by Kim Wilkins
She had convinced herself he might not come, and so was almost surprised when movement caught her eye. He did not come alone. Forty yards ahead of her, where a crossing stood, he appeared, flanked by his son Carnax and his own tall, stooped druid, Turloch. Rathcruick was not a fool.
But then, neither was Rowan.
The messenger was with them, hands tied and walking in front of Carnax.
Rowan stood and waited for them to approach. Rathcruick lifted his head proudly, wearing his blackberry antlers, his hooked nose and hooded eyes making grim shadows on his face. Rowan did not need to feign looking anxious and unsure.
‘What is this about?’ he asked gruffly. But, like Rowan, he could not ever entirely be an enemy. Dardru bound them. The forest was silent as though holding its breath. Even the drops that hung in the branches from last night’s rain were still.
‘I have united the tribes,’ she said, ‘as the old sayer predicted. I have come here to make a treaty with Renward and he has demanded we march with him on Blicstowe.’
Rathcruick raised an eyebrow. ‘You will never recover Blicstowe. The mad queen has the assistance of the new god.’
Rowan frowned, about to ask what he meant, then remembered what she had to do. ‘I do not know if I want to help recover Blicstowe,’ she said. ‘Now I have taken up Connacht’s work, I feel more keenly my Ærfolc nature. Though I am a half-blood, though I was raised a Thyrslander …’ She placed a hand over her heart. ‘I am yet Dardru. Deep and hidden. But unmistakably.’
Any suspicion or scepticism Rathcruick might have felt was being contained by the combined skills of eleven druids, working a spell beneath the senses. Even Turloch would not feel it, for they had predicted he would come.
‘Of course you are Dardru, at least as much as you are Rowan,’ Rathcruick said. ‘And of course you are confused. Self-divided. But which self will triumph in this struggle? No Ærfolc who believed in independence or self-sovereignty would ever make a pact with Thyrslanders. They are the murderers of our ancestors’ friends and families; they think themselves our masters. Do you not feel this in your blood, my daughter? Do you not feel their thunderous clumsy feet upon your head?’
In that moment, Rowan certainly did. The rage of the colonised. How low the Ærfolc had been brought. And here she was thinking of marrying Renward. Was she mad?
She breathed, calming over Dardru’s fury. ‘But what is there to be done now? We march after sunrise.’
‘Pull out. Take the tribes and come to me in the Howling Wood.’
‘And what then?’
‘Nothing. We wait while Thyrsland tears itself apart and then we emerge and resume, one united tribe under you and me.’
Light speared through the dawn fog. The rising sun. The mist turned golden. Rowan was conscious that time was passing, that she needed to position Rathcruick. Still that small scrap of Dardru inside her made her reluctant. She reminded herself of her lost childhood. How much chaos and death had been brought to Blicstowe by Rathcruick’s actions? The ancient oak seemed to bend its will towards her, beckoning, alive with the druids’ magic. It was time.
She dropped her eyes. ‘You make sense, but I am confused and feel trapped,’ she said, and she knew she ought to cry so she thought of Snowy, who might be dead, and the tears came easily.
He took a step closer, touched her shoulder. His hand was warm. ‘Do not cry. I will help you.’
‘I am too young for this,’ she sobbed. ‘I do not know what to do, who to trust.’ She wasn’t lying. She shivered.
‘Listen to me. Trust me.’
‘Do you love me, Father?’
‘Of course, Dardru. I love you and miss you every day.’
‘Then why will you not hold me?’
At this, Turloch the druid cried out a warning, but it was too late for Rathcruick, who followed some base and powerful fatherly instinct into her arms. She had time to notice how warm and rough and comforting his body was, then locked her arms around him and fell back, landing with a thud half against the oak, hip bones jolting against the ground. Rathcruick tried to get up, but already the roots of the tree had snaked free of the ground and caught his legs.
Rowan squirmed out from under him. The sound of arrows from the treetops: the Wildwalkers filling Carnax’s and Turloch’s lungs with sharp points. The messenger ran from them, took a knife in his right shoulder. Rathcruick cried out. Low branches bent down. The druids emerged in a circle, chanting. Their voices were strange, winding around her like the fog.
‘Dardru!’ Rathcruick shouted, desperate.
Rowan’s heart seized. She wanted to help him. Then Niamma was there, holding her back, pinning her arms behind her and whispering, ‘You are Rowan. You are not Dardru.’
The oak pulled Rathcruick against it, roots and branches ensnaring his limbs and torso, new bark miraculously growing over him so Rowan could no longer tell his knees from roots, his elbows from knots. Twigs sprouted, new green leaves upon them as though it were spring, not autumn. With a groan, Rathcruick’s head snapped up and back, against the bark. His mouth open in a scream, his skin turning grey-brown, wrinkling into bark. Then he was gone.
The druids ceased their chant and silence rushed upon her ears. Rowan could hear her heart thudding. Niamma’s soldiers climbed down from the trees and made sure Carnax and Turloch were dead. The messenger was helped to his feet, alive but bloody.
Niamma released her.
Rowan closed her eyes, searched her feelings. Guilt? A little. Rathcruick was trapped in the oak but later, after all was settled, she could return and have him removed. If she wanted.
She turned to the assembled druids and soldiers and took a shuddering breath. ‘Send word to the Ælmessean army,’ she said. ‘The crossings are all mine now.’
Heath was back by the time the armies were assembling near the crossing, standing near the back of the Moonhorn tribe as though nothing had happened. They were lined up in untidy rows around the ancient dolmen; Renward’s army on one side, the united tribes on the other, angled around trees and rocks in the sparse woods at the foot of the hill. Rowan spied Heath and determined to ignore him, then seconds later determined she would speak with him, then forty steps towards him changed her mind again …
But by now he had seen her. Their eyes locked. She inclined her head lightly to the left, and he broke ranks and approached her. She walked quickly away, into the woods, where they could speak without being heard. By the stream among a clutch of ash saplings, they faced each other.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
‘I thought it best to be out of your way while you practised with Renward’s men.’
Rowan shook her head. ‘I need you.’
His postured softened, almost imperceptibly. ‘You are the chieftain now.’
‘I am young. You know war. I would have you by my side as we march to Æcstede.’
He stood, still as a statue. Rowan could not read his thoughts from his expression. A quick breeze ran through the woods, shaking last night’s raindrops free and stirring fallen leaves.
‘You and I,’ she said, ‘we have not had the most comfortable of relationships. And yet we are related. You are my father. We share a love for my mother. I know that your pride is wounded. But pride ought not stand in the way of right action.’
‘Rowan,’ he said, feelingly. ‘I am sorry …’
She stepped towards him and slipped into his arms. Only a few hours before a fatherly embrace had ended so differently. This time, she allowed herself to be held and, yes, loved, if that was what she could call the odd affection between herself and Heath.
‘Mama will be so happy to see us together,’ she said, against his warm shoulder.
He squeezed her tightly, then let her go. ‘I would be honoured to stand beside you, my queen.’
‘You will never, ever call me that again,’ she said. ‘I am not your queen. I am your Rowan.’
He smiled, grasped her hand. ‘I promise you. My Rowan.’
They returned to the army, hand in hand. Rowan searched the assembly for Niamma, and wondered if she would be disappointed in Rowan, making peace with Heath. Then she decided she didn’t care. Niamma, Renward, Heath. She could love them, but they no longer told her what to do; their opinions no longer constrained her. She was a queen. It was time to start acting like one.
Rowan raised her arms and opened the crossing. ‘Let’s go,’ she called.
Her army moved.
Thirty-three
Bluebell, her war band and her giants kept to the low roads as they made their way back across Thyrsland. Even on the low roads, though, there was traffic, there was the necessity for fresh horses, or for a meal at a small alehouse. The giants had miraculous abilities to hide: slipping into the woods or behind rocks, but also some trick of the air and light Withowind used.
Now, as they sat by a stream, resting the horses for the final descent towards Æcstede, Bluebell watched as Withowind showed Ash the trick. They had assembled on the other side of the stream so she was too far away to hear their words, but Withowind and the other giants clearly adored Ash. With warm patience they surrounded her, Withowind explaining something minutely. Ash, whose powers seemed not only restored but amplified, moved the wind with a roll of her wrists.
Bluebell chewed on a slice of dried apple. The sun was out from behind the morning fog, glittering on the backs of the leaves lifted by the wind. Her soldiers spoke in low voices to each other, some stripped down and washing in the stream so they could greet loved ones smelling sweet and fresh. Bluebell didn’t care about smelling sweet and fresh. After the battle, if she was still alive, she would have a bath in her bowerhouse with Snowy.
A pang.
She resisted the urge to lay her arm across her belly, across what might be the last trace of her husband. She would not think about the child growing inside her. She hardly believed it was true: she was not sick, though perhaps her appetite was thin; and now she had thought to count, she knew her monthly bleed was late. The current disaster meant she had not cared to keep track. As for her body, she felt as strong and sure-footed as ever. Nothing had changed.
As these thoughts played out, across the stream, the giants began to laugh. Bluebell returned her attention to them, wondering where Ash was. She glanced around. Six giants, twelve soldiers, no Ash.
Or …
She was still there, among the giants. How had Bluebell not seen her?
Then she wasn’t again. Bluebell stood, all her muscles flexed. She peered at the place where Ash was and … she was back.
Bluebell laughed. Ash looked so proud of herself, flashing in and out of visibility. Only she wasn’t ever entirely invisible; it was as though a shallow fog descended over that small sector of Bluebell’s vision. If she knew what to look for, she could see through it. This was how the giants did it, and now Ash could do it too.
Sal was at her side then, a half-smile on his lips. ‘Imagine if she could make our whole army disappear.’
‘I had thought the same, though I suspect not. I mean, she is still there. I can see her if I try to see her.’
They watched together for a few moments, then Sal turned to her. ‘We are a few hours from Æcstede and should arrive while there is yet afternoon light. What is your plan for keeping the giants hidden once there?’
‘I have no plan,’ Bluebell said. ‘We will march into Æcstede with them fully visible behind me.’
Sal raised an eyebrow.
‘Sal, I have been away too long. I need to show my people that it was worth it. Imagine how their hopes will lift when they see that not only am I returned, but also that I have with me a war band of giants.’
‘Willow may find out,’ Sal said.
‘I hope she does and I hope she shits herself,’ Bluebell snapped, then softened. ‘At most she will have a night to think of a plan, and neither Willow nor Hakon have good brains for war strategy.’ She smiled to herself, imagining Willow failing the giants’ test. As for Hakon, his chief weapons were ugliness and fear. The giants would not be afraid of him.
‘The woman I met seemed as though she could stare down giants without fear,’ Sal muttered, and Bluebell turned to face him.
‘Are you afraid of Willow?’
‘I saw what she did.’
Bluebell did not bother to contain her patience. ‘She killed cruelly? Is that the first time you have seen cruelty, Sal?’
His chin jutted out slightly. ‘They were my friends.’
‘Salgar son of Dunstan,’ she said, ‘you may curl in a ball and cry for the lifetime of bad dreams my sister granted you only after this battle is fought. Do you understand?’ She had seen this before: men who had seen a thousand vile deaths suddenly unable to witness another. But she could not lose Sal now. He had to be made to keep going.
He nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Round everyone up,’ she commanded. ‘Giants and the little undermagician too. I want them on full display. Leave our pots and pans and blankets behind. I want shining mail and everyone in a sash, and our banner flying high and bright. When the soldiers, the citizens and all the refugees see us, they will gasp. Maximum awe. Make sure everyone knows.’
Sal hurried off to start organising the band. Bluebell watched them begin to move, fear and excitement infusing their bodies. She thought of that field of refugees she had seen in that horrifying moment she had emerged from being trapped in the forest by Rathcruick.
Where were you? Where were you?
‘Here we fucking are,’ Bluebell said to herself. She was on fire to show them.
Every noise near the door, every footstep passing in the narrow corridor outside the living quarters in which Rose and Linden were staying, made all Rose’s senses sing with alert. Wengest would come. He would try to take Linden. She would have to stop him.
But mostly, it was Ivy going in and out, her rough companion she had met in the woods, or Nettie playing with Ivy’s children.
So when the door cracked open, she pulled Linden close to her hip and waited with her breath trapped in her lungs.
Then every muscle and fibre unbunched and she was in Heath’s arms. The smell of him – woodsmoke and skin – overwhelmed her. There was drizzle in his beard and on his cloak.
‘I did not expect you for days,’ she said.
‘Rowan found us a very fast route,’ he said with a humourless laugh. ‘Hello, Linden.’
Linden barely looked up from where he crouched once more on the floor, organising Goldie’s rocks in order of size.
‘There is much to tell you,’ Rose said.
Heath nodded. ‘On both sides. But for now, are you well? How I have missed you.’ His arms went around her waist again.
She pressed her cheek against his chest. The embroidery on his shirt imprinted on her skin. ‘I am not well. Wengest has discovered us. I do not know what he plans.’
‘I have seen him,’ Heath said, his voice rumbling against her cheek. ‘He was forgiving but insists that I return to Druimach after the battle.’
‘With me and Linden?’
‘He did not say.’
She stepped back, searching his face with her gaze. ‘Heath, would you forgive me anything?’
‘What a thing to ask, Rose. Of course. Have you something to tell me?’
Rose shook her head.
‘Whatever it is, or will be, it must wait. An important battle will soon take place and no king nor queen will answer questions about which child belongs where. First, blood must be spilled. Lives must be lost. Love waits on war.’
‘You have come with the Ærfolc?’
‘I have come with my new queen, Rowan,’ he said, a wry twist to his lips.
Pride and fear fought in her breast. ‘I do not understand how this came to pass,’ Rose said. ‘Sighere said the tribes followed her to Renward?’
‘Competence inspires nobody, Rose,’ he said bitterly. ‘A prophecy, a set of antlers that belonged to her grandfather, her ability to bring us here thro
ugh a magical crossing …’ He shrugged. ‘I had no chance to hold on to power.’
Rose touched his face, unsure what to say. He was angry with Rowan, that much was clear. It was not a time for Rose to admit any pride in her daughter. ‘Will she be safe?’ she asked instead.
‘In that she has an army of a hundred willing to die for her, yes,’ he replied. Then, seeming to realise that she needed reassurance, added, ‘I will not let any harm come to her. She will come along soon enough herself to set your mind at rest, I imagine.’ He let her go and stood in front of Linden. ‘And as for this fellow … I have missed you, young sir.’
Linden looked up with a slight lift of his lips.
Rose fought the familiar feeling that happiness was always given to her temporarily, conditionally. She turned and reached for Heath, holding him as tightly as she could. He sensed her uncertainty and planted his feet firmly, stroked her hair and didn’t break the embrace.
The problem was there was never anywhere to sit. When Ivy needed a break, more often than not she simply returned to the shelter of the row of hazels that delineated the edge of the field, waited a few minutes, then returned to work.
This is where she stood, arms and back aching, gazing out over the field of refugees. She hated the work. Hated it. She’d started by carrying buckets of water to and from the stream – hence the aching muscles – but the soft skin of her palms had torn up so she had asked for a different job. Now she and Goldie were responsible for weaving between the hundreds of little encampments, handing out bread and dried fruit. Most of them wanted to talk, to complain, to seek comfort and reassurance from her. She did her best, but it drained her dry. By the end of the second day, she felt she was little more than a husk. Her own broken heart, her own need for comfort and reassurance, was endlessly deferred. On arrival back at the alderman’s house, her boys had leapt on top of her, needing cuddles and stories and bedtime tuck-ins. She fell asleep before they did, then woke to a new day – a slightly wetter one – to do it all again.
So now she stood – one arm protectively around Goldie, her fingers in the girl’s hair – hollow-eyed and bone-tired, wishing she could run back to town.
