Blade of Fortriu

by Juliet Marillier

  Both men rose to their feet, Ged springing up, Faolan moving more slowly.

  “Please, don’t get up,” Ana said. “This won’t take long.”

  Ged settled her in a chair and poured ale, his eyes frankly admiring. Married man or no, he was known to delight in the company of comely women, especially quickwitted ones.

  “Thank you.” Ana sipped politely, set the goblet down, turned her gaze on Faolan. “It’s Darva,” she said. “She can’t go on.”

  This was simple truth. Faolan had seen the serving woman when they arrived; she had more or less fallen from her horse and been carried inside.

  “She’s just not up to this,” Ana went on. “Best if she rests here, then goes back to White Hill when it’s convenient.”

  “We can certainly accommodate her here at Abertornie,” Ged said. “But—”

  “I hope,” Faolan said to Ana, “that you’re not about to suggest we delay our departure because of this. I had assumed you would select a companion who had at least some riding ability.” He watched the pink rise in Ana’s cheeks; she seemed to be able to do that at will.

  “Forgive me,” she said, “I thought it was you, not I, who was in charge of this expedition. You drilled me thoroughly enough before we left. How was it the most reliable of escorts neglected to check the qualifications of my companion?”

  She was right, of course. This was his responsibility, and he had made an error of judgment. He watched her face; observed the little frown between the elegantly shaped brows. It had been plain to him from the first that this royal bride did not want to go to Briar Wood any more than he did.

  She was ignoring him now, addressing herself to Ged. “I was hoping,” she said, “that there might be a girl here at Abertornie who could come with us in Darva’s place. It doesn’t matter so much about her skills as a serving woman; I can teach her those in time. She needs to be able to ride, I mean really ride, and she must be able to smile no matter how annoying things are.” As if to press her point, she turned her head toward Faolan and graced him with a smile of calculated radiance, which somehow managed to convey both warm approval and total insincerity. He could not keep his mouth from twitching in response. Ged roared with laughter.

  “I did ask your wife already,” Ana told the chieftain, “and she promised to try to find a willing girl, one who likes the idea of an adventure. We just need your approval. The only thing is, we’re leaving in the morning. She’d have to pack up quickly; she wouldn’t have much time to make up her mind.”

  She had surprised Faolan again. He had expected, at the very least, a request to stay and rest for one additional night. The men would have welcomed that.

  “Setting yourselves a hard pace,” Ged grunted. “I’m sure Loura can find you a girl. We breed ’em tough around here.”

  “Thank you,” Ana said. “It’s not as if I really need a serving woman, I can manage quite well by myself. I don’t have many belongings to look after, since I was ordered to leave as much as possible behind. I need this girl principally for reasons of propriety.”

  Ged grinned. “What, with this fellow in charge? None of them would dare to set a foot astray, or cast a glance where they shouldn’t. But you’re right. I already told him the escort’s too small. Three or four women to attend you, twenty men-at-arms, that would be more like it. Some ladies would demand a washerwoman, a seamstress, and a court bard for good measure.”

  “She doesn’t need the bard,” Faolan found himself saying. “The lady provides her own entertainment.”

  Ana glared at him; he made sure his features showed nothing in return. Her singing voice had been small, but pure and true-pitched; he had found that, after he had silenced her with words that had come despite him, words that he had known were cruel, the tunes remained in his head, following him even into his brief snatches of sleep. They conjured memories of older songs in another tongue, a music that belonged in a different life, one he should have forgotten. He would have begged her not to sing, but the codes he imposed upon himself forbade such honesty.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” she asked him now. The blush had faded; her gray eyes were calm and cool as she gazed at him. “We should go on as soon as we can, since bad weather might slow us later.”

  He inclined his head. “Tomorrow,” he said. “You’ll be eager to meet your new husband.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. “Eager,” she echoed. “That is not the way I would express it. I have a duty to perform, and since I have been told speed is important, I will adhere to whatever timetable is considered appropriate. That’s all there is to it.”

  Faolan did not respond. Her voice had become tight and cold, a different voice from the one that had kept weariness at bay with music. Duty he did understand, as far as it went. Duty, for him, was quite a complex issue.

  “It may not be so bad, lass,” Ged said, putting a hand on Ana’s knee and, with a glance at Faolan, removing it again. “This fellow Alpin is wealthy, at least. And youngish. You may do very well for yourself.”

  IT WAS DIFFICULT to tell if the new girl, Creisa, would be a help or a hindrance to the expedition. She came with her own pony and a shawl woven in the rainbow hues that set Ged’s household apart wherever they traveled. Creisa could certainly ride, and she did not snore. It was her effect on the men of Ana’s escort that gave cause for concern. She was young, and had a freshness about her like that of a spring primrose: red cheeks, full lips, wide, longlashed brown eyes. Her figure was generous, and showed to advantage when she sat astride her pony, back straight and shoulders square, with the unconscious grace of a natural horsewoman. In the evenings she engaged the men in conversation around the fire, keeping them from their sleep. By day she joked as they rode along, and the hand-picked escort responded, vying for her attention, until Faolan silenced them with a curt command. Then there would be a period of peace and order, until Creisa made a throwaway comment or a giggling suggestion and it all began again.

  Faolan developed a little line between his brows and a corresponding tightening of a mouth already less than relaxed. Ana found the girl’s banter and the men’s-responses amusing, harmless; all of them knew that on such a journey it could not go any further. She was sorely tempted, after Faolan’s snarls at the men, to comment that surely this pleased him better than her singing, but she held her tongue, not wishing to let him know that the jibe had hurt her. She had sung Derelei to sleep more times than she could remember, and she missed his infant warmth, his trusting smiles. Long ago she had taught the same songs to her little sister. Music was love, family, memory. She did not know how anyone could dismiss it thus.

  Abertornie had been the last friendly house, the last overnight stay within the shelter of walls. It was deemed too dangerous to seek accommodation with the unknown inhabitants of the wild northern valleys, few as they were. An unplanned visit to the stronghold of a Caitt chieftain, especially when one traveler was a young woman of particular strategic value, might just as likely end up with the whole party being seized as hostages or worse. That risk was not worth taking for the sake of a night’s shelter, clean clothing, or a better quality of supper.

  So the travelers went on, maintaining a good speed as the moon went from new to half to full and began to wane again. Each day the way seemed to be steeper and the forests darker, the undergrowth thicker and the hillsides more precipitous. The weather assisted them, remaining mostly dry, though cold. At night, Ana and Creisa slept close under their shared blankets, keeping each other warm.

  “Better than nothing, my lady,” Creisa whispered as, outside their small shelter, the men who were off watch settled around the fire and the night creatures began their mysterious dialogues in the forest beyond. “Not that I wouldn’t rather be snuggled up with one of the fellows. That Kinet, for instance, he’s got a good set of shoulders on him and a lovely smile; or maybe Wrad, have you seen the bold way he looks at me? When we get to where we’re going, I’ve a treat in store for someone. Can’t make
up my mind which, so far.”

  “Shh,” Ana hissed, torn between the need to reprimand her serving woman as a lady should, to silence such foolish talk, and a kind of envy that the girl could speak so openly, and with such evident relish, of matters that were still a mystery to Ana herself, even at nearly nineteen years of age. “You should not speak thus, Creisa. It’s unseemly.”

  “Sorry, my lady,” Creisa said in a small voice. She was silent for a little, then began again. “Of course, the quiet, closed-up ones can be the most exciting, if you can get them interested in the first place. I know which one I’d really like to spend a night alone with. That Faolan, I reckon he’d be a stayer.”

  There was something in the quality of the silence beyond the opening of their tent, after this speech, that told Ana she must produce an answer that was both quick and quelling. “Faolan is King Bridei’s personal emissary. He’s the king’s trusted friend. You will not speak of him thus again, Creisa. I hope I do not have to tell you twice.”

  “No, my lady.” It was evident in Creisa’s tone that she was smiling in the darkness. “All the same—”

  “Enough!” Ana snapped, loudly enough to be heard by anyone outside who happened to be listening. Creisa fell silent at last, and not long after, the sound of her breathing told Ana she had fallen asleep.

  Ana herself did not sleep. She pondered Creisa’s life growing up on Ged’s home farm, working in kitchen and vegetable gardens and, from the sound of it, forming casual alliances with any number of lusty young men. Questions came to her: wasn’t Creisa worried she might conceive a child? Would not such wanton behavior damage her chances of attracting a reliable husband? Above all, among the confusion of thoughts and feelings Creisa’s whispered foolishness had awoken in her, Ana recognized that she was envious: envious of the ease with which Creisa spoke of the congress between man and woman, and still more envious of the fact that, if Creisa were to be believed, such congress was for her not brutal, arbitrary, a thing to be endured, but entirely pleasurable, easy and natural. For a woman of her own status, Ana thought, it could hardly ever be so simple. To wed for love, as Tuala had done, was an opportunity rarely afforded those of the royal blood. Ana could almost wish she had wed kindly, courteous Bridei herself, as many people, the king’s druid Broichan among them, would have preferred. She had, indeed, considered that prospect seriously for a little, but only until the moment she first heard Bridei utter Tuala’s name, and Tuala his. From then on, Ana had recognized the inevitability of things, for there was a bond between those two that transcended the ordinary. A tiny, hidden part of Ana still longed for a love like that in the grand tales of old, powerful, tender, and passionate. Before they got to Briar Wood, she told herself grimly, she’d best quash any trace of that yearning, for such a foolish fancy could only lead to grief.

  AS THE JOURNEY wore on they all became progressively dirtier, wearier, quieter: even Creisa. There was no opportunity for clothing to be washed, and scant facility for personal ablutions. For Ana, who was accustomed to bathing in warm water with reasonable frequency and to other folk bearing her tunics, skirts, and smallclothes away for regular cleaning, the days were spent in an uncomfortable awareness of the layer of dirt and sweat clogging her skin, the itches and crawling sensations, the mud stains around the hem of her skirt, and, worst of all, the lank, greasy texture of her long hair; the only way to wear it now was plaited tightly and coiled atop her head, fastened with pins, for she could not bear the touch of it against her neck.

  They stopped late one afternoon close to a deep forest pool set among rocks, and Ana was seized with the urge to bathe. Creisa was all for stripping off and plunging right in. Faolan would not allow it. When Ana tried to argue, he cut her off sharply.

  “It may be springtime, but the water’s cold. What if you came down with an ague? We can’t take that risk. Besides, this would leave us vulnerable. If we were attacked while the two of you were disporting yourselves, we’d be at a disadvantage. The men have enough to attend to. Don’t make their job any harder.”

  “The men could do with a bath themselves,” Creisa muttered in a mutinous tone.

  “Disporting?” Ana echoed. “All I want to do is get clean. What sort of impression do you think I’ll make if I walk into Briar Wood looking like this, not to mention the smell?”

  Faolan’s mouth twitched; he controlled it before it became a smile. “I imagine you have a set of clean clothing in reserve, somewhere in that bundle that’s weighing down the packhorse,” he said. “Since we’re unlikely to encounter washerwomen between here and Briar Wood, and since we have still many days’ travel ahead of us, I suggest you wait until we’re nearly there. At that point, ask me again. You’re right, of course; this is a commercial enterprise, a fact I was in danger of forgetting. As leader, I’m responsible for delivering the goods in prime condition.”

  Creisa giggled. Anger made Ana’s cheeks hot; the man’s rudeness and her own frustration made her want to scream at him like a fishwife and spit in his supercilious face. To her horror, her voice came out wobbly and pathetic, as if she were on the verge of tears. “There’s no need to be so unpleasant about it. I have tried not to make things any harder for you. This didn’t seem too much to ask.”

  There was a brief silence while Faolan regarded her, his dark eyes assessing, and she did her best to meet his gaze steadily. As usual, she could glean no idea of what he was thinking. Her own face, she suspected, was flushed, filthy, and in no way evocative of new roses.

  “I’m sorry,” Faolan said tightly and, turning on his heel, moved away to busy himself elsewhere. Ana stared after him. An apology was the last response she had expected.

  “We could do it anyway, my lady,” Creisa whispered. “Don’t know about you, but I’d endure a tongue-lashing from that long-faced Gael for the sake of clean hair and a chance to wash my smallclothes. I could rinse a few things out, hang them over a bush—”

  “We must do as he says.” Bad manners or not, there was no doubt in Ana’s mind that Faolan was an expert and reliable leader, and that they must trust him to know what was best. “All the same, I do have another change of undergarments in my big bag, the one on the packhorse. I may even be able to find something for you, if you have none for yourself. Let us at least wash out our smallclothes; we’ll dry them where we can. Perhaps by the fire …”

  Creisa exploded in a new fit of giggles. “That’ll give the men something to think about, my lady. I’ll fetch your bag and we can see what’s what.”

  “And Creisa?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Please don’t refer to Faolan as a long-faced Gael. It may be the truth, but it sounds less than respectful. Just because he has forgotten his manners, there’s no need for us to do the same.”

  Creisa’s white teeth flashed in a charming grin. “Yes, my lady.”

  They managed to wriggle out of shifts and drawers while keeping reasonably covered. Faolan must have had a word to the men, for they remained up the hill making camp, out of sight save for a guard with his back turned. The two women washed their faces, their arms, waded in up to their knees, came as close to bathing as was possible without quite disobeying Faolan’s orders.

  Creisa would not let Ana launder the smallclothes; she performed the task herself, pounding the soft linen with a smooth, round stone, working her fingers along the cloth, rinsing with such vigor that she did a good job of drenching both herself and Ana into the bargain. Ana sat on a flat stone, watching Creisa work her magic on the sweatsoaked garments. At length the small, biting insects that inhabit such places in spring and summer began to swarm, droning, around the women’s exposed flesh, and it was time to retreat.

  In the newly made encampment, a meal had been prepared and someone had strung a piece of rope between bushes in readiness for drying ladies’ apparel. Creisa draped shifts and more intimate garments over the line without a shred of embamassment. The men tried hard not to look at them. Ana supposed it must be usual on
such long journeys for men-at-arms to wear the same set of clothing day in, day out, and think nothing of it. She wondered if Faolan had ever traveled with women before. Indeed, she wondered if he understood anything at all about them. He must have had a mother once, maybe sisters. A wife? A sweetheart? Perhaps he had left her behind when he turned against his own. When he decided to become a traitor. It was almost impossible to imagine him with a family. Ana pictured a tiny Faolan, the size of Bridei’s little son Derelei to whom she had sung her lullabies; whose hands she had held secure as he learned to walk. Faolan would not have let anyone hold his hands. He would have learned to walk all by himself.

  TUALA HAD BEEN giving instructions for the refurbishment of White Hill’s guest quarters; she had called in the formidable Mara, Broichan’s housekeeper from Pitnochie, to oversee preparations for the anticipated influx of visitors. With the assembly now close, it was important to get things right. Some royal wives would have placed the preparation of accommodation, provisions, and entertainment for such an event before all else. But Tuala knew her own principal duty was to be there as a support and sounding board for Bridei. He was strong, capable, possessed of a remarkable maturity of outlook for a man of his years. But he had his vulnerabilities; Tuala, who had known and loved him all her life, was aware of every one of those. She had promised she would always be there for him, and Tuala never broke her promises. Next in importance was her son, Derelei. Because the royal succession came through the female line, Derelei would never be king, but he must still be raised in love and wisdom, balance and judgment, as any child deserves. He came second only because, for now, there were others who could provide what he needed. Derelei was universally adored in the king’s household. The women vied for the opportunity to play with him and tend to his small needs; the men made a pet of him, and often it was difficult for Tuala to get her son to herself so she could talk to him, sing to him, whisper secrets, or simply sit quiet with the child in her arms, pondering the wonder of this new blessing the gods had granted her.