Authors: Cherry Potts
‘With Brede. Brede and you, Brede and Tegan: you are all – very –’
‘Brede’s sister is dead,’ Sorcha interjected swiftly. ‘She holds Tegan somewhat responsible, and Tegan likes her well enough to mind.’
‘A sister? Why did I not know about this?’
‘It wasn’t relevant.’
‘But it is more than relevant to you?’
‘I’d like the time to be able to comfort Brede.’
‘Does she want your comfort?’
‘Yes.’ Sorcha said very quietly. Jealousy burnt through Grainne. She shook her head.
‘There is no time yet,’ she said, shamed by her anger, her jealousy, but unwilling to resist it. ‘I should have been told, Sorcha – family is always relevant.’
Tegan tried to catch Brede’s eye. Brede refused to see. Maeve caught the longing in Tegan’s seeking gaze and snarled under her breath, ‘Can’t you see she’s not interested?’
Tegan turned on her.
‘The sister’s dead. Can’t you find any understanding?’
Maeve considered carefully, first Brede’s misery, then Tegan’s anxiety.
‘No.’ she said at last, and set off down the stairs.
Sorcha lay beside Grainne, once more keeping her from the cold, and Brede waited, and waited, not able to sleep, not able to keep her mind from dwelling where she did not wish. Falda whispered into her brain, and Jodis’ warning, and the unknown child somewhere in the city, wearing a chain about her neck. Brede kicked off the blankets in a sudden fury and paced about the chamber, then reckless and deeply frowning, hauled open the door, to prowl the outer chamber, her head tilted for sound from Grainne’s bedchamber. Round and round she went, cat-footed, but fierce with anger and possessed of a darkness she hadn’t known before, that she both feared and welcomed.
Sorcha listened to Brede’s circuit of the outer room. She felt the air stir, and raised her head.
Brede stood in the doorway, one hand pressed against the wards. She was shadowy, light catching at the collar and sleeve of her shirt, a tangle of half braided hair across her shoulder.
Sorcha couldn’t see her expression but as she turned her head, moonlight carved a momentary curve of chin, neck, shoulder and Sorcha drew in her breath and glanced quickly at Grainne. The Queen’s eyes flickered.
Go? Don’t go?
Sorcha couldn’t tell; she glanced away and Brede was gone from the doorway.
Sorcha threw back the blankets and shrugged into Grainne’s discarded mantle. Grainne made no murmur and Sorcha almost scurried to the door.
Brede stood with her back to Grainne’s bedchamber, turning her head slowly from side to side, seeking out the breath of movement, the stirring she could sense but not place.
A soft, heavy cloth-on-wood sound, a slight coolness in the stifling heat. She slid her foot forward, there; she could feel a draught on her bared instep. A hanging swayed, the edge caressing the floor in soft movement.
And why should it? Cautiously she pulled the hanging back and found a door, a door with the key in the lock.
Sorcha’s breath jolted in her chest. She had forgotten that door existed. Brede swung round, her hand still clenched in the cloth of the hanging.
‘Where does this lead?’ she asked softly.
‘The roof.’
Brede turned the key: not stiff, as she had expected.
‘Who has oiled this lock?’
The door opened inward and moonlight cascaded in. Brede blinked.
‘I did, when I first got here, and thought I might be short of air once in a while.’ Sorcha said softly. ‘So short of air I’ve been, I forgot all about it.’
‘Is it secure?’
‘There is nothing up there but an empty chamber, and above that the roof to this tower. There is no way down to other parts of the building.’
‘So it is unguarded?’
‘Completely.’
Sorcha reached an arm about Brede, pulling her close, feeling skin heat through the shirt that was all she wore. Almost without thinking her hands curved and caressed and she bent her head, leaning her mouth to Brede’s neck. Brede shivered and turned to meet the questing lips with her own, turned, to reach out, to hold and explore.
Silent, concentrated, Brede heard Grainne stirring in the next room. She pulled away slightly, taking firm hold of Sorcha’s wrist and led her through the door, pulling it closed and locking it. Sorcha followed her up the short curving flight of stairs to the outer door, which stood open to the sky. Brede closed it behind them, wondering briefly why it was open. Sorcha once more enfolded her in her arms; hands sliding across the surface of shirt, catching in it, taking it with her fingers, sure swift movements and the hands were touching flesh. Brede pulled away suddenly.
‘What are we doing?’
‘Making love on the roof?’
Sorcha glanced about her. The roof sloped gently up to its ridge, a narrow walkway separating it from the defensive parapet inset with arrow slits.
There was only the one door, and Brede held the key.
Sorcha positioned herself cautiously, back to the stone tiles of the roof, one knee hitched up to keep balanced.
‘I’ve never been anywhere so uncomfortable,’ she said. ‘There isn’t room to stand or sit or lie.’
Brede stretched awkwardly beside her, and scanned the stars.
Sorcha turned and watched the rise and fall of Brede’s chest, sharp fast breaths – the key still gripped tightly in her fist.
She reached and smoothed the half-unbraided hair and followed her fingertips with her mouth. Brede turned her head away. Sorcha tasted hot angry tears, she rolled closer, pressing her body against Brede, wrapping them both in the heavy folds of Grainne’s mantle, licking the tears away, tracing the folds of her eyes, lashes, lids, brow, with the tip of her tongue. The rhythm of Brede’s breathing changed, no longer harsh and contained, now ragged with open weeping. Sorcha moved her mouth to still the trembling, smother the sobs, catching Brede’s lower lip between her teeth briefly. Brede sighed, a deep gust of released tension. Her hands tangled in Sorcha’s, holding her still, the key hot metal between their joined palms. She returned the kisses with an urgency and tender seriousness that had Sorcha shamed.
‘This isn’t a game,’ Brede said softly.
‘No,’ Sorcha agreed. ‘I see that.’
‘I want you,’ Brede said, half amazed at how easy it was to say, ‘but you are not free.’
Sorcha moved her head sharply, more protest than denial.
‘You are not,’ Brede repeated fiercely. ‘And I do not know how to be how I feel – if I could take off my skin and wrap it about us both and be one with you, I still wouldn’t be close enough, and I know you don’t feel the same.’
Sorcha shook her head.
‘My skin is wrapped around Grainne, but not – I am not free, but not the way you mean. If I could, I’d be with you, as close as you want, but not like this, not stealing kisses on the stairs, not fumbling like adolescent virgins. I want this to be –’
Sorcha stopped, shocked at the word forming in her mind.
‘To be … ?’ Brede asked.
‘Permanent?’ Sorcha whispered. Brede’s breath had all but stilled. ‘This is all I have to offer for now. If it is not enough, I will understand.’
Brede gripped the key tightly, and couldn’t look at her.
‘I quite enjoy the fumbling,’ she said, but there was no strength behind her attempt at humour. She cleared her throat, ‘But no, it isn’t enough.’
‘So I should let you alone to find someone with more to offer?’
‘No.’ Brede’s denial came fast and anguished.
‘What then?’
Brede shook her head, not knowing the answer.
‘This is different. With Tegan, I knew how far it could go, how much she would allow me, how committed she was to Maeve; and whether I was prepared to settle for what I could get. I wasn’t, so I did not begin. I kept silent, I knew she knew, but so long as I said nothing, did nothing, we were both safe. And she was a way out of the Marshes. It wasn’t easy but it was possible. With you I feel like – like I started the second I lay eyes on you, there is no keeping silent, no holding myself separate, it’s too late already.’
‘What has started?’ Sorcha asked, confused, and wanting to understand.
‘Knowing, wanting – Goddess, Sorcha, can you really not know? I feel as though – I’m walking the edge of a precipice, following you – and you are dancing along it sure of your footing, and I’m stumbling, learning how to find my balance. I can’t live like that.’
She pushed herself up from the tiles, wobbling as she found her balance and turned to the door. She sighed heavily.
‘Grainne will have missed you by now.’
Sorcha watched her disappear into the darkness of the stairwell, and lay a few seconds more staring at the velvet glory of the night. Then she scrambled to her feet and followed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Phelan placed his flask carefully on the table, and pulled off his gloves. He turned to Grainne and grinned.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘As ready as I can be. You know this can never be an entirely happy anniversary for me.’
‘Well, we’ll drink to your health, congratulate you on the anniversary of your birth,
and
warm you against the rigours of a day under the eyes of the populace.’
He reached for the flask, breaking the wax seal, and looking about for cups. He raised a questioning eyebrow to Brede. Brede looked anxiously at Grainne,
‘Lady? Should you drink?’ she asked.
‘Certainly. That flask comes direct from my next-kin’s own cellar, and the seal has been broken in my presence.’
‘Or is it that you think the Queen should go about her most difficult day sober?’ Phelan asked. Brede smiled politely, and fetched two glasses from a cupboard. She stepped back, but Phelan shook his head.
‘You pour it, since you are so concerned – make sure I have dropped nothing into my cousin’s glass.’
Brede took up the flask and poured. The wine smelt wonderful.
‘You choose the glass,’ Phelan suggested, ‘and hand it to – not going to taste it?’ he asked as she passed the glass to Grainne.
Brede bit her lip. She glanced questioningly at Sorcha, who was immobile at Grainne’s side, whispering a breath of song, and paying very little attention to Phelan. Brede turned to face him.
‘Only if you don’t.’ she said, waiting for Grainne’s admonition. Phelan shook his head as Grainne laughed. He lifted his glass and drained it in one mouthful.
‘A waste of good wine to drink it like that, especially when it is the Queen’s midsummer gift from her next-kin,’ he observed, pouring another glass.
Grainne raised the glass to her lips, and took a careful sip. She sighed.
‘You can’t have much of this left, Phelan, even in your remarkable cellar.’
He shook his head and took a mouthful of the wine, letting it sit on his tongue, testing the fine balance of flavours. At last he swallowed, and replied.
‘The best of the vintage from before the drought. That wine was bottled in the year of your birth. I have only two bottles left after this one. What will I have to tempt you with after they are gone?’
‘Tempt me?’
Phelan put the glass down beside the flask. His eyes strayed to Brede, then Sorcha. Their presence was of no importance.
He went to Grainne and settled on his knees at her side. He took the glass from her hand and held the tips of her fingers between his palms.
Sorcha stilled her song.
‘I am your majesty’s loyal servant,’ he began.
‘Phelan, don’t –’ Grainne protested.
‘I am my aunt’s loving next-kin,’ he continued, his smile fading, and the twitch beneath his eye once more evident. ‘I am yours body and soul to do with as you please, and I beg your Majesty,’ he hesitated, and looked up into Grainne’s face; ‘I beg Her Majesty to consider me her hand-mate and consort.’
Grainne pulled her hand gently from his grasp.
‘No Phelan. You know it is impossible.’
‘Ailbhe is dead. You said yourself only two days ago that you are beyond child-bearing. You are about to name Lorcan as your heir, what possible harm could there be now?’
Grainne shook her head.
‘Every year,’ she said wearily. ‘Every year since Aeron died you have asked me this. Every year I have refused you. Why do you continue to torture yourself?’
Phelan shook his head and rose. He recovered his wine and passed Grainne hers.
‘Drink,’ he said, ‘drink in memory of my sister the Queen, whose death changed everything. Drink in memory of who we might each have been. Drink in celebration of your birth, Grainne; and in celebration of your fifty-eighth year.’
Grainne drank, and Phelan watched, then tossed off the remains of his glass.
‘Well, the festivities are about to commence. Will you permit me to escort you?’
He went to the small table beside Grainne and lifted the crown. He held it, frowning.
‘A pretty thing, isn’t it?’ he said as he gently placed it upon her head.
Grainne reached up for his proffered hand and stood. As she did so, a wave of unexpected giddiness hit her. Her grip tightened, and Phelan’s other hand took her weight; a sudden, protective reaction. Sorcha stepped forward. Grainne waved her away.
‘You were wise to warn me of the weight of these ceremonial robes. I am well now. The general may escort me down the stairs.’
Sorcha waited until Phelan was a little distant then started up her murmur of song once more, slowing the notes and syllables until no-one, apart from Grainne, would hear anything but a meaningless hum.
Eachan had found a truly magnificent horse for Grainne. Brede approved his choice, and he saw the admiring and envious glance she shot the beast as he helped Grainne to mount. Brede found an excuse to stroke the animal’s neck, fingers searching for the tattoo. Eachan saw the furtive movement, and nodded to her. She stepped away, glancing up at Grainne as the Queen gathered the reins together and smiled indulgently at Brede.
‘Will she do?’ she asked.
‘Bred for a Queen,’ Brede said softly. ‘Jodis has been back then?’ she asked Eachan.
‘Doran was honoured to sell the best horse in his stable for the Queen’s use. Your sister bred him.’
Brede mounted, unaccountably disappointed.
‘Had he been one of Jodis’ breeding, she might be nearer freedom,’ she commented. Eachan sighed.
‘I tried. Jodis chose him. I can’t force the woman to see to her own.’
‘I beg your pardon, Eachan.’
Eachan smiled. Brede laughed.
‘I mean it.’ She turned her horse and joined the group waiting at the gate.
The horses stirred eagerly at the murmur of an expectant crowd out in the streets. Guida’s ears stretched forward in curiosity, the gates swung open, and the murmur swelled into excitement.
Brede was taken aback at the sheer size of the crowd, she had not realised so many people lived in the city. She glanced anxiously at the other riders in the procession, a quick survey of the horses, checking for any adverse reaction. No cause for concern there. Her eyes switched to the crowd. She scanned the faces, uncertain of what she was looking for. Guida settled into the pace, and Brede felt an odd sense of cohesion, as though the horses and riders were an entity, not a group of disparate individuals. It was a feeling that belonged on the plains; that belonged to the herd, to following the wind – not to this artificial, cautious control.
Eachan followed the procession on foot, pushing through the crowd with ease born of the authority in his movements, and the green cloth of his coat. Being no part of the honour guard, nor involved in the guarding of the tower, he felt at leisure, a feeling he did not entirely trust. So Eachan joined the crowd, an onlooker, a listener to the timbre of the murmuring shifting populace of Grainne’s city. And what he heard was surprise, and hope. He slowed his purposeful progress and listened more carefully, to be sure; and for the first time was aware of the laughter in the crowd – good-natured banter between neighbours, and sensed a release from tension about him. The crowd was telling him,
all will be well. So
, he thought,
Grainne was right to risk this.
Her presence was a reassurance, they could see for themselves that she was alive, even fit, after so long hidden by rumour and fear. He wondered how the mood would change when Grainne reached the square, and told her citizens what she proposed.
Still, hope was a balm to anxiety, and Eachan was almost happy, out in the sunlight and the cheerful buzzing of a crowd in holiday mood. And so, when he saw a horse he recognised on the edge of the crowd in the square he was pleased. The horse was tethered, its rider nowhere within view. Eachan glanced about, looking for the Plains woman with the tattoo. He shrugged, and worked his way to a raised walkway on the narrowest side of the crowd, that green coat silently finding him a place where he could see the spectacle over the heads of those nearer the action. He had been standing there a few minutes when he heard his name called from somewhere back in the crowd; he turned awkwardly in the crush and saw Jodis. He reached towards her, grabbing her reaching fingers, and pulled her through resisting bodies to stand crushed beside him; too close for comfort. They elbowed more room, Jodis laughing, Eachan with a foolish grin on his face. The edge of the stone paving crumbled under Jodis’ foot and she slipped. Eachan steadied her. Jodis craned her neck to see whether her footing was safe, and crouched awkwardly, her back against the roof support, to pick up the loose stones.
‘Here,’ she said to Eachan handing him a small flint, ‘a souvenir.’ She pocketed a couple more flints and turned to face him, trying to stop their bodies actually touching.
‘So,’ Eachan said, ‘what brings you out in this crush?’
‘Not any desire to see the Queen,’ Jodis murmured mockingly, ‘my master is here, decked out in his finest, hoping to attract attention.’ She pointed out Doran, in the second rank of military leaders about the offering circle. Eachan focused on the dark russet cloak, the same colour as Jodis was wearing. He watched Doran, wondering why it was not possible to tell by looking at the man what manner of torturer he was.
‘I’m glad to have met you,’ Jodis said happily. ‘I’ve news.’
‘For me?’
‘For Ahern’s daughter. Couldn’t she be let out from the horses even today?’
Eachan focused carefully on Jodis’ face, trying to divine any sense of irony.
‘Brede does not look after the horses.’
Jodis frowned, puzzled, and then dismissed the thought.
‘The daughter, Neala –’
‘Yes?’ Eachan asked urgently.
‘I’m not definite, but there is a girl at West Gate Inn who could be her.’
Eachan took in a breath, and his concentration on Jodis’ face became so intense that she couldn’t ignore it. She shifted awkwardly in the crush, turning her face away to break his gaze.
‘This really matters to you?’
Eachan sighed and rubbed the scar beneath his blind eye. He did not attempt to explain.
‘Tell Doran, if he’s a mind to sell, I’ll buy any horse of your breeding. I’ll buy all of them.’
Jodis stared at him, silently calculating.
‘Would it be enough?’ he asked.
Jodis sighed.
‘It would help.’
Eachan nodded, and turned his eye away from her, giving her time to recover her composure. She pulled the concealing scarf from her neck, blotting tears, and laughed a little shakily.
‘This wasn’t the news I was expecting when I left the garth this morning.’ Eachan glanced at the glistening metal about her neck, and away. The metal was smooth from constant wear, and the thick links were some kind of alloy of which the main component was gold. Jodis’ hand covered the bond collar, then pushing the scarf into a pocket, she stood defiantly, the collar glinting slightly in the sun. She kept her eyes away from Eachan’s face, staring determinedly at the square and the cluster of officials still hiding the Queen from the waiting crowd. Eachan followed her gaze, his eyes drawn to the horse she had chosen for the Queen.
‘Brede approved your choice,’ he said quietly. Jodis ducked her head slightly, hiding a smile. ‘She also thought you should have offered one of your own.’ Jodis lifted her dark eyes to regard him thoughtfully. ‘I agree with her,’ Eachan said, keeping his eye on Jodis’ darting uncomfortable gaze, wanting suddenly to be somewhere quiet with her. Jodis ducked her head again and said nothing, awkward under his regard. Eachan smiled wryly and turned back to the square. Jodis reached and squeezed his hand, and the smile broadened.
At last Grainne stepped forward, flanked by her bodyguards. The trumpets sounded, but there was hardly any need, the crowd were ready to listen, ready to accept almost anything Grainne, their Queen, who was not after all dying, had to say.
Only Jodis, with new thoughts of freedom to distract her, had eyes for anything but the strong, straight body of the Queen. She gazed distractedly at the whole group beside the offering circle, her eyes dwelling particularly on Doran. He glanced around, as though aware of her gaze and their eyes met. Jodis looked away quickly, focusing nearer, and saw Brede. At first she was pleased, then where Brede stood hit her. She checked the rest of the group, sure she was mistaken, but no, there was no question; Brede stood at the side of the Queen, green-clad, her bodyguard.
The crowd was in uproar, but Jodis was oblivious. She stared in dismay at the woman beside the Queen, rapidly reviewing every word that she had said to Brede. Her fingers strayed to the tattoo on her temple, then the bare collar about her neck. She fumbled for the scarf in her pocket, and her hand closed over two pieces of flint.
Brede scanned the crowd, anxious to distinguish the tones of the response to Grainne’s announcement. She couldn’t honestly call the sound enthusiastic. She glanced at Sorcha, who smiled, a slow, warm, promising smile, distracting her for a moment. Grainne saw the look pass between them and frowned.
The missile struck the edge of the offering circle, sending splinters flying. Instinctively Brede threw herself flat and Grainne with her. There was blood in her eyes. She was aware of screaming somewhere, a tangle of limbs about her, Maeve’s voice urgent but in control, issuing orders. The second missile hit her shoulder, numbing her arm. Brede rolled with the blow, frantic to get the blood out of her eyes and make sure Sorcha was safe. Her eyes clear momentarily, Brede stared down into Grainne’s face, splattered with her blood, but alive, and then swiftly across to Sorcha, crouching over them, both arms spread protectively above Grainne’s head. Sorcha’s eyes grazed hers, and there was no smile this time. Brede glanced around; a wall of green coats blocked her view. She scrambled to her feet and pushed through the dense grouping of Maeve’s mercenaries, knowing what was happening somewhere out in that crowd, something she must stop. She looked across the rapidly clearing square, knowing the direction that the second stone had come from. A tight knot of people among the dissipating crowd told her where to go. She dropped from the edge of the offering circle, and walked towards them as fast as her unsteadiness would allow.