by Alex Dylan
Heughan recoiled at the inky depths of her fear-exploded pupils. She looked at him and through him, and in that instance, he stared directly into the infinity of her naked soul. Fire incinerated his heart in a burst of searing flame and sucked every scrap of air from his chest; he couldn’t breathe, he was dying with her, suffocating in her agony. He heaved to suck air into his lungs, gasping and retching with great pitching spasms.
Melisande stared into Heughan’s eyes and saw her own face looking back from beneath the stormy sea. She saw the tidal bore rise grey and massive, felt the drowning fear, heard the bubbling rush of the incoming wave. She plunged into fathomless deep, her lungs filling with water and burning as she suffocated. The roar in her ears was intense, she could hear nothing else. She felt herself flailing, panicking and struggling to regain control.
She blinked and the connection between them broke. Heughan doubled over, winded. Melisande gasped and lurched forwards onto the coals.
The crowd held its breath. A sudden spurt flared from the edges and frightened them all into a collective sigh. Melisande held her head high and looked beyond. She saw the sea through Heughan’s eyes, the immense cold depths and massive waves which contracted and expanded in lurching rolls.
‘I am water,’ she told herself and took another step.
Flame hissed and spat in front of her. ‘Water quenches fire.’ Another step. ‘Water finds its own path.’ And another.
‘Water is patient. Water is relentless. Water consumes. Water is infinite. Water transmutes.’
On and on. She recited the alchemical litany, concentrating her whole essence into calm recollection. She watched herself turn the cards with Airlie; Temperance, the angel contained within the golden disc illuminating the water’s path, the same symbol marking the faerie gold.
The crowd and the fire vanished. In their place were the everlasting rays of a sunrise over the dawn sea, illuminating a fluid pathway across a fiery horizon. Melisande followed the light over the water, towards the infinite, which stretched away from her, striding onwards like a queen to meet the blazing glory of the sun’s majesty.
Long after she crossed the trench, Melisande kept moving onwards. The guards holding back the crowd were awed by her and parted. Melisande strode through the channel between the hushed and the cowed until she reached Mark A’Court, cloistered with his coven of black-robed priests. She stopped in front of them, swaying on her heels uncertainly. She did not kneel. Her small voice was clear and carried over the crowd.
“My Lord Constable, Lord Bishop, noble lords, you have come to these Debatable Lands, where you would impose both divine order and the law of the land. I am opposed to neither. Yet those who would see me harmed recognise neither god nor man.”
She heard Ross roar with indignation and was gratified that Mark A’Court held up a hand to command swift silence to his protest. She chose her next words carefully, “These people, their lives,” she gestured with open arms to the crowds around her, “Any sovereign who would have our fealty must needs find a different way to rule, for we are Scottish if forced, English at will and reivers by grace of blood.”
She paused, clasped her hands in front of her and tried hard to look penitent, aware now that she was pleading not just for herself. “I have heard the Bible, my lords, and I ask your leave to speak with you of Deuteronomy.”
Mark’s green cats’ eyes narrowed. “I am surprised that you should have to speak for yourself at all, my lady. I fear you are missing your protector today. Brother Vincent steered you away from the flames once before. What a shame that he could not have found his voice before now and spared you all of this distastefulness. Truly, it’s hard to find a good man when you need one.”
When Melisande made no reply, Mark sighed with exasperation and wafted his gloved hand at her. “Oh very well, I will tolerate your usurpation today, but make it brief. I haven’t yet breakfasted. Don’t spoil it for me.”
Melisande found her voice and quoted in ringing tones,
“When you come into the land that the Lord your God is giving you, you shall not learn to follow the abominable practices of those nations. There shall not be found among you anyone who burns his son or his daughter as an offering.”
Mark A’Court looked sharply at her and pulled at his small ginger beard. “Daughter, you do not burn. Clearly,” he said waspishly.
He shushed the hissing priests and deliberated carefully, bouncing his steepled, long fingers together in a gesture that could have been interpreted as applause or a prayer. Finally, he made up his mind and turned to address his carrion flock.
“What say you, my lords? We are reminded, are we not, of how the angel of the Lord guided Meshach, Shadrach and Abednego through the flames to deliverance even as he guided this woman?”
All eyes turned to the bishop, who nodded hesitant agreement.
Mark A’ Court twisted his mouth in his sly smile and addressed the multitudes. “This city and its people belong to the king. It is to the king that you must prove your loyalty and convince him of your intent to abide lawfully. Return to your lives and go about your business peacefully. Do not allow yourselves to be led astray by seditious rumour.” He muttered something to the bishop, who thinned his lips to speak.
“I find no evidence of witchcraft and, therefore, pronounce that, in the presence of all witnesses gathered here today, Almighty God has judged this woman innocent of all charges. May the blessing of the one true god, God the Father, Jesus Christ his only Son and the Power of the Holy Ghost be upon you,” he said making the sign of the cross over her in dismissal. There was a collapsing rustle as though a thousand flower petals had been blown to the ground, as the crowd knelt and blessed themselves. Melisande alone remained standing.
Mark narrowed his eyes at her. “Heaven keep you, lady. Hell has no use for you today,” he said softly, “but I have not yet finished with you.” He turned on his heel and strode decisively away.
The bishop sketched a curt benediction to her, before following Mark A’Court, eager to seek a civilized meal in better company.
Melisande paid him no heed. She found herself alone in the centre of a vortex, which swirled around her, yet did not touch her. Shimmering walls of water rose all around, spinning higher and higher. She heard muffled voices gurgle, saw blurred faces through the shifting curtain of the whirlpool but the features were indistinct and she recognised no one. She briefly glimpsed Heughan mouthing at her, felt tears course silently down her face and stretched out her hand to him. Heughan snatched at her fingers, barely reaching them as the blackness took her and she crumpled.
Ross saw her swoon into Heughan’s arms and snorted with barely concealed disgust. In spite of Mark A’Court’s pronouncements, Ross couldn’t help but feel that God had not been quite awake and most certainly not paying attention. He was still of the opinion that a good bonfire would have been a deal more efficacious and produced a much more satisfactory outcome. He stumped back to the Castle in a black mood, yelling to Jon O’ the Ward for a cooked breakfast and strong ale.
Phillice embroidered in nervous silence as he ripped his food apart, eating in angry, snapping mouthfuls. Melisande had always been her intermediary when dealing with Ross, and Phillice missed the reassurance of the older woman’s calming presence. She coloured to think that her testimony had played a part in causing Melisande’s tribulations. Phillice had watched the drama played out from a distance. She had seen Heughan carry Melisande to a large roan and watched him spirit her away, cradled in his arms. She sighed breathily. It was all so romantic; the very stuff of troubadour songs.
Ross banged his tankard hard on the table, jolting her out of reverie, and looked up at her sharply. “What are you groaning about, wife?”
Phillice blushed ingenuously. She had no illusions as to Ross’s manners but thinking of Melisande embolden her and she said, “I was wondering where Melisande will go with her knight.”
“What?” Ross was incredulous. “Where the bloody hell
d’ya think she’s going to go? This is all the home she’s got. She’ll be back.” He resumed his eating.
Phillice coloured again, unaccustomed to defying Ross. “I saw her ride away with that young nobleman, the one who came with the Spaniard for the May Day celebrations.” She giggled at the memory of Heughan and Melisande flirting with each other as they had danced together.
Ross sucked ale through his teeth and made a snorting noise of disagreement. “Heughan the Hawk’s no bloody nobleman. He’s a nameless man, lordless even among the reivers.”
Phillice frowned. “I thought his name was Heughan Corwin…”
Ross barked a laugh. “Corwin’s not a name. It’s his profession. It’s what they call crows hereabouts, you daft biddy. Reivers are all crows who feed on carrion, picking over the bones of the dead for a tasty morsel.”
“Then why does he have a hawk as his coat of arms?”
Ross ripped his lips apart with a sneer. “You think a flapping bird painted on his armour makes him noble? Open your silly eyes, girl, or you’re not fit to be called the wife of the Lord Warden. Most of the families are connected to someone with a title on one or other side of the border. Every damn reiver has his own sigil. It just marks them out for the bastards they are.”
Phillice looked at him with her mouth agape. “Oh,” she said. “Well, in that case, he should have drawn it better; a hawk that’s only got one good wing and a beak looking more like a crow’s…” she stabbed at some stitches.
All Ross knew of Heughan was what others whispered about his reputation. As far as he knew, Heughan was Borders born and bred. He rubbed his forehead with one spade of a hand, trying to latch on to a memory. Something Phillice had seen, something she had noticed was irking him.
“What made you think Heughan Corwin’s a nobleman?” he asked out loud.
Phillice hesitated, concerned that her next answer would anger Ross into one of his legendary rampages. She didn’t like him when his temper was roused. She lowered her head in cowed submission, pre-empting the need to apologize, and looked at him with large violet eyes. She knew Ross didn’t care for the niceties of court customs and manners; there was no place for finesse in the rough Borders. Yet Phillice had been raised to be a lady of the court and she hankered for some refinements.
“How many reivers can dance the Volta?” she said quietly.
Ross guzzled more food and harrumphed like a horse. “That bloody stupid jumping dance? What’s that prove?”
Phillice stared at him open-mouthed, wondering where exactly her ruffian of a husband had spent his time. “Can you dance it?” she challenged.
Ross was shocked at her outburst, “No, but so what?”
“It was the queen’s favourite dance,” Phillice sighed dreamily. “She made all her gallants learn it, and all her ladies too,” she giggled. “Even Sir Walter Ralegh… a noble dancer.”
“That old pirate will end up in the Tower of London with only the ravens for company, you mark my words. Aye, and Heughan Corwin too. That’ll be good – a crow in with the ravens! Noble? My arse! Just another bastard’s whoreson with a borrowed coat of arms that doesn’t belong to him…” Ross interrupted.
Phillice closed her eyes and covered her ears against his colourful oaths. She waited until Ross stopped cursing before she peeked between her fingers. Ross was staring at her slack-jawed.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“Bastards! Bloody crows and ravens!” said Ross. “I know who he is.”
* * *
Mark A’Court was at the table with a few guests enjoying a dish of smoked eel and coddled eggs in the refined surroundings of Rose Castle when Ross Middlemore pushed past the steward and ushers desperately trying to keep him back.
“What is the meaning of this unseemly interruption?” demanded Mark A’Court. Rising from the table, he stalked down the room towards the door.
The steward and ushers bent themselves in half by way of an apology. From somewhere in the region of his hose, the steward mumbled, “Your forgiveness, my Lord Constable, but Lord Middlemore was most insistent.”
Mark perused Ross curiously and waved the stewards to serve him with wine. He didn’t invite Ross to partake. He waited until the steward had refilled his goblet and then dismissed the servants. He sipped the wine appreciatively, watching Ross seethe with impatience and enjoying making him wait. The man was finally learning. He might yet bring him to heel. Mark put an arm round Ross and steered him away from the other guests.
“Middlemore, please don’t tell me that you have followed me all the way here to give me indigestion and then claim Lady Melisande bewitched my stomach. This really has to stop. God made his judgement and the book is closed.”
“Aye, well that’s precisely what I have come about,” said Ross truculently. “That bloody book you’re so keen to get your hands on.”
“Really?” replied Mark A’Court thoughtfully. “You presume to know the extent of my interests, Middlemore? A lesser man might find that over familiar. Why don’t you try to explain yourself and I, in return, will try not to be irritated by your inappropriate conceit?”
Ross glowered and swallowed hard, fighting to keep his temper under control. Mark A’Court smirked to himself as he dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth with a fine linen napkin, never once taking his eyes off Ross.
“Heughan came to see me last night,” Ross began in a rush.
Mark raised one eyebrow, inviting comment. Ross hesitated, battling with his ego as he tried to invent a plausible explanation for Mark’s benefit. He gave up and settled on the unvarnished truth.
“He ambushed me. He wanted to exchange Melisande for a certain book of hers that he had in his possession,” Ross put up a hand, anticipating Mark’s response.
“I didn’t want to bother you unnecessarily. I checked with him to make sure it was what you were looking for. All I read was old heresy once considered treasonable. When I said as much to Heughan, he seemed surprised,” Ross paraphrased. “He had nothing to offer me and he left.”
“So he had nothing else to bargain with?” Mark asked astutely. “Come, come, Ambrose, with what were you expecting him to buy Melisande’s freedom, hmmmm?”
Ross coloured guiltily. “Gold,” he mumbled.
“Gold, eh,” said Mark, his interest piqued. He indicated two chairs by the window, where they could sit.
“Aye, Spanish stuff. It turns up from time to time. That damned Spaniard knew a lot more than he ever said about the treasure from the Armada.”
“So it was Don Rodrigues who offered you gold?” queried Mark.
Ross shook his head, “No it was Melisande herself.”
“And how did Lady Melisande know where to find the gold?” wondered Mark.
Ross frowned, trying to recall their encounter. He hoped the Lord Constable couldn’t read his thoughts because all he could really remember of that night was the feel of Melisande’s buttocks and the taste of her breasts, how she had aroused him, hitting her had felt so good, and then distracted him with the promise of gold. He rummaged for the coins she had given him and which he carried with him constantly as a marker for her debt. He thrust them in front of Mark A’Court, who took them carefully.
“Most unusual,” he said. Ross heard the bounce in his voice and looked more closely. “Where did Lady Melisande get a Spanish doubloon?” Mark asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” Ross admitted. “She told me it was a luck penny, for protection.”
“Protection? Like the black rent the reivers collect? Did she collect it or was it given to her?”
“It could be that she found it somewhere. There was a prisoner I interrogated who might have revealed something if he hadn’t been killed.” Ross ground his fingernails into his palms, angry with himself for losing the opportunity to question Adam Routledge. If Adam had told his secrets to Melisande, Ross needed to find her quickly.
“And you think that if Melisande had a secret hoard of gold,
she would have written its location in her journal?” asked Mark. “I don’t suppose you bothered to check.”
When Ross didn’t reply, Mark leaned back in his chair, tapping his long fingers in turn over the arm, keeping the same rhythm as the cooing of the woodpigeons in the surrounding oaks.
“So Heughan still has his book?” Mark surmised. “And now he has Lady Melisande too? I think we might need to find our two turtle doves and have another chat with them.”
Ross shuffled his feet uncertainly. “I think we may need to tread a wary path,” he suggested nervously. “I suspect that Heughan Corwin is not what he appears to be, and we may need some further intelligences. If my misgivings prove correct, Heughan may have some influential friends in high places. It would be dangerous to provoke the wrong response.”
Mark A’Court smiled serenely. “If it is diplomacy that is needed, Lord Middlemore, my guest the Duke of Rohan may be just the man we need. Please allow me to present him to you.”
Ross allowed himself to be escorted to the table and bowed an introduction. “Your Grace,” he began and looked up in surprise at frosted aquiline features that smiled welcomingly.
Chapter 20: The Looping Road
Maryport
In the small cabin aboard Mac’s boat, Heughan lay with his legs entwined with Melisande. The boat was lifting gently on the rising tide, waves slapping against the side, stronger with each push. They rocked within the gentle comfort of powerful attraction. Melisande still slept. Heughan dozed.
He felt the warmth of a late afternoon sun on his face, shading his eyes as he squinted at the scrub green above the shore. The woman waved to him, encouraging him onwards with his adventures but keeping a lovingly attentive eye on him all the same. He laughed with boyish excitement. The sand was gritty and wet between his toes. He loved to stand and watch himself sink down, then lift his feet and see the sea creep into the impressions of his footprints. The water followed him, consuming the memory of him hungrily. It crept tentatively behind him down to the shoreline, his secret wet shadow; inseparable until he reached the water’s edge. There they both succumbed to the rough caress of the ocean and were indistinguishable.