A Necklace of Souls

  Dedication

  To Diane — for giving me the tools.

  To Sam, Alex and Tony — for support and space.

  Without them, I would never have finished.

  and

  To my mother, Jean — for a love of reading.

  Without her, I could never have begun.

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  The Kingdom of the Rose

  Part One

  Chapter 1 Dreaming

  Chapter 2 Everyday Miracles

  Chapter 3 The Most Fortunate of Lands

  Chapter 4 Beware the Governess

  Chapter 5 The Boar and the Minstrel

  Chapter 6 Only the Brave Deserve Freedom

  Chapter 7 A Perpetual Fair

  Chapter 8 Forest Wanderer

  Chapter 9 Stormy Beginnings

  Part Two

  Chapter 10 No More Governesses

  Chapter 11 Dreams and Realities

  Chapter 12 N’tombe

  Chapter 13 Dancing, Fighting

  Chapter 14 Will the Teacher

  Chapter 15 Military Strategy

  Chapter 16 Fighting to Win

  Chapter 17 Dreams Are All You See

  Chapter 18 What Do I Tell Her?

  Chapter 19 The Impermanence of Beauty

  Part Three

  Chapter 20 Drama Queen

  Chapter 21 A Copper Bead

  Chapter 22 Not As Easy As It Seems

  Chapter 23 Lessons

  Chapter 24 Crossing the Straits

  Chapter 25 Dreaming

  Chapter 26 Alone Again

  Chapter 27 Festival

  Chapter 28 A Performing Dog

  Chapter 29 A Dream of Death

  Chapter 30 Belle of the Ball

  Part Four

  Chapter 31 A City on a Plain

  Chapter 32 Frivolity and Fireworks

  Chapter 33 The Stars Are Different

  Chapter 34 Surrounded

  Chapter 35 Soul-breaker

  Chapter 36 The Return

  Chapter 37 Depart with Sorrow, Greet with Joy

  Chapter 38 Calls in the Darkness

  Chapter 39 Mist and Memory

  Chapter 40 Unleashed

  Chapter 41 Homecoming

  Chapter 42 Dreaming

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Kingdom of the Rose

  Part One

  1

  Dreaming

  A true dream is when the events I see in my sleep have, or will happen. It’s a talent that runs in my family. I was thirteen when I had my first true dream.

  This was my dream.

  Candles cast shadows across the roof and dripped wax on the flag stones. I knew this place — it was the throne room, used on the most ceremonial occasions: investitures, coronations, state weddings. But now it was crowded with people. Laughing, they called loudly to one another, or to the musicians, the wine waiters. They were not ceremonial at all. What was I doing here?

  Feeling like a balloon, I bobbed against the stone roses on the ceiling. This was a most peculiar dream.

  Below, the dancers twirled and swayed. They were richly dressed, in stiff embroidered cloth and gold-threaded cloaks that gleamed in the candlelight. But for all their grandeur, their clothes seemed old-fashioned. The men wore wigs and high heels, the women sported nodding feathers. Their voices were harsh, coarse against the music.

  Up against the ceiling, the air was stifling and I felt hot and bored. Watching someone else’s party is rarely entertaining.

  Then, with a crash of guards’ spears, the doors of the ante-chamber opened. A soberly dressed woman and a blond-haired boy in a ruff stood in the doorway. The boy tugged the stiff lace at his throat. This child and the woman — a servant by her dress, a nurse by the way she fussed over his hair — seemed out of place in this crowded ballroom.

  Threading their way through the crowd, the boy clung to his nurse’s hand, hiding his face against her skirts, as women touched his head with ringed fingers. Floating above the dancers, I followed. Their white-powdered faces, rouged cheeks and reddened lips seemed sinister.

  No-one noticed me. (This is the way of true dreams. You’re a watcher only, powerless to change the events that unfold, even if you want to. Unless, unless, you have power and passion, and then, ah, then there is nothing you may not do. But that night, I had neither. And, in my defence, I was young and unused to this way of dreaming.)

  At the far end of the room sat a man and woman on golden thrones. King and queen, but not the king and queen I knew. The nurse and the boy stopped in front of them and the nurse curtsied, the boy bowed. The king reached out and touched the lad gently on the hair.

  ‘Rise, son. What do you think of it all, eh?’

  The boy looked out at the crowd. The white-powdered faces turned towards the throne. ‘They look like clowns.’

  The king’s lips curled, in annoyance or amusement. The queen, sitting on the other golden chair, stared at the child. Why did she seem so familiar? Her eyes glittered in the candlelight but her thin, pale face was as immobile as a stone angel.

  The king whispered, ‘Fix this evening in your mind, my son. For in time to come, you too will be seated on this throne, giving your child away. You will find it easier if, like me, you learn not to care too deeply for your children. They are a duty only. Especially the girls.’ He paused. ‘My father told me this, and at the time I hated him, as you will no doubt hate me. But he was right, and now I bless his memory for this advice.’

  Expressionless, the child stared at the man. The king turned to his aide, a tall man clothed in grey. The courtier bowed and slipped away to the orchestra.

  A sudden silence. The crowd stopped their dancing, every face turned towards the throne. The conductor nodded to the drummer and the throb of the bass drum resounded through the room, so deep I felt it through the stone. Trumpets blared. The oak doors behind the throne crashed open. Two sentries sprang into the room and stood to attention beside the doors.

  Candles flickered in the sudden draught and shadows swayed across the walls as people moved to watch the slim girl who entered, propelled, it seemed, by the final trumpet blast. In the sudden silence the queen gasped, a harsh intake of breath.

  The girl wore only a white robe. Her hair was loose, gleaming hazel in the dancing candlelight. Her feet were bare. Did she feel the cold of the stone floor? Dwarfed by the great stone pillars that held up the arched roof, she seemed frail as she walked to the foot of the throne. The boy smiled at her. She grinned and winked back. Her smile seemed slightly twisted.

  There was a sudden twang as a violinist dropped his instrument. The girl looked so pale I thought she’d faint.

  Two large menservants, shadow-like in black doublet and hose, entered carrying a black chair. Seated on it was the oldest woman I had ever seen. She was tiny, her spine rounded and slumped. Her hands were spotted with age. Like the young girl, she wore only a white gown and her hair was loose, but it was grey and thin and I could see her scalp.

  The old woman looked at the king with contempt. ‘A ball? You dare to turn the Passing into an entertainment?’

  She gestured at the guests, silent and statue-like, and the musicians, staring at her with mouths agape. They looked like snared rabbits. Uneasy, the king shifted in his chair, and the old woman seemed to grow. I hovered behind a stone buttress; those eyes seemed likely to see me.

  The old woman sighed. ‘Well, appropriate or no, it matters not. Now is the time.’ Her voice echoed around the silent room. As she lifted up her arms, bright jewels gleamed. She wore a shining necklace. It trembled with her harsh breathing, its stones more alive than the wearer.
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  The old woman looked at the girl. ‘It is a heavy burden, child. But there are …’ she paused, suddenly breathless, and the necklace glittered, ‘compensations. You will become aware of them in time.’ She smiled, her teeth yellow. ‘Give me your hands.’

  I wanted to cry out as the girl put her hands on the old woman’s gnarled and swollen fingers, but I couldn’t speak. Unable to call out, scream or even shake my head in a ‘no’, I hovered by the roof as the necklace flared and sparkled around the wrinkled neck.

  The old woman turned to the weeping men behind her. ‘Do it now.’

  Grasping the necklace as if it were made from nettles, the men tugged the bright thing from the old one’s neck. Then, in one smooth movement, they placed it about the head of the young girl. The necklace settled, sparkling, against her chest. The girl smiled, stroking the shining gold, the red and blue stones, clustered into the shape of flowers.

  The old woman fell back in the chair, her throat open and exposed. The boy whimpered. The queen screamed. And I, unable to say anything or look away, saw that where the necklace had been, the skin had worn away, and where there should have been flesh there was only blood and bone. Through her white ribs, where the blood came welling up, was a pulsing, a fluttering.

  Caught between the crowd and the stone roof, I watched as the heart of the old woman ceased to beat.

  I woke, screaming, my feet tangled in sheets. I tried to get out of bed, but was so hobbled that I fell on the floor in an undignified heap. My head was full of the sight of blood, and my body had a strange feeling of lightness, as though I might take off again and float against the roof. Nurse stood in the doorway, hand cupped around her candle.

  ‘Lady? Are you alright, miss?’

  I couldn’t answer. Where was I? What had I just seen? Untangling myself from my sheets, I stood up. Daddy. He’d know.

  It’s not a wise idea to run bare foot down spiral staircases in the dark. They’re designed to be difficult to navigate, useful in a fortress; not so good when you’re in a hurry and don’t have a candle.

  I ran across the courtyard in my night shirt. The stone was cold under my feet but I hardly noticed. On another night this would have been funny: a girl in her night shirt, her face tearstained, a nurse behind her, holding a smoking candle stick with one hand and her nightcap with the other, behind her another servant. Following them all came the guard, clattering down from his watch. It was like a circus.

  The sentry stopped my companions at the base of the west tower but let me through. I left them arguing while I followed the wall-torches to my parents’ chambers.

  Up the stairs, into my father’s room. He wasn’t in bed, but his lamp was on. His bedclothes were all higgledy-piggledy too. It must have been a rough night for both of us. I ran across the landing to my mother’s chamber. Her dressing room was open, but the door to her bed chamber was closed, and through the thick oak I could hear voices.

  ‘I was on a plain,’ said my father. His voice was thick, as though he’d just woken.

  ‘Hist! Lady Dana!’ Nurse had pushed her way past the sentry and hovered at the bottom of the stairs, too scared to enter the royal apartments. Good. I put my ear to the door.

  ‘The air was dry and still, the sky deep purple, as though it was going to thunder. I’ve never seen such an arid place.’

  ‘It was just a dream, dear.’ My mother’s voice was sleepy.

  ‘Of course. But it’s more than that, Cyrilla. You know I have these dreams? Where things come true? This is one.’

  My mother sounded more interested. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I heard a low drumming noise. Da dum, da dum. Like a heartbeat. Then I turned and I saw her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘You know. Her.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said, “Hello”.’

  ‘Well, that was polite.’ My mother yawned. ‘Sorry, my love. You woke me.’

  ‘She wore a grey shift. Her feet were bare. She floated over the plain. Her hair was long.’ Daddy sounded sad. ‘She used to have lovely, thick brown hair. Now it’s thin and grey. She looked like a hag. She wore the necklace.’

  ‘What did it look like?’

  ‘You know. You’ve seen the portraits.’

  ‘I’ve never seen the real thing, though.’ I imagined my mother licking her lips. She loved jewellery.

  ‘You know. Gold, rubies, emeralds and diamonds. Set in the shapes of flowers. It seemed to move on her chest as she spoke.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like a true dream, Leo. Might be something you ate.’

  ‘Cyrilla, listen. Dreamspeaking runs in my family. And the Guardian is the most proficient. She can bend dreams. Rosa has always been strong-willed.’

  ‘What does Rosa want, then?’

  ‘It’s about Dana.’

  I pushed my head closer to the door. If it was about me, I wanted to hear.

  My father sighed. ‘It’s tearing me up, Cyrilla. I want the child to have some time in the sun. Before.’

  ‘You know what your father said.’

  ‘He was wrong.’

  ‘What did Rosa say?’

  ‘She said: “Give her freedom, Leo. She has talent, but she will need more than that, much more. The world is changing. I can see a long way from my tower. Birds bring me news, the wind sighs of new things. Still distant, but coming nearer is a change. Dana must be strong if we are to weather this, our doom.” ’

  ‘What does that mean?’ My mother’s voice was sharp.

  Daddy laughed. ‘You expect a clear answer in a dream? You should have seen her, Cyrilla. So old. Worn out.’

  ‘Of course she looks older, Leovane. She is older. We all look older.’

  ‘You don’t, my love,’ said my father. I could hear them kissing and wished they’d stop so I could hear more about my father’s dream.

  There was a sigh. ‘Leovane. Go to sleep, my love. We’ll worry about this in the morning.’

  My father chuckled. ‘At least it’s warm in here.’

  Then there was silence.

  I sat on the other side of the doorway, my hand on the wood. What was I to do? My nightmare was fading. I suddenly felt embarrassed, aware of the draught pouring up the stairwell and the cold stones under my feet. I didn’t want to get caught here.

  For once, Nurse didn’t say anything when I went back down the stairs, just threw her cloak around me. She sent the servant and the sentry back to their posts and I forgot that I was thirteen and supposed to be independent. I leant into her, grateful for her warmth.

  But once I was back in my bed, the sheets tucked back in and a hot brick at my feet, I began to relax. I wondered: Who was the Guardian? What was the gift? What did Daddy mean, when he said before? And what was this necklace of gold and jewels, set into the shape of flowers?

  2

  Everyday Miracles

  Will’s earliest memories were of the moist, sweet smell of baking bread. When he was small, his favourite place to play was the slate-floored baking room. Warm in winter, the smooth floor was ideal for toy carts. And there was plenty of food. A boy is never hungry in a bakery.

  As Will grew older, he became Ma’s chief helper. They worked together in the yeast room, Will clad in a cast-off apron of Ma’s. They compared frothing yeasts and discussed the day’s mixture. The smell here was sharper, pungent. A thick-stemmed ivy grew against the window, turning the yeast room pale green.

  Ma blended the ingredients, measuring as carefully as any alchemist. ‘What do you think, young Will?’

  Will sniffed carefully. Sweet or bitter? Sweet smells suggested the yeast would last longer, but a bitter yeast would give more flavour.

  Ma told Will the story of the Norwich bakers who, it was said, had committed murder to keep the secret of their yeast.

  ‘Yeasts are special,’ said Ma. ‘Each is unique. And vulnerable — a change of moisture, a change of temperature, and they disappear. Everything has a rhythm and a season, W
ill. The yeast, the rising of the dough; these are the things that shape our life. Just as the tide commands the fisherfolk yonder.’

  Working with Ma in the yeast room, Will knew that all was well from the sound outside. It was quiet in the fishing village in the early hours. Waves washed against the shoreline. Wind rattled the shop sign and gusted the smell of the baking bread down towards the square. This morning, cartwheels clattered on the cobbled path. The shop door tinkled. The miller, delivering flour for the week’s baking.

  ‘Time for school, Will,’ said Ma. Will sighed and put his apron away.

  Da and the apprentices did the bulk of the kneading. Coated in white flour, they resembled great monsters as they treaded their way bare footed along the dough, moulding and mixing. And, always, the red-bricked oven was watched carefully, for the intensity of its fire and the heat of the bricks were integral to the making of good bread.

  Flour-covered, Da stood beside the oak table and mounded the dough into loaf-sized shapes. He was tall and broad-shouldered, strong from a life of working dough. His hands moved automatically. Da did not need eyes to see he was creating good bread; his hands, feeling the consistency of the dough, could tell all would be well, provided the oven was at the right temperature.

  Da was training Will in the art of baking. He wanted him, he said, to be the best ’prentice ever, when he was of age.

  ‘You know what is the most important thing for a bakery?’ said Da.

  ‘Yeast,’ said Will promptly.

  ‘You’ve been listening to your ma. Forget yeast. There’s yeast in the air, in your breath, boy. If you’re desperate.’

  ‘Wheat?’

  Da shook his head.

  ‘The oven,’ said Will, desperately.

  ‘That’s right!’ said Da. ‘How did you know?’

  Will shrugged. He didn’t want to say it was a lucky guess.

  ‘You can make bread without wheat,’ said Da. ‘You’ll need flour, of course, but it don’t need to be from wheat. But without heat all you have is dough. Dough may keep you from starving, I daresay, but is not palatable. You need heat, Will my boy, and just the right amount.’