by Kate Forsyth
Bronwen took a deep breath and then crossed the room to his side, determined to try to ascertain for herself whether her father’s cousin was to be a danger to her.
‘This is an unhappy day indeed, Your Majesty,’ Dughall said to her, with what seemed like true feeling in his voice. ‘I kent Lachlan when he was but a lad, and feel this is a grievous end indeed for such a proud and noble man.’
‘Aye, true indeed, Your Grace,’ Bronwen replied. ‘Evil times are upon us indeed if the Rìgh o’ Eileanan and the Far Islands can be poisoned in his own banquet-hall.’
‘And on such a happy occasion. I feel for ye, Your Majesty, to have lost your husband on the very eve o’ your wedding.’
She examined his face for any sign of irony and, finding none, said, with a catch in her voice she could not disguise, ‘Aye, indeed, it was cruel. But we hope to have him back very soon. The Keybearer has gone herself to search for him, with the help of the Celestines, and I am sure it will no’ be much longer afore he is home again.’
‘Let us hope so,’ Dughall replied. ‘And Olwynne and Owein too. Indeed, it was a wicked plot that saw Lachlan struck down and all three o’ his children stolen.’
Bronwen nodded. ‘He is a very wicked man, the laird o’ Fettercairn, if all the stories are true.’
A shadow crossed Dughall’s face. He frowned and pulled at his beard. Bronwen remembered that the MacFerris clan, owners of Fettercairn Castle, were one of Ravenshaw’s oldest and most respected families. She wondered why they had been allowed to go on kidnapping and murdering for so long, and then remembered how vague and senile Dughall’s father Malcolm was said to be in the years before his death. Ravenshaw had once been a prosperous and powerful country, but it had lost most of its wealth in the Ensorcellor’s Burning. Dughall’s mother, Bronwen’s great-aunt, had died in the Burning, she remembered, and his father had never recovered. It must be difficult for Dughall, inheriting a country that had been allowed to go to rack and ruin for forty-odd years.
‘I feel … I feel in some ways responsible,’ Dughall said in a low, passionate voice. ‘If only I … oh, if only I had done so many things differently! If I had listened to my father …’ He pulled himself up short. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Would ye excuse me? I must go and pay my respects to Iseult.’
Bronwen inclined her head and watched him go, her brows drawn together thoughtfully. Of all the things she might have expected Dughall to regret, not listening to his mad, doddering old father was not among them.
A tall, dark-haired man wearing the MacBrann plaid and brooch had been standing silently at Dughall’s elbow all through the conversation. Now he bowed to her politely, and turned to follow after the Prionnsa of Ravenshaw.
She restrained him with a quick gesture of her hand. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid we were no’ introduced. Am I right in guessing that ye are Dughall’s … adopted son … his heir?’
‘Aye, Your Majesty,’ he replied gravely. ‘I am Owen MacBrann. His Grace adopted me when I was still but a lad.’
‘Why, then that means we are kin,’ Bronwen said warmly.
‘I’m afraid no’, Your Majesty. Dughall’s mother was a NicCuinn, and your father’s aunt. My grandmother was sister to Dughall’s grandmother, on his father’s side. There is no blood relationship between us.’
Bronwen was disconcerted. She had only claimed kinship with him as a means to beginning a conversation. It was in her mind to perhaps charm or cajole him into casting some light on Dughall’s rather cryptic last comment. His sober precision was rather like a dash of water in the face.
She recovered gamely. ‘Och, well, all o’ the great clans have intermarried so many times it’s a wonder we do no’ all have two heads,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s a kinship somewhere.’
‘I would be honoured to think so,’ he responded with a polite bow.
She frowned, wondering on the difference between Dughall MacBrann, a man renowned for his suavity and wit, and this cold, polite young man. She glanced up at him and met his steady grey eyes, and thought again about the many whispers and innuendoes which followed Dughall wherever he went. The MacBrann had never married, nor shown much interest in women at all. The court of Ravenshaw was said to be an idle place, much occupied with gambling, horseracing, dog-breeding and the vagaries of fashion. Dughall, it was said, had lost so much money at the gaming tables that he had had to take out a loan from Lachlan which Bronwen was sure was still outstanding. He was also, it was said, more likely to hire a servant for his comeliness than for his efficiency and had once, many years ago, caused a dreadful scandal with his intense friendship with another young man, the son of one of his father’s courtiers.
Gossip like this had a way of never disappearing. It was like a harlequin-hydra, which grew another two heads every time you cut one off. It must have been hard for a handsome young man like Owen to be adopted by a dissolute old rake like Dughall. No doubt there had been a lot of talk.
‘I am intrigued by Dughall’s last words,’ she said, deciding on impulse that directness and honesty would work better with Owen than guile. ‘Why should he feel responsible for what happened? Did he mean he was sorry that such an evil plot was brewed in his homeland?’
‘No doubt,’ Owen answered. ‘None o’ us can feel proud that such men could thrive in Ravenshaw. By all accounts, they’ve been kidnapping, torturing and murdering as they please for a quarter o’ a century, without anyone the wiser. We kent, o’ course, that no-one liked to go near the Tower o’ Ravens. We all thought it was because it was haunted. Certainly my laird … his mother died there, ye ken, and he has always had a horror o’ the place.’
‘It does seem unbelievable,’ Bronwen said. ‘I have been told thirty-odd little boys were stolen and murdered, and countless graves desecrated, and others tortured and killed in the laird o’ Fettercairn’s experiments in trying to raise the dead. Was there no reeve, no sheriff, to report the dead and missing?’
Owen looked uncomfortable. ‘It does seem difficult to believe, especially, I imagine, for one no’ familiar with the peculiar topography o’ the highlands o’ Ravenshaw. It is cut in two, ye see, by the Findhorn River, and there is only the one bridge now, Brann’s Bridge having been destroyed on the Day o’ Reckoning. The river itself is fierce and fast, and too dangerous to cross easily. So the valley o’ Fetterness is very isolated, and Laird Malvern was like a prionnsa there, with Castle Fettercairn guarding the road down into the lowlands.’
‘Aye, I can see that,’ Bronwen said slowly. ‘But still … one wonders that the auld MacBrann could have no inkling o’ what was going on.’
‘He was ill,’ Owen said stiffly. ‘The last few years he was completely bedridden.’
‘One wonders that Dughall did no’ act as regent, if his father was so incapacitated,’ Bronwen said.
Owen flushed. ‘My laird has always had the utmost respect and affection for his father.’
Bronwen nodded. ‘O’ course. I did no’ mean to imply otherwise. It just … concerns me that a plot to assassinate the Rìgh o’ Eileanan and to abduct all his heirs could have gone unnoticed.’
‘I assure ye that now my laird is Prionnsa o’ Ravenshaw, he is taking steps to make sure such a dreadful thing can never happen again,’ Owen replied stiffly.
‘I am relieved,’ Bronwen said, and inclined her head as he bowed and excused himself, moving quickly to catch up with the MacBrann who was climbing the stairs to the upper floor.
Owen had, she reflected, sidestepped her real question rather efficiently. Bronwen would still like to know why it was Dughall MacBrann wished he had listened to his mad old father.
Iseult sat in her wing-chair by the fire, staring without seeing into the flickering flames. She had removed her headdress, but her red hair was scraped back from her face and secured so tightly at the back of her head that not one curl managed to escape. With her eyes so swollen and red from weeping, and her face so bony and white, she looked far older than her forty-tw
o years.
She turned her head as Dughall came in, followed closely by his adopted son Owen, and his squire, a pretty young man with dark curls and a dreamy face.
‘Dughall,’ she said in a flat, uninterested voice. ‘I’m sorry. I have no’ seen much o’ ye these last few days. I hope they have made ye comfortable.’
Dughall came and bowed over her hand, and sat himself opposite, waving to his squire to go and sit by the wall with the other servants.
‘I leave for Ravenshaw in the morn,’ Dughall said with the familiarity that comes from a long friendship. ‘I wanted to see ye … to tell ye how very sorry I am.’
‘Aye. Thank ye.’
‘It is my fault,’ Dughall burst out. ‘My father … he foresaw it, I think. In the weeks afore he died, he raved a lot. I paid no attention. He seized me by the hand and begged me, begged me, to take fire and raze the Tower o’ Ravens to the ground. He said it was cursed, we were cursed. He said we must kill the ravens, that if we did no’, the Rìgh would die at his own table. I thought it was all nonsense. He said ghosts were gathering all round his bed, that my mother was there, warning him, begging him …’ He fell silent, unable to speak any further.
Iseult had roused from her cold abstraction. ‘Your father warned ye? That Lachlan was in danger?’
Dughall nodded unhappily. ‘But he was so incoherent … he said many things. We thought he had finally lost his wits. We soothed and swaddled him and gave him more poppy syrup to help him sleep. It just made him rave all the more.’
‘Did he tell Connor?’ Iseult demanded.
‘He must o’. Connor went to see him … and rode out that same evening. He must’ve realised it was no’ just an old man’s ramblings.’ Dughall’s voice was bitter.
‘Connor always had a knack o’ seeing truth,’ Iseult said softly. She reached out her thin white hand and laid it on Dughall’s arm. ‘Do no’ distress yourself too much. We too had warnings o’ what was to come. Olwynne … Olwynne dreamt it too. I thought we could keep him safe … I still canna understand how it happened … I was right there, beside him, and I saw naught! I, a Scarred Warrior! If anyone is to blame it is I.’
‘No, no,’ Dughall cried. ‘How were ye to guess?’
‘I was sitting right beside him,’ Iseult said, her voice breaking. ‘We had just shared a toast. He rose to make his speech, to announce the pardons … and then this … this thing … just comes hissing out o’ the shadows and strikes him down.’
‘It’s a terrible thing,’ Dughall said, pressing her hand between his.
‘The murderer was right there, right there! And I saw naught. And then I am so angry, so sure o’ what I think happened, that I bungle everything, I just make it worse! I think it is this Rhiannon girl who has done the deed, because she had a blowpipe and poisoned darts, and because she chooses that very hour to escape from prison. And so I call the dragon’s name and fly after her, to drag her back for the hangman’s noose. Why did I no’ fly after Owein and Olwynne instead? I could have saved them!’
‘Maybe,’ Dughall said. ‘But maybe all ye would’ve done is endanger them. The dragon could no’ have flamed the kidnappers without killing Owein and Olwynne too. They would’ve shot at Asrohc and perhaps injured her, or ye. And probably, if they had realised a dragon was on their trail, they would’ve just killed Owein and Olwynne out o’ hand and fled …’
‘Maybe,’ Iseult said unhappily. ‘I just wish I had thought more clearly. I could have asked Asrohc who the murderer was! Dragons can see both ways along the thread o’ time, ye ken. Why did I no’ ask her? It is too late now, I canna call her name again. One does no’ call a dragon lightly, and she is raising her baby princess and was no’ pleased to have to leave her.’
‘Who could think clearly at such a time?’ Dughall asked. ‘I too was there. I too saw naught. I had been forewarned by my father’s ramblings, I should’ve kent … if only I’d been watching! If only I’d seen whoever did it.’
‘We thought we were safe in our own banquet-hall,’ Iseult said. ‘I had made sure Lachlan’s food and drink were all tasted, I had made sure the palace was guarded. There was no-one there but our friends and family. Who could have done such a thing? Who?’
Dughall had no answer for her.
‘And now Lachlan is dead, and my bairns taken,’ Iseult said blankly. ‘My bairns … I am sick with anxiety for them, Dughall. Eà kens what they are suffering in the hands o’ that madman.’
‘Is there any news?’
Iseult shook her head. ‘Nay. No’ really. I mean, I ken they are still alive, Owein and Olwynne at least. Bronwen recruited the lass, the one that tamed the black winged horse, the one I tried to hang. Her name is Rhiannon. She flew after them and managed to wrest back young Roden, Nina’s lad. She said she saw both Owein and Olwynne then, alive and literally kicking.’ She paused and drew one hand across her eyes. ‘I canna help wishing …’ she whispered. ‘Though I am glad, o’ course, that Nina has Roden back. I just wish …’
‘This lass, this thigearn, she flies still in pursuit?’
‘Aye.’
‘I am sure she will manage to rescue Owein and Olwynne too,’ Dughall said comfortingly. ‘Finn and Jay are in pursuit as well, remember, and the Yeomen o’ the Guard.’
‘But will they be in time?’ Iseult whispered. ‘He plans to kill them, to use their lifeblood to raise the dead from the grave.’ She shuddered and caught her lip between her teeth. ‘When? When will he do it? Can they possibly get to him in time?’
‘She flies a winged horse,’ Dughall said. ‘They are swift, by all accounts. I saw her fly the other day, for the Banrìgh. She is a true thigearn.’
At the mention of Bronwen, Iseult’s gaze lifted and colour rose in her cheeks. She pressed her lips together tightly and did not respond.
‘And Donncan? What news o’ the Rìgh?’
Tears spilled down Iseult’s face. ‘No news.’
‘Isabeau will find him, I’m sure o’ it. She is a powerful sorceress indeed, the most powerful we have had for many generations.’
Iseult could not speak. She lifted her damp, crumpled handkerchief to her eyes and wiped them impatiently.
‘Iseult, tell me, is it true … can it be true that it was a spell wrought by Brann the Raven that saw Donncan stolen away?’
Iseult stared at him. ‘Where did ye hear such news?’ she demanded.
‘Is it true?’
‘I canna speak o’ it,’ Iseult replied, and cast a quick glance at the squire, who was shyly chatting to her maid-of-waiting on the other side of the room, his legs swinging as he nibbled on a sugared plum. Owen was sitting quietly at a table some distance away, flicking through the daily broadsheets piled there. He did not look up at the touch of her eyes.
‘Please, Iseult, by Eà’s green blood, if it is true let me ken,’ Dughall said sharply. ‘Brann is my ancestor. I was raised with tales o’ his doings. I ken he swore to outwit Gearradh and live again. I ken what a subtle and clever sorcerer he was. I must ken if there is any truth in these tales.’
‘Tell me first where you heard such talk,’ Iseult said softly. ‘For indeed, this is no’ a tale we want told in every village square, Dughall. It is bad enough that Lachlan is dead and his heirs vanished away, with only an impudent slip o’ a girl left to raise the Lodestar. If it was common knowledge what had happened to Donncan … if we take away the hope that we will soon have him back again …’
‘There is a lad here who was squire at Ravenscraig last year,’ Dughall said. ‘A well set-up young man, really rather comely. He is a student at the Theurgia now and has plans to join the Yeomen. He was one o’ the search party for Donncan on Midsummer Eve. He kens he and the Celestine princess were taken into the maze by Johanna, and he kens Isabeau and the Stargazer have followed them onto the Auld Way, to try and get him and Thunderlily back. He kens Johanna spent much time in the library researching the life and death o’ Brann the Raven, and that Gwilym the Ugly has done so too.
He kens the laird o’ Fettercairn well, having been one o’ the party that travelled through Fetterness with Nina, and so kens all about the necromancy, and the laird’s search to learn the secret o’ raising the dead. He and his friends are no’ stupid, Iseult.’
‘Just loose-tongued,’ she flashed back.
‘I do no’ think so. He’s a good lad. There is a lot o’ gossip around, and as far as I can tell, none o’ it anywhere near the truth. Indeed, the favoured tale is that Donncan has run off with Thunderlily.’
‘What!’
‘Aye. Most do no’ realise that Johanna was in cahoots with the laird o’ Fettercairn. That has been kept very quiet. I think they imagine she was assisting a tragic love story.’
Iseult stared at him blankly, and then suddenly she began to laugh and could not stop. She pressed her hand over her mouth and rocked backwards and forwards, laughing and weeping at once, a condition Dughall’s old nurse used to call ‘merry-go-sorry’. He stared at her in some consternation, and she buried her face in her hands and fought to get herself back under control.
When at last she raised her face, her eyes were red-raw. ‘I wish …’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, I wish that is all it was!’
‘So is Cameron’s guess right? Is it true that, by some ill chance, Brann is involved in this, strange and impossible as that may seem?’
Iseult nodded and scoured her eyes with the useless rag of a handkerchief. ‘He wrote a spell o’ resurrection in the Book o’ Shadows and somehow hid beneath it a spell o’ compulsion. Whoever reads the spell is overcome by an irresistible need to raise Brann from the dead.’