They don’t laugh at me. “Did you ask Brother Galen that same question?” says Ríordán.
“Didn’t think of it then. He was always telling stories, knew hundreds. Some of them from scripture. Some not. Liked to mix them up. But the pictures were so real. Did wonder later if he’d ever seen them. The fey, I mean. Never got around to asking.”
For a bit they’ve got no answer. Then Ríordán says, a bit disapproving, “Father Tomas would tell us such beings are manifestations of the Devil and should be shunned. At the very least, they represent primitive beliefs. Unhealthy beliefs.”
Then they go quiet again. Want to ask, But what do you think? Only that seems rude, so I keep my big mouth shut.
“Brother Galen had a different view,” Ríordán says. “He used to say, God is everywhere. In the work of your hands; in the beating of a bird’s wings; in the roots of an oak and in the stones of the riverbed. In the rising of the sun. In the heart of a man. In the wonders we know, and those that are beyond our knowing.” He sighs. “I cannot tell you if he ever saw beings of the kind he loved to draw, Grim. But if he did, I am quite certain he would say they too were part of God’s creation, and should be treated with respect.”
“I like that,” says Fergal. “God is in the work of your hands. We feel that every day in the garden, in the richness of the soil, the wonder of new growth, the circle of the seasons.”
Got no words. Nearly in tears again. All very well, all very comforting. But why would God let them die? Why would he stand by and let Brother Galen be struck down?
“A good teacher lives on in every one of his students,” Ríordán says. “In me. In you. In all the others to whom he was mentor and friend. We carry him in our hearts. As we carry God, deep within us.”
“Not me,” I mutter. “Not after St. Erc’s. How could I be a man of God if I don’t believe in him?”
“Ah,” says Ríordán, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You may no longer believe in Him, friend. But be certain He believes in you.”
We’re quiet a long time then. Not sure how it happens, but after a bit I start telling them about that day, the day of blood. Not sobbing and screaming and running away, just saying what happened, what I saw, how it felt. The three of us have some more to eat, and I keep talking and talking until it’s all out. They knew the story already, of course. Messages go from one monastery to another all the time. Pigeon if it’s urgent and short. For proper letters, folk like Flannan bring them. But they didn’t know my side of the story. Good listeners, the two of them. Like Brother Galen.
“That book, he loved it as much as he loved Bathsheba,” I say at the end. Feeling wrung out, like an old cloth that’s been pounded and pummeled and washed half to shreds. “Makes me sad to think of the little pictures all shriveling up in the fire.”
“I understand,” says Ríordán. “It is sad. But there are other scribes, those to whom he taught his craft, those who teach others in their turn. And there are other books.”
“Maybe,” I say, thinking of the odd things he put in his drawings, the magic of them. “But not the same.”
Ríordán looks at Fergal. Fergal looks at Ríordán. What I see is, Do we tell him?
“What?”
Ríordán clears his throat. “We have one of Brother Galen’s books in our collection, Grim. The original, not a copy. A book of saints, which one might expect to be illustrated in quite a conventional manner, but . . . Galen was Galen.”
Again, I’m dumbstruck. Not like he was alive again, but . . . feels that way, all the same. Wish I could see it. Love to see it. Can’t ask.
“It’s locked away, of course,” Ríordán says. “We consider it very precious. After the raid on St. Erc’s, I made a copy. We sent that south to St. Brigid’s in Laois, which as you’ll know is the monastic foundation closest to the site of St. Erc’s. It will be well looked after there. I lacked the skill to reproduce Galen’s paintings perfectly; I did my best.” He smiles. “Would you like to see the original?”
“Me?” Can’t believe he’s offering.
“Provided you do so under my supervision, in the scriptorium, and wear gloves to turn the pages, I don’t see why not.”
Fergal chuckles. “Now you’ve really surprised me, Ríordán. I think this may be a first.” He turns to me. “Our head archivist here is famous for his reluctance to let anyone near his precious collection. Your friend Flannan only got a look at his mysterious document because nobody else had a word of Armorican, if indeed that’s what the language is. Count yourself a scholar for the day.”
I say nothing at all. Next to this I’m small. This is so big you can’t measure it. If I could write, if I could draw, if I could ever make my own book, I’d have a picture of a monk and a cat, and a story to go with it.
“Now, if you wish.”
The two of them are standing, waiting for me, and I’ve been off in a dream. I get up and follow them out. Still in my borrowed clothes. Then I see where the sun’s got to. Shadows creeping; cows coming into the barn. Day’s all but gone while I’ve been talking away.
“Need to get back to Lady Geiléis’s house,” I say, feeling bad. Want to see the book more than anything. Might be the only chance; they might not ask again. But Flannan was going to finish the translation and come down to tell us the story, and by the looks of it, he’ll be doing that soon. Blackthorn will be wanting to hear what this document says straightaway. She’ll want me there too, listening. Means I need to go back when Flannan does. “Promised I’d be back to hear the story.”
“Story?” asks Fergal.
“Flannan’s document. The story of the tower and the monster and all. Said he’d have it translated by tonight. Need to hear it before midsummer.”
“Let us walk over to the scriptorium now and see what progress Master Flannan has made.” Ríordán sounds calm.
“I’ll bid you farewell,” says Fergal. “The rain seems to be over; I’d best check what damage the garden has sustained. It looks as if you may be able to finish our roof after all, Grim.”
He’s right. The rain’s eased; the air’s fresh. Smells like new beginnings. Garden should be full of things sprouting up, reaching out their leaves. Good feeling. Makes me braver. “Brother Ríordán,” I say as we head for the infirmary building, “can I still see the book? Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after?”
“My offer stretches as long as you wish, Grim. Tomorrow, by all means. When your work is finished for the day, or earlier if it suits you. You know where to find me. My opening the collection to you may put some folk’s noses out of joint a little. Don’t let that trouble you.”
“Should say, though . . . never did learn to read. Couldn’t get the knack of it. But I’d dearly like to see it. The pictures and all.”
“You could learn. Time and patience, that’s all it takes. And faith in yourself.”
We get to the infirmary. Go round to the back, where they’ve got the scriptorium set up. He goes in. I wait at the door; can’t make myself follow after. Step by step, they said. This is a step I can’t take, not yet.
Ríordán’s not gone long. What he tells me when he comes out is that Flannan’s left already. Finished his work, packed up and headed off early, while the three of us were sitting over our ale. Means he will have got to Geiléis’s house long ago. So maybe I’ve missed the whole thing. Blackthorn won’t be pleased with me. I say a quick good-bye, then turn tail and run.
32
Geiléis
The scholar did her a favor. He did not wait until supper time, but arrived in midafternoon, while Blackthorn was away and Grim still occupied at St. Olcan’s.
She had spent most of the day pacing up and down, biting her nails to the quick, her body full of a restless anticipation. Onchú, on watch outside, saw Flannan coming and sent Dau in to warn her. By the time the scholar arrived she was ready to receive him, with men-at-arm
s in place to divert Grim, should he come back too early. Her guards had another purpose: to take action should Flannan prove troublesome. She hoped that would not be necessary. If he suddenly disappeared, questions would be asked that had no easy answers. Blackthorn was not going to believe that on the day he’d planned to share his discovery with them her friend had packed up and left without warning and without explanation.
The dining chamber was unsuitable; too central, too many doorways. Her own quarters would be inappropriate, though there was no denying they were private. Geiléis settled herself in a small chamber near the main door, a room where visitors had been received in happier days. Her guards could be close at hand but discreetly placed. Better if Master Flannan did not know the potential danger his document represented, and what peril he consequently faced. If the thing turned out to be harmless, he need never know how close he had come to the edge of a sharp blade.
“Master Flannan, welcome.” Dau spoke courteously at the front door. “Lady Geiléis wishes to speak with you privately. This way.”
She rose; greeted the visitor and invited him to sit down. Dau poured mead, then departed, closing the door behind him. Save for the voice from the tower, muted by distance and the thick stone walls of the house, all was quiet. Geiléis scrutinized the visitor. His demeanor was less than buoyant. It was distinctly lacking in the excitement she had expected. Had he failed? Was this a reprieve? But he did not look despondent either. He seemed, rather, to be holding something in. Over that, a well-practiced air of calm control.
“Have you brought the document?” The question burst out, despite her best intentions.
“I don’t have it with me, Lady Geiléis. The senior archivist has very strict rules—”
“Even for a copy on a wax tablet? I cannot believe his authority stretches so far.”
“There was no need to bring the original text, in any form. That would be pointless, since no one here would be able to read it.”
“But—”
“Fortunately,” Flannan said, and she got the odd sense that he was playing with her, as a cat plays with a mouse, “I can remember the translation word for word.”
“Ah.” So he had done it. He had unlocked the code. “And is it what you believed?”
“It is most certainly a tale about the Tower of Thorns, and the monster within, and how he came to be there, Lady Geiléis. An old tale. A very old tale. It seems this monster has been in the vicinity of your home for far longer than anyone believed. That makes me wonder.”
Gods, her heart was going like a blacksmith’s hammer. She must appear calm. She must not alert him until he had told her everything he knew. “May I hear the story?”
“Of course. You will be interested to learn that the details you have mentioned are present in it. Midsummer Eve. A woman to cut through the thorns and break the curse.”
“Tell it, please. If possible, exactly as it is set out in the document.” Oh, gods! Brother Gwenneg had written down the whole story. This man would have to die, and all because he possessed a scholar’s natural curiosity. She felt cold sweat break out on her skin.
“Very well. It begins with a young woman named Lily, only child of the chieftain of Bann. Living in this house, in these woods, at a time when the island on which the tower stands was a place of greensward and burgeoning wildflowers. A time when there was no monster, no wailing voice, no hedge of thorns, no magic. Or if there was magic, it was not a curse, but only the presence of the fey . . .”
“Go on,” she said, and despite her best efforts her voice cracked.
“Very well.” Flannan took a mouthful of the mead; all the time his eyes were on her. “The monk who wrote this document tells how Lily came to St. Olcan’s in great distress, at night. How he and some other brethren accompanied her back to her home. There they found her parents, along with those of their retainers who had been home at the time, lying dead in their beds. Lily was distraught; incoherent. But in time she confided in this one monk, recounting a strange sequence of events leading up to that night. She had gone to the old tower . . .”
Geiléis sat silent, her back rigid, her mind working very fast indeed, as he told the tale. Lily and Ash, the tower, the rescue, the sweet time of hope—all too brief—and then the curse. Ash would become a monster; was already becoming one even as the fey woman spoke. Lily would have one chance to save him every fifty years; one chance to see him restored to human form and freed from the tower. She would live long enough to see it happen. She need not be alone—if she could find folk to serve her, they too would live on as long as she needed them. But Lily herself could not perform the task, the terrible task that would ensure Ash’s release. Geiléis winced as Flannan described that task; that she already knew its nature did not make it any easier to hear. The document stated, Flannan said, that this task must be performed by another woman, one who agreed willingly to help. The morning of Midsummer Eve was the only time the thorns would yield. While the curse remained unbroken, the small fey folk of the forest would be bound to tend to the monster, who would sleep the years away, all but the fiftieth summer and the summer before, when he would scream his pain every day from dawn till dusk. Lily must tell the story over and over, so she learned her lesson. The magic would ensure folk forgot. They would not notice that she stayed young. The small folk were bound to secrecy; should they attempt to tell the story to a passing stranger or indeed to someone in the local community, they would bring down a terrible sorrow on all their kind. For when Ash was imprisoned, so was their king; he was condemned to dwell within the thorny hedge until the curse was lifted. Each time they disobeyed the rule of silence, the barbs would pierce him harder.
And? Geiléis waited for the last part, the part that Blackthorn must not learn. The part that nobody else must learn.
“It is a terrible tale,” Flannan said. “And strange indeed. This Lily must have been an ancestor of yours.”
She could not speak. That was all? Brother Gwenneg had left out the final words of the curse? Could she dare to believe it?
“She must have given up on her sweetheart,” he went on. “If she was her parents’ only child, and they had been struck dead, she would have been the last of her line and you would not exist.”
She never gave up. Never considered it, even for a moment. She kept faith for two hundred years; if she had to, she would keep faith for two hundred more. For Ash. She had promised. Geiléis bit her tongue. Her nails dug into her palms.
“But then,” said Flannan quietly, “the woman who cursed Lily told the girl she would live to see her sweetheart freed.”
Geiléis was suddenly alert to danger. She made herself unclench her fists, relax her jaw. Her guards were right outside the door. They would act in an instant if she summoned them.
“Perhaps she lives on, even now,” she said. “An ancient woman, old almost beyond endurance, clinging to life until the curse is broken at last. Not daring to make herself seen, lest she be cast out. Lest she be taken from him.”
“She’d be more than two hundred years old,” said Flannan. “It defies logic. Blackthorn might be prepared to believe it. I am more inclined to think that this monk, the man who recorded the tale, was an imaginative soul. But then, there is the tower, and the thorn hedge, and the wailing monster. There is the undeniable effect of the curse. A shadow that lies over you and your people even to this day.”
She gathered her wits; spoke calmly. “If your accounting is accurate, Master Flannan, this tale does indeed explain many of the troubles that plague the district. Small fey folk—how odd. I had no idea . . . And it tells us what Mistress Blackthorn must do in order to break the curse.” She hesitated. His tale, thus far, had contained nothing that could not be repeated in front of Blackthorn—with less than four days left, it was time the nature of the task was spelled out for her. Grim would raise objections, no doubt, but Geiléis judged it unlikely Blackthorn would
change her mind about going through with it. This account might even strengthen her belief in the mission. But Flannan . . . why had he brought this to her first? Why was his manner so odd? What if the document did indeed contain the curse in full, and he was playing a trick? Was he planning to come out with that last part in front of Blackthorn, and doom the venture to failure? But if so, why not wait until she was here?
He had his chin on his steepled hands, and was regarding her gravely. She was going to have to ask him. She could not assume he had told all he knew. She could not afford to let him walk away, not knowing. But no direct question. Do that, and his suspicions would be quickly aroused.
“Give me your opinion, Master Flannan. The terms of the curse make it clear that once Blackthorn does this, the monster will be a monster no longer. If Lily still lived, the lovers would be reunited; all would be well. But . . . I cannot help feeling there might be some . . . aftermath. Some complication. She who pronounced the curse was evidently both cruel and thorough. I cannot imagine her granting a happy ending. What do you think?”
“One would imagine,” Flannan said, “that after two hundred years, the lovers might be considered to have paid the price for their offense—surely even the hardest-hearted person would recognize that. Or were you thinking of a different kind of aftermath? One involving someone else?”
Oh, gods. It was in the manuscript. What else could he mean? She would have to do it. She would have to call in her guards and give the order.
“The curse is thorough,” he said, “is it not? Everything provided for, down to the last detail. The creature shut away where nobody can reach him. The years of howling, a stark reminder of his presence. The chances offered, leaving a slender thread of hope. But only once in fifty years, so that even if the charm of forgetting failed, even if someone lived long enough to recall the last time, what they said would likely be dismissed as an old person’s ramblings, or as a fanciful tale. The small folk of the forest—they do indeed sound like something from a tale, but since the creature has not yet died of starvation, I’m inclined to believe them real—to provide for the monster and to keep quiet about its presence. A terrible penalty to be paid if they broke that rule. Lily unable to break the curse herself; that, I take it, applied also to her descendants, if indeed they in their turn attempted it. And . . . an aftermath. A cruel and unnecessary aftermath, which seems entirely characteristic of the fey woman who ruined two young lives all those years ago.”