“The Sasunnach King woos Donald MacNeill and his daughter with sweet words and promises, and he prays to his conqueror-gods, to his Ceres and his Robigus, to blight our crops and our beasts, to make his offers more difficult to refuse. Now, he thinks, now Donald MacNeill will sell me his daughter and his kingdom in exchange for a few sacks of corn.”
Sophie’s feelings for her father were complicated and ambivalent, but this base accusation was so absurd that she could scarcely contain an indignant protest. But is it? Has my father depths of cruelty, of subtlety, which I have not imagined?
“The gods of Rome are greedy for new conquests, and Alba has felt the sting of their lash ever since. The British King and his heir rejoice in Alba’s suffering”—here the effigies of King Henry and Prince Roland did a crude, horrible sort of jig together, and Sophie gritted her teeth against a new access of indignation—“and Donald MacNeill wrings his hands and orders the storehouses opened, and like the men of Troy, welcomes in his enemy’s self-serving gifts.”
Mutters of confusion amongst Sophie’s immediate neighbours suggested that this barbed reference to Danaos dona ferentes had perhaps not found its intended target; but certainly the priests’ attempt to portray Donald MacNeill as the hapless dupe of the scheming King Henry had done so. What might these people say, if Sophie should tell them that—if Joanna spoke true, and in this matter, why should she not?—the impetus for Lucia MacNeill’s marriage had come from her father and herself, and not from Henry of Britain at all? But surely they had heard Donald MacNeill say as much, just as she had, and his words had made no difference.
“Hear therefore, people of Alba, what awaits us all, if this ill-starred marriage should take place. Hear the speaking of the Cailleach.”
The crowd fell silent, now—so silent that Sophie fancied she began to hear the beating of hearts about her, though she knew that it must be only her own pulse hammering in her ears.
The slender figure of the Cailleach rose high above the crowd on its long pole, arms outstretched, ribbons and streamers fluttering in the chill breeze, and for the first time the four priests spoke all together, in a manner that recalled to Sophie’s mind her single and terrifyingly memorable encounter with the priests of Apollo Coelispex—though there seemed to be no coercive magicks at work in this case.
At any rate, none that I can feel. But what workings might these men be capable of, which I should not perceive?
“Alba’s gods will not be supplanted,” they intoned. “Alba’s lands will not be tilled by Sasunnach hands. Alba’s people will not be subdued. As it was in the time of the Roman invaders, as it was in the days of the longship raiders, as it has been since the days of the great Ailpín Drostan: Alba shall not be conquered.”
Sophie shivered. False though she knew their accusations to be, she was within a hair’s breadth of being caught up in what was unmistakably a call to arms—and if even she could only just resist it . . .
Bodies pressed in around her, behind her; on the far side of the central clearing, she saw, the crowd had grown denser as more and more passersby adhered themselves to its edges, and drew closer to better see and hear the goings-on at its heart.
The figure of the Cailleach raised its arms.
“Come, lands and waters of Alba!” cried the priests. “Come, fields and streams! Come, trees and stones! Rise up against the enemies of Alba—enemies without and enemies within—and do the will of your gods!”
The magick of the land, thought Sophie. The priests and all these people believe in it, whatever anyone else may say.
And then all at once the still air was thick with sound and fury, and Sophie clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle a howl of irrational terror as the crude, ill-made effigies of her father and brother disintegrated under a hail of stones and an onslaught of bludgeoning tree-branches.
“The Cailleach has spoken,” the priests intoned, in the fraught aftermath. The figure of the goddess faced the figure of Donald MacNeill, which tilted forward as though hanging its head.
The crowd dispersed, conversing in subdued mutterings and whispers, and Sophie, shivering for reasons entirely unconnected to the February chill, made her way silently back to Quarry Close.
* * *
“You must write to Kergabet,” said Gray at once, when Sophie had related the afternoon’s unsettling events. “This is no vague rumour of discontent or unrest; it is a serious threat. Whether these priests are indeed doing the will of their goddess, or whether they have decided for her what her will is to be, it seems clear they intend genuine harm to Roland, and perhaps to Lucia MacNeill as well. And Lord de Courcy I am sure will also wish to hear what you have witnessed, in case he should have had no one upon the spot.”
Sophie’s fine dark brows drew together, and for a long moment she stared down into her half-drunk tea.
At last she set the teacup down very carefully in its saucer, sat up straight, and squared her shoulders. “I shall write to Kergabet,” she said, “and perhaps you will write to Lord de Courcy? We shall save time by writing both letters at once.”
If she has not yet forgiven Courcy his attempt to persuade her to flee, then there is certainly nothing to be gained from my pressing the same argument.
Gray spoke none of these thoughts aloud. “Certainly,” he said instead, and giving her knee a little pat, he rose to fetch writing-paper and pens and an ink-pot.
* * *
The sequel of the mummers’ play staged by the priests of the Cailleach—as Sophie and Gray soon learnt, it had been repeated up and down the kingdom before its appearance in Din Edin—was a formal meeting between Donald MacNeill and the most senior members of the priesthood. Within the University (which was, with a few outspoken exceptions, generally in favour of Lucia MacNeill’s British marriage, as tending to produce stability and peace between the kingdoms, and thus conducive to scholarship), the latter event produced no less astonished talk than the former, which greatly puzzled the Marshalls, until their enlightenment by Mór MacRury’s patient explanation that the priesthood of the Cailleach were by inclination and by oath abstainers from political matters.
“It is very shocking that they should have taken any public position in such a dispute,” said Rory, shaking his head, “and more shocking still that they should give it against the ruling chieftain. And that Donald MacNeill should give countenance to that position by proposing to meet with them is . . . well! I scarcely know how to tell you how astonishing.”
“No wonder, then, that the people were so quiet!” Sophie exclaimed. “I did wonder at it, you know, at the time; I quite expected a riot, or at any rate a great deal of shouting, but nearly all of them went away whispering and muttering to one another—slunk away, almost—and there was no shouting at all.”
Mór exchanged a look with Rory and Sorcha MacAngus, whose meaning Gray could not divine.
“I wonder that they were not arrested,” said Gray, turning one of Mór’s blue-green glazed teacups round and round in his hands. “I suppose it is no treason to threaten a foreign King, but surely the threat to Donald MacNeill and his daughter was perfectly clear, if not quite so . . . direct.”
“I do not suppose that Donald MacNeill imagines it a serious threat,” said Mór, in what was evidently meant for a soothing tone. “It is all theatre, you see—a means of swaying public opinion, and thus swaying Donald MacNeill himself, and so long as they do no real injury, there is no advantage to him in attempting to silence them. And as for the priests and their goddess . . . it is not the rocks and trees of Alba that threaten harm to your brother, Sophie; it is sticks and stones in the hands of people who know no better.”
“If that is your notion of comfort,” said Sophie, rather tartly, “I should counsel you to take up some other line of work.”
Mór looked away, her cheeks colouring; Gray cast Sophie a gently reproachful look and inquired of the company at large, �
��What has become of Professor Maghrebin? Rob MacGregor told me this morning that he had been called away home to attend on his dying brother—which I hope may not be so—but two days since Duncan MacKerron was perfectly persuaded that the cause was some sort of turmoil at his own university in Alexandria . . .”
The conversation turned to their absent colleague, and both Sophie and Mór rejoined it by slow degrees.
* * *
For some time thereafter, Gray lived in a state of perpetual tension, awaiting some escalation of the threats against the Kingdom of Britain, King Henry, or Sophie herself. But whether because Lord de Courcy or some one of his minions had dropped a judicious word in someone’s ear, or simply because—as Mór MacRury had conceded—no scandal could hold the attention of Din Edin society longer than a month, no further insult was offered to the Marshalls’ house, and no direct insult to Sophie’s person.
Her letters to her father and Lord Kergabet had produced a flurry of replies from Ned and Roland, as well as from Kergabet and the King, such as Gray thought might have tempted her to reconsider—particularly in respect of Joanna’s visit—and certainly had the situation deteriorated. Though opinions of Lucia MacNeill’s betrothal, and of British subjects resident in Din Edin generally, continued deeply divided, however, the unpleasant distinction briefly accorded to Sophie was already fading, and whilst Gray did not entirely share her apparent confidence, each day that passed without some worse incident made him less anxious for her safety.
Still he made sure that she went nowhere unescorted; and Sophie, for her part, made a very handsome job of pretending not to have remarked his solicitude.
CHAPTER XVII
In Which Joanna Amends Her Plans
Joanna was contemplating the contents of her wardrobe, from which within the next se’nnight she should be packing her trunk for the journey to Din Edin, and was weighing the trials of a four-hundred-mile journey in the company of Oscar MacConnachie’s tedious wife against the promise of a month with Sophie, when there came a knock on her bedroom door, startlingly loud.
“Quo vadis?” she called.
From outside the door—still firmly closed—Gwendolen’s voice said, “Jo, may I come in?”
Joanna surveyed the chaos of her bedroom, then laughed derisively at herself for supposing that Gwendolen Pryce, of all people, should think herself qualified to read her a lecture upon that subject.
“Yes,” she said.
The door opened just wide enough to admit Gwendolen, who wore a figured muslin gown of (in Joanna’s opinion) surpassing ugliness, together with a troubled frown. Joanna gestured carelessly at the armchair by the hearth; Gwendolen perched on it willingly enough, but said nothing, and frowned into the fire with such ferocity that Joanna rather regretted not having barred the door.
She took out her fawn-coloured riding-habit to examine it for rents, and had succeeded almost in forgetting Gwendolen’s presence when the latter abruptly said, “I wish I might come with you.”
Joanna turned, startled. “But I thought,” she said, “I thought you had been pleased with the prospect of staying here.”
“Oh!” Gwendolen flushed becomingly and ducked her head. “It is not that I have any wish to leave Lady Kergabet—not in the least!—only, I . . . I am not so very fond of London. And . . . and I should like to go with you, Jo.”
She looked up at last, and her expression was one which Joanna had seen often and often, but never before on Gwendolen’s face: soft and wistful, with an edge of anxious trepidation, as though she had said or done something which she did not regret, but for which she expected a vicious scolding.
“I should like that, also,” said Joanna.
She had not meant to say this, but it was perfectly true. Her eagerness to see Sophie again had not abated—they had never been so far from one another for so long—but as the longed-for visit approached, she had also begun to realise that she should miss her London family nearly as much as she now missed her sister; and, to her dismay, that she might possibly miss Gwendolen in particular. When had she come to depend so much upon Gwendolen’s presence—her sharp tongue and sharper eyes, her silent sympathy, and their tacit agreement never to speak further of the confessions they had exchanged in the wake of the Pryces’ visit? Never before had Joanna had such an intimate confidante, apart from Sophie; friends she had had at school, certainly, but none with whom she should have dreamed of discussing, for example, the history of her parents’ marriage.
Not that she had had any intention of confiding that sorry tale to Gwendolen, either, until the moment of doing so.
“And,” said Gwendolen, looking down again at the toes of her boots, “I do not much like your going, either, for you have been out of sorts this past month and more, and I am sure the reason for it must be in Din Edin.”
“No,” said Joanna curtly; and then—before she could stop herself—she added, “the reason for it is here.”
“Prince Roland, you mean,” said Gwendolen.
Joanna looked up sharply at her tone. “You cannot possibly be jealous,” she said, incredulous. “And if you were, you ought to be jealous of Lucia MacNeill of Alba, and not of me.”
Gwendolen laughed aloud. “That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard you say, Joanna Callender,” she declared.
Joanna turned back to the wardrobe in some confusion and extracted her blue woollen gown.
There was certainly something to be said for the notion of travelling with Gwendolen, rather than alone; she should have someone to talk to, apart from the irritating Lady MacConnachie, during the journey, and once there, a companion who was a friend of her own and not of Gray’s or Sophie’s. She imagined herself and Gwendolen trading barbed remarks on the subject of Lady MacConnachie’s unedifying conversation and unfortunate taste in hats, and smiled.
To impose an unexpected and uninvited guest upon Sophie, however—and a near stranger, at that—was a less appealing idea. The Marshalls’ lodgings in Din Edin were small, she knew, if not so cramped as their Oxford rooms; even with some warning, could Sophie accommodate a second visitor?
Besides all of that, there was her work to consider, and the question—still unanswered, for all the breezy reassurances in Sophie’s letters—of what circumstances presently prevailed in Din Edin, and whether they should any of them be safe.
Gwendolen had begun to wander about the room, taking up objects seemingly at random and putting them down again. “You, I suppose, are very fond of London,” she said casually.
“I?” said Joanna, half laughing in surprise. “No, indeed. That is,” she amended, “I am interested in the work of government, which Kergabet has kindly allowed me some small share in; and I am fond of him and of Jenny and the children; and London is where all of them are. But as for the noise and the formal dinners and the rout-parties and the interminable morning-visits, I had a thousand times rather a country house with a stream and a wood and a frog-pond, and a good stable and enough open country for a good gallop.”
Gwendolen’s long face lit with a delighted grin. “I knew it!” she said.
“But one cannot have everything at once,” said Joanna primly, “and I had rather be in London, with something interesting to do, than in Breizh with only my sister Amelia for company. Or at school again, learning embroidery and dancing.”
“But you love to dance,” said Gwendolen. “And”—she reached for the gown still in Joanna’s hands, and pointed out a split seam—“you cannot tell me that there is no use in learning to sew. Where is your work-basket, Jo?”
“In the morning-room?” said Joanna vaguely. “No: There, under the dressing-table.”
Gwendolen bent to retrieve the work-basket, and before Joanna could reply, was threading a needle.
“I do not say so,” Joanna managed at last. “But you shall never convince me that my skill in crewel-work—if I had any—is of any use to
anyone, or that I might not have spent that time more fruitfully.”
“That, I grant you,” said Gwendolen. She stitched in silence whilst Joanna watched her—dark head bent, long fingers flying—and wondered why it should be so difficult to look away.
She rolled stockings and folded linens in silence until at last Gwendolen said, “There!” and Joanna heard the soft snick of her scissors snipping off a thread.
“I am more grateful for Lady Kergabet’s kindness than I can say,” Gwendolen went on, which made Joanna wonder where her thoughts had been whilst her fingers were busy with her needle. “But—you must have remarked it—the gods did not fashion me for morning-visits and fancy-work, any more than you.”
“You know of course, Gwen,” said Joanna cautiously, kneeling beside the bed to retrieve a bandbox from beneath it, “that Din Edin is a city like London? Well—perhaps not quite like London—”
“But what an adventure we should have, Jo!” Gwendolen exclaimed.
Startled by this sudden enthusiasm, Joanna twisted to look up at her and got a face full of blue woollen skirts for her trouble. She brushed them away impatiently.
Though Gwendolen’s smile was rather hesitant, it did not look feigned or forced.
“Din Edin may not be altogether safe,” said Joanna.
“If Lord Kergabet thought it truly dangerous,” Gwendolen countered, “he should not be sending you, even with half a dozen guardsmen.”
Joanna had in fact been at some pains to persuade her patron to limit the number to six, but it was certainly true that Kergabet was more than capable of putting his foot down—diplomatic opportunity or no—if the necessity arose, and yet had not done so. Moreover, His Majesty might at any time have ordered Lord de Courcy to send Gray and Sophie back to London, and though she knew (from Sophie’s indignant letter on the subject, recently arrived in Carrington-street) that they had been urged to depart, he had stopped short of an outright royal decree.
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