I made my way up the track toward the burial ground. There was time to get there and back before nightfall, though if Bramble kept stopping to investigate interesting smells under bushes, we might be running all the way home.
‘Come, Bramble!’
She trotted after me, tail held high, eyes bright: a different dog from the frightened, aggressive creature Flidais had brought into my house. Perhaps, when it was time for Aunt Sochla to go home, I should suggest she take Bramble with her. That would be kinder. And my aunt’s household always had room for one more.
‘But I would miss you,’ I said as the two of us climbed the rise, heading toward the little copse. ‘Who else would listen to my ramblings with such forbearance?’ Donagan could no longer be asked to do so. I felt very much alone.
Today should have been a triumph. The matter of Branoc had been troubling me; I had doubted my own ability to deal with it wisely and fairly. But everyone except Branoc himself had seemed well satisfied with both judgement and sentence. ‘Perhaps,’ I said to the little dog, ‘it’s the nature of his crime. In such a terrible matter, there can be no real resolution. Yes, he was found guilty, and he will pay a penalty. But what payment could truly compensate for what he did? He’s blighted the life of that young woman. All very well to haul a man up before a council and sentence him to debt-bondage. Tidy him away, as it were. But the young woman he wronged can’t be tidied away. She shouldn’t be, Bramble. The whole community should be brought to account for the way they misjudged her.’
Bramble had nothing to say on the matter, but as she looked up at me I imagined I saw understanding in her eyes.
I had said this, of course. I had made a statement at the council about the way we had all failed Ness, and how we needed to make sure such a thing never happened again. And folk had nodded and murmured and apparently agreed. ‘But the truth is,’ I told Bramble, ‘time passes, and people forget. And before we know it, another innocent is wronged, and another brave person steps up to tell folk something has gone awry, and we don’t listen. We don’t act until it’s almost too late. Humankind can be sorely lacking in wisdom and compassion, Bramble. Indeed, we can be blind fools.’
We reached the burial ground. Dusk was near and the air was bitterly cold. When I sat down on the bench, Bramble pressed close to my ankles, shivering. I scooped her up and held her in my arms, under my cloak.
The day had wearied me, and I found myself dreading the prospect of supper and the need to pretend before the guests that there was nothing amiss between Flidais and me. Her comments at the council, on the matter of Ness’s character, had only served to deepen my unease about the future. ‘She’ll be queen one day, Bramble. These folk look up to her. Or should. But I’m starting to wonder if she’ll ever be worthy of that. I don’t know if she has it in her to change.’
You are a coward, some part of me said. If that is what you truly believe, go and tell Flidais so. Tell her outright that her statements disturb you, that they are not in tune with the way you want to rule your people. Tell her that if she cannot change, you will not wed her. If you go ahead without taking any action, what follows will be on your own head.
‘I can’t,’ I murmured. ‘You know all the arguments, Bramble. Haven’t I been over them a hundred times? I should never have trusted in my dreams. Come, we’d best be going back while we can still see the path before our feet.’
But when I looked down, I saw that Bramble had fallen asleep on my knee, quickly and completely, as if she had not a care in the world. I did not want to rise and disturb her. She looked so perfect, her small form curled neatly save for one paw that was up against my chest as if to ensure I would not go away and leave her. As I sat holding her, with the light fading around me, I was reminded of the portrait. I remembered how I had felt on the day my mother had first shown it to me; it had been as if all my hopes for the future were contained in that one scrap of painted wood. At first glance I had been transported into a world of ancient story, a world where true love won out against all odds, a realm in which dreams and magic were as real as growing crops or settling disputes over drains. What had made it so remarkable? What had touched me to the core?
Flidais’s beauty had certainly played a part. But Flidais in the flesh was every bit as lovely as her painted image. The portrait was an excellent likeness. I desired my betrothed; that had been well and truly proven. But I could never love her as I had loved the woman in the portrait. I recalled the curve of her wrist as she supported the little dog; the graceful, tender position of her fingers against Bramble’s neck. The look of devotion in the dog’s eyes as she gazed up at her mistress. Most of all, the expression on Flidais’s face. I had seen sweetness, honesty, perhaps a little shyness. I had seen a dreamer like myself; I had seen a young woman who understood hope and magic and beauty. Surely no painter was clever enough to build so many lies into a portrait. When the image was created, neither the artist nor the subject had known anything about my character. There could have been no reason to work into that depiction everything that would most touch my heart.
The letters were a different matter, since Flidais had not written to me until she had received the first of my own missives. It was possible they had been crafted especially to please me. A skilful scribe might have conjured them from the excess of tender feelings I had been all too ready to pour out onto the page. But there had been that last missive, sent from a different household, with a different scribe. Besides, there was such poetic truth in the letters that they were hard to disbelieve. Or had been, before I consigned them to the fire.
The clouds parted to reveal the full moon, pale and perfect in the darkening sky. A shiver went through me, far deeper than simple cold. At such a moment, sitting by the graves of the departed, I found it easy to believe in spirits, in ghosts, in the magical and wondrous. It was easy to become, again, the man who had set such trust in ancient tales of love. I wish . . . I wish . . .
In my arms, Bramble stirred and the spell was broken. I got up and walked toward home. How dared I spend even a moment feeling sorry for myself? My misfortune was nothing alongside what had happened to young Ness. What sort of leader was I, to be so wrapped up in my own concerns? I remembered, somewhat to my shame, the time of waiting for Flidais to arrive. I had fussed about all manner of things. I could recall pressing Donagan on the matter of a woman’s confinement and what manner of assistance Flidais might prefer should we be blessed with a child. A child! The thought of her bearing my children, raising them and teaching them to think as she did made me feel sick. But she would. If I let matters take their natural course, she most certainly would.
I made my way down toward the house, cradling Bramble in my arms. Moonlight lay across the roof; lantern light shone out between the shutters. A pair of torches burned outside the entry. It must be close to supper time. I was glad the two lawmen had not yet departed; they and Aunt Sochla would be able to maintain a reasonable conversation while we ate.
I headed for the women’s quarters, thinking to pass Bramble over to one of the attendants. Against the odds, the little dog was still sleeping. I wandered into the garden I had made for Flidais, beyond the door of her reading room. I had chosen each plant with care, using what I had learned from my lady’s letters. I had supervised everything from the curve of the path to the shape of the pond to the choice of stones for the wall, a barrier designed to make the place safe for Bramble. I stood there quietly for a little, knowing I must go indoors before folk came looking for me, yet finding myself unable to move on. In this tranquil spot the dream still lived. It was present in the warmth of the dog in my arms; in the perfection of the garden; in the aching of my wounded heart.
Deep down, I knew something was wrong. Something more than a woman whose letters had not given a true picture of her character. Something more than an arranged marriage whose parties had proved to be ill-matched. Something a great deal stranger. And if I did not examine it,
if I did not search as hard as I could for answers, how could I expect a future based on truth, honesty and courage? If I gave up now, I had surely never been worthy of the dream.
I could not deal with this myself. But how could I expect anyone else to investigate a matter that was so private? Besides, the problem was . . . nebulous. When I’d tried to explain it to Donagan, even he had expressed the view that I was imagining things.
But . . . after today, after the council, it seemed maybe there was someone who could help. Someone good at solving puzzles, someone brave enough to tackle the most baffling mystery. Someone wise enough not to dismiss the truth of old tales.
‘She might refuse, of course,’ I murmured to Bramble. ‘She might think me a complete fool, and I suspect she would not hesitate to say so to my face. But I can ask.’ Somewhere inside me there awoke a tiny, flickering flame of hope.
26
~GRIM~
Day after the council, it’s cold but dry. Got no jobs on hand for anyone. I’m thinking I can put in a good day on the cottage, maybe find someone to help me get the roof beams up. Blackthorn’s not saying much. Spent the night muttering and cursing in her dreams. Sooner I can get the house weatherproof, sooner we can move back in. Fraoch’s place is comfortable enough and they’re good people. But Blackthorn can’t live long among folk.
We haven’t talked about the council much. Big day. Lot to take in. Too much to get my head around. Full of surprises. Hard to believe, but the judgement was fair. Didn’t think that happened anywhere. Didn’t think they’d listen to us, but they did.
I’m putting together a few things before I head off for the day, and Blackthorn says she’s coming with me. So I wait while she gets her basket and a knife, and Ornait packs up some food for us. Fraoch’s taking Emer back over to Silverlake to give Ness the news. He offers us a lift on the cart and we say no, we’ll walk.
We get as far as Iobhar’s brewery, where I’m planning to stop in and see if the lads are free to help. But before I can do that, up rides the prince’s man, Donagan. He says good morning and tells us Prince Oran wants to talk to us, now. What about, he doesn’t say. That’s a worry. Did we get something wrong without knowing? I don’t want to go, and I’m sure Blackthorn doesn’t. But you don’t say no to a prince. Not even one who seems like he might be a good man.
Blackthorn says what I’m not saying. ‘Can’t this wait? We need to put in a day at the cottage while the weather’s dry.’
Donagan gives her a look, and she stares right back at him.
‘Roof won’t mend itself,’ I say. ‘Want to be back in there as soon as we can.’
‘If it’ll help,’ Donagan says, ‘Niall can send a couple of our fellows across to give you a hand. But later, after you’ve spoken with the prince.’ And even though he’s the serving man, he’s got enough of that princely way about him to stop me from arguing. Maybe this won’t take too long. Whatever it is.
Blackthorn’s hugging her shawl around herself. She’s worried. After the council, seemed things might be good for a while. But if we’ve learned anything from the past, her and me, it’s this: good things don’t last. Soon as you think they might be here to stay, someone takes them away again. Freedom. Trust. Family. Love. All those and more.
‘I’ve got work to do,’ Blackthorn says. ‘Herbs to gather. Cures to prepare. Folk to tend to.’ Though I know she was planning to spend the whole day at the cottage, where she can gather the herbs but not do the other things. What she wants is not to have to talk to anyone for a while.
‘When the prince summons you to a meeting,’ says Donagan, and he’s trying hard not to snap, I hear it, ‘it’s usual to attend without question.’
‘Ah,’ says Blackthorn. ‘But we’re new to these parts. What’s usual for your folk doesn’t come naturally to us.’ He’s made her angry. ‘I don’t like doing things without question. Why does Prince Oran want to see us?’
‘In part, to thank you for your contribution yesterday.’
‘No need to do that twice over.’
Donagan’s holding on to his temper by a thread. ‘Prince Oran also has a private matter to discuss with you. It is you in particular, Blackthorn, whom he wishes to talk to. It’s not essential that Grim comes with you.’
A private matter. That’d be some kind of sickness, like poxy Branoc and his sore shoulders. Compared with the council, it should be easy. And Donagan’s right, Blackthorn doesn’t need me trailing along getting in the way. I open my mouth to say, I’ll be heading off, then.
‘Grim comes with me,’ Blackthorn says. ‘And since we’ve got a day’s work to do afterwards, we’d best go now.’
It’s not like yesterday, when we went in the big gates with the crowd and there were guards everywhere. This time Donagan takes us down a long side path and in through a farm gate. There’s a few folk working in the fields, over the far side. Some cows turn their heads and have a look at us. Donagan leads his horse and we walk alongside. We’re headed away from the prince’s house, up a hill toward some birch trees. They look spindly and cold without their leaves. Puts me on edge, a bit. Keep expecting Slammer and his cronies to jump out of the bushes and slap us in shackles. Fact that Slammer’s dead makes no difference; there’s plenty more like him around.
‘What is this?’ I ask. ‘Where are you taking us?’
Before Donagan can answer, there’s the prince himself, coming out from under the trees and walking down the track to meet us with that little dog at his heels. He thanks Donagan, and Donagan gets on his horse and rides off back the way we came. Really is a private meeting; as private as it can be, just Prince Oran and the two of us, if you don’t count the dog. Must’ve decided he can trust us. That was quick.
‘Thank you for coming,’ the prince says. ‘I know you both have work to do, not only your daily work but rebuilding the cottage as well.’
I give him a nod. Blackthorn makes a sound meaning, Yes, we’re busy, so get on with it.
‘Your help at the council, and your courage and wisdom in the matter of Branoc’s crimes, were invaluable,’ he says. ‘Please know that I appreciate your contribution deeply.’
One thing I do know. You don’t take folk to an out-of-the-way spot like this just to say thank you. Especially when you’ve already thanked them the day before. For a bit nobody says anything, then the prince clears his throat. He’s looking down, scuffing his shoe on the path. Nervous. Can’t think why.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ he says.
‘Ask it, then,’ says Blackthorn. Sounding edgy now.
‘It’s a little difficult,’ says the prince. ‘You may think it sounds foolish.’
We wait.
‘I need your help to solve a mystery. Something that has been troubling me for some time; something whose answer I cannot work out for myself. A dilemma I cannot take to anyone else.’
‘Why not?’ I ask. Blackthorn’s got enough to worry about without some prince dumping his problems on her shoulders.
‘Because anyone else would tell me I’m imagining things.’
From the way he says this, I guess he’s told someone the story already and got the answer that it’s rubbish. Though who says that to a prince, when he could lock them up if he wanted and throw away the key?
‘And you think I wouldn’t?’ says Blackthorn.
‘You seem . . . open to possibilities,’ the prince says. ‘You are a wise woman. That means – I understand it to mean that you see things differently from other folk. That you believe in the power of stories. That perhaps you do not dismiss the existence of . . . of the Other.’
He means the fey. Or maybe magic. I think of Conmael, but I don’t say the fellow’s been wandering around in Dreamer’s Wood. I don’t tell the prince one of the fey was at his council. Chances are Blackthorn and me were the only folk who could see him anyway.
‘Perhaps we could si
t down somewhere.’ Blackthorn looks around. There’s a bench under the birches, beside the path. She sits at one end and the prince sits at the other. The dog jumps up on his knee. I lean on a tree trunk, close enough to hear but not too close. The prince is all knotted up with worry. Might be easier for him to talk if he can pretend it’s just him and her.
‘This is . . . private. Absolutely confidential. You understand?’
‘Mm-hm,’ says Blackthorn.
Maybe the prince has done something he shouldn’t and picked up a nasty ailment. Doesn’t want to pass it on to his new bride once they’re wed. Awkward for him to come out with. Still, it would take a lot to make Blackthorn blush.
‘It concerns Lady Flidais,’ the prince says, lowering his voice, though there are only the three of us here. ‘This is indeed difficult . . . I hardly . . .’
‘I know how to keep secrets,’ says Blackthorn. ‘Even the most sensitive ones. If you want someone who can hold her counsel, you could do worse than choose a wise woman.’
Oran takes in a big breath and lets it out again like a sigh. ‘The lady . . . she is afflicted by severe headaches. Crippling headaches that come without warning. They prevent her from pursuing many activities she formerly enjoyed such as . . . such as reading and writing.’
Blackthorn’s looking at him, waiting for more. After a while she says, ‘You didn’t bring the two of us up here to talk about your lady’s headaches. I don’t need to be clever at solving puzzles to work that out. If the problem concerned Lady Flidais’s health, you’d have invited me into your house to talk to her.’
‘Lady Flidais does not . . .’
‘Before I can offer a solution, a remedy, I must first examine a patient. Speak with her in person,’ Blackthorn says. ‘If Lady Flidais doesn’t care to make use of my services, why don’t you send for one of the royal physicians? Cahercorcan is not so very far away.’