‘Farewell, Oran,’ Flidais said, and for a moment she laid both her hands against my chest, over my heart, which must surely be beating as violently as poor Bramble’s had done. ‘I will be better in time for the betrothal. I promise.’ She turned and headed up the path to the house.
‘Do you wish me to despatch that letter?’ Donagan asked as he and I walked back to the main entry.
‘To my mother?’ He must have seen it lying on my desk. ‘I am not sure whether to send it. The lady is unwell; she assures me she will be recovered in time for the betrothal, but I am in some doubt. If the ritual is to be delayed a while, I need to advise my parents as soon as possible.’
‘A while. How long?’
‘I don’t know. A few days.’ My tone was less than courteous, and I made myself take a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. Leave the letter for now. I’ll think about it over breakfast.’
He looked at me, and in his gaze I saw what he was not prepared to say: For a man who’s about to be married, you seem more than a little on edge, Oran. What he did say was, ‘You want my advice? Take control. Tell everyone what’s going to happen and stick to the plan, whatever it is.’
‘Like a prince?’
‘Like the prince you are, my friend.’
After breakfast I gathered my household together as Donagan had suggested. I congratulated my folk on their hard work and praised their forbearance in a time of significant change. Nobody was in any doubt as to the challenges presented by the royal visit – that the king and queen were my parents made no difference. Winterfalls would be crammed with folk, and they’d all need to be well looked after. It would, I suspected, be particularly trying for people who were used to running an establishment with minimal interference to find their house full of someone else’s serving folk, who would inevitably bring their own ideas on how everything should be organised, and who might not take kindly to direction from, say, Aedan or Eochu.
‘My lord,’ said Aedan, ‘what about the next open council? Will you be delaying that until everything returns to normal?’
‘I don’t think we need delay it,’ I said. The councils were held at full moon, which gave us nearly twenty days until the next one. The open gatherings were important; they gave all who lived on my land the opportunity to bring their problems to me and to be heard. We held them in the main hall at Winterfalls and they were always attended by a great number of folk, some of whom, I was fairly sure, came only to catch up on the latest gossip.
Attendances had increased markedly since we’d started serving refreshments when the formal part of the proceedings was over. The settlement of Silverlake had a baker of exceptional skill. Branoc, a man born and raised in Armorica, did not bother with everyday loaves, but specialised solely in cakes. His creations were small miracles of the pastry cook’s art. In my mother’s opinion, such masterpieces were wasted on the ordinary folk who attended my councils, and the provision of them was yet another example of my being too soft in my dealings with such people. I disagreed. The refreshments allowed time for everyone to mingle and chat, to discuss openly the issues that had arisen and to come to terms with my decisions. This helped maintain a healthy, happy community. The quality of Branoc’s cakes ensured good attendances. I had tried to explain this to my mother, but she had simply thrown up her hands with a sigh, as if my ways were beyond understanding. ‘And we’ll hold the following council as planned,’ I told Aedan, ‘even though that will be very close to the hand-fasting. When Flidais and I return from court, we could have a celebration for everyone, with a bonfire, feasting and dancing.’
‘The travelling folk may be camped in these parts by then,’ said Niall, my farmer. ‘There are some fine musicians among them; you could ask them to play, my lord.’
‘And buy a couple of fine yearlings while you’re about it,’ put in Eochu.
‘Can we send a message south to wherever the travelling folk are likely to be now, letting them know they’re invited to the festivities? And yes, Eochu, I will most certainly consider the purchase of some horses, though you’d best take a look at what they have first and advise me.’
Eochu gave a nod, pleased to be asked.
‘We’ll get word to them one way or another,’ Niall said. ‘When they come is up to them, of course. The travellers keep their own time.’
The travellers were horse-traders, musicians, makers of fine craftwork, storytellers. In the summers they camped in the south while their young horses fattened and grew strong. They’d head for the horse fairs in autumn, and most years they’d come far enough north to spend time at Winterfalls. My stable owed its best horseflesh to the travelling folk. Though, of course, Eochu’s eye for a fine breeding animal also played its part.
‘My lord,’ said my head cook, Brid, ‘how is Lady Flidais? We’re very much hoping she’ll be well enough to come out for her meals soon, and perhaps make herself known to us in the kitchens. I want to be sure everything we provide for the visitors is to her taste.’
‘Thank you for the good wishes, Brid. My lady is improving, yes.’ Flidais’s responsibilities as my wife would include dealing with Brid and her helpers on matters of cookery and kitchen supplies. Brid would be wanting to get some idea of my lady’s tastes and her manner of dealing with the household folk, since Winterfalls had been managing itself capably without a mistress since before my father became king. I hesitated. ‘I had thought perhaps to delay the betrothal by a few days in view of her current indisposition. But I will not make that decision until tomorrow morning. We should be ready for everything to go ahead as planned. I know I can rely on you all.’
The letter to my mother lay on my writing table all day. I did not change the wording, and I did not despatch it. There was no further sign of Flidais. I told myself that since Aunt Sochla had not yet arrived to carry out the duties of chaperone, it was more seemly that my lady remained closeted away, uncomfortable though her absence made me.
With Donagan by my side I spent the rest of the day inspecting everything: the kitchen, the sleeping quarters we had arranged for our visitors and for their army of serving people, the stables where extra stalls had been prepared for the influx of additional mounts. I met the young men from the district who had come in to work as assistant grooms or gardeners, and the young women who would be helping out in the kitchen or around the house.
I had a word with the men who had ridden north as guards to Flidais’s party. Their situation was awkward. My father had a sizeable complement of men-at-arms at Cahercorcan, which was appropriate to the monarch’s court. As heir to the Dalriadan throne I was expected to maintain a substantial force of my own, but in practice I kept it to the minimum required. My guards were well trained and well led by Lochlan; there were enough of them to deal with most situations. I knew, as did my household, that if a major territorial dispute should arise, such as that currently faced by Flidais’s father, the arrangements would have to change.
I faced a difficulty now. The men of Flidais’s escort had expected to return to Cloud Hill when my lady no longer required their services. If Cadhan was under threat from Mathuin of Laois he probably needed every fighting man he could get. But I could not send such a small body of fighters straight back into what might, by the time they got there, have developed into a full-scale conflict. On the other hand, there was no real work for them at Winterfalls. Our region was peaceful; we had allies to the south and west, and the sea to the north and east. My father’s court with its established fighting force was only twenty miles away.
For now, I thanked the Cloud Hill men-at-arms once again for looking after my lady so well on the long journey north, and told them they should stay in Dalriada at least until the hand-fasting. After that they could make the choice to ride back to Cloud Hill or, if they wished, stay on over the winter in my household or my father’s and add their strength to that of our forces. I told them I was sure it would make Lady Flidais happy to
have some familiar faces among those protecting her and her new household. They should consider themselves off duty until the betrothal took place. After that they could report to Lochlan, who would assign them responsibilities as he did for our regular guards.
The long day came to an end. Flidais did not appear at supper time. I sent a message with one of her women, wishing her good night and saying I had missed her. Then, with a heavy heart, I retired to my chamber, certain that my first task in the morning would be to postpone the betrothal.
I slept poorly; even with a tapestry hanging over the connecting door, I could hear Bramble barking in the women’s quarters, and at a certain point there came a sound that might have been weeping. And my body, my treacherous body, was stirred by memories of those fleeting touches, her arm slipped through mine, her hands resting against my heart. How could I wait two whole months for her, how could I bear these exquisite, painful feelings? How did other men manage? There was nobody I could talk to; Donagan, close as he was to me, would surely laugh if I confided my difficulty. I could wait. Of course I could wait. I was a prince. Let that not be Flidais weeping through there; let her not be regretting ever agreeing to marry me. Oh, if only I could tap on that door, and be admitted, and fold her in my arms with words of comfort, with soft kisses and tenderness. It would be so easy. I ached to do it. Instead I lay restless and wakeful, my manly parts in a shameful state of arousal, and waited for the dawn.
13
~BLACKTHORN~
It was odd, the way folk wanted to tell me all their troubles. It wasn’t as if I ever gave them the slightest encouragement. Mostly I answered with a grunt or an mm-hm. Sometimes, as with the lovesick lads and girls, I dispensed down-to-earth advice, not wanting to see them undone by their own foolishness. A girl – Becca, her name was – came to me one day asking for a potion that would make a certain young man adore her to the exclusion of all others. It was a ridiculous idea, and I told her so. Explained how silly it was to believe that a spell, even a good one, could conjure the sort of love that would last a lifetime. Added that a young woman of fifteen or sixteen should be making something of herself before she even started to think about finding a man.
Becca had brought a friend with her. Many of the girls came in pairs, being a little scared of dealing with me alone. As I explained the differences between friendship, desire and love, I noticed the friend casting her eye over my supply of herbs and spices, my equipment for making distillations and decoctions, oils and salves, without saying a word. It was only when Becca had had enough of my lecture and expressed a wish to leave that the other girl, Emer, started asking questions, and good questions they were, about my methods and my materials and how a person might learn to become a healer. To my surprise, I found myself inviting her to come back some time – I did not say without Becca but she understood. Not that one sensible girl would make up for a whole village of silly ones, but it would be a start.
After that, Emer would drop in to the cottage every now and then, when her duties at the weaver’s workshop allowed it, and undertake such tasks as I had for her. She learned quickly and did not waste time in gossip, which suited me well. Indeed, sometimes she seemed a little too quiet, as if something might be preying on her mind. I did not ask what was wrong. Chances were that would lead to another request for help, and I’d had more than enough of those already.
Emer might be quiet by nature, but everyone else in these parts was the opposite. I’d never known such folk for talking. As the autumn drew on and the mornings became misty, as mushrooms sprang up under the oaks and the leaves began to fall, I could have kept Grim entertained for hours every night with what I learned about the residents of Winterfalls, though in fact I passed on only the most interesting snippets. In return he brought me his share of the local gossip, which wasn’t much, Grim being a man of few words and all of them carefully chosen. We understood each other’s need for silence. We knew that the tales we told served a purpose. They filled up the spaces in the mind that would otherwise be open to the bad things, the memories we wanted gone. But sometimes a body needed to sit quiet and simply listen to the wind and the rain and the birds.
The longer we stayed at Winterfalls, the harder it became to find those quiet times. A steady stream of folk visited the cottage for remedies or for treatment of one kind or another, and often enough I was called away, since some patients could not be brought to me. One day it was a heavily built farmer felled by a sprained ankle. Another day, a whole family afflicted by a vomiting and purging sickness. And, inevitably, I was called to bring new life into the world and see the old leave it.
I was summoned one afternoon to an old woman lying alone and helpless in her tiny dwelling. When I got to the house, to be ushered in by the neighbour who had sent for me, I found the old one lying on her pallet staring out the window, and I guessed she was hoping Black Crow would come soon and not drag things out. The crone was labouring to breathe, but she wanted to talk, and since there was little else I could do for her, I sat by her pallet and listened. She told me a story about a princess shut up in a tower by an evil mage. At least, that was how the story began, but it grew strange and complicated, and eventually she seemed to lose the thread of it, fixing me with her gaze and whispering, ‘We all take our own ways. We all make our own choices, for good or ill.’
No kinsfolk had come to this bedside – perhaps she had none, or maybe they were scattered far and did not know she had seen her last sunrise. No druid had spoken final blessings; no friend was present to hold her hand as she passed through the gateway. Only me, a stranger. And although this was a duty wise women often performed, I wondered if I’d lost any fitness I’d ever had for such a task.
‘I hope you are content with your choices,’ I said, thinking that if I lived so long – unlikely – I’d probably die just as lonely a death as hers, or maybe even lonelier, since at least she had me, even if I was a wretched thing eaten up by anger and bitterness.
The rheumy old eyes gazed into mine, and I wondered if what she saw there made her sad or shocked or merely tired. ‘Now you tell . . . story,’ she whispered.
I could hardly refuse, since this, too, was a duty wise women were expected to perform. As she struggled from one breath to the next, I felt the leaden weight of the past settle on my shoulders, and instead of a tale that would be comforting and uplifting, all I could think of was the story of a woman who was robbed of her treasure, the thing she loved more than life itself; a woman who’d once had some good in her, some gift for making folk’s lives better, but who’d been turned into a twisted, furious weapon of vengeance. Right now, a blunted, useless weapon, thanks to wretched Conmael. ‘I can’t,’ I told her. ‘The story that’s in me is too sad. Too angry. Wrong for now.’
The ghost of a chuckle came from the dry old lips, soon turning into a wheezing battle to catch her breath. I helped her into a sitting position, my arm supporting her back. She was a bag of bones with the foulest breath I’d ever smelled, though not the worst stink; that description was reserved for Mathuin’s hellhole.
‘Some use you are to the dying,’ the crone rasped. ‘Call yourself a wise woman, and you can’t even tell a story to send me on my way? Holly, now, she knew a whole forest of tales. A whole fishing net of them. A whole starry sky of them.’
‘There’s only one in my head right now,’ I said, ‘and it’s not fit for sharing.’ And then I thought, no, there was another, not the kind she wanted, probably, but a tale all the same. ‘Ah; I have one. It’s about a girl who was riding to her wedding and stopped for a swim in a spot where she shouldn’t have.’
The old woman settled against my arm, trapping me where I was and making me feel a bit like a mother telling her child a bedtime story. Which was wrong, all wrong.
‘Her name was Lady Flidais from Cloud Hill, and she was riding north to marry the prince of Dalriada.’
I embroidered the tale a bit, had to, since I knew ver
y little about the personages involved in the true story. I made Flidais a less than kindly young woman, given to ordering her women about on a whim. I made the dead girl, Ciar, a simple soul, ready to obey the most ridiculous commands such as to strip off and join her mistress in the forest pool, even though they were almost at their destination after days and days of riding, and there was a crowd of men-at-arms with them, and . . . well, there were many reasons why this had not been the wisest of ideas. I told of the drowning and its aftermath; Flidais being tended to by the local wise woman, Ciar’s body being conveyed away for burial, at least I assumed so, and Prince Oran riding up and whisking everyone off to his stronghold – as a prince in a story is expected to do – leaving behind bags of largesse for the underlings. It wasn’t much of a story. It lacked the element of learning that exists in the most satisfying tales. And most likely it wasn’t finished yet. Who knew what the ending might be?
‘Pigs,’ the old woman said when at last I fell silent. ‘Something about pigs.’
‘What about them?’
‘Old story, Holly used to tell it. About that pool. Pigs.’
‘Who is Holly?’ It was a wise woman’s name.
‘Lived there once. Long time ago. Dead now. Dead and forgotten.’
I eased the old woman back onto her pillows, then moved so I could see her face. But she had closed her eyes now, and I could not read her expression. The skin was sunken on the bone, making her face a pattern of white and grey, and her breath rasped like a stick run along wattles. ‘Was Holly the wise woman at Dreamer’s Wood? Did she live in the cottage there?’