by Kim Wilkins
Finally, Wengest entered with his new bride, trailed by the portly preacher. Ivy stifled a laugh, then glanced at her father, who was doing the same. The new bride, a princess of Tweoning named Marjory, was a pinch-browed girl no older than sixteen with a complexion so spotted her face glowed pink. Greasy strands of straight hair escaped her headscarf. Her dress – undyed wool as was the trimartyr fashion for weddings – hung on a body that looked as though it had been fashioned from ropes: skinny and boneless. Her hunched shoulders under Wengest’s strong hand told of her reluctance for this union.
‘She’s no Rose,’ Ivy said, close to Æthlric’s ear, and he had to suppress his laughter.
The ceremony was very boring and pious, as were most things to do with trimartyrs, and then the music started and the revels were on. Heat and noise, slabs of meat in thick gravies and plates piled high with turnips and carrots and bread pudding and flowing mead. Ivy’s stomach was bursting and her head was spinning, but she allowed herself to be carried along on the joyous atmosphere in the firelit room.
‘Come along, Ivy,’ Æthlric said as the evening grew dark outside the shutters. ‘Let us go and pay our respects to the new queen of Netelchester.’ The quirk at the corner of his mouth told her he took delight at the new wife being so inferior to Rose. She placed a hand over his arm and approached Wengest’s table with him.
She had managed to avoid Wengest since that awful day when she had exposed Rose’s infidelity, but with her father on her arm she wasn’t so afraid of him saying something cruel. Indeed, he seemed to be in quite a merry mood and welcomed them to his table, introducing his bride with a flourish.
‘Queen Marjory of Netelchester,’ he said, ‘I present you to King Æthlric of Ælmesse and his daughter Ivy, who is also the duchess of Sæcaster.’
The girl stared at them sullenly and Wengest grew impatient with her. ‘Come along, Majory. One doesn’t fulfill the duties of a queen with scowls. Smile, girl.’ He poked her in the ribs and Marjory curled her lip so Ivy could see her teeth.
‘How is Guthmer?’ Wengest asked, seeming to remember him for the first time.
‘He is still unwell, but I hope for improvement soon. I will tell him you asked after him. I am sure it will cheer him, King Wengest.’
Now Wengest turned to Æthlric and said, ‘And how are all your other daughters, Æthlric?’
‘All well,’ Æthlric said cautiously. ‘Those that are accounted for.’
Wengest held his gaze a moment too long. A challenge passed between them. Ælmesse and Netelchester had traditionally been enemies, and perhaps would be again if they didn’t share blood now in the form of little Rowan. Ivy, frankly, had her doubts that Rowan was Wengest’s, but she seemed to be the only one who’d noticed. King Wengest was known as a man with a large heart and large passions. He loved his daughter and he had loved Rose. He didn’t love Marjory; that was clear enough.
‘How is Princess Bluebell?’ Marjory chimed in, with an expression of superiority and distaste on her face.
Ivy felt her father stiffen: had his favourite daughter been insulted?
‘Why I saw her just yesterday,’ Ivy answered smoothly and sweetly. ‘She looked very well, and very tall and very fierce and she always does. I’m sure she would have stayed but she had to race off at the request of a person named Snowy, though with a name like that, perhaps it was a horse.’
‘Snowy?’ Wengest asked urgently, his brows twitching.
Ivy felt that familiar sinking feeling. ‘You know Snowy?’
Wengest smiled to cover whatever he was feeling. ‘Your sister and I have many mutual acquaintances.’
Æthlric had grasped her arm. ‘Let’s return to our seats, Ivy,’ he said.
They made their farewells and her father chastised her softly for talking about Bluebell’s business to Wengest, but he didn’t know who Snowy was either so perhaps it would all be fine.
And then, in the midst of the clatter and chatter, the door opened and a messenger stood there and Ivy knew – she knew – it was for her. One of the thanes hurried over to the messenger but Ivy was already standing up. The messenger and the thane conversed, she was duly pointed out and the messenger approached with his head bowed.
‘Yes?’ she asked, and could barely hear her voice over the crowd.
Æthlric grasped her hand and squeezed it firmly.
‘I am sorry, my lady. Your husband, Guthmer, duke of Sæcaster, is dead.’
Wengest was making his way towards her through the crowd. Her head felt light. She fell back onto her seat and Æthlric caught her, and the thought crossed her mind that she was probably very convincing as a new young widow; nobody knew that her head spun because the weight of her actions had struck her with full force.
‘Bring her some water!’ This was Wengest, supporting her from behind, while she leaned unsteadily on her father.
‘I will be … I will be fine,’ she managed. ‘But I need to go home.’
‘Of course, Ivy,’ Wengest said. ‘Return to your boys.’
‘At first light I will return to Sæcaster,’ she said, her voice growing stronger. And once there, she would advise Crispin to empty the chapels, form a standing guard around Guthmer’s hall, and she would take control of the city. The weight of what she had done must have its counterweight in what she did next.
Ivy hadn’t poisoned her husband for nothing.
Twelve
The village of Nether Weald came into view in the late afternoon. Bluebell let Torr walk the last half mile and then handed him to the stable, careful to unhook her shield and hoist it on her shoulder. She wore her helm and mail byrnie despite the heat of the day. She stopped long enough to drink from the village well and give Thrymm a rest, then she fitted her helm back on her head and began the walk to Snowy’s. As she passed a small cottage on the last street of the village, she heard the door open behind her and a little voice call out, ‘Bluebell?’
Bluebell glanced over her shoulder and saw Rowan. She immediately turned back. ‘Rowan?’
The girl held her finger to her lips. ‘I’m not supposed to be outside.’ She looked at her position in the doorway and said, ‘I’m not really outside though, am I?’
‘Hardly at all. But why are you here? Is Snowy with you?’
Thrymm stuck her nose through the narrow space between the door and its frame and sniffed Rowan’s hands. Rowan patted her absently. ‘This is Sister Julian’s house. She’s gone to the village but I mustn’t be seen. Snowy is back at home. I want to go home so badly, but I can’t. Papa left a guardsman named Lang because of the woodlanders and then he got shot in both eyes with arrows and died on our front path and Snowy was beside himself and now I’m here and I think we’re all waiting for you.’ This all came out on one long, teary breath.
‘Go back … shot in both eyes?’
‘By the woodlanders. Whoever did it was a good shot, Bluebell! I think it was the big woman, the one called Dardru. She told me she was the best archer in Thyrsland.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘That was the day I said they could take me to the singing tree. I think I’m to blame for all this happening.’
Bluebell gave Rowan a rub on the head. ‘If it is, then you’ll have to learn to live with it. Kings and queens always have heavy consciences.’
‘You look so fierce in that helm. I can only see the bottom of your face and your eyes are in shadows.’
‘It’s my job to look fierce.’
Rowan glanced up the street. ‘I’d better go inside before Julian sees me. Tell Snowy I love him. Tell him I’m so very bored inside and I can’t wait to come home. You’ll fix everything, won’t you? That’s why you’re here?’
‘Once I’ve talked to Snowy, I’ll fix what I can, little chicken. Off you go inside, and mind you stay away from the shutters and don’t watch people walking by.’
Rowan ducked inside and the door closed. Bluebell heard the latch fall into place and headed back to the path that wound into the woods. Every sense was on high a
lert. She didn’t like arrows; they were hard to hear coming and whoever had killed Wengest’s guardsman was obviously a highly skilled archer. Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword, palm itching to kill something. Thrymm sensed Bluebell’s vigilance and was similarly alert, her ears pricked up, her nose raised to catch a scent.
Into the woods, Bluebell and her war dog went. The afternoon breeze didn’t quite reach underneath Bluebell’s helm to cool the sweat in her hair. She trod as quietly as she could, still aware that she was tall and big and armed, and the things that lived in the woods could probably hear her loud as thunder. She would have made a terrible hunter. From time to time a sound among the trees had her turning, sword half-drawn. But the sounds were only branches falling, or hares bounding away, or ground birds scratching in their nests. When Skalmir’s house came into view, she relaxed a little.
Strike and Stranger came tearing out barking, and Skalmir’s deep voice boomed after them, ‘Heel!’ He followed them, and saw her, his shoulders slumping. She could see in his face that he was exhausted, worried. His golden beard, usually neatly trimmed, was ragged.
‘Thank the Horse God you are here,’ he said.
She bounded up the path. ‘I saw Rowan in the village. She told me what happened.’
His eyes went to the trees around them. ‘Let us go inside. I don’t feel safe out here any more.’
Leaving Thrymm outside to guard the door, they went into the house. Bluebell removed her helm and shook out her hair, grateful to have the weight and heat off her head. Skalmir sat at the side of the hearth, his knees spread wide, elbows resting on them, head in his hands.
‘It’s not safe for Rowan here any more.’
Bluebell didn’t sit. She paced. ‘Have you told Wengest?’
‘Wengest left the guardsman. The one who got killed.’
‘Rowan said the woodlanders had killed him. Who are they?’
‘Ærfolc. They say they live in the Howling Wood but I have never seen them.’
‘And Rowan had met them before?’
‘Yes. She believes there’s a tree in the wood that sings –’
‘She told me about that. I thought she was imagining things.’
‘They found her one day and lured her off. I got to her just in time.’ He ran his hand over his beard. ‘They call her the little queen. At first I thought they meant that they knew she was Wengest’s daughter, but now I’m not so sure …’
‘You did well to get her out of the wood, but she must leave Nether Weald. I will take her with me to Blicstowe and we will find safe haven for her in Ælmesse. Maybe she can go to my Uncle Robert, who raised Ivy and Willow.’ That thought gave Bluebell pause: neither Ivy nor Willow had turned out particularly well; though her old horse, Isern, who was pastured there, seemed happy enough.
‘Wengest won’t allow that.’
‘Let me worry about Wengest.’
‘I will miss her.’ He pressed his lips together after he spoke, as though he wished he hadn’t said it.
‘Then come with her. You can remain her caretaker. We don’t have a remote wildwood the size of this for you to hunt in, but we can find something for you to do …’
Skalmir smiled up at her. ‘And will you come to visit us more often if we are closer to Blicstowe?’
She kicked him lightly in the ankle, exasperated with him pushing his affection on her. ‘Whether I visit you or not is hardly worth thinking about now.’
‘If I’m going to give up my home, my livelihood, the graves of my wife and children …’ He trailed off and Bluebell turned away and let him be.
‘For now, all that’s important is that I take Rowan with me to Blicstowe,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow. You can join us or not. Come later or not. I swear to protect you but cannot swear to comfort you. I am not built for comfort.’ She turned and spread her arms. ‘As you see.’
He laughed, but whatever he was about to say next was drowned out by the sound of Thrymm barking loudly, tearing off and growling, then yelping.
Bluebell had the door open in half a moment. Thrymm lay on the path ten yards away, an arrow protruding from her back. Bluebell’s heart seized.
‘No!’ she cried, hurrying down the path and skidding to her knees next to her dog.
Thrymm was still breathing, whimpering softly, licking her lips.
‘Ah, there, my girl. There,’ Bluebell said softly, feeling around the arrow. Her fingers came away bloody, but the small volume of blood told her the arrow had not penetrated an artery. She cracked off the shaft.
Skalmir was on his knees next to her. ‘The poor girl.’
Bluebell stood and drew her sword. ‘Take my dog inside and remove the arrow cleanly.’
‘Bluebell, no. The woodlanders are sharp shots.’
‘I am fast on my feet. As was Thrymm. She isn’t dead.’
‘They won’t hurt us unless we hurt them. Thrymm must have attacked one of them. Maybe they’ve been watching the house to see if Rowan returns.’
‘Fetch me my helm.’
He put his hand on her arm to stay her. ‘They won’t hurt you if you don’t –’
She shook him off violently, boiling over with rage. ‘I said fetch my helm. Whoever attacks Thrymm attacks me. I go now to defend myself, my kingdom, my people, of whom I am the guardian.’
Skalmir took a step back, a wounded expression on his face.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she said. ‘Just tend to Thrymm and let me deal with this.’
Within a few seconds he had her helm and she jammed it on her head. She stalked off into the woods, heart thundering, pulling all the anger out of her fingers and toes and limbs and banking it. She needed her thoughts to be clear and vivid, not overheated. Blood drops on the ground. Thrymm had wounded whomever had hit her, and the path led into the trees.
Bluebell heard a whispering split the air and in an instant had her shield up. The arrow thunked into it, and the next, and the next, as Bluebell crouched behind it. The archer stopped to grab more arrows and Bluebell advanced over the undergrowth towards a thickset woman, twenty yards away, with coppery hair and a round tattoo on her cheek. The one called Dardru. She had her bow loaded and pointed at Bluebell and Bluebell could see the ragged tear in her right forearm from Thrymm’s jaws. It made her arm tremble.
‘Stop!’ Bluebell commanded.
Dardru didn’t stop. Here came the next arrows, but her arm was wounded and tired and they whizzed past Bluebell, who batted them away easily with her shield as she ran forwards, knocking the woman to the ground. Dardru was still trying to fit another arrow to her bow so Bluebell stomped on her bow arm and she cried out in pain. Bluebell felt bones crack under her shoes.
Foot on the woman’s arm, Bluebell lifted her sword. But Dardru raised the arrow clenched in her hand and drove it hard into her own heart before Bluebell could deal the killing blow.
‘Our woods,’ Dardru said, as blood started bubbling out of the wound, so dark it was almost black.
‘No,’ Bluebell replied, lowering her sword. ‘We fought a war with your people and we won.’
‘Our woods,’ she said again, closing her eyes.
Bluebell stood by and waited for her to die, then sheathed her unused sword and headed back to the house. She slammed the door behind her and pushed a bench up against it, then went to the back door and heaved a barrel inside to bar that as well. Only then did she turn to Skalmir, tending to Thrymm on the floor by the hearth. His hands were bloody and his hunting knife lay on the ground next to the broken arrow.
‘We have to get out of here quickly,’ she said.
‘If you want Thrymm to live, we need to keep her still for a while.’
Bluebell stroked Thrymm’s muzzle. ‘There, girl. Good girl.’
‘I’ve got the arrow out. It seems to have missed her lungs. We just wait to see if the bleeding stops now.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ Bluebell said again, and Thrymm cautiously licked her hand. ‘No, no, you stay still.’
Skalmir’s dogs sat back and watched, as though especially reverent at the idea that one of their own was terribly injured.
‘Did you find who did this?’ Skalmir asked, pressing a cloth into the wound.
‘A woman.’
‘With the circular tattoo on her cheek?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dardru,’ he said.
‘She’s Dar-dead now.’
‘Her father will be angry,’ Skalmir said. ‘Rathcruick.’
‘He can be as angry as he likes. I didn’t kill her. She pierced her own heart rather than die at my hand, and he’ll see that when he comes to take away her body.’ Adrenaline was dragging its way out of her veins now, her heart slowing, her breathing returning to normal.
As Skalmir lifted away the cloth, she could see the tidy job he had done cutting out the arrow. He was a hunter: he knew where skin and gristle and bone were in animals.
‘Thank you,’ she said to him. ‘Do you think she will live?’
‘The bleeding is slowing. I’ll pack the wound with angelica and thyme to stave off infection, but I think we should stay here tonight and head off in the morning. The pain and shock of moving her might kill her.’
‘Very well,’ Bluebell said, and gave Thrymm one last gentle head rub before standing and stretching her legs, pulling off her helm and beginning to pace the room.
‘Don’t pace, Bluebell,’ he said. ‘You make me nervous.’
‘Why do you think you can speak to me that way?’ she snapped.
He looked up. He had a smear of Thrymm’s blood across his cheek. His clear blue eyes met hers in challenge.
