by Kim Wilkins
The unpredictable weather drove them early to a tall, crooked alehouse in Doxdal, south of the great lakes of Netelchester and still two long days from Blicstowe. Heath stayed with their horses to cool them down, while Rose took Rowan inside to feed her and dry her clothes by the fire. The child always demanded to be held while she fell asleep; it had been scarce a month since she was weaned from the breast. Rose lay out beside her on the blanket, watching her eyes flicker and sink, flicker and sink, until finally she was still. Rowan’s soft, even breathing measured out the minutes, the first hour. Evening settled in. Perhaps by now Heath had eaten, too, and was sitting downstairs among the noise of men and the spitting fire, thawing his limbs from the long cold ride. He would be thinking of her ...
Would he not?
But they had been apart a long time. Perhaps his feelings had changed. The thought staggered her. She had felt the proximity of him all day, her skin aware of his skin. She had assumed such feelings were shared, but perhaps she was being a fool.
A deep, sad current thrilled through her, making her gasp loudly. Rowan stirred and settled again. And why should Heath be constant for her and love her? She was married to someone else. Not just someone: the king of Netelchester, Heath’s uncle. Her fingers went to Rowan’s soft cheek, grasping for the last thing in the world unsullied by her dissatisfaction. She was trapped, and the truth of this was crushing. Once, she had imagined that when Bluebell was queen, Rose could ask to come home to Blicstowe, not to have to perpetuate this loveless marriage. In her imagination, her sister would raise war against Netelchester to free her. But now Bluebell stood poised to take control of Ælmesse, these imaginings revealed themselves for what they were: childish fantasies. Bluebell would give her life for Ælmesse, Rose had to give nothing but her womb.
And, it seemed, her happiness.
A creak on the floorboards outside her room made her sit up. She cracked the door open a fraction, and saw Heath rolling out his bed against the wall. He had placed on the floor a stuttering lantern that made the shadows of the balcony rail leap.
‘Heath?’
He looked up and saw her. Smiled. Love was still there, she knew it with arrowing intensity. A sob caught in her throat. He came to the door and took her right arm in his hands, his desire compressed into the hot palms that circled her sleeved wrist, sending her heart into a frantic rhythm. But he dared not embrace her. From here, they were visible to whomever cared to look up. And she could hardly bring him into the room where Rowan was sleeping. Sleeping, but listening.
‘This is torture,’ he whispered, dropping his hands.
‘I know.’
His glance went over her shoulder, to the warm lump of Rowan in the bed. Rose smiled and stood aside, so he could see his daughter properly.
‘If she were my uncle’s child, then I would know how to behave around her,’ he said. ‘But to know she is my blood ...’ He trailed off, glanced away. ‘I search her too often with my eyes. She’s growing frightened of me.’
‘Be natural with her. She’s a friendly child. She won’t be frightened for long.’
‘I couldn’t look at either of you today. Happiness so close, but forever denied.’ The rushlight lit auburn glimmers in his hair.
She gazed at his face, the beloved contours of his jaw, the shallow furrow in his brow. His hard shoulder inches from her soft shoulder. Warm waves of desire magnetising the space between them. Misery and longing mingled to such a high pitch that her chest burned.
‘I still love you,’ she said.
A little sigh and yawn. Rowan. Rose stepped back, Heath dropped her arm. Rowan sat up, looked around sightlessly, then fell back on the mattress with her eyes closed.
Heath withdrew, dropped his head. ‘Goodnight, my lady. I will sleep close to keep you and your daughter safe.’ He pulled the door closed reluctantly.
Rose returned to the bed.
‘Mama?’ Rowan murmured, reaching out her hand.
‘Here, my love,’ Rose answered, curling up against her, yearning uselessly into the dark.
Four
The Giant Road led up and then down the rocky hillsides and oak groves above the town of Æcstede: the closest large town to Blicstowe. At the end of a full day of travel with Wylm, Bluebell was exhausted. Her bones and muscles and mind ached. She hadn’t slept properly since Heath had woken her with the news back in Lyteldyke. She had been either in the saddle or itching to move, and her thoughts were constantly turned towards her father. They rode down the hill into the town — Wylm was twenty feet behind her — while dusk gathered at the eastern rim of the sky and a thick flock of starlings swooped low overhead. Æcstede was a forest town: a town of hunters, not farmers. The people were harder, crueller than in Blicstowe, living in the shadows of wolves.
This was where they would stay the night. She couldn’t push Isern further, and she needed to sleep in a proper bed. The alehouse was well known to Bluebell, but she had only ever approached it with a full hearthband around her. Tonight, she had only Wylm to scare people with. She snorted a laugh despite herself. Wylm couldn’t frighten a cat.
A light drizzle started as Isern cantered between the tall front gates of the town. The stables stood immediately on Bluebell’s right and already Harald, the stable master, was stepping out towards the road and waving to her. Thrymm and Thræc, recognising him, rushed up with tails thumping, pawing at his chest, their hot tongues seeking out his hands.
‘My lord,’ Harald said. ‘Well met.’
Bluebell dismounted and handed the reins over to him. ‘Be kind to him, Harald, he’s exhausted.’ She put her mouth close to the horse’s cheek. ‘Aren’t you, my old friend?’
Harald rubbed Isern’s nose with a big, hairy hand. ‘What has she been doing to you, big fellow?’
‘We’re heading for Blicstowe at first light.’
‘We?’
Bluebell gestured over her shoulder towards Wylm, who walked his horse through the stable gate. ‘My stepbrother,’ she said, with a sneer in her voice.
Harald turned his attention back to Isern. ‘I’ll have him ready for you, my lord.’
‘Can you feed and water my dogs? I want them nowhere near the hunting dogs that crowd the alehouse.’
‘Of course.’
Bluebell waited for Wylm to dismount and hand his horse over.
‘This way,’ she said to him, and led him up the grassy slope towards the alehouse, a dark, wooden building squatting on muddy, rutted ground. The smell of sweet yarrow steam and roasting meat met her nose, and her mouth grew wet at the idea of eating. She pushed open the front door. Every head in the room turned to look at her. Some men smiled, some nodded, others glared at her stonily.
‘You’ve been here before, I take it?’ Wylm asked her.
‘Many times. I come here with my hearthband to hear cases and settle disputes.’ She smiled grimly. ‘There are always disputes. And after those disputes have been settled there are always dissatisfied men.’
The large main room was bathed in firelight, suffused with smoke and heavy with the smell of damp dog. The wood and finishings were finely wrought: Æcstede was also a logging town, and Æcstede oak and carvings were known even beyond the seas of Thyrsland. Animal hide rugs covered the floor in front of the roaring fireplace, while long wooden tables lined up beside the cooking pit where a deer was roasting on a spit. Bluebell took a seat, Wylm seating himself across from her. He was grubby from travel and stank like a goat; she was glad she couldn’t smell herself. The alehouse wife, a thin, harried woman named Cynburh, caught her eye and Bluebell nodded. A few minutes later, warm ale and plates of food landed at their elbows.
‘You’re travelling light, my lord,’ Cynburh said.
‘I’m hoping to be invisible,’ Bluebell replied.
Cynburh looked around the room at the many men stealing glances at her. ‘Not much chance of that.’ She returned to the bar and Bluebell started on her meal.
Soon enough, Bluebell could feel th
e shadow of somebody moving closer to her. She longed then for Sighere’s company, or even panicky Ricbert; for the company of thanes who had been hardened in the fires of battle, who knew how to keep a drunken fool at a distance. For a drunken fool had slid onto the seat next to her and was leaning on his elbow right over her meal.
‘I remember you,’ he said, rubbing his patchy beard.
Bluebell glanced at Wylm. He did nothing.
‘You and your father decided I’d been hunting over my boundary. But you didn’t even go out and look. I asked you ... I begged you. And you wouldn’t even go and look.’
‘I have no recollection,’ Bluebell said, without emotion.
‘Well, I have,’ he said, his voice growing louder, ‘because since then my neighbour is growing rich hunting on my land.’
‘If you have a dispute to settle, wait until the next King’s Hearing and speak to me then.’ Bluebell didn’t allow herself to imagine whether she would be running the next King’s Hearing alone.
‘That’s not until summer.’ He stood now, leaning over her. She was aware a small group had gathered. ‘Your father is no wiser than a donkey, and as slow and stubborn.’
‘Shut your gob, fool!’ This was another man, a willowy one with unusually pale skin. He shouldered through the small crowd and grasped patchy-beard by the shoulders. ‘How dare you speak like that to Princess Bluebell?’
‘Don’t call me princess,’ Bluebell muttered under her breath, turning back to her meal.
Patchy-beard pulled back and plunged his fist into pale-man’s gut. A shout went up, the others surged forwards. Bluebell watched them sidelong, always surprised by how men liked to use their fists. It was so base. Her first instinct was always steel. The room erupted with cursing and yelling, pushing and pulling. Dogs growled and barked. She calmly finished her food, then stood and drew her sword. The ones who noticed backed away quickly with their limbs drawn close, scuttling into corners like spiders. The others moved quick enough as she muscled them aside to find the two men who were the core of the brawl. Pale-man lay on the floor while patchy-beard kicked his ribs. She grabbed patchy-beard by his greasy hair and jerked his head back, pressing the edge of the blade against his throat.
His eyes rolled towards her. ‘Let me go!’ he shrieked, struggling against her.
Why couldn’t Wylm get on his feet and help her? If she was travelling with her hearthband, there would be at least half a dozen pairs of hands on him by now. But then, if she was travelling with her hearthband, this fight might never have happened.
‘Hold still or I’ll fillet you, fucker!’ she roared.
Patchy-beard stilled. Pale-man stood up, coughing and clutching his ribs. The crowd quietened, eager to see what would happen next.
‘I don’t care if you don’t respect me,’ Bluebell said, ‘but you will not insult my father with your foul, toothless mouth.’ She thrust him away from her and he stumbled against an adjacent table. As he righted himself, she turned the point of her blade to the crowd. ‘Go and sit down, leave me the fuck alone.’
They dispersed, some with eyes averted in shame, some with chests puffed to show they weren’t scared of her, even though they were. She sheathed her sword and sat down to return to her drink. The sweet ale hit the back of her throat with a light fizz. She became aware of Wylm considering her in the firelight.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry ...?’
‘Your eyes are on me. What is it? Have I grown a second head?’ He watched her too much. At first she thought he’d developed some misguided affection for her: plenty of men and a number of women had in the past, despite the fact she had more scars than eyelashes. But there had been no affection in his words or actions.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you have only the one head.’ His gaze was dark, oily.
‘Then why must your eyes always follow me?’
His eyes didn’t flicker. ‘I know not what manner of thing you are,’ he said.
‘I will be your king,’ she said, ‘so it would be better for you to choose your words with care.’
He smiled. ‘You are a woman. You’ll be a queen.’
‘I’ll be what I damn well please,’ she said, with a shrug of her bony shoulders.
He snorted with laughter. ‘You will still be a woman. You cannot be a man.’
‘And nor do I want to be a man,’ she countered.
At this he shook his head in genuine bewilderment. ‘And so we are back to my first observation. What manner of thing are you, Bluebell?’
Bluebell’s fingers crept to the grip of her sword, imagining the elastic resistance of Wylm’s belly under the tip of the blade. Then there would be the shove and the gratifying give. Then there would be the smell of his blood, and it would be as hot and pretty as blood ever smelled. These thoughts made her feel better and she didn’t draw her sword, but nor did she answer his question. The Horse God had given her speed and strength; what else was she to do but turn her arm to war? Not to do so would be dishonour. Why must people question her? Her father never questioned her.
The sadness — forgotten in her anger — returned. Life would go on without her father. She had her sisters; she had her hearthband. But without him, life would be sapped of its muscle and steel, a withered thing. She was only twenty-seven, but tonight she felt older than the Giant Road. Weariness infused her bones. She pushed her plate aside.
‘I must sleep,’ she murmured.
‘It’s not even dark.’
She shrugged. ‘Goodnight, worm.’
Wylm smiled at her tightly. ‘Goodnight, sister.’
Cynburh took Bluebell to a tiny bedroom at the top of the stairs, with a soft mattress on the floor and no shutters or fire. Dark and quiet. Bluebell turned on her side and, before she could draw a third breath, she was asleep.
Wakefulness came upon her too soon. The room was still dark. She could hear no men’s voices, no creaking of floorboards as people moved about. Her body told her it was after midnight, but still long before dawn. She closed her eyes tightly, but she knew she was defeated. She was weary, so weary, and yet sleep resisted her. So all that was left was to wait in the dark.
But how could she bear to be still, lying awake in an inn, barely five hours’ ride from her dying father? Especially when she suspected they had enemies on the move towards them. The raven-branded raiders had unsettled her. Rumours were everywhere that the Crow King was still alive. If word got back to him that her father was weak, that her country was weak ...
Bluebell slipped from her bed — every muscle ached — and pulled on her cloak. She scooped up her pack and cracked open the door. Downstairs, low firelight moved across the walls. Wylm would be down there somewhere, stretched out on a deerskin, sleeping too hard. She wouldn’t wake him. Let him realise in the morning she had gone ahead. This way, she could speak to his wretched mother when he wasn’t present to defend the woman.
Bluebell crept from the alehouse and out into the cool, dark morning. The stable door creaked open and she approached Isern’s stall. He had sensed her and his eyes were open. He walked up to the gate and pressed his nose into her hand. Bluebell’s gut clenched. He looked tired and old, and suddenly she couldn’t bear to make him go out on the road again in the dark. For the first time since she’d had the news about her father, her throat blocked up as though tears might be on their way.
‘My lord?’
Bluebell turned to see Harald approaching. She cleared her throat roughly. ‘Harald?’
‘I heard you come in. I sleep in the loft.’ He indicated Isern. ‘Don’t make him go out.’
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I won’t.’
‘I can give you a fresh horse, and I’ll bring Isern down to you in a few days.’
Words wouldn’t make their way into her mouth.
‘My lord?’
‘Yes,’ she said, hoarsely, ‘that would suit me well.’
He eyed her in the dark. ‘You need to get home quickly?’
‘King Æthlric is a good king. You will be, too. May it be a long time before that comes to pass, though.’
Bluebell patted his shoulder warmly. ‘We are of one mind, Harald.’
Within half an hour, she was back on the road with her dogs, leaving Wylm sleeping like a small, pampered child.
The sour smell of ash and the cool chill of morning. Wylm prickled awake. His shoulder was sore from sleeping on it too hard. He rolled over and opened his eyes. Dawn glimmered through the cracks around the shutters. Next to him, a fat dog slept, snoring lightly. Wylm was still tired, could easily have slept longer. But he wanted to be awake when Bluebell came down. He climbed to his feet and rolled up his pack, setting it by the door of the alehouse. A large bowl of porridge was hanging over the cooking pit, so he fished a bent silver coin out of his pocket to pay for a serving.
The sun was up, the shutters of the alehouse open, and Bluebell wasn’t awake yet. This was wonderful. She had relished him sleeping through the thief’s approach the previous night; perhaps he should find a disgruntled hunter to creep into her room and put his fingers under her blanket.
He wouldn’t do it himself though. He valued having a hand attached to each arm.
Wylm finished off the porridge and went outside to sit in the weak morning sun on a carved wooden bench. A strong smell of damp earth filled the air. He spent the time sharpening his blade and watching the town come awake for the day. The door of the alehouse creaked open and he looked up, expecting Bluebell. He scrambled for a snide comment. It wasn’t Bluebell. It was a silver-haired man in dirty hunting greens, a sleek dog pressed against his thigh.
