by Kate Forsyth
‘For shame, my lady,’ he said. ‘Your uncle no’ a fortnight dead and your husband missing, Eà kens where, and ye amuse yourself with his best friend. It’s no’ worthy o’ ye …’
Bronwen had lost all the colour and animation that the prospect of an hour’s freedom from the palace had given her.
‘How dare ye!’ she cried, then remembered to lower her voice. ‘How dare ye insinuate that I have been unfaithful to my husband, and to the Crown,’ she hissed. ‘I have done naught but my best to govern this country since the role was thrust upon me so forcibly at Midsummer. Ye think I have time or energy for dalliance? Ye are a fool, and a dilettante. Ye think a country this size runs itself? Ye think I am but a puppet, that signs the papers put afore me without even glancing at them? Ye wrong me, sir! I have spent every waking hour since my husband disappeared trying to find him and bring him back, and doing my best for him while he is gone. And Neil has been my prop, my support, all this time, the best and dearest friend that either I or my husband could have. Ye owe me an apology, Fymbar, and him one too!’
She was close to tears, her breast heaving, while he was scarlet with anger and shame.
‘Me, apologise to a MacFóghnan!’ he cried. ‘Never! Do ye no’ ken they canna be trusted? Ye’ve been duped, Bronwen. He plays ye for his own ends, and ye dance to his tune. Do ye no’ ken all that clan are like snakes in the grass? Our lands have marched side by side for centuries, and we have learnt to our cost that–’
‘One does no’ touch a Thistle without pain,’ a very soft, sneering voice said at Bronwen’s elbow. She jumped as if stuck by a pin, and spun around, only to see Elfrida and her pastor standing right behind her. They must have heard every word.
Elfrida was standing very straight, with one hand pressed to her chest. She wore a very large black ring, Bronwen noticed, carved with the thistle crest of the Arran clan. She was smiling at Fymbar, who shrank back, his words dying in his throat.
‘Ye would be best to remember that, young Fymbar,’ Elfrida said. ‘Touch no’ the Thistle.’
No-one said anything.
Elfrida laughed.
‘Shall we walk on, Your Grace?’ the pastor said, offering her his arm. He was tall and thin and angular, with fine blond hair cropped close to his skull, a pointed chin, and a high-bridged nose that he carried very high all the better for looking down it.
Elfrida put up her hand and caressed the thistle seal ring. ‘Aye, it’s so pleasant to feel the sun after so many days o’ snow,’ she said. ‘I’m sure ye must agree, Your Majesty.’
‘Aye,’ Bronwen said stupidly.
Elfrida laughed again and walked on, her full skirts swaying beside the narrow robe of the pastor, like a black poppy drooping from a black stem.
Bronwen turned back to Fymbar. ‘If ye ever speak to me like that again, I will have ye charged with treason and thrown in the tower,’ she said, very low. ‘If ye were no’ such a young fool, and if we had no’ been friends for years, I would do so now.’
All his bravado had shrivelled away. ‘I … I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘It’s just …’
‘Neil has done naught to dishonour himself or me,’ Bronwen said. ‘He is the Rìgh’s true friend. I bid ye remember that, and try to be as good a friend to me as he is.’
She thought Fymbar might cry at that. Certainly there was a choke in his voice as he tried again to apologise. Bronwen did not wait to hear him out. She turned and walked back to the group still talking and laughing by the fountain, most of them thankfully unaware of the odd little scene by the steps. Neil, however, had noticed something. His eyes questioned her as he threw her up onto her mare, and she smiled at him reassuringly. She saw the way he turned to look anxiously at his mother, who had resumed her promenade as if nothing had happened.
Bronwen, too, pretended nothing had happened. In a way, nothing had. It had just been so disquieting, the way Elfrida had laughed. And certainly it was odd to hear her speak as if she was the Banprionnsa of Arran, and not its neighbour, Tirsoilleir. Her family motto was ‘From Strength to Strength’, and her badge was a hand wearing a sword. Bronwen found it most peculiar to see her wearing the MacFóghnan thistle, and quoting Arran’s family motto instead of her own. Puzzling over it occupied her thoughts all through the ride and back again, until Neil brought his horse up beside hers and asked her, with a troubled expression, if all was well.
‘Och, aye,’ Bronwen said, with a brilliant smile. ‘I mean as well as it can be, given the circumstances.’
His face cleared a little. ‘Aye, it’s been a terrible time for ye. I do no’ ken another woman who would no’ have fallen to pieces, given the same situation. I do think ye’re marvellous, Bronny!’
‘And me ye!’ she returned, flashing him a smile over her shoulder.
His eyes lit. ‘Really?’
‘Aye. I couldna have done it without ye, Neil. Thank ye.’
‘It’s my pleasure to serve ye, my lady,’ he responded with a mock courtly bow, and she laughed.
‘Race ye to the old oak tree!’ she cried, and dug her heels in Snowfall’s sides. At once the white mare leapt forward, and Neil’s gelding a second later. Neck to neck, the two horses galloped through the falling bars of sunlight, and Bronwen felt all her disquiet fall away behind her.
Lewen was rather surprised not to find Fèlice and Landon waiting for him outside. He wondered whether they were upset with him for failing to convince Iseult to take them all with her. Or perhaps they were just as sick with misery and disappointment as he was himself, and had rushed back to their own rooms at the Theurgia to grieve in private.
Lewen had no desire to go back to his own room. Its coldness and emptiness tormented him. What he needed, he decided, was to get right away from the palace. He needed a good gallop in the fresh, cold air, the wind blowing in his face. He would go to the stables, he decided, and take his stallion Argent out for a good gallop.
Lewen had always spent a fair amount of his spare time at the stables, earning extra money as a groom, and paying for Argent’s upkeep with his labour. He had always had a way with animals, and had a calm, gentle manner about him that horses liked. Usually the stables were as busy as an ants’ nest stirred with a stick, and his help was always greatly appreciated, but lately things had been quiet, with half the court gone back to their own residencies. So Lewen was surprised to walk into the big, cobbled yard and find the place seething with activity. Grooms were busy saddling a great many horses, and servants wearing the warm brown livery of the MacAhern clan were loading up packhorses. Huge red-gold dogs lay around everywhere, their breath steaming in the icy air, and a large group of men and women dressed in brown plaids, crisscrossed with yellow and red, were standing about waiting.
Lewen remembered someone had mentioned the MacAhern clan was riding out that afternoon, and at once looked for his friend and fellow squire, Hearne MacAhern, whom he had hardly seen since the night of the murder. Lewen saw him at once, talking with his sister Madeline and his brother Aiken, both tall and brown with dark hair tied back with leather thongs. Lewen had met them once or twice before, when they had been studying at the Theurgia, but both had graduated some years before and had not returned to court since. The MacAherns disliked cities and palaces, he knew, much preferring the freedom of the wide brown plains they called home.
‘Hearne!’ he cried, and waved his hand.
Hearne turned and smiled brilliantly at the sight of him, lifting his hand and beckoning him over. ‘Lewen!’ he cried. ‘Well met! I was hoping to run into ye afore I went. I’ve hardly seen ye all week. Do ye ken my sister, Maddie, and my brother Aiken?’
‘I remember ye from when ye first came to the Theurgia,’ Madeline said, offering him her hand. She shook it like a man, firmly and swiftly. ‘Ye had a beautiful grey, a big lad, looked like one o’ Vervain’s line.’
‘Aye, that’s my stallion, Argent. He’s in here somewhere, eating his head off and getting fat from too many oats. I’ve come down to tak
e him for a gallop.’
‘Be careful, the roads are icy still,’ she said. ‘Ye do no’ want to slip and fall.’
‘I will, thank ye,’ Lewen answered. She nodded and turned away, moving with a swift, long-legged stride to join her mother and father nearby. Aiken nodded too, abruptly, and turned to follow her. Although he was as tall and handsome as his sister, his face was dark and brooding, and did not have the same pleasant openness as Hearne’s.
‘Do no’ mind Aiken,’ Hearne said rather apologetically. ‘He’s no’ much o’ a talker.’
‘Well, neither am I,’ Lewen said.
‘Except to horses,’ Hearne said, and they grinned at each other.
‘So ye’re heading home?’ Lewen said.
‘Aye, and glad I am o’ it too. I mean, the Theurgia’s closed for the rest o’ the term anyway, and my parents are worried about what could happen next. They want to get home and keep us all close until it’s clear there’ll no’ be war, or any other kind o’ trouble.’
‘Aye, black days,’ Lewen said.
‘Aye. Is it no’ awful? I can hardly believe all that has happened! The Rìgh murdered, Prionnsa Donncan and Prionnsa Owein stolen away, and Banprionnsa Olwynne too. Ye must be absolutely gutted. Is there any news yet?’
Lewen shook his head and said tersely, ‘They’ve taken to the seas. The Dowager Banrìgh is setting off after them, hoping to catch them afore they reach the Pirate Isles.’
‘Is it a pirate who has kidnapped them?’ Hearne asked in lively curiosity. ‘What on earth for? Do they want ransom?’
‘I dinna ken,’ Lewen said. ‘Happen so.’
Hearne sensed a black cloud descending over Lewen and so asked no more, even though it was clear he would have loved to. Instead he said, ‘Do ye want to see my father’s horse?’
‘Aye!’ Lewen responded eagerly. ‘O’ course I would. May I?’
‘They’ll bring Brimstone out last,’ Hearne said. ‘Else he’ll just take off, and then we’ll be in trouble.’
‘He’s not the docile sort then?’ Lewen said, following his friend into the stable.
‘Nay, he’s well named. He’s quiet enough when Dai-dein is on his back, but willna let anyone else near him. He hates being kept in a stable, so he’ll be in a foul mood. They had to bring him in because o’ the snowstorm, but he was no’ at all pleased.’
They heard the stallion as they entered the stable, whinnying and trumpeting in rage. His hooves thundered on the cobblestones as he danced about his stall, rearing back and fighting to free his head of the halter and rope that kept him tightly tethered.
Kenneth MacAhern, Hearne’s father, was the last of the thigearns, so Brimstone was a huge old winged beast, with a warm honey coat shading to silver around the muzzle and eyes. He could not spread his rainbow-coloured wings properly in the stall, adding to his anger and frustration, and so he held them high, half-furled, the tips sweeping the wooden walls on either side. On his head were spreading velvet-coated antlers like a stag, and he tossed them in his wrath, and repeatedly butted them against the door, which had stoved in under the pressure.
‘He’s magnificent!’ Lewen said, gazing at him in awe. The golden winged horses of Tìreich were far larger and fiercer than their black cousins in Ravenshaw, and were now almost as rare, having been hunted almost to extinction during the Ensorcellor’s reign. Since winged horses rarely bred in captivity, they had to be caught and tamed in the wild, and few had the strength or the determination to manage it. It was said the only way to tame a winged horse was to stay on its back for a year and a day without dismounting, a task few managed.
‘Aye. He’s getting auld now. My father has tried to breed him, to see if we can preserve his line, but none of the foals born have been winged, unfortunately.’
‘And no-one has succeeded in taming another?’
‘Nay. Aiken tried again last spring, but couldna even get close to one. I think that’s why he’s so surly.’
‘Och, well, it’s up to ye then.’
Hearne flashed a smile. ‘Aye! I’m no’ allowed until I reach my majority, and that’s another four years away, but I mean to find one and tame it then, even if I must stay on its back for three years and three days!’
The winged stallion in the stall reared and neighed, as if in challenge. Hearne grinned again, shoved his hand in his pocket and stepped forward quietly, holding out his hand and whickering softly. The stallion quietened and rolled one wary golden eye his way. Hearne moved forward another step, and the silvered muzzle dropped towards his hand and delicately took the lump of sugar that Hearne held there. He crunched it with relish, and then danced away, tossing his antlered head. Hearne stepped back, smiling widely. ‘What a beauty!’ he cried.
Lewen’s eye was caught by something gold at Hearne’s shoulder, and he leant forward for another look as his friend returned to his side.
‘Is that your family brooch?’ he asked.
‘Aye, it is. Have ye no’ seen it afore?’ Hearne unpinned it and passed it to Lewen. It was a beautifully wrought badge of gold, depicting a rearing horse with tossing mane and tail.
‘Nay, I havena. I guess ye were always either in court gear or your apprentice robe. It’s bonny.’
‘Thank ye.’ Hearne took it back and fastened his brown and red plaid together again.
‘Hearne, what would it mean to have a brooch very like that, but with a running horse, no’ a rearing one?’
‘The horse rampant is the royal family’s badge, the horse passant is the badge o’ our guard,’ Hearne answered. ‘Much like the badge o’ the Blue Guards, and us squires. We wear the charging stag, while the MacCuinns themselves wear the crowned stag rampant.’
Being a country boy from the highlands of Ravenshaw, Lewen did not know much about heraldry but he was able to follow this fairly well, guessing that ‘rampant’ meant in the rearing position, and ‘passant’ the running position.
‘So someone who had a badge like that, a golden badge with a running horse, that would mean they were one o’ your people?’
‘Aye, one o’ the Royal Horse Guard, which is the special cavalry unit that guards the royal clan and rides to the forefront o’ any attack. Only the very best are accepted. Most o’ them used to be thigearns, but o’ course there’s none left now. Why do ye wish to ken?’
‘Rhiannon …’ Lewen started to stay, but his voice snagged in his throat. He tried again. ‘Rhiannon carries a badge like that. She said it was her father’s.’
‘Rhiannon? The girl with the black flying horse?’ Hearne was at once alert and interested.
‘Aye.’
‘How strange. I wonder … Come, let’s go tell my Dai-dein. He will want to ken.’
Lewen followed Hearne back out into the sunshine, unable to help feeling a sharp spurt of eagerness. Even though Rhiannon rarely mentioned her father, who had died when she was five, he was sure she would wish to know more of him.
Kenneth MacAhern was overlooking the strapping of his family’s luggage on the backs of the packhorses. He turned at the sound of his name, and smiled to see Hearne and Lewen approach. Hearne hurried through the introductions, and then launched into a description of Rhiannon’s brooch that caused the MacAhern and everyone around him to look at Lewen with great interest.
‘Laird Farnell, will ye come here, please?’ the MacAhern called.
A tall, elderly man with grizzled black hair came at once to his lord’s call, a look of enquiry on his weathered face. He had the bowlegged swagger of a man who has spent most of his life on horseback and, despite his age, moved with swift grace. Lewen noticed the lord’s eyes were a most unusual luminous blue-grey, and felt his heart begin to accelerate.
‘Will ye show Lewen here your badge?’
Puzzled but obliging, the elderly cavalier showed Lewen the badge that pinned his plaid at his shoulder.
‘It’s the same,’ Lewen said. ‘Exactly the same.’
‘We do no’ forge many o’ these badges
,’ the MacAhern said. ‘Most o’ them are very auld, passed down from father to son, or retrieved from the bodies o’ the dead to give to those newly inducted into the Horse Guard. Gold is very rare and very precious in Tìreich. We do no’ waste it.’
‘Rhiannon said the badge belonged to her father.’
‘How auld is this girl … this thigearna?’
‘She is no’ sure. She was never taught to count, or to remember anniversaries like birthdays. She could be seventeen or eighteen, at a guess.’
The blue-eyed cavalier was standing very still and stiff, listening intently.
‘It is eighteen years since Conall was lost, is it no’?’ the MacAhern said to him in a very gentle, kind voice.
The cavalier nodded, struggling to conceal his shock and dawning hope. ‘Do ye think … is it possible?’
‘Maybe,’ the MacAhern said. ‘We would need to see the brooch, and hear this lass’s story.’ He turned back to Lewen. ‘This is Laird Farnell MacAhern, once the captain o’ the guards, and my father’s cousin and dear friend. His son, Conall, disappeared near the end o’ the Fairgean Wars. He was taking a message to Ravenscraig, warning the MacBrann that Fairgean had been seen in the bays and coves along the coast. He was a thigearn. Last we heard he was flying over Bald Ben, taking the short cut over the mountains. He never arrived, and we never found what happened to him, although we sent search parties into the hills.’