‘You told them. You spread this about when I specifically said, no gossip. I cannot believe this. I trusted you, Grim.’
Deep breath. ‘You can still trust me,’ I say. ‘I didn’t say anything beyond what I just told you. And those folk don’t gossip. Nobody said a word about you or your daughter or anything you might or might not be building.’
‘That’s all very well,’ says Tóla. ‘But what about him? The wild man? You get a crew up here and he’ll be spinning his tales to every last one of them, telling them all manner of lies. I can’t believe those wild stories won’t get out somehow. He would poison folk’s minds against me. I can’t keep him tied up and locked in day and night. He has to be able to direct the building.’
That’s where Gormán sort of clears his throat. Giving me the chance to get in first. ‘Thing is,’ I say, ‘Gormán and I had a little chat about that last night. We’ve moved Bardán out of that cellar and into the main bit of the barn –’
Tóla opens his mouth to let out something angry, but I put a hand up.
‘Let me finish, will you? I know you don’t want him out and about. But he has to be out to help me build. And if I lose the job, you’ll still need him to help whoever takes over. If it’s going to be me doing it, it’ll be me keeping an eye on Bardán. Wasn’t that always part of our agreement? So it still will be, but it’ll be on my terms, or I’m off right now and not coming to Wolf Glen ever again. I’ll be giving back your silver and going my own way.’ Hoping Tóla hasn’t guessed I won’t leave Bardán on his own unless there’s no other choice at all. Don’t want another burden to carry. Leaving him would be a heavy one.
‘You’re not the man I thought you were,’ says Tóla. Can’t for the life of me tell if he thinks this is a good thing or a bad thing. Could be some of both.
‘I know you’re in a hurry. So here are my terms. I take responsibility for Bardán, make sure he stays at Wolf Glen. He doesn’t tell tales out of turn. He does the job. He doesn’t hurt anyone, himself included. You agree to the crew coming in every day until we get to the thatching stage. Couple of men to stay on and help me with that as long as I need them. You pay them a fair rate for their work. I get paid what I’ve been promised. And Bardán sleeps where he did last night, in the barn with warm bedding. He uses the privy like everyone else. Gets clean clothes when he needs them. A good pair of boots. Same meals as us. And no being put in the root cellar, no being tied up, no being struck or beaten or shouted at. The dog and me together make sure he keeps his side of it.’
Tóla doesn’t say a word. Neither does Gormán. Me, I’m glad that speech is over. Doesn’t come easy to me, laying things down like I was in charge. Rather be given a job and just get on with it.
‘You surprise me,’ Tóla says in the end.
‘You think a working man can’t understand justice?’ This is out before I can stop it.
He gives a thin sort of smile. ‘Justice,’ he says. ‘There’s no justice in this. You don’t know that man’s story. If you did, you wouldn’t be so ready to help him.’
Does he mean he’s going to tell me? ‘He was talking about his daughter,’ I say. Tóla’s face changes, quick as a snap of the fingers. Becomes that wolf face, on edge, ready to spring. Feel like I have to go on anyway, now I’ve taken one step into whatever this is. ‘Kept saying, Where is she? Where’s my girl? Like he knew young Cara was missing, and got her mixed up with his own child. Only he’s got no family left that I know of. All buried there above Longwater. Mother, father, wife and newborn. He was weeping over their graves. When I ran across him, I mean. Too upset to be left on his own. That was why I came back with him. But I wondered. My daughter is missing, he said.’
Tóla looks at Gormán. Gormán looks at Tóla. A lot passing between them. One thing’s plain to me without any words. They’re asking each other, Do we tell him?
‘If you’re staying on to do the work,’ Tóla says, ‘and if you must have workers from Longwater here to get it finished, you’ll need to know why we don’t want that man spreading his mad stories all around. It’s essential that you keep him quiet. Quiet night and day. If I agree to what you’re proposing, there’ll be no going home at the end of the day’s work, for you at least. You’ll be sleeping at Wolf Glen, watching over Bardán. Keeping him in order. Without that, I’m having none of it.’
Pretty sure he was going to say this. Been waiting for it, hollow feeling in my belly. ‘What about rain days?’
‘You’ll stay here. If that requires an additional payment I’ll consider it. But you’ll be on my premises from now until the day the heartwood house is finished.’ Tóla gives me a narrow look, sizing me up. Am I as strong-minded as I seem to be or am I just pretending? That’s my guess as to what that look means. ‘If you can’t agree to that, I’ll find someone else to do the work,’ he goes on. ‘And if I believe that person cannot keep Bardán under adequate control, I won’t hesitate to tie him up, use the root cellar or employ any other method I choose to ensure my household’s safety.’
The devious bastard. Clever, too. Knows how to read a man. Knows how to find the one thing that’ll make a man do what he wants. ‘Let’s hear this tale first,’ I say, trying not to bunch up my fists. ‘About Bardán’s daughter. If there was a daughter.’
A knock at the door.
‘What is it?’ Tóla barks. I remember that he said he didn’t have much time. Taking Cara away more or less as soon as she got here. Wonder when Blackthorn will get home. It’ll be a cold hearth waiting for her.
A servant opens the door a crack. ‘Everything’s ready, Master Tóla.’
‘Yes, very well,’ Tóla says. ‘I’ll be there shortly. Ask Mistress Della to arrange some food for these men, will you? And a fresh jug of ale.’
The servant vanishes. The door shuts without a sound.
‘Bardán. Mm. I took him on, the first time, mostly to do the man a favour. Yes, I knew he was a master builder. And everyone knew he was odd, as his father had been before him. There were all kinds of stories attached to the family. Folk said the father had learned his skills in the Otherworld; that nobody could be so good a builder without some kind of fey knowledge. He was supposed to have spent his childhood there, that was the tale.’
‘How was it a favour?’ I ask. ‘Seeing as you needed him to build your heartwood house? Wasn’t Bardán the only one with the know-how?’
‘He was the only one. But unreliable. Up and down in his moods. One day eaten up with anger, the next curled up in a corner weeping. Don’t know that I would have taken him on, other things being equal. No certainty of getting the work out of him.’
I don’t ask a question this time, though I’ve got plenty.
‘What happened was this.’ Gormán speaks up at last. ‘Bardán appeared on the doorstep with a little tiny baby in his arms. His wife was dead – she was a local girl, from Longwater, so we knew of them. He’d had a goat for a bit, kept the child alive on his own, but he couldn’t cope anymore. Asked for help. Said he’d work for his keep and his daughter’s. We asked why the child couldn’t go to her mother’s kinsfolk who lived not far off. But Bardán didn’t want that. Said if he handed her over they’d steal her away, not let him near her. Could have been true. The folk over at Longwater thought him odd. He was odd. They might have thought the child would be better off growing up in her grandmother’s household.’
‘Bardán was her father,’ I can’t help saying. No wonder the wild man was sad or angry most of the time. Who wouldn’t be? Wife newly in the grave, tiny babe to look after, folk turning their backs on him. Poor sod.
‘I took them in,’ says Tóla. ‘Bardán to live at Wolf Glen and build the heartwood house. His daughter to be looked after in my household. That was before Cara came along. My wife was a warm-hearted woman, generous and kind. She arranged everything for the child. And for some time it all went as planned. Bardán was moody, stubb
orn, difficult. But he worked hard and he knew what he was doing. The little girl thrived under the good care of our folk.’
Something bad’s coming, it’s on his face and in his voice. Something so bad that Tóla doesn’t say it himself. He gives Gormán a nod instead.
‘He got the heartwood house half-built,’ Gormán says. ‘Quicker than anyone expected. Not all on his own, of course. There were a couple of older foresters working here then, and they helped find the different woods and lent a hand with the heavy lifting. And some of the farm lads shared the work. We got a couple of fellows in to cut the stone. All the same, Bardán did a remarkable job. Used to come down here and see his daughter at the end of the day, when work was all done. Went on building right through the autumn. And then . . . Well, something went wrong in his mind. And he did something bad. Something so bad you wouldn’t believe it.’
All of a sudden I’m not wanting to hear this story anymore. Thoughts have jumped ahead to what this could be and I don’t like it. But I have to listen. I’m the one who started all this. ‘Go on,’ I say.
‘He’d been muttering all day about the child, crazy things, old rhymes and the like. Came down to the house after dark, told the man at the door he was going to sing his daughter a lullaby. The fool let him in. Bardán snatched the child from her cradle while the nursemaid was still half-asleep and ran off into the forest with her. He was out of sight before anyone could stop him. And he knew his way around the woods, even in the dark. Impossible to track. Though we tried.’
Morrigan’s curse! No wonder Tóla was so strung up when his daughter went missing. No wonder he sent the whole household out after her. I ask another question I don’t want the answer to. ‘Did you find them?’
Another knock on the door. The sound makes me jump, I’ve been so caught up in the story. A serving woman comes in with a tray, sets it on the table, goes out.
‘Eat,’ says Tóla. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve had breakfast, either of you.’
Not long ago I was hungry. Not sure I am anymore. Gormán passes me bread and cold mutton. I hold it in my hand, not eating, waiting for the story.
‘We never found him.’ Tóla’s voice is like a bell now, the kind that rings when someone’s died, deep and sad. ‘But we found her, after two days’ searching. The child, Brígh her name was. Out in the woods, lying dead and cold where he’d left her half-hidden in the roots of an oak. I didn’t want to bring her little body back home where my wife would see it, or the child’s kinsfolk in Longwater. The corpse was . . . disfigured. It had been mauled by some wild creature. The damage had been inflicted after death, we believed. That was scant mercy. We buried her close by the spot where we found her.’
Holy Mother of God! That’s the saddest thing I ever heard. Only if it was me, if it was my kin, I’d want to see the body even if it had been torn to shreds. I’d want to hold what was left of the little one. Cradle her close and weep tears over her. I’d want to lay her in the ground with my own hands. Got tears in my eyes now, just thinking about it. Blackthorn would be the same. Was the same, long ago when her son died with his father crouched over him, trying to shield him from the flames. She saw that with her own eyes. Saw them die. Saw them dead. Don’t know if she ever got to bury little Brennan or her man Cass. I know there wasn’t much left of them but ash and bone. She’d have touched that ash and bone the same way she touched her living husband and her precious son.
‘Grim?’
Done it again, gone off into the past and forgotten where I am. ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the ale cup Gormán’s holding out to me. Mind full of questions. What did they tell Tóla’s wife when they got home? What did they tell those kinsfolk? Wouldn’t most people expect the little girl to be buried down in Longwater? Can’t ask. I don’t know what to think. Tóla might tell me bare-faced lies. But Gormán wouldn’t make up something like this. One thing I do know. I’m not going to feel the same about Bardán ever again.
Yet another knock.
‘Wait!’ snarls Tóla, and the knocking stops. ‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘I don’t want my daughter here a moment longer than is strictly necessary. I’ll be back later today. And whether or not we have an agreement, Grim, I want Bardán kept out of sight until Cara and I are well away. When he came back, you understand, his mind was in even more disorder than it had once been. He’d forgotten the circumstances of his departure from Wolf Glen. Forgotten all about his child, his wife, his life before. He couldn’t tell us where he’d been all those years. We had believed him dead. There had been no word of him, no trace. No message. But there he was, back among us and expecting to rebuild the heartwood house. I’d never found anyone else who knew how to do it. So I said yes. I want it done, and that means I must have him at Wolf Glen. And keeping him, keeping him safely, depends on everyone here working together. Every man doing his part.’
This story should make me want to walk away. Turn my back on the lot of them. ‘I’ll stay, Master Tóla,’ I tell him.
‘I’m pleased to hear that, Grim. We have a bargain, then. And now I must be off.’ He heads for the door. ‘You may remain here and finish your breakfast. Make sure you close the door on the way out, and call a servant to take the dishes back to the kitchen.’
‘Just one thing.’ Something’s bothering me. ‘I need to get word to Blackthorn. About where I am and why I won’t be home. She’ll worry.’ Feels a bit awkward. Can’t ask Tóla to be my messenger boy. ‘Your daughter. Cara.’ I try not to catch Gormán’s eye. He did tell me not to talk about the girl. ‘She sees a lot of Blackthorn, from what I’ve heard. Could she maybe pass the word on? Let Blackthorn know I’ve promised to stay up here till the job’s done?’
‘The arrangements for my daughter will be changing.’ Tóla speaks with his hand on the door and his back to me. ‘But as I will be at the prince’s residence, I can request that a message be passed on. Didn’t you say the wise woman is at Longwater today?’ Showing he has been listening.
‘She’d be going home this morning,’ I say, ‘if all’s well with the mother and child.’
‘Mm-hm. I’ll speak to you when I return, Gormán.’ And he’s gone.
Poor Cara. That’s what I’m thinking. She’ll be an unhappy young woman. What’s he going to do, ask for her to be locked up same as Bardán? Does he think the wild man’s going to snatch Cara away same as he did his own daughter? Merciful gods. What a mess.
‘Sort of story you wouldn’t believe,’ says Gormán. ‘Too strange to be true. That’s what folk would say.’
‘Mm.’
‘We never talked to him about it. When he came back. And he didn’t say a word. So this, now, the talk about his daughter being missing, it could be his memory coming back, only mixed up with what’s happened. With Cara, I mean.’
‘Could be.’
‘Not much we can do about it either way,’ Gormán says, like he’s washing his hands of the whole sorry tale. ‘Eat up. Better food here than you’re likely to get with Conn doing the cooking. Then you can start sorting out some bedding, making a better arrangement for yourself and the wild man. Looks like we’re stuck with you.’ Funny thing is, after everything – Tóla shaking Bardán, Bardán being tied up and thrown down in that cellar, Gormán going along with Tóla’s orders – now he’s sounding almost happy.
24
~Blackthorn~
The ride tired me more than it should have done. The persistent rain did nothing to improve my mood. Osgar came with me, leading the horses we had borrowed from the prince’s household. At the gates of Oran’s establishment we found someone to take the animals in. Since I didn’t fancy riding up behind Osgar the rest of the way, I took my leave of him then, promising to return to Longwater in a couple of days. He went off to see a friend in the settlement and I walked the rest of the way home across the fields, getting steadily wetter and crosser.
I should have been happy. Fann’s baby
had been delivered safely. Both mother and son were well enough to be left in the care of Ide and the other local women for now. I’d been farewelled with thanks and smiles and a bag of coppers that I could not refuse without causing offence. It was made plain to me that the entire populace of Longwater considered itself to be in my debt and would continue to do so more or less forever. There would certainly be further requests for my services as a healer. That made three settlements I’d be looking after, in addition to Prince Oran’s household and the folk on the scattered farms around the district. Plenty to do. Plenty to take my mind off Mathuin of Laois and what action might be taken against him with or without my being part of it. Plenty to divert me from the question of Conmael and why he had decided to disappear just when I needed him.
But right now I was a mass of contradictory feelings, none of them related to the good work I had done at Longwater. Strongest of all was the longing to be home, with a warm fire on the hearth and the one person there whom I could really talk to. Only he wasn’t home. I’d seen from halfway across the field path that the place was empty. No smoke from the chimney. No welcome barking from Ripple. The cottage looked forlorn under the rain, its door closed, its shutters pulled to. No large figure appearing to stand in the doorway, ready to welcome me. He’d chosen to stay up at Wolf Glen even though it was still too wet for building.
So, said a particularly savage inner voice, you get a day on your own. A day when you can be as prickly and cantankerous as you want. It’s not as if there’s nothing to do. You can start by making a fire and getting the place tidied up. If nobody comes knocking in search of your help, you can take the opportunity to make some notes in your book, brew some cures, catch up on sleep. He’ll be home by supper time. Since when were you the kind of woman who needed a man in the house to make her happy?
I did those things. The fire, the cleaning up, the cooking, the notes. Firstly, notes about the childbirth in Longwater and the exact proportions of the rather perilous draught I had made Fann drink. I would go through that with Emer next time she came. I did not expect her today; we had an agreement about very wet weather. At the back of my notebook I made some other, more secret notes, pertaining to Mathuin of Laois. I hid the book away, made a brew – often a good way of bringing Grim home – and stood by the window with the shutters open, sipping my drink and telling myself I was not watching out for him.