An inquisition followed the bath, though at least her mother waited until Lily was dry, dressed and seated in comfort in her bedchamber eating her meal—broth, fresh-baked bannocks, soft cheese—from a tray. By then Lily had her story all ready. She had been at her window, watching the storm approach. She’d spotted a light in the old tower; at least, that was where she’d guessed it was. But nobody ever went to the island; the old tower was empty. She’d been about to call Muiríol when she’d seen something else, something small and pale running off under the trees. She knew now that she’d been foolish, she told her mother, but she’d thought it might be one of the lapdogs, Pearl, known to have a great terror of thunderstorms. No time to tell anyone where she was going; no time to fetch help. If Pearl ran off into the forest she would be lost forever. That was what Lily had thought. She’d slipped out the little side door.
Her mother was not entirely satisfied with this neat explanation. How was it that Lily had run all the way from her bedchamber to the little door in the wall without anyone seeing her? How was it that the shutters of her chamber had been left open?
“I was watching the storm,” said Lily sweetly, hoping the trembling of her hands was not too visible. Hoping her desperate need to hear more about the missing man was not too obvious on her face. “I did tell you.”
“Hmmm,” said her mother, but asked no more. Lily had always been a good girl, a biddable girl, and her mother had no wish to punish her if that could be avoided. She decided to overlook the small inconsistencies in the story. “If it ever happens again, don’t give in to your instincts. Come straight to me and ask for help. Or to anyone close at hand. This was ill-considered behavior, Lily. As it happens, Pearl is with Poppy in my quarters. They’re both tucked up safely in their basket.”
“Oh, good,” said Lily, feeling herself blush. “I’m so relieved.”
“Just as well you are home safely, since your father has had to ride out into the storm in search of this boy,” her mother said, unwittingly helpful.
“I’m sorry to have caused any worry, Mother. How long has this boy been missing? Not a child, but a young man, Muiríol said?”
“Eighteen. Old enough to know better,” said Lily’s mother. “His friends’ behavior also leaves a great deal to be desired. The lad might have encountered a wild boar and been terribly injured. He might have fallen and broken his neck. Yet they waited days before telling the truth about where they had been and how they lost sight of him. His father is almost out of his wits with worry, so I hear.”
“Oh, but—” Lily stopped herself. Not yet; best if her mother made the connection herself. Provided she did not take too long. “Who is the young man? You know the family?”
“From Ulaid. A good family. I believe we met them once at court.” Her mother’s tone dismissed any place beyond Dalriada as unworthy of interest. “A pigeon came in, carrying an urgent message. One might think a personal visit would be more appropriate, especially since the offense seems to have occurred on our land. Apparently these lads took it upon themselves to venture farther north than they had authority to do. Your father decided to be magnanimous about the hunting—he doubts they had much success—and to offer his assistance with the search. If the boy has survived he’ll be wet and cold. Your father hopes to find him before nightfall.”
“My lady?” Muiríol spoke up from the corner where she was folding garments into a chest. “Might not that light in the tower have been the young man signaling for help? I mean, nobody else goes there. Nobody would dare. But, being a southerner, he might not know the tales folk tell about that place.”
Lily resolved to give her maid a very special gift of some kind in the near future.
“You’re sure you did see a light, Lily?” her mother asked, frowning. “The old tower is nothing but a ruin. Who would be there? And if it was the young man, why would he be on the island in the first place? Why not take the obvious path up to the house?”
“I can’t answer all those questions,” Lily said. “I don’t know about any of it. Only that I saw a light, and I can’t think what else it would be. Someone should go and look. Think how we would feel if we sent nobody tonight, and tomorrow we found the young man in the tower, dead of cold.”
“Very well,” her mother said. “I will arrange for someone to search, though I doubt there will be much enthusiasm for the task. If you are wrong about this, Lily, your father will be somewhat displeased; as it is, we have half the menfolk of the household gone.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. And grateful. I have a feeling I’m right.”
• • •
A small contingent of men-at-arms had been left behind to keep the household safe while Lily’s father was away searching. Three of these men now headed out toward the tower, accompanied by the household steward and a couple of brawny grooms. Lily watched without comment as they assembled. What did they think Ash—Brión, she had to start calling him Brión—was, some kind of fearsome monster? Or maybe they were afraid of the uncanny creatures some folk thought lived in and around the old tower, those mysterious beings that had kept the island untrodden by human foot for years and years. Until Brión dared venture there, and after him Lily herself. Chances were that cold and hunger and exhaustion had driven the young man temporarily out of his wits. Perhaps he had endured disturbing dreams in the tower, dreams so real-seeming that he had come to believe he was beset by danger. Now they would bring him out, and he could get warm and dry and receive the services of healers. He could be reunited with his family, and all would be well. And if he was the son of a chieftain, he would be an entirely suitable candidate for her hand. Even if he had gone hunting where he should not. No need to tell anyone that they had already met, and under the oddest of circumstances. They could let their friendship develop quite naturally.
• • •
After that, everything started to move quickly; almost too quickly for Lily. She had longed for Ash—Brión—to be found and freed. She had wished for him to come home with her, to find his people, to be rid of whatever burden he was carrying. Most of all, she’d wanted a future in which they could be together. Where they could in time become husband and wife. But even with the youthful hope of her sixteen years, she had not expected so much so soon.
Brión came back from the tower. The four men carried him on a board, covered by a cloak. He was so white he looked dead. Lily exercised all her will not to shriek and run to him; her whole body was filled with terror. “Still breathing,” said the head man-at-arms. “But only just, my lady.”
Lily’s mother bustled about, commanding her serving people as a leader might order an army. A warm bath, a warm bed, a quiet chamber, gentle hands. One message to be sent urgently to Lily’s father, and another dispatched to the distant home of the young man’s family, though birds could not be sent out with that before morning. Brión’s father was close at hand, conducting his own search; a runner would be sent to find him at first light.
There was nothing at all for Lily to do. She had no reason to be in the chamber where Brión was being nursed, and if she hung about the doorway, her mother might get suspicious. He was alive; that must be enough, for now. So she went to her own chamber and opened the shutters a chink, wondering if she might catch a glimpse of her father’s party riding back in.
That was odd. Even now the men had brought Brión back, there was a light in the old tower. It glowed and moved as if someone was walking about in that high chamber with a candle or lamp in their hand. The view was impeded by the branches of the great oak. She could climb out, go higher, see more clearly. But after what had occurred earlier, she’d better not try that particular trick for a while. Might the ferryman or others of his folk have gone up there for some reason? Lily thought of the stairs winding around the tower’s interior; remembered how climbing had hurt her legs and made it hard to breathe. Such small folk surely could not manage that. Unless they could fly. She
had seen no hint of wings. Could the search party have left a lamp or candle behind? It was possible. But not likely.
Should she alert someone? Her mother? The steward? As Lily stood there hesitating, the light blinked out, and the old tower fell back into darkness.
She did not see the light again that night. In the morning Brión was awake and talking sense, though much weakened by his ordeal. Or so Lily’s mother told her; their unexpected guest needed nursing back to health, and a young man’s bedchamber was no place for a well-brought-up young lady.
But then, Lily was not entirely what she seemed. Beneath the good manners and ladylike presence was a person of strength, a person who knew her own mind and was prepared to fight for what she believed in. She did not understand, then, how monstrous a fight it would prove to be.
21
Blackthorn
It rained for seven days straight. It was too wet to ride out to the settlement. Besides, I could not fix a day for the ritual until we were fairly sure of a dry spell, so there was no point in issuing invitations. It was too wet to gather herbs. It was too wet to do much at all. Cooped up indoors and unable to achieve anything, I came so close to boiling point I suspected folk might see the steam rising. The temptation to leave was strong; the more so because, even in such inclement weather, Flannan came down almost every day to talk with me in private. His argument was simple and convincing: the task Geiléis had given me sounded dangerous to the point of stupidity, and the fact that nobody really knew what was expected when, or if, I entered the tower, made it even more so. If we were talking of foolish risks, he said, which sounded more perilous—going south and working with a known group of trusted allies to bring down Mathuin of Laois or hacking through a hedge of poison thorn and climbing an old tower to confront a screaming monster? The likelihood of suffering an unpleasant death seemed significantly higher here at Bann than it would be in the south, and a great deal more immediate. Flannan reminded me that the plan was to go only as far as Mide to start with. We’d be protected there. When I pointed out that I’d need to go on to Laois if I were to find witnesses and persuade them to talk, Flannan said arrangements would be made to ensure my safety at every stage. This time around, it seemed the plot had been worked out in meticulous detail. After his visits I found it impossible to talk naturally with Grim. Most nights the two of us went to bed in uneasy silence.
Late one afternoon the weather did clear briefly, and Onchú and Donncha took me and Grim up the hill to watch the birds fly in to the tower at dusk. If nothing else, this outing gave me a better feel for the lie of the land. As the sun set, the birds winged their way to the tower, settling on every ledge, in every nook and cranny. The shutters were closed and the tower’s inmate fell silent. I suspected it would be the same every day. There was a pattern to the creature’s existence. If not for the abandoned nature of the screaming, one might have imagined it as a being of orderly habits.
Grim suggested maybe the monster could not tolerate light; he’d wondered if the brightness hurt its eyes, even on an overcast day or a rainy one. Hence its quietening down during the hours of darkness. But then, why did it open the shutters in the mornings? I, in my turn, had wondered if there was some compulsion over its behavior. Could there be a charm or spell in place that forced it to scream during the daylight hours?
Or, Grim said, it might be enduring a routine of strict discipline, as a prisoner would in a place of incarceration, for instance. Or a monk in a monastery. Or a man-at-arms in a school for warcraft. But if that were the case, who had instituted that discipline? Save for the birds, the monster seemed to be all alone in the tower. But perhaps there was someone else there, invisible, silent. The crouched figure of the drawing. A captor? A torturer?
After the brief dry spell, the rain set in again. The enforced inactivity made Grim morose and restless. He needed something to keep him occupied, but it was too wet for the thatching. He did not seem enthusiastic about that job anyway. He could have gone over to St. Olcan’s to take a look at the roof—if Flannan could walk in the rain, Grim surely could—but he hadn’t so much as suggested the idea, and that wasn’t like him at all. At Winterfalls he was always out helping one person or another with some job. Long days and hard labor suited him. Sitting around idle in a lady’s house surely did not.
Eventually I suggested it myself. “You could chat to the monks while you’re there,” I told him as we sat over our breakfast on yet another wet morning. “You might meet other folk too—they may have lay brothers or locals who go to help with the stock and the garden. You could start a conversation about the monster. Subtly, of course. You never know what might come out.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Grim. Remember that time after we escaped from the lockup, when you followed me for miles and miles and got soaked to the skin? You can’t be putting this off just because of the rain. What is the problem?”
“Nothing.”
That was quite plainly untrue, but anytime I raised the subject of the monastery he went silent, so I stopped asking. And there was another problem: Flannan. I’d expected him to be quickly caught up in his work, as scholars tend to be—I knew all about that; I’d been married to one. But that hadn’t happened, or he wouldn’t be finding the time to come down here so often. I was fond of the man; always had been. But I was starting to find his frequent visits unsettling, and his constant pressing of the case to head south even more so. I wanted to make the decision on my own, without him filling my mind up with his plans. The choice had to be mine alone. That way, if things went disastrously wrong, I could only blame myself.
But he gave me no respite. After I had expressed doubt about surviving long enough to see Mathuin brought to justice, should we make the decision to try, he told me more about the monastery in Mide where we could be offered a safe place to stay—as there were religious sisters in a separate part of that establishment, I would be welcome, he said, though I might have to keep quiet about being a wise woman. Flannan was using the pigeons at St. Olcan’s to keep in contact with that very monastery, where one of the brothers was an ally. He gave me more names; explained where they were all located and their parts in the plan. He reminded me of how much I had to offer. He assured me that this time it would work. He came close to criticizing me for getting too caught up with Geiléis and her monster.
After four visits of this kind, I snapped. He had brought up that most hurtful argument again, the one about Cass, and I turned on him. “Stop it! Don’t say another word! I’m starting to wonder if you really know me, Flannan. I’m starting to wonder if you’re still the man you were. In case you’ve forgotten, we did discuss how Geiléis and her creature could provide us with the perfect cover for slipping away from Dalriada more or less unnoticed. That was the idea, wasn’t it—that we’d leave quietly once I’ve done whatever I need to do at the tower? I’m more than capable of making up my own mind without constant pushing. I’m surprised and disappointed that I need to tell you that. Now I’ll bid you farewell, and I don’t want to see you again until the day of the cleansing ritual. That’s if you plan to be present; I doubt Father Tomas would approve.”
He gathered his cloak and staff in silence. He’d left Ripple behind this time, because of the rain. “If that’s what you want,” he muttered. “I thought it was important to you. The most important thing in the world.”
“It is,” I said. “So important that I need no reminding. It’s in my thoughts every moment, even when I’m asleep. Now go. We’ll talk about this another time. A time of my choosing.”
He put his cloak on and headed for the door without another word.
• • •
The weather cleared at last, the sun shone, and Grim could no longer use the rain as an excuse for delaying his walk to St. Olcan’s.
“You could go up this morning,” I said as we sat at breakfast, just the two of us, since I had told Senach we were happy to serve ourselves. ??
?Talk to the brothers, have a look at the building that’s worst affected, this scriptorium, and see if they really do have all the materials you’ll need.”
“Mm-hm.” Grim chewed on his bread, not looking at me.
“If you’re worried about going up on your own after what happened before, then I’m sure Senach can find someone to walk with you. I don’t think Flannan will be here today.”
A long silence. Then, “Be a good day to ride out and visit the locals,” Grim said. “Sun shining and all. Might be more forthcoming than these monks.”
“They might and they might not. It’s too soon to go to the settlements; we haven’t decided when to hold the ritual yet, or where. And I do need time to prepare myself. You walk up and have a look at what needs doing at St. Olcan’s first. If the job turns out to be too much for one man, or too much to do by midsummer, then tell them so.”
“If that’s what you want.”
My sigh was no doubt audible to him. “It would be useful. In several ways. You’re a good listener, and there may be someone up there who can give us some insights. St. Olcan’s has a famous collection of books and manuscripts. It’s full of scholars. And people trust monks; they confide in them. If there’s a written version of the tale about the monster in the tower, it may be in their library somewhere. Or one of the monks may remember it. One of us needs to go in there, make some friends and get chatting, and if anything’s certain, it’s that it won’t be me.”
Grim looked up at last. His expression could only be described as shuttered: the look of a man who does not want you to know what he’s thinking. “Thing is,” he said, “Flannan’s clever. A scholar. Writing a book about old tales, isn’t he? And he’s staying at St. Olcan’s. What’s certain is you’re asking the wrong man.”