It was Mirabelle the healer.
‘Your Grace,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘Ye should no’ be wandering the hallways at this time o’ night. What is wrong? Can ye no’ sleep again?’
Elfrida heaved a sigh. ‘Sleep, sleep, when did I last sleep?’
‘The poppy tincture I gave ye is no’ working?’
‘I have bad dreams,’ Elfrida replied. She shuddered so visibly the candle flame undulated like a snake, and hot wax dripped down over her hands. She did not seem to notice.
‘Come, ye need to sleep. Let me mix ye up a stronger potion. Ye need your strength, Your Grace. Now is no’ the time to be giving in to doubts and weaknesses. Let me take ye back to bed …’
Elfrida turned her head and looked up the stairs. ‘She says to beware the silent watchers.’
Now Bronwen wished she had taken Dolan’s advice and gone back to her room earlier. Yet what was there to fear? A weary old woman who could not sleep, and a healer tending to her needs. Yet what was Mirabelle doing here, in the palace, at three o’clock in the morning? Why were both women fully dressed, and why were all the hairs on Bronwen’s arms standing upright? Even while she was castigating herself for being a suspicious, superstitious fool, Bronwen was inching back step by slow step.
Mirabelle moved closer to the foot of the stairs and raised high her lantern. It illuminated the edge of Bronwen’s embroidered blue dressing-gown. Bronwen managed a deep breath and then walked down into the light.
‘Mirabelle!’ she said gaily. ‘Well met! I was just wanting ye.’
‘Cannna ye sleep either, Your Majesty?’
Bronwen shook her head. ‘Nay, I’m afraid no’. Guilty consciences for us both, I guess, Your Grace,’ she said laughingly to Elfrida. Neither she nor Mirabelle saw the joke, staring up at Bronwen with blank faces. Bronwen smiled winningly to show she had only been teasing.
‘Let me give ye a sleeping potion, Your Majesty,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Ye need your beauty sleep.’
It was said deadpan, unsmiling, but Bronwen smiled in response anyway, and said, ‘Thank ye, Mirabelle, but I thought perhaps some o’ your delicious tea …’
‘The tea is a stimulant,’ Mirabelle said, ‘and ye need something to calm and soothe ye. Here. I have some mixed up already. Drink only two fingers o’ it, no more, and try no’ to drink any dancey or tea in the evening, Your Majesty.’
Bronwen sighed, thinking of the cups and cups she drank every night as she tried to force her tired brain to understand the pyramid of papers delivered every evening to her private suite. She took the little brown bottle Mirabelle held out to her, however, and thanked her with a smile.
‘Go back to bed now, Your Majesty,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I will see Her Grace back to her room.’
Bronwen glanced at Elfrida, who was staring blankly at the wall.
‘Is all well with her?’ Bronwen said in a low tone. ‘I mean, she seems …’
‘Her Grace suffered greatly as a child, in the hands o’ the Fealde and her henchmen,’ Mirabelle answered gently. ‘She has nightmares, and suffers insomnia. In times o’ stress, her dreams and flashbacks are worse than ever. There is no’ much any o’ us can do, except try and help her to dreamless sleep.’
‘I see,’ Bronwen said, remembering her aunt mentioning Elfrida’s dreadful childhood. ‘I’m so sorry. I did no’ realise.’
Mirabelle raised an eyebrow, a response which somehow made Bronwen feel terribly thoughtless and guilty, and said in a colourless voice, ‘I will come and see ye in the morning, Your Majesty. For now, go back to bed, drink some o’ the medicine I have given ye, and try to get your sleep. Ye need your strength.’
‘Aye, indeed I do,’ Bronwen answered, trying to smile, and she turned and went back up the stairs, Dolan following close behind.
They reached her door, and she turned to Dolan, feeling uncomfortable about the little scene she had just witnessed. Dolan was frowning, but at her troubled look he said kindly, ‘Now get back to bed, my lady, and no more fussing. The healer is right, ye need your beauty sleep. Do ye want some warm milk or something?’
‘Nay, nay, I’m fine,’ Bronwen answered hurriedly, hating to be treated like a child. She went back into her suite. Joey still slept before her bedroom door. She stepped over him, closed her door, drank down two fingers of the heady, sickly sweet medicine, and got into her cold bed. Huddled up into a little ball, inching her feet down the bed, Bronwen tried to think over what she had just seen and heard. A few things niggled at her, seeming odd, but even as she tried to tease them out of her subconscious, sleep swooped down upon her and took her falling into the abyss. She did not dream at all.
Bronwen woke late the next morning, feeling heavy-headed and lethargic. Remembering all she had to do that day, she groaned and dug herself deeper into her eiderdown, wishing she could stay in bed.
There was a very slight noise over by her door, but at once Bronwen was wide awake and preternaturally alert. Listening intently she cracked open one eye, and saw Mirabelle bending over a tray upon the table.
‘What do ye do?’ Bronwen asked sharply.
Mirabelle straightened and turned. ‘Och, I’m sorry, Your Majesty, did I wake ye? I came to see how ye were this morning, and found your little maid preparing your tea, and thought I’d bring it up myself. Here it is. It’s hot. I told the bogfaery she should let ye sleep longer today, as ye had a disturbed night, but she said ye have a breakfast meeting with your councillors.’
‘I do, unfortunately,’ Bronwen said, accepting the steaming cup with a little nod of thanks, and fluffing up her pillows so she could sit up. She took a sip of tea and sighed in pleasure. It was the most delicious tea, and sent warmth and strength radiating through her at every mouthful.
‘I have brought ye a little gift,’ Mirabelle said, placing a glass jar with a golden lid upon Bronwen’s bedside table. ‘We would no’ want our Banrìgh losing her looks because o’ a lack o’ beauty sleep, now, would we? It’s made of elderflowers and celandine, which may sting a little when ye first put it on, but greatly brightens one’s complexion.’
‘Why, thank ye,’ Bronwen answered, feeling a little pang of guilt. She had once, she remembered, laughed at Mirabelle when she was teaching them a recipe for making just such a skin lotion, asking her if she thought her own complexion was a great inducement for her students to trust her formula. It had been a long time ago, when Bronwen was only sixteen and first discovering the power of her own beauty. She hoped Mirabelle did not remember.
‘Put it on just after washing your face,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I think ye will find it has a most pleasant aroma.’
Bronwen wondered if she should mention that her aunt, Queen Fand, had given her a big pot of the skin lotion the Fairgean women used, which was made with seaweed, after Bronwen had commented on how fine and soft the Fairgean women’s skin was. She decided it would be more tactful to simply thank Mirabelle, and put the pot away for when the lotion she was using now had run out. So she smiled and said, ‘Thank ye, I will.’
Mirabelle smiled in response, the expression lightening her heavy, pockmarked features, and then went away, leaving Bronwen to finish her tea and drag herself out of bed in peace.
It was a long, long day. The clock hands crept round very slowly. Bronwen found it hard to concentrate. Several times she had to jerk herself out of a reverie in which she daydreamed she had gone in search of Donncan, saved him from dreadful danger and won his heart forever. The mental image of him clasping her against his chest and whispering, ‘Bronwen, my love!’ in her ear was so enticing it brought a lingering smile to her lips, which she had to banish very firmly before someone noticed, it being entirely inappropriate to a discussion on revaluing the currency. She had to remind herself sternly that her days of freedom were over. She could not even afford to daydream of escaping the court to go in search of Donncan, let alone doing it. She had to concentrate on being the best banrìgh she could.
By the end of a very long session o
f the Privy Council, Bronwen had a headache and felt perilously close to tears. She withdrew to her bedchamber and, after about sixteen unwelcome interruptions and interludes, took the coronet off her head with a sigh of relief and begged her maid Maura to bring her some more of Mirabelle’s special brew.
The bogfaery frowned. ‘Me no like that tea. Makes Bronny all twitchety. Me make Bronny some nice chamomile tea.’
‘I’d fall asleep if ye did that,’ Bronny said. ‘Please, Maura, just bring me the tea. It really does have a marvellous way o’ clearing my head.’
Grumbling, the bogfaery did as she was told. Bronwen sat down and rested her face in her hands, whispering to herself, ‘Donncan, where are ye?’
Tears slipped out through her fingers.
The door opened but Bronwen did not look up, expecting it to be Maura returning with her tea.
She heard a quick step, then saw a grey silk gown blossom out as her mother sank into the chair beside her, the dark wings of her hair falling forward onto her cheekbones as she leant forward in concern.
‘Bronny, my dear, what’s wrong?’
Bronwen hurriedly wiped her face and sat up. ‘Naught! I’m just tired. And sick o’ waiting for news. When will Aunty Beau be back? It’s been days and days. What is taking so long? I thought it was simply a matter o’ following Donncan and Thunderlily along the Auld Ways, overcoming Johanna, and bringing him back. What can have gone wrong?’
Maya laid her work-roughened hand on Bronwen’s silk sleeve.
‘Ye may need to prepare yourself, sweetling,’ she said. ‘Isabeau may no’ have been in time. Donncan may …’
‘Donncan is no’ dead!’
‘I fear he may be, my dear. Ye must prepare yourself.’
Bronwen was silent. She sat with her back stiff, her jaw clenched, her hands crushing the stuff of her gown.
Maya frowned. ‘I ken ye have always been close to your cousin,’ she began delicately, ‘but I had no’ thought ye cared for him in that way. Ye did no’ seem to miss him at all while he was away, visiting Neil in Arran over the winter. In fact, ye seemed relieved to have him gone.’
Her daughter looked away, pressing her lips together.
‘Then, at the wedding, ye seemed positively cold. I wanted to tell ye to at least try and keep up a semblance o’ marital bliss, for appearance’s sake, but could no’, since I was meant to still be rendered mute.’ There were little ironic flourishes to Maya’s voice that gave a piquancy to the beauty of her golden voice. ‘I was no’ the only one who thought the marriage purely one o’ convenience. Was I wrong? Do ye have deeper feelings for Donncan?’
There was a short silence, then Bronwen suddenly burst out, ‘I am banrìgh now. I should be happy … I should be gloating that fate has delivered everything I ever wanted into my hands … the throne, the crown, the Lodestar … yet it is no’ how I dreamt it would be …’
‘Naught ever is,’ Maya murmured.
Bronwen seized her mother’s arm. ‘Was it no’, Mama? Really? For ye never loved my father, did ye? Ye ensorcelled him into marrying ye, and ensorcelled him into giving all his power into your hands. Ye ensorcelled me into life! I thought ye loved it, the power, the control. I thought ye loved being banrìgh, and having everyone rush to do your bidding. Ye hated being thrown down.’
This time it was Maya’s turn to flush and bite her lip and look away. She was silent a long time, long enough for Bronwen’s shoulders to droop and her breath to sigh out.
Then Maya said, very quietly, ‘No, it was no’ enough. I told myself it was, but …’
‘But what?’
‘I wished …’
‘Wished what?’
‘Sometimes … many times … I wished your father had lived … and loved me for myself … and we had naught to do but love each other and rule the land together … But …’
‘But?’
‘It was no’ to be. They … My father … they would never have let me be …’
‘I ken.’
Another long silence.
‘It would never have worked. Besides, by the time I realised, it was too late … and he … Jaspar …’
Bronwen realised that her mother was struggling to hold back tears. She had never seen her mother cry. She stared at Maya, surprised and uncomfortable, and then reached out a hesitant hand to comfort her. Maya suffered it for a moment, then shook Bronwen away, straightening with a sigh.
‘It is no use thinking o’ what might have been,’ Maya said. ‘All we can do is play with the hand we’ve been dealt. And ye have a royal flush, Bronwen. Use it.’
‘It is just that I …’ Bronwen sighed, then shut her mouth. She did not wish to tell her mother that she feared this new-found power, and longed to have Donncan relieve her of some, at least, of the load. She did not want to say she missed his steady presence at her side, his quick wit and insight, his intelligence and strength. Most of all, she did not want to admit she longed to melt into his arms, and raise her face to his, and have him kiss her again, like he had the night of the May Day feast. This was something she had trouble admitting to herself, let alone her mother.
‘All I am saying, Bronny, is that ye must prepare yourself to rule alone,’ Maya continued, taking no notice of her daughter’s agitation. ‘Donncan may well be dead, and if that is so, ye will have to fight to keep your throne. If your thigearn lass succeeds in rescuing Owein and Olwynne, ye may find yourself facing a challenge ye canna withstand. Indeed, perhaps it would be best to make sure she does no’ succeed, and Owein and Olwynne never make it back alive.’
Bronwen stared at her mother with wide eyes.
‘One should always look ahead,’ Maya said serenely, and then smiled at Maura as the bogfaery came in, grumbling at the weight of the tray she carried. ‘Ah, good! Tea. Shall I pour, Bronny?’
‘My soul, like to a ship in a black storm,
Is driven, I know not whither.’
JOHN WEBSTER,
The White Devil, 1612
Olwynne lay on the bare wooden boards, groaning.
She stank of vomit and sweat and urine and excrement. No matter how hard she tried, it was not possible in the heaving, rocking, swaying hold of the ship to always make the bucket on time. And Olwynne had never been so vilely ill in all her life.
Racked with cramps so severe they made her gasp out loud, her stomach in constant rebellion against the ceaseless motion and the dreadful diet, Olwynne could do nothing but weep and moan.
If it had not been for her twin brother’s company, his staunch courage and valiant optimism, Olwynne thought she might have given in and died. In the darkness she could not see his face, but his strong hand and shoulder, his warm wing, his gentle voice rarely failed her, even though he was quite as sick as she was. Olwynne had always thought she was the strong one, the one with the quiet inner core of certainty and fortitude, but Owein had proved her wrong these past two weeks.
It was impossible to know how long they had been imprisoned in the stinking belly of the ship. Yet, counting the number of times Jem had come to bring them some dreadful slop of maggot-infested gruel, and to empty the bucket with many curses and jeers, Owein thought it was at least three days, maybe as many as six. It depended on whether he came only once a day, or twice. Olwynne found the young man filled her with the utmost terror. He never failed to stand over them, mocking them, threatening them both with rape and torture, death and abandonment.
‘No-one here to see or care,’ he would say with a leer. ‘Always wanted to shove my prick up the arse o’ a banprionnsa. Guess I’ll never get the chance again; may as well enjoy myself on this Truth-begotten journey.’ He would loom over her, his lantern held high so its cruel radiance would fall harshly upon her, and jerk his crotch with one hand. Olwynne would shrink back against Owein, who would steady her with his bound hands, trying to reassure her and keep her strong. Then Jem would snort with laughter. ‘Though I think I’ll wait for a nice clean lass. Dinna want my prick to fall off!’
>
Another time he would focus his attentions on Owein. ‘Always thought ye were so fine, dinna ye? No’ so high and mighty now, are ye? How does it feel to lie in your own shit and piss, and ken ye’re no better than any other man? Shit and piss, that’s what it’s all about, and having a rìgh for a father doesna make a fart’s worth o’ difference.’
Owein just stared back at him, not saying a word. They had both learnt that any defiance only earned them a kick in the ribs. Once, after Owein had lost his temper and given back as good as he had got, Jem had even unbuttoned his trousers and urinated on them, much to their disgust. He had not done any worse, though, despite all his foul words and threats, and with time they had found him easier to ignore.
The ship had been running fast before the wind, that they could tell from the creaking of the timbers and the pitching of the floor on which they lay. Now the ship was coming into gentler waters, and the wild rolling had calmed, allowing Olwynne to slip into an uneasy sleep.
She dreamt she walked down a dark corridor, groping her way forward, unable to see. Ahead a door stood ajar. Light fell through the crack like a rent in a curtain. Olwynne crept towards it, and put her eye to the crack.
Inside Lewen sat, peel after peel of white bark falling away from his knife. He was carving a knob of wood away into nothing. Gladly Olwynne put her hand to the door and pushed it open. Lewen looked up at her, his face twisted in misery and hate.
‘My blade must have blood,’ he said. He rose to his feet and stepped forward swiftly, slashing his knife across her throat. As Olwynne fell, gasping, blood fountaining up between her hands, he repeated the words unhappily, gazing down at her on the floor. ‘My blade must have blood.’