The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Neil had drawn Bronwen to sit down and had wrapped his plaid about her shoulders. He passed the Banprionnsa a glass of wine, but Bronwen’s hands were shaking so much she could not take it. Instead, Neil held it to her lips. Bronwen’s chattering teeth rattled on the rim, but she managed to gulp a mouthful and her shivering eased a little.

  ‘Can ye tell us what happened, Bronny?’ Neil asked gently.

  ‘It was just as Donncan said,’ she whispered.

  ‘But what possible reason would Mathias Bright-Eyed have for attacking His Highness?’ Captain Dillon asked coolly.

  ‘He … he was jealous,’ Bronwen said, her voice catching. ‘He thought … he wanted …’ She could not go on.

  Iseult had gone to Donncan and drawn him to sit down too, giving him a glass of wine to drink as she quickly looked over his injuries, which consisted primarily of a rapidly swelling eye, a split lip, grazed knuckles, and a bruised jaw.

  ‘Where is Johanna?’ Iseult asked. ‘We need a healer here. Donncan is sore hurt. Should Johanna no’ be here?’

  ‘I must go and view the body,’ Captain Dillon said. ‘He was one o’ my men. Your Majesty, I beg o’ ye, retire to your chambers. It is just this sort o’ confusion that an assassin may seize upon. I will order my men to keep close and will return just as soon as I have seen for myself that Mathias is dead.’

  Donncan looked up at his father. ‘We tried to rouse him. It was no good.’

  Lachlan looked round at the shocked and curious crowd, his jaw thrust forward angrily, then he said, ‘Come, let us go back to the palace. Ye must change out o’ those blood-stained clothes and bathe, and let the healers look ye over and make sure all is well. Dillon, attend me as soon as ye can! Call the Privy Councillors. We must hear the whole story.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Donncan said pleadingly. ‘I never meant to kill him.’

  ‘O’ course no’,’ Lachlan answered. ‘Come, where are the Banprionnsa Bronwen’s ladies? Roy! Send a message to the witches’ tower. Tell Isabeau and Gwilym and Nina, and bid them attend me.’

  Neil had been crouched beside Bronwen’s chair, holding her hand between both of his. She was struggling with tears. He helped her to her feet, and she leant on his arm, hiding her face in his shoulder.

  Out of the crowd came Thunderlily, her hand outstretched. Bronwen let go of Neil’s arm and seized Thunderlily’s, her face crumpling. The Celestine passed her arm around Bronwen’s waist, and helped the drooping figure up the steps and into the palace. Neil watched them go, then opened his hand, looking down at the blood smears on his skin. His face was unreadable.

  Elfrida was at once by his side, her face pale, her eyes glittering with something that could have been excitement, or fear, or distress. This time Neil did not shake her off, but let his mother comfort him and guide him away. Behind them went the black shadow, his cold eyes raking the crowd with contempt.

  Bronwen felt very odd.

  It was not as if she had never seen men die before. She had been present at the bloodiest battlefield in living memory, the Battle of Bonnyblair, when the Fairgean had brought the power of tidal wave and volcano against their human enemies. Bodies had been tumbled in the surf like flotsam, and afterwards the decks of their ship had been lined with row after row of the bloody wounded. Her nursemaid had been cut down before her eyes, and she had seen her mother sing her enemies to death, including her own father, Bronwen’s grandfather, the dreaded king of the Fairgean.

  All that was a very long time ago, though. Bronwen could hardly remember it. It was like it had happened to some other girl, in a tale of long, long ago, far, far away.

  Mathias, though, had died right there before her, staring up at her in unspeakable terror and bewilderment. She could smell his blood in her nostrils, and feel its stickiness on her skin. Twenty minutes ago, his arm had been about her waist, his breath had been on her ear. She had mocked him, she had scorned him, and she had driven him to the reckless act that had seen him die at the hand of her betrothed. Bronwen could not see how she could wriggle away from self-blame this time, and by the cold, distant look on Donncan’s face, the way he could not bear to look at her, she guessed he blamed her too.

  Bronwen could not stop her legs from shaking. They trembled so violently the jewelled heels of her silver sandals beat out a quick tattoo on the ground. Her knees knocked. Her hands quivered. She clenched them tightly together, between her knees, and pressed her heels down hard. She tried not to see the strange, blank look in Mathias’s eyes as he fell down to the ground. It kept repeating, though, before her eyes, and she felt hysteria rising like nausea in her throat.

  The councillors talked and argued among themselves. Bronwen, who was normally quite interested in court politics, could barely understand a word. It seemed some thought Donncan should stand trial, to show that even the Rìgh’s son was not exempt from the new judicial processes the Rìgh had fought so hard to introduce. Others argued that there was no need, that it was clearly a dreadful accident, that Bronwen herself was witness to there being no malice aforethought. They questioned her again and again, but Bronwen could not answer.

  Then Thunderlily was standing before her, facing the councillors, humming deep in her throat. They needed no translator. Thunderlily’s meaning was evident in her blazing eyes. They let Bronwen go, and the Celestine helped her up the stairs to her boudoir, washed the sticky residue of blood from her body, and held her hand until she at last began to calm. The last thing Bronwen saw was the strange, crystalline eyes of the Celestine, bending down close over her, and the last thing she heard was the low, soft humming, deep in Thunderlily’s throat, as comforting as a cat purring. Then she slept.

  ‘He was in love with Bronwen, that’s why he attacked me!’ Donncan said, goaded into fury. ‘Ye were all there, I saw ye watch as he danced with her, and whisper behind your hands. And ye saw how he tried to hold Bronwen back, when she came to me. He must’ve been half-mad with jealousy, to attack me that way.’

  He saw the Lord Chancellor frown and tried to moderate his tone.

  ‘I’m sorry for it,’ he said. ‘I wish it had no’ happened.’

  ‘There can be no blame attached to the Prionnsa,’ the Master of Horse said. ‘Mathias Bright-Eyed was partial to a dram, we all ken that. He was drinking heavily tonight, I noted it myself.’

  Donncan felt tired and sore and melancholy. He could still remember feeling the tuft of shorn hair at the base of Bronwen’s skull. It troubled him greatly that it was this that haunted him, and not the easy way the dagger had slid into Mathias’s body. He closed his mind to it. He had not told the Privy Council about the lovelock. He wanted no more talk about Bronwen.

  The court would be seething with gossip, though, he knew that. He shut his eyes and pressed his fingertips into his aching temple. He heard his mother rise and suggest he be left in peace, to rest and recover, then the rustle of silken clothes and the click of jewelled heels on the parquetry floor as the courtiers all departed. Then he sensed rather than heard her, for Iseult always moved with the silent grace of a snow-lion. She sat down beside him, and took his hand.

  ‘Were ye two quarrelling?’ she asked.

  Donncan moved his wings restlessly. ‘We had words,’ he admitted.

  ‘What about?’

  He made a vague gesture with his hand. ‘I’m sure ye can guess.’

  ‘How could ye be so foolish!’ Lachlan exploded. ‘To fight a duel over your betrothed with one o’ the royal guard! At the May Day feast! How are we meant to smooth this over?’

  ‘I wasna duelling!’ Donncan protested. ‘Ye think I would fight a duel at a feast in your garden? With a Yeoman? O’ course I wouldna do such a thing. I’m telling ye, Mat attacked me. I dinna even ken who it was at first. He just came at me out o’ the darkness.’

  ‘With his knife drawn?’ Iseult asked.

  Donncan shook his head. ‘Nay, he drew that later.’

  ‘He must’ve been mad!’ Lachlan paced restlessly, h
is hands tucked behind him, under his wings. ‘Ye both must have been mad!’

  Angrily Donncan looked up to find his father glaring at him, his golden eyes as fierce as a gyrfalcon’s.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ Lachlan said. ‘So close to your wedding too. It’s bound to cause a lot o’ talk.’ He began to pace again, and Donncan heaved an involuntary sigh of relief, to be free of that raking stare. ‘If only ye hadna killed him!’

  ‘I dinna mean to!’ Donncan protested. ‘I told ye, it was an accident.’

  ‘Every gossip-monger at the court will have noted that he and Bronwen were dancing just afore ye killed him,’ Lachlan said angrily. ‘And the way they danced! Why is that girl such a hoyden?’

  Donncan’s temper frayed. ‘That is my wife-to-be who ye are referring to in such terms,’ he said icily. ‘I’ll thank ye to keep your comments to yourself.’

  Lachlan’s temper, never sweet, flared as quickly. ‘I’ll speak in whatever way I please, thank ye very much! I was no’ the one who killed one o’ my very own bodyguards, in my own garden, in a quarrel over a girl who’s little better than a strumpet!’

  Donncan leapt to his feet, feeling the giddy rush of anger through his blood as hot and exciting as a dram of whisky.

  ‘Ye canna deny that your wife-to-be has behaved in a very reprehensible manner,’ Lachlan said, trying to control his own temper. ‘She is no witch, to take lovers where and when she pleases. She is a banprionnsa o’ the royal house, and soon to be wed. The whole time ye have been away, we have had to watch and say naught, as she caused one scandal after another.’

  ‘Say naught! When ye call her a strumpet and a whore! Aye, she told me o’ that tonight and angry and upset she was indeed …’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I heard how ye and Mam have called her a whore. What do ye think –’

  ‘What in Eà’s name are ye talking about?’

  ‘Are ye saying Mam dinna say so? For Bronwen certainly believes she did.’

  ‘I suppose I may o’,’ Iseult admitted, casting her mind back. ‘But only ever in private conversation, and I dinna mean … Who told ye I had done so?’

  ‘Bronwen did. She said she had it on the best o’ authorities.’

  ‘Only Owein and Lewen were there, serving your father and I. Ye canna mean one o’ them repeated what I said to Bronwen? I do no’ believe it!’

  ‘Ye should never have said such a thing,’ Donncan said furiously.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I never meant –’

  ‘It is no’ your place to tell your mother how she should speak or behave,’ Lachlan roared. ‘Bronwen deserves every raised eyebrow and every snigger she gets. She is too much her mother’s daughter. Did ye see what she was wearing tonight? She might as well have been naked.’

  ‘She only decided to dress that way after hearing what Mam had said about her,’ Donncan said. ‘She said if that is what Mam thinks o’ her, she may as well dress the part.’

  Lachlan’s eyes blazed. ‘How dare she! She said that to ye?’

  ‘I never meant to hurt her feelings,’ Iseult said, both troubled and defensive. ‘I canna remember what I said. I think I was just commenting on the way she likes to stir up the hornet’s nest. I never intended what I said to be repeated to her.’

  ‘She does dress like a whore,’ Lachlan said angrily. ‘I was afraid that gown – if ye can call it a gown – would just slide off her tonight, the way she was dancing. Held up with little more than a bit o’ string, for Eà’s sake! I’m sorry now that I ever arranged this marriage!’

  All the anger suddenly drained out of Donncan. ‘So am I,’ he said, and turned to sit down, resting his head on his arms.

  Both Lachlan and Iseult froze. They exchanged a charged look over his bowed head. Then Iseult came to sit down next to him, laying her hand on his arm. ‘Are ye saying ye wish to break the engagement? I thought ye wanted it?’

  ‘It’ll be no easy task to break it,’ Lachlan warned. ‘It was the key component o’ the Pact o’ Peace, remember? That sly, sneaky Fairgean ambassador does nothing but remind me o’ how important this marriage is to King Nila. If ye decide to break it, it could mean war again.’

  ‘No need to remind me o’ that,’ Donncan said in a muffled voice.

  ‘Ye canna break it,’ Iseult said. ‘It is too important.’

  ‘But, leannan, if he doesna love her …’

  ‘Love! He’s been besotted with that wool-witted lassie since he was no’ much more than a toddler!’

  ‘Aye, but calf love is no’ the same as the love a man feels for a woman.’

  ‘It is a good foundation,’ Iseult said. She turned back to her son. ‘Ye canna break the engagement now, Donncan. It is too close. The Fairgean are proud. They would see it as an insult. We canna risk another war with the sea-faeries. The last one cost us too dearly.’

  ‘I ken, I ken.’

  ‘What is wrong? Did ye two quarrel tonight? Did ye interrupt something between her and this Yeoman? Is that why ye killed him?’

  ‘I told ye! He attacked me, out o’ the darkness. Bronwen and I were together …’ Donncan sat up and twisted to face his parents. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Talking.’ His voice was sullen.

  ‘Just talking?’

  Donncan did not answer.

  ‘We need to ken what happened, Donn. The whole court will be afire with speculation. We must nip it in the bud, and soon.’

  ‘We were just talking,’ Donncan said.

  ‘What was there in that to cause Mathias to attack ye?’

  ‘We might have kissed a bit too.’

  ‘Might have? Did ye or dinna ye?’

  ‘We did,’ Donncan answered. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Well, that must’ve been oil on the flames,’ Lachlan said. ‘If this soldier thought he had some claim on Bronwen’s affections.’

  Donncan did not answer. He rested his head in his hand, and squeezed his eyes shut.

  ‘Donn needs to get to bed,’ Iseult said. ‘It has been an ordeal, this whole evening.’

  Lachlan frowned. ‘I’m no’ finished yet. I must get to the bottom o’ this sorry affair. We canna leave it to the morning.’

  Donncan made a sharp movement. ‘I’ve told ye what happened. Canna I just go, please?’

  ‘Nay, ye may no’. We must make sure none suspect ye o’ murder. We’ll need to find witnesses, to prove what ye say is true. People who saw ye leave with Bronwen. People who can attest to Mathias Bright-Eyed’s state o’ mind. And I must say, we must also do what we can to scotch rumours o’ any affair between Bronwen and this gallant o’ hers. From now until the wedding, Bronwen’s behaviour must be impeccable.’

  Donncan gave a bitter snort. ‘Good luck,’ he answered.

  There was a short silence. ‘Are ye saying ye believe there was some relationship between them?’ Iseult demanded. ‘I had no’ thought so. I watched them together, and thought Bronwen cared no more for him than for any other o’ her admirers. Are ye saying there was more? Was he her lover?’

  ‘I dinna ken,’ Donncan said in utter misery.

  ‘We canna risk a barley-child,’ Lachlan said. ‘Any child o’ this marriage must be legitimate, else we’ll have endless trouble and intrigue. I have worked too hard to bring peace to this land to see it thrown away by a lamb-brained lassie. We must make sure there is no doubt o’ Bronwen’s faithfulness, else there is no point to the wedding at all.’

  Donncan felt unutterably weary. ‘No point at all,’ he echoed.

  ‘It is no small thing, to kill a man,’ Iseult said after a moment. ‘And there is no denying that Bronwen brought this tragedy upon us, with her coquettishness. If she had no’ encouraged that soldier, he would never have dared raise a hand against ye. But what’s done is done. We must salvage what we can from this calamity. Breaking your engagement now would be very foolish.’

  Donncan thrust out his jaw. ‘Do I have any say in the matter?
What o’ my wishes, my needs?’

  ‘Ye are the Crown Prionnsa!’ Lachlan shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. ‘Do ye wish to bring down war upon our heads? Ye have a duty and a responsibility to your people and to your crown!’

  Donncan stood up. ‘Aye, o’ course, Your Majesty,’ he said coldly, and bowed.

  Olwynne stirred in her sleep, and Lewen stretched his arm across her back to soothe her. Suddenly she sat up, jerking him into full wakefulness.

  ‘My blades must have blood,’ she said. Her voice was very deep and strange.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My blades must have blood.’

  ‘Go back to sleep, leannan,’ Lewen soothed her. ‘All will be well. Go back to sleep.’

  But even as Olwynne muttered in response and lay back down, to fall immediately asleep again, Lewen knew that he lied. All was not well.

  For the first week after Lewen carved the bird for her, Rhiannon was happy. She did as the Keybearer had suggested and threw herself into her studies, puzzling over the books and scrolls she had been brought until the marks on the paper began to make sense, becoming words, and then sentences, and then stories.

  She forced herself to eat the food they brought her, sharing her bread and fruit with the bluebird, and teaching it to take tidbits from between her lips. She tried to remember the ahdayeh she had been taught on her travels with the witches, stretching and strengthening her body, and finding peace in the rhythmic, repetitive movements. She slept peacefully and dreamlessly, the rowan charm held between her hands.

  She had no visitors. As the days passed, each exactly the same as the day before, her happiness began to seep away and in its place rose a bitter acidic anxiety. Rhiannon tried to press it down, concentrating on the routine she had built herself, but it ate away at her composure with slow corrosive inexorableness.

  She knew there was to be a May Day feast at the palace that Lewen was expected to attend. She knew her other friends would also be celebrating the coming of summer, and that they might not find time to come to see her for a few days. They had all explained and apologised to her in advance, and she had tried not to feel lonely and neglected. Yet as the day of the feast passed, Rhiannon’s anxiety grew so sharp she found she could not calm herself. In her hands she jerked and twisted her linen handkerchief until it tore, and she flung it down in disgust, but then she had nothing to keep her hands busy but themselves, and soon her nails and cuticles were torn and bleeding. She tried to sit, but rocked back and forth, back and forth on her chair until she forced herself to stop, then found her foot beating a rapid tattoo on the floor.