“I have several,” Faolan said, frowning. “I see your circumstances here and they concern me. Is work hard to find?”
“You making some kind of comment? What, you think I can’t provide for my family?” Dalach glowered, clenching his big fists. There was good reason why folk did not come up to the hut very often.
“I don’t know you,” Faolan said levelly. “I did know Deord. Whatever may have happened at this end, I know he would want Eile to be given the chance of a good life, one in which she’s well provided for and able to make something of herself.”
“If he wanted that, why didn’t he stay and look after her and her mother himself?” Anda’s voice was shaking. “There was need for him here.”
“You must understand,” Faolan said, “that what Deord went through in Breakstone Hollow was an extreme kind of punishment. That place destroys the strongest of men. Few come out. None at all come out unchanged by it.”
“How would you know?” challenged Dalach. “Man like you, soft-spoken as a bard, in your good clothes—never had a day’s hardship in your life, I’ll wager.”
It occurred to Eile that he’d be better to feign politeness; to convince Faolan that he’d like nothing better than to keep on supporting her and Saraid forever. If he wanted Deord’s friend to demonstrate generosity beyond the provision of a single breakfast, the way to do it wasn’t to antagonize the man.
“I know because I was an inmate of Breakstone myself,” Faolan said. “Not with Deord; earlier. A man comes out of that place unfit for the company of wife or child, incapable of living as other men do. He loses his bearings; he loses his faith in gods and in humankind. If his wife speaks to him unexpectedly, when his mind’s on something else, he’s as likely to grab her by the neck and squeeze hard as to give a civil response. If his child jumps onto his bed in the morning, he may strike a lethal blow before he comes back to the here and now. It’s no wonder Deord didn’t stay. The pity of it is, such a man still longs for the old life; to be as he was before. It just isn’t possible.”
“You seem normal enough,” Eile said. In fact, he was utterly ordinary; the kind of man you wouldn’t be able to describe later, because he had so little about him that was remarkable. Middle height, spare, athletic build; dark hair of medium length, slight beard, plain good clothes. Thin lips, well-governed expression. If she had to pick out something, it would be the eyes. Guarded as they were, she had caught them once or twice with a complicated expression in them: when he looked at Saraid, and when he’d spoken to her last night about trying to help her. There were things in there he didn’t want anyone to see. Maybe they were what he’d spoken of, from Breakstone; the things that made a man turn his back on his kin.
“I manage,” Faolan said. “My stay in that place was far briefer than your father’s. It may interest you to know that after Deord left here for the last time he spent seven years guarding a prisoner at a place called Briar Wood, in the lands of the Caitt. That is to the north of the kingdom of Fortriu, across the water. The captive was a man of exceptional qualities who had been wrongfully incarcerated. As a warder, Deord showed humanity, patience, and kindness as well as extraordinary strength of both body and mind. In the end he was instrumental in assisting his prisoner to escape. I never found him anything but utterly strong, dependable, and good. I am sorry about your mother, Eile. I’m sorry your father could not come home. He did die well. It was a shining example of selfless courage.”
“Selfless courage never put bread on the table,” said Dalach. “Didn’t the man leave anything?”
Faolan seemed unperturbed by his rudeness. “The circumstances were such that I had no access to what he may have put aside,” he said. “As his friend, I wish to assist Eile. I’ll leave some silver with you.” He made it clear it was Anda he was speaking to. “You must use it as you think best, for whatever is the greatest need. You should give Eile herself a say in the matter. There’s sufficient to allow some improvements to this cottage and to see you through the winter. My advice would be to put aside half of this sum for Eile’s future. There’s a community of Christian women not far west of here, at least there was in times past. They might perhaps take her in and teach her some useful skills.”
If only that were possible, Eile thought. She’d be prepared to believe in any god they liked, just so long as she could escape from here. But not without Saraid. She couldn’t leave Saraid behind. Besides, Dalach would have the money off Anda almost before the giver’s back was turned, and it would all be drunk or wagered away before there was a chance so much as to think of other possibilities. There was no point in trying to tell Faolan this. He’d just leave and take his silver with him, and she’d get the worst beating of her life for robbing Dalach of his windfall. Dalach didn’t care about any of them. All his mind could span was the next drink, the next brawl, the next time he’d bed her. Anger and resentment had eaten away any finer feelings he might once have had. She’d never understood why Anda stayed loyal to him.
Anda sucked in her breath, feeling the weight of the little bag Faolan put in her hand.
“This is generous of you,” Dalach said. “Most generous.” His hand twitched; Eile saw him force himself not to snatch the prize. “We’ll put it to wise use, you can be sure of that.”
Faolan gave him a penetrating look. “See that you do,” he said. “The situation here disquiets me. I’d be happier to see Eile with the nuns. Indeed, if you wished it, I could escort her there myself. I’ve business to the west as well as in the north; the order in which I attend to it is immaterial.”
“No!” Eile said quickly. “Not now. Don’t think I’m not grateful. But I can’t go.”
“The girl’s an extra pair of hands,” Dalach said smoothly. “We need her here. She has her particular duties. Besides, it wouldn’t be seemly for a young girl to travel with just a man, and a stranger at that.” If this was somewhat inconsistent with his earlier talk, he did not seem to notice.
“Well,” Anda said after a little, “you’ll be on your way, then. West, did you say? Where are you headed?”
“You wouldn’t know the place.”
“You’d want to take care if you’re going over by Three Oaks,” put in Dalach. “We’ve just come back that way; there’s a bridge down. All this rain. It’s passable as far as the crossroads.”
“Ah, well,” said Faolan easily, “I expect I’ll manage. Uí Néill lands beyond the river, aren’t they?”
“You’d know.”
“I’ve been away for some time.”
“Beyond the river is Ruaridh Uí Néill’s,” Dalach offered, glaring in distrust. “You’ve such a look of that family yourself, I’m surprised you need telling. Ruaridh’s got far more interests up in Tirconnell. It’s the woman looks after the territory here. He’s prepared to let her hold it for her son.”
“Woman? What woman? I thought those were Echen Uí Néill’s lands.” Eile heard an odd change in Faolan’s tone. She could not quite work it out.
“Where’ve you been? Echen’s been dead these four years. His widow controls it all. She’s a hard thing; rules as tightly as any man. Still, sooner her than that wretch. She’s evenhanded. Not that it’s a job for a woman. She’s held on longer than anyone expected. Her brother-in-law just left her to it.”
Faolan breathed out. Eile saw him relax his shoulders, a conscious attempt at self-control. “So Echen’s dead.” That was all he said.
“Good riddance,” muttered Anda. “There were tales about that man would curdle your blood.”
“I’ll be getting on,” Faolan said, rising to his feet. “When I reach the crossroads I’ll make my choice of ways. Eile, think about what I suggested. Whatever your own beliefs, I think the nuns would treat you well, especially if your aunt made a gift to their establishment. Their life is not luxurious, but it is orderly and serene.”
Eile nodded; she could not find the right words. To be so close, to have escape at her fingertips, and not to be able to go… It
was too cruel. Take me with you. The words hovered on her lips. She clamped her mouth shut.
“Got everything?” Dalach was affable now it was clear their guest was off and leaving his bag of silver behind.
“I think so. Oh, there was a small knife… I can’t quite remember where I left it…” He did not look at Eile direct, only let his glance travel over her, brows lifted. She said nothing.
“Ah, well,” said Faolan, “maybe it’s in my pack somewhere, or back at Brennan’s. I may pass here again on my way home to see how Eile is getting on and whether she’s changed her mind. For now, I’ll bid you farewell. I wish I’d brought better news. Deord was a fine man.”
“So you keep saying.” Dalach’s mouth twisted. “Never saw it, myself.”
“Some see only what they choose to see. Farewell, Eile. He would be proud of you.”
Tears spilled. She dashed them away with a furious hand. Deord, proud of his slut of a daughter with her filthy hair and her ragged clothes and the disgusting things she had to do to survive? Hardly. “Farewell,” she mumbled, looking at the floor. Take me with you, anywhere, just away from here. Take me away so I don’t have to do it.
Saraid had slipped back in. Her small hand clutched a fold of Eile’s apron. Her eyes were on the man who had brought a feast. “Say good-bye, Squirrel,” Eile whispered. But the child buried her face against the coarse homespun and said nothing at all.
BRIDEI WAS AT Abertornie to attend to the welfare of Ged’s family. A flamboyant chieftain who had been one of the young king’s most stalwart supporters, Ged had fallen in the last great battle of the autumn, dying even as Dalriada was won back for the Priteni. He left a young widow, a ten-year-old son, and three tiny daughters. Bridei spoke to all of them, making sure they understood their husband and father had died a hero; carrying them certain last messages.
While the king was thus occupied, his chief councillor, Aniel, who had accompanied him, performed a discreet investigation as to the state of fields and buildings, and together they put in place some arrangements to ensure Loura could look after the holding while young Aled grew to manhood. Bridei invited the boy to spend time at court next summer; the lad thanked him soberly and said he would if he could, but he thought he might be rather busy.
Then Bridei and Aniel rode to the coastal fortress of Caer Pridne, for a council had been called, not an open meeting of the kind convened at White Hill, but a small, particular, and private one.
It was almost too late in the season to travel so far. Gateway was past; the first snows had fallen. The king and his councillor rode with an escort of five, one of whom was Bridei’s personal guard, Garth, and another Aniel’s man Eldrist. Faolan’s lengthy absence had put a heavy load on Garth, who was now the only one of Bridei’s experienced bodyguards left. The training required was lengthy and rigorous. Back at White Hill, Garth had a new man in place, Dovran, who was proving his worth. Bridei believed Faolan would not be back before next summer.
“You need at least three men,” Garth had protested. “Four would be better. What about Cinioch?”
“Faolan will return. He can’t resist the poor pay and the sleepless nights,” Bridei had told him. “Cinioch belongs back at Pitnochie. I want him and Uven to go home and forget battles for a while.” It had been a season of blood and death, of the loss of many good comrades, the loyal Breth among them. It had been a victory: a great triumph. The Gaels were driven back, the lands of the west reclaimed for the Priteni. Now, Bridei’s heart held a powerful wish for peace. His people needed that. They needed time to till their land and sow their crops, to raise their children and to celebrate their love of the gods. No more war; the borders must simply be held, and within them the fabric of community made whole. Spear must become scythe, staff turn to oar, dagger to adze or awl. The men who had risked all for their king, their land, their faith must have time to weave anew the threads of their lives.
The massive promontory fortress of Caer Pridne, on the northeast coast, had once been the seat of Fortriu’s kings. This stronghold now formed the headquarters of Bridei’s fighting forces, led by Carnach of Thorn Bend. Caer Pridne was quiet tonight. It was winter. The massive army that had been assembled for the many-pronged attack on Dalriada was disbanded, its men departed for their home territories while the roads were still passable. A force remained, made up of the most expert warriors, those who had no other trade. They were quartered here year around, ready for whatever might come. Families lived within the high walls; the stronghold housed a whole community. Caer Pridne provided the guards for White Hill, a force rotated every season to keep the men sharp.
Bridei’s most trusted warrior chieftains, Carnach and Talorgen, were newly arrived back from Dalriada. Both leaders had remained there at the war’s end to oversee the departure of the Gaelic leaders over the sea to their homeland. The Dalriadan king, Gabhran, had fallen gravely ill not long after the last great battle, and had been allowed to remain in his fortress of Dunadd, along with his immediate household. A force of Priteni warriors was quartered there to guard the place and its occupants.
Bridei had already had his chieftains’ news, for they had visited White Hill on their way back, to great acclaim. But not all news can be shared openly. Tonight, in the small, private chamber Bridei had chosen for his council, red-haired Carnach and the older Talorgen sat at the long oaken table with Bridei and Aniel, in company with a small, white-haired woman in a gray robe: the senior priestess of Fortriu, Fola, whose establishment of Banmerren lay just along the bay. Save for Garth, the personal guards remained outside the bolted door. Niches set in the stone walls held oil lamps. All was orderly and quiet.
“Thank you for being here, my friends,” Bridei said. “I regret the need for such secrecy. I’ve news on which I require your counsel. Once you have given it, we will decide together how much further this news can go, and when.”
“Bridei,” interrupted Fola, her sharp dark eyes on the king, “why is Broichan not present? Was he too unwell to travel? I had thought his health greatly improved when last I saw him.” She was an old friend and did not stand on ceremony.
“I could not be at Caer Pridne for Gateway this year,” Bridei said, choosing his words with care; this would be difficult to explain. “I did not conduct my usual ritual at the Well. Tonight, when we are done here, I will keep vigil until dawn. Had Broichan accompanied me, he would have insisted on performing the rite with me. The ride from White Hill, he might just about manage. The vigil would tax his strength beyond endurance.”
There was a brief silence.
“There’s more to this, isn’t there?” asked Fola, raising her brows.
“Broichan is not yet party to this news,” Bridei said, and saw a look of surprise pass over the wise woman’s serene countenance. “He will hear it as soon as I return to White Hill. I want your opinion first. Your good advice, all of you.”
“The business of this council is secret until the king chooses to have it spread more widely,” said Aniel, steepling his fingers before him on the table.
“That’s understood already,” said Talorgen of Raven’s Well, a handsome, open-faced man of middle years. “What is this news?”
“The king of Circinn is dead,” Bridei said quietly, and a gasp of shock went around the table. This was momentous; Circinn, the southern kingdom of the Priteni, had become Christian under Drust the Boar while Fortriu had remained staunchly true to the old gods. An election must now be held to determine which man of the royal line would become king. “We did not have this from a messenger; one of our spies brought the news just before Aniel and I left White Hill. With winter setting in hard, it’s our belief Circinn will not call the election until season’s end; they’ll have remembered how difficult it was last time. On the other hand, they may try to do it by stealth; just put their man in as king and present it to us as a final decision in springtime.”
“Exactly,” said Aniel. “They may conveniently overlook the fact that the chieftains of Fort
riu are entitled to a vote. You know Bargoit and his fellow councillors. They’ll be all too ready to bypass correct procedures if it happens to suit them.”
Carnach whistled under his breath. “Drust the Boar dead, eh? I wonder which of his weaselly advisers slipped a little something in his stew.”
“We should say prayers for his passing,” said Fola with a reproving glance at the red-haired chieftain. “We may not have had a high opinion of the man, but that should not prevent us from doing what is right.”
“It’s Christian prayers he’d be wanting,” put in Aniel with a twist of the lip. “Are you able to turn your hand to those, Fola?”
“Drust may have been baptized in the Christian faith,” the wise woman retorted, “but I’ve no doubt the deity he called on at the last extreme was Bone Mother. There’s no wrong in wishing a man a safe journey. I don’t suppose Drust was bad, just weak. Too weak to be a king.” As an epitaph, it had a sorry ring to it.
“A quandary,” said Aniel. “Who would the chieftains of Circinn see as the strongest contender? What candidates do they have to offer?”
“None, surely, who could hold a candle to Bridei, fresh from his stunning defeat of the Gaels,” said Carnach bluntly. “We need to ensure they hold the election fairly, as we did ours on the death of Drust the Bull. If Bridei could be elected king of Fortriu on the vote of representatives from all the Priteni realms, then the same process should apply now the kingship of Circinn is in question. It’s the opportunity we’ve been waiting for: Broichan’s dream. Within a season, we could see Fortriu and Circinn united under a single leader. You must stand, Bridei. You can do it.” Carnach’s features were flushed with zeal, his eyes bright. He was a generous man. He himself had been eligible for the kingship of Fortriu, nearly six years ago, and had stepped down to lend his support to Bridei’s claim.
“Broichan will be of the same mind, I know,” Bridei said. “But this is not so simple. There’s the question of faith; the will of the folk of Circinn and the chieftains who represent them. It may lie just across our border, but whether it pleases us or no, Circinn is a Christian kingdom now.”
The Well of Shades Page 5