The Fathomless Caves

by Kate Forsyth

‘Stiff, tired and very, very hungry,’ Meghan replied, just as curtly. ‘Could we no’ have stopped for some tea at least?’

  ‘Bride was so close, I wanted to get here afore dark,’ he answered. ‘I did no’ expect it to take so long coming through the city. We’re here now though. Come on in. Hopefully they’ll be ready for us.’

  ‘Where are we?’ Isabeau asked, stumbling a little in her weariness.

  He cast her an oblique look from his falcon-yellow eyes. ‘This is Gerwalt, the palace o’ the MacHildes. It was until recent times the home o’ the Fealde and the berhtildes, but the new Fealde, Killian the Listener, prefers to live and work among the people.’

  ‘It’s no’ very welcoming,’ Isabeau said.

  ‘Nay, I suppose no’. Still, it is Elfrida’s home now and the only place large enough to house most o’ our men. The others shall be lodged in the city. Come in, there’ll at least be hot food and a bed o’ sorts.’

  He strode off, giving his instructions to the tower guards, handing over his white gyrfalcon to the falconer and giving his big black stallion one last caress on his velvety nose. Then he led the weary travellers through the gatehouse into the outer bailey, through another stout barbican, and then into the inner bailey, Owein asleep on his neck.

  The palace soared above them. Within its formidable walls it was a building of great elegance and beauty. Isabeau found its many round towers very restful to her eyes, after all the square corners and sharp-pointed spires of the city. They climbed the stairs and entered through an enormous fortified door of ancient oak.

  The luxury within astounded her. She had been amazed at the magnificence of Iain’s palace but Gerwalt’s entrance hall far overshadowed it. The floor was fully carpeted in an intricately woven rug of blue, pale green and crimson, while huge tapestries depicting scenes of battle hung on the walls which rose over a hundred feet high. An enormous crystal chandelier hung down from the domed ceiling far above, dazzling Isabeau’s tired eyes. Shields and swords and axes hung on the walls, and suits of silver armour stood on the landing of the grand staircase, which swept up from the far end of the hall, dividing in two to lead up to galleries on either side.

  Above the galleries were tall lancet windows filled with stained-glass pictures. Isabeau saw a man in armour receive a sword from an angel with wings of gold and crimson. She saw roses and black crouching devils, books inscribed with strange letters, a child floating in a halo of golden light, white doves carrying twigs, a woman in a blue dress weeping by a grave, and men fighting while angels sang above. Her mind could not take it all in.

  ‘Gracious alive!’ she said.

  ‘Look at that one!’ Donncan cried. ‘It looks just like Dai-dein.’

  She stared where he pointed. In the round window above the staircase was a black-winged angel kneeling before a throne, holding aloft a golden sword. On the throne sat an old man, robed all in white, with a stern bearded face and one finger raised above a huge book. The angel’s hair curled blackly, his face was cleanshaven, and his eyes were as gold as the halo of light about his head.

  ‘No wonder they fall to their knees when he rides by,’ Meghan said crossly. She looked about her irritably then picked up a solid gold bowl, set with gems. ‘I thought the Tìrsoilleirean believed luxury and comfort the work o’ their Arch-Fiend?’

  ‘The former Fealde was rather too interested in luxury,’ Lachlan said with a grin. ‘That was why the people were persuaded to rise up against her. Luckily Elfrida finds all this rather daunting.’

  Meghan limped forward, saying caustically, ‘I’m as dry as a Clachan salt basin. Is there no-one to offer us some tea?’

  Elfrida had been busy talking with some servants at the foot of the stairwell. She hurried over, looking tired and harried. ‘I am so sorry, Keybearer. All is still in disarray. We left here so suddenly when we heard o’ the bairns’ kidnapping, and there was no time to get things into order. Will ye no’ come through to the red drawing room, and I’ll try to have some tea sent up? Ye must all be tired, we’ve all been on the road since dawn.’

  Meghan allowed herself to be led to a large but comfortable room where a fire had been lit and the dustcovers shaken out and thrown into a heap in the corner. The old sorceress looked very drawn indeed and Isabeau made her sit down and drink some mithuan and warm herself by the fire, while she calmed the fractious children and set them to playing spillikins on the hearth. The sleeping twins were laid down on the red brocaded couch and covered with a plaid.

  The team of healers came in rather hesitantly, all looking tired and rather overwhelmed by the grandeur of the palace. Johanna the Mild, who had once been part of the League of the Healing Hand and was now the head healer, was among them. Isabeau spoke to her swiftly and Johanna took one look at Meghan’s grey face and busied herself making up a restorative tea of skullcap, valerian and rue for the old sorceress. Tòmas the Healer clung close to Johanna’s side, a thin little boy with arms and legs like sticks below his gaudy blue-and-gold surcoat, and deep shadows under his eyes. Johanna gave his fair head an affectionate rub, saying, ‘Why do ye no’ go and play wi’ the other bairns, dearling?’

  He shook his head and pressed even closer, greatly hampering her movements. She did not protest, however, bending over Meghan with the cup in her hand. From the shelter of her long green robe he stared round the room with enormous blue eyes, ducking his head back when Donncan smiled at him. With his small stature and shy ways, Tòmas seemed much younger than his thirteen years, making the power he carried in his two small hands seem even more incredible.

  It was not until Johanna’s younger brother Connor came, the Rìgh’s hat and cloak in his hand, that Tòmas grew more animated. The two boys were the same age and had been friends for many years. Connor greeted him affectionately and, after a curt jerk of the head from Meghan, tenderly laid down his burden and drew the other boy into conversation. Soon they were both sitting by the fire with Donncan and Bronwen, playing at spillikins with great enthusiasm.

  Lachlan came striding in, followed as usual by his retinue, all talking and laughing, shaking out their dusty cloaks and calling loudly for whisky and food. Dide set himself to amuse them, saying in an undertone to Isabeau, ‘Ye willna find whisky here, but the quartermaster will have some wine somewhere and some food too, if there’s none in the house. I’d be quick about it though, we’ve all been riding hard since dawn and everyone’s tired and a wee cantankerous.’

  Isabeau nodded and went in search of the kitchens. Here all was confusion. The cook was in hysterics, the oven unlit, and the servants all milled about, gossiping and exclaiming. Isabeau was tired and very hungry. With a few sharp well-chosen words she sent the servants running to turn out bedrooms, air all the sheets, light the fires and carry up the baggage, which was still piled about in the entrance hall. She lit the oven with a snap of her fingers and rummaged through the cupboards, emerging hot, dirty, empty-handed and very angry.

  ‘Why is all in such disorder?’ she demanded. ‘Did ye no’ receive the message that we were coming?’

  ‘But we were only given a day’s notice and none kent how many would be coming,’ the chamberlain protested. ‘And no money was sent and we had none here to buy supplies with, for the Fealde cleaned out the treasury when she fled …’ The old man was almost in tears.

  ‘How like a man!’ Isabeau snapped. ‘So bloody impractical.’

  The chamberlain stepped back a little and she said, ‘No’ ye! I meant the Rìgh. Never mind. Send one o’ the potboys down to the quartermaster and tell him we need potatoes and leeks, some flour, butter, milk and eggs, if he has them. Oh, and wine. Do no’ forget the wine!’

  ‘Wha’ about some meat?’ the chamberlain asked nervously.

  ‘If I have to cook them all a meal, they must eat what I choose to cook and I shallna cook them meat!’ Isabeau exclaimed.

  In too much of a hurry to worry about what the servants thought of her, Isabeau brought pots and spoons whizzing out from the cu
pboard. She started chopping vegetables furiously with six large knives all working away at once, while a cauldron waltzed itself out to the well to be filled with water. Salt rose up from its sack in a tiny tornado, and threw itself into the water as the cauldron swung itself onto the fire which had leapt into life on the hearth. Isabeau did not wait for the water to boil by itself but stuck her finger into the water, which bubbled up, hissing and steaming.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ the cook cried, startled out of her hysterics. ‘No wonder the blaygird witches won the war!’

  ‘We won the war because we were quicker and smarter than ye!’ Isabeau cried. ‘Why do ye sit there, weeping and wringing your hands? Come help me, in the name o’ Eà’s green blood!’

  For a moment the cook stared, open-mouthed, colour surging. Then she gave a belly laugh that set all her double chins shaking, heaved her great bulk to her feet, and seized a knife.

  The potboys came running in with sacks of potatoes, carrots, barley and leeks, and great sheaves of spinach they had dragged from the kitchen garden.

  ‘Make yourself useful and get peeling,’ Isabeau ordered. Obediently they sat down and began peeling potatoes at a great pace, their eyes round with amazement as they watched the wooden spoon whisk round and round in the cauldron, the knives chopping away, and the lids of herb jars float up by themselves, as pinches of that herb and this floated down into the boiling water. As each vegetable was peeled it flew by itself to the knives and was duly chopped and then flung by an invisible hand into the soup. Meanwhile, Isabeau was kneading dough while the bread pans greased and floured themselves. The oven door flew open and the dough settled itself into the pans as they flew into the oven, the door shutting itself behind them.

  ‘Now,’ Isabeau said, looking about her with floury hands on her hips, ‘is there any cheese?’

  In little more than half an hour the chamberlain was able to show the Rìgh and his retinue into a long dining room sparkling with crystal and silver and decorated with bunches of flowering herbs which the cook herself had helped to pick.

  The servants brought in steaming tureens filled with a thick, delicious-smelling white soup, platters of hot bread sprinkled with poppy seeds, wedges of roasted vegetables and a tray of little cheese and spinach pies. The mood in the room brightened immediately. The servants poured out wine that Isabeau had chilled between her hands, and served the food with a flourish. For quite a time there was no sound but chomping jaws, sighs of appreciation and the occasional mumbled request for more.

  At last Alasdair Garrie of Killiegarrie leant back in his chair and said, ‘My word, that’s the best meal we’ve had in months. My compliments to your chef, my lady.’

  As hearty endorsements were heard all round the table, Elfrida said her thanks in a rather puzzled voice. She had seen the cook in the full flight of her hysterics and could not think how such a feast had materialised so quickly. Isabeau grinned at her, rubbing away a smear of flour on her cheek, and Elfrida gave her a heartfelt look of gratitude.

  ‘I do no’ ken how ye did it,’ she whispered as they left the dining room, ‘but och, thank ye!’

  ‘I was a cook’s apprentice once,’ Isabeau answered, smiling in remembrance. ‘I dread to think what Latifa would have said if she’d seen the state o’ those kitchens. Och, so dirty! And rats in the grain bins and the kitchen garden all neglected. Ye have work ahead o’ ye here.’

  Elfrida sighed as she showed them back into the drawing room, where the children all slept, curled on couch and chair. ‘But I do no’ ken a thing. I wish ye could stay and help me get things in order.’

  ‘And no’ just the kitchen,’ Meghan said, her voice still rather sharp, though her manner had mellowed a great deal since she had eaten. ‘The whole country is in disarray, Elfrida. The filth in the city streets! And all those crows spouting hellfire! The people have no lift in their step, no spirit in their eyes. There is much to be done!’

  Elfrida sighed. ‘I ken! And ye all marching off to war again and taking my husband wi’ ye. I do no’ ken how I shall cope.’

  ‘Ye will find the strength. Bo Neart Gu Neart,’ Meghan said sternly. Isabeau recognised the quotation as the MacHildes’ family motto, From Strength To Strength. ‘Have ye forgotten ye are a NicHilde?’

  Elfrida said dispiritedly, ‘Nay, I have no’ forgotten. How could I? Ye keep reminding me o’ it all the time.’

  ‘Come, we are all tired,’ Isabeau said, slipping one hand under Elfrida’s elbow and giving it a little squeeze. ‘Let us go to bed and all shall look better in the morn. Happen we shall no’ be moving on again so quickly and we shall all have time to help ye a wee.’

  Elfrida nodded, though the heaviness of her expression did not lighten. She picked up an elaborate golden candlestick and gave it into Isabeau’s hand, saying, ‘At least there is plenty for me to sell to try to raise some money! I have never seen such a wicked waste as all this gold and velvet. And everything so gaudy! When I remember how I was whipped for wanting a little ribbon to trim my cap.’

  Isabeau lit the candles with a thought. ‘Well, ye are banprionnsa now and can wear as much ribbon as ye like. And I would, Elfrida. I bet the people o’ this country are starved for a little colour and finery, just as they are for festivity. When I remember that crowd this afternoon, all grey and black and not a touch o’ colour among them—it made me want to drag them out into the country and show them all the colours o’ the fields and forest. How can they think it wrong to wear colour when the whole world is clothed in brightness?’

  ‘Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain,’ Elfrida protested. ‘We are taught it is wrong to flaunt ourselves and wear bright colours or jewels or big buttons, or to surround ourselves with luxury.’

  Isabeau lifted the golden candlestick. ‘The Fealde dinna seem to mind.’

  ‘Aye, but the people o’ Tìrsoilleir rose up against her and helped us overthrow her,’ Elfrida reminded her. ‘They hated the fact that she clothed herself richly and hung jewelled crosses in the High Kirk and dined from plates o’ gold.’

  ‘Aye, but surely it was the hypocrisy?’ Isabeau asked. ‘They all preached denial and self-sacrifice but dinna practise it. That would make me angry too, particularly if I was punished for it. I do no’ think a wee bit o’ ribbon would hurt, or wearing some other colour except grey. It does no’ have to be scarlet, in the name o’ the Spinners! Though ye’d look lovely in red, wi’ all that fair hair.’

  ‘I couldna wear red!’ Elfrida was scandalised.

  ‘Why do ye no’ try blue then? Or some bonny flowery print. Though red be a lovely colour, the colour of roses and sunsets and elderberry wine. It’s the colour o’ your family plaid, after all.’ Elfrida said nothing, her lips thinned, and Isabeau said cajolingly, ‘Come, ye must be tired o’ grey!’

  ‘Well, I am,’ Elfrida admitted. ‘But what about ye? Ye wear white most o’ the time, like all the witches.’

  ‘Now I am a sorceress I’m allowed a little silver trimming. So daring!’ Isabeau said with a laugh. ‘Nay, ye saw how I leapt at the gorgeous dress ye gave me in Arran. Witches really only have to wear the witch-robe during rituals or when performing our duties. It is just that I am always on duty at the moment, Meghan being my mentor and us all riding to war. Besides, I do no’ really have very many clothes, having never spent much time at court.’

  ‘Well then, I’ll make ye a deal. We’ll each have ourselves a new dress made up and be really daring and choose something colourful. Like pink or yellow!’

  ‘No’ wi’ my hair,’ Isabeau said ruefully. ‘But either o’ those would suit ye. I’ll have green, to remind me o’ the forests.’

  ‘Grand!’ Elfrida said, excited. ‘Let us shake hands on it then.’

  They spat their palms and shook hands like children, and then Elfrida went back to the dining room, a smile on her lips and a spring in her step, to direct the lairds to their rooms and make sure all were comfortable.

  Meghan had sat silently through all thei
r conversation, her eyes closed. She opened them now and smiled at Isabeau, saying rather gruffly, ‘Ye did good work tonight, my Beau, and I do no’ just mean cooking for all those people.’

  ‘Thank ye,’ Isabeau said. ‘Come, ye must be exhausted. Let us get these bairns to a bed and find one ourselves. Havers, I be tired!’

  As she bent to pull the old sorceress to her feet, Meghan surprised her by kissing her cheek and patting it with her trembling hand. ‘Ye’re a good bairn, my Beau,’ she said. ‘Though no’ a bairn any more, are ye? A woman and a sorceress.’ She sighed and smiled a little, and went very slowly out of the room, Gitâ a little round bulge in her pocket.

  Nila stood before his father, his cloak of seal fur hanging down his back, his tusked face raised proudly. His shadow stretched long and thin across the sand.

  The King was sitting on a high rock, water ebbing and flowing around his webbed feet. Even in the diminishing light it was clear that he was very angry. The sound of his roars echoed all round the cove, and his skin was flushed the colour of seagrapes. Behind him stood his own personal pod of warriors, many looking troubled, while on either side stood Nila’s ten brothers, all grinning like tiger sharks.

  ‘So what do you have to say for yourself, you jellyspined fool!’ the King roared.

  ‘I have told you what happened,’ Nila said quietly. ‘My pod has given their evidence also. She has the power to sing as the human witches do. Many, many of our kind have drowned as the result of their enchanted singing. We were lucky to have survived.’

  ‘I had thought you had grown some sense with your tusks. I thought that being given your own pod and your own sea-serpent would see you begin to show some respect for your king and your people,’ his father roared. His face was purple with rage, his tusks gleaming yellow in the long rays of the setting sun. ‘Yet you capture my misbegotten daughter, my sly sneaking treacherous daughter, the double-dealing snake-eel that betrayed me and failed me! You had her in your fingers and you let her slip through.’