The sounds along the road from the village were quite loud now, and she watched through the sycamore leaves as an eerie cavalcade came into view. The white-clad druids were like phantoms as she counted them. There were fifteen altogether with Rowan and Alauda. How vulnerable and unaware he still seemed as he reached across to take the hand of the mistress who was luring him to his fate.
Tears stung Marigold’s eyes as the riders halted, and dismounted. One of them carried Jenny in her cage. Falk’s cowl fell back, revealing the glint of golden torque at his throat, and the crown of mistletoe on his bald head. He held the sickle-headed staff, and went up to Alauda, who had diamonds in her raven hair, and wore a black silk cloak that hid her clothes. She took Rowan’s hand and gave it solemnly to her brother. Rowan seemed a little puzzled, but he made no protest as Falk led him to the head of the column the others had now formed.
Alauda remained by the horses as the druids advanced in slow single file toward the oak. Their heads were bowed, and they were still chanting, for all the world like monks going to prayer. Each man’s identity was concealed by his cowl, but Marigold knew Mr. Crowe by the broken black wing protruding from his sleeve, and she now guessed that it was Lord Toby who carried Jenny’s cage, for who else would carry the bride but the one who had captured her?
Robin fluttered down onto Marigold’s shoulder, making sad little noises as he watched his beloved being borne toward a destiny she dreaded. Marigold shared the bird’s unhappiness, for she too was watching her beloved. Rowan walked as if in a dream, and on reaching the oak did not resist as two of the druids tied him to its trunk, he even extended his hands for his wrists to be bound. Marigold tasted the salt of her tears. Oh, Rowan, Rowan ...
A square of white cloth was laid on the grass at Rowan’s feet, and Lord Toby hung Jenny’s cage from the lowest branch. Then Falk stood facing Rowan, staff in one hand, anguinum in the other. His followers formed a chanting circle around the oak, as he gazed up at the mistletoe among the oak leaves, waiting for the sun. The sky was brightening by the second now, and the mist swirled as if alive, then at last the first rays broke over the horizon to fall directly upon the mistletoe.
Falk reached up to strike a spray of the magical mistletoe with the bronze sickle on his staff. The heavy golden leaves tumbled onto the square of cloth, and Falk raised the anguinum, which now glowed bright red in his hand. Strange words fell from his lips, the ancient Celtic tongue of bygone druids.
The air crackled with energy, and Rowan cried out as at last he realized what was happening. Suddenly Jenny’s golden cage shattered, and the faint image of a young woman in Tudor dress began to appear next to Rowan. Robin made a soft whimpering noise as Jennifer Avenbury returned to the human shape she had last known in 1534. She was very beautiful indeed, but the sound of her weeping carried with painful clarity above the endless chanting.
Then something even more incredible happened. The circling druids started to float around the oak as if weightless, and the standing stones of Avenbury, small and large, hauled themselves from the earth to dance! It was like something conjured by the great wizard whose name her first husband had shared, but it was happening here in the nineteenth century! Each stone was spinning like a dervish, and the air seemed to roar with sound. This was the turning of the wheel.
Marigold pressed back in fear as the stone by which she was hiding uprooted itself as well. Then in a flash she knew the moment had come, and she reached out to touch it before it too joined the dance of giants. A dazzling light blinded her for a second, and an intense heat leapt through her fingers. She felt the billiard ball burning in her hand, and she looked to see that it was now scarlet glass that glowed like Falk’s anguinum. It had become an anguinum! There was no need to bluff now, for she really could match Falk! Holding it high, she emerged from hiding.
Rowan gazed helplessly at Marigold as she entered the terrible arena. He thought to protect her by remaining silent, but Alauda saw the red light in her hand, and screamed a warning to her brother. Falk made a swift movement with his anguinum, and Jenny seemed to freeze, then he turned sharply to face Marigold. His expression changed dramatically as he realized what she held up for him to see. Swiftly he used his own, and jagged shafts of lightning passed between the two. A wind rose from nowhere, billowing Marigold’s clothes and making her red-gold hair stream across her face.
The wild dance continued, but everything now became silent, so that Marigold and Falk might have been entirely alone, and when he spoke, it was as if he were right next to her instead of many yards away. “Anguinum or not, you still cannot beat me, Marigold.”
“You think not? Look, Falk, how many do you see?” She felt almost elated as she summoned not one, but three fetches of Rowan. Silver and radiant, they appeared outside the spinning circle of small blue stones, and Falk stepped back involuntarily.
Marigold was exultant. “I have already beaten you, Falk, for I know something that will shatter your dreams. You’ve miscalculated, Falk. Rowan is the fourteenth lord, not the thirteenth!”
He was very still. “You’re lying!” he said then, but she was sure the supernatural dance began to slow a little.
Alauda called out urgently to him. “Don’t pay her any heed, Falk! She’s trying to trick you!”
Marigold smiled, and snapped her fingers to make Rowan’s fetches disappear again. “It’s quite a trick, Alauda, you should try it some time,” she said, and was gratified by the hate-filled look Alauda directed at her.
Marigold gazed at Rowan. “Is it not a trick, my darling?” she said softly, and saw by his answering smile that he was aware of what had happened during the night. She felt stronger than ever as she returned her attention to Falk.
“The truth is all there in history, Falk. A baby boy was lord for a month, which means Rowan’s
father
was the thirteenth and supposedly last Lord Avenbury. You’re a generation too late, and Jennifer Avenbury can never be yours now.” She held her ground as more shafts of lightning flashed from his anguinum to hers, she even laughed with scorn. “Pretty lights are all you amount to now, for you’ve even failed to disprove my first marriage. You burned the wrong church!”
The dance became even slower, and one by one the revolving stones began to slip back into their places. The druids were gradually lowered to the grass once more, and their chanting ceased. The wind died away to nothing.
“You lie!” Falk’s voice rose to a shriek as he saw his great plan coming to nothing before his eyes.
“Behold your famous wheel! It no longer turns for you!” she taunted.
“I warned that I would punish you for interfering, and so I will!” he cried, turning toward Rowan, but as he raised the sickle-topped staff, Perry suddenly swooped out of the brilliance of the rising sun to snatch Falk’s anguinum with his vicious talons. Falk cried out with dismay, but there was nothing he could do except watch the peregrine fly away with the amulet.
Alauda ran forward, unable to believe that all the months of preparation were to prove of no avail. She caught her brother by the arm, and shook him bitterly. “Don’t lose your nerve now! You are Aquila Randol, the greatest druid that ever lived!”
Marigold suddenly realized that Bysshe had also disobeyed her, for the moment Alauda had distracted Falk, the boy ran to the oak from his hiding place by the brambles. He seized the white cloth and mistletoe from the grass, and then tried to wrench the staff from Falk’s hand, but he was grabbed by Alauda. With angry cries, the other druids closed in to deal with the brave but reckless boy.
Almost demented with disbelief that all this could be happening, Falk again raised the staff to strike Rowan with the sickle, but then a huge flock of waterfowl dove down from the sky, led by Sir Francis, whose furious quacking could be heard above all the others. The druids scattered as they tried to beat off the aerial army, and in the process they released Bysshe, who escaped with the cloth and mistletoe.
Alauda screamed hysterically as the two swans she’d driven from the Romans jetty alighted on the grass in front of her. They’d recognized her immediately, and were now intent upon revenge. They spread their enormous wings, then hissed menacingly as they pursued her toward the moat, where the eerie blue flames still hovered.
As soon as the other birds arrived, Robin darted upon Falk, treating his gleaming pate to such a barrage of pecks that Falk fought desperately to drive him away with one hand, the other being occupied with the staff. His mistletoe crown was dislodged, and fell forward over his nose, but still Robin kept up his attack, and eventually Falk had to drop the staff in an effort to defend himself with both hands.
At this point Sir Francis joined in, clamping his bill onto Falk’s nose, and holding on for all he was worth. What a splendid pair of candle snuffers was a mallard’s bill, thought Marigold, as she ran to retrieve the staff. In a moment she’d hacked through the ropes holding Rowan, then she was in his arms, and his lips had found hers in a kiss more sweet and poignant than could ever have been imagined.
Falk now knew it was all up, and all he could do now was try to save himself, and his devotees. He managed to beat off Sir Francis, savagely dashing the mallard to the ground, then he raised both his hands and cried out in the same ancient tongue as before.
Lightning flashed, and there was a roar of thunder from a sky that was empty of clouds, but although Falk did indeed still possess some powers, they were no longer quite what he or his followers would have wished. Somehow Taranis’s original magic became confused, and instead of escaping by changing into the birds of their names, the druids became mere flightless chickens! Old English Whites, to be precise.
Falk was easy enough to pick out among them, for he still had the torque around his neck, and his head remained bald except for the remnants of the mistletoe crown. Mr. Crowe, clucking in dismay, hobbled hither and thither, causing more confusion than ever as he got in the others’ way. A very wet and bedraggled Alauda scrambled up from the moat, and ran to join them all. She was draped with slimy green weed, and was in such a state of hysteria that her squawks were piercing.
At first they were all so panic-stricken that they ran in all directions, but at last they had the wit to unite, then Falk marshaled them with a loud cry, and they all ran flapping toward the house. Sir Francis’s aerial army pursued them relentlessly.
With the vanquishing of Falk’s power, the servants had returned to their normal selves, but hardly had they time to glance at each other in amazement at what had happened to them, than the incredible chase hurtled through the garden toward them.
Mrs. Spindle screamed with fright, and picked up her skirts to run into the kitchen. She was followed by the others, but as they started to close the door, the desperate chickens streamed noisily through the gap. Soon after that there were feathers everywhere as Mrs. Spindle recovered from her fright, and picked up her meat cleaver.
With the cook in hot pursuit, Falk and his companions fled through every floor of the house, but gradually the chickens seemed to disappear. At least, that was what Mrs. Spindle thought, but the truth was that they’d obeyed another of Falk’s orders, and were now huddled in the darkest corner of the attic, wondering how everything could have gone so utterly wrong.
The waterfowl wheeled about and flew swiftly back to the common, where poor Sir Francis still lay where Falk had dashed him. The huge flock of birds glided to the grass, and moved concernedly near to see if Sir Francis was all right.
Marigold knelt beside the fallen mallard, and gasped as he changed into a man of Henry VIII’s time. Somehow he seemed familiar, although she did not know why. He was quietly handsome, with tawny hair and a pointed beard, and he wore a single pendant earring. There was a rich lace ruff around his throat, his doublet was turquoise slashed with gold, and his hose were gray. His eyes were closed.
Rowan leaned over to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “So, the name Sir Francis was appropriate after all. This is my ancestor, the first Lord Avenbury. I recognize him from his portrait in the great hall.”
The man stirred, and opened his eyes. He gazed up at Rowan. “How now, Lord Avenbury,” he said with a wry smile.
“How now indeed, Lord Avenbury,” Rowan replied, smiling back and then holding out his hand.
The first Lord Avenbury struggled to his feet, then immediately turned toward his sister, who was still quite frozen. “Oh, Jennifer, Jennifer, you’re safe from Randol at last,” he said, going to embrace her. She remained stiff and unresponsive in his arms, but they knew that she heard and understood everything.
Marigold’s immediate thought was to release Jenny from this new imprisonment, but as she raised the anguinum, Lord Avenbury turned with a dismayed cry. “No!”
“But—”
“No one can ever be enchanted more than four times. Jenny was turned from woman to wren, then from wren to woman, then she was frozen. If you bring her to life as a woman, she will never be able to be a wren again, and that is what she really wants.”
She was taken aback. “I don’t understand. I thought she and Robin wanted to be together again as they once were.”
“No, they want to remain birds. Marigold, of Jenny, Robin, myself, and your son, only Robin is in the form he desires.” As he spoke, Robin fluttered to his shoulder and chirruped agreement. Lord Avenbury smiled at the little bird, then went on. “Your son wishes to be a boy again, and we wish to be birds, because we are content with our feathered eternity, indeed I am most happy indeed as a mallard, even a demon one.”
As he said this, he turned to smile at Bysshe, who had come to join them with Perry on his wrist. On seeing the falcon, the assembled waterfowl backed uneasily away, for no bird of prey was ever to be trusted.
Bysshe grinned sheepishly. “We really thought you
were
a demon, sir.”