‘Dinna tell me she stole his medal,’ another said reproachfully.
‘And his Yeoman badge!’
‘Bitch,’ said the one who had spat at her before, and spat again.
Rhiannon said nothing.
When everything in her bag had been documented, including ‘one purse, empty’, Octavia laid down her ink-stained quill and said brusquely, ‘Right, then, time to strip.’
Rhiannon just stared at her.
‘Strip off!’ she repeated impatiently, with an expansive gesture.
‘Ye mean …’
‘Och, aye, the lassie’s shy,’ Octavia mocked. ‘Look at her, blushing and sighing, like a lassie whose lips are still wet with her mama’s milk.’
The soldiers guffawed.
‘Take it all off!’ Octavia barked. ‘Now!
Rhiannon set her jaw and obeyed. Naked and shivering, she passed her clothes over to Octavia, who duly noted them down in her ledger then shoved them into the bag, did up the straps and stowed the bag away in a crowded cupboard which she then locked with a key. Rhiannon stood with her back ramrod-straight, her arms crossed over her breasts, enduring the guards’ grinning regard. Octavia then stood and looked her over with the same overt lasciviousness, her arms akimbo, the tip of her fat tongue protruding. ‘Bonny lass, isn’t she? Skin like a babe. Mmm, mmm. Better get your tongues off the floor, lads.’
Rhiannon stared straight ahead.
‘Nice flat arse too. No’ like mine, hey? Hey?’
The guards did not dare agree.
Octavia gave her hoarse wheezy laugh, and tossed Rhiannon a coarse linen smock, which she hurriedly pulled on over her head. It was rough and itchy, and stank. Rhiannon wrinkled her nose in disgust.
The smell of her smock was nothing to that which assaulted her sensitive satyricorn senses when Octavia unlocked and hauled open the other door, however. The air that flowed over them was so foul that Rhiannon wrenched her wrist free of the guard’s grasp so she could clamp her hand over her nose and mouth. The guard did not protest because he wanted to mask his own nose.
Octavia reached forward and seized Rhiannon’s hands in her own hot, unpleasantly damp hands, dragging them away from her face. Rhiannon gagged. In that moment of weakness, Octavia grabbed her thumbs and forced them both into a metal clamp which she tightened cruelly and then locked. Rhiannon shrieked and jerked her hands away, but it was too late. Her thumbs throbbed painfully.
‘Well, in ye go, girlie. I hope ye enjoy your stay,’ Octavia said, wheezing with pleasure at her own wit.
Rhiannon did not move, staring into the room beyond in horror. The room was dim and smoky, lit only by the sullen glare of a single lantern. Vague hunched shapes moved in the gloom, staring back at her with eyes that gleamed white and glassy.
Octavia unhitched her cudgel and slapped it into her palm.
‘Get in there, girl,’ she said.
Still Rhiannon did not move. Her legs felt weak and trembly. One of the soldiers gave her a shove in the back and she lurched forward. Octavia grabbed her by the neck, lifted her and flung her through the door, tossing a blanket and a wooden bowl after her. As Rhiannon landed on her knees on the filthy, freezing floor, she heard the door slam shut behind her and the key grate in the rusty lock.
Lewen sighed in impatience and frustration.
Lady Fèlice de Valonis of Stratheden turned and smiled at him in sympathy. Of all the apprentices who had ridden to Lucescere from Ravenshaw, she was the one who had grown closest to Rhiannon. A small, slim girl of sixteen, Fèlice managed to look fresh and pretty even with her crimson velvet riding habit crushed and travel-stained, and her long brown curls ruffled.
Beside her Cameron MacHamish rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, needing some kind of physical outlet for his emotions. Flanking Fèlice on the other side was Rafferty MacKillop, the brown-haired son of a clock-maker. These two young men were always vying for Fèlice’s attention, as much now by habit as by inclination. So when the young lady had declared her intention of accompanying Lewen to the prison to seek news of Rhiannon, they had both naturally decided she needed their protection, even though Fèlice said she felt quite safe with Lewen as her escort, with a laughing glance at his strong, tall figure.
The other apprentice-witches had gone on to the Theurgia as planned, though it was clear Landon would have much preferred to accompany Lewen and Fèlice than escort the other two girls, Lady Edithe NicAven of Avebury, and Maisie, the shy, plump daughter of a village cunning man. Edithe had been most annoyed to have been abandoned by the other boys, however, and had insisted that Landon at least stay with her and Maisie. So, looking back over his shoulder wistfully, Landon had obediently trailed off after the haughty young blonde. Edithe had made no attempt to wait for Maisie, who was still limping badly after being attacked by wild dogs on their journey.
It had taken Lewen some time to find his way to Sorrowgate Prison, for it was not a place he had ever had to visit before. A great dark hulking building built beside the gatehouse that guarded the Bridge of Sorrows, it was protected by a tall iron portcullis with prongs as sharp as spears. Although the portcullis was drawn up, they had to pass right underneath it and no-one was able to help glancing up uneasily. It was all too easy to imagine it rattling down at high speed and impaling them upon its prongs.
Within was a small dark courtyard, busy with people coming and going. The smell was strong enough to make Fèlice lift her handkerchief to her nose, and for Cameron to make some lame joke to cover his unease.
Now the four apprentice-witches stood waiting in a vast chamber, along with a host of other people, some carrying baskets of food and wine, parcels of clothes, or bundles of blankets. Some were obviously prisoners, manacled and flanked by guards dressed in stern grey garb. Most looked resigned. One or two wept, and one man tried to resist and was belted across the back with a heavy cudgel for his pains.
At the far end of the room was an enormous desk, where a man sat half-hidden behind towers of papers. Every now and again, he looked up and jerked his head. Another person would rush forward to plead with him to allow them to visit a prisoner, or to give him their parcel and a covert coin, or the guards would drag forward their captive, who would be efficiently processed, then marched through the huge iron doors behind the clerk by two big, hard-faced prison guards.
Slowly the queue inched forward. Lewen and his friends had been waiting now for more than twenty minutes, and their anxiety for Rhiannon made the wait very hard.
There was a stir at the great iron doors that led to the outside. Lewen turned to look, as did most people in the room.
Lord Malvern entered the room, carrying his raven on his gauntleted wrist. He was dressed in a black velvet jacket over a grey and black kilt, with a plaid of the same pattern thrown over his shoulder and secured with a heavy silver badge. Before him walked a young man with a curiously colourless and impassive face, dressed all in black and imperiously clearing the way with a long white stick. Following a few paces behind the lord were his valet, carrying one small carved box, his librarian, staggering under a great pile of books and scrolls, his harper and piper, both carrying their musical instruments on their backs, and a cheery-faced woman dressed in a brown skirt and a white apron, who was carrying an enormous basket. Behind them came six porters struggling with various trunks and cases, and two rough-clad men that Lewen knew had been grooms at Fettercairn Castle. Behind them, looking harassed, were the eight soldiers appointed by the reeve of Linlithgorn to guard the lord and his retinue. They looked more like bodyguards set to serve the lord than soldiers set to hold him prisoner.
Lewen wondered where the lord of Fettercairn had got his new seneschal. Irving, his last seneschal, had died at Rhiannon’s hand, throwing himself before an arrow that had been aimed for Lord Malvern. This new man had the same stiff, white, unpleasant look about him as Irving had had, only he seemed about twenty years younger. Lewen wondered if it was Irving’s son, knowing that most of a g
reat lord’s servants inherited their positions.
The seneschal ignored the long straggling queue and walked straight up to the desk, prodding a fat woman with his stick so she moved out of the way. He rapped on the desk to get the clerk’s attention, then dropped a heavy purse of coins in front of him.
‘My laird, the MacFerris o’ Fettercairn, has been wrongly accused o’ treason,’ the seneschal said in a bored tone. ‘He has submitted to the crown until such a time as the charges are dismissed. He will require lodgings in Sorrowgate Tower for himself and his servants. Please ensure the quarters are clean.’
The man at the desk stared up at him with dropped jaw, then shrugged and took the purse. ‘Very well,’ he answered, and jerked his head. A guard came forward and opened the doors. The lord of Fettercairn walked forward and into the prison, disappearing from view. His retinue followed along behind him, all except Dedrie the castle healer, who paused at the table.
‘I must attend upon his lairdship at once,’ she said. ‘He is sorely tired after his journey. I will need to organise the delivery o’ some medicines from the College o’ Healers first, however. I will need a pass-out to ensure that all is in order for his lairdship. Will ye please write one for me now, so that his lairdship does no’ have to wait too long?’
The man frowned, and at once another plump purse plopped on the table in front of him.
‘O’ course,’ he said. He scribbled on a piece of paper, and pushed it towards Dedrie.
She thanked him, then turned and walked back towards the city. As she passed Lewen, their eyes met. Dedrie smiled sweetly, and then stepped out through the doors and out of sight.
Seeing the lord of Fettercairn and his poisonous skeelie bribe their way into comfort and freedom made Lewen grind his teeth in fury. He seethed about it the whole time he had to wait, and when at last he was able to step up to the desk, said furiously, ‘Why did ye let the laird o’ Fettercairn’s skeelie just walk out the door? She’s been accused o’ murder, ye ken, and necromancy too!’
The man raised his eyebrows, and said, ‘Pass-outs allowed in time o’ need.’
‘What need?’ Lewen demanded.
‘A prisoner who has been granted liberty o’ the tower is permitted to send servants on errands for him,’ the clerk said.
‘Even if she stands accused o’ murder herself?’
‘I have no record o’ such charges.’
‘But …’
The clerk tapped his quill against his inkpot impatiently. ‘Is there something else I can do for ye?’
Lewen swallowed his aggravation. ‘Aye. I’m here to see Rhiannon o’ Dubhslain. She was brought in an hour or so ago.’
The clerk shuffled some papers, then said, ‘Och, aye. Accused o’ murder. Sorry. No visitors allowed.’
‘But why no’? Ye let the laird o’ Fettercairn’s skeelie just go wandering off into the city, why will ye no’ let me –’
‘The girl has no’ been granted liberty o’ the tower. She’s in the Murderers’ Gallery. No privileges allowed.’
‘But I must see her! Please, canna I –’
‘Sorry. I canna help ye. Next!’
‘But please … canna I just –’
‘Move along, please, sir.’ A prison guard suddenly materialised at Lewen’s elbow, and he was politely but inexorably moved away from the clerk’s desk. Fèlice and the other boys trailed after him, all looking upset and angry.
‘What do we do now?’ Fèlice asked.
‘I suppose we had better just go to the Theurgia, like we’re supposed to,’ Cameron said. ‘Nina said she was going to seek audience with the Rìgh just as soon as she could. I guess we leave it up to her.’
‘We’d better tell her about Dedrie,’ Lewen said through his teeth.
‘I hope Rhiannon is all right,’ Fèlice said, looking about her with a theatrical shudder. ‘This is truly a most blaygird place.’
‘Did ye see the laird o’ Fettercairn? It was like a royal progress,’ Rafferty said.
‘They just let that auld nursemaid go wandering off,’ Fèlice said. ‘How can that have happened?’
Cameron rubbed two fingers together. ‘Filthy lucre, always lubricates the way,’ he said.
‘Rhiannon has no money,’ Lewen said. ‘Och, if only I’d thought! I could have given her some.’
‘She has some money,’ Cameron said feelingly, ‘because she kept winning all o’ mine. She’d bet on a snail race, that girl.’
They pushed their way through the crowd and out into the fresh air, Fèlice taking great gulps, her hand pressed dramatically to her chest. ‘The smell o’ that place!’ She shuddered. ‘I declare I feel quite ill!’
‘I have to see Rhiannon!’ Lewen cried. ‘I canna bear to think o’ her locked up in there.’
‘But how?’ Rafferty asked. ‘Ye heard that man. No visitors allowed.’
‘I must see the Rìgh,’ Lewen said. ‘I must beg him to grant her liberty o’ the tower, whatever that is.’
‘And ye think ye can just charge in there and ask him?’ Cameron said sceptically.
‘Nay, o’ course no’. Though I am one o’ his squires, ye ken, and he is quite friendly to us, most o’ the time. I canna just go in and demand audience with him whenever I want, though. But I ken someone who can!’
‘Who?’ Fèlice demanded.
‘His daughter,’ Lewen answered.
Olwynne leant her head upon her hand, finding it hard to concentrate on the book before her. She was tired, yet she could not rest. She felt unsettled and fidgety, like a horse in a rising wind. She felt she was waiting for something to happen, even though she knew all the other students were in class, and the witches busy about their own concerns.
Suddenly her door crashed open. Olwynne jerked upright. She had not heard anyone walking down the corridor. In an instant she saw why. Her twin brother, Owein, hovered in the doorway. Like her, he was red-haired and brown-eyed, with the white lock of the MacCuinn clan curling at his left temple. Unlike her, he was blessed with a pair of glossy, red-feathered wings as long as he was himself. Ever since he had first learnt to manage his wings, Owein had never walked if he could fly. He was as restless as a dragonfly, always in motion, always talking and laughing and fighting.
Olwynne had wondered once or twice if that was why she was so quiet and self-contained, so absorbed in her books and her studies. It was the only place where she could outshine her twin. Owein did not have much interest in studying, and only tolerated his classes at the Theurgia because he knew he had to graduate before he was permitted to try out for the Yeomen of the Guards. Like many young men his age, he dreamt of joining that most elite company of soldiers. Few made the grade, however, and Owein had been told many times that being the son of the Rìgh was no guarantee of acceptance.
‘Olwynne, guess what!’
‘Ye’ve been kicked out o’ school for missing so many classes,’ Olwynne replied promptly, eyeing her brother’s clothes. Instead of being soberly attired in the black robe of an apprentice, as she was, he was wearing breeches, shabby boots, and an old, stained tunic rent from the shoulder.
He grinned and fluttered down to perch on her bed. ‘Nay, though I must admit auld Jock threatened to throw me out if I missed any more o’ his classes. I told him he’d have to catch me first.’
‘Owein!’
‘Och, he’s all right, auld Jock. It’s no’ that I dinna like him, it’s just that agricultural studies drives me crazy. So boring! And no-one can convince me I need to ken aught about farming to be a Blue Guard.’
Olwynne sighed. She could have tried but she knew it would be a waste of breath.
‘So why are ye no’ in class now?’ she demanded.
Owein pulled a face. ‘Alchemy. So boring! Alasdair and I thought we’d go hawking. Much too nice a day to hang around in class. I kent Cailean wouldna give us away.’
Olwynne frowned. Hawking, hunting and other blood sports were forbidden to apprentices, as the Coven of Witc
hes believed passionately that all living creatures were sacred. Witches did not eat the flesh of any animal, nor cheese that had been fermented with the juices of an animal’s digestive system, nor eggs that had been fertilised. Skipping class would be frowned upon, but doing so in order to go hawking would be punished by suspension, and perhaps even expulsion.
Owein rolled his eyes at her. ‘Dinna be such a muffin-faced prig, Olwynne. I’ve been good all winter, ye canna expect me to stay at school and swot when the weather’s finally warming up!’
Olwynne wondered fleetingly how her brother could say he had been good all winter so sincerely when she knew for a certainty that he had regularly skipped school to go tobogganing, ice-skating and hunting with his hounds, not to mention smuggling a greased pig into the dining room one day, and releasing all the pigeons from the loft another day. She also harboured a very strong suspicion that it had been her brother who had strung Fat Drusa’s drawers up the flagpole on Hogmanay. Luckily the very large sorceress was also very good-humoured, else Owein may have found himself expelled.
‘Anyway, dinna ye want to hear my news? Guess what we saw when we were in the mews. Go on, Olwynne, guess!’
‘A falcon,’ Olwynne said sourly.
‘Go on, muffin-face! Try, at least. Some witch ye are, if ye canna even read your own brother’s mind.’
Olwynne looked at him in exasperation. She knew very well that, despite all Owein’s madcap tricks and tomfoolery, he had had some of the Craft hammered into his head and was quite capable of shielding his mind from her.
‘Dai-dein?’ she said hopefully. Her father had little patience with Owein’s wildness, and would have sent him back to school with a flea in his ear.
‘No! We saw a winged horse, a black one, and a real beauty. A girl was riding it, a prisoner o’ some sort. Her hands were bound and she was on a lead rein. They tried to bring her in and she fought them off, ye should’ve seen her! She broke Lyndon’s nose, and her horse kicked Kenneth in the chest and stove all his ribs in. It was grand! Then the captain threw a rope round her shoulders and brought her down, and the mare took off up into the sky. Ye should’ve seen it go! What I wouldna give for a horse like that!’