Rowankind (3 Book Series)

by Jacey Bedford

  “Give us another chance, Larien. Let us talk to the king again.”

  I saw Corwen start to open his mouth to say something, and immediately felt guilty. What was I thinking? He’d almost died. I hadn’t asked him if he’d be willing to try again.

  “But this time with a little more help,” I said. “Fae help.”

  I tried not to look at Corwen. He needn’t come with me.

  Corwen leaned forward and put his hand on my arm. “Give her what she wants, Larien,” he said.

  “And give us David,” I said. “He can help to get us a safe audience with the king.”

  Larien frowned.

  “And it will keep him away from his new wife for a little longer and give him a breathing space. Larien, how could you do that to your own son?”

  I didn’t really expect an answer to the last question. I hadn’t meant to mention the marriage, but it slipped out. In the grand scheme of things, one unhappy Fae wasn’t important when measured alongside Dantin bringing about some unnatural disaster in the human world.

  “The Fae seem powerful to you, and, indeed, we are, but we are not gods. If we move to show the British people what we can do, and perhaps to subdue them, we would be as well to have allies across the channel. The Merovingian Fae have not always looked kindly on those of us from Albion and, in our turn, we have not always looked kindly upon them. They do things differently there. They’ve not secreted themselves away quite so fully as we have. I believe they even advise Bonaparte on occasions, but they tend to be dark.”

  “Do you mean they use dark magic?”

  “Let’s say they are in tune with the darker side of nature.”

  “I didn’t even know there were Fae in France until the matter of David’s bride came up.”

  He laughed.

  Why had I never considered it?

  “There are Fae everywhere, though we don’t make ourselves known very often. Over a thousand years ago, the Merovingian Fae allied themselves with a dynasty that governed the territory now known as France and the low countries. The Merovingians ruled for three hundred years, thanks to the Fae.”

  “Does Iaru stretch all around the globe?”

  “It has different names. Here it’s sometimes called Orbisalius, the otherworld. In France it becomes Le Pays Enchanté, the enchanted country. In Ireland it’s the Summer Country or Tir na nÓg.” He raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. “The Merovingian Fae have, at last, been brought to negotiations and the promise of an alliance.”

  “Out of all your people, wasn’t there someone else suitable? Why did it have to be David?”

  “He’s my son.”

  “Does that mean he’s not allowed to decide for himself who to marry and where to love?”

  “He can love whomever he pleases.”

  “But not marry?”

  “We must all make sacrifices.”

  “Who has made the sacrifice here, and who has been sacrificed? Can this be undone?”

  “Not without losing the alliance.”

  The matter seemed closed to Larien, but it wasn’t closed to me.

  Corwen nudged me to remind me Larien had not come to talk about marriage, and said, “Will you let David come with us when we next try to persuade the king to your plan?”

  “You think he can make a difference?” Larien asked.

  “I know he can,” I said. “Besides, if nothing else, he can erect a barrier between us and the king’s protectors.”

  Larien nodded. “Then he can come with you, but he’s not to reveal himself as Fae.”

  I nodded. “I want one more favor.”

  Larien sighed softly as if he was making a show of disapproval for the sake of it.

  “You said there are Fae everywhere.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Can you talk to them? Pass messages, write letters, or whatever you do?”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “I know you don’t really want to wipe out humans, Larien. Dantin might, but you don’t.”

  He tilted his head to one side, thus inviting me to continue.

  “When we rescued the magicals and the rowankind from the Guillaume Tell, there was an old enemy on board—Walsingham. We left him to the French to imprison, but the peace means he’s been released. Even blind and crippled, he’s dangerous. He uses dark spellcasting to suppress natural magic.”

  Larien’s mouth turned down when I mentioned spellcasting. It wasn’t considered real magic by the Fae, but it got real results.

  “Walsingham’s spells were written in a notebook. We think—we hope—it was destroyed, but Aunt Rosie fears it may not have been. She has a . . . feeling.”

  “Rosie has proved remarkably prescient in the past.” Larien didn’t elaborate. “I wouldn’t ignore her warnings.”

  “Were it not for this business with the king on your behalf, we’d already be sailing for the Caribbean, but Aunt Rosie’s premonitions don’t extend to where we might begin our search. If the notebook still exists, it seems likely it’s passed through the hands of a pirate captain called Nicholas Thompson, otherwise known as Old Nick. Maybe he still has it in his possession. It would be a bad combination if he were to gain access to any of its secrets.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to talk to the Fae in the Caribbean, in Baccalao and along the coast of the Americas to find out whether they’ve observed anything unusual, magically, that is, and perhaps if any of them have had sight of Old Nick’s ship, the Flamingo.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.”

  23

  Roland

  AFTER OUR INTRUSION at Windsor, the king would be surrounded by guards everywhere he went. It was going to be much more difficult to get close to him a second time.

  “I’m beginning to think your crazy idea about approaching the king while he’s taking a saltwater cure might not be such a bad idea,” Corwen said.

  We’d been back in the Okewood for four days already, during which time Corwen had recovered completely. Even his scars had faded.

  Freddie was still isolating himself. We were hoping for a letter from Roland. A visit might snap Freddie out of his melancholy state, but we were worried that a letter would arrive while we were gone. If the goblins sent word that the king was out and about again, we might have to leave at any time.

  We were on tenterhooks, waiting for either one thing or the other and hoping for both . . . but not together.

  Neither Corwen nor I were good at waiting. We’d taken to training with sword and pistol each morning, and each afternoon I studied Aunt Rosie’s notebooks and continued to compile one of my own.

  Then, instead of a letter, Aileen Reynard came with a message.

  “Da says please come quick. There’s a gent pacing the floor of the coffee room, demanding to see you or Mr. Freddie, and he won’t be put off.” The girl’s sharp vixen features were set in a worried frown, and her ginger hair had escaped the ribbon which tied it back.

  “Did he give you a name?” Corwen asked.

  “He said Essleborough, and we’d better fetch you quick or there’d be consequences.”

  “Did he say what it was about?”

  “Said it was none of our business.”

  “Did he have men with him?”

  “Not that we saw.”

  “Go back and tell him I’m on my way,” Corwen said.

  “Tell him we’re on our way,” I said.

  Corwen glared at me and then nodded.

  The fox-girl scurried away while Corwen turned to whistle up Timpani and Dancer. I was dressed in breeches from our morning of sword play, and rather than delay, I grabbed my hat and pulled it down over my head before saddling Dancer and mounting.

  We made good time. I doubt we were many minut
es behind the fox-girl as we rode into Buckfastleigh. The Valiant Soldier was a squat inn set a little back from its neighboring house and painted creamy white. A rangy brown gelding was tied to one of the rings in the front wall. He had mud up his legs and dried sweat on his neck.

  “Our visitor, do you think?” I asked.

  “Could be.”

  The horse pricked up his ears whinnied and as we approached. Dancer responded with a whicker. We needn’t tie up our two, but we did for appearances. Aileen Reynard came to meet us on the doorstep.

  “He’s inside. Da’s persuaded him to a glass of port, but he seems anxious.”

  “Still alone, is he?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He’s in the coffee room, on your left. Father has kept it private, so you won’t be disturbed.”

  “Thanks, Aileen.” Corwen pressed a shilling into her hand. “We appreciate your trouble.”

  “Thank ’ee, sir.” She went ahead of us into the passageway, and we lost sight of her as we turned left.

  Our visitor leaped to his feet as we entered the dark, wood-paneled coffee room. His clothes were good, but mud-spattered as if he’d ridden fast and hard. “You’re Freddie’s brother. I can see the resemblance,” he said. “Where’s Freddie?”

  “Who wants to know?” Corwen advanced cautiously.

  “I’m sorry, I forget my manners. Roland Somerton, Viscount Essleborough, at your service, sir.”

  “Oh, you’re Freddie’s Roland?” I said.

  “I am, indeed, Freddie’s Roland.” His face, which had been a mask of worry, crinkled into smiles. “Forgive my appearance. I took the mail coach to Exeter and hired a hack from there. The roads are muddy.”

  Corwen introduced me as Ross Deverell, and I saw Lord Essleborough put two and two together. “Forgive me for staring, Mr. Deverell. Only, it’s not mister, is it?”

  “It’s not,” I shrugged, “though I would appreciate it if you didn’t say that too loudly.”

  He lowered his voice. “Are you a wolf, too?”

  That answered our unasked question, Roland knew about Freddie, and likely knew about Corwen as well.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Ah, I thought . . . ”

  “I’m a witch.”

  Lord Essleborough stiffened and stepped back.

  I gave him my best smile. “Don’t worry, I haven’t turned anyone into a frog for the longest time.”

  His eyes widened, and then he got the joke and laughed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I should be worried about a witch when my friend turns into a wolf.”

  “He does,” Corwen said, “and he has. He’s had a somewhat difficult time since you last saw him.”

  “So I gathered from your letter. What happened?”

  “Not here,” Corwen looked over his shoulder. “The landlord has reason to be an ally, but this business is private.”

  “Tell me as we ride. You are taking me to see him, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, though there are things I should warn you about first.”

  Roland left a half-guinea on the table and followed us out. He eyed Dancer and Timpani and nodded to his gelding. “I hope we can keep up. I pushed my horse hard to get here.”

  “We have about seven miles to go. Mr. Reynard can probably hire you a fresh horse.” Corwen went back to the inn door and called for Aileen, who skipped off to the back of the inn to alert the ostler that we needed a fresh riding horse and stable space and feed for Lord Essleborough’s hack.

  Newly mounted on a serviceable bay cob with a docked tail and hogged mane, Lord Essleborough followed us, single file, along a narrow track that led to the Okewood.

  Buckfastleigh is on the very edge of the Okewood. There aren’t so many stories about hauntings in this part of the forest, and the villagers don’t fear going out to gather kindling and blackberries. Maybe because the old abbey, largely ruined down to its foundations since the monasteries were turned over to the Crown, had stood here for centuries and still cast a long shadow.

  We rode in silence until the village dropped away behind us and the forest—which is never totally silent—closed in about us. The trees were set wide enough apart for us to ride three abreast. Corwen and I put Lord Essleborough between us.

  “Tell me everything,” he said.

  Corwen shook his head. “There’s a lot to take in, and some of it’s not ours to tell. How about you tell us what Freddie’s already told you, and we’ll take it from there.”

  “That’s fair,” Lord Essleborough said. “Freddie and I parted badly. Did he tell you?”

  “I gather so,” Corwen said. “I think that’s what started Freddie off on a self-destructive path.”

  “Oh, please don’t say that. I mean, I hope I wasn’t to blame.”

  “I think there’s only one person who takes responsibility for Freddie, and that’s Freddie himself,” I said.

  “I understand. He can be quite stubborn.” Lord Essleborough swallowed hard. “We met at Oxford and became firm friends.”

  “If it helps,” I said, “we know what kind of firm friends you are.”

  “And you aren’t . . . you don’t . . . ”

  Corwen reined in Timpani. “Lord Essleborough, my brother is a wolf shapechanger. He’s got bigger things to worry about than his romantic preferences. For years he tried to hide it from his family, but we all knew, even my mother in the end, though she never spoke of it. She has, however, stopped trying to find suitable unmarried young ladies for him. Though, of course, since he turned into a wolf, marrying him off to some poor unsuspecting virgin would be cruel in the extreme. To the young lady, I mean.”

  Lord Essleborough huffed out a breath. “If it helps, I love your brother, and I do believe he loves me, even though we argued.”

  “What did you argue about?” I asked.

  “My father, or rather my father’s wishes. And marriage. I’m an only child, and my father was keen to have another generation to secure the succession after his death. I’d been summoned to Loriston, our family estate on the edge of the Forest of Dean, to meet a pair of second cousins. I knew what my father had in mind. Their older sister already had five children, so there seemed every likelihood that either one of them would prove fecund. That’s all my father was interested in, you understand. I’d determined to go and refuse, once and for all, to be bullied into marriage, but Freddie begged me not to go. He said once there I’d be obliged to fall in with my father’s plans.”

  “That sounds like Freddie’s understanding of how a father-son relationship works,” Corwen said. “Our own father, until his apoplectic fit, was a hard man to say no to. Though it was always our mother who hatched marriage plans for us.”

  “My mother died in childbirth when I was eleven years old, and the baby, a daughter, along with her. My father never remarried.”

  “So you argued about a visit to Gloucestershire,” I prompted.

  “We did. As it turned out, we needn’t have. My father was ill. I didn’t realize how ill. I arrived in time to say good-bye. My second cousins had already been packed off home. I can make my own rules now I’ve come into my inheritance. I’m a wealthy man. I wrote to Freddie to come to Loriston, but he never replied. I thought he was still upset with me. There was a lot of business to take care of. By the time I surfaced from the paperwork and took a trip to London, Freddie had gone from his lodgings.”

  “What do you know about his wolf?” Corwen asked.

  “I was there the first time he changed, and it nearly terrified the life out of me. A hard and brutal thing it was, too. He knew what was happening to him. Before he entirely lost his power of speech, he told me it was a family affliction and asked me to stay with him until he was restored to a man again.”

  “And you did,” I said.

  “I did. Not without trepidation. In fact, I was terrifi
ed at first.”

  “But you stayed with him afterward,” I asked.

  “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.”

  “Well said, Lord Essleborough.” I was beginning to like Freddie’s lover.

  Satisfied that Lord Essleborough knew about Freddie and his own shapechanging, but probably not Lily, and not anything else regarding the state of magic in the kingdom, Corwen began his tale. “After you and Freddie parted on bad terms, Freddie went running across Hampstead Heath. He must have done it several nights in a row and always the same route, because one night the Mysterium was waiting for him.”

  Lord Essleborough drew in a sharp breath.

  “You know, of course, our eldest brother Jonathan died of a burst appendix some seventeen months ago, and our father had an apoplectic seizure at Jonathan’s funeral which rendered him unable to move or speak.”

  “I knew that, yes. Is your father . . . ”

  “He passed away last December.”

  “I am so very sorry to hear it.”

  “Thank you. He was ready to go, trapped inside his own body, a far cry from the vital man he used to be.” Corwen took a deep breath. “I knew nothing of Jonathan’s death and Father’s apoplexy until my sister, Lily, took it upon herself to write in the spring of last year. We, Ross and I, went back to Yorkshire immediately, but Freddie, who should have been taking over the business and the estate, had gone to London—run off to evade his new responsibilities, we all thought—and was not answering correspondence. Ross and I followed him to London, and, like you, found him gone from his lodging. We learned from an acquaintance that a brown wolf had been seen on Hampstead Heath.”

  The goblins had told us, but Corwen carefully didn’t mention them.

  “I followed Freddie’s trail,” Corwen continued. “My change is neither as slow nor as painful as Freddie’s, so it made much more sense to use my nose for the hunt. Unfortunately, I was also captured by the Mysterium. Eventually, I was shipped off to sea in what amounted to a prison ship, the Guillaume Tell. They already had Freddie there.”

  “Oh, God! Freddie’s terrified of water.”

  Corwen nodded. “He is. It didn’t help. Freddie had kept his wolf form for weeks to hide his identity and protect the family. They thought him a werewolf. Even when he recognized me, he stayed a wolf. If they’d realized we were brothers, our whole family would have come under suspicion.”