by Sarah Rayne
Grainne said slowly, “It is to be expected that you would despair at times,” and Bee responded at once, “Oh no. Never that,” and Grainne looked at her, startled.
“To despair is our most grievous fault,” said Bee. “Only think, ma’am, of the true meaning of despair. The giving up of all hope. An abandoning of hope that there is something — anything — better. To truly despair is one of the most terrible things in the world,” she said severely, and Grainne, listening, thought, Well, yes, of course. How very strange that I should never have seen that.
“We are the failed spells, ma’am, we must live here in secret, guarded by the Cruithin and also by the castle’s own strange protections. And although there are times when we falter — black times,” said Bee, her eyes huge and sad, “we strive never to fall victim to despair.” She gave Grainne a sudden, very sweet smile, and Grainne felt all over again the integrity and the tranquillity of these strange beings.
Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth, along with Tybion the Tusk, were establishing cautious friendships with the Cruithin. “Although,” said Fintan, “to get to know them you have to find them, of course.”
“They’re around,” said Fintan firmly. “They come and go a bit silently, of course, but that’s not to say they’re furtive.”
“They’re hospitable,” said Cermait, who, along with Fintan, had spent several very convivial evenings in the low-ceilinged, apple-scented room. “And my word, their stories! My word!”
Fintan said it was not the stories but the poteen, and it was only three nights since Cermait had had to be carried to bed.
“No, I was not,” said Cermait.
“Three of us carried you, and I was one of the three, and I had to tip a jug of water over you next morning to wake you.”
Cermait said, rather huffily, that it was a well-known fact that even an acorn-full of poteen sent you fast asleep, and Fintan gave vent to a derisive hoot.
“You snored all night” he said with relish, and Cermait got up and removed himself from this low vulgar company, because you could not stay in a room with people who told the High Queen that you snored. He said, with great politeness, that he would be in the buttery, always supposing anyone wanted to know, and Tybion the Tusk got up and helped him open the door, just to be friendly.
“He looked so upset,” he said.
“I was upset at being kept awake by people snoring,” said Fintan, but after a moment he got up and went off to the buttery himself, “because we need to know if the parsley butter is ready,” he said rather defiantly. “There’s baked lake fish for supper, so I hear, and some nice parsley butter will go very well with it. Bee’s baked soda bread as well. I’ll just go along and find out.”
*
As the days slid by, the Cruithin became a little less elusive, and Grainne waited, because she knew that to befriend them, to lead them back into Ireland, would be the greatest service she could render her people.
When at last they began to come out to her in the sun-drenched quadrangle on the castle’s south side, where she liked to sit, she was patient and cautious. It was a bit like sitting very quietly in a forest and waiting for a rare and timid wild animal to come out. But when they began to steal away from their tasks to sit beside her and smoke their pipes, Grainne felt more honoured than at any time since she had occupied Ireland’s Throne.
The Cruithin were interesting and learned. They talked to her about her ancestors, and about the Bright Palace, which they called Teamhair in their soft voices, and they told her about the battles and the people who had made Ireland magical and marvellous and richer in folklore than any country could ever be.
Grainne listened, absorbed and serious, and in her mind she began to see the old Ireland, the Ireland of the Lost Enchantments, very clearly. She could see the Beastline overlords who had sat with the Wolfkings at Tara; proud and noble and dignified, and just very slightly cruel, but charming and strong as well, and utterly loyal to the High King. She could see them standing on the ridge of hill that rose up behind Tara’s eastern boundaries, sending out the strong magic of the Samhailt to their creatures, so that the woods and the streams and the hillsides thrummed and quivered with the Mindsong.
“And every wild creature, and every forest animal had to obey,” said the Cruithin, their eyes bright. “They had to come streaming out of the forests and down to the Bright Palace, in answer to the summons of their Lords …”
When the Cruithin said, “The Enchantment is lost to us, ma’am,” Grainne turned to them, her eyes brilliant, and said, “But we shall find it again,” and saw them nod and smile, and felt suddenly and deeply happy.
Even so, there was a dreadful sense of loss in hearing these stories of her ancestors; there was an ache and a feeling of bereavement. Ireland has had so much, she thought; there has been so much magic and so much strength, and now all of it has gone. Hadn’t it? Can I truly bring it back? thought Grainne, watching the Cruithin disperse to their work again, leaning forward and hugging her knees. Am I being artless when I say that? Am I deceiving myself and deceiving us all? Why should I be the one?
She thought it would not be possible to talk about this to anyone — my burden and I must bear it, she had believed — but she found herself discussing it easily and naturally and very trustingly with Raynor.
“There is such a sense of loss,” she said, looking at him to be sure he understood this. “Ireland has lost so much.”
“But you are restoring it,” said Raynor softly. “You are bringing the magic back,” and looked at her and waited, and Grainne said in a whisper, “Am I?”
“Oh, yes, my dear.” And there was such a caress in his voice that Grainne felt her heart lurch. “The Cruithin will follow you, ma’am,” he said.
“And you? You and the others? Would you follow me also?”
She felt his retreat at once, and saw the shuttered look come down over his face. “I would that it were possible,” he said.
“Could it not be?” Grainne felt her heart thudding with such a fierceness that she could almost imagine he would hear it. But he only said, very softly, “For you I would ride into hell. I would endure fire and flood and the agonies of the world. But I cannot face the world that you have left, ma’am. Do not ask it of me.”
“I do ask it,” said Grainne, standing very still. “Very soon now, I will ask it.”
“Look at me,” he said in a low, anguished voice. “Look at what I am. Deformed. Distorted. A sorcerer’s error. A failed spell! If you have any pity, Grainne, do not ask it of me.”
Delight ran all over her at his use of her name, and she wanted to reach up and take his face between her hands and say, “You are beautiful and strong and gentle. Please do not hide from me.”
She fell into the way of sitting with him at supper, liking the custom that the Beastline creatures had of making each evening a little ceremony in its own right.
“We come to the supper table,” explained Bee, “rested and relaxed and ready to engage one another in conversation. Perhaps there have been odd, amusing little things that have happened during our day’s work, and we share these. Perhaps one of us is tired or discouraged. Then we all try to lift him out of discouragement.”
The nightly supper table was pleasant and restful. It was a focus in the day; a point to look forward to, to work towards. As Bee said, you found yourself encountering something amusing or interesting during your day which you stored up to tell. You knew that the others would be doing the same.
But it was Raynor who told her things about the castle she did not know; how it had been built for the first High Queen of all, and how the ancient pure magic had been woven into its walls. Grainne, listening, watching, saw how his eyes darkened when he became absorbed in something, and how the planes of his face shifted so that at times the eagle-blood was more strongly marked than others … now the cap-like golden hair shone beneath the light from the wall sconces … What would it feel like beneath her touch … ? Shall I ever dare t
o find out?
“The castle will always withhold something,” he said. “That was the first High Queen’s instruction when it was being raised from the rock. A place of immense secrecy. A place which could keep within its walls those things which must not be known. She knew,” said Raynor thoughtfully, “that long-ago Queen, that there would be times in Ireland’s history when things would need to be hidden.”
“We have many stories of that first High Queen,” said Grainne, cupping the wine chalice between her hands, her expression intent. “How she fought and intrigued and made Ireland great. How she bargained with the sorcerers to build the Bright Palace for her. How she was so beautiful that everyone in Ireland loved her. Men would travel hundreds of miles just to catch a glimpse of her.”
Raynor said softly, “But you are so beautiful that men would die for you,” and Grainne looked up, startled, because the words had been so soft that she could not be sure she had heard them correctly, yet she knew she had. Her heart began to thud erratically, and she felt as if a great weight was pressing down on her making it difficult to breathe.
Raynor stayed where he was, his eyes on her, and Grainne felt a surge of the utmost exhilaration. I am not mistaken! He wants me! And waited.
But he only said, “I am privileged to serve you, ma’am,” and turned away, and Grainne thought, Oh, damn! Can he not tell! What must I do? He is the most remarkable looking creature I have ever seen, and I believe I could love him very much, and I believe that with him I could forget Fergus.
*
Forget Fergus. The thought still brought a pain: for how could I ever truly forget you, my love?
Lying wakeful in her bedchamber that night, Grainne knew that she would never truly forget Fergus.
But since I can never have Fergus, not ever, why should I not have Raynor? There is no disloyalty. Why should I not?
Raynor. The unknown, eagle creature, created out of sorcery, but a creature of such strange, inverted beauty, and such strength. A creature who had never seen a world outside this castle. Grainne had sometimes wanted to renounce Tara, she had sometimes wanted to forsake the Throne and flee to obscurity, but this was a creature who had renounced the world without even knowing it.
And who had still achieved peace of mind.
She would never forsake Tara, of course, just as she would never forget Fergus. But — I believe I could learn to live with the memories, she thought. I could live comfortably with the knowledge of those nights with Fergus that should never have happened. I could live in peace with the might-have-beens as well; the elfin-faced, slant-eyed boy who never existed … Ireland’s Prince …
She had hated Dierdriu on the terrible day that Dierdriu had told her that she and Fergus were to be parted. She had bowed her head and accepted Dierdriu’s words, for she had known, at once, the truth of what Dierdriu said.
Your brother. He is your brother, Dierdriu had said, her face expressionless, but her eyes compassionate. And therefore he is forbidden to you by every rule, natural or manmade.
Grainne had not questioned the truth or the logic, or even the history that must lie behind this. She had known, instantly and completely, that Dierdriu spoke the truth.
For there was that closeness, that oneness, that immense and remarkable understanding between us … Was that all it was, my love? Only the call of the blood? Only the instinct of the wolves, our ancestors, recognising a member of the same pack? It does not matter, she had thought, numbly, for whatever it was and whatever it has been, it was forbidden for all time.
Forbidden for all time. If I waited for a hundred years, if I devoted my life to fasting and asceticism and scholarship as the Druids do, still it would make no difference. I can never have him, nor he me.
There had been black bitterness, and there had been a great aching void for longer than she cared to remember now. There had been anger as well at the cruel jest of fate that had brought her into love with her own brother.
She had not shown any of it, she thought. She had smiled and raised rather amused brows at the stories that tumbled in then of Fergus’s progress. An experience of women that would extend over many nations … Yes, the words fitted by then, no matter who had written or said them. She had even managed to shrug and say that, after all, the Fiana’s Head must be a person of some charm. And she had accepted what had to be accepted, and she and Fergus had parted. Except that we were never completely apart, my love, for you were always beside me, and you were always there, and I think that without you there, there were times when I should certainly have been crushed by the weight of a Crown I did not really want.
She had of course questioned the decision that had left her heiress to Tara, while Fergus, so indisputably a leader, so plainly possessing the natural authority Grainne believed she lacked, was relegated to the command of the Fiana.
“A high position,” Dierdriu had said.
“But he is a Prince of Ireland!” Grainne had cried. “Why is he not here at Tara!”
Dierdriu had looked at her for a long moment. Then, “My child, you will one day know,” she had said. “For now you must bear the loss.”
Grainne had nodded, and she had done as she was told, but deep within her had been a spurt of anger, for when had Dierdriu ever borne loss, when had Dierdriu ever lost a lover?
Lying wakeful in her bedchamber, with the Grail Castle silent all about her now, Grainne remembered vividly her emotions all those years ago. Dierdriu had never lost a lover, for Dierdriu had been reckless and abandoned, and had had any man she had ever wanted.
And then Grainne sat up in the bed, and thought, In my position now, what would Dierdriu have done?
And felt the beginnings of a smile curve her lips.
*
What would Dierdriu have done?
The Grail Castle was not entirely in darkness when Grainne slipped out of her room and closed the door carefully, but there was not very much light. Was there enough to see her way? There would have to be, because it would be quite difficult to make her way to Raynor’s room burdened with flaming torches. Also, it would attract attention. Grainne did not mind about attracting attention, but it would be better not to.
And again there was the quiver of amusement, because had Dierdriu ever been discreet when she went to a lover’s bed? Dierdriu, thought her granddaughter, had probably gone noisily and wantonly along brightly lit corridors, brandishing torches, attended by half the Court, very likely conducting a few odds and ends of State business along the way.
None of it would have done for the Grail Castle and the gentle remote creature to whose bed Grainne was going.
The castle was faintly lit by the soft light of the moon, and Grainne, pausing to look down over the courtyard through a small side window, saw how the countryside was bathed in radiance. And smiled, because there was a radiance within her. For surely he will not reject me … Would he? But if I do not go to him, he will never come to me, said her mind.
She supposed she ought to feel apprehensive, but she felt only deep delight, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be making her way through the moonlight to Raynor.
The most natural thing in the world … and had we but world enough and time, my love … Yes, the echoes were still all about her, and there was a comfort in them, for she felt that she was not alone.
Only that I cannot tell if the echoes are from the past or the future, or some other world altogether.
His room was in the oldest part of the castle, along a narrow galleried landing, with thick dark hangings that stirred faintly as she passed. And although it was no moment to stop and remember those night footsteps that passed her door so regularly, Grainne did remember them. Part of the castle’s secrets? Perhaps. Perhaps I shall find out what they mean, thought Grainne, moving on.
The door to Raynor’s room was down a flight of steps and through a narrow archway. Someone had thrust a burning torch into an old iron wall bracket, and there was a warm soft light and the faint scent of fr
agrant wood burning. Pear-wood was it?
Grainne stood very still and knew she was going forward into something that might well be a delight, but that might also be a torment. He may reject me. He may take me tonight and then reject me tomorrow. Which would be worse?
But the decision is made, she thought. I think the decision was made long ago. I cannot go back now. And she descended the stairs and, tapping lightly on the door, turned the handle and went in.
There was firelight in the room, a soft gentle radiance that warmed the old stone walls and sent huge, fantastical shadows dancing across the ceiling. There was the impression of light and space, and of great tranquillity. Even so, Grainne, standing in the doorway, absorbing it all, felt beneath the tranquillity an aching solitude, and thought, Yes, he has been quite unbearably lonely here. And knew that the remoteness and the gentle strength had been hard won.
And then a log broke in the hearth, sending sparks cascading, and the shadows leapt, and Grainne remembered all of the old stories, and could almost have believed that the ancient Ireland had awoken at last; that goblins and satyrs and cloven-hoofed, pointed-eared creatures were prancing in the room with them.
And then she looked back at the bed and saw the naked longing in his eyes, and something that was better than desire and that was more enduring than passion broke within her, and she moved forward, and said, “Oh, my dear love —”
Raynor held out his arms and Grainne went straight into them.
*
He had no defences and no armour. He had wanted her almost from the first moment, and he had loved her for nearly as long.
They had been desires to be quenched, as he had quenched other desires over the years. He believed himself a near-monster, a deformity, a half-human creature born of a sorcerer’s mismanaged spell-weaving. “But I have feelings and longings,” he might have said. “I have a human side.”
It was a part of his creed never to give way to these emotions. He believed that the creatures inside the Grail Castle must not breed, for it was not to be thought of that the nightmare perpetuated by the sorcerers should be passed on. Flawed stock could not be allowed to spawn. He had not laid such an imposition on the others, nor would he have tried to do so, for, he would have said, who am I, knowing so little of the world, to make laws and rules for my fellow creatures? But he knew that the other Beastline creatures looked to him for guidance, and he had accepted the leadership they imposed on him, for he knew that there must always be those who govern and those who serve. Bee had said to Grainne that when they faltered or fell prey to despair, it was Raynor who helped them. “But,” she might have added, “we do not know who it is who helps Raynor, for he does not come to us.”