“Sometimes I have a hard time remembering what he was like. It’s been twenty years since he died, and my memories are those of a fifteen year old girl.” Aislin frowned as she tried to think. “He was a kind man, but he could be stern. The people in the village loved him. He never asked anyone to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. He took me under his wing when I was very small, when he saw that Mother wasn’t terribly interested in me. He saw to it that I learned the same things as Fionn. Well, everything except swordplay and fighting. It’s a good thing I knew most everything Fionn knew, or Arianrhod would’ve been in a bad way.”
She smiled wistfully. “I remember he had big hands. When he would hold my hand, it would almost disappear in his. He was very handsome. His eyes were as dark as night, and his hair was long and brown, always pulled back in a queue and tied with a strip of leather. And he adored my mother. I always got the feeling he would’ve roped the moon and pulled it to Earth if she would’ve asked him for it. I can tell you they were complete opposites in temperament. Father was fun, like Fionn, but Mother has always been distant and cold. It’s amazing they had any children at all.” Aislin laughed at the irony.
“You have other siblings?” Tristan asked.
“Not living. Fionn was the oldest, born shortly after they were married. I had two brothers, Degas and Baile, who didn’t survive infancy. They both died before I was born. I came along in 1657. I remember my childhood being full of adventure, even if it was a little dysfunctional. Then my father was hurt, and things changed dramatically.”
“What happened?”
“He was out hunting wild boar when he took an arrow to the back of his neck. He survived the accident, but never spoke again. He lay in bed for six months, not saying a word or opening his eyes, until he died.” Aislin frowned and looked down at the saddle. “For some reason, Mother wouldn’t let us see him much during the time that he lingered. I used to sneak in when I knew she was busy and lay beside him on the bed. Sometimes I would talk to him. Sometimes I would just hold him.”
“You speak of him with a great deal of love in your voice.”
“He was the only parent I really had. Mother was never much of a factor in my life, but after Daddy died, she completely disconnected from everyone. It didn’t matter to me—I still had Fionn. Then Fionn died, and I was made regent, and... well...you know the rest of that story.”
“You must have known it would be difficult to run a kingdom of that size. Why didn’t you refuse the regency?” Tristan asked.
“I really couldn’t. There was no one else to do it. I was the only one who knew what needed to be done on a day-to-day basis to keep things running. I knew I had a duty to Arianrhod and Fionn. I wanted Bryce to have something he could be proud of when he returned to the throne. If it wouldn’t have been for Devin, I don’t know how I would have held things together. And that’s why I’m unmarried in my 35th year. After I was made regent, I didn’t have time for anything else. Certainly not a husband or children.”
They rode on in silence. Aislin tried to remember what it felt like to have her family intact, her beloved father and brother still with her. Thoughts of Fionn inevitably led to thinking of the day he died, and rather than fight it as she so often did, she let it replay in her memory.
The sickness visited Arianrhod in early September of 1681, and it tore through the village with little regard to wealth or status, taking mostly those in their prime. The lucky ones died quickly, choking to death on their own blood. The not-so-lucky lingered for days, gasping for air and turning a ghastly shade of gray before dying. A few got very ill, but recovered, and a very few, like Aislin, were never touched by the black hand of the sickness.
The baker had been the first to die, and then his wife and three of his five children. The blacksmith was next, followed by the tanner and his whole family. As the various workers in the village died, those jobs went undone. Thankfully, the harvest had been gathered by that time, but it didn’t take long for starvation to rear its ugly head. What good are bushels of wheat without someone to grind them and make bread?
Those who were able tended to the sick and dying. Over the objections of her mother, Aislin went from house to house, doing what she could to help. After awhile, the villagers began stacking the bodies up in the narrow lanes of the village. There was no one well enough to bury them.
King Fionn offered the sheltered courtyard of the manor house as a makeshift hospital, taking care to keep his young son and pregnant wife away from so much sickness and death. And then, showing no mercy, it claimed the life of King Fionn.
Fionn had fallen and died within minutes, bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth on the stone walkway of the courtyard. Aislin had held him in her lap, sobbing hysterically and rocking him back and forth as he choked to death. She’d begged him not to die, pleaded with him not to leave her. He’d lifted a bloody hand to her face as his eyes glazed over in death and asked her to please look after his little family. And then he told her how much he loved her.
She’d held Fionn for a long time after he died, covered in his blood, unwilling to let anyone take him from her. She couldn’t say how long she sat there with him. Her next memory was of Gwen screaming. She’d looked up in horror as Gwen stumbled out into the courtyard and found Aislin holding her dead husband.
Gwen had fallen on his body, begging him to live for their children. Aislin could still see the look of pain and disbelief that had crossed her face as she went into labor in the courtyard.
Pushing Fionn to the side, she caught Gwen as she fell. Aislin was terrified for the tiny baby about to be born into such madness. She’d struggled to keep her wits about her, doing her best to comfort a sobbing and thrashing Gwen. Giving orders for clean linen and water, Aislin had propped her up as best she could and prepared her for birth.
Baby Maeve came into the world about an hour later, slipping easily into Aislin’s waiting hands. The baby, despite being a month early, was healthy and screaming at the top of her lungs. In that instant, Aislin knew a bond as strong as the one she’d had with Fionn.
Fionn had told her he loved her with his dying breath. Aislin clung to that whenever things got hard. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept her sane.
She snuck a sideways glance at Tristan, his face in profile to her. It occurred to her that he was the only other adult she could even remotely call a friend. Oh, she had her family and the people who worked for her, but that didn’t feel the same. There was an easiness with Tristan, an openness that she’d never felt with anyone else. Despite the inauspicious beginning they’d had, she’d become comfortable with him.
She’d allowed the regency to take over her life. It had left her isolated.
What if? What if I just tell my family: I don’t want to be regent anymore, and stayed with him? The thought was so shocking to her—so against what she’d always believed about herself—that she stopped the horse, and literally thought she was going to stop breathing.
Tristan’s horse took a few steps beyond hers before he noticed she wasn’t with him. He turned the horse and trotted back to her. “What’s wrong?”
She finally started to breath again, but her heart was thumping wildly. “I guess I’m just anxious...about finding my mother and Gwen.”
Could it really be that easy? Could I just give myself permission to live my own life?
“You’re not a very good liar.”
“I was just thinking about the past. Something I shouldn’t do.”
“You spend a lot of time running away from yourself,” Tristan said.
“I know. Please...let’s just ride.”
There were questions in his eyes, but he didn’t press her. He simply turned his horse around, and they continued in silence.
The sun was sinking into the horizon when Tristan swung down off his horse and said
, “We’ll stop for the night here. There’s a small clearing where we can build a fire.”
“Won’t someone see it?”
“No, we’re still deep enough in the forest yet.” Tristan unpacked everything from both horses. He then patted them on the neck, and said, “Go on home! Off with you!” Both horses turned and trotted off in the direction they’d come.
“What are you doing?”
“We’ll start out on foot tomorrow morning. I don’t want to take a chance someone will see us on the horses.”
“And they’ll find their way back home without riders?”
“Yes. We train all of our horses to return to Oakenbourne. You sound surprised.”
“I’ve just never heard of such a thing,” Aislin said, as she watched them trot away. “How long before we’re in Arianrhod?”
“Half a day or so. We should have your mother and Gwen out of the manor house by tomorrow, early afternoon, if everything goes well.”
Aislin nodded. They’d made good time coming through the northern part of Blackthorne along its border with Arianrhod.
Tristan busied himself starting a fire and arranging their campsite. He rolled out their bedding side by side, then dug around in his backpack for something to eat. “Come and sit down. We’ll eat and then get some rest. I have a feeling it’s going to be quite a day tomorrow.”
She sat down beside him and pulled a small piece of bread and some dried meat out of her backpack. She leaned over, bumped him with her elbow, and said, “Is there room in your blankets for me?”
He sighed. “Nothing would please me more than to make love to you all night long. But I can tell you with absolute certainty Blackthorne Forest isn’t a place you want to be caught with your pants down.”
Aislin began to laugh. Tristan pulled her against him, tickling her, and they both rolled on the ground, laughing. He quickly pulled her up to straddle him. The affection she saw on his face made her feel warm all over.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, elf,” she said, smiling down at him, her hands splayed against his chest, feeling his heart beat. “I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time.”
“I’m completely at your service, human. Now and always.”
Chapter Thirty Two
“IT’S RIGHT THERE—THE DARK SPOT in the middle of the field,” Aislin whispered to Tristan.
She couldn’t believe her eyes—they were right on the border of Arianrhod. She could see the entrance to the storm drain through the field and up the slope about three miles away. Beyond the storm drain and up another steep hill, the towers of the manor house peeked over the stone wall. She was home!
“I see it. It doesn’t look very big,” Tristan whispered back. “I hope I can fit. Maybe you didn’t notice, but I’m rather tall.”
Aislin suppressed a giggle. “Fionn was tall, and he made it through. It only looks small because we’re so far away.”
Trying not to fidget, she looked over the landscape ahead of them. Some of Jariath’s men were patrolling the field around the storm drain. The gossamer needed to do its job, or this was going to end badly.
“For some reason, Jariath has pulled his men off the borders and drawn them back up to the village. I wonder if he got word Wyndham’s army was on its way,” Tristan said.
“I don’t know, but that would be wonderful if it were true!” Aislin said.
Tristan strapped his bow and a quiver of arrows across his back. “Put your gossamer on and follow me. The grass is tall and we’re going to have to be very careful they don’t notice it moving as we walk. Arrows can find their way through gossamer, so stay down as much as you can. Stay with me.”
Aislin strapped her pike across her back and dropped the gossamer over her. Tristan did the same and disappeared right in front of her.
“I can’t see you! I don’t like this!” she whispered urgently.
“Watch the ground. I’ll try to let you know where I am, but you’ll have to follow my tracks through the grass.”
Aislin watched as his unseen hands pushed aside the branches and undergrowth, and then the grass out in the open field began to move. Crouching down as much as she could, she followed the movement in the grass.
The wind was blowing briskly, making the grass sway back and forth, so it was easy to move quickly at first. As they drew nearer to the soldiers stationed near the manor house, they slowed down a bit, moving with the grass as it swayed in the wind. Aislin’s heart was pounding as they walked up to and through the line of armed men standing guard.
She tensed and eyed the soldiers nervously. This was too easy. Surely one of them was going to reach out and grab her arm, shouting exultantly that he’d caught the princess in her own backyard.
No one even looked in their direction. Aislin allowed herself to breathe.
She continued to watch Tristan’s footsteps in the grass, walking a bit behind him and to the right so there wasn’t so much grass moving at one time. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they were standing in front of the storm drain.
“I thought you said it was locked,” Tristan whispered. The end of the storm drain was wide open.
“On the inside, where it comes up from the floor,” Aislin whispered back. “I hope you can get it open.”
“Not a problem. Keep the gossamer on until we know what we’re going into.”
“It’s dark in there. How will we find them? We won’t be able to see them in the cell.”
“I don’t know about you, but I can see in the dark,” Tristan said. “Humans really need to finish evolving.”
She swung an open hand in the direction of his voice, and was gratified to hear him whisper a sharp “Ouch!”
They crouched and entered the drain. It wasn’t too far from the entrance into the lower dungeon, but it was slow going because of their size. Aislin hadn’t been in the drain for many years, and it was much smaller than she remembered.
Every so often Aislin heard a soft bump, followed by whispered profanity. “I’m sorry,” she called softly to Tristan, trying not to laugh.
Finally, they reached the square culvert in the floor of the dungeon and stood up. Aislin looked up through the grate into a solid wall of inky blackness. There was no way to know if someone was patrolling the prison above them.
“Shhhhh. Listen.” Tristan whispered. They heard nothing but water dripping somewhere off in the distance. There were no voices, no footsteps, nothing but silence.
After awhile, Tristan pulled off the gossamer, and Aislin did the same. “Keep your gossamer handy, and don’t lose it. You’ll need it later,” he told her.
Tristan reached up over his head and put his hands on the grate in the floor, whispering in the Sylvan tongue. His hands and the air around them started to glow with an eerie orange light. He kept whispering, and the glow got brighter, until Aislin heard a sharp pop. Tristan slowly moved the grate and laid it gently to the side.
He hopped up out of the hole, and reached down for Aislin, pulling her up to stand beside him.
“It still smells the same,” said Aislin, wrinkling her nose. It smelled damp and stale, of ancient moss and things rotting in the corners.
It took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust to the gloom of the prison, but after awhile they could dimly see the objects around them. The lower level dungeon of the manor house had two long hallways of cells, joined together by a shorter hallway where they had come up through the floor. At the end of the short hallway were steps that led up to another level of prison cells. If Jariath didn’t have the women locked up down here, they would have to make their way up the stairs to search. Aislin knew this lower level was the worst of the worst, but she hoped they would be here. It would be much easier to get them out if they didn’t have to go any further than this.
“I’ll go this way,” Aislin whispered, pulling the pike from the sheath across her back. She turned to go, but Tristan grabbed her arm.
“Be careful,” he said. “If you find them, come and get me so I can purge the lock. If I find them, I’ll let them out, and then we’ll come for you.”
“Good luck!” She turned and was gone.
She walked slowly down the hallway, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. She tried to peer into each cell, but she couldn’t see a thing. Finding them in the darkness was not going to be easy.
“Gwen...Mother... It’s Aislin,” she whispered. There was no reply. She continued down the row, calling quietly. She neared the end of the hall; the women were not on her side of the dungeon. Hopefully, Tristan was having better luck.
Disappointed, Aislin turned around to go back. A peripheral blur of motion to her left startled her, but before she could react, a large arm snaked around her and pinned her arms down at her side. Her head bounced hard off someone’s collarbone as she was pulled roughly back against a solid body. The pike clattered to the floor. She tried to shake herself loose, but whoever held her quickly forced a foul smelling rag over her face. There was soft laughter in her ear, betraying her captor as male. She was so stunned that she stopped struggling for a moment, her mind reeling.
I’ve heard that laugh before!
Twisting, fighting with renewed purpose, she tried to break his hold on her, but she could barely move. She knew whatever had been soaked onto the rag was meant to subdue her, and she would soon be at his mercy if she took a breath. She held it as long as she could, but he seemed to know what she was trying to do. Gripping her tighter around the waist, he forced the air from her lungs. She had no choice but to inhale. The gulp of air she took carried the pungent drug all the way down into her lungs, searing the inside of her throat. She felt her legs buckle under her, and then she was no more.
Aislin of Arianrhod (Land of Alainnshire) Page 21
