Elfrida was waiting for her on the landing above, saying, ‘I thought I’d give ye a room close to the babes, Isabeau, for I ken they would fain have ye near.’
‘Thank ye, that was thoughtful,’ Isabeau answered, looking about her with great interest as Elfrida led the way up the stairs. The palace was very richly furnished with finely woven carpets and tapestries, many very large paintings in ornate frames, and bowls and vases of the finest porcelain. The device of the flowering thistle was everywhere—engraved on doors, set in mosaic on the floor, embroidered on velvet cushions, and worn on the breast of every one of the hundreds of servants that moved soundlessly through the corridors. It was even set at regular intervals in the gilded balustrade of the grand staircase.
‘It is very nice to be home again,’ Elfrida said. ‘It is odd, even though I lived in Tìrsoilleir all my life and am now its banprionnsa, I still think o’ Arran as being home.’ She smiled at Isabeau shyly. ‘It was the first place I was happy, I suppose.’
‘Ye were raised in the Black Tower, though, were ye no’?’ Isabeau asked. ‘I imagine that was no’ a happy place.’
‘Nay, no’ a happy place at all. Happiness was no’ an objective o’ the Tìrsoilleirean. I was whipped across the hand if I was ever caught smiling, and dare no’ think what punishment I would have been given for laughing.’
‘How horrible!’
‘It was no’ pleasant, particularly when I was naught but a bairn myself.’
They came into a big sunny playroom that was filled with every imaginable toy a six-year-old boy could want. There was a miniature castle complete with a moving drawbridge and tin soldiers dressed in the Arran livery; there were balls and building blocks and a chest of clothes for dress-ups and a rocking horse as large as Cuckoo’s own pony. The children all ran forward with cries of delight and were soon busy playing, as Elfrida showed Isabeau where they would all sleep. Cots had been set up for the twins in an antechamber to the room that Donncan would share with Neil, while Bronwen had been given a room across the hall, right next to Isabeau.
An old bogfaery was sitting in a rocking chair, sewing. She had heavily wrinkled skin of a purplish-black colour, with black ripples of fur over her head and arms. As Isabeau and Elfrida came in she smiled, showing two sharp little fangs.
‘This is Aya,’ Elfrida said. ‘She was Iain’s nanny when he was a lad and now she has come back to help look after our own laddiekin.’
‘How lovely for ye,’ Isabeau said warmly to the bogfaery. ‘It must make ye very happy to see wee Cuckoo growing up so bright and happy.’
The bogfaery nodded. ‘Ee-an big man, no need Aya no more, Aya sad, Aya go ’way. Now Ee-an have wee man, Aya come back, Aya glad.’
‘When Iain was a bairn, Aya was the only one to be kind to him and look out for him,’ Elfrida said, showing Isabeau through into the corridor again. ‘He loves her very much. Bogfaeries make wonderful nannies, for they’re so gentle and loving.’
‘Happen I shall have to borrow one,’ Isabeau sighed. ‘I must admit I’m finding it rather hard looking after four bairns as well as studying with Gwilym and directing the healers. We’ve had rather bad luck with our nursemaids recently.’
Elfrida nodded, appreciating the bitter irony. ‘Well, why do ye no’ take young Maura, Aya’s grand-daughter? She is a sweet wee thing, and very strong, despite her size. She can cook and sew and has worked here with Aya and her mother Faya for some years now, so she’s had experience with bairns.’
As she spoke she opened the door into a small but charming bedroom, its wall hung with a tapestry of a boating party on the loch, with a wedge of crimson-winged swans flying above. It had a wide window overlooking the water.
‘Och, this is lovely!’ Isabeau exclaimed, following Elfrida in.
Isabeau’s luggage had already been brought up from the boat and another bogfaery was padding about quietly, packing away her few clothes and pouring her out some honey-scented water in which to wash. Isabeau thanked her and then stood at the window, admiring the view. At the sound of peals of childish laughter from across the corridor, the two women turned and smiled at each other.
‘That is why I do so want Cuckoo to have a happy childhood,’ Elfrida said impetuously. ‘And I ken Iain feels the same. In some ways his was worse than mine because I at least kent my parents had loved me. My tormentors were my prison guards, no’ my own mother.’
Isabeau hesitated, then found the courage to raise something that had been troubling her greatly. ‘Elfrida, Iain does ken, does he no’? That it was me that killed his mother?’
Elfrida looked at her in some surprise. ‘We have heard the story o’ how the Thistle died. I had thought it was more by her own hand than yours.’
‘But I was the one who swapped the wine,’ Isabeau said, a knot of anxiety in her chest.
Elfrida smiled at her. ‘But Margrit who put the poison in the wine. Aye, Iain kens. It seems a fitting way for her to die, and I must say we are all relieved. We do no’ need to fear she shall try to steal Cuckoo away from us again, and this way she did no’ die by Iain’s hand, which would have been a terrible thing, regardless o’ how evil she was. She has been a shadow on our happiness from the very beginning and now that shadow is gone, and for that both o’ us are grateful to ye, truly.’
‘Och, I’m glad,’ Isabeau cried. ‘I would have been so unhappy if Iain had hated me!’
Elfrida laid a cool hand on Isabeau’s arm. ‘He would never hate ye, Isabeau. The only person Iain has ever hated was Margrit, and believe me, she deserved it. So do no’ think on it any more. We wish ye to enjoy your stay in Arran. Tomorrow we have organised a boating expedition up the river so ye can see the golden goddess in flower, and tonight we shall have a feast to celebrate the Rìgh’s visit.’ She moved away, her pale face colouring a little. ‘I hope ye do no’ mind, Isabeau, but I can no’ help noticing that ye do no’ have any feasting clothes. Ye are here tonight as our honoured guest, no’ as a witch o’ the Coven, and so I have brought ye some dresses to choose from. If ye prefer to wear your witch’s robes, well, o’ course ye may, but I just thought …’
Isabeau’s face lit up with pleasure. ‘Och really?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Nay, I’d love to wear something festive! I do have some other clothes back in Lucescere, but since we ride to war, I did no’ pack them.’
Elfrida was pleased at Isabeau’s delight and clapped her hands imperiously. Within a few minutes a procession of bogfaeries came in with piles of silks and satins in all colours of the rainbow, spreading them out on the bed or hanging them up from the curtain rail. ‘They all belonged to Margrit,’ Elfrida said, ‘but most o’ them have never been worn. Ye must no’ mind that they were hers. The seamstresses will take them in for ye.’
Isabeau could not help exclaiming in delight. Even though she was a fully fledged member of the Coven of Witches, and so used to a life of austerity, she had not lost her love of finery. Somehow this sensuous side of her nature had never been given a chance for full expression, and the sight of all those luxurious fabrics and gorgeous colours went to her head like a draught of goldensloe wine.
After twirling about in front of the long mirrors in one gown after another, Isabeau at last decided what she would wear to the feast that night. It was a gown of pale ivory satin printed all over with tiny crimson roses, golden lilies and delicate sprigs of forget-me-not. The skirt was trimmed and embellished in velvet ribbon of the same forget-me-not blue, with a blue velvet bodice and long, tightly fitting sleeves slashed to allow wisps of ivory gauze to billow out. The gold-embroidered cuffs came to a long tapering point over the hands, hiding Isabeau’s maimed fingers, while the bodice was cut low over her breasts, the embroidered neckline softened with pleated gauze of the same pale ivory.
That evening Elfrida’s maid dressed Isabeau and drew her hair from her face with a simple fillet of blue velvet and pearls, allowing the mass of fiery curls to hang free down her back. When the maid had at last expressed her satis
faction, Isabeau stood and stared at herself in the mirror. For the first time she looked like a banprionnsa. More importantly, in Isabeau’s mind, she looked beautiful. She smiled at herself, thanked Elfrida’s maid, gathered up the little gold-embroidered reticule that went with the gown, and squared her shoulders. For some reason she felt much more nervous having to face Lachlan and his court now that she was dressed like any of the other ladies.
Snooze-hooh? she asked Buba, who had settled on the back of a chair, her ear tufts lowered sleepily.
Snooze-hooh, the little owl agreed, her round eyes already closing.
Meghan was waiting for her in her own room just next door. She too had changed her clothes and was dressed in a severe gown of dark green velvet, relieved only by her plaid and the great emerald that fastened it about her shoulders. As usual Gitâ was perched on her shoulder, his black eyes bright as pools of ink, his plumy tail carefully groomed. Meghan looked Isabeau over rather caustically, saying, ‘Och, ye’re gaudy tonight, my Beau.’
Isabeau flushed, but said laughingly, ‘Well, I do no’ often get a chance to dress up!’
She helped the old sorceress to her feet and offered her arm for Meghan to lean upon. They made their way slowly down the corridor, often stopping to admire a particularly fine piece of porcelain or cunningly carved box, thereby covertly allowing Meghan to catch her breath.
As they made their way down the sweeping staircase they heard a hum of conversation, and then, as they turned the corner to the last flight, saw the grand hall below packed with people. There were the blue-clad Yeomen of the Guard, Lachlan’s personal guard, captained by Duncan Ironfist, who was also seanalair of the Rìgh’s army.
Then there were the lairds, all dressed in their family tartans, and their officers and courtiers. Most important of the lairds were Alasdair Garrie of Killiegarrie, uncle to Melisse NicThanach and seanalair of her army, and Cameron Guthrie of Gleneagles, the NicAislin’s seanalair. Neither the NicThanach nor the NicAislin rode to war, like most women of Eileanan bowing to tradition and leaving the fighting to the men. As a result the majority of the crowd gathered in the grand entrance hall were men, the only women being witches or healers. Isabeau knew the witches and healers well, but their faces were lost in the crowd so that it seemed she was entering a sea of strangers.
As Meghan and Isabeau made their way down the steps, a lull fell over the crowd and many turned to stare, even though they had seen both the witches many times before. Isabeau hesitated in sudden shyness. Then Dide came forward to offer her his hand and lead her down the last few steps.
Like all of the Rìgh’s officers, he wore a long blue cloak, pinned back at the shoulder with a badge depicting a charging stag, the ensign of the Yeomen of the Guard. His dark curls were tied back neatly under a cockaded blue tam o’shanter, and his blue kilt swung with every step. There was no sign of the shabby jongleur Isabeau had always known and she felt a sudden surge of shyness. Then he grinned at her, and all her awkwardness dissolved.
‘Flaming dragon balls, ye’re fine tonight,’ he said. ‘If Finn were here, she’d say ye were as fine as a goat’s turd stuck with buttercups.’
Isabeau laughed at him. ‘Such a courtier,’ she mocked. ‘Now I understand why Lachlan usually insists on ye travelling around like a gypsy.’
‘Och, that be because he’s afraid o’ the havoc I’d cause among the ladies if I stayed wi’ the court,’ he answered, his black eyes glinting with laughter.
‘If that is the sort o’ compliment ye normally pay, I can just imagine the sort o’ havoc ye’d cause,’ she replied. ‘It’s a wonder that guitar o’ yours has no’ been broken over your head afore now.’
‘A few people have tried,’ he admitted, ‘but never a lady. Always their husbands, I fear.’
Isabeau screwed up her face at him. ‘To hear ye speak, anyone would think ye were a libertine o’ the worst sort, but I ken it be all talk and no truth.’
‘Is that so?’ he asked. ‘And how do ye be kenning?’
Isabeau looked him over consideringly. ‘I be a sorceress now and can see into the hearts o’ men,’ she said with great solemnity.
Colour rushed into Dide’s cheeks. ‘Is that so? What am I thinking now then?’ he challenged.
Isabeau let a small smile grow on her lips. ‘I may be a sorceress, but I am also a banprionnsa and far too finely bred to give such thoughts expression,’ she said piously.
He was startled into a shout of laughter. ‘Wha’ a drayload o’ dragon dung!’
This time it was Isabeau who was startled. ‘What did you say?’
‘That’s another o’ our young Finn’s sayings. Believe me, a few months in her company and we have all extended our vocabulary remarkably. She be a banprionnsa too, and the foulest-mouthed lass I’ve ever kent. If ye take her as your model, ye need have no hesitation in saying what’s on my mind.’
At that moment he brought Isabeau to where Lachlan stood waiting with his courtiers. The laughter still lingering in her eyes, Isabeau swept the Rìgh a graceful curtsey. He acknowledged her with a rather curt nod of the head, then came forward to offer Meghan his arm. The old sorceress had been talking with her old friend Enit Silverthroat, who was sitting on a padded chair with long poles that enabled her to be carried about. At Lachlan’s gesture, though, the sorceress allowed her great-great-great-grand-nephew to lead her forward and into the feasting hall. Iain and Elfrida followed, then the Duke of Killiegarrie offered Isabeau his arm. Isabeau accepted, unable to help feeling snubbed by Lachlan’s curtness.
Isabeau’s moment of pique soon faded. Lachlan’s men competed avidly for her attentions, flattering her shamelessly and being quick to fill up her goblet and offer her the tastiest tidbits of roast swan. Since Isabeau ate no meat, this gambit failed to win her approval, but she blushed and laughed at all their compliments, her eyes shining brilliantly blue with excitement.
All of the soldiers were filled with high spirits. They boasted of their victories in Tìrsoilleir, recounting this battle or that charge, describing with many gestures and explanations how the heroes of that campaign had fought and won the day. Even though Lachlan figured strongly in their stories, he alone did not join in the laughter and storytelling, his dark face remaining sombre. Isabeau was uncomfortably aware of how often his regard turned to rest upon her face. His brooding gaze reminded her of the first time they had met, when he had sat by her fire and eaten her porridge and stared at her with that exact same intense, inscrutable awareness. It made her restive, bringing blood to pound at her temples and tingle in her fingertips. She did her best to ignore him, though it seemed to her a current of awareness ran between them, palpable as a flash of lightning.
Certainly Dide noticed, for he often glanced from one to the other. He leaned a little closer to Isabeau as a consequence, often laying his hand on her arm or touching her shoulder to gain her attention.
As usual the young earl kept the table in a stir of merriment, bringing the characters of his tales to life with such deft mimicry that it seemed they thronged at his shoulder, speaking and acting for themselves. Dide was a gifted storyteller. Every tale he told, no matter how exciting or amusing, had a prick of pathos and a twist of terror, so that everyone gathered at the high table was torn between horror, sympathy, amusement and anticipation, breathlessly awaiting his next word. As riveted as anyone else there, Isabeau nonetheless could not help but notice how deliberately Dide played upon his audience’s emotions, and how ready the lairds were to be diverted. It was clear much of the cheerful confidence about the upcoming confrontation with the Fairgean was mere bravado.
When the plates had all been cleared away and platters of fruits and sweetmeats brought out, Enit’s chair was carried to the centre of the room. Dide was brought his guitar and Jay the Fiddler his viola by the dark-skinned bogfaeries who had served the meal. Brun bounded forward excitedly, his little silver flute in his hands. Isabeau leant forward eagerly. She had heard Jay and Dide play together at the May D
ay feast and was eager indeed to hear them again. She had never heard Enit sing, but knew she had a rare power. It was a privilege indeed to hear her for the old woman was now so badly crippled that she rarely performed.
Music spilled across the grand hall and the loud hum of conversation slowly died. It was a most haunting tune, plaintive and sweet. Then Enit leant forward a little in her chair, opening her mouth to sing. Her voice soared up towards the vaulted ceiling, as silvery pure and melodious as a nightingale’s.
‘I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I were a maid again;
A maid again I never will be,
Till apples grow on an orange tree,
Aye, till apples grow on an orange tree.
Now there’s a tavern in the town
Where my love sits himself down;
He calls another lassie to his knee
And tells her the tale he once told me,
Aye, tells her the tale he once told me.
I wish, I wish my babe was born
An’ smiling on yon nurse’s knee;
An’ I myself were dead and gone,
Wi’ green, green grass growing over me,
Aye, wi’ green, green grass growing over me.’
Enit’s voice quavered and broke. Isabeau found tears were stinging her eyes, a shiver running all over her skin. Enit sang with such pathos quivering in every note, it was impossible to believe she was not a young girl, abandoned by her lover, longing for death.
There was a long silence when she had finished and then riotous applause. Isabeau pressed her fingers against her wet eyes, not wanting anyone to know how much the song had stirred her. She looked up and met Lachlan’s intense golden gaze and felt the colour surge up under her fair skin.
Enit sang another song, this time a merry lilting tune, and then retired, while Dide sang a stirring war song, Brun the cluricaun exchanging his flute for a little round drum. The table began to break up, people moving around to speak to others or withdrawing to the terrace to drink whisky, smoke their pipes and talk.