The Raven's Heart

by Jesse Blackadder

  I let myself fall behind them a little to try to clear my mind. What did William imagine would happen here, with the generations now born at Blackadder Castle? I am riding among his half-brothers and sisters, half-nieces, nephews, cousins. His mother and his sisters have bred a clan of Humes to share our blood.

  “He will be terribly bored if all you do is walk him.” Isobel rides up beside me. “There is a stretch coming up where I always let him go fast. Look, he knows already.”

  Indeed the horse has pricked his ears and raised his head, and he starts to dance a little. I curb him so that his neck arches, and ride up beside the Queen.

  “Isobel would take us on a gallop, if you wish,” I say.

  She smiles at me and reins her horse away from Alexander. “Excellent. I am weary of walking.”

  Isobel trots forward and as she draws level with us, urges her horse into a gallop. The Queen and I follow suit and in a moment the three of us are pounding down a grassy slope. The wind is cool, the horse beneath me is all fire and muscle, the fields are a blur. Though sidesaddle, Isobel is an excellent rider and she matches us stride for stride.

  The rest of the party is far behind when we reach the edge of a woodland and thunder into it. Our hoofbeats are instantly muffled, the sun cut off, the air dank. Up ahead, deer crash away from us, white tails bobbing. We slow down and follow Isobel, twisting and turning between the trees, branches whipping at our clothes, my horse’s breath loud in my ears.

  At last she slows, pulling her mount into a tight circle, smiling at us triumphantly.

  “It’s the oldest tree for miles,” she says, and the silence of the forest seems to eat her words. “They say it is eight hundred years or more.”

  The oak is enormous, twisted and gnarled. It would take more than us three to join hands around its girth. I slide down from the horse, walk up to the oak, and lay my hands on its bulk. This tree was here before the land ever carried the name of Blackadder. I am not even an insect on its hide.

  The Queen reaches up and runs her fingers through the foliage. “This is a precious thing indeed. There are few such left in Scotland now.”

  “It is a secret,” Isobel says. “Promise you won’t speak of it.”

  The Queen smiles. “I promise.”

  “We’d better get back.” Isobel sniffs the air loudly. “Rain’s coming.”

  I swing up into the saddle again and we walk the slick, blowing horses back along a maze of twisting pathways. I could not retrace our steps but Isobel rides without hesitation, following some set of landmarks I do not perceive. It takes much longer to ride out at walking pace, and near the edge she urges us into a trot.

  When we come out of the forest and back into the field, the day has changed. There is a chill in the air and the clouds have rolled in. The rest of our party is waiting anxiously in the open, peering into the gloom to find us. Alexander rides forward to meet us, relief on his face.

  “Your Grace, forgive me, we could not keep up with your riding and by the time we reached the forest we could not see which way you had gone.” He shoots a furious look at Isobel. “I have sent some of the guards in but they must have become lost, as they have not met you.”

  “Only I know all the ways through the forest,” Isobel says.

  “Then I would be pleased if you would go and find them so I may take the Queen back before it rains.”

  Isobel turns her horse into the forest and we set out at a smart trot back toward the castle. Alexander glances from side to side nervously. There are only three guards with us. The other five are back in the forest and the afternoon feels threatening, the weather pressing in on us from the rear. He is silent, and there is a sheen of sweat on his forehead in spite of the cold wind at our backs.

  “I do not believe I have ever seen you at court,” the Queen says, reining her horse beside his.

  He looks startled. “Lord Hume and David Hume represent our family on such occasions. I am honored you would think of it, but there are far more distinguished men in the family than myself.”

  “I do not think I have heard Lord Hume speak of you,” she persists.

  “I am sure he would not, Your Grace. I am but the keeper of this estate, which is small and mean compared to the others in the family.”

  “It has not been in your family very long, I understand,” she says.

  He looks confused. “It has been in my family for three generations. My grandfather was married here.”

  “To its previous owner?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Alison Douglas, the widow. She had been here with only her daughters for six years, until my grandfather took her into the family and brought children and company into her life again. The castle was a cold and lonely place before that.”

  “Your own mother would remember those days.”

  “She still speaks of how delighted she was to have so many brothers and sisters, Your Grace.” He smiles a little.

  “Your mother and your aunt both married into the Hume family too, am I correct?” she asks, guileless.

  “Yes. My mother has hardly left the castle in her life and my aunt loved it here too, until she died.”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “My mother and her sister were unlucky in that regard and did not inherit Alison’s strength for childbearing. I had two brothers who died in infancy, and my aunt’s two boys also died as babes.”

  “So you are now the sole owner of the castle?”

  “Yes,” he says with pride. “My mother assigned it to me when I was still a boy, in 1543.”

  “That would be after the last Blackadder heir died?” she asks, her voice not changing tone.

  “There were no Blackadder heirs.” He frowns. “Just some extended family who had designs on the castle themselves. But they had no rights to it. My mother and her sister were the legitimate heirs.”

  “Did they not have a Blackadder brother?”

  He turns to her. “My mother’s brother died as a boy, while they still lived here alone. His headstone lies in our graveyard. You may see it if you wish.”

  “I would like that,” she says, glancing at me.

  I take what seems to be my first breath for a long time and find my hands clenched so hard around the reins that my nails are cutting into my palms. The top of the castle is in sight above the trees and we wind alongside the river toward it.

  “Do you hunt?” the Queen asks. “We saw a good run of deer in the forest.”

  He gives an anxious half-smile again. “I do not care much for hunting. Isobel likes it, though. She is a true Wedderburn Hume—a fearless rider and hunter. Myself, I prefer to eat the animal than to chase it.”

  “Indeed,” the Queen says. “Perhaps Isobel would care to join us when we hunt at Wedderburn tomorrow.”

  “I would not try to keep her away.”

  The rain begins to spit on the back of my neck and the horses pick up their pace, scenting the stable and the end of their exertions. As we start to climb the hill on the approach to the castle, we come upon a fence surrounding a group of tombstones.

  “Our family plot,” Alexander says, pulling up. “Alison’s son is buried at the back there. It is a little overgrown now. He has been dead—what? More than forty years.”

  The wind gusts coldly and the horses pull at their reins, impatient at being stopped so close to home. The light is changing rapidly, deepening to a gloom. The Queen lifts her reins and moves off and the rest of the party falls in behind her. I linger, holding the horse back until they are gone.

  Forty-four

  The grass is unkempt around the graves but I find my aunt Margaret easily enough, flanked by her husband, Robert, and two small head-stones for her little sons. Beatrice’s husband’s grave shows more signs of care. Alison’s is the largest and grandest, with the letters deeply chiseled: Beloved of all who knew her.

  I move away from the main tombstones and into an overgrown area devoid of markers. The rain comes down in a drizzle a
nd the light is failing. At last I come across it. Overgrown and almost out of sight, a child-sized stone: William Blackadder 1513–1519. Gone to find his heavenly reward.

  I am chilled. The evidence of his death is at my feet, as if he never grew to adulthood and I was never born. I clap my hands to my sides to dispel the feeling and kneel down to trace my fingers across the lettering. It is rough and hastily done.

  “You must be very interested in tombs.”

  I jump. Isobel has ridden up the hill, the rain masking her horse’s hoofbeats on the soft grass. She stands outside the fence and her horse touches noses with mine.

  I rise to my feet. “I wanted to see your grandmother’s grave, being related to her.”

  “That’s not my grandmother’s grave,” she says. “You should come away from there. They say that part of the graveyard is cursed and all the tombstones were taken away.”

  “Not all of them,” I say. “This one says William Blackadder.”

  “My grandmother forbade them to touch that one, but all the other tombstones that said Blackadder were destroyed and the ground deconsecrated,” she says. “They lie forgotten now.”

  “Not forgotten by all,” I say, before I can stop myself. I make my way out of the yard. As my hand reaches for the gate, the eerie glimmer of the coming storm lights up Isobel’s deep green eyes and white face. “Your grandmother was a Blackadder.”

  She flinches. “That name is cursed. My grandmother was a Douglas, who married a Blackadder. But she died a Hume and that is the line I am descended from. Beatrice and Margaret came from the Blackadder line and look at them. Alexander is the only surviving child between them.”

  “He is now the master of this castle.”

  She shrugs. “He is a fat fool. The best the Blackadder line could produce.”

  “If the name was cursed, why did your family keep it for this estate?”

  “They like to remind Alexander of his place. Come, it will rain in earnest in a few minutes and they will be worrying for us.”

  I mount and we set out toward the castle as dusk rolls in.

  “Alexander may not always hold this castle,” she says, so quietly I have to lean in to hear her. “And if he does not, the name Blackadder could pass from this land.”

  “Who else will take it?” I ask.

  She says nothing, but looks at me steadily. She must be no more than fourteen years old.

  “How could it come to you?” I ask at last. “Alexander has children.”

  She gives a low laugh. “Alexander is nothing in the Hume family. The offspring of the Blackadder daughters. I come from the noble line. My father is the sixth Baron of Wedderburn and my brother will be the seventh Baron, in line to receive Wedderburn. But I will have something of my own too.”

  As we clatter into the courtyard on wet cobblestones, she rides close to me. “My grandmother would have wanted me to have the castle. They say I am almost identical to her at the same age. I will show you her portrait.”

  “I would like that.”

  She pulls on her horse’s reins until he arches his neck and prances like a warhorse. “I will make this place great again. I will not sit frightened inside its walls like Beatrice, or glutting at its table like Alexander.”

  Stableboys come out and take the horses’ heads and bring us blocks to help us dismount. She watches me swing down easily.

  “I will learn to ride thus,” she says. “And I should like to try the way you wear a man’s attire.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The storm that hung at our heels on the afternoon ride comes down in earnest, its lightning flashes illuminating the high windows of the dining hall as we enter for dinner.

  The Queen sets herself to charming the Hume family. Alexander has had his finest red wine brought up from the cellar and by the time dinner is served, the mood around the table has become congenial.

  I listen to every word, toying with my cup, laughing when it is needed, even making the occasional joke to keep the atmosphere merry. I use all my skill to discreetly observe each one of them.

  Although she is barely more than a child, Isobel can hold her own in conversation, even attempting some credible French and a discussion about the poetry of Ronsard. She has taken advantage of the education given to children from the more noble line of the Wedderburn Hume family. Alexander, Catherine, Beatrice, and the others who live at Blackadder seem like country yokels in comparison.

  The wine continues to flow freely, but I drink little of it. At my side, Beatrice is also quiet and her silence feels strained. I want to speak to her, but I cannot think of anything to say. There is a chill in the room, in spite of the crackling fire in the huge hearth and the lanterns and candles throwing warmth and light into the dark corners. I see no bloody visions this time, but there is still a prickle at the back of my neck.

  When the servants begin clearing the dinner dishes, Beatrice stands up and makes a small curtsy to the Queen. “Your Grace, I am an old woman and if you will, I shall retire and leave you to your merriment.”

  The Queen smiles. “Of course. I am grateful that you have shared your home with us this night. May my lady-in-waiting Alison accompany you to your room?”

  Beatrice may not have been to court, but she understands the subtlety of an order from the Queen. She nods and I rise and come to her side.

  A servant goes before us with a flickering candle, and the light jumps and dances on the walls. Beatrice leans on my arm as we start up the steps. “Thank you,” she says. “The day has tired me.”

  “It is my pleasure.” I hold her more firmly. I wish I could have known her, this quiet woman who does not like to leave her castle.

  “Did you enjoy your ride?” she asks.

  “Very much. Your lands are very beautiful.”

  “They are the envy of many, I have heard.”

  I concentrate on my feet in the dim hallway. When we reach the top of the stairs, she pauses again and takes a deep breath.

  “Tell me, is there some reason that the Queen has sought us out, when all the splendor of Wedderburn awaited her? It is not the quality of our food, nor our wine. Alexander does not hunt or play sport, and we do not have the learning of the people she is surrounded by in the capital. What brings her here?”

  “The delights of the capital can pall and she has had much care of late.” I keep my eyes on the servant leading the way. “She needed to relax away from exalted company for an evening. It is a whim of hers, to change plans unexpectedly.”

  “She seems to know a great deal about us.”

  “She is the Queen,” I say and shrug.

  “I fear that she visits us with some purpose in mind.”

  We reach the doorway to her chamber and stop. The servant opens the door and begins lighting the candles. Beatrice has let go of my arm and she turns to face me, her countenance in near darkness.

  “You are related to my mother. In her memory, I beg you to tell me.”

  My heart pounds and I can feel the warmth of her body near mine. The silence lengthens between us. At last she sighs and starts to turn away. My hand moves and catches her by the sleeve.

  “William lives,” I whisper.

  She gasps and her hand moves to her throat. “I can show you his tomb.”

  “I have seen the stone. I do not know what lies under it, but it is not your brother.”

  She stares and in the silhouette of her face I cannot see her expression. Then she waves the servant away, draws me into the room with her, and closes the door.

  “Who are you?” she asks. “Speak the truth if you would make such a claim.”

  She is William’s sister, but she has not seen him for a lifetime and that lifetime has been spent as part of the Hume family. I long to tell her the truth but here in the heart of the Hume holdings, I dare not.

  “I am William’s emissary.”

  Her face hardens. “What proof do you have of his claim?”

  “I will swear it on the grave of Alison Dou
glas.”

  She crosses the room to the window. The lightning is still flashing outside, lighting up her face.

  “We have heard of a man claiming to be William Blackadder,” she says. “His story was investigated, of course, years ago. Do you know what we discovered? That man was no son of Alison’s. He was the bastard child of a lowly Blackadder cleric. He thought to pass himself off as Alison’s son and make a claim for these lands. But I tell you, my brother lies dead in the ground yonder.”

  She turns from the window and I stare back at her in shock. My legs begin to tremble and I sit down heavily in a chair. “I do not believe you,” I say.

  “You have been deceived. The evidence lies in the church records in Glasgow. A king’s charter, no less, proving his lineage.” She shakes her head. “Is this why the Queen is visiting us, perchance? If she thinks to somehow champion his claim, the evidence of his bastardry will come out. He will be exposed for what he is.”

  I shake my head slowly and outside the thunder rolls and crashes. She crosses to my side and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “Who are you, child?”

  I shake her hand off and rise to my feet. “I am no one,” I say, my voice catching. I cross the room, wrench the door open, and leave her.

  Forty-five

  I find a servant to take me to my room, high on the top floor. She leaves me candles and a lantern, but I extinguish them and stand by the window to listen to the storm passing.

  I lay my hands flat on the window ledge. The rain is so furious that I can feel the fine mist of it against my face. I am trembling. With a few words, Beatrice has ripped the fabric of my world. I cannot believe William would have knowingly lived such a lie. But if a king’s charter proclaims him a bastard, our cause is lost.

  At last the rain stops. The lightning passes to the west, the wind drops, and the clouds part a little for the moon. It glints on the swollen, rushing river. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and then another. I must go outside. I must trail my fingers in the river and find out if it will speak to me. Surely the truth will be there.