‘Ask Her Highness? To help some other lass?’
‘Aye! She was strung up for the rats, Lewen, it was awful, just awful! Please, canna ye find out how she is? Her name is Bess … Bess Balfour.’
‘I’m no’ sure how … I can ask someone, though. I canna see how Her Highness can help, she kens naught about prisons and so on. But I’ll ask one o’ the guards on the way out.’
‘Ye should be telling your Rìgh about it,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Ye talk about how good and just he is, and yet he allows such things to happen. It isn’t right!’
Lewen looked troubled. ‘I dinna ken who … happen I’ll ask my mentor. He’ll ken what to do.’
‘What about that girl? Why ye no’ tell her, if she the Rìgh’s daughter?’
‘I do no’ want to presume,’ Lewen said unhappily. ‘If I can, I will, I promise. But in the meantime, Rhiannon, ye must be thinking about yourself. I canna help but worry … I mean, the Yeomen are a close knit unit, and Connor was well-liked. I’m afraid …’
‘Aye, me too,’ Rhiannon said dully.
Once again he turned her face to his, kissing her ardently on the mouth. ‘Oh, Rhiannon, do no’ be afraid. I swear I will do all I can to get ye free. And I’ll come whenever I can, I promise.’ He bared her breast so he could kiss it, cradling it in both hands. Despite herself she arched her back. Lewen groaned, and slid his hand under her bottom. She slipped her own hands round to cup his buttocks, pressing him closer to her.
‘Every day,’ she demanded. ‘Promise me, every day.’
‘Whenever I can,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I do no’ think I can keep away. Rhiannon, Rhiannon, what spell have ye cast on me? I swear, I think I shall die with wanting ye. Please, please, we have so little time. The guards will come back soon …’
‘Then why waste time talking?’ she asked.
‘Good question,’ he said, and dragged his tunic over his head.
‘Rest, rest, perturbed spirit’
SHAKESPEARE,
Hamlet, Act I, scene 5 (1601)
Rhiannon lay and watched the candle flame slowly splutter out. Then darkness descended like a hood. Her eyes were stretched wide, but she could see nothing at all. All she could hear was the rising thunder of blood in her ears.
She took one deep shaking breath, and then another. Her fingers dug deep into the stiff linen of her sheets. She longed for her horse with every fibre of her being. She wished she could reach out her hand and seize Blackthorn’s flowing mane and swing herself up onto the mare’s back. She wished she could feel the powerful surge of muscles below her as the mare flung out her wings and sprang into the air. She wished they were flying free under the stars.
Rhiannon’s longing was so intense it was like grief, or thwarted desire. It wove through the coldness and darkness pressing against her eyelids, until she imagined she really did feel Blackthorn’s silky mane under her fingers. Rhiannon imagined the swift easy swing as she vaulted onto the mare’s back, and leant forward, urging the mare into a canter. Air rushed through the canals of her ears. She was dizzy. She clung to Blackthorn’s mane and urged her on. They soared into the darkness.
Hollowness and dislocation. A sense of the world falling away. Shapes loomed up out of the shadows. A long corridor, a room lit dimly by a lantern. Two men playing cards. As the horse and rider flew silently, invisibly, past, the light flickered. One of the guards glanced up, then rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. Rhiannon glanced back at him. He did not see her.
A wall sprang towards them. Horse and rider flew through as if stone was water. Rows of beds with men sleeping. As the shadow-horse passed over them, they stirred and frowned. One cried out. Another turned and huddled his blankets up around his ears. Another wall flowed over them, then another. Rhiannon tried to remember to breathe.
In a dark cell. A window in the far wall glimmered frostily. A man lay on a narrow bed, moving his head and limbs restlessly, muttering and sighing. He cried out. Rhiannon looked down at him as she and the shadow-horse flew over him, towards the window. It was Lord Malvern. Even in the darkness she knew him at once.
Rhiannon felt a sudden spur of terror. Something floated above the sleeping man. In the darkness it was just a pale frosty shimmer, like breath on a frosty morning, like starlight on water, like crumpled chiffon. There was the mere suggestion of a woman’s shape, hovering over the sleeping man. He was shrinking away from the cold blast of her presence. ‘No! No!’ he cried out.
Rhiannon heard a low murmur.
‘What use are ye to me, locked up here like a trussed chicken?’ the ghost said. ‘We do no’ have much time. There is much to be done if we are to have all ready by Samhain. Do ye no’ want your revenge? Do ye no’ want your dear brother to live again? We made a pact, ye and I. I expect ye to honour it, else I shall haunt your every moment, waking and asleep, I will make ye sorry ye ever sought to cross me.’
‘No, no,’ he murmured. ‘Let me be!’
‘Never,’ the ghost hissed. ‘There is no way to escape me, no’ even through death, for I stand at the very threshold o’ life and there is no way to sneak past me, I warn ye. Ye must uphold your promise, ye must bring me back to life again!’
Her words were like a torrent of icy water, unrelenting. Rhiannon cowered as much as the man lying blasted in the ghost’s icy presence.
‘But how? What am I to do?’ Lord Malvern asked, and he was awake now, his eyes wide and terrified, pressing his body back into his pillows, as far as he could get from the cold diaphanous spirit hovering so close above him.
‘Get yourself out o’ this cell,’ she jeered. ‘What use are ye to me in here? Find the spell, as I bade ye, and a warm living body, young and strong and filled with power. Like her! She will do! Bring me the girl who dares spy on me in the darkness!’
To Rhiannon’s horror the ghost turned her head and pinned her with terrible eyes. Rhiannon took a breath to shriek, but the air was so bitterly cold, it pierced her lungs. She felt a rushing, an unravelling. The darkness spun about her. Rhiannon felt she was spinning in a vast, cold, windy abyss, falling thousands of feet into space. Then, strangely, she felt herself crash back into her own bed. She put out her hand and felt between her fingers the stiff linen of her sheets, pressed her hand against the hard mattress. She was lying on her back. She took in a great breath of relief, and felt cold strike down into her lungs. She could not shriek. A massive icy weight was pressing her down. Wintry hands dug into her shoulders. A blast of arctic breath in her face. She struggled to breathe. Cold lips pressed against her ear. ‘Ye dare spy on me?’ the ghost hissed. ‘I ken ye now. Do no’ dare cross me. Ye’ll learn ye canna thwart me without pain!’
Tears started from Rhiannon’s eyes, and at once froze on her cheeks. Her face was numb, her hands heavy and nerveless as lead. She made a great effort and heaved at the thing weighing on her chest, throwing it away. She heard a thin wailing, which could have been laughter or tears, then all was quiet. Rhiannon huddled her arms about her, shivering with cold, her chest heaving. Slowly her breath steadied and the humming of the darkness eased. At last she must have slept.
In the morning they brought her cold porridge and lukewarm tea, and then she was again left by herself. As the hours crept past, lethargy fell upon her. She sat and watched the bar of sunlight move across the stone. She felt tired and gloomy. Her eyes were gritty, and her chest hurt. At noon they brought her dark bread and cheese. Rhiannon was not hungry, but she forced herself to eat. She needed to keep her strength up if she was to escape. It was like eating ashes.
When the guards came to take away her plate, she demanded angrily when they planned to let her out, to walk in the garden at least. They did not answer, or even look her way. Quickly, efficiently, they gathered up her leftovers and backed away, locking the door securely behind them. Rhiannon kicked her chair furiously but only bruised her foot. Silence descended again. The walls were so thick Rhiannon could not even hear birds twittering. All was quiet and chill and lonely.
The bar of sunlight reached the far wall, and began to climb. The higher it climbed, the more orange it grew. Despite herself she began to pace again.
When she heard the bars grating open, she spun round on her heel, her heart thumping. It was not Lewen that the guard was showing in, however, but Nina the Nightingale. She was no longer dressed in the bright, shabby clothes of a jongleur, having changed into flowing white robes edged with silver. Her unruly chestnut hair had been bound back into a severe plait, and her necklaces of amber and gold were gone. A silver cord about her waist was hung with the heavy pouch in which she kept her witch’s paraphernalia. It was the only familiar thing about her.
‘Rhiannon, my dear, how are ye yourself?’ the sorceress asked, coming forward with a quick, light step to kiss her cheek.
Rhiannon’s hands were balled into fists. She searched for a way to tell Nina about all that had happened to her, about the Murderers’ Gallery and the rats, and about her dream that seemed more real than any nightmare could be. But what could she say? I feel sick and cold with dread, for I saw a ghost last night that says she wants my body for her own? She could not say the words. Nina would think her mad. So she said, through stiff lips, ‘Me? Och, I’m just dandy.’
Nina looked hurt at the sarcastic tone. ‘I’m sorry I couldna come afore. We’ve been busy indeed reporting to the Rìgh and settling ourselves back into our rooms at the palace. The place is like a hive o’ bees! I dinna ken how Lachlan … I mean, His Majesty … can stand it.’
Rhiannon did not reply. She was afraid if she spoke, she would begin to cry and that she could not bear. Rhiannon despised such weak indulgences as tears.
Nina went and sat down at the table, putting down the basket she carried. ‘How are they treating ye, Rhiannon?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Just dandy,’ Rhiannon said again, with the same heavy intonation of sarcasm. She felt lumpish and awkward, but did not know how else to behave. All the easy camaraderie that had grown up between her and this silver-tongued sorceress seemed out of place now. It was one thing to be friends when they travelled the roads together, eating out of the same stew pot, singing songs around the campfire at night, their clothes as shabby and dusty as each other’s. It was quite another story when that scruffy jongleur was transformed into a cool, white sorceress who called the Rìgh by his first name.
Nina seemed to understand, for she took no offence at Rhiannon’s gruff tone, saying, ‘Och, good, I’m so pleased. I was worried they may treat ye roughly. Are they feeding ye well?’
‘I wouldna say “well”,’ Rhiannon answered, feeling herself relax a little. ‘A nice haunch o’ roast venison wouldna go astray.’
‘Well, I canna do aught to help ye there, but I have brought ye some food,’ Nina said. She pulled a few jars and muslin bags out of her basket. ‘Some honey to sweeten your tea, and some cheese, and a bag o’ dried bellfruit, and a pot o’ quince jam, and look, a bottle o’ goldensloe wine. I ken how much ye hate being confined, I thought it might help.’
Tears prickled Rhiannon’s eyes. She stared at the ground and did not speak for fear her voice would give her away.
After a moment, Nina went on cheerfully, ‘I’ve brought ye some books too, to help while away the time. There’s an illustrated bestiary I am sure ye will like, and an alphabet book, and a book o’ rhymes and songs that Roden always loved. I ken ye canna read it yet, but ye can look at the pictures and I will sing some to ye, if ye like, and ye can then try and puzzle out the words.’
Rhiannon nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said gruffly, knowing she sounded ungracious.
‘No’ a problem,’ Nina said, piling the books neatly on the table. She hesitated, then said, ‘Rhiannon, we have told the Rìgh the whole story.’
‘Did ye tell him about Roden?’ Rhiannon asked.
Nina nodded, and dropped her eyes, looking discomfited. ‘He was shocked indeed at the tale, and pleased that we were able to wrest Roden back from Laird Malvern.’
‘But it’ll make no difference to me,’ Rhiannon said, her heart sinking. ‘He will no’ pardon me for saving him.’
Nina shook her head. ‘No’ out o’ hand, just like that. He is deeply grieved at the news o’ Connor’s death, as we kent he must be. There … there is much anger … at the way Connor died, I mean … and I think ye should ken the Rìgh shares it. He is a just man, though, Rhiannon. He says there must be an enquiry, and a fair trial.’
‘Och, aye, so ye’ve told me afore,’ Rhiannon said.
‘It will be fair, Rhiannon,’ Nina said reprovingly. ‘All will be debated openly, and proof demanded. It is one thing His Majesty has done well, reforming the law courts. It is no’ so long ago that the courts were naught but a mockery in this country, and innocent men and women condemned out o’ hand –’
‘What about accused murderers being allowed to walk out the gates and into the city as they please?’ Rhiannon demanded.
‘Pardon?’
‘They let Dedrie out the very first day. She said she needed to go buy some medicines for the laird. I thought she was meant to be in prison too.’
‘So did I,’ Nina said, puzzled. ‘It seems very odd. Are ye sure?’
‘Lewen said he saw her walk out the gates himself. He says she smiled at him ever so sweetly.’
‘There must be some misunderstanding,’ Nina said. ‘I’ll ask the prison warden.’
‘While ye’re there, ask him what happened to a poor lass by the name o’ Bess Balfour, who was hung up alive for the rats to feast on, in the Murderers’ Gallery,’ Rhiannon said, in a flat, hard voice. She could not help it. Whenever she thought of what had happened to Bess she felt sick and helpless and, worst of all, vulnerable.
‘What? What did ye say happened?’
Rhiannon told her, her voice cracking once or twice as she fought to suppress her emotions. Nina was as shocked and horrified as Rhiannon could have hoped for. She promised to find out how Bess was, and then said unhappily, ‘I had no idea conditions were still so bad in the prison. I ken His Majesty has launched any number o’ investigations and was assured things were improving.’
Rhiannon snorted.
‘I will speak to him,’ Nina said.
‘Aye, we’ve seen how much good that can do,’ Rhiannon answered.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nina said, sounding hurt.
Rhiannon sent her a heavy-browed look of misery and resentment, then stared down at her hands. There was a lump in her throat as big as a bite of apple.
Nina got to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’
‘A party at the palace tonight, is there?’
‘Actually, yes,’ Nina answered, caught between irritation and compunction. ‘I am to sing to the court.’
‘Have fun.’
‘I’m sorry I could no’ do more,’ Nina said unhappily.
Rhiannon opened her mouth to say something cutting, and then shut it, remembering that Nina had paid the gold that had got her the small comfort of this cell. She took a deep breath and muttered thanks.
Nina nodded. ‘It’s the least I could do for the lass who saved my lad. I dinna want to think o’ ye in there with a lot o’ common murderers.’
Rhiannon thought of Bess and her imploring eyes. ‘Thank ye. I am grateful,’ she managed to say. ‘I just wish …’
‘Aye. I ken. I’m sorry.’ Nina hesitated, then bent and picked up her basket. ‘I will come again when I can,’ she said. ‘It may no’ be for a few days. I have a lot to do.’
Rhiannon tried to smile.
‘I’m sorry, but they would no’ let Lewen in as well as me,’ Nina said. ‘He came, but they turned him away.’
Rhiannon shrugged one shoulder, trying hard not to show how disappointed she was. Nina came and laid her hand on her shoulder. ‘Be o’ good heart,’ she said. ‘Ye ken ye have friends. We will do what we can to set ye free.’
Rhiannon was not heartened.
The next day passed as slowly. Rhiannon was weary, for she
had had another disturbed and restless night, and so she rested on her bed, looking through the books Nina had brought her, and dozing. When she was not lying flat on her bed, she paced back and forth, tearing at her fingernails with her teeth. The square of light stretched up to the ceiling, and dimmed to a soft orange colour, and her pacing grew more frantic, and the silence unendurable. She missed Lewen with an ache like a dislocated joint.
The key squealed in the lock, and she leapt to her feet, looking eagerly towards the door. The guard looked in, gesturing to her to keep back, his sword at the ready. He was a tall, gangly young man with blue eyes and very fair skin marred with an angry outcrop of pimples on his forehead. Rhiannon sat obediently on the bed, as he stepped back, allowing the two people behind him to come in hesitantly.
Landon came in first. He was a thin boy around sixteen years of age, with lank fair hair and the beginnings of a scholar’s stoop. Loose black robes hung off his shoulders. A dog-eared notebook protruded from one pocket, and his fingers were stained with ink.
Behind him came Fèlice. Her long dark hair was drawn back from her face and secured with a clasp set with seashells, the rest of it hanging in a shining sheet down her back. She was dressed in the same long black robe as Landon, but it had been altered to fit her slim figure becomingly. She carried a bunch of spring flowers, which filled the air with their delicate scent. As she passed the guard she smiled at him warmly and said, ‘Thank ye for letting us both come in. We do appreciate it!’
The guard blushed and nodded, shutting the door behind her.
‘Landon! Fèlice!’ Rhiannon cried. ‘Ye look so different!’
‘We’re students o’ the Theurgia now,’ Fèlice said, swinging round so her gown billowed out. ‘Do we no’ look frighteningly stern? I swear, I hardly recognised myself in the mirror this morning. I look so dreadfully grown up.’
‘Your hair is all different too,’ Rhiannon said. Last time she had seen Fèlice, her hair had hung in thick, unnaturally regular ringlets. She had had to tie her hair up in hard little knobs every night to make the ringlets, but had declared the pain and discomfort was well worth the result.