‘He did save my life.’
‘All the same.’
‘Well, if you want to stay in those wet things and nibble on the last dried-up mushroom for breakfast, fine with me. I’m going to risk the geis and the poisoned clothing spell. I’ve eaten Conmael’s food and worn his gifts before, and I still seem to be all right. Turn your back, Grim.’
‘He wouldn’t hurt you,’ Grim muttered as I stripped off the damp clothes and wriggled into the dry ones. But when it was his turn he put on the trousers and shirt and tunic and wrapped the warm cloak around himself, and everything fit as if made especially for him. That turned him very quiet. We shared the food without talking, saving some for the journey. It was only as we settled to sleep – it was not yet dawn – that Grim said, ‘I don’t like owing that fellow anything at all. He’ll want payment one way or another. His kind always do.’
But I was snuggled in my blanket on the dry grass, warm and comfortable, and I fell asleep before I could answer.
8
~GRIM~
Last part of the journey’s easier. We’ve got good food and warm clothes, and that helps keep our spirits up. Be happier if we’d earned those things with the work of our own hands. Heard too many tales about fey gifts and fey promises and how they turn a man’s life upside down. There can’t be good in it. Hard to weigh it up. A puzzle. Conmael saved Blackthorn from the executioner. That’s big. It’s big enough that I should forgive him plenty. But I don’t like him and I don’t trust him. His kind don’t think the way we do. They don’t have feelings, if the tales are true.
Anyway, he doesn’t come back, so we travel on without him. Lonelier country here in the north, mountains and lakes and dark forests. Not so many farms and not so many folk on the road. That suits the two of us. Some days we go from dawn to dusk with hardly a word spoken. Just walking on, stopping for a rest or a drink or a bite to eat, then walking on again. There’s a peace in it that has me wishing we’d never get to Winterfalls, but a day comes when we reach a crossroads with a marker. Letters scratched on a big stone slab, and arrows pointing off north and west.
‘Winterfalls,’ says Blackthorn, looking up the road to the north. It doesn’t surprise me that she can read. I reckon hers might be quite a story. She turns to look along the track to the west, leading to a soft woodland, all kinds of green. ‘Winterfalls,’ she says again. ‘Through Dreamer’s Wood.’
‘Which way?’ I ask. I can see the northern track is the main one – it’s broad and well kept and seems to run fairly straight. The path through Dreamer’s Wood is prettier. Looks like the kind of way that could lose itself quickly.
‘The northern one’s quicker, I’d guess,’ says Blackthorn. ‘But the cottage isn’t in the settlement of Winterfalls. It’s on the fringe of Dreamer’s Wood. That’s what Conmael said. So we’re going that way.’ She gives me a glance. ‘Looks as if we’re nearly there.’
I wait for her to say it: Thank you for helping me get here, Grim, now you can go your own way. But she doesn’t, just turns and heads off along the westward track. I hurry after her. If this place turns out to be a ruin, I’ll fix it up nice and neat. Mend the roof, dig new drains, put a good bolt on the door. See that the fire draws well, the shutters fit tight, the privy’s dug deep. Make it into a proper home.
We get closer to the wood and a funny feeling comes over me, the same as when that poxy Conmael and his cronies were around. I look at Blackthorn, but she’s walking on as usual, lost in her own thoughts. Probably thinking it’ll be good to stop moving at last. We’ve walked through the best part of summer. Soon those trees will be turning all colours, their leaves like a beautiful big fire. As red as that hair of hers. Seems like this might be the right sort of spot for her, funny feeling or not.
We reach the trees, all kinds, some I know the names of and some I’ve never seen before. Strikes me as odd how quiet it is in there. Even the birds aren’t chirping much, though it’s a sunny day. One step ahead, the path will be in shadow. And something tells me I don’t want to take that step.
‘What?’ says Blackthorn, but she’s stopped walking. We stand there looking ahead along the path into Dreamer’s Wood. Little branching foot track goes off on the right, just wide enough for one person to walk. You wouldn’t go that way with a horse and cart or a herd of cows. It’s a slow, up and down, in and out sort of track. Thing is, though, it doesn’t go through the wood, but around the edge of it, in sunlight. Might be the path to the cottage, might not. But if we follow it, sooner or later we’ll get there. That’s what I’m thinking, but I don’t say any of it. She’s the one in charge.
‘This way,’ Blackthorn says, backing up and taking the smaller path. ‘No need to go into the wood.’ Then, dropping her voice as if she thinks someone else might be listening, ‘Did you feel it?’
‘Felt something. Don’t know what it was.’
‘Mm. Well, let’s find this wretched cottage.’
We walk on a bit, and I hear birds singing in the fields, see them too, picking over the remains of a barley crop. But if there are birds in the wood, they’re staying quiet. Scared of the place, maybe, same as I am, though I’m not going to tell her that. Not much use as a minder if I fall into a jelly over something I can’t even see; something I can’t put a name to. Dreamer’s Wood. Wonder who the dreamer was and what happened to him?
‘Quiet in there,’ says Blackthorn.
‘Mm.’
‘Makes a change from that place. No shouting. Not even chirping. Peaceful.’
I don’t say anything.
‘The silence might take a bit of getting used to,’ she says.
I’m thinking the silence will keep me awake. Make more room in my head for the bad things. Need to work on that. Need to stay strong. ‘Anything’s better than Slammer,’ I say. Then I recall that Slammer’s dead, crushed under a broken wall with only his hand sticking out, and I wonder if he had a wife, children, a life outside that place, or if screaming at us was his whole life. I wonder what happened to make him so crazy.
We walk halfway around the wood and there’s the cottage, half-under a stand of willows.
‘Morrigan’s britches,’ mutters Blackthorn, stopping in her tracks. ‘What a wreck.’
But I’m not seeing a wreck, I’m seeing what the place could be with a bit of love and care and hard work. Patch the roof, mend the shutters, see to the drains, everything on my list and more.
‘Nothing that can’t be fixed,’ I say.
‘Of course,’ puts in Blackthorn, ‘Conmael’s folk would do it, if I asked them. It would probably only take a click of the fingers to set the whole place to rights.’
When I don’t answer, she takes a long look at me.
‘What do you think?’ she says, as if it matters.
‘Not up to me, is it? You’re the one Conmael wants to live here.’
‘All the same,’ says Blackthorn, ‘what do you think? What would you do if you were me?’ And when I still can’t find anything to say, she adds, ‘Come on, Grim.’
Trying to put myself in her head is enough to turn me dizzy. ‘You want to be on your own,’ I say, hoping I won’t disgrace myself by shedding tears. Big man like me, ridiculous. ‘After that place, that’s what you want most.’
‘Go on.’ Her face gives nothing away.
‘So the easiest thing would be to call Conmael and his folk, and ask to have the cottage fixed up and all the supplies you need laid on,’ I say. ‘You could lock the door behind you and keep out anyone you didn’t want.’
A silence. She’s waiting for me to say more. Getting the words out is like swimming in porridge. Feels like a test. ‘But if I was you, what I’d be wanting most was to do things for myself, without magic to make it easier. Mend the outside, fix up the inside. Make sure that well’s free of rubbish. Dig a garden, maybe get some chickens, take the time to explore and learn about thing
s. In that place of Mathuin’s, it was always other folk deciding things. Big things like you getting to have your hearing, and little things like the chance to take a piss without Slammer looking on and making comments. I know you’ve made a promise to Conmael, and there’s no changing that. But if I was you I wouldn’t be wanting any more favours from him and his folk. I’d be wanting to do things myself.’
Blackthorn smiles. When she smiles it’s like the sun suddenly comes out, when you’ve been thinking the day’s going to be all grey clouds. ‘I’ll be needing a bit of help,’ she says. ‘Only until the place is fixed up. Just so we’re clear. You’re right, I like being on my own.’
I see myself the way she might be seeing me: useful, since she’s hardly going to be climbing up on the roof to mend the thatch or lifting stones to fix those walls. Useful but sad, because I can’t hide how much I want to stay. To a stray dog, every crumb’s precious. ‘Mm-hm,’ I mumble, not trusting myself with words right now.
She’s studying the tumbledown dwelling. ‘A fire and a brew, I think,’ she says, ‘then we can see what needs doing. Come on.’
9
~ORAN~
The wait seemed endless. It mattered not the least that I had seen the maps, that I knew the distances. I understood that even if they changed horses every few miles and were favoured with exceptionally fine weather, Flidais’s party could not arrive at Winterfalls until some weeks after Father’s reply to Lord Cadhan reached its destination. It was a long ride. Flidais was a young lady, not a warrior. She would need to take her time over the journey, despite the urgency suggested by her father’s last communication. I knew I must be calm and wait. But I could not. I strode from place to place, from task to task, until Donagan took me aside, sat me down and suggested I should exercise better self-control.
‘If you keep on this way,’ my friend and servant said, ‘you know what will happen.’
‘What?’ I heard the edge in my voice, and moderated my tone. ‘I have no idea what you mean, Donagan.’
‘My guess is that someone will report back to the queen, and that your mother will descend on Winterfalls to check on your health. If she does not like what she sees, she may decide to change the plan. To receive Lady Flidais at court instead, or to move here and take charge of your household herself. The queen will not be impressed if she believes you . . . unhinged.’
‘Unhinged!’ I shouted, leaping to my feet. My gaze met that of the painted Flidais, whose sweet image had changed me forever. I saw in her eyes that she still loved me, but that she thought I was being just a little ridiculous. ‘I’m sorry,’ I made myself say. ‘It’s just so hard waiting. Everything’s ready, or will be, the house is prepared, the arrangements are progressing, and there’s nothing for me to do but stamp about the place getting in everyone’s way.’
‘How about a ride?’ Donagan said. ‘Perhaps as far as the wood, or further if you like. The weather’s good; we may as well make the most of it. We could go through the village, see how the local folk are faring. They like it when you do that. Unusual for a prince perhaps. But you’re not like other princes. That, no doubt, is why Lady Flidais warmed to you.’
Winterfalls settlement lay just beyond the southern boundaries of my home farm; the main road to Cahercorcan ran through the village. We rode there, just Donagan and me, thereby breaking my father’s rule about never going anywhere without at least two guards in attendance. As a man settled in his own household and soon to be wed, I considered it unnecessary to abide by such rules. Besides, both Donagan and I could hold our own in a fight, should it come to that. Not that the local people were likely to attack either of us, since we were long known to them as summer tenants of the royal residence. I had known since I was a child that the place would one day be my home and that these would be my people, since it was customary for the prince of Dalriada to live at Winterfalls from his marriage until such time as he became king.
I’d never been over-fond of formality – that was one reason I did not want Flidais to go to Cahercorcan, a place bound by etiquette, precedence and protocol – and I had made it my duty to get to know the folk of Winterfalls well, to understand their daily lives, their work, the things that were important to them. Sometimes that meant disregarding the rules for princely behaviour that other folk – my mother, for instance, or Feabhal – set such store in. I wanted to be as good a leader as I could be, and it seemed to me folk would not follow a leader who knew little of them.
That made our ride through the settlement slow-paced. Folk came out to greet us, to ask questions, to congratulate me on the forthcoming betrothal, for everyone knew Lady Flidais was on her way north. The women, in particular, seemed almost as excited about this as I was. Many expressed delight that the ritual was to take place here at Winterfalls, not at court. I realised I would need to arrange things so the folk of the settlement and the farms could be present, if not for the ceremony itself, then most certainly for the celebrations that would follow. A bonfire, I thought, and dancing. I spoke to Fraoch the smith, who was accustomed to exercising his well-muscled arms not only in the crafting of iron goods, but also in playing the bodhran at weddings, fairs and festival days. He knew which musicians were the most skilful and the most reliable; he knew which dances folk would like best for such an event. I spoke to Iobhar the brewer, Deaman the baker and Scannal the miller. Iobhar gave us mead, Deaman gave us a wheaten loaf, and Scannal asked me to have a word with his grandmother. She told me a wise woman had moved into the old cottage out by Dreamer’s Wood, and that folk said she’d a sour temper on her, but could give a body a cure for anything.
This was something of a surprise. The wise woman must be a very recent arrival, or someone in my own household would have made mention of her. There was a physician at Cahercorcan, of course, with several skilled assistants. But Cahercorcan was a good twenty miles away. There was no healer at Winterfalls, either in my own household or in the village. There had not been for a while. I remembered the cottage as damp and deserted, its previous inhabitant dead and gone so long ago that only the very oldest folk remembered her name.
We thanked the people for their gifts, wished them good day and rode on, letting our mounts have their heads once we were clear of the settlement. On our own we were not master and servant, but simply friends. The day was fair, the air clear, the sun warm. With my body stretched and my mind occupied, I felt at ease for the first time in many days.
‘Black Crow save us,’ remarked Donagan, pulling up his horse as we crested a rise some time later and looked down toward Dreamer’s Wood. ‘Someone’s wrought a minor miracle.’
I rode up beside him and saw that this was true, and that the someone was in plain view, tying down thatch on the refurbished roof of the old cottage. A big man. A very big man, moving about with the ease of a lad.
‘Who is that?’ I asked, not recognising the fellow.
‘I don’t know him,’ said Donagan. ‘Maybe this wise woman brought him with her. Whoever he is, he’s transformed the old place, from the looks of it.’
Without further discussion we rode down the hill and headed toward the cottage, which might almost have been an entirely new construction, so thoroughly had it been repaired. The work extended to the garden, where the crumbling dry-stone walls had been set to rights and the tangle of weeds cleared. A freshly dug patch of earth lay ready for winter vegetables. The pathway had been swept clean of leaves, and there were garments flapping on a line. As we approached, I saw a flash of red, and thought perhaps someone had slipped away under the trees behind the cottage.
The burly thatcher spotted us and made his way down his ladder. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. Nonetheless, by the time we had drawn up our horses on the path, there he was, feet apart, arms folded, waiting for us. The fellow stood head and shoulders above the tallest man I’d seen in my life. He had the look of a fighter, the head shaven, the nose crooked, the eyes small, the neck
and shoulders bullish. His was a face only a mother would think handsome. He said nothing at all, simply stared at the two of us.
I glanced at Donagan, and he dismounted.
‘Good day,’ my friend said. ‘My name is Donagan. This is Oran, Prince of Dalriada; I am his servant and companion. We heard the cottage was newly occupied. A healer, they’re saying in the village. A wise woman.’
The giant grunted in response. It could have meant yes, no, or Move away before I do you an injury.
‘Winterfalls is the personal holding of the Dalriadan heir,’ I said, feeling sure my most princely tone would fail to impress this person. ‘This cottage is in my gift.’ And when the man still failed to find words, I added carefully, ‘That means it’s up to me who lives in it.’
He stirred now. ‘What are you saying, that Blackthorn can’t stay here?’
‘My lord,’ muttered Donagan.
The giant gave him a look.
‘You address Prince Oran as my lord,’ Donagan said.
‘It’s all right, Donagan,’ I said. When facing a man who could probably kill me with a quick flick of the wrist, being addressed with proper respect seemed unimportant. ‘May I ask your name?’
‘Nobody’s stopping you,’ said the giant, shifting his feet a little.
Another silence.
‘May I speak with your mistress?’
The man’s jaw tightened. A pulse beat in his temple. ‘You mean Blackthorn? She’s off gathering herbs,’ he said. ‘My lord.’
‘Keep a civil tongue in your head,’ said Donagan, his tone icy. ‘You’re speaking to the prince of Dalriada.’