Heart of Stars (28 page)

‘How long will I be gone! Eà’s eyes, how should I ken? Pack enough for several weeks, I suppose. Donncan may
be hurt
…
he’ll need to rest
…
’ Her voice quavered.

‘Please, Your Majesty, sit down,’ Neil said, and drew out a chair for her. ‘Ye must eat. I havena seen ye eat in days.’ He pressed her down into the chair gently, and waved at one of the servants to serve her some griddle-cakes. Bronwen grimaced. The very sight of food made her feel sick. She waved them away, and gulped down more of the tea.

‘Porridge,’ Neil said. ‘Try some porridge.’

The lackey put a bowl before her, and she stirred the gluey mess with her spoon, not wanting to hurt Neil’s feelings.

The room was full of people, rushing in and out, shouting to one another, everyone smiling and looking happy for the first time in days. The bells were ringing loudly.

‘Will I pack your court dresses, Your Majesty?’ the mistress of the wardrobe cried, looking very harassed.

‘No! No! We are still in mourning, and Donncan’s note said only that they were all exhausted and needed to rest,’ Bronwen cried back, and pushed her bowl away. ‘I’ll no’ be needing much really, just a few plain dresses.’

I never thought I’d hear those words out of my mouth
, she thought to herself, and laughed out loud.

‘Perhaps Her Majesty would prefer a little fruit,’ Elfrida said, suddenly appearing at Bronwen’s shoulder with a silver platter of peeled bellfruit. ‘I ken it’s your favourite.’

‘Thank ye, I would,’ Bronwen said, surprised but pleased, and ate one, while her squire poured her another cup of tea. Someone else was at her shoulder with a sheaf of papers to sign before she left, and Elfrida disappeared back into the crowd as Bronwen absentmindedly popped another morsel of fruit into her mouth, and scrawled her
name where directed. The fruit was not as sweet as usual, and looked a little bruised, but after the ravages of the snowstorm, fruit had been in short supply, and Bronwen had missed it. She felt her feelings towards Elfrida warming. It had been kind of her to think of it.

She ate a few more slices, her thoughts on Donncan and their coming meeting. She would be so sweet to him, she decided, that he would not think to mind her taking the throne. What else could she have done? She would show him that it had not been hungry ambition that had driven her, but a care for the country. She would tend him so sweetly, smile at him so lovingly, indeed she would
…

Bronwen put one hand up to her head. She was feeling very sick and faint. ‘Neil,’ she said.

He was by her side in an instant. ‘Your Majesty?’

‘I feel
…
’

‘Is something wrong, Bronny?’

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said, and was, inelegantly, all over the sleeve of his doublet and the half-empty plate of browning bellfruit.

There was a flurry of dismay and disgust. Bronwen pressed her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and was sick again. Her head was swimming. Her stomach heaved. Someone thrust a silver wine bucket at her, and she grasped it and used it gratefully. It was Elfrida, she noticed, and Elfrida who helped her out the door and up the stairs, and up the stairs, and up the stairs, till at last she reached her own floor, retching every step of the way.

‘Could she be
…
ye ken
…
’ she heard someone say, and shut her eyes in utter misery.
No!
she wanted to scream, but her voice was all taken up with gagging. Then Elfrida was laying her down on her own bed, and taking off her shoes, and placing a damp, lavender-scented cloth
on her forehead, and giving her water to rinse out her mouth. Bronwen could have wept with gratitude.

A very unpleasant hour passed, and when at last the paroxysm had worn itself out, Bronwen was so weak and miserable that all she wanted to do was sleep. Mirabelle had been called, and she had given Bronwen something that calmed her stomach but made her very drowsy.

‘Your Majesty?’

Half-dozing, feeling clean and comfortable again, but very sore and worn out, Bronwen forced open her eyes.

‘Aye?’

It was Gwilym the Ugly. Bronwen smiled weakly at him. She had known him since she was little more than a baby.

‘Your Majesty, we have decided it would be best to send a delegation to Rhyssmadill as soon as possible, to welcome the Keybearer and the Rìgh home and to hear their story.’

Donncan …
Bronwen thought, and a tear rolled out of the corner of her eye.

‘The healers say ye must no’ travel, so I thought I would go,’ Gwilym continued, looking sorry for her, ‘and His Grace Neil MacFóghnan o’ Arran as well. We’ll explain to His Majesty all that has happened in his absence, and how very sick ye’ve been. I’m sure in a day or two he will be well enough to come home to Lucescere.’

Two more tears slipped down her cheeks.

‘Try and rest, my dear. Ye’ve been driving yourself too hard. Mirabelle says ye are utterly exhausted. We’ll send news as soon as we have it, never ye fear.’

She nodded. He bowed and patted her hand, then stumped from the room, making a thump-tap-thump-tap sound as first his boot, and then his wooden leg, hit the floor. She closed her eyes. Then Neil was leaning over her, pressing her hand between both of his own.

‘Oh, Bronny! Ye poor darling! Ye rest up now, and I’ll make your excuses to Donn. He’ll understand, I ken, once he hears how sick ye’ve been.’

‘Cuckoo
…
’ Bronwen said faintly.

Neil turned back to her. ‘Aye?’

She shook her head. ‘Naught. It’s naught.’

‘All right. Go to sleep now. I’ll see ye soon.’

As Neil hurried out of the room, Bronwen turned her cheek into the pillow and felt the tears flow faster. It would not have been kind, she thought, to charge a man who loved her with words of love for another man, but Eà’s eyes, she wished she could have sent Donncan some message, some token of how she felt. Their coldness to each other at their wedding hurt her like whip cuts. She wished she had not been so proud. She wished they had wed, and parted, in loving joyfulness. Bronwen closed her eyes, and after a while the tears stopped and she was asleep.

Margrit of Arran lay on her bed in a welter of silks and satins, laughing.

‘I want more!’ she cried. ‘And bring me wine, and roast lamb with baby peas, and oysters, and lobster, and fresh bellfruit and strawberries. And hot water with rose oil in it. And a hipbath. And someone to wash my hair for me, and scrub my feet. And bring me a man. Ye! Ye will do for now!’

She pointed at Piers, who took a step backwards, startled.

‘Ye are the only one who doesna stink or have one foot in the grave,’ she said. ‘Why did I have to be raised by a coterie o’ necromancers all auld enough to be my father? Come on! Dinna goggle at me like that. Have ye spent so much time up to your elbows in the bodies o’ the dead that ye’ve forgotten what a real live woman feels like?’

She laughed and rolled about. ‘Live! A real live woman! Golden goddess, I had forgotten how good it feels to be alive!’

The lord of Fettercairn stood leaning on his cane, scowling, and the others all looked scared and bothered in equal measure. This was not what they had expected.

The spell of resurrection had gone as planned, with the substance of the NicCuinn girl’s body going to rebuild that of Margrit of Arran’s. Dedrie had ready the antidote to the poison that had killed the sorceress so many years earlier, and had administered it quickly. They had then expected the long-dead sorceress to fall on her knees before them in abject gratitude for them to accept her thanks gracefully and then get on their way at once, back to Fettercairn Castle and the bones of their own long-dead beloveds. Everyone knew that they must move quickly, for any hesitation and the hounds of vengeance would be upon them.

Margrit of Arran had different plans, however. As far as she was concerned, they were her servants and must do as she bid. She laughed at Lord Malvern for thinking he could outrun the royal navy, and predicted they would see sails upon the horizon by dawn, despite all his weather-witchery. Rather to Lord Malvern’s chagrin, she had been right. Despite the tempest which had swept upon them, rattling the rickety stones of the old fort, the white sails of the royal navy had approached swiftly and inexorably, making any quick escape impossible. Margrit had ordered the pirate town to take up arms and, to Lord Malvern’s mortification, the pirates had obeyed instantly.

‘Oh, but we are auld friends,’ Margrit had purred, seeing the expression on all their faces. ‘Did ye no’ ken?’

Her ghost, it seemed, had been haunting quite a few inhabitants of Pirate Town, many of whom had served her when she had lived in the old fort, during her exile from Arran. When Lord Malvern had sent his bodyguard into the town to hire cutthroats to assist them in the spell
of necromancy, he had in fact been hiring men already worked upon and subjugated by Margrit. So when Lord Malvern had given the signal for his men to fall upon the pirates and kill them, to stop any word of what they had done leaking out, they had found themselves instead outnumbered and surrounded.

Bemused and aghast, Lord Fettercairn could do nothing but acquiesce to all Margrit’s demands, even though he found his heavy purse of gold being rapidly emptied.

‘Out! Out!’ Margrit screamed. ‘Go get me my wine and my oysters! Bring me the richest perfumes, the finest silks! Go on. Else I’ll order my pirates to slit ye from ear to ear!’

The huge, hairy, scarred, tattooed and gap-toothed pirates standing about the room grinned and nudged each other with their elbows, fingering their knives. As the lord of Fettercairn’s servants all filed out, looking very despondent, Margrit laughed in joy. She loved it when she outwitted someone, even an impotent old fool like Lord Malvern. His face, when he had realised the graveyard was full of her bullyboys, their weapons concealed in the weeds! It was almost worth having to put up with him now. Lucky he was rich, else she might have grown bored of his blustering hours ago and had him fed to the sharks.

The cream of the jest, she thought, was that all Lord Malvern had required to raise her from the dead was a living soul and a sharp knife. Apart from knowledge of the spell, of course. So he need not have risked employing pirates from the town to make up his circle of nine necromancers. Yet it had suited her purposes to let him think he needed a full circle to enact the spell, and so she had kept him awake night after night, hissing ‘Make sure ye have the nine’ in his ear until he had done just as she wanted.

Margrit smiled and stretched her arms above her head. It was then she noticed that the youngest of the lord’s
servants had not left the room with the others, but stood waiting, deliciously unsure.

She nodded to him. ‘Take off your shirt. Slowly. Mmmm, not bad. Turn around. What is your name?’

‘Piers, my lady. Piers Harper.’

‘A harper are ye? I guess that’s why your arms are so delightfully well muscled. Come, harper. Let us see if ye can make me sing.’

Fèlice gripped the ship’s rail with both hands and watched as the Pirate Isles slowly grew from a grey smudge on the horizon to a collection of tall hills, rising steeply from deep frills of white foam.

‘I hope we’re in time,’ she whispered. ‘It’s taken us so long to get here!’

‘It was the full moon last night,’ Landon said, sounding as dispirited as she felt. ‘If they were planning to do anything, it would’ve been done last night.’

‘We couldna have gone any faster,’ Rafferty said. ‘The sailors canna believe the speed we’ve made already. We’ve covered almost six hundred miles in less than two days!’

Rafferty had spent the last forty-eight hours making himself thoroughly at home on the ship, climbing the rigging like an arak even in the worst of weathers, hauling on the ropes and coiling them like an old hand, and sharing his cup of rum and a melancholy song at the day’s end with the other sailors. He could not understand why everyone else had been so sick, particularly Cameron, with whom he had always shared a friendly rivalry. Being a year older and a little taller and heavier, Cameron had nearly always bested him, and so Rafferty took great pleasure in asking after him solicitously, and offering to bring him soup, the very mention of which was enough
to make Cameron lurch for the bucket, which he was sharing with a very sick and miserable Finn.

It had been a wild, rough journey. Spitting ice and sleet, the spell-wind had stayed at their backs, without swerving or dropping, for two whole days, driving them over the sea at a breakneck pace. Stormy Briant had not dared sleep in case he lost control, and had ordered his former apprentices to lash him to the mast to stop him dozing off. There he stood, facing towards the Pirate Isles, a length of rope knotted about his hands like reins. Occasionally Fèlice could hear him shout or laugh like a madman. He ate nothing, but took a dram of whisky every hour or so, and urinated over the side once or twice a day.

Behind their ship came sixteen other galleons and carracks, all propelled by a full set of sails which strained to hold the power of the wind. They had lost four in the storm, and could only hope the ships had been swept off course and would be able to make their way back to Dùn Gorm.

Ahead of them was sunshine; behind them storm. Basking in the sunshine were the six islands that made up the Pirate Isles. Their coasts were rough and rocky, and far too dangerous to approach. Instead the fleet tacked, to sail round to the mouth of a wide lagoon. As they sailed in through the heads, cannons on either headland began to fire, and the royal fleet fired back. Although some damage was sustained, the ships were all travelling too fast to be easy targets, and none were sunk.

‘Great Eà!’ Cameron said, his mouth hanging open. ‘Will ye look at that!’

Sailing out to greet them was a fleet of more than twenty large ships, all flying the black and red flag of the pirates. Already the ships were firing at them. They could see the white puffs of smoke, and then hear a huge bang,
and minutes later everyone dived to the deck as a cannonball whizzed through one of the sails, bringing rigging crashing down onto the deck.

‘They were ready and waiting for us!’ Rafferty cried.

‘Lads, get below deck!’ Iseult ordered, striding up the deck towards them, her helmet on her head and her hand on her weapons belt. She was very white, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Looking at her face, Fèlice’s heart sank like lead.

‘But Your Highness!’ Rafferty protested.

‘Get your skates and be ready to go,’ Iseult continued.

‘Our ice-skates?’

Iseult flashed him a look. ‘Aye! Did ye think they were purely for decoration? Go!’

Rafferty, Cameron and Landon ran to obey, but Fèlice lingered.

Iseult glared at her. ‘Ye are no’ at court now, lassie, but a soldier on my ship! Do as ye are told!’

‘Aye, Your Highness,’ Fèlice said. ‘It’s just
…
I wanted to ask
…
’

‘What?’

‘Are we too late?’

Iseult stood stock-still, her hands clenched on her belt. Then she jerked her head, just once. ‘Too late for Olwynne,’ she answered, her voice shaking. ‘She was murdered last night, at midnight. Finn felt her go. I wish
…
I should’ve
…
’ Her voice trailed away. ‘We are no’ too late for Owein, though,’ she said, after a long moment in which Fèlice fought to hide her tears of shock and horror. ‘And we are no’ too late to make them pay for what they’ve done.’

‘No, Your Highness,’ Fèlice whispered.

Iseult turned and looked at her. ‘Do ye love my son?’ she asked quietly.

Fèlice nodded. It was not a time for lying.

‘I wondered what he saw in ye, apart from your pretty face,’ Iseult said. ‘I think I’m beginning to see. Do ye wish to help?’

‘Aye, Your Highness,’ Fèlice said, very subdued.

‘Good. Wait a moment. I just need to
…
’

Iseult’s voice trailed away. Her gaze grew unfocused. Fèlice felt the temperature drop sharply, and shuddered, hugging herself as snow began to spin down from the sky. Iseult raised her hand. Lightning leapt out of the dark-bellied clouds that chased them. The snow whirled more thickly. The shadow of the cloud fell over the sparkling blue waters of the lagoon, turning it all to grey. It grew colder and colder. The water shivered and then lay still, turning paler and paler. The ship slowed precipitately, jerking everyone on board forward.

Fèlice suddenly realised what she was seeing. The water of the lagoon was freezing over, turning into ice.

‘I come from the Spine o’ the World, ye ken,’ Iseult said to her, a rueful smile lifting her lips. ‘It is all ice and snow up there. I grew up knowing naught else.’

The ice met the pirate ships and slammed into them like a white fist. Some, hit side on, foundered and began to sink, before being seized in the ice, which stove their boards in and broke the ships apart. Others crashed into it head-first, and were frozen there, immobile for long moments, before the ice began to slowly squeeze and a great whining, groaning noise rose.

The Royal Stag
pushed on. Frightened and amazed, Fèlice looked back at the other ships and saw they too were pushing slowly forward into the ice, seemingly unaffected by the dramatic change in the medium on which they floated.

‘All the royal fleet has been fitted out for sailing in the
northern seas,’ Iseult said. ‘Our first great sailing journey was up to Carraig during the last war with the Fairgean. We were sailing in seas which were often so cold they froze over, so all our ships were built to withstand it. I dinna think the pirate ships would be so reinforced, considering they normally sail in the warm seas o’ the south.’

‘I see,’ Fèlice said. ‘How clever!’

‘Thank ye,’ Iseult replied. ‘I canna use my powers for much, no’ having been properly trained, but turning water to ice is something I can manage. We always have to work with what we’ve got.’

‘True,’ Fèlice nodded.

‘Did ye bring ice-skates?’

Fèlice nodded her head, unable to help smiling.

‘And can ye use them?’

Fèlice nodded again. ‘I come from Ravenshaw too,’ she said smugly.

‘What about a bow and arrow? Can ye shoot while ye skate?’

Fèlice’s smile faded. She shook her head.

‘Never mind. Ye can carry a flaming torch. Try no’ to get too near the pirate ships, or they’ll shoot ye. Skate in fast, throw your torch, and get out o’ there again. Are ye any good at throwing?’

Fèlice was silent, then shook her head miserably.

‘At least you’re honest. Well, I do no’ want ye being shot. Owein would never forgive me. How about ye help arm the catapults? That way ye’ll still be helping, but no’ getting too close to the main fighting.’

Fèlice nodded. ‘Thank ye,’ she managed to say.

‘No’ your fault ye were never taught to throw properly,’ Iseult said rather caustically. ‘That has to be laid at your father’s door, along with no’ teaching ye to shoot.’

‘My father’s rather auld-fashioned,’ Fèlice said meekly.

‘It’s amazing ye turned out so well. Come on, lass! Get your skates on! It’s time to go and hunt down some pirates!’

Then Iseult was clambering over the side of the ship and down a ladder to the ice, her skates bumping against her back.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of smoke as the pirates desperately shot cannonball after cannonball from their flaming and disintegrating ships. All about the trapped galleons, swift skaters swooped and circled, firing flaming arrows into the rigging or hurling torches into the pitch-soaked boards. The royal fleet had managed to advance into a rough semicircle about the trapped pirate fleet before they could go no further. From the catapults on their decks they hurled fireballs at the pirates, while their cannons boomed, boomed, boomed ceaselessly. By sundown, the enemy fleet was demolished and the skaters were hunting down those pirates who tried to flee, slipping and sliding all over the ice.

Those left in the pirate town had not been idle all through the long, bloody day. They had busied themselves fortifying their barricades, and bombarding any skater who came too close. Their fire had broken up the ice all along the shore, so no-one could approach the town on their skates. The royal forces had to retreat to their ships to regroup and rest, to tend their wounded, take some sustenance, and plan the assault on the town. It was decided to attack again in the early hours of the morning, silently, under the cover of darkness, when hopefully the ice near the shore had had a chance to freeze hard again.