by Kate Forsyth
There was one tall, elegant man in black satin with a white cravat and pointy shoes whom Hannah thought she recognised. He was dancing arm-in-arm with a sneering young woman who wore a cloak made of living larks all chained tightly about the throat, their wings beating frantically. Dancing beside them, laughing and calling mocking comments to each other, were a dozen other couples, dressed in extraordinary garments made of jewels and furs and leaves and scales. One had an adder wound about his throat like a poisonous necklace; another wore a giant stag beetle as an ornament in the writhing snakes of her hair.
Hannah reached Max and quickly smeared some of the fern-seed paste on his brow and repeated the spell, then helped him sit up. He winced and repressed a grunt of agony. His leg looked very bad. Hannah did not know what to do.
‘Splint it,’ Max whispered. ‘To support it while I walk. Find two sticks, as straight as you can.’
Hannah nodded and searched the clearing till she found two straight branches. No one saw her, though she pulled one stick right out from under the heel of a squat, green bogey-beast. Slowly, trying to be quiet, she tore her petticoat into long strips and used the strips to bind the broken leg to the sticks. Max could not help a sharp cry of pain. At once some of the goblins glanced around, and a few rose from their haunches, looking around the clearing suspiciously. Hannah shrank back into the shadows under the trees, trying to calm the hurried tempo of her breath. Max was biting his lip to stop himself screaming out in pain. The jester shouted out a loud ‘Hurrah!’ and began to dance a sailor’s hornpipe. The goblins turned back to watch, sniggering and nudging each other. Hannah bent over Max again, her hand trembling uncontrollably as she did her best to straighten the broken leg and strap it tight to the sticks. Max was a sickly yellowish-white when at last he stood, leaning heavily on Hannah’s rowan stick. They began to move away, step by slow step.
‘Enough!’ Irata cried. ‘You need to learn some new tricks, fool. You begin to bore me. Perhaps we should set the Wild Hunt onto you. We have not enjoyed a good chase for a while.’
At once the jester stood still, his mandolin clasped to his chest, his hobby-horse drooping from one hand. His face was still and expressionless.
‘So, boy.’ Irata glared down at Donovan. ‘You claim to be Eglantyne’s son. I cannot believe her son would be such a fool. Surely you realise that means I must kill you now?’
Hannah froze in her tracks, turning to look back at Donovan in horror. He stood very still, his fingers white where they gripped his flugelhorn.
‘There’s no need to kill me,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in kings and queens. I won’t challenge you for the throne.’
Irata laughed. ‘You expect me to believe that?’ The crowd shrieked and gibbered, leaping up and down.
‘He amuses you,’ the jester spoke out, raising his voice above the din. ‘You say my tricks are beginning to bore you. Why do you not make him your fool too? Surely it would amuse you to keep the true heir to the throne as a capering fool, instead of simply killing him? He’s only a boy. He’s no threat to you.’
Irata tapped her finger against her mouth, looking Donovan up and down. ‘Can you play that horn?’
In answer, Donovan lifted his flugelhorn and began to play ‘Time After Time’. Miles Davis playing this song on his trumpet was one of his favourite pieces of music, and Hannah had learnt to play it and sing it with him over the last winter. The sound of it brought a sting of tears to Hannah’s eyes. She knew he was playing it for her.
Slowly, slowly, she and Max began to stagger away from the clearing. It was one of the hardest things Hannah had ever done, walking away from Donovan and the father she had never met, leaving them there at the mercy of the black witch and her mob of howling goblins. Six months earlier she would have charged into the clearing, demanding Irata let them go. Hannah knew, however, that their only hope was in stealth and subtlety. She had to get Max and herself safely away. All of the fern-seed ointment was gone, and Hannah could not save Donovan and her father without more. She needed to find Linnet.
Still, even knowing she was doing the right thing, tears flooded down Hannah’s cheeks as she and Max stumbled away through the trees. He could put no weight on his broken leg, so she supported him as best as she could. He leant heavily on her walking-stick, the bound and splinted leg dangling uselessly. The ground began to slope away under their feet, and Hannah’s foot slipped, jerking Max cruelly. He cried out in pain. At once the goblin with the red cap swung his snout around, scowling and scanning the clearing with narrow, suspicious eyes. He sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring, then began to snuffle around the crowd, his head low to the ground. He found the spot where Hannah had fallen, and sniffed all about, his long pointed nose twitching from side to side.
Hannah swallowed hard, her heart battering against her ribs. She felt sick with terror. She tried to urge Max to hurry, but he was in so much pain he could barely hop along. The goblin with the red cap tracked Hannah’s scent across to where Max had been lying, uncoiling his long whip as he went. A few other goblins had noticed him, and began to sniff around as well. A few howls of excitement rose up into the air. Hannah slung her arm under Max’s shoulder, taking as much of his weight as she could, and broke into a staggering run. They slipped and crashed down the slope, Max sobbing brokenly, as behind them Irata screamed, ‘Where are they? Find them!’ There was no time to lose.
She urged Max on. His breath came in little whimpers. Behind them they could hear running feet, yelping, a dreadful snuffling noise. Ahead, a river raced down the centre of a narrow valley, foaming white in the darkness. Hannah looked up. She could see the eerie green glow racing towards them above the trees. She lifted Max and half carried him down the slope, his leg dragging behind. She heard him bite back a scream of agony.
‘We need to get into the river. So they don’t smell our tracks,’ she whispered. ‘Here’s a log. If you lean on it, it’ll help keep you afloat. I’ll kick us along. Can you manage?’
Max nodded, lying down awkwardly on the log. Hannah took off her apron and tied it about her shoulders so the toad in her pocket hung down her back. Then she pushed the log out into the river, kicking as hard as she could. The icy current caught the log and swept them away, just as dark shapes hurtled down the slope towards the river, howling in the chase.
It was a terrifying journey, whirling about, knocking into rocks or piles of driftwood, racing through the darkness. Looking back, Hannah saw the green glow swirl up and soar away towards Schiehallion. Slowly the night faded and a cold, red, angry dawn spread across the sky. Hannah’s legs were numb, and her skirts dragged in the foaming water. She looked across at Max. He was unconscious. She tried to steer the log towards the shore, but the current was too strong. It was not until they were dashed up against a great rock, where the water fell over in a series of foaming cataracts, that Hannah was at last able to drag Max away from the log and onto the shore. It took all her strength, and she was shivering so violently that her arms and legs and hands would not work properly. Hannah could only be grateful that Max was still unconscious and so unaware of his pain and the bitter cold. She lay curled beside him on the stones for a long time. At last she found the strength to heave Max up and drag him away from the river.
Drag. Stop. Drag. Stop. Straighten her aching back. Drag. Stop. Drag.
The hours passed in a daze of exhaustion. At last Hannah found a broad cave under some twisted hazel roots. She lay Max down on the earth and sat beside him, head drooping, panting. Max moaned and rolled his head, but did not wake. Hannah groped for her hag-stone, but it was not hanging about her neck as usual. With a sinking sensation in her stomach, she remembered how Irata had torn it from her.
Her hag-stone gone. Donovan a captive. Her father a grinning fool.
Hannah put her head down and wept.
Port Wine Stain
Finally Hannah could cry no more. She wiped her face, blew her nose on her apron, and got Angus out of her pocket.
> ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘This is all my fault. I’ll find some way to change you back, I promise.’
Ribbett, ribbett, the toad replied.
Hannah took off her wet dress and plaid, and hung them over a rock. She busied herself making Max more comfortable. She took off his shirt and sheepskin jacket, and hung them out to dry. She cut heather and bracken and made a bed for him. She gathered armfuls of dead branches, and tried her best to light a fire by rubbing sticks together. She failed. She went often to look out at the narrow, steep-sided valley, to look for any signs of pursuit, or in the vain hope that Linnet would somehow find them. She looked hopelessly for food.
Much, much later, when the sun was sinking down behind the trees, Hannah called out, in desperation, ‘Hag-stone, wherever you are, bring me Linnet. I want her now, this very minute!’
She spoke with no true confidence, and got up soon afterwards to tuck Max’s plaid around him more securely. Yet when she heard the drumming of hooves on the hard ground, she knew at once that the spell had worked and went running out, laughing with joy, to see the water-horse galloping along the ridge, three riders on its back. Linnet, Morgana and Scarlett. There was a tumultuous reunion, Scarlett and Hannah crying and laughing at once, Morgana leaping around and clapping her hands, and Linnet smiling, her eyes bright with tears.
‘I can’t believe it worked! You’re here! I called you and now you’re here!’ Hannah flung herself into Linnet’s arms.
Linnet hugged her close. ‘But of course I am here. You called me, didn’t you? I am bound to your service and so must always come when you call.’
Hannah looked at her in surprise. ‘But I’ve lost the hag-stone. The black witch . . . she took it from me.’
‘A hag-stone can never be stolen or bought, only given with free will,’ Linnet reminded her. ‘She will find it refuses to work its magic for her.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Hannah sighed gustily.
‘Where’s Max and Donovan? And Angus?’ Scarlett looked around eagerly.
‘A lot has happened,’ Hannah said. ‘Come into the cave and I’ll tell you . . .’
The next five weeks were the most miserable of Hannah’s life.
They lived in the cave, scrounging for food along the riverbank, looking after Max who slowly, day by day, began to heal. Linnet searched for comfrey and horsetail in the meadows, to make up potions to help his bones knit, and gathered fern seed whenever she could find it, to make some more of the spell of invisibility. Scarlett and Hannah together raided birds’ nests for eggs, rigged up nets with their aprons to try to catch the salmon leaping up the falls—and, amazingly, sometimes got one—and searched for mushrooms and lichen in the woods. They never had enough food, and so, after much discussion, the girls risked riding into Fortingall and singing ballads in return for a few coins with which they could buy supplies.
Morgana was at first extremely difficult, so that Hannah often secretly wished that she had never helped the fairy princess escape. Although Morgana was at least seven years old, she expected Linnet, Hannah and Scarlett to dress her as if she were a doll. She wanted to be waited on hand and foot, and broke into stormy tears every time her will was thwarted. Her white dress was in ribbons from her frantic escape, and so she expected them to conjure another for her.
‘You must be joking!’ Scarlett cried. ‘Do you have any idea how much new clothes cost?’
Then, hearing herself, she met Hannah’s eyes in a rueful glance, missing Angus more than ever.
Until Angus had been turned into a toad, Hannah had not realised how much he had done to make their journey comfortable. He had drawn water, gathered firewood, foraged for food, cooked their meals and guarded their sleep. Now Linnet and the two girls had to do everything. It was exhausting and back-breaking work. At night, Hannah fell onto her bed of dried leaves and branches and slept like the dead.
The water-horse was a great help to them. It meant that Scarlett and Hannah were able to ride deep into the forest in search of food and kindling, or ride to Fortingall. They could never leave the water-horse untethered or take off his halter, but as long as his head was bound with iron and leather, he remained, if not exactly docile, at least controllable. If it was not for the fact that he ate fish—snatching them out of the air as they leapt up the falls—he would have seemed like any other ill-tempered, fiery-natured stallion.
The days grew longer and warmer. Linnet, Max and the two girls spent any free time devising a plan for rescuing Donovan and Hannah’s father. They knew that they could not pass through the gateway into the Otherworld until May Day, and so all their energies were bent on keeping themselves safe till Max’s leg had healed enough for him to leave the cave. Linnet sprinkled salt and the ashes of the fire before the entrance to the cave and, with Morgana’s help, wrought spells of protection to keep Irata’s spies from discovering their hiding place.
The countryside was in ferment as outrage over the murder of the king continued to grow. Every time Hannah and Scarlett rode to Fortingall, they heard snippets of news and gossip.
Queen Mary’s forty days of mourning were over and the queen had come out of seclusion, though she was still ill with grief and shock. Her young son, Prince James, was locked up safe in Stirling in fear of an uprising. Lord Bothwell’s wife was desperately ill and some thought he had poisoned her so he could be free to marry the queen. Others scoffed at this idea, saying the queen must surely marry a rich foreign prince who would bring Scotland gold and a well-trained army to defend her.
Hannah could only wonder why everyone seemed in such a hurry for Queen Mary to marry again, when her last husband—her second—had been dead only forty days. It did not take her long to realise that it was because Queen Mary was considered merely a weak woman, incapable of ruling on her own.
‘Better a crowing hen than a whistling woman,’ one man said contemptuously.
In mid-April news came that the queen had allowed Lord Darnley’s father to present a private accusation to Parliament, accusing Bothwell as the slayer of his son. Everyone was agog to hear what Parliament would say, but in the end it came to nothing, for the streets of Edinburgh were filled with thousands of Bothwell’s supporters and so Lord Lennox, the king’s father, was too afraid to present himself, and Bothwell was acquitted.
He sent a town crier around the streets of Edinburgh, loudly proclaiming his innocence, and put up posters offering to fight in single combat with anyone who doubted his word. Although many people muttered behind their hands, no one dared to challenge him.
Although Fortingall was only a tiny hamlet consisting of a few thatched cottages clustered around a church and a huge old yew tree, it was as concerned with the doings in the capital as any other town. Hannah and Scarlett normally rode to the village on market day, when people from the furthest reaches of the glen come to buy and sell supplies, and exchange news. Hannah could never pass the ancient yew tree without thinking of Donovan with a sharp pang, remembering the day he had told her it was even older than the pyramids.
In late April the market was humming like a beehive attacked by a bear. No one made any pretence of buying and selling. They all stood in small, agitated clumps, talking and arguing.
Scarlett seized an old woman by the sleeve and asked what was wrong.
‘It’s the queen!’ the old woman cried, her eyes red from weeping. ‘That devil Bothwell has seized her! He’s got her locked up in Dunbar Castle. They’ve been ringing the alarm bell in Edinburgh and getting together some men to rescue her, but what of our poor queen in the meantime?’
‘Hah!’ another younger woman said angrily. ‘They say Queen Mary went with him willingly enough.’
‘Only to avoid any harm coming to her men,’ the old woman protested.
‘I’d say she knew of the plot from the start,’ the young one scoffed. ‘She and that Bothwell have been thick as thieves for months.’
‘It’s not true. Bothwell is her sheriff, a lord sworn to pro
tect her. How could she suspect him of wanting to murder her husband and steal her away?’
‘Well, she rode forty miles with him and didn’t once call for help,’ the young woman pointed out. ‘You’d think she’d have screamed for help if she didn’t want to be stolen.’
The old woman mopped her eyes with a rough handkerchief. ‘She would’ve been frightened . . . Oh, what will happen to her now?’
‘She’ll have to marry him, that’s what,’ a stern young man said. ‘She can’t spend the night alone with him, without a chaperone, and not marry him.’
‘I’d say that’s what she wanted all along,’ the young woman replied cynically.
‘But isn’t he already married?’ Hannah asked.
‘Wives are easy enough to get rid of when there’s a crown to be won,’ the young woman said.
‘I tell you what, though,’ the old woman said as she turned back to her honey pots, ‘there’ll be bloodshed if Bothwell thinks he can clamber onto the throne over the body of that poor murdered boy.’
There was bloodshed, Hannah remembered. A battle that Queen Mary lost. She was taken prisoner, and although she eventually escaped, it was only to find herself kept prisoner by Queen Elizabeth, her cousin, who eventually cut off her head. Hannah’s stomach cramped in fear.
