The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  The minstrels played in a gallery set high above the doors that led out to the garden. The gallery ran down both sides of the hall, supported by tall wooden pillars, beautifully carved at the top with merry faces wreathed with leaves and flowers. The pillars were all joined into archways by curving fretwork carved to look like writhing vines. Through each archway was a shadowy recess. Doors standing open onto the terrace alternated with small curtained chambers where guests could retreat for a more confidential conversation, or play cards or dice if they preferred. Each of the private chambers was illuminated by lanterns of red glass that created a soft, warm glow that shone out through the fretwork. The whole effect was very pretty, and the Master of Revels looked about him with a look of great satisfaction, before bending over as far as his tight corsets would let him, to straighten a candle an infinitesimal amount.

  Once the stately pavane was over, most of the more elderly guests settled themselves down to eat and drink and dissect the day, while the younger set enjoyed jigs and reels, the canary and the galliard. Bronwen unhooked her elaborate train and danced blithely, laughing and smiling while Donncan looked on. Occasionally he stepped in to request her hand, and at once her brightness would dim and she would restrain her natural grace to his more subdued step.

  Neil MacFóghnan did not dance. He brooded over his goblet of wine, lifting it often to drain it to its dregs and then signal the page for more. Elfrida sat beside him, drinking little, eating less, her heavy gold fan fluttering back and forth so fast it was almost a blur. Certainly she must have been hot, for although she had not worn her customary black in deference to the superstition that it was an unlucky colour to wear to a wedding, her grey silk was as dark as thunderclouds, and made high to the neck and wrists as usual. Only a narrow edging of lace at her throat and cuffs and a double row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons relieved its severity. Olwynne, who was uncomfortably sticky in her pale silk, wondered why she had not worn something lighter. Then she saw the black-clad pastor, sitting at the Banprionnsa’s right hand, his whole body stiff with condemnation and distaste at the music and dancing and feasting going on all around him, and felt sorry for Elfrida. It must have been hard to have been raised in a society that disapproved of all that was bright and free and beautiful.

  Olwynne danced with her father, and then with Donncan, and then took her twin’s hand and promenaded down the length of the hall with him. After that, her duty done, she could rest, Olwynne told herself, feeling her heart slam in the cage of her ribs, her temples thudding. I am just tired, she told herself again. It’s the heat.

  Owein was unusually quiet, and Olwynne was glad of it. They turned and he raised his arm so she could duck beneath it, then he ducked under hers. Then they stood, arms held high, as other couples ducked through the long archway, one by one.

  When it was time to promenade again, Owein said abruptly, ‘Mam says Dai-dein plans to pardon the satyricorn girl.’

  Olwynne stumbled. Only long years of rigorous training by her dancing-master enabled her to go on. ‘What?’

  ‘He’ll make the announcement tonight, when he toasts Donn and Bronwen.’

  Olwynne’s heart beat so hard and fast she could barely hear the music. She could not speak.

  ‘Mam says he has told Johanna and Dillon the news already. Johanna is no’ here tonight, so she must be angry indeed. It’s true what they say, ye canna keep everyone happy.’

  Olwynne’s eyes filled with tears. She kept her head high, her face turned away, but her twin brother knew. ‘It’s better this way,’ he said consolingly. ‘Lewen would always have felt bad and guilty about her, but this way she can be sent somewhere far away, to do service for the crown somewhere else, in Ravenshaw, perhaps.’

  Olwynne nodded, but still could not speak. She wished she could raise her hand to blot away her tears, but someone would see and comment on it. Olwynne could never bear to be the subject of gossip.

  ‘Lewen loves ye truly, ye ken that,’ Owein said awkardly. ‘It’ll make no difference to ye, if she lives. Ye’ll see.’

  Lewen loves ye truly …

  Olwynne wished with all her heart that this was so. But it was all a lie, a sham, a concoction of blood and ribbon and withered flowers. ‘I have a headache,’ she said. ‘Please, Owein, I want to sit down.’

  Owein had spent as many years suffering dancing lessons as Olwynne. He swung her out of the set without missing a beat, and led her to her seat at the high table. Lachlan and Iseult were smiling at each other over the rims of their jewelled goblets. Olwynne saw her mother reach out a hand to stroke her father’s cheek. It was their wedding anniversary, she knew, and felt tears of envy and longing prickle her eyes.

  ‘I’ll find Lewen for ye,’ Owein said.

  Olwynne nodded and sat, fanning herself rapidly. It was hot and oppressive, and the blazing candles swam before her eyes. The swirling dresses, the joyous lilt of the music, the heavy scent of the flowers, none of it gave her any pleasure. She was finding it hard to breathe.

  Lewen had been talking with the other royal squires, but he came at once to her side, sitting and holding her hand in both of his. Olwynne clung to his strong, calloused hand like a drowning man to a spar. She willed herself not to weep.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lewen whispered.

  She made a helpless gesture with her hand.

  Lewen looked to the dance floor, where Bronwen was dancing a bold galliard with one of the Fairgean lords. Donncan had returned to the high table, where he too sat and nursed his wine cup, as dark-visaged as Lewen had ever seen him.

  ‘Are ye upset that Prionnsa Donncan seems so unhappy? I would no’ fret, dearling. As long as I have kent him, he has had no eyes for anyone but the Banprionnsa Bronwen. I am sure it is just a lovers’ misunderstanding, and all will be well. True love canna be broken so easily.’

  Olwynne said nothing. She put up one hand and pressed it against her eyes.

  The music twirled, the musicians red in the face as they piped and fiddled and drummed away, the dancers panting as they paused at the head of the procession. The flowers were wilting. The mint sorbet was melting in the little silver bowls even as the lackeys carried it in from the kitchen.

  ‘Do ye wish to go out for a breath o’ fresh air?’ Lewen asked her. ‘Ye look very pale.’

  She nodded.

  Together they rose and made their way through the archway of entwining wooden vines. Lewen opened the glass doors for her, and ushered her out onto the terrace, closing the door behind him. It was not much cooler, but at least there was less noise and light.

  ‘I’ll get ye something to drink,’ Lewen said solicitously, and left her sitting on a stone bench on the terrace. Olwynne could not rest. She rose, pacing up and down the terrace. A new tune began. Olwynne was drawn to the tall glass door. Looking in, she saw the banquet-hall bright with candles. People in vivid silks and velvets danced or clustered in groups, talking and eating. Donncan had got up, and was nodding curtly to the Fairgean lord as he asked his wife for a dance. Bronwen smiled brilliantly and looked up into Donncan’s face, as he spun her round so that her moonlight-silver dress swung out and billowed about her.

  Olwynne gasped aloud. She had seen this before. She had seen it more than once. The wreath of white flowers on the midnight-dark hair, the silver dress swirling. She looked desperately for her father. He bent his dark head over her mother’s red one, then nodded and turned to beckon to the Master of Revels, preparing to stand up, to make the toast. Olwynne took a step forward, her hands pressed up hard against the glass. ‘No!’ she cried, but the noise she made was slight, no more than a croak.

  There was someone in the shadows. A woman in a dark-coloured dress. Olwynne felt she should know her. If the candles were not so bright, the shadow beneath the pillars so dark, she would recognise her, she knew. The woman moved. Dread surged up Olwynne’s throat like vomit. She banged her hands on the glass as the woman glanced quickly from side to side. No-one heard her. No-one saw her.
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  Then the woman lifted one hand to her mouth, as if hiding a cough, or spitting a piece of chewed gristle into her hand. There was a flash of gold. Then something dark flew out from her cupped hand.

  Olwynne watched it dart across the floor, fast and fierce, straight into Lachlan’s throat. Tears choked her. She did not even try to cry out. She knew no-one would hear her.

  Lachlan jerked and slapped at his skin, as if at a stinging fly. Colour surged up his skin. He stood up, his chair crashing over. Olwynne could see her mother leap up in dismay, and seize his arm. The Rìgh swayed and then he fell.

  Olwynne watched him fall away down behind the table, disappearing from her view, and then she fell to her knees, her hands over her mouth. ‘Dai-dein,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Eà, no!’

  Roden lay on his bed in his nightgown, moodily attacking the wooden soldier he held in one hand with the wooden soldier in the other.

  No’ fair, he thought. Why do I have to come home, just ’cause I’m a laddiekin? I never get to have any fun.

  He rolled over and kicked at his headboard with one bare foot. He had spent much of the past week hanging round the kitchen, watching wide-eyed as the palace cooks had created one sumptuous, extravagant dish after another. There was one dish in particular which Roden would like to have seen wheeled into the banquet-hall. The head cook had planned a roast bhanias bird, carefully posed upon a bed of sugared roses and candied violets, and all its magnificent feathers re-attached so that it looked as though it was still alive. Into the great bird’s belly he intended to place a roast swan, which would in turn be carved to reveal a roast pheasant, which held within a roast lark.

  Apart from this subtlety, the menu had included roast venison with the antlered head still attached, and a ripe pomegranate in its mouth, to reflect the honour of the MacCuinn clan; a salad of rose petals and sugared apricots, to symbolise love and fertility; a roasted lamb for each of the thirteen tables, as well as a vast array of roasted vegetables, fruit and flower dishes for the witches; poached lobster, eel pie, six types of fish, a whole baked dolphin and wild rys from Arran wrapped in parcels of seaweed and dipped in brine for their Fairgean guests; a castle made from spun toffee and meringue; and best of all, a great pie from which a young cluricaun was meant to leap and dance a jig before the wedded couple.

  Despite being heir to the Earl of Caerlaverock and entitled to the lofty title of Marquis, Roden was the son of a witch who had sworn an oath never to eat the flesh of another living creature. The only time Roden ever got to taste meat was when his uncle Dide bought him a sausage roll at the fair, or when his new friends in the kitchen let him sample a bit of burnt meat cut off from the end of the roast. He was very curious indeed to know what dolphin tasted like, and had itched to sample the rosewater-iced cakes, each topped with a sugared violet.

  Besides the expected culinary delights, Roden had been looking forward to the entertainment. Apart from the usual dancers, jesters, jugglers, acrobats, minstrels, fire-eaters, stilt-walkers and musicians, there was, he had heard, to be a special performance from a woman who put her head inside the jaws of a roaring snow-lion. Although his mother frowned at such tricks, muttering that it was a poor use of one’s familiar, Roden had been keen indeed to see them.

  But Nina had sent him home to bed. The wedding feast would go on too late, she said, and he was too young for it. Roden was very displeased with his mother. It was not as if he was even tired. Here it was, almost midnight, and it was his nursemaid who was fast asleep in her chair, snoring gently. She was a skinny thing with anxious eyes who had made Roden cross by drinking all his milk after he had refused it, saying with his nose in the air that he was far too old for warm milk before bedtime. Later, of course, he had wanted it, but it was all gone and she was asleep, and Roden knew he would be in extra big trouble if he was caught trying to go down to the kitchen by himself at this time of night. Ever since he had been kidnapped in the spring, his mother had been very strict about him not wandering off by himself. Once Roden would have just waited till the adult set to mind him was distracted and then slipped off, ripe for any adventure, but his experiences at Fettercairn Castle had frightened him. He was still quite glad to stay close to his mother, away from the cold, lonely ghosts of murdered little boys, and the clutches of mad old women.

  He glanced at the fire, which was sinking low, sighed, yawned and wriggled round in his bed, pulling up his bedclothes. Might as well go to sleep, he thought to himself, disgruntled. Naught else to do.

  A creak from the door startled him. He sat up, grinning with delight, expecting to see his mother come to check on him, or perhaps his beloved uncle Dide, with a tray of goodies to share.

  His happy smile faded, though. A tall man in a heavy travelling cloak stepped inside the door, shielding a lantern so that only a whisker of light preceded him. Roden had never seen him before, but something about his smooth, white, expressionless face frightened him.

  ‘Who are ye?’ he quavered, sinking back down into his bedclothes.

  The young man regarded him with displeasure. ‘Still awake are ye, brat? Dinna ye drink your milk?’ He cast an unfavourable eye at the sleeping nursemaid, grunted, and closed the door behind him. ‘Well, she’ll sleep for days, with a double dose,’ he muttered, putting down his lantern and advancing on Roden.

  ‘Who are ye?’ Roden demanded, edging to the far side of his bed. ‘What do ye want?’

  ‘I’m Irving, the laird o’ Fettercairn’s seneschal,’ the man replied, with an ironic inclination of his head. ‘I believe ye were acquainted with my father?’

  As Roden launched himself from his bed, bare feet flying under his long white nightgown, the seneschal caught him midair and tucked him under one strong arm, his other hand clamped over the little boy’s mouth. ‘And what I want, laddie, is ye.’

  Olwynne rocked back and forth, her arms crossed over her stomach. ‘Oh, Eà, no, oh, Eà, no,’ she moaned.

  There was a light footstep behind her and then someone knelt down beside her.

  ‘Your Highness? Are ye unwell?’

  ‘My dai-dein …’ Olwynne managed to say.

  ‘Come, put your head down between your knees,’ the woman said. In the light streaming out through the window Olwynne saw the green of a healer’s robe. She obeyed, and found it a little easier to breathe.

  ‘Here, drink this,’ the woman said. ‘It will help.’

  Olwynne took the glass and swallowed a mouthful, almost choking at the taste. ‘What …?’ she tried to ask, but her tongue was thick and would not obey her. Her head swam, and her vision blurred. She tried to sit up in a sudden panic, but the woman seized the back of her neck in a vice-like grip. Olwynne struggled, but the woman’s other hand had the cup to her mouth, tilting her head back so the foul liquid flowed down her throat. Olwynne coughed and spluttered, trying to spit it out, but the woman had dropped the cup and clamped her hand over Olwynne’s nose and mouth. Olwynne could not breathe. She choked, and instinctively swallowed. At once the hand over her nose and mouth relaxed, and she was laid down gently on the stones.

  ‘Good girl,’ the healer said, and turned and beckoned.

  As two men bent to seize her, Olwynne looked up past their shadowed forms and into the face of the healer who had so skilfully and efficiently drugged her. She recognised the round face with cheeks like withered apples at once. It was the woman who had given such damning testimony at Rhiannon’s trial. The lord of Fettercairn’s skeelie.

  Owein smiled mechanically, as the girl he was dancing with giggled immoderately at the lame witticism he had just uttered. She was an accomplished dancer, and knew how to manage her skirts and her fan most gracefully, but Owein had never felt so bored in his life. He mustered another smile, and looked over the girl’s shoulder to the doors that stood open onto the terrace.

  Fireworks were shooting up from the garth of the Tower of Two Moons, showering green and crimson sparks into the sky. Owein gazed towards the tower, wondering what Fèlice w
as doing. He doubted she would be enjoying the midsummer festivities with the other students. Probably she was grieving quietly somewhere for her friend who she still thought was to be hanged.

  She was not in her room. Owein knew that, for he had gone in search of her, to tell her the glad news of the royal pardon his father was issuing on Rhiannon’s behalf. He wished he could have found her, and told her, but there had been so little time. He had to get dressed for the wedding, and sit through all the interminable rites and rituals, and suffer the boredom of the feast. All the time feeling sick with anxiety, for he knew how upset Fèlice had been at the judges’ verdict, and how much she had blamed him for not helping. All he had been able to do was leave her a message, begging her to meet him as soon as possible.

  The dance came to an end. Owein bowed gracefully, and led the giggling girl back to her mother. He would have liked to have made his escape, but the determined mama had no intention of allowing him to escape easily. He was suffering her very unsubtle hints about the suitability of her daughter as a possible wife, when a servant approached and bowed formally.

  ‘Excuse me, Your Highness,’ the lackey said.

  Owein turned at once, trying not to show his relief and gratitude.

  ‘Yes?’ Owein asked.

  The lackey drew him a little away. Owein did not recognise his face, but given the extra staff hired for the wedding, this was not surprising.