by Kim Wilkins
‘It becomes impossible to know. Your sister, our king, was conflicted herself before she left.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Bluebell.’
‘Losing Blicstowe shook her to her foundation, Rose. In all the years I’ve known and served her, I have never once felt pity for her. What she has to endure, the gods gave her the strength to endure. But on this occasion …’ He trailed off, evidently upset. ‘So I wait, and every morning I hope she will be back, with her army of giants, and Ash with all her powers restored to her. But it grows harder and harder to believe it is true, and the refugees and many of the soldiers grow doubtful.’
‘You have no ideas then?’
‘I have ideas,’ he said. ‘Though you will not like them.’
Rose frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I had word yesterday that a united Ærfolc army are on their way, in the company of King Renward’s army. They ought to be here by tomorrow evening. Ærfolc are cunning, can make themselves invisible, and their archers are without peer.’
Rose thought about Rowan, about the speed and precision of her arrow shot. She grew uneasy. Rowan couldn’t go to war.
‘If we could somehow slip their best archers into Blicstowe, position them on buildings – they are well able to make themselves unseen – then any attempts to light the murdering fires could be thwarted. We have a large army now. We can march on every gate of Blicstowe. Surely one will fall.’
Rose shook her head, protective of her daughter. ‘I cannot advise you. If it doesn’t work, so much may be lost.’ She spread her hands on the table, looked at the maps, each of them representing in abstract the very real fates of men and women, whose hearts yearned and whose minds wished. ‘Heath will know what to do, and the Ærfolc trust him.’
A pause. The sound of wind and crackling fire. Then Sighere said, ‘Heath is not their leader.’
‘Then who?’
‘The Ærfolc army march here not under Heath,’ Sighere said. ‘They are led by your daughter, Rowan.’
Thirty-two
Rowan sent a messenger to Æcstede through a crossing, then led her army from Druimach to Anad Scir, towards King Renward’s hill fort. Moonhorns, Fenlanders, Coombers, Wildwalkers, and other smaller tribes from lakes and eyries, woods and caverns, united around her: nearly one hundred in all. At the front, behind Rowan and the other tribal leaders, were the druids, dislodged from their halls and hollows and flanked by armed men and women. Wherever the raiders had taken on Ærfolc, they had killed the druids first. The ancient knowledge of the Ærfolc died with them. Rowan was determined to find them safe haven as long as bold invaders stalked the land.
She had worn the antlers at the start of the journey, a morning’s march ago. Now, as they approached the fell of Anad Scir through dense woods of dark, twisted trees, she halted the company for long enough to fix them to her head again. They were heavy, both in physical weight and emotional gravity. Heath marched near the back of the Moonhorn army, silent and dour. Guilt and anger pulled at her guts. Around her, soldiers found a seat on rocks or leaned against trees, in shadows that clutched the cold. They drank and talked in low voices.
Niamma, whose few remaining tribespeople were first in the train after the Moonhorns, stopped with Rowan to help adjust the horns. They were attached to a band padded with sheep’s wool that balanced above Rowan’s ears. ‘There,’ Niamma said. ‘Now they are on straight.’ She stood back and smiled. ‘Renward will take one look at you and do whatever you ask.’
‘Will he not just see an uncertain girl?’
‘Only if you are uncertain. Otherwise, he will see a tall woman, flame-haired and tattooed with the mark of Connacht, wearing his horns. You are a sight to behold, Rowan,’ Niamma said. ‘You are a queen.’ She bent her head and withdrew among the soldiers.
Rowan gave the command and they commenced the steep ascent.
Word had got ahead of them and the gates were open, and boards laid down over the flanking ditch. Renward and his retainers waited under the bare branches of a chestnut tree, which stood outside the hall. Sunlight pierced the branches and patterned the flagstones. Renward’s expression was guarded, perhaps even concerned. As Rowan strode ahead of the others and reached out her hand to take his, he eyed her from her toes to the tip of her antlers and said, ‘Where is Heath?’
Her heart sank. Why must he ask that question first? ‘He is here, among the army.’
Renward nodded, eyes still on the antlers. ‘I see on your head the horns of Connacht, but that cannot be as they were burned with him after his death.’
‘Connacht’s ghost gave them to me, before he crossed over to the green city.’
Still he peered at them, his eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Impossible. And yet I know them so well. Their shapes, their scars. And look. You have brought an army of Ærfolc with you.’ He spread his hands, smiled. ‘Well, this is quite something.’
‘I would speak with you, Renward,’ she said. ‘Away from all ears but our own.’
‘And Heath does not mind if we have this private discussion?’
She bit back her retort. Shook her head, tight-lipped.
‘Come then,’ he said, hand on her elbow, an avuncular arm around her shoulder. He pushed open the door to the hall and a moment later the light and noise of the outside world were shut out.
The hall was cosy, with its low roof and twin hearths. Bird skulls, feathers and dried posies hung from the ceiling beams. In the corner nearest the door stood a smoothly hewn table and heavy chairs, and Renward pulled one out and gestured she should sit. He perched on the table directly in front of her, arms folded across his soft belly. His eyes were curious, but kind.
‘Before you begin,’ he said, ‘you should know that my army is preparing this day to march to Blicstowe in the morning. I do hope you are going to tell me you will be joining us.’
‘Yes,’ Rowan said.
He grinned in delight. ‘Then you can say whatever else you like to me, Rowan, but I trust you will take a small slice of good counsel from me too. I promise it will not taste bitter.’
Rowan pulled her spine straight, holding her head high despite the heavy antlers. He was treating her like a young woman. ‘Your good counsel can wait. I have brought a united army of Ærfolc, all willing to negotiate with you to be their king. They want the safety of a united heathen Thyrsland. Their druids are at risk, so I ask you to keep them here under the most stringent secrecy and protection until the raiders are defeated.’
‘Of course. What other terms do you have?’
‘The Ærfolc will pay no taxes to you, Renward, for they have little. They will call you their king and rally for battle when you need them, but their lands, if they have them, remain their own. Nor will this agreement pass on to any heirs of yours, but must be renegotiated. A treaty for every king so the Ærfolc sovereignty is never forgotten.’
Renward stood and then knelt in front of her. ‘I promise you, Rowan Leh-an-Heath, Uenta-an-Connacht,’ he said. ‘Not simply because at this precise moment it is politically practical – we are about to march into war, after all – but because I love the Ærfolc and their wisdom and their ways.’ Then he stood again, resumed his seat on the table. ‘We should marry, you know,’ he said, almost as though it were an afterthought.
A withering feeling came over Rowan. He had said aloud what she had been trying not to think about. A marriage between them would square up everything, a child would set it in stone. Niamma came to mind: her soft skin, her bird-like body, her fiery eyes. Desire flickered through her. She could not lie with Renward, who was big and hairy and smelled like wet dog.
‘I have as little desire for it as you,’ Renward said, reading her expression.
‘It is something we can discuss after Blicstowe is recovered,’ Rowan replied. ‘I concede it would be good for Thyrsland.’
‘You could have as many lovers as you liked and I wouldn’t care a bit,’ he said. ‘As long as you didn’t fall pregnant to them.’
‘There is little chance of that with the lovers I choose,’ Rowan said lightly.
He clapped his hands then rubbed them together. ‘Enough of that for now. Let us talk about war. The Ærfolc have agreed to help liberate Blicstowe, then? Can they fight in formation?’
‘Some can.’
‘The ones Heath has trained?’
‘From Druimach, yes. A little under half the army.’
He nodded, stroking his beard, clearly choosing his words carefully. ‘And you … you know how to deploy an army? You have trained also?’
‘When I could. Heath was not always forthcoming with his wisdom.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Renward said slowly. ‘But you see, this is where I must give you advice.’
Rowan steeled herself. ‘Go on.’
‘He should be alongside you. Not at the back of the army.’
‘He has barely spoken a word to me since I took the horns,’ she grumbled. ‘He chose to step aside.’
Renward leaned his elbows on his knees and interlocked his fingers. ‘Yes, but, Rowan, you need him.’
Rowan didn’t answer. She could feel her pulse thudding angrily in her throat.
‘You look very impressive with those horns. You may be their little queen. They talk of your ability with the bow, and I know you can command the crossings. But you are very young, and have no experience in war. Your pride is admirable and under no circumstance would I say this unless we were alone. But you will get people killed – your people, who trust you – if you do not restore Heath to your side.’
Rowan sighed.
‘You know it is true,’ Renward said. ‘Heath is a good war leader.’
‘I will do as you say,’ she replied. ‘My army will come down to the field with yours this afternoon, and I will put Heath in charge.’
‘A good idea. And then tomorrow … well, we do not need to march now, do we? We have you. You can open the crossing and let the whole army through.’
Rowan drummed her fingers on the table, tense. ‘I can, but I do not know if it is wise. Rathcruick will know. Given his mischief is at the heart of this disaster, it may be much safer to spend the time on the march.’
‘Ah, so we come to my second piece of advice,’ Renward said. Now he stood, a bear of a man, his head grazing the charms hung from the ceiling beams. ‘As long as Rathcruick is alive, he will be trouble.’
‘I can’t kill him. He’s my –’
‘Nothing. He’s your nothing. He was never your father. There is that little spark of his daughter left in you, though, that cannot hate him enough for death.’
‘Then you kill him.’
‘Me kill Rathcruick? And shall I catch a fish with my bare hands too?’ He pointed a meaty finger at her. ‘Perhaps it’s time for you to earn those horns, my girl.’
She bristled. ‘Connacht thought I deserved them.’
‘Or perhaps he thought you would deserve them. In time.’
Rowan did not answer. She knew Renward was right: the Ærfolc, Bluebell, peace in Thyrsland; all were at risk as long as Rathcruick remained alive. But Rowan was certain she could not kill him. Whatever was left inside her of Dardru would stop her.
Renward had insisted she have a small bowerhouse to herself, a tiny structure of aged wood at the back of the hall. In here, the ornaments hung densely from the beams. A hundred different charms. Rowan wondered who had needed so much good luck. The bed was narrow but soft. She sat on it and eased off her shoes. The shutter was open a crack, and through it she could see the branches of a yew, close against the outside of the building, blocking out the late afternoon light. She rose and closed the shutter, creating early night, then fed some peat bricks to the fire, and sat at the small square table where somebody had left her bread and cheese.
She chewed disconsolately, without appetite but knowing she needed her strength restored after the afternoon’s training.
Heath had been nowhere to be found. She knew he had arrived in Anad Scir, as everyone she asked had seen him. But while she had been speaking with Renward in his hall, he had disappeared. Deserted, maybe, unable to bear taking orders from his own daughter.
Rowan had not done a bad job without him. She knew the formations. The combined tribal army were eager to please her. But Renward’s words returned to her. You will get people killed. She had sent four men out to find him, and bristled at the uncertainty he had brought into her life, at the exact moment when she …
When she needed him.
Damn him.
A soft knock at the door had her quickly on her feet. She expected to see Heath on the other side.
But it was Niamma.
‘A room all to yourself?’ Niamma said. ‘Impressive.’
‘Come in out of the cold,’ Rowan said, venturing a hand on Niamma’s shoulder. ‘Have you eaten? I have enough for both of us.’
Niamma waved the offer away but let herself be led inside. ‘I would speak with you, Rowan. I take it Heath hasn’t turned up?’
Rowan shook her head.
‘The word is that Renward insists Heath lead the army.’
‘It isn’t true. He advised me to have Heath beside me.’
‘You do not need him.’
‘Perhaps I do.’
Niamma pulled out a chair and sat, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. ‘How quickly you doubt yourself.’
‘I do not doubt myself, but I must think about the safety of my people.’
‘You are a marvellous leader. We would follow you anywhere.’
Rowan gazed at Niamma. Even in the dark and the dim firelight, she thought she saw a slight pinkening of Niamma’s cheeks under her gaze. For all this time, she had thought Niamma’s unerring support, her fervent encouragement, were political in nature. Now she wondered if Niamma’s words could be taken as politically sound, or as a different kind of devotion.
Rowan came to sit opposite her.
‘He is old and you are young,’ Niamma continued. ‘Long after Heath is in his grave, you will wear the horns of Connacht and inspire our tribes.’
‘This is not necessarily true, Niamma,’ Rowan said, and the fear and cold rose in her throat. ‘I am untested in war. Heath may well outlive me. I may not survive the Battle of Blicstowe if I do not take Renward’s counsel.’
Niamma rose and came to her, knelt on the floor beside her chair so they were roughly at each other’s eye level. ‘You Thyrslanders are so fixated on your deaths. On how fleeting your time in the world is,’ she said. ‘Not one of us knows the day upon which we will die. My brother, Albi, had not yet seen his twelfth birthday. Many women give up life at the same moment they give life to another. Perhaps you will not see forty winters. Perhaps I will not. The Ærfolc have a saying, “Lathean yn dey torthan.” The days are like fruit. If you do not pluck them they rot and wither. Here you are, Rowan, in the thick of things. Coming of age as a queen, leading a united army in battle behind Renward. Unthinkable!’ Here she laughed. ‘Do not make decisions from your grave while you yet live, my beauty. Squeeze all of the sweetness out of the days on which you are alive.’
She stopped, her lips slightly parted, and Rowan felt a deep, low stir of desire. The moment seemed to stretch out to ten times its length. Her skin prickled, the sweetest yearning bloomed in her breast.
Niamma leaned in and turned up her face, and Rowan met her lips with her own. Softness on softness. Niamma’s tongue slid inside Rowan’s mouth. Hot shivers.
Niamma pulled away, smiling. ‘We ought not mix love and war.’
‘When war is over?’ Rowan said, hoping she did not sound too desperate.
‘There will be time for many things. Years and years. You will be here, Rowan. I know it.’
Rowan grasped Niamma’s warm fingers. ‘I will if I restore Heath to the head of the army.’
‘So be it.’ Niamma squeezed her hand, then withdrew and returned to her chair. ‘Did Renward have any other advice for you?’
‘Kill Rathc
ruick so he doesn’t fuck up all our plans.’
‘That would be useful indeed. But you cannot, can you?’
Rowan shook her head, but Niamma suddenly straightened, alive with an idea.
‘We do not have to kill him to stop him interfering,’ she said breathlessly.
‘What do you mean? A truce? He would never –’
‘A truce with Rathcruick? It would mean nothing. But think, my little queen. Every Ærfolc druid but his is in Anad Scir at this moment. If we can reckon on a way to exploit his weakness, we could harness their combined magic …’
‘What is his weakness?’ Rowan asked, hopeful but afraid.
Niamma gave a little laugh. ‘You don’t know?’ she asked. ‘It’s you. You’re his weakness, Rowan.’
Dawn fog clung to Rowan’s hair and cloak. She sat in damp leaf-fall beneath a towering oak in the forest outside Anad Scir, calming her breathing. Cold seemed to have seeped beneath her skin, and she could not control the trembles of her bones and blood. Waiting, not knowing how long it would take or if he would come at all. She felt entirely alone, although she was not. But the others were not visible, nor even able to be sensed.
She had sent a messenger through the crossing, an older fellow with only a few good years of fighting left in him. Rowan had seen in his eyes that she thought him expendible, that she could not tell him for certain if he would be coming back from Rathcruick’s camp, but he had said nothing. It had taught her a valuable, awful lesson in leadership. The message she had sent with him had been simple: ‘With the love she bears you as your daughter, Rowan-el-Dardru wants to see you and know your terms.’
Rowan-el-Dardru: Rowan around Dardru, that hot little light inside her that was Rathcruick’s daughter and, as Niamma said, would never be able to kill him.
That had been three hours ago.
