The Tower of Ravens (26 page)

“Witchlings? What are they doing in Ardarchy? There’s naught here but goats and geese,” the innkeeper asked. His voice rose incredulously. “Ye do no‘ mean to cross the Stormness River, surely?”

“Aye, we do,” Iven answered. “Why shouldna we?”

“The bridge is barricaded shut,” the innkeeper answered. “No-one goes that way anymore. The land across the river is haunted, did ye no‘ ken?”

Nina and Iven exchanged a glance. “Surely the barricade can be taken down for us?” Nina said gently.

“Och, ye willna want to be doing that,” the innkeeper said.

“Ye’d be best off riding back to Barbreck-by-the Bridge and crossing there.”

“But no‘ tonight,” his wife said firmly. “Ye’re cold and weary, and will be wanting a sup o’ something hot, and happen a dram or two to warm your blood. And no point wasting a good audience. The whole o‘ Ardarchy will turn out to see ye perform—it’s rare we see a minstrel or jongleur here. A shame ye’re no’ all performers, but no doubt the witchlings will still want a meal and some ale too, and will watch the show with the rest o‘ us. We’ll want a cut o’ the takings, mind. And ye’ll want stabling for the horses, no doubt, and that’s a few extra pennies too. I’ll call my laddie to come take the horses for ye.”

“We’ll see to the horses ourselves, thanks, but if ye could rustle up some hay and happen some bran mash for them, we’d be grateful indeed,” Iven said. Felice moaned audibly. He grinned at her. “Come, lassie, surely ye were no‘ expecting to eat and drink until ye’ve cared for your horse yourself? She’s had a long hard ride today and she’s chilled through. What if this lad kens naught about horses? Ye wouldna like to think o’ her shivering in a cold draughty stall without her blanket and nothing but a bit o‘ auld musty straw to chew on, would ye? No, o’ course, that I’m wishing to cast aspersions on our good host here,” he added with a charming smile to the innkeeper. “I’m sure your stable is warm and snug enough for a prince. It’s just the principle I’m wishing to teach.”

“Och, and fair enough,” the innkeeper replied jovially.

He turned to the crowd of followers then and motioned away with his hands. “Go on, get along home, there’ll be no show now. Come back after supper.”

Iven had vaulted down from the caravan to speak to the innkeeper but now he turned and faced the crowd, his voice ringing out clearly. “Good people o‘ Ardarchy, I am Iven the Magnificent, and I have great pleasure in introducing the incomparable Nina, called the Nightingale by the Rìgh himself for the indescribable sweetness of her voice. You may wonder what we do here, so far from the royal court, but only a few days ago we heard we were called back to Lucescere by royal decree, for Nina to sing at the wedding o’ the royal heir Donncan MacCuinn to his bonny cousin Bronwen.”

There was a murmur of delight and astonishment.

“Aye, I am glad to be the one to tell ye the happy news…”

As Iven continued on, captivating the crowd with his patter, the innkeeper helped Nina down from the caravan, saying: “I’ll go and stoke up the fire for ye, and pull ye all some ale, and add a few extra potatoes to the roasting pan, and we’ll have all ready for ye when your horses are seen to.”

“We do no‘ eat meat,” Nina said. “Would ye have some vegetable broth or stew that we may eat instead?”

“I have bean stew,” the innkeeper’s wife said, her voice falling in disappointment, as bean stew was worth quite a few pennies less than roast mutton and potatoes. At the word ‘stew’ an audible sigh was heard from the apprentices. Nina flashed them an admonitory glance and allowed the innkeeper to show her into the warmth of the taproom.

Lewen helped Maisie down from her fat pony and, leading his horse and hers, followed the innkeeper’s plump son round the back to the stableyard, the others trailing tiredly behind.

“I wish my groom was here to look after Regina for me,” Felice grumbled. “I am so cold and so tired. Cameron, will ye no‘ do it for me?”

Before Cameron could reply, Maisie said in her gentle way, “Och, we’re all cold and tired, aren’t we, Cameron? And poor Regina must be even tireder, for she was the one that did all the walking.”

Lewen looked at her with approval and she blushed and did her best to take off her pony’s tack by herself. Lewen helped her, and then unsaddled Argent, who was looking very bad-tempered, not liking being ridden for such a long time on such stony roads. Felice sighed and started to undo the buckles and Cameron left his own horse standing with steaming hide and hanging head to help her.

By the time the horses were unsaddled and groomed and tucked into their blankets, with fresh straw forked into their stalls and buckets of warm bran mash and fresh water to lip at, and all the tack cleaned and hanging on hooks, and the caravans secured, it was fully dark and everyone was weary indeed. The work had kindled some sort of camaraderie between them, however, and they all talked and joked comfortably as they made their way back to the welcoming warmth of the inn.

“A proper bed tonight,” Felice sighed in ecstasy.

“I just hope they’ve aired the sheets,” Edithe said.

“I doubt there’s room for all o‘ us here,” Lewen said, looking up and counting the number of windows streaming light. “Some o’ us will have to go and stay at the witch’s, I think.”

“I will,” Edithe said. “Less chance o‘ bedbugs, I bet.”

“She’ll probably rather have Nina and Iven, so she can hear all the news from court,” Felice sighed regretfully.

“I doubt the innkeeper and his wife will let them go,” Edithe said ironically. “I’d say Iven the Magnificent is the most exciting thing to happen round here in a decade, and they’ll want to be the ones to hear all the gossip firsthand.”

“Forget Iven, it’s Rhiannon and her fabulous winged horse that’s attracted most o‘ the attention,” Rafferty shot back, with a quick sideways grin at Rhiannon. “I bet Iven is wondering how he can incorporate ye into his show. He’ll have ye doing levades and caprioles by the next village we pass through.”

Rhiannon had no idea what he meant but she smiled back anyway, deciding she rather liked Rafferty. At least he did not leer at her, or sneer at her, or compare her breasts to mountain peaks.

“Well, I’m happy to stay at the inn,” Cameron said. “Ale, ale and more ale for me, please!”

“I’d like to see the witch’s tower,” Maisie said rather wistfully. “I’ve never seen one afore, ye ken.”

They came into the taproom and hurried to warm themselves by the fire, the boys gratefully accepting the mugs of foaming ale the innkeeper tapped for them, the girls sipping hot spiced wine. Rhiannon had never tasted mulled wine before and drank deeply, feeling a pleasant euphoria fill her veins. By the time they had been served a substantial meal of bean stew and roast vegetables, followed by a surprisingly delicious treacle pie, she was feeling quite light-headed and was surprised to find herself giggling at one of Edithe’s sarcastic asides. Edithe was equally surprised but rather gratified, while Lewen surreptitiously moved the jug of wine away from Rhiannon’s elbow.

The boys began a game of chance with some dice which Cameron pulled from his pocket, and Rhiannon went eagerly to join them. Soon their corner was noisy with laughter and the calling of bets, Rhiannon’s face alight with eagerness as she challenged Cameron to another toss. Lewen was content to sit back and watch her, sipping his ale and enjoying the warmth of the fire on the soles of his boots.

“I just canna understand why it is we have to travel round Eileanan in this ridiculous fashion,” Edithe said as she watched Roden and Lulu practicing their juggling and Iven walking round the room on his hands. “It really is naught better than a circus. My father would’ve happily paid for me to travel to the capital in comfort and it would no‘ have taken me months to get there! Do ye no’ agree, Lady Felice?”

“Well, it’s true my
dai-dein
was no‘ very happy about it,” Felice said. “He wondered how safe it was, particularly, ye ken, with the boys…” She nodded towards Cameron and Rafferty, who were eagerly gesturing for the landlord to refill their ale tankards. “But the Coven insists on it, ye ken. Diantha, the court sorceress at Ravenscraig, says it knocks any nonsense out o’ us afore we get to the Tower and gets us used to doing things for ourselves and rubbing elbows with all kinds o‘ people.”

“Well, that at least is true,” Edithe replied and for once her voice was free of scorn, sounding only resigned.

“Diantha told me that the council o‘ sorcerers believe it was because the Coven had grown arrogant and isolated from the common people that the Day o’ Betrayal was able to happen at all. So now all apprentices must travel slowly through the countryside afore they ever reach the Tower, learning what it means to be cold and hungry and afraid. We are lucky we are allowed to ride. Diantha said the council debated whether it would be wiser to make us walk the whole way on our own two feet.”

“Eà forbid,” Edithe said faintly.

“Probably if each country had its own Tower, we would have had to, but as the only Tower in all o‘ western Eileanan is the Tower o’ Horse-Lairds and their wisdom is no‘ what most wish to learn, we all have to travel a long way and so they allow us horses. Indeed, she said we were lucky indeed to get to travel with Nina and Iven, for they at least are great fun to be with, and will teach us much along the way. Besides, she said we should be honoured to be travelling in their company, and somehow I do no’ think she was joking.”

“Honoured?” Maisie and Edithe echoed.

Felice shrugged. “So she said. Iven is some sort o‘ war hero, ye ken. He fought with Lachlan the Winged in the rebellion against the Ensorcellor, and was there when they rescued Daillas the Lame and many other adventures they now sing about. And Nina… well, Diantha would no’ say too much about Nina but there was this note in her voice that made me wonder…”

“What kind o‘ note?” Edithe said skeptically.

Felice shrugged. “I dinna ken. Awe. Respect.” She turned to Lewen, favouring him with her most dazzling smile. “Lewen, your family kens the royal clan. What can ye tell us?”

“About what?” Lewen said warily.

“About Nina. She’s no‘ just an ordinary jongleur, is she?”

Lewen choked back a laugh. “Well, ye only need to hear her sing to ken that,” he said.

“I mean more than that,” Felice coaxed. “Ye should’ve seen the way the MacBrann himself bowed to her. The young MacBrann, I mean, no‘ the auld mad one who’s dead now. There’s some mystery about her, I just ken it.”

Everyone was staring at Lewen now. He wondered how to respond. If Nina wanted her family history told, would she not tell it? But perhaps it was hard for her to tell, just as it was hard for Lewen’s own father to talk about his part in the war. And if they knew, these arrogant aristocratic brats, would they not treat her with more respect? He glanced at Nina, warming her voice at the far end of the room with the most exquisite rills of music, her sunbird trilling away with her in sublime accompaniment. She glanced at him with her bright dark eyes, and Lewen realised she knew exactly what they spoke about, huddled here in their own fire-lit end of the inn. She smiled at him ruefully, shrugged her slim shoulders, and turned away.

“So?” Edithe demanded. “What’s the big mystery?”

“Ask her to sing the song o‘ the three blackbirds tonight,” Lewen said at last, his chest muscles constricting tight.

“Why?”

“Because no-one sings it more beautifully, my mother says. And because her brother wrote it.”

“But…” Edithe sounded puzzled.

Felice, court-bred, knew at once. “Ye mean the Earl o‘ Caerlaverock?” Her voice came out in a squeak. “The Rìgh’s own minstrel?”

“Wasna he the one who found the Rìgh, when he was still a blackbird, and saved him, and helped transform him back into a man?” Landon asked, eyes shining.

“It was Enit Silverthroat who did that,” Lewen said. “Dide and Nina’s grandmother. Dide was still only a lad and Nina little more than a babe. Lachlan travelled with them for years in their caravan, learning to be a man again. Dide was the first to swear allegiance to Lachlan and promise to help him win the throne.”

“Wasna Enit Silverthroat the auld Yedda who masterminded the rebellion against the Ensorcellor?” Edithe said. “And then taught Jay Fiddler the song o‘ love, which he played at the Battle o’ Bonnyblair, enchanting the Fairgean into peace?”

Lewen nodded. “Though she was no‘ a Yedda,” he said. “She was a jongleur.”

They all turned and looked up the room at Nina, her head bent over her shabby old guitar, her messy chestnut curls tumbling down onto a gaudy orange and gold brocade dress, stained around the hem and darned here and there with mismatching thread.

“Ye’re telling me
Nina
is the sister o‘ the Earl o’ Caerlaverock?” Edithe’s voice was dazed with amazement.

Lewen nodded. “And Roden is his heir, for he has no children o‘ his own, ye ken.”

“
Roden
is a Viscount?”

Lewen could not help smiling as everyone stared at the grubby little boy juggling balls back and forth with the arak, his chestnut curls uncombed and his grimy jerkin missing a couple of buttons.

“Well!” said Edithe at last. “I would never have guessed it.”

Edithe’s expression of dazed wonderment stayed on her face all through the jongleurs’ performance, which was concluded with a storm of clapping from the townsfolk crowded into the long smoky room. Nina was begged for encore after encore, but at last she had to desist, hoarse-throated and heavy-eyed. Reluctantly the crowd filed out into the frosty night, talking and marvelling, and Nina sat down limply, drinking one last cup of honeyed tea, Roden nestled sleepily against her side.

A tall woman in a flowing white gown came to sit next to her, talking quietly. Her brown hair was tied back in a long plait that hung to her knees, and as she lifted her hand to gesture, light flashed off the rings on her right hand. Rhiannon came shyly closer and, at Nina’s welcoming smile, sat next to the woman on the bench.

“Come, ye must be weary indeed,” the witch was saying. “Will ye no‘ bring yon lassies and come spend the night with me? Arley Innkeeper has only two rooms here, no’ nearly enough for all o‘ ye, and I have room to spare.”