Master of Shadows (13 page)

She was brought back to the present, to her captivity, by another question from the nameless, persistent leader. There may have been more from him, while her mind had wandered into her past, but one query penetrated the shawl of memory she had drawn around herself.

By the time he had finished asking it a second time, she was Lẽna once more.

‘Would you tell me what the angels looked like?’ he asked.

19

Lẽna concentrated on the popping sound she could feel, rather than hear, coming from her right shoulder. It was not yet painful, but that time would come. One of the younger men, the one called Jamie, had been muttering to their leader about her bindings. Even more than the rest of them apparently, he had been awed by the way she had dispatched his comrades three nights before, and he had several times made plain he felt there was inadequate security in having her bound only at the wrists, hands behind her back.

His suggestions might have fallen on deaf ears but for her sudden return to silence. She had, after all, allowed her inquisitor to feel he had finally penetrated her defences, that her life story was his for the hearing. Her sullen retreat behind her stone wall seemed even to have hurt his feelings.

So it was, she believed now, that he had consented to see her being more securely tied. They had stopped for a while and a new rope had been added – this one around her arms, so that her elbows were pulled towards each other in the centre of her back, in a position that resembled that of a pullet trussed for the cooking spit. As well as limiting her movements even further – making escape that much harder to contemplate – it also felt like a spiteful punishment for her refusal to talk.

The others had seemed abashed by her discomfort. Even Jamie was strangely cowed. Instead of their easy chatter, now there was nothing to listen to but the clinking of the horses’ bridles and the popping from her shoulder.

She let her mind wander all the way back to the moment long ago when the damage had been done. She listened again to the clamour of battle all around, the press of horses as her brave Scottish escort had sought to keep her from harm …

The year was 1429, and she was the maiden the French soothsayers had foreseen. The English were unbroken in their resolve. Their king, Henry, was resolute in his claim upon the throne and the land of France. But now the maiden from Domrémy was among them, at the head of an army and a cause made pure by her presence.

Her own mount had been a white charger so broad across the back it strained her thigh muscles just to stay astride him. Arrows from English longbows fell like black rain, and only the shields held around and above her by the brave men of her Garde Ecossaise had kept her undamaged. She was at the centre of a tight protective knot, and beyond it, and all around, men and animals fell dying.

‘Keep together!’ It was the voice of Hugh Moray, her aide-de-camp, a blond-bearded bull of a man. ‘Stay close!’

She wore borrowed armour but was otherwise unarmed, save for her nerve. Instead of a sword she held aloft a great unfurled banner. It was to her and to her alone that the forces would rally in time of uncertainty or need, and she glanced at the reach of it, trailing behind her for the length of two men. It was brilliant white, sown with golden lilies. Near the staff she held gripped in her gauntleted hand was an image of Jesus Christ in majesty, robed in blue and holding the world in his lap, angels by his sides.

They were riding fast, almost at the gallop, and the banner snapped and cracked. For all the death and danger thick in the air, the shouts and cries of men, her heart felt high in her chest – almost in her throat – beating like the wings of a captured bird. Victory was at hand. Despite the sacrifice of her men – indeed because of it – the English were breaking before them, and she felt bathed in the warmth of God’s pleasure.

So when the arrow, loosed from somewhere behind her, found its way past the upraised shields and all the way to a gap between the top of her breastplate and her helmet, she thought at first it was a bolt of lightning from above, divine high spirits gone astray. It burned like fire and there was a shout from one of the accompanying horsemen.

‘She’s hit,’ he cried. ‘The lady is hit.’

She held the banner tight as ever in her left hand, but her right, the hand controlling her horse’s reins, felt suddenly weak as the paw of a newborn kitten. She let go of the leather and felt herself slipping sideways into the gap between her own mount and that of the man who had seen her injury.

‘No!’ he shouted, and the tight knot began to lose form as men sought desperately to grab her, or her horse’s reins, or both. Gravity made the final decision, and despite the efforts of her escort to keep her in place and driving forward to safety, she slumped into the gap and down towards a forest of thundering legs and hooves. The last thing she heard before darkness swept in around her was the sickening crunch of her shoulder, already pierced through by the arrow, popping from its joint …

Lẽna marvelled at the way the memory was vivid while the pain was utterly lost to her. She could effortlessly recall the sights, sounds – even the smells of the battle – but not a trace of the burning agony remained. What she felt now, trussed like a chicken, was no more than indignity coupled with the discomfort of middle age. Although she would have given her eye teeth to massage the spot with one free hand, it mattered little. It was the shattering clap of thunder directly overhead that fully attracted her attention – and that of her captors. The air seemed to fizz and an acrid taste filled her mouth.

‘Storm coming,’ said Jamie, his ears still ringing from the discharge.

‘Do you think so?’ said another of the young men, who so far as she could tell answered to the name of Shug.

The others laughed, their leader included. It was as though the thunder had lightened the mood as well as clearing the air, and the return of sarcasm was welcomed by all. A second clap had them all duck down involuntarily, and everyone looked around, wide-eyed with wonder at the ferocity of the sound.

The light of day had gone from the sky. They had ridden through the dusk and now it was all but dark. The prospect of carrying on into a night riven by a rainstorm was an unappealing one, but Lẽna was careful not to allow her body language to suggest as much. Any visible sign of discomfort might persuade their leader to prolong their misery, in the name of putting more of their journey behind them.

She allowed herself a sigh of relief when she heard his voice.

‘Look for shelter up ahead,’ he said. ‘Quickly now.’

20

Crista Fuentes could not sleep. She had said her prayers as usual before climbing into bed alongside her younger sister. Normally she slept curled around little Ana, her nose buried in the five-year-old’s dark curls. But this night, sleep was beyond her and she lay on her back instead, listening to her sister’s rhythmic breathing that was almost snoring but not quite.

Their parents were asleep nearby as well, on a four-poster bed draped around with white linen. The room, the sole bedroom in their farmhouse, was small, and only the curtain afforded any kind of privacy. Crista had grown used to the soft moans that sometimes rose from beyond it, accompanied by creaking as the bed frame rocked and her father’s breathing came in gasps.

Tonight her parents were at peace, however, and Crista concentrated instead on the cause of her own wakefulness. The pain in her middle had been building all day. It had started out as no more than the warning of a need to visit the long-drop privy, but by early afternoon, still with many chores to complete, it had turned into a cramp that felt like a fist clenched deep inside her body.

Another wave of pain broke over her and she screwed up her eyes and pulled her knees towards her chest, breathing out slowly as she did so. She was ten years old – soon to turn eleven – and a good girl. Unlike so many of the children living on the farms around her, she had never known a day’s illness. Her robust good health, while others succumbed to this malady or that, was commented upon by one and all, and so the deepening discomfort in her tummy was as unfamiliar as it was unpleasant. She had meant to say something to Mama about it before now, but the right moment had not presented itself.

She fingered the little silver crucifix on a thin leather thong around her throat, and wondered if Our Lady was upset with her and sending down a punishment from on high. After a few moments she dismissed the thought, shaking her head as she did so but keeping her knees drawn up almost to her chin.

Deciding again that she had to visit the privy, she rolled painfully on to her side, then put her feet down on to the floor and its covering of rush matting. Only able to half straighten her body, she shuffled to the door, holding her tummy with one hand and stretching the other out in front of her for fear of knocking something over in the dark.

Once outside, in the vegetable garden to the rear of the farmhouse, she felt the cramp begin to pass again and she straightened, smoothing the creases and folds out of her nightdress as she did so and taking a breath of air. Despite the lateness of the hour, it was still warm – too warm. The air was as deathly still as it had been in the bedroom – in fact it was hard to believe she was outside and not inside – and she recognised the conditions Papa always said were the forewarnings of a thunderstorm.

There was a half-moon in the sky, but when she looked around from it she saw that its light illuminated the most enormous storm cloud she had ever seen – a giant, flat-topped anvil of a thing that seemed to block out half the sky.

Her hand went involuntarily to her crucifix once more.

‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ she mumbled. ‘Hallowed be thy name; Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.’

The cramping returned, worse than before, and she fell to her knees, clutching her middle with both arms.

‘Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’

Just when she thought she must surely cry out with the misery of it all, the wave receded from her again, leaving her gasping. She stood, on wobbly legs, and began walking forward. Unsure and unsteady at first, and with no thought as to where she was going, she speeded up, out of the garden and on to the track beyond their fence. Downhill led into the village, but uphill promised high ground and perhaps a breath of cool wind.

‘Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,’ she said, her fist clenching around the cross until she felt the metal digging into her flesh. ‘And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.’

Briefly enjoying freedom from the pain, but fearful of its return, she pressed on up the steep flank of the hill. She reached the summit, winded, and bent to catch her breath. When she straightened, still panting, she saw the stark outline of the tor, like a pile of rough slabs piled clumsily high by an ancient giant. Sensing a breeze, she pressed on, convinced she would feel better the higher she climbed. She felt a few drops of blessed rain on the backs of her arms and was just raising her face into the sky when a thunderclap burst overhead.

Standing in wonder at the ferocity of the sound rolling and heaving in the air above her head, she held out her arms in a posture like a priest leading his congregation in prayer. A second clap, louder than the first, and closer, ripped the night asunder.

21

Islay, Western Isles of Scotland, 1424

Among other things, before other things, they had come to see the Dewar. Lẽna’s father said it was a word that meant
wanderer
, or perhaps
pilgrim
.

Out of what had been a meaningless babble just weeks before, she now distilled words and complete phrases. She was quick – her father always said so – and the tongue of these Scots, which had so eluded her at first and which was called Gaelic, was starting to make some sense at last.

She had known she was to practise the fighting arts – at which, despite her youth and sex, she already excelled – among a people much given to war. In due course it was intended that she be more than any foot soldier, but there were months and years between then and now. Before any of that, she was to be tested in other ways. If she were found wanting, then her time on the island would likely be short.

This Finlaggan, on the island of Islay off the west coast of Scotland, was home to a family and a man called MacDonald. She had asked her father if he was a king.

‘Of a sort,’ he had said. ‘Some of his people call him
Righ Innse Gall
– King of the Isles. Others – MacDonald himself, I think – prefer
Dominus Insularum
– which means
Lord
of the Isles in the language of the Romans.’

Softly he began to sing a sweet dirge of a song:

Do Mhac Domnhaill na ndearc mall
Mo an tiodhlagudh na dtugam,
An corn gemadh aisgidh oir,
A n-aisgthir orm ’n-a onoir.

Ce a-ta I n-aisgidh mar budh eadh
Agam o onchoin Gaoidheal,
Ni liom do-chuaidh an cornsa:
Fuair da choinn mo chumonnsa.

To MacDonald of the stately eyes
Is the gift of what I am giving,
Greater than the cup – though a gift of gold –
In honour of what to me is given.

Though I got this cup free, as it were,
From the wolf of the Gaels,
It does not seem that way to me:
He received my love as payment.

He smiled at her, reached out and patted her knee with his rough hand.

‘My love,’ he said.

They were seated together, father and daughter, in a finely appointed room in a grey stone tower house three storeys tall. One wall was dominated by a great smoke-blackened fireplace in which a veritable forest of pine logs lay blazing and crackling. On the other three were large tapestries depicting scenes of hunting – men on horseback flanked by lean and shaggy long-legged dogs that looked to her like wolves. The window seat they sat upon was plump with horsehair, upholstered with soft fabrics that were blue like a summer sky and golden like the sun. For all the intensity of the flames, the room felt cold to her, and she shuddered.

‘If this lord is so important, why are there no battlements – no walls or stockades to protect him?’ she asked.

It was true what she said. There were several fine buildings at Finlaggan, the work of skilled craftsmen, but none seemed constructed with defence in mind.

‘Alexander MacDonald has no need of such,’ said her father. ‘None threatens him here. He has more than one hundred warships at his command, and ten thousand fighting men. I’d say he might indeed call himself a king, if he so wished.’

She nodded at the numbers, impressed. There was the sound of someone heavy-footed approaching along the hallway outside, and into the open doorway stepped Douglas, wrapped as always in a great bundle of woollen plaid belted at the waist. Though she had not said so, not even to her father, she thought he looked like an upended unmade bed.

‘It is time,’ he said. ‘The Dewar.’

They stood and walked smartly out of the room, without another word spoken, behind the bulky figure of her father’s friend. The pair had fought side by side, this much she knew.

They descended a tight corkscrew of triangular stone steps that made her dizzy, and emerged from a narrow doorway in the semicircular outer wall of a tower into a courtyard of grey flagstones. Smoke from many fires hung in the damp air. A few dogs, of the same sort she had seen pictured on the wall hangings, loped around the perimeter in search of scents and scraps. When one passed close enough to touch, she noticed it smelt damp and smoky too, like everything else. A gaggle of people, men and women, were milling about, or talking quietly in huddles, but as she stood breathing the cold air and waiting for the world to stop spinning, she felt all eyes turn towards her and silence fell.

The man who came towards them then wore the plaid as well, but with more panache than big Douglas. His long hair had been black once but was now mostly silver-grey and worn loose to his shoulders. He was bearded and handsome, and not for the first time it occurred to her that he had the look of one of the wolfish hunting dogs that patrolled the place.

He was Alexander MacDonald, Alexander of Islay, Lord of the Isles. She had seen her father talking to him more than once in the days that had passed since their arrival, judged that there was some history between them too, of the sort that was written in battle.

‘Let us see then what the Dewar makes of you,’ said MacDonald.

He stopped a few paces in front of her and held out his arm. She reached for him uncertainly, as though to take his hand, but she had misunderstood his actions and he merely gestured towards the open door of a small building, a chapel on the far side of the courtyard. She looked at her father and he smiled and nodded, so that she felt it was safe to proceed.

The interior of the little stone building was dark, lit only by two lamps upon a stone altar. The orange lights offered mere smudges of illumination, and she waited in the doorway while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Kneeling before the altar, at prayer, was a stooped figure in a dark woollen robe. At the sound of her arrival, the figure stood, with some difficulty, and turned to face her.

It was an elderly man, his long face thin and deeply creased, his blue eyes watery like melting ice and his arms and legs seeming no thicker than the rope tied around his waist. In his right hand he held a staff taller than himself and with a curved headpiece, like that of a shepherd but delicately gilded and decorated and gleaming darkly under the influence of the lamplight. His face was kindly, and as he stepped towards her he spoke to her in her own language.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Sit with me and let me look at you.’

They crossed together to a wooden bench against one wall of the chapel, the only other furniture. She stood and waited for him to sit, before joining him, at what she considered a respectful distance. He looked at her for what seemed ages but his unblinking gaze did not make her uncomfortable.

‘They tell me you have spoken of angels,’ he said.

She turned away from him, blushing.

‘That is no small thing,’ he said. ‘Is it true?’

It broke her heart to think about what she had seen in her father’s garden back home, and her throat burned and tears formed at the corners of her eyes and began rolling down her cheeks. The emotion surprised her, embarrassed her, and she said nothing to the Dewar but only nodded, her hands neatly folded in her lap as her mother had taught her.

‘Why do you cry, then?’ he asked.

‘Because … I …’ Her voice cracked and broke, and she stopped.

‘Go on, child,’ he said.

‘I … do not think I will ever see them again,’ she said. ‘And I miss them.’

She was suddenly afraid that he would ask her what everyone else had asked – what they looked like. She feared the question because in truth she had no recall of their appearance whatsoever. All she remembered, apart from their words, was light, and the smell of them, like clean air after a lightning storm. She raised her hands to her face as though she might find there a trace of the scent. Instead she smelled only woodsmoke and cold, and she rubbed her tears and her nose, which had started to run. She wished with all her heart that she had remembered to carry a handkerchief.

She waited for more questions, the inevitable interrogation. The single most extraordinary event of her life and yet recalling the detail was like trying to remember the shape of light, or describing how it felt to be loved. He asked nothing more, however, just sat beside her looking at her profile as a salty tear ran down her nose to the tip, before dripping on to the back of her hand.

‘The Angel Michael told me I would fight for a prince and see him made king,’ she said.

The thought had come unbidden to her lips and surprised her as much as it did the Dewar. She looked up into his face and he smiled, his head cocked to one side so that for a moment he reminded her of a curious old hound dog.

He was the Dewar of the Coigreach – the keeper of the staff of St Fillan, who had come from Ireland seven centuries before and who had cured the sick. When a wolf killed the ox that was helping him build his church, Fillan had spoken to the beast and taught it the error of its ways, and had had it labour beside him as his beast of burden instead.

The Dewar looked at the girl and wondered what she would say if she could read his thoughts at that moment. His faith was the elder faith, the first, older by lifetimes than that of the Romans and their Pope. He bore an ancient burden, and after many long years spent wandering among his flock he had learned many things. Now they brought this child before him and asked that he judge her. He and he alone would know if she was touched by grace or by madness.

But he did not know and could not know. He prayed every day of his life to hear the word of God and never yet had. Not once. He had known hunger, cold and loneliness, and watched the road stretch ahead of him without end. He had sought blessings for newborns and heaven for the dead. He looked at the girl and saw only the tear-stained face of a child, and knew that he was tired and that he wanted to set aside his burden and sit by a fire. But he also felt the holy air above him and around him, filling the chapel and pressing down upon his head and shoulders, heavy with years.

‘How is it that you know how to fight?’ he asked. ‘Just a girl.’

His question surprised her and she thought for a moment, sensing a trap. She found none, but remained cautious just the same.

‘My father leads the militia in our village,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I have always been around men practising their drills, wielding swords.’

The Dewar looked at her anew, noticed that her shoulders were broad for a girl and that she carried herself well, inhabiting her space with confidence and without a hint of shyness.

‘They say you are … especially skilful,’ he said.

She shrugged again and was briefly aware that her actions might seem rehearsed.

‘It comes easily to me,’ she said. ‘Tools do the work for you, if you let them, my father says.’

She closed her eyes and thought about that day in the garden when she had been pulling weeds from among the tomato plants. She had smelled that sweet, clean smell and breathed deep and looked around and there they were – Michael, Margaret and Catherine. They were lovely, she remembered that much, and when she had raised her arm in a greeting, the air between her and them had shimmered, or rather it had rippled as though the space had been made of water and she had disturbed its surface. She tried to remember the sounds of their voices but they were gone from her entirely.

‘All the way back to God,’ she said.

She had not meant to give voice to the thought and she blushed and clapped her hands over her mouth.

‘There is no shame in it, child,’ said the Dewar, and he reached for her and lightly touched her arm.

‘Sit here with me a while,’ he said. ‘Just you and me – before I give you back to them.’

When at last they stood and walked towards the damp, unwelcoming light of the world outside the chapel, he sent her ahead of him and walked reverently behind. When she emerged alone, there was a brief silence and then cheering.