Dreamer's Pool

by Juliet Marillier

  I had no answer for her. My mind was full of questions, but all of them were impossible. Why did the Flidais of the letters not match the Flidais who had come to Winterfalls? What my aunt had just said about Bramble only emphasised that. Flidais had loved her little dog. In that, at least, the letters had been true. I had put the differences in my lady’s character down to a scribe penning the missives in her name. But the more I considered that, the less likely it seemed. Such a blatant pretence would surely not have been sanctioned by a chieftain of Cadhan’s status. And even if he had not known, the letters had rung so true – what scribe could have responded so perfectly to my own missives? Besides, that last letter had been written, not at Cloud Hill, but at Muadan’s stronghold in Ulaid, when Flidais’s party broke their journey there. It stretched credibility that Muadan’s scribe, too, was able to capture that delicate tone.

  I had heard an old tale once, in which a serving woman tricked her mistress into changing places with her, and kept the lady from telling the truth by threatening those she loved. But that could not have happened here, for Flidais had brought her own entourage with her, folk who had known her a long time, and besides, the portrait her father had sent to mine was the perfect image of the woman who had come to Winterfalls to be my bride. And yet, something was wrong. I knew it in my heart.

  ‘Nothing, Aunt Sochla,’ I said. ‘Just ask about the headaches. Oh, and another favour.’

  She waited.

  ‘Might Bramble stay with me for a little while? I won’t allow her to get on the bed or do anything else you’d disapprove of, naturally.’

  ‘If I am strict, Oran, it is for the dog’s own good. Of course, take her awhile. Send your man to bring her back when you’ve had enough. That’s if he’s still here.’ She turned to go.

  ‘Wait! What do you mean, if he’s still here?’

  ‘The word was, he was packing up ready to leave. So I was told not long after you headed off this morning.’

  ‘Leave? Leave for where?’

  She lifted her brows at me, her eyes shrewd. ‘How would I know, Oran? Perhaps to visit his parents. Perhaps elsewhere. I’m not privy to the business of your entire household.’ After a moment, as I gazed at her in shocked incomprehension, she added more gently, ‘A good friend, young Donagan; he has been since the two of you were lads. You’d best go and find him. Here, give me the dog.’

  ‘I’ll take her with me.’ Still carrying Bramble, I headed for the men’s quarters, hoping beyond hope that my aunt was wrong. I could see, at least, if Donagan’s belongings were still there.

  The men’s quarters were deserted, save for a lone figure with a pack on his back, heading out the far door.

  ‘Donagan! Wait!’

  For a moment I thought my friend was going to ignore me. I thought he would walk away without a word. But he turned and stood there in the open doorway. He held his quiet as I walked down the long chamber to halt a few paces from him.

  I could order him to stay, of course. Put on the princely voice and demand that he remain where he was needed. Keep playing whatever the unfortunate game was that had made us enemies so quickly. Probably lose my best friend in all the world as a result.

  I set Bramble down on the floor. ‘Donagan,’ I said, ‘if I’ve offended you, I’m sorry. Aunt Sochla told me you were going away, and I see that may be true. Please don’t leave. I need you.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can stay.’ Donagan’s tone was odd; he bent down to scratch Bramble behind the ears, perhaps so he need not meet my eye.

  ‘Tell me why. Speak honestly, as you used to.’

  He did look at me then, and I knew him well enough to see that he was as deeply unhappy as I was. ‘Best if I don’t, Oran.’

  I grasped for an explanation. ‘Is it because you see no future for yourself if you stay with me? No wife and children of your own, because you will always be at my beck and call?’

  ‘Of course not, Oran, that’s ridiculous! Have you forgotten that my mother and father both serve in your parents’ household, and have done since before I was born? Half your retainers here are married folk with families.’

  ‘What, then?’ If he brought up the subject of my nocturnal activities with Flidais, I was not sure what I would say. I had asked my friend to be honest. To be completely honest myself would be to expose Flidais’s behaviour, and that felt . . . dishonourable. If I had said no to her from the first, I would have been on stronger ground.

  ‘I can’t talk about it. Not here.’ Donagan glanced around the chamber. Nobody else was there, but he was right, this was not the ideal place for a private conversation.

  My instincts told me not to suggest we talk in my bedchamber. ‘Then put down your bag, to reassure me that you’re not going to bolt until we’ve talked about this, and come out walking with me. We’ll find somewhere far from prying eyes and listening ears, and you can explain yourself. I can’t just let you go.’

  He didn’t want to come with me, I could see it. But he put down his bag and we went outside. Bramble danced around us, and I wished I could experience the same uncomplicated joy a dog feels at something as simple as a walk with a friend. If I managed to persuade Donagan to stay, I would never, ever take him for granted again.

  Neither of us said a word until we reached the burial ground, the spot where I had found Bramble on the day she ran away. There we sat down on a bench, side by side, and the little dog hunkered down by my feet, content to rest after her second long walk for the morning.

  ‘I thought you were riding to Silverlake today,’ Donagan said.

  ‘Flidais has a headache.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘The visit to Winterfalls village did not go entirely to plan. I won’t take her with me again until . . .’ Until what? Until she turned into a different woman, the one I’d once imagined I would be marrying? ‘It is much easier when you are with me,’ I said. ‘If I have perhaps forgotten to thank you for all you do, that does not mean . . .’

  ‘Oran,’ said my friend, ‘I will not lie to you. I was disturbed when you made the decision to move me to the men’s quarters. More than disturbed. Perplexed. Hurt. I had perhaps come to expect too much, since you have always treated me more as friend than servant. But –’

  ‘Wait a moment. I made the decision that you were not to sleep in the antechamber any longer? No such thing – you moved of your own volition. One day there, the next day gone. And suddenly not a friend anymore. Suddenly as cool as if you despised me.’

  No response from Donagan; he had his elbows on his knees and was looking with apparent fascination at a beetle crawling across a leaf.

  ‘Donagan? I gave no order for you to move out of the antechamber.’

  He gave me a sideways look. ‘An order came from Lady Flidais, through one of her women. Saying that I was to remove myself and my belongings to the men’s quarters and leave the antechamber empty. I did question it. I was told the arrangement would provide better privacy, in view of your impending marriage.’

  ‘You should have spoken to me,’ I said, stunned. She’d got him out of the way so she could continue to steal into my bedchamber. I could think of no other reason. And she must have known I wouldn’t like it, or surely she would have consulted me first. ‘Why didn’t you tell me straight away? Surely you know me well enough to realise I would never do this.’ Gods, Donagan probably imagined we were still disporting together on a nightly basis.

  ‘Before Lady Flidais came here,’ Donagan said quietly, ‘I thought I knew you very well indeed. Now I’m not sure I know you at all.’

  His words were like a blow. I looked down at my hands, unable to speak. Bramble leaned against my leg, and at her touch I felt tears start in my eyes.

  ‘You’re betrothed, Oran,’ Donagan said. ‘As good as hand-fasted. I can’t do my job with Lady Flidais here. I want to help you. I don’t want to leave you. But I can’t stand by and watch her d
estroy the man I knew; the man who was my friend. And now,’ he rose to his feet, ‘I’ve said it, and I should go.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, struggling for calm. ‘Please.’

  He stood there, not looking at me but gazing out over the fields of Winterfalls. I saw in his expression that he did not truly wish to go away. I fought for words to convey what I was feeling.

  ‘You must think me very weak,’ I said, ‘if you believe that. You must think me unfit to be the prince of Dalriada; unfit to lead.’

  Donagan sighed. ‘I think your nature has caused you to make an error. Unfortunately that error has led you into a situation that will be with you for the rest of your life. Believe me, Oran, if I could think of any way out of this, if I believed I could help you, I would stay. But you’re betrothed to the lady. More than that, you . . .’ He did not say it: You have bedded her already, more than once. ‘Your actions have not always met the standards I know you set for yourself,’ he said instead. ‘I cannot remain in your service.’

  ‘Where were you planning to go?’

  He shrugged. ‘Does that matter? Away from here. To visit my parents, perhaps. But I will not stay at Cahercorcan, since you and Lady Flidais will be often there.’

  No way out. A shiver ran through me; I gathered up Bramble and held her close. ‘I know this is my fault,’ I said, failing to keep my voice steady. ‘I believed in a dream; I have learned that doing so is foolish. I would say to you, perhaps she can change, perhaps we can reach a compromise, perhaps, given time, this will not seem so difficult.’ I drew an uneven breath. ‘But . . . Donagan, don’t dismiss this as another fancy, please . . . I think there’s something wrong. Something about Flidais. I cannot say what, exactly, but . . . if she had not come here with her own folk, if she did not so closely resemble her portrait, I would have said the woman who put her hand in mine and promised to marry me is not Flidais of Cloud Hill at all. She seems reluctant to engage in real conversation with me. She shows little interest in the pastimes we discussed in our letters. Bramble, whom she described with such tenderness, is frightened of her. And . . . when we are in each other’s company, her speech and her actions are sometimes . . . odd. Inappropriate. Something is amiss. I feel it in my bones.’

  ‘A prince does not wed for love, Oran. You know that quite well. Yes, you made an error in believing the woman of the portrait was some perfect ideal, the one true love you had waited for. But you knew, surely, that such a marriage is essentially a pairing of strangers, a man and woman suited to each other only by birth and breeding. Such marriages are made because leaders need to form strategic alliances, not because they want their sons and daughters to be happy. You might consider yourself fortunate that Lady Flidais is young, comely, and apparently healthy, despite the headaches.’

  ‘And yet you say you cannot live in the same household as my future wife.’

  ‘She and I would be enemies. We would be constantly at odds over your welfare. I am a servant; Lady Flidais will one day be queen. That means I must go.’

  Even he did not understand. Even my closest friend dismissed the idea that there was something deeply wrong, something that went far beyond a lack of compatibility between my betrothed and me.

  ‘I’m not the only member of your household to experience difficulties,’ Donagan said. ‘Your mind has been otherwise occupied, I believe. I understand you gave Lady Flidais free rein to order the household. Folk have found her manner . . . a little difficult.’

  ‘Folk. What folk? And what do you mean, difficult?’

  ‘Aedan. Brid. Fíona. Lady Flidais can be somewhat abrupt. Her approach to domestic matters is not in tune with what we have all come to expect from you.’

  ‘But why didn’t anyone tell me this? None of them has said a word.’

  ‘Of course not. The lady is your newly betrothed; to complain about her would be to offend you deeply, and your trusted retainers view you not only with respect but with a certain fondness, having known you since you were a child.’

  How had I missed this? Had I indeed been so wrapped up in my own concerns that I had not noticed such a degree of unrest? It seemed so. I had been blinded, not only by confusion and disappointment but also, I was forced to admit, by the raging desire my lady was able to arouse in me. Yes, even under such appallingly risky conditions as this morning’s.

  ‘Donagan,’ I said, ‘I have two open councils to conduct before the hand-fasting. Will you stay until the second of those, at least? I would greatly appreciate your support and advice, even if you believe you can no longer be my friend. If you choose to walk away once the second council has taken place, then I will accept your decision. ’

  He smiled. ‘Oran,’ he said, ‘I will always be your friend. Whatever happens. Even if I leave and we never see each other again.’

  ‘Please, Donagan. Sleep in the antechamber or in the men’s quarters, whichever you prefer. Keep your distance from Lady Flidais if that makes it easier. But please stay to see me through the councils. And . . .’

  He waited while I struggled to find the right words.

  ‘I believe I’m right. This goes deeper than the obvious. It must. There must be a way out.’

  ‘Unless you mean to accuse the lady publicly of not meeting up to your expectations, I can’t think what that way out could be. Oran, you would show strength by accepting this and making the best you can of it. You were born to kingship. You cannot let this disappointment prevent you from being the leader you should be. Then you would indeed be seen as weak, not only by me, but by your household, your community and, in time, your kingdom.’

  What was there to say? I had asked him to be honest.

  ‘If you believe it will help,’ Donagan said more gently, ‘then I will stay until the second council is over. I’ll give you what support I can. And then I’ll go.’

  I rose to my feet. ‘Thank you,’ I said, but my heart was heavy. I could be strong. I could be a leader. In time, I could be a king. It seemed I could not also be happy.

  And yet, as we walked back to the house, my old friend and I, with the little dog stopping here and there to investigate an exciting smell or an enticing rustle in the undergrowth, I found I had not lost my belief that something more was at play here, something beyond the obvious explanation. You are a fool, Oran, I told myself. Even after this, even after everything, still you are ruled by your dreams. But your dreams cannot help you.

  20

  ~BLACKTHORN~

  Grim came in with the second kerchief in his hands, still wet from the wash.

  ‘You know your letters,’ he said. ‘What does this say?’

  He spread the square of red linen out on the table, and I saw that, unlike mine, this kerchief was a lovers’ token. Within the trailing leaf-and-flower border, the maker had embroidered a little heart, and on either side of it a letter. A loves N.

  ‘This is the letter A,’ I told Grim, putting my finger on it to show him. ‘That stands for someone’s name – Aine, for instance, or Aedan. And this is N for Niall, or Niamh, or Ness.’ I felt suddenly cold, though I was not sure why. ‘The heart means love. This is something a man might give his sweetheart. Who makes these kerchiefs, Grim? Do lots of folk have them?’ Apart from the heart and the letters, this one was twin to my own; the same hand might have embroidered both.

  ‘Bought the other one from the travellers. Their women make a lot of pretty things. I haven’t seen anyone around here wearing one. Except for you.’ He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You all right? You’re looking a bit peaky. Gone white all of a sudden.’

  ‘You said you found this on the cart when you returned it to Scannal’s. Can you remember where you’d been that day?’

  Grim got up to put the kettle on. ‘Hard to forget. Funny sort of day. Took a load of flour over to Silverlake. That baker, you’ll have heard of him. Branoc. Fellow couldn’t wait to see the last of me. Why?’

/>   ‘Could this kerchief have got on the cart in Silverlake?’

  ‘Things don’t get on carts by themselves.’ Grim set two cups on the table, beside the red kerchief. ‘I stopped in the village for directions, talked to a woman. Couple of children had a ride on the horse.’

  ‘So any of them might have dropped it?’

  ‘Think I’d have seen, if they did. Anyway, it wasn’t on top of the load, it was underneath.’

  ‘You’re saying it was on the cart before you loaded up? It could belong to someone at Scannal’s?’

  Grim dropped a generous pinch of dried peppermint leaves into each cup. ‘Nah. I’d have seen it.’ He poured hot water onto the herbs, releasing a sweet, healing smell. He found the honey jar and set it on the table, with a spoon. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Because I prefer my stories to have an ending, and this one doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. Something’s bothering me about this kerchief and how you came by it.’

  Grim straightened. After a moment he said, ‘You saying I stole it?’

  ‘Would I be shocked by that? I’ve stolen before when I had to, and worse than a kerchief from a traveller’s market. I’m not saying that at all. It’s more a . . . a feeling. Something out of place. Tell me everything you did that day, Grim. From picking up the cart at Scannal’s to bringing it back again.’

  He gave me the story: how he’d harnessed up the two big horses, loaded on his bags of flour, driven the cart to Silverlake village. The woman who’d given him directions had invited him to drop in on the way home. Then he’d gone up the hill to the baker’s, which had a house and a barn with big doors and a loft.