Spindle's End (29 page)

 

Rosie rested her chin on her hands, listening to the waiting silence. This is the only way, she told herself. We went over it and over it and over it—Kat and Aunt both said Ikor was right, it is the only way, and it gives us hope when there was none: because Pernicia had not been baffled or defeated, and all there really was to set against her, here at the final confrontation, was Rosie herself. Which was all there had been twenty-one years ago; all that Katriona and Aunt and Sigil and Ikor had been able to do was give her time to grow up.

It had been Ikor’s idea, of course. It took an outsider to see it, to suggest it; Ikor, who had been chosen by Sigil not only because he had been the twenty-first godparent and the bestower of the amulet, but also because he was the sort of person who saw what there was to see and the sort of fairy to shape it best to his purpose. Yet he had almost been undone by the knowledge of Rosie’s beast-speech; “It cannot be,” he said, over and over. “It cannot be.” This was the only time during that long night that Katriona laughed. “But it is,” she said. “Don’t you think—I have often thought—it is one of the things that has saved her this long? She has been as safe as ordinariness could make her: ordinariness, and that she talks to animals like a fairy. Better than a fairy.”

These had also been the only moments during that long night that Ikor had lost his ascendancy over them, as he repeated, “It cannot be.” They were, for another little while, a family, united against an invader. But Rosie could not hold to that memory, not sitting in a tower room in Woodwold the night before the princess’ birthday. What she remembered was the look on Kat’s face when she agreed to Ikor’s plan.

Often in the last three months Rosie recalled the voice she had heard the night of Ikor’s arrival:
I have found you at last! Found!
That she had not heard it again gave her no comfort; for she knew the truth behind the conspiracy. And tomorrow was the princess’ birthday.

Rosie remembered the look on Peony’s face as she stood in the doorway on that evening, the fox cub in her arms, contemplating them all—the animals wrapped round and flowing from the figure on the chair, the figure of Katriona’s cousin and Aunt’s niece and Peony’s best friend, who had just found out that she was a princess, a princess with a curse on her.

Everyone had fallen silent, and looked at the newcomer, framed by the wet twilight; there was a peevish mutter of wind. The firelight touched her worried face with gold, and set fire to her bright hair and the fox cub’s fur.

“I—I saw—from my window, and I came down. . . . He just—just jumped,” said Peony. The fox cub had turned over on his back, the better to bat at one of Peony’s long ringlets, fallen gracefully over her shoulder, with his forepaws, and looked perfectly content and at ease. “I—I thought he must have mistaken me for you, somehow, so I then had the excuse of bringing him to you. Rosie, are you all right? You look strange. Why are so many of your friends here? Is something wrong?”

“Mistaken you for her?” said Ikor. “Mistaken you for her . . .”

Peony turned to look at him, astonished. “I am Ikor,” he said, and bowed. He had not bowed before; he had spoken to the others directly, and had knelt to his princess. But to Peony he bowed, a beautiful bow, no less graceful for the swing of the curved blade at his side. That will be how courtiers bow, thought Rosie, and, as Peony gave him a bemused little curtsy in return, she thought, and Peony curtsies like a lady, even if she’s the niece of the wainwright.

And then Ikor had said, gesturing with the hand that did not rest on his sword hilt, “And this is Casta Albinia Allegra Dove Minerva Fidelia Aletta Blythe Domnia Delicia Aurelia Grace Isabel Griselda Gwyneth Pearl Ruby Coral Lily Iris Briar-Rose . . . your princess.”

Peony had gone pink and then white, and Rosie, both at the time and later in memory, had never understood why there had never been the least flicker of disbelief in her face. Peony heard and believed, and with a tiny “oh” she made her way through the seethe of animals and dropped down at Rosie’s side; but poor Rosie slid off her chair and sat on the floor, her free hand clutching at Peony’s free hand—the fox cub and Ralf showed signs of disagreeing with each other, and had to be held back—saying, “Don’t kneel! Kind fates, Peony, Peony,
please
don’t kneel!”

There was a clatter of hoofs outside, a heavy, purposeful clatter of ridden horses, and voices. Rosie knew one of the voices, one of the grooms from Woodwold. “They’ve come for Gorse and Fast,” she said, and Ikor nodded, and the owl that had been sitting on a shelf over his head stepped off it onto his shoulder. Rosie could feel Ikor asking for volunteers among the other birds—he didn’t exactly have beast-speech, but he was getting his point across—and there was a general rustle of reluctance among the smaller birds, and they were all smaller than the owl.
Fwab, you go,
said Rosie.
I’ll watch out for you.

Watch
what
out for me?
said Fwab.
From where you’re standing you can just about watch my tail feathers disappearing down someone’s gullet.
But he gave his wings a flap, sat down again long enough to peck her scalp sharply for old time’s sake, and flew to Ikor’s shoulder, stuffing himself as well as he could under Ikor’s ear.

Truce,
said Rosie to the owl.

Truce,
said the owl, amused.
I would not have come here were I looking for breakfast.

There was an inaudible mutter from Fwab, but he poked his head a little farther out from under Ikor’s ear, so he could get a good view of whatever was going to happen next.

The owl swivelled his head, and looked straight at Rosie with his wild yellow eyes.
I stay to do you honour, princess. I sit on this man’s shoulder because he says this will help you. You have a terrible enemy, princess. We feel her with this man, though he comes for good.

“Forgive me, small one,” said Ikor, “but an owl is so impressive,” and between his thumb and forefinger appeared a small seed, which Fwab, after giving it a dubious look with his left eye and a brighter one with his right, plucked up delicately and swallowed. He was just swallowing his second seed when the groom Rosie knew appeared at the doorway, shaking a dripping hat.

“His lordship’s compliments, but two of his lordship’s horses have seen fit to bolt off here—Rosie, what on earth’s up?” the groom added, gawping at the multitude; and then Ikor moved so as to catch his eye. The owl
was
very impressive, towering over him from its perch on his shoulder, the crown of its head brushing the ceiling; its pale tawny-grey colouring seemed meant to complement Ikor’s own. “Forgive me,” said Ikor. “I fear it is my fault.” He said nothing more, but the groom looked at the owl, and watched Fwab accepting several more seeds from Ikor’s fingers, and assumed—what Ikor meant him to assume.

Most of the rest of the mice had crawled up Rosie’s trouser legs, and two or three down her waistcoat, now that she was so conveniently sitting on the floor (and she had her arm so firmly round Ralf’s neck). Flinx was still purring, now pressed against Rosie’s side (having quelled Ralf with one look), but there was another owl, two kestrels and a merlin, and other cats; and mice were always happiest in the dark, with a low ceiling. Rosie had to stifle a growing compulsion to laugh, mostly at the terrifying absurdity of her situation, but as if the small scritchiness of mouse feet and whiskers were the last straw; and she clung to Peony’s hand (Peony, too, seemed to be having trouble with her breathing) and gulped at the bubbles of laughter.

“Indeed I was on my way to—hmm—ask an audience of his lordship when I was—hmm—when I chose to come here first. Perhaps you would be so kind as to give him a message that I will wait upon his convenience tomorrow morning?”

The groom had slapped his wet hat on his head again to answer this imposing stranger politely. A raindrop fell off the brim and ran down his nose; he sniffed involuntarily. “What name shall I say?”

“Ikor, Queen’s Messenger.”

Queen’s Messenger.
The animals murmured among themselves, and Rosie felt it against her skin like a draught, raising gooseflesh. She swallowed another bubble of frightened laughter, and hiccupped instead.

The groom’s glance brightened at once, and he gave a crisp bow. “Sir,” he said, and then the other groom appeared at his elbow and said aggrievedly, “They won’t
budge
. I’ve got their bridles on and everything and they just clamp their jaws and
stand
there.”

Rosie said hastily,
Go on, my friends. I’ll see you tomorrow.
I think.

But the horses did not move; Rosie heard the groom muttering and wheedling. Gorse said,
There is something very wrong, Rosie, princess. We have tasted it on the air, long time past, we have smelt it coming closer, looking, looking for something, like a bully his lost whip, like a wolf his dinner, not just looking but desiring, craving, must-having. Long before this short now, when this strange man comes, and says that it is you it looks for, because of this thing you are, and it will become the whip in the hand of the bully when it touches you. We all fear this hand. We fear this man, who brings the smell, and the desiring, with him, although it is not in him; he carries it, like harness, and that which laid the harness on him is not far behind him.

Rosie said bemusedly,
Perhaps you understand better than I do. Humans
talk
so much. We do not see or hear or taste or feel or touch nearly so much as we talk. I am deaf and blind and dull with it, I think.

The bigger the herd the safer,
said Gorse.
We do not wish to go. Sip and Mally—those who carried the grooms here—will join us if we ask them. I can call every horse from my lord’s lands, if you ask. There is not just one owl or one hawk in your big room—and they hunt alone—and there are mice and rabbits and small birds, in spite of them, who come also to you.

No,
said Rosie.
Go home. In this case the big herd only makes us visible, and we do not want to be visible. Go home. Please.

Gorse tossed his head in irritation, and Fast bit a piece off the warped shutter and chewed it, clanking his bit and throwing splintery foam. There was a yelp of protest from one of the grooms. After a moment Gorse said,
You are the princess. We know what this means. You should have the biggest herd of all.

Rosie said,
I don’t want to be the princess,
and she could feel laughter and more tears both struggling to get out, and she hiccupped again.

Gorse said gently,
I did not want to be my lord’s best stallion, to be led in front of men with cold eyes, to waste my time indoors so that I do not ruin the gloss of my coat, to be put to mares who do not know me nor I them. Fast did not wish to be able to run so that madmen would ask him to do it again and again and again. We are what we are. Some day I will no longer be able to mount the mares, and then I will have a little green paddock of my own with a few of my old mares who will no longer have foals, and I will stand in the sun till every hair of my coat is burnt dull dun. Some day Fast will no longer be able to run. We are what we are, princess.

Rosie said at random, because she did not want to listen to what he was telling her,
Horses do not speak as you are speaking to me. You sound like the merrel.

Gorse said,
We animals talk when we have need. This, now, what is happening, this is need for all of us. You do not expect a colt afraid of the blacksmith to tell you everything he knows; what need have you of it? It is only one colt, one fear, one blacksmith.

Rosie said slowly,
Fwab told me once that we humans live too long.

I
—said Rosie, but she had nothing to say.

Tell us again to go, and we will go,
said Gorse.
But remember who you are. And that if you have need of us, you must ask.

I will remember,
said Rosie. Her hiccups were gone.
Go. And I will come to you in your paddock, when you are old. We will come through this time, because I want to see you sunburnt and dusty.

She stirred, and found Ikor watching her. “I believe your horses will go with you now,” he said, and Rosie smiled faintly as the grooms bowed to him respectfully and disappeared from the doorway. There was a subdued tap of hoofs, and a faint smoky trail of disappointment from Fast, who had hoped for action, hoped for an enemy to trample or to outrun.
I will remember what Gorse says,
she said to his fading presence.
Remember I am not old yet!
Fast replied.

“Quickly now,” said Ikor. “Close the doors and windows!” Rosie, looking round, realised that she had been half aware that the beasts had been spreading through the house and finding places to settle down, for the night, for the companionship, for the news, to be near her, and (in many cases) out of sight of the villagers; and somehow Ikor had put this to them as well, that there was some last virtue in secrecy till they decided what they would do; this night, they were going to decide. And so there was a kind of patchwork quilt or carpet or drugget of animals upstairs and down, several sheep and a badger in Jem and Gilly and Gable’s room and a goat and twin kids in Katriona and Barder’s with a few geese; a small heifer and six otters, two hedgehogs and a dozen voles in Rosie’s; a fawn and its mum at the top of the stairs, and a stag, antlers conveniently shed only a few days before, at the bottom, rabbits on the landing, and a small bear in the shed with Poppy and Fiend and the chickens; and birds and mice (including a few sleepy dormice tucked behind the shutters) and cats and three dogs, several half-grown piglets, and a fox cub in the kitchen. Most of the robins were in Aunt’s lap, and Flinx was now in Katriona’s. The owl on Ikor’s shoulder had returned to its shelf, but Fwab had half tucked his head under his wing and was pretending to doze on Ikor’s shoulder, a pretense belied by the quiver that went through him every time Ikor gestured with the seed-producing hand.