Dreamer's Pool

by Juliet Marillier

  I longed to give Flidais my personal gift. But by the time we reached the house, her headache had returned.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Oran. I need to rest awhile. I have enjoyed this morning; I look forward to riding out with you when Apple is ready.’ She laid her hand on my arm and favoured me with a smile.

  ‘Rest well, my dear,’ I said, and risked a formal kiss on her cheek. ‘Perhaps before supper, for the library.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She turned away, and her maidservants ushered her indoors.

  I was disappointed. But there was plenty to occupy my time. Our guests were starting to ride in: chieftains from Dalriada and Tirconnell and Ulaid, landholders and lawmen and their wives. And, of course, their guards and attendants. All would be accommodated in my household until some days after the betrothal ceremony, as Winterfalls was a considerable ride from any other major establishment. In the absence of Flidais, I greeted the new arrivals with Donagan by my side, and Aedan’s helpers shepherded them away to their various quarters. We had sufficient private apartments to house the chieftains and their wives; others went to the men’s or women’s quarters, which we’d expanded considerably in preparation for Flidais’s arrival. Some of my people had vacated their cottages to make room for visitors, and if needed, we’d use the grooms’ quarters out by the stables for any overflow.

  By the time everyone was settled, the afternoon was almost over. Donagan more or less ordered me to go to the library and sit down awhile before the guests emerged again, rested and ready for supper.

  Library was perhaps too grand a name for the chamber where I kept my treasured collection of books and manuscripts. The room opened off my council chamber. It had deep storage shelves, an oak table and a number of carefully shielded lamps. Tapestries softened the walls; the floor was of slate. Few other folk came here. In my library I could lose myself in the world of a book, or simply sit and dream. When the weather was too inclement to allow a walk or a ride, I would retire here and let the beauty of words and illuminations fill my mind.

  Donagan had left me, but now he returned with a flask of mead, two goblets and some little cakes on a tray.

  ‘Thank you, my friend. It’s been a long day for you, too.’

  He poured the mead; only one goblet.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oran . . . I took the liberty of sending a message to Lady Flidais. I suggested you would like her to come here, now. I know how much you want to give her the book, and I understand you’ll prefer to do so in private. With more and more folk arriving, that’s likely to prove ever more difficult. I can stay outside the door.’

  So much for sitting in peace – my heart was hammering again. ‘Donagan, I believe I’m a little shocked. Won’t she bring one of her women with her?’

  ‘Trust me, Oran.’

  So it was that I found myself alone with Flidais in the library, with both Donagan and Mhairi outside. Mhairi had wanted to protest, I had seen it, but she was not prepared to challenge me. And Flidais, contrary to my expectations, had come into the room quite willingly. She had changed her gown, and now wore a fetching outfit in green and gold.

  ‘You look like summer, Flidais,’ I said as she approached. ‘Come, sit down. I don’t suppose we have long; we do need to be mindful of what’s appropriate.’ Gods, I was doing it again, speaking like some doddery old councillor. I struggled to find the right words. ‘You seem happier today, and that makes me happy too. From the moment I first saw your portrait . . . Well, you have read how I felt. The time of waiting tried me hard. Your letters strengthened me. They were so beautiful, so deep and thoughtful.’ I took both her hands in mine, and there it was again – the powerful pull of bodily desire, awakened by the slightest touch.

  Flidais dropped her gaze, blushing. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry if I have disappointed you in any way.’ I drew a deep, steadying breath. ‘My – my appearance, my behaviour – my woeful struggle to express what is in my heart . . .’

  Flidais looked up. She smiled. Then she stood on tiptoes and kissed me full on the lips. Her kiss sent a shock through my whole body; if I had thought the touch of her hand potent, it was nothing to this. I wrapped my arms around her, returning the kiss a hundredfold. This, this was all we had needed to make things right again. To find each other again.

  After a considerable time, Flidais drew away from my embrace, putting her palms against my chest. ‘Did you say you had a gift for me?’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I do. I hope it is to your liking.’ The silk-wrapped book was on a low shelf, well away from the lamps – it was precious both in its rarity and in its link to our courtship. ‘Please accept this as my wedding gift to you, Flidais. And as a token of my love.’ There, I had spoken the word, if somewhat shakily.

  Flidais unwrapped the length of silk and held the little book in her hands. The cover was of finest oxhide, with the corner pieces cast in a pattern suggesting oak leaves. The central medallion was inset with rubies and pearls. ‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Look inside.’

  She opened the book. Turned the pages, where a master scribe had copied faithfully not only the fine hand of the original, but also the illuminations that had given that book its particular appeal for Flidais. Her father had had a copy in his personal library.

  ‘What beautiful pictures,’ she said. ‘Look, a little dog. A strange creature that is part snake, part bird. And here, an owl. How charming, Oran. Thank you so much.’ She closed the little volume and turned her lovely smile on me.

  This was not quite the response I had expected. ‘It is a near-exact copy of Lucian’s Bestiary,’ I said, wondering if the upheaval of the journey could have made her forget a book she had described to me in such meticulous detail. ‘Ordered especially for you, long ago when we were first writing to each other. I was so full of hope, I arranged this even before we had agreed to wed. I knew you would find it hard to leave behind the treasure you so loved. I knew, also, that your father was unlikely to let such a valuable item travel with you halfway across Erin. It was copied for me in the monastic library where the original is held.’

  Flidais was looking a little flushed now. ‘Oh, how silly of me! Of course it is the same, how could I mistake it? Oran, that is very sweet of you, and very romantic, and I love you for it.’ She set the book down on the table and put her arms around my neck, pressing herself close. ‘Sadly, the headache prevents me from reading at present,’ she said against my chest, ‘but perhaps you would read something to me? Just a short passage?’

  ‘Of course.’ I bent to bestow a kiss on her hair. She smelled of sweet herbs. In my arms she felt warm and pliant. How could I doubt her even for a moment?

  Propriety suggested I should step back, and I did so, not without reluctance. It would be all too easy for the embrace to become something more, and something more again, and I could not allow that to happen. Not before we were hand-fasted. ‘Shall we sit down and take some of this mead? It’s Brid’s own brew. And Donagan has provided spice cakes.’ I was about to add that my body servant, usually such a stickler for correct behaviour, had surprised me this afternoon, but I did not. Better if Flidais believed this private encounter had been my idea.

  I read her the description of the unicorn, knowing it was one of her favourite parts of the bestiary. We had differed, in our letters, over the scholar Lucian’s text, which he had rendered in both Latin and Irish, scribed on opposite pages. I had thought the parallel texts reasonably faithful to one another; Flidais had found passages in which she believed Lucian used the vernacular more creatively. We had enjoyed debating matters of this kind and would again, no doubt, when Flidais was feeling better.

  ‘The unicorn is fierce of temperament and wild in nature, finding its home in the dark recesses of ancient forests,’ read the last part of the description. ‘When pursued by hunters, it will outpace the fleetest of ho
rses. Only when cornered can it be taken. It will sacrifice its life rather than be captured. A unicorn driven toward a cliff will not veer one way or the other, but leap, even should the precipice be sheer and high. When it falls, the creature will turn so that the horn is downmost. Thus the shock of the landing is absorbed by the hard material of that horn, and the unicorn may walk away unharmed.

  ‘The horn of the unicorn has remarkable curative properties. Powdered and made into a salve, it is effective in the treatment of many illnesses.’ Had Flidais just stifled a yawn? ‘I will not read the next passage,’ I said. What followed was a detailed description of the various salves, draughts, and other potions that could be prepared from alicorn, the substance that formed the horns of unicorns. Flidais knew the book as well as I did; no need for her to hear that somewhat less interesting section. ‘I hope that very soon you will be reading again – I know how much you enjoy it. Perhaps we should ask Mistress Blackthorn if she has a supply of powdered alicorn. It’s said to be effective for headaches.’

  It was a joke, but Flidais did not look amused, and I regretted it. ‘I’m sorry, Flidais. I did not mean to make light of your malady. The last thing I want is to hurt you in any way. You must know that.’

  ‘I am the one who should say sorry,’ Flidais murmured. ‘The headaches are a nuisance to you. I have been indisposed when you’ve needed me to do things – greeting the guests, speaking to the household – and I do not like to displease you. I will be better soon, I promise. Already I feel much stronger.’

  ‘You don’t displease me, Flidais.’ I set down my goblet and came to kneel beside her where she sat on the bench. I took her hands in mine. ‘Never think that. The situation was difficult, meeting face to face for the first time after our letters . . . And the terrible event at Dreamer’s Pool . . . Little wonder that we both felt somewhat awkward. And what occurred with Bramble did not make it easier for you.’

  ‘Donagan told me Bramble spent last night in your bedchamber.’

  ‘She did, and slept soundly. But that cannot be a long-term arrangement, of course.’ I would have been happy to keep it thus; but if Bramble was likely to bark and bite in Flidais’s presence, she clearly could not sleep on the bed once we were hand-fasted. ‘With your permission, when Aunt Sochla arrives I will ask her to take charge of your little friend.’

  ‘You don’t need my permission,’ Flidais said. ‘You’re a prince.’

  ‘I’m your future husband. I’m the man who loves you. And Bramble is your dog. I may be a prince, but I try to respect the wishes of others. That applies not only to the people close to me, but to everyone I encounter.’

  She dropped her gaze. ‘Now I’ve made you cross.’

  ‘Not at all.’ I reached up to lay my hand against her cheek. ‘Sometimes I do get a little pompous; it’s one of my failings. Now we’d best open the door, or Donagan and Mhairi will be imagining all manner of things.’

  ‘It seems a long time until the hand-fasting,’ Flidais said softly. ‘Don’t you think so, Oran?’ She was looking directly at me now, and what I saw in her eyes stirred me.

  ‘A very long time,’ I said, tracing my finger across her lips. ‘I know it will try my patience to the limit.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Flidais with a smile.

  At that moment there was a discreet tapping on the door – Donagan, no doubt, warning me that it was time to bring this to a close. Which was perhaps just as well, since desire was threatening to overwhelm me yet again.

  ‘Farewell for now, dearest,’ I said, rising to my feet.

  ‘Farewell, Oran.’ She rose and went to the door. It was only after she was gone, and Mhairi with her, that I noticed she had left my gift behind.

  15

  ~BLACKTHORN~

  The entire neighbourhood was swept up in preparations for the betrothal of Prince Oran and Lady Flidais. I was much relieved that I had not been invited to the celebrations, though in fact Grim had heard everyone was welcome. Folk from the village would be there, farmers and craftsmen and labourers – there’d been much excitement about it – but there’d be the prince and his kind too, and Grim and I had no reason to be wanting that sort of company. Let them enjoy their dancing and singing, their whistles and drums, their great bonfire. We’d sit by our own little fire, glad to be out of it all.

  I could have done without the endless talk. Folk came to see me almost every day, and I had no choice but to listen as they chattered on about the ritual and the court visitors and what Lady Flidais would be wearing. They talked about Prince Oran and how much everyone liked him, because he took the time to listen to them, really listen, instead of nodding his head when they told him their concerns, then doing nothing. They told me how some Gaul who lived in Silverlake was baking a wedding cake, and how they hoped there’d be a share for the ordinary folk, not only the lords and ladies. Soon enough my head was so full of the betrothal that I wanted to scream. But generally while someone was prattling on about gowns and music and cake I was attending to their sore back or nasty rash, so I buttoned my lip and let them talk.

  The only company I didn’t mind, apart from Grim’s which I was stuck with whether I liked it or not, was Emer’s. The girl didn’t gossip the way other folk did. And she was genuinely useful around the place: a quick learner. I was surprised when, one morning as she was watching me prepare a salve, even she started talking about the upcoming celebrations. I handed her the mortar and pestle and a handful of seeds to grind so she could make herself useful at the same time.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to be there, Mistress Blackthorn?’ Emer asked. ‘You’re welcome to come along with my family, if you care to. There’ll be music and dancing – court musicians for the formal part, my brother says, but later on just the village band. Fraoch plays the bodhran, and there are a couple of fellows on whistle and fiddle. That’s for us, the ordinary folk. And stories. There’s a druid coming to perform the ritual; I expect he’ll tell some tales. I think you would like that.’ She paused, peering into the mortar, testing the mixture between her fingers.

  ‘Not ready yet,’ I said. ‘You want a much finer powder. Almost like dust.’ My mind went off on a path of its own, thinking about families and how different they were. Emer’s brother Fraoch was the local smith, the only man in Winterfalls who came anywhere near Grim’s size. Emer was a tall girl, strongly built; that would stand her in good stead as a healer, since she’d likely be able to handle bone-settng without assistance. She had soft brown hair and a thoughtful look to her. I wondered if Grim had ever fathered children, and if so whether they had grown into giants like him. I could have asked him. But that would be breaking our rule, and besides, it would give him the right to put the same sort of question to me. And I wouldn’t be able to answer, because the moment I started to talk about it I would break in pieces.

  ‘I keep thinking of my friend,’ Emer said, continuing to grind the seeds. ‘She loves music and dancing; she’d enjoy the betrothal celebration so much.’

  I was glad of the diversion from my perilous thoughts. ‘This is your friend who not so long ago believed she could slip a potion into a lad’s ale and make him love her forever?’

  ‘Oh, not Becca. She’s already decided she doesn’t like Cathan anymore. No, I mean Ness, my friend from Silverlake.’

  There was a note of such sadness in her voice that I asked a question, though I really did not want to involve myself in these folk’s business. ‘She won’t be at the betrothal?’

  ‘She’s gone,’ Emer said, the pestle stilling in her hand. ‘Everyone says she ran away with her young man. He’s a horse trader, one of the travelling folk. They say she slipped off secretly at night and took all her father’s money. I thought you would have heard the story. Everyone tells it. Everyone blames her.’

  ‘For stealing the money, you mean?’

  ‘Worse than that.’ Emer’s voice was uneven; her cheeks
had flushed red. ‘Her father died the same day she left. A terrible accident. Crushed under his own grindstone. People were all too quick to say it was Ness’s fault. That she broke his heart, and that made him careless, so he wasn’t watching what he was doing.’

  I set down my little pot of softened wax. ‘But you don’t believe that?’

  ‘Ness wouldn’t leave her dad. She’s devoted to him. Her mother died when Ness was only seven, and she’s looked after him and the house ever since. She does love her fellow, no doubt of that. He wanted her to go away with him, to leave Dalriada and join the travellers – he’d never be able to settle down here, it isn’t in those folk’s nature. But Ness wouldn’t just up and go; not while her dad still needed her. And she’d never take his money. Never.’

  ‘But she’s gone.’

  Emer bowed her head. ‘Gone that same day, and never even told me she was leaving. I miss her.’

  I considered this sad tale for a while, and something Grim had told me came to mind. ‘Aren’t the travelling folk due back in these parts sometime soon? You’ll be able to find out for yourself if what people are saying about your friend is true.’

  ‘If it was true,’ said Emer, ‘and I don’t believe it for an instant, then how could she show her face here again?’

  ‘But if it isn’t true,’ I said, ‘where is she?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  The wax was ready. I waited while Emer finished the grinding, then I showed her how to mix the components to make the salve. The sad little story was at the back of my mind, a puzzle to which the solution was almost certainly the obvious one: Ness had indeed robbed her father and run away with her lover, and did not deserve such a loyal friend.

  ‘Now scoop it carefully into the jar, and make sure the stopper is tight. Good work.’ Praising folk did not come naturally to me. Perhaps it never had. Helping people of my own accord was easier than helping them because of Conmael’s agreement. That didn’t stop me wishing for the life of a hermit. No Emer, no Grim, no local folk with their ailments, and most certainly no prince and his household of hangers-on. And no Conmael. I didn’t think leaking thatch or muddy paths would trouble me much, if only I could live undisturbed. I wouldn’t be lonely. There were the memories, mostly memories I didn’t want, but a scattering of good ones too. And I could always get a dog. Not a silly little lap dog like Lady Flidais’s creature. I’d have a big ugly hound that kept folk away from my door.