by Kate Forsyth
‘Rhiannon … are ye sure? Is this what ye want?’
She turned her head blindly, seeking his mouth. He took her head in both his hands, his fingers tangled in the silkiness of her hair, and pressed her to him. They lost themselves in each other’s mouths for what seemed a very long time. Then Lewen managed to disentangle them from their clothes, each discarding revealing a new source of joyous sensation. Rhiannon’s body was just as beautiful as he had imagined, slim and lithe and milk-white, with a flowing curve from breast to hip that he marvelled over with mouth and hand. She was as eager to touch and explore his body as he was hers, and Lewen’s urgency was so great he feared the mere touch of her hand would be enough to undo him. So he captured both her hands in his, stretching them out above her head and holding her still with the weight of his body.
‘Please, dearling, leannan, please, lie still,’ he begged.
She smiled up at him and obeyed. Cautiously he let go of her hands, but she did not try to move. Very slowly he put his hand down between their bodies and pried her legs apart. She was wet and warm and slick. He bit his lip, then drove into her. She cried out in shock, but Lewen was beyond hearing her. Again and again he thrust into her, crying aloud in pleasure, and she raised her hips, thrusting against him, so that he felt a great roar of blood race through him, deafening him. He raised himself high on his hands, his groin fused with hers, his head flung back, groaning. They were still a moment or two, Lewen slowly moving in and out of her again, then he bent his arms, laying his weight upon her again, utterly relaxed and replete.
‘That was beautiful,’ he said at last. ‘Ye’re beautiful, Rhiannon.’
She sighed. He said her name again and turned her face with both hands so they could kiss again.
‘I love ye,’ he said. ‘I love ye so much.’
She looked up at him curiously, the firelight playing over the planes of her face. Her eyes looked very blue, and her lips were red and swollen.
‘Ye’re so beautiful,’ he said again, kissing her very gently.
Still she was silent. He shifted his weight to the side, so he was not crushing her, and felt himself slide out of her. He sighed with disappointment and pressed himself as close to her as he could get. She cuddled against him, and that gave him the courage to ask, against all his better judgement, ‘Rhiannon? Do ye love me too?’
She looked him in the eyes. ‘I do no’ ken what love is. Is this love I feel?’
‘What do ye feel?’ he asked, threading his fingers through hers and holding their entwined hands up against the golden glow of the fire. He was so afraid he dared not meet her eyes.
‘Happy,’ she said wonderingly.
‘Me too,’ he answered gladly and kissed her. She wrapped both her arms about his neck, her breasts spreading against his chest. At once he felt his body stir and smiled ruefully, lowering one hand to caress her inner thigh, then stroking his hand up towards her breast. To his surprise he left rust-coloured streaks on the warm creaminess of her skin. He looked down, and saw blood trickling down her thigh.
‘Rhiannon!’ he cried.
‘Aye?’
He leant up on his elbow, winding her hair around one finger. ‘Have ye never lain with a man afore?’
‘Me? O’ course no’. Who would I have lain with?’
He was taken aback. ‘But I thought … ye said …’
‘I No-Horn,’ she said. ‘The favours o’ the men were kept only for the leaders o’ the herd. I saw them mate often. It was no’ like this, I think.’
Lewen sighed. He lay quietly, thinking. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a moment. ‘I should’ve stopped.’
‘Why?’ she asked again.
He could not explain to her. She wriggled a little closer, and traced a circle on his hard belly with her finger. ‘It worries ye, this blood?’
He sighed. ‘Aye. Though I must admit, it pleases me too, that I was the one to deflower ye. I dinna ken why I tell ye so.’
‘Deflower?’ Rhiannon was puzzled. ‘I girl, no’ plant.’
Lewen laughed and traced round and round her nipple, watching it harden. ‘Indeed, ye are, my dearling.’ He closed his mouth over her nipple and the sound of her sigh went into him like a sword. He slipped his hand down between her legs and felt the hot stickiness of her, and then, his own desire quickening fast, slid down and tasted it. He had himself well in hand this time, determined to take his time over the loving of her, but her own desire was so swift, and her expression of it so honest and free, that once again it was a quick, hard, passionate coupling they had in the straw before the fire. Afterwards, he lay with his head on her stomach, feeling her hand twirling his hair, feeling exhausted, replete, and very happy.
‘Ye mine now,’ Rhiannon whispered. ‘Do ye hear me? Mine.’
He rolled over, reaching out one lazy hand to trace down her brow, her nose, across the soft pads of her lips, down her chin and throat and the bare cleft of her breasts to her belly button. ‘Aye, I hear ye,’ he said softly, and kissed her. ‘I’m yours.’
‘Always,’ she said.
‘Always,’ he repeated.
‘So is this love, what I’m feeling?’
‘Aye,’ he said and kissed her again. ‘This is love.’ They kissed lingeringly. ‘Say it,’ he commanded. ‘Say, “I love ye, Lewen”.’
‘I love ye, Lewen.’
‘I love ye too, Rhiannon.’
They smiled, and then, for no reason, laughed. The fire was dying down, and outside the storm still howled. Rhiannon gave a little shiver.
‘Ye’re getting cold,’ Lewen said remorsefully and sat up, looking for something to cover her with. ‘Look, it’s dark. We’ve missed sunset. Oh well, it’s teeming down out there. I doubt I could have found the pool anyway. I’ll have to try again at dawn.’ He got up and felt the edge of her cloak but it was still damp, so he threw some more wood on the fire and then poured her some more tea, warming the goblet between his hands until steam wisped up. ‘Drink this, my love, and I’ll find something to wrap ye in.’
She took the goblet from him, smiling, and he was compelled to kiss her again, quickly, before getting to his feet. ‘My shawl is in my bag,’ she said, and drank the hot tea gratefully.
Lewen went over to the saddlebag and pulled out the embroidered shawl with a flourish. Something came rattling out of the bag with it, and he bent and picked it up from the floor. His entrails knotted. In his hand was a necklace made of bones and teeth. Even in the subtle, changeable light of the fire he could see most of the teeth were human. He stood still, frozen with shock, while his mind neatly put all the pieces of the puzzle together and made a whole. Even while he tried to deny and make excuses, his analytical brain turned the puzzle over and examined it from every angle. There was no mistake.
He turned and went back to the fire. Rhiannon sat in the straw, her arms about her knees, her hair streaming down her naked back, looking more bewitching than ever. He tossed her the shawl, and she caught it and smiled, wrapping it about her shoulders. When he did not smile back, her expression turned grave. She looked up at him questioningly.
He held out the necklace. ‘Is this yours?’
All the soft, warm, living flesh of her turned slowly to stone. She lifted eyes that had gone huge and dark. ‘Aye,’ she answered reluctantly.
‘Are those Connor’s teeth, his finger?’
‘Aye.’
‘So ye killed him? Ye lied to me?’
‘Aye,’ she answered again.
He suddenly became conscious of his nakedness. He dropped the necklace on the table with as much horror as if it had been a snake, then came back to the fire pulling on his shirt and his breeches, which were still unpleasantly damp. He then sat down on the floor to pull on his stockings and boots. ‘Why?’ he asked, not looking at her.
Her voice shook. ‘He would’ve told them I’d helped him to escape. They would have torn me to pieces.’
‘So ye killed him.’
‘He had my mother, h
e was going to kill her!’
‘But ye hated your mother.’
She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. He thrust his hands into his pockets. She looked at him pleadingly but he would not look at her, and the tears overflowed. She buried her face in her arms.
‘Why dinna ye tell me afore?’ The words burst out of him.
She raised her miserable face. ‘They said whoever had killed him would hang. I do no’ want to hang!’
‘Nay, I guess no’,’ he said bitterly and got to his feet. He did not know where to go, or what to do, so after a moment he prodded the fire, saying over his shoulder, ‘Ye’d better get dressed, your clothes are dry now. Ye should try to get some sleep, it’s late.’
She did not move. ‘Lewen?’
He did not answer.
‘Lewen?’ she said desperately.
‘What?’ he said harshly.
‘I sorry. I dinna want to hurt him. I had to, canna ye see that? Please, dinna be angry. I couldna help it, truly I couldna. I dinna ken!’ The words came tumbling over each other and she held up both hands to him imploringly.
He did not reply.
She tried again. ‘Lewen, dinna be angry. Please, please.’
‘Ye should have told me,’ he replied, prodding at the fire even harder.
‘I couldna tell ye. Do ye no’ understand? Lewen?’
He turned on her, his face twisted with pain. ‘Ye are a murderess! A liar and a traitor! Ye killed my friend!’
She tried to speak, but could not. Weeping, she pulled on her clothes and huddled herself into the shawl. Lewen got to his feet. ‘I’ll sleep in the stable,’ he said. ‘Hopefully the storm will have blown over by morning.’
Catching up his cloak, he went away from the dim, warm room into bitter cold and darkness.
He passed in and out of uneasy sleep all the long, unhappy night. The sound of the wind in the broken stone worried him like icy teeth, so that only the imprecise memory of nightmares showed he had slept at all. Yet when he finally woke, feeling a great weight of misery, it was to find a clear, cold dawn and the winged horse gone from the stall. Argent stood there alone, his head sunk, eyes shut, one hoof relaxed.
Lewen stared in stupefaction, then turned and ran into the kitchen. It was grey and empty, smelling of smoke. On the table were the silver goblet, the music-box, the golden medal, and the gruesome necklace of teeth and bones. There was no sign of Rhiannon.
Lewen could not believe she had gone. How had she managed to get Blackthorn out of the stall, when he had slept in the straw right next to the horses? He imagined her creeping out into the dark and the storm, and felt such a pit of loss open up inside him he came the closest to weeping since his roan pony Aurora had died when he was still a lad. Anger and grief together make a bitter brew, and Lewen was so angry he was blind and deaf with it. He did not know what to do. He sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands, trying to hold back the howl that seemed to be gathering inside him. At last the howl knotted itself into a hard lump in his chest, and he was able to get up. He filled the goblet with water and drank deeply, trying to wash the knot away, and then splashed his face again and again. A longing to speak to his mother came over him. He imagined her distress and felt his stomach quiver. Hurriedly he gathered up Connor’s treasures and shoved them in his own saddlebags, then he led the big grey stallion out into the courtyard.
It was almost dawn and the sky was clear. Puddles gleamed everywhere, and the courtyard was littered with broken branches and torn leaves. High overhead ravens wheeled in the wind, hundreds of them, calling harshly. They looked like ashes blown from a bonfire. Lewen moved slowly through the ruin, the stallion following. Much of the main body of the building had been destroyed by fire, leaving nothing but blackened stones all overgrown with brambles and nettles. He found the gate that had once led out to the bridge across the waterfall, and looked out over the dizzying chasm, able to see nothing of the castle on the far side of the river for the great gusts of spray that dashed him in the face. He left Argent lipping at weeds in what once would have been a pleasure garden, and climbed an old stone staircase to explore the wreck of a vaulted gallery where once great sorcerers and prionnsachan would have walked together. He came down again carefully, feeling desolate and alone. Nowhere was there any sign of Rhiannon.
Then he and the stallion came to the central courtyard and found there a round pool of water, shimmering with reflections of the dawn sky. Despite the wrack of the storm that littered the cracked paving-stones, not a single leaf spoiled the sparkling perfection of the silver-lined pool. It was enclosed inside stone arches fretted with entwining lines and knots, and guarded by large stone ravens.
Lewen sighed and sat down heavily on the curved bench encircling the pool. He had half-hoped, half-dreaded finding the Scrying Pool.
He remembered hearing Dughall MacBrann tell the story of how he had crept here to the Tower of Ravens one bitter winter’s night so he could scry to Lachlan and tell him news of the war against the Bright Soldiers. ‘It’s a wonder my hair and beard are no’ as white as my father’s,’ he had said. ‘For the tower was thick with ghosts and evil memories, and all I could remember was that old story about Brann the Raven and how he swore he would outwit Gearradh in the end and live again. I swear I felt him breathing down my neck the whole time!’
If the MacBrann had been able to use the Scrying Pool twenty-five years ago, the chances are the pool would be useable now. The fact that it was still brimming with crystal-clear water, untarnished after fifty years of neglect, indicated that the magic of the pool was unbroken. Lewen badly wanted to speak to someone. He felt as if his inner compass, that had led him true all his life, was now spinning out of control. He did not know what was right and true anymore. Rhiannon had lied to him, she had tricked and deceived him, she had made a fool of him. The thoughts spilled through his mind like acid. He looked back over the past few weeks and writhed in internal torment, seeing how easily he had been seduced by her air of wild and innocent beauty. Had it all been a lie? He could not tell anymore. He longed to be able to tell someone, and have them set him straight again. He longed for comfort and reassurance, for someone to say to him, ‘But she is naught but a wild child, she did no’ ken what she did, how could she? O’ course she loves ye, o’ course her heart is pure and true, o’ course she is no’ a cold-blooded murderess, how can ye think such things o’ her?’
So he sat cross-legged before the pool, staring into its silvery depths, calling to Nina in his mind. It took only a few seconds for her image to appear to him in the pool. She looked white and anxious and he heard her voice in his mind.
‘Lewen, where are you? What happened to ye?’
‘We were caught in the storm. We took shelter in the auld tower.’
‘Are ye all right?’
‘Aye, we’re grand. At least, I am …’
‘What do ye mean? Where’s Rhiannon? Is she with ye? She’s disappeared!’
‘Nay. I mean, I do no’ ken. She’s gone.’
‘Gone? Do ye mean she was with ye? Where has she gone?’
‘I dinna ken. She crept away last night, while I was sleeping … she’s run away.’
‘But why?’
‘I found out … something.’ He took a shaking breath, then the words burst out of him. ‘Oh Nina, it was Rhiannon who murdered Connor. She confessed it all to me last night, and now she’s gone. I dinna ken where, she disappeared during the night.’
Nina was silent for a long moment, then she said steadily, ‘We all kent it may have been her, Lewen, we’ve suspected it from the beginning. Even Lilanthe feared so, and ye ken your mother always thinks the best o’ everyone. We will have to find her, we need to take her to Lucescere to be tried and judged.’
‘But, Nina, they will hang her!’
‘Maybe no’. If it was an accident …’
‘It was no accident,’ Lewen said harshly.
‘That will be for the court to decide,’ Nina a
nswered. ‘Lewen, come back to the castle. We will find her, dinna ye worry.’
‘I am no’ sure I want to find her,’ Lewen said, his voice breaking.
Nina looked troubled. ‘I canna just let her fly away, Lewen, no’ if she is responsible for Connor’s death. The Rìgh would want us to make every effort to find her.’
He said nothing, and she said again, with deep concern in her voice, ‘Come back to the castle, Lewen. We’ve all been very worried about ye. Ye must be cold and hungry indeed. Come back, and we’ll talk about it then.’
‘But what about Rhiannon?’ Lewen said. ‘I do no’ want to just leave her. She went out into the storm, and she’s been so sick, and Blackthorn is so nervy …’
‘The laird sent out search parties for the two o’ ye, happen they will have had sight o’ her. We’ll talk about it when ye are here.’
Lewen sighed. ‘All right.’
‘Are ye using the Scrying Pool? For indeed your face and voice are clear as if ye were standing afore me.’
Lewen nodded, feeling sick at heart.
‘Thank Eà! Have ye spoken to the Rìgh? What did he say?’
‘I havena contacted him yet.’ Lewen’s voice was dull and a trifle defensive. ‘I have only just found the Pool.’
‘Then will ye scry to the Rìgh now? I think he should ken everything we do, just in case we fail to make it back to Lucescere. My heart troubles me … the laird is angry and suspicious indeed about ye and Rhiannon going missing.’ She paused, then went on more strongly, ‘Tell His Highness all ye can, Lewen, he needs to ken.’
‘But it is so far … I do no’ ken if I’ll be able to reach him. I am no good at scrying.’ Lewen knew he was making excuses. He did not want to have to face his Rìgh and tell him he had fallen in love with a murderess.
‘The Scrying Pool will help ye, Lewen, that’s what it’s for. Remember your scrying exercises. Empty your mind, control your breath, and imagine his face. Reach out to him. Ye will reach him if ye focus strongly enough.’
Lewen nodded reluctantly and closed his eyes, emptying his thoughts. He waited a few minutes, then stared once more into the pool, imagining the dark, stern face of Lachlan MacCuinn, the Rìgh of Eileanan. ‘My laird,’ he called in his mind, ‘can ye hear me? Can ye hear me, my laird?’
