From outside the room, a clamour arose. The door swung open and in walked two people I recognised. Kimlesh, standing tall in a blue flowing gown, was accompanied by Yonna, looking unearthly with her slanted eyes and sharpened features. From behind them came the clash of arms, and then silence. They paused, while the two men before the throne, finding themselves unarmed, took up the fire irons from before the blaze and prepared to defend their lord. They stood before him, regarding the newcomers with suspicion and alarm. Mellion strode in through the doors and closed them quietly after.
From the throne came a curt order, which the men immediately challenged. The big man pushed to his feet, stepped down from the dais and, with a quiet word to each man, took the fire irons from them and put them back beside the fire. They protested and argued, but he silenced them with a look, then ordered them out of the room. Again they protested, but he spoke quietly, warning them and them making promises to assuage their concerns. After a moment, they edged their way around the room and left through a door to the side, leaving the big man with the three visitors.
He asked them a question.
Kimlesh spoke. “King of England, Guillaume, and still you address us in the tongue of Normandy. I have aged every day that you have, though I wear my years the better.”
Guillaume spoke again, and it was a harsh and twisted version of the English I knew, but I understood him well enough. “I’ll use whichever suits me best,” he said. “I know you, and I know that creature you brought with you, but you are a stranger, Lady,” he nodded towards Yonna.
“You know me well enough, Guillaume. How is Maude?”
“She’s well enough, and far away, as perhaps you know.”
Yonna smiled, and the row of teeth she showed were sharp and pointed, putting any sense of humanity further away. Then she shifted, and in a moment the young lass in the shift stood where she had stood. She said something soft in the language of Guillaume’s home country and even under the stubble I saw Guillaume blush.
“What witchery is this?” he challenged.
“Be careful of that word,” said Kimlesh. “We are guests at your court, but a wrong word will bring your hard won gains down around your ears. We have come to claim our boon. Yonna for bringing you your bride. Were you not wed? You have children, do you not?”
William said something in his own tongue.
“I came to her as I came to you,” said Yonna, “and wooed her where you would not. Your marriage was made, and your alliance with Flanders was sealed with my help. Without me you would never have found each other.”
Guillaume said something else, and Yonna answered him. “No one denies your love for her, Guillaume, but without my art it would not have happened.”
“Nor would your victory over Harald,” said Kimlesh. “A single arrow, at just the right moment? It was a shot to make a bowman weep, and it was no accident.” She nodded towards Lord Mellion who hung back. The tall figure acknowledged the complement with the slightest of bows.
“And none of that would have come to pass if you’d been caught in the rain and tossed in the river by your pursuers. You promised me a boon that night, Guillaume. You said I could name it. Three is the trick of it, and we will have our due.”
“I made no deal of bows and arrows, or wives to woo,” said Guillaume, walking up and down in front of the fire.
“And yet here you are,” said Yonna. “Now they will call you William the Conqueror instead of William the Bastard, but we can change it back if you would have it otherwise.”
Guillaume paced back and forth before them, his step agitated, muttering to himself. Periodically he would look up at them as if he couldn’t quite believe they were there. After a while he halted.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“A small thing,” said Kimlesh. “We could take what we need but that would eventually lead to conflict. Three things, given freely, to be quit of your debt to us. Three things.”
“Name them,”
“The first is the small matter of a ceremony. A ritual which must be performed.”
“I’ll have no truck with magics,” said Guillaume.
“It is ritual, not magic, and as much to protect you as to benefit us. Otherwise your problems will multiply and you will have far worse than our meagre needs to contend with. If you would rather not sully your hands, it would be better handled by those you trust, perhaps?” She glanced towards the door through which the two men had passed.
“What else?” he asked.
“A treaty, if you will. An agreement between our peoples to coexist, without conflict, if not in harmony. We would sue for peace,” said Kimlesh.
“That much I can do. And what is the third thing?”
“A portion of what you have gained with our help and aid, Guillaume.”
“The kingdom is not as wealthy as some would have you believe,” said Guillaume.
The sun faded from the windows and the firelight dimmed as light faded from the room. I held on to hear the last of the bargain being negotiated between the High Court of the Feyre and the Conqueror. As I slipped down into darkness once more, I heard Kimlesh’s voice confirm the last of their requests.
“It’s not money we want,” said Kimlesh. “Let me explain…”
Slowly, sounds returned and I became aware of my surroundings. I smelled clean sheets and clean air. The odour of blood and gore had been replaced by clean linen scented with lavender and although I felt as weak as water, the darkness had retreated. I forced my eyes open, though it was an effort requiring force of will, and lay blinking at the pale candlelight from across the room. I turned away to find myself regarded by green eyes. I was rewarded by a slow smile.
“Hello,” said Blackbird, quietly.
I tried to say hello back, and found my throat dry and sore. It felt like I’d spent the day shouting at the sea. She sat up beside me and helped me sip some water from a cup. Across the room, Alex was curled into a chair, fast asleep.
When I’d taken some water, I could speak again. “Did I miss something?”
“You could say that,” said Blackbird. “You were shot. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” I said.
In answer, she turned back the quilt revealing my bare stomach. Down my side, the newly healed bullet wounds were bisected by a long scar. “Your stuffing came out and we had to put some more in,” she joked.
“What?”
“When Sam Veldon shot you, he used bullets with iron cores. The iron inside you was disrupting your ability to heal. I had to get the bullets out.”
“I like the first explanation better,” I said.
“Unfortunately it’s the least true of them,” said Blackbird. “You’re going to have an interesting scar to add to your collection. The kitchen isn’t really kitted out for surgery.”
“I’ll never look at the bread knife in the same way again.”
“Fortunately Garvin has no shortage of sharp knives and Mullbrook found me a curved needle. Once we had the iron out, your body could heal itself,” she told me.
“I had the strangest dreams,” I said.