* * * *

 

Kim Wilkins was born in London but grew up at the seaside near Brisbane. She has degrees in literature and creative writing, and teaches at University of Queensland. Kim has published more than twenty books, in a variety of genres and for a variety of age groups, though her heart belongs to fantasy.

 

* * * *

 

Crown of Rowan:

A Tale of Thyrsland

 

Kim Wilkins

 

 

I was cruellest to him whom I loved the most.

— Laxdaela’s saga

 

 

I. Blotmonath

 

 

There are seven kings in Thyrsland. My father is one of them, and my husband is another. In my belly, perhaps, I carry a third.

 

It is blood month, and outside my bower window I hear fear-moaning cattle on their way to slaughter. Every night this week, I have smelled blood on the wind: faint but unmistakable, worming under the shutters. And I’ve turned my face to my pillow and held tight to avoid retching.

 

My sister’s hands are cool, pressed against my belly, sliding down hard towards the bone. Ash hasn’t seen me naked since we were children, when we shared the same bath before midsummer feasts. Her face is a mask of concentration: her eyebrows are drawn together, which makes her look cross. And yet Ash is never cross. She is as bonny as the sun.

 

She lifts off her hands and smiles, smooths my skirts down again. ‘You are definitely with child,’ she says, leaning in to hug me, her long dark hair becoming caught in my mouth. ‘Darling Rose, I’m so pleased for you.’

 

Even though I was expecting this answer, the world swings away from me a moment and I see myself from afar. Small and soft, a snail without a shell. Then I am back, and it is hotly true: a child grows within me, somebody who will one day think and speak and rule over Netelchester when my husband, Wengest, is gone.

 

But Wengest is not the child’s father.

 

Ash has turned away. The afternoon light through the narrow window catches the side of her face and she looks so very young. Too young to be away from home and studying; but she has gathered my fate, just as I gathered my older sister’s. Bluebell, as the first daughter, should have been married off to Wengest, to weave peace between Netelchester and Ælmesse. But she flatly refused; she threatened to cut out her guts if pressed. Father’s eyes could tell him that no husband would lament not having her. She is six feet tall, all long limbs and jutting bones. Her nose was smashed sideways in battle practice when she was eighteen, and each arm wears a sleeve of scars and tattoos. Which is to say, she is formed for war, and not for love.

 

So I was sent to Wengest, and Ash was sent to the Study Halls of Thriddastowe. She is learning to be a counsellor of the Common Faith. Part of her role is to tend to women in childbirth.

 

‘When will the babe come?’ I ask her, pulling myself up into a sitting position with my arms around my knees.

 

‘If you last bled in weed-month, then the babe will come in milk-month.’ She laughed. ‘It won’t just be the cows making milk, then.’

 

I think about my breasts, the faint blue veins that appeared on them eight weeks ago. I knew then, of course. I had counted back the days. Wengest was away, meeting with the king of Lyteldyke. He had been away a month and four days. He hadn’t been in my bed for nearly a fortnight before that.

 

I know that he has not subsequently noticed those tell-tale lines on my breasts. He prefers to couple in the dark, believing somehow that passion reduces us, strips us of our dignity. But Heath had noticed them. Out in the fields far from my husband’s hall: sunlight white and warm, caught under the ears of wheat as they shook in the breeze, dazzling in Heath’s pale gold hair, bathing my bare white skin ... He saw the veins, he traced them with his fingers, but he said nothing. I said nothing. The memory comes upon me fresh: my belly grows giddy, my heart pinches. Many say that love is a blessing; but to love a man one cannot have is surely a curse.

 

‘You will be here for milk-month?’ I ask Ash, aware now of my body’s vulnerability, of what childbirth can do to women. Our mother died delivering twins. ‘You will deliver the child?’

 

‘I will ask my elders at the study hall for permission to come.’

 

‘You are a king’s daughter,’ I say, ‘you can surely do as you please.’

 

‘My loyalty as a counsellor is not to any king. It is to the horse god, to the great mother. In their eyes, no family is more important than another.’ She reads the anxiety on my brow and she shifts to sit on the bed next to me. ‘I will do my very best, Rosie. But even if I can’t make it, you aren’t to worry. You will be perfectly well, and your baby will too. She’ll be bonny and strong, you’ll see.’

 

‘She? You think it is a girl?’

 

Ash smiles, but I see her eyes flicker like a person about to tell a lie. I know that expression; I wear it often. ‘There is no way to tell, no windows to the womb.’ She shakes her head gently. ‘With four sisters, it’s hard to imagine a baby boy. Forgive me. It might as well be a son as daughter.’

 

My daughter. I have never been fond of children, but this creature embedded in my body is not just any child. It is my child. And his.

 

‘Wengest will be pleased,’ Ash continues. ‘Will you tell him soon?’

 

I cannot answer. I am thinking, instead, of telling Heath what he surely already knows.

 

* * * *

 

The wide Wuldorea divides my husband’s kingdom from my father’s. The river snakes through Thyrsland from its mouth on the south-west coast, up towards the great lakes of western Netelchester, on the border with tiny Tweoning, a little kingdom that has seen much war. The Wuldorea is brown today, engorged with a week of rain. Heath owns twenty hides of land bordered by her banks; five miles downstream from Wengest’s hall and the rest of the town. When I stand at the western edge of his land, I can see Ælmesse, the kingdom of my birth. On a clear day, I sometimes imagine I can see the steep hill upon which my father’s hall is built, the gleaming ruins of the giants’ halls at Blicstowe — my home town, the most beautiful place on earth — though I know it is an illusion.

 

Heath’s fields are dark and smell of earth and rain. I make my way up the line of elms between fields to the thatched round-house where Heath lives. A crow sits on bare branches above me, watching. I don’t like to be watched; frost creeps over my skin. The crow clicks its beak against the branch, spreads its wings, and takes off into the white sky. Its wake shivers across the branch.

 

Inside, Heath is sitting by the fire. Smoke catches in my throat and stings my eyes. The hewn carcasse of a cow is hung from the rafters to smoke for the winter. The shutters are closed against the cold, so the room is dark as it will be until the sun comes back in summerfull-month. The weak light from the open door shows me Heath’s back and shoulders, his long gold hair. Then I close the door and only firelight illuminates us. He turns and smiles at my arrival, shifts over on the bench to make room for me. I slide into place and he catches me in his gaze.

 

Heath does not wear a beard, as most men in Thyrsland do. But it isn’t true that he can’t grow one. How many times have I heard that insult whispered? Even Wengest has said it to me. ‘My nephew must not be fully a man at twenty-five summers old and still no beard.’

 

I know Heath’s secret. He shaves it from his face with a warm knife every morning, because when it grows it is bright coppery red. Heath is part Ærfolc; he is the half-breed bastard son of Wengest’s wayward sister. The Ærfolc, who were driven deep into the north-west and across the sea a hundred years ago, are regarded by the people of Thyrsland with suspicion, hostility. Some of us, in the south of Lyteldyke, still use them as slaves. Their coppery hair and pale green eyes mark them. Heath, beardless, could barely be recognised as Ærfolc except if one is looking for the signs: threads of copper in his golden hair that are only visible in bright sunlight; an undercurrent of sea-green in his eyes.

 

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you today,’ he says, bringing rough fingers to my chin, running his thumb gently over my lower lip to coax a smile.

 

‘It’s so hot in here,’ I complain, unpinning and shrugging out of my cloak. It falls in a puddle behind me. Heath’s home is small. The only furniture is this bench and a straw mattress. We have made love many times upon that mattress; the straw ticking scratching our bare skins softly through the thick blankets. My husband’s hall is far grander than Heath’s home; my father’s is a hundred times the size. But I have known unutterable happiness in this warm room.

 

He sits and waits for me to say what I must say. Ever-patient Heath. The fire cracks and pops, the smoke catches my throat. Finally, I say, ‘I am with child. It is certainly yours.’

 

His face softens; I have no idea what he is thinking. ‘What have you told Wengest?’

 

‘Nothing.’

 

‘And you intend to keep the child?’ he says, almost fearfully.

 

‘I do,’ I say.

 

Heath rubs his chin, and I see he is hiding a smile. And now I am crying, because we made a child and he is glad, even though he knows he will never be recognised as the child’s father. An image skids into my mind — a small boy at Heath’s side, helping him load the sheaves on the cart, laughing in the autumn sunshine — and just as quickly I banish it. It will do me no good to harbour such fantasies and, in any case, Ash says the child will be a girl. And Ash knows these things even though she shouldn’t.

 

I press my body into his arms and weep warm tears against the rough fabric of his tunic. ‘What is to become of us?’ My voice is husky from smoke and from crying.

 

Heath kisses the trail of tears from my cheeks, and even in this dark moment the desire that arrows through me is bright and urgent.

 

He pushes me gently away so he can look at my face, and he opens his mouth and says, ‘Rose, we could ...’ But then he stops, and I am glad he has stopped, because I know he is going to say, we could run away: we could find my father’s family in the wilds of Bradsey, we could raise the child as our own and have six more and always be happy. But we both know that such a sunlit scene blinds the mind’s eye to darker truths. Ælmesse and Netelchester have been at war since the giants left Thyrsland, centuries ago. My father and Wengest’s father were the first kings to bring peace between the kingdoms; and all of it rested on the marriage promise my father made to Wengest. If Heath and I ran away to raise fat babies in the wilderness, the sure result of our indulgence would be war. Thousands would die; many of them would be children. I want to shout and shake my fists and proclaim how unfair it is that I should be in such a position, forced into marriage, the fate of kingdoms weighing on me. And then I remind myself — as I always must — of my sister Bluebell on the fields of battle with my father, stained in blood and slipping over the spilled intestines of her fallen friends. A king’s daughter knows duty. Bluebell would sacrifice her life for Ælmesse; how selfish I am to complain about sacrificing my womb.

 

Heath stands, pulls me up next to him. Then he takes my hands and kneels, his hands around my hips. He kisses my belly, and I can feel the heat of his lips through the cloth. I close my eyes and turn my face upwards. The mingled smells of meat, smoke, and mud seem stuck in my throat. He rests his cheek against my body, and I turn my gaze to him, tangle my fingers in his hair. And then the first bolt of true panic comes.

 

In the firelight, I see the red glimmer in his hair. It is suddenly clear to me that should my child have the faintest trace of the Ærfolc colouring, we will be undone.

 

Her hair or her eyes may tell a tale that should remain untold.

 

* * * *

 

II. Motranecht

 

 

Wild snowy wind rattles the branches outside, battering the shutters, howling down the hill and plucking at the thatched houses of the village. Snow lies in uneven layers on the empty market square, on the roofs of barns where animals stand still and close together, on the bowerhouse and the blacksmith’s forge. But here in Wengest’s great hall, the freezing damp seems impossibly far away. The fire is huge and hot and bright, the smoke hangs thick in the air until it escapes, little by little, into the black cold outside. The occasional bold snowflake falls through the smoke-hole and melts in a hissing half-moment. All around me are the sounds of people shouting and laughing and drinking, the smell of damp clothes and roasting fat. It is the night we celebrate the great Mother, the deepest point of winter, the day when the sun rises the latest and sets the earliest.

 

I am wearing my best red dress for Mother’s Night and, fittingly, it is strained across my waist as it never has been before. A loose pinafore pinned over it disguises my belly; but it won’t be long before it is apparent to everyone who sees me that the king’s wife is with child. Perhaps it is time I told the king.

 

Wengest is holding my hand loosely as he turns away to talk to his ageing uncle Byrtwold, who sits at the head of the table with us. My gaze travels the room. Beyond our table, other groups are arranged around the fire. The hall-staff work at the hearth, carving deer on spits, slopping gravy and parsnips onto plates. By the far door, a taleteller is performing. I cannot hear his words, but I can see his exaggerated actions: an invisible sword, a dragon with hands for jaws. The warm, sweet ale has made me flushed and happy.

 

Of course, I am looking for Heath. Wengest has seated him at a far table, with a duke from the deep west of Netelchester. The duke’s two daughters are with him; sullen skinny things. Neither of them great beauties. I think not.

 

Wengest’s whisper is in my ear, his beard is rough against my skin. ‘Save us.’

 

I look up. Uncle Byrtwold is holding forth at length, and under the influence of too much bog-myrtle ale, about the right way to knacker sheep. Wengest’s closest retainers are silenced and glazed. I swallow a laugh.

 

‘Uncle Byrtwold,’ I say in a sharp voice, ‘have you seen the way the hall-staff are carving that deer? I’m sure it is not right.’

 

Byrtwold sits up, alarmed, peering towards the fire. ‘You are right, my dear. If they cut across-wise, all the fat will end up on the first twelve plates.’ He is on his feet in a moment, unsteadily. Wengest’s hand shoots out under his elbow.

 

‘You need to explain the process to them in detail,’ Wengest says, using his leverage now to propel Byrtwold away.

 

Then he is weaving off through the crowd, and restrained laughter blooms at our table. Wengest smiles at me, the firelight reflected in his dark eyes. ‘You are as wise as you are beautiful, my Rose.’

 

This is surely the worst aspect of my betrayal: my husband does not deserve it. He is a patient man, and he loves me. The first time we met, I was struck by how handsome he was, how strong. He is not yet forty summers, and has thick dark hair and smiling eyes. The cold has made his skin florid, and his cheeks above his beard are dry and cracking. But he is by no means an ugly man, nor an unkind man. Had I not met Heath, I may very well have fallen slowly in love with him, as I expected to when our marriage was arranged.

 

I am overwhelmed by strong pity and lean up to kiss him, and he quickly pushes me away, glancing around. ‘Not so everyone will see, Rose. People do not like to think of their king as a man. Men desire, and desire saps judgement.’

 

Such ideas about what kings and men should be is no doubt at the very root of the long-standing differences between my father’s kingdom and Netelchester. For my father thinks that a king is first a human, and only through our shared humanity can we be a strong kingdom. Wengest believes kings are separate, different. Better.

 

I playfully put my arms around his neck and blow softly on his hair, and he looks cross for a moment and then laughs.

 

‘Look you at my nephew, Heath,’ he says, his gaze going over my shoulder.

 

I turn, probably too quickly, my hands still linked behind his neck. I see nothing unusual. Heath is listening to the tale-teller, the duke and his daughters are eating their meals.

 

‘I have been watching him all night, and I am suspicious,’ Wengest says.

 

My face grows hot. ‘You are?’

 

‘I put him there with two women who would be perfect for marriage, and he looks at neither.’ Wengest frowns, disengages himself from my arms. ‘He cannot grow a beard, he does not enjoy the company of women. I hope he is not a cat-paw.’

 

At that precise moment, a wooden trencher piled with meat and vegetables is dropped at my elbow. I become aware that the noise in the room has been dampened as people eat. Wengest has not invited me to reply, so I do not. But of course I am the person who knows best that Heath is far from being a cat-paw. Back at Heath’s table, the taleteller is finished and people around are clapping and cheering. The tale-teller turns and Wengest beckons him forward. He is a small but sprightly man with a wispy beard and a pronounced crook to his right shoulder.

 

‘My lord,’ the tale-teller says as he approaches our table. ‘I have a tale for you.’

 

‘Tell on,’ Wengest says, breaking his bread to sop up gravy. ‘I could use some entertainment. Let it be a tale of adventure and men’s courage.’

 

But before the tale-teller can speak, a man dressed in white at the end of our table stands and, in a bold voice, says, ‘I can tell a tale.’

 

The man, whose name is Nyll, is a pilgrim. I do not like him, but that is not his fault. He is friendly enough. But he is of the Trimartyr faith, a woman-hating death cult. Wengest is fascinated by this faith, but resists converting. Out of some strange pity or fear, he gave the pilgrim a half-hide near the river as book-land, and there Nyll has built a little house with a grass roof, where he writes his strange letters on his stretched calfskin and counsels those who have questions about the Trimartyrs. Winter has come, and he is still here. I know by this that he intends to stay until he achieves his object, which is my husband’s soul and the souls of his people.

 

‘You have a tale, pilgrim?’ Wengest says, sitting back in his chair and swirling the drink in his cup. ‘I did not know pilgrims did such frivolous things as telling tales.’

 

‘Ah, my lord, but the Trimartyrs have the most glorious tale of all. That of the courage and sacrifice of the three martyrs so that we may all one day stand in the hall of the great god Maava.’

 

The tale-teller retreats, bowing his head. Wengest shrugs his broad shoulders. ‘Go on then.’

 

Nyll the pilgrim spreads his hands and clears his throat. ‘Listen,’ he says, straining to be heard over the noise in the room, ‘for Maava’s word is great and good.’ A good tale-teller needs a strong voice, an ease with his own body. But Nyll does not know how to project his words, nor what to do with his hands. They clutch and unclutch in front of him. Undeterred, he continues. ‘Maava is the one god, the only god.’

 

Already the group around him has divided. Those who are already sympathetic to the Trimartyrs are nodding, urging him on. Those of the common faith mutter to each other, they frown or roll their eyes. Some look murderous: to preach such nonsense on Motranecht seems evil. One god? When there are so clearly two? A mother: for growth, love, harmony, family; and the horse god: for war, diplomacy, thought, action. One for birth, and one for death: the two poles between which we all wander.

 

Nyll clears his throat again, and this time manages to imbue his voice with volume. He slips into verse, letting the words lead him.

 

Listen, the Lord Maava: mighty, good and great,

A message for men, cast off customs wilful and wild.

One god, only god, mortals must hear him,

For fate awaits all at end of life’s lease,

Some in the Sunlands, the bad in the Blacklands.

Do not deny this told tale, and wail for wrong,

Listen, the Lord Maava.

 

At world’s warm middle, moist garden of good,

Beyond before: the giants’ grandfathers’ times and tales,

Maava made two; twins proud to prophesy,

Babes in the belly of the loving Liava, who knew no men:

Virtuous virgin, birthed the babes, tended those twins,

In the honoured hall of the King of kindness, victorious Varga,

At world’s warm middle.

 

I stifle a laugh. Perhaps if Wengest can believe that a virgin can get with child, then I need not worry about being discovered in my affair. I turn away from the pilgrim, and hum a tune in my head so I need not listen to the rest. I have heard the story before, and it is a cruel and sad one, of two little boys — the child prophets — and their mother, all cast alive upon a pyre as punishment for preaching the teachings of Maava. Nyll recites this verse with spittle-flecked relish. I try not to think about the mother, lying down and taking her children in her arms, knowing that she can no longer protect them from pain and death. When did I become so vulnerable to tales of cruelty? Since this child lodged itself inside me, I am a different person. I know not myself, I know not my future.

 

Nyll ends his tale by holding out the golden triangle he wears on a strap around his waist; the symbol of the three martyrs, of their pyre, of their bones standing among the cinders of their flesh. ‘Listen you, for those who take Maava as their god will travel upon their deaths to the Sunlands, where happiness is eternal; and those who do not will find instead the Blacklands beyond the clouds, to fall forever in fear and ice.’

 

Everybody has stopped listening, even Wengest. Nyll tucks his triangle away on his belt, and returns to his seat, his elbows crooked awkwardly against the indifferent noise of people eating and talking, and not listening. The tale-teller leaps into the space vacated by him, launching into a tale of two brothers fighting over a dragon-maiden. Maava’s fear and ice are banished by the return of firelight and laughter.

 

It is not simply the avid interest that the Trimartyrs take in cruelty that irks me; it is their law that women cannot rule. Four years ago Tweoning’s queen, the mighty Dystro, was deposed and beheaded by the tide of the Trimartyrs. 1 wonder if Bluebell ever muses on Dystro’s fate. I touch my belly lightly, unthinkingly. My own daughter, if Wengest converted, would not be queen. The thought lights up all my veins with a sense of injustice. A misplaced one, I suppose.

 

I become aware that Wengest is looking at me. Closely. Watching my hand moving softly over the outside of my pinafore. I drop my fingers quickly, he meets my gaze.

 

‘Rose?’

 

‘I am with child,’ I say, willing myself not to blush with guilt.

 

His beard splits with a grin. ‘Oh, my.’

 

I cannot help but smile, his pleasure is contagious.

 

‘When will it come?’ he says eagerly.

 

‘Ash says on midsummer,’ I lie. An early child is not unusual; he will not suspect.

 

Wengest stands, knocking over his cup. He reaches for mine, holds it aloft. The tale-teller falls silent. Wengest booms, ‘Listen you, all of you!’

 

I feel my face grow hot. I know Heath is looking, but I cannot meet his eye. Instead, I stare as hard as I can at Wengest, and a tunnel of blurred darkness forms around him.

 

‘Let it be known,’ Wengest says, when the room has fallen quiet except for the whoosh of the fire, ‘that my wife Rose, the daughter of King Æthlric of Ælmesse, is with child.’

 

A loud cheer goes up, and my eyes are stinging from staring so hard and from unshed tears.

 

‘We expect the child on the very day of midsummer,’ Wengest boasts among the cheers and shouts. ‘An auspcious time for a king to be born.’

 

‘Or a queen,’ I say quietly, but he does not hear; or if he hears, he does not answer.

 

* * * *

 

I do not know how close the dawn is when I finally slide into my warm bed. I let my head fall onto the soft lambskin and close my eyes. My mind still whirls. I feel the weight of Wengest’s body as he lies down next to me. He often does not sleep in my bed, but tonight his excitement about the child has made him affectionate. He rests his warm hand on my belly and is silent for a long time. I am almost asleep, when his voice wakes me. It seems very loud.

 

‘Rose, are you asleep?’

 

I open my eyes. In the dark, he is just a shadow. ‘What is it?’

 

‘I need to ask you about your father. You know him better than I do.’

 

I sit up, craving sleep. ‘Go on.’

 

‘Last time I spoke to Æthlric, he predicted he would soon be asking me for a hundred good warriors, to take up to the border of Is-hjarta in summerfull-month. I have had an idea, but I wonder how your father will take it.’

 

‘What is it?’

 

‘Heath.’

 

‘Heath?’ My heart beats a little faster.

 

‘He shows no inclination to marry, so I shall put him to war. He has a strong arm and a good mind. It would be the making of him, as a man. But would your father object if I sent him an army led by a half-blood?’

 

My tired mind is so overwhelmed with thoughts and feelings that it freezes my tongue.

 

‘Ah, I have offered you insult, too —’

 

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘My father would not object to Heath. My father does not harbour prejudice to Ærfolc — half-blood or full-blood.’

 

Wengest’s voice grows quiet, as though he is ashamed. ‘It is perhaps wrong of me to be partial towards my nephew. I loved my sister, so dearly.’

 

‘Heath is a good man,’ I say, guardedly. ‘But can he lead an army?’

 

A pause. A gust of wind hammers the shutters. ‘Ah, you are right. He has had only basic training for war. It is too soon to put him in such a position.’

 

I relax, the black imaginings of the northern raiders’ famed cruelty temporarily retreating.

 

‘I will send him as second-in-command, behind Grislic.’ Wengest kisses my cheek. ‘Good counsel, my Rose. I can sleep with a clear mind now.’

 

But my mind is not clear. I am a fool. I should have said, no, my father does not want a half-breed. I should have said, you are wrong to send a gentle man such as Heath to war. I should have begged for Heath’s safety; but I said none of those things, too concerned with protecting my secrets from discovery.

 

I turn over on my side, then my other side, then my back. The wind rattles the shutters, threads of snowy cold creep through. Hair works loose from my plait, and tickles my face and ears. I cannot sleep, I cannot sleep. I tell myself, perhaps my father will change his mind. Perhaps he will not ask for an army, after all. But these thoughts are small comfort in the face of the awful fear that my lover may soon meet his death, far far away from me.

 

* * * *

 

III. Solmonath

 

 

I watch him from my bower window. Mud-month has come and the snow has turned to brown slush. Rain falls on every cold inch of Thyrsland. And every day for the last six weeks Heath has been out in the war field with Grislic and a hundred other men. They throw spears at straw targets, they heft their great swords, they raise their wooden shields, they roar. From this distance, they are all small, dressed alike in mail shirts and iron helms. I recognise Heath only by where he is standing: at the front, beside enormous Grislic. Wengest has come down to the field today, in his rarely worn battle gear. My husband is not a warrior king like my father; or, indeed, Wengest’s own father who was slain by raiders in his sixtieth winter.

 

It is too cold to have the shutters open, and my fingers have become ice on the window frame. Yet I watch a little longer, as I do every day. Now he is at Wengest’s hall daily, I see Heath more than I ever have. But there is no private time for us. I have not had a chance to tell him how afraid I am for him. I suspect he is afraid too. Once I entered the hall to find him standing there, talking to Wengest alone. My heart caught on a hook, though it ought not have: Wengest is his uncle; he is partial to Heath. It is of no consequence if they speak to each other. So I joined them, and his eyes travelled to my belly and I know he was thinking what I was thinking: what if he never sees the child?

 

And I had the most despicable of thoughts. If Heath is away when the child comes, nobody will suspect. Should the child be flame-haired or sea-eyed, there will be disquiet, yes. But nobody will point to Heath, for Heath will not be there. He will have dropped out of mind. People may see her colouring as dependent on the way the sunlight falls: an autumnal glow in fair hair, a blue gaze like my older sister’s.

 

I banish the thought again. To see any benefit in Heath’s deployment is to beg for special misery should he fall to the ice-men. I watch him a little longer: his grace, his strength.

 

A flash of colour in the distance catches my eye, and I peer into the misting rain. Riders are coming, and they are carrying the king’s standard of Ælmesse. My father has sent them. My heart hollows, for it can only mean that Wengest was right to predict Ælmesse would ask for an army; and that Heath is surely going with them in only a matter of days.

 

I close the shutters and return to the fire. I pull up a stool and hold my hands out to the warm flame. My fingers ache as the ice melts out of them. I condemn myself for my selfishness. If I had not entered into this love affair with Heath, he might have married and Wengest would have left him alone on his farm. He would be happy and safe. Outside, I can hear running footsteps, people calling to each other. Riders are coming. King Æthlric sends an envoy. Tension and excitement infuses their voices. War is terrifying and thrilling: a hundred of the town’s men — sons, brothers, lovers — are soon marching out to meet it. I close my eyes. My bower, with all its fine wall hangings and carved beams, disappears. Now I am just a woman, not a queen. The baby squirms inside me, pushes tiny limbs against the wall of my womb, then settles again. She knows no fear, she anticipates no loss.

 

More voices outside, the shouting on the war field has stopped. I open my eyes and return to the window, crack the shutter. The riders have pulled up their horses. The first rider is talking to Wengest. She wears no helm and her long, blonde hair is unbound. My heart leaps. It is my sister. It is Bluebell.

 

I fly from the room, forgetting my cloak. I am running, my heart thundering, all woes temporarily forgotten. Pregnancy has robbed me of much of my grace, but I hurry on, down the uneven road out of town and into the cold sludgy fields. She looks up and sees me and breaks Wengest off half-sentence with a sharp hand gesture. She has no love for him, and he none for her. He believes women do not belong in battle; she believes that kings do.

 

Bluebell dismounts with athletic strength and no elegance, and stalks towards me. A moment later she is bending to embrace me as the rain deepens. Her body is bony, the mail is cold and hard. Then she stands back, laughing at my swollen belly, reaching out a tattooed hand to touch it.

 

‘Why are you here?’ I ask, breath held against the answer.

 

‘I’m here to fetch you and take you back to Ælmesse for summerfull-month.’ She tries to smile but it arrives on her face as a grimace. ‘Our father intends to marry.’

 

* * * *

 

The drinkhouse on the village square is warm, and flooded with sweet cinnamon steam and the pungent smell of fermenting yarrow. The rain intensifies. Bluebell’s retinue sit at the hearth and order bread and meat. I take Bluebell to the king’s table — a carved table with high-backed benches, tucked away from the noise in a corner of the room — so that we can talk uninterrupted.

 

Bluebell has few manners. She spends most of her time with warriors or with my father, so hasn’t had the opportunity to learn niceties. She sits with her knees spread wide and her big feet lolling in the walkway, wipes her damp nose with the back of her hand, then raises her fingers and shouts to the young man with the tray of drinks, ‘I’m starving! Bring me food and beer.’ In height and colouring, she is my father’s copy. In almost everything else in the world, she is my father’s favourite. The rest of us have always known it and have each managed our jealousy silently. The idea that Father is to marry again is shocking to me, but to Bluebell it would sting like a betrayal. They are bone-achingly close. He makes no decision without her counsel; he enters no battle without her at his side.

 

‘Who is she?’ I ask, almost the moment we have sat down. ‘Is she a good woman?’

 

‘I hate her,’ Bluebell growls. ‘Of course.’

 

‘But how did they meet? I didn’t know Father had any thoughts about remarrying.’

 

The shutter next to us leaks, a slow trickle of water runs down the wall and pools under the table. Bluebell half-stands and slams the shutter with her shoulder. It crunches tightly. No weak light can make its way in. The small, close room is dim except for hot firelight. It could be morning or midnight.

 

Bluebell sits. ‘She came with a retinue down the river from Tweoning, on her way to visit her sister at the far coast. Her boat sprang a leak two miles from Blicstowe.’ She leans forward on her elbows, resting her chin in her hands and mutters, ‘Would that it had sunk.’

 

I assess Bluebell as the rain thunders on the mud outside. I cannot trust her opinion; her jealousy skews her judgement.

 

‘In any case, she made her way to town and Father offered her a place to stay,’ she continues. ‘It turns out that she’s the widow of an old friend he knew in his youth. Her name is Gudrun.’

 

‘She’s a widow? Any children?’

 

‘A son. Wylm. A spotted eel, not yet fifteen.’ Bluebell’s food and beer arrive, and disappear down her throat alarmingly quickly. As she chews loudly and slops her beer on the table, she describes to me our new stepmother. Gudrun is a pretty, soft-spoken woman who has lived among the Trimartyrs but retains the old ways of our common faith. I am curious to meet her, to see how far Bluebell’s resentment of her is justified.

 

Finally, my sister slaps her hands against each other to wipe them clean, and indicates my belly. ‘Can you travel?’

 

‘Blicstowe isn’t far.’

 

‘A day and a half. Can you ride?’

 

‘I ... I don’t know. I’ll never fit into my riding clothes.’

 

‘You can’t ride a horse in skirts. Two days then. You’ll have to take a covered cart.’ She says the words as though they taste bad.

 

I feel weak and damnably feminine. Yet I am as relieved by the idea of a covered cart as I am ashamed to accept it. ‘Yes, that might be for the best,’ I admit.

 

The corner of Bluebell’s mouth twitches in a smile. ‘I’m not riding with you. My men wouldn’t look at me the same again.’

 

I burst into laughter. The idea of Bluebell on an embroidered seat in a covered cart is entirely wrong. The baby responds to my laughter by squirming. I press my fingers against a tiny foot, poking me hard.

 

‘What is it?’ Bluebell asks.

 

I reach for her hand and pull her to her feet, holding her palm against my belly. The baby obliges by kicking her soundly. Bluebell’s face is overcome by childish wonder.

 

‘Is that the child?’

 

‘Yes. She kicked you.’

 

Bluebell presses her hand hard against my stomach, waiting for another kick. She knows not her own strength. The baby has gone quiet now, and eventually my sister sits again. ‘It was a foot then?’

 

‘I don’t really know. I think so.’ For a moment I feel sorry for Bluebell. She has no knowledge of the giving of life, only the bringing of death. She has often declared that she will never marry and bear children; though Ash and I suspect she has had lovers. I know that she is a fine warrior, a great leader, that she is addicted to the bloodrush of battle. But does she not deny somehow what the earth mother formed her for? So few women go to war, far fewer lead armies, because women are created for another purpose. As Wengest always says, crudely, women have sheaths, not spears.

 

But then I shake off my pity. She wouldn’t want it. She has known glories and sorrows that I cannot imagine; she would consider me — trapped in the bower — to be living only half a life.

 

She raises her cup to her lips and drains the last drops from it. Turns and shouts for more. Then fixes me in her steely blue gaze. ‘You said she.’

 

‘Ash said “she”,’ I reply warily.

 

Bluebell’s eyebrows arch. ‘I see.’

 

‘Though she tried to deny she meant anything by it.’ I shrug. ‘We ought not to talk of it.’

 

‘I don’t see why it should be a secret. If she has the sight, it will make her a better counsellor. Many counsellors in the faith are sighted.’

 

‘After twenty years of practice maybe: not in their first year of study. She might be thrown out of school. Nobody wants to be around a wild latent.’

 

‘She should be proud of herself.’ Bluebell drops her voice anyway. ‘I go to her, if I can, before every battle. She sees, she knows what will happen.’

 

‘Truly?’

 

Her voice becomes urgent. ‘Before we went to Skildan Bridge, back in winterfull-month, she told me to strike while the tide was still low. I marched my men for two days with barely a pause to get there at low tide, and praise the horse god that I did. The raiders had war ships waiting to come down the river on the next high tide. We had already spilled their blood before the other half of the army came. We picked off the reinforcements quickly and raided their ships.’ She thrusts out her arm and pushes up the heavy mail sleeve, to show me a gold armband — two fish eating each other’s tails — jammed hard over the blurring blue tattoos on her forearm. Then she leans back, toying with her empty cup. ‘Ash is far from me now. Too far. As are you.’

 

Outside, the rain has eased and the wind has begun to gust. I contemplate Bluebell’s words. I had no idea that Ash’s sight was so strong. But instead of feeling anxious for her — untrained latent sight can take a heavy toll, especially on young women — I am only anxious for myself. When Ash felt my belly, declared I was pregnant and accidentally told me the child was a girl, what else did she see? What else does she know about me, and about Heath?

 

‘Something troubles you, sister?’ Bluebell says.

 

I shake my head. ‘I am tired, that is all.’

 

Bluebell rises, stretching long legs. With quick movements, she pulls her long hair back and winds it into an untidy knot. ‘We’ll stay two nights and then head to Ælmesse. But first I have to speak with Wengest. Will you come? I find him so difficult to talk to.’

 

‘Surely. Though why must you speak with him?’

 

She doesn’t blink. ‘Father needs an army. A hundred men to go with us up to the northern border of Bradsey. The raiders are pushing hard against the people there. We’re going to go and crush them, send them back into the heart-of-ice. Where the dogs belong.’

 

But I hear nothing beyond, Father needs an army. Because this is the news I have dreaded to hear. Heath is going away. To war.

 

Silence draws out uncomfortably. ‘Will you be going?’ I ask at last, aware my voice is tremulous.

 

‘Of course.’ Her chest puffs proudly, almost imperceptibly. ‘Father is staying home for the first time. I’m in charge.’

 

A small comfort then. Bluebell will be there. Bluebell will look out for him. But, of course, she doesn’t know he is important to me. I want to cry: I am so full of spidery fears and hot secrets.

 

Bluebell misreads the anxiety on my face and slings an arm around me, roughly pulls me close and slams her fist into her chest. ‘You need not worry, sister. No raider will cut out this heart. I’d cut it out myself first.’

 

And I cannot tell her: it is not for her heart that I am anxious. Selfishly, it is for my own.

 

* * * *

 

I wake earlier than the sun. Bluebell sleeps beside me, snoring softly. Wengest has given her his bed for the night, and he sleeps at the other end of the bower house. He has decided not to come to the wedding, because he must get his army ready for marching north. I know this is an excuse, that he trusts Grislic to prepare his men. But he is all too aware of Bluebell’s disdain for his lack of involvement in war. He is trying to impress her, because she is so famed a warrior. And yet she remains unimpressed. I almost feel sorry for him.

 

I lie, stuck awake, for a long time. Outside, the darkness leeches from the sky. The wind has blown all the clouds away, leaving the world shivering unprotected under the stars. We are leaving this morning, after breakfast. My father’s wedding feast will last a week, perhaps two. All my sisters will be there, clamouring for each other’s company. Bluebell will ride early for Is-hjarta, but I will not get away before the end of summerfull-month. I will not see Heath again before he goes.

 

This thought throws itches into my belly. I sit up quietly, feel around in the half-dark for my clothes, and dress quickly and quietly. Bluebell sleeps hard, as does anybody who works vigorously and has a clear conscience. She doesn’t hear me leave the room or the bower house; I doubt she will wake before the full rising of the sun. By then, I will have said my goodbye to Heath.

 

I walk, through the town and out the gate-house, calling good morning to the guards there. They are used to my long absences. The king’s wife, it is well known, likes to walk and think. Perhaps, in whispers, they talk about how my father allowed his daughters to be too independent, far too clever for their own good. Yet they seem to have accepted my ways now, and I believe there is genuine fondness for me in the town. The birth of this child will be welcome and happy news.

 

I take the main road out of town and then cut across fields and skirt the edge of the wood. I see cows and sheep in the distance, farmers taking their first steps, yawning, into the day’s work. The long walk warms my blood; I don’t feel the morning cold anymore. I arrive at the edge of the river and follow it, staying in the cover of the trees. Finally, I am at the edge of Heath’s farm and I make my way up towards the house. His fields have been freshly ploughed, and he is moving between the furrows, throwing handfuls of lime around him. The fields will be ready to sow soon, but he will likely not be here. Wengest will send a caretaker to watch Heath’s farm in hopes he will be back for harvest-month. I pause, to burn the image of Heath into my mind. He is so beautiful, with his wide shoulders and his golden hair. He turns and sees me, half-lifts a hand in a hopeful wave.

 

I hurry towards him, and he catches me in his arms. I breathe in the scent of him: smoke and straw and faint sweat. He stands back and admires my belly, dusting his hands on his pants.

 

‘You are growing apace,’ he says.

 

‘There are just three months to go.’

 

Sadness crosses his face. ‘I will not be here.’

 

‘I know.’

 

We fall silent a while. Then I say, ‘I came to say goodbye. I travel to my father’s hall at Blicstowe today. He is marrying a second time.’

 

‘I had heard it from Wengest,’ he replies. ‘But I had not guessed I would be so lucky as to see you a last time. Come inside, where it is warm.’

 

He leads me into the house. The fire is hot but he doesn’t go to the hearth, he sits on the mattress and I kneel, leaning on him. I am crying before I can promise myself not to cry.

 

‘Hush, hush,’ he says, his warm lips moving over my face. ‘Your tears alarm me. They say you fear I will fall to the raiders.’

 

I take a deep shuddering breath and stop myself. ‘My sister leads Ælmesse’s army. Look to Bluebell. There is not a greater warrior in all of Thyrsland. In all things, look to Bluebell.’

 

‘Hush,’ he says again. ‘I won’t speak of it.’ His lips are on my throat. I climb onto the mattress beside him. Lying against each other, we trace familiar patterns on each other’s bodies. My belly is in the way, so I turn on my side and Heath presses against my back, his hot skin against me, his fingers gentle on my breasts, his kisses in my hair. The harder we chase desire, the more it seems that passion’s tide cannot move us. Instead, I turn against his chest and cry a little more and this time he lets me. I am warm, I am tired. I drift to sleep. We both do.

 

The next thing I am aware of is a loud voice at the door.

 

‘Heath? Are you there?’

 

My heart jumps into my throat. Heath is scrambling for clothes, throwing the wool blanket over me and calling, ‘Who is it? What is it?’

 

‘Grislic sent me. You are past an hour late for training.’

 

I hear the door open, only a crack. ‘I slept late,’ he says. ‘I will come shortly.’

 

‘You will come with me now,’ the voice says. ‘Grislic insisted.’

 

‘I ... very well.’ Then I hear the door close and I know that I am alone, that Heath has left immediately so no attention could be drawn to the figure hiding in his bed.

 

He is gone and I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t say, I love you.

 

* * * *

 

IV. Summerfylleth

 

 

Seven hours from home, my bones are aching and my ankles are swollen. The covered cart bumps along the rutted path and no matter how I sit I cannot get comfortable. Added to this, a miserable drizzle is falling so that I cannot even part the curtains to see outside. I hear voices from time to time, Bluebell laughing with her hearthband, but I am stuck in here with a sagging cushion and nowhere to put my feet up. Added to this discomfort, I am desperate to relieve myself but too embarrassed to ask because it is not yet two hours since I last stopped the riders for the same purpose. Travelling while pregnant, I now see, is a form of torture. My father should not have expected me to come. The very thought of having to get through another day of this, and then take the return journey after the wedding, makes me want to sob.

 

I have with me a wooden box packed with edible treats that Cook prepared for me: mince pies and sugared fruit. I am not hungry, but I pick at it and eat too much, until my stomach feels blocked and queasy. I am a lump, glued to the seat, the hours carrying me along in uncomfortable monotony.

 

Just before dusk, the retinue stops. I pin back the curtains to peer out at the fading day. My knees are sore and my thighs are numb. The rain has cleared, and I see a nearby copse with sufficient privacy. My legs thank me for stretching them, my bladder thanks me for emptying it. When I return, Bluebell is nowhere in sight. Her retainers are gathered on the muddy road, arguing among themselves.

 

‘Brygen is only two miles. If we don’t stop there, we will not reach the next village before nightfall,’ one man says.

 

‘I am not afraid of nightfall,’ another man says.

 

‘And yet you are afraid of Brygen.’

 

‘The horses are tired. They need to rest.’

 

‘It will only be two hours more.’

 

I glance around, searching for Bluebell. Two hours more! I cannot bear the thought. I need to convince Bluebell to let us stop in Brygen. I need a soft bed. There is my sister, slouching out from behind a tree, straightening her riding pants. I hurry over, but the men have spotted her too and are already calling, ‘Brygen or Dunscir, my lord?’

 

‘Brygen is —’

 

Bluebell raises a long hand. ‘Dunscir.’

 

Immediately the arguing ceases. Nobody is willing to disagree with Bluebell.

 

Except for me. ‘Please, Bluebell. I can’t travel another two hours. I am raw. I must rest.’

 

She turns to me, brows drawn down. Even I am afraid of her for a moment. ‘Rest? But you have been resting in the carriage.’

 

‘I cannot make myself comfortable. I am too big.’ I pat my belly for emphasis. I see that the expression on her brow is wavering. ‘Please.’ Her retainers are shifting from foot to foot. Even the horses seem nervous with anticipation.

 

‘Very well. We will take the road up to Brygen.’

 

‘But, my lord —’

 

‘My sister’s comfort is all I care to hear about.’

 

Silence.

 

‘Let’s go.’

 

* * * *

 

I deduce the reason for their reluctance to stop in Brygen almost immediately. The little village is dotted with empty, sagging buildings, the forest around seems to encroach on the hill upon which it is built, every third tree appears to be blighted with perpetual winter: leafless black branches raised against the whitening sky as the sun sinks somewhere behind clouds. Our inn is draughty and the food has the texture of sawdust. But when I climb into bed — leaving Bluebell downstairs drinking with her hearthband — I think of nothing but the soft lambswool. I drift to sleep within three breaths.

 

It is much later that I wake. A prickling in my bones. Bluebell is asleep next to me. I have no reason to feel unsafe.

 

But sleep will not come. A chill creeps under the shutter. My cheek is frozen. I sit up, but can see the shutter is closed tight. I rise, and find myself opening it and peering out into the dark.

 

The clouds have dissolved and a pale half-moon lights the scene. Down the hill, on the side of the road, a woman kneels next to a pile of dirt. Her figure is traced in shades of midnight and moonlight. She looks dreadfully familiar.

 

‘Mother,’ I gasp.

 

But it cannot be mother. Mother has been dead for twelve years.

 

Bluebell rouses. ‘Rose? Is everything well with you?’

 

I turn, words falling from my tongue in a tangle. ‘A woman, outside on the road. She looks like mother.’

 

Bluebell is out of bed faster than an arrow, but as I turn back to the window I can see already that there is no woman. That the road is deserted but for the skulking shadows of bare, sick trees.

 

A moment of silence passes between us, then Bluebell touches my hair. ‘It was a long journey, Rose. Come back to bed. Rest.’

 

‘I did see her.’

 

She closes the shutter firmly. ‘Come back to bed,’ she repeats, tugging my wrist.

 

I follow her instruction and lie down next to her. I tell myself that Bluebell is right: I am tired. I cannot distinguish between sleeping and waking. And yet my heart stammers and my eyes will not close, even after Bluebell has let go of my hand and turned on her side to sleep. My bones are still prickling. Quietly, careful not to wake my sister, I return to the window.

 

She is there again, the figure that looks like my mother. And I know that this sending is for me. Not for Bluebell, or she would have seen it too. Despite the depth of the night, the cold of the moonlight, the eerie emptiness of the forest, I dress warmly and leave the room.

 

The front door of the inn creaks as I open it, and again as I let it fall closed behind me. The figure has not moved; she is hunched over the shape on the ground and I realise now that she is crying. I can hear her harsh sobs over the breeze rattling in the trees.

 

‘Mother?’ I say, but my voice is a tight, fearful whisper. I steel myself and approach. The shape on the road is a mound; a triangle — symbol of the trimartyrs — glints dully in the weak moonlight. A grave. My mother’s spirit is bent over a grave. My skin shivers.

 

‘Mother?’ I say, louder now. Closer. She looks up. I stop in front of her.

 

‘She will never be queen,’ she says.

 

‘Who? Who is buried here?’ Mortal dread flares in my heart: it is a presentiment of death.

 

‘Nobody is buried here. Just her crown.’

 

The flame of fear subsides a little. ‘Whose crown? Bluebell’s? Will she be safe?’ I glance over my shoulder, back to the inn, wondering if Bluebell still sleeps. When I turn back, it is not my mother at the side of the road, but a creature formed of sticks and mud, glaring at me. A mudthrael. I yelp, and back away.

 

‘Wait!’ it calls in a voice scraped from the bottom of a murky pond. It reaches its uncanny hands towards me, and distaste slithers over my skin. I see a dead branch on the ground, scoop it up and take aim —

 

But the creature flings up its muddy fingers and something gritty and darkly sparkling enters my eyes. I am instantly dislocated from the cold, wet road in Brygen: there is no mudthrael, there is no stick in my hand, there is no road, nor any trees. I am inexplicably elsewhere.

 

On a vast plain. A million miles away, there are mountains perhaps, beyond the fiery horizon. Wind buffets me, whipping my hair around my face. I gulp against the shock, pressing my toes hard into my shoes to ground myself. The mudthrael has thrown me under an enchantment, I must try to remember who and where I am.

 

The earth shudders, and I know that something terrifying is approaching. Sunset colours burn the sky. I am horribly aware of how open and exposed I am out here. ‘Bluebell!’ I call, my throat raw with fear and effort. ‘Bluebell!’

 

But then I remember, I am not here at all, I am ...

 

The shaking underfoot intensifies, and my whole body resounds with the movement. A scant ten feet in front of me, a fissure appears in the ground. Paralysing fear turns my limbs to stone. I try to lift my feet, but they are part of the juddering ground. I am caught, heart and bones, in the thundering fear. Inch by crumbling inch the ground disappears in front of me and, from the black depths, a twisting firedrake rises.

 

Its eyes are bigger than my skull, its golden hide is spiked with bronze. The smell is fish and sulphur, dirt and old blood. It is the three-toed firedrake: the writhing shape on my father’s standard, the symbol of Ælmesse’s power. The drake spreads its jaw and spews curling fire above my head. My heart slams. I struggle against the glue that holds my feet to the ground, feeling the reflected heat of the firedrake’s breath singeing my hair and stripping my cheeks bloody. I throw my arms up and call out in fear.

 

Silence, stillness, cold.

 

I open my eyes. The light has bled away. I am still on the plain, but it is late — so late. Past time for sleep, past time for death. My eyes search fearfully for the dragon, but it is now just a blackened skeleton in the distance. The churning sky is visible between its ribs. An icy wind creeps across the ground, tumbling ash over its gaping skull. Movement catches my gaze. A hand extended out of the ground, fingers spread apart. Ghostly white. It beckons slowly.

 

I move towards it. I have long ago forgotten that I am actually standing on the road in Brygen, under the influence of mudthrael magic. This dream is sharper than truth. The dragon bones are still and cold. Three feet from the tip of its tail, a dark pit of soil has been dug. A woman, buried in it except for her face and hands, glares up at me with icy blue eyes. I know this ritual of partial burial: it is a magic ritual of the underfaith, that shady cult that exists below the common faith and has been all but driven from Thyrsland. Her eyes terrify me; they seem to know my soul better than I know it.

 

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

 

‘I am your father’s sister.’

 

‘My father has no sister.’

 

‘He has a sister, and I am she. You may not know me, but I know you, Rose,’ she says. Her hair is mostly buried, but I can see that it is silvery-brown around her brow. ‘My name is Yldra. You know I am of your family, for I called the three-toed firedrake.’

 

Shivering cold is eroding me inside. I cannot stay here; it will mean my destruction. And yet, I cannot remember where I am from. ‘How do I get back?’ I ask.

 

Her mouth moves and no sound comes out. She tries again, and this time it seems as though her voice is far away. Reality glimmers back into my mind. This is a dream.

 

‘You must kill Wengest as soon as you return from your father’s wedding,’ she says. ‘Or Rowan will never be queen.’

 

‘Who is Rowan?’

 

‘Your daughter. Kill him before the child is born.’

 

‘I am no killer.’

 

And then it all dissolves, just like one of cook’s sugar mice under hot beer. I am back in Brygen, mid-swing. I cannot stop my arms, the branch crashes into the mudthrael’s sodden body, and the creature cries out and flies backwards, coming to rest in a heap in the middle of the road.

 

‘Rose?’

 

It is Bluebell, running towards me, taking the branch from my hand and grasping my wrists. ‘What happened? What are you doing here?’

 

‘I ...’ I point to the mudthrael, but it is just a pile of twigs and soil. ‘I have been ... somewhere.’

 

Bluebell looks closely at me. ‘Your eyes are wild and black.’

 

‘Mudthrael,’ I manage.

 

She glances around, alarmed. ‘This forest is known for bad magic,’ she says. ‘That’s why my hearthband didn’t want to stop here.’

 

Bad magic. The kind that everyone is afraid of, the kind that is brewed within the earthen huts of the underfaith. Mudthraels are fashioned and controlled by its devotees, and somebody sent this one to me: disguised it as my mother to tempt me out of my bed and throw visions in my eyes. But who? Bluebell is herding me up the road towards the inn, but I stop her.

 

‘Bluebell, does our father have a sister?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘You are certain?’

 

‘I am certain. He has no sister. Come, inside.’

 

I allow her to lead me, but I am awash in confusion. I will sleep no more tonight.

 

* * * *

 

My first glimpse of home comes late the following afternoon. I feel bruised all over from the journey, but when I see the hill — the town, my father’s hall, the red and yellow flags fluttering on the gate house — I forget my pain.

 

The giants once lived here; they raised buildings and monuments made of some dazzling stone, the like of which has never been seen since in Thyrsland. Their buildings have fallen into ruin, and nobody alive knows how to fix them. And so the tall white ruins wait out the centuries, catching the sun to give the name to our town. Blicstowe: the bright place. Laid out in front of the ruins are the thatched roofs of the town itself. I know each building and its inhabitants well: the weavers, bronzesmiths, carpenters, bone workers, their wives, their muddy-faced children, the mad war-widows and the sane, bakers, potters, fishermen, lenders, counsellors of the common faith, the faithless, the homeless, the adolescent boys who dream of bearing swords alongside my sister. The roads are lined with wooden planks so that traffic may move even in muddy weather, and move it does. Carts, horses, pigs, chickens, and everywhere people. My father’s people.

 

The town has been decorated for the wedding. Russet ribbons are wound around pillars and flutter from gable finishings, but it is too early in the year for white daisies. Our retinue thunders over the echoing bridge, up the hard-packed dirt road between the lines of oaks, and finally past the gatehouse and down to the stables. Bluebell helps me out of the cart and I stretch my legs gratefully. I glance up at the ruins: they are stained with sunset colours. My father’s hall — a hulking, wood-shingled building — is stark black against the giants’ stone. And there he is, standing between two of the pillars that he carved himself, smiling at me.

 

‘Father!’ I call, and he strides lithely towards me, catching me gently in his arms. His long yellow hair is streaked with grey, and age has made his blue eyes pale and his strong hands knotted. But he is still tall and handsome; he is still the first man I ever loved.

 

‘My Rose,’ he says, standing back and admiring my belly. ‘It is wonderful to have you home, but doubly wonderful that you are here for such an occasion.’ He turns to Bluebell. ‘You spoke with Wengest?’

 

‘Yes, Father. They will be ready to march.’

 

A slight frown crosses his brow, but then he dismisses it. ‘Come inside, both of you,’ he says, leading me by the arm. ‘Gudrun is waiting to meet you, Rose. Ash arrived yesterday, and Ivy and Willow have been here a fortnight.’ He talks a little too fast, and I realise that he is nervous. My father — the man who sometimes comes home from battle with other men’s blood embedded under his fingernails — nervous. I am caught between good-hearted amusement and pity.

 

We round the front of the hall, and here on the massive beams that support the doors are two carved firedrakes. My vision in Brygen returns to me. I pause to run my hand over the creature’s back while Father lifts the beam and pushes the doors open. I have gone over the vision many times on the long journey today, turning the images and words over and over the way the tide turns over seaweed. Whether or not my daughter is one day queen is still an abstract thought; at the moment, she is just a bundle of squirming limbs in my belly. I will not kill Wengest, and that is the most important thing. I do not know if I have the ability to kill any man; perhaps we all do when tested. But I know that I cannot kill my husband. I like him, he is a good man. And should my crime be discovered, that would plunge his kingdom into war with my father’s. So I have not spent another thought on that possibility. Instead, I have pondered on why his death now would ensure my daughter’s ascension to the throne, on what could happen between now and milk-month. Of course, the handful of anxious ants in my stomach tells me that somehow Heath and I will be discovered. Other possibilities have not occurred to me and so, despite the fact that I need to ask my sister Ash about the vision, I am terrified to speak to her. Her second sight is too alert. My secrets may be uncovered.

 

‘What is it?’ Father asks, turning and seeing that I haven’t followed him inside.

 

I smile as though nothing is wrong. ‘I have missed home, that’s all,’ I say.

 

He takes my hand. ‘Home has missed you. Come. Supper is about to be served.’

 

I hurry after Father. Bluebell stalks, sulking, four steps behind us. I am wholly prepared, on her behalf, to dislike Gudrun. We cross the vast hall, where Father’s hearthband is loosely gathered, lying on benches, stoking the fire, talking softly, enjoying supper. A number of them call out to Bluebell and she breaks off to talk to them. Father drops my hand and opens the door to his state room — really just a small room with a table for private meals — and ushers me through.

 

The room is cosy, crowded with firelight and faces. Tapestries plundered from battle adorn the walls; some are shot with golden thread or are bordered with the fur of exotic animals. Along the wall beams are lined other treasures: cups and armbands of gold, pots and statues, ceremonial swords. The firelight is caught on the gleaming surfaces. The long carved table is laid out with baskets of fresh-baked bread, wooden bowls of pickled vegetables and strips of dried fish. I am suddenly ravenous. Around the table, on wooden benches, sit my sisters. Ash is at the far end, smiling at me. I smile in return, but move no closer. Instead, I sit between Ivy and Willow, the twelve-year-old twins. Ivy, with her magpie eyes, is pointing at my belly with a spoon, making some rude joke. Willow is shushing her. Ash is asking me how I endured the journey. But all I can pay attention to is this woman who is not one of us, Father’s new wife. Gudrun of Tweoning.

 

She is nothing like I had imagined. I imagined somebody, I suppose, like my mother. Noble, dark-haired, eyes that betrayed steel in the spine, light in the brain. But Gudrun is softly pretty, with pale brown hair, round cheeks and bovine eyes, a gentle smile that she has turned on me.

 

She leans across the table and places a soft, white hand on mine. ‘Hello, Rose. It is truly a joy to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.’

 

How on earth can Bluebell object to this woman?

 

‘This is my son, Wylm.’ Gudrun leans back and puts an arm around the middle of the boy who sits next to her. He is on the verge of manhood; his limbs seem to be growing before my eyes, straining at clothes that were probably comfortably sized just a week ago. His dark hair is lank and his hazel eyes are sullen. He manages a grudging smile, his knuckles half-hiding his mouth.

 

‘It is a pleasure for me, too,’ I say. ‘I am very happy for my father especially.’ As I say it, I realise I mean it. Twelve years without my mother. He must have been so lonely, and if this woman with her soft edges and white hands can provide him the company he needs, then I cannot join Bluebell in her dislike of the situation. All things change. I touch my belly. I know that all things change.

 

A moment later, Bluebell is at the door. ‘Father?’ she says.

 

‘Come in, Bluebell,’ Father says, taking the seat between Gudrun and Wylm. ‘It will be our first meal as a new family.’

 

Bluebell’s eyes flicker like flame. She can barely keep her mouth from turning down. ‘I’m going to eat with the men,’ she says. ‘Sighere wants to discuss the march up to Is-hjarta.’

 

There is a space of time — no longer than three seconds, though it feels longer — where tension infuses the room. Father locks eyes with Bluebell. It is a challenge, and he recognises this and, as a king, his chest expands ready to demand his will. The insult Bluebell offers is not only to him, but also to his new wife. But then he softens. Of course he understands Bluebell’s resistance; he understands everything about her and his partiality is legendary: he cannot help but forgive her everything. ‘Very well, Bluebell,’ he says, glancing away.

 

She withdraws quickly, closing the door behind her. Gudrun studies her hands, blushing. Wylm gazes at the door with unsheathed hostility. My pulse quickens. Perhaps this is the stuff of any family disagreement, but for us it has the makings of much more significant conflict. I can see with my own eyes that one day Wylm will be a tall, strong man. The last thing a potential queen needs is a half-brother who hates her.

 

‘Let us eat,’ Father says brightly.

 

And we do. We eat and talk, and I get to know Gudrun a little. Ivy asks me dozens of questions about babies, about Wengest, about life in Netelchester. Willow is quiet, almost shy, which makes me sad. The twins have been raised by my mother’s brother and his wife, far south, since birth. My father was grieving my mother’s death, Ash and I were too young to raise them, and Bluebell, frankly, would have made a mess of it. So they are our sisters, but they are also strangers. I have met them, perhaps, a dozen times.

 

The evening wears on, and weariness infuses my poor bones. I need to lie down. Ash catches me yawning and says, ‘Time for bed, Rose? I am tired too. Would you come and share with me?’

 

My blood tingles with ice. I cannot lie next to Ash all night: she may read my dreams. I shake my head. ‘No, I am fine. You go on ahead. I will wait for Bluebell.’ Even though Bluebell snores and her elbows invariably end up in my ribs.

 

‘I will share with you, Ash,’ Ivy says, springing to her feet. ‘Is there room for Willow too?’

 

Ash looks pleased. ‘Of course. We may have to squeeze in, but three bodies are warmer than two.’

 

I am falling asleep into my hands, but I stay while goodnights are said. Gudrun takes her leave, Wylm following. Father kisses her softly, murmurs something in her ear. I stand and stretch, peer out the door into the smoky hall for Bluebell. She is deep in conversation with Sighere.

 

Father’s arm is around my waist. ‘You are tired, don’t wait for Bluebell.’

 

But Bluebell has looked up, seen me. She lifts her hand in a gesture that says, wait just another short moment; I am coming. I smile.

 

I turn to Father to say goodnight. I realise in a sudden hot rush that I am alone with him. It may be the only occasion for a long time. I form the question too quickly, and nearly stumble over it.

 

‘Yldra? Do you know her?’

 

He flinches, almost imperceptibly, but it could be because of the abruptness of my question. ‘What name?’

 

‘Do you have a sister? Or a half-sister? Yldra?’

 

Then he is shaking his head. ‘I have no sister, Rose. I know nobody of that name.’

 

I want to say, ‘Are you sure?’ because I sense too polished a veneer on his answer. But if he hasn’t told me now, he won’t tell me later. That is the nature of secrets. They do not emerge on repeated questioning; rather they burrow deeper as more lies and denials are thrown on top of them.

 

‘I must sleep,’ I say, instead. ‘I must sleep for a hundred years, I am so tired.’

 

‘Yes, and the feast starts tomorrow.’ He leans down and kisses my forehead. ‘Goodnight, Rose.’

 

I beckon for Bluebell, and we head for the bowerhouse.

 

* * * *

 

My father is blessed with a perfectly blue sky, perfectly warm day for his wedding feast. Everyone says it is a sign from the great mother. He throws open the doors to his hall so that the sunshine can slant in on the scrubbed wooden boards and fresh rushes. Winter is over. The ceremony itself took place in the state room earlier this morning, presided over by Byrta, who has been my father’s counsellor for nearly forty years. She delivered me and all my sisters, and buried my mother twelve years ago. Now solemnity is behind us, and the rest of the afternoon is given over to noisy carousing. The first full moon of the summer will rise tonight, and I have no doubt that my father’s retinue will be sleeping drunk on the grass under its glow.

 

It is hard to be sad or anxious when all around me red and white streamers dance in the breeze. I feel light, as though my worries have drifted away a while, and I am determined not to dwell on them on this happy day. Ivy and Willow are sitting on a bench just outside the door, and I join them with a cup of spiced honey-wine and chat a little while. The smell of roasting pig rises from the hearth and circles the building, making stomachs rumble. Many of the townsfolk come up to the hall with gifts for my father and Gudrun — pots, baskets, charm dollies, cotton flowers, lucky stones — and I gather them with smiles and good wishes. My father and Gudrun move from group to group of friends and well-wishers. He barely takes his eyes from her face. Bluebell comes outside into the sunshine with two of our young cousins, who battle her with wooden swords until she pretends to be defeated and theatrically throws her long body onto the grass. Ash is safely inside with Byrta. All is well, for now.

 

But then the day grows cooler, dimmer. Blue washes from the sky, shadows lengthen, the scent of damp earth rises. All at once, it is too cool to sit outside, and I am starving. The noise and chatter withdraws into the hall and the great doors are hefted shut, the shutters sealed and the fire stoked. I am one of the last to enter, because I want to see where Ash is sitting. So I can choose the furthest seat from her. I end up with my one of my distant uncles and his much younger wife. She is pregnant too, though barely out of childhood herself. She tells endless stories about women whose bodies were torn to pieces by childbirth, and how she hasn’t slept for fear since midwinter. I grit my teeth, stealing glances at the table where all my sisters are now congregated, eating and laughing. Ash catches my eyes, beckons. I pretend not to see her. My young companion rattles on, barely stopping to put food in her mouth. With the coming dark, the morbid company, and the growing noise, my sense of contentment frays around the edges and then begins to unravel. I am so tired. I want to go somewhere dark and quiet and close my eyes. And think about Heath, even if thinking about him makes me feel desperate and frightened.

 

A warm hand on my shoulder. I look up, then flinch as though a snake has touched me. It is Ash.

 

‘Rose?’ she says, alarmed, pulling her hand back. In that brief touch, did she sense something? Did she read my thoughts?

 

I am on my feet in a moment. ‘I ... Ash, I’m sorry. I’m not ...’I intend to tell her I’m unwell, that I have to go immediately, a lie that would not convince even a child. But in that same instant the doors to the hall burst open and a man is standing there, ragged and muddy, calling for the king.

 

Ash turns; her eyes widen and seem to go black. The blood drains from her face.

 

‘Ash? What is it?’

 

‘They have underestimated the ice-men,’ she whispers.

 

Father is on his feet. Bluebell is at his shoulder. A curious, frightened silence takes hold of the wedding feast.

 

‘My lord,’ the ragged stranger says, falling to his knees at my father’s feet. ‘I have ridden night and day to pass on some grave news. The raiders are already inside the border of Bradsey. They have burned six villages, all outposts of our allies. They spare nobody, not even children. We have left it too late to slow them down. We have ...’ He trails off, exhausted. ‘Forgive me, my horse could go no further. I have run nearly all the way from Dunscir. They are butchers, my lord. Butchers.’

 

Gudrun, her face lit by fire, sits at the table where a moment before she was a happy newlywed. I see she is terrified. Father said he would sit this campaign out, that it was a small matter, that he needed to be with his new wife and Bluebell needed her chance to lead the army alone. But now Gudrun thinks he will go away, and make her a widow again. She catches my eye, and I try to smile to offer her comfort. But I know precisely how she feels.

 

‘We will march tonight,’ Bluebell says to him, and it is not a question.

 

Father strokes his beard. ‘We can be ready by —’

 

‘You are not coming.’

 

Sighere, one of the war chiefs, joins them. ‘My lord,’ he says to Father, ‘Your wife sits there quaking; you have been married only a day.’

 

Father looks from one of them to the other and, horribly, he looks old and confused. For the first time. My heart catches. Then he gathers his bearing and turns to the assembly, raising his hand. ‘Forgive me, my friends. I have a matter of state to attend to. Gudrun?’ He beckons her and she is under his arm in a second. Ash runs after them. They leave the hall, a hundred dull murmurs in their wake.

 

* * * *

 

I pace the confines of my bower while a greasy candle sputters next to the bed. I know Bluebell will come here before she leaves; her sword is still tucked under the lambswool on her side of the bed. Outside, the wedding feast continues, the revellers have spilled out of the hall under the full moon and the cloudless sky. I clutch my hands together as though to catch myself before I fall deeper and deeper into a dark place. It is really happening; Heath is really going to war. They are butchers. Morbid pictures have colonised my imagination. It is as though I can already feel the flush of searing heat, the hollowing out of my stomach, the unhingeing of my knees as I hear the news: Heath is dead, he has fallen to the raiders. All my nerves have come loose, I am helpless.

 

The door slams open, letting in a blast of cool evening air. I jump. It is Bluebell. As though she hasn’t seen me, she strides to the bed and pulls out her sword. She is already dressed in mail, her helm pushed down over her head so that her broken nose is hidden and her mouth looks grim under the iron’s shadow.

 

‘Bluebell?’ I say.

 

‘It is decided,’ she replies, without looking up. ‘Father is not coming.’

 

I notice that her hands shake.

 

‘Are you ... nervous?’ I ask.

 

She freezes, catches me in her frost-blue gaze. ‘Oh, no, Rose,’ she says, slowly, passionately. ‘I am on fire.’

 

She sheathes the sword and turns. I call out, ‘Wait.’

 

‘What is it?’ she says, still half-turned from me.

 

‘There is a man ... Wengest’s nephew. He will ride with you from Netelchester. You will know him because he is fair and has no beard.’ My heart is thundering. ‘He is special to Wengest — his favourite nephew — and I do hope that he ...’

 

She is impatient. She cares little for Wengest, and even less for his beardless nephew. ‘I have only two eyes in my head, and they must look direct in front of me. I cannot look behind for a —’

 

‘His name is Heath.,’ I say quickly, softly. ‘And he is special to me.’

 

A caught breath. She turns slowly, tilts her head almost imperceptibly to the left. She blinks slowly. ‘Rose?’

 

Say nothing, say nothing. And yet, even as I scream these words in my head, my lips are moving and tears are spilling out of my eyes. My voice is thick, almost guttural. ‘He is the father of my child, sister.’

 

The helm creates such shadows on Bluebell’s face that I cannot read her expression. Ugly regret clogs my throat. I have surely doomed Heath, myself, the peace between Ælmesse and Netelchester.

 

Bluebell’s voice remains even, almost cold, but not unkind. She says, ‘Then I will protect him so that one day she may know him.’ And she is gone, the door clattering shut behind her. The gust helps drown the candle flame, and I am left standing in the dark, crying with relief and cursing myself for saying anything at all.

 

* * * *

 

It is morning, not yet warm. The sun still lingers behind the rocky hill and I am walking among the giants’ ruins above my father’s hall. I have not slept, I have only thought. So many thoughts that they all twisted up together and made no sense. The ruins are calm and white. Here and there, brave saplings struggle against the stone foundations. The spaces between fallen stones are brimming with leaves and twigs, and captured rain that has turned brown and rank. I find a fallen pillar and I sit down and slide onto my side, allowing my temple to touch the cool stone. Willing such coolness, such implacable and ancient calm, into my poor, tired brain.

 

My eyes are closed, but there are random impressions of colours and shapes on my eyelids. I try to watch them, but my mind skips from one hot thought to another, shattering my focus.

 

‘Rose?’

 

And my skin is alight again with fear. I jolt, sitting up and opening my eyes. Ash stands a few feet away, and she looks eight years old and worried that I might shout at her. But what does it matter anymore? I told Bluebell. I no longer have a secret to hide.

 

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to her, and my voice breaks and I begin to cry.

 

Ash is next to me in an instant, and I press myself against her and my face twists with sobs. She rubs my back, rocks me as though I were a child and not a mother. And she says, ‘Rose, I already know. I’ve known all along.’

 

The tears seem to fall forever.

 

* * * *

 

V. Hrethmonath

 

 

Seven weeks have passed since Heath marched for Is-hjarta, and I know not whether he is alive or dead. Sometimes I believe it possible that I would sense if he had died. But I have no second sight; I have nothing but a desperate heart.

 

And yet the fields bloom as though hope is everywhere. The first two full moons of the warm season have come and gone: red and yellow wildflowers stretch in every direction, tight buds curl on branches, and lambs chase their mothers as though slaughter’s shadow will never fall. Two nights ago, we held the hearth-month feast, to celebrate life’s renewal and the great mother’s benevolence. My belly has grown so full that it is an effort to put my feet on the floor in the morning. Wengest hasn’t been in my bed since I returned from Blicstowe. If I were to guess, I might say that he finds my swollen body distasteful. In truth, I am glad not to see him. I am less anxious when I am not always examining his expression for knowledge of my secrets.

 

It is an hour before evening’s fall, and any moment I expect my sister Ash to arrive. I paced at the gatehouse for two hours this afternoon, until my ankles grew tired and fat. I lie in my bed now, waiting for the gate watchers to call me. I should have remembered that Ash is often late, that she has little concept of time and its passing.

 

Ash will stay for three full moons; as a companion, an advisor, and to deliver my child. I have not spoken with her since she bid me farewell at my father’s hall, when her soft eyes reassured me that all my secrets were safe, that she loved me and did not judge me for what I have done.

 

Faintly, I hear the signal from the gate. They have spotted Ash’s retinue in the distance. I struggle to sit, put both feet on the floor and heave. And I am up: a festival trick involving cows and coaxing. I take a breath and start to move, open my bower door and peer out.

 

It has grown cold. I put my hand on the threshold and sag, admitting that I will not be walking to the gatehouse. I will not wait there for Ash, nor will I bound out to meet my sister. I will stay right here in the bowerhouse, where she will come before taking me to the hall for supper.

 

As I turn to move back inside, I see on the stones a small wooden box. It is tucked up against the wall next to the door. I brace my back with my hand and bend to scoop it up. My name is written on it in charcoal. Black smudges transfer themselves to my fingers.

 

Perhaps it is a gift from one of the villagers. I have been given many warm swaddles; though usually the giver sees me in person, wanting to speak and receive a thank-you.

 

I close out the late afternoon cool, and return to my bed with the box. I sit with my legs crossed in front of me, and pick open the knot on the string that holds the lid on. Inside is a clay figure of a woman, no bigger than my hand. She is roundly pregnant, and wears a tiny silver knife on a thin ribbon around her neck. I am part curious, part apprehensive. It is so strange. I turn her over to look for a mark, anything that would indicate who has sent her, where she has come from. But there is nothing. The knife is set with two very small gems, and I pull it close to my lace to examine them.

 

When I touch the tiny silver blade, I feel the first cold bolt of magic. It races up my arms and through my shoulders, and in a gasping moment is spinning in my brain.

 

The vision is very clear. I hold a knife, the real-size version of the miniature with its two gems in the handle. Around me is a winter’s landscape. Pure white snow, and a huge spreading rowan tree with leafless branches casting skeletal shadows. Underneath the tree sits Wengest, fat and merry, drunk and hung with jewels and gold. His sword has been discarded a few feet away, and is rusted from never being used.

 

‘I do not want to be here,’ I try to say, but my jaw is clamped shut and the knife is finding its own path towards Wengest’s heart. My whole body lurches forward as though someone else is inside me, controlling my limbs. I strain every muscle against it, but it is no use. The knife plunges into his chest. I scream, but the sound is just an echo in my mind. Blood begins to pulse from him, staining the snow and then melting it. Steam rises, the rowan tree creaks to life. In moments, leaves are sprouting, buds are unfurling, fruit ripens fatly and drops. The profusion of life is almost grotesque, feeding on my husband’s spilled blood. I know what this vision means: only with Wengest’s death can my daughter flourish, can she be queen of Netelchester.

 

A blast of cool air hits my face. I blink slowly and the vision dissolves. I am looking, instead, at my sister Ash.

 

My mind lights up and, without greeting, I press the figure into her hands. ‘A sending,’ I say. ‘Who is it from?’

 

Ash’s face is confused a moment, but then her fingers scrabble to grasp the object. She focuses, her eyes flutter closed. A few moments later they open again, and she shakes her head. ‘I tried to chase her, but she withdrew the instant she sensed me.’

 

‘She? A woman sent this?’ I lean forward. ‘Is her name Yldra?’ Even as I say this, I realise it must be true. Yldra, whoever she is, trying to convince me to kill Wengest so that my daughter will thrive. The daughter she thinks I will name Rowan.

 

‘I had no sense of a name,’ Ash replies. ‘But it was odd ...’ She bites her lip, then smiles apologetically. ‘I’m afraid I am sometimes not so in control of this gift of mine, but she was familiar somehow. And unfamiliar, too.’

 

I frown, trying to discern her meaning.

 

‘As though,’ she says, ‘she might be related to us, but distantly.’

 

My father’s sister.

 

Ash is stroking my hair. ‘Are you well, sister? Was it a sending of ill news? Heath?’

 

I shake my head, the old sad longing welling up again. ‘No. I have no news of him,’ I mumble, profoundly uncomfortable with speaking of my love aloud. ‘It was nothing. Confusion. Trees and snow.’ I have not told Ash or anyone about the message these visions are sending me. I cannot bear even to say the words, kill Wengest, next to each other. Nor do I want to alarm my sisters about the possibility that my daughter — whom I have never considered naming Rowan — will not rule Netelchester. This possibility still fails to strike my heart strongly. Becoming a queen is, after all, not a kind thing to wish upon innocents. All I can think is that I must be in danger of being discovered, for how else could my husband’s first child not succeed him? I vow to stay well clear of Wengest until the child is born.

 

I smile weakly at Ash. ‘I’m glad you are here.’ It is the truth.

 

* * * *

 

Ash’s presence brings me great joy. As summer deepens, I sleep easier at night with her beside me. I try not to think of Heath, or, at least, I try not to worry about him. I tell myself Bluebell will keep watch for me and I can ask for no greater assurance. We begin to plan the midsummer feast, raising the polite ire of Nyll and his small band of curmodgeonly trimartyrs, who grow more vocal with every seasonal festival. The predicted date of my child’s birth comes and goes, and I am both glad — for a late birth will mean less suspicion directed at me — and horribly disheartened. I am so very, very tired.

 

* * * *

 

VI. Trimilcemonath

 

 

Sleep does not come easy in these last days of pregnancy. Some reasons are material: it is simply impossible for me to get comfortable. But some are immaterial: I feel lost somehow, and guilty all the time. The dark of early morning is not a betrayer’s friend. Something has woken me and I strain my ears into the dark to hear what it might be.

 

Voices. From the king’s bower. Muffled through the wall, but voices nonetheless. Wengest is talking to somebody in his room, very late. My first thought is that he has a woman in there, and my heart grows indignant. But the second voice does not sound like a woman’s. I listen for a while, trying to make out words but there are none clear enough. There is occasional laughter, but then there is quiet. The quiet stretches out. Ash breathes softly next to me. Sleep doesn’t return.

 

I rise, curious about the voices in Wengest’s bower. Is it a woman? If so, would I have the courage to confront him? I pull on a shawl and go to the door, out briefly into the starry clear night, then back in through Wengest’s door. The fire is low in the hearth, just enough light for me to see that he is asleep now. His dark features are shadowed. He does not flinch when I come in, and I see that there are two empty cups on the chest of drawers. He has been drinking, but now his companion — whoever it was — has gone.

 

I move to back out, but my eye is caught by the dull gleam of steel. His sword.

 

My gaze moves, as if outside of my control, between the supine figure of Wengest and the hard blade.

 

Kill him before the child is born.

 

And I allow myself to imagine it. Not the act itself, not the resistance and gristle of his body to the blade. But the aftermath, where I am queen of Netelchester and Heath is my consort. My blood rushes with it, my good sense is in danger of being swept away.

 

But then I feel a strange pain in my back, down very low, and water splatters onto the rushes between my feet. Wengest stirs, so I know that I must have groaned with the sudden pain. He opens his eyes and says, ‘Rose, is that you?’

 

‘The child is coming,’ I say.

 

He sits up. ‘Return to your sister,’ he says, fear and anger infusing his voice. ‘Men should have nothing to do with such things.’

 

I want nothing more than to hurry back to Ash, but another pain grabs me and I have to stop and lean forward, groaning. As I do, my eye falls on a folded vellum book on the end of Wengest’s bed. Wengest cannot read, and the book is clearly marked with the triangle of the trimartyrs. Nyll has been here. Nyll has been laughing with Wengest until the early hours. With the sudden clarity of anybody pulled forcibly out of her self obsession, I see why my daughter will never be queen. It has nothing to do with Heath; it has everything to do with faith.

 

‘Go on, off with you!’ Wengest exclaims. He is out of bed now and helping me — thrusting me — towards the door. ‘Ash!’ he calls as he slams the door open. ‘Tend to your sister.’

 

All thoughts of Nyll, of Wengest, even of Heath flee from me as the pain grasps my body again. I am as confused and terrified as a pig being led to the butcher’s block. I try to catch my breath and clear my mind, but the pain is far worse than I had imagined and Wengest hands me over to Ash with a barked order that he wants to hear and see nothing until the child is born and wrapped in clean linen.

 

At least I am back in my own bower, near my own bed. Ash bustles about me, unfolding clean cloths and offering soothing words. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she says.

 

I almost laugh. An unforgiving monster has fastened sharp jaws around my back and groin and is squeezing harder and harder. I had heard that there should be a rhythm of pain and relief, but I have no relief. Ash is concerned enough by this to feel my belly carefully. She frowns and says, ‘The baby is facing the wrong way. Her back is against yours.’

 

‘Is that bad? Will she die?’ Will I die?

 

‘No, no,’ Ash says, brushing my hair from my face. ‘She is safe, you both are. But it will hurt, Rosie. I’m sorry, but it will hurt and it will be long.’ She helps me onto the bed, arranging me so I am kneeling over a pile of cushions. I fear the unremitting pain, the long night ahead. I want to cry, I want to be a young virgin again who never thought of the passions of the body and all their black consequences.

 

* * * *

 

The night unfurls, the sun returns and climbs high into the sky, and finally the child slides from my exhausted body. I sob with relief, and Ash sobs too. The child — hot and squirming — is a girl. A dark-haired, slate-eyed girl. I bundle her against me and offer her my breast as though I have been preparing for her arrival for my whole life. There is a pause in life, a moment of still, warm silence. A moment, perhaps, of pure happiness.

 

Then Ash asks me, ‘Do you want me to get Wengest?’

 

I clutch the baby jealously. She has settled to suckle. ‘No.’ She is not his, anyway. He would be a stranger in here.

 

‘I think it would be wise to show him the child,’ Ash says carefully.

 

I gaze at her. She has dark rings under her eyes, and I realise she must be tired too. She is looking back at me with eyes as dark as mine, eyes as dark as I suspect my daughter’s will be. Of course she is right. Wengest is likely in the next room. He will have heard the moaning stop, he will have heard my daughter’s keening cry. He will be waiting for Ash to tell him to come, that the bloodied sheets have been piled away and that the child and I are cleaned and covered up.

 

We prepare ourselves and the room, and Ash goes to fetch my husband.

 

In the few moments remaining, I study my daughter’s face and hands, her impossibly soft cheeks and ears. She is purely mine in this last sliver of time before the king — the man who will be her father — comes to meet her. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I would consider running away.

 

No. I would not. I know what duty dictates. The door opens and I apply a smile. Wengest looks young, but almost afraid to show his excitement. I realise that we have spent too little time together in these last few months, and we have grown strange to each other.

 

‘It’s a daughter,’ I say. ‘I hope you aren’t disappointed.’

 

‘No, of course not,’ he replies, approaching and sitting next to me on the bed. ‘There will be other children.’

 

I do not remind him that my father had five daughters and no sons at all. He is gazing at the child with soft eyes. ‘She is pretty like you,’ he said. ‘Dark like me.’

 

‘Like both of us,’ I say, hoping that I do not sound as relieved as I feel.

 

‘I should like to name her after my mother,’ he says.

 

In an instant, I remember that his mother’s name was Rowan. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Must we burden her with someone else’s name? Can we not give her her own name?’

 

Wengest arches an annoyed eyebrow. ‘Queen Rowan was much loved by her people. You cannot deny them the joy of remembering her in the image of her grand-daughter.’

 

I cannot resist him. Under any other circumstances, I would like the name Rowan. The rowan tree has long been associated with power and mystery.

 

‘Come,’ Wengest says, his voice growing soft. ‘You have had her all to yourself these past nine months. Allow me one small mark of ownership.’ His eyes drop to her face. ‘She is beautiful, is she not? Perfect?’

 

I say nothing, imagining this serious dark creature growing into a little girl named Rowan, into a woman who will never be queen. I decide to ask Wengest directly. ‘You are considering taking the Trimartyr faith, are you not, Wengest?’

 

He studies me a few moments, a puzzled smile at his lips. ‘You are terribly astute, Rose. I thought you had nothing in your head but thoughts of babies.’

 

‘Nyll has you ...’ I do not say, in his thrall. ‘He has you interested?’

 

‘I like the faith well enough, though it is a little gruesome. But a king in the trimartyr faith is appointed by Maava. No man can take his kingship without offence to the one god. It is a decision of strategy more than faith, Rose. It will make me more powerful, cement my position in my people’s estimation.’

 

I stroke Rowan’s soft head. Her eyes are falling closed. ‘Then Rowan will never be queen.’

 

‘If she marries a king she will. We will make an advantageous match for her. Put your mind at rest.’

 

I do not have energy for protests. In truth, Rowan is not Wengest’s child so has no right to his throne. Perhaps the next child will.

 

Wengest kisses my cheek softly, his beard scratching my skin. ‘Are you happy, Rose?’

 

I shake my head, teary now. ‘I am so very tired, Wengest. Send my sister back in. I am sorry to send you away, but I must sleep now.’

 

He rises, tracing a soft line on the baby’s cheek. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘When you are feeling better, we will consult with Nyll about an appropriate feast of welcoming for the child.’

 

I nod, crying now. My tears do not unnerve him. He merely turns his back and walks away.

 

* * * *

 

Rowan is eight days old when the messenger comes. He has ridden from Is-hjarta, but not in the hard, urgent way that a bearer of bad news would ride. When he appears at Wengest’s hall, he looks well rested, cheerful, and he sends for me directly.

 

I leave Ash folding swaddling clothes in our bower, and take little Rowan in the crook of my arm to the hall. She has been fractious today, unable to settle to the breast or the crib. She seems happiest in motion. I rock her idly, tired beyond measurement and yet stupidly happy most of the time.

 

Wengest and the rider wait between the carved columns that line the outside of the hall. The doors are thrown open and inside there is the bustle of dinner’s preparation, the smell of roasting meat and baking pie. When I see Bluebell’s standard, my pulse quickens.

 

‘I have news from your sister Bluebell,’ he says, before I have a chance to greet him.

 

My heart is caught up high in my chest, waiting. ‘She is ... well?’ It is news of Heath, I know it. Wengest is standing right next to me. How on earth will I hide my fear, my hope?

 

‘Yes, she is. She wanted to pass on that the campaign goes well, she is unharmed and looks forward to a swift end to war in Bradsey. She wanted me to pass on, too, news that she has taken your husband’s young nephew as third-in-command.’ Here the messenger turns to Wengest and nods his head deferentially. ‘You would be proud, King Wengest. He is by her side at all times.’

 

Wengest smiles and shakes his head. ‘Is that so? I would not have imagined it.’

 

I allow myself to smile too, but for different reasons. This is Bluebell’s way of telling me Heath is alive, he is whole, he is by the side of the greatest protector I could wish for him.

 

‘I thank you for your good news,’ I say to the messenger. ‘Will you stay for dinner?’

 

He shakes his head. ‘No, I will start the return journey immediately, for I have family in Dunscir who are expecting me by nightfall. Have you any message to pass on to your sister?’

 

I choose my words very carefully, feeling Wengest’s presence close to my elbow. ‘Tell her I am delivered of a daughter named Rowan.’ I glance down at my daughter’s face, and notice that she is finally asleep. ‘That she is a perfect beauty and a compliment to the loving bond of her parents.’ Here, Wengest touches my arm tenderly, assuredly; and guilt touches my heart with just the same finesse. ‘Tell her I am happy,’ I finish. ‘But that she and her army cannot come home soon enough.’

 

‘As you wish,’ the messenger says, nodding and turning. ‘Farewell.’

 

‘Farewell,’ I say.

 

Wengest takes my free hand and I hold it for a moment, then pull away as gracefully as I can, crossing my arms over the baby. He does not notice this small act of defiance; and we stand under the colonnade and watch the rider wind back down the hill, on his way to deliver my message of love.

 

* * * *

 

Afterword

 

‘Crown of Rowan’ is my first journey into Thyrsland, a country where I look forward to spending much more time. Thyrsland is based on Anglo-Saxon England (around the 8th century), and the backdrop is meant to be vast and epic; but the stories are meant to be intimate, human, and draw very close to the five sisters at their centre. Look for the first volume of my intimate epic, The Garden of the Mad King, in coming years.

— Kim Wilkins

 

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