The Forbidden Land Page 8

  As if she had heard him, the caravan door opened and Nina looked out. Dide came at her call and carried the crippled old woman down the stairs, depositing her gently on her cushioned chair. Enit had changed her skirt to one of orange velvet and in her snowy-white hair she wore a jewelled comb. Nina and Dide carried the chair over to the fire, and set her down rather heavily. Enit inclined her head as far as she was able. ‘My laird,’ she said.

  ‘Enit,’ he replied, with a courteous inclination of his head. ‘I look forward indeed to hearing ye sing once more.’

  ‘I thank ye, my laird,’ she answered and he came forward to bow over her hand.

  ‘Who is he?’ Finn whispered to Ashlin, who gave a little shrug.

  Brangaine rolled her eyes. ‘Did ye no’ hear them call him the MacAhern? Can ye no’ see his plaid and brooch?’

  ‘But surely the prionnsa o’ Tìreich would no’ live in a caravan,’ Ashlin said, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Everyone in Tìreich lives in a caravan,’ Brangaine sighed in exasperation. ‘There are no towns or villages here.’

  Ashlin and Finn made a face at each other and Finn whispered, ‘Ken-it-all.’

  The MacAhern had joined the others around the fire, accepting a swig of whiskey. The Tìreichan caravans pulled up in a loose circle around the jongleurs, completely surrounding them. The drivers leapt down from the driving-seats and unharnessed the big dogs, who lay down in the shade of their caravan, panting. Short-haired, with coats of grey-brown or reddish-brown, the dogs had a ridge of hair that ran down their spines, giving them an aggressive look. Their brown eyes were mild and friendly, however, and they seemed to grin as they panted, salivating heavily. The herd of horses cropped the grass all about, with no attempt made to confine them.

  Children leapt down from the backs of their ponies, while those few too old or ill to ride climbed out of the caravans. The MacAhern leapt to his feet and went forward to help down his wife, who was heavily pregnant. She was near as tall as he, with a thick brown plait that fell down to her bare feet. She was dressed in a loose yellow smock and looked more like a crofter’s wife than the wife of the prionnsa of Tìreich.

  ‘Whiskey at this time o’ the morning!’ she exclaimed in disapproval, glancing at Morrell who was refilling a handful of mugs at the barrel.

  ‘Och, a thirsty man can drink a wee dram at any time o’ day or night,’ Morrell answered, bowing extravagantly without spilling a drop. ‘How are ye yourself, my lady? Bonny and blooming, that I can see!’

  She smiled and thanked him and he offered her one of the pewter mugs. ‘Thank ye, but I think I’d rather share a cup o’ dancey with your mother,’ she replied with a rather tired smile. The MacAhern helped lower her to the ground and Morrell gave her his own saddle for her to lean against.

  The peaceful little camp had in an instant been transformed into a bustling village, with women shaking out straw-coloured mats from the caravan steps and asking their menfolk to fetch water for the washing. The children clustered close about Dide and Nina, asking questions and begging them to perform. Obligingly Dide began to juggle with his flashing silver knives and his sister walked round the camp on her hands, much to the children’s delight.

  ‘What do ye do?’ a little girl with four long plaits demanded of Finn and Ashlin. ‘Can ye walk on your hands?’

  Questions were fired from all sides.

  ‘Can ye eat fire?’

  ‘Can ye put your foot behind your ear?’

  ‘Can ye ride astride three horses?’

  ‘I play the bagpipes,’ Ashlin replied diffidently. The children were impressed, for the bagpipes were rare in Tìreich, and so obligingly he played a martial pibroch for them. They clapped enthusiastically, then demanded Finn show them what she could do.

  ‘I can climb,’ she said but received only blank looks, most of these children never having seen a castle wall or towering cliff. ‘I can steal that bracelet off your wrist without ye even realising,’ she said then. They jeered at her. So Finn amused them by pulling coins from their ears and pebbles from their boots, then amazed them by pulling out something that she had stolen from each of the children without them being aware of it.

  Dide cartwheeled over to them, did a high twisting somersault, then began to juggle twelve golden balls in intricate wheels that spun high into the air. The children gasped in wonder. Catching and casting them up again with one hand behind him, then with his feet, then with his head and shoulders, then with the sharp tip of his dagger, Dide kept them in a continual state of amazement. At last he caught all the glittering balls, and bowed with a flourish. The children went running off to tell their mothers and Dide said, very low, ‘I would no’ be making a spectacle o’ your pickpocketing, Finn.’

  ‘Why no’?’ she said with a flush. ‘They liked it just as much as your juggling.’

  He tossed up his dagger and balanced it on the tip of his nose. ‘Firstly,’ he replied, his head bent back, his voice rather muffled, ‘we do no’ want ye drawing attention to yourself. In many o’ the villages that we pass through the jongleurs are the biggest, brightest thing to happen all year. People talk about what they see. Even here in Tìreich, where there are no villages, the caravans often cross each other’s paths and what else is there to talk about but the jongleurs?’

  He caught the dagger by its hilt, tossed it in the air and then sheathed it without again catching it in his hands. ‘Secondly,’ he said, ‘we jongleurs already have a reputation for thievery. It’s no’ a view we want to encourage.’

  Finn’s colour darkened. ‘Well, what am I meant to do?’ she replied rather sulkily. ‘Surely a jongleur lassie would have some show to put on. Will it no’ be more suspicious if we do naught at all?’

  Dide smiled. ‘True speaking indeed. We’ll have to think o’ some routine for ye and Brangaine and Ashlin to perform. No’ pickpocketing, though, Finn.’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ she answered, shoving her hands in her pockets. ‘I only did it so they wouldna think it was odd o’ me no’ to have some trick like ye and Nina.’

  He laughed at her and she could not help but laugh back. ‘Happen we can set up a rope for ye to dance on,’ he suggested. ‘I saw a jongleur do that at the Summer Fair a few years back.’

  Finn’s imagination was fired. ‘I wager ye I could!’ she cried. Talking animatedly, she followed Dide back to the fire, where Brangaine was helping Brun to knead bread dough and Morrell was entertaining the riders with tales of the court.

  Finn’s voice faltered when she saw a tall brown-haired girl sitting beside the MacAhern. She was both pleased and sorry to see the scratch marks marring the smooth brown of her cheek.

  The girl scowled at her and Finn scowled back.

  ‘So this is the lassie who caught ye unawares,’ the MacAhern said humorously. The girl did not answer, just frowned more heavily.

  ‘Aye, ye mun forgive her,’ Morrell said easily. ‘This is Finn’s first time in Tìreich and she does no’ ken much about your ways.’

  ‘Is she new to your caravan?’ the prionnsa asked, eyeing Finn curiously. ‘Were ye no’ travelling with Iven Yellowbeard and Eileen the Snake when ye last came through Tìreich?’

  ‘Aye, but they were keen to stay in Rurach and we thought we’d head to Dún Gorm for the Summer Fair, so we parted ways,’ Morrell replied comfortably.

  ‘Ye’ll need to make haste if ye wish to reach Dún Gorm by Midsummer’s Eve,’ the MacAhern answered, raising his eyebrow.

  ‘Och, we thought we’d cut through the Whitelock Mountains, save some time there.’

  ‘Hard work for your horses,’ the prionnsa answered with a frown.

  ‘Aye, but they’ve done it afore and are sturdy wee beasties. I’ve heard tell Ogre Pass through Cairncross is safe enough these days now the Rìgh has repaired the highway.’

  ‘Aye, he’s been a busy man by all accounts,’ the MacAhern said and their talk veered to politics.

  Finn glanced at the girl next to her once or twic
e, then said, rather abruptly, ‘I’m sorry about jumping ye. I dinna ken ye were an outrider for the MacAhern’s caravan. I thought ye were spying on us.’

  ‘Why ye thought anyone would want to spy on a jongleurs’ camp is beyond me,’ the girl answered, just as abruptly.

  ‘Ye might have been a bandit,’ Finn snapped.

  ‘True enough,’ she answered, her voice slightly more conciliatory. She hesitated, twisting the cup in her hand round and round, then said, rather arrogantly, ‘I be the Banprionnsa Madeline Maire NicAhern.’

  Finn opened her mouth to give her name and titles just as arrogantly, then bit her lip, saying brusquely. ‘I’m Finn.’

  ‘What do they call ye?’

  Finn shrugged. ‘Just Finn,’ she answered after a moment, wishing she could say ‘Finn the Cat,’ as she would have liked.

  ‘They mainly call me Madeline the Swift,’ the banprionnsa answered proudly.

  ‘Madlin the Mad!’ a boy interjected cheekily from the other side of the fire.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Madeline replied loftily. ‘He’s naught but a laddiekin. He’s my brother Aiken but we mainly call him “the babe”.’

  ‘No’ for long,’ her mother interjected with a smile, one hand smoothing the curve of her pregnant stomach. ‘It willna be long and we’ll have a new babe.’

  Madeline did not look too happy about this. She prodded the dirt with the toe of her boot.

  ‘Would ye like some dancey?’ her mother asked, lifting a little silver pot out of the fire. It was bubbling madly, its lid jumping up and down with the steam, while a strong aroma drifted through the air.

  ‘Some what?’

  ‘Some dancey. It’s made from the berries o’ the dancing-goat bush. Much better to start the day off with than a dram o’ whiskey.’

  ‘I’ll have a taste,’ Finn said, curious as ever, and accepted a mug of a hot bitter brew, cooled with a dash of mare’s milk. At first she screwed up her face at the taste but after a few sips she grew accustomed to it. A warm glow spread through her and she felt a little buzz of energy.

  ‘It makes ye want to dance,’ Madeline said. ‘That’s why we call it dancey. They say it was first discovered when a goatherd noticed his herd leaping and dancing about after eating the berries. That’s why the bush is called the dancing-goat bush.’

  Finn accepted another cup and was soon so restless she had to get up and move about. She and Madeline wandered around the bustling village of caravans, talking. Finn found she had little she could say about life as a jongleur, having only been one for a scant few weeks, so she avoided the subject, questioning Madeline about life on the plains instead. Madeline introduced her to the two huge grey dogs that pulled the MacAhern’s caravan. Although Goblin hissed and dug her claws into Finn’s shoulder at the sight of them, the massive dogs did not even bare their teeth at the tiny cat. Called zimbaras, the dogs were known for their placid nature as much for their loyalty and strength, Madeline said, and lifted the lip of one to thrust her hand into its cavernous mouth. The dog only panted and slobbered on her, so that she had to wipe her hand dry on her breeches.

  The afternoon was spent eating, drinking, singing and talking. Jay and Morrell played their fiddles, Brun blew upon his little flute, and Nina banged her tambourine and sang with Dide, who strummed his guitar. Balfour demonstrated amazing tricks with a rope, which Finn decided she had to learn how to do, then many of the horse-riders leapt up to dance around the fire. With the women wearing breeches like the men the reels and strathspeys looked rather odd, for Finn was used to seeing the swing of skirts. Their dancing had a fierce energy to it, however, that more than made up for its lack of grace.

  When all were too breathless to dance any more they listened to Ashlin, who solemnly played a lament on his bagpipes. He was much cheered and praised, so that he flushed and grew shy and would play no more. Then Enit sang, her only accompaniment the larks high in the sky. Little shivers ran over Finn’s skin and she watched how the old woman held her audience spellbound with her voice.

  By now the sun was sinking and fires were being built all round the camp for the cooking of the evening meal. Kindling was rare on these grassy plains and so the fires were fed with dried horse manure, making the smoke rather pungent. The jongleurs’ audience dwindled as children were called home to help prepare the dinner and the riders went out to feed and water the herds.

  Only the MacAhern and his family stayed at the jongleurs’ fire, for Enit had asked them to join the jongleurs’ evening meal. While they had played and sung, Donald had gone out hunting with his bow and arrow and now had a brace of coneys hanging by the step. He skinned them expertly and spitted them on long steel rods which he set up over the fire. Brun scrubbed handfuls of potatoes and carrots and Finn helped him peel them with a glow of virtue.

  As the younger ones worked to get dinner ready, Morrell and Enit sat by the fire, talking in low voices to the MacAhern and his wife. Finn listened as she peeled and found they were talking seriously about the state of affairs in Eileanan. The MacAhern was most interested in all the young Rìgh had been doing and asked many questions, which Enit did her best to answer.

  It was soon clear to Finn that Lachlan and Iseult had paid a high price for their victory in the Bright Wars. Many concessions had been made to the lairds and merchants for their support and the young Rìgh was now having to fulfil those promises. Lachlan’s armed forces had been greatly depleted by the struggle to win the war and, despite the signing of the Pact of Peace, there were still many pockets of civil unrest. Seekers of the Awl were still being sheltered in some villages, bandits infested the forests and pirates infested the seas.

  However, order was slowly being restored to the countryside. Trade was once again flourishing, despite the dangers of sailing the seas. The highways had all been repaired after years of neglect so merchant caravans again travelled from highland to lowland, and from country to country. Industries in the major cities were slowly recovering their strength and the pastures had all been replanted. Of the countries sworn to the Pact of Peace, only Siantan still suffered unrest and famine, and Enit assured the MacAhern that the Rìgh was taking steps to assist them.

  ‘What o’ Tìrsoilleir?’ the prionnsa asked. ‘I have heard that the Greycloaks have had hard fighting to win only a few leagues o’ land.’

  ‘Och, there is no doubt the taking o’ Tìrsoilleir shall cost the Rìgh dear but he shall prevail in the end.’

  Something about Morrell’s voice made Finn glance at him curiously. He was smiling as good-humouredly as ever but Finn noticed Dide was frowning slightly as he carved the coneys into portions.

  The MacAhern then asked for news of Isabeau the Red, the twin sister of the Banrìgh, Iseult of the Snows. He had first met the red-haired apprentice-witch in the days when Maya the Ensorcellor had still ruled, before Isabeau had discovered she was a banprionnsa and the direct descendant of Faodhagan the Red, one of the First Coven of Witches. Isabeau had stopped his entourage in the forest in order to return to him the Saddle of Ahearn, a sacred family relic of the MacAhern clan, thereby earning the prisonnsa’s undying gratitude and friendship.

  ‘Och, I am no’ the one to ask,’ Morrell answered with a grin. ‘I’d be asking Dide if ye be wanting news o’ that lassie.’

  ‘Last I heard Isabeau was in Tìrlethan,’ Dide answered rather curtly. ‘She spends half her time wi’ her mother and father at the Towers o’ Roses and Thorns and the other half wi’ the tribe o’ horned snow-faeries that raised the Banrìgh.’

  ‘Och, aye, I met one o’ them at the signing o’ the Pact o’ Peace a few years back. A very grim-looking man with his face all scarred.’

  ‘That would’ve been Khan’gharad, Isabeau and Iseult’s father. He was ratified as the prionnsa o’ Tìrlethan that day, if ye remember.’

  ‘Och, how could I forget? Such a dramatic entrance they made, flying in on the back o’ a dragon!’

  Dide made no reply, staring down at the coney leg held
untasted in his hand.

  ‘I always kent she was one o’ the blood,’ the MacAhern said with satisfaction. ‘Though she was dressed as a serving lass the first time I met her. Och, I’ll never forget my surprise when I was first introduced to the Banrìgh after the victory at Rhyssmadill! She was the living image o’ the serving lass I’d met that day on the road.’

  ‘Except for her scars,’ Morrell said. ‘It be such a shame a bonny lass like the Banrìgh let herself be slashed up like that.’

  ‘She be a Scarred Warrior,’ Finn said impatiently. ‘The scars show how cannily she can fight. They are marks o’ great honour.’

  At her words the MacAhern turned haughtily to look her up and down, obviously offended that a dirty jongleur lass should have the temerity to interrupt their conversation.

  Finn did not notice, continuing with a laugh, ‘I remember the first time I met Isabeau! She dinna even ken she had a twin sister! We were as muddled as hens in a whirlwind afore we managed to work it out. I was there when they met for the first time, ye ken. They might as well have been looking into a mirror, except for Beau’s hand, o’ course …’

  ‘Another wee dram, my laird?’ Dide asked, bending in front of Finn to offer the MacAhern the whiskey flask, surreptitiously elbowing her as he did so. Finn fell silent and, though the MacAhern regarded her coldly for a few minutes, he accepted the whiskey and turned his attention back to Morrell, who had begun recounting a tale of Iseult’s incredible prowess at hand-to-hand combat.

  ‘What o’ the Coven?’ the MacAhern asked then.

  ‘The witches have been scouting in the countryside for anyone o’ Talent to join their Theurgia but indeed the Keybearer Meghan is finding it difficult. There are so few fully trained witches to help teach the younger ones and so much to do, what with the infirmary she’s set up in Lucescere and the blessing o’ the orchards and the fields,’ Enit sighed. ‘So much knowledge was lost with the burning o’ the towers. Ye ken I speak with Meghan often. Well, it’s downhearted she’s been the last few months and sorry I am to see it, Meghan never having been one to lose heart.’