Dreamer's Pool

by Juliet Marillier

  She stared at me, big-eyed and silent.

  ‘Muadan mentioned it in passing,’ I said. ‘I would have thought you, or your father, would have included that fact in a letter.’

  ‘I . . .’ She dropped her gaze. Her hands were knotted together, tight with nerves. Was I so intimidating? ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think. Perhaps he – my father – perhaps he forgot.’

  I did not believe that for a moment. ‘Your father showed good sense in refusing the offer. And considerable courage. The match would have been most unsuitable. But this means Lord Cadhan has angered Mathuin, and Mathuin is a man no leader would want as an enemy. The situation has implications for me and for my father. Our marriage will not please the chieftain of Laois, who has powerful friends.’

  There was a silence, then Flidais said, ‘I don’t understand why you are so angry with me, Oran. I know nothing of such matters. Why would I be wanting to think about them so close to our hand-fasting? You are making my head ache.’

  ‘Not so badly, I hope, that you will be unable to attend supper this evening with our guests.’

  She gazed at me, mute with reproach.

  ‘Ask Mistress Blackthorn to give you a draught for the pain,’ I said. ‘Since she is in residence here, that should be easy, provided you can overcome your reluctance to let her help you. I want you present at table tonight. We have guests.’ Would a woman afflicted by a severe headache be wanting to get on a horse and ride to court within a day or so, as Muadan’s party planned to do?

  ‘I will be there.’ Her voice was a small girl’s now, soft and apologetic. She had as many moods as an autumn day. The way she changed from one to the next, quick as a heartbeat, was deeply disconcerting. As I got up from the table she came around to me and, rising on tiptoes, put her hands on my shoulders and kissed my cheek. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you,’ she said. ‘I am trying my best.’ She did not step back, but stayed close, almost leaning on me. Her breath was sweet; her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She was waiting, perhaps, for a kiss in return, an embrace, a tender word or two. How little she knew me, despite those nights of intimacy.

  I stepped away from her, letting her hands drop. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ I said, wondering that I could be so cold. ‘You might make an effort to engage our guests in conversation this evening. Since you’ve met Mistress Breda before, that should not be too much of a challenge for you.’

  It was as if I had struck her. Already pale, she became still paler, save for a spot of red in each cheek. Her lips tightened. ‘You speak to me as if I were not your promised wife, but a serving woman.’

  ‘I hope I speak to all women with courtesy,’ I said.

  ‘I had hoped for a little more than that,’ said Flidais. As she turned to leave the chamber, she put a hand up to brush away the tears, and for a moment I wavered, seeing a trace of the woman whose image had captured my heart, wondering if I was terribly wrong, thinking I might be destroying what little hope remained of a marriage that, if not the perfect one I had dreamed of, might in time become at least acceptable. Then the door closed behind her, and I realised that for the first time the brush of her body against mine had entirely failed to stir my manhood.

  I sat down, thinking of what we had shared, she and I, and how little it had meant. Why had I acquiesced that night when she slipped into my bed? Why had I let her lead the way with barely a word of protest? Desire was a perilous thing; on those two fevered nights, I had allowed my body to overrule my mind. Oh, yes, I had put up arguments to justify my weakness to myself, but one ugly truth remained: I could have refused her. I could have pushed her back into her own quarters and bolted the door after her. Flidais would hardly have chosen to make a fuss, knowing that if she did so the whole household would be alerted to her behaviour. Responsibility for what had happened rested squarely on my shoulders.

  I poured mead from the jug, but did not drink. I did not like the man who had done that. He was weak, foolish, short-sighted. And I did not like the man I was today: cold, heartless, a bully. Donagan’s words had been a scourge to my heart, that day when he had told me he was leaving. I can’t stand by and watch her destroy the man I knew; the man who was my friend. But it wasn’t Flidais who was destroying that man; I was doing a fine job of that all by myself.

  30

  ~BLACKTHORN~

  Somewhat to my horror, I was informed by Donagan that I would be sitting at Prince Oran’s table for supper while the visiting druid, Master Oisin, was at Winterfalls. The prince thought, perhaps, that I would keep this druid entertained with conversation on arcane topics. Or maybe this was Oran’s way of reminding me that time was passing, and that thus far I had reported nothing to him. As if I needed reminding – getting the information I needed from Flidais’s women felt like trying to prise a particularly obstinate winkle from its shell. The conversations in the sewing room told me little, save that Lady Flidais had no respect for those below her own station. Even with her handmaids, she was often snappish and out of sorts. Mhairi was the only one she seemed to trust; they were a tight pair. I tried to be unobtrusive, but among the Winterfalls women I stuck out like a nettle in a patch of wildflowers. Me with my flame-red hair, as short as a man’s, and my workaday clothing, not to speak of my demeanour – it was no wonder I made no friends. I could not hide how much being in their presence irked me. And even when I was trying to be pleasant Flidais’s women were wary of me.

  It was, perhaps, not all personal. Consulting a wise woman when you needed a remedy of some kind was all very well – the local folk seemed to have no difficulty in approaching me at such times. They knew they should be courteous, ask politely, offer something in return even if it was only an apple or help to bring in a basket of firewood. But having a wise woman staying in your house, sleeping in a bed close to your own, sitting across the room, perhaps listening as you chatted to your friends over needlework, that was another matter. It was all about power. And fear. My power to ease a painful death, to bring new life safely into the world, to cure an illness or mend an injury; my ability – hah! They did not know how rusty it was – to change things by means of spellcraft. Their fear that I might take it into my head to do just that. Render them as lumpy as toads, perhaps, to punish their pride. Make them suddenly old and withered. Turn golden hair white, rosy cheeks sunken, fair skin shrivelled parchment-dry. It was a long time since I had ventured down the deeper pathways of my craft, and I was not sure I wanted to visit them again. But I was fairly sure most of the women of the house believed I would, and could, do so whenever I chose. No wonder they were reluctant to talk.

  It was a surprise, then, when on the afternoon of the day the druid arrived there was a tapping on the door of my makeshift stillroom, and when I called out ‘Come in!’, the person who entered was not Brid or Fíona or one of the men wanting a remedy, but Nuala, the oldest of Flidais’s three personal attendants.

  I had been stringing up herbs to dry; I was standing on a bench with my arms stretched high. ‘I’ll just finish this,’ I said, keeping my tone coolly courteous. ‘Can I help you with something, Nuala?’

  ‘It’s not for me. It’s for Lady Flidais.’ She stood awkwardly, hands clasped before her, feet shifting on the rush-strewn floor. ‘Her headache is bad today.’

  I concentrated on knotting the twine firmly, wondering if this was an opportunity or some kind of trick. I had given up any hope that Flidais would ask for my assistance as a healer. ‘I thought Lady Flidais did not trust my kind,’ I said, securing the ends of the twine, then climbing down. ‘What was it she said – I have no faith in old wives’ remedies?’

  Nuala had the grace to look discomforted. ‘She was in pain that day, not watching her words,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if you were offended.’

  I took a good look at her, noticing that she seemed tired, almost worn out. She appeared older than she had that day at Dreamer’s Pool. Those red eyes suggested she had bee
n weeping. ‘Are you quite well yourself?’ I asked. ‘This must have been difficult for you, having to travel so far from home, and not being altogether sure of the future. For Lady Flidais too, of course.’

  Nuala nodded. She looked over her shoulder, through the open door of my temporary stillroom and out into the kitchen, as if someone might be hanging on every word.

  ‘It will take a little time to make up a draught for the headache,’ I said, moving to close the door. ‘Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll brew a restorative tea first? I could do with a cup, and it’s good to have the company.’ Which was a lie, at least the bit about company, but she looked as if she needed a brew.

  ‘Thank you, Mistress Blackthorn.’ Nuala sat, hands in her lap, her shoulders bowed as if she were too tired to sit up straight. Or perhaps not so much tired as sad. Disappointed?

  I held back from asking questions until the brew – a safe chamomile and peppermint – was made, and a steaming cup set on the work table beside her. ‘There. Now, I do have to ask you something. You know, I’m sure, that I should see Lady Flidais in person so I can determine the cause of the headaches. It’s best to do that before providing any kind of remedy.’

  ‘But you said you would do it –’

  ‘Yes, I did; and I will. I can make up a draught to ease the lady’s pain. But only for the short term: a night or two at most. For a more lasting remedy, I would most certainly need to examine her. From what I’ve seen and heard, Lady Flidais’s malady is severe and ongoing. Preventing her from many pursuits she has enjoyed in the past, such as reading.’ I forbore to mention that this seemed particularly odd in view of the lady’s continuing ability to work embroidery.

  Nuala took a sip of her drink. She closed her eyes.

  ‘I will brew sufficient for two days only,’ I said, beginning to assemble the ingredients. ‘If Lady Flidais wants more, she must allow me to examine her and to ask a few questions.’

  ‘That smells good, Mistress Blackthorn.’

  ‘Wild thyme; dried, but still effective. Certain mushrooms, powdered. A few leaves of rosemary. Though if the headaches continue once the lady is married, I would cease to include that. It is not recommended if a woman might be with child.’ I glanced at her. ‘You’ll perhaps remember what I said when Mhairi quizzed me about my work. It’s that kind of detail that makes it unwise for folk to attempt making up these cures themselves.’

  ‘I hope you were not upset that day, Mistress Blackthorn. We were discourteous to you.’

  That was a surprise. ‘It takes more than a few ill-judged words to upset me,’ I said. ‘Besides, I seem to recall those comments did not come from you, Nuala. I bear no grudges. I have more important matters to occupy me.’ I tipped my dry ingredients into a bowl. ‘I suppose you and your husband will be off to court soon for the hand-fasting,’ I ventured. ‘Will you be staying on at Cahercorcan afterwards or returning here?’

  To my surprise she began to cry, helpless tears streaming down her face. She fished out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘So sorry, please forgive me. I’m just so . . .’

  I wiped my hands and moved to sit beside her, setting aside my preparations. ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t . . . Lady Flidais . . .’

  ‘If it helps, anything a person tells me within this chamber is confidential. I will not pass it on to anyone. As for Lady Flidais’s draught, if she chides you for taking too long to fetch it, feel free to lay all the blame on me. Her opinion of me can hardly sink much lower.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nuala said again, drawing a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. I judged she was not the kind of woman generally subject to floods of tears or admissions of defeat. Losing control made her uncomfortable. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  I waited, saying nothing.

  ‘There was some bad news. From Cloud Hill. Lord Muadan brought it. The prince passed it on to the men, and Domnall just told me. We can’t go back there in spring. And perhaps not at all.’

  A number of questions came to me; I juggled them quickly. ‘You mean you were thinking of leaving Lady Flidais?’

  She nodded, clearly miserable. ‘Most of the men have been feeling they should go home and fight alongside Lord Cadhan. Besides . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Some of us are not entirely happy here. Lady Flidais seems restless, discontent. Not herself since we came to Winterfalls.’

  I must tread gently. Not push too hard. ‘Not herself? The headaches, of course . . .’

  ‘I should not speak of this. She would be very angry if she thought I had mentioned it to you.’

  ‘And that in itself is surprising?’ I murmured, taking a risk.

  A ghost of a smile appeared on Nuala’s face. ‘Yes, that is exactly it, Mistress Blackthorn. Lady Flidais was always such a model of kindness. Not a conventional girl, but a pleasure to serve, just like her mother. She never forgot to thank us for our work or to ask after our families. Bright, busy, sweet-tempered; a lovely girl.’

  So she had been the Flidais of the letters after all. When had she changed? ‘Did Lady Flidais have these headaches when she lived at Cloud Hill?’ I asked.

  Nuala shook her head. ‘If she did, she never mentioned them. You will keep this to yourself, won’t you?’ She sounded genuinely frightened.

  ‘You have my word.’ A lie. But I would, at least, not tell Flidais, and Flidais was the one this woman was afraid of. Had she threatened her handmaids with punishment if they spoke out?

  ‘It has been difficult,’ Nuala said. ‘For Deirdre and me in particular. Mhairi seems happy enough. Pleased to have the position of senior handmaid, though both Deirdre and I have been in Lord Cadhan’s household longer. But I don’t resent that. It means – it meant – it would be easier for us to leave. Domnall and me. But now . . .’

  ‘What was the news from Cloud Hill?’

  ‘A challenge. From Mathuin of Laois.’

  I rose abruptly, turning away before she could see my face.

  ‘Lord Cadhan’s enemy,’ Nuala went on. ‘A very dangerous man. They share a border, and when we left there was a threat of war. Now Mathuin has told Lord Cadhan that if he does not give up a certain parcel of land, he will attack. Domnall says that won’t happen before the spring, but in any case, it means it is too dangerous for us to go home.’

  ‘I wondered where I had heard of Cloud Hill before,’ I said, working on keeping my voice level. ‘Grim and I must have passed quite close to it on our way to Dalriada. Yes, that is bad news. Lady Flidais must be terribly worried about her family.’

  Nuala said nothing.

  ‘Difficult for all of you.’ I took the kettle from the brazier and poured hot water over my mixture.

  ‘We talked about leaving now, straight away.’ Nuala’s voice was a whisper. ‘Domnall and I. If we had an opportunity to work in another household we would take it. It may be possible to stay at Cahercorcan; Lady Sochla said it’s a huge establishment. I think most of the men-at-arms will choose to stay there, and Domnall has a good chance of securing a position. This house . . . it’s not a happy place.’

  ‘Mm-hm.’ I stirred the mixture. ‘We’ll have to wait until this cools a little. Let me refill your cup.’

  ‘Thank you. It won’t take too long, will it?’

  ‘Not long. May I ask you a question, Nuala?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When you set out from Cloud Hill with Lady Flidais, you did mean to stay with her, didn’t you? You and your husband, here at Winterfalls?’

  ‘That’s right, yes. It was harder for Domnall than for me, with Lord Cadhan in such strife. But Lady Flidais is so young, and not the most worldly-wise of girls, and we knew – we thought – it would be good for her to have folk from home around her in her new household. We did not expect . . . we did not imagine it would be so difficult for her to settle. That she would . . .’<
br />
  ‘Change so much?’

  ‘I shouldn’t talk about this. I shouldn’t discuss Lady Flidais behind her back.’

  ‘Well,’ I said briskly, ‘this may be cool enough for you to carry safely now. If you wrap this cloth around it, it should be easier to handle. Lady Flidais should drink a small cupful before breakfast and another at bed time; it can be warmed up to make it more palatable. And if she wants more, she must come to see me herself.’

  ‘She won’t be happy about that.’

  I shrugged. ‘I won’t set aside the rules of my craft because someone’s taken a dislike to me. You may tell her I said that.’ In fact, I could tell her myself, since I would be sitting at the high table for supper tonight. An unwelcome thought came to me. ‘Oh, no,’ I muttered.

  ‘What is it, Mistress Blackthorn?’ Nuala had picked up the jug and was ready to leave.

  ‘Nothing. Only . . . I have been asked to sit at the prince’s table tonight; I believe I’m to make conversation with a druid. And it has occurred to me that I have no suitable clothing.’ I would have been quite happy to wear my somewhat tired-looking everyday gown, but since Prince Oran had guests, I should probably try not to embarrass him. Druids, with their robes, had a distinct advantage.

  ‘You’re so thin,’ Nuala said, looking at me with the critical eye of the lady’s maid she was, ‘you’d be swamped in anything of mine, and Deirdre’s would be too long on you. But you can’t wear that. Oh, I know! Sinead, Lady Sochla’s maid – she’s a slip of a thing. I’ll ask her, shall I?’

  ‘I’d better ask her myself,’ I said, thinking Nuala had done enough of other folk’s bidding for one day. ‘But if you could mention it to Sinead when you go back, that would smooth the way for me. Thank you. And, Nuala . . .’