Daughters Of The Storm (12 page)

Some childish part in him took offence. ‘You still have me, so perhaps you are neither.'

A shadow fell over them, and Wylm glanced up to see the guard was back.

‘What is it?' Wylm asked.

‘Queen Gudrun may return to the king's bower, but you are to accompany me now to lodgings above the alehouse.'

‘On whose orders? Bluebell's?'

‘Dunstan's.'

‘Am I under arrest?'

‘No, but we ... ah ...' He looked sheepish. ‘Nobody can find Bluebell and we can't let you go free until we've spoken to her.'

‘You won't treat my son like a prisoner!' Gudrun shrieked, shaking her pale fists. ‘I am your queen.'

‘He's not a prisoner, my lady. But Bluebell was very clear she wanted to speak with Wylm and ...' The guard dropped his voice. ‘It is a tense time for Blicstowe. I mean no disrespect, my lady. Your good favour is important to me, too.'

‘But I'm unlikely to cut your head off. Is that what you mean?'

The guard didn't answer.

Wylm squeezed his mother's hand. ‘I'll go, Mother, don't spare a thought for me. I'm not a prisoner, for all I feel like one.' He smiled at the guard, but it was his fake smile: the one where he crinkled up the corners of his eyes to feign warmth. Nobody ever picked it for a forgery. ‘Come, my friend, I've been travelling all day and I look forward to ale and rest.'

He allowed himself to be led off, glancing back with a wave. His mother seemed very small, sitting by the hall. Bitterness hardened in his heart and its name was Bluebell.

For Bluebell, rage and sorrow, even great happiness, were best expressed physically and that meant one of two things: fighting or fucking. Byrta had strictly forbidden her from the first until her head cooled, so she found herself at Sabert's house on a millet farm a half-hour's ride from Blicstowe. She lay on her back on his straw mattress, body still tingling, and watched a spider spinning a web in a dark corner above the roof beams. Sabert lay on his side, running his rough fingers up and down her arm.

‘Is something troubling you?' he asked.

She didn't answer him right away. She didn't feel like talking yet. Sabert had been a friend for many years. He was trustworthy and as stocky as a draughthorse, four inches shorter than her, but it mattered little lying down and the salty, spicy scent of his skin never failed to inflame her desire. Her secrets were locked inside his breast as well as her own, and she knew they were safe there. As safe as she felt now, lying under the warm blanket while a lark sang in the distance and a shiver of breeze muttered in the rowan tree outside the shutter. Her blood slowed and cooled. She let herself be still.

‘It's my father,' she said, at last, turning on her side to face him. ‘He's sick. They think he's dying.'

Sabert lifted a strand of her fair hair and wound it gently around his fingers. ‘I'm sorry, Bluebell.'

‘He has fits of madness and fits of deathlike sleep. It looks to me like bad magic.'

‘He is a king; he has many enemies.'

Bluebell nodded emphatically. ‘Yes. I suspected Gudrun, but you are right. It could be anyone.' Stillness evaporated; her stomach knotted with anxiety. ‘I need to find somebody who can fix him. And then I'll find out who did it to him and make them swallow my blade.'

‘Are you sure he's not simply ill?' Sabert said.

‘I'm sure. Byrta argues otherwise, but what if everyone accepts her opinion? Then nobody goes out to look for a cure.'

He didn't respond, and she took his silence as confirmation he agreed with her. Any shred of self-doubt vanished. She sat up and reached for her clothes. She dressed quickly, pulling pants over her long legs, tying up her gaiters, wriggling back into her shirt, encircling her hips with the familiar weight of her belt and scabbard. Sabert took his time. He was a person who moved at a different pace. Long-held sorrows had stolen any need for haste in his life.

‘Papa?' A little voice from outside the door.

Bluebell turned to him and smiled weakly. ‘Eni's back.'

‘He's a good lad,' he said, pulling down his shirt over his hard, hairy stomach. ‘But he can only stay busy for a little while collecting sticks. Coming, Eni!' he called through the door.

Bluebell cracked open the door to the main living area, where Eni waited with a handful of twigs. Eni was Sabert's son; his mother, Edie, who had been Bluebell's closest friend in her youth, died eleven years ago giving birth.

‘Hello, Eni,' she said, taking the twigs from him. ‘What a fine job you've done collecting these.'

The boy frowned slightly. He was the image of Sabert, with his thick black hair and florid cheeks.

‘It's Bluebell.'

‘Papa?' Eni said, in a quavering voice. The birth had been hard on Eni, also. He had gone too long without breath and now he was blind and simple. Many men would have pressed a folded blanket across his face by now, but Sabert adored his boy and was infinitely gentle with him.

‘Sabert is coming, Eni. He'll make you some supper,' Bluebell said. There was always a little guilt, but she knew Eni's mother
would have thought this convenient relationship a great joke. Neither Bluebell nor Sabert had the stomach for love and promises. ‘Here, I have a present for you.' She knelt in front of him and pulled out of her pocket a gold ring. Her father had given it to her in her youth: it was the dragon insignia of Ælmesse, curling around to grasp its own tail. She had found it last night, back in her old chamber, when she'd moved the dresser against the door in fear of imagined enemies. She placed it in Eni's hand and his grubby little fingers ran over it carefully.

‘It's a dragon,' she said.

‘Dragon,' he echoed, and she had no idea whether or not he knew what a dragon was or what they were said to look like. He tried to give the ring back, but she refused it.

‘No, it's for you,' she said, sliding it onto the index finger of his left hand. She pushed it over his knuckle and it sat firmly enough that she was confident he wouldn't lose it. ‘It's too small for me now.'

Sabert emerged from the bedroom and squatted by the hearthpit to stoke the fire, then stood to stroke the boy's head.

‘Dragon,' Eni said, holding up his hand.

Sabert considered the ring by the firelight. ‘Very nice.'

‘How has he been?' Bluebell asked.

‘He was terribly sick this winter,' Sabert replied, going to the corner to fetch a block of wrapped cheese and a half-loaf of bread. ‘Something got hold of his lungs. He coughed till he was blue. I feared he would die.' He stopped, ran a hand over his beard. ‘I once thought it would be the best thing for both of us if he died. But when it nearly happened ...' He shook his head. ‘I don't know what will become of us. I hope I outlive him.'

‘Your brother, Seaton, will take him.'

‘Seaton barely speaks to me.'

‘Take heart. Long life is in your family. Your Aunt Lily is eighty or ninety, isn't she?'

‘Aunt Lily died two months ago,' he said.

Bluebell winced. ‘Sorry.'

‘I have used up my grief, Bluebell. Don't feel sorry for me. She left me her farm.'

‘The one up past Stonemantel?'

‘Yes. Remember? We spent the summer up there, you, me and Edie.'

‘Of course. When was that? Twelve years ago?'

‘It must have been. Before you broke your nose.'

‘Before
you
broke my nose,' she said. ‘Will you move up there?'

‘No. I'm busy enough with this farm. And she gave most of the land over to flowers in the end. She was mad for them.'

‘It would be nice to take Eni up there. The farmhouse is so big. He might like the flowers. Spring is here.'

Sabert fixed Bluebell in his gaze. ‘He can't see them.'

‘He can smell them.'

‘It will mean nothing to him. It all means nothing to him. It's not worth uprooting him. Upsetting him.' He sat on the stool next to the hearth and cut some chunks of cheese with the knife on his belt. Misery lined his face.

Bluebell considered him a while, then said, ‘The child is lucky to have you. Let me help. Come up to live in the town. I'll find you a nice place, a nurse a few days a week.'

He shook his head. ‘We look after ourselves, Bluebell. We need nobody's pity or mercy. He can still help on the farm, if only a little. I never stop hoping ...' He trailed off, shrugged.

I never stop hoping.
Bluebell thought of her father. The prickling unease made her restless. ‘I should get back. I've sent for Ash and Rose and they will surely be here soon.'

He looked up and raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Don't stay away so long next time. Remember your old friend has needs.'

She shrugged. ‘Use your right hand. Then your left when your right grows tired.'

‘Good advice, my lord. Give my best to your sisters.'

Bluebell left, closing the door on the smoky little house behind her. The sun was low over the fields, catching the soft green plants. She had been away too long from Blicstowe, from the malcontent that brewed there. But she felt a little better, a little lighter. And once Ash and Rose were here, she'd feel better again. They would believe her, as Sabert had.

Ash's bones rattled as the cart pulled her up the rutted hill and into Blicstowe. She had been longing for the end of the journey, telling herself she wouldn't spend another thought worrying until she came to rest. But now the end of the journey was here and her tired brain struggled to comprehend what had to be done next. Father was dying. She had run away from Thriddastowe. Her future was blighted.

First, though, she had to pay the donkey trader. The cart driver waited as she dashed into the alehouse, intending to borrow a few coins from the alehouse wife. Instead, she saw Bluebell sitting in the back corner, elbows on a table, staring into a cup of ale.

Ash approached curiously. ‘Bluebell?'

Bluebell looked up blearily. The recognition flashed and her face transformed into a grin. She leapt to her feet and squashed Ash in her arms. She was all bone and sinew. ‘You're here!'

Ash extricated herself. ‘I have to pay the man who brought me upriver. Do you have any coins?'

Bluebell turned out her left pocket, and showered silver coins on the table. Ash scooped a few up and returned to the cart driver, paying him and giving him some for the donkey trader. Then she hurried back inside.

Bluebell sat in the same place, watching the door for Ash. There was an expression on Bluebell's face that Ash hadn't seen before; a vulnerability that gutted her. Ash had to stop for a second and take a breath. Everything else had to wait. For this moment, she had to be here for Bluebell and her father. She slid into the seat across from her sister.

‘How is Father?' she said.

‘He's ...' Bluebell glanced away. ‘You'll have to go and see for yourself.'

‘He's very ill?'

Bluebell nodded, and pushed the cup of ale across the table to Ash. ‘Here, you have it. I've drunk seven already. I'll be pissing like a horse tonight. You look tired and you smell terrible.'

Ash took a grateful sip, considering her sister in the late afternoon light through the shutter. ‘Bluebell,' she said, ‘why aren't you with him?'

Bluebell's voice was low. ‘I can hardly look at him, Ash.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because he is so changed. And because ... I know if he dies ... life will be so different. And I'm afraid.'

Ash nearly choked on her ale. ‘Afraid? Really?' she managed.

Bluebell's pale eyes turned icy for a moment, giving Ash a glimpse into the thrilling terror her sister was capable of inspiring. But then Bluebell laughed. ‘I'm talking with ale on my tongue,' she said. ‘Don't listen to me.' She pointed upwards. ‘I've got Wylm under guard up there. Gudrun's physician locked up in the pit near the latrine. And Gudrun is under Dunstan's watch in the king's bower.'