Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  The inn was full of people. Meghan hunched in a chair by the fire, nodding over her knitting as bawdy jokes and tales of sightings of the lost prionnsachan rivalled the mournful tales of the highland crofters. At first Isabeau was tired from the long journey and the heat of the fire made her sleepy. However, after obediently eating a bowl of watery stew and resting her aching legs, Isabeau grew restless. Slowly she eased her body off the bench and began to creep away, only to receive a stern glance from Meghan that proved the witch was not really asleep. Isabeau pretended not to see it, of course, and knew the talk of trouble between the Rìgh and Banrìgh was too riveting for Meghan to leave. However, the glance was enough to keep Isabeau quiet and unobtrusive for a time. She wandered around the common room, listening to the minstrel strum his guitar as he sang of quests and magic swords, watching the maids flirt with the customers.

  After a while she slipped out through the big doors into the courtyard behind the inn, where grooms and stable-hands rushed around unloading bags and boxes from coaches and carts, brushing down horses and carrying heavy buckets, water sloshing onto the bricks. In the centre of the courtyard a big stallion was causing an uproar, rearing and dancing about, grooms ducking to avoid hooves as big as dinner plates. Black as coal, Isabeau could see the red rims of his eyes and the red roof of his mouth as he whinnied. She was not frightened. She liked horses, and often rode some of the wild ponies that lived in the mountains around the secret valley. She had never tamed one, though, since the herds that inhabited the mountains were proud and wary of humans, no matter how well they spoke the language. Isabeau had learnt to speak with horses almost as soon as she learnt the language of the birds, for as Meghan said, horses often knew as much as their masters, if not more, and were usually happy to chat. This horse was angry, Isabeau could hear that, and also frightened. Her ready sympathy was stirred and she crept forward, looking up at the horse as he reared and plunged about. What she planned to do, she hardly knew, but before she had a chance even to reach up a hand to the horse’s snarling muzzle, a strong arm whipped around her waist and she was swung out of the way.

  ‘Stable yards are no place for bonny wee lasses,’ a laughing voice said in her ear, and she was thrown up into the air and caught. Isabeau squealed with pleasure. ‘Here, catch,’ the man said and threw her over to one of his companions who caught her easily and set her down on the ground.

  Rather rumpled and on her dignity, Isabeau turned back to see her rescuer moving forward easily to catch the stallion’s halter, seizing one ear in his big hand. He was tall and very dark, and dressed in tight black breeches, a torn crimson shirt, and a leather waistcoat, his long black hair tied back from his face. Isabeau recognised him—he was one of the jongleurs that Meghan had not allowed her to watch earlier in the evening. The stallion had quietened at his first touch, but his eyes were still rolling and his hooves danced across the brick floor. Stroking the stallion’s sweaty neck, the jongleur whispered a few words into the ear that he still held and gradually the stallion calmed.

  ‘He’s good wi’ horses, my da,’ someone said with pride. Looking round, Isabeau saw the boy who could turn cartwheels as easily as she could run. His dark face was dirty and his clothes—a sky-blue embroidered jerkin over a frilly shirt that had once been white—were ragged. His thin legs were like sticks below the short, torn trousers, stuck into boots obviously far too large. Isabeau did not mind his ragged appearance—he had a mischievous face and black eyes that sparkled with interest as he looked at her in her demure grey dress and white cap.

  ‘What did he say to the horse?’ Isabeau asked.

  The boy’s face clouded a little. ‘Och, just nonsense,’ he said. ‘The words do no’ mean much—it’s the tone o’ voice that matters.’

  Isabeau was about to press the point, when she felt herself caught around the waist and swung up into the air again. She looked down into the jongleur’s handsome face and laughed with delight as he tossed her up into the air. ‘Has your mumma no’ told ye to keep away from a horse’s hooves? They kick, ye ken.’

  ‘I ken about horses.’ Isabeau protested. ‘I like them.’

  ‘Aye, but maybe no’ all horses are nice horses,’ he replied, laughing.

  ‘He was a nice horse, he just did no’ want to be here,’ Isabeau explained. ‘His new master is horrible.’

  ‘Is that so, lass?’ the jongleur exclaimed. ‘And how would ye ken that?’

  Isabeau immediately flushed with confusion. ‘I just ken,’ she said lamely. ‘He looked like a nice horse.’

  For some reason the jongleur found that funny, throwing back his head and laughing. ‘Well, my bonny lass, next time try no’ to play right under a horse’s hooves, no matter how nice the horse may be.’

  He set her down on the ground and from somewhere about his clothes found some coloured balls which he juggled smoothly from hand to hand as he talked. ‘Run back to your mumma, now, lassie, she’ll be missing ye. Come on, Dide, ye’d better be running home too. I’m going to find out what entertainment this sleazy inn can offer a handsome, young man like meself.’ The balls disappeared as if by magic, and he strode off into the inn, followed by his companions.

  The two children looked at each other, smiled and then, with squeals of laughter, began to play a scrambling game of chase and hide through the bales of straw and barrels and boxes which lined the courtyard and stables. It was the most fun Isabeau had had since she left the valley two months earlier. In fact, Isabeau felt it was the most fun she had ever had, since she had never had a playmate other than the beasts of the forest. Dide was quick and agile; he could walk on his hands and turn cartwheels without a moment’s thought, and he knew so many funny stories that he had Isabeau helpless with laughter. Eventually they were chased out of the stables by the headgroom and, flushed and excited, ran back into the inn.

  Tumbling through the door, Isabeau was immediately pierced by Meghan’s black gaze, though the old woman seemed for all the world asleep in her chair by the fire. Isabeau skidded to a halt, suddenly conscious of her grey dress covered in dust and straw, her lost cap, her red curls tumbling out of their braids, the laughter and comments from the customers. Mortified, she crept back into a dim corner, tidying herself and trying to melt into the walls. That she was reasonably successful was shown by the return of the room’s attention to the jongleurs, who were at a table in the corner playing dice with some of the customers—a fat man in a furred cloak, a tall, saturnine man with a squint, and a quiet man who hardly spoke. The minstrel had put away his guitar and was tucking into a big plate of stew, one hand around the waist of one of the maids, holding her securely in his lap.

  The jongleurs’ bright clothes and loud talk dominated the room, and Isabeau was able to compose herself without any more comment. Dide had crept into her corner with her, and she knew he did not want his father to realise he had not gone home as commanded. The two of them whispered and giggled together for a while, Isabeau careful to stay out of Meghan’s sight.

  It soon became clear the jongleur was winning, as he scraped piles of coins towards him with a laugh and a jest. ‘We’ll eat tonight,’ Dide whispered, and Isabeau turned to him in shock. Despite their isolation from the rest of the world, Isabeau had always had enough to eat. She looked at Dide’s thin arms and legs, and the shadow of a bruise on his temple. Maybe travelling from town to town, juggling and telling stories, was not such an exciting way to live after all.

  As the night wore on, Isabeau grew sleepy again, and she and Dide curled up together by the fire, watching the gamblers and listening to the minstrel as he softly began to play again. The jongleur’s run of luck did not continue—soon he was losing again, and Isabeau watched in concern as the pile of coins slowly sank.

  ‘Well, that’s enough for me,’ the fat man in the furred cloak said, yawning and pushing back his chair.

  ‘Ye canna leave yet, man,’ the jongleur laughed. ‘I still have some coins to lose.’

  Isabeau was consciou
s of Dide’s sigh, and was glad when the fat man shook his head and stood up.

  ‘C’mon, man, one more throw. I’ll stake everything I have left against all o’ yours.’ The jongleur pushed forward his small pile of coins, idly flipping one up and down so it spun in the light.

  The fat man was tempted. He watched the coin flash as it spun in the air, then nodded and sat back down again. ‘Only one throw, mind ye,’ he warned, and the jongleur smiled and nodded, and tossed the coin onto the table.

  The tension in the room mounted as the fat man emptied out his pouch so coins rolled across the table. He threw first and smiled with satisfaction as the dice came up with double banrìghs. For the first time the jongleur’s face was shadowed. He cupped the dice in his hands for a moment, frowning; then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw. The dice spun in the air and fell, and leaning forward Isabeau watched them roll over the table and slow. It seemed as if the jongleur would lose so, without thinking, Isabeau pointed her finger and the dice rolled over one more time and settled on double rìghs. There was a sigh from all round the room. The jongleur laughed and swept up all the coins, and after a moment the fat man shrugged and walked away from the table. Isabeau settled back in her chair, conscious of Dide’s puzzled gaze and the strong steady look of her guardian.

  ‘How did ye do that?’ Dide whispered. Isabeau said nothing, just tried to look as if she did not know what he meant. The jongleur too was staring at her with a calculating look on his face, and with dismay she realised that the other player, the quiet man with grey eyes, was also leaning forward over the table to watch her. In confusion, she slipped back to Meghan’s side and was caught close to her, tucked up in her plaid so no-one could see her.

  ‘Foolish lass,’ Meghan whispered. ‘Let us hope ye’ve done no harm.’

  Peeping out from the shelter of Meghan’s arm, Isabeau saw that the jongleurs were picking up their cloaks and preparing to leave, still talking and laughing, with Dide high on his father’s back. The quiet man was still staring at them, his face grim and thoughtful, while the minstrel tried to kiss the maid and the innkeeper clattered pewter mugs together as he cleared the table. As the jongleurs crowded out the door, Dide’s father looked over to her and winked, and Dide himself waved an enthusiastic goodbye.

  Meghan hustled Isabeau out the back door and into the stableyard. ‘We must go at once, and quickly,’ she said.

  ‘Leaving, mistress?’ a voice said from the shadows. ‘It’s late to be taking the wee lass out into the town. Do ye no’ have a bed?’

  Meghan turned slowly, her back bent almost double. ‘Och, thankee, kind sir,’ she said in a cracked whine. ‘But I mun take the wee lass home to her ma. I shouldna stayed so late but the fire was so warm …’

  ‘But surely ye do no’ bide in these parts. I’ve never seen ye afore,’ the voice said, and the man moved forward a little so the dim light from the half-open door fell across his face.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Meghan said in her cracked voice. ‘The Collene family has bided in these here parts for many a long year.’

  ‘But surely that red hair is no’ what you’d expect to find in these parts,’ the man said smoothly, and Isabeau was conscious of a sudden fear.

  ‘Och, the reds be from her granda,’ Meghan cackled. ‘He didna bide here. He came from the west to jump the fire; a good man he was, if a wee hot-tempered. But ye mun excuse us, sir, the lassie’s ma will be worrying.’ And without waiting for an answer, she hobbled out of the gate into the dark night beyond, then immediately picked up her skirts and ran nimbly across the street and into the alley beyond. ‘Hush, Beau,’ she cautioned. ‘Say nothing. Do no’ move.’

  Obediently Isabeau crouched by her side as the man came out the gate in a hurry and paused, peering down the street as if to look for them. They watched in silence until at last he shrugged and went back inside; then Meghan shook out her skirts and dragged Isabeau to her feet. ‘Ye’ll be fetching water and cutting wood for a month after this, lassie!’

  The old witch and the little girl then had to escape the town as quickly and unobtrusively as they could, for within minutes the Red Guards were searching the streets for them. Since Caeryla had only three gates set in its high stone walls, each guarded closely, they had to slither down a sewer, much to Meghan’s disgust. They landed in the loch below with a faint splash and clambered out with dripping hair and skirts and a rather apprehensive glance at the mist-wreathed waters, for the loch of Caeryla was famous for its uile-bheist, a mysterious serpentlike creature which often snatched those unwary enough to stand on its shores or swim in its waters.

  That night they walked until dawn, both wet and shivering with cold, at last finding cover in the forests to the east. Meghan had still not allowed Isabeau to rest, even though it was Candlemas, and so Isabeau’s eighth birthday. In the fresh dawn, she lit a fire, and the two of them performed the Candlemas rites as Isabeau had done every year since she was born. This year was different, though, for once the rites were completed, Meghan did not douse the fire and allow them to rest, but tested Isabeau on her witchcraft skills and knowledge. The tests went on for hours, despite Isabeau’s exhaustion, and the little girl feared she was being punished for her demonstration of power in the inn. At last Meghan allowed her to sleep, but Isabeau’s dreams were fitful and filled with nightmares.

  When she woke that afternoon, she found to her delight that the caravan of jongleurs had chosen the copse of trees to camp in as well. Dide was there, impatient for Isabeau to wake so they could play again, with his little sister Nina tumbling about the copse without a stitch of clothing on, her hair almost as red as Isabeau’s. For seven days they stayed in the shelter of the forest, Isabeau having the time of her life with so many playmates. Meghan seemed to have made friends too, with Dide’s grandmother Enit, a frail woman with a hunched back and hands like claws, and a sweet, melodious voice. The two old women spent a great deal of time huddled over the fire, reading manuscripts and arguing about spells, or else disappearing into the woods with the grandmother’s familiar, a blackbird with one white feather above his left eye.

  Isabeau was surprised to discover Meghan and Enit knew each other from old days, before the Day of Betrayal, since the wood witch had not demonstrated any sign of recognition when they saw the jongleurs in Caeryla. Isabeau was used to Meghan’s mysteries, though, and so she took advantage of her preoccupation to have the best fun she had ever had. At the end of the seven days, they made the long journey back to the secret valley, this time avoiding the Pass and its guard of soldiers, making the difficult climb up the cliffs of the Great Divide instead. Isabeau was heartbroken to leave Dide, and Meghan seemed sad to leave Enit, her face as grim and shadowed as Isabeau had ever seen it. So silent and unhappy was Meghan on the long journey back that Isabeau was afraid she was still angry at her. When Isabeau stammered out another apology, Meghan merely looked at her absently, and said, ‘Och, that’s right. I’d forgotten,’ which merely alarmed Isabeau more, for Meghan never forgot a trespass.

  It had been another year before she and Meghan again ventured out of the Sithiche Mountains, and never again had they gone any further south than the highlands.

  When Isabeau woke, she lay still for a moment, wondering why she should have such a feeling of delightful anticipation. Then she remembered and her toes curled with pleasure. Bounding out of bed, she threw on her clothes and clattered down the stairs calling, ‘Time for a swim afore breakfast?’

  Meghan, who hardly ever seemed to sleep, was stirring the porridge while Seychella leant against the wall, chatting. ‘If ye’re quick,’ her guardian replied. ‘Take Seychella, I’m sure she’d fain freshen up.’

  Seychella gave a look of dismay. ‘Swimming!’ she exclaimed. ‘Dinna ye hear the Fairgean be returning to the lochan?’

  ‘I hardly think we need worry,’ Meghan said with a dryness in her voice that Isabeau knew well. ‘The Fairgean need salt water, no’ fresh. Besides, no Fairge could leap that waterfall, and there
’s no other way in for them.’

  ‘Well, if ye be sure …’ The black-haired witch sounded doubtful, but she followed Isabeau up the ladder. They squeezed out of the tiny trapdoor at the highest level and, hand over hand, crossed the rope-bridge that hung between the trees, Seychella laughing and joking about Meghan’s obsession with secrecy. Isabeau only smiled. She was used to her guardian’s idiosyncrasies and, though she often groaned at the inaccessibility of the tree-house, knew it was a matter of safety. Even one of Meghan’s books was enough to condemn them both to death, not to mention the crystal ball, the jars of herbs and powders, the ancient maps and precious oils. Magic was dangerous, the Rìgh said. Witches were evil, and use of the One Power strictly forbidden. Isabeau had herself seen the Rìgh’s Decree Against Witchcraft pinned on the front door of the mayor’s houses in one of the highland villages. She had heard how the Red Guards were still having witch-hunts through the countryside, dragging out any woman or man who was suspected of witchcraft and taking them back to Dùn Gorm for trial. Meghan was full of pity for those taken. ‘They could have no power, or only a wee, if they were taken so easily,’ she would say as they climbed the steep paths home. ‘A true witch would escape those bullies without even lifting a finger.’

  Isabeau had her first demonstration of the wind witch’s power when Seychella lightly bounded to the ground from a branch of the tree, rather than clambering down the great length of the trunk as Isabeau had done. Isabeau, who had always thought herself as agile as a squirrel, had let herself down easily enough, but Seychella simply leapt off the branch, landing lightly some forty feet below.