The Forbidden Land Page 4
At the tables at the far end of the room sat the highest-ranking servants. They did not usually eat in the grand hall but had been admitted so they too could watch the jongleurs. They did not eat from gilt-edged porcelain plates like those at the high tables, but used trenchers of black bread instead, piling them high with mutton and potato stew and any scraps of roast stag or pheasant or honeyed pork that the nobility scorned to eat or throw to the dogs squabbling under the tables. When the juices of the stew had soaked the bread so it was too soft to use as a plate, they ssozate it or threw it down to the dogs, seizing another from the wooden platter in the centre of their table.
While the crowd feasted, they were entertained by the jongleurs who performed in the centre of the room. Finn craned her neck to see, but her view was obscured by the castle cook’s massive form. All she could see was a juggler’s swiftly rising circle of golden balls, then a sudden whirl of colour as an acrobat somersaulted high into the rafters.
The hall was bright with firelight and candlelight so that even the lofty vaulted ceiling was clearly illuminated. Finn hesitated, then bit her lip, pulled the hood even closer about her face, and slipped out from the shelter of the curtains. Having to dodge and sidestep to avoid the hurrying servants, she made her way up the length of the hall until she could step up onto the dais where the high table was set.
Many of the tall ornately carved chairs at the high table were empty, since Finn’s father Anghus and most of his men were still absent. Finn slowly eased out one of the chairs, wincing a little as the wooden foot scraped on the floor. Waiting until everyone’s attention was transfixed by the fire-eater swallowing a flaming torch, Finn slipped into the chair and sat down on the soft leather seat, leaning her elbows on the table.
She watched in delight as the fire-eater bent backwards till his long ponytail was brushing the floor, then thrust the flaming torch down his throat, closing his mouth over the blaze so his cheeks glowed red. Slowly, theatrically, he withdrew the torch, now black and smoking, then pulled himself upright, his cheeks still bulging and glowing with that weird red light. From his pursed lips curled a tendril of smoke, then he spat out a long blast of flame that scorched her face. Finn leant back instinctively, trying not to scream with the others.
The fire-eater juggled six blazing torches, swallowed them one by one, then used his fiery breath to ignite a hoop of paper. A black-eyed girl around Finn’s age somersaulted through the ring of flame, then cartwheeled away down the hall as the fire-eater began to juggle daggers and swords back and forth with a young man in a sky-blue jerkin and a crimson velvet cap with a bhanais bird’s feather. A cluricaun in a green satin doublet skipped in to dance a jig between them, the bells on his toes and around his neck chiming as he whirled and pranced amidst the vortex of spinning knives.
Further down the hall Finn could see two boys stalking about on high stilts, their ridiculous hats brushing against the rafters. A man with a forked beard the colour of flax was entertaining the servants’ table with card tricks and a fast-paced patter of jokes, while a woman leant nearby, strumming a guitar. Other musicians wandered about, playing fiddles or flutes, or rattling tambourines tied up with many-coloured ribbons.
The black-eyed girl was now doing a series of elegant back flips that took her right across the hall, then did a handspring that took her up into the rafters where she swung upside down like a brightly coloured arak. Then she somersaulted down, landing on the shoulders of the crimson-capped man, who had the same bright eyes as she did, black as pools of ink. She leapt down lightly and they bowed to tumultuous applause.
Wishing that she was an acrobat instead of a banprionnsa, Finn waited until everyone was watching the young jongleur, who was demonstrating her incredible flexibility. Finn then slowly reached out her hand and slid a slice of roast pheasant from the platter in front of her. Glancing about to make sure no-one was watching, she slipped it into the shelter of the cloak and shared it with the elven cat. Both of them had had nothing but prisoner’s rations to eat for two days now and they were starving. Finn was glad to eat, for the comfort as well as the sustenance. Somehow the cloak of invisibility always made her feel uncomfortable, as if it were made of some prickly material rather than the silkiest of fabrics. It rubbed her up the wrong way, causing her hair to snap with static and her flesh to rise in goosebumps. It was like wrapping herself in the cold and deadness of a winter night, rather than in something to keep her warm. She was always rather glad to hide it away in her pocket once more, though she was never able to leave it in her chest of drawers or in her cupboard, always needing to have it where her fingers could brush it at a whim.
Finn was just stealing a little meat pie from the plate of the man next to her when she felt a little prickle of unease. She glanced about and saw her brother Aindrew was staring her way with an open mouth and an expression of the utmost bewilderment. She looked down and realised it must look as if the meat pie was floating through the air. With a chuckle she concealed it within her sleeve then ate it quickly, trying not to let any flakes of pastry fall out of her mouth. She was tempted to pour wine into a goblet just so he could see a jug lift and pour out a stream of red liquid all by itself. She resisted the temptation and was glad she had when she saw Brangaine was also gazing at her apparently empty chair with some amazement. A meat pie falling from the edge of a plate could be put down to natural causes; a pouring jug could not.
The next time Finn took one of the delicious meat pies she was careful to drop a fold of the cloak over it before lifting it so it too would be concealed by the magic of the garment. After a while Aindrew stopped glancing her way every few minutes, too entranced by the jongleurs to bother about a floating meat pie. Brangaine was not so easily distracted. Finn felt her gaze often and was careful not to draw any more attention to herself, invisible or not.
No-one at the castle knew about the magical cloak. Finn had guarded its secret carefully.
She had first found the cloak in the relics room at the Tower of Two Moons during the Samhain rebellion that had overthrown Maya the Ensorcellor and given Lachlan the throne. In gratitude for their help, he had allowed each of the eight members of the League of the Healing Hand to choose one treasure to have for their own. Finn had chosen an ancient hunting horn embossed with the shape of a running wolf, because the same emblem was on the medallion she wore around her neck. She had not then known that the wolf was the badge of the MacRuraich clan and that the horn had the power to call up the ghosts of the clan’s long-dead warriors. She had only discovered the horn’s magic later, when she had blown the horn in a desperate call for help and had received assistance of the most unexpected kind.
The older boys had chosen swords or daggers, except for Jay the Fiddler, who had taken a beautiful old viola, and Parlan, who had chosen a silver goblet with a crystal in the stem. Johanna the Mild had chosen a jewelled bracelet while her baby brother Connor had wanted a music box.
Chance had caused Finn to pick up the cloak as well. At the time she had told herself that since she had been the one to face all the danger in climbing the wall, she should have something more than the others. She had kept the cloak secret, without really knowing why.
Like the horn, the cloak had proved to be magical, hiding anyone who wore it under a guise of invisibility that not even the most powerful sorcerer could penetrate. Finn had used it to escape the Awl, then Lachlan had hidden himself in it while he confronted his dying brother. Later, Maya the Ensorcellor had stolen the cloak to escape Lachlan’s wrath. Most thought she must have the magical cloak still, for it had not been found during the clean-up after the Samhain victory. Only Finn knew that she had used her own clairvoyant talents to search for it through the maze, finding it at last under a hedge near the Pool of Two Moons where Maya and Lachlan had had their last confrontation. She had folded it up and hidden it in her pocket and told no-one, not even when Meghan had instigated a frantic search for it during the ensuing days. She had brought the cloak of invisibilit
y back with her to Castle Rurach and used it often to escape the scrutiny of her attendants or to eavesdrop on the conversations of the servants.
Just then Finn saw her maid Raina speaking in a low voice to her mother’s chief lady-in-waiting, Lady Anne Montgomery. Her fat old face was distressed. Finn tensed. She watched as Lady Anne allowed Raina to approach the high table. She curtsied respectfully, then bent down low to speak to the banprionnsa. Gwyneth’s face whitened until she looked as though she might faint. She gave a few quick orders then leant back in her chair, sipping at her wine, trying to hide her distress. Raina hurried away and Finn watched as various officers were called away from the tables. They went with worried faces and Finn could not help feeling a certain satisfaction. She sat back to enjoy the show, knowing that half the castle guard would now be searching for her. Not one could possibly guess that she sat in their very midst, under the blaze of the chandelier, and only a few chairs down from her mother.
The platters of roast meats and vegetables had been taken away and now the servants were carrying in plates of honey cakes, sweetmeats and dried fruits. The jongleurs had gathered around the frail form of an old woman, who had been carried into the centre of the room on a chair all carved and painted with leaves, flowers and birds. Her hair was white, her oliveskinned face a mass of wrinkles. The hands which rested on the carved arms of her chair were bent and twisted as birds’ claws. On her wizened breast hung many necklaces of amber stones, some as big as eggs, others as small as teeth.
Finn’s eyes widened a little in surprise. She recognised the old woman. She was Enit Silverthroat, a great friend of the Keybearer Meghan NicCuinn. Finn had last seen her at Lucescere five years earlier, singing for the Rìgh and Banrìgh. It was said she could sing birds to her hand and people to their death. It was a rare privilege indeed to hear Enit Silverthroat sing.
Softly the musicians strummed their guitars and clàrsachan, the fiddler raised his bow and the cluricaun lifted his silver flute to his mouth. As music spilled melodiously across the grand hall, the loud hum of conversation died away. Then Enit began to sing and an awed silence fell upon the audience.
Although her voice quavered in places, and once cracked mid-syllable, it was so poignant with longing and sorrow, so rich in cadence and experience, so pure and melodic that involuntary tears rose in the eyes of many. Finn heard a stifled sob and saw that her mother had raised one hand to shield her eyes, and that Brangaine was bending close over her, comforting her with a gentle hand. Finn herself felt a pang of regret that she had to struggle to repress.
At last her voice trailed into silence and the crowd applauded wildly. There were tears on Enit’s face and the black-eyed girl bent to kiss her withered cheek. The old woman smiled a little and lifted her crippled hand to pat the girl’s smooth brown cheek. The jongleurs began to play a much-loved ballad and the young man with the crimson cap again led the singing.
‘Lassie wi’ the yellow coatie,
Will ye wed a moorland Jockie?
Lassie wi’ the yellow coatie,
Will ye come an’ live with me?
I have meal and milk in plenty,
I have kale and cakes full dainty,
I’ve a but and ben most gentry,
But I want a bonny wife like thee.’
He was very handsome, with tousled dark curls, dusky olive cheeks and an impudent smile. Finn could feel his attraction herself and noticed how all the court ladies were smiling and fluttering as he wooed them with his words of love. Even Brangaine was blushing a little, somewhat to Finn’s surprise. Her cousin’s face was usually very pale and serene, her mouth set in a rather melancholy droop. No anger or passion ever seemed to ruffle that calm exterior. To see her responding to the amorous glances of a jongleur made Finn grin.
‘Although my measure be but small,
An’ little gold I have to show,
I have a heart without a flaw,
And I will give it all to thee.
Lassie wi’ the yellow coatie,
Ah! Take pity on your Jockie;
Lassie wi’ the yellow coatie,
Come be my love an’ live wi’ me.’
Everyone clapped and cheered as he finished with a flourish and there were calls for more. Only Gwyneth seemed immune to his charm and Finn felt troubled as she saw how pale and unhappy her mother looked. For a moment she wanted to fling off the cloak of invisibility, reassure her mother that she was alive and well, and beg her forgiveness for being so stubborn. She fought back the urge and let herself enjoy the music.
It had been some years since she had heard such skilled musicians. In Lucescere her best friend had been a fiddler who had played with just the same verve and passion as this young fiddler, though without his polish and poise. They even looked rather the same, though Jay had been thin and pale and undernourished, while this young violinist was tall and brown and laughing. Dressed in a forest-green doublet and satin crimson breeches with a feather of the same colour stuck in his cap, he was playing his fiddle with immense skill and animation, so that many in the audience began to beat time with the handles of their eating knives.
Then the cook got up and began to dance a jig with the butler, showing all her petticoats and her thick, blue-veined legs. With shouts of glee, many others among the audience began to dance also, some leaping up onto the tables. The fiddler played faster and faster, and the dancers whirled round giddily. Laughing, the young juggler led a dancing procession round and round the grand hall until everyone was on their feet, everyone but Gwyneth, alone and pale in her great chair, and the crippled old singer, alone and swarthy in hers. Even Finn was dancing, although she knew any misstep could cause her unmasking. The black cloak swirled around her as she spun and hopped, and one hot, sweaty body after another cannoned into her, much to their confusion. As Finn danced she thought to herself, this fiddler’s got magic in his fingers, just like Jay …
A suspicion stole over her. She remembered that Jay had been apprenticed to Enit at the Tower of Two Moons, to learn what she knew about the songs of sorcery. She twirled her way towards the fiddler, who bowed and scraped in the centre of the jostling crowd as if he stood in the eye of a storm. At last she was able to come close to his side and look up into his hazel eyes. Just then his bow faltered and he looked about, saying hesitantly, ‘Finn?’
Jay gratefully accepted a goblet of mulled wine from one of the serving maids and stood back against the wall to watch Nina dancing. With her orange velvet skirts swirling up to reveal slim brown legs, she spun and swayed around the room, holding the audience spellbound. Jay sipped his wine and examined the crowd closely, looking for Finn. He had seen no sight of her, even though he could have sworn he had felt her close.
Suddenly he felt fingers tugging at his sleeve. He glanced down and saw a hand reaching out from behind the tapestry hanging on the wall. It was small and finely made, but rather grubby. He bent a little, trying to see who it was attracting his attention in such a surreptitious manner. Finn frowned at him, her finger to her lips, then beckoned him closer.
‘Meet ye in the hall outside,’ she whispered.
Jay swallowed down his wine thoughtfully, then made his slow, unobtrusive way round to the door and out into the corridor.
Finn was waiting for him, hopping up and down on one foot in impatience. She was dressed in a beautifully made riding dress of green velvet, its divided skirt splattered with dried mud. The white frill at her throat and wrists was also rather dirty and dangled from one sleeve where she had caught it on a nail and torn the lace. Her long brown boots were scuffed and muddy.
‘Ye do no’ look much cleaner than ye did in the auld days,’ he said critically. ‘Though at least your clothes fit ye properly now.’
‘Och, dinna ye start!’ Finn cried. ‘Who cares about clothes? We’ve much more important things to talk about!’ She looked him over critically, then said, ‘Though look at ye, fine as a proud laird’s bastard!’ She flipped his crimson feather with one finger
.
Jay pushed her hand away, colouring hotly under his tan. ‘I was disappointed indeed when I did no’ see ye at the high table with your mam. What are ye doing skulking about behind tapestries?’
‘I dinna want anyone to see me, o’ course. Why else?’ Suddenly she threw her arm about his shoulder, reaching up to kiss his lean cheek. ‘Och, Jay, it is glad indeed I am to be seeing ye! It has been so long syne I last saw ye! What are ye doing here? Did ye come to see me?’
‘Aye, o’ course,’ he replied, though his cheeks burnt even hotter. ‘We came here on purpose, to ask ye … But, Finn, this is something Enit will be telling your mam about later. Ye will hear it all then. I shouldna be out here talking to ye now, we’re in the middle o’ a performance! They’ll all be wondering where I am …’
‘Canna they do without ye a while?’ Finn cried. ‘I have no’ seen ye for so long—can ye no’ bide here wi’ me a wee and tell me what ye’ve been doing all this time?’
‘But we shall have audience wi’ ye after the performance,’ Jay said, a little bemused. ‘We can talk then.’
‘I may no’ be able to,’ Finn said with a theatrical groan. ‘I have escaped my prison to see ye—if they catch me they’ll lock me up again and I may no’ be able to escape again.’
‘Whatever can ye mean?’ Jay cried, considerably startled.
Finn sighed. ‘I’m a prisoner in my own home,’ she said sadly. ‘Ye wonder why I must sneak around and hide behind tapestries, but if anyone saw me they’d drag me away and lock me up and put such heavy guards upon me that I’d never be free again.’
‘Ye canna be serious! Do ye mean ye’re kept locked up in a dungeon?’
‘Well, it’s no’ exactly a dungeon … but I have been locked up—and fed nothing but black bread and cheese—wi’ the meanest set o’ guards ye could imagine, as stiff as if they’d had pokers shoved up their arses.’