The Heart of Stars

by Kate Forsyth

  This morning, Neil was waiting for her in the Privy Chamber with all the other lords and councillors, his squire standing behind his chair as usual. He smiled at her, and suggested quietly that Joey pour her out a cup of her special angelica tea, which the squire did at once with a blush and an apology.

  Bronwen smiled and thanked him, and drank a mouthful of the invigorating brew before drawing her papers towards her.

  ‘What news, my lairds?’ she asked.

  ‘No news yet from the Keybearer, I’m sorry, Your Majesty,’ Gwilym said. ‘I have been keeping watch in the Scrying Pool, just in case I should be able to see where they are, and what is happening, but I have seen nothing, nothing at all.’

  There was a stir of unease. Bronwen tried to hide her disappointment, but she felt the Lodestar warm under her hands and heard its crooning melody lift, as if it sought to comfort her.

  ‘Eà grant them success in their mission,’ she said softly, and the lords all murmured in response.

  ‘What o’ my other cousins?’ she asked. ‘Surely we must have some more news by now?’

  Captain Dillon of the Yeomen gave her a succinct review of the difficulties Finn and Jay and their accompanying soldiers had suffered. Bronwen’s brows drew together as she heard of the broken-down barricade, the injured men, the slaughtered horses and grooms, the foul weather, and the continued evasion of authorities by Lord Malvern and his men.

  ‘We have some good news, though, Your Majesty,’ Captain Dillon said. ‘Two o’ Laird Malvern’s men have been laid by the heels and are being brought back to Lucescere as we speak. One, at least, we should have no trouble condemning to hang. He was found with a bloody knife in his hand, right by the bodies o’ the two lads he slaughtered. He is sullen and recalcitrant, and has tried several times to escape, but we have him well under control.’

  Bronwen sighed in relief. ‘That is good news,’ she said warmly. She knew there must be some kind of public trial and punishment for those who had dared commit such a grievous offence against the Crown. As long as there was no-one to punish for Lachlan’s murder and his children’s abduction, Bronwen would continue to be suspect.

  ‘And the other?’ she asked.

  ‘He is an elderly man, and weak and sick,’ Captain Dillon said, frowning. ‘He refuses to speak unless we promise him a full pardon for his son, who is still one o’ Laird Malvern’s party.’

  ‘No pardons!’ Bronwen cried. ‘Make sure ye gather enough evidence to condemn them both and we will no’ need his confession.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Captain Dillon said with a grim smile. ‘We also have two corpses to add to those of the traitorous prison warder, Octavia. We will be able to display them to the public, as more miscreants brought to justice.’

  ‘Their heads should be hung upon Sorrowgate,’ the Lord Constable said. ‘We need to make an example o’ them.’

  Bronwen nodded, though she winced inside. She had never liked riding out of the city by the southern road, with those dreadful rotting heads hanging from the gate’s lintel.

  The news created a great deal of discussion, and Bronwen was pleased to discover it was her own thigearna, Rhiannon of the Banrìgh’s Guard, who had been instrumental in the capture of the criminals.

  She was less pleased to hear that Rhiannon had failed to rescue Owein and Olwynne before Lord Malvern’s ship sailed. They had always known that this was a possibility, however, and so the royal navy had been on stand-by, fully provisioned and manned, and ready to sail in pursuit. Bronwen gave the Admiral the order to mobilise, and he scrawled a quick message and sealed it with his signet ring, before sending a page scurrying with it to the pigeon loft.

  There was a great deal of business to attend to after that, the minutiae of government which Bronwen found tedious at the best of times. Now, with anxiety and grief her constant companions, she found it almost intolerable. She was determined to show that she could rule well, however, and so she sat and listened with a most unnatural patience, doing her best to listen and understand the arguments and counterarguments, and signing sheet after sheet, passing them over to the Keeper of the Privy Seal to stamp.

  Bronwen was ashamed of her longing for Donncan. Again and again she told herself that she had no need of him, either as a woman or as the Banrìgh. ‘It is no’ as though I love him,’ she said to herself. ‘I mean, there is no doubt that he was … is … the handsomest man at court, but such a stuffed shirt! So proud and disagreeable he could be at times. Look at the fuss he made over the lock o’ hair I cut.’

  Bronwen did not like to think of that dreadful argument she and Donncan had had at the May Day feast when he had discovered she had chopped off a lock of her hair from the back of her head. Donncan had at once leapt to the conclusion that she had given the lock as a love token to one of her many admirers. She had been unable to tell him that she had used the lock of hair to bind about her mother’s neck, so that all would believe Maya was still constrained by the magical ribbon of nyx-hair.

  Woven by the oldest of the nyx from her own wild mane of hair, the ribbon had struck Maya mute, unable to speak or sing or even hum. Since all of Maya’s power to charm and ensorcel was expressed through her voice, this had rendered her powerless, and she had spent the last twenty years a dumb servant to the witches. The death of the nyx had seen the black ribbon crumble to dust, releasing Maya from the spell and giving her back her voice.

  Bronwen had known that Isabeau would simply have ordered another nyx hair ribbon woven, and so, on impulse, she had hacked out a lock of her own hair, and quickly plaited it into a ribbon with a few simple spells so that Isabeau would not suspect her mother was now returned to her powers. She could not confess this to Donncan, else the ruse would have been revealed, and so he had gone on thinking her unfaithful to him, in thought if not in deed, and a coldness had grown between them that had not had time to thaw. If only she could have told him the truth before he had been kidnapped! Everyone knew it now, for Maya had spoken after Lachlan’s murder, and no longer tried to conceal she had her voice back, and with it all her powers.

  Bronwen utterly refused to admit, even to herself, that she would have found the business of governing much easier with Donncan beside her. He had always been the serious one, who had studied hard at school and done well in his exams. She had no doubt he would have little trouble in grasping the ramifications of the sudden devaluing of coin as a consequence of Lachlan’s murder, and deciding what action was best taken to solve the ensuing economic crisis. She had sat up half the night reading through the reports and trying to make her tired brain make sense of the unfamiliar terms and phrasing. Now she had to make sure no-one in the Privy Council realised how little she knew, for any sign of weakness or folly in her could be disastrous. So Bronwen asked advice, listened with great care to all the responses, and tried to sound authoritative as she gave her orders, glad to see Neil’s little nod that showed she had made the right decision.

  The hands of the clock stood well after three o’ clock when Bronwen was at last released from the Privy Chamber. Wearily she went down the hall to her room and rang her bell for some more angelica tea. Sitting down at her paper-laden desk, she drew a quill and the ink pot to her and began to make notes of the things she needed to do. Luckily she had prepared for the eventuality of Lord Malvern reaching the coast; now she just needed to make sure there was a fleet of ships on his tail as soon as possible, preferably with some weather-witches aboard to try to counteract the storm the lord of Fettercairn had raised.

  She was just scattering sand over a note to Stormy Briant and reaching for her bell to summon her page to carry the message for her when the door suddenly crashed open.

  Bronwen jerked violently and knocked over her ink pot. Ink flooded everywhere, all over the papers she was meant to sign and return to the Keeper of the Privy Seal that afternoon. Bronwen gasped in dismay, but scrambled to her feet and looked to the door, too afraid of a possible assassin to worry about spilt ink for th
e moment.

  It was her mother-in-law, Iseult.

  Relief was followed an instant later by anger, but Bronwen forced herself to take a few deep breaths before speaking. ‘Ye startled me, my lady,’ she said. ‘Is something wrong, that ye come barging in without knocking?’

  The Dowager Banrìgh had always been slender, but now she was slim to the point of gauntness. Her blue eyes seemed huge in her pale face, and her skin was blotched red from days of weeping. She was dressed entirely in black, with her red hair hidden under a heavy black coif. For days she had been huddled up in her rooms, refusing visitors, locked in her grieving. Bronwen had made the effort to go up and see her twice, and had been refused admittance each time. The Dowager Banrìgh was resting, she was told. So Bronwen had not gone up again, even though if truth be told, she would probably have welcomed Iseult’s experience and knowledge in many matters.

  ‘Aye, something’s wrong,’ Iseult snapped. ‘I’ve just heard that you’ve failed to stop that madman that’s stolen my bairns and he’s taken to the sea! Did it no’ occur to ye that I would have liked to have been told?’

  Bronwen gaped at her for a moment, then busied herself mopping up the spilt ink while she tried to think of the best way to answer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just had the news myself.’

  ‘Three hours ago,’ Iseult said. ‘Long enough to send a pigeon to Rhyssmadill, mobilising the navy.’

  ‘Well, aye,’ Bronwen admitted, ‘but we have only just adjourned the Council …’

  ‘I should’ve been told at once,’ Iseult said icily. ‘These are my children whose lives are at stake. Ye think I would no’ wish to ken?’

  ‘Nay, nay, o’ course no’,’ Bronwen said. ‘I truly am sorry, my lady. It was just … the Council went on for so long, there were so many things to discuss and decide, and I … I …’ To her utter dismay, Bronwen felt her voice shake. She stopped, and took a deep breath. When she looked up again, her voice was cool and steady. ‘I am sure ye must realise how very many affairs o’ state there are to deal with, my lady. I am sorry if ye feel we were amiss in focusing our attention on those rather than in sending you a message at a time when I believed ye would be … resting.’

  She saw colour rise in Iseult’s cheeks. The Dowager Banrìgh pressed her hands together, her lip gripped between her teeth.

  ‘I will no’ sit in my rooms waiting and fearing any longer,’ Iseult said in a low, passionate voice. ‘I have allowed ye full rein, Bronwen, and what have ye achieved? Naught! Naught! Donncan is still missing, and Owein and Olwynne are still in the hands o’ that madman. I will go myself and I will bring them back!’

  She swung about with a loud rustle of her heavy skirts, and Bronwen gaped at her back in surprise. Then, as Iseult began to sweep from the room, she jumped to her feet.

  ‘Wait!’ she called.

  Iseult turned.

  ‘Ye canna mean to set sail after them yourself, my lady?’ Bronwen asked. ‘It is too dangerous!’

  ‘I am a Scarred Warrior!’ Iseult replied coldly. ‘Ye think I fear these … necromancers! They are auld men, almost in the grave themselves.’

  ‘The laird o’ Fettercairn can conjure wind and storms,’ Bronwen said. ‘He has Finn and Jay stalled on the road, lashed with rain and hail. His ship runs afore an enchanted wind.’

  Iseult smiled. ‘Ye think I do no’ have powers o’ my own to command?’ She snapped her fingers and the water in Bronwen’s glass turned at once to ice. The fire died, and a bitter cold wind tore around the room, making the curtains rise and twirl and Bronwen’s hair whip across her face. In the centre of it all stood Iseult, her black skirts swirling.

  ‘I have sat and grieved too long,’ she said. ‘My children are in danger, dreadful danger, and I have allowed ye and everyone else to bungle their rescue. I will go, and I will bring them back.’

  Bronwen smoothed back the hair blowing wildly about her face, catching it in one hand. ‘Aye, my lady,’ she answered, hearing a new respect in her voice. ‘What will ye need? Can I do aught to help?’

  Iseult regarded her thoughtfully, and the wind slowly died down until the room was quiet and peaceful again, though bitterly cold without the fire.

  ‘A fleet o’ ships,’ the Dowager Banrìgh said then. ‘And Dillon o’ the Joyous Sword.’

  ‘Ye shall have them both,’ Bronwen answered. ‘Speed well!’

  Iseult regarded her for a long moment, and then she nodded curtly, turned and was gone.

  Bronwen could only envy her.

  Lewen delicately transplanted the seedling into a small tub of soil and watered it gently, before putting the pot on the shelf to his left.

  To his right were thousands of similar tiny plants, all of them magically grown from seed in an attempt to replace the frost-blighted plants that had died in the terrible snowstorm Iseult had conjured up on the night of her husband’s murder. A whole season’s crop had been lost, and many people would go hungry that winter if the Coven were not able to replace some at least of the ruined harvest. Lewen had always had a talent with growing things, and so he, along with the other earth-witches, were using their powers to speed along the growth of many key crops such as oats, corn, barley, beans and potatoes.

  The greenhouse was one of the few places where he felt any surcease from the terrible anxiety which racked his every moment. With his fingers buried in earth, his attention focused on unfurling leaf and flower, Lewen was able to put aside, for a moment, the aching loss and fear he felt for both his dear friends, Owein and Olwynne, and his lover Rhiannon, who had put herself in danger purely for his sake.

  Lewen could not believe he had let Rhiannon go. He knew he had been dazed and weak after the beating he had taken from the bell, but he felt that was no excuse. No excuse for lying with Rhiannon when he was hand-fasted to Olwynne, no excuse for allowing her to fly off into the night, one young woman against a gang of ruthless ruffians. He was so sick with fear for all of them that he could not eat or sleep or settle to any task, apart from monotonous, mindless jobs, like grooming a hundred horses, one after the other, or carving and fletching a thousand arrows. As soon as his hands were still, his mind began to gnaw again at what he had done – or rather, what he had failed to do – and he would find himself pacing restlessly, his hands clenched into fists.

  There was little else for him to do. The Tower of Two Moons was deathly quiet, having closed for the rest of the term in honour of their dead Rìgh. Most of the students had gone. Only those who lived too far away to travel home easily, like Lewen, had stayed. Most had been put to work in the glasshouses, or out in the huge kitchen garden, wrapping up the fruit trees in sacking to save them from the frost, and laying straw down over the rows of blighted vegetables. There were no classes, no homework, and the meal they ate together every night in the Theurgia’s great hall was glum and miserable.

  The palace was as quiet. Nearly all the wedding guests had gone home, and many of the usual court too, affronted at Bronwen’s seizing of power, or simply desiring time to see which way the wind blew before showing their hand. Like Lewen, Bronwen had nothing to do but wait for news.

  Lewen washed his hands at the pump, and dried them on the towel hanging nearby, then shrugged himself back into his coat, hat, scarf and mittens before going out into the snow.

  Lucescere Palace was still gripped in a cold, white gauntlet. By all accounts, the further one travelled from the palace, the warmer the weather grew. It was only here, in Lucescere, where the widow of the murdered Rìgh brooded alone in her rooms, that the bitter black frost still bit, and showed no signs of relenting.

  Lewen walked slowly back towards the witches’ tower, his shoulders bowed. Then he heard the sound of running footsteps and looked up. A young woman was hurrying towards him, her cheeks pink from the cold, her satiny brown hair flying about her face. She wore a very pretty coat of raspberry red with a fur-lined hood and matching muff, and fur-lined brown boots.

  ‘Lew
en!’ she cried.

  ‘Hey, Fèlice,’ he said, unable to muster more than a faint smile.

  She caught his arm between hers. ‘Lewen, there’s news!’

  He straightened at once, grabbing her hand. ‘What!’

  ‘Laird Malvern’s made it to the coast, and has set sail,’ she gabbled. ‘The Banrìgh is calling up the navy to chase after them. Finn and Jay are heading for Dùn Gorm now, to meet up with the Admiral. But Lewen! The Dowager Banrìgh has decided to go too. She has had enough, she says, o’ sitting and waiting for news.’

  ‘What o’ Rhiannon?’ Lewen demanded.

  She bit her lip. ‘She has flown after them.’

  ‘Across the sea?’ Lewen was aghast.

  ‘Aye. She sent the message from Ravenshaw, and then went after them. She says they are heading for the Pirate Isles.’

  ‘Is she mad? Blackthorn canna fly so far without coming down to land! Doesna she realise? She’ll kill them both.’

  ‘Is it so far?’ Fèlice said in a small voice.

  ‘It’s three or four days’ sail, at least,’ Lewen said. ‘Maybe less, I suppose, with a spell-wrought wind behind their sails. But that’s six hundred miles or more, she canna expect Blackthorn to stay in the air so long.’

  ‘Are there no’ other islands where she can land and rest?’ Fèlice asked.

  ‘Aye, I suppose so, but no’ many, and how is she meant to ken where they are? She’s never seen the sea afore, she has no idea how big it is, how dangerous! Oh, Rhiannon!’ He pressed both hands against his face, coming close to breaking down.