Sisters of the Fire

by Kim Wilkins

  She knew he meant Bluebell, but in that moment she realised she had to behave as Ivy might in such a situation, as though she was helpless until a man came along to make everything right for her.

  Willow began to run along the winding corridors, screaming and howling. Some time in the first few feet of her flight, the howling grew genuine, as the morning’s strain finally settled around her heart, as the pain in her hand became real. Halfway back to the entrance, the two guardsmen met her and others emerged from side doors. She stumbled and collapsed to her knees in front of them, surrounded by them, unable to count them through the blur of her tears, telling them the story the way Modolf had instructed her. Somebody lifted her gently under her armpits and held her close while they hurried back through the hall and then they had returned to Gisli’s state room. The first body was Modolf’s, a broken pot smashed around his bloody head. The guardsman dropped her next to him and she snivelled and cried while they discovered Gisli’s body and Gisli’s dropped sword, and the whole world was in an uproar of Is-hjarta language and shouting and blood.

  Modolf’s hand reached out and squeezed her fingers.

  Hakon and Modolf had prepared it all the night before, of course. A mile from the secret, back entrance to Gisli’s bower, which adjoined his state room via a hidden door, they had created a little camp and kicked over the coals, left food scraps and even footprints that led through the mud and back again, down to the beach where scrape marks in the sand told the story of an assassin who had come for Gisli. Nobody suspected Willow of killing him, but they blamed her for attracting death to the king’s court with her arrival. Modolf thought this was a good outcome: hardening sentiment against her family. Willow couldn’t see how she would rule over a community that held her responsible for the death of the king.

  ‘But you will be the new king’s bride,’ Modolf said as he bandaged her hand back in his little house. ‘They will come to love you.’

  But Hakon, who had been sitting thoughtfully on a stool by the hearthpit since they returned, lifted his head. Willow saw sadness in his eyes, and it made her heart afraid. For if Hakon could be sad about his brother’s death – the brother he hated with all his heart – then perhaps she would feel sad about Bluebell’s death or Ivy’s fate or her whole family’s future. She said a quick prayer and pushed the thoughts aside.

  ‘She’s right, Modolf. It’s too soon. I cannot come in today, or tomorrow, or even this week and say, look here I am, here is my wife who caused Gisli’s death, we are now all trimartyrs. It must be done at a softer pace. It is clear now that the hot moment is over.’

  ‘You have many supporters, Hakon,’ Modolf said. ‘And as for being trimartyrs …’

  Hakon stroked the gruesome side of his face and Modolf squeezed his lips together, giving Willow a meaningful stare, but she let no doubt shade her face.

  ‘Look at him. Maava has made him whole again,’ she said instead, as though she too were under the same enchantment. ‘To turn his back on Maava now … only ill would come of it.’

  Hakon got to his feet and began pacing. ‘I can be a trimartyr king with a trimartyr army, can I not? Then our war on the southlands will be a holy war. At least on Ælmesse and Bradsey, if we take the west. Maybe Wengest will assist us; he is a trimartyr king as well, and we know that love has soured between him and Blicstowe. Between us, the trimartyr kingdoms will control the Giant Road, and have reason to destroy every kingdom or tribe that remains heathen.’ He emphasised this point with a smash of his fist into his palm.

  ‘And you are so sure you will turn your back on the Horse God?’

  ‘Maybe all gods are one, Modolf. We can choose among them when we need to, name them what we like. Desperate men have always done so.’

  ‘The Horse God is a heathen devil,’ Willow said emphatically, then fell silent again.

  ‘What would you have me do, then?’ Modolf said.

  ‘Start the rumour that I am coming back. That I have heard of Gisli’s death and I will return soon. Keep pretenders away from the throne. Send Gisli’s widow and children away for their own safety. It will take me a fortnight, no longer, to capture Sæcaster and for Willow to travel to Blicstowe to put Bluebell to the blade. Then see any of them dare to question me or my queen.’

  ‘You will be returning to a city in disarray,’ Modolf warned.

  ‘All the better to bring it victory and harmony.’ Hakon, fatigued from long stretches of the southland language, lapsed back into his own tongue and he and Modolf debated some more.

  Willow was tired and her hand stung. For a few minutes she was sorry for herself, but then she remembered that every hardship brought her closer to her Lord, so she rocked her cut palm back and forth on the hard ground beside her to make it bleed a little more.

  Expectant silence and two faces turned towards her – she had been asked something.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, wiping her bloody palm on her skirt.

  ‘Modolf can marry us,’ Hakon said. ‘As a member of the king’s counsel he has that authority.’

  ‘Marry us?’ She didn’t know why she said it aloud.

  ‘Yes,’ Modolf said. ‘While we are still in Is-hjarta. Then you will return a queen.’

  ‘A trimartyr queen?’ Willow asked.

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  She looked at Hakon. ‘I won’t lie with you,’ she said.

  ‘There will need to be an heir.’

  ‘I have a son. He can be our heir.’

  Modolf and Hakon said a few phrases to each other in their own tongue. Willow waited, her heart thudding. Give me a sign, angels. Give me a sign. Is Maava working through me? Is my glorious destiny tied to this moment? Before the thought had even unspooled in her head, there was a clatter of claws at the window. A crow sat there looking curiously at them through the open shutter.

  It cawed once, clicked its beak on the windowsill, then its wings rattled and it took to the sky again.

  Willow kept staring at the place where it had been.

  ‘She is off in one of her trances again,’ Modolf said.

  She turned, gave him her coolest stare. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will become the Crow Queen.’

  At midnight, she and Hakon sailed away from Marvik, one full day since they arrived. Her sword was returned to her, hanging comfortingly on her hip. Her scarf was tied once more around her hair. On the back of her right hand she wore a fresh, bloody tattoo. Raider custom was to marry with matching tattoos: she had persuaded Hakon that they would take the sign of the triangle.

  ‘Good luck in Sæcaster,’ Modolf said as he helped them aboard the boat, in their clandestine location beyond the eyes of the mountain hall.

  ‘Good luck in your work here, Modolf,’ Hakon said, stroking his beard. What pleasure it gave Willow to see Maava’s symbol in black ink on his hand. ‘Prepare them for a new and glorious king and queen.’

  ‘I will.’

  Hakon untied the last rope and picked up the oars. Willow sat in the front of the boat, facing him, knees under her chin. One stroke after another, they made their way out of the harbour. Then Hakon raised the oars and let down the sail. The wind caught it eagerly, as though Maava had sent it for them.

  Of course Maava had sent it for them.

  They began their journey to Sæcaster – to her sister, her destiny – with all the angels singing in Willow’s head.

  Twenty-five

  Ivy despised the first morning of the week, when one by one the disgruntled citizens of Sæcaster – and there were many – lined up on the stairs outside the hall tower for her to placate them. Settling disputes between neighbours, listening to complaints about the chapel burnings, enforcing fines for petty merchants who had been caught out buying goods at low cost then peddling them for very high prices, usually to the elderly or otherwise housebound. There was no end to the trivial nonsense they burdened her with.

  Steady rain fell, tapping against the roof and dripping miserably off the eaves. She was already weary b
efore the first hour was up, and when the door opened and she saw Crispin there, she nearly wept with joy at the distraction.

  ‘Out,’ he said, to the plump woman who stood in front of Ivy on her high seat, enumerating the many ways her neighbour’s eight cats were making her life impossible. The woman didn’t need to be told twice. Crispin, in his deep magenta cloak with his mail and weapons rattling, looked fearsome.

  Ivy hid a smile, struck by his handsome appearance at a welcome moment. Over the last few days he had returned to his usual reassuring self, and her doubts had begun to fade.

  Once they were alone, he stood before her and bowed deeply.

  ‘Oh, don’t bow, Crispin,’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘Not unless you intend to stay down there between my knees.’

  He straightened and stepped forwards, took her hand and knelt in front of her. There was an urgency in his eyes that unsettled her. ‘Ivy, I have … news.’

  ‘What is it?’ she said, her breath pressed in her lungs. Had he killed somebody else?

  ‘Hold tight to hope, my love. At least we have advance warning.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘We have a report from Lytteldyke. A child who had run away from home, who was hiding along the clifftops, saw raider ships concealed in an inlet.’

  ‘Raiders?’ Her blood flashed hot.

  ‘He ran back and told his mother, thank the gods, and the local reeve rode out there to confirm. He says he wasn’t seen. A cluster of ships are gathered half-a-day’s sail north-east. We can guess that they have their eye on Sæcaster.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘No doubt news of Guthmer’s death and the resulting … instability have reached their ears. They seek to take advantage of it.’

  ‘But we aren’t unstable are we? We have a strong city guard – I have you.’ Her thoughts whirled. She was trapped in the disbelieving moment. This wasn’t happening. The city was hers and would remain hers and all the lovely taxes would be hers and nobody could take it away from her.

  ‘From the outside, perhaps we appear to be,’ he said.

  ‘But we’re safe?’

  ‘I – raiders are not to be dismissed, Ivy. Reports say seven large ships. That is at least three hundred men. We are outnumbered.’

  ‘Then we’ll send for help. Wengest will come with his army. He must protect us, we pay taxes to him.’

  ‘That is what I’d advise you, Ivy. Send an urgent request to Wengest for reinforcements. If they are waiting for good weather to strike, it could buy us a few days. The raiders won’t be expecting us to have an army here before they arrive.’

  She grasped Crispin around his upper arms, searching his face. ‘There isn’t going to be a war is there? I can’t have a war. I don’t know what to do.’

  He met her eyes steadily, softly. ‘I know what to do.’

  She swallowed hard, nodding.

  Ivy released Crispin and he stood and left. Ivy sat in her high seat, staring at the ground, overwhelmed by fear.

  The door opened again and the plump woman with the cat problem slipped back in.

  ‘Get out!’ Ivy screamed at her. ‘Tell them all to go away. No more today. Get out!’

  The woman scurried out. The door closed with a thud, shutting out light and air.

  That night the weather worsened, and a squall rose out at sea and came sheeting over the bowerhouses, rattling shutters and pulling at the thatching. Ivy lay in Guthmer’s old bed listening to it, unable to sleep. Every time she dropped off, the storm became raiders raging through the city, murdering her children, burning the docks. A thunderous knock in the middle of the night made her heart jump so hard against her ribs that she hurt. She sat up, taking a breath to scream, but then heard Crispin’s voice.

  ‘Ivy, let me in.’

  She leapt out of bed, getting tangled in her covers and nearly falling flat on her face. She extracted herself and went to the door.

  Crispin came in, sodden.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, lighting the lamp by the door with unsteady hands. ‘What’s happened?’

  He sat on a stool and pulled off his shoes. ‘I came as soon as I heard. Wengest returned our messenger. Made him ride all the way back in a day, on a fresh horse, despite the storm.’

  ‘Returned our messenger?’ Usually, their messenger would stay in Folcenham a day or so. If a reply came, it would be one of Wengest’s men.

  ‘Returned our messenger, yes, and refused our request.’

  ‘What?’

  Crispin stood and pulled off his shirt, roughly towelled his curls with it and threw it on the floor. ‘He has said we don’t know for sure if the raiders are coming to us, and anyway he can’t spare his army.’

  ‘What does he mean by that? Should I be reassured? The raiders don’t want to come here after all?’

  But already Crispin was shaking his head. ‘Ivy, he’s punishing you for burning the chapels. For taking the city.’

  Wengest wasn’t coming with his army. She let that sink in.

  ‘Fuck him,’ she spat.

  ‘I think if you went down there yourself, very humble, and –’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. Beg Wengest for forgiveness? Fuck him.’

  Crispin fell silent, his dark eyes fixed on her.

  ‘Send an overnight messenger to Blicstowe,’ she said. ‘Tell Bluebell to come and bring my father’s army, and when the raiders arrive and the Ælmessean army repels them, then Wengest can choke before asking me for taxes.’ As her anger ebbed away, she grew uncertain again. ‘Do you think that could work?’

  ‘I would rather your father’s army than Wengest’s. Will they come?’

  ‘My family are very loyal to each other. If they know I’m in trouble, they will most certainly help.’ She hesitated. ‘Am I in trouble, Crispin?’

  He folded her into his embrace. The smell of his skin, his damp hair, overwhelmed her with sensation. Desire, fear.

  ‘There is trouble afoot, my lady,’ he said against her ear. ‘But I have you sheltered in my arms.’

  She allowed herself to fall against him, and stood like that a long while, before he finally pulled away.

  ‘Ivy, send the boys somewhere safe with Hilla. Just in case.’

  She tried not to sob with fear. ‘They are safest with me.’

  ‘As you wish it.’ He picked up his wet shirt and wriggled back into it. ‘I will organise the overnight message to go out the moment the storm abates.’

  ‘Can we afford the time?’ She thought of the raiders, half-a-day’s sail away.

  ‘No man would take a horse out in this. The weather is awful, but it is awful in our favour. If raiders do intend to strike against us, it won’t be until this rain and wind ease.’

  She reached for him, kissed him fervently, felt his wet body pressed against her nightgown, and began to reach for his trousers. But he extracted himself, stood back and said, ‘This is not a time for love.’

  Ivy’s cheeks flushed warm, embarrassed. A prickle of desperation. What if he stopped loving her? What would she do then?

  ‘Sleep if you can,’ he said. ‘I can only offer you hope for the days ahead.’

  Then he was gone, and Ivy was alone in the storm.

  A few days on the road, and Bluebell and Ash had reached Godwebb, a small town of wool growers and spinners a day’s ride from Blicstowe. Bluebell felt a strong sense of relief, knowing they were now so close to home. Ash’s past was behind her, out on the grey coast. Now she could look towards her sister’s future: getting some meat on her bones, some rest for her haunted eyes, and installing her safely inside the family compound.

  Godwebb was one of Bluebell’s favourite towns in all of Ælmesse. Wide rolling fields of green dotted with sheep, well-kept roads with high beech hedges, and a tidy village centred on a two-storey inn of limewashed wattle and daub, with large shutters to let the summer light in, and tables outside to sit in the open air when the smell of smoke and steam and dogs inside became too cloying. She liked t
hat it was close to home, usually the last stop before Blicstowe. But she also liked it because the people liked her. When she came to Godwebb on king’s business, nobody complained about taxes and fines, everyone got along with everyone else, and they were always happy to see her.

  Her spirits lifted when she saw the front peak of the inn as they cantered over the hill with the wind at their backs. She urged Torr forwards a little faster and even Ash, who was perpetually tired, sped Wraith up as they rode down to the town.

  The air in the stables was thick with the smell of fresh straw and leather. The young man who took Torr was tongue-tied to see Bluebell in person and she gave him an extra coin. He turned to Ash.

  ‘Do you have a mount, my lady?’

  In every village they’d stayed, Ash released Wraith beyond the gates, where he would fold himself into shadows. Every morning they found him waiting again, faithful as a dog.

  Ash shook her head. ‘Not one who has need of a stable,’ she said kindly, and the boy watched them go with a curious expression on his face.

  As they approached the inn, folk looked at them, smiled, nodded. One or two said they hadn’t thought to see Bluebell here, but she didn’t pay much mind. It was only when they arrived at the inn, and the innkeeper said to her, ‘We thought you might be in Sæcaster, my lord,’ that she realised something had happened that she was unaware of. Ivy? Was she dead too? Or remarrying already? Neither would surprise her.

  She leaned on the counter and drew her eyebrows down. ‘I have been travelling. What’s in Sæcaster?’

  Ash stayed close to Bluebell’s hip, her body tense too. The little front room was shut off from the noisy alehouse by a wooden door, but Bluebell could smell the steam and roasting meat, and longed to get in there and relax. The innkeeper’s expression told her she would not relax tonight.

  ‘Your father’s taken the army there. Raiders.’