Nice dream. Pity that was all it was. There would be no getting away from Conmael and the promise he’d extracted from me. Besides, I’d last about a week on my own before the memories had me heading back to Laois with a knife in my hand. If my fey friend thought seven years were going to wipe Mathuin’s sins out of my mind, he underestimated the wrong the man had done me.
Emer had finished the job. ‘You’d best be off home now,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you out.’
By now the girl could read the signs. She knew when I’d had enough of her company, and went to get her cloak from the peg. Still upset about her runaway friend; her eyes were red. I couldn’t think of anything to say that would both comfort her and not be a lie, so I held my tongue.
‘Thank you, Mistress Blackthorn,’ Emer said, and was away down the path.
When she was gone, I went back in and shut the door. Made a brew; sat down at the table to drink it. The salve was for the fellow at Silverlake, the one who made the special cakes. It seemed he often had problems with his shoulders and wrists, no surprise with all that mixing. The baker hadn’t come to see me; he hadn’t called me to come over there. I’d got a message, brought by a boy, asking for the remedy. It went against my better judgement to provide it without taking a look at the patient. Chances were he needed not only the salve itself, but someone with strong and expert hands to massage it into his shoulders. And probably not just once, but often. Otherwise the pain would only keep getting worse. Men could be like that, thinking they were all better after one treatment and not bothering to keep it up. On the other hand, Silverlake was a fair way on foot, and I wasn’t over-eager to waste a day getting there and back. Especially when I hadn’t been asked to go. I set the salve on a shelf. If the man wanted it, let him come and fetch it.
Emer’s tale nagged at me as I made up the fire, swept the cottage floor, then went out into Dreamer’s Wood with my basket over my arm, looking for mushrooms. It stuck in my head like one of those tunes you hear once and then can’t forget even when you want to.
The wood had a restless feeling about it, as if unseen things were moving about in there. Maybe just the autumn wind; maybe creatures looking for shelter from the coming storm. Maybe Conmael and his kind moving between the leafless trees, hardly more visible than shadows. Grim didn’t trust the place; never wanted to stay in there long. Dreamer’s Wood didn’t bother me. Perhaps that was down to Conmael, who seemed keen that I should survive. Maybe, if I followed his rules, I’d stay safe. For seven years, at least. Which was better, to break free of the promise, to be my own mistress for as long as it took for me to destroy myself, which mightn’t be long at all, or to abide by the rules and live the next seven years – a bit less, now – doing what somebody else wanted? Was that really living, or was it being a coward?
16
~ORAN~
The day I gave her the book, Flidais was so quiet at supper that I thought the headache must be worse. When our guests spoke directly to her, she answered courteously enough but with as few words as possible. If this continued I would have to insist she seek expert help, however much she protested that she did not need it.
I did not tax her about the bestiary. The little book was probably safest in the library anyway, since the chamber was designed to keep such items in best condition, though the reading room I had made for Flidais would do equally well provided the door was not left open in wet weather.
After supper we mingled in the hall awhile before the fire. The druid had not yet arrived, but one of the lawmen had some talent as a storyteller. He was prevailed upon to entertain us with a tale – an amusing account of warring clurichauns – and I told one of my own invention, in which lovers were parted by fate, sought each other across all Erin, and found each other only when they were old and grey. The point of the tale being that true love never dies. Folk seemed to enjoy it, though Flidais had as little to say about my effort as about anything else. I drew the evening to a close somewhat early, telling my guests that as the next few days would be so busy, it was best if we all retired to sleep. I would see them at breakfast.
Donagan helped me undress, then bade me good night and retired to the anteroom where he slept. Bramble was down in the kitchen for the night; Brid had taken a fancy to her and provided a basket by the fire, which Donagan had said was a much more appropriate arrangement. I missed her.
With so much going through my mind, I did not expect a good night’s rest, but I slept soundly for an hour or two. I awoke with a start, in pitch darkness, to the knowledge that someone was in the room with me, standing in silence right beside my bed. I opened my mouth to call out – Donagan was not far away – and a soft, small hand came out to cover my lips. A moment later someone was lifting the covers, slipping into the bed beside me, whispering ‘Hush, Oran. It’s me, Flidais.’
I struggled to sit up, my heart pounding, my mind reeling with shock. Still half-asleep, I was slow to understand, though my senses were wide awake – beneath an enveloping cloak she had cast aside as she crept in, Flidais was wearing only a flimsy shift-like garment.
‘Lie down,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’
She must have come through the connecting door. ‘No, Flidais,’ I hissed, praying that Donagan had not woken up. ‘We can’t do this!’
‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll be wed soon, surely it’s all right. And nobody needs to know.’
It was wrong, all wrong. The prince of Dalriada did not anticipate his wedding night.
‘Flidais, you must go back. Right now. This is –’
She tensed, drawing away from me. ‘I thought – When you held me close, before, I was sure – don’t you want me, Oran?’ Her voice was shaky now.
‘Of course I want you.’ I wrapped my arms around her and drew her close. ‘I want you so badly it hurts. But . . .’ Oh gods! The silken touch of her skin, the delicious shiver her hands sent through me as she stroked my back, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, all combined to kill my further protests. I forced a few words out. ‘Flidais, who knows you are here?’
‘Only Mhairi. I will be gone before dawn.’
Then I really did sit up, dislodging her. ‘This cannot happen,’ I said, and my voice came out as a strangled croak, for my manhood was making itself painfully evident, and I feared I would soon have no control of the situation at all. ‘Not before we are hand-fasted. It’s – it’s – unseemly.’ Gods, what would she think of me? Unseemly? But my mother’s image was foremost in my mind, her eyes chilly with disapproval. Not of Flidais, who was young and inexperienced, and perhaps had little idea of the constraints faced by the only son of a king, but of me for not exercising princely self-control.
‘Hush,’ my sweetheart said, and stopped my words with a kiss. It was a kiss that continued for a long time, and ended with the two of us lying down once more, she atop me in a position that must have left her in no doubt at all of my immediate physical dilemma. ‘Nobody need know,’ she said. ‘Mhairi won’t tell.’
I opened my mouth to protest again, but her lips and tongue silenced my words. Her hands and warm body erased rational thought my mind. They wiped away the certainty that in the morning I would rue my lack of self-restraint. I surrendered, and let the morning take care of itself.
‘Your sweetheart is charming,’ my mother said, watching Flidais glide away down the hall.
Two nights had passed since Flidais had first crept into my bed, and it was the eve of the betrothal ceremony. The house was full. Today had seen the last of the distinguished guests settled in. There had been a magnificent supper of several courses, and entertainment by the musicians my parents had brought with them from court. The wedding cake had been on display, though it would not be cut and eaten until tomorrow night, after the ritual. It was a confection of towering proportions decorated with delicate flowers and foliage, all edible. Aunt Sochla had declared that she had never seen anyt
hing so impressive; the baker, she had said, must have magic in his hands. Branoc was not present to accept the compliments of the assembly; the man was reluctant to venture beyond his home village of Silverlake, or indeed to go much further than the doors of his bakery, so folk said. He had never attended my open councils; carters conveyed his creations to Winterfalls for us to enjoy.
‘Indeed,’ I said to Mother. My sweetheart looked every bit a princess tonight. She was wearing a violet gown and a deep pink over-tunic, with her dark hair caught up in a cunning jewelled net, and as she moved about the hall, stopping to exchange a few words with one group of visitors after another, she was the picture of a happy young woman about to be wed. My father was speaking to her now; I saw her dip a graceful curtsy, then respond with a slight flush in her cheeks, as if she found the prospect of a real king becoming her father-in-law both thrilling and a little daunting. She was doing well. Who would have thought that demure young woman had spent the last two nights in my bed? Who would imagine that I, the only son of a king, had allowed such a thing to happen, not once, but twice? It seemed to me the truth must be written all over my guilty face.
When Flidais had left me, some time before today’s dawn, I had told her it must not occur again. With Aunt Sochla here, not to speak of the large number of waiting women now accommodated in that part of the house, our behaviour could not fail to be noticed. We could not afford to have it become common knowledge. After that first night, Donagan had packed up his things and moved to the men’s quarters, telling me I could call for him if I needed him. He had offered no explanation, and I had not asked for one. That I deserved his disapproval did not make it hurt any less.
‘I’m delighted that you are marrying at last, Oran,’ said Aunt Sochla. I was seated between her and my mother. This was a little unsettling, since both had a habit of asking penetrating questions without warning. They reminded me of a pair of bright-eyed, sharp-beaked birds. ‘She’s a pretty girl, if rather slight in build,’ my aunt went on. ‘Nice manners. Happy?’
I opened my mouth and closed it again. Fortunately, my aunt was not looking at me, but across the crowd of chattering folk to Flidais, who was now speaking to my father’s chief councillor. If my intended could charm Feabhal, she could charm anyone. ‘Of course,’ I said, hoping the general level of noise would conceal any doubt in my tone.
‘No of course about it,’ said Aunt Sochla. ‘Arranged marriage, pair of strangers, a man would consider himself lucky if he found his bride tolerable in short doses, at least at such an early stage. What are her interests? Does she ride? Hunt? Hawk? Or is she the music and needlework kind of girl?’
I was again lost for words. Evidently, Mother had not shared the fact that Flidais and I had corresponded for some time before I’d agreed to marry her.
‘Sochla,’ put in my mother, rescuing me, ‘you can’t imagine Oran would choose a woman who loved blood sports. This is a soft-hearted young lady who enjoys music and poetry. Did you not see the portrait that so took my son’s fancy?’
‘Ah! The lap dog, how could I forget? And has Flidais brought her little treasure all the way from Laigin?’
My mother suppressed what might have been a snort of derision. Sisters they might be, and in agreement on many matters, but each was strong-willed and over the years of my growing up I had witnessed some monumental disputes.
‘She brought her dog, yes.’ I hesitated. ‘But she’s been having difficulties with Bramble since the unfortunate episode at Dreamer’s Pool. Snarling, snapping, a refusal to obey. It’s become intolerable for Flidais to have her close by.’
Aunt Sochla’s brows went up. ‘That does surprise me. I’ve never yet encountered a dog that could not be trained out of bad habits, even under the most challenging of circumstances. Where is the creature?’
‘Sochla,’ murmured my mother, ‘now is not the time for this.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said my aunt. ‘Have the dog brought to me in the morning, Oran. I’ll set it to rights.’
‘Thank you, Aunt,’ I said. ‘If you can spare the time, your help will be most welcome.’ I did not mention that, with me, Bramble was perfectly well behaved. Or that the little dog had become a favourite with all who worked in my kitchen. That would be to imply that the fault lay with Flidais.
‘I don’t suppose there’ll be a great deal for me to do as a chaperone,’ Aunt Sochla said, ‘since you are surely old enough to know how to behave. So you may as well make use of my services with the dog. The terriers I breed are much sought after as companions for ladies, largely because of their sweet temperament.’
‘Thank you, Aunt.’ It was true, Aunt Sochla’s residence was generally swarming with little dogs, and I could not remember any of them snapping, barking or leaving puddles in inconvenient spots. ‘Bramble is not to be taken outdoors without a leash. She’s been lost on the farm once already, and of course there are bigger dogs –’
‘Oran, don’t fuss. I know what I am doing. Tomorrow, after breakfast.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ I might have been ten years old again, and receiving a reprimand for daydreaming.
‘Flidais is so like her portrait.’ Mother patted my hand, adding to my feelings of inadequacy. ‘I’m becoming convinced that you have made a wise choice, Oran.’
That was the moment, I believe, when I first felt the pangs of true misgiving. Somehow, oddly, Flidais’s perfect demeanour tonight, her grace and apparent confidence, only served to emphasise the times when her behaviour had seemed odd. Words were on the tip of my tongue, words I could not speak: She looks like her portrait, yes. But this is not the woman I thought I would be marrying. That woman would have known Lucian’s Bestiary the moment she opened the cover. That woman would have received Bramble’s love and trust even in the most trying times. That woman would have loved and wanted me, yes. But she would never have crept into my bed before we were husband and wife. That I had allowed it to happen, that I had acquiesced to it was my shame. Even as I had enjoyed what she’d offered so generously, I had wondered at a certain lack of . . . of tenderness. Of gentleness. Of sweet words to accompany the pleasures of the body. Our coupling had not been as I might have expected. That had only added to my confusion.
‘Oran?’
I could not say it. It was already too late. I was complicit in what had taken place on those two nights; I was as guilty as Flidais. More so, in truth, because I was her senior, and I was a prince, and I should have known better. Now that I had lain with her, I must set my doubts aside. What basis had I for them, anyway, other than my disappointment that she was less than a perfect match for the woman of the letters? Maybe Donagan had been right; maybe a scribe had helped Flidais write them. Maybe half of Cloud Hill knew what a romantic fool I was.
‘The portrait is indeed a true likeness,’ I said.
After a moment, Mother said, ‘You seem a little weary, Oran. You’ve done well today. The preparations were faultless; the house and garden look wonderful.’
This was high praise indeed. A month or two earlier it would have pleased me greatly. Now I felt a cold weight inside me, made up of confusion and guilt and sheer exhaustion. I had not had much sleep for the last two nights. ‘Thank you, Mother. I will pass your kind remarks on to my people. Now, if you will excuse me, I’d best have a word with Master Oisin. He looks a little overwhelmed by so much company; I should rescue him.’
Master Oisin was the druid, come to enact the ritual. I had met him before. While some of his kind lived in forest communities, Oisin was of the wandering variety of druid, and passed through Winterfalls from time to time on his travels, staying a few nights and telling tales as recompense for our hospitality. We always housed him away from the main dwelling, understanding that although he enjoyed sitting at table for a good supper and sharing a story afterwards, he was most content in solitude. While the need to speak to him had been something of an excuse to escape the scrutiny of my fema
le relatives, I had observed how tired the druid looked as he stood near the hearth, listening politely while my father’s chief councillor held forth.
I made my way through the crowd, stopping as I went to nod and smile and accept the congratulations of a number of high-born folk who did not know me very well at all. My smiling face felt like a mask, tight and false.
‘Master Oisin. Feabhal. More mead?’
‘Your folk have not been slow to replenish our goblets, Prince Oran,’ Oisin said. He was a short, spare man with the look of a scholar. I knew, however, that he was accustomed to walking many miles a day, in all weathers. One would not think such a man, clad as he was in a plain grey robe, would stand out in tonight’s brilliant assembly. But the eye was drawn to Oisin. It was something in the serenity of his gaze and the unusual repose of his features. I wished he could lend me some of that peace. I longed to unburden myself to him, not here in the hall but in private, just the two of us. But how could I? How could I talk to a druid about my pathetic failure to deny my bodily lusts? How stupid I would sound if I told him of the picture I had built for myself of Flidais, and of my unrealistic expectation that she would perfectly match it in every particular. This was an arranged marriage. My bride was young, healthy, comely, high-born and well-mannered. Oisin would think me a naïve young fool, and he would not be wrong.