‘How can they do that at a time like this?’ said one of the women. ‘When Fann’s in here . . .?’
Dying, I thought but did not say. The draught had been a strong infusion of thyme and calamint. I had added a drop or two of a tincture made from a particular fungus, a substance I was loath to use except in the most extreme of cases, as it came close to administering a poison. I kept a tiny vial of it in my healer’s bag. I had not expected to be using it. But I’d weighed up the risk against the probability that if I could not get Fann’s labour started again, I would have to cut the baby free or lose both of them anyway. Now we were waiting; waiting for the draught to work.
‘That’s not a drinking song or the like,’ I said. ‘It’s a fine old song about a man who went off to seek his fortune and ended up seeing all kinds of wonders. A song to put heart in a person.’ I could imagine who had suggested it. I could hear his voice among the others. He didn’t sing at home. But we’d sung in Mathuin’s prison, all of us, raising our cracked and broken voices in defiance of the rules, as if pretending to have hope might make that hope reality. We’d sung the night that poor soul died under torture; sung him to his last merciful sleep. Hope. Hope fought hard to stay alive. Even when you thought it was beaten to nothing, burned to ashes, drowned deep, still it flickered away, waiting to be found again.
Fann coughed. Moaned. She’d been lying flat on the bed, but now she was moving about, struggling. ‘Aah,’ she groaned. ‘It hurts! Oh, gods!’ There was a tone in her voice that I recognised. Our chance, our one chance, was almost here.
I put my arm behind Fann’s shoulders and lifted her to sit upright. ‘More pillows,’ I ordered. ‘Wedge them behind her back, that’s it. Now, Fann, listen to me. Soon I’ll need you to push again. The draught you took will help the baby come, but you have to help too. So when I say push, you push as long and hard as you can, even if you’re so tired you can’t even think straight. And when I say stop, you stop pushing and let us do the work. If you breathe like this,’ I demonstrated the short shallow breathing that helps a woman not to expel the baby too quickly, lest the cord strangle it before it has the chance to draw its first breath, ‘it will be easier to hold back. These pains will be strong. Think about your baby. Your son or daughter. Be brave for your child.’ I hated those words, even as I knew I had to speak them. Fann wasn’t going to manage this if I told her the truth: You’re almost too exhausted to push, chances are the baby will be born dead, there’s a possibility the draught will kill you, and if you don’t succeed in getting the child out you’ll both die anyway, unless I use my knife to save the infant at your expense. But do your best. Hope. You had to have hope, or what was the point of anything?
I wished men were allowed in the birthing chamber. Grim’s quiet strength would have steadied me. Now that Fann was in full labour again – perhaps I was the only one who knew how lucky we were to have achieved that – none of us had any time to run over with news for the men. From time to time their voices came to us, like something from another world, singing songs of heroism and courage and magical happenings. Always songs that ended in triumph: the treasure found, the lovers reunited, the battle won, the enemy vanquished. I hoped Fann could hear them.
I lost all sense of time. The day was measured only by the spasms in Fann’s body, the colour of her skin, the speed of her pulse, the shadows around her eyes. I dabbed a tincture of certain spices on her neck and added a few drops to the fire. A pungent smell filled the chamber, setting us all sneezing. Fann sneezed too, then wiped her eyes and kept on pushing.
Ide drew me aside while two of the others took their turn supporting Fann.
‘Mistress Blackthorn. How much longer before you . . .? What if she . . .? I can’t make myself say it.’ Her face was grey with weariness and with the knowledge of what might come.
‘This is our last chance for the child to be born naturally. Either she does it now or we’ll face a very difficult choice.’
Ide nodded. ‘Gods help us. Would you . . .?’
Would I use the knife? Not while Fann lived, that was certain. ‘She can do it,’ I said. ‘Your daughter is a strong woman, Ide. Like her mother. Come, let’s help her.’
A healer does not lie. But sometimes she does hold back from complete honesty – when the truth would cause needless hurt; when it would make the innocent feel guilty; when it might stop a person from doing their best to save a life. I was glad that Fann did not prove my statements false. She was strong, all right. I came to realise, as she gave the last of her strength to the work in hand, that she would have got that baby out if it killed her. But, gods be thanked, in time the child was born, a tiny boy whose cries were like the call of some fledgling bird fallen from its nest, and Fann rested her head on the pillows with the look of a woman whose job is done, and done well. Everyone was weeping with relief. Yes, even me. Ide tied the cord and cut it. I gave Fann another draught to help her expel the afterbirth cleanly. The other women dealt with bloody cloths and the other debris of birth. The child, still making those little sounds, was wrapped in a very small blanket and placed in his mother’s arms. Over there, the men were still singing.
‘One of you go and tell them,’ I said, noting with interest that the chamber seemed to be moving around me and realising I was almost too tired to do what must still be done. ‘Ross can come to the door, and Osgar. But not a whole crowd of men, and they’re not coming inside.’ Fann might be calm and smiling, but her ordeal had come close to breaking her. What she really needed was a good long sleep. I hoped the boy would not be too weak to suckle.
I needed to sit down. Now, before I fainted. I needed to stop remembering my own son’s birth, and how Cass had come in and held my hand afterwards, and how he’d told me I was the best woman in the world, or at least in his world, and never more so than right then. How he’d whispered in his new son’s ear that he’d keep Brennan safe until the day he died. Which was exactly what Cass had done. For they had died together, on the same day, with Cass crouched over our son, trying to shield him from the flames. It was filling up my mind. The smells of that day, the terrible sounds, the rage and grief and hopelessness . . .
‘Mistress Blackthorn!’ Ide was motioning for me to sit down on a bench. ‘You’re white as a sheet. You’ve been on your feet too long, here . . . Eibhlín, some ale for Mistress Blackthorn, quickly.’
The girl brought ale and I sipped it while the baby’s father and uncle came to the door, holding sacks over their heads against the rain, and Ide took the child over to show them. Ross spoke to his wife across the chamber, his face aglow with delight. Fann managed a smile and a few words. Later on, when I was more confident her bleeding would stay under control, we’d let him come in and sit with her awhile. I’d taken quite a risk with that first draught. I’d have to watch her until I could be sure there were no adverse effects.
Ide sent the men away, gave the baby back to his mother, cast a firm eye over me. I forestalled her question. ‘I’ll be fine in a moment. Really.’
‘You worried me for a bit, Mistress. Looked like you’d seen a ghost.’
‘I believe all will be well now,’ I said in a murmur, not wanting Fann to hear. ‘But there’s always the possibility of complications. I’m sure you understand that. We need to watch both of them. The child is small. He’ll probably need to be coaxed to feed.’
‘Will you stay for the night?’ Ide asked. ‘I know you must be busy, folk needing you and so on, but if you could we’d be so grateful. And your friend, of course.’
The prospect of the ride home was not appealing. It was late in the day and I was dog-tired, more tired than I had any right to be, since it was Fann who’d been doing the hard work. It would be sensible to stay anyway. If I was here until morning, I could reassure myself that Fann was recovering well and the baby feeding before I left them. ‘That is a kind offer, thank you, and I’d welcome it.’
‘I think yo
u saved my daughter’s life,’ Ide said quietly. ‘For that, you’ll have friends in Longwater forever, Mistress Blackthorn.’
‘It’s what I do,’ I said, and thought immediately how churlish that sounded. ‘I’m glad to be of service.’
The afterbirth was taken away to be buried under a special tree when the weather cleared. An old ritual and a good one. I wondered if the spreading hawthorn still grew in the garden of that burned-out house in the village where Cass and I had settled. That tree would have many tales to tell, happy, sad, tender, joyful, cruel and tragic. I would never know. I would never go back there.
A tap at the door. It was Grim, with Ripple at his heels. I went out to talk with him, under the eaves of the house.
‘All’s well here,’ I said. ‘But they’ll both need watching for a while. Ide has suggested we stay overnight.’
‘Tired, mm?’ Grim reached out as if to brush a strand of hair from my face, but drew his fingers away without touching me. ‘Sad, too.’
Tears pricked my eyes. I wanted nothing more than to lean on him, shut my eyes and will the rest of the world away for a while. What in the name of Danu was wrong with me? I’d delivered dozens of infants without turning to mush. ‘A few memories coming back,’ I said. ‘Nothing to bother yourself about. But I do want to stay, just to make sure she’ll be all right. If the weather clears and you have to work, you could get to Wolf Glen from here easily enough, couldn’t you?’ I hoped it would go on raining. We hadn’t had our day together yet. Not Fann’s fault; she could hardly be expected to time her child’s arrival to suit us. But I’d been looking forward to that day. Foolish woman.
‘Thing is,’ Grim said, and there was a note of apology in his voice, ‘I don’t think I can. Stay, that is. Met Bardán before. Up at that hut where the herbs were growing. Seems like that was his house, a long time ago.’
‘What was he doing there?’ My heart had gone down to my boots. I ordered myself sharply not to be so silly. ‘I thought you said they kept him on a short leash.’
‘That’s the problem. If he doesn’t get back to Wolf Glen soon he’ll be in trouble. Told him I’d go back when you didn’t need me anymore. Walk over there with him. If I’m around they might go easier on the poor sod. He’s in no fit state to be on his own. Been weeding around his wife’s grave. Funny, I didn’t even know there was a wife until today. Her and his parents, all buried up there. Don’t think he’d been to the house since he came back from the Otherworld. If that’s where he was, all those missing years.’
I swallowed several things I wanted to say, all of them selfish and wrong. ‘You’d better go, then. I can cope here. And if I don’t want to ride home on my own in the morning, I’ll ask Osgar or one of the others to come with me.’
‘You sure?’ Grim had a little frown on his brow. His eyes told me how easily he saw beneath my surface. ‘I can stay, if you want. Bardán’s a grown man. He walked over here, I daresay he can walk back. May even have headed off without me, seeing as the light’s fading.’
‘I’ll be fine. You should go.’ I drew a breath, trying to make it steady and quiet. ‘Grim.’
‘Mm?’
‘Thank you for looking after the men. Ross must have been beside himself with worry.’
‘All smiles now,’ Grim said. ‘But yes, he was a bit of a mess for a while there. Easy to understand. I’d be the same if . . .’
‘Yes, well, you’d better be getting on,’ I said, turning so he couldn’t see my face. ‘If it rains again tomorrow, maybe you can come home in the morning.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Depends what happens with Bardán. And I’ve got business with Master Tóla. A proposition. Might get the job done quicker than we expected. That’s if he’ll listen to me.’
‘Go safely,’ I said. Drat these tears! ‘I hope it works out well.’
‘Make sure you get a good sleep,’ said Grim. ‘And do ask one of the fellows to ride back with you. Best not go on your own.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘All the same. I can leave Ripple with you, if you want.’
One glance at Ripple was enough to tell me what the dog would think of that arrangement. ‘She wants to go with you. I’ll manage, Grim. Now I’d best get back in.’
‘Be safe, Lady.’ He said this so softly I almost didn’t catch it.
I couldn’t find it in me to reprimand him for using that name, the one he’d invented for me in the lockup; the one he wasn’t supposed to use anymore. Instead I looked at him over my shoulder and attempted a smile. Hoped he couldn’t see the tears. ‘You too, big man.’
18
~Cara~
It was meant to be. The rain, the distractions at the prince’s house, and then, when she passed by Dreamer’s Wood, the fact that Blackthorn’s cottage door was shut and there was no smoke from the fire, meaning the wise woman was not home. Then, the fields between Dreamer’s Wood and the bigger forest of Wolf Glen lying empty and quiet under the rain, save for a few miserable-looking sheep huddled under the trees and a scatter of ducks trying out the newly formed ponds. A crow kept pace as she moved quickly over the open area. The bird would fly a short distance, then land on a stretch of drystone wall or a convenient post to shake the damp from its feathers and wait for Cara to catch up.
Once she was safely in the shelter of the Wolf Glen forest, she tried to work out what she would say to her father. That was if she didn’t decide to see Gormán then leave. Father would be upset with her. She knew the look he’d have on his face, sad, reproachful, most likely angry as well. Holding it all in check, the way he did. But wouldn’t he be glad to see her, too? He loved her. Even when he was at his sternest he loved her. Even when he sent her away with no proper explanation. She knew it as she knew the sun followed the moon across the sky.
She mustn’t weep or shout or lose her temper. That would only make things worse. He would tell her, yet again, that she was a child and needed to be taught how to conduct herself. So, no tears, no babbling out her woes, no rushing to throw her arms around him, even if that was what she most wanted to do.
‘I must make a case,’ she said to the crow, which had alighted on the pale bough of a young birch and was holding a large moth in its beak. ‘Set things out calmly, point by point. Explain that I’m perfectly capable, or I wouldn’t have been able to walk all the way home through the forest on my own. Tell him it’s not Lady Flidais’s fault I left Winterfalls without anyone noticing – she could hardly be expected to watch over me when they’d all been called to court. And it’s not Blackthorn’s fault, since I wasn’t at her house today. Or Mhairi’s, because I made sure she wouldn’t find me.’
The crow gulped down the moth. Its bright eye seemed to say, So far, so good, my friend. And then what?
‘Then I’ll tell him that if he wants me to act like a grown woman, he should start treating me as one. And that means explaining properly. Trusting me with the truth, whatever it is.’
Since the bird had finished its meal, she walked on. After a moment she felt a sudden jolt as the crow landed on her shoulder. Just as well she had on her thick shawl as well as the cloak. She could hear the bird thinking. Or maybe that was the trees. All very well. All very measured. But you know what will happen, Cara. You’ll step up before your father and open your mouth, and the words won’t come.
‘I can talk to Blackthorn,’ Cara muttered, swishing at some long grass with a stick and thinking how hateful the truth could be. ‘I can talk to Emer. I can talk to lots of people now.’
One look into your father’s sad eyes and you will be struck dumb, as always. What you have done cannot please him, no matter how you disguise it. It can do nothing but make him sadder. Turn around and go back. It is not yet too late.
‘Stop it!’ she snapped. The crow lifted its wings, startled, then furled them again. ‘I’m not listening. I have to do this. I have to know.’
>
You cannot talk to Lady Flidais or Prince Oran. You cannot talk to Mhairi and the others, beyond a few words.
‘I can talk to Gormán. And I will. I’ll find him first, before I see my father or Aunt Della. If Gormán says I should go home, I’ll go. After I get him to tell me what’s happening up there.’
What if Gormán says it is none of your concern?
‘He won’t. Gormán is my friend.’
The way was mostly uphill, and being off the main track meant a lot of scrambling over rocks and hauling herself up by exposed tree roots. Her boots were thick with mud. Everything she had on was wet. That was no more than she had expected; she knew the forest in all its moods. The crow came and went, finding shelter where it could. Rain dripped and trickled and ran from the foliage. The paths were treacherous.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Cara said to the crow. ‘This should bring up a few juicy worms.’ It might have been a good idea to bring some food with her. That was what Father and Aunt Della would think, anyway. They wouldn’t believe she could gather enough food in the forest to keep her going, any more than they believed she could find her way home from any part of Wolf Glen, even the deepest and most remote areas of the woodland. The thought of that seemed to frighten her father. Mention it, and she’d surely be despatched back to Winterfalls, or even sent off to court, without the chance to say a word more. If she could say any words at all. If she did not become that other Cara, the one who stammered and struggled and eventually lost her voice altogether. Why was it that she could talk to some folk and not to others? Why was it that the person before whom she became most helpless, the one who most quickly turned her mute, was the one she cared about most in all the world?