‘You’re a fountain of knowledge, Grim,’ she says, and almost smiles. ‘How long do you think it will take to get to Dalriada?’
‘No hurry, is there?’ We’ve been managing all right, what with fishing and trapping and her knack for boiling up handfuls of weeds and making something tasty out of them. The way-bread’s running low, but she seems to think that fellow, Conmael, might provide more if we need it. Seen nothing of him so far, and I’ll be happy if it stays that way. Never did trust the fey. More trouble than they’re worth, tricky and meddlesome. Mind you, he did get her out, and for that reason I can’t hate him. But because of Strangler and the others, it’s hard not to.
Blackthorn’s thinking. There’s a little crease between her brows. ‘I suppose not. And life on the road surely beats what we had before. Still, I’d like to get on. The nights are only going to grow colder, and our supplies are limited.’
‘I can get you a cloak. Good boots. Just say the word.’
‘I’ll manage with what I have,’ she says. ‘Not that I haven’t stolen in the past to keep body and soul together, once or twice, but we won’t do it if we need not. Maybe I’ll find some work as we go.’ She thinks a bit more. ‘The trouble is, I’ve forgotten the ways of ordinary folk, Grim. Forgotten how to say the right things, play the right part. Conmael seemed to think I could slip right back into being a village healer. But I’m not sure I can. Part of me has turned wild, and another part’s turned dark as endless night, and I’m not going to change back just because someone says I must.’
Dark as endless night? Her? Seems like being shut up in that place has made her blind to herself. And even out here in the open, with good things all around, she’s still in the shadows. ‘Give it time,’ I say. ‘Another reason not to rush, maybe.’
‘I’d like to get there before autumn. He said the cottage was run-down. It would make sense to attend to that before the storms set in.’
‘We’ll be there in time.’
She gives me one of her looks, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. ‘You sound so certain.’
I don’t have any answer to that. Inside, certain is just what I’m not.
A few days later, we’re coming along a track between grazing fields when we hear shouting and screaming up ahead. Blackthorn looks at me; I look at her. Whatever this is, it’s trouble, and we don’t want it. But before we can work out a short cut that’ll take us around the spot, a lad comes in sight. He’s sprinting toward us as if a monster’s on his tail. Face a nasty shade of green. ‘Help!’ he wheezes. ‘The cart – Fergus – trapped –’
I’m back in the cells, hearing Strangler’s voice from the ruins, thinking how useless my help turned out to be. And I’m back in the other place, the place I can’t get out of my head, no matter how hard I try. I’m fighting, I’m falling, I’m wondering how a god who’s supposed to be merciful can stand by and watch this. I want to shrink down and hide. I want to be invisible. But I’m out here in the open, and Blackthorn’s right next to me, and there’s no getting away.
‘Help us, please!’ gasps the lad, pulling on my sleeve. ‘The farm – too far – Fergus . . .’
We go back with him, running. When we get there it’s a sorry sight, a cart overturned, sacks of grain spilled everywhere, and a man pinned underneath. He’s alive, at least; he’s groaning in pain, and in my head it’s Strangler all over again. Folk are trying to free the horse, and more folk are trying to lift the cart at the same time, and everyone’s in everyone else’s way.
Blackthorn and I don’t need to talk, don’t even need to look at each other. I pass her the knife, she snaps out a couple of orders and cuts the harness away. Once the horse is free, I squat down and get my shoulders under the back of the cart.
‘When I give the word, slide him out quickly and carefully,’ Blackthorn says to the other fellows. ‘Wait until I say, or you’ll do him more damage. Ready, Grim?’
I grunt a yes, then lift. Needs to be high enough for the wheel to come off the ground, with enough room for them to pull the fellow out clean. ‘Now,’ says Blackthorn. Sliding, scraping, a yell from the man as they move him. I hold until she says, ‘He’s out, Grim,’ then I set the thing down again.
Blackthorn said she’d forgotten how to act around ordinary people, but she does just fine. Tells them she’s a healer; takes a good look at the man and says he’s got a leg broke and maybe ribs too. Makes a splint with sticks and kerchiefs. Talks to the fellow quietly while she puts it on, gets him calmed down. Snarls at a woman who’s panicking, shuts her up quick.
I break down a gate to make a stretcher. One of the fellows helps me lift the injured man on – he screams – and we walk him to the farm. Folk are looking at me a bit oddly, but not saying much. Blackthorn’s not being talkative either. Still, when we get there she gives more orders, and folk run about fetching what she needs. I stay close, but I make sure I’m not in her way. This fellow, the one with the broken leg, is the farmer, Fergus, and the woman who was making all the noise is his wife.
The splint Blackthorn made comes off and she puts on a better one. I get another job: holding the leg in position while she binds the thing right so the bone will mend straight. Fergus’s wife gives him some strong drink beforehand, which helps a bit, but not enough to keep him still while we get everything lined up the way it should be. A couple of fellows help. Fergus’s screams run right through me. It’s hard to hold firm, keep my eyes open, swallow down the dark.
‘All right?’ mutters Blackthorn, sparing me a glance as she wraps her bandage around leg and splint. Some tricky twists and ties there; not sure how she’s doing it, but I can see it’s tight and strong. Seems like she hasn’t forgotten much.
‘Mm.’ Has to be all right. It’s not me lying there wondering if my leg will ever be good enough to let me farm again. And she needs me; that helps.
‘Good. Well done, Fergus, nearly there.’ My guess is, that’s the hard part for her, saying words of comfort, being gentle. The other part, ordering folk around, taking charge, fixing things, that seems to come easy enough.
When the leg’s done she gets Fergus sitting up and puts a strapping around his chest. Rib broken, she thinks. Settles him to rest, propped on pillows. Tells the woman how to make up a draught for the pain, and how long to leave the splint on for. Orders Fergus not to do any work until then, if he wants to be able to use his leg again. Says it all in a rush, as if she doesn’t want to give them time for questions.
She doesn’t need me anymore. I go outside, find a spot where nobody’s in sight, and bring up my breakfast under a bush. Can’t seem to stop. I’m still retching even when there’s only spit and bile left to come. When I’m done at last, my eyes are streaming, my chest’s heaving and my mouth tastes like a cesspit. Funny, that. You could say I saved one today, or helped save him, and that evens the score. But it doesn’t. I could save ten, twenty, fifty, and it wouldn’t make up for Strangler lying dead in the woods, and Poxy and Dribbles butchered on the road, left there like pieces of meat for me to stumble over after Mathuin’s men had done their foul work. That’s a part of the story Blackthorn’s never going to hear. Strangler’s buried in those woods, a stone’s throw from the lockup, and the other two I laid to rest in a quiet field with a nice big willow for shade. But I’ve got them all on my back, and the others from long ago. It’s like a scale that can never balance. A weight that’ll never lift.
I find the well, draw up a bucket, splash my face and take a drink, hoping the foul taste will go. And here she is beside me, bag on her back, staff in her hand.
‘We’re moving on,’ she says.
Fergus’s wife said something about food and drink before, but I don’t mention this. ‘All right. I’ll get my things.’
I fetch them, and Fergus’s wife gives me a little bag. ‘Some provisions, since your woman won’t take any payment. Would have liked her to stay on a night or two, seei
ng as he’s so poorly. But I didn’t ask; she said you two have to move on.’
‘That’s right.’ I put the little bag into my pack. ‘Heading north.’
‘Good luck to you,’ the woman says. ‘You saved my husband’s life today. I can’t believe what you did. Lifting that cart all by yourself – that’s a feat beyond any ordinary man.’
Nothing to say to that. I shoulder my pack and pick up my staff.
‘Sure you don’t want work here?’ An older man, perhaps her father, comes to the door behind her. ‘Strong fellow like you, you’d be welcome. With Fergus laid low, we could do with the help.’ A pause. ‘And there’s no healer between here and Maedan’s Bridge.’
I shake my head. ‘Got to be moving on,’ I say. I wonder if they’d be so keen to keep us if they knew where we’d just come from.
‘Good luck to you, then,’ says the man. ‘Long way to go?’
‘Long enough.’
We walk on in silence. Blackthorn’s in a hurry. She keeps looking over her shoulder as if she wants to set space between us and the farm as fast as she can. It’s only when we’re away from the fields and up into some scrubby woods that she slows down and draws breath. I don’t ask questions. A lot later, when we stop for a rest by a stream, she says, ‘I saw that woman giving you something.’
‘Mm-hm.’ I fish the little bag out of my pack, open it and find a purse of coppers, which from folk like them is a lot. And there’s a slab of bread and cheese, wrapped in a cloth. I pass the purse to Blackthorn and divide the food in two.
‘Keep them,’ she says, handing the coppers back. ‘It’s your reward, not mine.’
‘Ours,’ I say, giving her a share of the bread and cheese.
She opens her mouth to make a sharp remark – I see this in her eyes – and shuts it again without a word. We eat in silence. I tuck the purse back into my pack.
‘Next market we pass, I’ll buy you a kerchief.’
Blackthorn’s got nothing to say to this. Instead she asks, ‘Why were you sick? After everything we’ve seen, what could be so hard about watching a man get his leg splinted?’
‘Got eyes in the back of your head, have you?’ It comes out as a growl, and it shuts her up, at least for now. One thing’s sure: the story of Strangler and the others is going to stay where it belongs, deep down where nobody can hear it. Nothing will hurt her. Nothing will harm her. I’ll hold to that if it kills me.
6
~ORAN~
I was with Donagan in the yard when my father’s messenger came to Winterfalls. Knowing he would not send a rider in haste unless the matter was urgent, I told my companion to continue the task in hand, which was to check on the progress of the stable extension. I sent the messenger off to the kitchens for refreshment, and took myself into the house to read the missive in my private quarters, alone. It could not be a death, a grave illness, a serious accident; news of that kind would not come in writing, nor would it be delivered by anyone but a senior councillor.
I sought to identify the cause of my churning belly and thumping heart, and deduced that I was terrified Flidais’s father had gone back on his word and decided to marry his treasured daughter to another, despite our families agreeing to the match. With Father’s letter in my hands, still sealed, I bade myself behave like the prince I was and not some foolish youth. I looked at the picture hanging above my bed, and the calm eyes of my beloved gazed back at me as if to say, Do not fear, Oran. All will be well. I opened the letter.
There were the usual preliminaries; those I scanned quickly. Ah! Here was the meat of the message. It threw me into a whirl, for it was nothing I had expected, news that was indeed urgent, but not in the way I had dreaded.
The disturbances in the south-west have now become such a threat, my father wrote – or rather, his scribe wrote for him – that Lord Cadhan fears for his daughter’s safety. He requests that you do not travel to Cloud Hill to meet Lady Flidais as planned. Instead, he suggests that the lady should ride north to us more or less immediately, accompanied by her attendants and an escort of men-at-arms. Lord Cadhan believes his holdings may come under direct attack. His wife wishes to stay by his side and support him through what may well become a significant conflict. Oran, I do not know whether his reading of the situation is accurate. However, I must offer Lady Flidais the sanctuary of our home. Since Cadhan and I have reached agreement on the terms of your marriage, your mother believes my reply to him should include the suggestion that the formal betrothal take place as soon as Lady Flidais has recovered from her journey. This should send a strong message to Cadhan’s enemies that he has friends in high places, though, in truth, both distance and my existing alliances make it unlikely I could provide much in the way of practical support to him in this matter. The king of Laigin is overlord to both Cadhan and his troublesome neighbour; it is for him, not me, to intervene in their dispute should that become necessary. But this betrothal will, at least, reassure Cadhan that his daughter is safe and that her future remains secure.
Custom requires two turnings of the moon to pass between the betrothal and the hand-fasting. Allowing for the significant time it will take Lady Flidais’s party to ride to Dalriada, you should still be able to have Winterfalls refurbished to your satisfaction before your bride moves there – she would, of course, be with us at Cahercorcan until the hand-fasting. It seems unlikely Lord Cadhan and his wife will be present for the occasion of their daughter’s wedding, which is unfortunate, but I see no other alternative.
Please attend court immediately, as arrangements must now be made in some haste. In particular, a response to Lord Cadhan’s message must be despatched within a day, and as you have proved stubborn on other aspects of this marriage, I want us to be in complete agreement as to that message’s content. I will expect you tomorrow.
My father’s signature sprawled across the page above his scribe’s neat rendering of his name: Ruairi, King of Dalriada. King first, father second, always. One day I would be king. And Flidais would be my queen. If we had children, I hoped I would make time to listen to their hopes and fears, share with them my love of poetry, teach them the secret ways of wild creatures, let them follow their dreams. But perhaps, when I became king, all those things would be lost to me. Perhaps, the moment I donned the crown, I would cease to be the man Flidais had agreed to wed and turn into a younger version of my father.
A tap at the door, and Donagan let himself in.
‘Something wrong?’ my body servant asked.
‘Not exactly. Here.’ I passed him the letter. Donagan was no ordinary serving man. He had been with me as companion and attendant since we were twelve years old. His father was one of my father’s councillors; his mother was one of my mother’s personal attendants. We had shared an education, both in book learning and in sports and games; we had done everything together. I trusted him more than anyone.
I could not seem to gather my scattered thoughts. While he stood there reading, I paced the bedchamber, picking up small objects and setting them down, folding my arms and unfolding them. I thought of Flidais in peril, Flidais undertaking a long journey on which she might at any time be attacked by her father’s enemies, Flidais coming here under circumstances more likely to make her tearful than joyful. What woman would want to be betrothed without her parents present at the ritual? What woman wanted to be sent off to her marriage in fear and haste? Could our letters, tender and honest as they were, really be sufficient to make up for my failure to visit her, to meet her in the flesh and talk to her before she left home?
On the other hand, this crisis meant I would see her soon, and that filled my heart with a sensation like sunlight, like gold, like a warm bright fire. She was coming here! I imagined the betrothal at Cahercorcan, seat of the Dalriadan kingship. The cavernous hall; the shadowy corners; my father’s advisers lined up in their formal robes; my mother taking charge of everything, including poor Flidais. Then
I imagined the ceremony as it might be at Winterfalls. Outside, perhaps, in the garden on a sunny day. Only our trusted attendants would be present. I would pick flowers for Flidais to wear in her hair. Bramble would wear a little garland around her neck.
Donagan cleared his throat and I came back abruptly to the here and now.
‘How serious do you think it is?’ my companion asked, rolling the missive and setting it down on my writing table. ‘The conflict in the south?’
‘If it were very serious,’ I said, still pacing, ‘I imagine Father’s tone would be different. But it must be serious enough, if Cadhan wants to send his daughter away. One thing I do know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The betrothal won’t be at Cahercorcan, and nor will the hand-fasting. Flidais is not the kind of woman who enjoys grand formal occasions, lavish feasts, complicated entertainments. I’m quite sure of that. Her party can ride direct to Winterfalls. We’ll have both events here, as well as the waiting period in between. Provided Cadhan doesn’t send an army of folk, we should have room for all of them. If we require additional serving people I will throw myself on Mother’s mercy.’
Donagan gave me a familiar look. While he did not say it, I knew he was thinking, Your imagination is running away with you, Oran. ‘You’ll want your own family to be present for the hand-fasting,’ he said.
‘In fact, I’d be delighted if they absented themselves entirely. It would be so much easier. But yes, my parents must be there, of course; I can hardly deprive them of the opportunity to see their only son wed at last. As for the aunts and uncles, the cousins, the nephews and nieces, the court officials, the hangers-on, if they want to ride here for the event, I won’t turn them away.’
Donagan went on looking at me, not offering anything.
‘What?’ I used my most princely tone, the one that sent servants scurrying. It had no effect whatever on my friend.