The Swan Kingdom (9 page)

My bare feet made no noise on the grass as I set off, skirting the house and the rose bushes until I came to a wrought-iron fence. Luckily the gate was unlocked; and beyond it, like entering a different world, I stepped into olio grass, its greyish-pink feathery fronds dancing almost as high as my head, tiny white lister flowers blooming among them. I felt the tension begin to fade from my body as I looked around me.

The earth beneath my feet was pale and crumbly, more sand than soil. I saw the deer trail ahead, and climbed through the grasses towards it, moving up the gentle hill I had seen from my window. Others might have found this bare foot progress painful, but my soles were as tough as leather, and I was more sure-footed without shoes. The sounds of the tide grew louder as the land rose, beckoning me on.

I reached the top of the hill and saw the white band of the shore and the surging, seething expanse of the sea. Moonlight glinted over the rippling water, silvering intricate patterns of foam on the waves’ surface. It was beautiful. This was a good place. I went down the dune at a half-run, kicking up little explosions of sand. When I reached the bottom I sat down to watch the changing face of the water, oblivious of the state of my nightgown.

The rolling and sighing of the waves was almost hypnotic. My mind emptied, and I relaxed completely for the first time since reaching this place, savouring the breeze that gently lifted and stroked my hair. After a few more moments, I stood and went to the edge of the water, where the sea music drowned out all other sounds. I let out a shocked laugh as the cold water broke over my feet and soaked the hem of my gown. I jumped and twirled in the foam, my nightdress flying up above my knees in the wind.

I might have danced there for hours, thinking myself alone. It was only when I spun a full circle that I saw the man.

He stood watching me, only a few feet away, just far enough that the surf would not soak his fine leather boots. He was very tall, and his dark hair drifted in the wind like the long cloak clasped at his shoulder with a silver brooch.

Strangely my first reaction was not fear, but self-consciousness that I had been caught playing in the sea in my nightgown with my hair a tangled mess. In my surprise I took a step away, and then toppled backwards as the sand disintegrated under my heel. I would have landed in the water, but he took two swift steps forward and caught me, then pulled me out of the waves up onto the beach.

“Oh – thank you! I’m sorry,” I babbled, looking down at the now soaked leather of his boots with dismay.

He ignored my words but held on to my arms, his eyes searching my face with what looked like astonishment.

“You’re real,” he muttered, as if to himself.

“What? Of course I’m real.” I pulled away, embarrassed by my own clumsiness, his strange expression, and by the fine clothes that showed he was an important person. I was a king’s daughter – I shouldn’t be meeting people in a wet nightgown with draggled hair.

The odd look disappeared from his face as he released me, and he let out a quiet laugh.

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” he said. “I saw you as I came down the beach, dancing in the waves with your hair all flying – I thought you were a selkie or a mermaid.”

I avoided his amused grey eyes, and looked down at my grubby toes in the sand. “Well, I’m not.”

There was a moment of silence – if silence it could be called, with the rush and sigh of the water – and then he asked, “Do you live here? My family come here every year, but I’ve never seen you before.”

“No, I’m only here for a little while. I’m staying with my aunt, up there.” I pointed to where the peak of the house could be seen. “I’ve just arrived.” I risked another look at his face. He was only a few years older than me – seventeen, perhaps. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing out here at this time of night?”

“The same thing as me, I imagine.” He smiled. “Trying to think – or to stop thinking. Here.” He reached up to unclasp the silver brooch at his shoulder and then held his cloak out to me. “You’re wet; you must be cold.”

On the verge of refusing, I looked up and caught his eye. The silvery colour of his gaze held my attention. Like storm clouds, I thought absently. He smiled again, and pushed the soft weight of the cloak into my hands.

“Don’t look so stunned,” he said. “It’s only a cloak.”

I took it from him, my eyes still riveted to his, barely aware of my actions.

The look on his face changed again, to concern. “Are you all right?” He broke my stare with no sign of difficulty and took back the cloak to wrap it round my shoulders. “You’re shivering. Come and sit out of this wind.” He led me to the shelter of a low dune, and made me sit down. “There. Better now?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. I’m sorry. I’m, er … a little tired; I’ve travelled a long way.”

He looked relieved. “Good. For a moment I thought you might faint. Look, it’s cold. Stay there for a minute while I fetch some driftwood.”

I started to say that I had never fainted in my life, but he’d turned away. By the time he came back with a little pile of silvery driftwood and a handful of dry grass, I’d remembered that I had fainted – once.

He sat down opposite me and heaped up the wood and kindling between us. I expected him to pull out a tinderbox, though why he would have brought one on a night walk along the beach I didn’t know, but instead he held his hand palm down over the fuel and closed his eyes. I felt a swirl in the enaid around me as it came to attention, and then the wood burst into flame. I gasped in amazement.

“I didn’t know boys could do workings!” I blurted, too shocked to think about my words.

He glanced up, the firelight painting rosy patterns on his face and gilding his hair. I thought he was a little embarrassed. “Yes. It’s quite rare, I know. I get it from my mother. I can only do little things like this.” He looked at me with interest. “Can you do any?” he asked.

“Only small ones,” I said, still surprised. “Charming animals and that sort of thing.”

“Really?” He grinned conspiratorially. “That’s my favourite. I’ve got our hunting dogs beautifully trained – the hunting master doesn’t know if he should love me or hate me.”

“Why should he hate you?” I asked curiously, brushing back a hank of hair that had fallen into my eyes.

“Oh, because he liked to make out that training them was so difficult and get heaped with praise for doing such a good job. Now he’s got the best dogs in the country, but he can’t take the credit for them.”

“Oh dear.” I couldn’t help laughing a little. “I knew someone like that. She used to be famous for making up this wonderful tisane for bad throats, but she kept the recipe a great secret and wouldn’t tell me. So I worked it out for myself and found that it was incredibly simple really, and told everyone else. She was furious. It’s still called Edie Finch’s tisane, though.”

He looked at me with respect. “Are you a cunning woman?”

“Not a very good one.” I ducked my head, embarrassed as I realized how close I had come to boasting.

“You sound like a good one to me,” he said.

I shook my head, not looking up from my hands, which I was warming by the fire.

“Please don’t be too modest,” he said. “You’ll make me feel I was bragging!”

I looked up, unable to stop myself smiling again. “Sorry. But I’m really not much good.” The smile died from my face. I shook my head, as if the movement could banish the memories, and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Gabriel. And yours? Are you here with your family?”

“I’m Alexandra. And … no. I left them at home. There’s just my aunt.” I looked away from him.

He asked, “Where is your home?”

I continued to watch the sea. “I … Farland, I think you would call it?” I answered.

“Ah.” He seized on the topic gratefully. “I thought there was something unusual in your accent. My father calls Farland a wondrous place. He says that the harvests never fail there.” He sighed. “I wish that were true of this country.”

“The Kingdom is a beautiful place,” I said carefully. “But it might not remain so. The king has married an awful woman, and now things will not be the same there for much longer.”

He frowned. “I thought the queen of Farland was a famous wise woman.”

“She was. She died,” I said shortly, willing my voice not to break. “Three months ago.”

“And the king has already remarried? We had not heard of it,” he said, puzzled.

“You’ll hear of it soon enough,” I said. “He is besotted with his new queen. He will wish their marriage to be celebrated far and wide.”

Gabriel said carefully, “You do not believe his choice is wise, then?”

“No. Not wise at all.” Now I sighed.

There was another pause, but a friendly one, filled with the night sea noises.

Then he asked, “I don’t suppose you know anything about the farms?”

“Farms?” I looked at him in surprise and was again caught by the dark silver of his eyes.

“Yes. They’re the pride of Farland, aren’t they? And the farmers use special methods to make the land fertile. Do you know anything about them?”

I studied his face, and then the strength of his hands where they lay on the sand. I remembered the sadness in his voice when he wished his country shared the fertility of the Kingdom.

He loved this land. He loved Midland as much as I loved the Kingdom.

I began to talk. I explained the special system of crop rotation and fallow land, the planting of certain herbs that discouraged pests, the grinding of minerals and fish bones to add to manure. All these things my mother had taught me; many had been her own inventions. Gabriel’s knowledgeable questions added to my liking. He obviously knew a lot about farming and was keen to learn more; nor, his comments revealed, did he think physical labour beneath him like some men who wore fine clothes.

After a while our conversation wandered away again and we spoke on many different subjects, most of which I cannot remember now. I learned that there was a little town, about a mile along the coast, just out of sight. His family came each year at the end of summer to take the sea air.

In return I told him guiltily edited stories of my own home. How could I say that my mother had been Lady Branwen the Wise? Ladies were not supposed to sit on the sand in their nightclothes and talk with strangers. Nor did I wish to speak of the horrors that had overtaken me so recently; I didn’t even want to think about them.

How long we sat on the shore I do not know, but when I glanced up I saw the milky wash of light in the west that drowned out the stars, and knew it was near dawn.

“I didn’t notice the night go. It’s almost morning,” he said, surprised, as he followed my gaze.

“Yes.” I scrambled up, pulling the heavy cloak from my shoulders. The servants would be up soon, and I did not want to think of the fuss it would cause if my bed was found empty. “I must go now,” I said, giving the woollen bundle to him as he rose.

“So must I,” he said ruefully. “Um … would you like to meet me here again? Tomorrow?”

I smiled, realizing how much I had enjoyed the past few hours. It had almost been like speaking to one of my brothers – though none of their eyes mesmerized as me at his did. “When?”

“An hour after sunfall. Can you get away then?”

“Yes. I’ll be here.” I didn’t question our shared desire to keep our meetings secret.

With another look at the lightening sky, I turned to run up the bank of sand.

“Goodbye!” He waved at me as I reached the top of the dune. I waved too, then went back along the path as quickly as I could.

A few minutes later I was through the window, closing it tightly behind me, and slipping into bed. Perhaps it was the sea air, but this time when I closed my eyes the sleep that claimed me was a peaceful one, and I did not dream, except of the sighing tide.

It was lucky for me that my aunt’s household did not keep the same hours I was used to. Instead of being woken by the activity of my family an hour or so after dawn, I slept until mid-morning and was gently roused by Anne. She had brought me warm milk – having kindly remembered my dislike of tea – in a fine, thin cup that I hardly dared grip for fear it would crack under my fingers. I drank the watery stuff so as not to offend her, and watched sleepily as she bustled around the room.

I took no notice of what she was doing as she bent down near the window, until I heard her mutter, “These floors … muck everywhere…”

I stiffened, my fingers tightening on the precious cup. Anne was staring at the floor at swirls of sand on the carpet. Sand I had trailed in last night. I saw her eyes go to the window and then back to the sand beneath it, heard her small inhalation of breath. We were both frozen, still as statues, me staring at Anne, Anne staring at the sand.

But perhaps that stirring of pity I had seen in her before intervened, for she straightened without another word, and within a few moments had quietly and efficiently swept away the dirt. Nor did she blink at the state of my nightgown or the sheets, merely took them away and replaced them with clean new ones. Her avoidance of my eye was the lone indicator that she had noticed anything unusual.

When I had risen and washed, she took one of my newer dresses from the tall box against the wall – the wardrobe – and helped me to dress, though I had been able to put on and lace my own gowns for many years. But I baulked when she tried to pin up my hair; I had always worn it loose, and besides felt the need of something to hide behind. She gave in with a sigh of dissatisfaction.

The reason for the special attention became clear when she led me out into the passage again.

“The mistress usually has breakfast in her room, but today you are to breakfast together in the upper parlour.”

I followed her along the shadowy corridor and up some cramped stairs, waiting for the sense of oppression to settle over me but today I felt less cowed, brighter. The heaviness did not affect me as it had yesterday. Nor did I worry overmuch about the meeting with my aunt. Somehow I had found freedom in the night along with my new friend. My aunt owned this house, but she did not own me.