Heart of Stars (23 page)

‘Ye come too, Lewen!’ Hearne shouted, as if guessing his friend’s thoughts. ‘Horse-whisperers are always welcome in Tìreich!’

Lewen smiled and waved, then stood back to watch as Brimstone was brought out by four of the prionnsa’s cavaliers, rearing and bucking and fighting the rein. His wings were fully spread now, and Lewen was able to appreciate their full beauty. The MacAhern stepped forward, leapt up and onto his back, and cast off the reins with an expression of utter disdain. Brimstone should have bucked and reared even more at the freedom from restraint, but instead he calmed instantly, folding his wings down by his sides and turning his head to nuzzle affectionately at the MacAhern’s boot.

‘Come, let’s ride!’ the MacAhern shouted, and wheeled his arm up and down. At once the whole cavalcade of horses leapt forward as one, pouring out of the stable gates and along the road in a living river of black, bay, chestnut and grey.

Lewen watched them go, then turned away, his heart heavy.

Then he realised the old cavalier with the blue-grey eyes was watching him closely. ‘Ye ken this lass, this thigearna well?’ Lord Farnell asked.

Lewen nodded.

The old man dropped his callused hand on Lewen’s shoulder. ‘Come, share a dram with me and tell me all ye ken,’ he said. ‘Is it true she tamed her winged horse in only a day and a night?’

‘Aye, it’s true,’ Lewen answered, pride swelling his heart.

‘Marvellous! Come, tell me all about it.’

It was late when Lewen finally got back to the Theurgia, and his head was swimming from all the whisky he had drunk. Lord Farnell had been most interested in hearing
everything about Rhiannon, and Lewen had found himself getting rather choked up with love and pride as he had recounted all their adventures, and Rhiannon’s bravery and quick thinking. He found himself longing for her more than ever, and had to remind himself that he was betrothed to Olwynne, not Rhiannon. Once again, his dilemma plunged him into utter misery, and as a result he drank more than he should, and rather thought he had revealed more of his feelings to the old cavalier than was wise.

As he came into the great hall at the Theurgia, hoping to grab some bread and stew to help soak up the whisky, he saw Edithe and Maisie, both looking rather cross, sitting together at one of the long tables. All in all, there were only about a dozen people eating in the hall, when usually there would be several hundred. Lewen blanched and tried to duck away without being noticed, for he was not comfortable in the company of either of the two other girls he had met while travelling through Ravenshaw. Edithe was a stuck-up, toffee-nosed, supercilious snob, while Lewen was very much afraid that Maisie had conceived a warmer emotion than mere friendship for him. She had been badly mauled by wild dogs during their journey, and Lewen had saved her from being even more seriously injured and then had helped care for her afterwards. They were an unlikely couple these two, Edithe being the daughter of one of Ravenshaw’s oldest and most respected families, while Maisie was the daughter of a village cunning man, and very unsophisticated. She wore her mousy brown hair in plaits wound over her ears, and tended to clomp around the halls of the Theurgia in hand-hewn wooden clogs, unable to afford a cobbler’s fees.

Lewen almost made it out the door, but unfortunately
Edithe, screwing up her nose at the simple fare being offered for supper, saw him and beckoned him over imperiously.

‘Lewen! Where is everyone? Have ye seen Cameron and Rafferty? I havena seen them all day.’

‘They’ve gone to be squires to the Dowager Banrìgh,’ Lewen said, too weary and drunk to be tactful.

‘What! Those sly boys. I kent they were angling for advancement. How on earth did they win my lady’s notice? Did ye introduce them?’

‘Aye, I did,’ Lewen answered, and sat down with a sigh, grabbing a hunk of bread and dunking it in the bowl of rather watery stew. The cooks at the palace were much better than the cooks at the Theurgia.

‘I do think ye could’ve introduced me to the Dowager Banrìgh,’ Edithe whined. ‘I am a NicAven o’ Avebury, after all! Rafferty is naught but a clockmaker’s son! Why, what does he ken about serving a banrìgh? I would have been a far more suitable choice
…
’

‘My lady dinna want a lady-in-waiting, she wanted a squire.’ Lewen drank down some water, and rested his throbbing head on his hand.

Maisie looked at him closely. ‘Are ye all right, Lewen? Ye look a bit green. Is your head aching?’ Maisie wanted to be a healer more than anything else in the world, and had come to the Theurgia to study at the Royal College of Healers.

Lewen nodded, and then wished that he had not.

‘Here, let me rub it for ye,’ Maisie said, blushing rosily. She got up and stood behind Lewen, gently massaging his neck and shoulders. ‘Would ye like me to get ye some willowbark?’

‘Nay, I’m fine,’ Lewen said and jerked his shoulders free of her touch. Usually he was more gentle with her,
feeling sorry for her and not wishing to hurt her feelings. Tonight, though, he was simply too heartsick to care.

Maisie flushed crimson, and moved away from him, tears in her eyes.

‘What about Landon, though, and Fèlice? Where have they got to? Oh, please, do no’ tell me the Dowager Banrìgh has taken on that shameless hussy as her lady-in-waiting! Really, I am shocked! For a gently born girl, Fèlice is most forward in her ways. O’ course, she wants to get her claws into Prionnsa Owein, and that is why she wishes to smarm up to his mother. I do believe–’

‘I told ye, Her Highness has no need for a lady-in-waiting!’ Lewen said impatiently, and then he dropped his hands from his eyes. ‘Ye mean, ye have no’ seen Fèlice or Landon all afternoon either?’

‘Nay, we have no’,’ Edithe said crossly. ‘And very boring it’s been too, with no-one but Maisie to talk to. We’ve looked for her everywhere, but canna find her. She’s probably sneaked off into the city, the hussy!’

‘I wonder,’ Lewen said slowly, and felt his heart sink.
What was Fèlice up to this time?

Fèlice and Landon were finding out just why Iseult had been so confident of reaching the port by dawn.

Although she had three weather-witches on board with her, and was acknowledged as having strong if rather improperly controlled powers of her own, Iseult had no intention of adding to the turmoil of the weather by whistling up a wind.

Instead, Iseult had called up a loch-serpent from the depths of Lucescere Loch.

A great, sinuous beast with slimy, green-grey scales, the loch-serpent had risen slowly from the very depths of
the great expanse of water, responding to the strange language Iseult had wailed.

Lifting up the lid of the barrel she was hiding in, Fèlice could see the cold green boiling of the water, and then a thick loop of scaly skin that slowly rolled and unrolled. She shivered and crouched lower, holding her breath against the strong smell of the ale the barrel had originally contained. She wondered how Iseult knew the language of the loch-serpent, and wondered if it was akin to that of the dragons. She remembered that Iseult had, like Isabeau, been apprentice to the great sorceress Meghan of the Beasts who, she had been taught, could speak the language of every living thing. It had been a long, wild ululation, the cry that had sounded from Iseult’s throat, and which was now being echoed by the beast rearing its crested head from the loch.

Iseult ululated again, and the loch-serpent replied. Fèlice gave herself a crick in the neck trying to see what was happening, but dared not lift her barrel lid any higher. Soldiers were crowded everywhere on the boat, some in the blue cloaks of the Yeomen, some wearing the heavy furs of the Khan’cohbans, still more in the grey of the general army. There were dogs too, a whole pack of them, yelping and snarling and leaping about on the end of their leashes. The sight of them made Fèlice very afraid of discovery, and she could only hope that the overwhelming stench of the ale would hide her own.

Suddenly there was a massive jerk that saw Fèlice bang her head hard against the wooden barrel, and then the boat took off at an incredible speed. Fèlice heard shouting and cheering and, putting her eye to the crack once more, saw foam flying high over the side of the barge.

‘Has the word gone ahead for all river-boats to heave-ho?’ someone shouted.

‘Aye, sir!’ someone else shouted back.

‘Hold fast then, laddie, ’cause we’re going hell for leather now!’ the first man yelled, obviously enjoying himself hugely.

Fèlice wished she felt the same. The smell of the ale, the dank closeness of her hiding place, and the wild rocking of the boat were all together making her feel very sick. She gritted her teeth, thought of Owein, and endured.

Bronwen heaved a great sigh and sat up. It was no use. She could not sleep. Even though exhaustion hung on all her limbs like lead weights, she could not stop her brain from grinding round in the same old circles.

Her unhappy relationship with her husband was one well-worn track. Wondering where he could be was another. Worry over the consequences of the impulse that had caused her to pick up the Lodestar, and with it the crown, was a third. Fourth was wondering who could possibly have murdered her uncle, and worrying about whether that hidden assassin had murderous plans for her too. The last, and not least, subject occupying her mind was Neil and his love for her. She did not know how to manage him; how to keep him at arm’s distance and convince him he had no chance of winning her heart, when it must be obvious to everyone that she was coming to rely on him more and more.

Thinking and worrying made no difference, yet she could not help herself. So night after night Bronwen lay
awake for hours, only to fall into an uneasy doze some time before dawn. She only knew she slept because of her dreams, which were all horrible, and so near to true life that she had to reassure herself they were only nightmares.

She swung her feet out of bed and thrust them into her fur-lined slippers, then wrapped her luxurious blue-silk dressing-gown about her shoulders. Although the weather had improved remarkably since Iseult had left earlier that day, it was still unseasonably cold. Bronwen walked over to her fireplace and stirred the coals with a poker, then threw on some small lengths of wood. Yellow flames began to lick along their sides.

Bronwen felt a sudden longing for the sweet, fragrant tea she had taken to drinking, and glanced at her bell. There was no reason why she did not ring it and rouse some poor servant to get it for her. It would probably be her little page, though, she thought, and he was so young, he needed his sleep.

She lit her lamp with a long piece of kindling, not having much skill with the element of fire, and sat down to read over the reports from the Privy Chamber. There was so much to do, so many demands on her time and energy, that she felt like she was scaling a mountain of paper, all covered with incomprehensible words. After a while, her head was aching fiercely and her longing for tea was so acute she kept glancing at the bell, even though she knew it was long past midnight, and cruel to ring it.

So she stood up, stretched, and went through the flickering darkness to her door, opening it gently. To her surprise Joey was fast asleep outside, wrapped up in his cloak. She frowned. Surely her page had a bed of his own? She bent to wake him, but he was sleeping so peacefully she let her hand fall, and stepped over him.

Two of her bodyguards stood in the hallway outside her room, the corridor lit by bright lanterns in either direction. She knew them well; they had guarded her since she was a child.

‘Canna ye sleep, my lady?’ Dolan the Black asked, raising one thick eyebrow.

She shook her head ruefully. ‘I thought I would go down and get myself some tea,’ she said.

‘Send that lad o’ yours, that’s what he’s for,’ Dolan said with amiable contempt.

‘He’s asleep,’ Bronwen replied. ‘Outside my door! Why is he there? Does he no’ have quarters o’ his own?’

‘Has some notion he’s guarding ye,’ Dolan said tolerantly. ‘Seems he fears for ye, my lady, and thinks he’s better equipped to guard ye than us, Eà bless his foolish heart.’

‘I can go for ye, Your Majesty,’ said the younger guard, a fair, red-faced man called Barlow.

‘Thank ye, Barlow, but I want to stretch my legs. I’m all
…
twitchety.’

They laughed. ‘Ken that feeling,’ Dolan said. ‘I’ll accompany ye, my lady.’

She knew better than to argue. Dolan had first been appointed to her when she was little more than eight years old. He brooked no argument.

She went on down the corridor, Dolan following quietly a few paces behind. Once she reached the end of the corridor, the palace was all dim and quiet, lit only by the occasional lantern. It was cold, and she huddled her hands into her sleeves and wished summer would return.

The tea Mirabelle made up for her would be kept in the butler’s special pantry, she knew, along with her own sack of dancey, a tin of her favourite biscuits and sweetmeats, and anything else she might take a fancy for at any
time. The pantry was not in the kitchen wing, a completely different building to her own, but just on the floor below, so that she need not wait when she rang asking for something. She went silently down the stairs, moving from one dim point of radiance to another through oceans of darkness, her guard moving as quietly behind her.

Someone came sighing along the corridor. All Bronwen could see was a white floating face and two white disembodied hands, cupping the soft flickering light of a candle. Bronwen stopped where she was, suddenly seized with terror. If it was not for the tip-tap of shoes, she could have imagined it a ghost, or some phantom from one of her nightmares. The face was so white, the eyes so cavernous, and the night itself seemed to drag behind her in a vague rustle and crackle.

Then Bronwen saw the heavy black ring on one of the hands, and recognised it as the thistle seal-ring Elfrida of Tirsoilleir had been wearing earlier that day. Only then could she sort out the pattern of white and black, and see Elfrida’s face, blank and wretchedly unhappy, lit demonically from below by the candle. Bronwen took a deep breath of relief, and would have made some move to declare herself, upon the stairs in the darkness, had she not heard a low mutter of words rising from Elfrida’s mouth.

‘Go away, go away,’ she was saying. ‘Why do ye torment me so? I have done all that can be done. I have done it all, what more can I do? No, no, no, no. Too much. Too much. Oh, why canna ye let me rest? I am so tired, so tired. I’m too tired to do any more. All is going well. All is fine. What more do ye want?’

She stopped. She seemed to cringe. Bronwen hardly dared to breathe.

‘Ye canna do that,’ Elfrida breathed, so softly Bronwen
could hardly make out the words. ‘Ye wouldna. Ye couldna. No.’

There was a long pause. Every hair on Bronwen’s body rose. She shivered and wrapped her arms close about her.

‘Aye,’ Elfrida said, and sighed, her candle shaking. ‘Very well. What harm in it? None. Hardly any at all.’

She seemed to be staring at a point beside her, as if someone walked with her in the cold darkness, but there was no-one there. Bronwen wondered if she was sleepwalking. She was fully dressed. If she had slept, it was in her clothes. Bronwen could not have explained why the sight of Elfrida wandering the hallways at three o’ clock in the morning, fully dressed and muttering to herself, was so disturbing. Perhaps because Elfrida always seemed so in control, as if she had never given in to a mad impulse in her life. Perhaps it was just the hour of the night, when everything seemed strange and spooky.

Bronwen was trying to gather the courage to go down the last ten steps and take Elfrida by the arm, waking her, or at least challenging her, when Dolan laid his hand on her arm, shaking his head and endeavouring to draw her away. Bronwen hesitated.

Just then another pool of light began to advance towards them down the corridor. Warmer, gladder, more golden, it filled the hallway. Instinctively Bronwen retreated a few steps, back into the darkness. Elfrida seemed to hear her movement. She turned her head, glancing up the stairs, and would have stepped a little closer, except that the light from the lantern reached her, and she cringed back, shielding her eyes.

It was Mirabelle the healer.

‘Your Grace,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘Ye should no’ be wandering the hallways at this time o’ night. What is wrong? Can ye no’ sleep again?’

Elfrida heaved a sigh. ‘Sleep, sleep, when did I last sleep?’

‘The poppy tincture I gave ye is no’ working?’

‘I have bad dreams,’ Elfrida replied. She shuddered so visibly the candle flame undulated like a snake, and hot wax dripped down over her hands. She did not seem to notice.

‘Come, ye need to sleep. Let me mix ye up a stronger potion. Ye need your strength, Your Grace. Now is no’ the time to be giving in to doubts and weaknesses. Let me take ye back to bed
…
’

Elfrida turned her head and looked up the stairs. ‘She says to beware the silent watchers.’

Now Bronwen wished she had taken Dolan’s advice and gone back to her room earlier. Yet what was there to fear? A weary old woman who could not sleep, and a healer tending to her needs. Yet what was Mirabelle doing here, in the palace, at three o’clock in the morning? Why were both women fully dressed, and why were all the hairs on Bronwen’s arms standing upright? Even while she was castigating herself for being a suspicious, superstitious fool, Bronwen was inching back step by slow step.

Mirabelle moved closer to the foot of the stairs and raised high her lantern. It illuminated the edge of Bronwen’s embroidered blue dressing-gown. Bronwen managed a deep breath and then walked down into the light.

‘Mirabelle!’ she said gaily. ‘Well met! I was just wanting ye.’

‘Cannna ye sleep either, Your Majesty?’

Bronwen shook her head. ‘Nay, I’m afraid no’. Guilty consciences for us both, I guess, Your Grace,’ she said laughingly to Elfrida. Neither she nor Mirabelle saw the
joke, staring up at Bronwen with blank faces. Bronwen smiled winningly to show she had only been teasing.

‘Let me give ye a sleeping potion, Your Majesty,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Ye need your beauty sleep.’

It was said deadpan, unsmiling, but Bronwen smiled in response anyway, and said, ‘Thank ye, Mirabelle, but I thought perhaps some o’ your delicious tea
…
’

‘The tea is a stimulant,’ Mirabelle said, ‘and ye need something to calm and soothe ye. Here. I have some mixed up already. Drink only two fingers o’ it, no more, and try no’ to drink any dancey or tea in the evening, Your Majesty.’

Bronwen sighed, thinking of the cups and cups she drank every night as she tried to force her tired brain to understand the pyramid of papers delivered every evening to her private suite. She took the little brown bottle Mirabelle held out to her, however, and thanked her with a smile.

‘Go back to bed now, Your Majesty,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I will see Her Grace back to her room.’

Bronwen glanced at Elfrida, who was staring blankly at the wall.

‘Is all well with her?’ Bronwen said in a low tone. ‘I mean, she seems
…
’

‘Her Grace suffered greatly as a child, in the hands o’ the Fealde and her henchmen,’ Mirabelle answered gently. ‘She has nightmares, and suffers insomnia. In times o’ stress, her dreams and flashbacks are worse than ever. There is no’ much any o’ us can do, except try and help her to dreamless sleep.’

‘I see,’ Bronwen said, remembering her aunt mentioning Elfrida’s dreadful childhood. ‘I’m so sorry. I did no’ realise.’

Mirabelle raised an eyebrow, a response which somehow made Bronwen feel terribly thoughtless and guilty, and
said in a colourless voice, ‘I will come and see ye in the morning, Your Majesty. For now, go back to bed, drink some o’ the medicine I have given ye, and try to get your sleep. Ye need your strength.’

‘Aye, indeed I do,’ Bronwen answered, trying to smile, and she turned and went back up the stairs, Dolan following close behind.

They reached her door, and she turned to Dolan, feeling uncomfortable about the little scene she had just witnessed. Dolan was frowning, but at her troubled look he said kindly, ‘Now get back to bed, my lady, and no more fussing. The healer is right, ye need your beauty sleep. Do ye want some warm milk or something?’

‘Nay, nay, I’m fine,’ Bronwen answered hurriedly, hating to be treated like a child. She went back into her suite. Joey still slept before her bedroom door. She stepped over him, closed her door, drank down two fingers of the heady, sickly sweet medicine, and got into her cold bed. Huddled up into a little ball, inching her feet down the bed, Bronwen tried to think over what she had just seen and heard. A few things niggled at her, seeming odd, but even as she tried to tease them out of her subconscious, sleep swooped down upon her and took her falling into the abyss. She did not dream at all.

Bronwen woke late the next morning, feeling heavy-headed and lethargic. Remembering all she had to do that day, she groaned and dug herself deeper into her eiderdown, wishing she could stay in bed.

There was a very slight noise over by her door, but at once Bronwen was wide awake and preternaturally alert. Listening intently she cracked open one eye, and saw Mirabelle bending over a tray upon the table.

‘What do ye do?’ Bronwen asked sharply.

Mirabelle straightened and turned. ‘Och, I’m sorry, Your Majesty, did I wake ye? I came to see how ye were this morning, and found your little maid preparing your tea, and thought I’d bring it up myself. Here it is. It’s hot. I told the bogfaery she should let ye sleep longer today, as ye had a disturbed night, but she said ye have a breakfast meeting with your councillors.’

‘I do, unfortunately,’ Bronwen said, accepting the steaming cup with a little nod of thanks, and fluffing up her pillows so she could sit up. She took a sip of tea and sighed in pleasure. It was the most delicious tea, and sent warmth and strength radiating through her at every mouthful.

‘I have brought ye a little gift,’ Mirabelle said, placing a glass jar with a golden lid upon Bronwen’s bedside table. ‘We would no’ want our Banrìgh losing her looks because o’ a lack o’ beauty sleep, now, would we? It’s made of elderflowers and celandine, which may sting a little when ye first put it on, but greatly brightens one’s complexion.’

‘Why, thank ye,’ Bronwen answered, feeling a little pang of guilt. She had once, she remembered, laughed at Mirabelle when she was teaching them a recipe for making just such a skin lotion, asking her if she thought her own complexion was a great inducement for her students to trust her formula. It had been a long time ago, when Bronwen was only sixteen and first discovering the power of her own beauty. She hoped Mirabelle did not remember.

‘Put it on just after washing your face,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I think ye will find it has a most pleasant aroma.’