Dragonclaw (5 page)

‘Aye, it may be time for a journey to the ports,' Meghan said dreamily.

Isabeau's heart jumped with excitement. They had never ventured further away from the mountains than the highlands of Rionnagan. Isabeau had heard of the dangerous beauty of the sea, but she had never seen any water greater than Tuathan Loch at Caeryla. She hoped Meghan meant what she said. What an adventure! It would take months to reach the sea from their home, and they would have to travel half the country. She might see faery creatures, or sea serpents, or even visit the Rìgh's palace.

‘Bedtime, Isabeau,' Meghan said, getting stiffly to her feet and gathering up the dirty dishes.

‘But it's only early—'

‘Ye've been out on the mountain all day, remember. Ye can hardly keep your eyes open!' her guardian retorted, limping around the room.

‘But—'

‘No excuses, Beau. Bedtime.'

Reluctantly Isabeau bade the two witches goodnight and climbed up the ladder to her room, which was cold and dark. Faint light flickered up the stairs, but she did not bother to light a candle for her night vision was exceptionally good. She was able to see in the dark room almost as easily as she had out in the meadows that afternoon. Meghan had always said she could see like an elven cat.

In her cold little bed, Isabeau slowly stretched her legs, enjoying the chill of the sheets against her skin, and wondering about Seychella's unexpected appearance. Isabeau was certain it meant Meghan intended her to sit her Test of Powers. She would be an apprentice-witch, just as she had always longed to be. She smiled, imagining how she would impress the supercilious Seychella by passing the Test of Power with ease. She would make the black-haired witch's eyes pop out. She was still planning her triumph when Meghan clambered up the ladder and came and sat on the edge of her bed, as she always did.

‘Asleep, Beau?'

‘Almost. Meghan, did ye mean what ye said about travelling down to the sea?'

‘Indeed, I did. Things are afoot, and much as I am loath to leave our wee valley, if things are to go the way I wish, I must take a hand in the weaving. Now, go to sleep, Isabeau. It'll be a long day tomorrow.' With that tantalisingly cryptic remark, the old witch bent and kissed Isabeau on the forehead, between the eyes, as she did every night.

When Meghan was gone, Isabeau gave a wriggle of excitement and fell into a reverie of adventures and explorations, palaces and faeries. She had been feeling restless ever since the snow had begun to thaw and life again quickened all around her. She was often bored with their sedate life in the secret valley, where every animal was a friend and there was no-one to talk to except Meghan. Every season she looked forward to their forays into the mountains for herbs and semiprecious stones; even greater was her excitement when the two of them journeyed down into the villages to sell potions and love spells. Not that they did that very often or travelled very far. Isabeau had never been further south than the highland town of Caeryla, just beyond the Pass out of the mountains, and that had been eight years ago, when Isabeau had been only eight years old.

It had been the time of the comet then as well, for the Red Wanderer swung over Eileanan every eight years. The comet was thought an ill omen and so the Rìgh and Banrìgh had ordered national festivities to show their disdain for such superstitious nonsense. Meghan said, dryly, that their decision was wise, for the red comet always appeared in the days before Candlemas, a time when the people of Eileanan traditionally celebrated the end of winter and the coming of spring. All the decrees against witchcraft had not stopped the common people from observing the key events in the witches' calendar, and what one cannot stamp out, one should subvert to one's own ends, the old wood-witch said.

Isabeau had nodded, though she really had no idea what Meghan was talking about. She was far too interested in skipping along the street and looking all about her with wide-eyed interest. The streets of Caeryla were strung with coloured ribbons and flags, pots of flowers decorated every doorstep and the townsfolk were dressed in their finest clothes.

Minstrels strummed their guitars and sang of love, and jongleurs juggled coloured balls and did backflips, while performing bears nursed their sad heads. Isabeau had never seen anything like the jongleurs, who entertained the crowd with jokes and magic tricks, fire-eating, sword-swallowing and juggling, their bright cloaks covering tattered clothes. One was a young boy, thin and quick, who could turn along the road as quickly as a wheel. Isabeau was openly envious, hanging back against Meghan's hand to watch him. She thought she would like travelling from town to town in the gaudy little caravan, juggling oranges for a living. Meghan's hand was firm, though, and Isabeau was gently pulled away from the square with its bright swinging lamps and flickering shadows.

It was dangerous for them in the towns. This Isabeau understood. The Red Guards were everywhere, suspicious of strangers, and brutal in their dealings with suspected witches. Isabeau knew she must not play with the One Power or speak of it. She knew she must always be quiet and unobtrusive and never draw attention to them. When they entered a town, Meghan's limp became more noticeable, her body somehow more frail. She draped her plaid about her head so her long braid was concealed, her face half in shadow. In the towns, Isabeau discarded her breeches and dressed in grey wool, her hair covered by a linen cap—a model girl-child.

Isabeau was only eight, however. She had not yet learnt how to melt into a crowd so cannily that afterwards no-one could be sure whether or not she had been there. And with her unruly red hair and her bright blue eyes, it was not easy for Isabeau to pass unnoticed. But it was not Isabeau's striking colouring which was her downfall. It was her playing with the One Power. She and Meghan were staying at an inn in the centre of town. Because it was Candlemas, the streets were full of travellers come to dance the fire with other young people, and visit relatives and trade with the pedlars. Meghan said she was there to try and buy powdered foolsbalm, shepherd's spikenard, black hellebore, and maybe some murkwoad if by some chance a pedlar had some. Isabeau knew, though, that she also came to gather information, whether it be market gossip, the stories the jongleurs and minstrels told, or old books and manuscripts.

The inn was full of people. Meghan hunched in a chair by the fire, nodding over her knitting as bawdy jokes and tales of sightings of the lost prionnsachan rivalled the mournful tales of the highland crofters. At first Isabeau was tired from the long journey and the heat of the fire made her sleepy. However, after obediently eating a bowl of watery stew and resting her aching legs, Isabeau grew restless. Slowly she eased her body off the bench and began to creep away, only to receive a stern glance from Meghan that proved the witch was not really asleep. Isabeau pretended not to see it, of course, and knew the talk of trouble between the Rìgh and Banrìgh was too riveting for Meghan to leave. However, the glance was enough to keep Isabeau quiet and unobtrusive for a time. She wandered around the common room, listening to the minstrel strum his guitar as he sang of quests and magic swords, watching the maids flirt with the customers.

After a while she slipped out through the big doors into the courtyard behind the inn, where grooms and stable-hands rushed around unloading bags and boxes from coaches and carts, brushing down horses and carrying heavy buckets, water sloshing onto the bricks. In the centre of the courtyard a big stallion was causing an uproar, rearing and dancing about, grooms ducking to avoid hooves as big as dinner plates. Black as coal, Isabeau could see the red rims of his eyes and the red roof of his mouth as he whinnied. She was not frightened. She liked horses, and often rode some of the wild ponies that lived in the mountains around the secret valley. She had never tamed one, though, since the herds that inhabited the mountains were proud and wary of humans, no matter how well they spoke the language. Isabeau had learnt to speak with horses almost as soon as she learnt the language of the birds, for as Meghan said, horses often knew as much as their masters, if not more, and were usually happy to chat. This horse was angry, Isabeau could hear that, and also frightened. Her ready sympathy was stirred and she crept forward, looking up at the horse as he reared and plunged about. What she planned to do, she hardly knew, but before she had a chance even to reach up a hand to the horse's snarling muzzle, a strong arm whipped around her waist and she was swung out of the way.

‘Stable yards are no place for bonny wee lasses,' a laughing voice said in her ear, and she was thrown up into the air and caught. Isabeau squealed with pleasure. ‘Here, catch,' the man said and threw her over to one of his companions who caught her easily and set her down on the ground.

Rather rumpled and on her dignity, Isabeau turned back to see her rescuer moving forward easily to catch the stallion's halter, seizing one ear in his big hand. He was tall and very dark, and dressed in tight black breeches, a torn crimson shirt, and a leather waistcoat, his long black hair tied back from his face. Isabeau recognised him—he was one of the jongleurs that Meghan had not allowed her to watch earlier in the evening. The stallion had quietened at his first touch, but his eyes were still rolling and his hooves danced across the brick floor. Stroking the stallion's sweaty neck, the jongleur whispered a few words into the ear that he still held and gradually the stallion calmed.

‘He's good wi' horses, my da,' someone said with pride. Looking round, Isabeau saw the boy who could turn cartwheels as easily as she could run. His dark face was dirty and his clothes—a sky-blue embroidered jerkin over a frilly shirt that had once been white—were ragged. His thin legs were like sticks below the short, torn trousers, stuck into boots obviously far too large. Isabeau did not mind his ragged appearance—he had a mischievous face and black eyes that sparkled with interest as he looked at her in her demure grey dress and white cap.

‘What did he say to the horse?' Isabeau asked.

The boy's face clouded a little. ‘Och, just nonsense,' he said. ‘The words do no' mean much—it's the tone o' voice that matters.'

Isabeau was about to press the point, when she felt herself caught around the waist and swung up into the air again. She looked down into the jongleur's handsome face and laughed with delight as he tossed her up into the air. ‘Has your mumma no' told ye to keep away from a horse's hooves? They kick, ye ken.'

‘I ken about horses.' Isabeau protested. ‘I like them.'

‘Aye, but maybe no' all horses are nice horses,' he replied, laughing.

‘He was a nice horse, he just did no' want to be here,' Isabeau explained. ‘His new master is horrible.'

‘Is that so, lass?' the jongleur exclaimed. ‘And how would ye ken that?'

Isabeau immediately flushed with confusion. ‘I just ken,' she said lamely. ‘He looked like a nice horse.'

For some reason the jongleur found that funny, throwing back his head and laughing. ‘Well, my bonny lass, next time try no' to play right under a horse's hooves, no matter how nice the horse may be.'

He set her down on the ground and from somewhere about his clothes found some coloured balls which he juggled smoothly from hand to hand as he talked. ‘Run back to your mumma, now, lassie, she'll be missing ye. Come on, Dide, ye'd better be running home too. I'm going to find out what entertainment this sleazy inn can offer a handsome, young man like meself.' The balls disappeared as if by magic, and he strode off into the inn, followed by his companions.

The two children looked at each other, smiled and then, with squeals of laughter, began to play a scrambling game of chase and hide through the bales of straw and barrels and boxes which lined the courtyard and stables. It was the most fun Isabeau had had since she left the valley two months earlier. In fact, Isabeau felt it was the most fun she had ever had, since she had never had a playmate other than the beasts of the forest. Dide was quick and agile; he could walk on his hands and turn cartwheels without a moment's thought, and he knew so many funny stories that he had Isabeau helpless with laughter. Eventually they were chased out of the stables by the headgroom and, flushed and excited, ran back into the inn.

Tumbling through the door, Isabeau was immediately pierced by Meghan's black gaze, though the old woman seemed for all the world asleep in her chair by the fire. Isabeau skidded to a halt, suddenly conscious of her grey dress covered in dust and straw, her lost cap, her red curls tumbling out of their braids, the laughter and comments from the customers. Mortified, she crept back into a dim corner, tidying herself and trying to melt into the walls. That she was reasonably successful was shown by the return of the room's attention to the jongleurs, who were at a table in the corner playing dice with some of the customers—a fat man in a furred cloak, a tall, saturnine man with a squint, and a quiet man who hardly spoke. The minstrel had put away his guitar and was tucking into a big plate of stew, one hand around the waist of one of the maids, holding her securely in his lap.

The jongleurs' bright clothes and loud talk dominated the room, and Isabeau was able to compose herself without any more comment. Dide had crept into her corner with her, and she knew he did not want his father to realise he had not gone home as commanded. The two of them whispered and giggled together for a while, Isabeau careful to stay out of Meghan's sight.

It soon became clear the jongleur was winning, as he scraped piles of coins towards him with a laugh and a jest. ‘We'll eat tonight,' Dide whispered, and Isabeau turned to him in shock. Despite their isolation from the rest of the world, Isabeau had always had enough to eat. She looked at Dide's thin arms and legs, and the shadow of a bruise on his temple. Maybe travelling from town to town, juggling and telling stories, was not such an exciting way to live after all.

As the night wore on, Isabeau grew sleepy again, and she and Dide curled up together by the fire, watching the gamblers and listening to the minstrel as he softly began to play again. The jongleur's run of luck did not continue—soon he was losing again, and Isabeau watched in concern as the pile of coins slowly sank.

‘Well, that's enough for me,' the fat man in the furred cloak said, yawning and pushing back his chair.

‘Ye canna leave yet, man,' the jongleur laughed. ‘I still have some coins to lose.'

Isabeau was conscious of Dide's sigh, and was glad when the fat man shook his head and stood up.

‘C'mon, man, one more throw. I'll stake everything I have left against all o' yours.' The jongleur pushed forward his small pile of coins, idly flipping one up and down so it spun in the light.

The fat man was tempted. He watched the coin flash as it spun in the air, then nodded and sat back down again. ‘Only one throw, mind ye,' he warned, and the jongleur smiled and nodded, and tossed the coin onto the table.

The tension in the room mounted as the fat man emptied out his pouch so coins rolled across the table. He threw first and smiled with satisfaction as the dice came up with double banrìghs. For the first time the jongleur's face was shadowed. He cupped the dice in his hands for a moment, frowning; then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw. The dice spun in the air and fell, and leaning forward Isabeau watched them roll over the table and slow. It seemed as if the jongleur would lose so, without thinking, Isabeau pointed her finger and the dice rolled over one more time and settled on double rìghs. There was a sigh from all round the room. The jongleur laughed and swept up all the coins, and after a moment the fat man shrugged and walked away from the table. Isabeau settled back in her chair, conscious of Dide's puzzled gaze and the strong steady look of her guardian.

‘How did ye do that?' Dide whispered. Isabeau said nothing, just tried to look as if she did not know what he meant. The jongleur too was staring at her with a calculating look on his face, and with dismay she realised that the other player, the quiet man with grey eyes, was also leaning forward over the table to watch her. In confusion, she slipped back to Meghan's side and was caught close to her, tucked up in her plaid so no-one could see her.