The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Octavia dropped the brush in the bath. ‘Scrub yourself well if ye want to get rid o’ the lice. I’ll get ye some soup.’ She went out of the room and there was a sharp click as the key was turned in the lock. Although her thumbs were still swollen, and ringed with dark bruises where the clamps had bitten into her skin, Rhiannon was able to use her fingers quite well and so, gripping the brush with both hands, she did as she was told, scrubbing herself till her skin was red and sore.

  A thin, rough towel, a chemise and a loose grey dress were draped over the chair and so, when she was finally clean, Rhiannon rubbed herself dry and dressed herself as well as she was able, unwilling to have Octavia come back and find her still naked. There was something unnerving in the fat woman’s lascivious little eyes. Rhiannon could not manage the buttons with her sore thumbs, so she held her bodice together with both hands and sat quietly waiting on the chair, her spirits soaring as she wondered who had paid for her release. Lewen? Nina and Iven? Much of her despair and misery had been caused by the fear her friends had abandoned her. It was heartening to know they had not.

  Octavia came in with a tureen of soup in her ham-sized hands. Amazingly, the soup steamed. She put it down on the table, and looked Rhiannon up and down.

  ‘I canna let ye go to the tower looking like that,’ she cooed, trying her best to smile. ‘Let me button ye up and comb your hair for ye, my dear, and then I’ll get ye your boots and shawl.’

  Rhiannon submitted unwillingly, feeling revolted at the touch of those pudgy fingers at her bodice and then in her hair. She could not help remembering how Lewen liked to brush out her hair for her too.

  ‘Eat up your soup then, dear,’ the gaoler said tenderly. Rhiannon felt her hand lingering on the nape of her neck and could not help shuddering.

  ‘Ye’re cold. I’ll stoke up the fire,’ Octavia said, and thankfully removed her massive presence from behind Rhiannon’s chair.

  Rhiannon sipped at the soup. It was still thin and greasy, but hot, and with soft lumps of potato and meat in it, far more palatable than what she had drunk before.

  When she had finished, and her long hair had been plaited away from her face, Octavia brought her pack, still bulging with all her belongings. She would not let Rhiannon check all was there, but unpacked her boots, helping her draw them on, and wrapped her beautiful embroidered shawl about her, with all sorts of obsequious comments and attentions that made Rhiannon feel most uncomfortable. Then she was led out through the dark, dank corridors and given into the care of four heavily armed soldiers. They spoke not one word to her, but did not hurry her along or push her, like the other guards had done.

  She was taken out through a gate into a courtyard. It was dark, but she could see no stars in the sky, for the lights from the city reflected a red haze from the vault of the heavens that obliterated all starlight. The touch of the cold night wind on her face was wonderful, however, and she lingered for a moment, lifting her face. The soldiers gave her that moment, then silently urged her on. Cold stone closed over her again.

  Led by a guard carrying a lantern, they passed through countless cold, cavernous halls and chambers, Rhiannon huddling her shawl about her. She wondered what time it was. It felt very late.

  They passed through a large hall and into a room where other guards sat alertly, holding long, cumbersome weapons that Rhiannon had never seen before. Papers were checked and stamped with a red wax seal, and a big door unlocked to allow Rhiannon and her escort through.

  They climbed a narrow twisting staircase up three floors, and then Rhiannon was ushered into a small dark cell. She looked round quickly. The bare walls were made from large blocks of stone, mercifully free from green slime. One wall was taken up by a heavy iron bed, softened by a thin mattress and a clean sheet and pillow. A grey eiderdown was folded over the end. Under the bed was a chamber-pot with a lid. A small table was set in the corner, with a heavy bench pushed beneath it. All the furniture was so solidly made Rhiannon would have difficulty shifting it, let alone throwing it or breaking it to make a weapon.

  The guards were withdrawing, taking the lantern with them. Greedily the shadows swooped down upon Rhiannon’s head.

  ‘Wait!’ She flung out one hand to halt them. At once the guards stiffened, hands flying to their weapons.

  ‘Wait! Please,’ Rhiannon said with some difficulty. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Sorrowgate Tower,’ one replied tersely, not looking at her.

  ‘What does that mean? Am I …?’ She stopped, unable to frame the question that meant so much to her. The four guards waited stolidly, and at last she managed to utter some more words. ‘Am I still …?’

  They did not answer for a moment, then the youngest, a broad-shouldered, fresh-faced man of about twenty, said gruffly, ‘Ye’ve been granted liberty o’ the tower, which means ye’re out o’ the public prison and into a room o’ your own, with visitors allowed, and pen and paper if ye want it, and allowed to walk in the warden’s garden. Ye’ll stay here until your trial, or until the money dries up, whatever happens first.’

  ‘But I’m no’ allowed out? Outside the tower, I mean.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Who’s paying for it?’ she demanded.

  They all looked at each other and shrugged. Rhiannon bit her thumbnail.

  As they once again began to withdraw, Rhiannon called out, ‘Wait! I’m sorry, I’m just wondering …’

  They waited politely.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘After midnight, lass,’ another soldier said kindly. ‘I’d get some shut-eye if I were ye.’

  Rhiannon clenched her sore, throbbing hands together. ‘It’s too dark,’ she said, hearing the ragged edge of hysteria in her voice. ‘Please, canna ye leave the lantern?’

  ‘Sorry, lass,’ the guard said. ‘Against the rules.’

  ‘Please. I dinna like the dark. Please.’

  The guard shared a glance with his companion, then said gruffly, ‘Each prisoner is allowed one candle after supper. I guess it willna matter if we let ye have one now. It only lasts a couple o’ hours, though, I warn ye.’

  ‘Thank ye, oh, thank ye,’ Rhiannon gabbled.

  ‘Do no’ think o’ trying any tricks with it now,’ the guard warned. ‘It’s hung high so ye canna reach it, see?’

  He demonstrated to Rhiannon, showing her how he swung down the iron lantern hanging in the centre of the ceiling with a long-handled hook, lit it with a taper from the lantern he carried, and then deftly hung it up again. It swung slightly, sending shadows swooping around the room. Rhiannon stared up at it. Even if she stood on her bed, she would not be able to reach it.

  ‘It’ll no’ burn long,’ the older guard said. ‘Best get used to the dark, lass. We do no’ get much sunshine here at Sorrowgate Tower.’

  Rhiannon nodded to show she understood, and the guards withdrew, locking and bolting the door behind them. Rhiannon sat gingerly upon her bed, looking about her. The single candle did not shed much light. The corners were full of shadows. After a while, she lay down, pulling the eiderdown over her. She did not sleep.

  Dawn came slowly, and with no fanfare of birds trilling or cocks crowing. As soon as it was light enough to see, Rhiannon got up and paced her room. It was five paces long and four paces wide. There was one tiny window, very high up in the wall. Even if Rhiannon was able to scale the smooth stone wall, it was too small for her to do more than thrust her head out of it. The door was made of iron, with a slit through which an eye regularly appeared, to check on her movements. After an hour or so of her pacing they brought her breakfast.

  Rhiannon eyed the guards speculatively as they brought her tray in, wondering if she could somehow knock them out and escape that way. Both were tall, strong men, though, and well-armed. The first came in with his sword drawn and instructed her, gently but firmly, to sit on the bed while his companion set down the tray. The second soldier deftly unpacked the tray, then took it away with him, the guard with the sword backing o
ut and quickly locking and bolting the door behind him. The whole operation took only a few moments.

  Breakfast consisted of a wooden bowl filled with porridge, a trencher of black bread, a bruised apple, and a small jug of water. Nothing that Rhiannon could use as a weapon or tool. So she ate the lukewarm porridge, drank a cup of water, and lay down to rest on her bed again. She was, in fact, sick with weariness and misery, and sore and bruised all over. The thudding in her thumbs had settled down to a persistent ache, and the bruises had spread so that both swollen digits bloomed in varying hues of purple, blue, red and yellow like ugly exotic flowers.

  After a while the guards came and removed the remains of her meal. They left her the apple, the cup, and the jug of water. Rhiannon had nothing to do but watch a small tetragon of light move slowly down the wall, stretching longer and thinner as the morning passed. At some point she shut her eyes to keep back the tears, and slowly, strangely, she drifted away into sleep.

  The sound of the bolts being dragged back jerked her awake. She swung her legs round to sit up, all her nerves jangling.

  The door swung open. The guard stood with his sword drawn in the doorway. ‘Visitor for ye,’ he said, then stood back.

  Lewen came in. He was dressed in a long blue tunic, edged with silver braid, over white satin breeches. On his shoulder was embroidered a badge with a golden stag rearing up on its hind hooves. A ceremonial cape was slung over one shoulder and secured with a silver badge. On his head was a soft blue cockaded cap, very like the one worn by the Yeomen. Rhiannon had never seen him so grandly dressed and it made her shy and awkward. He did not notice, though, coming forward eagerly and pulling her to her feet so he could embrace her. She cried out in pain, and at once he stepped back and exclaimed at the sight of her bruised and swollen thumbs.

  She saw over his shoulder a tall red-headed girl hesitating in the doorway. Her thin red brows were drawn together in a frown.

  ‘Who that?’ Rhiannon demanded, at the same time as the redhead asked, in a cool voice, ‘Are you going to introduce me, Lewen?’

  Lewen looked from one to the other, a little dismayed.

  ‘Rhiannon, this is Her Royal Highness, the Banprionnsa Olwynne NicCuinn. If it was not for her, I would no’ be allowed in to see ye. She … her father the Rìgh has granted ye liberty o’ the tower. Olwynne, this … this is Rhiannon.’

  Olwynne inclined her head graciously, but Rhiannon only glared. She did not like the tone that came into Lewen’s voice when he addressed the Banprionnsa, nor the way Olwynne looked at her.

  She was a tall young woman, though not as tall as Rhiannon, and very straight-backed with dark, challenging eyes and a mass of fiery ringlets that hung down her back from under a forest-green silk hood. Her gown was green too, of fluid silk that shimmered as the Banprionnsa moved, and embroidered with tiny jewels at cuff and neckline. She wore no other jewellery, except for a moonstone on her left hand, a twin to the ring Lewen wore on his left hand. Although Rhiannon knew all apprentices of the Coven wore moonstone rings, it infuriated her to see this link between Lewen and Olwynne, symbol of a world they shared and from which she was excluded.

  ‘Tell her to go away,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Why is she here?’

  Lewen was mortified. ‘But she … I wanted … Rhiannon!’

  ‘I think it best I go then,’ Olwynne said. She smiled ruefully at Lewen and shook her head as he apologised and entreated her to stay. As she gathered up the rustling folds of her skirt and turned to leave, Rhiannon came forward in a rush, saying fiercely, ‘Who was that girl?’

  ‘Ye’re no’ jealous, are ye?’ Lewen asked incredulously. ‘O’ Olwynne? Oh, Rhiannon!’ He reached for her, drawing her close. ‘Don’t be so silly,’ he murmured, and bent his head to kiss her. As Rhiannon melted into his embrace, her eyes closing, the door shut behind Olwynne with a click.

  ‘Oh, Rhiannon, Rhiannon,’ Lewen whispered, raising his head at last. ‘Oh Eà, I have missed ye.’

  She leant against his shoulder. ‘It’s only been a night,’ she said shakily.

  He lifted her face and kissed her again. ‘Too long,’ he said. ‘Far too long.’

  She wrested her mouth away, saying sulkily, ‘Long enough for ye to get all prettied up for some other lass.’

  Lewen glanced down at himself in surprise, then grinned. ‘I’m in court gear. I had to report to His Majesty, and beg leave to come and see ye. I couldna go to court in all my dirt!’

  He flung aside the cape and hat and sat on the bed, pulling her down beside him. Eagerly he kissed her again, one hand sliding under her shirt.

  ‘So why she come, that Olwynne? Why ye bring her?’ she demanded.

  ‘Och, Olwynne! She’s one o’ my very best friends, she and her twin brother, Owein. The Rìgh is their father. If it had no’ been for them I might no’ have got in to see ye.’ He sat up, bringing his hand from under her shirt so he could stroke back her hair. ‘She’s promised to help me petition the Rìgh on your behalf. I canna believe ye were locked up like a common criminal! Olwynne begged His Majesty to grant ye liberty o’ the tower, which means at least ye can walk in the gardens and have visitors. Nina petitioned him too, and has offered to pay all the costs, which is good because, believe me, I almost fainted when I heard how much a dark little cell like this costs!’ He looked around him in disgust. ‘Still, it’s better than the public galleries.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Rhiannon said.

  She searched for words to describe the Murderers’ Gallery, but it seemed so far removed from Lewen. Everything about him was clean and fine. He washed and changed his linen every day, and though his clothes were not usually so grand, they were always clean and brushed. He smelt pleasantly of horses and fresh air and the rosemary soap he washed with, and the mint leaves he chewed after eating, unlike so many men who smelt rankly of beer and tobacco and unwashed armpits and decaying teeth. Rhiannon had always appreciated this about him, since her sense of smell was very acute and easily offended.

  And, ever since Rhiannon had first met Lewen, he had epitomised gentleness, kindness and courtesy. He was a horse-whisperer who had the ability to soothe just about any frightened animal or child. He listened to all that was said to him carefully, and did not seek to impress by sneering at others. He had taught her to trust him, an investment of faith which Rhiannon had never expected to be able to make. She did not know how to tell him of all that was cruel, dark, pitiless and foul. As she searched for words, he began speaking again and it was too late, the moment had passed.

  ‘We tried to convince the Rìgh that ye did no’ need to be kept in the tower even,’ Lewen was saying, ‘but he would no’ agree, saying the charges are too serious. Which, I suppose, is fair enough. It was just such a shock, seeing them drag ye away like that.’

  He bent his head and kissed her lovingly, and she lost herself in the sweetness of it for a while. He had her pressed down onto her back, her shirt unlaced, before she stopped him again, reluctantly.

  ‘How long?’ she whispered. ‘How long must I stay here? For I shall go mad, Lewen, I swear I shall.’

  He raised his head. His eyes were black with passion. ‘I dinna ken, dearling,’ he said huskily. ‘I wish … och, how I wish … I canna bear to think o’ ye locked up in here.’

  ‘Try being the one who’s locked up,’ she said dryly.

  He kissed her chin, and then the pulse at the base of her throat. ‘It shouldna be long, dearling.’ He pulled back her shirt so he could kiss the hollow of her shoulder. His hand had found her breast again, but she gently pushed him away.

  ‘When? When?’

  He sighed. ‘They hear serious cases, like murder or horse-stealing, once every quarter. That means the end o’ June. I tried to convince the Rìgh that your case should be heard straightaway, but he said they need that much time to gather their evidence and hear the witnesses.’

  Rhiannon did not know the names or meanings of months. Her idea of time was much more fluid and imprecise than that
of these humans, who had a word for everything. Lewen understood her frown, and said, sympathy warming his deep voice, ‘By midsummer, dearling.’

  ‘Midsummer,’ she said blankly. It was only early spring now. That meant days and days, more days than Rhiannon could count. Two moons at least.

  ‘They’ll probably bring it forward a few days,’ Lewen said consolingly. ‘The Rìgh will want it all over afore the wedding.’

  ‘The wedding?’

  ‘Aye, Donncan and Bronwen’s wedding. The royal heirs. Ye remember. It’s set for Midsummer’s Day.’

  ‘How many moons?’ Rhiannon demanded.

  He lifted his shoulders and said reluctantly, ‘The moon is in its last quarter now. We’ll see it wax and wane twice afore then.’

  ‘Two moons,’ Rhiannon said flatly.

  ‘More,’ he answered.

  She turned her face away.

  He turned it back to him with both hands, kissing her passionately. ‘I ken it’s a long time,’ he whispered. ‘But the Rìgh says I may visit ye …’

  ‘So kind o’ him.’

  ‘And I’ll bring ye books and paper …’

  ‘If only I could read.’

  ‘Ye’ll be able to practise your lessons.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ she said sullenly.

  ‘Dearling, dinna say that. I canna bear to see ye so unhappy. Banprionnsa Olwynne and I will do all we can to ease things for ye.’

  ‘That redhead? Why would she want to help?’

  ‘She’s my friend. She feels sorry for ye,’ Lewen said awkwardly.

  ‘How sweet o’ her,’ Rhiannon said acidly.

  ‘She can do heaps to help. Her father adores her, and will listen to her, I ken.’

  ‘Can she help another too?’ Rhiannon demanded. ‘Lewen, there was a lass in the Murderers’ Gallery … she was sore hurt, Lewen. The warden there is a cruel, mean woman. She should be the one locked up! Lewen, can ye ask her?’