The Tower of Ravens (19 page)

Now it was the mare’s turn. Rhiannon had observed Niall and Lewen grooming the horses the previous day, and had seen how much the beasts had enjoyed the attention and how their coats had gleamed afterwards. Rhiannon wanted her mare to look her very best before she showed her to the others. She picked up the grooming kit again, took out a brush and began to beat the dust out of the mare’s coat.

She was engaged in trying to tug all the knots out of the luxuriant black mane when a sudden restiveness in the mare made her aware Lewen was leaning on the gate, watching her.

“Do ye and your mam always sneak around, spying on people?” she said without rancour.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Dinna mean to scare ye.”

“Och, me no afeared,” she said severely. “Me just wonder how ye walk so quiet, being so big and all.”

He coloured.

She smiled. She liked making him blush.

“Being around animals so much, I suppose,” he said. “They do no‘ like sudden noise or movement.”

“Nay,” she agreed, casting him a look from under her lashes. She had noticed that this sideways look often made him blush and stammer.

Lewen’s colour was high and she saw his eyes were on the front of her shirt.

“Ye should tie up your shirt,” he said in a constricted voice. “Ye do no‘ want to go out and about like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, looking down.

“Showing yourself like that. I ken ye mean naught by it, but… human lassies hide their… hide their…”

“My dugs, ye mean?”

“Their bosom,” Lewen said, blushing as hotly as anyone with such tanned skin could.

“Bosom,” she said, trying out the word.

“No-one will understand if ye do no‘ cover yourself up. Men will think ye are offering yourself to them…” He stumbled to a halt.

“To mate?”

“Aye, to mate.”

“And that bad?”

He nodded. “Only whores do that. Ye do no‘ want them to think that o’ ye, Rhiannon.”

“What whore?”

He searched for words. “Whores are women… and men, too, o‘ course, who will… mate… with anyone, if they are paid enough for it. We… us humans… we do no’ mate with just anyone… only with those we love… most o‘ us anyway. Usually, when we find someone we love enough, we promise to lie only with them, no’ with anyone else, forever.”

Rhiannon was nonplussed. The satyricorn women always shared the men between them, and the idea of exclusivity was entirely foreign. Rhiannon had seen many ugly fights over the men, however, and thought she could see some sense in what Lewen said, as long as there were men enough for all the women. Certainly there seemed to be. The ratio of males and females among those staying at Kingarth was startlingly exact.

“So ye must try to remember to keep your laces tied, and no‘ show too much o’ your body,” Lewen went on, keeping his gaze averted.

“No‘ ken how,” Rhiannon said flatly.

“Och, o‘ course. I should’ve thought. I’ll have to teach ye.”

“Aye,” she said. “What me do?”

He looked back at her, and swallowed. “I’ll show ye,” he said. Gently he reached out and took the laces in his hands, drawing her closer to him. She went obediently. She felt his fingers on her skin as he fumbled with the laces, and took a step closer to him. He smelt very clean and fresh, and she could see the pulse in his throat beating swiftly, and the burn of his blood under his skin. Slowly he knotted the laces together, explaining what he was doing while he did it. As she ducked her head to watch, her hair swung forward and brushed his hand, and she heard the sudden intake of his breath. For some reason her own blood heated, and she kept her gaze lowered, feeling shy with him for the first time.

He untied the laces then, and tried to make her do it herself, but her fingers were clumsy and she could not manage it. He smiled and said, with a warm huskiness to his voice that she had never heard before, “Never mind. I’ll tie it for ye now, and get some string for ye to practise on later. It’s no‘ hard once ye get the hang o’ it.”

“Hang o‘ it?” she repeated, puzzled.

“Once ye ken how.”

“Hang o‘ it,” she repeated again. “Once ye get the hang o’ it.”

“Aye. It must be hard for ye, all the bits o‘ slang we use. I’d never noticed it afore, but we do seem to use a lot.”

“Slang,” she repeated.

“Aye. Slang. Figures o‘ speech.”

She laughed. “How speech have figure? This figure.” She gestured down her body with one hand.

“It is indeed,” he murmured. He took a deep breath and stepped away. His foot crunched on the comb she had tossed away and he bent and picked it up.

“I suppose ye canna manage combing your own hair either?” he said, glancing back at her with a rueful grin.

She shook her head.

“Would ye like me to do it for ye?”

She nodded.

His mouth quirked. He drew her to sit down on an upturned barrel and stood behind her, drawing the comb through the waterfall of silky black hair. For a while he worked in silence, gently unsnarling the tangles, and she sat still, enjoying the feel of his fingers in her hair and lingering on the nape of her neck.

“Tomorrow ye’ll have to ask one o‘ the other girls to help ye with all this stuff,” he said after a long while.

“Why?”

“It’d be better.”

“Why? Me rather have ye.”

“Aye, I’m sure ye would, but it’s no‘ seemly, Rhiannon, and besides, I do no’ ken how long I could stand it. I’m only made o‘ flesh, ye ken.”

She twisted round to look up at him. “Uh? O‘ course ye made o’ flesh. We all made o‘ flesh.”

He nodded. “Aye, I ken. I just mean… Never mind. Just ask one o‘ the lassies to help ye tomorrow, all right?”

Rhiannon sniffed. “Me no like those lassies. Me like ye.”

Lewen took a deep breath, his hand twisting in her hair. For a moment he stood very still, holding her captive against him. She tensed all over and drew herself away, looking up at him warily. Her hair drew cruelly tight, like a rope between them. After a long moment that must have hurt her, he released his breath and his hand, stepping away. He stood with his back to her, his shoulders held stiffly, breathing with difficulty.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. With great care, he laid the comb down on her saddlebags. “I dinna mean to hurt ye.”

She shrugged. “Ye no hurt me.”

“That’s good. I’d better go.”

“Why?” she asked. “Where go?”

“Anywhere,” he said with an unsteady laugh. “The lake might be a good place.”

“Why?”

“Nice cold water,” he said with the same odd laugh.

She shrugged. “Why ye all want wash so much? Ye smell clean enough.”

“Thank ye,” he said and began to move towards the door.

She remembered the buttons of her breeches and lifted her shirt. “Afore ye go, ye help? Me no‘ ken how.”

He looked back at her and his breath caught. When he spoke his voice was unsteady. “Rhiannon, do ye ken what ye do to me?”

“No, what me do?”

“Ye’d be a test to any man’s resolve, do ye ken that?”

She did not understand. “Too hard? Ye canna do?”

Lewen laughed a little. “Och, I can do your buttons up all right, no problem there. Though I’d rather be undoing.”

“What ye mean?”

“Naught. Here, I’ll show ye how to do it. Ye’d better learn to do it yourself, though, Rhiannon, for it’s too much to ask me to be doing up your breeches for ye every day.”

He took a deep breath, grinned ruefully, and slipped his fingers inside the waistband of her breeches to button them up for her, slowly and with intense concentration. When he was finished he stood still for a while, his fingers hooked through her waistband, holding her against him. Then reluctantly he slipped his fingers free and stepped away, turning his back on her. “Eà‘s green blood,” he said.

“Too hard?” she asked again.

He laughed unsteadily. “Much too hard,” he agreed. “Painfully so.”

She was puzzled, but shrugged. “Me want clean horse,” she said, waving one hand at the winged mare. “Me no ken how. Ye show?”

Lewen nodded, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Aye, that at least will be no hardship,” he answered. He went first to the water-trough and splashed his face and neck thoroughly with water, then took the dipper and poured more water over his head, gulping big mouthfuls of the icy cold fluid. She watched him in bemusement and he grinned at her.

“Ye’re naught but trouble, Rhiannon, do ye ken that?”

She was indignant. “Me no trouble!”

“Trouble through and through. Come on, where’s that kit o‘ yours? It’ll do me some good to burn some o’ this excess energy away.”

He explained to her what each comb and brush was for, and demonstrated how to use the hoof pick on Argent, who picked up his huge hoof willingly enough.

Rhiannon then tried to do the same with the winged mare, who whinnied unhappily and danced away. Rhiannon tried again, then threw down the hoof pick in disgust. “Me no good!”

“Do ye think she will let me help?” Lewen asked. “For indeed ye are making a bad job o‘ it!”

“Thanks.”

Lewen’s eyes gleamed appreciatively. Not only was Rhiannon learning human idioms fast, but also how a change in intonation could change a whole word’s meaning. “My pleasure,” he said just as ironically.

“Well, show me how then,” she said irritably. “Me no‘ want to show her to those goblin-eyes till she looks bonny as can be. Then their eyes’ll really stick out!”

“Will she let me come near? For she wouldna let me near her yesterday and I dinna want her to kick down any more walls.”

“Be nice, horse,” she said to the mare, which neighed and put back its ears, but allowed Lewen to come closer.

“Ye need to think o‘ a name for her,” Lewen said, gingerly laying one hand on the mare’s shoulder. The skin shivered under his touch but the horse did not shy away. “Ye canna keep on calling her ’horse‘.”

“Dinna ken any names,” Rhiannon said. “In the herd, named for your… Me no‘ ken how to say. Bigness.”

“Bigness? You mean, height?”

She shook her head impatiently. “Nay, nay. Though, bigness o‘ body helps. Like, who gets first cut o’ meat, that’s First-Male, then other males, then my mother, One-Horn, she One-Horn and also First-Horn, for she kills best. Five-Horns is Second-Horn, but she has to fight hard against Three-Horns, who wants to kill her and my mother. Ye see?”

Lewen had taken up the curry-brush and was very gently brushing down the curve of the mare’s back. “Aye, I think so,” he said quietly. After a moment, he said, “Do no‘ think o’ the herd anymore. Ye have escaped them. Ye are free now. Think only o‘ what lies ahead. Ye have a lot to learn and no’ only how to groom your own horse, but how to manage in society, and all sorts o‘ things about Eileanan.”

Rhiannon nodded and relaxed her grip on the comb, surprised to find it had pressed white ridges into her flesh.

“Your horse is the place to start, I think, since ye’ll be riding her every day and so ye’ll need to ken how to look after her. Come, I’ll show ye her feet and how to clean them and stop her from bruising them. I wonder if she should be shod?” He slid his hand down the mare’s leg and she at once lifted her hoof.

For the next half-hour they groomed the black mare until her coat gleamed like silk and she was relaxed and happy. As they brushed and combed her, and polished her hooves and horns, and worked the knots out of her mane and tail, they talked companionably. Lewen told Rhiannon about his first horse, a fat pony called Star for the white patch on its nose. He had soon outgrown Star and for many years rode a sweet-tempered strawberry roan called Aurora. Although he had loved it dearly, by his thirteenth birthday he was far too heavy for it, and so his father had given him Argent, who had been a large-boned, restive colt and now stood close on eighteen hands high, with powerful shoulders and rump. For three years Lewen had hand-fed and trained the young colt, and had begun to lunge him every day, so by the time he began to break the horse in to the saddle, they were well acquainted. Argent was bred from one of his father’s own destriers, a warhorse taught to fight on the battlefield with his master. The line was famous, descended from Vervain, one of Cuinn Lionheart’s six great stallions. With a pale, silvery-grey coat and tail, Argent was swift and strong with a savage temper, and he allowed no-one but Lewen to ride him.

“So ye named all your horses for… colour?” Rhiannon said, struggling to find the words for what she wanted to say.

“Aye, I suppose so, but ye do no‘ have to do that if ye do no’ want.”

“Me want,” she said. “Horse is black. What is good name for black horse?”

Lewen shrugged. “I dinna ken. Sable, perhaps, or Jet.”

She screwed up her nose and shook her head emphatically. “What did your father call me? Something sharp and cruel, he meant.”

“I do no‘ think he meant—”

“Aye, aye, he did, ye think me no understand? What was that?”

“Thistle?” Lewen replied tentatively.

“Nay, ye fool. Black something.”

“Och, aye. Blackthorn, another name for sloe. It grows wild round here. It has black thorny branches and pretty white flowers this time of year, that turn into a purply-blue fruit later. The villagers make sloe-gin out of it. Just now, this cold weather we’ve been having, they would call that a blackthorn winter, meaning winter in springtime.”

“Perfect,” Rhiannon said. “That her name then. Blackthorn.”

Lewen looked at the tall, delicately built mare with her two long scrolled horns that were just the colour of the sloe, and nodded, pleased.

“Two good namings then.” Rhiannon smiled at him so that he blushed red and dropped his gaze, scuffing his boot against the straw-scattered floor. When he glanced up she was smiling radiantly still, but at her horse, which had tossed her head and was prancing, as if glad to be named.

The kitchen was bright and busy with activity, though outside it was all grey and hushed still. Rhiannon ate as greedily as ever, cramming in two bowlfuls of hot porridge with honey and goat’s milk, and sixteen griddle-cakes with melted butter and cherry jam. After a life of lean provisions, she could not help herself. Although these last few days had been so very different from what she had known before, she could not believe she would not know hunger again. You ate when you could, even if you felt rather sick afterwards.