We were neatly separated. Dau took Flannan off to the men’s quarters while Grim and I went to our own chamber. There was a screen now, of Grim’s making; it had a spray of flowers painted on one side and a fearsome hound on the other. The artwork lacked the refinement of, say, an illuminated capital. But there was pleasing life in the images. Another of Grim’s surprising talents. I wondered often what he had been before; what manner of life he had led. Being stuck with me was a waste of what he had to give, even if it was his choice. If I chose to go south with Flannan, I’d be setting Grim free. When I thought of it that way, it felt like less of a betrayal.
I had first bath. Scrubbed off the sweat and grime of the ride; tried to scrub away my misgivings along with them. On the other side of the screen, there was a heavy silence.
“I met one of them this morning,” I said as I dried myself off and got back into my clothes. “The wee folk. A healer, out gathering herbs just like me. When I tried to talk to her she wouldn’t answer. Seemed to be telling me she was forbidden to speak to me. But she gave me a message anyway.” I told him about the ogham letters and what I’d guessed they meant. “When she heard Onchú coming she ran away. She was scared of him.”
“But not scared of you,” Grim said. “Stopped to listen, didn’t she? And to give you a clue.”
“A clue to what? That’s what I can’t work out.”
“Our king is captive in the thorn. If it’s the king of the wee folk, who’d want to lock him up? Could it be like that story with the clurichauns, two tribes of them at war? Maybe there’s a whole other part to this. Something Geiléis doesn’t know anything about.”
The silence drew out as we considered this possibility. We changed places; he bathed, I got everything ready for a brew, though I would not make it until after supper.
“Grim, what was Flannan talking about? What is this manuscript?”
For a while I heard only splashing sounds. “Scholars’ business,” he said eventually, and there was a darkness in his voice.
When it became obvious that he was not going to elaborate, I said, “It sounds as if it may be our business too. And Geiléis’s. That’s if Flannan is right about what the manuscript contains. Who knows? It might even tell us about the wee folk and this captive king of theirs. Were you there when they found it? How is it that nobody knows what’s in it?”
“Not for me to say. Only . . .”
“Only what?”
“Meddling. Not right, is it? Some of these old fellows, the old monks, their books are like their children, the ones they never had. Not right to mess around, just take things when you want.”
“What are you talking about? Did Flannan take something he wasn’t supposed to? Has he brought the manuscript here to show us?”
“Wanted to. Brothers wouldn’t let him. Only found those old documents today, when we were clearing out the far end of the scriptorium. All hidden away. In a secret part of the wall. Brothers were as surprised as I was.” I heard him stepping out of the small bath; saw him stand to dry himself. The screen was not tall enough to conceal fully a man of his height.
“You found it?”
“Mm-hm. Old oak box with a heavy lock. They got me to open it up. Lot of excitement. Not just the manuscript your friend was talking about, but quite a few others too. They called him—Flannan—to ask him what he thought they were. Written in some odd tongue, that’s what they were saying. Flannan had a look, started reading the one he was talking about, but it was hard even for a scholar. Told them he wanted to show it to Lady Geiléis right away. They said no, the documents were too old and precious. They had to go back in the box. Locked up again, taken over to the infirmary.” He moved the screen away. He was fully dressed, with his damp hair sticking up on end. It had grown since we left court. Time was passing all too quickly.
“The infirmary? Why?”
“Scriptorium’s been damp, with the roof and all. Most stuff was already over in the infirmary. Now it’s all there. Right conditions for the manuscripts, that’s what they said. Not in with the sick folk, of course. Out the back, in an old part. Space for the writing tables and suchlike. But the scholars want their scriptorium back. Better light. Roof’s going to keep me busy till midsummer. Hope that’s all right with you.”
I looked at him closely. “You don’t really want to do it, do you? This thatching job?”
“They need it done. I know how to do it. Told them I’d help. Rather be here, true. But not up to me, is it?”
“You don’t have to do what I tell you, Grim. There’s no doubt it will be useful to have you at St. Olcan’s, especially if you get close to some of the monks and they decide to confide in you. But you look . . . you look unwell. Disturbed. I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”
“Head hurts a bit, that’s all. No surprises there. Thing in the tower must have a monster headache from its own screaming.” He waited for the space of a breath. “Tip out this water in the yard?”
“Leave it for Senach’s people to deal with. We’re guests here, and we’re both tired. We’d better make an appearance for supper and find out what’s in this mysterious manuscript. I hope it is the story of the monster. That would mean we could stop looking for answers that don’t want to be found, and get on with doing whatever has to be done.”
“Mm-hm.”
At supper, Flannan was aglow with scholarly excitement. It reminded me of old times, when he and Cass would get into fierce debate over some obscure point of scholarship, often late into the night. For all my reservations, it was hard not to be caught up in his enthusiasm. We heard the tale of how the old box had been discovered within the wall—somewhat belatedly, he acknowledged Grim’s part in that—and how the monks had asked him, Flannan, to take a look at one document in particular.
“Brother Ríordán is the head archivist,” he told us. “He’s a respected scholar, and most particular about the preservation of the collection, which contains many rare items. The moment he set eyes on this document he was intrigued; firstly because it was extremely old, and secondly because it was in a tongue unknown to him. He thought I might recognize the language. I’m familiar with many, but I had never seen this one before. It seemed somewhere between Latin and Gaulish—Armorican, perhaps?—but scrambled in some way, almost as if the writer had applied a code. The title of the document included the word Bann, and another word I interpreted as tower.”
Was I the only one who heard Geiléis suck in a shocked breath when he said Armorican? What did that mean to her? Two spots of red had appeared on her cheeks; she put a hand up to her face, as if to shield her expression.
“That’s not much.” I regretted this as soon as I’d said it; Flannan was so proud of the discovery. “It’s interesting, of course, especially when we have so little to go on. But it might be a discussion of local landmarks, or a guide for finding the way between monasteries, perhaps intended for wandering scholars to copy and take away with them.”
“Nah,” put in Grim. “Code, isn’t it? Why would you bother with a code for something like that?”
“I believe I can decipher and translate the document, given time,” said Flannan, as if we had not spoken. “Brother Ríordán is zealous in his desire to protect his treasures at all costs; I am not sure he will be happy about my working from the original. The script is very small and rather untidy, but the document is not especially long. I’m hoping he’ll allow me to make a quick copy, verbatim, then work from that, so he can keep the old document in safe storage.”
“How long will this copying take?” asked Geiléis. “And the translation? The information will be useless to us after Midsummer Eve.”
I glanced at her. Her cheeks were still flushed. “There’s always next midsummer,” I said. “If the creature is still in the tower then, I imagine you’d want to try again.”
Geiléis made a gesture, a quick, dismissive sweep of the h
and. Then she seemed to think better of it. “Of course, Mistress Blackthorn.” The tone was placatory. “Master Flannan, how long before you can bring us a full translation?”
“One day for the copying. I’ll do it in wax, not with pen and ink. The translation—it depends how quickly I can work out the code. Once that’s done, I’ll render the text into its plain form and then attempt to translate it. The result may be as much informed guesswork as anything. I’ll do the best I can. There don’t seem to be any Armorican brethren at St. Olcan’s. If indeed that is what the tongue is. I assume this was written by a monk in times long ago.”
“Written and set away in secret,” I said. “Extremely secret. First the coding, then sealing it in a box and hiding it in the wall. I wonder why anyone would do that? It seems rather excessive.”
“Raids.” Grim’s tone was like the brush of a cold hand. All eyes turned toward him. “Norsemen,” he said. “Common target, houses of prayer like St. Olcan’s. Silverware to steal. And books.”
“Books? What, the Norsemen like to have a good read between their acts of violence?”
“For the covers,” Grim said flatly. “Set with a fortune in jewels, some of them. Rip the boards off, prize out the stones, throw the pages on the fire.” He seemed about to say more, but fell abruptly silent, staring into his ale cup. His hands were clenched around it; the knuckles showed white. This had brought back the past; that was written all over him. This manuscript, or perhaps the monastery in general, had awoken something deeply painful. And I wouldn’t be able to ask him about it later, not straight-out. The unspoken agreement between us would forbid it. I willed him to stay strong, even as my heart bled for him. I knew how he felt: as if the layer of protection he had set around his memory had been flayed off, exposing the wound beneath.
“There were no jeweled covers in the box,” said Flannan. “Only the sheets of parchment. A few scraps of gold leaf on some of the others, but nothing worth stealing.”
“Thing is,” said Grim, “some fellows, some monks, they mightn’t see it that way. This hidey-hole, it could be for one man’s precious things. Precious just to him, I mean. He might have done the writing or the pictures. Set the story down, whatever it is. Could be the work that earned a scribe his job. The picture that showed what was in his heart, hidden away. The story everyone loved to hear, back when he was young.”
There was a silence.
“But what would I know?” he muttered, looking down at his hands.
“Master Flannan,” said Geiléis, “you said this document was old. How old?” There was an edge to her voice; she was desperate, I imagined, for this parchment to contain what she needed: a step-by-step guide to getting the monster out of the tower. Unlikely, in my opinion. But if it was the original tale, it would at least explain why the creature was there in the first place. I had always believed that was the key to driving it away.
“It’s difficult to judge,” Flannan said, “but the state of the parchment, the fading of the ink and, above all, the style of script suggest more than a hundred years. It may be closer to two hundred. Its very age makes this a valuable piece, even before we start to consider the contents. It was no wonder Brother Ríordán was reluctant to let it out of his sight. If you want to see it in person, Lady Geiléis, I believe you’ll need to come up to St. Olcan’s. And even then, it might not be possible. Ríordán might refuse to let the document leave the temporary scriptorium.”
Which, of course, would be out-of-bounds to women. “Since it’s in code, there’s no value in any of us seeing the original,” I said. “What we need is your deciphered, translated version, as soon as possible. But there is something you could do to help, Geiléis.”
She looked at me, brows lifted. A little muscle twitched in her jaw.
“You have some influence with Father Tomas, I think? You could pay him a visit and mention how useful it would be for Flannan to have access to this particular document for a few days so he can make a copy. I imagine Father Tomas can overrule the head archivist. You might remind him of the favor you’re doing St. Olcan’s by letting them have Grim’s services while he is a guest in your household. Rethatching a roof is no small task.”
Geiléis narrowed her eyes at me. I stared straight back. “You are a devious woman, Blackthorn,” she said.
“I prefer the term strategic thinker. We’re running out of time. We all need to work together. If you imagine I’ll be happy to hack my way through the thorn hedge that killed one of your men and wounded another, then climb the tower on my own not knowing what sort of creature I’ll find when I reach the top or exactly what I’m supposed to do with it, you most certainly underestimate my good judgment. Let’s find out what’s in this document, and do so quickly. And while Flannan’s deciphering it, and Grim’s continuing his very generous work for the monks, I . . .” I’ll be going out into the forest on my own to seek out the little folk and hunt for ogham messages. “I’ll go out as planned to invite the community to the cleansing ritual. We must go ahead with that regardless of this new discovery. After all, the document may prove to be no help at all. Or Flannan may fail to decipher it in time.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said with a smile. “I’m confident that I can make some sense of it.”
“Come and tell us the moment you’ve worked it out,” I said. “I’d like to see your transcription of the original as well as the translation, if you can manage that.” Not that I knew more than a smidgen of Gaulish, but I might spot something he would miss; I’d helped Cass more with his work than anyone knew. “Were there illustrated capitals? Any other decoration?”
“A border. Faded almost to nothing. I’ll have a good look tomorrow. I hope I’m right about what this is.”
“Indeed,” said Geiléis. Her voice sounded odd. I glanced at her and was struck by the tight set of her shoulders and the way her fingers were knotted together. Worried, perhaps, that Flannan could not do it by midsummer. Horrified at the thought of having to wait another whole year. Senach moved to pour a cup of ale and set it beside her. She gathered herself visibly. “Thank you, Senach. We’re not doing justice to this fine meal; we should eat. Master Flannan, you’d best stay here tonight. It is too late for a walk back up to St. Olcan’s. You’ll want to make an early start on the manuscript, of course. But I imagine that will depend on persuading Brother Ríordán to give you the key.”
Flannan grinned. “It will.”
“You can walk up with Grim in the morning,” I suggested. “That would be early enough for anyone.”
“And I will make my own visit later,” said Geiléis, eyeing me. “To have a word with Father Tomas. Not to make bargains or interfere in any way with the workings of the monastery. Simply to point out that this document may be the key to ridding the district of the creature. Which would, of course, open St. Olcan’s once more to scholarly visits year-round.”
“Good strategic thinking,” I said. Which was as close as I was prepared to go toward a thank-you. “Flannan, did you tell the brothers where you were going?”
“I did, so nobody will be sending out search parties. I just hope Ríordán hasn’t hidden the document away in some spot known only to himself.”
• • •
“Grim?”
“Mm?”
“I can tell something’s wrong. Badly wrong, I mean, not only an upset stomach and a headache and being tired out. If you want to talk about it, I promise I’ll shut up and just listen. And don’t say it’s nothing and you’re fine, because I can see it’s not and you’re anything but.”
I waited in the darkness awhile, lying still under my blankets. Wondering about a lot of things. Hoping he would be ready to talk. I hated to see that wounded look on his face.
“Thanks. But no. Sometime, maybe. Not now.”
“If you’re sure.”
The only response I got was a grunt as he turned over to face
the wall.
“Just don’t wait as long as I did,” I said, more to myself than to him.
This time there was only silence.
25
Grim
Manage not to bring up my breakfast. An effort. Could have done without Flannan’s company—nothing against the fellow, but it’s hard enough to make myself go up there at all, without having to pretend nothing’s wrong. No easier than yesterday. Makes no difference that I know I can do it now, go to that place and put in a day’s work without losing control of myself. Makes no difference that Brother Fergal’s been kind to me. Makes it worse, in a way. Brings back the past, sharp as a knife. Hard to look at him without seeing that day all over again, only it’s not St. Erc’s I see, but St. Olcan’s with blood and brains spattered everywhere, and a cat with its head crushed to nothing. Fergal and his helpers sprawled dead between the bean rows. The chapel silent, the bells still. Broken men everywhere. Bits of men. I can still feel them in my arms, feel the weight of them, smell the blood. Trying to put them together as best I could. Face running with snot and tears. Howling like a whipped dog. Howling like that thing in the tower’s doing. Flannan’s trying to talk to me, over the noise it makes. I’m answering in grunts, when I answer at all. Man must think I’m an oaf. Nothing new in that.
Halfway there, sunk in my thoughts, I nearly miss it. Moves again, quick as quick, and I spot it. Ripple halts, ears pricked, whole body quivering. All set to give chase, only Flannan says, Ripple, wait, and she holds still by his side, whining under her breath.
“What was that?” Flannan stares into the shadows under the trees. “Look, there it is again! Under the oak, there!”