The Forbidden Land (29 page)

Killian the Listener was one of the first to be dragged over the lip of the cliff. The first thing he saw when he weakly lifted his head was Lachlan, bending over him with a frown of concern. The young Rìgh was all gilded by the brightness of the rising sun, his golden-topaz eyes blazing in his dark face, his magnificent black wings framing all the strength and power of his tall figure. Killian gazed up at him with reverent awe, then struggled to his knees, seizing Lachlan’s strong brown hand and kissing it.

‘Indeed, ye are the angel o’ the Lord!’ he cried.

‘Nay, I am no angel,’ Lachlan said gently. ‘I am naught but a mortal man, struggling like all men to do what is right.’

‘Nay,’ Killian said. ‘I have seen ye in my dreams. Ye are the messenger o’ God Our Father, sent to do His will.’

‘Happen that is true,’ Lachlan said, ‘if it is His will to try and bring peace to all the land. For indeed, that is what I intend to do, even if I must fight to the very death.’

‘It is always His will to bring peace,’ Killian said, a smile trembling on his ancient mouth. ‘Love, joy and peace, this is what He tells us to seek, no’ this greed for power and material things, this selfish ambition, which drives the Fealde, she who they call the Whore o’ Bride.’

‘Love, joy and peace,’ Lachlan said slowly. ‘Indeed, that is all I want. And with your help, may Eà grant we find it.’

Johanna and her healers had swung into action as the first white face had appeared above the lip of the cliff. Those that had suffered serious injuries were carried across to where Tòmas sat, pale and grave-faced. The little boy peeled away his black gauntlets and laid his hands upon their foreheads. From his fingers the pink glow of health flowed down over the grey countenances. Broken limbs knitted together, pus-filled wounds dried and healed over, congested lungs cleared, and bruises faded.

After the little boy had touched Enit, the old jongleur opened her eyes and smiled up at the boy, saying, ‘Bless ye, laddie! I feel like a young lass again. I feel like I could dance a jig!’

She flexed her gnarled fingers wonderingly, then rose to her feet with the aid of an eager-faced Dide and took a few tottering steps, the first she had taken in some years. The extensive damage to her joints caused by her rheumatoid arthritis could not be repaired—Tòmas could not restore what had been lost—but much of the swelling and pain had subsided, so that Enit was more comfortable than she had been for a very long time.

‘Indeed, his is a marvellous Talent,’ Dide cried. ‘We had thought Granddam would never walk again!’

‘A miracle indeed,’ Killian the Listener said, watching with great interest. ‘Indeed, the ways o’ the Lord Our Father are many and wonderful.’

Tòmas looked up at him. ‘Would ye like me to touch ye too?’ he asked timidly. ‘I canna give ye back your ears, but happen I can heal your other wounds. I can feel your pain.’

The old prophet nodded his head, his emaciated face very solemn. He bent and Tòmas laid his hands upon his bony forehead. When at last he lifted his head away, the prophet stood tall and sure, his dark eyes flashing. There was no sign of the wounds of his torture.

‘I heard the voices o’ the angels as ye touched me,’ he cried. ‘I had feared they spoke to me no longer, so many months I have heard naught but the scrabbling o’ my own dark thoughts. But now, now! I heard the trumpet call o’ their commands, I hear the heavenly choir o’ their rejoicing. I had feared myself forsaken but now I ken I had closed the ears o’ my soul as the Fealde had closed the ears o’ my body. Hallelujah! The wrath o’ God shall smite these false leaders who have led the people o’ my land into this dark age o’ sin and deceit, where the word o’ God is twisted and made foul. Let us put on the armour o’ God, let us gird ourselves with truth, let us buckle on the breastplate o’ righteousness! Raise high the sword o’ the spirit, which is the word o’ God Our Father, and let us throw down these false preachers, these proud, vain, deceitful leaders!’

A fire was lit in the shelter of a small grove of trees and a meal hurriedly prepared for the famished castaways. Duncan Ironfist passed around a great flask of whiskey, ‘to warm all their bones,’ as he said.

There was much talk and laughter as they ate and drank, the League of the Healing Hand together again after so many years. Many old adventures were recalled and new ones recounted, old jokes revived and fresh ones made up. The thought of those members of the old gang who had not survived the Bright Wars brought a moment of sadness, but all were too happy and relieved to be melancholy for long and soon all were laughing again. After hearing of Bran, Tam and Ashlin’s role in the adventure of the Black Tower, they were declared honorary members of the League of the Healing Hand by Dillon, who was still, and would always be, their general. A toast was drunk and Finn made an impromptu speech that had them all in fits of giggles.

Just then, Lachlan came and smiled down at them and they all leapt to their feet and bowed. ‘I just wanted to say thank ye to ye all,’ he said. ‘For the first time I feel confident that we can prevail in the Forbidden Land. I dinna ken how I can show ye my gratitude but show ye I will.’

‘Another pouch o’ tobacco wouldna go astray,’ Finn said hopefully. Lachlan laughed and promised to find her some, then said seriously, ‘I mean it though, all o’ ye. Ye have achieved the impossible once again. I do no’ ken what I have done to deserve such true and loyal friends.’

They had not known how to answer, all choked with pleasure. Then Finn had grinned at Lachlan and bowed with an extravagant flourish of her hand. ‘Always a pleasure to serve ye, Your Highness.’

Lachlan laughed. ‘Why do I feel suspicious when ye are polite, my cat?’

‘Because it happens so rarely,’ Brangaine said.

Lachlan smiled. ‘Aye, that must be it.’

‘I do no’ ken what ye mean,’ Finn said, pretending to be hurt. ‘I am always the very soul o’ courtesy.’

Just then there was a cry from the lookout boy, who had been deputised to keep a close watch out while everyone else ate and relaxed. Lachlan turned and left the fire abruptly, creeping up the ridge to lie next to the sentry and look where he pointed. Finn and the rest of the league swarmed up behind him, peering over the rocks.

White as wings, the sails of a galleon billowed out in the wind.

‘They sail close,’ Captain Tobias said in a low voice, who had taken the farseeing glass from the lookout and was holding it to one eye.

‘Have they spied us?’ Lachlan asked grimly.

‘Impossible to tell.’ The captain retracted the telescope and tucked it again in the pocket of his ragged greatcoat. ‘I dare no’ watch any longer for the sun is against us and could flash in the glass, giving us away.’

‘Come, we had best be moving on then,’ Lachlan said.

Iseult was watching the ship with keen eyes. ‘They are waving flags about,’ she said. ‘I can see the flash o’ colour.’

‘Bad news,’ Arvin the Just said gloomily. ‘They are signalling to shore.’

‘Let us away from here,’ Lachlan said. ‘If there is a squadron o’ Bright Soldiers about, I do no’ wish to be meeting them!’

‘Where shall we go?’ Finn asked eagerly.

‘If only we had a safe house in this area,’ Lachlan mused. ‘But I ken o’ none within a day’s ride. Leonard the Canny has already warned us that the people o’ the downs be the dour, pious sort and no’ likely to offer any help to heretics like us.’

The young sailor Tam looked up with a flush. ‘I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but although it be true that the down folk are pious indeed, they have no liking for the General Assembly and think them most corrupt and ungodly. We are far from the city here. We live close to the land and the ways o’ our fathers and our fathers’ fathers are thought good enough for us. There are many in my village who mourn the overthrow o’ the MacHildes as if it happened yesterday and who cling to the auld ways, when a farmer who worked all day in the fields was no’ expected to throw down his tools and attend the kirk three times a day when the harvest must be got in.’ He finished with some heat, his words tumbling over each other.

‘Is that so?’ Lachlan said thoughtfully. ‘I take it from all this that ye come from hereabouts, my lad?’

Tam nodded. ‘Indeed I do, Your Highness. Born and raised a downsman.’

‘Then I can see ye being most useful to us, lad. If ye are willing to be so.’

Under Lachlan’s intense scrutiny, the colour rose in Tam’s cheeks again but he made a rather clumsy bow and said, ‘Tam o’ Kirkclanbright at your service, my laird.’

‘I thank ye, Tam o’ Kirkclanbright, and very pleased I am to be making your acquaintance. Now, do ye think ye can find us a safe house where we can hide from those misbegotten Bright Soldiers?’

‘I’ll take ye to my da’s farm, Rowanglen,’ Tam said simply. ‘He be a stern man and loyal indeed to the Kirk, so do no’ be expecting him to be falling at your feet, Your Highness. He has a very nice sense o’ right and wrong, however, and has a great respect for the prophet, so I am sure he shall take ye in when ye hears how ye rescued him and healed him.’

‘As long as he gives me a hot bath and some decent food, I do no’ care if he spits in my face,’ Lachlan said with a grin. ‘Lead the way, Tam, my lad!’

Rowanglen was a prosperous little farm tucked in the side of the downs. It had a wide stream running through its golden fields, a pond where ducks swam, and a sturdy house with high pointed gables. A long avenue of rowan trees led up to the farm, which was protected all along the road with a high wall set with an iron gate.

They all waited at the edge of a wide swath of forest, watching the farm. All was quiet. Grey smoke curled lazily from one of the chimneys and horses grazed in the home meadow. Enormous haystacks filled the fields, and birds hopped amongst the golden stubble. The leaves of the trees were all turning russet, yellow and brown, and here and there were rowan trees heavy with red berries. The shadows were growing longer and already it was cool under the trees.

It had been a hurried, furtive journey through the countryside. Tam had led them through tortuous byways and fields, the overloaded wagon often becoming bogged down in the mud and having to be levered free by the soldiers. As far as possible they had tried to avoid being seen, but there were many people working in the fields and they were a sizable company now, with the crew of the
Sea-Eagle
and the
Speedwell
as well as the soldiers, healers, jongleurs and witches. The wagon was overcrowded with those who could not walk with ease, and many of the weary horses carried more than one passenger. All were greatly travel-stained, with most of the shipwreck survivors dressed in little more than rags. It was impossible for them not to attract a great deal of attention, or for them not to leave marks of their passage in the mud of the fields and the broken twigs of the hedgerows.

‘I fear we do your family no favours,’ Lachlan said grimly. ‘If there are Bright Soldiers about, they will soon have wind o’ us.’

Tam looked anxious.

‘Do no’ fear,’ Iseult said. ‘Our army has had instructions to march this way. We shall soon have plenty o’ reinforcements.’

Tam’s expression of anxiety only deepened and he looked out at the peaceful valley with foreboding. Across the stream was an apple orchard, golden fruit peeping out between the leaves, which half-concealed a house with a green gabled roof. The road led down through bare fields and copses of trees to a small village, smudged with smoke from its chimneys, and dominated by the grey hulk of its kirk. The square tower of the kirk was topped with a tall cone-shaped spire that soared high above the trees and roofs and was crowned with a gilded cross.

Everywhere people were working with the slow grace of those who work with the land all year long. A big wagon was being loaded with hay in one of the fields. Elsewhere, a boy was tending a herd of fat black pigs. A strong-looking woman was splitting kindling with an axe by the side of one of the crofts. By the river the sails of a mill turned slowly in the fitful breeze, and a cart laden with sacks of grain was being unloaded by three men in rough brown clothes. In the village square children were playing hopscotch or squatting in the dust, tossing sheep’s knuckles. They could hear the occasional bleat of sheep, the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer, and the piping of the goatkeeper who sat amidst the herd grazing on the riverbank.

‘It has been many years since we had war here in Kirkclanbright,’ Tam said unhappily.

Just then they heard bells ringing out the hour. Six times the bells rang, and the hidden watchers saw the workers in the field lay down their hoes and scythes, and trudge through the stubble towards the kirk.

‘It be vespers,’ Tam explained in a whisper. ‘Once they are all in kirk, there will be none to watch us pass by.’

‘How often must ye all go to kirk?’ Finn asked, as he began to cautiously lead the party out of the shelter of the wood.

‘It used to be once a day and twice on Sundays, but these days the General Assembly demands we all must attend at least three times a day and six times on Sunday. It is fine for us who live only a wee while away from the kirk but for those who live away from the villages it is difficult indeed, and has caused much bad feeling.’

‘Why do they make ye go so often?’

Tam shrugged. ‘Happen if we spend all day on our knees praying we shallna have time for anything else,’ he said with deep irony.

The valley now lay deserted and they were able to move out into the dusty road, moving as quietly as they were able. The evening was so still they could hear the sound of chanting from the kirk, and the murmur of the river over stones. Rowanglen’s iron gate stood open and they passed through it and up the cool dusk of the avenue.

‘Happen ye’d best all hide in the barn and wait for my family to come home,’ Tam said. Obediently they crowded within the great building, filled with shadows and smelling of dust and straw. There the exhausted horses could at last be unsaddled and rubbed down, with Tam spreading hay for them and showing the soldiers how to work the pump. The men and women made themselves nests in the straw and lay down where they could to rest, all tired after the long day’s walking. Everyone was conscious of tension. They were deep in the heart of the enemy’s territory, badly equipped for any battle, and vulnerable to betrayal. Even if the Greycloaks had made excellent time, they must still be some leagues away, without any way of knowing where Lachlan and his men had taken shelter. They could only trust in Tam and his family.

Nearly an hour later they heard the sound of voices. Tam rose. His colour was high, his eyes eager. ‘That be my mother’s voice I hear. And that’s my wee sister laughing! Wait here. I shall go and explain everything. All will be well, I promise.’

He hurried out of the barn into the deepening dusk, calling to his mother. They heard a babble of excitement, the bang of a door, and then silence.

It was a long, long wait. At last, though, they heard the barn door being opened and Tam came in carrying a lantern. Behind him strode a tall man with a stern, clean-shaven face and grey hair cropped very short. He was dressed in grey breeches, long boots, a rough shirt and a black coat that had seen better days. He carried himself with authority, however, looking around at the crowd of men and women with angry disdain.

‘Who is this man who says he be the prophet?’ he demanded.

Killian had dropped into a doze but Johanna gently woke him and helped him to his feet. He looked around with dazed eyes, settling his gaze at last on the farmer and his son. Tam lifted the lantern higher so that the light fell full upon Killian’s maimed head, with the ugly scars that showed where his ears had once been.

The farmer stared for a long while and then said, in a slightly gentler tone, ‘Many men have lost their ears at the behest o’ the Fealde, aye, and their hands and noses too. How am I to ken that ye are indeed Killian the Listener, the prophet?’

Killian peered at him uncertainly. ‘I am Killian, he they call the Listener.’

The farmer frowned and stuck his big red hands in his belt. He looked round at the crowd.

‘And the one calling herself the NicHilde?’ There was an odd note in the farmer’s gruff voice, a wistful yearning imperfectly concealed behind belligerence.

Elfrida rose gracefully and came forward, her dark red plaid wrapped close about her slim body. Although her hair was tumbling out of its severe bun, stuck here and there with straw, and there was mud on her skirt, she somehow managed to project an air of quiet dignity. ‘I am the NicHilde.’

He looked her over for a long moment. ‘Ye be as fair as a MacHilde,’ he said at last, the belligerence gone from his voice.

‘That is because I am a MacHilde,’ she answered, no trace of anger or offence in her gentle voice. ‘It is a sad day when a man o’ Kirkclanbright doesna recognise a MacHilde when he sees one. Have ye forgotten how this valley came to be so named? Is this no’ the place where the bright warrior-maid bore her first son, thus laying the foundations o’ my clan? Is your kirk no’ the first kirk ever built in the Bright Land?’

‘Aye, that it is,’ the farmer answered, rubbing at his bristly chin. ‘But few care to remember that these days.’

‘I care to remember,’ she answered softly.

The farmer shifted uncomfortably, glancing about him at the men and women crowded close together in the shadowy barn. ‘They say ye have taken up with witches and demons, though, my lady.’

‘Berhtilde was a witch herself and proud o’ it,’ Elfrida answered, her colour rising. It was the first time any of them had heard her admit such a thing and Iain smiled and stepped closer to her, his arm brushing hers. ‘But it is an evil lie to say I have dealings with demons! Those that support and help me are all good, brave men, and as human as ye or me.’

‘But what o’ this winged
uile-bheist
who has set himself up as Rìgh?’

Lachlan stepped forward, his feathers rustling. His brows were drawn over his golden eyes in a forbidding frown. ‘I am the MacCuinn.’

The farmer looked him up and down, noting the MacCuinn plaid pinned with the device of the crowned stag, the long black wings springing from his back, the Lodestar thrust through the belt. He then looked round at the crowd, absorbing every detail of their muddy, ragged clothing, the horses with their heads sunk low, the old woman with her crippled hands, the youthfulness of some of the faces. Then his eyes went back to Gwilym the Ugly, leaning on his tall staff, his fingers all laden with rings. Although the sorcerer was dressed as plainly as any of them, with a long cloak of rough grey wool over breeches, the staff and rings proclaimed him as one of the Coven to those who knew the signs. The farmer clearly did.