by Neil Oliver
‘These people are dear to me,’ he said. ‘They will love you as they have loved me, and that will make all the difference, I promise.’
White mist clung like smoke to the heather and gorse either side of the trackway, and when she looked ahead at the buildings of Finlaggan, the walls and thatched roofs were cloaked in more of the same. It created an air of melancholy that she felt seeping through her damp clothes and into her flesh and bones.
‘Et mettre un sourire sur ta visage,’ he added. And put a smile on your face.
The journey had taken weeks of travel, over land and sea. Home seemed hopelessly far away, and the sensation of longing in her chest – for her mother, her brothers and sister, for familiar sights and smells and tastes – felt somewhere between pain and hunger. In any event she had known there was something she wanted, needed; that she could not have it then and would not be having it again any time soon.
A group of around a dozen men and women had emerged together from an arched gateway in one wall of the largest building up ahead, and walked purposefully towards them. They had been expected in that place – that much she had known.
‘Jacques!’ shouted a tall, heavyset man at the head of the welcoming party. Having recognised her father, he had broken into a trot. She had wondered once more at the garb of the men living in that part of the world. Tall or short, fat or thin, each lived wrapped one way or another in something like a long woollen blanket that covered them from neck to knee. Folded and pleated, it was draped over one shoulder and belted or tied at the waist. When the weather turned for the worse, as it so often did, some of the folds could be employed as a hood. Those that could afford it wore a loose-fitting shirt beneath the plaid, and every one of them, rich or poor, was armed with sword and knife. It was a place and a people that seemed permanently ready for a fight.
‘Douglas!’ said her father, as the other man arrived alongside them. He had reached out with a great bear’s paw of a hand that entirely enveloped that of her father.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you here at last,’ said the big Scotsman, his arm pumping so hard she feared physical damage might be the result. If he had not been smiling – her father too – then the growling sound of the words exchanged by the pair would have convinced her they were arguing.
‘And to be here, I can assure you, Douglas,’ said her father.
She gazed at him in amazement, still not used to hearing the new language that came so easily from him. From the moment of their arrival in Scotland days before, he had conversed with the inhabitants without hesitation and she had looked on with breathless awe, as though seeing him anew. She had wondered then how much else she had still to learn about her own father.
He had jumped down from his horse and embraced the big man, who was the taller of the two by a head. There was much arm slapping, and then each had held the other by the shoulders and leaned back to take a proper look at the familiar face before him.
The one called Douglas had turned then and looked her in the eye.
‘She’s bonny, Jacques,’ he said, smiling. ‘A credit to you.’
‘She has the look of her mother, right enough,’ her father had said, gazing at her with an expression she did not recognise. It had been as though he was seeing her for the first time, and she had felt herself blush at the intensity of the men’s attention.
‘Is he here?’ asked Jacques.
‘Not yet,’ said Douglas. ‘But don’t worry, he will come – and soon.’
‘The poor soul is exhausted!’
It had been the voice of one of the women in the party. She was thin as a greyhound, with slender arms and legs. Her long black hair was braided and reached halfway down her back. Her face was pretty enough, and smiling, and as she came forward, she held out her arms.
‘Jeanne?’
She had clearly wanted to help her down from her horse. Her father had nodded his approval.
‘C’est bien, Jeanne,’ he had said. It’s all right.
She stood up in her stirrups and swung one leg over, ready to jump to the ground. As she dropped downwards, she felt the woman’s hands on her waist and was grateful for the reassuring touch. When she landed, her legs seemed as weak as unravelling threads, and for a moment she thought she would crumple on to the damp ground. Thin as she was, the woman was stronger than she looked and caught her under the arms to help steady her while she gathered what remained of her strength.
The woman had spoken to her then, and while she had not understood the words, the notes of concern and sympathy were unmistakable. The woman had shot the two men a reproachful look, her dark eyebrows raised and arched so that her forehead creased.
‘We must take better care of this one,’ she said. ‘It’s no use wearing her out before she starts.’
She felt a weight upon her shoulders then and thought that she might sink into the soft earth beneath her feet. Her father said she had been chosen to lead the way to freedom, and to God. She would make a king and take him with her, he said. Just the thought of it all, the incomprehensible enormity of it, made her want to lie down and sleep for a year.
The words being spoken around her were mostly foreign to her, and she had watched open-mouthed as both men looked suddenly abashed, brought to heel.
The party had divided in two then, the men remaining with the horses while the women gathered her into their midst and ushered her towards the archway from which the group had emerged minutes before.
She had smelled the dampness of the women’s woollen dresses and cloaks, an aroma she would ever afterwards associate with sanctuary. There had been hands on her shoulders and soft words of comfort that washed over her as she stumbled along at the centre of the scrum …
She was brought back to the present, to her captivity, by another question from the nameless, persistent leader. There may have been more from him, while her mind had wandered into her past, but one query penetrated the shawl of memory she had drawn around herself.
By the time he had finished asking it a second time, she was Lẽna once more.
‘Would you tell me what the angels looked like?’ he asked.
19
Lẽna concentrated on the popping sound she could feel, rather than hear, coming from her right shoulder. It was not yet painful, but that time would come. One of the younger men, the one called Jamie, had been muttering to their leader about her bindings. Even more than the rest of them apparently, he had been awed by the way she had dispatched his comrades three nights before, and he had several times made plain he felt there was inadequate security in having her bound only at the wrists, hands behind her back.
His suggestions might have fallen on deaf ears but for her sudden return to silence. She had, after all, allowed her inquisitor to feel he had finally penetrated her defences, that her life story was his for the hearing. Her sullen retreat behind her stone wall seemed even to have hurt his feelings.
So it was, she believed now, that he had consented to see her being more securely tied. They had stopped for a while and a new rope had been added – this one around her arms, so that her elbows were pulled towards each other in the centre of her back, in a position that resembled that of a pullet trussed for the cooking spit. As well as limiting her movements even further – making escape that much harder to contemplate – it also felt like a spiteful punishment for her refusal to talk.
The others had seemed abashed by her discomfort. Even Jamie was strangely cowed. Instead of their easy chatter, now there was nothing to listen to but the clinking of the horses’ bridles and the popping from her shoulder.
She let her mind wander all the way back to the moment long ago when the damage had been done. She listened again to the clamour of battle all around, the press of horses as her brave Scottish escort had sought to keep her from harm …
The year was 1429, and she was the maiden the French soothsayers had foreseen. The English were unbroken in their resolve. Their king, Henry, was resolute in his claim upon the throne
and the land of France. But now the maiden from Domrémy was among them, at the head of an army and a cause made pure by her presence.
Her own mount had been a white charger so broad across the back it strained her thigh muscles just to stay astride him. Arrows from English longbows fell like black rain, and only the shields held around and above her by the brave men of her Garde Ecossaise had kept her undamaged. She was at the centre of a tight protective knot, and beyond it, and all around, men and animals fell dying.
‘Keep together!’ It was the voice of Hugh Moray, her aide-de-camp, a blond-bearded bull of a man. ‘Stay close!’
She wore borrowed armour but was otherwise unarmed, save for her nerve. Instead of a sword she held aloft a great unfurled banner. It was to her and to her alone that the forces would rally in time of uncertainty or need, and she glanced at the reach of it, trailing behind her for the length of two men. It was brilliant white, sown with golden lilies. Near the staff she held gripped in her gauntleted hand was an image of Jesus Christ in majesty, robed in blue and holding the world in his lap, angels by his sides.
They were riding fast, almost at the gallop, and the banner snapped and cracked. For all the death and danger thick in the air, the shouts and cries of men, her heart felt high in her chest – almost in her throat – beating like the wings of a captured bird. Victory was at hand. Despite the sacrifice of her men – indeed because of it – the English were breaking before them, and she felt bathed in the warmth of God’s pleasure.
So when the arrow, loosed from somewhere behind her, found its way past the upraised shields and all the way to a gap between the top of her breastplate and her helmet, she thought at first it was a bolt of lightning from above, divine high spirits gone astray. It burned like fire and there was a shout from one of the accompanying horsemen.
‘She’s hit,’ he cried. ‘The lady is hit.’
She held the banner tight as ever in her left hand, but her right, the hand controlling her horse’s reins, felt suddenly weak as the paw of a newborn kitten. She let go of the leather and felt herself slipping sideways into the gap between her own mount and that of the man who had seen her injury.
‘No!’ he shouted, and the tight knot began to lose form as men sought desperately to grab her, or her horse’s reins, or both. Gravity made the final decision, and despite the efforts of her escort to keep her in place and driving forward to safety, she slumped into the gap and down towards a forest of thundering legs and hooves. The last thing she heard before darkness swept in around her was the sickening crunch of her shoulder, already pierced through by the arrow, popping from its joint …
Lẽna marvelled at the way the memory was vivid while the pain was utterly lost to her. She could effortlessly recall the sights, sounds – even the smells of the battle – but not a trace of the burning agony remained. What she felt now, trussed like a chicken, was no more than indignity coupled with the discomfort of middle age. Although she would have given her eye teeth to massage the spot with one free hand, it mattered little. It was the shattering clap of thunder directly overhead that fully attracted her attention – and that of her captors. The air seemed to fizz and an acrid taste filled her mouth.
‘Storm coming,’ said Jamie, his ears still ringing from the discharge.
‘Do you think so?’ said another of the young men, who so far as she could tell answered to the name of Shug.
The others laughed, their leader included. It was as though the thunder had lightened the mood as well as clearing the air, and the return of sarcasm was welcomed by all. A second clap had them all duck down involuntarily, and everyone looked around, wide-eyed with wonder at the ferocity of the sound.
The light of day had gone from the sky. They had ridden through the dusk and now it was all but dark. The prospect of carrying on into a night riven by a rainstorm was an unappealing one, but Lẽna was careful not to allow her body language to suggest as much. Any visible sign of discomfort might persuade their leader to prolong their misery, in the name of putting more of their journey behind them.
She allowed herself a sigh of relief when she heard his voice.
‘Look for shelter up ahead,’ he said. ‘Quickly now.’
20
Crista Fuentes could not sleep. She had said her prayers as usual before climbing into bed alongside her younger sister. Normally she slept curled around little Ana, her nose buried in the five-year-old’s dark curls. But this night, sleep was beyond her and she lay on her back instead, listening to her sister’s rhythmic breathing that was almost snoring but not quite.
Their parents were asleep nearby as well, on a four-poster bed draped around with white linen. The room, the sole bedroom in their farmhouse, was small, and only the curtain afforded any kind of privacy. Crista had grown used to the soft moans that sometimes rose from beyond it, accompanied by creaking as the bed frame rocked and her father’s breathing came in gasps.
Tonight her parents were at peace, however, and Crista concentrated instead on the cause of her own wakefulness. The pain in her middle had been building all day. It had started out as no more than the warning of a need to visit the long-drop privy, but by early afternoon, still with many chores to complete, it had turned into a cramp that felt like a fist clenched deep inside her body.
Another wave of pain broke over her and she screwed up her eyes and pulled her knees towards her chest, breathing out slowly as she did so. She was ten years old – soon to turn eleven – and a good girl. Unlike so many of the children living on the farms around her, she had never known a day’s illness. Her robust good health, while others succumbed to this malady or that, was commented upon by one and all, and so the deepening discomfort in her tummy was as unfamiliar as it was unpleasant. She had meant to say something to Mama about it before now, but the right moment had not presented itself.
She fingered the little silver crucifix on a thin leather thong around her throat, and wondered if Our Lady was upset with her and sending down a punishment from on high. After a few moments she dismissed the thought, shaking her head as she did so but keeping her knees drawn up almost to her chin.
Deciding again that she had to visit the privy, she rolled painfully on to her side, then put her feet down on to the floor and its covering of rush matting. Only able to half straighten her body, she shuffled to the door, holding her tummy with one hand and stretching the other out in front of her for fear of knocking something over in the dark.
Once outside, in the vegetable garden to the rear of the farmhouse, she felt the cramp begin to pass again and she straightened, smoothing the creases and folds out of her nightdress as she did so and taking a breath of air. Despite the lateness of the hour, it was still warm – too warm. The air was as deathly still as it had been in the bedroom – in fact it was hard to believe she was outside and not inside – and she recognised the conditions Papa always said were the forewarnings of a thunderstorm.
There was a half-moon in the sky, but when she looked around from it she saw that its light illuminated the most enormous storm cloud she had ever seen – a giant, flat-topped anvil of a thing that seemed to block out half the sky.
Her hand went involuntarily to her crucifix once more.
‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ she mumbled. ‘Hallowed be thy name; Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.’
The cramping returned, worse than before, and she fell to her knees, clutching her middle with both arms.
‘Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’
Just when she thought she must surely cry out with the misery of it all, the wave receded from her again, leaving her gasping. She stood, on wobbly legs, and began walking forward. Unsure and unsteady at first, and with no thought as to where she was going, she speeded up, out of the garden and on to the track beyond their fence. Downhill led into the village, but uphill promised high ground and perhaps a breath of cool wind.
‘Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those
who trespass against us,’ she said, her fist clenching around the cross until she felt the metal digging into her flesh. ‘And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.’
Briefly enjoying freedom from the pain, but fearful of its return, she pressed on up the steep flank of the hill. She reached the summit, winded, and bent to catch her breath. When she straightened, still panting, she saw the stark outline of the tor, like a pile of rough slabs piled clumsily high by an ancient giant. Sensing a breeze, she pressed on, convinced she would feel better the higher she climbed. She felt a few drops of blessed rain on the backs of her arms and was just raising her face into the sky when a thunderclap burst overhead.
Standing in wonder at the ferocity of the sound rolling and heaving in the air above her head, she held out her arms in a posture like a priest leading his congregation in prayer. A second clap, louder than the first, and closer, ripped the night asunder.
21
Islay, Western Isles of Scotland, 1424
Among other things, before other things, they had come to see the Dewar. Lẽna’s father said it was a word that meant wanderer, or perhaps pilgrim.
Out of what had been a meaningless babble just weeks before, she now distilled words and complete phrases. She was quick – her father always said so – and the tongue of these Scots, which had so eluded her at first and which was called Gaelic, was starting to make some sense at last.
She had known she was to practise the fighting arts – at which, despite her youth and sex, she already excelled – among a people much given to war. In due course it was intended that she be more than any foot soldier, but there were months and years between then and now. Before any of that, she was to be tested in other ways. If she were found wanting, then her time on the island would likely be short.
This Finlaggan, on the island of Islay off the west coast of Scotland, was home to a family and a man called MacDonald. She had asked her father if he was a king.