She burst into tears, and through the sobbing I could hear a catalogue of wrongs: the long ride from the south, the drowning of her maid, wretched Bramble turning against her, Aunt Sochla who had stolen the dog’s affections, Donagan eaten up by jealousy and always getting in the way. Why was I being so harsh with her? She had been doing her best.
I stood there while she raved and wept. I kept my counsel. She expected me to bend and bow, to give in to her. She thought me the kind of man who would surrender, every time, to her tears. And if not tears, then to her other weapon, the one she liked to surprise me with. But not this time.
‘You’d best compose yourself before your women return,’ I said. ‘Unless, that is, you plan to regale them with our personal business. You do know, I hope, how inappropriate that would be. Speak to Aunt Sochla about a women’s meeting. She’ll help you arrange it. Now I’ll leave you; I have work to attend to.’
She muttered something as I went out, but I did not catch it. I did not go to my council chamber to finish dealing with the correspondence. I went, instead, to my own quarters, where I sat down at my desk and contemplated the ribbon-bound bundle that was Flidais’s letters. My heart was racing; my palms were sweaty. I carried the letters to the small fire that burned on the hearth, keeping the chamber warm for me all day. A luxury; the privilege of a prince. But privilege was balanced, always, by responsibility. I considered the long years of my future, and wondered if I would feel like this every single day: as if my heart had been shredded. Or would the pain subside as I grew older and my dreams faded to nothing?
I slipped the letters from the ribbon and, one by one, consigned them to the flames.
23
~GRIM~
Long night on guard up at the bakery. Not on my own, at least. Couple of the fellows from Silverlake keep me company. Feeling a bit guilty, most likely, since the girl was right there in the village and nobody spotted anything wrong. We make a little fire to keep out the ghosts. Long, long night. Plenty of time to think about what I could have done, run a bit faster, yelled a bit louder, tried a bit harder to get to Branoc before he lost himself in the woods. Bad that he’s still out there somewhere. Means he could do the same thing to some other girl.
Next day, we keep going, Blackthorn and me, though she hasn’t slept either. She’s been sitting up with Ness. Girl’s wrung out as thin as an old rag by everything that’s happened to her. We leave the village women looking after her and head on back to Winterfalls. We drop the horses off, pick up Emer from the smith’s, give her the good news – good and bad, to tell the truth, but at least Ness is alive, and she’s safe now – and go on to the prince’s place.
Blackthorn’s angry and it shows. Think she expects Prince Oran to do the sort of thing Mathuin would do, say it’s only a village girl and she got what was coming to her, then send us packing. So, when he listens and takes it all in and says sorry, she’s on the back foot. Not for long; she makes it plain she’ll be watching, making sure he keeps on doing the right thing. Fellow strikes me as trustworthy. Reckon I can tell pretty quick. Seems to me he’s trying to do good, and sometimes struggling with it. Got a sad look about him.
After that we walk Emer to the smithy and Fraoch gives us a slap-up meal, ale and all. By the time we’re heading home, Blackthorn and me are just about asleep on our feet. Which is why we don’t think too much about the smell of smoke or where it might be coming from until we’re over the rise. That’s when we see our house is on fire.
Then there’s the drumbeat of my running feet, the wheezy bellows of my breath. And the smoke rising, the smell of burning thatch, burning wood, everything going up in flames. Blackthorn somewhere behind me.
A long run, chest hurting, heart going crazy, and I’m there. Hard to get in close, it’s so hot. I reach the well, drop the bucket down, haul it up. Can’t see Blackthorn for the smoke. I run and throw the water on, run back to pull up another bucketful. Fire’s got too much of a hold but I keep on anyway. The place is all flickering light, flying sparks and straw from the roof. Another bucket, another one, another . . . Can’t breathe. Bend over, hands on my knees.
Lot of noise, flames roaring, things falling down. And screaming. A woman screaming. Blackthorn. Didn’t think my heart could go any quicker but it does. Gallops like a spooked horse.
I’m nearly blind in the smoke. I stumble around, shouting out her name, thinking she’s in there and burning. The screaming goes on, and there are words in it but I can’t catch them. One thing I can see is the path under my feet, so I follow that and nearly crash into her. She doesn’t even see me. She’s beating at the flames with her cloak, making embers jump all around her, onto her hair, onto her clothes, and what she’s calling out is two names, over and over. Her voice is a deep-down rasping sob. Puts a pain in my chest to hear it.
‘Cass! Brennan! No, no! Cass! Brennan!’
She’s not here, she’s in some other place, some other time, and if I don’t do something it won’t only be the house that goes up, it’ll be her with it. I grab hold of her and haul her out of harm’s way. For a bit she fights me, still shouting, ‘Cass! Brennan!’ Then all of a sudden she crumples down onto the path with her hands over her face. Her voice goes to a whisper. ‘Cass. Brennan.’
I kneel down and wrap my arms around her. She’s shaking like she’s got a palsy, rocking to and fro, clutching at her hair, fighting something that’s all in her own head. With the house ablaze in front of us, I hold on to her as she sobs. I tell her it’s all right, it’s over now. We’re alive and we can go on. We’ve got through worse, I say, wondering if that’s really true for her. She’s crying and I’m crying with her. Our house is gone. All gone.
What makes me look up I don’t know. Blackthorn’s quieter now, but the fire’s still roaring away, so I can’t have heard him. But I lift my head, with her still in my arms, and I spot him under the trees, the bastard, watching us with an evil look on his face. Thought before that this couldn’t be an accident. Now I know it’s not.
‘Got something to do,’ I murmur, and I unhook Blackthorn’s hands, which are clutching on to my shirt as if she’s drowning. I stand up. This time he’s not getting away. ‘Won’t be long.’
Branoc backs off into Dreamer’s Wood, and I go after him, not roaring and charging this time, but moving fast all the same. My head fills up with red thoughts. What he did to that little girl. What he’s done to our house. What he’s just done to my strong, fearless lady. I’ll wrench the sorry baker in half. I’ll smash his poxy head in. I’ll hold him under the water, let him up for a breath, hold him down again. Keep it up until the last little spark’s snuffed out.
I stalk him through the wood. I’m big, but I know how to walk quiet. The baker’s not running. Gone to ground somewhere. Knows if he moves out from cover I’ll take him. I don’t like leaving Blackthorn on her own, not when she’s in that state. But Branoc’s got my mark on him.
Funny thing is, the wood doesn’t scare me right now, though it’s eerie with the smoke drifting past and the light from the burning house moving over everything, red, gold, yellow. I stay on the path where I can be quieter. I check for good hiding spots. Waiting for him to panic and move out. I remember how I felt the first time I came in here, and wonder if he’s feeling the same. Decide to find out.
‘Branoc!’ I call out in the deepest, scariest voice I can find. ‘I’m coming to get you! I’m coming to rip off your arms and then your legs and then your head, and feed what’s left of you to the monster of Dreamer’s Pool!’
There’s a little movement out there that might be only a squirrel or might be him. I look in that direction but it’s all shadows. Then the fire lends a hand. There’s a big crash behind me as if a roof beam’s come down, and there’s a bright flare-up, and I spot him huddled in some bushes under a spreading elder tree.
The roar comes out of me then, and I charge, and he’s got no hope of getting away. I g
rab him by the neck, lift him off the ground, scream right into his poxy, good-for-nothing face. ‘You godforsaken mongrel cur! You worm-ridden woman-hating apology for a man! I’m going to peel off your skin inch by inch and watch you squirm! I’m going to bash your head against this tree until your brains turn to porridge!’
He answers by soiling himself, making a stink that’s not at all to my liking. I tighten my grip, his face goes purple, I shake him a bit, and through the red haze that’s filling me up I hear Blackthorn’s voice, hoarse as a bullfrog’s. She must be standing right behind me.
‘Grim. No. Justice, remember? You’ve got to give him justice.’
I make some kind of sound, sort of a growl. Can’t seem to slacken my grip on the fellow.
‘Rope,’ says Blackthorn, and here she is beside me with the coil in her hands. It’s been in my bag since we went off to Silverlake yesterday. ‘Tie him up, take him in. If you kill him now, he can’t answer at the council. He can’t be questioned about the miller’s death. He can’t be punished under the law.’
‘Bastard doesn’t deserve to live one moment longer,’ I say, but I’m shifting my hold to Branoc’s arms, and Blackthorn’s reaching in with the rope. We tie his wrists behind his back. The rope’s long enough to do his ankles too. No running away this time. Anyway, the fight’s gone out of him. I pick him up and sling him over my shoulder, and we walk back out to our house, which is four stone walls with a heap of burning rubble inside.
We’re not on our own anymore. Me and Blackthorn and that evildoer Branoc have been joined by what looks like half of Winterfalls village. People are hauling up water, passing buckets along, dousing the last of the fire. That fellow Donagan is there, and some guards, and horses. I don’t need to say much at all. The guards take Branoc from me, throw him over a horse and lead him away.
Blackthorn’s sitting on the dry-stone wall with everyone moving around her, and a look in her eyes that says Cass and Brennan are only a finger’s-breadth away. Folk are speaking to her and she’s taking no heed at all. It’s like she’s blind and deaf. I find Donagan, tap him on the shoulder, make sure he’s listening.
‘Branoc. What happens to him?’
Donagan doesn’t take offence, which is just as well since I’m not in the kindest mood. ‘He’ll be kept in confinement. Within the prince’s residence. There are many guards; he won’t escape, I promise you. At the next open council he’ll be called to account for his actions. Prince Oran will hear everyone’s story of what happened. He’ll arbitrate. That includes deciding on an appropriate punishment.’
I make some kind of noise meaning all right, and glance over at Blackthorn, who hasn’t moved. I can tell her, at least, that the bastard will face justice. Donagan’s looking at me, and I think he’s got some understanding of what’s going through my head, so I say, quiet-like, ‘Wanted to kill him, that’s the truth. Came close to it. She said no. Justice, she said, you’ve got to give him justice.’
‘She was right.’
‘Thing is, her and me, we haven’t always seen justice done. Being a chieftain, being a prince, that doesn’t always mean a man’s wise or fair.’
‘On matters of this kind, Prince Oran is both,’ Donagan says, sounding as if he believes it. ‘Be assured that he will make a just decision.’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘Your house,’ Donagan goes on. ‘You’ll need somewhere to live while it’s rebuilt. If nobody can accommodate you in Winterfalls village, I am certain Prince Oran will wish to offer you a place within his own residence for as long as you need it. He was impressed by what you did yesterday, the two of you. Am I right in thinking Branoc may be responsible for this fire as well as the girl’s abduction and her father’s death? It seems improbable, otherwise, that he would have come so close to your house. Common sense would have seen him putting as many miles between himself and the scene of his offences as he could.’
‘Vengeance,’ I say, nodding. ‘We take his woman, as he sees it, and he torches our house. Lucky we weren’t in it at the time.’
‘Lucky indeed.’ Donagan takes a look at the broken and charred thing that was our home. ‘But unlucky too; I know how hard you worked on the place.’
‘I’ll fix it up.’ In the back of my head is wretched Conmael – where was he while the house he sent us to was burning to the ground? I bet he could have used his magic to make it rain, or to turn the flames into butterflies or falling leaves. But he didn’t. And I bet he could make the house new again, the way it was before, with all our things in it, even. If he popped up right now and offered, I’d say, Bit late, aren’t you? Forget helping, I’ll do it myself.
‘A lot of work,’ says Donagan. ‘Prince Oran will provide building supplies. The season won’t be on your side.’
‘Thank you. Won’t refuse supplies if you can spare them. I can do the work.’ Seems to me a good idea to accept what’s offered before Blackthorn gets the chance to say no.
That’s when Fraoch comes up and says there’s room for Blackthorn and me to sleep at the smithy because Emer’s staying over at Silverlake to look after her friend. Then Scannal’s here offering to bring his horses and cart in the morning to help clear the rubble, and Iobhar says he can send a couple of the lads from the brewery to do some of the heavy jobs, and Deaman tells me he’s got some lengths of good oak that I can have in return for some work later on. The woman from the weaving workshop – Luach, that’s her name – says she’ll look out some blankets and clothing from her stores, and we’re not to think about paying for them. At some point Blackthorn gets up and comes over, quiet as a mouse, to stand beside me listening, or I think she’s listening, but she’s so still it feels as if she’s not really there.
What I want, and what I know she’d want, is for the two of us to stay here by Dreamer’s Wood. We could sleep in the outhouse. Cook over a campfire, wash in cold water, live the way we did on the road. Staying in Winterfalls, among folk, that’s going to be hard for both of us, her more than me. But I see the sense in it. Season’s well into the dark now, sure to be storms, gales, bucketing rain. And there’s lots of folk wanting to help us. Doesn’t feel right to say no to them. Besides, how can Blackthorn go on being a healer if she’s out here with nothing but the clothes on her back?
I don’t ask her and she doesn’t say what she thinks either way. When everyone heads off to the village, we just go with them. Fraoch feeds us again, then he has to get back to his work. His mother gives us blankets and clothing and shows us where everything is. We settle into a little chamber off the yard. It’s where Emer sleeps when she’s home, with another sister who’s been moved out to make room for us.
Blackthorn’s worrying me. She’s hardly said a word. Got that faraway look about her, as if the smallest thing might break her in pieces. I put the blankets on the two pallets, smooth them out, sit down on mine. Remember that it’s a long time since we got any sleep. She sits down on the other bed. Looks over at me. Her face is white, her eyes are red, her hair’s straggling all over the place. Reminds me of when we were locked up together. Outside, people are moving around, doing things, and it’s still afternoon. Feels like a hundred years since we went over to Branoc’s bakery and found the girl, and it’s only been one day.
‘Look at us,’ she says.
‘Way I see it, we’ve got a roof over our heads. Folk wanting to help. And that bastard’s shut up where he can’t hurt anyone else.’
She’s got her hands twisted up together, tight as tight. ‘Grim. I was shouting, wasn’t I? When . . .’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘What was I saying?’
I wonder if I should say, nothing much. Kinder, maybe. But what she wants is the truth. ‘You were calling out, Cass, Brennan, no! Over and over. Right next to me, only you weren’t seeing me.’ I don’t ask who Cass and Brennan are, or were. I don’t ask anything at all.
‘Sleep,’ she mutters, a
nd lies down on her pallet, pulling the blanket up over her.
I’m all aches and pains, and sleep sounds good, so I do the same. Might not drop off for a while, though. Head’s got a lot churning around in it. Old stuff, new stuff. Good stuff, bad stuff. Wish I was better at forgetting.
Blackthorn’s lying still and quiet. Be good if she slept through till tomorrow. Hurts to see her looking that way, as if she’s lost a fight. As if she’s . . . lost.
The light fades; it’s evening outside. I’m falling asleep when Blackthorn starts talking.
‘Are you still awake, Grim?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘I can’t do it. The seven years. I can’t let Mathuin go on doing what he does. It’s all very well to catch Branoc and bring him to justice. Mathuin’s crimes are ten times worse than Branoc’s. A hundred times worse. Who’s going to bring him to justice, unless I do?’
I’ve got nothing to say to this. Nothing that’ll comfort her, nothing that’s any use. Hate it when she’s sad. Hate it when I can’t help.
‘Cass,’ she says, just over a whisper. ‘My man. Brennan, my baby. Burned, burned to ashes. Nothing in all the world can pay for what Mathuin did to them. Nothing.’
I roll over and see she’s sitting up now, with the blanket hugged around her. ‘A fire,’ I say.
‘His men torched the house. I was down the other end of the settlement, tending to an old woman. I ran back, but I was too slow. By the time I got there it was well alight. I could hear them inside, oh gods, they were still alive, I could have saved them, I could . . . But Mathuin’s guards had blocked the doors. They were stopping people from putting water on the fire. I tried to get in, I tried, but folk pulled me back. They didn’t understand.’