Lewen went and poured the twin sisters each a cup of hot rosehip tea with a swirl of honey. They accepted it with thanks, and he went back to the table to make the dancey for the Rìgh. Once it was brewed, he poured the seething black liquid into a small cup for Lachlan, adding a dash of mare’s milk.
‘I’ll have a drop o’ the water o’ life too, I think,’ the Rìgh said with a wry twist of his mouth. ‘It’s no’ every day ye hear death’s bells.’
‘Aye, my laird,’ Lewen said, and poured in a generous measure of whisky from the crystal decanter on the sideboard.
‘Give Owein some as well,’ the Rìgh instructed. ‘It’s been a shock for him too.’
Owein accepted the cup of whisky-laced dancey with thanks and tossed it back with a grimace. Lewen poured him another cup, glad to see some colour returning to his friend’s face.
‘Sit down, lad,’ Iseult said, sipping her tea with a grateful sigh. ‘I think the squiring lessons are over for the day. Ye too, Lewen. Get yourself a cup o’ something if ye like.’
Lewen shook his head shyly and sat down on a chair against the wall, grateful to take his weight off his feet but uncomfortable to be on such terms of intimacy with the Rìgh and Banrìgh. Although he knew Lachlan counted his father as a good friend, Lewen was still very much in awe of the royal couple.
There was a long moment of frowning silence, then Isabeau said, ‘Let us no’ get too hung up on the idea that any assassination threat must be linked to Bronwen. Ye have other enemies, surely?’
Lachlan shot her a rueful glance. ‘Who, me?’
Who, you-hooh? the owl asked.
Isabeau managed a smile.
‘Ye spoke afore o’ Ravenshaw,’ Iseult said. ‘Could this dream o’ Olwynne’s be linked to the news Iven and Nina brought us, about all the murders there? I mean, Olwynne did dream o’ ravens.’
Isabeau nodded. ‘That thought has been very much in my mind.’
‘It surely is no coincidence that I have two hanging charges on my hands at once,’ Lachlan said. ‘There is the satyricorn girl who killed Connor, and the laird o’ Fettercairn, charged with necromancy, o’ all things.’
‘Could it be one o’ them who seek to kill ye?’ Iseult asked. ‘Perhaps to stop the death penalty from being passed?’
‘Do no’ forget that Connor was on his way to us with news when he was killed,’ Lachlan said. ‘He would no’ have tried to cross the Razor’s Edge without sore need. Nina and Iven have pleaded for clemency on the satyricorn’s behalf but I canna help but wonder if she kent the news Connor was carrying and killed him so the news could no’ reach us.’
Lewen’s cheeks burned, and he had to bite back a sudden rush of angry words. Isabeau glanced his way, and he turned his gaze to his boots.
‘What news could he have had?’ Iseult wondered.
‘Connor was with my uncle when he died,’ Lachlan said. ‘Malcolm was often called mad, but though he was certainly eccentric, he was no fool. Perhaps he knew something o’ this nest o’ necromancers? If what Nina and Iven suspect is true, the laird o’ Fettercairn is responsible for countless kidnappings and murders as well as grave-robbing and the calling up o’ the spirits o’ the dead.’
Lewen could keep quiet no longer. ‘It is true,’ he said indignantly. ‘I was there!’
Lachlan looked at him with interest. ‘Aye, I ken ye were, lad. But ye did no’ see the necromancy yourself, did ye?’
‘Nay,’ Lewen admitted. ‘But I saw them try to kill Rhiannon, to stop her talking o’ it. And I was there when they kidnapped Roden.’
‘And ye’ll be called to testify at Lord Malvern’s trial, no doubt,’ Iseult said coolly, ‘but, for now, do ye ken aught about the news Connor was carrying from Ravenscraig?’
It was a snub. Lewen coloured hotly and muttered, ‘Nay, my lady.’
‘Well, then,’ Iseult said, and turned back to Lachlan, who scratched his beard ruminatively.
‘I have to wonder why, if Malcolm did ken about the necromancy and so on, he did naught about it? Apparently it’s been going on for years.’
Lewen could have told them why, but he stared at his boots and said nothing.
‘Nina says everyone who lives in the Fetterness Valley is too afraid and too much in awe o’ the laird to say a thing,’ Isabeau said, as if reading his mind.
‘And if that was the news Connor carried, why would he feel it was o’ such urgency that he risked coming through the Whitelock Mountains? As far as I ken, the last time anyone came safely over the Razor’s Edge was when Duncan Ironheart and I fled the Red Guards in Ravenshaw. That was no’ long afore I first met ye, Isabeau.’ He turned his brooding yellow gaze to Isabeau’s face.
Isabeau nodded. Her gaze dropped down to her fingers, entwined in her lap.
Lewen’s eyes followed hers involuntarily. She felt his gaze and twisted her hands so that her left hand, the crippled one, was hidden in a fold of her skirt.
Lewen had heard the story of Isabeau and Lachlan’s first meeting, although it was not a tale the jongleurs told in the city inns. As far as he knew, few had heard the whole tale. Lewen’s mother, Lilanthe, was one of those few.
Lachlan had been a prisoner of the Anti-Witchcraft League, bound hand and foot, bruised and bloodied, and naked beneath his filthy cloak of nyx-hair. In a moment of despair he had called out in the language most natural to him, the language of birds, and, hidden in a tree above the witch-sniffers’ camp, Isabeau had heard him and determined to rescue him.
Thanks to her magic she had succeeded, but the next night Lachlan had stolen all her food and her knife and disappeared. Isabeau had found herself hunted by the Anti-Witchcraft League. She had been captured and tortured, and the fingers of one hand had been pulped in a cruel machine called the pilliwinkes.
Although her remaining two fingers and thumb were now adorned with her three sorceress rings – a golden dragoneye stone, a glowing emerald that had once belonged to her guardian, Meghan of the Beasts, and a heavy square-cut ruby – Isabeau still instinctively hid her crippled hand from view. Her other hand was laden with rings, five in all, showing that she was a sorceress of eight rings, the most powerful witch since the time of Morgause the Bright. Isabeau had been heard to say that it was just as well she had not the power to win another sorceress ring as she had no more fingers to wear a ring upon.
‘Ye ken what’s interesting,’ Lachlan was saying, ‘Duncan and I and the other Blue Guards – we crossed the Razor’s Edge to flee the laird o’ Fettercairn. He had legions o’ soldiers scouring the land for us. It was our chance to escape him.’
‘Och, aye,’ Lewen said, again forgetting himself in his eagerness. ‘We heard the tale in Ravenshaw. Ye’d tricked your way in to Fettercairn Castle –’
‘That’s right,’ Lachlan said, with a sudden grin of amusement. He turned to Iseult and Isabeau. ‘It was back in the days when we were all rebels, fighting to undermine Maya and running around rescuing witches and faeries from the Burning. We sneaked into Fettercairn Castle to rescue Oonagh the White, who become sorceress o’ Dùn Gorm, do ye remember her?’
Isabeau nodded.
‘She was only a lass then, and we kent she’d be tortured cruelly afore they killed her. We couldna take the castle by force, it is far too strong, and there was only a handful o’ us. So we came in hidden in the dung-cart. Foul, but effective.’ He grinned, remembering.
‘Anyway, we got in all right but we couldna get out. They had a witch-sniffer there at the castle, a strong one, and a great many soldiers. We had a hard fight o’ it but managed to subdue them in the end, I canna quite remember how. I think some o’ the castle folk helped us. I remember we put the witch-sniffer on trial. It was something we liked to do back then, I think in some kind o’ protest at the sham they had made o’ the justice system.’
‘Aye, so we heard, my laird,’ Lewen said. ‘It was one o’ the auld pot-boys who told us. They did help ye. They locked all the soldiers up.’
‘Good o
n them,’ Lachlan said. ‘That certainly would have helped.’
‘So what happened?’ Owein asked in lively curiosity. His colour had come back and he was listening with great interest, always enjoying the stories of his parents’ wild adventures.
‘The witch-sniffer – whose name I forget …’
‘It’s Laird Malvern,’ Lewen said impatiently. ‘He’s the one ye have locked up for necromancy. It’s the same man.’
‘Is it now? I had no’ realised … so how does he come to be laird o’ Fettercairn now?’
‘It was his brother whom ye killed, my laird,’ Lewen said. ‘Malvern inherited the title after that.’
‘Ye killed the laird o’ Fettercairn’s brother?’ Iseult exclaimed. ‘Surely that’s reason to want ye dead.’
‘Except it was twenty-four years ago,’ Lachlan said. ‘Surely if he wanted revenge for his brother’s death, he would have sought it a long time since.’
‘He said revenge was a dish best eaten cold,’ Lewen said.
‘The laird o’ Fettercairn said that?’ Iseult demanded.
‘Aye, my lady.’
‘But was there no’ a son?’ Lachlan asked. ‘I’m sure the laird I kent had a son.’
‘He died too,’ Lewen said. ‘The laird hid his wife and the little boy in a secret room, for safekeeping, ye ken, but then ye killed him, and no-one kent where they were hidden. They were there for days. The lad died o’ hunger and cold, and his mother was driven mad with grief.’
Isabeau sighed. ‘How very sad.’
‘And all the more reason to hate ye, Lachlan,’ Iseult said grimly.
Lachlan was perturbed. ‘Aye, true indeed. What a tale! I had no idea.’
‘Surely ye could no’ have kent!’ Isabeau said, her eyes sparkling with tears. ‘Ye could never have left them there to die, surely!’
‘We had to flee for our lives,’ Lachlan said defensively. ‘How was I to ken the laird had hidden away his wife and son? I never meant to kill him. He attacked me!’
‘How in the name o’ the White Gods did ye manage to kill him?’ Iseult said dryly. ‘If I remember rightly, ye were no’ much o’ a fighter till I took ye in hand.’
‘A lucky stroke,’ Lachlan replied, looking peeved. ‘Or should I say an unlucky stroke?’
‘Very unlucky for the poor wee lad,’ Isabeau said.
‘His ghost haunts the castle,’ Lewen said. ‘Rhiannon saw him, and I think I did too.’
Owein gave a superstitious shiver.
‘We really did no’ ken that the wife and son were missing,’ Lachlan said, half-pleading, half-angry. ‘We thought they’d escaped with the witch-sniffer. He’d slipped away in the fighting, we dinna ken how or where. A week or so later he came back with an army. We had to bolt in the night. The only safe way out o’ Ravenshaw was over the Razor’s Edge and no’ all o’ us made it, I can tell ye! There are ogres up there, and hordes o’ goblins –’
‘And satyricorns,’ Iseult reminded him, with a glance at Lewen.
‘Aye, indeed, as poor Connor found out,’ Lachlan said. He rubbed the Lodestar thoughtfully, and a low hum of music rose, almost as if the silver orb was purring. Then, suddenly, the Rìgh exclaimed, ‘That’s right! I remember now. The raven.’
He looked round the circle of intently listening faces. ‘A raven followed us for days. Right over the Razor’s Edge and into Lucescere. It was soon after that I was caught by the Awl, which was when you took it into your wool-witted head to rescue me, Isabeau.’
‘More fool me,’ Isabeau said mildly.
He grinned at her, suddenly looking much younger. ‘Aye, I’ve always said so.’
‘So ye think the raven that followed ye was Laird Malvern’s raven?’ Iseult said. ‘Spying on ye?’
‘Could be,’ Lachlan answered. ‘What a shame I did no’ have my bonny Stormwing back then. He would soon have got rid o’ the blaygird birdie for me.’ He sighed, his face darkening as he thought of his beloved gyrfalcon, who had died the previous winter at a very venerable age.
‘I wonder if the raven with Laird Malvern is the same bird?’ Owein said. ‘Surely no’!’
‘Familiars can live unnaturally long,’ Isabeau said, putting up one hand to caress the elf-owl perched on her shoulder. Buba had been asleep, her head sunk down deep into her snowy feathers, but at the touch of the Keybearer’s hand her round face popped up and her golden eyes snapped open indignantly.
Who-hooh? What-hooh?
‘Naught, naught, go back to sleep,’ Isabeau crooned affectionately.
‘So the laird o’ Fettercairn blames ye for his brother’s death, and his nephew’s too,’ Iseult said. ‘I think we should keep a close eye on him.’
‘He’s safe in prison, and can do me no harm,’ Lachlan said reassuringly. ‘Besides, did Olwynne no’ dream o’ a woman?’
‘Well, all we can do is keep a sharp watch and try to keep ye safe,’ Isabeau said. ‘I will set my spies to gathering what information they can, and when Ghislaine is well enough, I will walk the dream-road with her again. Owein, Lewen, I want ye to watch and listen too. Nobody notices squires, happen ye will hear something that I or your parents would no’.’
Owein and Lewen both nodded.
Isabeau got to her feet, gathering up her skirts in one hand. ‘I will go back now and check on Olwynne.’
Iseult was leaning her head on her hand, looking pale and unhappy. She rose with a sigh, saying, ‘I’ll come too. I feel so bad that my poor Olwynne has been suffering these nightmares and I never kent. I’ve been too busy …’ Her voice trailed away, and then she turned suddenly to her husband. ‘Stay close to the palace, Lachlan,’ she said urgently. ‘Do no’ go anywhere without your bodyguard, do ye hear me?’
‘Do no’ fear, leannan,’ Lachlan said, putting his arm about her. ‘I’m a tough auld rooster, and hard to kill.’
‘I hope so,’ she whispered, then straightened her back as Lewen opened the door for her, sweeping out with her face set in its usual stern, proud lines. One by one the others followed her, all trying to conceal their perturbation at the news Isabeau had brought.
Outside the door, Mathias stood rigidly, staring straight ahead. He hoped none of his anger and resentment could be seen on his face. How dare the Banrìgh say the divine Bronwen dressed like a whore!
Mathias had never liked the Banrìgh. She had criticised his swordmanship in front of the whole company, and then shamed him by knocking him flat on his back with a single blow. ‘The job o’ a Yeoman o’ the Guard is to protect his Rìgh, no’ merely to look good on horseback and on the dance floor,’ she had said to the assembled soldiers. ‘Just because we are at peace does no’ mean we should allow ourselves to get slack and soft. I would like to see less partying, and more sword and bow practice.’
Just the memory was enough to make Mathias burn with humiliation. For weeks, it had been thought a great joke for a fellow yeoman to thrust a finger into his belly as hard as they could, while shaking their heads and saying, ‘Aye, soft he is indeed.’ Other jokes had been lewder, and more difficult to shrug off with a laugh. Even his captain had exclaimed once, in aggravation, ‘Are ye as soft in the head as ye are in the belly, Mat?’, much to his companions’ amusement.
It did not help to tell himself they were just jealous of his popularity among the court ladies, or suspicious of his Fairgean ancestry. Mathias knew the Banrìgh had been right in her estimation of him. He could swim faster than any other yeoman, and dance the galliard with greater grace and agility, and sing love songs as sweetly as any minstrel. All of these gifts were extremely useful in the true life of the court, and had brought him to the attention of the Banprionnsa Bronwen and her circle, the most beautiful and fashionable of all the sets at court. They were not likely to endear him to the Banrìgh, though, for she scorned the more frivolous of the court’s entertainments.
Mathias had not been appointed a Yeoman of the Guard for nothing. He was a strong wrestler, an excellent rider, a skilled sailo
r, a clever swordsman, and a very pretty shot with both the longbow, the harquebus and the new matchlock pistol now gaining popularity among the guards. It was just that there was little need for these arts of war nowadays, when all was peaceful and prosperous. Most of the work of the Yeomen was really quite boring, standing about in full ceremonial dress, and trying not to yawn at yet another long-winded speech from some pompous bore. It was far more pleasant to dance the night away, and show off his swimming and diving skills to the flocks of fluttering ladies, and ride to hounds, than it was to slog his way round the practice field with his fellow Yeomen.
So his swordsmanship had grown a little rusty, and perhaps he was not such a keen shot as he had been when he had first joined the Yeomen. There was no need for the Banrìgh to single him out. Unless, of course, she had heard how favoured he was by the divine Bronwen.
Thinking about Bronwen made Mathias grow hot and uncomfortable. Often he could not sleep at night for thinking about her, all his sheets getting twisted about his legs and body as he writhed about, pressing his pillow into his aching groin. There was no other girl like her – with hair like black silk and eyes like the sea at dawn, and a figure of such sinuous grace it could haunt a man. Wherever she went, heads turned. No-one could be indifferent to her. And brave! The Banrìgh sneered at the way her daughter-in-law-to-be dressed, yet did not have the wit to realise how much courage and pride it took for a girl like Bronwen to reveal her gills and fins in a court that had not forgotten the last Fairgean War.
Mathias stared straight ahead, hoping his fellow guard did not notice how hot his cheeks were. He admired this bravery of the Banprionnsa as much as he admired her beauty. He himself was the son of a half-Fairgean woman. She had always worn her sleeves long and her collars high, and had dreaded anyone noticing the strange silvery shimmer of her skin in certain lights. Mathias had inherited her vivid sea-coloured eyes and her singing voice, but not her gills and fins. He had spent most of his childhood hoping no-one would ever find out about his mother’s ancestry.