. ‘Go on.’
‘She’s a pain in the arse,’ Sighere continued. ‘Never stops complaining.’
The stable hand laughed. ‘I feel for you, sir.’
The heat rose up Ivy’s neck and cheeks. She blinked back tears.
Rowan started crying. ‘Ivy, I broked my ladybird!’
Ivy strode away from the stable and grasped Rowan’s arm firmly. The child was trying to wipe pieces of squashed ladybird o
ff her fingers onto her dress. Ivy put her head down and kept moving towards the guesthouse. The sooner this damned journey was over, the better.
The entrance to Folcenham was almost as impressive as the entrance to Blicstowe. Two tall, carved pillars stood either side of the gate, and the road up the hill was paved in pale grey flagstones that rang when the horse’s hooves struck them, but the gate was smaller than Blicstowe’s, the wood darker and the guards’ uniforms a dull grey. It mattered little to Ivy. She had never been so glad to arrive somewhere. She fully intended to stay as long as it took for the memory of the slow, uncomfortable journey to fade. Her arse ached.
Sighere led them to the king’s stables and helped Rowan down as stable hands rushed about to tend their horses. Ivy climbed down and stood a moment, stretching her cramped back and legs. Sighere was barking orders at the stable hands. He was filthy from travel dust and sweat, his long black hair lank. She touched her own hair. It, too, was dirty. How she longed for a hot bath.
Then a booming voice came from behind her.
‘My darling!’
She spun around to see Wengest, arms open. Rowan squealed and ran to him. Ivy watched as he swept her up and crushed her in an embrace. In contrast to all the dull, dirty people in the stables, he was dressed beautifully in a blue tunic, embroidered around the collar and cuffs with gold and red thread, and a dark grey cloak pinned with gold brooches. His beard was trimmed neatly across his square chin, and his dark wavy hair was held back from his face with a gold band. His fine appearance and clean white hands impressed deeply on Ivy.
Wengest put Rowan down long enough to approach Ivy with an outstretched hand. She noticed he wore gold rings on the first three fingers of each hand. ‘I’m sorry, I believe we haven’t met. Who are you that have brought my daughter home safe and where is my wife?’