She glanced down at it, seeing the design of a rearing horse and flushed. ‘Is this no’ your family crest? Should ye be giving it to me?’
He laughed. ‘It is only a trinket, lassie. I do no’ wear the heirloom to ride through foreign lands. That is kept safe in Tìreich, I assure ye. Nay, I am glad to give it in return o’ the saddle, which is a princely gift indeed.’
Isabeau was about to protest again, but he bent and said to her softly, ‘We o’ the horse clan do not believe in gifts without reciprocation. That means a debt is owed and we do no’ like to be indebted.’
She closed her fingers over the brooch and nodded. ‘Then thank ye, my laird,’ she said clearly, and he smiled and leapt onto the back of the flying horse.
‘Then I look forward to meeting ye again, Isabeau the Foundling. I am sure the Spinners will bring the threads o’ our lives together again.’
It was the first time Isabeau had heard reference to the Spinners in months, and her eyes stung with tears. She nodded and stood back, and the flying horse sprang forward, its rainbow-coloured wings outstretched, framing the tall man on its back. With a shout the other riders followed, streaming past Isabeau in a blur of chestnut, bay and black. Dust coated her but she stood watching until the entire cavalcade had passed.
She called Lasair to her and he came galloping out of the trees, his ears pricked with interest. He stared down the road, and she stroked his glossy neck. ‘Would ye have liked to have gone with them, Lasair?’
He neighed and shook his mane and pawed the ground, and she said, ‘Ye would no’ have run quite so free in Tìreich, I think.’
Hiding the brooch in her pocket, Isabeau swung onto Lasair’s back and they trotted into the forest, a squall of rain rattling the leaves above. For some reason Isabeau felt lighter, freer. She was glad she had given back the saddle, and thought it was what Meghan would have wanted her to do.
Once she reached the coast, Isabeau dismounted and let the stallion graze as he wanted. She leant against the bulwark and looked at the sea. The sky above the far-distant islands was a clear apple-green. Long rays of sun slanted through the clouds, lighting the beach with warmth. It was cold and windy on the headland. Isabeau began to pace up and down, anxious to get down to the beach. At last, deciding Morag could not come, she scrambled down the ladder and wandered through the dunes. It felt good to be out in the fresh, damp air. Seagulls rose with the wind, screeching with joy. Isabeau lifted her head and screeched back at them, Yes, wind strong, seagull flies, yes …
Far away, silhouetted against the pale green sky, was a flock of white sails like giant seagull wings. Isabeau watched them in fascination, wondering what it must be like so far out to sea. The ships must be sailing in from the Fair Isles, and she wondered if perhaps it was the missing fleet returning to Eileanan. She laughed at her hopeful imagining—more likely it was the fishing flotilla, returning with nets filled with herring. Though she had never seen fishing boats with so many fat-bellied sails.
Pink clouds, lit beneath to molten gold, banded the sky from horizon to horizon. Their fiery ardour cooled. Isabeau saw the first shimmer of light from the rising of the moons glide across the rough grey seas. Suddenly a freezing cold wave wet her to the waist, and she realised she had wandered far along the shore.
Isabeau glanced about her in sudden fear. She realised the tide had turned. Large foam-flecked waves were galloping towards her. The sun had sunk behind the forest and the shadow of the bulwark stretched over the sand, dusk turning the dunes to violet and grey. Already waves were splashing the massive wall further round the bend. If she was not quick, the way back to the ladder would be cut off.
Isabeau hurried back across the sands. Waves ate at her footprints. The tide was coming in with frightening speed. The sand that had been so warm twenty minutes ago was now scalloped with foam. She began to run.
Water was swirling above her knees when she at last reached the ladder. She had to struggle to climb it with the weight of her dripping skirts. With her feet still bare, the barnacles on the rungs cut her feet cruelly. The boots slung round her neck hampered her every move. Waves sucked at her and for a moment both her feet were swept off the ladder. She clung on and managed to pull herself higher.
Shaking with fatigue and cold, she could only climb slowly. It seemed as if the water was reaching for her with clawed hands, so fiercely did it tug her down. She was beginning to fail when a deep feminine voice called to her from above. ‘Quickly, lassie, else ye’ll be dinner for a sea-serpent. Reach for my hand.’
With a fresh burst of energy, Isabeau clambered up the slippery steps and managed to grasp Morag’s wrist. Strong fingers closed around hers and hauled her up the last few feet.
Isabeau clung to the iron poles and looked back down at the sea, now heaving grey and threatening against the stone bulwark. ‘It rises so far,’ she gasped.
‘O’ course it does, that is why the wall was built so tall. Quick, wriggle through. Ye look weary indeed, and I do no’ want ye falling back into the sea.’
Isabeau’s legs were trembling so much she could hardly manage it, but slowly she made her way along the outside of the bulwark.
‘Why did ye go down to the shore?’ Morag’s voice was stern and a little frightened. ‘Did ye no’ remember the autumn equinox is only a few weeks away? And it’s been stormy, the tides are running higher than they have since the spring!’
Isabeau nodded, angry with herself for forgetting. She turned and looked out to sea again. She could not believe how quickly the tide had turned. She gave a gasp. ‘Look!’
In the great swell thundering into shore were a number of sleek black heads. They rode the waves as easily as any sea-stirk, diving and leaping out of the water as if enjoying the savage surge of the current. They were too far away to see anything of their features, but Isabeau had no doubt they were Fairgean. Morag looked where she pointed and a strange expression settled over her face.
‘Come!’ she cried. ‘We must be away from here!’
‘Surely we are safe?’ Isabeau asked. ‘They canna breach the wall …’
‘If ye can climb the ladder and squeeze through the fence, what makes ye think the Fairgean canna?’ Morag replied gravely. All colour had gone from her cheeks and she had crossed her arms over her breast as if afraid.
Fear flooded through Isabeau and she took a few steps back from the bulwark. With a fast-beating heart, she stared at the Fairgean still cavorting in the waves off the beach. Her dream of seeing the sea people had come true, but Isabeau could only be afraid.
Morag said, ‘I must be getting back. Be careful, Red. Do no’ go down to the beach with Fairgean in the waters—they will drag ye in and drown ye without hesitation.’ She heaved herself into her side-saddle, standing on a log so as to be able to put her foot into the stirrup.
Isabeau did not even wait for her horse’s hooves to fade away before calling out with her mind for Lasair. He sensed her alarm and came at a gallop, and she swung onto his back without waiting for him to stop. He cantered all the way to the edge of the forest, only her riding skill keeping her on his back as branches whipped out of the dusk and massive tree trunks loomed close on either side. At last, scratched and bruised, Isabeau slid from his back and leant her forehead against his damp neck. She thought frantically, Be careful, Lasair.
To her great surprise and joy, she heard faintly: And ye …
Donovan Slewfoot leant on the railing, watching the pearly dawn tide swell towards him. Behind him the city was quiet and shuttered, but over the peaked islands the sun was easing out of a white mist. He stumped further along, staring with despondency at the rust circling the great bolts. The gates needed a good overhaul, but the Rìgh would not authorise the expenditure. The bulwark was in even worse condition, and seeing the great stones crumbling stabbed Donovan with anxiety. There were Fairgean in the seas, and the Rìgh could not see the wall should be repaired? Indeed, there was something strange about the MacCuinn’s apathy. For all t
heir faults, the MacCuinns had never been indifferent to the welfare of the people.
Out of the mist loomed the graceful shapes of a fleet of six great ships. The sails drooped from their masts, but the ships sailed in smoothly, carried by the force of the tide. Donovan Slewfoot frowned and packed his clay pipe thoughtfully, cramming the tobacco deep into the bowl with his spatulate thumb. The tobacco used to be given to him by traders from the Fair Isles when they sailed in with their cargo—a gift to speed the process of cargo checking and raising the ships through the locks. The Fair Isles were the only place in all of the Far Islands where the plant would grow, for it liked a temperate climate. Tobacco and snuff were consequently rare and normally reserved for those with deep pockets. Donovan Slewfoot considered it one of the privileges of his position as harbourmaster.
He lit the pipe, moodily watching the ships sail into the firth. They knew, these Tìrsoilleirean ships, that the best time to enter the Berhtfane was on the incoming tides. They seemed to know the times of the tides near as well as he did. And this tobacco he smoked, they had known to slip him a cord of it as they came through his gates. How had they known, and where did they get the tobacco? It surely did not grow on Tìrsoilleir’s cool plains. He wondered about this as he wondered about many things that had happened these past years. But Donovan took his orders from the Rìgh, and the MacCuinn had said, ‘Let those white-sailed ships in.’
One by one Donovan Slewfoot let the ships through the gates and into the locks. The tide lifted them and carried them into the peaceful waters of the Berhtfane. Each one of the six gave him a cord of tobacco, with a nod or a stiff smile. Each one seemed innocent enough, the decks clear of anyone but brown-armed sailors and a few soldiers. But the hair on Donovan Slewfoot’s neck lifted, and he put the tobacco away with a twist of his lip, and a feeling he should perhaps tell someone his thoughts. But who?
That night, Dughall MacBrann was restless and unable to sleep. He was much troubled by the latest letter from his father, who lived in happy seclusion on the family’s estates on the far side of Ravenshaw. The MacBrann was elderly now, and so absorbed in his many eccentric inventions and contraptions that he was rarely aware of what went on around him. His letters usually rambled on without much coherence, but this last letter was even more muddled than ever. In between describing his latest flying machine, exultation over a new litter of pups from his favourite hound, and complaints about his son’s prolonged absence, Dughall’s father had mentioned a visit by a horde of Bright Soldiers. Three paragraphs later, he mentioned they had come wanting use of Ravenshaw’s many hidden ports and bays, and two pages later he mentioned they had offered a ludicrous amount of money for the privilege. It had not occurred to the MacBrann to tell his long-suffering son what reply he had made, though a cryptic postscript that said, ‘sent them off with a flea in their ear’ could have referred to either the Bright Soldiers or the puppies.
Dughall MacBrann could not have explained why his father’s letter gave him such a profound sense of unease. It was not the scattered half thoughts, unfinished anecdotes and peculiar expressions which disturbed him so, for that was the usual epistolary style of the Prionnsa of Ravenshaw. It was not the knowledge that the Tìrsoilleirean had asked his father for permission to use the bays, although that was food for thought indeed. It was not his telling of the sighting of strange ships in the seas, nor the stories of Fairgean in the rivers. It was a prickling down his spine that Dughall knew well. He felt danger hovering. It was this that had kept him tossing and turning in his bed, and this that caused him to quit his bed some hours before dawn.
He sat up, pulled on his long velvet bedgown and his furlined slippers, and made his way to the door. The palace was dark and hushed. He hesitated for a long moment, then made his way up the grand staircase to the Rìgh’s quarters on the top floor. The bleary-eyed guards nodded to him and let him past, knowing Dughall MacBrann was the Rìgh’s closest friend.
Dughall knew the other prionnsachan scorned him for remaining on good terms with Jaspar, for Dughall’s mother, Mathilde NicCuinn, had been killed by the Red Guards on the Day of Reckoning. The shock of her death had caused his father—always an eccentric—to slip into amiable madness. Many of the lairds despised Dughall for his weakness in so meekly accepting his mother’s murder, although many had also lost relatives in the Burning. ‘Young Dughall thinks to restore the MacBrann clan’s fortune,’ they whispered, ‘by being the Rìgh’s lickspittle …’
Dughall ignored the whispers. Indeed, what else could he do? Since Dughall had discovered Jaspar in an agony of guilt after the Day of Reckoning, the cousins had been closer than ever. Jaspar had always been his best friend as well as his cousin, and Dughall knew the power of the enchantment laid upon him. He had decided long ago to stand by Jaspar, and though the decision cost him dear, he had never wavered from the course he had set himself.
Jaspar slept, one arm flung over his head, his dark curls damp with sweat. Dughall wrapped his robe more tightly about himself and sat in the chair by the bed. The fire was sinking into embers, and it was growing cold as the night swung towards day. He watched his cousin’s face, illuminated only by the flicker of the dying fire, and castigated himself for being a fool. There was no danger. Jaspar slept. The palace was quiet. He should be in bed, dreaming the dreams of a man who had no greater worry in life than how to pay his latest gambling debts.
Dughall felt ice slide down his spine again, and he clenched his fingers. It was no fancy, this presentiment of danger. Dughall had felt it many times before, and always that chill finger had preceded pain and loss and sorrow. He propped his head in his hands and prepared to watch the last few hours of the night away.
The Bright Soldiers had spent the afternoon exploring the fabled blue city of Dùn Gorm. Bride, the capital of Tìrsoilleir, was large and grand, but not near as beautiful as this dreamy and ornate city built from blue-grey marble. As they walked the streets, never faltering from their rigid formation, they had passed other Bright Soldiers and touched their fists to their hearts, murmuring, ‘Deus Vult.’
That night, as the inns in the city filled with dissatisfied merchants, rowdy squires and riotous sailors, the Bright Soldiers had knelt in their cabins and said their prayers. When they had finished—some time later—they had lain down in their bunks with their swords by their side, and slept.
In the dark before dawn, when even the most determined reveller had finally stumbled into sleep, they rose, washed their bodies in cold water, dressed in their chain mail and prayed again. ‘Deus Vult!’ they whispered. ‘Deus Vult!’
There were now fifteen Tìrsoilleir ships at rest in the Berhtfane. Six were galleons, with four masts and yards of furled sail. Six were three-masted caravels, faster and more manoeuvrable but dwarfed by their ponderous cousins. The rest were merchants’ carracks, with two square sails and a mizzen.
From each ship small boats were lowered, some filled with soldiers who rowed with muffled oars to shore. The others were piled high with straw and manned by one man only, bare-chested and bare of foot. The straw-filled dinghies drifted across the harbour, flowering into flame. As sparks began to drift into the rigging and flame crept up the anchor ropes, the men dived under the water and cut the Eileanan ships’ rudder ropes so they could not be steered.
Great tongues of flame began to billow from one merchant ship, and there were cries of confusion. Showers of sparks flew into the night like fireflies. Within twenty minutes most of the Eileanan ships were funeral pyres, the screams of those on board filling the night. The city was awake now, lights springing up all along the harbour wall, and somewhere an alarm bell was ringing. The men on board pulled back tarpaulins to reveal great breech-loading cannons on the ships’ decks. Signals were sent to the other ships to do the same, and the caravels began to manoeuvre closer to shore. The cannons had only a short range and they wished to do as much damage as possible to Dùn Gorm.
The admiral of the Tìrsoilleirean navy was waiting for
daylight before firing the cannons. They were difficult enough to load and aim without attempting to do so under the cover of darkness. He was also waiting for the signal from shore that would tell him his soldiers had disabled the Red Guards’ military headquarters and taken over the harbourmaster’s tower. Outside waited another fleet of Tìrsoilleirean ships, heavy with soldiers, and the gates needed to be opened to allow them into the Berhtfane.
At last it was light enough for him to see the streets were filled with fighting. He frowned. Obviously the soldiers had failed in their surprise attack. He was puzzled to see many of the men resisting the Bright Soldiers were not dressed in the red uniforms of the Banrìgh’s Guards, and he wondered who they were, to fight so fiercely. He raised his hand, then dropped it sharply.
From every ship the cannons boomed, pelting the city with solid bronze balls. He coughed, enveloped in clouds of foul-smelling smoke, and wiped his streaming eyes. When the black smoke cleared, he was pleased to see the city had suffered a great deal of damage.
Again and again he ordered the cannons to fire, not only on the city fortifications but also on Rhyssmadill itself. It was a difficult target for the ships, towering so high above their masts on its great finger of stone, but anything the admiral could do to ensure the palace fell quickly was worth the attempt.
The fire had sunk to ashes, the darkness and silence in the chamber complete, when Dughall lifted his head. The urge to pick Jaspar’s wasted figure up in his arms and carry him away was almost overwhelming. Suddenly the fear that Jaspar had died in his sleep surged through him, and he felt around on the pillow until he found his cousin’s frail wrist. A pulse still scurried there. It quickened at the touch of his fingers, and a feeble voice said, ‘Who’s there?’