The Tower of Ravens (9 page)

Lilanthe pressed her hand against her cheek. “Nay, I’ll be fine,” she said faintly. “Lewen, let me do that. Ye’re worn out.”

“Nay, no‘ ye,” the girl said. “Me no like ye. Ye go away.”

Lilanthe was taken aback, and Niall was furious. “Ungrateful brat,” he said. “Fine, we’ll go away. I hope ye’re cold and hungry and your cuts and bruises throb all night.”

“Niall, no!” Lilanthe cried.

Lewen protested at the same time. “
Dai-deinl
She’s sore hurt and she’s afraid. Do no‘ be angry with her.”

Niall sighed. “Fine. Ye stay and tend to her then. She seems to like ye, at least. I’ll take your mother back to the house and tend to her. I’ll send Merry out with some food for her—”

“Nay, no‘ Merry,” Lilanthe protested at once, looking askance at the filthy, wild-eyed, wild-haired creature crouched in the straw.

“Very well, no‘ Merry, me,” Niall agreed in a long-suffering tone. “I willna be long, lad. Try to keep out o’ reach o‘ those claws. I do no’ want anyone else injured tonight.”

“All right, Da,” Lewen said.

“Make sure ye make up her bed well away from the winged horse,” Niall warned. “That mare is as wild as the lass, remember, and though she is quiet enough now, she may no‘ be so docile once she recovers some o’ her energy. A great beast like that can recuperate surprisingly quickly.”

“Aye, that I ken,” Lewen said, smiling.

“I’ll be back in just a wee,” his father said. Still cradling the pale and shaken Lilanthe in one arm, he rather reluctantly went out into the darkness.

Lewen turned and looked at the wild-haired girl.

“Come, sit down,” he said gently. “I shallna hurt ye, I promise. Ye must be sick and dizzy with that head wound, and aching all over after the ride ye’ve had. Will ye no‘ trust me?”

She hesitated, then very gingerly lowered herself back to the floor. “Me do hurt. All over.”

“Ye must indeed. Here, let me finish salving your wrists. They’re raw and bloody. Those ropes must’ve been tied very tight.”

“Had to be tight. Fall off if no‘ tight.”

“So ye tied them yourself? You tied yourself on the horse?”

After a long frowning moment, she nodded.

He said no more, kneeling in the straw before her and lifting up first one hand, then the other, turning them to examine the lacerated flesh. Her fingernails were torn and jagged and black with dirt, but the hands themselves were slender and long-fingered, with callouses he recognized as being caused by drawing back the string of a bow. He remembered the bow and quiver of roughly hewn arrows that had been tied on to her back, and felt his curiosity grow.

Very gently he applied the soothing cream and bandaged her wrists. Then he gathered up all her hair and swept it over her shoulder, smoothing it away from her brow so he could look at the wound on her temple. She sat quietly, almost as if spellbound, as he washed away the encrusted blood, and anointed the wound with his mother’s salve.

“It is no‘ too bad,” he said softly. “Head wounds often bleed a lot. Ye may have a headache for a day or two, but naught more serious. I’ll no’ bandage it, it’s only a scrape and the air will do it good.”

She said nothing, just gazed at him with her dark brows drawn together over her eyes, though more in puzzlement than anger. With the mud and blood washed from her face, he was able to see her clearly for the first time. She had a long, thin face with bony temples and a patrician nose. Her cheekbones were so high there were little hollows beneath. Her mouth was soft and full-lipped with a deep indentation in the upper lip. It gave her a vulnerable air, at odds with the strength of the rest of her features. As he stared at her, her mouth quirked and set itself firmly. Lewen looked away quickly.

He moved back a little, taking up one of her feet and lifting an eyebrow in query. She tilted her head, then gave a little shrug and nodded. Gently he drew off the long, leather boots, and took her bare ankle in one hand, examining the bruised and swollen flesh carefully. “The boots were some protection, at least,” he said. “Let me wash your feet clean and put some arnica cream on, and then ye’ll be more comfortable.”

She acquiesced silently. He washed her feet carefully, noting the hard soles and splayed toes of someone who customarily went barefoot, and the new red patches where the boots had rubbed skin not used to confinement. He had just finished massaging in the cream when he sensed someone watching and looked up. His mother stood just beyond the stable door, a pile of blankets in one arm, a basket in the other hand. She was watching them with a grave expression on her face. Lewen flushed but Lilanthe made no comment, limping in and putting her burdens down near her son, who lifted the girl’s feet off his lap so that he could turn and reach to pick them up.

“I brought her a nightgown and some blankets,” Lilanthe said with the faintest trace of coolness in her voice. “And there’s some vegetable broth, and some new bread, and a slice of the whortleberry pie that Merry and I made this afternoon.”

Lewen was hot and uncomfortable in his skin. He found it hard to meet his mother’s clear gaze. He busied himself winding up the unused bandages and tidying up the salves while the girl fell upon the soup and bread like a wild animal.

“Your supper is waiting for ye, when ye’re ready,” Lilanthe said. “Do no‘ be long, laddie. It’s almost time for Merry to go to bed and she’s eager to see ye, on your last night home with just us.”

Lewen bit his lip in chagrin. “I’ll no‘ be long, Mam. I’ll just see her settled.”

Lilanthe nodded and shook out some warm blankets, then piled her basket high with her healing salves and bandages. “Sleep well, lassie,” she said gently to the girl, who looked up briefly from her soup before lowering her face to the bowl again. “Do no‘ fear. Ye are safe here. This house and garden are well protected. None will harm ye here.”

The girl looked up again, considering Lilanthe for a long moment. Then she nodded in acknowledgement and went back to her meal.

“Ye’re welcome,” Lilanthe said with gentle irony and went back into the darkness.

“It’s usual to say ‘thanks’ when someone does something for ye,” Lewen chided gently.

“Why?” she asked.

He was nonplussed. “It just is. It’s good manners. People get upset if ye do no‘ say thanks.”

“Why?”

“They just do. It’s rude.”

“What rude?”

“Rude is… being rude is having bad manners.” Lewen was conscious of talking in circles. He made a big effort. “Good manners are like the oil in the clogs of a clock, they keep things running smoothly,” he said.

The girl stared at him blankly. Lewen realised she would never have seen a clock before and cast around for some other way to explain.

“Being rude makes ye seem… ungrateful. No-one will like doing things for ye. If ye say things like ‘please’ and ‘thank ye’ and ‘bless ye’ and ‘may I,’ then people will like ye more and like doing things for ye.”

“If me say… this thing, ‘thanks,’ then people like me?” she asked incredulously.

“Aye.”

“Ye too? Ye like me if me say ‘thanks’?”

“Aye, o‘ course. I mean…” Fearing his tongue getting into a tangle again, Lewen came to a halt.

“Then me say thanks,” she said.

“Ye’re welcome,” he said. “That’s what you say when people have said thanks.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Ye just do,” he answered.

The girl absorbed this in silence.

Rather shyly Lewen directed the girl towards the clean clothes. “Would you like to change? And there’s a comb for your hair.” She stared at it in puzzlement as he held it up for her. He mimed combing his hair, then said, “Though happen your hair is too knotted to comb by yourself. And it needs to be washed.”

He imagined himself washing it for her, and colour surged in his cheeks. He went on doggedly, “Tomorrow, happen my mam will help you wash and comb it. Now ye should sleep. Ye are tired.”

She had put one hand up to her hair self-consciously. Now she dropped it, nodding and saying, “Aye, me tired. No‘ much sleep last night.” She shook her head wonderingly and crammed another piece of whortleberry pie into her mouth.

“Why no‘? Were ye riding the mare all night?”

She jerked her head in affirmation.

“How long? How long were ye on her back?”

She shrugged, then held up two fingers.

“Two days?”

“One day, one night,” she answered. “Long time.”

“Aye, indeed. I’ll leave ye to sleep then, for ye must be tired,” Lewen said, handing her the pile of soft blankets. “I hope ye will be warm enough.”

She had been fingering the blankets rather dazedly. At his words she looked up at him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Dimples suddenly flashed in her cheeks. She made a gesture that went from the blankets round the shadowy, lantern-lit stable with its straw-filled byres and sleepy, contented animals. “Me never so warm,” she answered.

Lewen went back through the cool, moonlit garden to the house, feeling that hot, happy daze one gets from drinking too much ale at Hogmanay. His mind was so full of the girl that he had to stand outside the door in the darkness for a while to clear his head.

When he came into the kitchen, his parents and his sister were already seated at the table, eating their meal. Fires burnt at either end of the room, and candles were lit on the table and mantelpiece, filling the room with a golden glow. Ursa lay on her rug before one of the fires, her enormous bulk blocking most of its heat. She lifted her grey snout and looked at him with worried eyes, moaning a question. Both his parents scrutinised him closely too but he managed not to flush, pulling up his chair to the table and saying in his usual practical way, “She’s no‘ badly hurt, just tired and rather bruised, I think. She’ll be grand in the morning. What about the mare, though,
Dai-dein
?”

“ ‘;Twas lucky ye found them when ye did,” Niall said gravely. “The mare has been ridden hard, and then allowed to founder. She’ll be lucky if she does no’ take a chill.”

“I do no‘ think she meant to harm the mare in any way,” Lewen said eagerly. “Ye ken the stories about winged horses, how difficult they are to tame. The mare would have fought the bit and saddle, and flown high to try and throw her off. She was bruised all over. I’d say the mare tried to knock her off against tree trunks and branches, ye ken the way they do.”

“How do ye ken she’s bruised all over?” Lilanthe said sharply.

Lewen went red. “I… she told me…”

“Here, lad, have some soup,” Niall said calmly. “Dearling, will ye cut him some bread? He must be starving.”

“Aye, that I am,” Lewen responded, glad of the diversion. “I managed to eat some of my cheese and bread on the way home, but it dinna even begin to fill the hole.”

He began to eat his soup hungrily, and when Lilanthe had cut him some bread he slathered it with butter.

Meriel bounced up and down in her chair with excitement. “But who is she, this girl? Where did she come from? Did she catch the winged horse?”

“I dinna ken,” Lilanthe answered, taking her seat again and looking across at her son, raising her eyebrows. “Lewen? Did she tell ye anything while ye were tending her?”

Lewen shrugged. “She said she’d tied herself onto the horse, so I guess that means she caught it. She said she had to tie herself on tight so she would no‘ fall while the mare was in the air.”

Merry gave a sigh of happiness. “Oh, I wish it had been me! Imagine, your own flying horse.”

“Thigearns do no‘ say they
own
their winged horses,” Niall said repressively. “It is a friendship, a partnership. They say to win the respect o’ a winged horse, a thigearn must ride it for a year and a day without once putting foot to ground. This girl is no thigearn.”

“She managed to stay on its back for a night and a day,” Lewen said. “That’s pretty amazing.”

His father regarded him for a moment, then nodded and smiled rather ruefully. “I’ve done it myself on occasion, and I must admit I thought well o‘ myself afterwards, and I was no’ riding a horse that can fly. She’ll be stiff and sore for a day or two, particularly if she’s no‘ used to riding astride.”

“I wonder where she came from,” Merry said, holding out her bowl for another serve of soup. “I dinna see a winged horse flying over and I was out in the garden all day. Ye’d think I would’ve seen it.”

“Unless it came down out o‘ the mountains,” Lilanthe said.

“But there’s naught in the mountains but goblins and ogres,” Merry said, wide-eyed. “Did the lass look like a goblin?”

Lewen shut his mouth on his indignation and said nothing.

“Nay, o‘ course no’,” his father said for him. “She was a bonny lass, if rather wild.”

“There are other faeries in the mountains,” Lilanthe said quietly. “Corrigans, satyricorns, nixies, cluricauns, even seelies. She is certainly wild enough and bonny enough to have seelie blood in her.” Lewen looked up and inadvertently met her eyes. Her face was solemn, and he clamped his jaw together and looked away. “I do no‘ think that is it, though.”

“But ye are sure she’s o‘ faery blood?” Niall said. “She looked human enough.”

Lilanthe nodded her brown twiggy head and got up, stacking the empty bowls and taking them away from the table. “Aye, she’s a half-breed, that I ken. Happen ye need to be one to ken one.” There was a faint shade of bitterness in her voice. “She is hard to read, though. I canna hear her thoughts. I would say she has been harshly treated in the past, for her mind and heart are locked up tight indeed. She is well used to shielding her thoughts.”

She brought the next course to the table, an egg and onion tart served with steamed green leaves and roasted roots. Lewen and Merry passed up their plates to her and she served deftly, then sat down again with a sigh. Niall looked at her closely.

“Are ye troubled,
leannan
?”

She straightened her back and smiled at him rather wearily. “Nay, nay, o‘ course no’.”

“I am,” Niall said. “What is a strange, wild lass from the blue yonder doing wearing the coat and plaid o‘ a Yeoman?”

Lewen thought of his father’s shabby old coat and stained white buckskin breeches, stored carefully in a large chest in the attic with the rest of his uniform, muslin bags of dried lavender and lemon verbena tucked between their folds. His father was proud indeed of his past standing as one of the Rìgh’s personal guards. One of the few times Lewen had ever seen his father angry was when he and Merry had opened the chest and played dress-ups with his uniform to amuse themselves one snowy winter’s day. Lewen had worn the silver mail shirt, cunningly made of metal links closely woven together, and the thick blue cloak and battered helmet, while Merry had dressed up in his court regalia, the blue tartan kilt and sporran, the cockaded blue tam-o‘-shanter, the long-tailed blue coat. Finding them playing at soldiers, pretending to fight with old curtain rods and dragging the hems of his clothes through the dust, Niall had roared at them as angrily as any woolly bear. Merry had been so frightened she had begun to cry, but Niall was too angry to care. He had stripped the children of their costumes with hard and hasty hands, given them both resounding spanks on their bottoms and sent them sobbing down the stairs.