by Kate Forsyth
‘We will go tomorrow, at dawn,’ Isabeau said. ‘It is best to open the doors at the change in the tide o’ powers. Cailean, Ghislaine, will ye be ready? Try to get some sleep. The Auld Ways are perilous indeed. Ye will need all your wits about ye. Gwilym, will ye seek audience with Her Majesty, and tell her what we plan? She will want to ken.’
They nodded and rose, Cailean helping Wise Tully to her feet with his usual grave courtesy. Isabeau was too overwrought to do more than murmur her thanks, but Gwilym drew them aside, issuing a series of directives and commands that the two sorcerers did their best to absorb.
Gradually the room emptied. Dide stayed where he was until the very end, but at last rose, his dark eyes concerned. ‘Ye look worn out, leannan,’ he said. ‘I’ll go. Try to get some sleep.’
Isabeau groaned and moved her hands fretfully. ‘I’ll never sleep, Dide. Canna ye see? This spell … this compulsion … it’s taking all my strength, all my concentration to fight it! Please …’
‘What can I do?’ Dide said at once, seizing one of her restless hands.
‘Stay with me,’ she said. ‘Distract me! Oh, Dide. I feel my own mortality keenly. Help me … I want … I wish …’
‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ Dide said, and bent to kiss the pulse beating so frantically in her throat.
Iain of Arran stood in his wife’s bedchamber, staring at himself in the dressing-table mirror. He looked thin and old and ineffectual. His hair, never thick, was now receding so that his face seemed all bony temples and pointy nose. His shoulders were stooped, and his neck was scrawny. His hands, protruding from the cuffs of his shirt, trembled slightly. He clenched them together, and then, reaching a decision, bent and put his finger to the lock of the dressing-table drawer.
There was a faint click inside as the lock sprang open. Iain’s mouth relaxed a little. He was, though few people realised it, a powerful sorcerer. Gently he drew the drawer open. His mother’s fan lay inside, neatly folded.
Iain took the fan out and turned it over in his hands. His mother had carried it often, for the marshes of Arran were steamy-hot most of the year round, and there was rarely any breeze to relieve the weight of humidity. He had not seen it since her death, though. He had no idea where it had been. Most of his mother’s things had been packed away, for they were far too opulent for his wife’s austere taste and besides, they carried unhappy memories for Iain, who had been deathly afraid of his mother.
Margrit of Arran had been a malevolent swarthyweb spider of a woman. She had plotted and conspired to help bring down the Coven of Witches, merely so that she would be the most powerful sorceress in the land. She had helped cast a curse on Lachlan that had struck him down into a living death, and she had kidnapped children with magical talent from all over the country to incarcerate them in her witch-school so that she, and only she, would control all the magic in the land. It was Margrit who had arranged Iain’s marriage to Elfrida NicHilde of Tìrsoilleir. Elfrida had spent all of her life as a prisoner of the Fealde, taught to abhor all of the natural pleasures of the world as frivolous vanities that led inexorably to hell. She had not been allowed to sing, or dance, or hear music, or laugh, or talk idly, or play games, or eat sweets, or wear any colour other than black or grey. She had to pray as many as six times a day, and was taught to mortify the flesh to exalt the spirit. Many, many times she was forced to renounce her dead parents as devil-worshippers and heretics, and spit upon their portraits.
Elfrida’s childhood had been so bleak and cruel that Iain had been overwhelmed with sympathy for her. They had shared bitter tales of their upbringing and, in sharing them, drawn much of the sting out of them. Together they had found the strength to reject those who sought to use them as pawns in their games of power, and together had fled Arran and pledged their support to the newly crowned Rìgh, Lachlan.
That had been many years ago. Their twenty-four years of marriage had been years of contentment and tranquillity. Iain loved his wife and son wholeheartedly, and had felt himself blessed indeed.
Yet slowly a shadow had darkened the small, quiet rhythm of their days. He had found his sleep haunted by memories of his mother, and more than once had woken from sleep with a cry of fear in his throat, and tears scorching his eyes. He knew his restlessness disturbed Elfrida, for she too slept badly and woke most mornings heavy-eyed and listless. Iain had sought to spare his wife his hag-ridden nights, and so had taken to sleeping in a separate room. Elfrida did not seem to sleep any better, though, and sometimes he was awoken by her crying out in the night. She complained of headaches, and began to spend part of each day locked away in her room with the curtains drawn.
Once or twice a year, Iain and his wife went on a procession through Tìrsoilleir, so that Elfrida could keep in touch with her people and visit Bride, the city where she had been born. The people of Bride had always been glad to welcome her, and Iain and Elfrida would spend a few weeks being entertained by the great lords and merchants, and looking over guild agreements and new laws, and the accounts of the Lord Treasurer.
The last time they had visited, there had been a noticeable difference in the way they were entertained. The people of Tìrsoilleir had always been suspicious of any kind of merrymaking, and so the feast and masques put on for them were always dour in comparison to those staged in Lucescere. This time, though, there was precious little entertaining at all. Grizelda, the new Fealde, disapproved of any sign of merriment, they were told, and sought to bring the people of Tìrsoilleir back to a godly way of life.
When Iain and Elfrida came home again to Arran, Father Maurice came with them, an appointment urged on them by Grizelda. He had been a cold, unpleasant presence ever since, as constantly behind Elfrida as her shadow. She had given up even such small pleasures that she had ever allowed herself, and taken to wearing grey and black again. Iain had been sorry for it, but he loved his wife and knew that a childhood as filled with terrors as hers had been was hard to shake off.
Which was why it had been so odd to see her carrying a sumptuous gold fan on the night of the wedding. Elfrida never wore gold, and she had never carried a fan in her life, not even in the very midst of an oppressive Arran summer. She did not care for the vagaries of fashion, thinking it all vanity and frivolity. To see his mother’s fan in Elfrida’s hand had given Iain’s heart a very queer jolt, and he had been upset and troubled ever since.
He furled and unfurled the fan a few times, and then sat down on his wife’s stool so he could examine it more closely. Many of his mother’s things had a trick to them. Rings that twisted open so poison could be slipped into a guest’s cup, or dresses made from material that had been soaked in some toxic liquid so that the wearer died horribly, and mysteriously, far away from the giver. One pair of Margrit’s shoes had a hidden blade concealed in the heel that could cut a man’s hamstrings with a backward flick, and the arms of her throne had daggers concealed within, that could be thrown forward with a press of one’s thumb on a secret button.
It took him only a few seconds to discover the trick of the fan. He twisted one of the embossed golden sticks that framed the fan, and the knob came off in his hand. He was able to draw out a slender golden tube. Very carefully, Iain tipped the tube up and out fell three of the black barbs the bogfaeries used to kill their enemies. Handling one with great caution, Iain lifted it to his nose and sniffed. He could smell the unmistakable odour of the poison the bogfaeries distilled from one of the marsh plants.
Iain’s pulse beat rapidly in his throat. He had difficulty swallowing. He carefully put the barbs back inside the golden tube, and slid it back in place within the fan’s frame. He furled the fan closed, and held it there on his lap, his mind a blank.
The door opened, and Elfrida and Neil came in together.
‘I am so glad, darling!’ Elfrida cried. ‘Well done!’
‘It is a very great honour,’ Neil said. ‘I just hope I do no’ let Her Majesty down.’
‘Iain!’ Elfrida called, but then came to a halt just inside
the door, her eyes on her husband, who sat on her stool, the golden fan in his hands. The colour drained away from her cheeks, leaving her a pasty white.
Neil did not notice. He came on in a great burst of excitement, his cheeks glowing with colour. ‘Dai-dein! Ye’ll never guess! Bronwen … Her Majesty has appointed me Master o’ Horse. Me! I’m to ride behind her everywhere she goes, and have quarters in her wing, and everything.’
‘That is a very great honour,’ Iain said. His voice came out oddly.
Neil noticed some of his father’s strain. ‘I ken it means I will be away from Arran for some time,’ he said, and came to stoop over his father and kiss the bald top of his head. ‘But I have lived half my life in Lucescere, anyway, and I’ll still come home to visit … though no’ until wintertime!’
Iain tried to smile.
Neil rambled on. ‘I am to wear the Banrìgh’s livery, she has designed it herself. It is to have the MacCuinn stag quartered with the sea-serpent o’ the Fairgean royalty, and be all in blue and white. She says I must find her a white palfrey to ride on. And Mama says she will stay a while, here in Lucescere, just until all is settled, to help me and advise me on how to go on, for indeed, it is a great leap from being a mere squire to one of the three greatest officers o’ the household. Will ye stay too, Dai-dein?’
Iain looked at his wife, then down at the fan in his hand. He carefully laid it back in the half-open drawer, and closed the drawer.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I shall go home to Arran.’
Rhiannon came quietly in to Lewen’s room, closing the door behind her.
It was late afternoon, but the room was dim for the shutters had been drawn over the windows. Lewen slept, but the healer had told Rhiannon that he had woken and eaten some soup at noon, and drunk some of the strengthening tea she had brewed him, and she was satisfied that he would soon recover.
The healer had spoken with great warmth and kindness to Rhiannon, for the story of how Lewen had saved her from hanging had already raced all round the Tower of Two Moons. It was considered a great romance, and Landon was already hard at work writing another ballad which he hoped would be as enormously popular as ‘Rhiannon’s Ride’.
Rhiannon had spent most of the morning with her friends, celebrating her unexpected salvation at the Nisse and Nixie with the best meal she had eaten in months, laid on for her by the ogre-proprietor. She had been too shaken to eat much, though Cameron and Rafferty made up for her abstinence by gorging themselves on the roasted meats, a luxury denied to them at the Theurgia.
The Nisse and Nixie had been crowded with friends and well-wishers, with such a hubbub that Rhiannon had been overwhelmed after her months of solitude. She had sat with a glass of goldensloe wine in her hand, searching the crowd for any sign of Lewen, and then, when it was clear he was not there, trying hard not to succumb to black depression.
Nina and Gwilym had drunk a glass of wine with her, but then excused themselves, being eager to get back to Isabeau at the Tower of Two Moons. Of all those present, Nina seemed to understand best how Rhiannon felt, for she drew her close and kissed her, saying in a gentle undertone, ‘He was with me all night, trying to find some way o’ freeing ye, Rhiannon. He dinna abandon ye.’
‘Then where is he now?’ Rhiannon said gruffly.
‘I will see if I can find him for ye. He was distraught, Rhiannon, when he heard.’
Rhiannon nodded and tried to smile, but it seemed to her that if Lewen had cared so much, he would have been there at the gallows with her other friends, shouting themselves hoarse in an attempt to save her. Nina kissed her and smoothed back her hair, saying, ‘Come to me at the palace, Rhiannon, when ye are ready. Her Majesty will wish to have audience with ye, so that ye may thank her and hear what plans she has for ye.’
‘Plans? She’ll have plans?’
Nina nodded. ‘Royal pardons are rarely given without some strings attached. The Banrìgh is only young still, and new to this game, so she may no’ think to demand service from ye, but if so, I would be surprised. She is the Ensorcellor’s daughter, after all.’
‘So I am no’ free,’ Rhiannon said in heavy disappointment.
‘Ye are alive,’ Nina said, and with that, left her.
So Rhiannon had picked at her food and drunk her wine and tried to smile, while her friends grew hilarious with relief and too much free wine, and then she had come back to the palace in company with Fèlice and Landon and Edithe, the latter being suddenly very friendly with her, and wanting to walk arm in arm with Rhiannon.
‘What will ye wear to see the Banrìgh?’ she asked.
Rhiannon shrugged her off. ‘I dinna ken,’ she said blankly.
Edithe laughed, a silvery, tinkling sound. ‘Ye canna go in your prison gown, ye silly! Let me lend ye some clothes. I am considered tall, though o’ course, no’ as tall as ye. I am sure I’ll have something that will fit. There is no time to have aught made, o’ course …’
‘Why ye want to lend me clothes?’ Rhiannon demanded.
‘I just want to help,’ Edithe said, offended.
Rhiannon regarded her suspiciously, but had no desire to stay in her rough, itchy, lice-ridden gown anymore. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Bath first.’
‘She just wants to get to the notice o’ the Banrìgh through ye,’ Fèlice whispered later, as she washed Rhiannon’s hair for her. ‘She thinks the Banrìgh will have a soft spot for ye, having saved your life, and will most likely take ye into service. Edithe would very much like to be one o’ the Banrìgh’s ladies-in-waiting too.’
‘What do ladies-in-waiting do?’ Rhiannon leant back against the rim of the hipbath, luxuriating in the hot soapy water.
‘Read to the Banrìgh, and walk with her, and write her private letters for her, and sit with her in her chambers and sew,’ Fèlice answered.
Rhiannon screwed up her face. ‘Sounds boring.’
‘A lady-in-waiting has a lot o’ power at court,’ Fèlice answered. ‘People will flatter ye, and give ye gifts, and try to persuade ye to speak on their behalf to Her Majesty, and men who wish to advance at court will woo ye.’
‘What woo?’
Fèlice giggled. ‘Ye sound like Buba, the Keybearer’s owl! Woo means to court ye.’ At Rhiannon’s look of bafflement, she giggled again. ‘To seek your hand in marriage.’
‘Men at court will court me,’ Rhiannon said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘What a stupid language ye speak!’
‘The courtiers o’ the court will court ye in the courtyard most courteously,’ Fèlice said, laughing out loud.
‘Stupid,’ Rhiannon repeated.
When Nina came to find her, Rhiannon was ready and waiting. Having no desire to become a lady-in-waiting, she had spurned Edithe’s offer of a gown and was dressed in the rough brown breeches and white shirt that Lewen’s mother, Lilanthe, had given her so long ago. In a concession to the formality of the court, she wore Lilanthe’s beautiful embroidered shawl over the top, with the rowan charm Lewen had whittled her back in its accustomed spot around her neck.
Nina looked as if she had been crying again, but she smiled at Rhiannon and kissed her.
‘What news o’ Roden?’ Rhiannon asked, and Nina sighed and shook her head. ‘Laird Malvern’s slipped the net again, I do no’ ken how. Finn is on his trail, though, and she never fails to find what she hunts for. I just hope she finds him in time …’ Her voice trailed away, and Rhiannon grimaced. They both knew how ruthless was the lord of Fettercairn.
‘I found Lewen,’ Nina said, and she smiled broadly as she told Rhiannon what Lewen had done. Once Rhiannon understood, she was transfigured. She would have gone to him at once, but Nina shook her head, saying that she must not keep the Banrìgh waiting.
‘Lewen is sleeping. Ye can see him later. Come now, Rhiannon, come and make your curtsy to the Banrìgh.’
She led Rhiannon through the crowded palace halls. Rhiannon had never seen so many grandly dressed people, or such rich and opulent surroundings. Her face
turned from side to side as she endeavoured to absorb it all.
They entered a long hall crowded with people sitting or standing, some looking bored or angry. Nina explained that these were all the people waiting to have an audience with the Banrìgh. The men in the rich doublets being mobbed at the far end of the hall were the gentlemen ushers, and they controlled who was allowed in or not. This made them very powerful, Nina explained in an undertone, and so they were much courted by those who wished to secure their favour.
‘Courted?’ Rhiannon said blankly. ‘Ye mean, their hands are sought in marriage?’
‘No, no,’ Nina said. ‘People try to make friends with them, or do them favours.’
‘Such a stupid language,’ Rhiannon muttered.
Her entry caused a minor sensation. Everyone stared and murmured to each other, and a few smiled and bowed their heads, or called out a friendly greeting. Rhiannon gripped her hands together and jerked her head in response, mindful of what Fèlice had said. She was grateful when the gentleman usher swung open the double doors at the end of the hall for her straightaway, as she would not have to sit and wait with all those eyes on her.
The room beyond was almost as crowded. Groups of men stood around, some with sheaves of papers in their hands. The Banrìgh sat in a high-backed chair near the window. To Rhiannon’s disappointment, she was wearing a dress much like any other woman at the court. Rhiannon had been expecting something scandalous. Sitting on low stools or on the floor were a number of women in full-skirted dresses. Some were sewing, one was reading from a book, and another was playing a clàrsach. The Banrìgh was frowning over a pile of papers on a table drawn up at her elbow. A young man with an eager face and straight brown hair that flopped into his eyes was sitting beside her, conversing with her in a low voice.
The Banrìgh was only young, but she looked pale and weary. Rhiannon had been very curious to see her, for she was always the topic of so much conversation. Rhiannon did not find her beautiful at all. Her mouth turned downwards, like a fish, and Rhiannon found the shimmering texture of her skin and her green-blue frilly fins rather repulsive. Her hair was very black and lustrous, though, and when she looked up and smiled, her whole face warmed, and Rhiannon was able to see that her eyes were a most striking silvery-blue colour, and very large.