Without thinking, I drew the cord from around my neck, and cut it cleanly with the small sharp knife I kept in my bag with my ointments and salves. The little oak ring tumbled onto my palm, warm and smooth from lying next to my heart. I slipped the ring gently onto the third finger of my left hand. It encircled my finger as if made for it; as indeed it had been.
I was overwhelmed by tears, flooding down my cheeks in an unstoppable torrent, and there was nobody sitting quietly by me to offer a clean handkerchief when I needed it. Nobody sitting close, but not too close, letting me weep, but ready to help when I was ready to ask. I covered my face with my hands, thinking I could not bear such sorrow for very much longer. I was only sixteen. Was the rest of my life to be lived thus, half awake, half alive, never fully complete? What had I done wrong to be thus cursed?
“Nothing,” said a voice nearby.
I looked up between tear-soaked fingers. She was standing near me, regarding me gravely, her cloak of midnight blue the only vivid patch of color amid the winter trees. “You have done well, daughter of the forest. Your work for us is nearly finished. You have been strong. Almost too strong.”
I sniffed. She had taken her time, coming back. “Nearly finished?” I stammered. “I thought it was over. My brothers are returned. I completed the task. What more can there be?”
The Lady of the Forest smiled. “That was all you were asked to do, and you did indeed prove brave and true, Sorcha. There is but one more thing. You will know, when it is time.”
Already she was starting to fade back under the trees.
“Wait!” I said urgently, as if one such as she would heed a mortal’s plea. “Please wait! I need you to tell me—I need you to explain…”
“What, child?” She arched her brows as if she found me amusing.
“You hurt him. You hurt both of us. You said—back then, in the cave—you told me I had chosen well. Was that all he was, some sort of guard you bound to me for a time, so that I could complete the task in safety? Was that your only purpose in drawing him close to me? Why cast such a spell over him, and wound us both to the heart? You knew we would have to let go, once the task was completed.”
The Lady frowned a little, puzzled. “What spell can you mean, daughter?”
“The spell, the enchantment you laid on Lord Hugh, to bind him to me, so that he must guard me, and watch over me, even at the expense of all he held dear. It was a cruel spell. I could have looked after myself, I would rather not have…” My fingers were twisting the ring, around and round. She laughed, a high, mirthful laugh like the splashing of a waterfall.
“He needed no encouragement,” she said. “Believe me, there was no such enchantment laid. Is it so hard for you to comprehend, that such a man could love you, without the aid of the magical arts? Have you looked in your mirror? Have you not seen your own strength of spirit, and your loyalty, and your sweetness? It took him but the space of a heartbeat to see these things. If you had not been so strong, perhaps you would not have let him go. Perhaps your tale might have had a different ending.”
“But—” I said stupidly. “But why did he never say anything? Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He tried,” she said. Then she smiled, and shook her head a little, as if bemused by the folly of humankind, and she faded away to nothing.
And as I made my way down the hill and homeward, I realized that he had, indeed, tried to tell me; and that it was I who had not learned to listen. It had been there in the gentleness of his hands and the elusive sweetness of his smile. It had been there in his anger, the time I had gone off on my own and encountered Richard in the woods. It had been there in the way he had flinched when I touched him, the night John died. I don’t want your pity, he had said. It had been there in the tale he had told me on the beach. She was the woman of his soul, and he could not think of giving her up. But he had given me up, without a word. I realized, with a feeling like a stone in the heart, that he had done this because he believed the only thing I wanted was to return home with my brothers. How could he know that I loved him, when I had hardly known it myself? I had tried to give back his ring, and I had hurt him. So he had kept his promise, and let me go. And I would never go back. How could I leave the forest, for like the mermaid, I would not survive long outside the place of my spirit? Red had understood that. I walked home, unseeing, wrapped in my thoughts. Despite everything, despite the heartbreak of it, there was a small warm glow deep inside me. If I knew that he had loved me, at least for a while, it made the pain just a little easier to bear.
That same night, when we gathered in the warmth of the kitchen for supper, I wore my blue dress. I had washed it carefully, and the stain across bodice and sleeve was barely discernible on the faded fabric. Such treatment had rendered the gown soft and comfortable, but I had not worn it here before, for it held memories of pain as well as joy. That night I felt compelled to wear it, and the wedding ring on my finger was a badge of pride. My brothers noted both with their eyes, but made no comment, sensitive perhaps to the signs my face bore, of long weeping.
The soup was a good one, with onions and barley, and it did not take long for Janis’s vast cauldron to be empty. Then we sat with our cups of wine between our hands, and the glow of the fire on our tired faces, and Liam said, “Who will tell us a tale for a winter night?” But there was a quietness about the house, and nobody was forthcoming. This midwinter, there had been no branches of holly above the door, no herbs festooned about the window openings, to welcome wandering spirits in. There was no dry wood to be spared for bonfires, and none with the energy or will to celebrate the passing of the seasons. Nonetheless, there was an amity among us, a sense of shared purpose that bound us all together. I believed even my father sensed this, as he sat by Liam and looked long at his eldest son, who was already a leader of men. And at Conor, whose serene gaze was abstracted, as if his thoughts were directed far inward. This son was wise beyond his years; soon it would be time for him to move on, and there was the anticipation of another loss in my father’s eyes. Then there was Finbar, standing behind his father’s chair, seeing much, saying nothing. This was the son who had once so enraged his father with his steadfast gaze and his outspoken words, with his dogged refusal to play Lord Colum’s games. It was this son, now, who had healed his father’s wounded spirit. And Padriac, always a favorite. Padriac, who was now no longer a child. He flirted with the maidservants, and grinned at his father, and Colum gave a glimmer of a smile.
We sat awhile, talking of this and that, reluctant to leave the comfort of the kitchen for our chilly sleeping quarters. The fire burned lower, and Donal threw on another of the precious logs. They had cut more wood and stacked it, but it would take a long time to dry, and there were many hearths to warm. The villagers got the first supply, and we took what was left.
Then there were noises outside, and suddenly all of us were alert. The door was rudely pushed open, and Liam was on his feet, reaching for his sword, thrusting me behind him. On my other side, Donal appeared, dagger at the ready. Conor moved to shield his father. In a blast of cold air, two of Liam’s guards burst in, a prisoner between them, a prisoner with a blindfold over his eyes, and his hands tied behind him. I had a flash of Simon, dragged into the great hall on the night Liam was betrothed to Eilis, a spitting, ferocious captive. This prisoner was tall and strongly built, and he was not putting up a struggle, but standing still between his captors as if being brought here had been his intention all along. This prisoner had hair cropped ruthlessly short, hair the color of autumn sunlight on beech leaves, a bright flame in the winter night.
I opened my mouth, and Liam’s hand came out and clapped itself across my lips, silencing me. Donal gripped my arm, halting my forward progress. Thus effectively prevented from either movement or speech, I could only watch as they brought Red to stand before the men of my family. The guards let go his arms, and stepped back. The room was silent. This, the household sensed, promised to be far better entertainment than any tel
ling of tales.
“I know this man,” said Liam, frowning at me and taking his hand away, but gesturing that I must remain silent. He motioned me to a seat and, for now, I obeyed him. “I thought the perimeters well guarded. How is it that he came through so far undetected?”
“Strange, my lord,” said one of the men, who seemed a little out of breath. “Must be woodcrafty, for he came right up the hill to the north and then down through the ash woods, almost as far as the outer hedge, without our men hearing a thing. Don’t know how he did it. Then he comes right out where we can see him, and lets himself be taken. Walks quiet for a big fellow.”
“Can’t be quite right in the wits,” offered the other guard.
“I’ll talk to you in the morning,” growled Donal savagely, making both his men flinch. “You let nobody past, you understand me? Nobody.”
“What is your business here, Hugh of Harrowfield?” inquired Conor sternly in the foreign tongue. “Your kind are far from welcome at Sevenwaters. Have you not done enough damage to my family? I am amazed that you think to set foot in this household.”
Red cleared his throat. “I’m here to speak with my wife,” he said from behind his blindfold. “Where is Jenny?”
My heart thumped. Conor translated for the others, stony-faced. Liam glared at me, placing his finger on his lips, cautioning silence. But I must tell him, I would tell him—
Wait, Sorcha. This is his time to speak.
I glared at Finbar where he stood in the shadows. He had never given orders without good reason. Why? Why must I hold my tongue?
If you would hear the words of his heart, wait, and be silent.
“Who is this man?” demanded my father, sounding almost his old self. “What wife?”
“This is the Briton of whom we spoke,” said Liam, his voice chilly. “In whose house our sister came close to death. He helped us escape from those shores, but we owe him no favors.”
“I am astounded that such a one thinks to show his face here,” said Donal, fingering his dagger. “What can he intend?”
The blindfold was tight and strong. Red could see nothing. His face was white below the dark cloth. He had come a long way. He appeared unarmed, though I suspected there would be a small, sharp knife somewhere about his person.
“I wish only to see my wife,” he said again, rather wearily. “I mean no harm to you. Is she here?”
“You have no wife, Briton,” said Liam, when this was relayed to him. “Our sister is well protected, and content among her own kind. There is no place for you in her life.” Conor’s translation was cruelly accurate.
“Then let her tell me so with her own lips,” said Red quietly. “Let her tell me, and I will go.” I opened my mouth, and closed it again.
Then my father spoke, surprising us all.
“We have been short of entertainment tonight, weary as we are. Perhaps this fellow has a good story for a winter evening. Perhaps he can plead his case through such a tale. Bring the Briton a seat, and give him room. Let him speak, and let us be silent and hear him. Conor will render his words. It will be a fair task. I sense a mystery here beyond what my eyes tell; I would not be hasty to judge.” So they brought out a stool, and Red sat down, long legs crossed before him and the bandage still blinding his vision. They did not untie his hands.
He sat very upright, straight backed, and the firelight touched his hair to gold and scarlet and copper. I was finding it hard to breathe. Around me, Janis and Donal and the men and women of the household stood or sat with their cups in their hands and expectant looks on their faces. I did not know what to feel. I trembled with delight to have him in my sight once more. I glared at the men of my house-hold, who, it seemed, must always play games; who could accept no stranger without putting him to some test. Ask Red to fight with a sword or a tittle knife or with bare hands and feet, and he would be more than a match for anyone. I had seen this myself. Ask him to mend a tumbled wall, or a sick beast, or a broken alliance, and he was your man. But he was no teller of tales; not for a gathering of strangers such as this. He was no playactor. He had told me a story once; but that was for an audience of one, and hadn’t his own mother said he spoke to me as if to himself? The task my father had set him was the hardest he could have chosen. For such a man, who held his feelings deep within, hard in check, whose cold eyes and tight mouth gave nothing away, whose words failed him most when he let his heart speak, this was a cruel challenge. You can do this, I told him silently. Tell your tale to me. One foot before the other, straight ahead.
“There was—there was once a man,” he began hesitantly, who had everything. Well born, richly endowed, healthy in body and mind, he grew up as the eldest son and heir to a wide estate, whose margins were the sea to the west, and the hills to the east, whose fields were fertile and whose rivers teemed with fish for the taking.”
Conor’s voice made a grave counterpoint, rendering the words into our tongue. Finbar sat by the window, eyes fixed on nothing. He understands, I thought. Not just the words, but the meaning behind them. Finbar and I, we are the only ones who know. But Finbar’s grave features and unfocused gaze gave nothing away.
“He grew up,” Red went on, "and his father died, and the estate was his, but for a small part that fell to his younger brother. His life was mapped out, every detail accounted for. He would marry to advantage, he would expand his lands, provide for his family and his good folk, carry on the work of his forefathers. Just so is the path for many good men, and they live their tives to its pattern, glad that they may pass onto their sons a legacy of peace and prosperity.” He shifted slightly. His hands, still bound behind his back, seemed to tighten one on the other.
“Then—then things changed. An evil fell on his family, taking his young brother away and into danger. In time, it became plain that he must go forth and seek him out, dead or alive. But he loved his home, and his acres, and he believed there was no chance his brother had survived. He believed him lost forever. So he waited and waited, until there was no choice but to set out across the sea, and seek what truth he could find.”
There was a pause. Perhaps only I knew how he used it to marshal his thoughts, to force his breathing to be slow and steady, to draw deep on his will so his voice remained confident. For the others, it was still just a tale, like all the tales we told, night by night, tales comical and strange, tales heroic and awe-inspiring, the tales that formed the fabric of our spirits.
“The man journeyed far, and he heard and saw many strange things on his travels. He learned that—that the friend and the enemy are but two faces of the same self. That the path one believes chosen long since, constant and unchangeable, straight and wide, can alter in an instant. Can branch, and twist, and lead the traveler to places far beyond his wildest imaginings. That there are mysteries beyond the minds of mortal man, and that to deny their existence is to spend a life of half-consciousness.”
I saw my father nodding gravely at this point. But Liam and Conor both wore frowns and set jaws, and Donal a fierce scowl.
“One night, everything changed. He—he had cause to save a young woman from drowning; and from the moment he first plucked her from the water, half grown, half starved, half wild as she was, he knew. From that moment on, every step he took, every decision he made, would be different, because of her. She was not much more than a child, lost, hurt, and frightened. But strong. Oh, she was the strongest person he had ever met. He had cause to know it, on the difficult journey home, as she stood by him; as she healed him, although he was her enemy. As—as she showed him things that were almost beyond his understanding, so strange and wondrous did they appear. Of that, I will not tell more, for some secrets are best left unsaid.”
He bowed his head a little, took a deep breath.
“In his household she was like a wild creature set suddenly in the farmyard, like a fledgling owl in a chicken coop. With her deep silence, with the strange task she was compelled to do, working in pain and solitude under the uncomprehe
nding eyes of his family, she filled him with a confusion such as he had never known before. He could do little but protect her; it seemed imperative to keep her safe. He did not understand what she did, but he knew, somehow, that he must help her achieve the task, if he were ever to hear her voice, if he were ever to be able to tell her…to tell her…”
I opened my mouth to speak, then bit back the words. But I must have made some small sound, for Red went very still for an instant, and his head turned. The thick blindfold cut off all sight; but he knew, now, that I was there.
“In his house, she grew and changed, but was still, unmistakably, herself. Strong, sweet, and true. Without speech, she spoke to him as no other could, straight to the heart, with her graceful, disfigured hands and her wide green eyes. Though he was often lost for words, she understood him as no other had ever done. He watched her weep over her hands, which were swollen and hardened from her work, and heard others call them ugly. He saw what others could not see, saw the power, the gentleness, and the beauty of those hands, and he lay awake at night and longed for the touch of them on his body. But she had been hurt, and terrified, and she shrank from him. He could not tell her the words of his heart. He dared not risk frightening her away, for if he lost her, he lost everything. Every day, it became clearer to him, going about the business of his house and his estate. Without her, he would have no life.”
There was a marked distaste in Conor’s voice as he translated this, but he was bound to be accurate, as there were at least three of us there who understood the tongue of the Britons. Then Conor said, “I am starting to dislike this tale.” His tone was like a knife thrust. “If this man possessed such feelings, why did he leave the girl to the mercies of his kinsman, who was both traitor and madman? How could a man guilty of such an error of judgment ever be worthy of a woman such as this peerless creature you describe?”