Den of Wolves

by Juliet Marillier

  A new thought came to her. That wild man, out by the guardian oak – did this sudden decision have something to do with him? ‘The . . .’ she whispered. ‘The . . . man . . . b-before . . .’

  ‘This is nothing to do with any man.’ His response was swift; so swift that she thought it might not be true. But he was her father. A father did not lie to his only daughter. ‘Your aunt and I have been discussing this matter for some time,’ he added. ‘It’s for your safety. For your future. For the future of Wolf Glen. If you’re to marry, you must at the very least learn to stammer out more than a word or two at a time. The sooner you learn to sustain a conversation and to conduct yourself in an appropriate manner, the sooner you can come back to Wolf Glen. That seems to me entirely reasonable.’

  She pushed down the roiling mass of feelings that threatened to undo her. If she wept or screamed or ran from the room, he would say she had just proved how badly she needed training in ladylike behaviour. ‘H-how . . . how long? And when?’

  ‘Until you have learned what you must learn. I will miss you; I have no desire to lose you for any longer than necessary. But necessary it is. As for when, I will ride to Winterfalls with you tomorrow and see you settled.’

  Tomorrow. This was a bad dream. Why would he do this to her? Didn’t he know it was like wrenching out her heart?

  ‘Your aunt will help you pack,’ Father said. ‘Best attend to that now.’

  ‘Alba?’ she managed. ‘C-comes too?’

  ‘You won’t need Alba. There will be many maidservants at Winterfalls. Mature, responsible maidservants.’

  ‘B-b–’

  ‘Go, Cara. Do your packing. Say your farewells. Within a few days you’ll be thanking me for this.’ He regarded her more closely. ‘Don’t look so woeful, Daughter. The world will not turn to ruin just because you are away from Wolf Glen for a season or two.’ He picked up his cup and took a drink.

  A season or two? She sprang to her feet, knocking her own cup over. Mead ran across the work table, and as she looked about for a cloth, Father snatched the documents clear of the flood. She fished out a clean handkerchief from her pouch and attempted to stem the flow. ‘I c-c-can’t!’ Tears were building behind her eyes. ‘Father, p-please!’

  ‘Leave that, Cara, let the servants deal with it.’ Father’s tone was suddenly weighed down, burdened with that old sorrow. ‘My decision is made, and you must learn to live with it.’

  3

  ~Blackthorn~

  ‘He’s in perfect health, Flidais,’ I said, watching as Aolú practised rolling over on the mat beside us. ‘And very strong for his age. It won’t be long before he’s taking his first steps.’

  We were in a comfortable chamber that had been fitted out as a nursery before the little prince’s birth last autumn. Flidais’s handmaid and companion, Deirdre, was folding linen and putting it away in a chest, but none of the nursemaids was present. Since Aolú’s father was the crown prince of Dalriada, the infant had more attendants than any child could possibly need. But Lady Flidais liked to do things her own way. She nursed Aolú herself where many royal women would have hired a wet-nurse. She bathed him and changed his soiled linen. I liked her approach. Which was saying something, since I had little regard for princes and chieftains in general. Power and wealth too often made folk lose their good judgement. It made them cruel and unthinking. I had seen it too many times to count.

  ‘I’m happy to hear that,’ Flidais said now, shaking a rattle and making the baby gurgle in delight. She was a slight woman, and today, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her dark hair loose over her shoulders, she hardly looked old enough to be a mother. I tried to imagine her at five-and-twenty, with perhaps a whole brood of children around her skirts. I pictured Aolú walking, running, starting to talk. Aolú at the age my son had been when he died. Aolú at the age my son would have been now, if he had lived: a young man of fifteen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Flidais had seen something on my face. A slip. I had forgotten to guard my feelings. Here at Winterfalls nobody knew about my past. Except Grim, of course; but Grim was different.

  ‘Nothing. I should be heading home. Unless there’s anyone else here who needs my services.’ As healer and wise woman for the district of Winterfalls, including the prince’s household, I tended to a wide range of ailments and injuries. There was nothing wrong with young Aolú, but Flidais was a new mother and liked to be reassured regularly that he was progressing well.

  ‘No, but . . . Deirdre?’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘Will you find Cara and ask her to come and speak with me, please? I’m not sure where she will be.’

  ‘Of course, Lady Flidais. It may take me a little while to find her.’

  ‘Who is Cara?’ I asked as Deirdre went out.

  ‘A girl who’s been sent to stay with us. Her father is Tóla of Wolf Glen. You’ll know of the place; it’s up in the forest to the west. Tóla is a kinsman of Oran’s, a rather distant one, but it means that if he asks a favour we try to say yes.’

  ‘Why has he sent his daughter here?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ Flidais said. ‘It was all a little odd.’ She hesitated. ‘This is in confidence, Blackthorn.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tóla’s a widower; Cara is his only child. I’d never met the girl before, and Oran hardly knows her. Wolf Glen is only an hour or so away by horseback, but folk don’t go there often; the way through the forest is said to be challenging. Tóla and his daughter arrived here without warning, he spoke to Oran, Oran spoke to me, and the next day Tóla was off home again, leaving his daughter behind. We have no idea how long she’ll be staying and nor does she. Tóla said something to Oran about introducing the girl to a wider circle and improving her court manners. But that can’t be the only reason, surely, or he would have done things in a more appropriate way. A letter first, perhaps, asking if we’d be prepared to have her for a while. And . . . well, as time passes, I find I have very mixed feelings about the situation. It shames me to admit that. The girl is . . . unusual.’

  ‘Oh?’ I did not ask why. Flidais had got into the habit of talking to me, in private, as if I were her friend and equal. I had to remind myself from time to time that she would one day be queen of Dalriada, and that the affairs of her household were not for me to enquire about. Unless, of course, the query related to someone’s state of health, which just possibly this one did. Oran and Flidais had chosen not to have a court physician living at Winterfalls. Most folk of royal lineage would not dream of relying on the services of their local wise woman. They placed a great deal of trust in me.

  ‘Cara’s very withdrawn,’ Flidais said. ‘She doesn’t speak; or, at least, she can manage a word or two, please or thank you, but that’s all. Oran tells me her father believes she can talk if she wants to and she’s being wilful. But we’ve seen little sign of that.’

  ‘How old is this girl?’

  ‘Fifteen. All knees and elbows. As the family is so well connected, and their holding so prosperous, there will doubtless be suitors before long. I can’t imagine how Cara will deal with that. She often seems . . . not quite present. When we’re working on our sewing or spinning, she sits gazing out the window as if the rest of us don’t exist.’

  ‘Maybe she’s shy. Or homesick. Or both.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s all it is. The hurried way she was left here – that would upset any girl of her age. And her father asked that she not be allowed to ride back to Wolf Glen, even for a brief visit. I’m sure she’d rather not be here. But I did hope she would warm to us. It’s been ten or twelve days now since she arrived, and she’s still as edgy as a fox in a trap. None of my maids has managed to get close, and she won’t talk to me.’

  I recalled how uncomfortable I had found my stay in this household. I had felt as out of place as a wrinkled walnut in a bowl of glossy cherries. There hadn�
��t been a moment when I’d been prepared to let my guard drop. It had been exhausting. ‘She may not be sure where she fits in.’

  ‘That’s why I thought Deirdre or one of my other handmaids might help. Deirdre’s father is chief lawman back at Cloud Hill. Mhairi’s father is a landholder of some note, but without the royal connections Cara’s father has. They’re young women of similar upbringing to Cara’s. But we’ve had no success there. It’s impossible to draw the girl out.’

  ‘Unusual,’ I said. ‘She’s at that age when most young women can’t stop chattering.’

  ‘So, will you speak to her? If there’s something wrong, your expert eye may be able to discover what it is.’

  ‘I’ll try, of course. But if she doesn’t talk to you, she’s unlikely to unburden herself to me. I’m hardly known for my warmth and tact.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Flidais. ‘But in this instance, your somewhat blunt approach may be just what is needed. You might surprise her into speaking up.’

  ‘Is there anything at all that she likes doing? Is she ever happy?’

  Flidais gave a wry smile. ‘She’s calmer out of doors. When we can’t find her, the garden is the first place we go searching. Or somewhere out on the farm.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Walking. Riding. Climbing trees. Always on her own.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what she’s used to at home.’ Although Cara’s father did not sound the type to let his daughter run free.

  ‘Wolf Glen is quite a prosperous holding. They run sheep and cattle, and Tóla sells timber for building. Since Cara is the only child, I suppose it may all be her responsibility one day. He may be after a wealthy husband for her. Someone who can keep it all going when he’s no longer there. I can’t see Cara as a landholder in her own right. She seems quite unworldly-wise, even for a fifteen-year-old.’

  ‘Either way, if Deirdre is not back soon I’ll have to talk to the girl another time. I said I’d go over to Silverlake today to check on a very sick old woman; sick enough that I don’t want to leave it until tomorrow.’

  Flidais was all apologies. ‘Of course you must go, Blackthorn. Cara can wait.’

  ‘She could ride over to Dreamer’s Wood to visit us,’ I suggested, picking up my healer’s bag. ‘Emer is there most mornings. Cara might find it easier to talk to someone closer to her own age.’ I had promised to teach my young assistant a certain difficult decoction on her next visit. If Grim did not have work that took him elsewhere, I would also fit in a writing lesson for the two of them. That could wait until Cara was gone. Emer might be able to concentrate with an audience, but I was sure the presence of a stranger, even if she was a fifteen-year-old girl, would drive everything he had learned right out of Grim’s head. And I wanted him to succeed. I wanted it even more than he did.

  He’d told me the story now, some of it at least: how he’d once been a novice in a Christian monastery, and how he’d been happy there, and how the Norsemen had come, raiding. How he’d fought and fallen, and how, when he regained consciousness, everything he had loved was gone, including the old scholar who had been teaching him to read. My friend had carried that burden a long time in silence. And now I had picked up where his beloved Brother Galen had left off, which felt curiously like a privilege.

  With Emer, things were more straightforward. If she was one day to become a wise woman in her own right, she’d need basic reading and writing to keep a book of her cures and discoveries. She’d need to be able to label her preparations and her raw materials accurately. I was not sure how Grim would use his new skill, once he’d mastered it. He did love tales. If we both worked hard, he could learn to read a simple book in Irish. I should ask Flidais if there was anything suitable in the library at Winterfalls. Both Prince Oran and his wife were scholars. If I’d had any spare time, I would have written something for Grim myself. But another project was consuming my hours of solitude; a perilous, secret project. Maybe the account I was writing would never see the light of day. But I knew, heart-deep, that I must set the words down.

  ‘I’ll ask Cara when we find her,’ Flidais said. ‘She may not give me an answer, of course. If she does come, I’ll send her with an escort; Oran has promised her father she won’t go beyond our walls on her own.’

  Silverlake was a fair ride, and by the time I got back, dusk was falling. I returned my borrowed horse to Scannal the miller and walked home across the fields, guided by the warm light from our cottage windows, over on the edge of Dreamer’s Wood. Our home, Grim’s and mine, was far enough from Winterfalls village and the prince’s dwelling to afford us some privacy, but not so far that folk could not reach us if they needed our help. Conmael had chosen it well.

  Ah, Conmael; my mentor, who was one of the fey. A mysterious stranger, or so I’d thought at the time, who had saved me from execution and released me and Grim from vile imprisonment, but only after I’d promised to adhere to his rules for seven years, gods help me. Those rules were three: I must live here in Dalriada and not go south to seek vengeance against my enemy, Mathuin of Laois; I must say yes to every request for help; and I must use my abilities only for good. To someone who did not know the angry, bitter creature I had become, that might not have sounded so hard. But it was hard. Making Mathuin pay for his crimes, not only against me but against a whole host of wronged innocents, had become the only thing that mattered to me; even more so after a year’s incarceration in his cesspit of a lockup. I had struggled to keep my promise. Twice, I had come within a hair’s-breadth of breaking it, even in the knowledge of the punishment Conmael had threatened. As for saying yes when folk asked me for help, that was not always as simple as it sounded.

  We’d had to lie once or twice, Grim and I, or at least to withhold part of the truth, and when the person being deceived was Oran or Flidais, lying did not come easily. They had been good to us, generous and understanding. They had demonstrated that not every person of noble breeding was a heartless piece of scum like Mathuin.

  Nobody at Winterfalls knew that Grim and I were escaped felons. Nobody knew about Conmael – most folk did not believe the fey were real anyway, or thought that race had died out long ago. And now we had another secret, an unpalatable one. Last summer we had headed west, with Prince Oran’s blessing, to assist a lady with a monster that had taken up residence on her land. An old friend of mine, a man who knew of my past, had accompanied us on that journey. He and his dog. When we had returned with the dog but without the man, we’d had to lie about the reason. To tell the truth would have required us to reveal far more of our story than was safe. So we’d said simply that Flannan had travelled on elsewhere, and that sometime later we had found the dog, Ripple, wandering in the woods, with no sign of her master. If Flannan’s remains should be found buried under a tree somewhere between Winterfalls and Bann, who was to say we’d had anything to do with it?

  Grim hadn’t had much choice. He’d killed Flannan to save my life. The whole episode had been sickening. It had reminded me afresh of how perilous our situation was, for Flannan, whom I had thought a friend and ally, had been sent by Mathuin of Laois to track me down. Even now, Mathuin might be wondering why his errand boy had sent no further word, no pigeon bearing the news that I was safely accounted for. The fact was, although my enemy might now assume that I was dead, he’d possibly want to make quite sure of it. He knew I would not be easily silenced. He knew I’d lay my life on the line to see him brought to justice. And now, because of the messages Flannan had sent him, Mathuin must know where I was, or at least where I’d been. The cold feeling in my gut told me Mathuin wasn’t going to leave this alone.

  Nearly home. I could smell something cooking, perhaps barley broth. Fresh bread, too. Grim was a capable cook and an excellent gardener, and we ate well. My spirits lifted. There had been good things about the day: Aolú’s robust health and Flidais’s trust, the fact that my tonic seemed to be easing the old woman’s rattling cough,
and now the welcoming light in the windows. Maybe I was turning soft. Maybe vengeance was beyond me now. But no; that was not true. I only had to think of what I had lost; of my husband and child burning, and Mathuin’s men holding me back and laughing as my family died. Of the lost souls in the lockup and the ruined lives of Mathuin’s victims. I would see him face justice. I would make that happen if I died doing it.

  Ripple barked, inside the cottage. A moment later the door opened and the dog came out to hurl a challenge to all comers. Then the big form of Grim appeared in the doorway and Ripple, quieter now, ran to greet me.

  ‘Long day?’ Grim reached to take my bag.

  ‘Long enough. I rode to Silverlake and back. Scannal said he’d seen you earlier.’

  ‘Did a few jobs for him in the morning.’ Grim deposited the bag and went to stir a pot that was bubbling on the fire. ‘This and that.’ He gave me a searching look. ‘You all right?’

  ‘More or less.’ It was uncomfortable, sometimes, how well he could read me. ‘Thoughts going round in circles, that’s all.’