Blackbirds Sing, page 1
Blackbirds Sing
A Ruadhán Sidhe Novel
by Aiki Flinthart
Published by CAT Press
Copyright © 2019 Aiki Flinthart
Cover artwork by Rosi Helms
Cover design by Lou Harper
Interior illustrations by Caitlyn McPherson
Distributed by Smashwords
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations) without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder concerned, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A Cataloguing-in-Publications entry for this title is available from the National Library of Australia.
Print copies available from major online retailers.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9945928-6-6 (Trade Paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9945928-5-9 (e-book)
NOTE:
This book is written with AUSTRALIAN SPELLING, not USA spelling.
Don’t panic.
Discover other titles by Aiki Flinthart at: www.aikiflinthart.com
Or
The 80AD series (YA Adventure/Fantasy)
80AD Book 1: The Jewel of Asgard
80AD Book 2: The Hammer of Thor
80AD Book 3: The Tekhen of Anuket
80AD Book 4: The Sudarshana
80AD Book 5: The Yu Dragon
The Ruadhán Sidhe novels (YA Urban fantasy)
Shadows Wake (Bk1)
Shadows Bane (Bk2)
Shadows Fate (Bk 3)
Healing Heather (#4—publication 2020)
The Kalima Chronicles (YA Adventure/Fantasy)
IRON—Book One
FIRE—Book Two
STEEL—Book Three
Other Novels
Sold! (Contemporary Romance/Adventure)
Short Story Anthologies
Return
Like a Woman
Elemental
To my beta readers and advance readers – thank you for crying in the right places. (Traci Harding, Pamela Freeman, Caitlyn, Neen, Caroline, Darren, Rob,Cary). To Caitlyn also for her incredible illustrations and the hours of work she put into them. So many hours. To Giles Darkes, cartographer, and Bridget Clifford of the Tower of London for their help with the map.
Thank you to the readers who loved the 80AD series enough to let me know. Because of you, I kept writing and didn’t give up.
And…as always…thanks to my husband for his patience and encouragement.
CONTENTS
1486 London Map
Key to London Map
1. Sing a Song for Sixpence
2. A Pocketful of Rye
3. Four and Twenty Blackbirds
4. Baked in a Pie
5. When the Pie was Opened
6. The Birds Began to Sing
7. Wasn’t That a Dainty Dish
8. To Set Before the King?
9. The King was in His Counting-House
10. Counting Out His Money
11. The Queen was in the Parlour
12. Eating Bread and Honey
13. The Maid was in the Garden
14. Hanging Out the Clothes
15. Along Came a Little Dog
16. And Nibbled Off her Toes
17. And the Blackbird Still is Waiting
18. And Her Eyes Have All the Seeming
19. Of a Demon that is Dreaming
20. And the Lamplight O’er Her Streaming
21. Throws Her Shadow on the Floor
22. And My Soul, From Out that Shadow
23. That Lies Floating on the Floor
24. Shall be Lifted…Nevermore
25. Two and Twenty Blackbirds
Other books by Aiki Flinthart
1486 London map
Key to London Map
Numbers also correlate to story number
Isledon Inset Map
1. King’s Head, Isledon (Islington)
2. St Mary’s Church, Isledon
3. House of Lizzie Brewster
London and Southbank Map
4. House/Bakery of Catherine Miller
5. Rundown boardinghouse/thieves haunt run by Mama Rolfe
6. The Broken Seld.
6a: Fellowship of Minstrel’s Hall.
6b: Lovell’s Inn (London residence of Lovell family – houses of the wealthy were often called ‘Inn’)
7. The Cygnet, stewhouse/bawd-house run by Eliza Parry
8. Derby House (London Residence of Lord Stanley, Earl of Derby)
9. House/Cahorsin shop (pawnbroker) owned by Cecily Hayward
10. (See #9, #6, and #20)
11. (See #6 The Broken Seld)
12. Emma Turner’s honey farm
13. St Anna’s Chapel (fictional name, real chapel) where Flora Leon meets Lovell and Edmund finds them together.
14. House/Laundry of Griselda Moor, laundress
15. Tower Leading to the Iron Gate (later named Develin Tower)
16. House of Thomasine Smithe, barber-surgeon
17. House of Scientia Wilson, student
18. House of Nicola Willoughby’s parents: Christopher, 10th Baron Willoughby de Eresby and Margaret Jenney
19. (See #6 – the Broken Seld)
20. House/Candlemaker shop of Dorothy and Nick Jacobson
21. The Clink – Men’s and women’s prison attached to Winchester Palace (Bishop of Winchester’s)
22. Abbey of St Clare without Aldgate (Franciscan)
23. House/Workshop of Olivia Grey, seamstress
24. House of Laura Kennet, midwife
25. The Tower of London
25. A: Queen’s House B: Barbican/menagerie/Lion Tower (Main entrance) C: Robin-the-Devil’s tower (later named Devereaux Tower) D: Beauchamp’s Tower E: White Tower
NOTE:
This book is written with AUSTRALIAN SPELLING,
not USA spelling.
Don’t panic.
Also: Certain historical information has been
deliberately altered as this is an alternate-universe story.
Detailed notes in ‘Story Extras’.
1. Sing a Song for Sixpence
Amsel Mór-Ríoghain, 432
Travelling minstrel
Village of Isledon (Islington),
Monday (afternoon), 18th September, 1486
In mid-September, the year of their Lord 1486, an old promise to a human carried me back to London when wisdom should have kept me away.
My mare plodded up the last rise, her head low, hooves scraping the dust. I shaded my eyes against the midday sun’s cloud-hazed heat. Far in the distance, huddled up against the Thames, London’s misery of buildings squatted beneath a miasma of smoke and hid behind the old Roman wall. Outside the barrier, a few buildings clung to the walls like poor relatives, begging for entry.
I paused on the ridge. Did I want to see the town again; to walk with Cormac’s ghost through the same streets we’d lived in so happily? Not really.
What did I want there?
Perhaps a way to ensure lasting peace for my people. Perhaps to find redemption for failing to save Anne de Mortimer. Perhaps I was simply drifting—as I often did—following the vague premonitions that plagued my dreams.
Six bells in the church nearby tolled their delightful cadence. Dozens of churchbells in London joined in, their clashing clamour rolling around the valley, calling the faithful into churches and cathedrals in the city.
But still, I hesitated, letting their music cascade through me; flush out old memories. It had been decades since my last visit to London. But, with the Lancasters and Yorks settling their differences, I’d reluctantly come out of self-imposed exile and rejoined the world. Partly to fulfil my promise to a dead woman, partly to see what progress had been made. Or not. Humans tended to do the same stupid things, just in new and creative ways.
I continued along the main street of Isledon, the certainty that had carried me this far fading. Reluctantly, I stopped at the King’s Head, a neat timber-and-thatch hostelry. At least the green leaves hanging on the sign outside indicated a fresh batch of ale. The one thing I did miss about London was the variety of ales. Though I didn’t want to know what went into some of them to produce their…unique flavours.
An urchin scurried out from the stables as I dismounted, and I threw him a farthing to care for my mare for the evening. A bone-crackling stretch eased the worst kinks in my back. Nearby woodland provided enough of the sianfath’s cool green background energy to heal the saddle-bruises on my backside. I drew power, savouring the taste of cut grass and the ice-chill sensation prickling across my skin. It left me more refreshed than after a night’s sleep.
That was the worst part about coming to London—the distance from the forests that provided my people with healing energy. I would need to find accommodation near one of the large private gardens.
I settled sword and dagger on my hips, collected my bow, saddleb
I sauntered into the hostelry. The low-ceilinged room was lit by a dozen flickering oil lanterns and tallow candles. My sensitive eyes found comfort in the semi-gloom. The sidhe were of the forest, our eyes adapted to low light. The humans thought us fae and of the wyrd. We thought them plodding, oblivious to the world’s needs, their lives brief and brutal.
And yet, here I was, trying to help them. Many of my kind would hate me for doing so. Even I wasn’t certain I had chosen the right course. But a promise was a promise.
Inside the small room, five rough-hewn tables and benches crowded close around the central peat-fire. Smoke drifted up to the peaked, thatched roof and a cauldron of pottage bubbled over the low heat. The air was warm with the smell of cooking onions.
I nodded amicably to the few people scattered about the small room. They watched me with surly suspicion; a motley assemblage of farmers and tradesmen by the looks of their rough tunics and hands.
Under their scrutiny, I suppressed the urge to check my attire. It had been long since I’d donned male gear to purposefully deceive humans. My tunic, hose, and doublet were old-fashioned and plain. Not fine enough to tempt thieves, and cleverly tailored to hide my slight female attributes. With my hair cut to the collar and the few well-earned lines of four hundred years creasing my eyes, I appeared to be around thirty human years. Old enough to earn me respect. Young enough to make thieves think twice before attacking an armed man.
Perhaps the signature sharp features and dark-gold skin of my people caused a few of the townsfolk’s narrow looks, but not enough to warrant the effort of maintaining a glamour. Cormac used to tell me I was lazy. He was probably right. But I’d always found simple lies were easier to remember, and casting a glamour was a complex lie, indeed.
So, I ignored the stares and approached the hearth-fire. Food and a place to sit was higher on my list than placating suspicious locals, anyway.
Something stirred the rushes strewn on the floor. A mongrel flop-eared dog emerged from under a table to snuffle at my boots. The bitch whined and pushed her nose into my palm. I patted her and the room’s tension eased.
Interesting.
I collected a mug of ale from the innkeeper and paid for pottage and a room. After declining the offer of a heavy slab of dark rye bread, I took my bowl to one of the corner tables. Half-forgotten habits made me sit with my back to the wall and the entrances in sight. I smiled and sipped the thick ale. Cormac would be proud.
In the opposite corner, deep in shadow, three men glanced furtively at me and whispered amongst themselves. Two brothers—maybe in their late forties or fifties; I found it difficult to tell with humans. Both squat, surly, and dark-haired. Plus, a much younger lad with a riot of mouse-brown curls and a sullen, girlish face. Notably, the dog avoided them.
If I wanted, I could hear what they said, for my hearing was more acute than a human’s. But I had no interest and they made no move to approach, so I ignored them. Strangers in a village were always the subject of gossip.
The door opened, pushing back the gloom, and three more men entered. One willow-lean with dark hair, one like a birch: pale, strong, with white-blond hair. The last was an oak: so tall and broad-shouldered he had to stoop and turn sideways to get through the low doorway. He paused and surveyed the room. His dark-rimmed grey eyes caught mine and he stilled. Recognition shocked through me leaving the faint taste of grass on my tongue and a chill of foreboding goosepimpling my skin.
Another sidhe. A complication I hadn’t anticipated. Our people were scattered; driven far into the wildlands these days. London was the last place I expected to find another full-blood.
But was he Dark or Light sidhe? And what was he doing here?
He broke eye contact and followed his companions to join the three men whispering in the corner. More and more interesting. What was a sidhe doing in such company? The five humans were better-dressed than most in the room. Though their clothing was nothing more than basic tunic, hose and plain doublet, they were well-made and of fine cloth. Rich men playing at being poor? Or rich men hiding their meeting here in this tiny village. Why?
No. None of my business. I knew better than to get involved. I took a deep draught of ale. I was here to do a job. Then I could go home again and ignore humanity some more—hopefully until wisdom dawned in the species. Which could be a while. I was content to wait. Humans meant nothing to me.
Not anymore.
One of the men raised his voice in protest. Another shushed him and glanced nervously around. They smelled of trouble.
Reluctantly, I watched sidelong and extended my senses, listening with more than my ears. Their sidhe companion had strong mental shields in the form of a forbidding stone fortress. I left his mind well alone. He would feel any attempt to read his thoughts. Instead, I slid into the surface thoughts of the small, dark-haired man next to him. The others all looked to him as he spoke in earnest, low tones. His hands were white and slim, a massive garnet glinting on his little finger. And the sword at his hip bore rubies in the pommel. At a guess, he was the money behind whatever little venture they planned. Perhaps a minor nobleman, by the way the others bowed and scraped to him.
Ah, there. He actually thought of himself using his full title: Lord Francis Lovell. That changed the game, somewhat. Fortuitously, perhaps. Only time would tell.
I frowned, unable to dig beyond a few ghostly, superficial thoughts. I checked the others. Surprisingly, every man in the group had basic mental shields in the shape of a plain, square house with no windows. But strong. Each one the same. The work of the sidhe? But why? Had he erected them because of my presence, or had he done it before?
I withdrew. What was I thinking? Surely I’d learned my lesson after Cormac’s death. I downed half my ale in three long gulps, seeking to fill the hole left by the severance of my intimate connection with Cormac. Even after thirty years, I ached.
But I had given Anne de Mortimer my oath.
When I lowered the mug the big sidhe stood over me. He appeared to be about twenty human years—a tenth his real age, no doubt—his countenance handsome and open. I’d felt his approach, but he moved with remarkable silence. Clearly, he’d spent time in the forests, even if he lived amongst humans, now.
On closer inspection I revised my initial estimate of his age down to around one hundred years. He bore an air of intense certainty common amongst the younger, more idealistic of our people. Those who still thought they could save our world from the human tide of destruction. I had too, until wisdom prevailed. And hurt.
‘Greetings,’ I said. ‘May I help you?’
He inclined his head and indicated a stool nearby. ‘May I sit?’
I shrugged. ‘Could I stop you? As you will. Tis of no matter to me.’
He pulled up the stool and placed his elbows on the table. ‘You’re of the Dark. Why are you here?’
I grabbed instinctively for my dagger. He held out a large hand, palm down.
‘Nay. Draw not in here.’ He indicated his table. ‘My companions are a mite jumpy. I simply wish to know your intentions. Art here to stir trouble?’ His words were slightly old-fashioned and faintly Eire-accented, his voice a mellifluous baritone.
Releasing my dagger, I studied him from beneath half-lowered eyelids. A strong jaw that spoke of determination. Hands calloused from sword practice. But eyes that held more wariness and pain than I expected.
‘Why does it matter what I am and why I’m here?’
He raised one shoulder and looked south, as though he could see through the plastered wall toward London. ‘I keep an eye on these folk.’
‘Well, I’m only half-Dark sidhe,’ I said, mildly. ‘And I’d be interested to know how you could tell. Rest assured, as yet I’ve felt none of the Dark’s urge to subjugate the world or crush thrones beneath my heels. I’m here merely to visit the Masters at the Fellowship of Minstrels. Learn some new music. Visit my half-brother, who’s a clockmaker here. Perhaps purchase a few gifts for friends at home. Then I’ll be on my way.’ I glanced pointedly at his companions. ‘So, your little conspiracy has naught to fear from me.’
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