At that last de Silva’s eyes narrowed a little. “The land?” he said. “What could you possibly know about the land?”
“That Noah is the land in some ancient faerie way I cannot truly understand. De Silva, tell me, what do you know of Noah?”
“That you and I are companions in misery, John Thornton. You love her, and live in desperation that you shall never have her. I love her, and live in desperation that I shall never have her.”
De Silva stopped, his eyes now on his tankard of half-drunk beer, his hands turning it this way and that.
Thornton waited.
“I first met her when she was only fourteen or fifteen, Thornton,” de Silva said, lifting his black eyes to meet Thornton’s. “I loved her, too, although it did me little good but to cause misery and heartache.”
Again Thornton felt a chill go through him. He recalled what Noah had said to him the night she’d told him of her pregnancy. A previous life, a lover, misery and heartache.
“And yet,” de Silva continued, “there is a greater misery and heartache to come. I can feel it, here.” He tapped himself on his chest. “Forget her, Thornton. Walk away from this. Walk away from London. Neither of us can do anything for Noah now. We’re all far, far too late.”
Thornton suddenly realised that de Silva was actually very drunk, although he showed little physical sign of it. But whether he was drunk from alcohol, or from despair, Thornton could not tell.
“Nothing counts in this life but that the Stag God rises,” said de Silva. “Nothing. Not you, not me. Hardly even Noah. Nothing counts but that Charles rises anointed by more powerful and more ancient magic than your archbishop shall daub on his brow. We’re all irrelevant, John Thornton, save for Charles.”
Thornton did not know what to say to the man. The depth of his despair appalled him.
He rose, his buttered beer forgotten. “May the land rise to greet you, Louis de Silva,” he said, and as those words fell from his mouth, an unexpected vision filled his mind.
A great white stag with blood-red antlers raged across the sky, treading uncaring through the stars, and as he ran, so the land literally did rise up to meet him, filling the sky with forests and rolling meadows.
“Be well,” Thornton said, as a final benediction, and then he was gone.
Behind him, Louis de Silva’s head sank slowly until his forehead rested on the table.
Then, after a moment, he too rose and left The Broken Bough.
Louis wandered the darkened alleyways off the Strand as it wound down towards Charing Cross. The day’s events had exhausted him. He had failed to rescue Noah, he had been abducted by ancient giants and shown that he had no role to play in all that lay ahead —no role to play in Noah’s life—and he had just been pitied by John Thornton, Noah’s lover.
Could the day get any worse?
He’d wanted to castigate Thornton, but in the end had not.
He’d wanted to show him to what it was he’d left Noah—in the arms of the Devil himself—but in the end had been unable to.
What point driving Thornton into as deep a despair as himself?
Gods, what was he going to tell Charles?
Far away, on the other side of London, Noah twisted and turned in her sleep on her pallet in the kitchen of the house in Idol Lane.
She dreamed twice.
First she dreamed of the running stag, and of the forests and tumbling streams, and of all that could be, if only she endured.
The second dream seemed an extension of the first, for she stood on The Naked. She was alone, but was trembling in anticipation.
Soon a great faerie lord would be striding up the hill, striding to meet her. He was strong and powerful and humorous, and he loved her more than life itself.
And she him.
She felt him approaching, and she cried his name.
And then woke in shock at the sound of that name.
Idol Lane, London
Noah and Jane woke early. Noah let Catling sleep on until the noise of the rattling pots woke her, then she washed the child’s face and hands, and dressed her, and set her at the table.
All this Jane watched from the corner of her eye as she tended the fire, and then set the morning’s porridge to cooking. She was so used to having the kitchen to herself at this time of day that the presence of another woman and a child seemed most strange.
It was particularly strange, of course, that she should be sharing it so companionably with Cornelia-reborn…and the daughter that Jane, as Genvissa, had murdered.
In an instant Jane’s eyes had filled with tears, and she had to stop stirring the porridge, overwhelmed by a sudden yearning for her own unborn daughter, who had died along with Genvissa.
“And that at my hands,” Noah said very softly, suddenly appearing at Jane’s side. “Jane, I am so sorry for what I did to you, and most especially for the loss of your daughter by Brutus. I had no quarrel with her, and yet I took her life also, when I took yours. That wrong is one of the reasons I am here now.”
Jane shrugged Noah’s hand away. “It is a loss long gone, Noah. Leave it alone.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Leave it!”
“Jane, do you remember what I said to you in our last life, the last time we met?”
Jane remained silent, grimly stirring the porridge.
“If ever you need shelter, Jane, then I am it.”
Weyland was in the parlour, one step away from walking through the doorway into the kitchen. He froze as he heard Noah speak, then leaned back so that neither Jane or Noah would see him.
“It is my nature—you know that—and I shall be bound to any who ask it of me. Jane—”
“For all the gods’ sakes, Noah, leave it alone!” Noah repressed a sigh, and stepped away, turning to the table.
In the parlour, just out of sight, Weyland frowned. Shelter?
He backed away, silently, moving towards the stairs, and his Idyll.
Just as Noah turned away, the kitchen door into the side alley opened, and Elizabeth and Frances entered. Both were yawning, their clothes rumpled and awry, as if they had only just been pulled on, and they sat at the table with only nods as greeting to the other two women.
Jane set out bowls on the table as Noah and Catling also sat. She ladled out the porridge, a thick, sweet mixture liberally laced with raisins and nutmeg.
Noah waited until everyone had begun eating, then looked at Elizabeth and Frances. “Where do you sleep at night? Why not stay here?”
“Would you stay here if you had the choice?” said Elizabeth, her voice bitter, and Noah had to concede the point.
“We sleep in a basement chamber at a tavern on Tower Street,” said Frances. “It is small, but comfortable, and the tavern keeper is paid enough to keep his clients away from us.”
“Time to yourselves must be precious,” Noah observed.
Both Frances and Elizabeth shrugged, more interested in eating their breakfast than discussing the merits of solitude.
“One day,” Noah continued, apparently not put out by their silence, “I shall show you the land.”
Jane looked at her sharply, and Noah raised her eyes to her. “And you, too, Jane, should you wish.”
“That might be dangerous,” Jane said softly. “Step warily in this house, Noah. Do not allow Weyland to know any of your secrets.”
Before Noah could answer, Weyland himself stepped through the doorway from the parlour into the kitchen. He looked well rested and cheerful, and his demeanour contrasted sharply with that of everyone else in the room.
Everyone at the table, save Catling who was still eating, paused with spoons half lifted to their mouths.
Weyland grinned, and sat himself down. “Secrets, Noah?”
“I have a world full of secrets, Weyland.”
“Then I shall enjoy discovering them. Jane, hand me the jug of milk, if you please.”
As everyone finished, Jane and Noah rose, both intending to clear the table.
“Noah,” said Weyland, “sit down. Elizabeth, Frances, you may help Jane.”
“But we have to…” Frances began.
“You are relieved of your duties for the day,” Weyland said. “Noah shall cope, instead.”
He looked at Noah, wondering how she would take this.
She was pale, but otherwise composed. “As you wish, Weyland.” Then she looked at Catling. “Mind what Jane says, now. She shall be your mother for the morning, while I am earning our keep.”
Weyland had to repress a grin. Noah was very good. He wondered how far she was prepared to take it.
“Jane shall be your mother for the afternoon and evening as well,” he said, keeping his eyes steady on Noah. “Noah has more than enough to keep her busy for the entire day. Londoners are in a celebratory mood as they await their returning king. Apprentices are downing tools and counting out their coin, sailors abandoning their berths and preparing to spend their sea pay. Where else better to spend it, eh, than making love with some accommodating woman? Pretend a moan or two of pleasure, Noah, and they’ll be so happy they’ll pay an extra penny.”