The memory hits him like a great wave. A groan comes up from deep in his belly, he can’t stop, doesn’t stop till his lungs are bursting and he has to suck in air. Dáire, oh gods, his best friend, his love, his wife . . . How could he have forgotten her? The sweet, funny slip of a thing who, of all the folk in Longwater, was the only one who’d stop and talk to him, the only one who’d smile and laugh with him, the only one who knew he was a man with a man’s hopes and needs and feelings. Dáire who had stood by him through the terrible grief of his father’s passing. When they’d wanted to wed, she had argued the case with her parents, pointing out that Bardán was a capable craftsman with his own house and plenty of work, and was well able to provide for her. What matter who his parents had been, as long as he was a good man and loved her? So they were wed, and tasted happiness for a while. Too short a while, before she, too, was gone.
His throat is choked with grief. His eyes are pouring tears. His nose is running down into his beard. This is like losing her all over again. Get up, he orders himself. Go there. Go there now. Tell them you still love them, tell them you still miss them, tell them you were lost and could not come for a long time, oh so long. But maybe by now the graves are lost too, lost in the long grass and the brambles and the passing of time. Is the little house still there, and the bright hangings on the walls? What became of it when he – when they –
He shudders. Some bird of ill omen hovers above him; he feels its dark wings. The last doorway is still closed. Locked against him. The last secret still lies hidden. But Dáire . . . All those years in the other realm, and when he came home she was gone from his thoughts, gone as if she had never been. That is a betrayal that surely even a sweet soul like hers could never forgive.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers as he finds his old cloak, his worn and cracked boots, a length of wool to wrap around his head and neck. Everything damp; never mind that. ‘My wife, my love, from the bottom of my heart I’m sorry.’ He opens the door a crack. Looks out through the rain, down toward the barn, up along the track, all about. No sign of Gormán or Conn. No sign of anyone. If they have any sense they’ll be indoors eating their breakfast by a warm fire.
He steps outside, shuts the door behind him, and walks off into the forest. Fear jangles his bones and whips his heart to a gallop. What if he goes too close to the place where it happened? What if he falls? What if the nightmare repeats itself and he’s trapped in that other realm all over again? But Bardán has already paid his father’s debt to the fey. What was that long time of work and silence, if not recompense for the wrong they said his father did them?
Be careful, he tells himself as he passes along tracks only birds and animals and fey folk can find. No caves, no hollows, no dark corners. Watch out for odd groups of trees. Keep one foot on the ground. No mushroom circles, no rings of stones. Watch out for knotted grasses and lines scratched in bark and piles of white pebbles. Keep moving. Be back before supper time.
Once he is far enough away from Tóla’s house, he hums under his breath as he walks, and in his mind he is a small child, lying on the bed by an open window. A shaft of sunlight touching his mother’s embroideries on the walls, and a little breeze stirring them to odd life. A man riding a white horse. A woman playing the harp. A dog chasing a ball. Had there been a dog? Outside, the sound of his father’s saw, cutting wood. Closer at hand, his mother singing. Feather bright and feather fine, none shall harm this child of mine.
15
~Blackthorn~
The episode with Cúan had unnerved me. The news of Mathuin had left me shaken and furious. I stamped about, starting a task and leaving it half-finished to pick up another, and generally getting in my own way as well as Grim’s. Waiting for him to tell me to calm down and stop being stupid, which he didn’t do. Instead, during a lull in the rain, he went outside with Ripple at his heels to chop more wood and stack it under cover. Not a word of reproach. I found myself wishing he would be angry, and hating myself for it.
When Cara was in one of her fidgety moods, which was quite often, I would tell her to choose one task and keep at it until she finished. Following my own good advice, I decided to prepare a reading lesson. I opened the wax tablet, ready to write. Found myself reading instead. Found myself writing something in my turn. Closed the tablet and put it away. A change of plan. No reading lesson; instead I would make a brew, set out a platter of bread and cheese and be honest with Grim about what was bothering me. I might only get one day before the rain cleared and he had to be back at Wolf Glen. It would be foolish to waste even a moment of that time.
‘Brew?’ I stood in the doorway, watching as Grim straightened and wiped the sweat from his brow. There was enough wood there to keep my hearth fire burning for many days. Until the weather warmed with the first breath of summer.
‘Sounds good. I’ll just put the axe away safe.’ His smile told me he knew I was making an effort, and was glad of it.
When we were sitting at the table, cups in hands, he said, ‘Worried, aren’t you? About Mathuin and this attack?’
‘I didn’t sleep very well. As you know.’ I’d woken from a nightmare to find him sitting on the floor beside my bed, holding my hand. I thought I could remember telling him sharply to go back to bed and leave me to fight my own demons. Then lying awake while he made a brew and brought me a cup. ‘Sorry I snarled at you. Last night. I was half-asleep. Still in the nightmare.’
‘Got a suggestion,’ Grim said.
‘Mm?’
‘For today. Even if the rain keeps up. We could walk over to Winterfalls, to the prince’s house, and talk to a few folk. See if anyone knows any more about the whole thing, Cloud Hill and all. Maybe set your mind at rest a bit.’
I found myself reluctant to say yes. Which was stupid, because I did want to go, I did want to find out everything I could. If there was anything I could do, anything at all, to help bring Mathuin to justice, then I was bound to do it. Only . . . I had so much looked forward to this day, a whole day with Grim and me both at home, a day when neither of us had to rush about doing anyone else’s business.
‘Only if you want to, of course,’ Grim said. His voice was soft; his eyes were full of understanding.
‘I want to and I don’t want to, that’s the truth. But if we don’t go, I’ll be wound up tight all day and no use to anyone.’
‘We’ll go, then. Soon as we’ve finished this. Rain’s not too heavy, should get there quick. Talk to a few of the fellows, see who knows what. Might be home in time to get a few things done. Could be the weather will clear and I’ll be back off up to Wolf Glen in the morning.’
‘Mm.’ My thoughts were a jumble. The sooner he finished this odd building job, the sooner he’d be back home again. But right now I was filled with a need for him to stay, not to go to Wolf Glen anymore, to be here where I could see him and hear him and argue with him whenever I wanted to. Which was beyond stupid. I began to wish I had not written anything on the wax tablet. But I couldn’t erase it now, in full view. As for the remarkable words he had written there, maybe they proved that he was braver than I was, setting his feelings down for me to see. Or more foolish. Allow someone to become too dear to you and you give your enemy a weapon more deadly than the sharpest sword, more lethal than the strongest poison. I knew that all too well, and Grim knew it too. Time enough, when Mathuin was dealt with, to recognise what there was between him and me. If there was anything more than a close friendship. I shouldn’t have written those words. It was too soon. ‘Yes, we’ll go,’ I said. ‘Grim, what can they do? The king and Prince Oran? Laois is so far away, much too far for King Ruairi to retaliate with force, even supposing he wanted to. He’d have to take his men across Ulaid and Mide and into Laigin to reach Mathuin’s territory, and Mathuin’s known to have a strong personal army. I’m no expert in these things, but even I can see that would stir up even more trouble. It could draw in other leaders, perhaps against their wil
l. Would Lorcan of Mide be prepared to fight alongside Ruairi?’
‘Folk say Lorcan’s a peacemaker,’ Grim said. ‘Sounds like he’s offered a safe place for Flidais’s parents and whoever got out with them. That might be as far as it goes.’
‘He’s a kinsman of Oran’s father.’
‘If he jumps into the conflict with his own fighters the whole thing gets bigger and bloodier. Nobody would want that.’
‘If Mathuin isn’t stopped it’ll get bigger and bloodier anyway. Morrigan’s curse, will that foul wretch be allowed to trample on folk all over Erin?’
‘Thing is,’ Grim said, ‘it’s got bigger than us now. You want to stop him, I want to stop him, any of those poor sods who were in his cesspit of a prison and managed to survive want the same thing. Same for all the ordinary folk he hurt. But what he’s done now, it’s a big step more. And maybe it’s for kings and chieftains to fix it, not the likes of us.’
‘First you say the kings and chieftains won’t want a war. Then you say it’s up to them to do something. That doesn’t make sense. Come on, if we’re going we should go now before the rain starts again.’
I banked up the fire. Then, cloaked against the weather, we set off on the path across the fields to the prince’s house, with Ripple beside us. The bull was under the trees with his cows and did not bother to approach. The sky was heavy with clouds; there would be more rain soon. Our boots gained a rich coating of mud. Small lakes filled each hollow, and ducks swam there. The air was chill.
‘Could be,’ remarked Grim, ‘there’s another way out.’
‘Another way out of what?’
‘The problem. Getting rid of a tyrant without a war.’
‘Oh. Well, yes, I could think of a couple. But not ways I can imagine King Ruairi using. Even less Lorcan, if he’s the peacemaker folk say he is. Assassination. Just about impossible in Mathuin’s case, I’d think, since he goes about surrounded by retainers and is quick to stifle any dissent. Magic. That’s not going to happen. What do the fey care if a human tyrant runs rampant? If Conmael cared he wouldn’t have stopped me from speaking up when I had the chance.’
Grim made no comment on this.
‘Yes, I know, Mathuin planned to silence me before I got the chance to say another word. And yes, Conmael saved my life. And yours. But he doesn’t care about bringing Mathuin to justice, or he wouldn’t have forbidden me to do anything about it, would he?’
‘Just didn’t want you rushing in before it was the right time. Didn’t want you getting yourself killed. For nothing, most like. That would be a waste.’
‘I know that. But when is the right time? And why isn’t Conmael here so I can ask him about these things?’
‘Can’t answer that,’ said Grim. ‘Maybe he’s waiting for the right time to put in an appearance. And maybe what’s wanted isn’t force but cleverness.’
We were nearly at the gates to the prince’s stronghold when a man came riding toward us from the settlement, forcing his horse to a pace that was downright dangerous in the wet. He hauled the animal to a halt and slid down next to us.
‘Mistress Blackthorn! You need to come, quick!’
‘Slow down.’ Grim’s deep voice, calm and sure. ‘Take a breath or two. Now, what is it?’
The fellow gasped out his message. A woman in labour – it had gone on too long, the babe was stuck, the woman was getting weaker, she’d expected to deliver safely without a midwife but something must be wrong, he’d ridden all the way to find me, I had to come now, now –
‘All right, take it slowly,’ I said. ‘Where is this woman? How far?’
‘Longwater. In the settlement there.’ The messenger was white-faced and shaking, shock setting in now he had found me. ‘You take the main road west, then there’s a track in along the river. I’ll ride back with you, show you where to go.’
‘How long is the ride? I’ll need to borrow a horse.’ If she was already fading when the young man left there, chances were she would be dead before I reached her. And I didn’t have my healer’s bag with me.
‘On the western side of Wolf Glen, isn’t it?’ said Grim. ‘Be well over an hour.’
‘Not if you go the back way,’ said the messenger. ‘Takes only half the time. But we should be leaving now.’
‘If you’re coming with us you need a fresh horse. That one’s not up to it.’ Grim’s tone was blunt. ‘Best to borrow three fresh mounts, leave your horse here for a rest. I’ll knock on the prince’s door and ask Eochu.’
‘Thank you, Grim. Be as quick as you can. And I’m going to need my healer’s bag.’
‘I’ll ride back and get it. Catch you up on the way.’
Grim had friends in the prince’s household, and this stood us in good stead now. We were soon riding west on borrowed mounts, Grim having made a quick trip home for the bag and caught up with remarkable speed.
The messenger’s name was Osgar, and the woman in labour was his sister, Fann. As we rode along I offered calm words. But I would not lie to him about her chances. It might already be too late to turn the babe if it was awkwardly placed. The lengthy labour might have weakened the child so much it would not survive. The cord might be around its neck. The mother’s heart might give out. I did not tell Osgar those things, merely that I would do my very best, but that I could not give him an iron-strong promise that both mother and baby would survive. Did she have other children? No, this was the first. How old was Fann? Over thirty; she had married late. I did not tell him that an older woman faced a higher risk, especially with her first child.
‘I’ll do everything I can for her, Osgar,’ I said. ‘Believe me.’
Eventually the road was met by a well-made side track, broad enough for carts and the like. It ran alongside a stream, now swollen by the rain to a small river. We must have crossed it on our journey to Bann last summer, when we’d continued west on the main track. My mind had been on other things, and I remembered little of that ride. Gods, it felt so long ago. At the junction there stood a way-marker: rough letters carved onto a slab of stone.
‘Longwater,’ read Grim without a moment’s hesitation. Which just went to show that with good teaching and the right attitude, a man can very quickly learn his letters. Even a man who has always believed himself stupid.
‘Is this the way up to the lake, Osgar?’ I asked. ‘Where they bring timber in and out?’
‘That’s right, Mistress Blackthorn. Quick way to Longwater settlement. The other way, by the master’s house, that’s far longer. Most folk keep clear of it.’
‘Oh?’ It seemed a good idea to keep him talking about anything other than his sister and the difficult task ahead. I knew already that the local people were wary of the forest track, though Grim never seemed to have any trouble with it.
‘Forest’s tricky,’ Osgar said. ‘Got those paths that keep changing, you know? All ups and downs, slipping and sliding, trees that move about and make you lose your way. Or so folk say.’
‘That does sound rather frightening.’
‘Something not right about the place.’ Osgar’s tone was quieter now. He glanced over his shoulder as if someone might be following, listening in. ‘Wolf Glen. Ill-luck place. That’s what folk say. I heard he’s building that house again. The house that’s meant to make things come right. For the future, that is. Can’t undo the past. His wife died, you know. The master’s wife. Suanach, her name was. Died before her child was a year old. Broke the master’s heart. He hasn’t been right since. That’s what I heard. Never go up there myself.’
Grim didn’t say a word. Of course, he was forbidden to speak about the heartwood house to outsiders. But I wasn’t. ‘What house? Is it something magic?’
‘I don’t know much about it, Mistress Blackthorn. Only, first time they tried to build it, the fellow that was doing the work ran off with the place half-finished, and nobody else kn
ew how to do it. Then the lady died, and the master blamed the builder. This house, it’s made very special. Brings good fortune if it’s done right. My auntie told me the story. She lived there for a bit once. At Wolf Glen, in the big house. Wet-nurse for the infant. Had enough milk for her own boy and the girl as well. Long while ago. My cousin’s a young man of fifteen now. Sixteen next autumn and thinks himself all grown up.’
Oh, my treacherous thoughts, suddenly full of my Brennan as he might be now, a fine young man of just that age, with my red hair and his father’s steady grey eyes. What might he have become, but for Mathuin?
‘Is that the settlement up ahead?’ asked Grim.
The terrain opened up and the lake came into sight, a slender body of water with forested hills behind. There was a scattering of houses along the shore, neat, well-kept dwellings, each with a garden patch. House cows grazed in a walled field. A bigger building stood close to the water, perhaps a storehouse, and beside it was a jetty at which two barges were moored. I saw a spot where carts might be drawn up, and a fenced enclosure with horse troughs. Neither man nor beast was in sight today, though we had been lucky with the weather. The rain had eased to patchy drizzle.
‘The house is along the end,’ Osgar said, pointing ahead. ‘This way.’
After that I was so busy I had no chance to think about Mathuin or Wolf Glen or anything else except the task at hand. Folk came out to meet us well before we reached the woman’s house. Many hands were ready to help us down and lead the horses to shelter. I suggested to Grim that he go off with the men to share some ale at Osgar’s house next door and wait for news, and that he take Ripple with him. I didn’t need to add that his job was to keep them calm, quiet and out of the way. Then I went in.