Under such circumstances, a bard should remain quietly in the tree and let things unfold. He should wait until Alpin’s men grew weary and started to make mistakes, then watch them being butchered in their turn. Do nothing; watch Alpin die. Take Ana home … It was not possible. The treaty must come first. So, take action. Save Alpin. Win himself approval, and with it the freedom to seek out information, which was, after all, his job. He did have one small tool at his disposal …
Unwittingly, Alpin assisted him. The chieftain of Briar Wood, red-faced and sweating, was holding his heavy sword before him two-handed and shouting taunts at one of the Blues, a thickset, ginger-bearded fellow.
“Taken to assaulting innocent travelers now, Dendrist? That was my wife you nearly killed down at Breaking Ford! That was her escort your thugs set upon! You’ll pay for that miscalculation, and pay dearly! Nobody slights Alpin of Briar Wood!”
The Blues leader was standing a little behind his men. His own sword was sheathed. It seemed he was content to let his underlings do the dirty work for him. “Wife? What, another one?” he mocked. “Lucky she drowned, then. Better a quick death in the water than the sort of fate wives meet in that godforsaken pile you call home. You can save your rhetoric, Alpin. I lost ten men of my own in that flood. By the way, I heard there were two girls in that party of travelers. Who was the other one, a wife for your brother?”
Dendrist’s men greeted this with derisive laughter. Alpin gave a snarl of pure hatred and lunged forward with the sword. One of the Blues jabbed with a spear, Alpin moved back out of reach. Thus far, his anger had not overruled his common sense.
“That what you’re teaching your son there?” Alpin challenged, eyeing the young man with the spear. “How to send innocent women to their deaths, how to fight battles with cheap taunts? No doubt he’s growing up in the image of yourself, Dendrist, a black-hearted coward with nothing in his head but a petty greed for what’s not his own. A weasel of a father; a stoat of a son.”
The young man thrust again, this time somewhat wildly. Alpin was standing quite still now, and the men had hushed as well, awaiting a response. Faolan seized the moment. He drew out the item he had hidden in his boot before they left Briar Wood, narrowed his eyes and threw.
The young man sagged to his knees, dropping the spear. In an instant, Alpin’s sword was in the hand of the man next to him, Mordec, and Alpin himself had Dendrist’s son pinned in front of him, a knife across his throat, while blood seeped from a wound in the young man’s shoulder to dye his tunic an alarming shade of crimson. The youth’s face was gray with shock.
“How about a deal?” Alpin asked calmly. After one brief, astonished glance up toward the beech tree, he had not looked at Faolan.
Dendrist took a step closer; his own countenance was somewhat pale. “Let him go!” he commanded. “Your men have nowhere to run to! You’re outnumbered and outplayed. Let my son go!”
“Now why would I do that? Notice how he’s bleeding. You’d want to get a physician for that, or at the very least a bandage to stem the flow. And you wouldn’t want to take too long about it.”
“Alpin, you scum—”
“I’ll finish him off quickly if you prefer. I have the means here, and I’ve a knack for this. See?” The knife scored a thin red line on the boy’s neck, and he drew a shuddering, squealing breath.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Dendrist’s voice was distorted with rage and fear.
“Try me, Dendrist. Am I known for holding back? No, don’t order your men to attack. Do that, and I’ll be obliged to slit the boy’s throat right away so I have both arms free to defend myself. Gods, this is an untidy business; I’m all over blood. Now, about that deal.”
“You swine, Alpin,” Dendrist muttered. “Set your terms, just let the boy go. By all that’s holy, you’ll pay for this.”
“You take him, you leave, you go off and see that he’s tended to,” Alpin said. “You don’t send half your men back to slaughter us the moment our backs are turned. You don’t start running my men through as soon as I let the boy go. You don’t have time for that, not at the rate he’s bleeding. Have I your word?”
“You have my word,” Dendrist said through gritted teeth. “Now release him.”
“Order your men to put up their arms and take five paces back. Give us clear passage out of here.” Alpin’s grip on the young man had not slackened, nor had his troop’s defensive ring of weapons lost its discipline.
“Do as he says.”
The men of the Blues muttered oaths and flashed furious looks as they sheathed their weapons.
“Release my son!”
“Not quite yet,” Alpin said. “I don’t think I trust you, Dendrist. Give me two of your men. We’ll take them and the boy with us as far as Beacon Rise; then we’ll move on for home and your fellows can bring your son to you. That limits the opportunity for dirty tricks on your part.”
“He could be dead by then!” Dendrist shouted, his eyes on his son’s face, from which the color had drained alarmingly.
Alpin smiled. “And then won’t you regret that you took so long to make up your mind? Now, how much longer do you want to continue this entertaining interchange?”
“Domnach, Omnist, go with him. My son’s safety is paramount. We’ll wait for you at the Deeprill crossing. I’ll send a man ahead for healers. Now go, you!”
The circle of Blues drew back still further. Alpin and his men moved out, maintaining a defensive formation, the injured boy supported by two of the Briar Wood warriors. He would not bleed to death. Faolan knew that, and he suspected Alpin did as well. The position of the injury meant a spectacular amount of blood initially, but as long as it was stanched soon the boy would likely make a full recovery.
Now the Blues were on one side of the clearing and the men of Briar Wood on the other, heading off under the trees, their rearguard backing away with spears still pointed at the enemy. Faolan cleared his throat; all heads turned toward him, and a Blue with a bow reached for his arrows.
“Ah,” Alpin said easily, “we almost forgot our bard. Come down, Finian. It’s all over now.”
Faolan swung down and walked across to Alpin’s group, assuming the unsteady gait of a man in a state of shock after witnessing his first battle. He was somewhat relieved that nobody laughed. As Alpin’s party, accompanied by the designated Blues, headed off in the direction of home, Dendrist’s men were beginning the grim task of gathering up their fallen comrades. Alpin’s act of revenge would surely spark retaliation later, forcing the chieftain of Briar Wood to respond in kind once again. Folk said it was in the nature of the Caitt to feud thus; today, Faolan had seen for himself that it was true.
At the place where the horses were tethered Alpin called a halt, and they cut away the young man’s tunic and shirt to examine the wound. Erdig pulled out the weapon still lodged in the lad’s shoulder, and a man who seemed to know what he was doing applied a pad of linen and a tight bandage. The boy gritted his teeth, making no sound. It seemed they bred them hardy in the north.
Alpin was holding the bloodstained weapon in his hands and frowning. He looked up, and his eyes met Faolan’s.
“That’s one of our own kitchen knives,” Mordec said in surprise. “See your mark on the handle, my lord?”
“Given to me for use at table,” said Faolan, making his tone a little unsteady. “I didn’t expect to be using it thus.”
“It’s somewhat sharper than we usually keep them,” Alpin observed.
“I’d no tools for mending the harp, my lord,” Faolan said. “A musician can’t keep his instruments in order with a blunt knife.”
“And where does a bard learn to throw with such accuracy?”
Faolan attempted a nervous laugh. “I surprised even myself, my lord. I’m astonished that my contribution was of service. To tell you the truth, I just shut my eyes and … well, threw.”
There was a ripple of laughter from the men. Alpin grinned, but his eyes were shrewdly assessing. “W
ell, you’ve given yourself something to make a song about when we get home. Now, is the lad strapped up? Erdig, he can ride in front of you to Beacon Rise. These fellows will have to run if they plan to come with us. Then it’s on homeward. I’ve a comely young woman waiting for me now, and an itch that’s demanding to be satisfied.”
Faolan felt a profound wish that he had aimed a little differently and sent the knife straight into Alpin’s throat. Save for the unfortunate fact that, had he done so, they’d probably all have been slaughtered, the thought of that had great appeal.
“Good throw, bard,” one of the warriors said. “Eyes shut? Hardly.”
“If that was sheer luck,” Mordec said, “I’ll eat my horse blanket. It was quite a distance.”
“I hate to admit it,” said the other man, “but the mealymouthed musician here just saved all our lives.”
THEY REACHED THE place called Beacon Rise before the sun was at its peak. Dendrist’s two men, on foot, had been left far behind as Alpin’s party rode on. Dendrist’s son was unceremoniously dumped from Erdig’s horse and staggered away to collapse onto the rocks by the track. He was sheet-white, tight-lipped, silent.
“Tell your father,” Alpin said, “that it’s time he learned to keep his hands off what’s mine: land, stock, women. He should know by now that I’ll take payment in kind.” His dagger was in his hand now; he dismounted and strode over to the young man. “If my wife-to-be had indeed drowned, your father’s men would not find a wounded boy here, but a lump of meat with the name of Alpin of Briar Wood carved into it. She survived, therefore you live. This time.” The knife was a handspan from the lad’s face, and rock steady. Faolan held his breath. “As it is, you’ll be waiting alone. I hope they get here soon; you’re bleeding through your bandage. Come, men! I want to be halfway to the bridge by nightfall. I won’t lie content until we’re back across our own border.”
“We could wait,” Mordec suggested. “Make an example of those two fellows when they get here.”
“Not this time,” Alpin said. “We’ve had our due payment. Not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed stringing the two of them up and indulging in a little target practice. But I’ve no great wish to add more fuel to this fire. All too soon we’ll have bigger things on our minds. Dendrist and his kind will keep.”
Faolan pondered this as they headed for home. Bigger things. An active part in the war to come? On which side? The key lay in those western holdings, he was sure of it. With the terms of Bridei’s treaty still to be laid out before Alpin, Faolan suspected double-dealing, lies, and treachery. Time would tell; the longer he could maintain this guise of harmless musician, the better chance he had of unearthing the truth before it was too late.
THE DAY AFTER Ana spoke to Deord, the hoodie brought her a key. The bird came early, waking her soon after dawn with tapping, scraping sounds as it hopped from windowsill to chest, then a little thump as it dropped its gift on the polished wood for her inspection.
“What—” Ana rubbed her eyes, half-asleep. Her visitor uttered a cry in its harsh crow-voice. Sitting up in bed, Ana glanced across and saw what it had carried to her. She was instantly wide awake. There was no doubt in her mind which door this would open.
She reached for her shawl, her mind racing ahead. “Someone wants me to go and look at storerooms today.” The hoodie had its head on one side. Its pose seemed expectant. “I’m supposed to send a message back? I can’t think what.” She’d end up bald as an onion if exchanges of hair were the only means of communication with this unknown entity. She should shoo the bird away and give the key to Alpin when he got back. A sensible girl brought up in a king’s court should have no hesitation in doing just that. Ana reached out and took the key in her hand. “There,” she said. “I can’t promise anything.” As if satisfied by her words, the hoodie hopped back to the sill and, with a strong beat of its dark wings, was gone into the morning.
Now, Ana thought, her heart drumming. Right now was the time. It was so early even the kitchen men and women would barely be stirring. As for Deord, he was a servant, however intimidating. If she went in there and encountered him, she would simply demand to be shown his place of work. She had met every craftsman at Briar Wood. This was no different, she told herself, not quite believing it. She could get there and back before anyone missed her. Alpin was away, and so was Faolan. It occurred to her, as she dressed quickly and put on the soft indoor boots she had been given, that Faolan would not approve. What lay beyond that door might be genuinely dangerous.
She picked up the little key once more and slipped out of her chamber, realizing that before the journey to Briar Wood she would not have dreamed of attempting this. Something had shifted within her, something deep and vital. She walked quietly along the passageway to Alpin’s door, opened it and went in. She tried to look as if she had every right to do so. The last thing she wanted was for her future husband to hear she had been sneaking around his house, spying out secrets and breaking rules.
The key turned noiselessly in the lock of the little inner door. Taking a deep breath, Ana pushed the door open and walked through.
She was in a stone chamber holding piles of sacks, old leather buckets, and rusting iron tools. It was dim; shadows crept out from the corners and cobwebs festooned the roof beams. A black cat slept on the sacks, its tail twitching as it dreamed. Another could be glimpsed under a broken bench, a pair of gleaming eyes, a hint of stripes. Ana felt a stab of disappointment. She was not sure what she had been expecting, but it was certainly not this.
From somewhere beyond the storeroom a bird chirruped, and there was a flutter of wings. The black cat lifted its head, suddenly awake.
“No you don’t,” Ana whispered and, following the sounds, threaded her way through the clutter into a second tiny room holding little more than empty shelves and piles of dust. The light brightened; she reached an open doorway leading out onto a steep flight of stone steps plunging down between looming walls. There were little windows set in the outer of these; Ana counted them as she passed. One: a distant view of water, a silver mirror in the dawn light. Two: the trunks of elms, warmed to gold by the rising sun. Their rook-tenanted crowns could be glimpsed above the stones. This was the outermost wall of the fortress, that was clear. But what was this inner wall, so tall, so solid? What need for that, and this strange, narrow space between? Three: she was rapidly descending, and here she glimpsed the dark green shadows beneath the pines where the forest grew closer to Alpin’s stronghold. Ana judged she was approaching the same level as those buildings set around the courtyard, the dining hall, the sewing chamber, the places of cooking and brewing, the armory and smithy. Four: deeper still, the window level with the ground outside, thorny bushes pressing against the wall, their sharp fingers seeking entry to this lonely path, their strong hands clutching at the stone as if to test how well Alpin’s defenses might stand against the power of the wildwood. This opening would be invisible from the outside. Five: a secret kind of window, set in a depression of the land. The foliage was softer here, curling tendril and subtle frond and delicate leaflet. The crossbill waited on the sill, a splash of red against the lush green. The cats had not ventured beyond that last doorway.
“I’m here,” Ana said softly. “Where are you taking me?”
At the foot of the steps the path went on, following the curve of the outer wall and sinking deeper still, the barriers on either side formidably tall. Ana thought of certain ancient stories; of captives held in high towers or behind impenetrable hedges, of heroes scaling walls or hacking through briars and brambles to liberate true love. For every such tale of quests fulfilled, she suspected there was another peopled by forgotten, lonely prisoners and fair ladies grown wrinkled and faded as they waited for a deliverance that never came.
The crossbill was leading her on, a short whirr of flight, a pause to wait, look, assure itself that she was still following. At length they rounded another curve of the path and there before them was a gate of iron grillwork, h
igher than a tall man, as broad as the path, and, from the look of it, locked fast. Beyond it was some kind of court or garden.
The bird alighted on a crosspiece of the gate, looking back at her, then flew away within, a streak of scarlet. A moment later the wren appeared in its place.
Ana weighed the key in her hand. She moved up to the bars and peered inside, and the wren hopped onto her shoulder. There was a little sunken courtyard, bordered by the curving outer wall and roofed with close-set iron bars. It was gloomy within, for the place was set low in the ground and little of the early morning light penetrated there. Dimly, she could make out a patch of struggling grass, a stone bench, flagstones. On the inner side there was a building of some kind, its doorway shielded by a rough woolen hanging. Was this subterranean dwelling Deord’s home? If so, why did he need such a gate, such a roof? It was like a cage. Ana thought of wild animals. Perhaps Alpin was one of those eccentric men who kept exotic creatures for pleasure, seeking to enhance their status by apparent mastery over such beasts. A wildcat, a dragon, a manticore … Surely not. Would these birds fly in and out so freely if death lay within one snap of the jaws? On the other hand, to unlock the gate, supposing she could, and march right in was perhaps overbold.
“Is anybody there? Deord?” she called, not sure how she would respond if anyone answered. Her voice sounded odd in here, hollow and ringing, as if the place saw few visitors and could not quite accommodate her presence. “Hello?”
There was no reply. The wren was preening its plumage close to her ear, and the crossbill had flown out of sight.
“Hello?” she called again, but nobody came. She tried the key in the lock. The iron gate opened smoothly and Ana went in, closing it behind her.
It did not take long to walk the perimeter of the sad little enclosure. All there was sorely bereft of sunlight, the grass limp and yellowing, the pond choked with slimy weed, its borders cracking into cavities where black mosses crusted the surface. Where there was stone paving, the place was swept clean. Ana moved over to the bench, stumbling as her foot caught in an obstacle. Metal chinked, and both birds cried out together as if in answer. Ana looked down. A long chain was fastened around a heavy iron ring set into the bench. The chain lay across her foot and over toward the outer wall, where the smallest of openings was set through stone as thick as the length of a man’s arm. The chain ended in an iron bracelet of cunning design. At a glance, she could see how it might be tightened to fit a man’s wrist or ankle snugly, and locked in place with a pin; how it might be loosened by another man so its captive could be freed. Ana felt a chill run through her. Who lived here? Who was it Alpin held under such security? And where was he now? She had been stupid to come here, utterly stupid … She wondered at the position of the shackles, lying below the window chink as if the prisoner had stood there watching the world beyond his cell. What did he see? She stood on tiptoe and peered out through the tiny aperture. The place was so low that the bottom part of this window was underground. Through the narrow space above could be glimpsed, on a sharp upward rise, a single, beautiful oak, its spring foliage touched by the light of early morning to the purest of greens. A chorus of birds sang in its branches; their music was an anthem to freedom, and as Ana watched she saw them rise in a great flock to the open sky, winging out into the new day. Had a man wept here, raged, pleaded with the gods, watching them? She was being fanciful; putting her own thoughts into someone else’s head. And time was passing. She would have a quick look inside, then hurry back to her chamber before Ludha arrived to help her wash and dress.