Ravenheart Read online

  'Aye, she's ugly now right enough,' said Maev. 'But when she's birthed the rascal she'll become slim and beautiful again. Whereas you, you great lump, will always be ugly.' Maev's smile faded. 'Why does the Moidart hate Lanovar so?'

  Jaim shrugged. The truth clung to him, burning in his heart, but he could not voice it. Lanovar was a fine man, braw and brave. He had many virtues and few vices. Sadly, one of his vices was that he found women irresistible. Before wedding Gian the previous spring Lanovar had been seen several times in Eldacre town. Few knew the woman he had met there, but Jaim Grymauch was one of them. He suspected that the Moidart was another. Rayena Tremain was beautiful. No doubt of it. She was tall and slender, and she moved with an animal grace that set men's hearts beating wildly. The first affair with Lanovar had been brief, the parting apparently acrimonious.

  Rayena had - four months later - wed the Moidart, in a great ceremony in Eldacre Cathedral. Within the year there were rumours that the marriage was foundering.

  Lanovar began acting strangely, disappearing for days at a time. Jaim, concerned for his leader and his friend, had secretly followed him one morning. Lanovar travelled to the high hills, to a small, abandoned hunting lodge. After an hour a lone horsewoman rode up. Jaim was astonished to see it was Rayena.

  Beside him now Lanovar groaned, the sound jerking Jaim back to the painful present. Lanovar's face was bathed in sweat, and his breathing was shallow and laboured. 'I was never . . . frightened ... of dying, Grymauch,' he said.

  'I know that.'

  'I am now. My son is about to be ... born and I've . . . given him no soul-name.'

  In the distance a wolf howled.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE THIN CANE SLASHED THROUGH THE AIR. THE FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD youth winced, but uttered no cry. Blood seeped from a split in the skin of his right palm. The tall, bony schoolmaster loomed over the black-haired boy. He was about to speak, but saw the blood on the tip of his bamboo cane. Alterith Shaddler gazed on it with distaste, then laid the bamboo on the shoulder of the lad's grey shirt. Drawing the cane back and forth he cleaned it, leaving thin crimson streaks on the threadbare garment. 'There are those,' said Alterith Shaddler, his voice as cold as the air in the stone schoolroom, 'who doubt the wisdom of trying to teach the rudiments of civilized behaviour to highland brats. Since knowing you, boy, I am more inclined to count myself among their number.'

  Alterith placed the cane upon the desktop, straightened his threadbare white horsehair wig, and clasped his hands behind his back. The youth remained where he was, his hands now at his sides. It was a shame that he'd been forced to draw blood, but these clan youngsters were not like Varlish boys. They were savages who did not feel pain in the same way. Not once did any of them make a sound while being thrashed. Alterith was of the opinion that the ability to feel pain was linked to intelligence - 'No sense no feeling', as his old tutor, Mr Brandryth, was apt to say regarding clan folk.

  The schoolmaster looked into the youth's dark eyes. 'You understand why I punished you?'

  'No, I do not.'

  Alterith's hand lashed out, slapping the boy hard upon the cheek. The sound hung in the air. 'You will call me sir when you respond to me. Do you understand that?'

  'I do ... sir,' answered the youth, his voice steady, but his eyes blazing with anger.

  Alterith was tempted to slap him again for the look alone - and would have, had the distant ringing of Dusk Bell not sounded from the St Persis Albitane School. Alterith glanced to his right, gazing through the open window and across the old parade square to the main school building. Already Varlish youngsters were emerging from the great doors, carrying their books. One of the masters came in sight, his midnight blue academic cape shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. Alterith looked with longing at the old building. Within it were libraries, filled with historical tomes, fine works of philosophy, diaries of famous Varlish soldiers and statesmen. There were three halls, and even a small theatre set aside for great plays. The teacher sighed, and returned his gaze to the cold stone walls of his own classroom. It was a former stable, the stalls ripped out and replaced with twenty ancient desks and chairs. Twenty chairs and fifty students, the unlucky ones sitting on the floor in ranks around the walls. There were no books here, the children using slate boards and chalk for their work. The walls were bare but for a single map of the Moidart's domain, and beside it the daily prayer for the Moidart's continued health.

  What a waste of my talents, he thought.

  'We will recite the prayer,' he said, offering the customary short bow. The fifty pupils in the class rose, and - as they had been taught - returned the bow. Then the chant began.

  'May the Source bless the Moidart, and keep him in good health. May his lands be fertile, his people fed, his honour magnified, his laws be known, his word be obeyed, for the good of the faithful.'

  'Good day to you all,' said Alterith.

  'Good day, sir,' they chanted.

  Alterith looked down into the eyes of the black-haired youth.

  'Begone, Master Ring. And bring a better attitude with you tomorrow.'

  The lad said nothing. He took one backward step then spun on his heel and walked away.

  One day, thought Alterith Shaddler, Kaelin Ring will hang. He has no respect for his betters.

  The master sighed again, then moved swiftly across the room, lifting his greatcoat from its hook on the wall and swinging it across his thin shoulders. Despite the promise of spring the highland air was still icy cold. Wrapping a long woollen scarf around his neck Alterith left the old stable and walked across the parade ground into the school proper, striding down the now silent corridor leading to the outer grounds. Several of the other teachers were sitting in the Academic Chamber as he passed. A fire was blazing in the hearth and Alterith could smell the spices used in the mulled wine. It would have been pleasant to sit in one of those deep armchairs, his feet extended towards the fire. But then, unlike the other members of staff at Persis Albitane, teaching was Alterith's only source of income, and he could not afford the Chamber membership fee. Pushing thoughts of mulled wine and warm fires from his mind he strode out into the cold air. The sun was shining in a clear, bright sky. Immediately his eyes began to water. Alterith squinted towards the road and the lake beyond.

  He could see the pony and open carriage already making their way slowly along the water's edge. Alterith's heart sank at the prospect of the four-mile journey to the Moidart's estate. He would be frozen and blue by the time they arrived, his teeth chattering, his mind unable to function properly. Alterith hoped the Moidart himself would not be present to witness his arrival. The last time they had met, Alterith, limbs trembling with the cold, had tried to bow - only to see his horsehair wig slide off and land on the marbled floor at the Moidart's feet. Alterith blushed at the memory.

  The sound of the pony's hooves could be heard now and Alterith walked down to meet the carriage, anxious for the journey to begin as soon as possible. The driver nodded to him but said nothing. He was, as usual, wearing a thick overcoat and had a plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Alterith climbed into the open-topped carriage and settled back, pushing his bony hands into the sleeves of his greatcoat and trying not to think about the cold.

  Kaelin Ring had no coat. He had loaned it to his sick friend, Banny, though at this moment was regretting the kindness. Banny had not come to school today, which meant the coat was hanging on a hook in his hut, and not keeping the wind's icy fingers from tugging at Kaelin's thin shirt.

  Kaelin ran from the school yard and out onto the cattle trail leading up into the hills. At least the cold made the pain in his hands less worrisome, he thought. Anger touched him then, warming him as he ran. He pictured old White-Wig, tall and skinny, his narrow lips constantly twisted in a contemptuous smirk, his pale eyes seeping tears whenever sunlight shone upon them. His clothes smelled of mothballs. The bony Varlish bastard will pay for every stroke he has ever laid upon me, decided Kaelin as he ran. He tried
to think of punishments befitting such an ogre. When I am a man next year I'll nail him by his hands to the schoolhouse gates, then I'll take a whip to his hide. Five strokes for every one he's laid upon me.

  Suddenly Kaelin's good humour came flooding back. He would need to be a great deal better at his arithmetic to tally such a sum. What a pity it was not thought worthwhile to teach the clan children mathematics. Perhaps he should ask old White-Wig for private lessons. The thought was so ridiculous that Kaelin slowed to a stop and burst out laughing. How would the conversation go? 'I'm planning my vengeance on you. So would you kindly explain the multiplication so that I may lash your back to the exact number required?'

  His laughter pealed out once more, then faded as he heard hoof-beats. Moving to the side of the trail he waited. Five riders emerged from the trees. All of them were soldiers of the Moidart - beetlebacks, as the highlanders called them, referring to the black breastplates of baked leather they wore. The lead rider was a portly officer named Galliott. He was known widely as Galliott the Borderer, since his main role was to track and capture criminals and outlaws before they could cross the borders that marked the limit of the Moidart's jurisdiction. Just behind him was the sallow-faced Sergeant Bindoe and three other soldiers Kaelin did not know.

  Galliott drew rein and smiled at Kaelin: 'Cold to be going without a coat, Master Ring.' His voice, as ever, was friendly and warm, and Kaelin found it difficult to hold a dislike for the man. But not impossible if he worked at it.

  'Aye, it is, sir.'

  'Perhaps your uncle Jaim will buy you one.'

  ‘I’ll ask him next time he visits, sir.'

  'You've not seen him then?'

  'Has he broken the law, Mr Galliott?'

  The officer chuckled. 'Always, boy. He was born to break the law. Two nights ago he was in a fight at the Cock Crow tavern. Broke a man's arm and stabbed another in the face. Fellow was lucky not to lose an eye. If you see your uncle tell him the owner of the tavern applied to the magistrate for damages to three tables, several chairs and a window frame. Costs have been set at one chailling and nine daens - plus a two chailling and six daens fine. If it is paid by the end of the month there will be no charges against Jaim. If not, I am to arrest him and take him to the Assizes for judgement by the Moidart.'

  'If I see him I'll tell him, Mr Galliott.' Kaelin shivered.

  'And get yourself a coat,' said the officer. Heeling his mount, he rode away. Kaelin watched as the riders cantered towards the town. Sergeant Bindoe glanced back, and Kaelin could feel the malice in the man. Beetlebacks were hated and feared in the highlands. Most - though not all - were Varlish, and over the years had been responsible for many outrages. Only a month previously a woman living in an isolated cabin had walked into town and reported to the magistrate that she had been raped by three beetlebacks, one of whom was Bindoe. Her story had not been believed and she had been birched and jailed for two weeks for fabrication under oath. After all, it was said, what self-respecting Varlish soldier would touch a lice-infested highland slut?

  Kaelin waited until the beetlebacks were out of sight then ran on. The wind was less fierce within the woods and he was soon sweating as he ran. The trail wound up, ever higher. He stopped at a break in the trees and gazed down over the hills below. Hundreds of small dwellings dotted the countryside, and many more, he knew, were hidden from his gaze, their sod roofs blending into the landscape. Cattle and sheep and goats were grazing on the new spring grass, and, some way to the west, Kaelin saw more beetlebacks riding the Eldacre Road where it met the shores of the lake.

  Cutting away from the main trail he darted up a side slope, hurdling a fallen tree, and sprinted along the final stretch to the crack in the cliff face. It had rained in the night and, glancing down, Kaelin saw that he was leaving footprints in the earth. He continued to run along the line of the cliffs until he reached higher ground, then climbed to the vertical rock. The face was sheer for some fifty feet, but Jaim Grymauch had taught him to overcome his fear of heights, and to glory in the joys of the climb. Wedge holds, hand hams, pressure holds, all were second nature to Kaelin Ring now and he smoothly ascended the wall of rock, traversing back until he was once more alongside the crack in the face. Swinging himself inside he edged along the narrow gap then climbed again, emerging into a deep cave. A fire was burning in a rough-made hearth and a man was sitting beside it, gently burnishing the blade of an enormous broadsword. Kaelin leapt to the floor of the cave and ran to the fire. The man glanced up. He had but one eye, the other covered by a strip of black cloth wound around his bald head, and his face was scarred and pitted. There was a large, purple bruise upon his cheek and a cut to his lip was almost healed. Splashes of dried blood had stained the black cloak and kilt he wore.

  'I hope you learned a goodly amount today,' said Jaim Grymauch.

  Kaelin settled down opposite the big man. 'I learned that Connavar was a Varlish prince and not a clansman at all,' he said.

  'Aye, I've heard that. Did they also tell you that he shat pearls and pissed fine wine?' Putting aside the broadsword Jaim reached out and took Kaelin's hand, turning the palm towards the firelight. 'I see that you've been insolent again. What was it this time?'

  'I told old White-Wig that Connavar was Rigante and that the man who wrote about him being Varlish was a stinking liar.'

  'I'm a great believer in diplomacy, Kaelin, and it pleases me to see you mastering it at such a tender age.'

  'Oh, and I saw Mr Galliott. He says you've to pay one chailling and nine daens for damages and you've been fined another two chaillings and six daens. He says it must be paid by the end of the month or you'll be taken before the Moidart.'

  'So how much do I owe in all?'

  'A lot,' answered Kaelin.

  'I'm not good with numbers, boy. Calculate it for me.'

  Kaelin closed his eyes. Best to calculate the daens first, he thought. Nine plus six made ... he counted it on his fingers. Fifteen. Suddenly he thought of Banny again, wondering if his cough had improved. Jerking himself back to the problem he calculated that fifteen daens made one chailling and three daens. To which he had to add the fine - two chaillings. Making three chaillings and three daens. He told Jaim the figure.

  'You've lost a chailling,' said Jaim.

  'I have not!'

  'Forget the daens for a moment. How many chaillings was the fine?'

  ‘Two.'

  'And how many for the damages?'

  'One.'

  'Well that makes three already. Now you have fifteen daens. That makes one chailling and three daens. So, I owe them four chaillings and three daens.'

  Kaelin scowled. 'You told me you were bad at figures.'

  'I am bad at figures. I'm just not as bad as you.' The warrior sighed. 'I'm getting old, Kaelin. Was a time when the damages and fine always came to more than five chaillings. But now I'm weary before I've bent the second chair over some poor fool's head.'

  'You're not old,' said Kaelin, moving to sit beside the grizzled warrior and enjoying the warmth of the fire. 'You'll never be old.'

  'That's probably true.' He glanced at Kaelin. 'You staying long, boy?'

  'Only an hour or so. Aunt Maev has chores for me. Why don't you come back and have supper with us?'

  Jaim shook his head. 'I'm feeling solitary.'

  'You want me to go?'

  Jaim grinned, then winced as the scab on his lip parted. He dabbed at it with a finger. 'No, I don't want you to go. Sitting like this reminds me of times I sat with your father. You look just like him, save for the eyes. His were strange, one green, one gold. You have your mother's eyes. She was a good woman, Gian. Deserved better.'

  Kaelin looked away and added some sticks to the fire. His mother had been killed two nights after he was born. Beetlebacks had raided the settlement. Few had escaped. Aunt Maev had been one of them, carrying the infant Kaelin in her arms. He changed the subject.

  'What was the fight in the tavern about?'

  'I don't
remember.'

  'You stabbed a man in the face, Grymauch. You ought to remember.'

  'Aye, that's true, I guess.' The big man stretched himself out beside the fire. 'It was probably over a woman. Most fights are.'

  'Have you ever lost a fight?'

  Jaim was silent for a moment. 'I think that - in a way - I have lost every fight I've ever had.' He sat up. 'I'm like the Rigante, Kaelin. I have fought men in the highlands, in the south, and across the great ocean. No man has ever bested me in battle, and yet I sit in a hidden cave nursing my bruises. I own no cattle. I have no land.'

  'You should wed Aunt Maev.'

  Jaim's laughter pealed out. 'She's too good a woman for the likes of me, lad. As she'd tell you herself.'

  'You like her, though?'

  'Of course I like her. She's a woman to walk the mountains with.'

  'She's mean with her money, though,' said Kaelin.

  'Aye, she's careful. She needs to be. The Varlish don't like to see any highlander gathering wealth. It makes them uncomfortable.'

  'Why? She pays her tax to the Moidart and the king.'

  'They mock us and tell us we are stupid, but secretly they fear us, Kaelin. Wealth is power. The Varlish have no desire to see powerful highlanders. Now, enough talk. You tell Maev I'll be needing you at the week's end. The pass is open and I've a hankering to see the ocean.'

  Kaelin laughed. 'Will it just be the two of us?'

  'Of course. Together we're an army, boy.'

  'And whose cattle will it be? Old Kocha?'

  'I've not made up my mind. I like to spread my favours.' Jaim chuckled. 'They say the Moidart has brought in a new bull from the Isles. Ten pounds he paid for it.'

  'How much is that in chaillings?' asked Kaelin.

  'Two hundred.'

  'For a bull?' Kaelin was amazed that such a sum could have been paid. 'Are you joking with me, Grymauch?'

  'I never joke about the price of cattle. I'm wondering how much the Finance would pay for it.'