Title: Tales of the Summer Country: The Spy and the Outlaw
Main Characters: Pete Wisdom, Shadowcat, ensemble cast some of whom I'm not going to mention just yet. Just for the record, all characters are established mainstream Marvel, although some of them you may not recognise at first.
Disclaimer: I own a computer (which I didn't pay for), an E-Mail account (under an assumed name), and myself. The rest can be divided between Marvel and the British Isles. Despite all the shit and poor leadership, not to mention prejudice, both are still pretty cool.
Note: I'm going to try chaptering this one. It's kind of experimental for me, so the sizes may well be pretty damn uneven, and it may break the continuity of the whole thing and leave it impenetrable, but it might conversely make it easier to read. Besides, I think this is going to be longer than the previous two.
Oh yeah, a source on the 'Net told me Kitty's father was called Carmen, which I always thought was more appropriate for, say, a female gypsy. Probably involved in the tobacco industry. With a thing for men in uniforms, and knife fighters. But I digress.
Accents: I appreciate that many authors like to spell out the accents of their characters word by word. I have not done this for the Scots characters, partly because everybody is really speaking either Middle English or Old Gaelic, and partly because in my experience most rural Scots have their accent limited to a 'Highland burr', a faint edge to the sound that just makes it that little bit more beautiful, rather than the comic- book writers standby of impenetrable misspelling (And when Spike first appeared on 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' my younger brother and I had an argument as to whether his accent was meant to be Australian or South African).
Place Names: You may be confused by the place names used, especially in reference to Ireland. Almost all of them are real, being the Irish or Scots Gaelic names for the locations in question. Just go with it; I'm only using them to provide flavour.
History: Yep, the Scotii, like the Mongols in the previous stories, are in position early. Yep, I don't give a shit. If Shakespeare could have MacBeth killed by MacDuff, I can have Scotland existing in the seventh century AD.
Feedback: God, yes please. Thrill me, Fan Boy.
1 Tales of the Summer Country: The Spy and the Outlaw
Chapter 1: In which the principles are introduced, reunions take place, and the author drops several massive hints as to the situation.
The Scotii had come across the sea from Ireland over a century before. They were a tall race of warriors and herdsmen, ferocious and strong but possessed of their own ancient rules of etiquette. Foremost among these was the law of hospitality, and so the Royal Hall at Scone[1] always held many guests, especially, as now, in the wintertime.
Scots tradition also had quite stern things to say about the place of women, but this part of their customs had been allowed to die out over the past two decades, because a Witch-Queen ruled them.
The woman's name was Moira and, even approaching middle age, she was beautiful, with dark red hair and green eyes that saw everything. She had studied under Nathaniel of Essex in her youth, before the sorcerer had been corrupted by his quest for immortality, and later, after she came to the throne, she had used the skills she had learned to quell the grumbling of those chiefs who felt that a woman had no place sitting over the Stone of Destiny. She was married, to a Lord of the Emerald Isle, a man named Sean Cassidy, but their union was childless. Instead they had adopted a young Gifted, cast out by her parents as a Changeling, and named her Rhane. When they held court, Moira and her consort sat side by side, and Rhane was permitted from early childhood to attend. As the girl grew many of the younger warriors began to bring their womenfolk to the hall with them until, in the twentieth year of Moira's reign, and the seventeenth of Rhane's life, even the victory feasts were open to all – though few women chose to attend these last.
That winter the gatherings were subtly different. Men arrived at the hall in full wargear, and sat on their shields to eat. There were more guards on the gates, and travellers arriving from the south were questioned as to their background. Nathaniel of Essex was dead, and the breaking of his realm had left his Saxon Marauders as nothing more than common bandits, fleeing the vengeance of the Summer Country.
She came out of a blizzard, attended by a guard of Leign Irishmen. They carried the badge of Shaw, but neither she nor the two men who walked beside her nor the girl who walked behind wore any insignia. She walked in beauty, clad in robes of mink and silver fox, coolly aloof from all around her. The guards at the gate made no move to question or hinder her them, and, leaving their escort in the warrior's hall, the woman and her three companions entered the queen's citadel.
The doors slammed shut behind them.
In the first days of spring, as the sun sank on the horizon, there burned on the northern edge of the Great Forest a campfire.
It was small and carefully made, the wood pre-stacked to burn all night with minimal adjustments. It was the sort of fire an experienced woodsman built when he was alone, and not perfectly happy about the fact. The man who entered the circle of firelight registered this detail, as he registered most things, unconsciously and instinctively. He lived his life by knowledge and cunning. Now, he moved to crouch by the fire.
'Any reason you're hiding in the shadows?' He asked. There was a pause, and then the fire's owner stepped out into the light. The two men assessed each other.
The spy saw a tall man, lean built but with the powerful shoulders of an archer. His fair complexion and tall stature marked him as a Saxon. He was dressed in the rough wool and furs of a forester, and his blonde hair was dirty and uncombed, but the great longbow he was aiming was in pristine condition.
The archer saw a small, wiry man with a look of cunning and general disreputability. He had black hair – worn short, in the British style – and eyes the coldest blue the archer had ever seen. His clothes were worn, but clearly of fairly good quality.
'Wisdom.' The archer said, lowering his bow after a long moment, and the smaller man smiled.
'Hawk.' He said in response, and then raised his voice. 'Come on.'
A young woman stepped out of the shadows. She had dark brown hair and gentle brown eyes but the man called Hawk noted that the muscles in her wrists and shoulders were well developed – clearly she had trained with the short sword that she was sheathing as she emerged. Like him, she was dressed as a forester; while the simple clothes looked rough and rugged on the tall Saxon, on her slim frame they managed to look elegant and flattering.
'Friend of yours?' She asked Wisdom.
'Kitty, this is Clint, the best god-damned archer I ever heard of. Hawk, this is Katherine, my –'
'Travelling companion.' She said, deciding to let her lover off his usual awkwardness as to how to introduce her. 'He's a Saxon.' This to Wisdom, but intended for both of them.
'It means nothing, Kitty. Nathaniel was evil; that doesn't mean his people are.' She nodded.
'Where are you headed?' Asked the Hawk.
'Scone.' Replied Wisdom. 'I heard a rumour they might have room for someone of my talents among the Scotii.'
'I'm headed that way myself.'
'Oh? Time was, when you walked somewhere, you'd only be caught up by horsemen.' The Hawk grinned at Wisdom.
'I took a detour. Searching for a band of Marauders. It took me four days to track them down. What happened to your comfortable spot in Essex?'
'Since the Pale Lord got himself killed, Essex is back under the Summer Country, and Gambit's gone and allied with the Brotherhood. There's no more room for a spy down there.'
'And in the Highlands? The Scots don't keep secrets. If they have a grudge, they fight to the death in the market square.'
'I heard a rumour.'
'I heard a rumble.' Interrupted Katherine. 'Could one of you please get us something to eat?' The Hawk was about to respond with a sarcastic comment, but then he saw Wisdom's expression. He watched as his old friend began laying out dried meat, twice-baked bread and a wineskin for the woman.
'Travelling companion.' He said dryly. She smiled sweetly at him, and then reached out a hand for his bow.
'May I?' She asked. He picked it up, removed the string, and handed the weapon across. It was a six-foot stave of Italian yew, bound and tipped with horn. The young woman hefted it for a moment, then stood up and held it extended in her left hand.
'Heavy.' She said, and glanced at his shoulders once more. 'Far too big for me. Is he any good?' This last to Wisdom, who had finished arranging the supplies.
'Why don't you ask him?'
'Of course he THINKS he's good.' She paused. 'Well?'
'Hawk?'
'I'm the best bowman in Britain.'
'Bastard is, too.' Wisdom agreed. 'I've seen him fire two arrows at one pull, and hit both his targets dead on. Come on, Kitty. Food's here.'
The three of them settled and ate. The meal was not particularly tasty, but it filled you up. When they had finished, the Hawk asked Wisdom about his rumour.
'Strange things, you might say, are afoot in Scone.' He grinned, or at least showed his teeth. 'I heard the Witch-Queen's been changing her rule.'
'That interests you?'
'The word is, her daughter's gone missing, and she'd like to have the child back. That sort of thing always interests me.'
'Anything else?'
'Nothing major. Why?' The Hawk smiled. It was not often he was ahead of his old friend with the news.
'You hadn't heard? The Dead Man is in the Highlands. Rumour has it he's looking for a girl. Not yours, of course – an Irishwoman. No one knows any more than that that I heard of, but the Witch-Queen's put a price on him. Fifty pounds to the man who brings the Dead Man's head to Scone.'
'Who's the Dead Man?' Asked Katherine. Her lover had briefed her on the Witch Queen and her consort, but had made no mention of anyone by that name.
'A killer. Kitty, I know you can fight, and that you've got powers,' and this was the first time Wisdom had freely spoken of her abilities in front of anyone she did not know, 'but if you ever meet him, run. And hope he lets you.'
It was two days later, in what seemed like a return to winter, that this woman and the two men with her arrived at Scone. The snow still lay thick on the ground, and the air was cold enough to turn their breath into vapour, but the weather was clear and the roads had been trampled level. The Hawk led them swiftly to the citadel, where his reputation secured them entry. It was late afternoon, and the household slaves were already preparing for the evening meal. They found a corner in which to dump their packs, and then Wisdom left Katherine with the Hawk and headed off to 'look up an old friend'.
Over the preceding two days the Hawk had not really walked with Katherine and Wisdom, but rather had ranged ahead, behind and to either side, scouting the area, looking for tracks, occasionally shooting a choice game bird or two for their evening meal. This was therefore Katherine's first real opportunity to speak to the Saxon, and she didn't hesitate.
'How did you meet Pete?' She asked conversationally. The Hawk looked up.
'He lets you call him that?' Surprise was evident in his voice.
'He would. I stick with Wisdom, though. I fell for him when he was just Wisdom to me. What's your real name?'
'Clint.' Was the abrupt reply, but then he smiled. 'Don't wear it out.' She smiled back. 'So, Katherine, do you have no other name? May I call you Kat?'
'Katherine the Jewess.' She introduced herself with unconscious formality.
'You name yourself for your faith?' She blinked.
'It is how I and my family were called in our home town.'
'Carry the name you earn with pride.' He said. 'Carry the name your ancestors earned for you with reverence, and the name your parents chose for you with gratitude. Katherine the Jewess is what others called you, which does not make it your name. You may take pride in your faith, and wear it as your name, but you should do so because you choose to do so. Not because others cannot see past the ranting of their priest.'
'You want me to choose a new name?' She was slightly irritated by this.
'Accept a new one, perhaps.'
'So who called you the Hawk?'
'The name was chosen for me by the man called Nomad.'
'And who's he?'
'One of the People, by choice and by birth.'
'What people?' Katherine asked.
'The Old People. The first humans in Britain. The Painted People, the Romans called them, and it stuck.'
'The Picts?' She asked in surprise. 'The Savages?'
'You can call them that, if you like.' The Hawk was not so much looking at her, Katherine realised, as watching her movements. 'They were here before the Celts or the Romans or the Saxons. They forged no metal and built no cities, but they lived in this land and with it. They live here still.'
'Alongside the Scots?' She was rewarded by a sudden grin.
'You might say that. I've shared a fire with them a few times, and that's more than most of the locals ever manage. They have the Highlands. The Scots farm and herd in the hills, but the People actually live in them.'
Wisdom moved around the back of the hall. He had passed through Scone on a couple of occasions in the past, but never really looked around; even so, there were certain basic rules all such places followed, and he had no trouble locating the kitchen entrance. Adjusting his slightly tattered looking cloak he strode in as if he owned the place, walked straight past half a dozen guards, and headed along a corridor to what, from the presence of four armed clansmen, he guessed was the entrance to the royal quarters. The guards, needless to say, moved to bar his way.
Wisdom gently pushed a spear aside, and moved up to the door. One of the other guards grabbed his arm.
'Cassidy in here?' He asked, putting cold confidence into his voice. The guard looked at him for a long moment, and then asked who he was.
'Wisdom to see Cassidy.' There was another brief pause, and then one of the other guards slipped through the door, not opening it far enough for Wisdom to see through. After a short wait he returned, and the spy was ushered into an anteroom.
'So. You're Wisdom.' The man waiting for him was tall and powerfully muscled, a warrior by his garb. He wore the plaid of McKay, and had a pair of swords crossed on his back. Wisdom raised an eyebrow at that; in his experience few rulers allowed people to go about their feasthall so heavily armed, and besides he had never heard of a Clansman who carried such weaponry. Rather more startling, though, was the fact that beneath his leather armour the man was covered in thick orange fur, and his eyes had narrow, cat-like pupils. He certainly was not normal.
'Who're you?' Wisdom asked the man.
'I am Colin McKay, champion of Scone. My lord asked me to greet you in his stead.'
'I take it the Cassidy is busy, then? Or have I managed to piss him off somehow?'
'Have ye managed to piss me off somehow?' His voice barely preceded Sean, Lord Cassidy, Chieftain of Gaillimh and consort of the Witch-Queen of the Scotii, as he strode into the room. Cassidy was half a head taller than Wisdom, broad-shouldered and powerful. Though approaching his fiftieth year his posture was upright and his hair the same red-blonde as always. His ruddy face was lined with care and laughter in equal measure, and he dominated the small room from the moment he entered. 'Six years, Wisdom, and not a word. I hear whispers from the Summer Country, but no more, and when I ask them they claim to know nothing. Sweet mother of mercy, Wisdom, I've been drinking with Scots –' His voice, which had been steadily increasing in volume as he spoke, dropped, losing all trace of anger, and he looked around in mock fear. 'Not that they can't hold the drink, and their whisky's as fine as any in Eyre, but you should see what they have instead of good porter. They've let the bloody Britons get to them, and now half of them swill mead. I'd say ye've managed to piss me off.' He extended his hand and Wisdom took it, wincing as the physically stronger Irishman squeezed his wrist with impressive force.
'Easy, old man.' He muttered.
'Right. Come and get drunk. Are you travelling alone?'
'Nope. Got the Hawk with me, and a woman.'
'Ye'll all three drink with me tonight.' Declared the Cassidy. 'Colin, tell Moira it's an old friend, and I've gone ahead.' And he dragged Wisdom towards the main hall. Behind them Colin slipped through the door by which he had entered.
On the other side of the door all seemed normal to the orange-furred Champion of Scotland. He moved past a couple of attendants, and bowed to his queen.
'Lady Moira.' He said. 'An old friend of my lord Cassidy has arrived from the south. Your husband even now entertains him.'
'Indeed.' The Witch-Queen was having her hair attended to. It seemed oddly straight to his mind, but after a moment he dismissed that thought, as well as any ideas he might have had that his mistress had, until a couple of weeks previously, never taken such care over her appearance. Moira was past forty, but bearing it gracefully, and could still turn a man's heart when she so desired. Rumours abounded of the lengths to which she had gone to win her current husband from a rival who – again, Colin found his train of thought stopping dead there. The Witch-Queen was speaking once again.
'And who is this friend?'
'A man named Wisdom.' He replied. He did not expect it to mean anything to her, and indeed she showed no reaction beyond dismissing him. Once he had left, however, she addressed the tall, handsome man who stood against the wall.
'Do you remember Wisdom?' She asked.
'No.' He replied shortly. She had rejected him, long ago, and he still resented that.
'A petty man, but dangerous. And he knows how to hold a grudge. Perhaps we should have him killed? Outside of Scone, of course.' She smiled, and somehow the expression did not fit – but then neither did the words coming from her mouth. 'Or perhaps we should use him to our own ends. You have an opinion?' The other said nothing. 'I thought not. For now, we will watch him – find his motivation. The man has a knack for discovering intrigue, and for exploiting it. If he could be persuaded to re-enter the services of his old friend, he might prove very useful.'
Katherine and the Hawk agreed that they should not really be surprised that Wisdom had managed to get them moved to the high table, where they now sat drinking with a powerful, red-headed Irishman. The Cassidy had persuaded all three of them to partake of a thick, dark-coloured drink that had the texture of broth and the taste of burned malt. He called it porter; Wisdom called it 'that bloody Irish drink'. Even so, he was the only one who showed as much enthusiasm for it as their host.
They had been drinking for perhaps half an hour, which time had been taken up in impenetrable reminisces between the Irishman and the spy, full of reminisces to places Katherine had never been and people she had never heard of. She was able to glean a couple of details from their conversation, though – that the Cassidy knew Wisdom was Gifted, that her lover had once been an employee of the older man, and was still considered a friend by him, and that they had not seen one another for several years. The Hawk seemed to understand a lot more of what was said, but like her he did not really join in the conversation.
Suddenly the Cassidy broke off.
'Forgetting me manners in me old age.' He muttered, and grabbed Wisdom's arm. 'Who's this lovely lady? The Hawk I know for the good-for-nothing scrounger that he is.' The archer smiled with him.
'Katherine.' She told him. 'Daughter of Carmen the Jew.'
'She's my –' Wisdom paused, as always uncertain how best to describe her.
'Travelling companion.' She supplied once again, and the Irishman smiled knowingly.
Something about that smile made Wisdom see red. Lunging forward he caught her wrist, and then turned back to Cassidy and the Hawk.
'No.' He told them. 'Sean, Clint, I'd like you both to meet the woman I love.' The Hawk blinked in surprise. The Cassidy actually rocked back in his chair. Both men had known Wisdom a long time, and seen him pass between many lovers – but they had never before heard him use the word 'love' in anything but cynical tones. It was clear that he meant what he said, and the realisation was, to his old friends, slightly shocking.
Almost before they could recover a door opened at the back of the hall and Moira, Queen of the Scots, entered in splendour.
A dozen chainmail-clad clansmen escorted her, with at their head Colin MacKenzie, still clad in his armour and with his swords crossed upon his back. The Witch-Queen was dressed in a gown of dark green silk, her rich red hair artfully piled on top of her head, and attended by two tall, dark- haired men, both bearded. One of them bore a remarkable resemblance to the Cassidy. She swept across to the room in imperious silence, and took her place at the Cassidy's left, in the high seat. When she entered all those present, to the most drunken warrior, had risen to their feet en masse; as she sat, so did they.
'Husband.' She said coolly to the Cassidy. Katherine had already glanced at him to gauge his reaction to the woman with whom he was supposed to be in love, and so only she saw the shift in his face. As he turned to his wife it was as if a piece of him switched off, and suddenly he was – different. It was disturbing, she thought for a moment, but then realised that nothing could possibly be wrong.
Wisdom, meanwhile, was surprised by Moira's voice. He had never been formally introduced to the Witch-Queen, but he had seen her several times in the past (and, a corner of his mind whispered, she never wore anything so impractical as that robe, and always left her hair to flow free), and heard her speak (on one occasion at a distance of fifteen feet, from behind a wall hanging, remembering all she said for sale to a petty Chief with a large treasury later), and – this was not the voice he remembered. It sounded – wrong. Before he could consider this, though, he decided that no, it was exactly right.
'Queen.' The Cassidy replied to his wife, and then turned away from her – and seemed to snap back into reality. He gestured to the bearded man who resembled him, and told Wisdom. 'My brother, Tom. You remember Tom, don't ye, Wisdom?'
'I remember.' The spy told his old friend. Looking along the table his eyes met Tom's, and Katherine would have swore that for a moment she felt the air begin to heat. Then Wisdom turned back to his friend. 'Black Tom is back in his brother's good graces?' He asked. He was genuinely puzzled, and so he sounded mildly curious.
'Aye.' Said the Cassidy. He seemed uncomfortable for a moment, but then said, 'there's no sense in letting an argument rupture a family.' Wisdom nodded; for some reason that made perfect sense to him.
Along the table the Witch-Queen frowned; she was beginning to get a headache.
It was the end of winter, and so the feast was nothing spectacular, but there was plenty of food, and it was well prepared. The Queen retired early, escorted by Black Tom and her other assistant, leaving the Cassidy to drink with his friends, old and new, and to talk. This went on late into the night, until only Wisdom, Katherine, the Hawk and Colin MacKenzie were left with the old Irishman. After a short time the orange-furred warrior rose, made his excuses, and left by the main entrance.
'Where's he off to?' An astonishingly sober Wisdom asked his host.
'Colin likes to watch the walls at night.' The other man told him. 'He's a watchful one, and dangerous.'
'Who's Black Tom?' Katherine interrupted, finally managing to remember.
'My brother.' Cassidy told her. 'All the family I have in the world.'
'When did you make up?' Asked Wisdom.
'Aye, it was –' The older man paused. 'Well, it was never anything really serious between us, ye remember, Pete? He came home a couple of months ago.' He paused, and a puzzled look flitted across his face for a moment, but then he brightened. 'I apologised and – we both apologised, of course, and we've agreed to say no more about it.' Wisdom blinked. There was something massively wrong with that statement.
'What was the cause of your argument?' Katherine asked.
'Oh, he killed my first wife and daughter.' The Cassidy said, and finished his drink, apparently not having registered his own words. Wisdom nodded understanding.
'But you've forgiven him.' He said, and then frowned.
'Aye. Moira'll be asleep by now, and we should really all be headed that way too.' The Cassidy rose and headed out, leaving Wisdom struggling to form a coherent thought.
It must be the alcohol, he decided as servants came to escort him and Katherine to one of the bedchambers. He ignored the fact that, due to the nature of his Gift, alcohol was metabolised at such an accelerated rate that he seldom had time to feel even the beginnings of its effects.
Katherine had no such excuse, and as she undressed she found her thoughts beginning to crystallise. It wasn't just that no one – not even Wisdom – had mentioned the Witch-Queen's missing daughter. Something else was niggling at her, but she could not work out what.
Something was wrong, was all she managed to conclude, but before she could mention it to her lover he had fallen asleep.
----------------------- [1] Pronounced 'Scoon', for all my fellow Sassenachs.
Main Characters: Pete Wisdom, Shadowcat, ensemble cast some of whom I'm not going to mention just yet. Just for the record, all characters are established mainstream Marvel, although some of them you may not recognise at first.
Disclaimer: I own a computer (which I didn't pay for), an E-Mail account (under an assumed name), and myself. The rest can be divided between Marvel and the British Isles. Despite all the shit and poor leadership, not to mention prejudice, both are still pretty cool.
Note: I'm going to try chaptering this one. It's kind of experimental for me, so the sizes may well be pretty damn uneven, and it may break the continuity of the whole thing and leave it impenetrable, but it might conversely make it easier to read. Besides, I think this is going to be longer than the previous two.
Oh yeah, a source on the 'Net told me Kitty's father was called Carmen, which I always thought was more appropriate for, say, a female gypsy. Probably involved in the tobacco industry. With a thing for men in uniforms, and knife fighters. But I digress.
Accents: I appreciate that many authors like to spell out the accents of their characters word by word. I have not done this for the Scots characters, partly because everybody is really speaking either Middle English or Old Gaelic, and partly because in my experience most rural Scots have their accent limited to a 'Highland burr', a faint edge to the sound that just makes it that little bit more beautiful, rather than the comic- book writers standby of impenetrable misspelling (And when Spike first appeared on 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' my younger brother and I had an argument as to whether his accent was meant to be Australian or South African).
Place Names: You may be confused by the place names used, especially in reference to Ireland. Almost all of them are real, being the Irish or Scots Gaelic names for the locations in question. Just go with it; I'm only using them to provide flavour.
History: Yep, the Scotii, like the Mongols in the previous stories, are in position early. Yep, I don't give a shit. If Shakespeare could have MacBeth killed by MacDuff, I can have Scotland existing in the seventh century AD.
Feedback: God, yes please. Thrill me, Fan Boy.
1 Tales of the Summer Country: The Spy and the Outlaw
Chapter 1: In which the principles are introduced, reunions take place, and the author drops several massive hints as to the situation.
The Scotii had come across the sea from Ireland over a century before. They were a tall race of warriors and herdsmen, ferocious and strong but possessed of their own ancient rules of etiquette. Foremost among these was the law of hospitality, and so the Royal Hall at Scone[1] always held many guests, especially, as now, in the wintertime.
Scots tradition also had quite stern things to say about the place of women, but this part of their customs had been allowed to die out over the past two decades, because a Witch-Queen ruled them.
The woman's name was Moira and, even approaching middle age, she was beautiful, with dark red hair and green eyes that saw everything. She had studied under Nathaniel of Essex in her youth, before the sorcerer had been corrupted by his quest for immortality, and later, after she came to the throne, she had used the skills she had learned to quell the grumbling of those chiefs who felt that a woman had no place sitting over the Stone of Destiny. She was married, to a Lord of the Emerald Isle, a man named Sean Cassidy, but their union was childless. Instead they had adopted a young Gifted, cast out by her parents as a Changeling, and named her Rhane. When they held court, Moira and her consort sat side by side, and Rhane was permitted from early childhood to attend. As the girl grew many of the younger warriors began to bring their womenfolk to the hall with them until, in the twentieth year of Moira's reign, and the seventeenth of Rhane's life, even the victory feasts were open to all – though few women chose to attend these last.
That winter the gatherings were subtly different. Men arrived at the hall in full wargear, and sat on their shields to eat. There were more guards on the gates, and travellers arriving from the south were questioned as to their background. Nathaniel of Essex was dead, and the breaking of his realm had left his Saxon Marauders as nothing more than common bandits, fleeing the vengeance of the Summer Country.
She came out of a blizzard, attended by a guard of Leign Irishmen. They carried the badge of Shaw, but neither she nor the two men who walked beside her nor the girl who walked behind wore any insignia. She walked in beauty, clad in robes of mink and silver fox, coolly aloof from all around her. The guards at the gate made no move to question or hinder her them, and, leaving their escort in the warrior's hall, the woman and her three companions entered the queen's citadel.
The doors slammed shut behind them.
In the first days of spring, as the sun sank on the horizon, there burned on the northern edge of the Great Forest a campfire.
It was small and carefully made, the wood pre-stacked to burn all night with minimal adjustments. It was the sort of fire an experienced woodsman built when he was alone, and not perfectly happy about the fact. The man who entered the circle of firelight registered this detail, as he registered most things, unconsciously and instinctively. He lived his life by knowledge and cunning. Now, he moved to crouch by the fire.
'Any reason you're hiding in the shadows?' He asked. There was a pause, and then the fire's owner stepped out into the light. The two men assessed each other.
The spy saw a tall man, lean built but with the powerful shoulders of an archer. His fair complexion and tall stature marked him as a Saxon. He was dressed in the rough wool and furs of a forester, and his blonde hair was dirty and uncombed, but the great longbow he was aiming was in pristine condition.
The archer saw a small, wiry man with a look of cunning and general disreputability. He had black hair – worn short, in the British style – and eyes the coldest blue the archer had ever seen. His clothes were worn, but clearly of fairly good quality.
'Wisdom.' The archer said, lowering his bow after a long moment, and the smaller man smiled.
'Hawk.' He said in response, and then raised his voice. 'Come on.'
A young woman stepped out of the shadows. She had dark brown hair and gentle brown eyes but the man called Hawk noted that the muscles in her wrists and shoulders were well developed – clearly she had trained with the short sword that she was sheathing as she emerged. Like him, she was dressed as a forester; while the simple clothes looked rough and rugged on the tall Saxon, on her slim frame they managed to look elegant and flattering.
'Friend of yours?' She asked Wisdom.
'Kitty, this is Clint, the best god-damned archer I ever heard of. Hawk, this is Katherine, my –'
'Travelling companion.' She said, deciding to let her lover off his usual awkwardness as to how to introduce her. 'He's a Saxon.' This to Wisdom, but intended for both of them.
'It means nothing, Kitty. Nathaniel was evil; that doesn't mean his people are.' She nodded.
'Where are you headed?' Asked the Hawk.
'Scone.' Replied Wisdom. 'I heard a rumour they might have room for someone of my talents among the Scotii.'
'I'm headed that way myself.'
'Oh? Time was, when you walked somewhere, you'd only be caught up by horsemen.' The Hawk grinned at Wisdom.
'I took a detour. Searching for a band of Marauders. It took me four days to track them down. What happened to your comfortable spot in Essex?'
'Since the Pale Lord got himself killed, Essex is back under the Summer Country, and Gambit's gone and allied with the Brotherhood. There's no more room for a spy down there.'
'And in the Highlands? The Scots don't keep secrets. If they have a grudge, they fight to the death in the market square.'
'I heard a rumour.'
'I heard a rumble.' Interrupted Katherine. 'Could one of you please get us something to eat?' The Hawk was about to respond with a sarcastic comment, but then he saw Wisdom's expression. He watched as his old friend began laying out dried meat, twice-baked bread and a wineskin for the woman.
'Travelling companion.' He said dryly. She smiled sweetly at him, and then reached out a hand for his bow.
'May I?' She asked. He picked it up, removed the string, and handed the weapon across. It was a six-foot stave of Italian yew, bound and tipped with horn. The young woman hefted it for a moment, then stood up and held it extended in her left hand.
'Heavy.' She said, and glanced at his shoulders once more. 'Far too big for me. Is he any good?' This last to Wisdom, who had finished arranging the supplies.
'Why don't you ask him?'
'Of course he THINKS he's good.' She paused. 'Well?'
'Hawk?'
'I'm the best bowman in Britain.'
'Bastard is, too.' Wisdom agreed. 'I've seen him fire two arrows at one pull, and hit both his targets dead on. Come on, Kitty. Food's here.'
The three of them settled and ate. The meal was not particularly tasty, but it filled you up. When they had finished, the Hawk asked Wisdom about his rumour.
'Strange things, you might say, are afoot in Scone.' He grinned, or at least showed his teeth. 'I heard the Witch-Queen's been changing her rule.'
'That interests you?'
'The word is, her daughter's gone missing, and she'd like to have the child back. That sort of thing always interests me.'
'Anything else?'
'Nothing major. Why?' The Hawk smiled. It was not often he was ahead of his old friend with the news.
'You hadn't heard? The Dead Man is in the Highlands. Rumour has it he's looking for a girl. Not yours, of course – an Irishwoman. No one knows any more than that that I heard of, but the Witch-Queen's put a price on him. Fifty pounds to the man who brings the Dead Man's head to Scone.'
'Who's the Dead Man?' Asked Katherine. Her lover had briefed her on the Witch Queen and her consort, but had made no mention of anyone by that name.
'A killer. Kitty, I know you can fight, and that you've got powers,' and this was the first time Wisdom had freely spoken of her abilities in front of anyone she did not know, 'but if you ever meet him, run. And hope he lets you.'
It was two days later, in what seemed like a return to winter, that this woman and the two men with her arrived at Scone. The snow still lay thick on the ground, and the air was cold enough to turn their breath into vapour, but the weather was clear and the roads had been trampled level. The Hawk led them swiftly to the citadel, where his reputation secured them entry. It was late afternoon, and the household slaves were already preparing for the evening meal. They found a corner in which to dump their packs, and then Wisdom left Katherine with the Hawk and headed off to 'look up an old friend'.
Over the preceding two days the Hawk had not really walked with Katherine and Wisdom, but rather had ranged ahead, behind and to either side, scouting the area, looking for tracks, occasionally shooting a choice game bird or two for their evening meal. This was therefore Katherine's first real opportunity to speak to the Saxon, and she didn't hesitate.
'How did you meet Pete?' She asked conversationally. The Hawk looked up.
'He lets you call him that?' Surprise was evident in his voice.
'He would. I stick with Wisdom, though. I fell for him when he was just Wisdom to me. What's your real name?'
'Clint.' Was the abrupt reply, but then he smiled. 'Don't wear it out.' She smiled back. 'So, Katherine, do you have no other name? May I call you Kat?'
'Katherine the Jewess.' She introduced herself with unconscious formality.
'You name yourself for your faith?' She blinked.
'It is how I and my family were called in our home town.'
'Carry the name you earn with pride.' He said. 'Carry the name your ancestors earned for you with reverence, and the name your parents chose for you with gratitude. Katherine the Jewess is what others called you, which does not make it your name. You may take pride in your faith, and wear it as your name, but you should do so because you choose to do so. Not because others cannot see past the ranting of their priest.'
'You want me to choose a new name?' She was slightly irritated by this.
'Accept a new one, perhaps.'
'So who called you the Hawk?'
'The name was chosen for me by the man called Nomad.'
'And who's he?'
'One of the People, by choice and by birth.'
'What people?' Katherine asked.
'The Old People. The first humans in Britain. The Painted People, the Romans called them, and it stuck.'
'The Picts?' She asked in surprise. 'The Savages?'
'You can call them that, if you like.' The Hawk was not so much looking at her, Katherine realised, as watching her movements. 'They were here before the Celts or the Romans or the Saxons. They forged no metal and built no cities, but they lived in this land and with it. They live here still.'
'Alongside the Scots?' She was rewarded by a sudden grin.
'You might say that. I've shared a fire with them a few times, and that's more than most of the locals ever manage. They have the Highlands. The Scots farm and herd in the hills, but the People actually live in them.'
Wisdom moved around the back of the hall. He had passed through Scone on a couple of occasions in the past, but never really looked around; even so, there were certain basic rules all such places followed, and he had no trouble locating the kitchen entrance. Adjusting his slightly tattered looking cloak he strode in as if he owned the place, walked straight past half a dozen guards, and headed along a corridor to what, from the presence of four armed clansmen, he guessed was the entrance to the royal quarters. The guards, needless to say, moved to bar his way.
Wisdom gently pushed a spear aside, and moved up to the door. One of the other guards grabbed his arm.
'Cassidy in here?' He asked, putting cold confidence into his voice. The guard looked at him for a long moment, and then asked who he was.
'Wisdom to see Cassidy.' There was another brief pause, and then one of the other guards slipped through the door, not opening it far enough for Wisdom to see through. After a short wait he returned, and the spy was ushered into an anteroom.
'So. You're Wisdom.' The man waiting for him was tall and powerfully muscled, a warrior by his garb. He wore the plaid of McKay, and had a pair of swords crossed on his back. Wisdom raised an eyebrow at that; in his experience few rulers allowed people to go about their feasthall so heavily armed, and besides he had never heard of a Clansman who carried such weaponry. Rather more startling, though, was the fact that beneath his leather armour the man was covered in thick orange fur, and his eyes had narrow, cat-like pupils. He certainly was not normal.
'Who're you?' Wisdom asked the man.
'I am Colin McKay, champion of Scone. My lord asked me to greet you in his stead.'
'I take it the Cassidy is busy, then? Or have I managed to piss him off somehow?'
'Have ye managed to piss me off somehow?' His voice barely preceded Sean, Lord Cassidy, Chieftain of Gaillimh and consort of the Witch-Queen of the Scotii, as he strode into the room. Cassidy was half a head taller than Wisdom, broad-shouldered and powerful. Though approaching his fiftieth year his posture was upright and his hair the same red-blonde as always. His ruddy face was lined with care and laughter in equal measure, and he dominated the small room from the moment he entered. 'Six years, Wisdom, and not a word. I hear whispers from the Summer Country, but no more, and when I ask them they claim to know nothing. Sweet mother of mercy, Wisdom, I've been drinking with Scots –' His voice, which had been steadily increasing in volume as he spoke, dropped, losing all trace of anger, and he looked around in mock fear. 'Not that they can't hold the drink, and their whisky's as fine as any in Eyre, but you should see what they have instead of good porter. They've let the bloody Britons get to them, and now half of them swill mead. I'd say ye've managed to piss me off.' He extended his hand and Wisdom took it, wincing as the physically stronger Irishman squeezed his wrist with impressive force.
'Easy, old man.' He muttered.
'Right. Come and get drunk. Are you travelling alone?'
'Nope. Got the Hawk with me, and a woman.'
'Ye'll all three drink with me tonight.' Declared the Cassidy. 'Colin, tell Moira it's an old friend, and I've gone ahead.' And he dragged Wisdom towards the main hall. Behind them Colin slipped through the door by which he had entered.
On the other side of the door all seemed normal to the orange-furred Champion of Scotland. He moved past a couple of attendants, and bowed to his queen.
'Lady Moira.' He said. 'An old friend of my lord Cassidy has arrived from the south. Your husband even now entertains him.'
'Indeed.' The Witch-Queen was having her hair attended to. It seemed oddly straight to his mind, but after a moment he dismissed that thought, as well as any ideas he might have had that his mistress had, until a couple of weeks previously, never taken such care over her appearance. Moira was past forty, but bearing it gracefully, and could still turn a man's heart when she so desired. Rumours abounded of the lengths to which she had gone to win her current husband from a rival who – again, Colin found his train of thought stopping dead there. The Witch-Queen was speaking once again.
'And who is this friend?'
'A man named Wisdom.' He replied. He did not expect it to mean anything to her, and indeed she showed no reaction beyond dismissing him. Once he had left, however, she addressed the tall, handsome man who stood against the wall.
'Do you remember Wisdom?' She asked.
'No.' He replied shortly. She had rejected him, long ago, and he still resented that.
'A petty man, but dangerous. And he knows how to hold a grudge. Perhaps we should have him killed? Outside of Scone, of course.' She smiled, and somehow the expression did not fit – but then neither did the words coming from her mouth. 'Or perhaps we should use him to our own ends. You have an opinion?' The other said nothing. 'I thought not. For now, we will watch him – find his motivation. The man has a knack for discovering intrigue, and for exploiting it. If he could be persuaded to re-enter the services of his old friend, he might prove very useful.'
Katherine and the Hawk agreed that they should not really be surprised that Wisdom had managed to get them moved to the high table, where they now sat drinking with a powerful, red-headed Irishman. The Cassidy had persuaded all three of them to partake of a thick, dark-coloured drink that had the texture of broth and the taste of burned malt. He called it porter; Wisdom called it 'that bloody Irish drink'. Even so, he was the only one who showed as much enthusiasm for it as their host.
They had been drinking for perhaps half an hour, which time had been taken up in impenetrable reminisces between the Irishman and the spy, full of reminisces to places Katherine had never been and people she had never heard of. She was able to glean a couple of details from their conversation, though – that the Cassidy knew Wisdom was Gifted, that her lover had once been an employee of the older man, and was still considered a friend by him, and that they had not seen one another for several years. The Hawk seemed to understand a lot more of what was said, but like her he did not really join in the conversation.
Suddenly the Cassidy broke off.
'Forgetting me manners in me old age.' He muttered, and grabbed Wisdom's arm. 'Who's this lovely lady? The Hawk I know for the good-for-nothing scrounger that he is.' The archer smiled with him.
'Katherine.' She told him. 'Daughter of Carmen the Jew.'
'She's my –' Wisdom paused, as always uncertain how best to describe her.
'Travelling companion.' She supplied once again, and the Irishman smiled knowingly.
Something about that smile made Wisdom see red. Lunging forward he caught her wrist, and then turned back to Cassidy and the Hawk.
'No.' He told them. 'Sean, Clint, I'd like you both to meet the woman I love.' The Hawk blinked in surprise. The Cassidy actually rocked back in his chair. Both men had known Wisdom a long time, and seen him pass between many lovers – but they had never before heard him use the word 'love' in anything but cynical tones. It was clear that he meant what he said, and the realisation was, to his old friends, slightly shocking.
Almost before they could recover a door opened at the back of the hall and Moira, Queen of the Scots, entered in splendour.
A dozen chainmail-clad clansmen escorted her, with at their head Colin MacKenzie, still clad in his armour and with his swords crossed upon his back. The Witch-Queen was dressed in a gown of dark green silk, her rich red hair artfully piled on top of her head, and attended by two tall, dark- haired men, both bearded. One of them bore a remarkable resemblance to the Cassidy. She swept across to the room in imperious silence, and took her place at the Cassidy's left, in the high seat. When she entered all those present, to the most drunken warrior, had risen to their feet en masse; as she sat, so did they.
'Husband.' She said coolly to the Cassidy. Katherine had already glanced at him to gauge his reaction to the woman with whom he was supposed to be in love, and so only she saw the shift in his face. As he turned to his wife it was as if a piece of him switched off, and suddenly he was – different. It was disturbing, she thought for a moment, but then realised that nothing could possibly be wrong.
Wisdom, meanwhile, was surprised by Moira's voice. He had never been formally introduced to the Witch-Queen, but he had seen her several times in the past (and, a corner of his mind whispered, she never wore anything so impractical as that robe, and always left her hair to flow free), and heard her speak (on one occasion at a distance of fifteen feet, from behind a wall hanging, remembering all she said for sale to a petty Chief with a large treasury later), and – this was not the voice he remembered. It sounded – wrong. Before he could consider this, though, he decided that no, it was exactly right.
'Queen.' The Cassidy replied to his wife, and then turned away from her – and seemed to snap back into reality. He gestured to the bearded man who resembled him, and told Wisdom. 'My brother, Tom. You remember Tom, don't ye, Wisdom?'
'I remember.' The spy told his old friend. Looking along the table his eyes met Tom's, and Katherine would have swore that for a moment she felt the air begin to heat. Then Wisdom turned back to his friend. 'Black Tom is back in his brother's good graces?' He asked. He was genuinely puzzled, and so he sounded mildly curious.
'Aye.' Said the Cassidy. He seemed uncomfortable for a moment, but then said, 'there's no sense in letting an argument rupture a family.' Wisdom nodded; for some reason that made perfect sense to him.
Along the table the Witch-Queen frowned; she was beginning to get a headache.
It was the end of winter, and so the feast was nothing spectacular, but there was plenty of food, and it was well prepared. The Queen retired early, escorted by Black Tom and her other assistant, leaving the Cassidy to drink with his friends, old and new, and to talk. This went on late into the night, until only Wisdom, Katherine, the Hawk and Colin MacKenzie were left with the old Irishman. After a short time the orange-furred warrior rose, made his excuses, and left by the main entrance.
'Where's he off to?' An astonishingly sober Wisdom asked his host.
'Colin likes to watch the walls at night.' The other man told him. 'He's a watchful one, and dangerous.'
'Who's Black Tom?' Katherine interrupted, finally managing to remember.
'My brother.' Cassidy told her. 'All the family I have in the world.'
'When did you make up?' Asked Wisdom.
'Aye, it was –' The older man paused. 'Well, it was never anything really serious between us, ye remember, Pete? He came home a couple of months ago.' He paused, and a puzzled look flitted across his face for a moment, but then he brightened. 'I apologised and – we both apologised, of course, and we've agreed to say no more about it.' Wisdom blinked. There was something massively wrong with that statement.
'What was the cause of your argument?' Katherine asked.
'Oh, he killed my first wife and daughter.' The Cassidy said, and finished his drink, apparently not having registered his own words. Wisdom nodded understanding.
'But you've forgiven him.' He said, and then frowned.
'Aye. Moira'll be asleep by now, and we should really all be headed that way too.' The Cassidy rose and headed out, leaving Wisdom struggling to form a coherent thought.
It must be the alcohol, he decided as servants came to escort him and Katherine to one of the bedchambers. He ignored the fact that, due to the nature of his Gift, alcohol was metabolised at such an accelerated rate that he seldom had time to feel even the beginnings of its effects.
Katherine had no such excuse, and as she undressed she found her thoughts beginning to crystallise. It wasn't just that no one – not even Wisdom – had mentioned the Witch-Queen's missing daughter. Something else was niggling at her, but she could not work out what.
Something was wrong, was all she managed to conclude, but before she could mention it to her lover he had fallen asleep.
----------------------- [1] Pronounced 'Scoon', for all my fellow Sassenachs.