by Judith Tarr
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
PART TWO
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
PART THREE
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
AUTHOR’ S NOTE
About the Author
Praise for the Historical Fantasies of Judith Tarr
King’s Blood
“The rich historical detail, mixed with liberal doses of magic and court intrigue, adds up to a fast and entertaining read. Tarr’s all-too-human characters are not easily forgotten.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Judith Tarr combines history, fantasy, and fascinating characters in a gripping story. . . . [Her] England is richly and vividly imagined, from the small rites of daily life to the great magics that sustain the land. She seamlessly blends fiction and history to tell a compelling story. I highly recommend this one.”
—Purple Pens
“The story’s heroine is delightful. . . . The author presents particularly engaging leads.” —BookLoons
“This romantic fantasy is full of action, otherworldly creatures, and the need for the champions to prove brave and victorious.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enthralling. . . . Tarr, proving once again that she is one of the best writers of historical fantasy working today, has built a plausible alternate world, populated with characters both fascinating and compelling.” —Romantic Times
Rite of Conquest
“Page-turning good action . . . this is irresistible.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“A love story told against a dazzling backdrop of warfare, diplomacy, and magic in the tradition of high fantasy. A ripping read. . . . Tarr animates the stylized outlines of historical figures with colorful characterizations and fast-paced plotting.”
—SFRevu
“Absorbing . . . breakneck pacing and compelling historical detail.” —Publishers Weekly
“Tarr continues her series of historic fantasies in which magic and the old religion play a key role. With her usual faithfulness to the period and keen understanding of human nature, she brings to vivid life her vision of the past.” —Library Journal
“Fabulously rich and intriguing . . . a wonderful magical look at how William of Normandy became the Conqueror King of England. . . . There’s a little of everything here to delight you: battles, romance, and magic.” —ConNotations
“Well written and rich with historical detail . . . strikingly portrayed battle scenes.” —VOYA
“A spellbinding historical fantasy. . . . [Tarr’s] unique slant on the events leading to 1066 makes for a fun and fascinating read.” —Midwest Book Review
House of War
“Tarr blends her magic with actual historical events as well or better than any other writer in the field, and her historical settings all have an air of authenticity and believability.”
—Chronicle
“Tarr’s compelling mixture of magic, myth, and history becomes a regular page-turner.” —Booklist
“Fans of alternate history and fantasy will love this enthralling novel.”—The Best Reviews
Devil’s Bargain
“Meticulous historical research.” —Booklist
“Impressive. . . . Tarr . . . brings (her story) to life . . . with believable characters, romance, and intrigue.” —VOYA
“Delightfully mixes tales of Arabian magic with real, although alternate, history and a solid understanding of the period to create a fascinating tale.” —University City Review (PA)
Pride of Kings
“[There’s] an eerily beautiful, sometimes frightening undercurrent to this engrossing, thoroughly satisfying novel. . . . Tarr smoothly blends a dazzling array of characters from both history and myth . . . a totally credible delight.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A new tapestry of myth and magic . . . gracefully and convincingly told.” —Library Journal
“Pride of Kings offers decisive proof that heroic fantasy can still be more than an exercise in fancy dress and moonbeams.”
—Locus
Kingdom of the Grail
“Tarr spins an entertaining and often enlightening tale.”
—The Washington Post
“Eloquently penned mythical history. . . . Drawn with depth and precision, Tarr’s array of characters are as engaging as her narrative is enchanting.” —Publishers Weekly
“A lyrical and exciting story . . . richly woven narrative.”
—VOYA
“A tapestry rich with love and loyalty, sorcery, and sacrifice.”
—Library Journal
ALSO BY JUDITH TARR
Kingdom of the Grail
Pride of Kings
Devil’s Bargain
House of War
Rite of Conquest
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
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Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Roc trade paperback edition.
First Roc Mass Market Printing, February 2007
Copyright © Judith Tarr, 2005
eISBN : 978-0-451-46136-0
All rights reserved
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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PART ONE
INHERITANCE anno domini 1087
CHAPTER 1
Spring came late that year, lashed with wind and rain and sharp-edged with hunger. In corners where the queen could not hear, people muttered of signs and portents, and said prayers that had nothing to do with the Lord Christ or the good God, although many of them called on Our blessed Lady.
Edith was small and quick and her ears were keen. When she went wandering, her nurses had long since given up trying to catch her. She might stay away for most of a day, but she always came back.
On the day the world changed, she had escaped to the top of the highest tower of her father’s dun. The rain had stopped for the first time in days. The wind was fierce, but she was never cold. The people in the wind kept her warm: odd and insubstantial shapes and eerie voices, wrapping her about, singing her songs in their language and teaching her to see what their people saw. She was a blessed one, they said. She could see through the world.
Today she was feeling strange. It was not that she was hungry, although she had given her breakfast to a beggar at the gate. The wind was pressing on her, as if to push her down from the tower and out of the dun and away on the road. South, it sang. South is your way.
She clung to the wall, with the wind whipping tears from her cheeks, and glared defiantly northward. Beyond the roll of stony hills and winter-blasted heather, the firth was as grey as iron, flecked white with foam. The folk of the air swirled above her, shrilling their song. You know the way. You know you must. It is fated.
“I don’t want to,” she said, not particularly loudly. They could hear even if she said it in her heart.
They said nothing to that. She wished they had. Then she would have had someone to scream at. But the wind knew what it knew.
She could run away. But where would she go? Even if she could see what no one else would admit to seeing, and hear what no one else could hear, and ride as well as a boy besides, she was still a child. There was nowhere she could go, that her father could not find her and bring her back to face something even more terrible than himself: her lady mother.
She drew herself up, there in the wind. They were looking for her; she could feel them. Her mother had remembered her. It was time.
The queen inspected her daughter with a hard eye. She was beautiful, was the Lady Margaret, tall and fair, and royal to the core of her. She waged war for the Lord Christ as her husband the king waged war for Scotland: with heart and soul and a fierce, deadly sense of honor.
Edith did not have the sense to keep her eyes lowered in proper submission. Staring at her mother was like staring at the sun; it could strike a person blind. But Edith was fascinated. Wherever Margaret was, the world was overwhelmingly solid. Edith could not see through it at all.
Margaret reached from her tall chair, taking Edith’s chin in firm cool fingers and tipping it so that her face caught the light. The queen sighed faintly. “Well, child,” she said, “I see they did their best, but that you are a wild thing, no one could possibly mistake. It’s time to make a Christian of you.”
Edith very carefully said nothing. There were no folk of the air in this cold, still room; no creatures at all but the queen and her ladies and the pair of little bright-eyed dogs that crouched watchfully at Margaret’s feet.
The dogs might have had something to say, but they chose not to say it. Margaret, who reckoned them dumb animals, paid no attention. Having searched Edith’s face, she let it go and folded her long white hands in her lap. “Tomorrow,” she said, “you will go. The letters have been sent. Your aunt the abbess will be expecting you.”
A shiver ran down Edith’s spine. She could not help it then; she had to ask. “My aunt? You’re giving me to an abbey? You’re making me a nun?”
“We are offering you to God,” said the queen. It was like a door shutting.
“But I thought,” said Edith, not wisely at all, “that I was to be fostered, and when I was older, sent to be married. Not—”
“You are to be fostered.” That was a voice Edith had not heard before. There were always maids with the queen, and nuns in veils. Edith had not been paying attention, not with her mother taking up all the light and air in the room.
This was a nun, or seemed to be. Her voice was soft. She seemed gentle and humble as a bride of the Lord Christ should be, but the small hairs on Edith’s neck were standing straight up.
“Princess,” the stranger said, “you will be tended and taught and shown the way to Our Lady’s grace. Of that I can assure you.”
Edith’s heart was pounding hard. Her breath was coming short. She did not know why she should be feeling this way; there was nothing frightening about the lady. She was like the folk of air—even here in front of the queen.
That was why she was so alarming. Because she could be here and alive and speaking with her own voice. Nothing from the Otherworld could do that where Margaret was.
Which meant that this lady was very, very strong indeed. And she came from the place where Margaret wanted to send Edith. Which meant—
There was too much to think about. Edith’s head ached with trying.
“Don’t try,” the strange lady said, so soft that only Edith could hear. “Just be.”
That was exactly the sort of thing one of the folk of air might have said. It took the pain away, a little, but Edith did not object when her mother ordered her nurses to feed her a posset and put her to bed. “In the morning,” the queen said, “if she is still vaporing, prepare a litter for her. She will go, whether it pleases her or no.”
Edith did not know whether it pleased her or not. But even while she was carried off to bed, she knew that she would go—not because her mother commanded it, but because the lady was there.
The king was not there to see Edith off. Edith wondered if he even knew that she was going away.
If she had been a little younger she might have cried, but she was too old for that now. She blinked hard against the cut of the wind, and let her mother kiss her coolly on both cheeks and lay a blessing on her. Then she mounted her pony and waited while the guards took their places around her.
They were a strong escort. It was a long way to her Aunt Christina’s abbey, all the way down into England. None of her nurses was allowed to go with her, though Nieve clambered on one of the packmules and dared anyone to stop her. It took three men to do it, but they did it. The queen had commanded. They would obey.
Once Nieve was dragged off shrieking curses, Edith was alone in the midst of all those armored men, except for the lady whose name she did not even know. But the folk of air came and swirled about her and sang to her, and she forgot to be either lonely or afraid. They would never leave her alone. That was their promise. She knew they would keep it.
Once she had ridden out of the gate, she did not look back. For all her determinat
ion, her eyes were pricking with tears. She set her chin and kept her eyes fixed on the broad brown rump of the horse in front of her.
That was all she would see for much of that long ride: great tall horses around her and armored men on their backs, and the folk of air swarming so thick above her that they almost hid the sky. They told her stories as she rode, and sang songs in their eerie voices, and taught her to feel the land as she crossed it.
That was a wonderful thing. This was all one island, and Scotland was only the edge of it. There was England, with all its old kingdoms, and Wales, and Cornwall where the magic was strong.
She was going to England, where her mother’s ancestors had been kings. New kings ruled there now: gross men, bad men, whom her mother refused to name. She would only call them those invaders and cross herself fiercely as she said it, as if the blessing were a curse.
And yet she sent her daughter there, because it was her inheritance. The abbey was a safe and sacred place, where Edith would learn to be she hardly knew what. But maybe not a Christian.
The folk of air were wildly excited that she was going there. She would be so strong, they sang; so wise. There would be no one wiser than she.
“It’s good to be wise,” the lady said.
Edith started so strongly that her pony almost shied. For days the lady had said nothing. The guards walked wary of her, and spoke softly when they thought she could hear, but she hardly seemed to see them. Edith she seemed not to notice at all.
As soon as she spoke, Edith knew that that was not true. The lady had noticed every tiny thing. She could see the folk of air, and hear them, too.
She was wise. Britain was in her, or she in it—Edith could not tell which it was. She was very, very strong.
