Heart of Stars (8 page)

The MacRuraich of Rurach had been content to let his sons and daughter attend the wedding on his behalf. The old wolf was grey now, and crippled with arthritis, Bronwen had heard, and it was thought it would not be many more winters before Aindrew MacRuraich inherited the throne. The young heir to the Rurach throne was often at Bronwen’s elbow, helping her negotiate the perils and pitfalls of the room with his easy manner and winning ways. Bronwen could only be grateful to him, even though she was all too conscious of Elfrida NicHilde’s disapproving frown, and the sly sideways glance of the Duchess of Rammermuir. She could only be grateful that Aindrew and his brother Barney were leaving the next day, to ride home for Rurach.

Brangaine NicSian of Siantan had travelled a very long way to attend the wedding, leaving her elderly gouty husband behind her, but bringing her son and two daughters with her for their first taste of the royal court. They were only children still, and too young to appreciate the sorrowful occasion. It made Bronwen smile to see them hiding under the table, gorging themselves on sugar plums and honey cakes, with the boy, Odell, reaching up a surreptitious hand every now and again to steal the last dregs of a cup of mulled wine. It was the only bright moment in this long, dragging morning of monochromes. It made Bronwen wish she was a child again, and running shrieking through elegant balls with Neil and Donncan racing after her, their hands full of plundered goodies.

The MacAhern of Tìreich accosted her by the long table of funeral meats. He was a tall man, brown-haired
and brown-eyed, and dressed in a kilt and plaid in the old style, a long stretch of soft wool pleated about his waist and held in place with a thick belt. The plaid was pinned at his shoulder with a golden brooch in the shape of a rearing horse.

He did not waste time in the usual platitudes, addressing her with a heavy scowl and an abrupt question: ‘So, have ye laid the villains by the heels yet? Who would dare strike down the MacCuinn in his own banquet-hall?’

‘We believe it was a plot hatched by an old enemy o’ his,’ Bronwen answered quietly. ‘Long ago, during the rebellion against the Burning, my uncle was the cause o’ the death o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn and his young son.’ As usual, she found it difficult to speak of this period of history, for it was against her own mother that Lachlan had led the rebellion. Loving her mother as she did, and hating what her mother had done, Bronwen found it easiest to speak in the broadest of historical terms, as if Maya the Ensorcellor, and the terrible deeds done in her name by the Anti-Witchcraft League, was someone far distant to her in time and place, like the Red Queen of fairytales who had executed her own cousin, after keeping her prisoner for decades, simply to make sure she did not dream of challenging her for the throne.

‘The laird’s brother had been a Seeker o’ the Awl,’ she went on. ‘He blamed my uncle, and plotted his revenge for many years. It is he who kidnapped my cousins for his own nefarious purposes. We are certain we will catch up with him soon and drag him back here to face trial.’

‘I have heard, Your Majesty,’ the MacAhern said curtly, ‘that ye have a thigearna flying in your service? A satyricorn girl? I find it hard to believe. The satyricorns hunt the winged horses for food, I had always heard.’

‘She is only half a satyricorn, my laird, and indeed a
true thigearn. I have seen her call her winged horse myself, without words or whistle, and seen her ride it. They are like one, my laird, just as I believe a thigearn should be.’

He grunted, frowning. ‘Was the horse bridled and saddled? Did it wear a bit?’

Bronwen was amused. ‘Nay, sir. No bridle, no saddle, no bit. She had saddlebags, and a saddlecloth, but that was it.’

She was aware that the MacAhern’s daughter was listening avidly, and smiled at her, racking her brains to remember her name. The young woman flushed and moved away, pretending disinterest, and Bronwen returned her attention to the prionnsa, who was saying angrily, ‘I have heard many wild tales about her, including that she tamed her horse in just a day and a night. O’ course I dinna believe such a tale. No winged horse could be tamed so easily, and no woman would have the strength to break it. She must have raised the horse from a foal.’

‘I believe no’,’ Bronwen said. ‘I am sorry ye did no’ have a chance to meet her yourself. If things had been different
…
we had so little time, and I was, o’ course, anxious to use her skills to help track down my cousins. It is no’ often one can take a thigearn into service.’

The MacAhern bowed his head. ‘No. A thigearn is no’ for common hire,’ he answered softly. ‘Nor, for that matter, a thigearna, though I have never before heard o’ a woman taming a flying horse.’ He glanced at his daughter, who was pretending not to listen.

‘I am lucky she was willing to serve me,’ Bronwen said. ‘It will make all the difference having a winged horse in pursuit o’ the villains. Otherwise, I fear, our chances of catching them are slim.’ She felt no need to tell the prionnsa that she had pressed Rhiannon into service as some kind of payment for saving her from the gallows.
Let the arrogant old man feel his own lack of fortitude, she thought, rather unkindly.

The MacAhern hesitated. He had, of course, ridden his own flying horse to Lucescere, but both he and his beautiful rainbow-winged stallion were growing elderly now. There was no way that he could have volunteered his services, and he was the only thigearn left in Tìreich – at least he had been until this wild girl had popped up from nowhere. The flying horses had all been cruelly hunted by Maya’s soldiers during the Burning, and were now more rare than ever. Bronwen was sure that the old prionnsa wished one of his sons had managed to tame a flying horse of his own, but it had not happened, and he was too proud to admit he feared the days of the thigearns were over.

‘I would like to see this girl who can tame a flying horse,’ he said abruptly. ‘If she doesna wish to stay in your service, perhaps she will come to visit us, and tell us her tale? I must admit I am curious.’

‘Perhaps ye will see her at the Lammas Congress,’ Bronwen replied. ‘Will ye be there, my laird?’

‘Happen so,’ he answered. ‘There will be much to talk about.’

‘Indeed there will be,’ Bronwen answered. ‘So much has happened in these last few dreadful days, there has scarcely been time to take it all in. But we must adjust. By Lammas, all o’ us will ken better how to go on.’

He nodded, his expression softening. ‘It has been hard on ye,’ he said, his voice much warmer. ‘To lose your husband on your wedding day, and your uncle too, and then to have so much thrust upon your shoulders.’

‘It has been very hard,’ Bronwen replied, swallowing a lump in her throat. ‘But I am a NicCuinn. “Bravely and wisely” is our motto, and so brave and wise I must be.
If, Eà forbid, we do no’ succeed in rescuing Donncan, I must just do my best for the people o’ Eileanan.’

The MacAhern pressed her hand sympathetically and pledged her his support, before withdrawing back to his wife, shaking his head and murmuring about the poor, brave girl bearing her troubles so valiantly.

Bronwen, sipping another cup of Mirabelle’s tea, hid a smile.

‘Come, Bronny, ye must eat,’ Neil said in a low voice, holding up a little tray of delicacies for her to try.

Bronwen gave him a quick frowning glance of reprimand, and he grinned. ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty! After twenty-four years o’ calling ye by name, it’s hard to remember. Come on, try the fishcake, it’s your favourite. I asked the cook to make it especially.’

Bronwen smiled and took one, biting into it. As its delicate, salty flavour filled her mouth, she realised she could not remember the last time she had eaten a proper meal. She seemed to have been living on dancey alone.

‘It’s a hard row ye have to hoe,’ Neil said softly as she swallowed the morsel of food and reached for another. ‘Ye must keep your strength up, Bronny.’

Tears stung her eyes. She glanced up at him and nodded in agreement. He was right. If she was faint and giddy from hunger, and jittery from too much dancey, she would make a mistake that could cost her the crown.

‘Thank ye, Neil,’ she answered. ‘For everything.’

‘I am yours to command,’ he answered, his voice husky with deep emotion.

She wanted to tell him, once again, that he must not show his feelings for her so clearly when she became aware of being watched. At once she shifted her gaze, and saw she was being observed closely by her second cousin, Dughall MacBrann, the Prionnsa of Ravenshaw. She felt herself stiffen. Dughall had been her father’s cousin and best friend, and after Jaspar’s death had joined forces with Lachlan to help overthrow Maya and return power to the witches. He had inherited the throne of Ravenshaw only recently on the death of his father Malcolm, usually called the Mad. Since his mother had been a NicCuinn, he was theoretically a contender for the throne, and there were no doubt many who looked on him more favourably than on Bronwen.

Dughall was a slim, suave figure, dressed all in black silk, with a neat, pointed beard. Although his hair and moustache were inky black, his face was lined and there were sagging pouches under his eyes. He leant upon a slender walking stick of ebony, embossed with silver, and wore a diamond drop hanging from one ear. His fingers were laden with witch-rings, for the Prionnsa of Ravenshaw was an accomplished sorcerer, descended from Cuinn the Wise on his mother’s side and Brann the Raven on his father’s.

Bronwen took a deep breath and then crossed the room to his side, determined to try to ascertain for herself whether her father’s cousin was to be a danger to her.

‘This is an unhappy day indeed, Your Majesty,’ Dughall said to her, with what seemed like true feeling in his voice. ‘I kent Lachlan when he was but a lad, and feel this is a grievous end indeed for such a proud and noble man.’

‘Aye, true indeed, Your Grace,’ Bronwen replied. ‘Evil
times are upon us indeed if the Rìgh o’ Eileanan and the Far Islands can be poisoned in his own banquet-hall.’

‘And on such a happy occasion. I feel for ye, Your Majesty, to have lost your husband on the very eve o’ your wedding.’

She examined his face for any sign of irony and, finding none, said, with a catch in her voice she could not disguise, ‘Aye, indeed, it was cruel. But we hope to have him back very soon. The Keybearer has gone herself to search for him, with the help of the Celestines, and I am sure it will no’ be much longer afore he is home again.’

‘Let us hope so,’ Dughall replied. ‘And Olwynne and Owein too. Indeed, it was a wicked plot that saw Lachlan struck down and all three o’ his children stolen.’

Bronwen nodded. ‘He is a very wicked man, the laird o’ Fettercairn, if all the stories are true.’

A shadow crossed Dughall’s face. He frowned and pulled at his beard. Bronwen remembered that the MacFerris clan, owners of Fettercairn Castle, were one of Ravenshaw’s oldest and most respected families. She wondered why they had been allowed to go on kidnapping and murdering for so long, and then remembered how vague and senile Dughall’s father Malcolm was said to be in the years before his death. Ravenshaw had once been a prosperous and powerful country, but it had lost most of its wealth in the Ensorcellor’s Burning. Dughall’s mother, Bronwen’s great-aunt, had died in the Burning, she remembered, and his father had never recovered. It must be difficult for Dughall, inheriting a country that had been allowed to go to rack and ruin for forty-odd years.

‘I feel
…
I feel in some ways responsible,’ Dughall said in a low, passionate voice. ‘If only I
…
oh, if only I had done so many things differently! If I had listened to my father
…
’ He pulled himself up short. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Would ye excuse me? I must go and pay my respects to Iseult.’

Bronwen inclined her head and watched him go, her brows drawn together thoughtfully. Of all the things she might have expected Dughall to regret, not listening to his mad, doddering old father was not among them.

A tall, dark-haired man wearing the MacBrann plaid and brooch had been standing silently at Dughall’s elbow all through the conversation. Now he bowed to her politely, and turned to follow after the Prionnsa of Ravenshaw.

She restrained him with a quick gesture of her hand. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid we were no’ introduced. Am I right in guessing that ye are Dughall’s
…
adopted son
…
his heir?’

‘Aye, Your Majesty,’ he replied gravely. ‘I am Owen MacBrann. His Grace adopted me when I was still but a lad.’

‘Why, then that means we are kin,’ Bronwen said warmly.

‘I’m afraid no’, Your Majesty. Dughall’s mother was a NicCuinn, and your father’s aunt. My grandmother was sister to Dughall’s grandmother, on his father’s side. There is no blood relationship between us.’

Bronwen was disconcerted. She had only claimed kinship with him as a means to beginning a conversation. It was in her mind to perhaps charm or cajole him into casting some light on Dughall’s rather cryptic last comment. His sober precision was rather like a dash of water in the face.

She recovered gamely. ‘Och, well, all o’ the great clans have intermarried so many times it’s a wonder we do no’ all have two heads,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s a kinship somewhere.’

‘I would be honoured to think so,’ he responded with a polite bow.

She frowned, wondering on the difference between Dughall MacBrann, a man renowned for his suavity and wit, and this cold, polite young man. She glanced up at him and met his steady grey eyes, and thought again about the many whispers and innuendoes which followed Dughall wherever he went. The MacBrann had never married, nor shown much interest in women at all. The court of Ravenshaw was said to be an idle place, much occupied with gambling, horseracing, dog-breeding and the vagaries of fashion. Dughall, it was said, had lost so much money at the gaming tables that he had had to take out a loan from Lachlan which Bronwen was sure was still outstanding. He was also, it was said, more likely to hire a servant for his comeliness than for his efficiency and had once, many years ago, caused a dreadful scandal with his intense friendship with another young man, the son of one of his father’s courtiers.

Gossip like this had a way of never disappearing. It was like a harlequin-hydra, which grew another two heads every time you cut one off. It must have been hard for a handsome young man like Owen to be adopted by a dissolute old rake like Dughall. No doubt there had been a lot of talk.

‘I am intrigued by Dughall’s last words,’ she said, deciding on impulse that directness and honesty would work better with Owen than guile. ‘Why should he feel responsible for what happened? Did he mean he was sorry that such an evil plot was brewed in his homeland?’

‘No doubt,’ Owen answered. ‘None o’ us can feel proud that such men could thrive in Ravenshaw. By all accounts, they’ve been kidnapping, torturing and murdering as they please for a quarter o’ a century, without
anyone the wiser. We kent, o’ course, that no-one liked to go near the Tower o’ Ravens. We all thought it was because it was haunted. Certainly my laird
…
his mother died there, ye ken, and he has always had a horror o’ the place.’

‘It does seem unbelievable,’ Bronwen said. ‘I have been told thirty-odd little boys were stolen and murdered, and countless graves desecrated, and others tortured and killed in the laird o’ Fettercairn’s experiments in trying to raise the dead. Was there no reeve, no sheriff, to report the dead and missing?’

Owen looked uncomfortable. ‘It does seem difficult to believe, especially, I imagine, for one no’ familiar with the peculiar topography o’ the highlands o’ Ravenshaw. It is cut in two, ye see, by the Findhorn River, and there is only the one bridge now, Brann’s Bridge having been destroyed on the Day o’ Reckoning. The river itself is fierce and fast, and too dangerous to cross easily. So the valley o’ Fetterness is very isolated, and Laird Malvern was like a prionnsa there, with Castle Fettercairn guarding the road down into the lowlands.’

‘Aye, I can see that,’ Bronwen said slowly. ‘But still
…
one wonders that the auld MacBrann could have no inkling o’ what was going on.’

‘He was ill,’ Owen said stiffly. ‘The last few years he was completely bedridden.’

‘One wonders that Dughall did no’ act as regent, if his father was so incapacitated,’ Bronwen said.

Owen flushed. ‘My laird has always had the utmost respect and affection for his father.’

Bronwen nodded. ‘O’ course. I did no’ mean to imply otherwise. It just
…
concerns me that a plot to assassinate the Rìgh o’ Eileanan and to abduct all his heirs could have gone unnoticed.’

‘I assure ye that now my laird is Prionnsa o’ Ravenshaw, he is taking steps to make sure such a dreadful thing can never happen again,’ Owen replied stiffly.

‘I am relieved,’ Bronwen said, and inclined her head as he bowed and excused himself, moving quickly to catch up with the MacBrann who was climbing the stairs to the upper floor.

Owen had, she reflected, sidestepped her real question rather efficiently. Bronwen would still like to know why it was Dughall MacBrann wished he had listened to his mad old father.

Iseult sat in her wing-chair by the fire, staring without seeing into the flickering flames. She had removed her headdress, but her red hair was scraped back from her face and secured so tightly at the back of her head that not one curl managed to escape. With her eyes so swollen and red from weeping, and her face so bony and white, she looked far older than her forty-two years.

She turned her head as Dughall came in, followed closely by his adopted son Owen, and his squire, a pretty young man with dark curls and a dreamy face.

‘Dughall,’ she said in a flat, uninterested voice. ‘I’m sorry. I have no’ seen much o’ ye these last few days. I hope they have made ye comfortable.’

Dughall came and bowed over her hand, and sat himself opposite, waving to his squire to go and sit by the wall with the other servants.

‘I leave for Ravenshaw in the morn,’ Dughall said with the familiarity that comes from a long friendship. ‘I wanted to see ye
…
to tell ye how very sorry I am.’

‘Aye. Thank ye.’

‘It is my fault,’ Dughall burst out. ‘My father
…
he
foresaw it, I think. In the weeks afore he died, he raved a lot. I paid no attention. He seized me by the hand and begged me, begged me, to take fire and raze the Tower o’ Ravens to the ground. He said it was cursed, we were cursed. He said we must kill the ravens, that if we did no’, the Rìgh would die at his own table. I thought it was all nonsense. He said ghosts were gathering all round his bed, that my mother was there, warning him, begging him
…
’ He fell silent, unable to speak any further.

Iseult had roused from her cold abstraction. ‘Your father warned ye? That Lachlan was in danger?’

Dughall nodded unhappily. ‘But he was so incoherent
…
he said many things. We thought he had finally lost his wits. We soothed and swaddled him and gave him more poppy syrup to help him sleep. It just made him rave all the more.’

‘Did he tell Connor?’ Iseult demanded.

‘He must o’. Connor went to see him
…
and rode out that same evening. He must’ve realised it was no’ just an old man’s ramblings.’ Dughall’s voice was bitter.

‘Connor always had a knack o’ seeing truth,’ Iseult said softly. She reached out her thin white hand and laid it on Dughall’s arm. ‘Do no’ distress yourself too much. We too had warnings o’ what was to come. Olwynne
…
Olwynne dreamt it too. I thought we could keep him safe
…
I still canna understand how it happened
…
I was right there, beside him, and I saw naught! I, a Scarred Warrior! If anyone is to blame it is I.’

‘No, no,’ Dughall cried. ‘How were ye to guess?’

‘I was sitting right beside him,’ Iseult said, her voice breaking. ‘We had just shared a toast. He rose to make his speech, to announce the pardons
…
and then this
…
this thing
…
just comes hissing out o’ the shadows and strikes him down.’

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ Dughall said, pressing her hand between his.

‘The murderer was right there, right there! And I saw naught. And then I am so angry, so sure o’ what I think happened, that I bungle everything, I just make it worse! I think it is this Rhiannon girl who has done the deed, because she had a blowpipe and poisoned darts, and because she chooses that very hour to escape from prison. And so I call the dragon’s name and fly after her, to drag her back for the hangman’s noose. Why did I no’ fly after Owein and Olwynne instead? I could have saved them!’

‘Maybe,’ Dughall said. ‘But maybe all ye would’ve done is endanger them. The dragon could no’ have flamed the kidnappers without killing Owein and Olwynne too. They would’ve shot at Asrohc and perhaps injured her, or ye. And probably, if they had realised a dragon was on their trail, they would’ve just killed Owein and Olwynne out o’ hand and fled
…
’

‘Maybe,’ Iseult said unhappily. ‘I just wish I had thought more clearly. I could have asked Asrohc who the murderer was! Dragons can see both ways along the thread o’ time, ye ken. Why did I no’ ask her? It is too late now, I canna call her name again. One does no’ call a dragon lightly, and she is raising her baby princess and was no’ pleased to have to leave her.’