A Necklace of Souls

by R. L. Stedman

  The slim man rubbed his chin. ‘Fireworks as weapons. Hmm. Hmm. Interesting.’ He smiled suddenly, with a flash of craftsman’s enthusiasm. ‘The idea has possibilities. Oil, for example, burns well. Rockets, falling into oil or pitch. A most flammable combination.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Owein briskly. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Hmm. Yes. My apprentice and two strong men would be sufficient, I think.’

  ‘Owein,’ I said, ‘what do you need of me?’

  He rubbed his hand through his hair, thinking. ‘Can you go and see Mother? She’s beside herself. She blames herself for this.’

  That seemed a little grandiose. ‘Blames herself? Why?’

  ‘You know — she brought the merchant here, and so on.’

  So that was how he’d gotten onto the ferry. The queen had ordered it. At Festival time, when a royal invitation was issued to acrobats, jugglers and minstrels, the Ferryman would hardly even notice another strange party.

  I made my reluctant way across the courtyard, avoiding chickens and urchins. Maids squawked as loudly as the livestock, their arms full of sheets that they’d decided to bring in, as though an army was a raincloud. Here I was, trained in magic and fighting, and I was given the role of babysitting my mother, who never really liked me anyway, and never missed an opportunity to castigate me on my clothing. My clothing. I stopped.

  Upstairs, Nurse was flapping. ‘Oh lady! Oh lady!’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Oh, my lady, we’ll be murdered in our beds. Oh! Oh!’

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed and laughed and sat on the bed and laughed some more. The whole thing seemed unreal; too much had happened too fast. It was madness, I was in a dream, an unending dream, and here was Nurse panicking about the invaders, and here was I worried about my clothing. One of us, I wasn’t sure which, had no sense of priorities.

  ‘My lady?’ Nurse stood looking at me, abruptly returned to normal, her hands on hips. ‘Was it something I said?’

  ‘No!’ I wiped my eyes. I was going crazy. ‘It’s me. Can you help me fix my clothes?’

  ‘Sacred mother!’ she said as she saw the mare’s nest I’d made of my lacings. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please, Nurse dear, can you fix it?’

  ‘Of course, my lady.’ She seemed relieved at being offered a familiar task. ‘Of course. Now stand up, and let’s try and get you dressed.’

  She undid the lacing, muttering at the knots, as I stood in front of the mirror, looking out the window so as to avoid my reflection. There was plenty to stare at. At first glance the road below seemed like a Festival market: animals and carts, women riding on donkeys, children a-skipping along the stones. But no, not like market, for instead of the buzz of excitement that overlaid a market day, the sound was of gloom. As though people were preparing for a funeral. Maybe they were.

  ‘What are they doing?’

  Nurse followed my gaze. ‘Seeking refuge.’

  ‘Oh.’ Of course. The parade ground, the Castle pleasure wood; there was plenty of room and access to water. It was only food that could be a problem. Hence the pigs, snuffling in front, and the sheep, herded by small boys with wooden switches. So many people, all dependent on the Castle. What if it fell?

  Nurse pulled my bodice over my head, turned it around and tucked it back, then laced me up, faster and tighter than I’d been able to do it. She ignored my grunts and requests to loosen it, to allow me to take a deep breath.

  ‘The inner villages, them as can make it here in a few hours, are coming along as fast as may be,’ said Nurse, in grim approval. ‘The northernmost ones are heading for Ladyshead. No, my lady, it’s loose enough. Why, it’s almost falling off you as it is.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ I groaned.

  ‘It will slacken a little through the day.’

  She always said that and it never did. I just got used to it. ‘Alden’s organizing the guards,’ I said.

  She snorted. ‘He thinks he is.’

  ‘The sergeant is then.’

  ‘Aye,’ she nodded in grim satisfaction. ‘Turn around, my lady.’

  My dress looked better, but my hair was still in a state of shock. ‘Nurse,’ I said, and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re a miracle worker.’

  She flushed a deep red. ‘Go to, now, Princess.’ She handed me a rolled-up package and curtsied. ‘Happy birthday, my lady.’

  How could I have forgotten? Torn between a present and my duty to my mother, I hesitated. But I might never have another birthday. Inside was a pile of leather, dyed dull green, the colour of the woods at the end of the summer. I stroked it. It was soft, like the fur of a mouse.

  ‘Thank you, Nurse,’ I said, and she chuckled.

  ‘Why, you’ve not seen what it is yet, lady.’

  I shook it out. ‘Hose! You’ve given me a pair of hose.’

  She laughed again so her belly wobbled, and reached her arms about me, so I felt her soft chest against mine. ‘Aye. Thought, if you were going to be a-wearing of such, they should at least be well made. Well,’ she cleared her throat, ‘best not be standing about. Sit you down here, Princess, and I’ll drag a brush quickly through your hair. Can’t have that Ruth seeing it. Then you’ll be on your way. Lord knows, there’s much to be getting on with.’

  ‘Before I go anywhere,’ I said, ‘I’m going to put these on. Under my skirts,’ I added hastily, as she looked about to hurl the brush at me. ‘No-one will know.’

  In the women’s gallery silken-clad ladies in waiting rushed about like brightly coloured, rustling moths. I’d never liked this place. When I was small, I’d been forced to sit on tightly sprung sofas and listen to women speak in polite accents about small things that meant nothing — the weather, or Martha’s new baby, or the set of a collar. I quickly grew bored. Initially, I’d been a novelty. But novelties, by definition, must be new and entertaining, and seeing my silence and sulky glances, the women grew tired of me and turned from playing with my hair to gossiping about the new guardsmen or the latest fashions. And I, a tiny girl on a large sofa, tried hard to stay awake and interested. Once, I’d given up the struggle and rolled off the settle, landing in a heap on an exotic rug, spoiling Mother’s afternoon.

  Today the roles seemed to be reversed, which seemed a little strange. In the midst of the hubbub was an area of calm, like the eye of the storm, where Mother reclined on a sofa, a hand to her forehead, her hair falling like a black waterfall and her long gown draped in classical lines.

  She must have felt my disapproval for she opened her eyes as I drew near. ‘Oh!’ she said, and closed them again.

  ‘Owein said you were unwell.’

  Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Dana.’

  I curtsied. ‘Is there something I can get you?’

  She sat up, surprisingly fast for one who was ill, and put a hand on my arm. ‘Stay! Is it true?’

  I pulled my hand away. ‘Is what true?’

  ‘They say there is an army coming. Ships, too.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  She sat back against the padded sofa with a groan. ‘I knew it!’

  Without waiting for an invitation, I sat beside her. ‘What did you know?’

  ‘I knew that merchant was a fake! The minute I set eyes on him, I could tell.’ She put her hand on my arm again. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Does it matter what I believe?’

  ‘There’s whispers, rumours, that I invited them in. That I, the queen, am a traitor.’

  I stared at her. ‘No there aren’t. Isn’t. There’s no such rumour.’

  ‘There is, there is.’ She looked about her wildly, as if seeking accusers in the silken crowd.

  ‘You did invite them,’ I said bluntly. ‘But the merchant was real enough; they’d never have got past the Ferryman if they weren’t genuine.’

  ‘That’s true!’ She patted my hand. ‘You’re right! It was the Ferryman. He let them in.�
�

  ‘Mother.’ Was she up to rational argument, or should I just knock her out? ‘You did invite them. You know you did.’

  She sat straight then, eyes wide.

  ‘But,’ I said, ‘you weren’t to know that they weren’t all they claimed to be.’

  She sat silent for a moment, her fingers plucking at my sleeve. ‘Dana,’ she said, ‘you’ve always been my favourite.’

  It was my turn to stare. ‘I have?’

  She nodded, her eyes watering, her mouth twisting. ‘Oh my dear. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Mother, are you sure you’re feeling well?’

  ‘Well, I am a little tired.’

  I helped her to her feet. ‘Maybe you should rest for a while.’

  There was a cascade of curtsies as I helped my mother from the room. ‘God be with you, Lady Dana,’ said one of the women, a blue-eyed, deep-busted blonde who cheated at tennis and cried when she lost.

  I nodded at the sea of faces, seeing the tiny, sidelong glances, low whispers, a fan-hidden titter. Even with an army at our doorstep these women couldn’t avoid speculation over the queen, her daughter, the royal family.

  ‘You had better get to your families, ladies,’ I said clearly and loudly, and there was a sudden, shocked silence. Voices were not raised in here. ‘An army is coming,’ I said. ‘They will be here in one, maybe two days. You must make preparations.’

  They stared at me, as wide-eyed as rabbits. ‘Did you not hear me?’ I said impatiently. ‘All of you. Go!’ It felt strangely exhilarating to face these ancient torturers. Why had I been scared of them? They were nothing but a group of frightened women. Who would be slaughtered in their sleep if they did not prepare.

  A blonde sobbed.

  ‘What are you crying about?’

  ‘Armies are not good to women, Princess,’ one of them said, and also began to sob. ‘Are you not afeared?’

  I stood up straight, even with Mother’s weight dragging on me, and tried to think of the calm of the oak forest, the ancient energy that flung itself joyously from tree to tree.

  ‘Afraid?’ I said, and my voice rang from the rafters like a trumpet calling men to arms. ‘Why should I be afraid? I am a daughter of kings, and I tell you, I do not fear!’ A flash of light shot from my outstretched arm towards the mirrors that lined the room. As I lifted my hand the glass turned golden, flaring as if reflecting the sun. ‘It is these invaders who should fear us.’

  The women stood stock-still like cattle and one of them crossed herself. ‘God be with you, Lady Dana.’

  ‘Now,’ I called, and this time there were no sideways glances, no laughter. ‘Go to my brother Owein, in the courtyard. Tell him you have come to fight.’

  ‘We cannot fight, my lady,’ said the buxom tennis cheat.

  I paused. That was probably true; none of these beautiful butterflies had trained with a sword. But Mother heard me, and roused. ‘Can you not shoot with a bow, Lady Jeddah?’ she said, and there was a rustle, a murmurous agreeing.

  ‘Those of you who can wield a bow can fight,’ I called. ‘Those of you who can strike a ball at tennis, why, can you not use those skills to pitch a flaming brand?’

  There was another murmur.

  ‘Please, madam,’ said an elderly woman, one of those who had picked me up and dusted me down when I’d landed on my face on the floor on that awful afternoon. ‘I cannot use a bow. I cannot play tennis, or any sport. What can I do?’

  I smiled at her. ‘Lady Gerva,’ I said, ‘you have a kind heart. Go to the surgeons. I am sure they will have need of your talents.’

  There was another murmur. ‘And those of you who cannot stand the sight of blood and cannot help on the battlements; you can make bandages, or care for little ones whose mothers are fighting.’

  Was it my imagination, or did some of these partridges look horrified at the idea of doing something useful? There. A defiant crackle of silk and, at the back of the crowd, straight-backed hostility, even a raised fan and a whisper. I lifted my hand and gold flared again in the mirror, flickering like flames.

  ‘Do you want your homeland to burn?’ I said. ‘Unless everyone, everyone, is prepared to help, there will be no more silk, no more music, no more dancing.’ Best not to talk about heads getting cut off. ‘Those who are coming have no mercy. I have seen it in my dreams, and I tell you this: we can defeat them. But we must stand together, and we must fight!’

  I lifted my unencumbered arm high, and the gold in the mirrors arched, a fountain of light that fell on the fireplace, the candles, the chandeliers, and they lit, bursting into flames with a roar, as the women gasped. They cheered, a thin, reedy sound at first, but growing into a great thunder.

  ‘Dana! Lady Dana!’ They turned, swelling out the rear door of the chamber, rigid with fervour. I hoped Owein could find duties for them all.

  ‘Dana,’ said Mother faintly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You did very well, my dear. Very well indeed.’ She stepped away from me, straightening herself as if inserting wires into her spine. She looked me up and down. ‘That dress,’ she said, ‘is beautiful on you. But you look pudgy around the middle.’

  ‘I know, Mother,’ I said, putting my arm about her waist to help her from the room. ‘I’ve put on a bit of weight.’ She gasped. ‘Yes, I know. Terrible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dear,’ she said, as we descended down the stair. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’ll take you to your chamber, and you can rest. And I want to talk to the prisoner. Where is she?’

  ‘In the guard room,’ she said, looking surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘I think she may know something useful.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to my chamber,’ she said. ‘I want to be of use. As you said.’ She patted my cheek. ‘Whoever would have thought? My little Dana setting things alight? Just think how strong you’ll be when you have that necklace.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘What? What did I say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  As we crossed the main courtyard, the atmosphere seemed less panicked, somehow more orderly. The servants moved briskly to their tasks in the kitchen or guardhouse or infirmary. Above, flags cracked in the wind and crows fluttered, calling harshly to one another. They smell armies and fighting and dead bodies, I thought, and shivered. Is that all we really are to them? Food?

  The sunlit morning was hot and humid and smelt of rain. Just visible beyond the battlements were the tops of thunderheads, blue-tipped like the distant mountains. Crammed down here in the courtyard, hemmed in by stone, I felt confined; I longed to climb the towers and watch the storm building. But, no. I, too, had work to do.

  The guardhouse was a hive of activity. A grey-haired veteran called in a deep voice. ‘Bows! I need all the bowmen out here! Quick! On the double!’

  Down the stairs clattered a group of fresh-faced boys, bows in their hands, quivers at their backs. They retreated in confusion as we entered.

  Their commanding officer yelled ‘Come on!’ Catching them staring at us, he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Oh. Sorry, madam, lady.’ He bowed perfunctorily.

  ‘We want to see the prisoner, Captain,’ I said, noting the stripes on his shoulders.

  ‘Ron!’ The boy at the front stepped forward. ‘Take these ladies to the prisoner. Then hurry back, lad. Lots to do.’

  Fatima was housed in a storeroom, a tiny space down a back corridor.

  ‘We didn’t want to put her in the prison cells,’ said Ron in a soft voice. ‘Not after they escaped earlier.’

  In the corridor there were no torches and no windows to the outside. We were in the middle of the walls of the outer keep, and the only light came through small windows in the doors that lined the corridor. I peeped through them, seeing offices, desks cluttered with paper, or weapons piled high and sorted by type: bows, quivers in one, armour in another, swords and knives. At the end of the corridor was an oak door.

  ‘Hello, Frizzer,’ said Ron.
>
  ‘Hello,’ said a dull voice, and looking down I saw another boy seated rather desolately, if the set of his shoulders was any guide, on a stool.

  ‘These ladies have come to see the prisoner,’ said Ron.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Frizzer, staring up at us. ‘No-one in or out, that’s what the Captain said.’

  ‘Frizzer,’ hissed Ron, and nudged him with his toe. ‘It’s the queen! The princess!’

  Frizzer jumped to his feet so fast that the stool fell clattering on the stone floor. ‘Sorry, madam, miss, Your Highnesses. Didn’t recognize you. Too dark.’ He tugged his forelock — a vague lifting of arm and elbow — unlocked the door and motioned us inside.

  Stretched out on a bench under the slit in the stonework that let in light and air, Fatima lay as still as a carven figure on a grave. She seemed not to notice us as we entered, and for a moment I wondered if she’d died, her spirit fading out the narrow slit. No, her chest still rose and fell.

  ‘We’ve come to talk to you.’ I walked towards her. The room was sparsely furnished: a desk, a chair and the low window-bench that she rested on. Dusty, empty shelves lined the stone walls. The place seemed unused, forgotten; no longer an office, not a storehouse. It would be a useful place for archers, though, if the enemy arrived at our gates, for this narrow gap of a window looked directly out over the roadway.

  Fatima lay unmoving, her eyes closed.

  ‘I need to know about the general, the warrior. The one you call TeSin.’

  She opened her eyes, staring up at the wooden ceiling.

  ‘We can’t find him,’ I said. ‘No sign of your husband either. Or the servants. We think they drowned. I don’t think you’ll miss him, though. I know what he did to you.’ I perched beside her on the bench. ‘I saw you in a dream, Fatima. Your husband denied you. Trying for a younger woman, wasn’t he?’

  She looked at me then and I knew she saw me. Then, as though the curtains had gone down on the windows, she blinked again and looked away. She was not going to talk.

  ‘Really, Dana,’ Mother whispered, ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing. She clearly doesn’t understand you.’