Heart of Stars (21 page)

‘Two o’ everything, ye say?’ the wardrobe mistress was grumbling on. ‘Very well – though fitting out four boys in as many minutes is going to strip the cupboard bare. At least I dinna have to give ye court dress! And since ye’re no’ to be a squire but merely a cabin boy, I needn’t give ye a surcoat with the MacCuinn arms.’

Fèlice gazed regretfully at the long blue silk surcoats the wardrobe mistress folded away, wishing she had not said she was not really a squire. The next moment her arms were filled with a great pile of clothes, though, with two long grey cloaks laid on top.

‘And here are your badges,’ the woman said, unlocking
a small chest and taking out two badges which bore upon them the ensign of a golden stag upon a dark green background. ‘Take good care o’ these. They show ye are in the MacCuinn’s service. If ye lose them, ye’ll be sacked for sure!’

‘Thank ye!’ Fèlice cried, forgetting to lower her voice. The woman only smiled, obviously thinking Fèlice’s voice was just breaking. Fèlice ducked her head and turned to go, only to be called back by the woman who had drawn a thick ledger towards her and was dipping her quill into her ink pot.

‘No’ so fast, laddie!’ she said. ‘I need your name and the name o’ your friend afore ye go, and your authority.’

Fèlice gaped back at her, her brain for once refusing to respond. ‘Sorry?’ she said at last, trying to buy time.

‘Your name, lad! And who ye’ll be reporting to.’

‘Oh! O’ course. Well, my name is Phillip,’ Fèlice said. ‘Phillip, son o’ Landon, from Magpie Wood in Ravenshaw. And my friend, my friend is Max
…
Maxwell, son o’
…
Rafferty the cobbler, from Tullimuir.’

She could feel her cheeks getting hot, and cursed herself for her slow wit.

‘Interesting, we’ve just had another Rafferty from Tullimuir,’ the wardrobe mistress replied, writing laboriously. ‘No’ a name ye hear every day.’

‘Really?’ Fèlice said. ‘It’s a common name in Ravenshaw.’

The woman raised her eyes. ‘Ye all from Ravenshaw? Now that is interesting.’

Fèlice squirmed under her suspicious gaze, and did her best to look innocent and soulful. ‘Really? Why? There’s lots o’ us lads from Ravenshaw about, us no’ having our own Tower, ye ken, and it being too far for any o’ us to travel home now the Theurgia’s closed down. The school
is full o’ us, lounging around and doing naught. I guess the Banrìgh is just trying to keep us out o’ trouble.’

‘Good luck to her,’ the woman responded sourly, and sprinkled sand onto the wet ink. ‘Well, then, lad, off ye go, else ye’ll be missing that boat.’

‘Och, aye, I dinna want that,’ Fèlice answered, and hurried out of the room, conscious of sweaty palms, hot cheeks and a thumping heart. She could not help a big smile breaking out on her face, though, as soon as the door of the wardrobe shut behind her. She’d done it! With a little more luck, and hopefully a lot more wit, she and Landon would be on that boat!

Bronwen sighed, shuffled her papers, got up and went to the window, looking down on the fountain in the courtyard below. People were bustling everywhere, preparing for Iseult’s departure. Bronwen was stabbed with envy. What she would not give to be going to the sea! She clenched her teeth together, crushed her skirt between her hands, and paced back and forth. She hated Lucescere! No wonder her mother had made her father rebuild Rhyssmadill for her. Oh, to live within sight and sound of the sea!

A stifled groan escaped her.

Maura, the old bogfaery who had been her nursemaid ever since she was a little girl, looked up from her sewing.

‘Bron fidget-fadget all the time,’ she complained. ‘What wrong with my girl?’

‘I’m bored!’ Bronwen said. ‘And I’m sick o’ being Banrìgh. I’m sick o’ being in mourning. I’m sick o’ everything.’

‘Ye need some fresh air,’ Maura said. ‘Why ye no’ go
out for a ride? Pretty girl like ye shouldna be stuck indoor all day with her head in books and papers. Go out, gallop, have some fun. Then ye feel better.’

‘Maura, ye’re a treasure!’ Bronwen smiled at her. ‘Will ye send that page o’ mine to ask Neil to bring the horses round?’

‘Anything to save my poor auld legs,’ Maura said and got stiffly to her feet, sighing as she limped over to the door and spoke to the page, who was sitting just outside. Joey went running off to do her bidding and the old bogfaery came stumping back to help Bronwen change.

Standing, she only came up to Bronwen’s waist and the Banrìgh had to bend low to embrace her. Maura patted her back affectionately. Her leathery hand was black and covered all over with ripples of fur, and her round black eyes were very bright.

‘Do I work ye too hard?’ Bronwen asked anxiously. ‘Neil was only saying yesterday that I should have a proper lady’s maid. Would ye like that? If I got some lass to do the hard work, I mean, and give ye a bit o’ a rest.’

‘That Cuckoo, he thinks he kens all, but he kens naught,’ Maura said grumpily. ‘He says this, he says that, and ye jump, jump, jump. He no’ your husband, lassie, and he no’ your lover. Ye be careful how much say ye give him over ye.’

‘Och, Maura! Do no’ be silly. It’s Neil jumping about all over the place for me. I have to be careful no’ to let him work himself to the bone.’ Bronwen turned around so Maura could unlace her black silk dress. ‘I do no’ think he’s slept more than a wink this past week. Why, it was past midnight when we finished up last night, and he was at the Council table at breakfast. That’s more than I can say for half the Privy Council!’

‘Ye tell that Cuckoo ye need a new lady’s maid like
ye need a hole in the head,’ Maura said. ‘The nerve o’ that boy!’

Bronwen smiled to hear Neil called by his childish nickname, and stepped into the riding dress that Maura held out for her, standing still as the bogfaery buttoned her up.

‘How come ye stayed here in Lucescere instead o’ going back to Arran?’ she asked curiously, never having thought to wonder about this before. Bogfaeries were native to Arran, and Maura had been born there, her mother Aya nursemaid to Neil’s father, Iain, when he was a boy.

Maura snorted. ‘That Tower o’ Mists, it too filled with ghosts and bad dreams for me,’ she answered. ‘Besides, ye were my girl. Ye think me just say bye-bye and go, and leave ye all alone? Hmmphf!’

She would have been all alone too, Bronwen realised, with her mother a mute servant of the witches, and her uncle never quite learning to trust her, let alone love her. There had been Donncan and Neil, of course, vying for her affections all through their childhood and adolescence, and Isabeau, who had been more of a mother than an aunt to her, practically raising her from a babe, and looking out for her all of her life. But Isabeau had been the Keybearer, with a whole Coven to take care of, and certainly unable to give her the concentrated love and attention Bronwen had longed for. Without Maura to fuss about her all her life, and bring her hot chocolate in bed, and brush down her dresses for her, Bronwen’s life would have been much lonelier.

‘Aye, aye, I miss the marshes at times,’ Maura mumbled as she combed out Bronwen’s hair and pinned it up for her again. ‘But no’ that tower, oh no! Ye stay at that tower too long, ye get sick, ghosts start walking in
your skin. Aye, aye, we ken, we bogfaeries do. We see. Ye should listen to your auld nursie, Bronny-lass, and watch out for those ghosties.’

Bronwen was amused. ‘Donncan said he had nightmares the whole time he was there too,’ she said. ‘The air must be bad.’

‘Bad air, bad dreams, bad people,’ Maura said.

‘No’ any more, surely,’ Bronwen said. ‘Why Iain o’ Arran is an auld dear, really, and Cuckoo’s an absolute sweetheart. I must say his mother’s no’ my favourite person on earth, but apart from having an odd taste in religion, there’s no harm in her. That pastor o’ hers, well, he gives me the creeps, no doubt o’ that, but he’s no’ from the Tower o’ Mists, strictly speaking.’

‘Ye just watch out for them ghosties, missy,’ Maura said, and stood back to survey her charge, who was looking very dashing in a dark blue riding dress that, although it covered her from chin to wrist to boot-toe, was fitted so closely to her body it was almost scandalous. Bronwen had not had time to have a new, more demure riding dress made, nor, if she was to be truthful, the inclination. It was a very beautiful costume.

By the time Bronwen was dressed and ready to go, Joey was waiting excitedly for her outside her bedchamber, with her riding crop and tall hat in his hands. One of Bronwen’s bodyguards, Dolan the Black, fell in behind her as she made her way down the stairs, the tail of her skirt looped up over her arm. Joey bounded just behind her, carrying her gloves, hat and whip reverently.

Neil was waiting for her out in the forecourt, holding the reins of Bronwen’s white palfrey and his own handsome bay, while a few other lords and ladies waited nearby for Bronwen to appear before mounting. It was a fine, crisp day, and the breath of the horses puffed out
white. Since most riding costumes were soberly made anyway, none had been dyed black and so it was a relief to the eye to see rich russet-reds, forest-greens, pearl-greys and autumn-browns instead of the unrelenting black that had met Bronwen’s gaze day after day. The only black to be seen was the two pillars of Elfrida and her pastor, who were taking a promenade together around the forecourt and frowning with disapproval at the high spirits of the courtiers, all of whom were glad to be escaping the monotony of a court in mourning, if only for an hour.

Just as Bronwen was preparing to be thrown up into her saddle, a large party of people came out of the palace and at once came over to speak to her. It was the MacAhern and his family, who were riding for Tìreich that afternoon. Each was followed by only one servant carrying a few small packs, which made Bronwen open her eyes wide in amazement.

‘My heavens! Is that all ye’ve got!’ she exclaimed. ‘I swear, if I was coming to visit ye in Tìreich I’d have ten times as many chests as that, just for me.’

‘We like to travel light,’ the MacAhern said.

‘We do no’ have need of much,’ his wife said with just the faintest trace of scorn in her voice.

‘A horse, a swag, and away we go,’ Hearne MacAhern said cheerfully, grinning at Bronwen. She could not help smiling back. She knew Hearne well, of course, since he had been one of her uncle’s squires and so around the royal court a lot.

‘Is this your new filly?’ the MacAhern said, eyeing Bronwen’s palfrey with an experienced eye. ‘She’s a pretty piece. How does she run?’

‘Smooth as silk,’ Bronwen said proudly. ‘Neil got her for me.’

She smiled with pleasure as the MacAhern, the
acknowledged lord of horses, ran his hand down her mare’s flank and nodded approvingly as the palfrey danced away, curving her neck and tossing her mane.

‘She’s got spirit,’ the MacAhern said

‘I told the man I was wanting a horse for the Banrìgh and he tried to sell me an absolute slug,’ Neil said with a laugh. ‘He could no’ believe I’d risk Bronny’s neck on a spirited mare like Snowfall. I was adamant, though. I said, if I buy her that flat-footed, sway-backed beast, she’d make me ride her! I daren’t risk it.’

As everyone laughed, Bronwen saw that a sulky-faced young man with a shock of fair hair was watching disconsolately from the steps. It was Fymbar MacThanach of Blèssem, another of the Rìgh’s former squires. Like Hearne MacAhern and Barney MacRuraich, his court duties had ended with Lachlan’s murder and his family were eager to take him back home with them, at least until the assassin had been found and punished, and life at court seemed safe once again.

She waved at him and smiled, and he beckoned her over.

Bronwen sighed, being impatient to get away for her ride, but she excused herself politely and moved over to where he stood, his arms crossed over his chest.

‘Hey, Fymbar, how are ye yourself?’ she asked. ‘I have no’ seen ye in days.’ She spoke warmly, sympathetic to the young man who must be fed up at being tied to his mother’s skirts all the time. The NicThanach of Blèssem had not let her precious son and heir out of her sight for a moment.

‘Nay, ye’ve been too busy with your Cuckoo,’ he said sarcastically.

Bronwen frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.

Fymbar was nursing a strong sense of injured pride.
The only son in a family of five, he had been petted and pandered to all his life by his powerful mother and four loving sisters, and he was not used to not getting what he wanted. Well, he had wanted Bronwen ever since he had first come to the palace, and yet she had never done more than laugh at him and send him to get her drinks while she flirted with someone else. He had been prepared to stand nobly aside for Donncan, knowing how important their marriage was strategically, but he had no intention of being tossed aside for Neil of Arran, who was a blackguard for endeavouring to seduce his best friend’s wife in the first place. So, even though Bronwen’s face and voice should have warned him to be quiet, he plunged on nonetheless.

‘For shame, my lady,’ he said. ‘Your uncle no’ a fortnight dead and your husband missing, Eà kens where, and ye amuse yourself with his best friend. It’s no’ worthy o’ ye
…
’

Bronwen had lost all the colour and animation that the prospect of an hour’s freedom from the palace had given her.

‘How dare ye!’ she cried, then remembered to lower her voice. ‘How dare ye insinuate that I have been unfaithful to my husband, and to the Crown,’ she hissed. ‘I have done naught but my best to govern this country since the role was thrust upon me so forcibly at Midsummer. Ye think I have time or energy for dalliance? Ye are a fool, and a dilettante. Ye think a country this size runs itself? Ye think I am but a puppet, that signs the papers put afore me without even glancing at them? Ye wrong me, sir! I have spent every waking hour since my husband disappeared trying to find him and bring him back, and doing my best for him while he is gone. And Neil has been my prop, my support, all this time, the best and
dearest friend that either I or my husband could have. Ye owe me an apology, Fymbar, and him one too!’

She was close to tears, her breast heaving, while he was scarlet with anger and shame.

‘Me, apologise to a MacFóghnan!’ he cried. ‘Never! Do ye no’ ken they canna be trusted? Ye’ve been duped, Bronwen. He plays ye for his own ends, and ye dance to his tune. Do ye no’ ken all that clan are like snakes in the grass? Our lands have marched side by side for centuries, and we have learnt to our cost that–’

‘One does no’ touch a Thistle without pain,’ a very soft, sneering voice said at Bronwen’s elbow. She jumped as if stuck by a pin, and spun around, only to see Elfrida and her pastor standing right behind her. They must have heard every word.

Elfrida was standing very straight, with one hand pressed to her chest. She wore a very large black ring, Bronwen noticed, carved with the thistle crest of the Arran clan. She was smiling at Fymbar, who shrank back, his words dying in his throat.

‘Ye would be best to remember that, young Fymbar,’ Elfrida said. ‘Touch no’ the Thistle.’

No-one said anything.

Elfrida laughed.

‘Shall we walk on, Your Grace?’ the pastor said, offering her his arm. He was tall and thin and angular, with fine blond hair cropped close to his skull, a pointed chin, and a high-bridged nose that he carried very high all the better for looking down it.

Elfrida put up her hand and caressed the thistle seal ring. ‘Aye, it’s so pleasant to feel the sun after so many days o’ snow,’ she said. ‘I’m sure ye must agree, Your Majesty.’

‘Aye,’ Bronwen said stupidly.

Elfrida laughed again and walked on, her full skirts
swaying beside the narrow robe of the pastor, like a black poppy drooping from a black stem.

Bronwen turned back to Fymbar. ‘If ye ever speak to me like that again, I will have ye charged with treason and thrown in the tower,’ she said, very low. ‘If ye were no’ such a young fool, and if we had no’ been friends for years, I would do so now.’

All his bravado had shrivelled away. ‘I
…
I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘It’s just
…
’

‘Neil has done naught to dishonour himself or me,’ Bronwen said. ‘He is the Rìgh’s true friend. I bid ye remember that, and try to be as good a friend to me as he is.’

She thought Fymbar might cry at that. Certainly there was a choke in his voice as he tried again to apologise. Bronwen did not wait to hear him out. She turned and walked back to the group still talking and laughing by the fountain, most of them thankfully unaware of the odd little scene by the steps. Neil, however, had noticed something. His eyes questioned her as he threw her up onto her mare, and she smiled at him reassuringly. She saw the way he turned to look anxiously at his mother, who had resumed her promenade as if nothing had happened.

Bronwen, too, pretended nothing had happened. In a way, nothing had. It had just been so disquieting, the way Elfrida had laughed. And certainly it was odd to hear her speak as if she was the Banprionnsa of Arran, and not its neighbour, Tirsoilleir. Her family motto was ‘From Strength to Strength’, and her badge was a hand wearing a sword. Bronwen found it most peculiar to see her wearing the MacFóghnan thistle, and quoting Arran’s family motto instead of her own. Puzzling over it occupied her thoughts all through the ride and back again, until Neil brought his horse up beside hers and asked her, with a troubled expression, if all was well.