“It was a shock,” said Donnan softly. “We had done our best to avoid Echen’s notice, all of us who’d been involved, for those two years. We’d abided by his rules, and Líobhan’s father had not practiced as a brithem during that time for fear of antagonizing his enemy again by pronouncing an unfavorable judgment on one of his favorites. For those two years after the night it happened, we had believed Áine dead. Attempts to get information about what had happened were fruitless. Then we heard that she was, after all, alive and well; that she’d been in Tirconnell, and that now she was Echen’s wife.”
“It couldn’t be a happy ending,” said Líobhan. “Not with that man as her husband. But we wanted to see her, to be reassured that she had not been ill-treated and to know the marriage was her own choice. She refused to see us. Even now, with Echen gone, she has nothing to do with us. She was displeased when Father resumed his role as a brithem after Echen’s death. He’d been giving people advice on matters of law all the while, unofficially; folk knew to keep quiet about it. Because the local community had sore need of a qualified lawman, my sister could hardly raise objections when he took up his formal duties again. We do meet her occasionally; it’s inevitable our paths will cross from time to time. She avoids it if she can. She despises us. She loathes us. This has changed her more profoundly than it did any of the rest of us, save perhaps for poor Mother, who never recovered from losing both her sons in one night. Áine’s mind has been somehow twisted. She may be a powerful and competent chieftain in her husband’s stead, and far more just with her folk than he ever was. But she’s erratic. She’s dangerous.”
“She blames Faolan for what happened to her,” said the grandfather. “Him most of all, because he was a man, and young, and she thought he should have saved her. If she has him prisoner, he’s in real danger. What time do you expect Conor home, Líobhan?”
“Early,” said Líobhan as the back door opened and the two children came in, followed by the gray dog with a meaty bone in his mouth. “He said he’d be back here for breakfast.”
“We must wait for his decision, of course,” the old man said. “But this is what he’ll want to do. We must ride there tomorrow and confront Áine with what we know.”
“Ride where?” asked Phadraig. “Can I come?” A look from his mother silenced him. Saraid had climbed onto Eile’s knee.
“What if she says I was mistaken? That Faolan’s not there?” Eile asked them. “If what you say about her is true, she’s not just going to let him go, is she?” She felt a chill, thinking of that place, Breakstone Hollow, and what it had done to her father.
“Conor’s a good talker,” said Donnan. He did not sound completely confident.
“We must wait until morning,” Líobhan said. “She hasn’t let any of us in the gates of Blackthorn Rise in all the time she’s been head of that household, and it’s very possible tomorrow may be no different. As brithem, Father does have great authority in the district. He’s widely respected. But Blackthorn Rise makes its own rules. We’re not welcome in Áine’s house and perhaps we never will be. She can’t see the irony of it: that the husband whose sons she’s dedicated to raising, the one whose lands she puts her life into governing, was the man who set this darkness on us all in the first place. I don’t think she’ll ever understand.”
“Who won’t understand?” asked Phadraig.
“Your aunt Áine, the one who doesn’t come here,” his mother said. “What’s in the little bag, Saraid?”
Saraid turned her head into Eile’s shoulder.
“It’s a doll,” said Phadraig. “She showed me. Only it’s broken. A boy sawed its head off. It’s called Sorry. I told her you would fix it, Mama.”
“I’m sure I can manage that,” Líobhan said with a wry smile. “We’ll do it in the morning, shall we, Saraid? Maybe Sorry would like a ribbon around her neck, or a little frill. You can help me sew it on.”
“I can do it.” Eile heard the combative tone of her own voice and hastened to add, “But thank you for the offer. If I could borrow a needle and thread… We’re used to fending for ourselves, Saraid and me. I do know how to mend.”
“I’m sure you do. Now, it’s time for bed, Phadraig, and I think Eile and Saraid need somewhere to sleep. Let’s go and see where we can squeeze them in.”
MORNING BROUGHT THE brithem, a gray-haired, clean-shaven man with Faolan’s thin lips and wary eyes. It was plain from the moment he walked in that he would be the one who made any decisions required. Despite his reserved manner he was the kind of man, Eile thought, who was accustomed to taking charge.
Over breakfast, the others told him the tale of an unlawful killing and the story of Faolan’s capture. Conor was adept at concealing what he felt; the more Eile watched him, the more of Faolan she saw in him. It made her wonder about her father and about herself.
Saraid had slept well. She sat up next to Phadraig to eat her breakfast, and Líobhan, with a glance at Eile, complimented her on her good manners. Dismissed from the table, the two children headed straight out into the yard with the gray dog loping after them.
“She’s not scared here,” Eile said in tones of amazement. “Your son is a good little boy. I think she knew that straightaway.”
“Children know who they can trust,” said the grandfather. “Conor, I have some misgivings about this plan. We don’t want to inflame the situation. Have you considered asking a druid or a Christian cleric to go with us?”
“Áine won’t want that,” the brithem said. “She has her reputation to consider in the district. It’s one thing to lock her brother up in secret with only her own household knowing. It’s quite another for all and sundry to be made aware of it. We can use that, if we manage to get in. If she has no legal reason for holding Faolan, she’s committed an offense. Our difficulty is getting her to admit to it. Faolan will be helpless in there. He was never a fighter.”
“Helpless?” Eile was taken aback. “He seemed very capable to me.” She fell silent as the brithem turned his stern eyes on her. She was not afraid of Líobhan or Donnan or the old man; but she was afraid of him. He did not look like the kind of man who would bring breakfast when you were hungry or tell a lie to keep you safe.
“Tell us,” Conor said.
“He had traveled a long way by himself to bring me the news of my father’s death. He spoke to my aunt and her husband as if he was a person of authority. He gave them silver, but he didn’t just hand it over, he told them they had to use it for me, for my future. Not that it did any good.” She grimaced, remembering how quickly Dalach had taken the little bag off his wife, once the visitor was gone. “And Faolan fought the Widow’s men when they laid hands on him. It took five of them to overpower him. He only stopped struggling when they hit him over the head.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry,” she added.
“Are we quite certain this is Faolan?” the brithem asked, and this time Eile heard a new note in his voice: that of a man whose iron self-discipline was no longer quite concealing the turmoil of emotions beneath. “We must not antagonize Áine still further by going to her with false accusations of wrongful imprisonment.”
“It is your son.” Eile put a hand over his, then removed it quickly. He was someone; she was a piece of rubbish who’d knifed her own uncle. He administered the law; she was a miscreant. In this hospitable house she had come close to forgetting. “He spoke of you. He said you were wise and just. He told me you would help me, and that I mustn’t be afraid.” She glanced around the family. “Faolan said this was a house of good people, and I see that it is.”
For a little, nobody said anything.
“I have an idea,” Eile told them, wondering what was making her bold enough to suggest it and crazy enough even to consider leaving Saraid for a day, or however long it would take to get to Blackthorn Rise and back again on horseback. A strange conviction had come to her along with the scheme: the certainty that this was what her father would expect her to do. To be bold and resourceful; to aid his
friend; to put her own needs last. “Let me explain.”
THE PARTY OF riders, three men and a girl, reached the gates of Blackthorn Rise in early afternoon. It was raining again; the travelers had a bedraggled look about them. Challenged by the guards, the youngest man moved forward. He looked slightly familiar, but neither man-at-arms could quite place him. The other men were hooded against the rain, their faces concealed. The girl the guards knew well.
“We’re here to see the Widow,” the youngest man said. “We’re returning this young woman, who ran away from this household. We understand she’s facing serious charges at Cloud Hill.”
“And what’s that to you? Give us your name.”
“Donnan. I’m a harness maker, from west of here. Picked up the girl on the road. I heard the lady’s offering a reward for her return. Two silver pieces, that’s what folk are saying.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” one guard muttered to the other. “What do you think?”
“Could be true. Seamus might know. You there! Hand the girl over and wait out here while we check this. Two silver pieces sounds a lot for a scrawny thing like her. And where’s the child? She had a child before.”
“They took her away.” The girl’s voice was a tremulous whisper; she looked terrified. There were tears of fright on her cheeks. It seemed wrong to bring her in, in a way; everyone knew she was due a beating, but that was nothing beside what she’d get for unlawful killing.
“Ask the Widow if she’ll see us,” said Donnan. “If she promised silver, she’ll deliver.”
“The lady’s out riding. You’ll have to wait.”
“We’re not sitting out here cooling our heels all afternoon,” said Donnan. “It’s raining. If you won’t let us in, we’ll go on to Cloud Hill and hand the girl over direct to her kinsfolk. You can explain that to your lady when she gets in. I know I’ll get a reward there. They’ve put it about that they want this girl punished.”
“You’ll be lucky if the folk of that settlement can put together two coppers between them, let alone a bounty in silver.”
“We’ll put that to the test.” Donnan turned his mount. “Come on, we’re wasting our time.”
“Just a moment!” called the guard. “She might want the girl here. I’ll ask my superior. Wait right there.”
The head guard, Seamus, was engaged in an activity he saved for times when the Widow was unlikely to walk in: checking on the welfare of his prisoner. Now that it seemed the lady’s brother was to remain in custody for an indefinite period, he felt duty bound to take what steps he could to stop the fellow from going completely crazy. They’d talked about the situation, he and Maeve; they’d wondered if, at long last, things at Blackthorn Rise had reached a point where it was time to pack up and leave, since both of them would get work easily in other households. Loyalty was a strange thing, loyalty and pity. They’d been with Áine a long time. When it came to it, neither of them was prepared to take that final step. Chances were Áine would find out they’d been breaking her rules and throw them out anyway. There was the little matter of Maeve helping that red-haired waif and her child escape; and there was Faolan. Seamus had let his underlings manage the prisoner until the Widow finally called her brother in to see her. Everyone had expected she’d let Faolan go after that. Fifty days was a long time for a man to be locked up alone.
After what he overheard that night, and the order to keep Faolan in custody, Seamus had assumed personal responsibility for the prisoner. He wasn’t following the new rules, which demanded wrist shackles as well as the hobbles, and only one meal a day, delivered in silence. That was stupid. Apart from the initial struggle, the prisoner had been a model of good behavior, polite and reasonable. The shackles stayed off, though Seamus kept them ready in case the lady took it into her head to visit. Faolan got his meals when the guards did, and while he was eating, or more often staring at his platter, Seamus stood in the doorway and talked to him. He wished Faolan would talk back; he seemed an interesting sort of fellow, a man who had traveled. The Breakstone Hollow story was evidently true; Seamus had seen the tattoo. But since Áine had spoken with him, Faolan had gone silent. Most of the day he spent sitting on the ground, arms around his knees, head down. Seamus hoped the lady would decide to let him out soon. This felt wrong.
He’d just locked the door again when Enda came hurrying along the passageway, babbling about the girl from Cloud Hill and a bunch of men waiting at the gate. Seamus made him slow down, ascertained one girl, three men, something about a reward. He weighed up the possibilities and tried to remember where he’d heard of a harness maker by the name of Donnan before. It rang a bell; something to do with the old days, the Echen days. Something they’d all tried hard to forget.
“Let them in,” he said.
THERE’D BEEN A pattern of activity, before, a variation of the one he had invented in Breakstone to keep his mind and body active. Bending, stretching, pacing, jumping. Inventing escape plans. Telling himself stories, playing games in his head with numbers. For fifty days it had been possible to maintain that, to keep eating, to achieve tolerable sleep. For fifty days he had been able to believe that when he left this cell he would rescue Eile and see his family, for good or ill. He had convinced himself that there might be time to put things right before the next mission called him. To try, at least.
Then he’d seen Áine and that hope had vanished like fertile soil washed away in violent storm. The damage he had wrought was irreversible. Each item in her passionless catalogue of ills had been a further blow to his heart. His mother, his father; Dáire, Líobhan. Áine herself, so cruelly changed, Áine whom he could not forgive, for all the ill he had done her. Dubhán, the brother the young bard had so worshipped. Grandfather, who had always been so strong, so ageless; Grandmother, knifed to death before his eyes. How had it ever been possible to delude himself into thinking, somehow, he might go to Fiddler’s Crossing and make his peace with them? That was like expecting the dead to get up and dance: nonsense.
Nothing seemed important anymore. Why go through the motions of exercising, of swallowing food, of playing the game of survival? Bridei’s mission, the visit to Colmcille, had lost its meaning. Bridei was a distant figure, someone who had wanted to befriend him, a good man. Bridei would find another spy.
A part of Faolan made him test himself; called him to account for the offense of despair. He had survived Breakstone Hollow. To end it all now made a mockery of that, since the men who came out were as scarce as dry days in autumn. He touched the little star tattooed behind his ear. A survivor. If he was that, he hardly deserved it. Better if Echen had made an end of him that night. Then, at least, he would never have known the full extent of the harm he had done.
Ana: a reason for going on, a reason for not giving up. He thought he could remember, vaguely, making some kind of promise to her. It was difficult to picture her face; all that would come was a haze of gold and a pair of searching gray eyes. Not liking the look in them, Faolan put her out of his mind. He took off his shirt and began to tear it into neat strips, using his teeth. He assessed the height of the window bars. Doing this would require a high degree of will, since they were not quite far enough from the floor. He would do it. Not yet. Later, after Seamus had brought the supper. He must make quite sure there were no interruptions.
It did not take long to knot and twist his pieces into a serviceable kind of rope. There was one voice muttering inside his head, a voice he failed to silence: Deord’s. He could see the broad-shouldered, bald-headed form of the warrior in his cell, standing with legs apart in the shadows. Cursed place. Don’t let me down, Deord was saying. Faolan blinked, and the phantom was gone. The voice remained. Keep your promise. Live the life I won for you. Live it for the rest of us; the ones who couldn’t go on.
Faolan fastened his rope around the bars and tested it for strength, trying his full weight on it. The thing held firm. Perhaps, after all, he would do it now. If he waited, he might weaken. He might listen and be s
wayed. Chances were Seamus wouldn’t be back for a bit. It didn’t take long to die, when you were set on it.
He made a noose; slipped it around his neck. Best not take time to think. Best just get on with it…
“Faolan!” A voice from outside, shrill as the call of a sea bird. It was Eile. “Faolan, where are you? Your father’s here! We’ve come to get you!”
Gods. His hands on the noose, he filled his lungs and shouted back. “Here! Eile, I’m here!”
“Just hold on—” She fell suddenly silent. He thought there were other voices out there, though he could not distinguish the words. Seamus’s, perhaps, and those of other men.
His body was possessed by a violent shaking. Slowly, carefully, in the manner of a man who is accustomed to exercising the utmost control over his thoughts and actions, he loosened the knot, removed the noose, took down his makeshift rope and, subsiding to the floor, began to unmake it. In his hands, the instrument of death became a bundle of fraying rags, which Faolan used to wipe away his tears.
7
I NEED TO put something to you, Eile,” said Conor, his expression serious.
“What is it?” Eile asked, knowing it must be something to do with laws and offenses and punishment. Yesterday, the day they’d brought Faolan back home, had been the wrong time to speak of such matters. She’d seen Faolan kneel in Áine’s hall, tears flooding his cheeks as his father laid a hand on his head in blessing. She’d seen Áine’s frozen features and heard the cold rage in the Widow’s voice as she ordered the lot of them from her house. She’d seen Líobhan fold her brother in her arms, welcoming him like a lost child found again, to the accompaniment of Phadraig’s volley of excited questions. Today the other sister had come, the one who was a nun, and they were all gathered together in the chamber that had once been a place of death and was now a haven of love and family. All except Eile and the brithem. He had called her to a smaller chamber, where a table held writing materials and the walls were fitted with shelves full of scrolls; it seemed to Eile a magical domain, rich in possibilities. To be able to read and write must be wondrous. To set down tales; to interpret maps of exotic places; to hold in your hands the very words of the ancients…“Tell me,” she said.