The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘“The Faêran will perceive I am by,” said she, “and will try to conceal you in their midst. How shall I know you amongst all those brave and gallant knights of Faêrie?”

  ‘“Lady,” says he, “first let pass the black horses and then let pass the brown. Quickly run to the milk-white steed and pull down the rider. I shall ride on the white steed, nearest to the town, for I was a knight of Erith—they give me that fame. My right hand will be gloved, lady, and the left hand will be bare. My hat shall have a feather in it and combed down shall be my hair. Those are the tokens I give you. I shall be there.”

  ‘“How will they try to foil my purpose?” said she.

  ‘“They will turn me in your arms into a newt or a snake, but hold me fast and fear not, for I am your baby’s father.”

  ‘“I will hold you fast!” said she bravely.

  ‘“Then they will turn me in your arms into a bear and then a roaring lion, but hold me fast as you shall hold our child, and fear me not.”

  ‘“I’ll not be afraid!” she said.

  ‘“Then they will turn me in your arms into a red-hot cauldron of iron, but hold me fast and fear not for I’ll do you no harm.”

  ‘“Their tricks shall not drive me away,” declared she.

  ‘“Then,” said he, “they will turn me in your arms into a burning sword. Throw me into the well-water and I’ll be a naked knight. Cover me with your mantle and keep me out of sight.”

  ‘“I heed all you have said,” she answered him.

  ‘That evening she went alone to the well at the crossroads and hid herself. All was deadly still and silent. The face of the silver moon was the only other face she saw. In the middle of the night, she heard the ringing of bells and bridles, and after the silence of Jack o’ Lantern Eve, she was as glad of that sound as of any lorraly noise. The Faêran Rade came by, riding at a trot. Richly caparisoned they were, and many fair ladies and comely knights rode among them. First the black horses passed by the well, and then the brown. As soon as she saw the white horse, the girl ran and pulled the rider from its back.

  ‘When the Faêran Queen turned and saw what had happened, a storm of gramarye arose. This mortal damsel, Alys, she was no laggard, no milksop. She had heeded well what the enchanted knight had told her and she held him fast throughout all the shapes of horror they put upon him, and when at last she won him she covered him with her mantle.

  ‘Then Queen Leilieln of the Yellow-Flowered Broom spoke in anger, saying: “She that has got this knight has got a stately groom. Woe betide her ill-faur’d face! An ill death may she die! If I had known what now this night I see, I’d have looked him in the eye and turned him to a tree.” So pronouncing this curse, she rode off, with her Faêran company following behind her.

  ‘But Tamlain Conmor wed his victorious sweetheart, and the child that was conceived in the blossomy bower—a traverse between Faerie and the realm of mortals, where numinous roses bloomed, touched by gramarye—that child they named “Rosamonde”.’

  ‘When Rosamond was older,’ said Roxburgh, taking up the tale, ‘with her mother and me she entered the Pendur Sleep beneath Eagle’s Howe.’ His grim features softened when he mentioned his daughter’s name. ‘After we awoke she accompanied us to Angavar’s Court. Rose and Prince Edward spent their childhood together, and a bond of steadfast friendship has grown between them, as doubtless you already know.’

  Indeed, the affection between Edward and Rosamonde was common knowledge at Court, and it was expected that some day they would wed.

  ‘What of Leilieln’s curse?’ asked Ashalind.

  ‘Angavar brushed it aside.’

  ‘A marvellous tale,’ she said. ‘I am now enlightened! But, Thomas, how could your honest tongue evade revealing these stories?’

  ‘Cannily,’ said Ercildoune, with the ghost of a smile. ‘Much as the Faêran and wights are experts at verbally skirting the truth, so have I also become a master of prevarication.’

  ‘And now we are drawn together,’ said Ashalind. ‘Three mortals who have walked there, who have breathed the air of the Realm and gazed upon it.’

  ‘As perhaps we were drawn from the first moment you entered Caermelor,’ said Ercildoune, ‘recognising a fellow traveller in some ineffable way. There is no mortal who can enter the Realm and return unchanged.’

  ‘Shall you rediscover the open Gate?’ asked Roxburgh suddenly. There was a wildness to him as though his warrior’s blood, roused to battle, had not yet cooled.

  Earnestly Ashalind held the Dainnan Chieftain’s gaze.

  ‘I shall do all in my power,’ she said. ‘This I vow.’

  Amid the tents, all talk centred around the wonders that had taken place, not least of which was the sight of the King-Emperor wielding a Faêran sword to fight a Faêran Prince. Angavar commanded the Royal Attriod to inform his captains of the true tale at last, so that it might be passed on to the men. Edward now was of an age to be crowned and take his rightful place on the throne—Angavar’s pledge to James was nearing fulfilment. Word spread like the plague through the Legions: ‘King James is dead, long live King Edward!’

  But many of the men could not fully comprehend what had happened, and thought that the King-Emperor had been slain in the recent battle; thus, in later years, despite the celebrations soon to occur in Caermelor, the truth eventually—inevitably—became reshaped and altered by historical perspective. And the songs made by the bards about the sovereign they loved, about the wise and just reign of the Faêran King, in future years became songs about King James XVI, the sire of Edward.

  Angavar passed sentence upon the defeated chivalry of Raven’s Howe, banishing them indefinitely to the Pendur Sleep beneath the hill. In this he was lenient: high treason was a crime punishable by execution.

  ‘Already you are exiles,’ he said to them, ‘and now you shall remain so, at my pleasure. When we return to the Realm, traitors will not be among us.’

  But while the knights of Raven’s Howe knew only blackest despair, the knights of Eagle’s Howe were jubilant, knowing the time approached when they might regain the Fair Realm at last.

  Not so Ashalind. On silken cushions in the gold tent, she wept with a desolation she could not define. Even Viviana could not comfort her.

  The curtains parted with a faint swish and Angavar was there once more, returned from the Royal Pavilion where he had held council with his commanders and the Attriod.

  ‘Leave us,’ gently he bade the courtier. Viviana withdrew, curtsying awkwardly, overwhelmed.

  Without haste, Ashalind raised her face to the Faêran King. She could not yet look at him quickly—her breath would catch in her throat and choke her wordless until the shock of seeing him had faded.

  ‘What ails thee?’ he asked.

  ‘Grief, it is,’ she admitted. ‘I have found thee, beloved, and that is my greatest happiness, but I feel have lost something I cannot name …’

  For a damsel not yet eighteen, she had witnessed much horror during the Battle of Evernight, and the aftermath of shock lingered. Coming on the heels of all her other travails, it was no wonder such strife had engendered a melancholy mood. As well, she could not help but recall, again and again, the downfall of Prince Morragan.

  On her attainment of freedom, Viviana had relinquished the leaf-ring, returning it to the King. He had worn it since. Now he replaced it on Ashalind’s finger, drying the tears from her face with kisses like the touch of the sun.

  ‘Yea, the loss of such a one as he,’ he affirmed, ‘is a weapon to slay joy.’

  Then he amended, ‘But not forever.’

  It was not in the nature of the Faêran to allow themselves to be touched deeply by sorrow, or for long.

  Ashalind returned to Caermelor with Angavar and Viviana, borne in the Windship Royal D’Armancourt. There, Prince Edward waited. Against his own wishes the Prince had been sequestered at Caermelor, prevented from joining the fighting. As sole heir, his life was too precious to be risked.


  As the Windship plunged out of the smokes surrounding Darke, and her flying keel once more broached the bright, sun-rinsed airs, the goshawk Errantry stooped from high altitudes with a half-dead bird clutched in his talons. He dropped it on the surging deck, where it became the pale and crumpled form of Caitri, lying streaked with blood. Angavar raised her up with his hands and she stood before him, instantly healed but dazed. Ashalind kissed the little girl and held her in her arms.

  ‘Cait, no longer must you serve me, or anyone,’ she said. ‘You and Viviana shall be given your own estates, your own households. Until your affairs can be made ready, I invite you both to remain with me at Caermelor Palace.’

  Even before the Windship approached Caermelor, a troupe of riders on eotaur-back came barrelling out of the clouds, with Prince Edward in the lead. Having received the news from Stormriders, he was eager to greet Angavar and Ashalind upon their triumphant return. Skillfully he steered his steed to alight on the decks, whereupon he dismounted, doffed his helm, knelt and bowed his head.

  ‘Majesty and matchless lady, I do heartily recommend myself to you.’

  Bidding him welcome, Angavar raised the young man to his feet, but as Ashalind looked into Edward’s face she perceived his skin was pale, his cheeks hollow, his eyes shadowed as though he had scarcely slept for weeks, or had suffered some illness.

  ‘I have been sorely troubled, due to your absence,’ he explained, his eyes flicking from Angavar to Ashalind. ‘Mightily glad am I, at your return.’

  His brow was flushed, as if fever burned there, and his chest rose and fell like that of a drowning swimmer.

  ‘Are you hale, Edward?’ Ashalind asked, concerned.

  ‘I am hale,’ he replied, flashing a warm, yet strained smile. ‘This welcome homecoming has made me so.’

  ‘Then let us rejoice!’ said Angavar.

  So it was that she who had been called Butterfly and Lady of the Sorrows and Warrior, now entered again the Royal City. Once, she had entered it alone, in a carriage; once riding on a horse’s back with the King-Emperor, and this time—yan, tan, tethera—she came in a ship of the air, on the arm of a lover to whom only the words of poets might do justice, and all truths were at last revealed.

  Yet their story was not ended.

  On foot and horse, the Legions of Erith departed from Darke and returned to the lands of daylight. Through Namarre they passed, across the Nenian Landbridge and into Eldaraigne. Thence they travelled towards Caermelor to parade through the city in a triumphal procession, before dispersing to their native lands.

  As they marched, they found themselves constantly overtaken by unseen presences which caused the hair to rise on their necks. They were disturbed by flickerings and fittings which disappeared when stared at directly, and by noises in the night and troubling dreams which woke them in a foment of horror. Yet these phenomena were naught but the ebbing of a tide, the return of unseelie wights to their traditional haunts of old—to well, stream and spring, to mine and cavern, to hilltop, mountain and wood, to roofless towers and the forsaken buildings of humankind. Fewer wights returned than had set out, just as fewer soldiers returned to home and hearth, for that is the equation with armies and battles.

  Overhead, vast flocks of birds darkened the soft blue skies of late Teinemis like an unseasonable migration, despite that the lovely waning of Summer was on Erith, wreathing the known lands with flowers tied up in corn-yellow ribbons of sunshine. The legionaries sang as they tramped, and looked up at the flocks wheeling like torn nets of black knotwork, seeing this as a portent of some sort, or perhaps a celebration of their victory, or merely another manifestation of the restlessness in the world about them. For the entire land seemed to have awakened; the rivers and streams purled swifter and more joyously, the winds blew sharp and clear, excitement laced the leafy depths of the forests, the blossoms sprang more vigorously, and wild animals, shedding their timidity, were glimpsed with unprecedented frequency everywhere except near the columns of the travelling armies, whose troops were wont to shoot them for food.

  Summer, the blithe girl with corn-silk hair, gave way to mature, red-haired Autumn and Arvarmis, the Cornmonth. In Caermelor a tumult of rejoicing greeted the Legions. The triumphal procession, showered with flower petals, wended down the main thoroughfare. Amid the celebrations, preparations were set in train for the state funeral of King James, whose remains were to be brought at last from Eagle’s Howe for interment beside his Queen in the Royal Crypt. A ceremonial farewell was held for the two fallen lords of the Royal Attriod, Octarus Ogler of the Stormriders and John Drumdunach of the Royal Guard.

  For nigh on a year, lavish arrangements had been underway for the forthcoming coronation of Edward. At the palace, the Seneschal—who was responsible for the supervision of feasts—worked frantically, by night and by day. The Lord High Chancellor, the Head Steward and others of the Senior Household collaborated. Gifts began to arrive for the Prince, who was to reach his sixteenth birthday on the day of the coronation. Added to this frenzy of activity, the common people were making ready for the imminent Samdain Festival of the Autumn Equinox with its harvest fairs, apple cider, vines, garlands, gourds and cornucopias.

  To the astonishment of the citizens and nobles and courtiers of Caermelor, the gorgeous knights and ladies of Eagle’s Howe went openly among them in high merriment, telling tales and singing songs of the Fair Realm. Borne on a wave of ubiquitous jollity, Ashalind put aside the melancholy induced by witnessing the violence of war, and cast off the ineffable impression of bereavement that had been plaguing her. After the funeral for King James, there were many, many reasons to rejoice. Only kindness, justice, hope, goodwill and love surrounded Ashalind. Laughter rang through the halls of Caermelor Palace and along the streets of the city.

  Sianadh was back at Court, limping ostentatiously due to a leg wound he had received in some mysterious manner (and which had been healed seamlessly by Angavar). He roared and clapped people heartily on the shoulders, broadcasting his bold feats as a Windship captain—which increased in valour with each telling—to all and sundry. Diarmid and Muirne accompanied him, having themselves won glorious reputations in battle. The carlins Ethlinn and Maeve were invited to stay at Court for the celebrations, with Eochaid, Roisin Tuillimh and the carlin’s lad, Tom Coppins, who was always willing to recount the story of how he and the carlin had fled to the well in the woods, and were besieged by wights, before being rescued by the Dainnan.

  Far and wide, Relayers rode sky bearing more invitations to the coronation. Silken Janet Trenowyn arrived at Caermelor with her father, her newfound mother Elasaid, her seven wild, rescued brothers whose hair was as glossy as rooks’ plumage, and a small black rooster sitting upon her shoulder. On her left hand, the smallest of Janet’s fingers was missing.

  ‘Frostbite, me dove,’ she explained unconcernedly to the King-Emperor’s betrothed. ‘T’ fingerlock was freezed.’

  Janet’s garden had become a talking point for miles around Rosedale. It burgeoned luxuriantly and unaccountably. In its fertile soil strange plants sprang, producing the best of fruits and flowers. The insects that flew there were the biggest and most brilliant, attracting colourful songbirds. And the hens that roamed about eating the insects were huge and glossy, each laying at least two eggs per day.

  ‘It was dust from Faêrie that made your garden bloom,’ whispered Ashalind to Janet.

  As for the sons of Trenowyn, for so long had they remained under enchantment that their nature was still influenced by it. Boisterous as rooks they were, rowdy and untame. They did not fit well with the ways of city folk; indeed, these sturdy lads seemed half to belong to the world of eldritch. Like the beauteous Rosamonde of Roxburgh, the childhood of these mortals had been touched by gramarye. They seemed no longer quite human, as if they had more in common with the Faêran, to whom they were greatly attracted. For their part the Fair Ones were as fond of the boys as they were of any wild creatures.

  Some old friends were ab
sent. The death toll from the destruction of Tamhania had been high. Roland Avenel had perished in the sea; his body was never found. Yet somehow, in the exigencies of the storm, he had saved the lives of Annie and Molly Chove, the two maids from Tana. The Wade family, naturally, had survived—theirs was a close tie with the ocean. Georgiana Griffin had sailed out of peril in the company of Master Sevran Shaw. Soon afterwards, they were married.

  With joy and surprise, Ashalind greeted the Caiden family, the fisher-folk who had once lived in the cottage near Huntingtowers. Tavron and Madelinn beamed as she loaded them with gifts. Tansy and Darvon brought the white whippet on a leash. It jumped up and tried to lick Ashalind’s face. Laughing, she gathered the dog into her arms and caressed its ears.

  ‘Your tongue is as wet as it is loving!’ she exclaimed. ‘But the geas is lifted—you cannot wash away my past now, little rascal!’

  A Windship was dispatched to Appleton Thorn. It returned bulging with passengers. Almost the entire village had accepted the once-in-a-lifetime invitation.

  Ironmonger and Wimblesworthy turned up dressed in their brigandines and mail, highly oiled and polished. Bowyer, Cooper, Spider, the new water bailiff, Farrier, the Village Hornblower, the reeve, the village bailiff, the steward, the Keeper of the Keys and the constable all arrived with their families. Betony and Sorrel Arrowsmith were among the passengers, but their brother did not accompany them. There was a new Village Master—he who had been the water bailiff, Falconer by name.

  ‘Galan never came back,’ said Betony sadly. ‘Only his horse returned, with a bit of seaweed tied in its mane.’

  ‘And yet,’ ventured Sorrel, with the air of one who seeks hope in the wastelands of despair, ‘my heart tells me we might well greet him anon.’