Lachlan said bitterly, ‘Indeed ye do no’ understand. Beauty is no’ the way to win my heart. Maya was bonny indeed, and her heart was full o’ treachery and falseness. Every beautiful woman I have ever known has betrayed me. It is true what the Tìrsoilleirean priests say: beauty hides corruptness, deceit.’
For a moment there was silence. Feeling the ropes unravelling, Iseult risked twisting her head round so she could see. The hobgoblins were crouched at the corrigan’s feet, and she was standing, her downcast face thoughtful. Then suddenly a shimmer ran over her, and to Iseult’s shock, she saw herself standing where a moment before there had been a fair beauty.
Dressed in grubby breeches and a white shirt, the corrigan now had a head of red-gold curls, bright blue eyes and a warm skin liberally splattered with freckles. She heard Lachlan give a little gasp, and then the corrigan was pressing herself against him again, kissing him and stroking his muscular arms.
‘See, I can be anyone ye want,’ she murmured with Iseult’s voice. ‘Ye want this lassie, I shall be this lassie for ye.’
Again Lachlan shook his head, and his wings shifted restlessly against the ropes. ‘Ye may look like her,’ he said gently, ‘but ye can never be her.’
At that moment, the ropes at last parted and Iseult almost fell to her knees with the release of the pressure on her arms. Lachlan staggered forward; then, realising they were free, tried to grasp the corrigan. Immediately she changed herself to a mouse and scuttled across the floor. The hobgoblins all sprang forward, seizing Lachlan who was still unsteady on his feet.
Quick as a flash Iseult dived forward and caught the mouse by the tail. The mouse turned to a sand scorpion instantaneously, but Iseult hung on grimly, not afraid that the poisonous tip would strike her. She could feel that she held a knobbly foot, even though Lachlan was screaming at her to let the sand scorpion go. ‘It’ll kill ye if it stings ye,’ he cried desperately. ‘Leannan, let it go!’
Although the love name stirred her, she did not let go. The sand scorpion turned into a viper, an eagle with a cruelly slashing beak, a slender, snarling shadow-hound. Cut and bruised, Iseult retained her grip as pottery smashed around them, furniture was sent flying, and the very walls of the hut shook as they crashed into them. She knew it was all an illusion and that the corrigan could only escape her if she let go. At last, exhausted, the corrigan regained her natural shape and lay slumped, her foot trapped in Iseult’s iron-fisted grip.
She was small and square, her features rough cast as if chopped from stone, her body hunched with age. She had only one eye, surrounded by heavy furrows. Hair as green-grey as moss hung in straggles around her sunken ears, and lichen spread its silvery scales over her drab, leathery skin. Iseult pressed her dagger against her throat.
‘Tell the hobgoblins to set Lachlan free,’ she ordered.
So tired she could barely raise a hand, the corrigan gestured to the hobgoblins. Their faces bewildered, they let him go.
‘Lay down your weapons,’ Iseult said. When they did not obey, she shook the corrigan as if she was a puppet and repeated her order. At another vague gesture, the hobgoblins laid down their weapons. Iseult clambered to her feet, dragging the corrigan upright with her. ‘Let us take ye to meet Meghan,’ Iseult said. ‘She will be glad indeed we found ye. Do no’ try any o’ your tricks, or I’ll kill ye, and then I’ll kill the hobgoblins. Do no’ think I speak lightly. It would give me great satisfaction to sink this knife into ye.’
The corrigan nodded, her hoary face rigid with fear.
Iseult nodded brusquely at Lachlan. ‘Lead the way, MacCuinn.’
Lachlan looked at her a trifle anxiously, and obeyed. He picked up the bows and notched an arrow to his, aiming at the hobgoblins. ‘Come along, ye’d better come too,’ he said gruffly.
They followed the path back through the stand of moss-oaks in sombre silence. Iseult’s rage was fading quickly, but a certain desolation was creeping over her in its place. She could not forget how the corrigan had kissed and fondled Lachlan, and how it had made her feel. Though she could not have said why, it was Lachlan she was most angry with. He had kissed her only minutes before the corrigan; he had gripped her fingers in his, he had made her weak and foolish.
It took them ages to stumble through to the clearing below Tulachna Celeste, thorns strewing their path, dead branches falling on their heads, vines wrapping around their ankles. The forest did not like Iseult’s drawn knife. Even the path led where it had not gone before, and only their woodcraft and sense of direction allowed them to win through.
Meghan was stirring a pot of soup on the fire when they at last blundered into the clearing. She looked up and saw the cowering hobgoblins, the rugged form of the corrigan, Iseult’s knife still at her throat.
‘What have ye done?’ she cried. ‘Ye poor wee things! Iseult, let her go!’
‘No’ until I ken she canna trick us any more,’ Iseult replied grimly. ‘We were almost worm food, thanks to her.’
Meghan came forward in a swirl of grey skirts, holding out her hands. ‘Och, ye poor thing. Ye’re safe now. I shall no’ let them hurt ye. Iseult, drop your knife!’
‘Fine,’ Iseult replied and let the corrigan go. With a little moan, she stumbled forward and Meghan helped her to sit by the fire. ‘Come,’ she said to the hobgoblins, smiling. ‘Ye are safe here. Come sit here. I shall keep ye safe.’
She led the three squat creatures to the fire and pressed them gently down to sit. Then she turned on Iseult and Lachlan in fury, her dark eyes blazing. ‘What do ye mean by threatening and hurting these poor creatures? Hobgoblins are the gentlest o’ creatures, they’ll no’ harm a fly …’
‘Ye should have seen them dancing round us with axes. They dinna look so gentle then!’ Iseult retorted. ‘We barely managed to escape with our lives! As for that … that … hag, she tricked us and threatened us! And tried to seduce Lachlan!’
‘I see,’ Meghan said. Unexpectedly her eyes twinkled. ‘Well, what were ye doing falling into the clutches o’ a corrigan in the first place? I thought I told ye no’ to wander off into the Veiled Forest?’
‘We were just exploring,’ Iseult replied shamefacedly, just as Lachlan cried, ‘It was my fault, Meghan, I made Iseult go into the clearing.’
‘Indeed? How? I canna see ye forcing Iseult to do anything against her will.’
‘Indeed he could no’,’ Iseult responded, remembering how easily she had been persuaded against her better judgement, how eagerly she had returned his kisses in the corrigan’s hut. She threw her dagger to the ground, where it stuck upright in the soil, quivering. Then, her face flaming, she marched out of the clearing, towards Tulachna Celeste.
She was climbing so quickly her breath began to labour, and she clenched her hands into fists. Behind her she could hear Lachlan calling her, but she shut her ears to the sound. She ran through the circles of stones to the tarn at the hill’s apex. There she knelt, washing her face and hands.
Lachlan hobbled through the stones. ‘Iseult?’ he said hesitantly. He came and crouched by her side, and she looked down at her boots, feeling as awkward with him as she ever had.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last.
‘What for?’ she said belligerently.
‘I did no’ want her to … ye ken what,’ he said haltingly. ‘I did no’ know that was what she was going to do.’
‘Ye did no’ fight very hard.’ Even to her own ears, her voice sounded petty.
‘For Eà’s sake, Iseult, I was tied to a pole. What was I meant to do?’
‘I do no’ ken. Bite her?’
Lachlan swore and lurched upright. She ducked her head, digging at the turf with the toe of her boot. He began several times to say something, then muttered, ‘What’s the use?’ and stumped away.
‘Gods!’ Iseult swore, then flung herself face down on the flowery grass. She lay there for a long time, her thoughts going round and round in circles. At last she sat up and washed her face again, and told herself
sternly to stop behaving like a silly lass. She and Lachlan had both thought their death was near. It was natural to have turned to each other. It did not mean that she loved Lachlan, or that he loved her. It just meant they had been afraid of death.
Their destinies lay apart, she reminded herself yet again. He was to be the Rìgh of Eileanan, his life given in service to his people. She was the heir to the Firemaker, her life bound to the Prides. She could not ask him to give up the crown and come with her to the snowy heights, and she would not betray her grandmother.
Wondering why her clear and rational thinking only made her feel worse, Iseult got to her feet. It was only then that she realised Meghan was sitting behind her, knitting industriously. ‘Feeling better?’ the old witch asked.
‘No’ really,’ Iseult admitted.
‘Sann and the hobgoblins are going to stay and share our May Day feast,’ Meghan said, folding up her knitting. Iseult scowled. The sorceress smiled and said, ‘Ye must no’ be angry that the corrigan tried to use her powers to win Lachlan over. It is the only power she has. In these dark times we all use what we can to save and protect ourselves. Besides, Lachlan did not succumb, did he? It’s a rare man that can withstand a corrigan’s allure.’
‘He kissed her,’ Iseult cried. ‘He kissed her for ages!’
Meghan smiled and gave a little shrug. ‘He is but a man,’ she answered. ‘Besides, what do ye expect? The lad’s been eating his heart out over ye for weeks, and all ye do is argue with him or fob him off.’
‘Oh, he has no’!’ Iseult refuted this absolutely. ‘He’s the one that argues with me! Or gets all quiet and sulky.’
‘Indeed, he is no’ practised in the art o’ love,’ Meghan replied. ‘And I ken he is quick to take offence, and stubborn with it. But then, so are ye, my dear. Two more obstinate bairns I’ve never known, even worse than my Isabeau, and she was stubborn indeed.’ Iseult said nothing. Meghan continued, ‘Give the lad a chance, Iseult. He has been suspicious o’ women since Maya first cast her spell on Jaspar, and her ensorcelment o’ him only made things worse. He has been full o’ black rage and despair so long, I fear he has forgotten the more tender emotions …’
Iseult made an impatient gesture, immediately stilled. She said nothing as they walked down the slope of the hill. The corrigan was sitting by the fire, stirring Meghan’s cauldron. ‘Better make sure she has no’ dropped toadstools into the soup,’ Iseult said and left Meghan’s side abruptly.
By the time Iseult had worked out her temper by gathering a great pile of firewood, she was a little ashamed of herself and sorry she had shown her emotions so clearly. Dragging the massive bundle of firewood behind her, she made her way back to the clearing. Just as she emerged out of the trees, so did Lachlan, on the other side of the shady dell. He was dragging enough firewood to last them a month. Neither was able to help laughing.
‘Well, it’s a grand bonfire we’ll be having ourselves tonight!’ Meghan said. ‘Ye’re both good bairns. Come, we’ll decorate the clearing and make ourselves a flowery bower for the celebration o’ May Day.’
Their outburst of involuntary laughter had helped clear the air a little. Both went to wash in the stream, Lachlan stripping to his kilt to better douse his head and arms. Kneeling by his side on the bank, Iseult muttered a gruff apology. She could not look at him with his bare skin all dappled with sunset light. Instead she concentrated on the water veiling her fingers with ripples. He touched her arm. ‘I’m sorry for making such a mess o’ things.’
She looked up, straight into his golden eyes. Her heart jumped. She could not look away. Immediately he flushed and glanced away, splashing his face with water. Iseult was unable to speak. After a moment, she leant and placed her mouth on his bare shoulder. She felt all his muscles tense convulsively. His hand gripped her wrist and she looked up into his eyes again. For a moment they stared at each other. There was a clatter of dishes behind them as Meghan moved about the fire. His mouth twisted in a way she knew well, and he moved away.
Iseult washed herself thoughtfully, ducking her head under the water. When she clambered out, groping for her shirt, her fingers closed instead upon silk. She tossed her wet curls out of her eyes and saw Cloudshadow sitting under the tree, holding out a small square of material for her. She took it, and yard after yard of gossamer material billowed out. It was one of the gowns the Celestines wore, woven in one piece from the silk of the weaverworm. Pale as primroses, the gown fitted her perfectly and suited her fiery colouring particularly well. Meghan smiled at the sight of her, and Iseult noticed the flush that darkened Lachlan’s cheek, although he turned his face away after one quick, searching glance.
‘Do ye remember all I told ye about May Day?’ the sorceress asked.
Not sure she remembered anything but Lachlan’s gaze, Lachlan’s touch, Iseult shook her flower-crowned head.
‘It is a very ancient custom, brought over from the Other World by the First Coven,’ Meghan said. ‘It’s a celebration o’ birth, fertility and the blossoming o’ all life; a celebration o’ Eà as the mother, dressed in her green mantle, bringing life to the field and the womb.’
‘Why are the Celestines no’ singing tonight?’ Iseult asked quickly. ‘We are staying here in the clearing, are we no’, rather than going up the hill? Do they no’ celebrate May Day?’
‘Beltane is a rite o’ the Coven,’ Meghan replied. ‘The Celestines have their own beliefs, based on the movement of the sun and stars. They celebrate the equinoxes and solstices, but no’ the harvest festivals. They have never cultivated the soil, and so do no’ feel a need to goodwish the crops. Beltane, Lammas, Candlemas and Samhain are all change of season celebrations that have little meaning for the Celestines. They come tonight merely to be with us and share in our feast.’
The old witch sent Lachlan off into the forest to find an oak sapling to make the maypole with, then set Iseult to weaving garlands to hang from tree to tree. It had been an exhausting and confusing day and Iseult was content to sit on the ground, plaiting flowers and twigs together. She was unaccountably touched when the bright-eyed donbeag came and curled up on her lap.
Lachlan returned with a slim, tall sapling which they decorated lavishly with ribbons and flowers. The sun had dipped below the trees by now, shadows stretching across the clearing. They knew the Beltane bonfire would be lit at moonrise, and so they hurried to finish hanging the lanterns and strings of flowers, Iseult gently setting the sleeping donbeag down on Meghan’s blankets.
The May Day feast was a great success. All the Celestines from the Veiled Forest came, greeting the corrigan with grave pleasure. Sann had brought some of her friends to meet Meghan—the rocky gullies along the ridge had attracted many corrigans. Hobgoblins ran everywhere, shrieking with excitement, their huge flat feet slapping on the turf. Two cluricauns bounded in from the forest, attracted by the sound of laughter and the smell of food. Nisses darted through the air like waltzing flowers, smaller than Iseult’s hand but making more noise than all the other guests put together.
Meghan insisted that they perform all the Beltane rites, despite their audience of laughing faeries. Lachlan, as the only male present, was made the Green Man, and there was much laughter and teasing as Iseult adorned him with leaves. She was then crowned May Queen, being, as Meghan said, the youngest and prettiest there.
In the flickering firelight, the goldensloe wine warming her blood, Iseult found her eyes continually drawn back to Lachlan’s dark beautiful face. Although there was tension between them, it was not the cold silence of before; rather, an awareness and a questioning. They found it hard to meet each other’s eyes, yet were always finding their eyes glancing together. Iseult had to fight a desire to lean towards him, for it seemed he had an aura as intoxicating to her as the wine.
Meghan clapped her hands and bade them all take their places around the maypole. For once Lachlan was the first to obey her, holding out his hand to Iseult. Not without shyness she took it, feeling again how small he
r fingers felt in his. The cluricauns played their wooden flutes, the hobgoblins pounded little drums, and Lachlan sang a merry country tune that had been danced in Eileanan for centuries.
In the flickering light of the fire, scented smoke swirling up to the stars, Iseult’s blood buzzed and sang. Once she would have felt ridiculous dancing around a maypole with a wreath of flowers on her head, but after almost three months in Meghan’s company, it felt as natural as breathing.
Once the maypole was wrapped in the green and white and pale gold ribbons, they danced on under the canopy of leaves. Meghan held the hands of a hobgoblin and swung him off his feet, to his great delight. Sann danced with another, then took Lachlan’s hands provocatively, dancing as close to him as she could get, her figure blurring into the most beautiful of human shapes. Iseult had no time to be jealous, for Lachlan swung the corrigan away with a smile and grasped Iseult’s hands, drawing her into the curve of his arm. He sang as they danced, a wistful, lilting love song, the sound of his voice as always stirring profound emotions in Iseult. She knew he was weaving magic into his song, his topaz eyes fixed intently on hers. It was a call, a command, a plea, a melancholy longing. She devoured his dark, aquiline features with her eyes, feeling her head swim with fire, aware of no-one else. They could have been dancing alone.
At last the dance whirled apart. Lachlan seized her hand, tugging it slightly so that she ducked her head and followed him. As they ran from the clearing, Meghan collapsed by the fire, humming happily with the Celestines and the corrigans, Gitâ curling up on her lap.
As soon as the light of the fire was hidden behind the great bulk of the moss-oaks, Lachlan pulled Iseult to him and kissed her. The warm, breathing darkness of the forest was all round them. His mouth was at her throat, her hands amongst the feathers of his wings. Iseult sank into sensation, amazed at how soft his skin was, how warm and sweet his mouth, tasting of sunshine like goldensloe wine.