The guard managed a smile. ‘I’ll wager you’re the only person in these parts who didn’t know the prince’s new bride was on her way to Winterfalls.’
My stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. I had known, vaguely, that Prince Oran was to be wed to some lady from the south. Pressed hard, I might have recalled someone mentioning the name Flidais. I took another look at the lady, who had an attendant on either side supporting her. ‘You mean that is the prince’s bride?’ Once this had left my lips I realised it might be taken as offensive. I was surprised that this wilting flower was a princess – or was soon to be one, by marriage – because I had thought a princess would be stronger. More courageous in adversity. Foolish of me. ‘No offence,’ I added quickly. ‘She is very young.’
‘Prince Oran is also young, or so they say.’ The guard was about to add something more when a forlorn cry rang through the wood, making the little hairs on my neck stand up on end.
‘Bramble,’ said one of the women. ‘My lady, you’ve forgotten Bramble.’
The cottage that had seemed so spacious was over-full of folk, and they were chattering like magpies. I didn’t like them here, I didn’t want them here, but since I’d offered my help, I was stuck with them.
The fellow in charge, Domnall, had turned out to be competent. He’d ordered some of the men to make a stretcher, others to keep guard over the spot where the accident had happened, a small party to take a message to the prince. That left me with Flidais, her attendants and six men-at-arms who’d been given the job of watching over us. Until the prince of Dalriada sent someone to convey his future wife to the comforts of Winterfalls, it was up to me to look after her. In the back of my mind was a question whose answer I did not want to consider. Who had called for help, the girl who had ended up dead, or one of the others? By failing to rescue that girl in time, had I already made the seven years of my bond to Conmael into eight?
Not only did I have a house full of people, I also had a dog. If such a pathetic scrap of nothing could be called a dog. I fully understood why Lady Flidais might have wanted to leave it behind. The animal was a bundle of nerves. It cringed in terror when anyone came close, as if it expected a beating. As for the lady, she sat staring at nothing, her body all shivers even now she was indoors and wrapped in a blanket. She and the dog made a sorry pair.
I took charge. Told the guards to go outside. Built up the fire, heated water for washing, found more blankets. Made sure the lady was warm, dry and adequately clad. Sent one of the women – the tall one – out with a jug of mead and some bread for the men-at-arms.
The dog had gone to ground under a bench. One of the women – the grey-haired one – fished it out and brought it to its mistress, thinking, no doubt, that it might comfort her. A trace of a smile touched the lady’s wan features as she reached for her pet, and I thought, Ah; this is the answer. This will bring her back to herself. A moment later Flidais shrieked, making me start. The dog had sunk its teeth into her hand, drawing blood. She dropped it unceremoniously on the floor, and it fled back into hiding.
‘You,’ I gestured toward the nearest woman, ‘take that animal outside. If there’s a leash, find it.’
The woman – this one had long dark plaits – extricated the dog from its bolthole; it went rigid in her grasp, limbs splayed. ‘Lady Flidais won’t want to be parted from Bramble,’ she said. ‘Not once she’s back to herself.’
A creature like that seemed to me a waste of time and space. Its only purpose was to be cossetted. Why in the name of the gods had they brought the thing all the way from the south? ‘Just make sure the animal’s not underfoot, then. And keep the leash on,’ I said. ‘Lady Flidais, I’ll make you a restorative brew. Try to breathe slowly, it will help.’
The story came out in bits and pieces as I found the herbs and prepared the mixture. The party had been in high spirits, knowing Winterfalls was so close, for they had made a long journey from the south. When they’d entered the shade of the wood, Lady Flidais had said she would like to bathe, so she would be cool and fresh to greet her future husband, and Ciar, her maidservant, had agreed to go in the water with her. The men had been persuaded to turn their backs while the two young women swam – the rest of the party had had no inclination to strip off and join them. The impression I got, without anyone quite saying it, was that Lady Flidais was not the conventional type of noblewoman.
‘And then,’ said the grey-haired woman, ‘they both got in trouble and went under, and one of the men waded in after them. Lady Flidais bobbed up and managed to swim to shore on her own, but Ciar – by the time he got her back up to the surface, she was . . .’ She glanced at Flidais and fell silent.
If I were choosing a spot for a swim, it wouldn’t be Dreamer’s Pool. But perhaps these travellers from far away had not felt the oddness of the place.
I put a cup of the restorative brew in Flidais’s hands. ‘Drink, my lady,’ I said. ‘This will make you feel better.’ After a moment, I added, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ I felt only the sadness that attends the death of any young, healthy person, but if my words were any sort of comfort to the lady, what matter if they were precisely true or not? Her demeanour was troubling me. Yes, she’d had a terrible fright, but by now I’d have expected her to be coming out of that trance-like state and starting to weep or rail at the gods. Or at least to have something to say. She’d asked a sensible question back at the pool, unless my memory was playing tricks, but since then she hadn’t spoken a word.
But then, if the drowned girl had been her body servant, perhaps this was the loss not of a lackey but of something closer to a friend. I crouched down next to the lady. ‘Your maidservant – had she been with you long?’
She turned her big blue eyes on me. ‘A year.’ Her tone was flat.
‘We departed in haste,’ said the dark-haired attendant. ‘Under the circumstances, our riding skills weighed more than our abilities to dress hair or mend garments. Ciar was a good rider.’
But not such a good swimmer, I thought, if she drowned so quickly. The cry for help could not have been hers, or surely I would have reached the pool to find her still alive. I had brought folk back from near-drowning before, folk who had stopped breathing but still had a pulse. Ciar had been well past that point.
I turned my attention back to Lady Flidais, who was taking reluctant sips of the draught. There was a little more colour in her cheeks now. ‘You left home in a hurry, my lady?’ I asked, not because I wanted to know, but to get her talking again. Cloud Hill, they’d said. Why did that name sound familiar?
‘My . . . my father’s holdings are under threat,’ Flidais whispered. ‘We had to get away quickly, yes. I don’t want to talk about it.’
An awkward silence ensued. The lady sipped her drink. Her attendants had run out of things to say, or at least, things they were prepared to say in my presence. That didn’t stop them having a good look: at the sleeping arrangements, at the bundles of drying herbs and the plaits of garlic and onions hanging from the roof, at the jars and bottles and bags containing various substances I used in my craft. At the boxes Grim had made to hold my supplies, with their carved lids, and the basket he’d woven for firewood. At the neat pegs to hold clothing, the well-scrubbed hearth, the rush-strewn floor. Whatever these ladies might think of me, nobody was going to say I was a slattern. A healer kept things orderly; couldn’t do her job otherwise. When wise women appeared in the old tales, they were often toothless hags living in caves festooned with dangling bones and full of wriggling things in jars. As hags went, I was a youngish one, and though I had lost a tooth or two in that place, I could still bite hard. If my story was ever told by the fireside, it wouldn’t send folk to bed with good dreams.
As for the wriggling things, my work was mostly cleaning wounds, stitching up cuts and mixing draughts for the flux. It was delivering babies and sitting by the beds of the dying. On occasion, folk did ask for what might l
oosely be called spells. I’d had two requests for love potions and one enquiry about bringing down ill on an old enemy – that one I understood all too well. I’d talked the love potion girls out of the idea with a few truths about the nature of men. As for the fellow who wanted to punish his enemy, I’d told him I did not deal in such matters, and that he’d be better off taking his grievance to the village elders, or to Prince Oran – that was if the prince bothered to listen to the troubles of ordinary folk. The man hadn’t wanted to take no for an answer. Offered me an incentive in the form of silver. I’d held on to my temper by the merest thread. In the back of my mind, I’d wondered what I was supposed to do when helping one person meant inflicting ill on another. Would refusing add another year to my seven? On balance, I thought not. The first thing Conmael had asked me to do was use my gift for good, not ill; to carry out my work in the manner a true healer should. It could be said that refusing the man was helping him. Helping him to see the error of his ways. Helping him avoid worse trouble. At least, I hoped so.
A knock at the cottage door; I was jolted out of my thoughts. It was one of the guards. ‘Lady Flidais, there are riders in sight; I think it may be the prince and his party.’
Flidais rose to her feet, passing her cup to one of her women. Lifted her chin; straightened her back; squared her shoulders as if preparing for a battle. It seemed she wasn’t such a wilting lily after all.
‘Mhairi, my cloak,’ she said, and I heard the effort she was making to keep her voice steady. ‘Deirdre, my shoes. Nuala, keep Bramble out of the way until someone brings her travelling basket. I wish to greet the prince in an appropriate manner. We’ll do so outside.’ The women scurried into action, obedient to her commands. Cloak on, shoes on, dog tidied away. Damp hair quickly pulled back with a scarf, which Mhairi – the tall one – tied up in what appeared to me an elegant manner, not that I would know about such things. Flidais stood perfectly still, allowing them to prepare her. Then she moved toward the door, and I thought she was about to leave without a second glance, taking all of them with her, giving me back my space and my silence. But at the last moment she turned to look at me. The blue eyes blazed with determination; the delicate jaw was set firm as a warrior’s. ‘Thank you for your assistance,’ she said.
I nodded, saying nothing. I admired her courage. At the same time, her tone – haughtily dismissive, the voice of a fine lady addressing the least of underlings – set my teeth on edge, and if I had let myself speak, something unforgivable might have come out. I was angry with myself as much as with her. This shouldn’t matter. After everything, it shouldn’t matter in the least.
‘You will be compensated for your trouble,’ Lady Flidais added, then without waiting for a reply she swept out the door with her ladies after her. Deirdre – the one with plaits – turned back before she left. She had the little shaking dog in her arms, and on her face there was a look of genuine apology.
‘Thank you, Mistress Blackthorn. We’ve caused you a great deal of disturbance, and you’ve been so kind and helpful.’
‘Just doing my job,’ I said. Which was the truth, though not all of the truth. Just doing my job because otherwise I’d be dead and Mathuin would never face judgement. Now take yourselves and your business out of my house so I can shut the door on you and breathe again. Which was less than fair, since it wasn’t this woman’s fault that her mistress had taken it into her head to ride to Winterfalls by the slow route and stop for a swim along the way. I wondered if it had occurred to Lady Flidais that her maid’s death sat squarely on her own shoulders?
They were gone. Out of the house, at least. Morrigan’s curse, I hated being among folk! Noble folk in particular; their pretensions were like a burr in the clothing, a constant, scratching annoyance. Even their serving folk had airs and graces. Just as well I wouldn’t be tending to Lady Flidais in the future. There’d no doubt be some court physician in Prince Oran’s residence to look after her kind. The ordinary folk I could just about tolerate, in small doses.
The house was mine again, at least until Grim got home, and he knew how to keep out of my way. I tidied up and put the kettle back on, thinking to sit in the quiet until he returned. Dimly I heard horses outside, voices, folk moving about. They’d be away soon; I might go out then, and see if the garden had sustained any damage from the tide of uninvited guests. Grim would be less than pleased to lose any of his new plantings.
Someone knocked on the door. Bollocks! Why couldn’t these folk leave me be?
I was inclined to wrench the door open and snarl in the face of whoever it was. I took a breath, then walked over and opened it with restraint.
A man stood there, tall, russet-haired, youngish, dressed like a courtier. Vaguely familiar.
‘Mistress Blackthorn?’ he enquired.
Fool. Who else would it be? ‘I am Blackthorn, yes.’
‘My name is Donagan. I am Prince Oran’s companion.’
Ah. I’d caught a glimpse of him that day when I’d fled into the wood and left Grim to deal with our unexpected visitors. The memory did not bring warm feelings.
‘The prince has asked me to thank you for your assistance to Lady Flidais and her party. He wishes to compensate you for your services.’ On his palm, he held out a little drawstring bag in pale kidskin.
I wanted to refuse it. Why, I wasn’t sure. Stubborn pride? The knowledge that I had only helped because of the promise? My dislike of chieftains and princes and fine ladies? I opened my mouth to deliver a withering retort, and at that moment I saw Grim approaching along the path, his pace easy.
‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the little bag. I almost dropped it – the thing weighed twice as much as I’d expected. Grim would indeed have thought me foolish if I had told the prince’s lackey to keep his money. ‘I wish I had arrived in time to save the woman who was drowned. When I got to the pool she was already gone.’
‘So the men-at-arms told us,’ Donagan said. ‘Still, Prince Oran appreciates your kindness to the lady. He passed on his regret that he could not thank you in person.’
Donagan must have made up that part himself – what prince would say such a thing? I made no comment, just stood there waiting for him to go. But he didn’t seem in a hurry to move on.
Grim came up, not rushing, stopped a couple of paces away with his gaze on Donagan, put down the sack he was carrying, didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to, since everything about him said, What do you think you’re doing here?
‘Grim,’ said Donagan in a friendly enough tone. ‘Prince Oran’s been hearing good reports of your work in the district.’ And when the two of us only gaped at him, he went on, ‘It seems you’re skilled not only in thatching, but in several other crafts.’
‘Do what I can,’ Grim mumbled, then shot a glance at me. ‘Has something happened here?’
‘Story to tell,’ I said. ‘Later.’
‘Prince Oran may well wish to make use of your skills in the future,’ Donagan said, looking at Grim. ‘And yours,’ he added hastily, glancing at me.
‘We have work already,’ I told him. ‘Plenty to keep us busy.’
‘Ah, well.’ Donagan was unruffled. A courtier, skilled at keeping things running smoothly. ‘Thank you again, and I’ll bid you good day.’
Grim managed a grunt; I gave a nod. Donagan strode off to his horse, which was tethered under the trees at the far side of the garden.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Grim as we watched the king’s man ride away.
‘Come inside and I’ll tell you. How were the flour bags?’
Grim gave me a funny look. ‘Heavy.’ He cast his glance over the garden; he sniffed like a hunting dog. ‘Folk have been here; not just him, a lot of folk. And horses. Just as well I fixed the wall around the vegetable patch. Here, a bit of this’ll be good in the brew.’ He leaned over the dry-stone wall and plucked a few sprigs of basil, a few leaves of thyme. ‘Go
od pile of horse dung over there. I’ll dig it into the new patch.’
‘Brew first. Dung later, if you insist.’
11
~GRIM~
I’ve come home with a story to tell. But Blackthorn’s got her own story and it’s bigger than mine. So instead of talking I sit down and listen.
It’s odd all right, a girl drowning with a whole crowd of folk around her, even if their backs were turned. Seems that’s what happened. Blackthorn says it’s just as well it was the maid who drowned on Prince Oran’s land and not this woman he’s marrying, since that’s the sort of thing wars get fought over. That sounds a bit hard to me, but most likely true. The maid was a person like me, well, maybe not so low, but far below Lady Flidais. The sort of person who can die and nobody cares much, except her closest family, that’s if she’s got any. I tell Blackthorn this and she says with some folk, not even the family cares, but yes, she knows what I mean, and she thinks Lady Flidais and her women won’t spend much time mourning this girl who’s died.
As for taking a swim in Dreamer’s Pool, that turns me cold. If Conmael and his kind don’t live in the wood, then something else does, something that isn’t animal and isn’t human. Last thing I’d be wanting, knowing it was watching, would be to strip off my clothes and get in the water. Not that I would anyway, seeing as I can’t swim. But the thought of it gives me the creeps.
Haven’t said this to Blackthorn, but if our cottage hadn’t been outside the wood, if it had been in there under the trees, I might not have stayed, even for her. Something wrong in that place. Can’t put my finger on what it is. Any time I go in for firewood or herbs or water I feel it, like an itch on the skin or a buzzing in the ears. Something different. Something not right.
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