moment it felt as if she was being dragged apart by horses, the pressure on her limbs utterly unbearable. Then she was spat out at the other side, falling to her knees upon the flagstones, sobbing in pain and terror.
She was kneeling beside the pool in the forecourt of the Tomb of Ravens at dusk, in exactly the same place where she had been standing scant seconds before. Yet nothing was the same.
The bells tolled out, filling the air with their melancholy clamour.
The hearse moved slowly along the road, pulled by six black horses draped in heavy black caparisons. Their heads were hooded, and tall black plumes nodded from their forehead straps. Alongside them walked six black-clad lords, carrying banners that snapped in the cold breeze. The royal piper marched at the head of the procession, playing a mournful lament, with heralds carrying more banners behind him.
Iseult, clad in sombre black from head to foot, walked behind the hearse. Not one strand of her red hair could be seen beneath her heavy headdress. Her dress was pinned at her throat with an ebon and glass brooch in which could be seen a lock of her dead husband’s hair.
Behind her came Bronwen, dressed as soberly, her face bowed. The Lodestar clasped between her two hands shone like a pale star, the only brilliant thing in the whole solemn procession. The line of mourners stretched fortwo miles behind the hearse, making its stately way to the palace graveyard. All were dressed in solid black, and many among the crowd wept as Lachlan the Winged was taken at last to his rest.
For three days he had lain in state in the banquet-hall, surrounded by tiers of candles, and watched over by his widow and friends and servants. Then the midwives had come to wash and wind him, swaddling him in white linen as tenderly and efficiently as they would a newborn babe. Flowers and herbs were placed between the bands – rosemary and sweet woodruff and lavender – to help combat the smell of putrefaction.
Normally the coffin would also be heaped with flowers, but the frost which had bitten after Lachlan’s murder had laid the garden waste. The midwives had been hard put to find any living herbs at all to tuck inside the winding cloth. So Lachlan’s coffin was topped with an arrangement of evergreen leaves – yew and ivy and holly – and those who walked behind the hearse carried sprigs of evergreen rosemary in their black-gloved hands.
Lachlan the Winged was buried beside the tiny grave of his daughter Lavinya, Donncan’s twin sister, who had died at birth. Iseult did not weep. Her face was as expressionless as a plaster mask. The only sign of her bitter grief was the cold that clamped down upon the graveyard. Snow whirled down out of a leaden sky, and the breath of those that watched blew in white plumes before their faces. Everyone was glad to hurry back to the palace and warm their hands on goblets of mulled wine and draw as close to the roaring fires laid in the hearths as they could.
‘Eà’s blood!’ Douglas MacSeinn, the Prionnsa of Carraig, growled to King Nila. ‘It’s as cold as the Castle Forlorn in the dead o’ winter. I wish I had brought my seal furs.’
‘Even I find it rather fresh,’ King Nila admitted. ‘May I offer ye some seasquill wine to warm your blood?’
The MacSeinn shook his head. ‘No’ unless ye wish me to shame myself by falling down dead drunk,’ he replied with a wry twist of his lips. ‘I havena the head for it at all. I will have some whisky, though, to toast our dead Rìgh. To think Lachlan should be struck down in the very prime o’ his life. It’s a sad day indeed.’
‘Indeed it is,’ King Nila said soberly. ‘He was a great man.’
‘And now your niece sits the throne,’ the MacSeinn said. ‘I have no wish to cast aspersions on one o’ your blood, Your Majesty, but I must admit it makes me uneasy, such a young slip o’ a girl and one best known for dancing and partying.’
‘Aye, ye ken what they say,’ a
She was kneeling beside the pool in the forecourt of the Tomb of Ravens at dusk, in exactly the same place where she had been standing scant seconds before. Yet nothing was the same.
The bells tolled out, filling the air with their melancholy clamour.
The hearse moved slowly along the road, pulled by six black horses draped in heavy black caparisons. Their heads were hooded, and tall black plumes nodded from their forehead straps. Alongside them walked six black-clad lords, carrying banners that snapped in the cold breeze. The royal piper marched at the head of the procession, playing a mournful lament, with heralds carrying more banners behind him.
Iseult, clad in sombre black from head to foot, walked behind the hearse. Not one strand of her red hair could be seen beneath her heavy headdress. Her dress was pinned at her throat with an ebon and glass brooch in which could be seen a lock of her dead husband’s hair.
Behind her came Bronwen, dressed as soberly, her face bowed. The Lodestar clasped between her two hands shone like a pale star, the only brilliant thing in the whole solemn procession. The line of mourners stretched fortwo miles behind the hearse, making its stately way to the palace graveyard. All were dressed in solid black, and many among the crowd wept as Lachlan the Winged was taken at last to his rest.
For three days he had lain in state in the banquet-hall, surrounded by tiers of candles, and watched over by his widow and friends and servants. Then the midwives had come to wash and wind him, swaddling him in white linen as tenderly and efficiently as they would a newborn babe. Flowers and herbs were placed between the bands – rosemary and sweet woodruff and lavender – to help combat the smell of putrefaction.
Normally the coffin would also be heaped with flowers, but the frost which had bitten after Lachlan’s murder had laid the garden waste. The midwives had been hard put to find any living herbs at all to tuck inside the winding cloth. So Lachlan’s coffin was topped with an arrangement of evergreen leaves – yew and ivy and holly – and those who walked behind the hearse carried sprigs of evergreen rosemary in their black-gloved hands.
Lachlan the Winged was buried beside the tiny grave of his daughter Lavinya, Donncan’s twin sister, who had died at birth. Iseult did not weep. Her face was as expressionless as a plaster mask. The only sign of her bitter grief was the cold that clamped down upon the graveyard. Snow whirled down out of a leaden sky, and the breath of those that watched blew in white plumes before their faces. Everyone was glad to hurry back to the palace and warm their hands on goblets of mulled wine and draw as close to the roaring fires laid in the hearths as they could.
‘Eà’s blood!’ Douglas MacSeinn, the Prionnsa of Carraig, growled to King Nila. ‘It’s as cold as the Castle Forlorn in the dead o’ winter. I wish I had brought my seal furs.’
‘Even I find it rather fresh,’ King Nila admitted. ‘May I offer ye some seasquill wine to warm your blood?’
The MacSeinn shook his head. ‘No’ unless ye wish me to shame myself by falling down dead drunk,’ he replied with a wry twist of his lips. ‘I havena the head for it at all. I will have some whisky, though, to toast our dead Rìgh. To think Lachlan should be struck down in the very prime o’ his life. It’s a sad day indeed.’
‘Indeed it is,’ King Nila said soberly. ‘He was a great man.’
‘And now your niece sits the throne,’ the MacSeinn said. ‘I have no wish to cast aspersions on one o’ your blood, Your Majesty, but I must admit it makes me uneasy, such a young slip o’ a girl and one best known for dancing and partying.’
‘Aye, ye ken what they say,’ a
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