The Heart of Stars

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Amazing,’ Landon said.

  ‘I need to be a bit grubbier,’ Fèlice said critically and ran her finger over the mantelpiece, looking for dust. She frowned when her finger came up clean, and got down on her hands and knees to swipe under the dressing-table. Landon averted his eyes, blushing. Fèlice’s hand came up grey with dust, and she smeared it on her forehead and cheek, and then rubbed in a bit of spit to make it streaky. Eyes dancing, she curtsied to herself in the mirror, saying, ‘Oh la, Lady Fèlice, what a figure ye cut! I would never have recognised ye!’

  ‘Fèlice, dinna ye think …?’

  ‘Oh, shhh, Landon, stop worrying. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Huddle up under the dustsheets to keep warm, and I’ll be back afore ye ken it.’

  Fèlice opened the door cautiously, looked up and down the corridor, then ducked back inside as a pair of serving-girls passed, their arms full of clean linen. They did not notice her, and Fèlice was able to sidle out and hurry along the corridor once they had passed.

  Fèlice had never been inside Lucescere Palace before, but she had grown up at Ravenscraig, the royal court of the MacBrann clan, and so she knew the ways of a large castle well. She had no trouble finding her way to the wardrobe, which was always located near the solar, since the ladies of the court were expected to help the seam-stresses with the enormous amount of sewing such a large establishment required.

  As she had expected, the room was frantically busy, with clothes heaped everywhere, draped over the backs of chairs, hanging from rods or piled upon the floor. Women bustled around, sorting and packing away, or discussing the state of a pile of clothes to be mended. Others sat near the big windows, squinting as they threaded a needle, or chattering quietly among themselves as they expertly sewed together the seams of a new outfit. Several worked away at huge looms pushed against the walls, and several more were operating spinning wheels, the clatter and whirr of their machines almost drowning out the soft murmur of the women’s voices.

  ‘’Scuse me, ma’am, I’m looking for the mistress o’ the wardrobe,’ Fèlice said in a deep, gruff voice that she hoped sounded just like Rafferty.

  ‘What can I do for ye?’ one of the women asked, dropping the hem of the gown she was examining and coming forward with a frown. Fèlice was conscious of being raked with shrewd grey eyes. She gave a little bow, and said, ‘I was told to report to ye, ma’am. I’m to go to sea with the Dowager Banrìgh. She said to get a cloak, and a badge, and a sword, and anything else I’d need.’

  ‘Well, ye willna get a sword here, ye need to go to the armourer for that,’ the woman said. She measured Fèlice expertly. ‘Ye’re a bit small, aren’t ye, to be squiring? And I’ve already had two lads through here, asking for the same. Big, strapping lads, they were. I’m surprised at Her Highness. She doesna usually pick scrawny wee lads like ye to take into such danger.’

  ‘I’m to be a cabin boy,’ Fèlice said desperately, her voice coming out in a squeak. Dismayed, she cleared her throat, and said again, in a much lower register, ‘Ken about boats, I do.’

  The women all laughed, and the mistress of the wardrobe said, rather acerbically, ‘Well, ye willna be needing a sword then, lad. Last I heard, cabin boys were no’ armed like cavaliers!’

  Fèlice bit her lip but, as the woman was rummaging about in a cupboard, said nothing, folding her arms, swinging one foot and trying to look as much like a boy as she could. The woman turned about with her arms full of clothes. ‘Here’s some good stout breeches for ye, lad,’ she said. ‘Those ones look a trifle threadbare. And some shirts. They’re no’ new, but better than what ye have. And a warm woollen jerkin, ’cause it’s cold about the Dowager Banrìgh, there’s no denying that.’

  ‘I need two o’ everything,’ Fèlice said, trying out a winning smile. ‘There’s two o’ us going.’

  The woman’s smile faded, and she fixed Fèlice with a frowning stare. ‘Where’s this other lad then?’ she demanded.

  ‘Running messages,’ Fèlice answered. ‘For the Dowager Banrìgh. The boat leaves in less than half an hour, ye ken. There’s an awful lot to do.’

  The woman’s suspicious look faded. ‘Too true,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘I do wish we’d been given some warning. My lady’s armour has been packed away for years, and I had a hard time laying my hands on it at such short notice. And ice-skates! Where was I meant to lay my hands on twelve dozen ice-skates! What on earth does the Dowager Banrìgh want with ice-skates on the high seas?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Fèlice answered truthfully.

  The wardrobe mistress sighed. ‘Well, happen she needs her squires to wear ice-skates since she turns everything about her to ice and snow,’ she said. ‘Snowstorms in midsummer! And me with all the winter clothes packed away for the season! Topsy-turvy, my storeroom now. I’ll be lucky to be able to lay my hands on a thing.’

  Fèlice waited politely.

  ‘So do ye need ice-skates too?’ the woman asked in a long-suffering tone.

  ‘I guess so,’ Fèlice answered, determined to have everything Cameron and Rafferty got, bizarre as it seemed. Indeed, she could not help wondering if the Dowager Banrìgh had run completely mad. None of her actions since her husband had died seemed entirely rational – the snowstorm, the calling of the dragon’s name to hunt down Rhiannon and drag her back to be hung without a trial, the fortnight of seclusion in her curtain-shrouded room, and then this sudden mad impulse to motion, with people scurrying everywhere looking for ice-skates and old-fashioned armour and maps to the Pirate Isles. Fèlice did not care. If it was taking her closer to Owein, the winged prionnsa whose smile Fèlice thought about every night before she drifted off to sleep, then that was all that mattered.

  ‘Two o’ everything, ye say?’ the wardrobe mistress was grumbling on. ‘Very well – though fitting out four boys in as many minutes is going to strip the cupboard bare. At least I dinna have to give ye court dress! And since ye’re no’ to be a squire but merely a cabin boy, I needn’t give ye a surcoat with the MacCuinn arms.’

  Fèlice gazed regretfully at the long blue silk surcoats the wardrobe mistress folded away, wishing she had not said she was not really a squire. The next moment her arms were filled with a great pile of clothes, though, with two long grey cloaks laid on top.

  ‘And here are your badges,’ the woman said, unlocking a small chest and taking out two badges which bore upon them the ensign of a golden stag upon a dark green background. ‘Take good care o’ these. They show ye are in the MacCuinn’s service. If ye lose them, ye’ll be sacked for sure!’

  ‘Thank ye!’ Fèlice cried, forgetting to lower her voice. The woman only smiled, obviously thinking Fèlice’s voice was just breaking. Fèlice ducked her head and turned to go, only to be called back by the woman who had drawn a thick ledger towards her and was dipping her quill into her ink pot.

  ‘No’ so fast, laddie!’ she said. ‘I need your name and the name o’ your friend afore ye go, and your authority.’

  Fèlice gaped back at her, her brain for once refusing to respond. ‘Sorry?’ she said at last, trying to buy time.

  ‘Your name, lad! And who ye’ll be reporting to.’

  ‘Oh! O’ course. Well, my name is Phillip,’ Fèlice said. ‘Phillip, son o’ Landon, from Magpie Wood in Ravenshaw. And my friend, my friend is Max … Maxwell, son o’ … Rafferty the cobbler, from Tullimuir.’

  She could feel her cheeks getting hot, and cursed herself for her slow wit.

  ‘Interesting, we’ve just had another Rafferty from Tullimuir,’ the wardrobe mistress replied, writing laboriously. ‘No’ a name ye hear every day.’

  ‘Really?’ Fèlice said. ‘It’s a common name in Ravenshaw.’

  The woman raised her eyes. ‘Ye all from Ravenshaw? Now that is interesting.’

  Fèlice squirmed under her suspicious gaze, and did her best to look innocent and soulful. ‘Really? Why? There’s lots o’ us lads from Ravenshaw about, us no’ having our own Tower, ye ken, and it being too far for
any o’ us to travel home now the Theurgia’s closed down. The school is full o’ us, lounging around and doing naught. I guess the Banrìgh is just trying to keep us out o’ trouble.’

  ‘Good luck to her,’ the woman responded sourly, and sprinkled sand onto the wet ink. ‘Well, then, lad, off ye go, else ye’ll be missing that boat.’

  ‘Och, aye, I dinna want that,’ Fèlice answered, and hurried out of the room, conscious of sweaty palms, hot cheeks and a thumping heart. She could not help a big smile breaking out on her face, though, as soon as the door of the wardrobe shut behind her. She’d done it! With a little more luck, and hopefully a lot more wit, she and Landon would be on that boat!

  Bronwen sighed, shuffled her papers, got up and went to the window, looking down on the fountain in the courtyard below. People were bustling everywhere, preparing for Iseult’s departure. Bronwen was stabbed with envy. What she would not give to be going to the sea! She clenched her teeth together, crushed her skirt between her hands, and paced back and forth. She hated Lucescere! No wonder her mother had made her father rebuild Rhyssmadill for her. Oh, to live within sight and sound of the sea!

  A stifled groan escaped her.

  Maura, the old bogfaery who had been her nursemaid ever since she was a little girl, looked up from her sewing.

  ‘Bron fidget-fadget all the time,’ she complained. ‘What wrong with my girl?’

  ‘I’m bored!’ Bronwen said. ‘And I’m sick o’ being Banrìgh. I’m sick o’ being in mourning. I’m sick o’ everything.’

  ‘Ye need some fresh air,’ Maura said. ‘Why ye no’ go out for a ride? Pretty girl like ye shouldna be stuck indoor all day with her head in books and papers. Go out, gallop, have some fun. Then ye feel better.’

  ‘Maura, ye’re a treasure!’ Bronwen smiled at her. ‘Will ye send that page o’ mine to ask Neil to bring the horses round?’

  ‘Anything to save my poor auld legs,’ Maura said and got stiffly to her feet, sighing as she limped over to the door and spoke to the page, who was sitting just outside. Joey went running off to do her bidding and the old bogfaery came stumping back to help Bronwen change.

  Standing, she only came up to Bronwen’s waist and the Banrìgh had to bend low to embrace her. Maura patted her back affectionately. Her leathery hand was black and covered all over with ripples of fur, and her round black eyes were very bright.

  ‘Do I work ye too hard?’ Bronwen asked anxiously. ‘Neil was only saying yesterday that I should have a proper lady’s maid. Would ye like that? If I got some lass to do the hard work, I mean, and give ye a bit o’ a rest.’

  ‘That Cuckoo, he thinks he kens all, but he kens naught,’ Maura said grumpily. ‘He says this, he says that, and ye jump, jump, jump. He no’ your husband, lassie, and he no’ your lover. Ye be careful how much say ye give him over ye.’

  ‘Och, Maura! Do no’ be silly. It’s Neil jumping about all over the place for me. I have to be careful no’ to let him work himself to the bone.’ Bronwen turned around so Maura could unlace her black silk dress. ‘I do no’ think he’s slept more than a wink this past week. Why, it was past midnight when we finished up last night, and he was at the Council table at breakfast. That’s more than I can say for half the Privy Council!’

  ‘Ye tell that Cuckoo ye need a new lady’s maid like ye need a hole in the head,’ Maura said. ‘The nerve o’ that boy!’

  Bronwen smiled to hear Neil called by his childish nickname, and stepped into the riding dress that Maura held out for her, standing still as the bogfaery buttoned her up.

  ‘How come ye stayed here in Lucescere instead o’ going back to Arran?’ she asked curiously, never having thought to wonder about this before. Bogfaeries were native to Arran, and Maura had been born there, her mother Aya nursemaid to Neil’s father, Iain, when he was a boy.

  Maura snorted. ‘That Tower o’ Mists, it too filled with ghosts and bad dreams for me,’ she answered. ‘Besides, ye were my girl. Ye think me just say bye-bye and go, and leave ye all alone? Hmmphf!’

  She would have been all alone too, Bronwen realised, with her mother a mute servant of the witches, and her uncle never quite learning to trust her, let alone love her. There had been Donncan and Neil, of course, vying for her affections all through their childhood and adolescence, and Isabeau, who had been more of a mother than an aunt to her, practically raising her from a babe, and looking out for her all of her life. But Isabeau had been the Keybearer, with a whole Coven to take care of, and certainly unable to give her the concentrated love and attention Bronwen had longed for. Without Maura to fuss about her all her life, and bring her hot chocolate in bed, and brush down her dresses for her, Bronwen’s life would have been much lonelier.

  ‘Aye, aye, I miss the marshes at times,’ Maura mumbled as she combed out Bronwen’s hair and pinned it up for her again. ‘But no’ that tower, oh no! Ye stay at that tower too long, ye get sick, ghosts start walking in your skin. Aye, aye, we ken, we bogfaeries do. We see. Ye should listen to your auld nursie, Bronny-lass, and watch out for those ghosties.’

  Bronwen was amused. ‘Donncan said he had nightmares the whole time he was there too,’ she said. ‘The air must be bad.’

  ‘Bad air, bad dreams, bad people,’ Maura said.

  ‘No’ any more, surely,’ Bronwen said. ‘Why Iain o’ Arran is an auld dear, really, and Cuckoo’s an absolute sweetheart. I must say his mother’s no’ my favourite person on earth, but apart from having an odd taste in religion, there’s no harm in her. That pastor o’ hers, well, he gives me the creeps, no doubt o’ that, but he’s no’ from the Tower o’ Mists, strictly speaking.’

  ‘Ye just watch out for them ghosties, missy,’ Maura said, and stood back to survey her charge, who was looking very dashing in a dark blue riding dress that, although it covered her from chin to wrist to boot-toe, was fitted so closely to her body it was almost scandalous. Bronwen had not had time to have a new, more demure riding dress made, nor, if she was to be truthful, the inclination. It was a very beautiful costume.

  By the time Bronwen was dressed and ready to go, Joey was waiting excitedly for her outside her bedchamber, with her riding crop and tall hat in his hands. One of Bronwen’s bodyguards, Dolan the Black, fell in behind her as she made her way down the stairs, the tail of her skirt looped up over her arm. Joey bounded just behind her, carrying her gloves, hat and whip reverently.

  Neil was waiting for her out in the forecourt, holding the reins of Bronwen’s white palfrey and his own handsome bay, while a few other lords and ladies waited nearby for Bronwen to appear before mounting. It was a fine, crisp day, and the breath of the horses puffed out white. Since most riding costumes were soberly made anyway, none had been dyed black and so it was a relief to the eye to see rich russet-reds, forest-greens, pearl-greys and autumn-browns instead of the unrelenting black that had met Bronwen’s gaze day after day. The only black to be seen was the two pillars of Elfrida and her pastor, who were taking a promenade together around the forecourt and frowning with disapproval at the high spirits of the courtiers, all of whom were glad to be escaping the monotony of a court in mourning, if only for an hour.

  Just as Bronwen was preparing to be thrown up into her saddle, a large party of people came out of the palace and at once came over to speak to her. It was the MacAhern and his family, who were riding for Tìreich that afternoon. Each was followed by only one servant carrying a few small packs, which made Bronwen open her eyes wide in amazement.

  ‘My heavens! Is that all ye’ve got!’ she exclaimed. ‘I swear, if I was coming to visit ye in Tìreich I’d have ten times as many chests as that, just for me.’

  ‘We like to travel light,’ the MacAhern said.

  ‘We do no’ have need of much,’ his wife said with just the faintest trace of scorn in her voice.

  ‘A horse, a swag, and away we go,’ Hearne MacAhern said cheerfully, grinning at Bronwen. She could not help smiling back. She knew Hearne well, of course, since he had been one of her uncle
’s squires and so around the royal court a lot.

  ‘Is this your new filly?’ the MacAhern said, eyeing Bronwen’s palfrey with an experienced eye. ‘She’s a pretty piece. How does she run?’

  ‘Smooth as silk,’ Bronwen said proudly. ‘Neil got her for me.’

  She smiled with pleasure as the MacAhern, the acknowledged lord of horses, ran his hand down her mare’s flank and nodded approvingly as the palfrey danced away, curving her neck and tossing her mane.

  ‘She’s got spirit,’ the MacAhern said

  ‘I told the man I was wanting a horse for the Banrìgh and he tried to sell me an absolute slug,’ Neil said with a laugh. ‘He could no’ believe I’d risk Bronny’s neck on a spirited mare like Snowfall. I was adamant, though. I said, if I buy her that flat-footed, sway-backed beast, she’d make me ride her! I daren’t risk it.’

  As everyone laughed, Bronwen saw that a sulky-faced young man with a shock of fair hair was watching disconsolately from the steps. It was Fymbar MacThanach of Blèssem, another of the Rìgh’s former squires. Like Hearne MacAhern and Barney MacRuraich, his court duties had ended with Lachlan’s murder and his family were eager to take him back home with them, at least until the assassin had been found and punished, and life at court seemed safe once again.

  She waved at him and smiled, and he beckoned her over.

  Bronwen sighed, being impatient to get away for her ride, but she excused herself politely and moved over to where he stood, his arms crossed over his chest.

  ‘Hey, Fymbar, how are ye yourself?’ she asked. ‘I have no’ seen ye in days.’ She spoke warmly, sympathetic to the young man who must be fed up at being tied to his mother’s skirts all the time. The NicThanach of Blèssem had not let her precious son and heir out of her sight for a moment.

  ‘Nay, ye’ve been too busy with your Cuckoo,’ he said sarcastically.

  Bronwen frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.

  Fymbar was nursing a strong sense of injured pride. The only son in a family of five, he had been petted and pandered to all his life by his powerful mother and four loving sisters, and he was not used to not getting what he wanted. Well, he had wanted Bronwen ever since he had first come to the palace, and yet she had never done more than laugh at him and send him to get her drinks while she flirted with someone else. He had been prepared to stand nobly aside for Donncan, knowing how important their marriage was strategically, but he had no intention of being tossed aside for Neil of Arran, who was a blackguard for endeavouring to seduce his best friend’s wife in the first place. So, even though Bronwen’s face and voice should have warned him to be quiet, he plunged on nonetheless.