We get started on the second bed, which is mine, though I don’t tell Pátraic that. If he bothered to look, which he doesn’t, he could work it out from the carving I’ve done along the side. Blackthorn twigs on one bed, with thorns and blossoms. Fierce-looking hounds on the other. Joke, that. Heard folk call me her guard dog more than once.
Morning’s passing. Rain’s holding off for now. Thought Blackthorn might come over today, gather herbs, stay for a chat. Be good to talk; it’s been a while. Want to tell her what Donagan said, ask her if she’s found out anything. But she doesn’t turn up. Called away to someone sick, maybe, or busy in the house.
Second bed’s all done. Looks fine. We stop for a bite to eat. Brid’s given me supplies, and Pátraic’s brought a crock of ale. We sit out on the step, looking over the garden, and behind that, the fields between Dreamer’s Wood and Winterfalls. Clouds are filling up the sky; I can feel the damp in the air.
‘What’s it like, working in the prince’s house?’ Pátraic asks through a mouthful of bread and mutton. ‘Are the folk there friendly?’
Not sure how to answer this. ‘Some,’ I say. ‘Had a few problems, but it’s sorted now. He seems a good fellow. Prince Oran, I mean. His people like him.’
‘What about her?’ asks Pátraic. He means Lady Flidais. Feels wrong to be talking about her. Disrespectful. I’m about to tell him so when I see the look on his face. He’s looking as if he’s got a secret to share, the kind of secret the Winterfalls men-at-arms would be sniggering about over their ale. Don’t want to hear it, but if it’s about Lady Flidais, I have to let him talk.
‘Haven’t seen much of her,’ I say. ‘Been on night duty. Seems a nice lady. Why?’
‘Nice lady, you think? You’d be surprised.’
‘I would?’
He leans closer, drops his voice to a whisper. ‘Saw ’em in the stables at the brewery, up against a wall, him and her, at it like ferrets. Or not ferrets, maybe, but you catch my drift. She was on her knees, giving him a suck, going at him as if she knew what she was doing. Funny thing was, it was her wanting it, not the prince. He was arguing with her, trying to push her away. Stupid, eh? What man in his right mind would turn that down?’
I’m too shocked to say anything, so I just sit there pretending to eat.
‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ Pátraic goes on. ‘About the prince, I mean. Maybe he’s one of those men that like other fellows. There’s that serving man of his, Donagan, always hanging about.’
Has to be a mistake. That’s my first thought. Lady Flidais? Young, high-born and betrothed to the king’s heir? Hardly. Even if she fancied a bit of that, she’d never be so foolish as to do it in a stable yard where anyone could – and did – see them. ‘Have you told anyone else?’ I ask.
‘Not a soul. Been tempted, once or twice. Wondered if I was imagining things at the time. But I wasn’t. I heard him say, Stop it, Flidais!’
This is something Blackthorn needs to know. So I need to think fast and ask the right questions. ‘Bit of a surprise,’ I say. ‘When was this? Didn’t think Lady Flidais rode out much.’
‘A while back. After they were betrothed. The prince was in the village to have a drink with the fellows and talk about the next council. He brought Lady Flidais with him.’
‘Mm. Might be best if you don’t tell anyone else. Seeing as the lady has to live here, I mean. Might make some folk think badly of her. Or of him.’
‘Mm-hm. More ale?’
‘Nah, better get to work on that table.’
We finish the table, then Pátraic has to go back to the brewery. Still no sign of Blackthorn. I wonder if I should go to the prince’s place and find her, tell her the snippets I’ve heard. They don’t add up to much. Though when I think about it, Pátraic’s unlikely tale fits with what Donagan said about the prince not being worldly-wise. What doesn’t make sense is Flidais doing what he says he saw her doing. A lady who was going to be queen one day wouldn’t act like that, out in the open. Would she? The prince did tell us she wasn’t the woman he was expecting. He wouldn’t have been expecting her to do that. There’s a time and place for these things, and it’s not in the stable yard of a brewery, before you’re even properly wed.
So, head over to the prince’s now? Could be a waste of time. Blackthorn might still be out doing whatever she went out to do. If it’s a childbed, it could take all day and some of the night. If it’s on one of the faraway farms, just getting there and back would take a while. And I’ve got work to finish here.
I’m yawning. If I don’t catch some sleep I’ll be good for nothing. There’s enough of the day left for me to lie down in the outhouse for a bit, then finish the shelves and get back to Winterfalls before dusk. Plenty of time.
Got a pallet in the outhouse with a bedroll all ready. Sleep in there most afternoons. It’s pretty dark even by day, and at first when I go in I don’t spot anything different. Then I go to lie down and there it is: Blackthorn’s red kerchief, neatly folded and sitting right in the place where I’d be laying my head. My heart gives a big thump. She’s been here already. Been and gone long ago. She didn’t have a rest and leave her kerchief by accident. Not set out the way it is. The red kerchief says one thing loud and clear: Goodbye.
For a bit I can’t think straight. Don’t know whether to scream or curse or cry or go rushing off in all directions. Have to make myself breathe, slow down, try to work out the puzzle the way she would. No time to think about why she’d up and go like this, when we’re just getting settled and there’s a job on hand. What I need to think about is where. I stuff the kerchief in my pouch and head outside. Black Crow save me, what if she had a horse? She could be miles away by now. Left Winterfalls forever. Broken her promise to Conmael. There’s only one place she’ll be headed for, winter or no winter. Laois. She’s gone to face up to Mathuin. And if she doesn’t want to be found, there’ll be no finding her.
I throw my head back and bellow like a wounded bull. ‘Conmael, you bastard! Why in the name of the gods didn’t you stop her?’
Last thing I’m expecting is an answer. But here he is, come from nowhere, standing right next to me all wrapped up in his big swirly cloak. On his own. Not sure if that’s good or bad.
‘Why did I not stop her?’ he asks, in a way that says I’m far too stupid to talk to the likes of him. ‘Surely you know by now that Blackthorn is her own woman. If she wants to go, she’ll go. If she wants to throw her life away, that’s precisely what she’ll do.’
I want to grab the fellow and shake him up and down a few times, even though all he’s done is say what I was thinking myself. But there’s nobody else to help me, so I hold back. Count up to five in my head. ‘If you thought that,’ I say, ‘why did you get her out of Mathuin’s lockup?’
He laughs. I want to kill him. ‘You’re wasting time, Grim,’ he says. ‘You’ll never win a battle of wits with me. If you want her back, go after her.’
‘You planning to help or just stand about watching? I don’t know where she went.’
‘That way.’ Conmael points southward. His fingers are long and pale, with silver rings on them.
I want to ask him how he knows, and whether he saw her, and when, but he’ll only say I’m wasting time. ‘She went early,’ I say. ‘And she’s good at covering her tracks. Doubt I’d find her.’
‘What, giving up before you’ve even begun?’ His brows lift in scorn. ‘And you the devoted hound who guards her every step? She’d be disappointed in you.’
‘If you won’t help,’ I growl, ‘then I’ll be on my way.’
‘Did I say I would not help? I don’t recall that. What help do you require?’
I hate the mongrel. Always thought his kind weren’t trustworthy, and he’s done nothing to change my mind. But the day’s slipping away and so is Blackthorn, so I swallow my pride, what there is of it. ‘A horse,’ I say. ‘Strong
enough to carry her and me. And if you know how far she’s gone, tell me.’
Happens just like in an old tale. Conmael clicks his fingers, and there’s a horse in the garden. Storm, one of Scannal’s draught horses, with a blanket saddle and a riding harness on.
‘Miller mightn’t be well pleased,’ I say, but I’m already slinging my bag on my back, getting ready to mount and go.
‘She might be far south by now,’ said Conmael. ‘Or not. If I were you I’d take the track toward Silverlake.’
I frown at him. ‘That’s not south, it’s east.’
‘All the same. That is where I would go first.’
I give him a straight look. I’m scared of the fellow, but I speak out anyway. ‘Why don’t you go?’
He smiles, thin-lipped. ‘Oh, she won’t listen to me.’
Can’t even start to work that out. ‘You sure you want what’s best for Blackthorn?’ I ask. Could be he’s tricking me, sending me on a wild goose chase, making sure I don’t catch up with her, even on Storm.
‘If I did not,’ says Conmael, ‘she would be dead, and you would still be in Mathuin’s lockup. Now go.’
35
~BLACKTHORN~
South. Mathuin. Justice. The words were in my mind when I passed by our cottage and thought of Grim, and how I had not told him I was going. I left the red kerchief and kept on walking. I muttered the same words when I reached the crossroads: one track going south toward Laois and my enemy, the other branching off east toward Silverlake. Ness was still there; her recovery had been slow. I chose the southern path and walked on. South. Mathuin. Justice.
I made good progress. The morning was not far advanced when I came up through a beech wood and stopped to drink from my water skin. I hadn’t brought much. Most of my healer’s supplies were still in the prince’s house. My bag contained a change of clothing, the water skin, a couple of bannocks I’d grabbed from the kitchen on the way out. My notebook, which could not be left behind for idle eyes to read. My good knife, my flint, a supply of dry tinder. Rolled on top, a blanket from the prince’s household. I felt no guilt in taking it. With luck, I’d be far on my way before anyone realised I wasn’t coming back.
Sooner or later Conmael would catch up with me, ask me why I’d broken my word. Perhaps make good his threat to throw me back in Mathuin’s lockup, though I wondered, now, if he would really do that. Supercilious meddler that he was, he did appear to have my welfare at heart. The mood I was in, I hardly cared anyway. His instructions were impossible. Use my talents for good and say yes to any request for help; that had made a sort of sense when he’d first set it all out. But when one of the folk who’d asked for help would not stand up against the man who’d betrayed her trust – indeed, planned to marry him – and the other was that very man, courteous and charming on the outside, a cold-hearted abuser of women underneath, how could I do as Conmael wished? I could not help Flidais if she was not prepared to help herself. As for Oran, he was a lying rat, and I’d rather walk on hot coals than do a thing more for him.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t look back. But as I hitched my bag onto my shoulders again, I caught a glimpse of the view. This hill overlooked grazing fields, and beyond them, a mile or two to the north-east, lay an expanse of water, grey under the overcast sky, with a settlement straggling along its edge. Silverlake, where we’d confronted Branoc in his bakery. Silverlake, where Ness was still lodging with the family who’d taken her in. Where Emer, who might be a fine healer one day, still stayed by her friend’s side.
South. Mathuin. Justice, I told myself, wanting to turn away, wanting to head on south, but hesitating all the same. Mathuin was an abuser of women, whose callous, unthinking assaults had left a trail of broken lives behind him. Branoc’s crime was the same, and even if he’d had only one victim, her hurt was no less for that. I was going south to make Mathuin face up to his ill deeds. A grand mission, far grander than sorting out a lying prince’s tangled betrothal. But I owed it to Ness to visit her one last time before I left, to acknowledge her strength, to offer her . . . what? Wise advice? There wasn’t much wisdom in me right now. I was full up with Mathuin and my anger. But I could at least sit down with Ness and listen. Silverlake was just over there, not far at all. There would be time.
I found a way down the hill between the birches and headed across the fields. I’d call in and see Ness briefly, have a word or two with Emer, and be on my way again. There was only one person likely to come after me and I’d made sure I had a good start on him. Besides, he’d be expecting me to go on south. Grim would be all right, I told myself. He had work at Winterfalls. He had friends; folk liked him. He could live in the cottage. He’d be better off without me.
I hoped Ness would be a little better today. Her body had healed quickly, with the resilience of the young. But last time I’d been here, she’d still been waking in the night, screaming. She’d still, sometimes, been wetting her bed like an infant. And although she’d talked to me, and talked openly, about what had happened to her, it had seemed to me part of her was absent, as if she had left something forever in that dark place of her captivity.
I came in to Silverlake. At Mór’s house, where Ness was staying, there was nobody about. I knocked on the door, then entered, as was my custom. ‘Anyone home? It’s Blackthorn.’
‘Through here!’ Ness called from the inner chamber. The door to that room stood ajar, and light spilled from within. I walked through and stopped short. Ness was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, with a shawl around her shoulders all patterned with birds and flowers. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright, and over her dark hair she wore the red kerchief that was almost, but not quite, twin to mine. On a stool by the bedside, holding her hand, sat a long-legged young man, dark-haired, thin and rather solemn looking, clad in a working man’s clothing brightened by a vivid blue neckerchief. As I came in the youth rose to his feet, but kept Ness’s hand in his.
‘Mistress Blackthorn, how good to see you!’ Ness said. Her smile lit up her face; she seemed transformed. ‘This is Abhan. His folk are camped on the other side of the lake, not far away. They came in last night.’
‘Mistress Blackthorn,’ said Abhan, ‘it’s an honour to meet you. What you did for my girl – I can’t thank you enough.’
He was all courtesy. Just like Prince Oran. Men were full of lies. I managed a nod.
‘We’re going to be married,’ said Ness. ‘As soon as we can. We’ll be travelling south when Abhan’s folk move on. I’ll miss you, Mistress Blackthorn. And Emer. But we’ll be back next autumn with the horses.’
Too fast; this was happening much too fast. ‘Where is Emer?’ I asked, with cold disquiet running through me.
‘Didn’t you see her? She’s helping Mór bring in some sheets. It’s going to rain later.’
So Emer was not far away; this was less improper than it had seemed at first. That didn’t mean I liked the fellow turning up here and, within a day, persuading this frail and damaged girl not only to marry him but to leave everything behind and head off with the travellers. Thanks to her father’s silver, Ness was a wealthy woman now. A good catch for a lad like this, even after what had been done to her.
Abhan was watching me, his expression as grave as if he could read my thoughts. ‘Mistress Blackthorn,’ he said, ‘might I speak with you alone?’
‘By all means. We’ll step outside a moment.’ Ness’s smile had faded. I owed her an explanation. ‘You have no kinsfolk,’ I said. ‘You’ve been through a dark time, Ness, very dark. You and Abhan – you’re young, both of you. Since your father cannot talk to him about this, I will do it. I need to make sure you’ll be properly looked after and well provided for. To put it bluntly, I need to be convinced your decisions are your own, and not those of a man who would exploit you.’
‘Mistress Blackthorn!’ exclaimed Ness. ‘How can you say that? Abhan is my sweetheart; he has b
een since I was young. I love him. He loves me. My father gave us his blessing; he only asked us to wait. Abhan wants only what is best for me.’
‘Then you have nothing to be concerned about,’ I said, ‘if he and I take a little walk and I ask him a few questions.’
It was darker outside; the clouds were building. I’d best be on my way soon. ‘Come, we’ll walk,’ I said, and the young man fell into step beside me, moderating his long strides. Once we were away from the house, I said, ‘I don’t have much time. Which is regrettable, since we’re talking about the rest of that young woman’s life. First tell me this: how do you propose to look after Ness, provide a safe home, keep a roof over her head and food on the table, and ensure she need not work herself half to death just to make ends meet?’ I made no mention of Ness’s inheritance.
‘I’m eighteen years old, Mistress Blackthorn. A man grown. I have my own cart, bought from my earnings in the horse trading business, and my own pair of cart horses. Tinker and Treasure, they’re called. I travel with my whole family: Mam, my brothers and sisters, my aunties and uncles and cousins. We follow the same pattern every year. Spend spring and summer in the south, come north in the autumn. I know my trade; I make good sales and my dealings are always fair. I can provide for Ness.’ When I said nothing, he went on, ‘I know Ness has funds of her own now. But she won’t be needing those for the everyday. What we thought . . .’ He hesitated.
‘Go on.’ I could not find fault with anything he’d said so far. I hoped this odd feeling I had was not disappointment.
‘The prince . . . Emer told me what he said at the council, when that fellow, the wretch who hurt Ness, was brought to account.’ Abhan’s voice was uneven; his jaw tightened. ‘She said the prince was very fair. She said that he was kind to her, and that he told the folk they should have seen earlier that something was wrong. She said he spoke well of Ness. What we thought, Ness and I, was that we would go to Winterfalls for his next council and ask to talk to him in private. Get his advice about Ness’s payment. We want to put it away safe somewhere.’
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