The Forbidden Land Page 10

  ‘Which was no’ much, since he was naught but a laddiekin himself,’ Morrell said rather sarcastically.

  ‘Do ye mean Lachlan, I mean, His Highness?’ Finn asked, hazel-green eyes bright with curiosity. Dide nodded and she said, ‘Why do ye call him “master”?’

  ‘Because that’s wha’ he is,’ Dide answered serenely. ‘I pledged myself to his service when I was but nine years auld and swore I’d help him throw down the Ensorcellor and get back his rightful place. It took another nine years but we did it in the end.’

  ‘And now he is Rìgh,’ Brangaine said. Dide nodded. He pulled down his guitar from the caravan and sang her ‘Three Blackbirds’, the ballad he had composed describing Maya’s ensorcellment of Lachlan and his brothers.

  Enit and Nina sang the sorrowful refrain with him, pure-voiced as larks:

  ‘O where have ye flown, my black-winged birds, Leaving me all alone?

  O where have ye flown, my black-winged brothers?

  Where have ye flown, my brothers?’

  Brangaine had to clear her throat and surreptitiously wipe away a tear from the corner of her eye and Dide was silent for a long time afterwards.

  They saw no ogres, to everyone’s relief, but the dragon flew with them for some days, keeping everyone’s nerves on edge. Donald was careful to kill nothing larger than a bird or a coney for their supper and a close watch was kept over the horses, who were hobbled within the circle of caravans at night. At last they passed out of the dragon’s territory and everyone relaxed.

  The next day, the land gentled down into hills and the road began to run along the white roaring rush of the Ban-Bharrach River. The sun shone dappled through fresh green leaves and birds sang on all sides, quite a few perched along the rim of Enit’s caravan. Suddenly the birds clapped their wings and flew up into the branches. Finn was sitting up with Jay on the driving-seat of his caravan and saw his brown hands tighten on the reins. Dide swung back his plaid so that his daggers were in easy reach and Morrell kept his hand near his claymore. Everyone scanned the forest with keen eyes but there was no sign of any movement. After a while the birds sang again and Jay relaxed.

  ‘Bandits,’ he replied in answer to Finn’s question. ‘They rarely rob jongleurs for they ken we have naught o’ any value and are prepared to fight for the little we do have. I pity a fat merchant wi’ a wagon full o’ grain, though; he’d no’ be so lucky.’

  Although all were conscious of being watched several times over the next few hours, they were never challenged. The very next day they met a squad of soldiers on the road, all wearing the blue cloaks that showed them to be in the Rìgh’s service. They were riding the roads in search of bandits and were pleased to hear the jongleurs had sensed some only a day ahead. They stopped only long enough to tell the jongleurs news of the Rìgh and to hear how matters stood in Rurach and Tìreich, then they trotted on down the road, their cloaks swinging.

  Soon the troupe of jongleurs was driving through a great dark forest where the trees arched high overhead. They came to a tall pair of iron gates set in a massive wall. There were guards there dressed in kilts and long blue cloaks, with claymores strapped to their backs. They opened the gates straightaway with a salute to the heart, and the troupe of jongleurs drove on into a park with green sunlit vistas between trees whose bark was much scarred and blackened with the marks of battle.

  ‘All this belongs to the MacBrann. He and my master are close, however, and the MacBrann lets him stay whenever he wishes. Lachlan does no’ often come here, though. There are too many black memories here.’ Dide glanced about him with a grim mouth.

  ‘So why is he here now?’ Finn asked curiously but the jongleur shrugged and would not answer.

  The trees thinned. Ashlin suddenly cried out in amazement and pointed. Ahead, tall delicately pointed towers soared into the sky, sharp and blue as daggers.

  ‘Rhyssmadill?’ Brangaine asked rather breathlessly and Dide nodded.

  The horses quickened their pace a little, responding to the unspoken excitement of the drivers. Finn leant forward, eager to see as much as she could of the blue palace, about which she had heard so much. Then she saw a bright glimmer and gripped her hands together.

  ‘The sea? Is that the sea?’ she cried.

  Brangaine shrank back in sudden fear. ‘No’ the sea?’

  ‘Aye,’ Enit said, twisting round in her seat so she could see Brangaine’s face. ‘Do ye fear the sea, lassie?’

  ‘Who does no’?’ Brangaine replied rather shakily.

  Enit rattled her amber beads. ‘I’m sorry, my lass, but ye’ll have to get over that particular dread, for we’ll be spending a great deal o’ time on it! We sail out o’ Dùn Gorm just as soon as the winds are fair.’

  Brangaine could only stare at the old jongleur in dismay.

  ‘No’ quite what ye expected when ye heard we’re to stay at the blue palace, hey, Brangaine?’ Finn sat up in the straw, her arms wrapped around her knees, grinning at her cousin.

  Brangaine looked around at the piles of straw, spread out her plaid and sat down. ‘Why should I have expected anything else?’ she replied with a faint edge of mockery. ‘Most o’ the jongleurs are camped out down in the city square, with barely enough room to scratch themselves. At least we’ve room to spread out here.’ And she lay back in the straw, her arms stretched above her head. ‘Ah, that be good,’ she said mendaciously. ‘Far softer than the stones o’ the road, which is all I’ve slept on for more months than I can remember.’

  Finn gave a little snort but said nothing more, conscious that the loft was just above the main stables. She could clearly hear the gentle sighs of the horses, the clatter of buckets and the murmur of the stable-hands’ voices, the distant cry of a groom as he exercised one of the mares in the yards. Enit had reminded them forcibly of the importance of maintaining their disguise as jongleurs while in the palace and Finn was determined that if anyone let the elven-cat out of the bag, it was not going to be her.

  Despite Enit’s warning, Finn had been rather surprised that the jongleurs had been directed to the stables, having subconsciously expected to be taken straight to the royal court. Enit and Dide were, after all, Lachlan’s oldest friends and most loyal supporters. Finn had felt rather indignant when they had had to unharness their horses themselves and then were shown their sleeping quarters in a dusty, straw-filled loft. Dide had guessed her thoughts and thrown her one of his flashing grins, thanking the servant who had directed them with such heartfelt gratitude that Finn was left with no illusions that this treatment was considered most generous for a troupe of travelling players.

  ‘Are ye hungry?’ Nina said, her chestnut-red head popping above the straw as she climbed up the ladder. ‘Dide says ye may come across to the kitchen and eat if ye’d like. The scullery-maids are always happy to give us a few scraps in return for a love song.’

  Brangaine and Finn looked at each other, then scrambled to their feet. Apart from an overwhelming desire to see more of the fabled palace than its high grey walls, they were sick to death of rabbit and potatoes.

  The kitchen was a huge hot room lined with black pits of fireplaces where whole carcasses of sheep and deer were turned on spits. A scarred table ran the entire length of the room, crowded with servants cutting up vegetables, plucking goose feathers and pounding dough. A place was found for the troupe and they were brought a platter of meat off-cuts, some black and crunchy, others pink and bleeding. A pot of thick vegetable soup was swung off the fire and onto the table, accompanied by a basket of bread, so hard with grain the trenchers had to be soaked in the soup before they could be chewed and swallowed. Despite the simplicity of the fare, the food was delicious and Finn ate hungrily, looking about her with interest. The kitchen was as busy as an ants’ nest stirred with a stick, people rushing back and forth with platters and bowls and jugs, all steaming and smelling delicious. At the far end of the kitchen a thin, scrawny-looking man was carefully creating a fantastical erection of spun toffee
that Finn realised was meant to be a dragon in full flight. She watched in fascination as the dragon took shape under his skilful fingers, its wings spread.

  ‘That is the head cook, Fergus the Cross,’ one of the scullery maids said, serving Finn another ladle of soup. ‘He is well named, the biggest crosspatch ye’d ever meet. He can cook, though, having trained under Latifa.’

  ‘But he’s so skinny. I thought cooks were always fat,’ Finn replied, swallowing her soup hungrily.

  The scullery maid laughed, her blue eyes dancing. ‘Latifa was; as fat as a Midwinter goose she was. No’ Fergus though. Naught any o’ us prepares is ever guid enough for him and he spits it out in the hearth. The Rìgh’s own cook will be dying o’ starvation if he do no’ watch himself.’

  She moved away to top up Dide’s bowl, smiling at him and tossing back her plait of honey-coloured hair flirtatiously. He smiled back, saying admiringly, ‘Ye grow bonnier each time I see, Elsie my sweet. Are ye planning to jump the fire tonight?’

  ‘Only if it is ye I am jumping wi’,’ she said boldly.

  He laughed. ‘Do no’ tempt me, my bonny. I dinna think ye’d be liking the life o’ a jongleur and indeed I’d be a bad husband to ye.’

  ‘The reward may be worth the cost,’ she replied, smoothing her hand down over her hip.

  ‘Obh obh!’ he laughed. ‘Ye have grown up, Elsie my sweet. Do ye speak so bold to all who come to eat your soup?’

  She blushed. ‘Nay, only to ye,’ she answered, rather low. He pushed her away gently. ‘Your cross cook is glaring at me,’ he whispered in mock terror. ‘Ye had best be getting back to your work, lass, else he’ll be cracking me over the head with a griddle.’

  ‘Happen I’ll see ye later tonight,’ she said, lingering.

  ‘Aye, we’ll be playing in the palace square. Come and I’ll dance a reel wi’ ye.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she replied, blushing.

  Once the jongleurs had all eaten their fill, Dide cradled his guitar on his lap and sang them all a love ballad, his voice sweet and true and full of ardour.

  ‘One morning in the month o’ May, down by a rolling river,

  A young shepherd did wander, and there beheld a lover,

  She carelessly along did stray, a-viewing o’ the daisies stray.

  She sweetly sang her roundelay, just as the tide was flowing.

  Her dress it was as white as milk and flowers adorned her skin.

  It was soft as any silk, just like a lady o’ honour,

  Her cheeks were red, her eyes were brown, her hair in ringlets hanging down,

  Her lovely brow without a frown, just as the tide was flowing.

  O it’s there we walked and there we talked and there we lay together;

  The wee lambs did skip and play, and pleasant was the weather,

  By the rolling river we did lie, underneath a blossoming tree,

  And what was done I’ll never tell, just when the tide was flowing.’

  He looked so handsome in his shabby crimson jerkin, with his black hair tied back in a long ponytail and a gold ring gleaming in his ear, that Finn was not surprised at the languishing looks the scullery-maids cast him. He made it seem as if he sang for each one alone, so that Finn whispered to Jay, ‘I’d wager he’ll have a few assignations later tonight, the flirt!’

  ‘Done!’ Jay whispered back. ‘Though ye’d be losing your bet, lassie. Dide sings to them all but he toys with none. He’s no rakehell.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ she said and then, at the quick, hot glance Jay sent her, continued, ‘No’ that he’s a rake, I ken that! I mean that he never dallies with any o’ these lassies always hanging off his sleeve. They be ripe for the plucking, anyone can see that.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Jay answered rather unwillingly, ‘but Dide is no’ interested in them.’

  ‘No?’ One of Finn’s eyebrows rose. ‘Meaning he’s interested in someone else? And who, pray tell, might that be?’

  Colour rose in Jay’s cheeks. He said nothing.

  ‘No’ that blonde bit teasing him afore?’ Finn said in some dismay.

  ‘Elsie?’ Jay’s voice was incredulous. ‘Eà’s green blood, no! Dide canna bear her, though she’s always after him, that one.’

  ‘Aye, ye can tell she’s as good a maid as her mother,’ Finn said with enough spitefulness in her tone for Jay to look at her in troubled surprise. ‘I hate those giggly girls that always think they’re so fine,’ she explained, colour rising in her cheeks.

  Dide was now amusing the crowd by juggling the pots and pans back and forth with Nina, reeling off a constant stream of lively chatter and jokes as he did so. The scullery-maids laughed and sighed, whispering to each other behind their hands. The lackeys and potboys were all beginning to cast black looks at Dide, and the thin, sour-faced cook was looking more cross than ever.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Fergus the Cook suddenly exclaimed. ‘We have a feast to prepare tonight and I canna have ye idle wastrels distracting my staff with your tomfoolery. Out, out!’

  Laughing, the jongleurs all fled, Dide catching up a hot pie from the table as he went.

  ‘Och, ye’ve broken a few more hearts today, my lad,’ Nina teased. ‘What shall ye do when they all come looking for ye later?’

  ‘Run!’ Dide cried. ‘Brangaine, will ye hide me under your skirts if they come hunting me down?’

  Brangaine flushed crimson, for she had been as riveted by the jongleur’s performance as any of the other maids. ‘No’ I!’ she answered. ‘Ye must reap what ye sow.’

  ‘Then I be in trouble indeed,’ Dide answered. ‘That Elsie will be jumping the fire wi’ me if she has to crack me over the head wi’ a jug first! Promise me ye’ll protect me, Finn.’

  They spent the next few hours preparing themselves for the night’s performance. Nina shook out her purple satin skirt, sewn with knots of red and gold ribbon to cover the worst of the darns, and polished her red dancing shoes. Enit arranged her sparse white hair on top of her head, securing it with her jewelled combs. She draped her gold-thread shawl about her hunched shoulders, then began to sing scales, her voice rippling up and then down the register. Dide washed out a few gravy spots on his sky-blue doublet and combed the bhanais feather in his crimson cap, then tuned his guitar, strumming along to Enit’s melodious voice. Jay lifted his bow and joined the music, the rich coloratura of his viola filling the stables with beauty. Morrell turned over his torches, checked the button on his vanishing sword, and polished his gold earring. Brun fastened bells to his hairy toes and hung them around his neck, jangling along with his usual odd collection of brightly polished keys, rings, buttons, bottle tops and one small christening spoon.

  Finn and Brangaine had borrowed some of Nina’s clothes as soon as they had begun joining in the jongleurs’ performances. Finn was wearing an orange skirt, yellow petticoats and a blue and orange bodice, with blue and orange ribbons woven through her hair. Since her feet were larger than Nina’s she went barefoot, with an anklet of bells on her right ankle. Brangaine had reluctantly allowed the jongleur lass to dress her in a green velvet gown, trimmed with gold lace and ribbons, and worn over a silk scarlet petticoat. Her fair hair was worn loose, tied here and there with red velvet ribbons. Freed from her plait, it hung down to her knees, as straight and shining as a silk curtain. Her eyes picked up the colour of the green velvet bodice, giving them the bright hue of a new spring leaf.

  ‘Ye’ll be fighting off the lads with a barge pole tonight, my bonny,’ Morrell said. Brangaine gave him her coldest look and turned her shoulder against him.

  Finn made a little face, getting tired of always hearing how pretty and perfect Brangaine was. Seeing her expression, Ashlin leant close and said eagerly, ‘Ye look bonny too, my lady … I mean, Finn.’

  ‘Thank ye, kind sir,’ Finn said with a sweeping curtsy. ‘I must admit I thought I looked rather fine. I like your outfit too: very handsome.’

  Ashlin had dressed rather shyly in Dide’s second
-best outfit, a velvet doublet of a rich orange colour with green ribbons and embroidery, and green-patterned orange hose. On his head he wore a rather absurd cap of orange velvet with a long green feather. He blushed and smiled his thanks, his long bony hands fidgeting with the long wooden flute that Brun had whittled for him.

  Donald looked him over with a satirical eye but said rather kindly, ‘Well, handsome is as handsome does, but ye’ll do well enough, my lad. Take care o’ Finn and do no’ be drinking too much o’ the Midsummer ale.’

  ‘Are ye no’ coming to the party?’ Finn asked, noticing for the first time that Donald still wore his shabby old kilt and tam-o’-shanter.

  He shook his head, smiling beatifically. ‘I be too auld,’ he said, ‘to be learning new tricks. I be happy indeed to rest my weary bones in the straw and mind all our stuff. Come the morning, I’ll be fresh as a daisy while all ye young folks will be feeling mighty worn, I’ll wager more than a penny.’

  ‘But do ye no’ want to see all the mummery and watch the jumping o’ the fire?’ Finn demanded.

  ‘I’ve managed to avoid the jumping o’ the Midsummer fires all my life. I dare no’ watch it now in case some doughty auld maid takes it into her head to jump it wi’ me,’ the gillie replied with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Nay, nay, off ye go, lassie. I’ll be just grand here with my pipe and the horses to keep me company. Have fun now.’

  Outside the stables, a late dusk was lingering, warm and still. In the inner gardens, lanterns had been strung from tree to tree, and long trestle tables were set up with cakes and sweetmeats. Crowds of people were dancing and laughing, dressed in their finest. Garlands of flowers had been hung round the neck of every statue and adorned the heads of the women so that the dance floor looked as if the garden had come alive and was waltzing. A round yellow moon hung between the dark spires of the palace, casting a bright radiance over the garden.