The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  Muire nodded, though the lines of anxiety between her brows deepened. It had been almost a month since she had last spoken with Enit Silverthroat through her scrying bowl, and Muire could not help the growing trepidation which gnawed at her every moment of every day. Dùn Eidean had not been provisioned for such a long siege, having been at peace for hundreds of years and the attack of the Bright Soldiers having come with little warning. The castle was crowded with folk from the surrounding countryside and the town, most of them old and feeble, or young and weak. The flower of Dùn Eidean’s youth and strength lay wasted on the battlefield outside the town. Only a handful of soldiers remained to protect the castle walls, and for all the Dowager Banprionnsa’s brave words, Muire knew they could not withstand the Bright Soldiers much longer. Hunger and illness were taking their toll. Every day more corpses were tossed over the battlements in the hope disease would spread through the encampment below and do the job of the arrows Dùn Eidean no longer had.

  ‘Whatever the cost, we must carry the yoke,’ the old woman said. ‘Never let it be said the clan o’ the MacThanach faltered under the load. My son shall come, and the MacCuinn with him, and we shall rebuild Dùn Eidean, stronger than ever.’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ Muire said. ‘But will ye no’ come in? It looks like rain and ye shall do none o’ us any guid if ye fall ill and give me the trouble o’ nursing ye.’

  The old woman gave a little laugh and let her maid draw her away from the edge.

  Blood red, the sun heaved itself clear of the horizon, a grey, mizzling rain drifting across the ruins of the town. The harquebusiers sighed and huddled into their cloaks, knowing there would be no attack today. The rain would dampen their gunpowder and their fuse, rendering their harquebuses useless once again. Under their breaths they cursed the Fealde who had described the golden fields of Blèssem lying open and vulnerable under a warm sun. Never had they known such a miserable climate or such stubborn defendants, and they fervently wished they were home again in Tìrsoilleir.

  At the very edge of the camp, a squad of Bright Soldiers were making their dawn patrol, as unhappy and uncomfortable as the harquebusiers. Before them the trampled fields stretched as far as the eye could see, bloodied and charred. No living thing stirred, no bird sang or insect chirruped. The small loch that lay in the dip of the valley was choked with refuse, its shores all churned into mud. Piles of ash showed where the funeral pyres were lit each day. Not only were the casualties of both sides incinerated there, but also those Tìrsoilleirean soldiers who had tried to desert or had disobeyed orders or were too badly wounded to fight on. Although none of the squad discussed it, they had all heard of the lad with the miraculous healing hands who cured the sick and wounded, regardless of race or religion. All secretly hoped that, should they be wounded, the enemy would find them. If their own side retrieved them, all they could hope for would be a quick dagger thrust and a fiery mass funeral.

  The morale of the Bright Soldiers was very low. They had not eaten a decent meal in months; they were sick of the war and uneasy about the reports of a blind prophet roaming the countryside south of Dùn Eidean. The prophet’s words were repeated in mutters around the fires at night, and the pastor of the camp had begun to preach impassioned sermons against him. The berhtildes were harsher than ever in their punishments, anyone caught trying to run away dying a slow and horrible death. The patrols around the perimeter of the camp were as much to keep people in as to guard against attack from without, a duty that made the soldiers of the dawn squad most uncomfortable.

  Suddenly the dim, damp silence was torn apart by the flourish of trumpets. The soldiers were jerked out of their apathetic trudge, their swords ringing out, their cloaks swinging as they stared around. They heard a choir of heavenly voices, all singing, ‘O praise him, O praise him, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!’

  The clouds parted and a broad ray of sunlight struck down, dazzling their eyes. They shaded their faces with their hands, hearts pounding. Their pupils dilated as they saw a figure soaring through the light. Dressed all in white, he held aloft a great claymore, shining as bright as a lantern. His long wings were black and his blazing eyes were golden. He hovered in the air before them, holding up the sword like a cross. The singing voices reached a glorious crescendo and then tremored into silence.

  ‘Fall down before the angel o’ the Laird, for ye have sinned,’ the angel cried in a voice that echoed like thunder. As one the soldiers fell to their knees, arms across their faces. ‘What war and wickedness is this, what pursuit o’ hatreds, contentions, jealousies, and selfish ambitions? I tell ye now, as I have told ye before, that those who practise such things shall no’ inherit the Kingdom o’ God, for the fruit o’ the spirit is love, joy and peace. If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit!’

  Again the trumpets rang out and the angel fixed the cowering soldiers with a fierce gaze. ‘Ye have become as children, tossed to and fro and carried about with every wind o’ doctrine, by the trickery o’ men, in the cunning craftiness o’ deceitful plotting, lies and lust for power. Ye have been alienated from the life o’ God because o’ the blindness and folly o’ your hearts.’

  The soldiers were sobbing with fear, their faces pressed into the mud. Again the trumpets rang out, and the angel raised the sword high, golden light pouring all around him.

  ‘O pour out thy wrath on the false leaders who deceive ye; pour out thy indignation upon them and cause thy fierce anger to overtake them. Pursue them in wrath and remove them from under the heavens o’ the Laird. O generation of vipers, they shall flee before the wrath that is to come!

  ‘Put on the whole armour o’ God that ye may be able to stand against the wiles o’ the Archfiend. For we do no’ wrestle against flesh and blood but against the rulers o’ the darkness o’ this age. Therefore take up the whole armour o’ God that ye may withstand the evil day; stand therefore, having girded yourselves with truth, having put on the breastplate o’ righteousness, and having shod your feet with the gospel o’ peace. Raise high the shield o’ faith with which to quench the fiery darts o’ the wicked one, who speaks through the loose lips o’ your leaders. Take the helmet o’ salvation and the sword o’ the spirit, which is the word o’ God our Father, and throw down these false preachers, these proud, vain, deceitful leaders!’

  The angel lowered his sword, and held out his hand, black wings curving around his body. ‘Put on tender mercies, kindness, humility, meekness, long-suffering. Bear with each other and forgive one another, as He forgave ye. For by Him all things were created that are in heaven and earth, visible and invisible, human and unworldly. All things were created through Him and for Him, He is before all things and of Him all things consist.’

  The air was filled with sweet voices rejoicing. The angel bowed his head and sang with such unearthly beauty that tears started to the eyes of the soldiers who listened.

  ‘Thou rushing wind that art so strong,

  Ye clouds in heaven that sail along,

  O praise him, hallelujah!

  Thou rising morn, in praise rejoice,

  Ye lights of heaven, find a voice,

  O praise him, O praise him

  Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!’

  As he sang he slowly rose into the shining air. The clouds closed about his body and he disappeared from their sight. For a moment the sound of his song lingered, and then there was silence again.

  The soldiers staggered to their feet and ran towards the camp, their faces transfigured, their swords lying forgotten in the mud behind them.

  Their blundering run brought them among the tents and picket lines. They were greeted with cries of alarm and astonishment as their comrades jumped up to question them. Many had heard the trumpets and the singing, and had seen the golden light on the hill. Some had seen the black-winged angel flying into the clouds. Stammering, half crying, the dawn patrol described what they had seen. Exclamations and queries were shouted, and a crowd soon gathered, shifting and mur
muring with excitement. For months they had been hearing rumours of miracles and marvels. Indeed, the forces of the enemy fought as if God’s might was behind them, clothed in storm and flame, striking as swiftly and fatally as lightning. The beasts of the field and forest and the birds of the air fought with them, and in their wake fields flourished and orchards bloomed. The soldiers looked about them at the charred meadows and broken buildings, and many felt the weariness and sickness in their hearts spark into anger.

  A berhtilde strode Out of her tent and demanded to know the meaning of all the noise and confusion. She was a tall, hard-faced woman, her nose broken out of shape. She wore chain-mail leggings but had replaced her breastplate with a shirt of rough goat’s hair, a common act of mortification among the berhtildes. Without her armour, the asymmetry of her breasts was sharply defined. The soldiers told her what they had seen, stammering in sudden fear.

  ‘Blasphemy!’ she cried. ‘Ye have had dealings with the Archfiend! These cursed witches have sent false messengers to bewilder your minds. How dare ye doubt the word o’ the elders? Ye shall kneel before the holy cross and swear that what ye have seen is an evil lie, and then ye shall whip yourself till ye are bloody in penance for your weak folly.’

  For a moment it looked as if her authority would be maintained, then one of the soldiers leapt forward with a cry. ‘Nay! We have seen the angel o’ the Laird and it is ye who does the Archfiend’s work!’

  His hand had fallen to his hilt but found it empty, so, with one quick motion, he seized a stone from the ground and flung it at her. It hit her on the cheekbone, drawing blood. She stared at him in stupefaction, her fingers rising to touch the wound. The soldier’s act fired the crowd. They shouted in gleeful excitement. Some found the courage to throw clods of mud or stones. One young soldier, who had often suffered the harshness of the berhtilde’s punishments, drew his dagger and stabbed her in the side. She staggered back, then drew her own dagger with an oath, killing the young soldier with a single stroke. Her resistance inflamed the crowd. Although she shouted for help, she fell quickly, her blood soaking into the churned-up soil.

  The frenzy of the crowd spread out like ripples from a stone flung into water. Soon the fighting was surging through the entire camp. The pastor was dragged out of his tent, naked and pleading for mercy, one of the camp whores beside him, sobbing and clutching the bedclothes to her. Both were beaten near to death, and the officers who tried to defend them killed. Several berhtildes were battered to insensibility or death, and the camp commandant found himself and his officers barricaded inside one of the inns as the riot spread through the town.

  In the castle above, the Dowager Banprionnsa leant over the battlements, watching the fighting with amazement. ‘Have they gone mad?’ she cried.

  ‘Who kens?’ the commander of the garrison replied, his one undamaged eye glaring bright among the bandages that swathed his head. ‘Happen they have eaten o’ tainted grain, or breathed air all sickened by the dead. Whatever drives this madness, let us thank the Truth that it is so!’

  ‘Let us thank Eà,’ the Dowager said sternly, and he nodded, meeting her eyes gravely.

  ‘Aye, let us thank Eà,’ he agreed.

  ‘Look, my lady!’ Muire cried. ‘There on the hill!’

  The dowager screwed up her eyes. At first all she could see was a dazzle of light on the rim of the low hills to the north, then she saw an army marching down the slope, swords drawn so they glittered in the sunlight that poured down from a rift in the clouds. Before them a light shower was still twisting here and there across the muddy fields, but where the Rìgh’s army marched, no rain fell.

  The garrison commander cried aloud in joy, and his soldiers—bruised, bandaged and grey with exhaustion—hung over the battlements with cries of excitement. They banged their shields with their daggers and the clan piper began rather shakily to play a triumphant tune. On and on the army marched, and soon they could hear the sound of their drums and trumpets, and see the colours of the pennants that fluttered at their head.

  ‘See, it is the MacCuinn stag!’ Muire cried. ‘And the dear green and gold—your son is there, my lady! The MacThanach is home!’

  Tears ran down the wrinkles of the old woman’s face though she said nothing. All the watchers on the battlements took up the cry. ‘The MacThanach is home! The MacThanach is home!’ Down in the great hall many who had thought they had felt Gearradh’s breath on their cheeks raised themselves on their elbows and listened, at first in fear and dread at the commotion and then in growing hope and elation.

  Out in the Bright Soldiers’ camp the turmoil grew. Some threw down their weapons and fled. Some knelt or threw themselves on their faces in the blood and the filth. Others tried to rally their comrades to defend the camp, only to find themselves standing alone or even attacked by their own side.

  Lachlan and Iseult rode right to the very gates of the town without striking a single blow. The Rìgh was clad all in white still, his claymore held upright, his black wings spread proudly. Many of the Bright Soldiers called to him in fear and awe, begging for mercy and forgiveness, and he inclined his head majestically. Those few Tìrsoilleirean who still resisted were unarmed quickly and efficiently by his men and taken prisoner. Then the Rìgh’s healers moved through the camp, tending the many sick and wounded. Tòmas laid his hands on those closest to death, miraculously returning life and health to their diseased and pain-wracked bodies, while Johanna and her team of healers worked to help those whose injuries were not so serious.

  The MacThanach, riding on Lachlan’s right hand, looked about him at the ruins of the town with dismay clear on his broad, red face. Barely a building was left standing, most reduced to mere rubble. From the narrow streets below the castle hill came a sickening smell, and he had to cover his mouth with his gauntlet. They could see corpses lying in the mud like discarded dolls, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their skulls cracked open by the force of their fall. The MacThanach had to fight back his nausea and grief, his mouth clenched tight behind the shelter of his glove. Iseult looked at him with interest and noticed, somewhat to her surprise, that many others among their retinue were also pale and sweating, even her husband.

  ‘It was wise to throw them over,’ Duncan Ironfist said in an attempt to comfort the MacThanach. ‘They could not have buried them properly within the castle walls and they must already have been fighting off disease.’

  ‘By the Centaur,’ the MacThanach breathed, ‘what they must have suffered! More than six hundred days they’ve been trapped in there. Och, it’s a bad laird I’ve been to them indeed, to have waited so long to relieve them.’

  ‘What else could we have done?’ Lachlan said irritably. ‘It is no’ as if we’ve been sitting on our hands admiring the view. It’s been hard fighting indeed this last year and I’ve lost many fine men winning back your land for ye.’

  ‘And here we are riding up to the very gates without striking a single blow,’ the MacThanach said with the wondering air of a child. ‘Look at all their siege machines! It is a wonder my castle is no’ a mere pile o’ stones like the rest o’ the town.’

  ‘Aye, your ancestors chose their spot well,’ Duncan said, dismounting as they reached the castle gate. ‘It would be hard to attack, built on this hill, with all the town getting in the way. Look, can ye see where they’ve been digging, to try and undermine the walls? And by the looks o’ it, they tried to tunnel right under the very hill there.’

  He went to hammer on the gates with his massive fist, but before he had a chance to do so, they were opened from within and an emaciated old man fell to his knees before them. ‘Thank Eà ye are here at last, my laird!’ he cried. ‘Och, but it was grand to see ye riding over the hill, with all the flags flying and the trumpets blowing.’ Tears were streaming down his sunken cheeks and his fingers were shaking uncontrollably as he clutched at the MacThanach’s kilt. The prionnsa raised him and embraced him, his own face wet.

  The defenders of the castl
e were crowding out through the gates, all of them painfully thin, the strain of the last twenty months evident in their sunken and shadowed eyes. They fell down on their knees before Lachlan and Iseult, weeping with gratitude and relief Lachlan dismounted swiftly, helping many to their feet with his own hands, calling for his soldiers to bring in the cartloads of supplies they had brought with them.

  ‘My mother, where is my mother?’ the MacThanach cried.

  ‘Och, my laird, so strong and steadfast she has been for all these months, and keeping the hope alive in our hearts even when it seemed we could no’ keep them off for another night. And yet the moment it was sure we were saved …’ The middle-aged woman clutched at the MacThanach’s arm, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  ‘What, Muire, what?’

  ‘She fell where she stood, my laird, and we canna rouse her, though she breathes still. I fear …’ But Muire was unable to finish her words, for the MacThanach had torn himself free of her grip and broken into a ponderous run, his leather armour creaking.

  Lachlan turned and called to his squires. ‘Dillon, Artair, get me Tòmas, quickly! Tell him we need his healing powers in the castle. And bring Johanna and the healers also. Our own people must come first! Anntoin, ride down and find Meghan for me, and that fat auld cook too! We have starving people here and it is about time she proved her worth.’

  ‘Aye, Your Highness,’ the boys saluted and wheeled their ponies round to gallop back down the hill.

  Lachlan and Iseult paused only long enough to give quick directives to the Yeomen of the Guard, then they followed Muire into the inner bailey. She led them through the castle, talking all the way, her mouth working in distress.