Isabeau’s heart leapt at the thought of finally being able to leave the confining walls of the palace. She had felt as if the blue-grey walls were closing in on her. Her immediate thought was of Lasair. Would the chestnut stallion still be near the palace? Would she be able to find him?
The next morning she packed up a napkin with some bread and fruit and made her way to the bridge over the ravine, lined with guards. She kept her head down as she crossed, shy of the soldiers, but once she was on the other shore, she leant her elbows on the railing and looked about her with pleasure.
The firth shone in the sunshine, the spires of Rhyssmadill soaring above. The water creamed white on the rocks at the base of the cliff and rushed through the ravine separating the great finger of rock from the mainland. On the opposite shore was the city, all built from the same blue stone as the palace. Hundreds of ships bobbed at their berthing. At the far end of the firth she could see the river-gate which marked the first of the series of locks that controlled the entrance to the harbour. Beyond was a blue shimmer that could only be the sea.
The sight thrilled her to the core. The beautiful, dangerous sea that she had read so much about was only an hour’s walk away, washing against the seawall the witches had constructed so many years ago. She longed to have a closer sight of it—Meghan said the waters stretched as far as the eye could see and even further.
Today, though, Isabeau intended to trek into the forests of Ravenshaw where she had left Lasair. The Ravenshaw woods pressed up close to the rolling parkland which surrounded the palace, forming a thick barrier along its boundaries. To the north were the rolling hills of Rionnagan, to the east the gatehouse and palace gates, opening into a city square.
Isabeau walked down the long avenue of trees, then cut across the open lawn towards the woods. As soon as the palace walls were safely out of sight, she began casting out her senses. Two boys were fishing on the firth’s edge; a gamekeeper was strolling the park, a crossbow slung over his back and two hounds at his heels; and the palace goats were grazing under the trees, minded by two girls in huge white caps. Far overhead a hawk flew, crimson ribbons dangling from its claws. Otherwise there was not a living soul for miles.
Lasair … Isabeau called rather tentatively with her mind-voice. There was no response. She reached the edge of the park and slipped through the little gate set in the wall, and into the forest.
It was very quiet in the wood. Isabeau walked slowly but steadily. She had been sick for so long that her strength was much diminished. She did not want to exhaust herself by travelling too far or too quickly. From long habit, she looked out for herbs or flowers and gently pulled up several which she thought Riordan Bowlegs would like for his little garden.
At last she came to where she had hidden the magical saddle and bridle. To her relief they were safe still in the hollow tree, guarded by a magical ward. Wrapped in its blanket, the saddle had remained dry. No mouse or donbeag had tried to make a nest in its stuffing. She gave them both a good rubdown with an oil-soaked rag she had taken from the stables when no-one was looking.
It was just before noon, and Isabeau was tired. She sat in the shade of the tree and ate her repast, enjoying the dappled sun on her back. There had been no sign of Lasair and she wondered anxiously if she would ever find him again.
Isabeau was just deciding whether to walk to the seashore when she heard a long drawn-out whinny. Leaping to her feet she called Lasair, Lasair! and saw the chestnut galloping towards her through the trees. He came to a snorting halt before her, and she flung her arms around his neck. He pushed his satiny nose into her shoulder and blew affectionately, then rubbed his head against her.
Tears stung her eyes. ‘I missed ye so much,’ she told him, and he stamped his foot and whinnied.
Using a fallen log as a mounting-block, Isabeau vaulted onto the chestnut’s back and together they galloped through the woods to the gigantic bulwark that kept the ocean away from the land. Perched on its summit, Isabeau had her first good look at the sea.
Between her and the waters was a stretch of bare sand strewn with shells and dried seaweed and ridged with the ancient patterns of tides. Far away the water glittered in the sun, aquamarine and opal near the shore, violet-blue near the horizon. Here and there white-winged birds floated in the salt-scented air. She sat and watched the gentle waves for a long time, knowing why the first humans to Eileanan had called it Muir Finn, the Fair Sea.
The shadows were growing long when the stallion took her back towards Rhyssmadill, leaving her close to the forest’s edge so he would not be seen. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head against him for a long time. Then he galloped off into the trees, and she began the long trudge back to the palace. As she wandered through the woods, Isabeau automatically bent and harvested the fruits of the forest, as she had done all her life. Soon her apron was brimming with flowers, leaves and roots, and she had to tie up the edges and carry it like a sack over her back. Berating herself for not acting like a mere country lass, she nonetheless carried the sack through the park, sure Latifa and Riordan Bowlegs would be pleased.
On the opposite shore Dùn Gorm was beginning to prick with lights, and the waters of the Berhtfane shone with sunset colours. Blue and transparent, Gladrielle floated just above the horizon, alone for once as the second moon had not yet risen. Somewhere far above, a hawk gave a hoarse cry, sending a shiver down her arms.
In Riordan’s cramped quarters Isabeau washed the horse smell from her hands and face. She untied the apron, and the old groom picked through the flowers and roots with exclamations of delight. Isabeau thought ruefully that she must have been more absent-minded than ever—the apron was overflowing with groundsel. Although a useful herb, it was a weed that grew in every ditch and field and was usually rooted out by gardeners. Many a cottager used groundsel tea to relieve a tightness of the bowels, yet too strong an infusion caused great discomfort indeed. She shrugged but wrapped the yellow buds up again nonetheless. The fresh leaves were useful for relieving the pain of mother’s milk, and the Banrìgh’s maid had been seeking such a remedy only yesterday. Her unconscious mind must have prompted her to gathering it while her conscious thoughts wandered.
The old groom was so pleased with the roots and flowers she had brought back for him to plant that he asked her no questions about where she had been or why she was dusted in horse hairs. Instead they talked about plant lore, and Isabeau promised to bring him new plants every time she was allowed out.
It had been in Isabeau’s mind that gathering wild herbs for Latifa would make sure her outing would be repeated. The cook was always bemoaning the difficulty in gaining precious ingredients for her delicacies, what with the trade ships no longer running. Isabeau had been raised by a wood witch, and she knew as much about the properties of plants as any forest skeelie. She had dug up many small herbs and plants that did not grow in the kitchen garden and which she knew Latifa would be pleased with.
The old cook beamed with pleasure when Isabeau presented her with the massive cluster. ‘Och, ye’re a guid lass!’ she cried. ‘How did ye ken I’ve been in need o’ eyebright? No’ to mention the antler mushrooms! I’ll serve them up to the Banrìgh tonight and see if they tempt her appetite, the puir lass, so picky she has become with the babe turning in her womb.’
Isabeau indicated the groundsel with one finger, and Latifa nodded, her black eyes glinting, her jaw set. Then she beamed again, chattering, ‘Come, ye mun be slavering with hunger. I have a nice pot o’ vegetable soup simmering on the fire. I am glad to see the roses have come back to your cheeks. If ye bring me back such a fine bouquet each time ye go out, I swear I’ll be sending ye out each day!’
Isabeau slid into an empty chair at the table. Some of the scullery maids nodded, and one of the footboys winked at her. Then she was ignored again as talk turned to the upcoming Midsummer celebrations. Loyal to the Truth as they were, the servants were all very careful not to give the feast any sacred significance, ref
erring to it only as a much anticipated social event. This seemed shocking to Isabeau, who had been taught Midsummer’s Eve was one of the most magical of days. Meghan had spun many of her spells and charms on the summer solstice, and it was the most common time for lovers to jump the fire and pledge their troth.
This was one custom that had not changed, she discovered, for there was much teasing and laughter around the table as the servants speculated who would jump the fire together this year. A bonfire had been laid in the great square before the doors of the palace itself, and all the servants would be allowed in the Rìgh’s gardens where the feast was to be held. There would be dancing and mummery, with minstrels and jongleurs from all over Eileanan performing. From the embers of the bonfire, torches would be lit and carried in a procession all through the palace, lighting the fires and lanterns within.
The Midsummer’s Eve festivities would be mimicked down in the city, though there a poor warlock would die in the flames. Isabeau shuddered at the thought and wondered if the city folk would light their lanterns from the ashes of a fire that had consumed a fellow human. She did not understand how they could.
All the servants had to work at some point in the evening, and there was much lobbying for shifts outside the time of the feast and celebrations. Isabeau, as a very lowly scullery maid, had no choice in the matter, of course. She heard from Sukey that she had won one of the worst jobs of all—serving the lower tables during the feast. Not only would she not be able to do more than snatch a mouthful here and there, but she would be serving many of the lairds’ squires, who were prone to pinching the maids’ bottoms. One small consolation—she would be serving in the lower hall, adjacent to the great hall where the prionnsachan and upper nobility sat. Although she would be in great trouble if she was caught, it was usually possible to peep through the curtain and see the great lairds feasting and carousing. ‘Ye might even see the Banrìgh,’ Sukey said with excitement in her voice. ‘Doreen was telling me ye were greetin’ in sorrow for no’ having seen her.’
The next day Sukey came up behind her and said kindly, ‘The Banrìgh is playing to the court now, as she does each Midsummer—we’re all watching from behind the curtain, if ye’d like to come?’
Isabeau flushed with pleasure, for it was not often that the other serving lasses included her. Sukey led her, half running, through countless stairs and corridors, until at last they reached a gallery overlooking the great hall. Any view to the court below was concealed, however, by a mass of bobbing white caps and grey skirts. Sukey took Isabeau’s hand and squeezed through, Isabeau for once not hanging back but taking advantage of her height and slenderness to wriggle past countless whispering, giggling girls, all with sharp elbows and numerous petticoats.
All at once a hush fell over the crowd, the velvet- and lace-clad courtiers milling below, the servants peeping round the curtains and through the carved stone screens of the galleries. Exquisite music spilled into the silence, rising in little running cascades that seemed to reach for, and fail to catch, some unimaginable resolution. Again and again the notes soared upward, and fell down, and prickles ran all over Isabeau’s skin. She knelt against the wall and thrust her eye to one of the gaps in the scrolled stonework, but all she could see were the plaid-hung shoulders of the courtiers, a set of wide stone steps, and a man’s languid outflung foot, clad in an ornate slipper.
The music shifted, ran deeper, the beat quickened, and then the hidden musician began to sing. Unexpectedly, her voice was deep, but with such power thrilling through it that Isabeau felt a shiver run over her.
The Banrìgh sang, ‘My love my honey my honeyed love,’ rising and rising until the crescendo reached as high as any meadow lark and then at last, so unexpectedly tears sprang in Isabeau’s eyes, the pinnacle was reached. ‘My love my honey my honeyed love, my laird!’ Again and again ‘My laird!’ flew to the ceiling so high above. As the last throbbing note died away, the gallery erupted into applause. Isabeau clapped as rapturously as anyone. To her surprise, she was being embraced by all around her, and she hugged them back and joined in the ringing calls from the audience. The footmen and maids no longer hid behind the curtains but hung from the gallery, some weeping, all clapping and stamping their feet.
At last the noise died down, cut in part by a little trill from the Banrìgh’s clàrsach. The velvet slipper slowly drew back, and then the Rìgh came languorously forward, wearing a loose green robe over silken hosen. He was slender and dark, with a neatly clipped beard and moustache, and a dreamy, almost vacant expression on his face. He murmured something and held up his hand to bring his wife forward. All Isabeau could see of the Banrìgh were her fine white fingers, bare of rings, clasped in the hand of the Rìgh.
As the Banrìgh turned to leave, her long velvet train swept over the steps, crimson as roses. Isabeau’s heart hammered once, painfully. It was the same colour as the skirt of the Grand-Seeker Glynelda. Gripping her cold sweaty palms together, she sank down to her knees.
‘Red, what’s wrong?’ Sukey asked, bending over her. She was jostled on all sides as the laughing, chattering maids hurried back to their work.
Isabeau shook her head. ‘Just a wee dizzy,’ she managed to say, then slowly got to her feet. She leant against the stone scrollwork to regain her balance, then caught her breath suddenly. Down in the rapidly emptying room, a small woman clothed entirely in black was staring up at her. Isabeau could see how pale her eyes were in the dark broad face and how intently they were fixed on the gallery. Instinctively she ducked back into the shelter of the curtain.
‘That is Sani, the Banrìgh’s own servant,’ Sukey whispered.
Although she was thin and hunched as a swarthyweb spider, the old woman emanated power as if she were a fully armed warrior. With no lessening of her intense focus, she stood and stared up at the gallery until the flock of serving maids had twittered away. Neither girl dared move until she was long gone, though why, Isabeau did not know.
‘She be right blaygird,’ Sukey whispered. ‘We all be terrified o’ her. I think she be naught but a jealous auld maid, but I still do no’ like to go near her.’ The two girls began to hurry back down the corridor. ‘She was asking about ye, ye ken,’ Sukey said idly.
‘Asking about me? The Banrìgh’s servant?’
‘Aye, though why I canna tell. It were when ye first arrived. She asked me and Doreen if there was a red-haired lassie new come to the palace, and if so, where ye came from. We said aye, but that ye were sick unto death.’
‘Was I really?’
‘Aye, we all thought ye’d die for sure, ye were that ill. Anyway, she told us there’d be a penny for us both if we came to her and told her whether ye’d lived or died, and we said aye, that we would, but o’ course we did no’. Neither Doreen nor me like to get too close to her, no’ even for a penny. Besides, she and Latifa do no’ get on so well and we have to live with Latifa’s temper, while if we are careful indeed, we do no’ have to set eyes on Sani for a sennight or more.’
Heels clattering on the stone stairs, the two girls raced back to the kitchen. Isabeau was puzzled and a little frightened by the news that the Banrìgh’s own servant had been asking about her. She could not see how the little old woman could have had any idea she even existed, let alone know of her connection with Meghan. Isabeau tried to reassure herself that the servant’s questions did not mean that she was under suspicion, but she could not help the cold finger of dread that touched her. Isabeau’s experiences at the hands of the Awl were still too fresh for her to take any such occurrence lightly.
Once back in the hot, crowded kitchen, Isabeau had no time to worry about Sani as Latifa’s orders were flying fast and thick. There was so much to do for the Midsummer’s Eve feast that Isabeau had no time or energy to think about anything else at all. That night, even as exhausted as she was by the labour and excitement of the day, Isabeau did not sleep well, her dreams filled with crimson robes and blood.
The day before the summer solstice,
Iseult was resting in the shade of a moss-oak when she heard, incredibly, the brazen call of a dragon in the distance. ‘Asrohc!’ she cried, sitting up. ‘It canna be …’
The long bugle came again, sending a shiver of dragon-fear down Iseult’s spine so she knew it was no auditory illusion. Then she saw the flash of bright wings and smelt sulphur. ‘Asrohc!’ she cried again and began hurrying through the trees to Tulachna Celeste, sure that was where the dragon would alight, the thorny branches of the forest dangerous to her delicate wings. Sure enough, the golden-green body of the young dragon was circling down from the sky into the circle of stones, her stretched wings almost wide enough to knock down the tall menhirs. On her back were two figures.
Although they were too far away for Iseult to see, she began to run, her sickness of the morning dropping away from her like a discarded cloak. She ran nimbly down the root-mazed avenue, burst from the trees into the open ground of the hill and ran all the way up its steep green slope. Breathless, a stitch in her side, she ran through the stone doorway and into her grandmother’s arms.
‘Firemaker!’ she cried. ‘Old mother, what are ye doing here?’
The old woman kissed Iseult between the brows, and in the harsh, guttural language of the Khan’cohbans murmured greetings and blessings over her red head.
‘I have come to see you wed,’ she replied. ‘Did you think I would stay away? My great-granddaughter crosses her leg over the back of the dragon, why should I not also?’
‘Iseult, my bonny lass!’ a gruff voice cried, and Iseult found herself being hugged hard against the skinny frame of Feld of the Dragons.
‘It is so good to see ye, Feld! Asrohc! What are ye doing letting humans cross your back in this way?’
My mother said it was time I stretched my wings, and I had heard thee was to be mated to another of thine kind. Naturally I wished to see him, and see if his heart was big enough and his wings strong enough for a dragon-lord such as yourself …