Heart of Stars (24 page)

Bronwen wondered if she should mention that her aunt, Queen Fand, had given her a big pot of the skin
lotion the Fairgean women used, which was made with seaweed, after Bronwen had commented on how fine and soft the Fairgean women’s skin was. She decided it would be more tactful to simply thank Mirabelle, and put the pot away for when the lotion she was using now had run out. So she smiled and said, ‘Thank ye, I will.’

Mirabelle smiled in response, the expression lightening her heavy, pockmarked features, and then went away, leaving Bronwen to finish her tea and drag herself out of bed in peace.

It was a long, long day. The clock hands crept round very slowly. Bronwen found it hard to concentrate. Several times she had to jerk herself out of a reverie in which she daydreamed she had gone in search of Donncan, saved him from dreadful danger and won his heart forever. The mental image of him clasping her against his chest and whispering, ‘Bronwen, my love!’ in her ear was so enticing it brought a lingering smile to her lips, which she had to banish very firmly before someone noticed, it being entirely inappropriate to a discussion on revaluing the currency. She had to remind herself sternly that her days of freedom were over. She could not even afford to daydream of escaping the court to go in search of Donncan, let alone doing it. She had to concentrate on being the best banrìgh she could.

By the end of a very long session of the Privy Council, Bronwen had a headache and felt perilously close to tears. She withdrew to her bedchamber and, after about sixteen unwelcome interruptions and interludes, took the coronet off her head with a sigh of relief and begged her maid Maura to bring her some more of Mirabelle’s special brew.

The bogfaery frowned. ‘Me no like that tea. Makes Bronny all twitchety. Me make Bronny some nice chamomile tea.’

‘I’d fall asleep if ye did that,’ Bronny said. ‘Please, Maura, just bring me the tea. It really does have a marvellous way o’ clearing my head.’

Grumbling, the bogfaery did as she was told. Bronwen sat down and rested her face in her hands, whispering to herself, ‘Donncan, where are ye?’

Tears slipped out through her fingers.

The door opened but Bronwen did not look up, expecting it to be Maura returning with her tea.

She heard a quick step, then saw a grey silk gown blossom out as her mother sank into the chair beside her, the dark wings of her hair falling forward onto her cheekbones as she leant forward in concern.

‘Bronny, my dear, what’s wrong?’

Bronwen hurriedly wiped her face and sat up. ‘Naught! I’m just tired. And sick o’ waiting for news. When will Aunty Beau be back? It’s been days and days. What is taking so long? I thought it was simply a matter o’ following Donncan and Thunderlily along the Auld Ways, overcoming Johanna, and bringing him back. What can have gone wrong?’

Maya laid her work-roughened hand on Bronwen’s silk sleeve.

‘Ye may need to prepare yourself, sweetling,’ she said. ‘Isabeau may no’ have been in time. Donncan may
…
’

‘Donncan is no’ dead!’

‘I fear he may be, my dear. Ye must prepare yourself.’

Bronwen was silent. She sat with her back stiff, her jaw clenched, her hands crushing the stuff of her gown.

Maya frowned. ‘I ken ye have always been close to your cousin,’ she began delicately, ‘but I had no’ thought ye cared for him in that way. Ye did no’ seem to miss him at all while he was away, visiting Neil in Arran over the winter. In fact, ye seemed relieved to have him gone.’

Her daughter looked away, pressing her lips together.

‘Then, at the wedding, ye seemed positively cold. I wanted to tell ye to at least try and keep up a semblance o’ marital bliss, for appearance’s sake, but could no’, since I was meant to still be rendered mute.’ There were little ironic flourishes to Maya’s voice that gave a piquancy to the beauty of her golden voice. ‘I was no’ the only one who thought the marriage purely one o’ convenience. Was I wrong? Do ye have deeper feelings for Donncan?’

There was a short silence, then Bronwen suddenly burst out, ‘I am banrìgh now. I should be happy
…
I should be gloating that fate has delivered everything I ever wanted into my hands
…
the throne, the crown, the Lodestar
…
yet it is no’ how I dreamt it would be
…
’

‘Naught ever is,’ Maya murmured.

Bronwen seized her mother’s arm. ‘Was it no’, Mama? Really? For ye never loved my father, did ye? Ye ensorcelled him into marrying ye, and ensorcelled him into giving all his power into your hands. Ye ensorcelled
me
into life! I thought ye loved it, the power, the control. I thought ye loved being banrìgh, and having everyone rush to do your bidding. Ye hated being thrown down.’

This time it was Maya’s turn to flush and bite her lip and look away. She was silent a long time, long enough for Bronwen’s shoulders to droop and her breath to sigh out.

Then Maya said, very quietly, ‘No, it was no’ enough. I told myself it was, but
…
’

‘But what?’

‘I wished
…
’

‘Wished what?’

‘Sometimes
…
many times
…
I wished your father had lived
…
and loved me for myself
…
and we had naught to do but love each other and rule the land together
…
But
…
’

‘But?’

‘It was no’ to be. They
…
My father
…
they would never have let me be
…
’

‘I ken.’

Another long silence.

‘It would never have worked. Besides, by the time I realised, it was too late
…
and he
…
Jaspar
…
’

Bronwen realised that her mother was struggling to hold back tears. She had never seen her mother cry. She stared at Maya, surprised and uncomfortable, and then reached out a hesitant hand to comfort her. Maya suffered it for a moment, then shook Bronwen away, straightening with a sigh.

‘It is no use thinking o’ what might have been,’ Maya said. ‘All we can do is play with the hand we’ve been dealt. And ye have a royal flush, Bronwen. Use it.’

‘It is just that I
…
’ Bronwen sighed, then shut her mouth. She did not wish to tell her mother that she feared this new-found power, and longed to have Donncan relieve her of some, at least, of the load. She did not want to say she missed his steady presence at her side, his quick wit and insight, his intelligence and strength. Most of all, she did not want to admit she longed to melt into his arms, and raise her face to his, and have him kiss her again, like he had the night of the May Day feast. This was something she had trouble admitting to herself, let alone her mother.

‘All I am saying, Bronny, is that ye must prepare yourself to rule alone,’ Maya continued, taking no notice of her daughter’s agitation. ‘Donncan may well be dead, and if that is so, ye will have to fight to keep your throne. If your thigearn lass succeeds in rescuing Owein and Olwynne, ye may find yourself facing a challenge ye canna withstand. Indeed, perhaps it would be best to
make sure she does no’ succeed, and Owein and Olwynne never make it back alive.’

Bronwen stared at her mother with wide eyes.

‘One should always look ahead,’ Maya said serenely, and then smiled at Maura as the bogfaery came in, grumbling at the weight of the tray she carried. ‘Ah, good! Tea. Shall I pour, Bronny?’

Olwynne lay on the bare wooden boards, groaning.

She stank of vomit and sweat and urine and excrement. No matter how hard she tried, it was not possible in the heaving, rocking, swaying hold of the ship to always make the bucket on time. And Olwynne had never been so vilely ill in all her life.

Racked with cramps so severe they made her gasp out loud, her stomach in constant rebellion against the ceaseless motion and the dreadful diet, Olwynne could do nothing but weep and moan.

If it had not been for her twin brother’s company, his staunch courage and valiant optimism, Olwynne thought she might have given in and died. In the darkness she could not see his face, but his strong hand and shoulder, his warm wing, his gentle voice rarely failed her, even though he was quite as sick as she was. Olwynne had always thought she was the strong one, the one with the quiet inner core of certainty and fortitude, but Owein had proved her wrong these past two weeks.

It was impossible to know how long they had been imprisoned in the stinking belly of the ship. Yet, counting the number of times Jem had come to bring them some dreadful slop of maggot-infested gruel, and to empty the bucket with many curses and jeers, Owein thought it was at least three days, maybe as many as six. It depended on whether he came only once a day, or twice. Olwynne found the young man filled her with the utmost terror. He never failed to stand over them, mocking them, threatening them both with rape and torture, death and abandonment.

‘No-one here to see or care,’ he would say with a leer. ‘Always wanted to shove my prick up the arse o’ a banprionnsa. Guess I’ll never get the chance again; may as well enjoy myself on this Truth-begotten journey.’ He would loom over her, his lantern held high so its cruel radiance would fall harshly upon her, and jerk his crotch with one hand. Olwynne would shrink back against Owein, who would steady her with his bound hands, trying to reassure her and keep her strong. Then Jem would snort with laughter. ‘Though I think I’ll wait for a nice clean lass. Dinna want my prick to fall off!’

Another time he would focus his attentions on Owein. ‘Always thought ye were so fine, dinna ye? No’ so high and mighty now, are ye? How does it feel to lie in your own shit and piss, and ken ye’re no better than any other man? Shit and piss, that’s what it’s all about, and having a rìgh for a father doesna make a fart’s worth o’ difference.’

Owein just stared back at him, not saying a word. They had both learnt that any defiance only earned them a kick in the ribs. Once, after Owein had lost his temper and given back as good as he had got, Jem had even unbuttoned his trousers and urinated on them, much to their disgust. He had not done any worse, though, despite
all his foul words and threats, and with time they had found him easier to ignore.

The ship had been running fast before the wind, that they could tell from the creaking of the timbers and the pitching of the floor on which they lay. Now the ship was coming into gentler waters, and the wild rolling had calmed, allowing Olwynne to slip into an uneasy sleep.

She dreamt she walked down a dark corridor, groping her way forward, unable to see. Ahead a door stood ajar. Light fell through the crack like a rent in a curtain. Olwynne crept towards it, and put her eye to the crack.

Inside Lewen sat, peel after peel of white bark falling away from his knife. He was carving a knob of wood away into nothing. Gladly Olwynne put her hand to the door and pushed it open. Lewen looked up at her, his face twisted in misery and hate.

‘My blade must have blood,’ he said. He rose to his feet and stepped forward swiftly, slashing his knife across her throat. As Olwynne fell, gasping, blood fountaining up between her hands, he repeated the words unhappily, gazing down at her on the floor. ‘My blade must have blood.’

Olwynne woke with a jerk. She shivered and crept a little closer towards Owein, who bent his tattered wing over her.

‘Bad dreams again?’

She nodded her head.

Owein felt the movement in the darkness and said, with forced cheerfulness, ‘Never mind, it’s only a dream.’

‘It seems so real,’ Olwynne said, her voice trembling.

‘It’s only a dream.’ Owein did not sound convinced. He knew as well as she did that dreams were rarely without meaning, particularly for Olwynne, who had seemed to be developing a talent for dream-walking. She had dreamt
of her father’s death before it happened; that at least was one dream proved prophetic. He dreaded thinking of the meaning of some of her other nightmares.

A silence fell between them.

‘The ship has stopped rolling,’ Olwynne said.

‘Aye. I’d say we’re wherever we’re meant to be.’

‘Where? Where?’ she cried.

Owein shrugged. ‘Nowhere good, I’d say.’

‘What do they mean to do to us?’

‘Nothing good, is my bet.’

She heard the bitter humour in his voice, and had to swallow down a rush of tears.

‘What do they want with us? Why did they take us?’

‘To kill us,’ he answered. ‘Why, I do no’ ken, but it is clear they hate us, our clan, our blood. Olwynne, ye must be brave. I do no’ ken if we can save ourselves or not, but we must try. If only I could get my hands free! But I canna. I’ve chafed my wrists raw trying, but that brute Jem has tied me too tight. Olwynne! We must take our chance, if it comes. Be ready. If I give the signal, run. Can ye do that?’

Olwynne thought of her legs, trembling with weakness and seeping with sores where the ropes had rubbed again and again. She nodded and tried to smile, even though Owein would have no chance of seeing her expression in the darkness. He knew her well, though. His hand patted her feebly, and he said, his voice hoarse, ‘Good girl.’

A few minutes later, the ship docked. They recognised the familiar sounds, having often travelled on their father’s ship,
The Royal Stag
. Then Jem came down to jerk them to their feet, and force them up on deck.

It was dusk. The air over the shimmering water was warm and smelt of strange spices. Olwynne looked about her; this was no land she recognised. Rising in high peaks all about, the island curved like an ammonite about the
lagoon. The peaks were black against the curve of the twilight sky. To the west, where the sea broke in little waves over a reef, the first moon was rising. It was huge, red, misshapen. It made Olwynne shudder.

Owein and Olwynne were so weak and disorientated they could barely walk. Their eyes were so used to darkness, the light of the lanterns hurt and they shrank away, shielding their faces.

Lord Malvern stood on the bulwark, his eyebrows drawn down close to his nose. ‘Ye fool!’ he said to Jem. ‘I thought ye were taking care o’ them! Look at them. They’re filthy and sick. We need them to be strong and healthy when we sacrifice them, no’ with poisoned blood and fever. How could you be so stupid?’

‘They’ve been comfortable enough.’ Jem spat over the side.

‘If they are sick, I will sacrifice ye in their place,’ the lord answered icily. Jem went pale, and cast a quick glance at the royal twins, who were doing their best to hold each other up.

‘Dedrie!’ Lord Malvern called. Slowly the skeelie climbed up from below deck. She was pale and trembling, and by the way she hunched over her stomach it was clear she too had suffered from seasickness.

‘Aye, my laird,’ she answered in a weak voice.

‘Look at the sacrifices! Is this what ye call looking after them? The banprionnsa will no’ be pleased! She doesna want blood poisoned with pus and filth, she wants pure, clean, youthful blood, like we promised her. I want them washed, fed, tended, and given something to make them well again, and I want it done now! It is full moon tomorrow. Ye have until then to have the girl in particular strong enough to kill. Else it’ll be ye I bind to the altar stone! Do I make myself clear?’

‘Aye, my laird, o’ course, my laird,’ Dedrie gabbled in very real terror, and then Owein and Olwynne were hurried back downstairs to a cabin that was obviously Dedrie’s own, given the sour smell of vomit and the bottles and jars of potions and medicines on every available surface.

Hurling imprecations at Jem, the skeelie had jugs of hot water brought up from the galley and poured into a tin basin. Jem stood by, scowling, his dagger at the ready, while Dedrie carefully cut away the blood-stiff ropes and cleaned their sores, anointing them with some kind of ointment that stung badly, then bandaging them neatly. They were forced to drink bitter green nettle tea, to purify the blood, and a foul mixture in which Olwynne recognised the taste of burdock root, St John’s wort and borage.

More water was brought, and Owein and Olwynne did their best to clean themselves up, washing their faces and hands, their necks and armpits, their arms and legs. Olwynne would have loved to have washed her hair, which was matted and filthy, but there was not enough water and no shampoo or comb. She had long ago lost her pretty high-heeled sandals, and her feet were filthy and covered in nasty cuts and bruises. All she could do was sit wearily on the bunk and soak them in another basin of warm water, in which Dedrie poured some cloudy liquid that smelt awful. Owein was in slightly better shape, still having his boots, and having spent much of his youth out hunting, camping, fishing and riding, years that Olwynne had spent in the library with her nose in a book. Still, there was no need for Jem and his dagger. Neither of the twins could muster up the strength to do more than sip at the hot soup Dedrie brought them, and to lie down together to sleep, their
matted red heads sharing the same pillow, Owein’s wing folded over them both.

‘Sleep tight, little babes,’ Jem cooed mockingly, going out the door. ‘Enjoy your last night together.’

As he shut the door they heard Dedrie saying crossly, ‘Now make sure ye do no’ drink too much o’ the water o’ life and fall asleep on watch again, Jem, for I’ll no’ be taking the blame! My laird wants us to get to the auld fort afore sunrise, so just make sure
…
’

The door nicked closed, and they heard the sound of a key in the lock. Olwynne sighed and turned her cheek into the sour-smelling pillow. She was asleep in moments.

Once again Olwynne’s sleep was disturbed by images of knives and mist and gravestones, blood dripping down her neck, and the sound of a woman laughing in utter glee. When she awoke, it was to find black misery crouching on her chest like a malicious imp, choking her.

She turned and gave her brother a little shake, too afraid to lie there in the darkness by herself. He came awake at once, tense and alert. ‘What’s wrong?’ he whispered.

‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Did ye no’ hear what the laird said? They mean to kill me tonight,’ she whispered back. ‘They mean to sacrifice me. Sacrifice! I canna believe it’s true!’

He nodded. ‘This is no’ just some plot to destroy the MacCuinn clan,’ he murmured. ‘There’s more going on. I wish I had paid more attention to
…
to Lewen
…
when he told us about the laird o’ Fettercairn. They are necromancers, I ken, trying to rise the spirits o’ the dead.
Dai-dein …
’ His voice broke, and tears began to run down Olwynne’s cheeks. Their grief over the death of their father was still raw and incredulous. There had been no time, no peace, for acceptance and healing.

Owein raised his hand and drew it across his nose.
‘
Dai-dein
killed the laird’s brother and his nephew, I ken, years ago,’ he went on, his voice low and hoarse, ‘and Laird Malvern seeks revenge for that, and seeks to raise them from the dead again. So I can understand why I was taken and Roden, but no’ ye. Who is this banprionnsa they seek to raise?’

‘Tonight,’ Olwynne whispered. ‘This very night! Owein, what are we to do?’

‘I canna believe the Yeomen are no’ hot on our trail,’ Owein said. ‘They will have guessed the laird’s plans, surely? They’ll be here in time.’

‘But what if they are no’?’ Olwynne’s voice was paralysed with terror. She could hardly force the words out.

Owein gripped her shoulder with his hand. ‘Bravely and wisely, Olwynne, remember that! Bravely and wisely.’

She was trembling violently, but at her brother’s words she did her best to calm herself.

‘We’ll try to escape,’ Owein said, shifting his weight in the narrow bunk, seeking to find a more comfortable position. One red-feathered wing was pinned behind him; the other was still folded over Olwynne, comforting her with its soft warmth. ‘They have cut our bonds, thank the Spinners! Let us pretend to extreme weakness and faintness; they will no’ suspect we mean to escape. If they try to bind us again, scream in pain.’

‘That I can do with true sincerity,’ Olwynne said grimly. Her wrists and ankles were throbbing hotly.

‘Let’s look for a weapon o’ some sorts. That skeelie must have a knife or a pair o’ scissors somewhere. Let us look now while we are alone.’

He got up and prowled quietly around the room, but Dedrie had taken all her belongings with her the night before, leaving the room bare.

Olwynne took advantage of him being gone to stretch
out in the cramped little bunk. She was amazed they had been able to sleep at all, for both were tall and Owein was broad-shouldered and had his wings to add to his bulk as well.

The bunk was fitted in against the curved hull of the ship. Above were heavy beams, with a round porthole. Moonlight spilled in through the thick glass, filling the room with cold light. Lying back, Olwynne saw a small bottle silhouetted against the glass. She reached up her hand and took it down from the deep recess where the porthole was fitted. Obviously Dedrie had put the bottle there so it could be within easy reach when lying in the bunk. It had a glass stopper that was easily removed. Olwynne sniffed at the liquid inside, and felt a faint warming of hope. It was a tincture of poppy and valerian, to aid in sleep. A drop or two under the tongue was enough to relax and ease into sleep; the full bottle emptied into a strong-tasting drink like dancey or whisky would be enough to knock a man unconscious.

She had time only to whisper to Owein what she had found, before they heard someone at the door. As Owein slipped in beside her again, pretending to be still asleep, Olwynne hid the bottle under the blanket.