The Forbidden Land

by Kate Forsyth

  Finn flushed scarlet. Her pace quickened, Goblin protesting as she bounded along at her heels. Soon the camp was left behind and the strong, sweet-smelling wind was blowing through her. The heat in her cheeks subsided and with it her embarrassment and anger. She climbed up the hill to stand in the shade of the tree, Goblin leaping up her body to crouch on her shoulder. Together they looked out over the rolling plains. Far away was a thin wavering line of purple mountains, with nothing between but smooth silver-green hills. Finn smiled and stroked the elven cat’s soft fur, the last of her resentment vanishing. Indeed, Brangaine had not been nearly as bad as Finn had imagined she would be. Finn could almost imagine she had been trying her hardest to be conciliatory.

  Despite the slow pace of the caravans, Finn had been very content these past few weeks. She spent her days riding her pony Cinders across the plains, hunting birds and coneys with Donald for their evening meal, or sitting up on the driver’s seat with Jay or Dide as they taught her how to drive the caravan. Every night they sat around the campfire, singing and cracking jokes and playing cards. Despite all Finn’s attempts to find out more about the purpose of her journey, none of the jongleurs would tell her a thing.

  ‘Dinna keep asking me, Finn! Ye’ll be told when the time is right,’ Dide had answered one evening.

  ‘But why will ye no’ tell me?’ Finn had demanded. ‘What harm could it do to tell me now?’

  ‘Ye never ken when a spy may be listening,’ Dide answered, his voice very soft. Finn stared round at the empty plains scornfully, saying, ‘But there’s no’ a soul for miles!’

  ‘That ye can see,’ Dide answered. ‘These plains are deceiving. They look flat but really they undulate like a sea serpent’s back. A whole train o’ caravans could be concealed just beyond the next rise and one o’ their outriders lying in the grass watching right now. The Tìreichan outriders are trained to creep through these grasses without anyone seeing.’

  Finn stared around. ‘I dinna believe it! No-one could creep up on the Cat without me kenning!’

  Dide grinned at her. ‘And what about a bird or a mouse? See that raven sitting on the roof o’ my caravan? Who is to say that it is no’ the familiar o’ some witch, listening to every word we say? Meghan o’ the Beasts is no’ the only witch who can talk to birds and animals.’

  Finn had stared at the raven uneasily and it had stared back with its round yellow-ringed eye. ‘But can ravens understand our language? When Isabeau talks to animals, she talks in their language.’ Unconsciously she lowered her voice to a whisper.

  ‘No’ always, if the animal has lived among humans for a long time. And I notice ye talk to your wee elven cat in human language and she seems to understand every word ye say.’

  Finn had stroked Goblin’s silky head complacently, saying, ‘Aye, that be true.’

  ‘So will ye stop asking me questions all the time that I canna answer and that may give the game away if someone overheard?’ Dide said sternly, no trace of laughter in his face or voice. ‘I canna tell ye how important it is that none ken o’ your mission, Finn. Whoever the spy in the Rìgh’s camp is, he or she has already cost us the lives o’ many hundreds o’ good men. I do no’ want to add yours to them.’

  So Finn had given up trying to learn the purpose of her journey and thrown herself into the role of a jongleur lass with enthusiasm. Nina had begun teaching her how to walk on her hands, a skill Finn had always longed to learn, and the young banprionnsa revelled in running barefoot and having her hair in a tangle with no-one to care or reprimand her.

  Sudden movement caught Finn’s eye. She shaded her face with her hand, staring out at the plains. A bay horse was cantering along the shallow valley on the far side of the hill, a rider crouched low on its back. Finn watched until it swerved down the curve of the slope and out of sight. It had been a beautiful beast and the first sign of human life since they had left the last village in Rurach.

  Her curiosity sparked, Finn put down the elven cat and quietly followed the curve of the hill down, Goblin silent as ever at her heels.

  The horse was cropping grass at the bottom of the valley. It wore no bridle or saddle and its luxuriant mane and tail had never been trimmed. Finn crouched in the grass and scanned the hills closely. At last she saw a slight break in the flowing ripples of grass at the crest of the bank overlooking the jongleurs’ camp. Stealthily she crept along the slope, then wriggled up through the grass.

  A girl was lying on the hill crest, watching the camp below. She wore dusty leather breeches and long boots, and her vigorous brown hair was tied back in a thick plait.

  Finn crept up behind her, then, without warning, pinned her to the ground with one arm twisted behind her back. The girl did not shriek out, as Finn had expected, but struggled to be free. Finn had to press her face firmly into the dust, her knees clamped hard into the girl’s side.

  ‘What do ye think ye’re doing, spying on us like that?’ she hissed in the girl’s ear. The stranger did not reply, just tried to heave Finn’s weight off her back. Finn twisted her arm harder.

  ‘I be an outrider,’ the girl panted. ‘It’s my job! Get off me, ye great lump!’

  ‘An outrider for whom?’ Finn snapped.

  The girl said nothing. Finn dragged her to her feet and began to force her down the slope towards the camp, keeping her arm twisted up her back. The girl moved abruptly and Finn found herself sailing over her shoulder, landing with a thump in the grass. She lay still for a second, more dazed by the unexpectedness of the manouevre than by the fall. Then she was on her feet, throwing herself at the girl. They hit the ground hard, rolling down the slope as they wrestled. Finn was surprised to find herself well matched and exerted herself more fiercely. An elbow in her ribcage winded her and she grunted, seizing the girl around the neck and grinding her face in the ground. The girl managed to twist over and then it was Finn who was tasting dirt. Goblin leapt at the girl’s face, claws raking, and she started back, swearing, so that Finn was able to wrest herself free.

  Over and over they tumbled, panting and swearing. Finn threw her to the ground with a cross-buttock, then pinned her there with the girl’s head locked within her elbow.

  The girl gave a breathless whistle. Finn heard the thunder of hooves and then the bay was rearing over them, his black mane tossing. Finn had to spring aside to avoid being struck by the unshod hooves. In that instant the girl had rolled over and leapt on the horse’s back. She gave a mocking cry, then the horse wheeled and galloped away, his tail held up proudly.

  Finn swore and dusted herself off. Her shirt was torn and grass-stained, her hair was in a tangle, and she was conscious of aches and pains where she had been pummelled. ‘Some lassie,’ she said admiringly, watching as the racing horse and rider disappeared over the horizon.

  She limped back down to the camp, Goblin marching before her, tail erect.

  Donald was filling a bucket with water from the stream and looked up at her without his usual twinkle. ‘Wha’ be the matter, lassie? Ye look like ye’ve been wrestling wi’ a woolly bear!’

  ‘Some strange lass was spying on us!’ Finn said with heat. ‘She was watching from yon hill. I tried to make her tell what she was doing but she got away, the bluidy bullying beast!’

  Donald was frowning. ‘Happen we’d best tell Enit,’ he said. ‘It probably means naught but we do no’ wish anyone spying on us and carrying tales about what we do.’

  Finn nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  She helped him carry the dripping bucket back to the camp and then told Enit what had happened with some excitement. The others gathered round her and she demonstrated the holds she had used and how the girl had got free of them, her audience exclaiming and laughing. Brangaine stood at the edge of the group, a slight frown of disapproval on her face.

  ‘An outrider,’ Dide said. ‘I wonder which caravan?’

  ‘Get your chores finished, my bairns,’ Enit called. ‘We shall be having guests soon, by the sound o’ it.�
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  ‘Guests?’ Finn asked, rather disappointed at the old woman’s placidity.

  ‘Aye,’ Enit replied. ‘Your spy would have been an outrider for one o’ the horse-caravans, wondering who it was that travelled through their lands. No’ all travellers are friends, ye ken, in these troubled times. The jongleurs are always welcome, though, so we have naught to fear, although they may be annoyed at one o’ their outriders being beaten up.’

  Finn was a little crestfallen. ‘How was I to ken?’ she demanded. ‘All I saw was some strange lassie sneaking up on the camp. It could’ve been anyone.’

  ‘That it could,’ Enit agreed. She beckoned to Nina and Dide, who seized the arms of her chair and carried her back to her caravan. Dide then bent and gathered the frail form of the old woman in his arms and carried her in through the door, leaving the chair at the foot of the steps. Nina waited till Dide had emerged, then bounded up the stairs to assist her grandmother, shutting the door behind her.

  Finn sighed. Seeing a little smile on Brangaine’s face she scowled, shoved her fists into her pockets and slouched off to help Morrell polish the horses’ tack.

  ‘Ye could groom the horses for me, lassie,’ he said with a grin. ‘It’s been a while since they’ve had a guid spit and polish, and we want them looking their best for the thigearns, that we do.’

  ‘What’s a thigearn?’ Finn asked curiously, seizing a currycomb and beginning to worry out the burrs from the brown mare’s mane.

  ‘An’ ye a banprionnsa wi’ your own governess,’ Morrell mocked. Finn scowled and said nothing. He grinned at her. ‘The thigearns are the horse-lairds,’ he said. ‘They tame and ride flying horses, which is something no ordinary man can do. For one thing, the flying horse is hard indeed to catch and for another thing, they do no’ submit easily to a man’s will. A thigearn must ride his flying horse for a year and a day without ever dismounting afore the flying horse will accept him as master.’

  ‘A year and a day?’ Finn’s eyes rounded in amazement.

  ‘Aye, a year and a day without ever putting foot to ground.’

  ‘How do they sleep?’

  ‘Lightly,’ Morrell grinned. ‘As soon as an untamed flying horse feels its rider’s control relax, it does its best to buck him off. When ye think the beast can fly high into the sky, this is no’ something ye want to have happen to ye, men no’ having wings. They say a thigearn learns to sleep for mere seconds at a time and with his legs always clamped tight.’

  ‘How do they go to the privy?’ Finn demanded.

  ‘With great difficulty,’ Morrell chortled. Finn laughed too and the fire-eater leant close and said, ‘Ye should always watch where ye put your foot near a thigearn.’

  ‘Yuk!’ Finn cried and instinctively glanced at the sole of her boot. Morrell laughed out loud and tossed her a soft brush to sweep out the sweat and grime from the mare’s coat. Finn caught it deftly and worked with a will, sweeping the brush down over the mare’s withers.

  ‘Are there no’ any lassies who ride flying horses?’ she demanded after a while.

  ‘No’ that I’ve ever seen,’ Morrell answered. ‘It takes much strength o’ will and body to be taming a flying horse.’

  Finn gritted her jaw, immediately imagining herself soaring into the sky on the back of a winged horse.

  ‘I wouldna delude yourself, lassie,’ Morrell jeered.

  ‘Ye never ken,’ Finn said loftily. ‘Casey Hawkeye says I’m a bonny rider considering I dinna learn to ride till I was thirteen.’

  ‘And I’m sure that ye are,’ Morrell replied with mock-seriousness. ‘The lassies in Tìreich are riding afore they can walk, though, my bonny banprionnsa.’

  ‘I thought we were meant to be keeping all that a secret,’ Finn said rudely. ‘I’m naught but a jongleur now.’

  ‘No naught about it,’ Morrell protested. ‘There be no higher calling than that o’ a jongleur, my proud lassie. Travelling the land, free as a bird, bringing song and laughter into people’s miserable drab lives. Och, it’s a grand life.’

  ‘Better fun than being a banprionnsa, that I can testify to,’ Finn replied rather morosely.

  ‘Aye, I’d wager it is,’ he answered. ‘Och, well, lass, ye’re a jongleur now and ye’re right, we’d better no’ be forgetting it. Ye never ken who may be listening.’

  Finn had just finished grooming Morrell’s mare when a wild calvacade of riders suddenly careered over the hill, galloping down towards the camp. Neighing and tossing their manes, the horses swept round the half-circle of caravans, the riders on their backs shouting and waving their hats. They all rode without saddle or bridle, though some of the horses wore halters with one long rein. They came to a snorting, sweating halt and one of the riders called, ‘By my beard and the beard o’ the Centaur, if it be no’ the fire-eater himself. How are ye yourself, Morrell, my lad?’

  ‘Balfour, ye auld rogue! Guid it is indeed to see ye. I be just grand, though sorry I am to be seeing ye looking so grey. Your new wife riding ye hard?’

  ‘Och, indeed, canna ye tell by the grin on my face? I think ye’re in need o’ a young wife yourself, Morrell, so fat and lazy ye’ve grown. Look at that paunch! Too much o’ the water o’ life and no’ enough exercise, that be your trouble.’

  ‘Obh obh! I get enough nagging from my mam and my daughter to be needing more from a wife. Will ye no’ stand down? All this talk o’ the water o’ life has made me thirsty. Come share a wee dram wi’ me and tell me all the news.’

  ‘Whiskey afore noon? Och and why no’?’ Balfour dismounted gracefully. As soon as his foot had touched the ground, the rest of the riders sprang down. They made no attempt to bind the horses, who put their heads down and began to crop the grass contentedly. They all sat near the fire, shouting greetings to Dide and Nina, and drinking from pewter mugs which Morrell filled up from the barrel slung to the underside of his caravan. Finn sat with them, staring at the riders in fascination. They were all tall and brown-faced, wearing leather boots that reached above their knees and wide-brimmed hats decorated with plumy feathers. Their clothes were drab in comparison to the jongleurs, being the same dusty colour as the plains, and both men and women wore breeches, a fashion Finn heartily approved of. All had long hair tied in plaits and many of the men wore their beards split into braids or bunches.

  ‘Where is Himself?’ Morrell asked, replenishing Balfour’s mug. ‘Ye still ride wi’ the MacAhern, do ye no’?’

  ‘O’ course,’ Balfour replied. ‘He’ll be here soon.’ He shaded his eyes with his hand, looking out to the far distance. ‘Here comes the rest o’ the caravan. Himself will no’ be too far behind. His wife is close to her birthing time and he does no’ wish to fly too far from her.’

  Finn followed his pointing finger and saw a long procession of caravans winding their way down the slope towards them. She jumped to her feet and went to stand at the edge of the camp, staring at the procession with curious eyes. Unlike the carts of the jongleurs, these were not decorated with fancily carved wood and brightly painted pictures, but were low and long with curved roofs. Painted in varying shades of pale grey-green and yellow-brown, they were almost invisible against the blowing grass. As they came closer, Finn saw with surprise that they were pulled by teams of two huge dogs.

  ‘Look at the size o’ those dogs, my lady!’ Ashlin said shyly, coming up to stand by her side. ‘They’re as big as ponies.’

  ‘Aindrew could ride on their backs,’ Finn replied with a little pang as she thought of her young brother. She hoped he was safe in the hunting-lodge and that her father had driven away the Fairgean. She pushed the thought away from her, not liking to think of the alternative. ‘Ye shouldna call me that, though, Ashlin. I be just Finn now.’

  He nodded his head, abashed. ‘Aye, I be sorry, my … I mean, Finn.’ He blushed, blurting out again, ‘I be sorry, it just sounds so …’ He came to a stop, unable to express his feelings.

  She grinned at him. ‘Say it over and over to yourself, ye
ken, like, “Finn, Finn, Finn”. Ye’ll soon remember.’ She laughed at the wave of hot colour that scorched his face. ‘I did no’ ken ye blushed like a lassie,’ she teased. ‘Nay, nay, do no’ look so mortified. I like it. I think it’s sweet.’

  He struggled to find some answer but could think of nothing and so stood back, blushing harder than ever. Finn gave his arm a little pat. ‘Now I be sorry,’ she said. ‘I was only teasing.’ She smiled reassuringly and looked back at the caravans, giving Ashlin a chance to recover his composure.

  Riding near the caravans were a number of outriders, and horses of all colours and sizes ran loose on either side. Suddenly one of the horses spread a pair of rainbow-coloured wings and soared up into the sky. Both Finn and Ashlin cried aloud in amazement and even Brangaine gave a little gasp of wonder.

  It was a huge creature, as tall and powerful as a carthorse, with a thick honey-coloured coat. Its mane and tail were pale gold and very long and luxuriant, and from its noble brow sprouted two widely spreading antlers. As it flew it tucked its legs up under its body. Its feathered wings were very broad, tinted honey-yellow and crimson near its body and darkening through shades of green and violet to an iridescent blue at the wingtips. On its back a man was crouched, dwarfed by the flying horse’s immense size.

  Those on the ground watched in awe and envy as the magical creature frolicked through the air, folding its wings and plunging at a terrifying speed, stretching them out to soar up again. At last it came gliding down to land near the caravans, the great beat of its rainbow wings causing dust and leaves to blow about madly, stinging their eyes.

  Morrell had leapt to his feet to watch, just like everyone else in the camp, and now he bowed low to the winged horse’s rider. ‘Ye honour us, my laird,’ he said. ‘Will ye no’ stand down?’

  The man inclined his head and leapt lightly down, caressing the warm honey-coloured flank before allowing Morrell to bend over his hand. ‘Welcome to the land o’ the horse-lairds once more, Morrell the Fire-eater,’ he said. ‘Where is your sweet-voiced mother?’