Daughters Of The Storm (21 page)

‘No, Æthlric would forgive me. He wouldn't tell Bluebell.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘I'm sure. He loves me.'

Wylm dropped the topic. Æthlric would not forgive her. Æthlric would tell Bluebell, and then his mother would die and so, too, would Wylm. He wasn't about to let that happen.

She broke into sobs. ‘And this is my own stupid fault. I am truly the unluckiest woman in the world. Find somebody who can help us, Wylm. Somebody from Tweoning who remembers me fondly.'

Wylm pressed his fingertips against hers. Did she not understand? Nobody could kill Bluebell; or certainly, nobody from their past in Tweoning. A noise of a door opening and footsteps had him shrinking back against the wall. Without a chance to say goodbye, he dashed off in the dark. He heard voices: Dunstan's, his mother's. He paused behind the stables. Young Tom would be asleep inside: had he been instructed to call out if Wylm came in, looking for his mother's horse? Of course he had. There was nothing for it. Wylm would be running away on foot.

No, not running away. Running towards something. His destiny as a man and as a king. He would not be the weakling, he would not be the man who floated helpless on the tide of Bluebell's will. He would be a different kind of man: a man of strength and cunning, a man who could bring down the crown princess of Ælmesse. Certainly, he could not do it alone. But there were
rumours on the road and in the alehouses that a mighty enemy of Blicstowe yet lived.

Hakon, the Crow King.

Ash woke on the edge of dawn from a confused dream about being back in Thriddastowe. She opened her eyes and lay still a few moments. Somebody was snoring loudly. She gradually remembered where she was. Her back was tight from sleeping on the hard floor. And she was bursting to wee.

She climbed to her feet. Willow sat by Æthlric's cart, head heavy in her hands. She smiled weakly at Ash. ‘I got the last watch,' she said.

‘We'll all have to take turns, I expect.' Ash made her way out of the stable. Outside, blue light lay over the sodden fields. The clouds had shredded apart and a pale, clear sky promised a more comfortable ride today. This was a flat part of the country, heading west towards the sea. Not the ship-friendly sea of the east, but the thundering cold ocean. Ash yawned. Her belly felt watery and crampy. She hoped she wasn't coming down with a loose stomach: that would be sheer misery while travelling. She trudged through the mud to the low hedgerow that lined the field, in hopes of finding a private place to relieve herself.

Her belly twitched again. She climbed over the hedgerow and squatted on the other side. A few feet away, a tight grove of elms stood, holding shadows close.

It took a moment to realise the discomfort in her stomach wasn't an illness, it was a warning.

She tried to gather her clothes quickly, but the dark figure was already rushing towards her, tackling her to the ground and clamping a rough, dirty hand over her mouth. She bit down hard on his fingers. He jerked his hand away long enough for her to
scream her sister's name, but then his hand was back, under her chin this time, pushing her jaw closed. He flipped her over and fumbled with her skirts.

Time slowed. He said something to her. She couldn't understand, and then she realised he was speaking the language of the northern raiders. Her heart squeezed into a stone. He wasn't speaking to her at all, he was speaking to his companions: raiders never travelled alone.

But Bluebell was alone as she vaulted over the hedgerow, blade already swinging. The raider took his hands off Ash and she rolled onto her back in time to see four others emerge from the shadowy grove. Her blood froze. She scrabbled back out of the fray, her back against the rough hedge, and watched in horror.

Bluebell's dogs were there a moment later, leaping on one of the raiders and taking him down. Bluebell skewered a second man, but the other three were on her in a flash. Ash heard Bluebell's name passed from one to the other, as the raiders realised who they were fighting. Bluebell, grunting and shouting like a man, held firm against them until her foot got stuck in mud and she went down on one knee. The dogs rallied around her, snapping and snarling, but the raiders surrounded her. Ash tried to clamber to her feet, knees too weak to comply, eyes searching for a rock or a branch or anything to help, but then Heath and Sighere were there. Events became confused, overloading her senses. The clatter of arms, barking, groans of death; the blur of steel, the effusion of blood, black in the early light, loosened every nerve in her body. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears.

A few moments later, Bluebell was helping Ash to her feet.

‘Did he hurt you?' Bluebell asked, puffing warm air into the cold dawn.

Ash shook her head, holding back tears. Bluebell was covered in mud, and a smear of blood — someone else's — coloured her
left cheek. It would be one thing to have been the cause of her beloved sister's death. Another altogether to have caused the death of Ælmesse's only heir when the king's fate already hung in the balance.

‘My lord, what are raiders doing this far south?' Sighere asked, crouched next to one of the fallen bodies to search for anything of value.

Ash shivered. She had spent so long trying not to open up her second sight she was becoming blind. Here, in the pre-dawn gloom, surrounded by blood, with her heart returning to its normal temperature, clarity came to her. Ash had nearly led Bluebell to her death, because she wasn't paying attention to her instincts. Because she was blighted and doomed to blight others with her. Getting Bluebell killed would plunge Ælmesse into uncertainty, Netelchester would make a claim, the raiders would come ... was this the Becoming she so feared?

Ash made two vows. The first was never — no matter how much danger she was in — to call for Bluebell's help again.

The next was to keep her second sight open — no matter what the cost.

Wylm watched Bluebell's lover's house all morning, the blockheaded farmer and his simple son. Possibly Bluebell's son. The more he thought of it, the more he convinced himself it was true. Why else would a simple be tolerated to live? How it must embarrass and shame her that this child would never be a warrior. He took comfort in imagining her distress, but then told his tired brain to concentrate. He needed to discover where Bluebell was and what she planned, and any man who loved something as vulnerable as a sick child was a man Wylm felt confident he could bend to his will.

The farmer plonked his boy onto a stool in the sunshine, where he sat unseeing and unspeaking while the farmer mended a basket and talked to him. It was almost relaxing, sitting here in the damp grass behind an elder hedge that bristled with marjory vine, watching them go about their ordinary lives. Fat, furry bumblebees buzzed around, and the grassy smell of horse shit in the distance tickled his nose. He might have felt sorry for them; but then he thought about Bluebell and pity vanished.

The right moment came, as he'd hoped it would. The farmer stood and stretched, touched his son's dark hair and muttered
something inaudible to him, then moved off towards the fields. As soon as he had vanished out of sight, Wylm stood, brushed damp leaves from his pants and climbed the hedge to stalk across the grass. Moments later, he stood in front of the boy.

At first he thought the child hadn't noticed him. He was clearly blind. But then Wylm bent towards him, so his face was only inches away. And his face twitched softly.

‘Papa?' he said.

Wylm straightened, turned towards the house. Inside, on a low table, a loaf of bread was cooling. Beside it lay a heavy knife. He picked it up, tested its weight in his hand. Then dragged a stool outside to sit with the boy.

The boy's shoulder turned slightly towards him. ‘Papa?' he said again.

‘Papa's not here,' Wylm replied.

The boy fell silent. Wylm kept his senses alert for the return of the farmer. Minutes crept past. The boy grew agitated, whimpering a little. He tried to stand, but Wylm grasped his wrist firmly and sat him back down. ‘Stay here,' he said.

The boy did as he was told, but his skinny shoulders were pulled tight and he began to shake. His tension was contagious: Wylm's stomach twitched. A cloud moved over the sun.

Minutes dragged by. The boy fiddled with a ring on his left hand. Wylm glanced at it, saw the royal insignia of Ælmesse. He smiled to himself.

Then he was there: the farmer. Wylm saw him, he saw Wylm.

The farmer shouted something: not a word, an exclamation. He began to run towards them.

Wylm stood behind the boy, gently pushed his head forwards, and pressed the knife against the side of his throat.

The farmer stopped. ‘Eni!' he cried.

‘Come a little closer,' Wylm called. ‘I'll need to talk to you.'

The farmer approached, his hands spread in a gesture of peace. ‘Please don't hurt my boy.'

‘Where is Bluebell?'

Wylm watched the farmer's face closely. A barely perceptible tightening of his jaw told Wylm he did indeed know where Bluebell was. But now he would deny it.

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Bluebell. Your lover.'

Eni trembled. ‘Bluebell?'

‘It's all right, Eni,' the farmer said in a soothing voice.

Wylm's heart was thundering. ‘I will not play games with you. Tell me where Bluebell is, or I will cut your son's throat.'

The farmer's eyebrows squeezed together, an exquisite expression of emotional pain. Wylm could almost see him weighing up his options: Bluebell could protect herself, his son could not.

‘Two miles north of Stonemantel, take the first track after the road south-west to Lyteldyke. It's a flower farm. There is a long stable at the front edge of the farm. You'll know the farmhouse because it is large and the sills are carved with flowers.'

‘And what has she planned?'

‘To heal her father.'

‘How?'

‘I don't know.' He shook his head, a tear squeezing out onto his cheek.

Wylm hated him for crying. ‘You do know.'

‘I swear I do not. I did not ask. It is not my business.'

‘Is this child hers?'

A look of brief incomprehension. ‘Is ...? Eni? No. He is not Bluebell's child.'

‘But of course you'd say that.' Wylm's disappointment made him cruel. He yanked the boy's hand into the air roughly. ‘What about this ring?'

‘It was a gift from Bluebell. A trinket that no longer fit her. Let him go.'

Wylm dropped the child's arm.

‘His mother's name was Edie,' the farmer said, and the sorrow, the love on his tongue convinced Wylm where no other evidence could. This child was not Bluebell's. He nodded once, and stood back, releasing Eni. The farmer fell to his knees in front of the boy, the curve of his hard back exposed to Wylm.

His vision tunnelled. He was Bluebell's lover. Would he go ahead of Wylm to warn her? Surely not with his blind child to look after.

More importantly, he mattered to Bluebell. She cared about him.

He brought the knife up, then drove it hard into the famer's upper back. He twitched, his hands flying upwards, knocking Eni off the stool and onto the ground.

‘Run, Eni!' he grunted.

The boy yelped, scrambled to his feet and ran off unevenly.

Wylm removed the knife and brought it down again, this time into the back of the farmer's neck. He fell still and silent on the ground.

Wylm retrieved his knife, wiped the blood on the edge of the farmer's tunic, then tucked it into his waistband. He looked around, but couldn't see the boy. Should he give chase? The boy was neither a threat nor, sadly, a treasure. No, he was itching to get away from Ælmesse to pick up the next thread of his destiny. He quickly raided the house for food, stuffing it in his pack, then stalked off across the fields and headed north-west, towards the sea.

The air smelled of damp earth, smoke and roasting meat. Bluebell paced near her father's cart, Thrymm and Thræc soft at her
heels hoping for food, as evening closed in. The rain had cleared and they would sleep under the stars tonight. Ash had scouted ahead and found this semi-sheltered place, against the wall of a rocky valley; they had wound down a muddy road to its floor and camped among the ancient roots of an ash tree. Moisture still clung to the grass, but had evaporated off the flat rocks and gravel. A fire burned at the centre of their camp, and over it Sighere held two wild rabbits on a spear. The firelight created sinister shadows among the mossy roots. Bluebell was hungry: travelling always made her hungry. But Æthlric hadn't eaten today and it bothered her. His sleeps were becoming longer, impossible to rouse him from. And when he had been awake and Rose had tried to feed him, he'd thrown his arms about and knocked the bread into a muddy ditch shouting half-coherent accusations she was a poisoner. It was one thing to drip water from a cloth into his mouth, but she couldn't force food into him.