The Tower of Ravens (62 page)

He drank deeply, then sighed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Another sad tale that one. Would ye no‘ rather I told ye the tale o’ Bessie and the runaway pig?”

Nina shook her head. “Nay, please, we really do want to ken.”

He held out his cup again. “To tell a sad tale like that I need to wet my whistle again,” he said. “It’s a tale to make ye weep.”

Lewen obligingly filled up his cup, and put the empty decanter down. Martin was quiet for a moment, staring dreamily into the flames. Nina was about to prompt him again when he stirred and began again to speak.

“Your wee laddie there has a look o‘ the laird’s young son about him. It’s the ruddy hair and black eyes, ye dinna see that very often. He was born about ten years after the fall o’ the Tower o‘ Ravens. The laird had taken a young girl for his wife, a pretty wee thing, half his age. They loved that laddie, and spoilt him half to death. Now, at the time Maya the Blessed ruled the whole country with an iron hand concealed in a velvet glove. But no’ everyone loved her, .and rebels worked to bring the witches back. I must admit I loved to hear the tales o‘ those rebels, and often used to dream o’ running away and joining them. The rebels were led by a man they called the Cripple, for he had a hunch to his shoulder and a twist to his spine, and could scarce walk a step. The things that Cripple did! He must’ve had magic o‘ his own, for they never managed to catch him, even when he rescued a cartload o’ witches from right under the Banrìgh’s nose.”

Nina and Lewen exchanged a smiling glance. They knew better than most the many stories about the days when Lachlan the Winged had hidden himself in the guise of a hunchback, working to overthrow Maya the Ensorcellor and bring back the Coven of Witches. It had been Nina’s grandmother Enit who had masterminded many of those daring rescues and many a witch or a faery had, like Lachlan, been hidden in the jongleurs’ caravan as they roamed around Eileanan. Lewen’s mother Lilanthe had herself travelled that way, the jongleurs keeping her safe from Maya’s Seekers, who would have burnt her to death if they had found her.

“Now the witch-sniffer Malvern hated witches and rebels, and he hunted them down far and wide. Every village skeelie and cunning man on this side o‘ the river was burnt alive, and anyone who had auld books, or who swore by Eà, or even protested that the witch-hunts were too brutal. And he seemed to have an uncanny way o’ kenning what ye thought, so none o‘ us dared ever look him in the eye, or mutter under our breath. He had us under his fist, from Barbreck-by-the-Bridge down to Tullimuir and right round to Rhyssmadill itself. It was a sad day for us all when Laird Falkner let his brother come home to stay.

“One day he had his soldiers bring in a lass who was accused o‘ witch-talent. Her mother had been burnt as a witch and her grandfather too, but she had been taken in by neighbours and brought up as one o’ their own. Her name was Oonagh and she hated the witch-sniffers for what they had done to her family. She saw one in the marketplace one day and had some kind o‘ fit, and thunder and lightning came out o’ nowhere, and hail. She was sick as a dog after, and they arrested her and took her to the castle for questioning, which we all kent meant torture. They were dark days at Fettercairn.” He sighed and shook his head.

“Somehow the Cripple found about this poor lass and that very afternoon they came to the castle, some hidden inside the dung-cart, some disguised as labourers or farmers bringing produce. There were only a dozen or so o‘ them but somehow they managed to lock up the castle garrison and rescue the girl. They could no’ get out again, though, for Laird Malvern sniffed them out and attacked them with his own men. There was vicious fighting, all through the castle. Me and some o‘ the other potboys helped the rebels, for we hated the witch-sniffer and his cruel ways. We took the Red Guards by surprise, and locked them in one o’ the halls, and then the Cripple caught the sniffer and held him hostage.

“It must’ve been about then that Laird Falkner took his lady and son, who was about five, I think, and hid them for safety. But then he was captured too and taken to the great hall, where the Cripple accused the witch-sniffer o‘ murder and torture and treason and all sorts o’ other things, and held a trial. Truly it was amazing. The rebels had won the castle with only a handful o‘ men! We all kent we were in the presence o’ greatness, even the fat auld cook felt it. Those rebels, though they were all filthy and stunk to high heaven, they were brave and bold and laughed as they fought, and they made no move to hurt us or molest any o‘ the maids, or even steal the laird’s gold. The Cripple himself was only a few years aulder then me, and I must admit I admired him, for doing what I could only dream o’ doing.”

Lewen was enraptured. He wondered if his father had been one of those men. Niall the Bear had turned rebel as a young man, and had worked with Lachlan the Winged to rescue witches and undermine Maya for many years before they at last succeeded in overthrowing her and regaining the throne. Swiftly he did the arithmetic in his head. If the Tower of Ravens had been thrown down by the Red Guards forty-odd years ago, and the rebels had attacked the castle fifteen years later, then it was highly likely his father would have been fighting with Lachlan, for he had not yet been twenty when he joined the rebels.

Martin had paused only long enough to drain his cup. His eyes were unfocused now, and his words slurred, but his voice still had power to cast a spell. “The laird was furious and called the rebels cowards and cheats and traitors, but the Cripple only mocked him, and told him that he was the coward and traitor, to kidnap and torture a young lass near to death. The laird had no‘ kent about the witch-lass, he tried his best to turn a blind eye to the things Malvern did, and he was horrified, ye could see it on his face. Laird Falkner shouted that it was no’ true, it was all lies, and attacked him with his sword. The Cripple was clumsy on his feet, being a hunchback, and no‘ the best fighter, but the laird was mad and blind with rage. They fought and the Cripple killed him, though I dinna think he meant to.

“It was all confusion after that, and the battle broke out again, for the laird’s bodyguard went mad and attacked the rebels with naught but his bare hands. Somehow, in all the fighting, the laird’s brother slipped away, I do no‘ ken how though I was there, watching it all with my own eyes. We found his red robe in the library.

“It was only then that we discovered the lady and her son were missing. The boy’s nurse set up a great screech and the castle was searched from top to bottom, but no sign o‘ them was found. We all thought they must’ve escaped with the witch-sniffer. Half o’ us joined the rebels, and the others were allowed to leave, which they did right gladly, for everyone had expected the rebels would kill anyone who disagreed with them. But they didna. There was a great feast instead, and singing and dancing, and the Cripple opened up the laird’s treasury and gave it all to the poor folk. It was like a mad dream. A week or so later, the witch-sniffer returned with a big army to take the castle back, but the rebels saw them coming and went in the night, for after all, there was only a dozen or so o‘ them, and thousands o’ the Red Guards.

“I went with them, so I wasna there when they discovered the lady and the young boy had no‘ fled with Malvern but had been hidden in a secret room by the laird. More than a week they were locked in that room, in the dead o’ winter, with no food or water. By the time Malvern opened up the secret panel, it was too late. The boy was dead and his mother was quite mad. They say Malvern was stricken with grief and guilt, and indeed he quit the Banrìgh’s service after that, and stopped his witchhunts. I never went back to Fetterness, but I’ve heard the shadow o‘ those dark days still stretches across the whole valley and that the ghost o’ the wee lad haunts the castle, crying aloud from the cold.”

There was a short silence, then Roden lifted his sleepy head and said, “It’s true, there is a ghost o‘ a little boy there, I saw him. He has the bonniest rocking horse. There are lots o’ boys there, and all o‘ them cry ’cause they want to go home.”

“Is that so, laddie?” Martin said slowly. “Obh obh, it’s an evil place, Fettercairn. I’m glad I got away from there.”

“So are we,” Nina answered, cuddling Roden close. “I canna tell ye how much.”

In the Night

Rhiannon lay in the darkness, slowly robbing her cloth-muffled chain back and forth against the timber post of the bunk-bed. She had to control her desperate impatience, for if she jerked the chain too hard it rattled, and she did not want to alert anyone to her wakefulness. She had only these quiet hours of the night to wear away the wood till it was weak enough to snap, setting her free. If anyone discovered what she was doing, her chance would be lost.

A muted sound outside made her pause and turn her head. Then she felt the caravan shift as someone put their weight on the steps. Rhiannon found it hard to breathe. With all her muscles tense, she listened as someone very gingerly turned the door handle first one way, then another. There was a pause, and then she heard the furtive sound of someone fumbling with the lock. Rhiannon tested the chain between her hands. It was not long enough to wrap around a throat and garrotte someone, but perhaps, if she pinned them to the bed with it, she could hold them down long enough to choke them. She raised herself onto one elbow, holding the chain rigid so it would not rattle, then managed to get up onto her knees, pressing herself back against the wall.

The tiny sounds from the doorway continued, then she heard a click as the lock sprang free. The door swung open, and someone slipped inside and closed the door behind them. Rhiannon listened as they took a step or two towards her, her heart hammering so loud she thought they must hear it. A dark, faceless shape loomed over her, and she tensed, ready to strike.

“Rhiannon?” a deep voice whispered.

She launched herself at him, burying her head into his shoulder, jerking her wrists painfully as she tried instinctively to throw her arms about his neck. “Lewen!” she gasped, and then, as his arms closed about her, felt the painful swelling in her chest burst as tears gushed from her eyes.