The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Bronwen’s hands flew to her mouth as they crashed over the little table. Donncan’s arm came back, then punched viciously, with a sickening thump as his fist connected with flesh. She saw a glimpse of green silken breeches and doublet, and knew at once who their attacker was.

  ‘Mat, ye fool, stop it!’ she cried. ‘Ye canna hit the Prionnsa! Ye’ll be discharged at best. Donn, stop it! Please!’

  They did not listen. Over they went in a grunting tangle of flying fists and knees. Bronwen yelled at them again, then seized the jug of Merry May punch and threw it over them. The shock made them pause for a moment. Mathias was straddling Donncan, one hand pressing his head into the ground, the other drawn back to strike. He glanced at Bronwen wildly, his face dripping with wine, soggy woodruff blossoms snagged in his hair. ‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Ye must stop this nonsense!’

  But in that instant of hesitation, Donncan threw Mathias off and got him in a headlock, grinding his face into the dirt. Mathias heaved wildly until he managed to throw the Prionnsa off, then he rolled and got to his feet, spitting out grass and dirt and blood. Donncan came at him again, and Bronwen saw a sudden flash of silver as the Yeoman drew the little dagger he wore at his waist. It was only a short knife, used for carving meat off the roast and spearing food to bring to the mouth, but like all blades worn by a trained soldier, it was wickedly sharp.

  Bronwen screamed. ‘Donn! Look out!’

  Donncan seized the swinging knife-hand, and somersaulted over it, twisting Mathias’s arm. As he landed, his foot slipped in the sticky puddle of punch, and he staggered. The knife was wrenched sideways, plunging deep into the Yeoman’s stomach.

  Mathias choked and staggered, then turned a look of such bewilderment upon Bronwen that tears sprang into her eyes. He dropped to his knees, both hands going to cradle the knife-hilt protruding from his abdomen.

  ‘Nay! Stop! Do no’ pull it out!’ Donncan gasped, reaching out one hand to him.

  But it was too late. Mathias had dragged out the knife. It slid free out with a great gush of blood. Mathias looked down at his bloody hands, his red-soaked shirt, looked up once more at Bronwen, then pitched forward on to his face. When she and Donncan together tried to lift him up, it was too late. He was dead.

  Lachlan raised an eyebrow at his page, who came forward and knelt, pouring more wine punch into his jewel-encrusted goblet.

  ‘Thank ye,’ the Rìgh said.

  His page nodded and rose, stepping back to his place behind the Rìgh’s chair.

  ‘No sign o’ any trouble yet,’ Iseult said softly, leaning her head close to her husband’s.

  ‘Nay, everyone seems as merry as they should be on May Eve. I am glad we dinna cancel the feast, as Dillon thought we should.’

  ‘It would have caused a lot o’ talk,’ Iseult said. ‘I think ye are right, we have a better chance o’ discovering any plot to assassinate ye if we do no’ scare the killer away by showing we suspect anything. If he thinks we ken naught, he will be less cautious and more likely to show his hand.’

  ‘She,’ Lachlan said.

  ‘Aye, that’s right. She.’

  ‘It may be nothing, ye ken that,’ Lachlan said very softly. ‘It is but a dream, and one that Olwynne can barely remember anyway.’

  Iseult sighed. ‘I do no’ like this … this fear that has come into our lives, with this dream o’ Olwynne’s. I do no’ like looking at all our friends and servants, and wondering who it is that seeks to kill ye. I hate worrying that I might lose ye!’

  ‘We never ken the time or means o’ our own death,’ Lachlan said sombrely. ‘Ye may die tomorrow, struck down by lightning, or –’

  ‘Hit by a runaway carriage –’

  ‘Or ye could worry yourself to death.’

  They looked at each other and smiled ruefully.

  ‘What long faces!’ a merry voice called. ‘Who’s died?’

  Lachlan’s face lit up. ‘Dide!’ he cried. ‘Welcome!’

  Didier Laverock, the Earl of Caerlaverock, came up smiling. He was dressed in old worsted breeches, rather worn at the knees and seat, and had a battered old guitar slung over his shoulder. His dark, curly hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, beneath a rakish crimson cap with a long green feather stuck in the brim. His long coat was shabby indeed.

  Lachlan leapt to his feet and pulled Dide in for a close embrace, slapping his back in delight. ‘When did ye ride in?’ he demanded.

  ‘Just now,’ Dide replied. ‘Forgive me my courtly attire. If I’d taken the time to change, I’d have missed the feast altogether.’

  ‘Ye’d be welcome in your nightgown and cap,’ Lachlan exclaimed. ‘Come, have a drink, man, and join us. Tell us all your news!’

  ‘Gladly,’ the Earl replied. He unslung his guitar, propping it against his chair as he sat down. He looked about him with interest, as the Rìgh’s page poured him a cup of ale. Dide quaffed it, and held out his cup for another. ‘Where’s Beau?’ he asked.

  ‘She’ll be at the witches’ feast,’ Iseult said. ‘I expect she’ll walk up later, to have a cup o’ wine with us. Nina will be here soon, too, to sing to us as usual. What are ye doing here? I thought ye were in Tìrsoilleir still.’

  ‘I was, but thought I should come home and report to ye myself. I dinna trust my mail to come to ye untampered. Quite a few o’ my missives seem to have gone astray, and I wanted to make sure all was well with ye. I’ve been hearing rumours …’

  ‘What?’ Lachlan demanded.

  Dide had been scanning the crowd about them as he spoke. His keen eyes had noted the blue-clad guards standing at attention behind the high table, and patrolling the perimeters of the square, and he had lifted a hand in greeting to Dillon who, as always, wore his cursed sword at his belt.

  ‘It looks as if ye may have been hearing some o’ them yourself,’ Dide said softly. ‘Prepared for trouble, are we?’

  ‘Always,’ Iseult said.

  Dide smiled at her. ‘I ken ye are,’ he answered, ‘but Lachlan is no’ usually so well-guarded in his own garden. What’s up?’

  ‘Why do ye no’ tell us your news first?’ Lachlan suggested. ‘Yours may have bearing on ours, though I hope no’.’

  ‘Tìrsoilleir is in turmoil,’ Dide said bluntly. ‘The new Fealde has the common people all stirred up with religious fervour, and Elfrida has done naught to rein her in. She has no’ been to Bride at all this year, staying in Arran the whole time, so it is as if they do no’ have a ruler at all.’

  Iseult raised her brows. ‘That is no’ like Elfrida. She does no’ like Arran much, and is always trying to make Iain stay with her in Bride.’

  ‘While Iain loves the marshes, and is never happy for long away from them,’ Lachlan said ruefully. He was very close to the Prionnsa of Arran, counting him as one of his closest friends and advisers. Both were glad their sons had grown up to be such good friends, and had taken turns to foster Donncan and Neil, so that the centuries-long feud between the MacCuinn and the MacFóghnan clans could finally be laid to rest.

  ‘Elfrida has never been a very confident ruler, particularly when it meant standing up to the Fealde. I guess her early indoctrination by the Bright Soldiers in the Black Tower was no’ so easily shaken off,’ Dide said. ‘Although she paid lip service to the Pact o’ Peace and the doctrine o’ free worship, I do no’ think she ever actually enforced it. This past year, though … I have heard o’ persecution o’ witches again, and I myself have listened to the Fealde preach against us from the pulpit. The Parliament does as it pleases, and all o’ them now are the Fealde’s men, and her puppets.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Lachlan frowned.

  ‘That is no’ the worst o’ it. The Fealde is hinting at another holy war. She refutes the tale that ye are the warrior angel as heresy and sacrilege, and exhorts the people o’ Tìrsoilleir to rise up and overthrow ye.’

  ‘What!’ Lachlan slammed his cup down on the table, spilling his wine. ‘She dares preach treason?’

  Face
s all along the high table and on the dance floor turned to stare at him, including Elfrida and Iain, who were seated a little further along the table, with their son Neil beside them, picking unhappily at his roast swan. Iain smiled at the sight of Dide, and rose at once to come to greet him. Elfrida rose too, pausing to speak quietly to her son before following her husband.

  Dide lowered his voice and said quickly, ‘Ye should ken also that Elfrida has taken one o’ the Fealde’s closest supporters as her personal spiritual adviser. I believe he travels with her everywhere.’

  Lachlan had time only to raise his eyebrow and glance at the black-clad man following a few steps behind Elfrida before Iain was upon them, greeting Dide warmly. In repose, the Prionnsa of Arran’s face was thoughtful, even melancholy, but when he was animated, as he was now, deep lines about his mouth and eyes crinkled charmingly. He had a rueful, self-deprecating way of speaking and a habit of pausing before he spoke, as if to consider his words carefully.

  ‘We have no’ seen ye in an age,’ he was saying now. ‘Good it is indeed to see ye!’

  Elfrida came up behind him and added her greetings to the jongleur-turned-earl, her eyes assessing him swiftly even as she smiled and enquired after his health. Elfrida had once been a pretty, fair woman, but her looks had faded. She was very thin, so that all her features had sharpened, and there were blue hollows under her eyes, and a deep line between her fair, almost non-existent brows. As usual, she was dressed in a heavy gown of some dark stuff, made up high to her chin and covering her arms to the wrists.

  Dide was an accomplished dissembler, after spending most of his life in the secret service of the Rìgh, and he gave no hint that he had just that moment been discussing her affairs. By enquiring after her son, he was soon hearing an eager account of Neil’s activities and accomplishments.

  All the while, the black-clad pastor stood behind Elfrida’s elbow, his hands folded before him in a pious attitude. He was all angles, with sharp elbows and knees jutting against the heavy fabric of his robe, and a chin like a spear-point. His nose was pointed too, and he had oddly long nails for a man, very clean and white and carefully polished. His hair was pale and cut as close to his scalp as scissors could reach, while his pointed chin positively gleamed, it had so recently been shaved.

  ‘And no plans for matrimony as yet?’ Dide asked Elfrida at last. ‘Or do ye plan to look for a bride for Neil while here at the royal court? Most o’ the first families will be here for Donncan and Bronwen’s wedding, I imagine.’

  A shadow fell over Elfrida’s face. ‘Nay, no plans as yet. Neil is still only young.’

  ‘He’s twenty-four, a man grown,’ Lachlan said, drawing his brows together. Having married young himself, Lachlan was an enthusiastic advocate for early weddings. ‘He’ll be getting into mischief if ye do no’ marry him off soon.’

  ‘Neil does no’ wish to marry,’ Elfrida said coolly.

  ‘What, no’ ever? We canna allow that! He’s the sole heir to both Arran and Tìrsoilleir. Imagine the trouble there’d be if he doesna breed up at least one heir. Nay, nay, ye canna allow that, Elfrida! Iain?’

  Iain cast a glance at his wife. ‘Och, he just hasna met the right girl yet, has he, dearling?’

  Some note of strain in his voice made Dide look at him more closely, then glance over to Neil. He had risen, and was pacing the dance floor, clearly looking for someone. The others followed his gaze and there was a moment’s silence, then Iseult said, in her forthright way, ‘I hope Cuckoo’s no’ still carrying a torch for Bronwen, Elfrida. That would be very foolish, since she and Donncan will be jumping the fire together in a matter o’ months.’

  ‘Neil and Bronwen have always been very close,’ Elfrida answered defensively.

  ‘Aye, maybe so, but yearning after another man’s wife has never brought anything but trouble,’ Iseult answered sternly. ‘Lachlan is right. He is twenty-four now and it is high time he was married and thinking o’ setting up a family. We must give some thought as to a suitable wife for him.’

  Elfrida’s lips shut into a tight line. She did not answer. Behind her the pastor clasped and unclasped his hands.

  ‘I do no’ think Neil is ready for marriage just yet,’ Iain said placatingly. ‘These childhood crushes sometimes take a while to cool. I’m sure, given time …’

  ‘There’s no harm in introducing the lad to a few pretty lasses,’ Lachlan said. ‘Particularly ones with a pretty dowry, and a few strategic connections as well. Ye must remember the lad will one day have to rule both Arran and Tìrsoilleir. He’ll need a girl who has been brought up to fill such a position. How old are Fymbar’s sisters now, Iseult? One o’ the banprionnsachan o’ Blèssem would do very nicely, since their lands lie so close to Arran –’

  ‘Neil is no’ interested in those tow-headed ninnies,’ Elfrida said flatly. ‘We stayed with them on our way here and he could no’ have been more bored!’

  Lachlan raised his brow. ‘Busty blondes no’ to his taste? Well, what about that raven-haired lass from Carraig, what’s her name, Iseult?’

  ‘Nathalie NicSeinn, do ye mean?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the one. They say she is quite lovely, as well as clever and accomplished. I wonder if she plans to come to the wedding? Perhaps a subtle hint to the MacSeinn …’

  ‘Thank ye, but I do no’ think that will be necessary,’ Elfrida said, rising to her feet, two spots of colour burning on her thin cheeks. ‘If ye will excuse me …’ And she went swiftly away towards her son, who had given up searching the dance floor and was now standing by himself, staring off into the shadowy gardens. She took his arm and tried to lead him back to their seats, but he shook her off and went plunging off into the garden. Elfrida stood staring after him, her pastor behind her like an elongated shadow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Iain was saying. ‘Ye’ve struck a sore spot, I’m afraid. Indeed, we’re very worried about Neil. It’s true what ye said, Iseult, he is still rather dazzled by Bronwen, and steadfastly refuses to have anything to do with any other girl. Donncan kens, o’ course. It’s a wonder they are still such good friends. If Bronwen did no’ keep treating Neil like a favourite younger brother, it would be a different story. Elfrida finds it upsetting, though. It has made Neil very unhappy these past few years, and she naturally feels for him. I’m sure once Bronwen and Donncan actually tie the knot …’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘Let us hope so,’ Iseult said neutrally. She laid her hand on Lachlan’s arm, for the Rìgh was scowling and looked as if he might burst into intemperate speech.

  Dide was just stepping in with a smooth question about the past hunting season in Arran when a sudden disturbance at the far side of the dance floor attracted all their attention. There were cries of alarm, then a shrill scream that sent waves of unease through the crowd. The music came to a jangling halt, and all the dancers stopped mid-step and drew back, whispering and pointing.

  ‘What has happened?’ Lachlan cried and strode forward. Dillon at once leapt up and moved to stand beside him, his hand on his sword hilt.

  Iseult rose also, her face draining of colour as she saw Donncan coming slowly in from the gardens, his face grey with shock, his hands and clothes heavily stained with blood. He held a dagger out before him as if it was a hissing snake.

  Behind him stumbled Bronwen. Her gauzy skirt was marked with a dreadful wet black patch in front, and she walked with both her hands held out before her, staring with fascination at her blood-stained palms.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she said to the crowd, her eyes blackly dilated. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘No’ Neil!’ Elfrida screamed. ‘No’ my Cuckoo?’

  Bronwen turned slowly and stared at her in bafflement. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No’ Neil.’

  Neil came hurrying out of the garden, throwing an exasperated glance at his mother. ‘What is it? What has happened?’ he demanded.

  Bronwen saw him and her face crumpled. She ran to him and he enclosed her in his arms. She began to weep, stammering
incoherently.

  ‘What in Eà’s green blood has happened?’ Lachlan demanded also, striding forward, his wings spreading. Iseult was close behind him, her hand going automatically to the reil at her belt.

  The Blue Guards had closed ranks about the dance floor, responding to the slightest jerk of Captain Dillon’s head.

  ‘It was an accident,’ Donncan said. His voice shook slightly. He looked towards his father with frowning eyes, and lifted his bloody hands in what looked like a gesture of appeal. ‘Indeed, I dinna mean to kill him.’

  ‘Who? Who’s dead?’ Lachlan demanded.

  Donncan looked at Bronwen, shuddered, and looked away. ‘Mat.’

  ‘Mathias o’ the Guards?’ Captain Dillon demanded. ‘Mathias Bright-Eyed?’

  Donncan nodded. Captain Dillon sent some of the guards off at a run, seizing lanterns from the poles to light their way, then came to stand before Donncan, searching his face with hard eyes. ‘What happened, Your Highness?’

  ‘He attacked me,’ Donncan said, outrage firming his voice. ‘Without any warning at all. He just came leaping out o’ the darkness, and punched me!’ He indicated his bruised face with one hand.

  ‘Is that so?’ Captain Dillon responded, with a quick glance at Bronwen. Even though his voice was carefully neutral, Donncan flushed vividly.

  ‘Aye, that’s so,’ he said furiously. ‘I do no’ ken why! He pulled a knife on me!’

  ‘Is that what happened, Your Highness?’ Captain Dillon asked Bronwen.

  She gave a great shudder, but nodded.

  Iseult had come flying forward and was examining her son frantically. ‘Are ye hurt?’ she demanded. ‘He did no’ stab ye, did he?’

  ‘Nay,’ Donncan said. ‘He tried, but I used his own arm to swing over and away, like so.’

  He demonstrated, and Iseult nodded. ‘A good response,’ she said approvingly. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I slipped as I landed. There was wine or something spilt on the grass. He was trying to recover, maybe to try to stab me again. The knife just twisted when I fell … it went straight in. I’m sorry! I never meant … it all just happened so fast.’