‘Our only chance is to get ahead o’ him and stop him on the road,’ Jay had said. ‘Do ye think ye can outfly him, Rhiannon?’
‘O’ course,’ she had answered. ‘Blackthorn’s as fleet as the wind!’
So Rhiannon and Blackthorn had flown as fast as they could through the storm and out the far side, to find much fairer weather ahead, and signs of Lord Malvern’s lead stretching. So, armed with the Banrìgh’s letter and precise instructions from Finn and Jay, Rhiannon had roused the men of a small mountain village called Sligsachen. They had set up a stout barrier across the road, and guarded it well with men armed with bows and arrows, pitchforks and heavy staves.
Despite all their commands to stop, Lord Malvern’s men had simply whipped up their team of six huge carthorses and ploughed straight through the barrier, knocking over one of the local men and injuring him badly. Gerard, the lord’s librarian, was shot and fell from the dray, its iron-bound wheels rolling over him and crushing him into the ground. The archers swore at least another three arrows had found a mark, though evidently not accurately enough to kill. It made no difference. The lord galloped on, and Rhiannon found the dray abandoned some miles on, with signs that the lord’s party had followed a goat track into the hills. The six carthorses had been abandoned too, without feed or water, their great shoulders and backs cruelly lacerated from the repeated lash of a whip.
Rhiannon did what she could for them, finding a stream where they could drink and she could wash their cuts and smear on some of the heal-all balm she carried in her pack. She used up the last of her oats to make a warm porridge that they all shared, and then she showed them the way back to Sligsachen. She was sure there was someone in the village who would have use for them, and feed them and care for them.
The carthorses went slowly and wearily, and she sighed, feeling the same heavy fatigue weighing down her bones. Blackthorn did not wish to fly any more, and Rhiannon was anxious not to miss any tracks that might show which way the lord of Fettercairn and his party were headed. So she led her exhausted horse up the steep path at an easy pace, her bluebird darting on ahead of her through the overarching trees, catching bugs in its beak.
As the light faded away into an early dusk, Rhiannon found a dead man lying on the side of the goat track, and recognised the lord’s valet, Herbert. They had not even taken the time to lay him out neatly, or cover his face. He lay tumbled on the side of the track, an arrow still protruding from his back. Rhiannon did not like dead people. She left him as he lay, telling herself the imploring voice she heard in her ears was just her imagination.
She had found plenty of evidence of Owein and Olwynne along the way – a discarded silver shoe, some long red feathers from the prionnsa’s wings caught in the bushes, scraps of their fine satin clothes, a bloody footprint on a stepping stone across a stream. She was relieved to know they still lived, having feared the lord of Fettercairn would grow weary of their dogged pursuit and kill them out of hand.
Two days later, the track led her out onto another road, a wider thoroughfare with waystones engraved with a large ‘R’ marking out the miles. Here she found further proof of the lord’s utter ruthlessness. Evidently the villains had come across a peddler, for Rhiannon found his body thrown down by the side of the road amidst a clutter of pots and pans, spades, bolts of cloth, unravelling coils of ribbon, and the poor, pathetic corpse of a little black-and-white dog.
Her stomach twisting with revulsion, Rhiannon straightened the peddler’s limbs and covered him with a length of fine red twill, tucking the little dog up beside him. It was all she had time to do. She was now even more determined to catch up with her enemy and bring him to some kind of justice. The death of the little dog had angered her the most. It was so unnecessary.
On she flew, catching up with the lord by that afternoon. The peddler’s stolen caravan was being pulled by a fat, spotted pony who had never felt the lash of the whip in her life. Now she was galloping for dear life, Kennard laying about her ears with the whip, the caravan bouncing madly behind them. Dedrie and Piers both sat up on the seat beside Kennard, clutching on as tightly as they could, while Jem and Ballard hung off the back. Of the others, there was no sign. Rhiannon could only guess they were all inside the caravan.
Careful not to be seen, Rhiannon wheeled away and urged Blackthorn on to greater speed. Weary as she was, the mare responded magnificently and Rhiannon came that evening into a fairly large town, called Mullrannoch, an hour or two ahead of Lord Malvern. She sent her bluebird with a note to Finn and Jay, telling them where she was, then went to find the town reeve. He agreed to barricade the road and find men willing to arm it. It took much of the afternoon, Rhiannon determined that this time it would be stout enough to withstand any assault, and then they all waited in the rainy darkness, straining their ears for any sound of hooves. The night plodded past with no sign of any peddler’s caravan, or any other traveller. The men were all understandably angry and sarcastic, having spent the night shivering in a nasty wet wind, but Rhiannon begged them to continue standing guard. In the thin, grey dawn, they at last heard hooves approaching fast. The reeve raised his pistol, calling out fiercely, ‘Halt! Halt, I say, in the name o’ the Banrìgh!’
The hooves clattered to a halt and then, to her dismay, Rhiannon heard her name being called. It was Finn and Jay and their soldiers they had bailed up, all wet through, exhausted and in as foul a temper as the reeve. Somehow the lord had escaped in the night.
Everyone was so frustrated and weary, they retired to the village inn for hot porridge laced with whisky, and mugs of steaming tea by the fire. Finn the Cat was clearly unwell; she spent ten minutes or more loudly throwing up in the privy, then sat morosely nursing her cup, and snarling at her husband every time he opened his mouth. Wet through, the black elven cat sat on the hearth, its tufted ears laid flat on its skull, licking itself dry and glaring with slitted eyes at anyone foolhardy enough to try to warm themselves by the hastily stoked-up fire. Rhiannon was careful to keep her bluebird on her shoulder. The evil-tempered elven cat had already stalked the little bird as it fluttered about the common room, and had managed to snatch a mouthful of blue tail feathers.
Rhiannon had hardly slept in three days, and the floor was rolling strangely under her feet. Jay quietly paid for a room each for her and his wife, who swore at him when he insisted on taking her up to bed, but nonetheless went willingly enough in the end. Rhiannon did not blame her. The idea of cuddling up in a warm bed and listening to the rain streaming down the windows sounded like bliss to her too. Blackthorn was snug enough in the stable, with two young grooms overwhelmed with the privilege of caring for her, and Rhiannon was simply too tired and dispirited to even think of trying to find out how Lord Malvern had got past them.
The reeve came in the miserable dusk of that evening to tell them. Rhiannon and Finn had both slept most of the day and were breaking their fast by the warmth of a fire in the common room. It continued nasty outside, with hail battering the old inn and clouds hanging close about the village. The reeve was flushed with self-importance, standing dripping on the hearth with his legs apart and his hand on his sword. The miscreants had apparently abandoned the horse and caravan at the first sight of the town lights, he said portentously, and circled round the village on foot. They were long gone now.
Finn wept to think how worn out the poor prionnsa and banprionnsa must be, soaked to the skin, squelching through the mud of the fields after the punishing pace the lord of Fettercairn had set those past few days.
‘Oh, Eà grant them strength,’ she cried, ‘and forgive me for failing them!’
‘Finn,’ Jay said placatingly.
Finn crossed her arms over her stomach, her hazel eyes bright with angry tears. ‘O’ all the bad timing!’ she cried.
‘Dinna say that, dearling. No time is bad timing for us, and it is no fault o’ the babe’s that the weather has been so bad, and Lord Malvern’s plans so well laid.’
Rhiannon looked from
one to the other.
Finn looked cross. ‘Still they elude us though! I should’ve caught them by now. It’s ridiculous! More than a week in the chase and still they keep giving me the slip. It’s no’ good enough.’
‘We will catch up with them, never ye fear, my darling,’ Jay said. ‘It is better that we stop and rest and think about our next move than we keep running around the countryside in circles. Ye were exhausted and so was Rhiannon. Let’s take another night to rest up, and in the morning, when we are all fresh, we’ll think about what to do next.’
Finn gave a harsh, ironic laugh. ‘Fresh? In the morning? Me?’
Jay smiled at her. ‘Go to bed, Finn. Ye’ll feel better after a good night’s rest, I promise ye. They canna have gone far in this blaygird weather. In the morning we’ll have fresh horses and locals to advise us on the roads, and Rhiannon to fly ahead and scout. We’ll catch up with them tomorrow, I promise.’
Yet when they rose in the morning, refreshed and eager to set off, it was only to find that someone had spent the night stealing or slaughtering every horse in the village, including Finn and Jay’s own weary mounts. Only Blackthorn had escaped the massacre, by knocking down her midnight assailant and escaping on wing. Lord Malvern’s coachman, Kennard, was found unconscious in the straw of her stall, the two young grooms lying nearby in spreading pools of blood, their throats slit.
Rhiannon was distraught. She had been so weary that she had slept heavily, waking in the late morn in exactly the same position she had fallen asleep. She remembered nothing of the night, not a dream, not a sound, not a feeling of disquiet. All the soldiers had slept as heavily, and Finn and Jay, and the innkeeper and his wife too, and no-one could help suspecting their food or drink had been doctored. They had all eaten from the same pot of vegetable stew, but who would have had the audacity to slip into the inn’s kitchen and drug the stew with so many people bustling about?
‘Dedrie,’ Rhiannon said darkly.
‘So bold,’ Finn said, half-admiringly. ‘What a risk to run! What if ye had seen her?’
‘She would probably have slit my throat like those poor lads,’ Rhiannon answered.
‘Aye, why did they have to kill them?’ Finn asked, her mouth twisting. ‘A quick knock on the head …’
‘They seem to like killing,’ Rhiannon said.
Jay was white with anger. ‘This laird o’ Fettercairn has much to answer for,’ he said quietly. ‘We must stop him! There is no point us trying to catch up with him now, I think. He has horses and we do no’. We come close to the sea now. He will have a ship waiting for him, probably in one o’ the hundreds o’ little coves on the Ravenshaw coast. Finn, ye and I will backtrack to the river and get ourselves to Dùn Gorm. The Banrìgh will have made sure The Royal Stag is armed and provisioned and ready to go. We’ll see if we canna catch him on the open sea.’
‘Wonderful,’ Finn said with a groan. ‘A good dose o’ seasickness is just what I need.’
‘Ye can stay in Dùn Gorm,’ Jay said, looking troubled.
‘Stay behind? No, thank ye! I’ll be just fine. The sea air will do me good.’
‘Well, then, if ye’re sure …’
‘Sure I’m sure. I’ll scry to Nina right now and let her ken our plans,’ Finn said. ‘She will get a message to the palace for us.’
‘What o’ me?’ Rhiannon asked. ‘Should I no’ fly after them, see where they go?’
‘Aye, that would be best,’ Jay said. ‘Do no’ put yourself in danger, though, Rhiannon. These are cruel, ruthless men, they’d have no hesitation in shooting ye out o’ the sky.’
‘They could never catch me,’ Rhiannon said scornfully, and was rewarded by Finn’s quick nod.
‘That’s the spirit, lass,’ the sorceress said. ‘I wish I had the time to teach ye to scry, though. It’d be good if ye could send us word o’ where the blaygird laird is heading.’
‘I can send my wee birdie again,’ Rhiannon said.
‘Goblin almost caught it last time,’ Finn said. ‘It thinks it looks like a tasty mouthful indeed.’
‘There are homing pigeons at Rhyssmadill,’ Jay said. ‘Send a message to the garrison there, and they’ll make sure Captain Dillon hears any news. And ye can leave a message for us at the Black Sheep Inn in Dùn Gorm.’
‘Ah, the Black Sheep Inn,’ Finn said, her eyes brightening. ‘Best ale in Dùn Gorm.’
‘No’ that ye’ll be drinking any o’ it,’ Jay said.
Finn sighed.
Rhiannon had found herself rather reluctant to leave the couple in Mullrannoch and fly off by herself into the dismal weather. She had had enough of being always wet and cold and tired, and so many hours spent on horseback had chafed her inner thighs badly. Blackthorn was not happy to leave the warm, comfortable stable either. She had spent most of the night flying about in the rain, trying to avoid the arrows of the lord of Fettercairn’s men, and doing her best to rouse Rhiannon by neighing shrilly outside the inn. She was most disgruntled at being led outside into the rain and having the familiar weight of Rhiannon’s saddlebags thrown over her withers. Rhiannon had to talk to her quite severely before she stopped sidling about, tossing her head and hurrumphing her displeasure.
All day they flew and galloped, flew and galloped, stopping only to rest and eat in short stretches, and to make sure they were still following the lord of Fettercairn’s trail. He was driving his party hard, and Rhiannon was not surprised to find another old man lying beside the roadside six hours past Mullrannoch. It was the old harper, Borden, and he still lived, though he looked grey and ill. He looked up as Blackthorn landed near his head, and said wheezily, ‘Ah, the thigearn. Ye will have to fly fast to catch them, lass. They are riding to the very devil.’
‘Are ye hurt?’ she asked, kneeling beside him warily.
He tried to laugh. ‘Hurt? Nay. Sick and auld and weary, aye. I’m too auld for all this nonsense.’
‘I do no’ call dead men and boys nonsense,’ Rhiannon said coldly, thinking of the two young, light-hearted grooms who had died so unnecessarily, and the old peddler with his little dog.
‘Nay,’ he said. ‘None o’ it was nonsense. If only I had kent …’
‘Kent what?’
His rheumy eyes swam with tears. ‘If only I had kent where my laird’s experiments with death would take us. I never meant to end up like this, a murderer and kidnapper, and a traitor to my rìgh. I wish …’ He fell silent.
‘Why did ye do it?’ Rhiannon asked. ‘Ye do no’ seem an evil man.’
‘He promised we would raise my wife,’ the old man said sorrowfully. ‘I dinna ken it would take more than a quarter o’ a century afore we learnt how. By then it was too late. We had done so many dreadful things, killed so many people, desecrated so many graves, all in our hunger to bring back the dead. We could no’ stop then. What was it all for, if we were to stop then?’
‘Making sure no-one else died?’
‘But by then my boy was caught up in it too. If I had betrayed my laird, if I had tried to get away, my boy would’ve suffered. They hang people for necromancy, do ye ken?’
‘Aye, I ken,’ Rhiannon said coldly. ‘And hang, draw and quarter them for treason.’
‘Aye, ye would ken, wouldna ye? How did ye get away? My laird was sure they’d hang ye.’
Rhiannon thought of Lewen, who had wrapped his body about the clapper of the bell so it would not ring. She smiled, and did not answer.
The old man rested his head on the iron-cold ground again. ‘Give it up,’ he said wearily. ‘My laird will no’ be thwarted. What are these MacCuinns to ye? Let my laird have his way and raise his brother again, and his wee nephew too, and then it will all be over.’
‘The dead are dead, and should stay so,’ Rhiannon said tersely. She bent and heaved the old man into her arms. Frail as he was, he was still heavy and awkward.
‘What do ye do?’ he asked in surprise.
‘Ye think I can leave ye to die by the side o’ the road?’ sh
e said angrily.
‘But … but why?’
‘Ye may be a very stupid auld man, but I still canna just fly on and leave ye to die,’ she answered. ‘Do no’ squirm so, else I’ll drop ye!’
She managed to fling him over Blackthorn’s back, and then, cursing her own stupidity, led her mare along the rutted road until they reached a crofter’s cottage. Depleting the royal purse even further, she paid the crofter and his wife to feed and shelter him, and asked them to send a message to the local reeve to come and take him into custody.
By then it was dark again, and she gladly accepted a bowl of hot bean and potato stew from the crofter, and a bed in the dry straw of the barn, curled up against Blackthorn with the mare’s wing tucked over her. She rose in the dawn, shared a bowl of porridge with the crofter and his wife, checked on Borden the Harper and was glad to see him with a better colour, then once again grimly wrapped herself up in her cloak and went out into the cold, damp, misty morning.
‘If only it would stop raining!’ she said to Blackthorn, who shook her mane and whickered in agreement.
That day passed much the same as the one before, though the wind was fresher and more boisterous, and the road was swallowed up in forest once more. It was easy enough to follow the trail left by Lord Malvern and his party, for their horses were weary now and having to plod through deep mud. Rhiannon was able to soar high above the forest and follow the road’s thin line through the trees.
Which was where she was when she first saw the gleaming line of light on the horizon, far brighter than anything she had ever seen before. It dazzled her eyes, so she could hardly bear to look at it, yet she could not wrench her gaze away.
As Rhiannon came closer, she saw it was water that gleamed so brightly, a great swathe of water like a robe of grey satin edged richly with silver thread, where somewhere far distant, the storm clouds ended and sunlight was reflected at the sky’s edge. The water stretched as far as Rhiannon could see. This was, she realised, the sea. Rhiannon had not realised it was as vast as the sky. It smelt as though it was alive, like a fish, or a woman, and moved sinuously, like the silky scaled skin of an immense snake. Or so she thought, until she came closer yet, and realised it moved in a rush and a fume, heaving, seething, sighing and foaming, splashing and spraying and swirling. It was grey, darker than the sky, and stormier. It made her want to run, or dance, or laugh out loud, yet the very immensity of it, the surge and grab of it, frightened her. She brought Blackthorn down onto a curve of rocks and pebbles under a dark overhang of cliff, amazed at how big the waves were, and the thunder and roar they made on the stones.