The Tower of Ravens

by Kate Forsyth

  Landon did not much enjoy dancing, either. Dutifully he danced with Edithe, managing to tear the hem of her gauzy gold gown, and with Fèlice, who laughingly pretended to limp away afterwards, declaring her feet were black and blue with bruises, and then he thankfully sat down against the wall too. After a while, when he thought no-one was paying him any attention, he drew out his dog-eared notebook and his quill and, balancing the inkpot on the gilded, satin-covered chair beside him, began to scribble with great intentness.

  Rhiannon watched him with interest. She had begun by thinking Landon a very peculiar young man, but she had grown to like him very much, something which surprised her. He was not strong, or fast, or brave, or handsome. He sat on a horse like a sack of potatoes, and showed no interest in wrestling or hunting. He did not like being wet or cold or tired or hungry. He was, in fact, the sort of person she would normally view with contempt. Yet, despite his physical frailty, despite his shyness and oddities, there was something about him that made her warm to him, and want to look out for him and keep him from hurting himself.

  After a while she slid along the seats towards him, noticing with amusement that his inkpot was leaving a round dark stain on the lord’s straw-coloured satin chair.

  ‘What ye write?’ she asked.

  He glanced up at her, looking a little cross, but then when he saw it was Rhiannon interrupting him, he blushed and stammered and almost tipped his inkpot over. Rhiannon rescued it with a grin, and he said shyly, ‘It’s only rough still, but I could read it to ye if ye like?’

  When she nodded, he cleared his throat and read aloud,

  ‘How dark this place, how grim!

  Where the black wings o’ ravens shadow the sky

  Where the wind sobs round the tower high

  Like the desolate cries o’ a murdered child.

  My own life, once so keen and bright, grows dim.

  My own song falters; my pulse is wild.

  In my dreams I hear the toll o’ death’s bell,

  Beneath my feet yawns a bottomless well.’

  Rhiannon stared at him in true amazement. ‘Ye feel it too?’ she whispered.

  He stared at her in surprise and pleasure. ‘My poem means something to ye?’

  She nodded. ‘I hate this place. I wish we could get away.’

  ‘Me too. But I dinna ken why. It’s all dreams and shadows. I dinna like to say aught, I ken the others would just laugh at me, but …’ He paused, and then said, ‘It’s no’ a happy place, this castle.’

  ‘No,’ Rhiannon agreed. They sat in silence for a while, watching the dancers twirl about the room, then Landon said, very shyly, ‘I’m so glad ye liked my poem.’

  After Lady Evaline and her companion had retired for the night, and the musicians had packed up their instruments, Lord Malvern offered to show them around the castle and they agreed eagerly. He led them through various vast picture halls, a ballroom with a music gallery, a library filled with books and maps and a great desk piled with papers, the grand dining room which was far larger than the private room they had just dined in, and then, lastly, the great hall. This was an immense cold shadowy room that made Rhiannon shiver and edge closer to Nina. The witch seemed to find the atmosphere of the room unpleasant also, for she hugged her arms with her hands and looked about her with troubled eyes. ‘Do ye use the hall much?’ she asked politely.

  ‘No’ these days,’ he answered. ‘It has unhappy memories.’

  As Lord Malvern spoke, Rhiannon felt a strange, disturbing thinning of the atmosphere. Her breath puffed out white. For a moment her companions faded away, and she saw a room filled with men, weary and bloodied with battle. One wore long red robes, others wore the livery of the MacFerris clan, but a few were dressed in shabby, stained motley, little better than rags. Two men faced each other across the points of their swords. One was young and dark, with a hunched shoulder, and a surly, unshaven face, wrapped in a filthy black cloak from head to foot. The other was older and dressed formally in a velvet doublet and black kilt, with embroidered stockings and neatly combed hair and beard. Rhiannon heard a snatch of voices, shouts, curses, a hysterical-sounding ranting from the man in red. Then the swords rose and clashed, there was a sharp cry of horror, and then the older man slowly fell to his knees, both hands clutching his stomach. He toppled sideways and blood spread across the paving-stones.

  ‘Blood,’ Rhiannon said, and clutched at Nina for support. ‘Blood was spilt, just there.’

  ‘Blood spilt, here?’ Nina repeated, and looked at the floor as if expecting the stain to remain. Edithe gave a little shriek and leapt back.

  ‘Aye,’ Rhiannon said. ‘A man was killed.’

  ‘She is right,’ Lord Malvern said unwillingly. ‘It was my brother’s blood that was spilt. He was murdered here on this very spot.’

  Everyone exclaimed in shock and moved back uneasily.

  ‘It was a very long time ago,’ Lord Malvern said. ‘I do no’ like to come here myself, but I am surprised the lass should be able to sense aught. I daresay she has the witch-sight, though, heh?’ His voice was heavy and sarcastic.

  ‘I daresay,’ Nina said, drawing Rhiannon close.

  ‘Was no’ murdered,’ Rhiannon said in a clear, calm voice that sounded to her own ears as if it came from a very great distance away. ‘Was fair fight.’

  Lord Malvern turned on her in sudden rage, two white dents on either side of his mouth. ‘A fair fight!’ he cried. ‘The laird o’ the castle, cut down in his own hall by a mob o’ filthy rebels? How is that fair or right?’

  Rhiannon was coming back to herself in racking shudders. She leant heavily on Nina, her voice as tottery as her legs. ‘I do no’ … ken the laws o’ your land. In my land, if one raises hand or weapon against another with same and … is killed, is no’ called murder. Is called fair fight. Fancy man … your brother … he struck first blow … was no mob … fair fight with dirty man … dirty man won.’

  ‘Indeed, the dirty man did win,’ Lord Malvern said very softly, looking away into the gloom. There was a long silence. Rhiannon tried to still the trembling of her arms and legs. She saw nothing now, but the memory was vivid in her mind’s eye. Half-fearful, half-curious, the others glanced about the ill-lit room, its hearth swept clean and bare as if it was never warmed with dancing flames.

  ‘Did ye see aught?’ Cameron whispered to Fèlice, who shook her head reluctantly.

  ‘I felt something,’ she whispered back. Landon nodded, eyes wide.

  ‘Sure ye did,’ Edithe said caustically. ‘The damp and the cold.’

  Fèlice cast her a cutting glance but dared say nothing else, for Lord Malvern had stirred and brought his stern gaze back to them.

  ‘It is cold in here. Let us withdraw to the drawing room,’ he said with great politeness. ‘May I offer ye some mulled wine, my lady?’

  ‘No’ for me, thank ye, my laird,’ Nina said just as politely. ‘I find I am rather tired still and would like to retire to my bedchamber. I thank ye for a most delicious meal, though, and for your hospitality.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Iven said, ‘what news o’ the road? For we are anxious to be on our way, as we explained. We really must get to Lucescere as fast as we can, the Rìgh will be looking for us.’

  Lord Malvern grimaced and shook his head. ‘No good news, I fear, sir. The road was badly damaged and is hard to repair because o’ the steepness o’ the slope. I have all my spare men working on it though, and hope ye will be on your way again as soon as can be.’

  Iven inclined his head. ‘I ken something o’ such things, my laird. Happen I may be able to help?’

  ‘Thank ye for the offer but I’m sure my men have all under control,’ he answered.

  ‘Nonetheless, I would like to have a look, my laird, if only to give me something to do while we wait. I fear I am unused to much rest.’

  ‘Ye should enjoy the chance to relax while ye can,’ Lord Malvern smiled.

  Iven sighed. ‘True, but I fear a lifetime o�
�� habit is hard to overcome in only a few days. And I am curious. It must indeed be a difficult job, to repair a road in such conditions. Happen your men can teach me something.’

  ‘Very well.’ Lord Malvern bowed stiffly. ‘I shall instruct my men to show ye the road in the morning.’

  They had come back through to the main wing of the castle and stood now at the base of the grand stone staircase that led up to their rooms. Lord Malvern bade them a rather grim goodnight and rang for a footman to show them the way back, even though Iven protested that there was no need, they knew the way.

  ‘It is a very large castle, and much o’ it is empty these days,’ Lord Malvern responded. ‘I would hate ye to become lost, particularly so late at night when most o’ the servants are sleeping.’

  ‘Then thank ye,’ Iven said, allowing a footman carrying a great branch of candles to lead them towards their rooms. Rhiannon felt odd, as if her feet were weighted with lead and her head was as light as a bellfruit seed. It was very dark and quiet in the corridors, and bitterly cold, so all were glad to reach Nina’s warm suite, lit generously with scented candles and a roaring fire. Roden was fast asleep in Nina and Iven’s great canopied bed and Lewen was sitting drowsily before the fire, his boots off, his shirt undone at the collar and rolled up to show his powerful brown forearms. He had been whittling arrows, a great pile of them lying beside him, waiting to be fletched.

  ‘How was dinner?’ he asked, standing up and yawning.

  ‘Creepy,’ Fèlice answered, coming to stand close to the fire, and smiling up at him. ‘No’ as creepy as the great hall, though. Rhiannon had a fit, and saw blood everywhere, and ghosts, and the laird was furious. He doesna like talk o’ ghosts, it seems.’

  ‘Who does?’ Lewen answered, looking past her to Rhiannon, who was now so exhausted she could barely stand upright on her own feet. ‘How are ye yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘Grand I am, indeed,’ she answered, and fainted.

  Rhiannon woke with a jerk. For a moment she was disorientated. Everything was dark. The fire had fallen into ashes. She lay still, temples throbbing. Her mouth was dry.

  Someone stood by the bed.

  Rhiannon’s heart slammed hard, and she said with a sharp rise in her voice, ‘Roden? What’s wrong?’

  The boy said nothing.

  ‘Roden?’

  ‘So cold,’ he whispered. ‘So cold.’

  Rhiannon lay very still. ‘Who are you?’

  He stepped closer. In the darkness he was nothing more than a pale shape. She could feel him trembling. ‘Please …’ he whispered. Then an icy cold hand touched her face.

  Rhiannon screamed.

  Fèlice sat bolt upright beside her. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘A boy … a ghost!’

  ‘Ye’re just dreaming,’ Fèlice mumbled. The candles on the mantelpiece flickered into life, showing the bedchamber was empty. ‘There’s naught here. Ye were just dreaming. Ye’re sick. Go back to sleep.’ The candles snuffed themselves out, and Fèlice rolled over and was instantly asleep again.

  Rhiannon lay, every muscle rigid. Then she slowly brought one hand up to cover her cheek. It was chill to the touch. She shuddered.

  After a moment she very slowly and carefully put back the bedclothes and got up. In the darkness she pulled on her woollen stockings and boots, and wrapped her cloak about her. It was so dark she had to feel her way to the door, but the hallway was lit dimly by a lantern left on a side table, turned very low. For a moment she stood, listening. Then she picked up the lantern, turning up the wick so it cast a circle of warm light into the frigid darkness. Immediately her heart began to slam against her ribs again.

  At the far end of the corridor the boy waited. He was dressed in formal clothes, and his feet were shod in buckled brogues that seemed to rest solidly enough on the carpet. He had dark, sombre eyes and ruddy hair. He was shivering, and had his arms wrapped tightly about his skinny body. He looked back at her, then made his way slowly round the corner. Rhiannon followed him.

  He led her away from the guest quarters towards the northern tower, which Rhiannon knew was set aside for Lady Evaline’s use. He went swiftly and steadily, but not so fast that Rhiannon had trouble keeping up with him. She was just beginning to think that he was perhaps a real boy, a pot-boy who liked to play silly tricks on guests, when he passed straight through the great oak door that led into the tower. This discomposed her so much she stopped, fighting to regain her breath, her heart galloping like a runaway horse. Her nerve almost failed her, but her hunger to understand was greater and so she went on again, opening the door as silently as she could. There was no sign of the ghost, and she was angry with herself. She moved on through the narrow stone corridor anyway, its walls hung with faded tapestries. She came to a spiral staircase and began to climb it, her shadow preceding her up the round walls like some black, formless giant. Then she rounded the central pillar and saw the ghost standing there, only a few steps ahead, staring at a door half-concealed behind a tapestry. As she shrank back, instinctively shielding the light of her lantern, he looked back at her, beckoned urgently, then stepped forward and vanished through the solid wood.

  It took Rhiannon a long time to find the courage to open the door. Her hand was trembling so much the lantern’s flame flickered and shook, sending shadows swinging everywhere. She steadied it at last, and saw a sight which chilled her to the very marrow of her bones.

  Inside was a boy’s bedroom. There was a little bed with a patchwork counterpane, a rocking horse, a wooden castle with tiny soldiers lined up along the battlements, a puppet theatre, and a basket filled with balls and wooden animals and toy swords. There was a big barred window with a cushioned window seat and faded curtains covered with prancing red horses. Against one wall was a cupboard painted with stars and moons, and against the other was a toy chest, its lid propped open.

  The room was filled with the ghosts of boys. One rode the rocking horse back and forth, back and forth, its rockers creaking. Another examined the puppet theatre, a few more were crouched over the castle. One was curled up in the big chair, looking at a book. One crouched on the window seat, sobbing into his arms. Another lay weeping on the bed. One boy was dripping wet, sitting in a puddle, shivering and crying. Another rocked back and forth in silent terror beside the door. Some were dressed in nightgowns, others in rough homespuns, a few in neat suits with collared shirts, a few others in heavy winter coats and red woolly hats. The more she looked, the more ghosts she saw, some as insubstantial as heat rising from a sun-baked stone, others looking like living boys, except that as they moved about the room, their bodies merged into each other and materialised again on the other side, like flickering shadows.

  The ghost Rhiannon had seen first was standing in the centre of the room, his arms huddled about him. He turned his face towards her and said pitifully, ‘All lost. Canna find their way home. Lost.’ He shuddered violently and said in a thin whisper, ‘So cold. Mama, I’m so cold.’

  It was cold. Rhiannon’s inner ears ached painfully. Her breath came out in frosty plumes, and she was shivering so violently the oil in the lantern slopped about and the flame sank away into darkness. All she could hear was the muffled whimper of crying and the creak, creak of the rocking horse.

  Slowly Rhiannon backed out of the room, the lantern dropping from her nerveless fingers. The sound of it breaking went through her like a shock of lightning. She slammed the door closed, then ran down the stairs. She felt faint and sick, so faint she was afraid she might lose her wits again. Back through the dark hallways and galleries she ran, and ran, and ran, down unlit stairs and through cavernous chambers, banging into furniture, becoming entangled in hanging curtains, bruising her hips on unexpected hall tables, and, horribly, coming face to face with the gloomy eyes of ancient paintings, until the stitch in her side forced her at last to slow, fighting for breath. Only then did her panicked mind admit that she had no idea where she was, or how she was to get back to her room.
She was lost.

  For a while she huddled on a couch in an immense, high-ceilinged room, her cloak wrapped tight around her, overcome by such terror that unconsciousness passed over her in black, roaring waves. The muscles of her urinary tract had relaxed involuntarily, so that she felt a sopping patch on her nightgown grow, the initial warmth passing to bitter cold. All she could do was fight to get breath into her paralysed lungs and try not to lose control of her other bodily functions, which threatened to shame her further. No-one could endure such extremities of emotion for long, though, and eventually she was able to control the shudders that racked her, wipe the tears from her face and get up. She felt her way to the paler oblongs of the tall windows, looking for some clue as to where she was in the vast, silent castle. There was no moon to help her but the sky swarmed with stars. She wrenched the window open and leant out, breathing in great gulps of fresh, cold air, fixing her eyes on the familiar constellations above. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was able to see the shape of battlemented walls and the pointed roofs of towers silhouetted against them. She gave a smile of pure relief, realising she was back in the main part of the castle, looking across the inner ward to the gatehouse.

  She made her fumbling way through the room and out to the gallery above the main stairs. Here another lantern glowed softly in the darkness, lighting the landing. More light spread out in an arc from a door down on the next floor. Rhiannon hesitated for a moment with her hand upon the lantern. With its help she thought she could find her way back to the warmth and safety of her own bed. But she could not help wondering who in the castle was awake at this late hour, and what they were doing. Since seeing the ghosts of so many little boys, Rhiannon could feel nothing but the deepest horror and suspicion of everyone in the castle, but it only sharpened her desire to know, to understand. So she made her slow, tentative way down the stairs and put her eye to the crack of the door.