Everyone was staring at Lewen now. He wondered how to respond. If Nina wanted her family history told, would she not tell it? But perhaps it was hard for her to tell, just as it was hard for Lewen’s own father to talk about his part in the war. And if they knew, these arrogant aristocratic brats, would they not treat her with more respect? He glanced at Nina, warming her voice at the far end of the room with the most exquisite rills of music, her sunbird trilling away with her in sublime accompaniment. She glanced at him with her bright dark eyes, and Lewen realised she knew exactly what they spoke about, huddled here in their own fire-lit end of the inn. She smiled at him ruefully, shrugged her slim shoulders, and turned away.
‘So?’ Edithe demanded. ‘What’s the big mystery?’
‘Ask her to sing the song o’ the three blackbirds tonight,’ Lewen said at last, his chest muscles constricting tight.
‘Why?’
‘Because no-one sings it more beautifully, my mother says. And because her brother wrote it.’
‘But …’ Edithe sounded puzzled.
Fèlice, court-bred, knew at once. ‘Ye mean the Earl o’ Caerlaverock?’ Her voice came out in a squeak. ‘The Rìgh’s own minstrel?’
‘Wasna he the one who found the Rìgh, when he was still a blackbird, and saved him, and helped transform him back into a man?’ Landon asked, eyes shining.
‘It was Enit Silverthroat who did that,’ Lewen said. ‘Dide and Nina’s grandmother. Dide was still only a lad and Nina little more than a babe. Lachlan travelled with them for years in their caravan, learning to be a man again. Dide was the first to swear allegiance to Lachlan and promise to help him win the throne.’
‘Wasna Enit Silverthroat the auld Yedda who masterminded the rebellion against the Ensorcellor?’ Edithe said. ‘And then taught Jay Fiddler the song o’ love, which he played at the Battle o’ Bonnyblair, enchanting the Fairgean into peace?’
Lewen nodded. ‘Though she was no’ a Yedda,’ he said. ‘She was a jongleur.’
They all turned and looked up the room at Nina, her head bent over her shabby old guitar, her messy chestnut curls tumbling down onto a gaudy orange and gold brocade dress, stained around the hem and darned here and there with mismatching thread.
‘Ye’re telling me Nina is the sister o’ the Earl o’ Caerlaverock?’ Edithe’s voice was dazed with amazement.
Lewen nodded. ‘And Roden is his heir, for he has no children o’ his own, ye ken.’
‘Roden is a Viscount?’
Lewen could not help smiling as everyone stared at the grubby little boy juggling balls back and forth with the arak, his chestnut curls uncombed and his grimy jerkin missing a couple of buttons.
‘Well!’ said Edithe at last. ‘I would never have guessed it.’
Edithe’s expression of dazed wonderment stayed on her face all through the jongleurs’ performance, which was concluded with a storm of clapping from the townsfolk crowded into the long smoky room. Nina was begged for encore after encore, but at last she had to desist, hoarse-throated and heavy-eyed. Reluctantly the crowd filed out into the frosty night, talking and marvelling, and Nina sat down limply, drinking one last cup of honeyed tea, Roden nestled sleepily against her side.
A tall woman in a flowing white gown came to sit next to her, talking quietly. Her brown hair was tied back in a long plait that hung to her knees, and as she lifted her hand to gesture, light flashed off the rings on her right hand. Rhiannon came shyly closer and, at Nina’s welcoming smile, sat next to the woman on the bench.
‘Come, ye must be weary indeed,’ the witch was saying. ‘Will ye no’ bring yon lassies and come spend the night with me? Arley Innkeeper has only two rooms here, no’ nearly enough for all o’ ye, and I have room to spare.’
‘I thank ye,’ Nina answered. ‘Indeed we are all worn out. We’ve been riding since dawn and had a day like it yesterday and another one ahead o’ us tomorrow.’
‘I do no’ understand why ye have come this way,’ the witch said. ‘Do ye no’ ken the road past here is rough indeed, for none o’ us travel that way? It is a dark and evil land across the bridge. Ghosts walk there, and evil spirits. Ye would be better off travelling back up the river to the bridge at Barbreck and crossing there, to travel down the western bank o’ the river. There is another bridge at Tullimuir where ye can cross again, and then ye need no’ travel under the shadow o’ the Tower o’ Ravens.’
‘But we would lose weeks in the travelling,’ Nina said wearily. ‘We would have gone that way from Ravenscraig if we had not had to go up into the highlands to pick up young Lewen and Rhiannon here. But since we had to go that way, it made more sense to cut through the hills and save crossing the Findhorn again twice. This way we can travel close round the base of the hills to Rhyssmadill, and then up along the flank o’ the White-lock Mountains to Lucescere. It will be much faster than having to follow the Findhorn south again, and then cross the river at Tullimuir Bridge, right at the mouth o’ the firth.’
‘But have ye no’ heard? Do ye no’ ken? No-one goes that way anymore. It’s a cursed land. They say the dead walk again there and what few people are left keep their shutters closed and their bolts shot, even in the heat o’ summer, for fear o’ what may come knocking on their door.’
Nina frowned and unconsciously nestled her sleeping son closer to her. ‘We’ve heard the tower is haunted, o’ course, but we do not intend to go there, just pass through the gap in the hills at its foot.’
The witch shuddered and made an odd gesture with her hands, circling the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and crossing it with the forefinger of her left hand. ‘Truly, it is no’ safe, my lady, no’ even to pass under its shadow. The people o’ Ardarchy do no’ go that way at all – we go north to Barbreck-by-the-Bridge and south again on the far side of the river with our goods, aye, even to go to the ports we go that way, rather than cross the Stormness.’
Nina looked troubled. ‘I thank ye for your warning, Ashelma, but we do no’ have time to retrace all our steps. As I’m sure ye’ve heard, we’ve been summoned to the palace for Prionnsa Donncan’s wedding on Midsummer Eve, and I would no’ miss it for anything. And I do no’ fear ghosts. Ye o’ all people should ken that ghosts do no’ have the power to hurt us, they are naught but memories.’
The witch Ashelma looked very grave. ‘Memories have as much power to hurt as any sword, if they are cruel enough,’ she said. ‘And it is no’ just ghosts that haunt the land beyond the Stormness River. We have heard tales o’ corpses that will no’ rest in their grave but seek to return to warmer beds, and children stolen and found murdered.’
Nina looked down at her sleeping son and smoothed his tangled curls away from his flushed cheek. ‘Does the MacBrann no’ ken o’ these tales?’
‘Aye, o’ course, but his hands are full enough already, having only just inherited the throne from his father. Auld Malcolm was no’ a good laird, ye ken, being more interested in his dogs and his experiments than in the problems o’ the people. He grew more vague and eccentric with every year that passed, and by the end was raving mad, by all accounts.’
Nina sighed. ‘It’s hard to ken what to do. Your news troubles me greatly, but I ken the people o’ Ravenshaw and how melancholy and superstitious they are. There have been wild stories about the Tower o’ Ravens since the time o’ Brann himself, and that’s a thousand years o’ unfounded supposition. And two days o’ hard riding and we are past the tower and into the lowlands. And I am no’ without magic, as ye ken. I think we must risk it, though I thank ye for the warning.’
Ashelma sighed and rose to her feet. ‘Well, let me see what I can do to make ye comfortable tonight, at least.’
Nina rose too, lifting Roden in her arms and laying him across her shoulder. ‘My thanks,’ she said. ‘Rhiannon, will ye call the other lasses? We shall spend the night with Ashelma and meet up again with Iven and the lads in the morn. Is there aught ye need for the night?’
‘I canna leave Blackthorn,’ Rh
iannon said. ‘She fret without me. I sleep in the stable.’
Ashelma looked at Rhiannon for the first time. Her eyes were dark and very serious, and seemed to see everything there was to see in a single searching glance. ‘Are ye the rider o’ the winged horse I’ve been hearing so much about?’ she asked.
Rhiannon nodded.
‘Ye may bring your horse too, if ye ken,’ the witch said. ‘All beasts are welcome in my tower, as ye will see.’
Rhiannon thought for a moment, reluctant to rouse her drowsy horse and take her out of the warmth of the stable into the cold night. She felt a great desire to see the witch’s tower, however, and so she nodded abruptly and went to rouse the other girls from their sleepy repose by the fire. They got up, yawning and stretching. Fèlice and Edithe wrapped themselves up in their fur-trimmed cloaks and pulled on their gloves but Maisie had nothing but an old shawl to wrap around her against the cold. She pulled it close about her round face, her eyes shining with excitement at the thought of staying with a real witch.
‘Sweet dreams, my ladies,’ Cameron said unsteadily, looking up from the depths of his empty mug. ‘Dinna miss me too much.’
‘Miss ye?’ Edithe said haughtily. ‘I doubt we’ll notice ye’re no’ around.’
She saw Rhiannon’s mouth curve and flashed a quick smile at her, so that Rhiannon was unable to help smiling back.
Lewen stood up and looked at Rhiannon a little anxiously. She frowned at his look, and he quirked his mouth, saying severely, ‘Ye willna stab anyone, will ye?’
She laughed at that, and said, ‘Nay, o’ course no’. No’ unless I have to, that is.’
‘Nina will have a care for ye,’ he said.
‘Me need no-one to care for me,’ she snapped back and then, when he grinned, realised he was teasing. She would not relent, however, scowling at him as she pulled on her blue tam-o’-shanter and huddled the thick, warm cloak about her.
‘Good night,’ he said. ‘Sweet dreams.’
She looked back at him from the doorway and her expression softened.
‘Good night to ye too.’
It was bitterly cold outside, with a nasty snippety wind that found every gap in their clothing and sent the fog swirling up around their ankles. Rhiannon led Blackthorn, the big blanket still flung over her withers and concealing her wings. Ashelma had a small two-wheeled trap pulled by a sturdy, shaggy-maned pony. She tucked Nina and Maisie and the sleeping boy up under some soft goat-hair blankets, saying to the other girls, ‘Ye’re well wrapped enough to walk a few blocks, I think?’ as she took the pony’s bridle and began to lead the way.
As they went down the ill-lit street, past dark shop windows and sleeping houses, a lantern hanging from the pony-trap’s seat flickered into life by itself, making every hair on Rhiannon’s body stand erect in sudden superstitious terror. No-one else seemed to notice, though, except Blackthorn who shied sideways, almost knocking Rhiannon over.
‘It’s hard to believe it is spring,’ Fèlice said with a shiver. ‘It feels like winter. Look, I’m breathing smoke like a dragon.’
‘It’s always cold in the Ring o’ Dubhslain,’ Ashelma said. ‘We have a saying here: “Do no’ put your plaids away, until the last day o’ May”.’
‘It’s more than a month to May Day!’ Fèlice said. ‘I would’ve been crowned May Queen if I had stayed in Ravenscraig, ye ken. I was hoping, if we got to Lucescere in time …’
‘Indeed?’ Ashelma turned and gave Fèlice that grave, penetrating glance so that the girl flushed a little and lost her smile.
‘Well, I was,’ she said a little defiantly. ‘Though I hear the Banprionnsa Bronwen is all the rage there now. Apparently she’s quite a beauty, though no’ in the usual style. Anyway, never mind. There would no’ be much o’ a May Day celebration in Ravenscraig this year, anyway. The auld laird had just died and the court’s in mourning.’
‘There’ll be other May Days,’ the witch said, quite kindly.
They came to the Stormness River, moving sinuously under the mist like a great black-scaled snake, and turned to walk down a smooth narrow road along its bank. Trees and well-clipped hedges loomed over them. The last few lights fell behind and all was dark and quiet and cold. Their lone lantern bobbed along, its light little more than an orange blur through the fog. Rhiannon shivered inside her cloak. The words the witch had spoken in the inn echoed in her mind. Tales o’ corpses that will no’ rest in their grave but seek to return to warmer beds … children stolen and found murdered …
She looked across the silent river but she could see nothing but wisps of mist floating up from the darkly glinting water like the ghosts the witch had spoken of. She wished they did not have to cross the bridge in the morning but she would have cut off her tongue before she ever admitted it.
They came to a high stone wall with an iron gate standing open. The witch led them inside and the gate shut itself behind them. On either side stood tall trees covered in frail white blossoms like new snow. The air seemed suddenly warmer and sweetly scented. Through the mist Rhiannon could see lights shining towards them, golden as sunlight. They came into a wide cleared area before the house, a long, low building built of grey stone with a peaked roof covered in silver-green lichen, beside a tall round tower that rose higher than the trees. The light came from the windows and door of the house. A young woman stood in the doorway, the light of the lantern she held throwing bright colour up onto her face and hair.
‘Come in!’ she said. ‘Ye must be chilled to the bone. What a dreadful night. Morogh says bad weather is coming and indeed I think he’s right. It’s cold as winter.’
Her voice was soft and kind with a warm undercurrent as if she had just this moment stopped laughing. She came running down the stairs, wrapped in a woolly red shawl, and took the pony’s bridle. ‘I’ll look after Drud,’ she said. ‘Ye go on in and get warm. I’ve got the kettle whistling on the hob if ye’d like some tea.’
‘Lovely,’ Ashelma said. She helped a drowsy Maisie down from the pony-trap and up the stairs. Edithe and Fèlice followed her eagerly, Nina bringing up the rear more slowly, carrying the heavy weight of her sleeping child.
‘I will stable my horse myself,’ Rhiannon said.
‘O’ course,’ the girl answered. ‘What a bonny beast she is! So tall and finely made, and with such magnificent long horns. I have never seen a horse like her.’
‘No’ many like her,’ Rhiannon said.
‘Nay,’ the girl agreed. ‘A rare beast indeed. Ye and her are akin, I can see that.’
They had walked round the side of the house and in through a stable door as they spoke, and so when Rhiannon looked up in sudden keen interest, she was able to see the other girl clearly in the light of the lanterns hanging on either wall.
Rhiannon’s first emotion was one of surprise. She had thought the other girl young and beautiful but now she realised she was at least six years older than Rhiannon, and quite short and plump, a big-boned young woman with mousy-brown hair, a round face and fresh, rosy skin. She looked with great frankness and openness at Rhiannon, however, and as soon as she spoke again the illusion of beauty returned, for her voice was so warm and merry, and her smile so wide and friendly. ‘My name is Annis. I am Ashelma’s apprentice.’
‘My name is Rhiannon,’ she answered, hearing the ring of pride in her own voice.
‘And ye have tamed a winged horse,’ Annis said admiringly. ‘Och, the town was full o’ it. I am so glad ye came to stay the night here for I would have been sad indeed to miss my chance to see your bonny horse and meet with ye. I could no’ come to hear Nina the Nightingale sing, for I couldna leave the children, so I was hoping ye would all come home with Ashelma.’
‘Children?’ Rhiannon asked.
Annis had been swiftly unharnessing the pony from the trap, rubbing it down with a cloth and filling its bucket with grain. All her movements were quick and neat, and she was surprisingly light on her feet for such a big-boned girl. Rhiannon noticed
she wore the white luminous stone on the middle finger of her right hand that they all seemed to wear, as well as one made of some dark green stone.
She nodded. ‘Aye, we run an orphanage here, ye see. We have two bairns from Ardarchy, but the others are all from across the river. No’ all are orphans. Some were brought here by their parents for safekeeping. Mainly boys. For some reason it is boys that are in the most danger over there, we do no’ ken why.’
Annis pumped some fresh water into a bucket for Blackthorn, who had settled comfortably into a straw-filled stall, her head drooping drowsily, and then quickly checked the water buckets of the other animals. Apart from the shaggy pony Drud, there were a tall chestnut mare, three goats, a tabby cat, and a large number of fat hens with glossy feathers.
‘It snows heavily here in winter,’ Annis explained, ‘and so it is easier to keep them all under the one roof and close to the house. The hens have had to learn not to lay their eggs under the horses’ hooves, but otherwise they are all friends and get on well.’
She led the way through an internal doorway into a long fire-lit room. Overhead were carved wooden beams holding up an arched ceiling, and tall gothic windows looked out on to the garden all along one side. An immense scarred table ran down the centre of the room, decorated with fat, sweet-scented candles and vases of spring flowers. Around the fire at the far end were drawn some deep, shabby, cushioned chairs where Nina and the witch Ashelma were sitting, drinking tea and talking like old friends. Another cat lay sleeping on Ashelma’s lap and by her feet was a large hairy mass which, on closer inspection, proved to be three dogs, one of them a huge deerhound and another a tiny white terrier, smaller than the cat. The other was some kind of mongrel, spotted and brindled and patched with black, and missing one leg. An owl sat hunched on one of the rafters, while a bandaged hare lay sleeping in a box by the wall.