by Kate Forsyth
‘Ye think I can fly!’ Iseult gasped.
‘Perhaps no’,’ Meghan answered. ‘No-one needed to teach Ishbel to fly, she did it as naturally as breathing. She used to float above her bed as she slept. I’ve seen no evidence o’ such profound Talent in ye. Still, I wondered. Even if ye canna fly, I can see how the leaping o’ high walls would be o’ great use indeed.’
‘Ye are thinking o’ the rampart behind the Tower, which protects Lucescere from the forest,’ Lachlan said.
‘Indeed I am. We might set Iseult to practising jumping while we are here.’
Over the next few weeks Iseult found she could jump barriers far greater than her own height and could drop from well over a hundred feet without more than a few bumps. To her amazement she began to be able to control her speed of falling, and by Beltane she could float down as slowly as a feather.
The first of May dawned fresh and clear. Meghan woke them as usual, but as they ate their porridge and drank their tea, she said, smiling, ‘It be Beltane today. Why do ye no’ have a holiday? Ye have both been good, patient bairns and worked hard. No-one should work on May Day.’
Both Iseult and Lachlan were pleased at the idea, though it soon became clear that Meghan had plans for them. They were to have a May Day feast and invite the Celestines for, as Meghan said, ‘Ye canna have much o’ a feast with only the three o’ us!’ She needed firewood for the bonfire, plenty of flowers for their wreaths, as well as whatever nuts and fruits they could find. Like Meghan, none of the Celestines ever ate meat, and the amount of vegetables and fruit it took to fill all their stomachs seemed colossal.
Iseult and Lachlan set off into the forest with light hearts. After over an hour of gentle meandering, they came to a path that ran between a stand of moss-oaks, their great silvery trunks writhing upwards in fluid shapes. Iseult followed the trail as it wound up the slope of a hill, thorny bushes pressing all around. At last it led into a small clear-around a tarn. On the tarn’s shores was a hut, built of nes and earth. A thin tendril of smoke trickled from the chimney.
‘I think we had better go back.’ Iseult hesitated on the verge of the clearing.
‘Because o’ a wee hut?’ Lachlan jeered, pushing past her. ‘I dinna think so! Come on, let’s go and see who bides here.’
‘Meghan says …’
‘Meghan says, Meghan says! Do ye always have to do what Meghan says?’
‘Nay, it just makes sense. Meghan said there are many wicked faeries living in the forest, remember?’
‘Do no’ be afraid, my bonny lass, I’ll protect ye!’ Lachlan grinned.
‘Why, ye couldna protect a duck!’ she retorted, following him across the clearing. She looked round carefully, but could see no sign of life. Beside the shack was a carefully cultivated garden, thick with herbs and vegetables, and two beehives were set against the trees. Among the thyme and comfrey stood a small, crooked menhir, with some smaller boulders clustered nearby. A greenberry tree trailed its branches in the tarn, pale lilies floating across its wind-trembled surface.
‘I see no-one but I feel like we’re being watched,’ Iseult whispered and drew an arrow from her quiver, notching it to her crossbow. Unable to shake off a sense of unease, she moved forward, her bow at the ready. She stepped up to the roughly made door and pushed it open with her hand. Inside she could see a neat little room, with a table to one side, a high-backed chair made from polished branches and three stools. A pot bubbled over the fire.
‘There’s no-one here, but they canna have gone far,’ she said. ‘Lachlan, let’s go. I do no’ think we should be here.’
He shrugged his agreement and they stepped away from the cottage, turning back towards the path. Hearing another noise, she twisted round and realised that the boulders had somehow moved.
‘Come on, Lachlan, it’s no’ safe here.’ She quickened her step, raising her bow so that it was aimed at the tallest of the stones. Immediately her bow burst into flame. She dropped it with a cry. As it hit the ground the flames disappeared and she saw her bow was unharmed. She bent to retrieve it and strong arms suddenly seized her around the waist and dragged her down. Immediately she fought back, but her wrists were caught in an unbreakable hold.
‘Lachlan, run!’ she screamed, but the winged prionnsa raised his bow and took aim. Immediately his bow turned to a fistful of hissing snakes, which he threw away from him with a curse.
‘It’s all an illusion!’ Iseult cried. ‘Run! Get Meghan!’
It was too late. Another of the squat, immensely strong creatures had kicked Lachlan’s legs from underneath him. ‘Take them into the hut!’ a cracked, querulous voice said. ‘There may be other human creatures nearby. We dinna want any to see.’
Iseult saw the menhir had changed into an old, exceedingly ugly faery. She stood in the herb patch, her clawlike hands clutching a wooden spade. Iseult was heaved to her feet, and she kicked out at her captors. Although she knocked one off his feet, he did not let go and she was dragged to the ground with him. Before she had time to recover, she and Lachlan were dragged into the hut, and the three squat creatures had tied them to the pole in the centre of the room.
The old woman sat in the high-backed chair, grey hair straggling all round her warty, wrinkled face. Her long, bumpy nose curved down towards her bulbous chin, a thin seam of a mouth cramped between. Her glittering eyes were merely thin slits under sprouting grey eyebrows.
‘A cursehag!’ Lachlan groaned. ‘And hobgoblins too. Just my luck!’
Iseult said nothing, just tested her strength quietly against the ropes as she ran her eyes over every feature of the little room. There was no ceiling, the slats and mud of the steeply peaked roof clearly visible above them. Herbs were hung up to dry in the dim cone, scenting the air. There was a bed built into one wall, neatly made up with homespun blankets.
Around the old woman crouched the three creatures that had wrestled Lachlan and Iseult to the ground. They were short, broad creatures, dark of skin and hair, with bulging eyes and thick fingers like tree roots, bluntly clawed. Iseult tried to remember all she had read of cursehags and hobgoblins.
‘Why have ye come here? Wha’ do ye want?’ the querulous old voice asked.
‘We were just exploring,’ Lachlan said. ‘Ye had better let us go. They will come soon, looking for us.’
‘They? They? Who is they?’
‘Soldiers.’
She hissed. ‘Soldiers! Then we shall kill ye now, before they come.’ One of the hobgoblins started forward, and Iseult saw he clutched a great sword. Even though it was taller than he was, he had no difficulty in hefting its weight. She recognised it as one of the double-edged claymores the Red Guards carried.
‘Nay!’ she cried. ‘We are no’ friends o’ the soldiers. We mean ye no harm.’
‘Yet ye come, peeping and prying, snooping and spying, threatening us with your nasty arrows …’
‘We’re very sorry,’ Iseult said. ‘We were just exploring a path. We did no’ ken this was your place. Forgive us and let us be, and we promise to let ye be too.’
‘Obh obh, promises, promises, always ye humans make promises. We ken how much your promises mean!’
The hobgoblin with the claymore chuckled evilly and moved the sword menacingly. The old woman checked him almost imperceptibly. Encouraged, Iseult continued softly, ‘Truly, we mean ye no harm and are sorry indeed to have disturbed ye.’
The old woman cackled. ‘I bet ye are.’
‘Ye must let us go. More harm will come to ye from keeping us here against our will than by letting us go,’ Lachlan said. ‘I am the Prionnsa Lachlan MacCuinn. If ye hurt us, ye shall suffer.’ The name meant something to her. She looked up, and for a moment her form seemed to blur. Lachlan continued, ‘Aedan MacCuinn was my forefather. I am his direct descendant. Ye ken they call him the friend o’ the faeries. It was Whitelock who drew up the Pact o’ Peace and made sure all faeries could live peacefully and without fear.’
‘Aye, I ken your Aedan
MacCuinn. How true were his promises? He said the faeries would never again be bothered and badgered. He said we could all live free.’
‘His promises were true,’ Lachlan said eagerly. ‘I am his descendant and I promise the Pact o’ Peace shall be renewed. It was no’ the MacCuinns who turned against your kind, it was—’
‘Lies, lies! It was the MacCuinn who signed the Faery Decree, the MacCuinn who caused me to be driven from my home! It was the MacCuinn who hunted out poor creatures like my hobgoblins here, and burnt them or drowned them and used them for their amusement. Ye lie!’
‘But it is no’ his fault, Jaspar is under an enchantment, a foul ensorcelment.’ It was the first time Iseult had ever heard him speak in his brother’s defence.
Her eyes blazed between wrinkled lids. ‘Lies like all humans, lies and lies.’
‘My cousin Meghan NicCuinn shall come looking for us! If ye harm us she will be angry!’
‘Meghan NicCuinn is dead!’ the cursehag snapped. ‘Now I ken ye are evil liars, like all humans! Meghan o’ the Beasts lived afore I was ever born, ye think I do no’ ken that? If Meghan o’ the Beasts was alive, she would never have allowed the MacCuinn to turn against us like that! Ye think to trick me with your lies, but I be canny, I be clever, I ken ye tell no’ the truth.’ She scuttled from the room, beckoning the three hobgoblins with one gnarled hand. ‘Come, my lovelies, I want ye. We shall kill them and bury their bodies deep, deep in the earth, and none shall ken that they have been here!’
Iseult and Lachlan were left alone. To their dismay, they heard the sound of digging nearby. Their fingers met and gripped.
‘I be so sorry, Iseult. Ye were right. We should no’ have taken the risk.’
Iseult said bitterly, ‘It’s my fault. I should have known better.’
‘Why is it your fault?’ Lachlan said angrily. ‘Ye always have to take everything onto yourself. I’m the one that wanted to come and have a look.’
‘I’m the Scarred Warrior.’
‘I swear, Iseult, if ye say that one more time, I’ll strangle ye!’
‘As if ye could,’ she answered scornfully.
He dropped her fingers as if they had stung him. From outside the flimsy walls they heard the sound of metal sharpening. Involuntarily Iseult took hold of his hand again. It was warm and strong in hers, and gripped hers again immediately.
‘How long before Meghan will miss us?’ she asked.
‘Hours yet. She will just think us off exploring still. Ye ken we are always late back.’ He hesitated then said, ‘Iseult …’
‘Aye?’
‘Nothing.’ They stood in silence for a moment, their hands still entwined, then he leant against the ropes, straining towards her. She twisted against her bonds so that she could try and see his face. His mouth grazed her cheek, slipped down. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder sockets, she twisted forward further and their mouths met and clung. Unable to sustain the awkward angle, they had to ease away, their shoulders and arms throbbing. They leaned silently together, her cheek against the feathers of his cramped wing.
‘We must escape,’ he said. ‘Let me think, let me think.’
‘I am still wearing my weapons belt,’ she whispered. ‘My dagger—if we could work it out of its sheath, we could slice the ropes. Can ye reach?’
He kissed her again, lingeringly. When he finally eased his mouth away, Iseult was trembling. She felt his fingers fumbling at her waist, and she shifted the belt round so he could reach it. ‘I’ve found the hilt. How do I …? Oh, I see.’
‘Do no’ drop it!’ she whispered. ‘Careful.’
At last with a grunt he drew the knife free and set it against the ropes, sawing desperately. His hands were tied so tightly he could barely move the blade, but gradually the strands parted and they felt the pressure ease. ‘Getting there,’ he muttered, grunting again with exertion.
The door opened, letting in a shaft of sunlight. They both froze, trying to conceal the dagger between them. Iseult, facing the fire, twisted to see round, sensing Lachlan’s trepidation. In the doorway stood the hobgoblins, one carrying the claymore, the others a freshly sharpened axe and knife. Iseult strained against her bonds. If only Lachlan had been able to finish cutting the ropes!
The hobgoblins danced around, their broad, flat feet making a slapping noise as they hit the dirt floor. Lachlan pressed back against the pole as the tip of the claymore whistled past his chest. The hobgoblins were chanting in their own guttural language, occasionally shouting a phrase out loud. Glancing frantically around the room for anything that could help them, Iseult thought, How odd. Meghan always said hobgoblins were peaceful creatures. That is why there are so few o’ them left, I thought …
As the old woman appeared in the doorway, Iseult’s mind worked furiously. She remembered the illusion of flames and snakes, the boulders in the herb garden, the neatness and cleanliness of the little house. Cursehags were known for their filth and squalor; for their general nastiness of mind and spirit. Would a cursehag refer to the hobgoblins as ‘poor creatures’? Would her hut be so orderly, her garden so well tended? And as far as Iseult could remember, it was not cursehags that had the power of illusion, but corrigans.
Just as the hobgoblins’ chanting grew to a crescendo and the old, bent woman raised her claws to give the order, Iseult cried, ‘Nay! Please, madam, ye must listen to us! We are your friends! We really are with Meghan o’ the Beasts. Lachlan is her great-great-great-nephew, and we are all fighting to overthrow the evil Banrìgh who ensorcelled the Rìgh and made him turn against all the witches and faeries. If ye kill Lachlan, ye will kill Eileanan’s best hope! Please listen to us!’
‘So ye can tell me more lies?’
‘Let us prove ourselves to ye! He really is Lachlan MacCuinn—canna ye see he wears the MacCuinn tartan? And look, his brooch. Lachlan, show her your brooch. I ken ye are no’ what ye seem. I ken ye are no’ a cursehag. I can see ye think us in league with the soldiers who have been burning and slashing the forest, and who drove ye here in the first place. But we are no’, we are no’!’
The old woman abruptly crossed the room and grasped Lachlan’s black curls in her hand, dragging his head back. She stared at him intently, noting the white lock of hair, the blue-green tartan. Then with one long, gnarled finger she flicked the brooch that pinned his plaid together, with its device of the stag rampant.
‘So,’ she hissed, ‘it is a MacCuinn after all.’ She laughed unpleasantly. ‘No doubt ye’ll raise a fine ransom.’
‘No’ from the Rìgh and Banrìgh,’ Lachlan said bitterly. ‘If ye kill me, ye’ll be doing exactly what they want. They’ve been hunting me for years!’
She hesitated, obviously undecided on her course of action.
‘If ye free us, we shall take ye to Meghan o’ the Beasts, we’ll show ye she’s still alive,’ Iseult said persuasively. ‘I ken she’ll be glad indeed to meet a corrigan.’
The hideous old woman hissed and drew back.
‘I ken ye are no’ a cursehag,’ Iseult said in the same soft, cajoling voice. ‘Ye be a mistress o’ illusion, indeed. Ye tricked us properly! I am a Scarred Warrior. Never before have I been overpowered. But with your cleverness and quickness o’ thought, ye caught us fair and square.’
‘Ye’ll gain nothing by killing us, though,’ Lachlan said sternly. ‘We are no threat to ye. We fight to restore the grand days o’ the MacCuinns, when human and faery lived in peace. Kill me, and the days when ye could move freely around the country and do as ye pleased will never return. Let me live, and I swear when I am Rìgh I shall restore the Pact o’ Peace.’
The figure of the cursehag suddenly shimmered and changed. In her place stood a beautiful young woman surrounded by sheets of shining, fair hair. Dressed in a flowing azure gown tied close to her breasts with crimson ribbon, she sashayed across the floor to Lachlan, twining her arms around his neck. ‘So ye wish to be rìgh,’ she said in a lilting voice. ‘If ye swear I shall be your banrìgh, I shall
let ye go free. See, I am bonny if I wish. I can be anything ye want. I shall be your banrìgh and rule with ye.’
The corrigan pressed her firm young body against Lachlan and drew his head down to hers. Iseult heard them kiss. Pain shot through her, shocking her with its intensity. She could feel Lachlan pressing back against the pole, his tightly bound arms quivering. She closed her eyes.
In a rather hoarse voice, Lachlan said, ‘I canna. I be sorry, but I canna marry ye or make ye my banrìgh. I would be lying to ye if I said I could.’
‘Am I no’ bonny enough for ye?’ the corrigan mocked. She kissed him again, hard and passionately. Iseult could feel her rucking up his kilt so she could fondle him, and anger sprang through her. She longed for her hands to be free so she could thrash this pert beauty and her hobgoblin servants and win them both free.
Lachlan managed to free his mouth. ‘It be no use,’ he said, his voice thick and husky. ‘I canna love ye or marry ye. I will do anything else I can for ye, but that I canna do.’
‘Why no’?’ she asked, surprising Iseult with the mildness of her voice.
‘My brother was ensorcelled into marriage,’ Lachlan said harshly. ‘He was charmed into an unnatural love, and so into evil. I shall no’ be so bewitched.’
In a sudden rage, the corrigan slapped him hard across the mouth. ‘Ye understand I shall kill ye? Ye both shall die!’
Iseult felt Lachlan’s fingers grip hers and press the dagger into them. She began to saw desperately at the ropes, her hands concealed by Lachlan’s wings.
‘Ye do no’ need to seduce me to gain my help,’ Lachlan said, and his voice was that of a rìgh, full of power and determination. ‘I am sworn to help and protect the people o’ Eileanan. If ye let us go, I swear to tell no-one ye are here. Then, when I am rìgh, I shall send ye your ransom, whatever ye wish for. Gold, jewels …’
She stamped her foot. ‘It is no’ gold I wish for,’ she hissed. ‘Why do ye no’ succumb to me? Always I have been able to sway men with my beauty … I do no’ understand.’