The Tower of Ravens (45 page)

Landon did not much enjoy dancing, either. Dutifully he danced with Edithe, managing to tear the hem of her gauzy gold gown, and with Felice, who laughingly pretended to limp away afterwards, declaring her feet were black and blue with bruises, and then he thankfully sat down against the wall too. After a while, when he thought no-one was paying him any attention, he drew out his dog-eared notebook and his quill and, balancing the inkpot on the gilded, satin-covered chair beside him, began to scribble with great intentness.

Rhiannon watched him with interest. She had begun by thinking Landon a very peculiar young man, but she had grown to like him very much, something which surprised her. He was not strong, or fast, or brave, or handsome. He sat on a horse like a sack of potatoes, and showed no interest in wrestling or hunting. He did not like being wet or cold or tired or hungry. He was, in fact, the sort of person she would normally view with contempt. Yet, despite his physical frailty, despite his shyness and oddities, there was something about him that made her warm to him, and want to look out for him and keep him from hurting himself.

After a while she slid along the seats towards him, noticing with amusement that his inkpot was leaving a round dark stain on the lord’s straw-coloured satin chair.

“What ye write?” she asked.

He glanced up at her, looking a little cross, but then when he saw it was Rhiannon interrupting him, he blushed and stammered and almost tipped his inkpot over. Rhiannon rescued it with a grin, and he said shyly, “It’s only rough still, but I could read it to ye if ye like?”

When she nodded, he cleared his throat and read aloud,

“How dark this place, how grim!

Where the black wings o‘ ravens shadow the sky

Where the wind sobs round the tower high

Like the desolate cries o‘ a murdered child.

My own life, once so keen and bright, grows dim.

My own song falters; my pulse is wild.

In my dreams I hear the toll o‘ death’s bell,

Beneath my feet yawns a bottomless well.”

Rhiannon stared at him in true amazement. “Ye feel it too?” she whispered.

He stared at her in surprise and pleasure. “My poem means something to ye?”

She nodded. “I hate this place. I wish we could get away.”

“Me too. But I dinna ken why. It’s all dreams and shadows. I dinna like to say aught, I ken the others would just laugh at me, but…” He paused, and then said, “It’s no‘ a happy place, this castle.”

“No,” Rhiannon agreed. They sat in silence for a while, watching the dancers twirl about the room, then Landon said, very shyly, “I’m so glad ye liked my poem.”

* * *

After Lady Evaline and her companion had retired for the night, and the musicians had packed up their instruments, Lord Malvern offered to show them around the castle and they agreed eagerly. He led them through various vast picture halls, a ballroom with a music gallery, a library filled with books and maps and a great desk piled with papers, the grand dining room which was far larger than the private room they had just dined in, and then, lastly, the great hall. This was an immense cold shadowy room that made Rhiannon shiver and edge closer to Nina. The witch seemed to find the atmosphere of the room unpleasant also, for she hugged her arms with her hands and looked about her with troubled eyes. “Do ye use the hall much?” she asked politely.

“No‘ these days,” he answered. “It has unhappy memories.”

As Lord Malvern spoke, Rhiannon felt a strange, disturbing thinning of the atmosphere. Her breath puffed out white. For a moment her companions faded away, and she saw a room filled with men, weary and bloodied with battle. One wore long red robes, others wore the livery of the MacFerris clan, but a few were dressed in shabby, stained motley, little better than rags. Two men faced each other across the points of their swords. One was young and dark, with a hunched shoulder, and a surly, unshaven face, wrapped in a filthy black cloak from head to foot. The other was older and dressed formally in a velvet doublet and black kilt, with embroidered stockings and neatly combed hair and beard. Rhiannon heard a snatch of voices, shouts, curses, a hysterical-sounding ranting from the man in red. Then the swords rose and clashed, there was a sharp cry of horror, and then the older man slowly fell to his knees, both hands clutching his stomach. Then he toppled sideways and blood spread across the paving-stones.

“Blood,” Rhiannon said, and clutched at Nina for support. “Blood was spilt, just there.”

“Blood spilt, here?” Nina repeated, and looked at the floor as if expecting the stain to remain. Edithe gave a little shriek and leapt back.

“Aye,” Rhiannon said. “A man was killed.”

“She is right,” Lord Malvern said unwillingly. “It was my brother’s blood that was spilt. He was murdered here on this very spot.”

Everyone exclaimed in shock and moved back uneasily.

“It was a very long time ago,” Lord Malvern said. “I do no‘ like to come here myself, but I am surprised the lass should be able to sense aught. I daresay she has the witch-sight, though, heh?” His voice was heavy and sarcastic.

“I daresay,” Nina said, drawing Rhiannon close.

“Was no‘ murdered,” Rhiannon said in a clear, calm voice that sounded to her own ears as if it came from a very great distance away. “Was fair fight.”

Lord Malvern turned on her in sudden rage, two white dents on either side of his mouth. “A fair fight!” he cried. “The laird o‘ the castle, cut down in his own hall by a mob o’ filthy rebels? How is that fair or right?”

Rhiannon was coming back to herself in wracking shudders. She leant heavily on Nina, her voice as tottery as her legs. “I do no‘… ken the laws o’ your land. In my land, if one raises hand or weapon against another and… is killed, is no‘ called murder. Is called fair fight. Fancy man… your brother… he struck first blow… was no mob… fair fight with dirty man… dirty man won.”

“Indeed, the dirty man did win,” Lord Malvern said very softly, looking away into the gloom. There was a very long silence. Rhiannon tried to still the trembling of her arms and legs. She saw nothing now, but the memory was vivid in her mind’s eye. Half-fearful, half-curious, the others glanced about the ill-lit room, its hearth swept clean and bare as if it was never warmed with dancing flames.

“Did ye see aught?” Cameron whispered to Felice, who shook her head reluctantly.

“
I felt
something,” she whispered back. Landon nodded, eyes wide.

“Sure ye did,” Edithe said caustically. “The damp and the cold.”

Felice cast her a cutting glance but dared say nothing else, for Lord Malvern had stirred and brought his stern gaze back to them.

“It is cold in here. Let us withdraw to the drawing room,” he said with great politeness. “May I offer ye some mulled wine, my lady?”

“No‘ for me, thank ye, my laird,” Nina said just as politely. “I find I am rather tired still and would like to retire to my bedchamber. I thank ye for a most delicious meal, though, and for your hospitality.”

“Tell me,” Iven said, “what news o‘ the road? For we are anxious to be on our way, as we explained. We really must get to Lucescere as fast as we can, the Rìgh will be looking for us.”

Lord Malvern grimaced and shook his head. “No good news, I fear, sir. The road was badly damaged and is hard to repair because o‘ the steepness o’ the slope. I have all my spare men working on it though, and hope ye will be on your way again as soon as can be.”

Iven inclined his head. “I ken something o‘ such things, my laird. Happen I may be able to help?”

“Thank ye for the offer but I’m sure my men have all under control,” he answered.

“Nonetheless, I would like to have a look, my laird, if only to give me something to do while we wait. I fear I am unused to much rest.”

“Ye should enjoy the chance to relax while ye can,” Lord Malvern smiled.

Iven sighed. “True, but I fear a lifetime o‘ habit is hard to overcome in only a few days. And I am curious. It must indeed be a difficult job, to repair a road in such conditions. Happen your men can teach me something.”

“Very well.” Lord Malvern bowed stiffly. “I shall instruct my men to show ye the road in the morning.”

They had come back through to the main wing of the castle and stood now at the base of the grand stone staircase that led up to their rooms. Lord Malvern bade them a rather grim goodnight and rang for a footman to show them the way back, even though Iven protested that there was no need, they knew the way.

“It is a very large castle, and much o‘ it is empty these days,” Lord Malvern responded. “I would hate ye to become lost, particularly so late at night when most o’ the servants are sleeping.”

“Then thank ye,” Iven said, allowing a footman carrying a great branch of candles to lead them towards their rooms. Rhiannon felt odd, as if her feet were weighted with lead and her head was as light as a bellfruit seed. It was very dark and quiet in the corridors, and bitterly cold, so all were glad to reach Nina’s warm suite, lit generously with scented candles and a roaring fire. Roden was fast asleep in Nina and Iven’s great canopied bed and Lewen was sitting drowsily before the fire, his boots off, his shirt undone at the collar and rolled up to show his powerful brown forearms. He had been whittling arrows, a great pile of them lying beside him, waiting to be fletched.

“How was dinner?” he asked, standing up and yawning.

“Creepy,” Felice answered, coming to stand close to the fire, and smiling up at him. “No‘ as creepy as the great hall, though. Rhiannon had a fit, and saw blood everywhere, and ghosts, and the laird was furious. He doesna like talk o’ ghosts, it seems.”

“Who does?” Lewen answered, looking past her to Rhiannon, who was now so exhausted she could barely stand upright on her own feet. “How are ye yourself?” he asked.

“Grand I am, indeed,” she answered, and fainted.

The Dream

Rhiannon woke with a jerk. For a moment she was disorientated. Everything was dark. The fire had fallen into ashes. She lay still, temples throbbing. Her mouth was dry.