‘If I may make a suggestion,’ he said, giving me his half-smile.
‘You’ll do so anyway, I have no doubt.’ I heard myself sounding like a spoiled child – perhaps, when Donagan had first come to live with me, I had indeed been one – and added more mildly, ‘Please do. But remember, Flidais hasn’t grown up in a king’s court; her father is a local chieftain. She’s a woman who likes solitary walks, poetry, music, quiet conversation.’
‘I know that very well, Oran. You’ve spoken about nothing but the lady since we moved to Winterfalls. As that was well before midsummer, I believe I’ve been hearing her praises sung for nearly two turnings of the moon. My suggestion does not relate to Lady Flidais’s preferences, but to how you might best present this to your father.’
‘I’m listening.’ I studied Flidais’s picture while Donagan talked, wondering how well Bramble tolerated going on horseback.
‘Offer a compromise: ask for the formal betrothal to take place here, but agree that the hand-fasting should be at court.’ When I made to interrupt, he raised a hand. ‘Hear me out, please. You’re the future king of Dalriada. You must be wed at court; it’s expected, and nobody is going to listen to your protestations about Lady Flidais’s sensitive nature. I’d be surprised if your future wife weren’t expecting a ceremony befitting her new status. And who knows, if this territorial dispute dies down soon her parents may even be able to travel in time to attend. They would most certainly expect the hand-fasting to be at Cahercorcan.’
‘Is that it?’
‘You should approach this with subtlety, Oran. Don’t let your feelings overwhelm your sense of what is appropriate.’
‘Appropriate? You must know my mother would take charge of the whole thing, bully Flidais into agreeing with whatever she wanted, make this into a grand spectacle.’
‘I believe that is what most mothers do when their sons marry. And you are an only son.’
‘Don’t laugh at me, Donagan. This is important to me.’
He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I know. But I do believe you have a better chance of convincing your father if you approach this in a spirit of calm compromise. You might use this argument . . .’
The following day, I sat with my father in the royal council chamber and presented my case. Not alone, sadly; my father had six councillors, and all of them were present. Over the years I had come to view these advisers as more hindrance than help. Decisions were made far more quickly and easily in their absence. Here at Cahercorcan, the trappings of nobility sometimes strangled one’s capacity for rational thought.
‘Father, I hope you will consider that Lady Flidais has not grown up at a king’s court, and may at first be overawed by the scale and formality of Cahercorcan. Not only that – she will travel from her home under circumstances quite different from those she expected: in haste, in fear of attack, and without her parents to accompany her, though I imagine there will be a chaperone, perhaps a kinswoman, as well as other attendants. Flidais’s letters show her to be a young woman of some sensitivity. I believe accommodating her and her party in the smaller, quieter household of Winterfalls would be a far kinder choice. And it would mean Flidais came straight to what will be her new home. We would, of course, travel together to Cahercorcan for the hand-fasting when the time came.’
On reflection I had seen the wisdom in Donagan’s arguments. Provided Flidais had time for rest and recovery at Winterfalls for those two months, she would cope with the stuffiness of my father’s court for the hand-fasting ritual and subsequent celebration. I would support her; I would make sure my mother did not bully her.
Father scratched his beard, then glanced at his chief councillor, Feabhal. ‘There’s a question of propriety,’ he said.
‘Indeed, my lord.’ Feabhal fastened his chilly gaze on me. ‘Prince Oran, housing the young lady under your roof before the two of you are hand-fasted might be seen in some quarters as . . . unseemly. Inappropriate. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I’m not sure I do, Feabhal.’ I made sure my own gaze was steady. ‘If you are suggesting my behaviour would be anything but perfectly seemly, you offend both me and Lady Flidais. Winterfalls is a spacious residence. The lady will have her own private quarters; they are even now being prepared. And if she does not bring a chaperone, no doubt the queen can find any number of aunts or cousins to do the job of safeguarding her virtue. If that is what you mean.’
Feabhal cleared his throat, but did not speak.
‘Nobody would dream of suggesting you would act anything but correctly, Prince Oran,’ said one of the other councillors quickly. ‘It’s more a matter of what folk might think.’
‘Let them think what they will. A virtuous man is beyond gossip.’ I found myself on the brink of laughter, and forced my features into an appropriately princely expression. ‘Father, the territorial dispute faced by Lord Cadhan – did he provide details?’
‘Some. Why do you ask?’ I had my father’s full attention at last.
‘Cloud Hill lies in the far north of Laigin, does it not? On the border with Mide, which is ruled by one of our own kin.’
‘Distant kin,’ my father said. ‘But yes, Lorcan is a family connection of sorts. That particular area of the border has seen many disputes over the years. Raids, challenges, petty wars. More or less inevitable, since it’s fine grazing land.’
I had studied the maps, counting the miles between Cloud Hill and Winterfalls over and over. ‘I deduce that Lord Cadhan’s territorial issue does not relate to cross-border incursions from Mide, since we know Lorcan to be a peaceable leader whose authority is seldom challenged. I suspect the threat comes from a certain powerful chieftain named Mathuin, whose holdings lie to the south of Cadhan’s.’
‘I had come to the same conclusion,’ my father said. ‘That is not something Cadhan would put into a letter, of course.’
‘Mathuin of Laois is a known troublemaker.’
‘What foundation have you for such a claim, Prince Oran?’ The scorn in Feabhal’s voice was ill-concealed. His opinion of me had never been high.
‘I have learned a great deal from this present wise company, Feabhal.’ I looked around the council table, making sure I met each man’s gaze in turn. ‘Some, I know, believe I am too fond of music and storytelling. A man can learn much from monks, scribes and scholars. From wandering bards and druids: folk who travel widely and keep their ears open. I have heard that Mathuin is intolerant of opinions other than his own. He has his ways, sometimes brutal ways. If he wants something, he takes it without waiting to seek advice or weigh up the consequences. I have heard, also, that the king of Laigin shows some reluctance to become involved in disputes between his chieftains.’
‘Interesting,’ my father said. ‘But you understand that we cannot send forces south to help Cadhan with whatever difficulty he’s in, whether it’s of Mathuin’s making or someone else’s. That could ignite full-scale war. We must limit ourselves to offering Lady Flidais sanctuary, which is all Cadhan has requested. Let’s not complicate matters, Oran.’
‘I’m not suggesting we take up arms in Cadhan’s support, Father. I know such an action would have far-reaching consequences, and might set you in conflict with your existing allies. But someone might have a word with the king of Laigin. Someone to whom any ruler would be prepared to listen.’
They had caught my drift now. ‘You’re not speaking of Lorcan,’ Father said, ‘but of his father-in-law, the High King. We might send a confidential message to Lorcan; he might then have a quiet word in the right quarter. And pressure might be put on Mathuin to cease and desist from whatever he is doing to Cadhan.’
‘A long bow to draw, perhaps. But it could be effective. Mathuin has some supporters among his fellow chieftains, but nobody really trusts the man. He’s viewed as autocratic and unpredictable. His overlord is considered weak.’
‘You’ve been studying ha
rd, Prince Oran.’ Feabhal managed to make this sound like an insult, and this time my father noticed.
‘To good effect,’ he said. ‘I have heard something of the same criticism. I will consider your suggestion seriously, Oran, though there’s always a difficulty with these sensitive matters; it would be far better if I could speak to Lorcan in person.’
I seized the moment. ‘He will, of course, be invited to the hand-fasting. He’s a kinsman, isn’t he?’
My father favoured me with a smile, which was a rare occurrence. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘You show some perspicacity in this matter, Oran. I welcome that. When the opportunity arises I will have a word with Lorcan. As for the matter of where Lady Flidais should be accommodated, that decision must be made immediately. I should send a response to Lord Cadhan today by the swiftest messenger I can find. I don’t believe the issue needs further debate. If you want to house her at Winterfalls from the start, so be it. But speak to the queen, obtain her approval, and make sure you ask her about a suitable chaperone for the young lady.’
‘Of course, Father. I will do so straight away.’ I resisted the urge to leap up and do a little dance of triumph. Silently I thanked Donagan for helping me prepare my argument. It was true about the bards and druids, the scribes and scholars; but I had not thought of using them.
‘I’ll have my scribe draft the reply. Oran, I will need you again once it’s ready. The rest of you are dismissed.’
‘Yes, Father.’ I hesitated. ‘May I enclose a brief message for Lady Flidais?’
‘Go and talk to your mother first. If you’ve time to write a letter as well, do so. Be sure it really is brief.’
My dear Flidais, I wrote, I have just come from a difficult meeting with my mother. I will spare you the details. Mother only wants the best for us, but she is a formidable woman and somewhat inflexible in her opinions. However, her delight in our impending marriage has mellowed her. My love, I was horrified to learn of your father’s current difficulties. Please stay safe on your journey north. I will be counting the days until you reach Winterfalls. As my father has said in his letter to Lord Cadhan, your party is to come straight here, not to court. This makes your journey a little shorter, since my home is situated some twenty miles south of Cahercorcan, which is a grand fortified place built on a promontory overlooking the northern sea. I am making your new home ready for you, dear Flidais, and I dream of walking in the woods with you and Bramble, and sitting by the hearth reading poetry. My mother will be sending a small army of additional serving people to Winterfalls, though I have my own very capable folk here. She is including a rather fierce aunt as chaperone. I offer my apologies in advance – Aunt Sochla will find she has nothing to do, I believe. Dear Flidais, Father has asked me to keep this short, and I will. Please be safe on the road, and know that my heart travels with you.
Oran
7
~BLACKTHORN~
It turned out I could still patch people up pretty well. The beatings and abuse, the degradation and filth hadn’t been quite enough to drive out what I’d learned long ago in that life I didn’t want to think about. The part I couldn’t do, or not for long, was talk to folk, be courteous to them, take an interest in their little woes, accept their grovelling thank-yous with a smile.
It got me wondering how I’d ever managed to deal with my own kind before. I surely couldn’t now. All I wanted was to be left alone. If I couldn’t have vengeance, if I couldn’t bring Mathuin down, I wanted simply to exist, somewhere quiet, somewhere beyond the well-trodden paths, somewhere I wouldn’t need to think about anything except getting water from the stream, gathering mushrooms or berries, making a fire to keep myself alive through another night. Seven years I had to stay alive, or there was no purpose to any of it. Curse Conmael for setting this burden on me!
And as for Grim, why in the name of all that was holy hadn’t he stayed with those people at the farm? I’d seen the way they looked at him. How often did folk meet a man with the strength of a giant? He’d have been given work there, sure as sure, if only he’d asked them. Work, a home, money in his pockets. Wasn’t that what he wanted, a job, a purpose? I wasn’t offering either.
But he came on with me, a big lump dogging my footsteps, and I couldn’t send him away because I’d made my promise to wretched Conmael. Besides, it seemed Grim really did know the way to Dalriada – how, I couldn’t imagine and wasn’t planning to ask, since I’d learned long ago that his past was under the same sort of lock and key as mine. And while I could fend for myself perfectly well, there was no disputing that Grim could do some things a lot more quickly and easily than I could. Gathering firewood, for instance, or building a shelter. If we’d been attacked on the road or in our camp, I could have defended myself up to a point. But his presence meant nobody was even going to try. And he could pay his way, more or less. After that first time, with the cart, he found plenty more opportunities to earn a few coppers or a fat hen or a loaf of fresh bread.
It was more difficult for me. Often enough, we passed farms or settlements where a healer was needed. It might be a woman straining to give birth to a babe set awry in the womb, or an old man rattling and wheezing in his death throes. Conmael’s agreement had turned me into a coward. I feared to offer help, lest folk take advantage. I knew quite well how one request for aid could turn into many. Oh, please help my child, he’s struggling to catch his breath. So herbs were steamed in a pot, and a poultice was applied to the chest, and common-sense advice was given about keeping the little boy warm and clean and feeding him light, nourishing fare. Next thing it would be, Couldn’t you stay one more day, just to be sure? Or, My neighbour’s little girl has the same sickness, you’ll look at her too, won’t you? And by the way, the old fellow down the road is poorly as well . . . And so it would go on. If a person had promised never to say no to such requests, she might find herself trapped somewhere for life, unable to keep the rest of the bargain, which was to go to this place called Winterfalls.
Not that I was looking forward to getting there. The cottage had sounded all right, but once folk knew there was a wise woman in residence again, it would be visitors all day whether I liked it or not. If I did my job adequately, as it seemed I still could, they’d keep coming no matter how snappish and contrary I might be. Conmael had trapped me neatly. I couldn’t even regret saying yes to him, since if I hadn’t, I’d have been dead and forgotten by now. And even when things had been at their darkest, when anger had been like a rat gnawing at my vitals, when grief had shut down my heart, I’d known death was not the answer. There’d always been vengeance to keep me going. There still was, provided I could find enough patience to last me seven years.
I practised on Grim. There was the day he found a fair like the one he’d spoken of, and went off with his bag of coppers in his pouch while I stayed away, sitting under a tree keeping myself to myself and half-wishing he’d never come back. But he did, a bit the worse for wear, having drunk a fair quantity of ale, and he brought me the kerchief he seemed to think I wanted. I thanked him and made myself wear the thing, which I guessed was the most eye-catching he’d been able to find in the whole encampment: bright poppy-red with a border of blue flowers done in wool embroidery. Just the thing for crossing country unnoticed.
Despite the interruptions while one of us did some work and earned the pittance that was all most folk could afford to pay, we made reasonable progress. I judged it to be close to the festival of Lugnasad, harvest time, when we came up over a pass and looked north across the region of Ulaid. To the east I could see the grey expanse of the sea, under a sky of building clouds that promised rain by nightfall. That meant another miserable wet camp, unless we reached farmland and happened on a barn whose owner wasn’t going to wake us up and demand a day’s labour for the privilege of shelter. Ahead, over those hills and valleys, away off in the misty distance, lay the kingdom of Dalriada. Somewhere up there was Winterfalls and the end of my journey.
Just how far we still had to walk I wasn’t sure, and nor was Grim, since he’d never heard of Winterfalls until I mentioned the name. He did know Dalriada was in the far north-east of Ulaid, so we still had a way to go. All the same, getting over the mountains felt like some kind of achievement. I found myself hoping Ulaid was full of folk who didn’t need help, or preferred not to ask for it. Found myself, stupidly, wondering if the cottage Conmael had mentioned might turn out to be a sort of gift. Hah! The complications of this whole thing, the offer, the obligation, the guilt, the choices in it were enough to make a person’s head spin. It was both gift and burden. Because nothing came for free, ever.
‘Better be moving on,’ said Grim. ‘Storm’s coming.’
It was coming fast. The clouds were a dark stir in the sky; the distant sea was a slaty sheet. The wind poked chill fingers through the warm clothing Conmael’s folk had given me. I had not seen my fey benefactor since that night. I wondered, sometimes, if he’d become bored by the whole thing, or forgotten me. I considered testing this theory by heading off on my own in whatever direction I chose. But the price of being wrong on this particular point was far too high to take chances. If I got to Winterfalls, and if the time stretched out to a year, two perhaps, with still no sign of Conmael, then maybe . . .
‘Woods down there,’ Grim observed, leaning on the staff he had cut from a fallen oak branch. ‘Best shelter we’ll get.’
By the time we reached the wooded lower slopes, it was raining steadily. A rumble of thunder, not so far away, sent us along a track into dense oak forest. Here the canopy kept off the worst of the rain. But our clothing was already soaked. The storm had turned day to dusk; there was no choice but to make camp somewhere in these woods.
It took longer than I liked to find a spot, near some rocks, with a busy stream gushing past not far away. There was a cave of sorts, a place where we’d be able to keep a fire burning. We had a routine now, as folk do who travel long paths together. I built a hearth from stones while Grim gathered fallen branches and sticks. I kindled the fire; Grim filled the water skins and got out the makings of a meal. Supplies were low. It was some time since we’d visited a settlement or farm, and we were down to a few dried-up mushrooms and the remains of a bag of oatmeal Grim had earned by helping move a particularly difficult bull from one farm to another without anyone being hurt. While he boiled the oatmeal in water over the fire, I foraged for wild onions near the stream; going further afield in such bad light would have been foolish.