“Over all the land,” said the Sidlesaghe, seeing the direction of Coel’s eyes, and the shock on his face. “In the mortal world so also do all the trees and grasses, as well as the beasts of field and forest, pay their respects.”
“How can I deserve this?” said Coel.
“Because you were born to it,” said the Sidlesaghe, “but also because you have earned it, first as Coel, then as Harold, and finally now, as you live this life.”
Coel shook his head, and they continued the climb in silence.
Just before Coel reached the top of the hill, the giants Gog and Magog loomed up before him, blocking his vision.
Coel stopped dead. “You stopped—”
“We had to,” said Magog. “Surely you understand that?”
Again Coel shook his head. “It is so hard—”
Long Tom now appeared at Gog’s shoulder. “Coel, if you wear the crown of the Realm of the Faerie, you must leave behind all your ties and promises to Eaving, as to the mortal world. Your first allegiance must be to the Faerie. Nothing else, nothing, must come first.”
“If you cannot accept this,” rumbled Magog, “then return to the world of the mortal, and to your dreams of Noah.”
Coel stood, hands on hips, head dipped a little, thinking. Leave behind his ties to Noah? Oh, that would hurt. For so long he had been tied to her, loving her, wanting to protect and aid her. Even more than the land, she had been his life…although he knew she would understand.
“Don’t you see?” said Gog softly. “Don’t you know you can help her more as the Lord of the Faerie than you ever could as Coel, or as the man you are in this life. The Lord of the Faerie will be her rock in the turmoil ahead. You can be her rock.”
Coel stood, still thinking. Eventually he raised his head. “I accept this for the Faerie,” he said. “Not for Noah, even though I know this decision shall aid her. But this is for the Faerie, and for the land. My first allegiance shall be to the Faerie, and to the land.”
As he said this, a great weight fell from his heart, and Coel knew he had made the right decision, and for the right reason.
All three of the creatures looking down at him grinned. Then Long Tom bowed, followed closely by Gog and Magog, and they all stepped back, affording Coel a clear view of the summit of the hill.
It was filled with the throng of the Faerie: Sidlesaghes and badgers, shadows and dapples, cavelings and sprites, sylphs and giants. All manner of creatures packed the grassy space, all with their faces turned towards Coel as he ascended the final steps to the flat summit, all eyes huge with elation.
As Coel finally set foot on the summit, every single one of them dropped to their knees in homage.
As they sank to their knees, so the sunlight strengthened over Coel, illuming him in a shaft of gold.
“This day is but a formality,” said Long Tom softly at Coel’s side. “You were, in truth, crowned that day you mounted Pen Hill to go to Caela. Do you remember?”
Coel nodded. “I was sick at heart and distraught, for I knew that death lay not far ahead of me. But even so, there was a great peace that came over my soul as I saw Caela. I thought she was my home.”
Long Tom gave a very slight shake of his head. “You were her home, and her lord,” said Long Tom. “You made her that day. Never forget it.”
There came a soft footfall behind Coel, and he looked, and smiled.
The reborn souls of Erith, Ecub, Matilda and Brutus walked up the hill, and were now but a few paces from him. Each looked about them incredulously, and each of their faces, as their eyes alighted on Coel, softened into delight.
“He is a king,” said Long Tom to them as they came to stand a pace away. “He is the Lord of the Faerie.”
Brutus stepped forward, and enveloped Coel in a warm hug. “I find myself most unsurprised,” he said. He leaned back from Coel, and his expression sobered. “This is glad news, my friend,” he said, “and it lightens my heart away from its sorrow.”
Coel nodded, knowing the man’s pain, and then accepted hugs from the three women.
“We shall lose you, shan’t we?” Ecub said.
Coel touched her cheek gently with his thumb. “Never,” he said. “Our bonds are too close for that.”
“Faerie Lord,” said Long Tom softly, “it is time.”
Coel turned from his companions of so many lives, and walked slowly forward. He looked around him, managing to catch, in turn, each individual creature’s eyes, even though they numbered in the tens of thousands. Then he looked towards the eastern aspect of the summit, and saw there the throne and the crown of twisted twigs and red berries on its seat.
He stared, then he slowly smiled. “I have been gone too long,” he said.
Long Tom’s mournful eyes filled with tears. “Aye,” he said, “for too long indeed.”
As he spoke, so did a copper-haired water sprite and a pale-hued caveling, the two creatures nearest to the throne, step forward. They took up the crown between them, and carried it solemnly to Coel. They stopped some three paces away from him, and held out the crown.
Coel dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.
As he did so, so the crown rose, unaided by any hand, and settled on Coel’s head.
The instant that it did, Coel’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing.
“There is something wrong,” he said. “Something foul and dark has blighted this land.”
Eight
Idol Lane, London
Weyland kept the four women in his house in Idol Lane during the three days it took Charles to reach London. Neither Frances nor Elizabeth were allowed to return to their tavern chamber to collect whatever they may have needed from their meagre belongings. Weyland kept them in the kitchen, allowing them only brief trips to the small privy in the side alleyway, and keeping either Jane or Noah at knife point during those trips to make sure whichever woman had gone to relieve herself also returned.
Weyland had been tense and anxious for days. Not merely because Charles was so close, but because he felt he’d left himself vulnerable after he had refused to allow the man to rape Noah, and when she’d then realised Weyland had been the one to heal her back. Since that day he’d barely spoken to her. He was determined, whatever else, to ensure that by the end of this day she would know her master.
The kitchen became a place of silence and a frightful, fearful anticipation. Frances and Elizabeth had no idea what was happening. They knew Weyland for a hard and sometimes cruel taskmaster, but of his greater being and mission they had no knowledge. Jane, normally composed and steady, became far more nervous in her demeanour. Noah was outwardly serene, but her abnormally pale cheeks and bright eyes betrayed her inner tension.
Of everyone, Catling was by far the most calm and collected. She spent her days sitting on a stool in the corner of the kitchen. She played almost constantly with a length of red wool, twisting it this way and that between her fingers. At night she bedded down without complaint, and slept soundly through the night. For the most part, Catling was so quiet that everyone forgot her presence for long lengths of time.
The women spent most hours of the day sitting around the table. Rarely were any words spoken. Certainly no one spoke of the approach of Charles. Frances and Elizabeth might not know the precise who of Charles, and why Weyland appeared so obsessed with him, but Jane had no doubt that they realised something terrible would occur when Charles did eventually enter the city.
What that terror might be, no one liked to think.
Unusually—for Jane, Elizabeth and Frances had grown used to his absences in his strange hidey-hole on the top floor—Weyland spent the greater part of each day with the women, and even checked on them four or five times during each night. His constant presence (or the constant threat of his presence) added yet further to the already overwhelmingly tense atmosphere. By the time the day that Charles was due to enter London dawned, each of the women was so highly strung that she would jump at every noise, however mundane its
source might be.
Beyond Idol Lane the excitement in London had grown to fever pitch by the 29th of May. Little work was done. London, as the entire realm, was waiting for its king with great anticipation. The streets were decked with flags and pennants featuring the royal standard, walls were daubed with colourful paint, taverns did a roaring trade (the only business, indeed, that thrived during this time of celebration) and, by the morning of the 29th, people thronged the streets, calling out to each other to ascertain if someone had heard news of when the king might enter the city, and which route through the city he would take.
No one doubted that Charles would indulge both himself and his people with a celebratory parade.
None among the throng had any idea of how much Charles dreaded the day.
“Charles?”
Catharine, like everyone in Charles’ court and considerable entourage, was dressed in her finest apparel; in her case, a stunning gown made of cloth of gold, studded with jewels and laced so heavily about bodice and sleeves that Catharine found it tiring to lift her hand for any length of time.
Charles wore only breeches and a doublet (to be complemented later with a hat), but, oh, those breeches and that doublet. The breeches’ material was black velvet, embroidered about waist and hip with golden threads and seed pearls. His doublet was of a stunning pure silver fabric, the finest lace seeded with rubies and diamonds at throat and wrists. It looked splendid even if, as Catharine knew, it was horribly uncomfortable to wear. From his left hip swung a golden sword, scabbarded in jewels and finery.
The expression on Charles’ face did not match the splendour of his clothes.
Charles and Catharine were alone for a few brief minutes before they joined the huge procession awaiting them outside the house. It was almost the only time they had to themselves this morning, for barely had they awoken before their bedchamber was filled with the bustle of servants and courtiers, set to prepare their king and queen for the great day.
“Charles?” Catharine said again, placing her hand gently on his arm.
“Something terrible shall happen today,” he said. “There is such a darkness over this land…”
“Noah will survive,” Catharine said. “She will. Weyland won’t kill her.”
“I can feel it,” Charles said, ignoring Catharine’s reassurances. “Something dark. Something malevolent. Damn it, Catharine, all I want to do is to sneak into London in disguise and—”
“You know you cannot do that. Weyland expects you to ride glorious and triumphant into London, and thus, this you must do. You must act out your part, Charles, or else—”
“I know, I know,” he said. “But, oh gods, Catharine, I—”
The doors at the far end of the chamber opened, and James and Louis entered the room, almost as splendidly dressed as Charles and followed immediately by a gaggle of velveted and gilded noblemen.
“Do what you must, Charles. Do it for Noah,” Catharine said hurriedly, then she stood back and put a smile on her face as the group reached them.
As she met Louis’ eyes, Catharine saw there the same terror she felt in Charles. Nausea suddenly overcame her, and she lowered her eyes away from Louis lest she lose what little breakfast she had taken.
“Majesties,” said the Earl of Clarendon, bowing deeply. “It is time to depart.”
“London awaits,” said Louis, and his eyes locked into those of Charles.
London awaits.
The tension inside the kitchen of the house on Idol Lane was palpable. Noah, Jane, Frances and Elizabeth sat at the table, each woman sitting with her hands resting flat on the wooden boards of the table top, each pale, each with eyes that flitted about the room, each listening to the dim roar of the crowds that throbbed in the streets beyond Idol Lane. Catling had retreated to a far corner of the kitchen.
Weyland leaned against the doorframe, his eyes never leaving the women. He appeared relaxed, but Weyland was as tense as everyone else.
He was also feeling torn. He knew what he had to do. Knew he had to do it. Charles had to be intimidated with the most powerful weapon at Weyland’s disposal, and that weapon was Noah.
Weyland knew he had to act fast, and he had to act decisively. He had to give Charles a very, very good reason to stay away from the kingship bands, and to behave himself until Weyland managed to get his hands on them.
“Today,” Weyland whispered very much to himself, “I hand to you that reason, Charles.”
Yet every time he looked on Noah his stomach knotted, and he silently cursed his weakness.
The procession which led King Charles II into London was almost twenty-thousand strong. It consisted not merely of Charles and his immediate household, but of several thousand noblemen, the bejewelled Lord Mayor and the aldermen of London, the ambassadors of a score different countries with their own personal trains, several hundred velvet-cloaked gentlemen from the London guilds, red-cloaked and silver-sleeved sheriffs’ men, courtiers, servants and livery men dressed in a uniformity of either purple or coats of sea-green and silver, as well as thousands upon thousands of horsed and foot soldiers who wore silver sleeves and scarves to complement their buff coats and shining helmets. Add to that the maidens who were to dance at the head of the procession, the jesters, the tumblers, the sword players and the dogs and children and stray pigs that would inevitably attach themselves to the procession, and all who thought of the logistics of the situation knew that it would take the king many long hours to wend his way from his entry via London Bridge through the ancient city and around the curve of the Thames into the precincts of Whitehall and Westminster.
The shouting began the instant word spread that the king’s horse had set hoof onto London Bridge.
The king was home!
“He’s back,” whispered Weyland, finally straightening in his doorway.
Jane and Noah glanced at each other, overcome with dread.
Weyland walked very slowly to stand behind Noah and Jane. He raised his hands, hesitated, clenched them as if to stop them trembling, then rested a hand on each of their shoulders, feeling their bodies go rigid. He truly only needed to do this to Noah, but Jane’s torment would be just as useful to him.
And besides, those imps would be more useful on the streets of the city than lurking within the women’s wombs.
“Brutus has returned,” Weyland said. “Listen to the roar of the crowds! Imagine the fuss, the excitement, the glory. But do you know what? Eh? Do you know the truth of this magnificent, mighty day?”
He waited for an answer and, receiving none, tightened his hands.
“What is the truth of this magnificent, mighty day, Weyland?” asked Jane in a wooden voice.
“The truth is that today Charles is going to learn just how helpless he is. He will—”
“Weyland, no,” said Noah, twisting slightly so she could look up at him. “Don’t do this, please. There is no need. Surely we can—”
Weyland’s face closed over. “Be silent! Are you truly saying to me you don’t want to rid your bodies of those black-hearted imps of mine?”
There was a terrible silence, both Noah and Jane hardly daring to breathe as their thoughts raced.
No, no, surely not…
At the end of the table, Elizabeth and Frances looked at each other, frowning. Imps?
Noah opened her mouth again, but before she could say anything Weyland’s hands tightened to excruciating claws on both her and Jane’s shoulders, and simultaneously both women screamed, arching their backs, then twisting and falling from their chairs to writhe in torment on the floor.
Weyland lifted his hands away as if he had been scalded, staring at the women. Finally he dragged his eyes away and looked at Elizabeth and Frances, both of whom had leapt back from the table in horror.
“Get some rags,” Weyland said to them. “Now!”
Nine
London
Charles felt it instantly, a river of pain running down the street towards him. He’d only just
crossed London Bridge and was moving slowly through the shouting and waving throng up Fish Street towards Lombard Street when Noah’s agony hit him with such physical force he groaned, and leaned forward in the saddle.
Almost instantly he straightened, managed with a herculean effort to put a smile back on his face, lifted a hand to wave to the crowd…and swivelled in the saddle of his white stallion, first seeing Catharine’s appalled expression as she sat in the coach immediately behind him, and then Louis’ haggard face as he sat his horse immediately behind Catharine’s coach.
They felt it, too.
James, who was riding his horse just to one side of the coach, wore nothing on his face but smiles and excitement, and Charles cursed him for his ignorance. This lack of empathy showed Charles as nothing else could have that the Stag God, land and Troy Game had spoken: James, once Saeweald, once Loth, had lost virtually all meaning in whatever battles lay ahead.
Another wave of agony hit Charles, and he winced, feeling his innards cramp in sympathy inside him.
Gods! What was Weyland doing?
He is welcoming you, said Louis in Charles’ mind, in his own special way.
Noah…Charles thought, and fought down his frustration that he could do little to help her.
Weyland would like nothing better than to have the king vault from his horse and tear his way through the street crowds, screaming for Noah…
I should have saved her, Louis said into Charles’ mind, and Charles blinked away tears for the guilt he knew Louis felt.
I should have saved her…
As Noah and Jane thrashed about on the floor, Weyland moved away several paces. He stared at them, his eyes wide, his face covered with a faint sheen of sweat.
Frances and Elizabeth huddled against the furthest wall of the kitchen. They clung to each other, too terrified to do anything but watch the horror being enacted before them.
Darkwitch Rising Page 31
