They had rehearsed this, weary as they were those first days after the disaster at the ford. By the time the riders came into view between the pines on the hillside above them, Faolan was standing strong and defiant, a throwingknife in his left hand and his short sword in his right, and Ana was behind him, gripping the weapon he had given her.
The riders advanced in single file. These men did not wear the blue headbands of the earlier attackers. Red seemed to be their color; it was blazoned on their tunics in the form of a scarlet dog, marking them out as members of a household whose chieftain bore this kin symbol. They were big men, as was the nature of the Caitt, tall, broad-shouldered, and distinguished by flowing hair and full beards, some plaited, some left to their natural bushiness. They came down the hill and halted, moving so their leader was flanked by a man on either side; both of these bore thrusting spears, and the tips of their weapons were pointed with accuracy at Faolan’s heart. He stood relaxed, calculating the required trajectory for his throwing knife and knowing he would not use it, not with Ana here. To attempt a defense was to ensure his own demise and her capture.
“Well, well,” drawled the man in the center, grinning, “what have we here?” He made no attempt to dismount. “Your name and business?” This came in a different tone, sharp and dangerous.
“I might ask you the same,” Faolan said evenly. “As you see, I have a lady with me, and we are in some difficulty, having suffered a serious mishap at the ford some distance from here. The lady is weak and distressed. We require your assistance, not an inquisition.”
The Caitt leader eyed him closely. His expression was less than warm. “Only a fool traverses that path in time of spring thaw,” he said. “What is your errand? Where are your warrior markings? You have the semblance of a Gael, and the accent to match it. And what’s this about a lady?”
“I am—” Faolan began, and then Ana stepped out from behind him, the knife in her hand, and all eyes went to her. The Caitt leader’s gaze passed up and down her body, measuring, assessing; his brows rose in disdain and his nose wrinkled as at an offensive smell. A black rage possessed Faolan; his fingers tightened on his knife.
“My greeting to you,” said Ana sweetly. “I am a kinswoman of Bridei, king of Fortriu, and am on my way to Briar Wood. The accident that befell us had nothing to do with spring thaw. We were attacked, and had no choice but to attempt a crossing at the ford. There was a …” She faltered.
“A flash flood of freakish proportions,” Faolan said. “Our escort was swept away.”
The Caitt leader dismounted; his two guards maintained the position of the spears and, behind him, others moved in with weapons in hand.
“I prefer to speak with the lady,” the leader said, with a slight emphasis on .the final word that was deeply insulting. Faolan’s fingers itched to silence the man with a quick blow to the throat. It would only take a moment. “Your name, my dear?” the fellow inquired.
Ana took a deep breath. “You offend me,” she said calmly. “I am nobody’s dear. My name is Ana, daughter of Nechtan, princess of the royal blood of the Light Isles. I journey to Briar Wood as the intended bride of the chieftain Alpin. I need your help. An escort as far as his stronghold, if you can provide that. We’ve traveled from the ford under some difficulty. Our baggage was lost and my companion is wounded.”
“Your companion. And who is he, precisely?”
Faolan and Ana replied at the same time.
“I am—”
“He is—”
Their eyes met. Faolan read in Ana’s the doubt he himself had begun to feel. These could not be Alpin’s men; they would have known travelers from White Hill were expected. There was danger here. Ana had identified herself; she was, at the least, a potential hostage, a trade item of significance. And Faolan was a source of information. He knew from past experience what that could mean.
“My court musician,” said Ana smoothly, sending a jolt of pure horror through him, followed by a reluctant recognition of her cleverness in thus rendering him instantly harmless. “His name’s Faolan. The only one of my escort to survive the flood.” The wobble in her voice owed nothing to artifice. “You’re not to harm him. He is no threat to you.”
The Caitt leader eyed the weapons in Faolan’s hands, the stance he had adopted, legs apart, shoulders square. “Doesn’t look much like a bard to me,” he grunted.
“I have no other protectors left,” Ana said softly. “Faolan’s doing his best. Please remove the spears. You’re frightening us.”
It was uncomfortable to be so neatly emasculated in a few carefully chosen words. However, Ana’s ploy seemed to be working. The leader gave a curt nod and his men withdrew their weapons a handspan or two.
“If you will not help us,” Ana said, “you will allow us to pass unhindered, I trust. We will make our own way to Briar Wood. If this is the right path?” She attempted a placatory smile. Faolan could see how frightened she was, and how angry.
The Caitt leader grinned suddenly, white teeth flashing in a face covered, above the lush beard, with intricate tattooing. His arms, solid as tree limbs, bore rings of the same decoration, spirals, twists and running creatures, battle scenes and flying birds. “Goban! See if you can find a horse for the lady. Erdig! Help her gather up her gear, such as it is. You,” looking at Faolan through narrowed eyes, “don’t move. Drop your weapons.”
“I won’t take orders from a man who will not give his name,” Faolan said quietly, knowing this was not the right answer from a hired musician, but unable to summon a more servile response.
“How unfortunate,” the leader said, taking a step closer and putting his hand to his own sword.
“Faolan!” said Ana sharply. “Do as he says!”
With bitterness in his heart, Faolan dropped his knife and short sword to the ground and put up his hands.
“That’s better,” said the Caitt leader. “Mordec, put these knives away somewhere safe. We wouldn’t want our bard here cutting himself, would we? I expect we’ll all enjoy some fine entertainment later, the harp, maybe? I’ve heard the Gaels have a talent for that.” There was a rumble of laughter. “We don’t get much of it in these parts.”
“He’s wounded,” Ana said. “There will be no playing yet a while. Not until …” She fell silent. One of the men was leading forward a pony from the back of their line, a well-groomed creature of pearly hue, whose saddle and bridle were of fine leather decorated with ornate silverwork. The mane was plaited, the long tail combed to a fine sheen. It was unmistakably a mount for a lady. Faolan saw her look up at the Caitt leader. Her eyes were accusatory.
“You knew we were coming,” she said. “Who are you? Why are you playing games with us?”
The leader grinned anew, as if mightily pleased with himself, and strode over to seize Ana’s hand in his own huge paw. Faolan forced himself to remain still.
“Ah, you see through my little joke! I am Alpin, my dear, and these are the men of Briar Wood. You are safe now. We thought it possible you might be close to our borders by this time, and took it upon ourselves to ride out and welcome you. We did not expect to find you without your escort and in such a state of disarray.” His eyes ran up and down her figure again. Now that he stood closer, their expression was somewhat altered. Faolan liked it even less than the disgust the fellow had shown before. “Your bard has been forced to lend you his own clothing, I take it. Just as well he is a harmless musician. As your intended husband, I might well take offense at such a gesture of familiarity.”
“Such games as these do not amuse me, my lord,” Ana said. “Once you have heard the full story of my journey here, you will see that jesting is not appropriate. Such small matters as the need to wear inappropriate clothing count for little when one’s companions have been drowned before one’s eyes. Of course I would have wished to appear before you dressed like a lady. The gods did not permit that. I thank them that my life was spared, and that of Faolan here. The river took ten souls that day, and t
he men who ambushed us killed another. Against that, what is the loss of a bride-chest? What is a little humiliation?”
“Our humor is too crude, perhaps, for the kin of King Bridei,” Alpin said, not smiling now. “You will become accustomed to it in time. As for the other, the amenities of my household will be available to you, of course, and more seemly attire. We are not barbarians. It is as well we came out to meet you. The inner reaches of Briar Wood are not easily traversed by strangers. The paths can be deceptive. Let me assist you to mount. That is one advantage of men’s clothing, of course; it makes it easier for you to ride astride.”
Faolan heard one of the men joke to another under his breath, something about the lady being an expert rider thanks to having a tame bard to practice on at night. He saw Ana flush crimson with mortification, and felt his own hands ball into fists. A moment later, Alpin was by the offender’s side, hands on hips, glaring up at the man. “Get down!” he ordered.
The fellow obliged; he, too, was a big man, but he was dwarfed by his chieftain. “Repeat what you just said,” snapped Alpin.
“My lord, I—”
“Repeat it!” A fist thudded into the man’s right cheek; he reeled back against his horse’s side.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I—”
“Are you deaf, Lutrin? Put your filthy words forward for the gods to hear, come on, are you afraid now you realize that’s my wife you’re spreading your poisonous gossip about?” Another thump, this time to the left; it seemed Alpin was equally adept with either hand. Around them the Caitt warriors sat silent on their horses, watching with what seemed to be a degree of appreciation.
“I made a filthy suggestion about the lady and her bard, my lord,” Lutrin said faintly, staggering back. “Clearly untrue. I regret it.”
“Not good enough,” Alpin growled, and let fly once more. This time his victim was sent sprawling with the force of the blow to lie motionless on the sward. His horse lifted its feet nervously.
“Take this horse, bard,” said Alpin. “And remember that’s the only piece of flesh you’ll be putting your leg over in future. Leave him!” he barked as a couple of his own men made to tend to the fallen Lutrin. “Let him make his own way back, if the forest allows it. And take heed, all of you. Insult my wife and you’ll find yourselves in the same state.” He turned to Ana, whose face was still flushed red with embarrassment, as much from Alpin’s own words, Faolan knew, as from Lutrin’s ill-considered jest. “Come, my dear,” Alpin said. “Let’s get you home.”
THERE WAS A sickness at White Hill. It had made itself apparent soon after the festival of Balance, and did not seem in a hurry to leave the royal household, despite the recitation of prayers, the burning of healing herbs, and the brewing of time-tested remedies. In the men and women it manifested as a few days of fever along with an inflammation of the throat that made swallowing difficult. In the children it was more deadly.
The small daughter of Bridei’s chief gatekeeper died on the fifth day of the illness. Bone Mother returned three days later for the infant son of a kitchen woman. This ailment gripped the young fiercely, testing the small bodies with racking, painful spasms of coughing. There were eight children under the age of ten living at White Hill, or there had been until the sickness came. The twin sons of Bridei’s man Garth and his wife Elda were afflicted and recovered. They were sturdy boys, built like their father. Two small girls had been sent away to Banmerren at the first signs of illness in the house. Now Derelei was sick.
A few moons over one year old and slight of build like his mother, Derelei looked a little flushed one day, and the next day was prone on a pallet, burning with fever and struggling for breath. He didn’t cry much. Tuala wished he would cry. She wished he would fight. Bone Mother could take him all too easily, a scrap of a child the goddess could slip in her pocket and spirit away in the blink of an eye.
There were certain things that could be done, and Tuala did them with her mind in a daze, her heart paralyzed with terror. She brewed curative potions. She kept a brazier supplied with soothing herbs and sponged her son’s small body with cool water. She sang to him and stroked his fevered brow. When he could not breathe, she carried him about against her shoulder, for that seemed to ease his chest a little. She sent desperate prayers to the Shining One, prayers not of the formal kind: Don’t you know how much we love him? He’s only little! Stop hurting him!
When Bridei was there, which was as often as he could get away from the final preparations for his great council, Tuala tried to conceal from her husband how frightened she was. There was a bevy of serving women to help, but there were few to whom Tuala was prepared to trust Derelei’s care at such a time of risk. Mara, the housekeeper from Pitnochie, was still at White Hill. Mara did not offer to help nurse Derelei, small children never having been her preferred companions. She simply took over most of Tuala’s other responsibilities, seeing to the management of the household in the same dourly efficient manner that she had applied to the running of Broichan’s domain in the years when Bridei and Tuala were themselves children. In the evenings she would appear at Tuala’s door with a spiced drink or wedges of bread and cheese on a platter, and order the queen of Fortriu to put her feet up. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you’re worn out from lack of sleep.”
Bridei, too, was reeling from exhaustion. By day he was closeted with his advisers, preparing not only for the imminent assembly—contrary to the word put about by his spies, it would not be at harvesttime but before Midsummer—but also for the major undertaking they all knew would come in the autumn, whether the king of Circinn chose to support it or not. The assembly would be vital. It was the first time Drust the Boar had been persuaded to visit Bridei’s court since Bridei had defeated the Christian Drust in the election for the kingship of Fortriu. Drust had hoped to extend his rule over both realms; this would have had the long-desired result of seeing Fortriu and Circinn once again united, but under Drust’s Christian faith. That would have been an unthinkable catastrophe, a gross denial of the ancient faith of the Priteni, a faith to which Bridei had maintained unswerving loyalty since the days of his childhood in Broichan’s house.
In the five years of his kingship, Bridei had worked assiduously toward a wary peace with Drust the Boar. Obtaining the southern king’s consent to travel to this assembly had been a coup, and was generally taken to indicate Drust’s readiness to support the armed struggle against Dalriada, a common foe. Others would attend with the king of Circinn, notably his influential adviser Bargoit. The chieftains of Fortriu were planning what might be said, and by whom, down to the finest detail. They worked long hours. Even Tharan was looking tired.
At night, when Derelei struggled with the cough, Bridei and Tuala stayed awake with him. Bridei walked up and down with his son in his arms, patting the child’s back. Tuala rocked Derelei on her knee as she sat near a basin in which aromatic leaves, calamint and fennel, had been set to steep in hot water. The steam aided the child’s breathing. When Derelei’s eyelids did close at last for a’brief spell, neither of his parents dared to sleep, lest he slip away from them unobserved. They listened for the small sound of his breathing, and held each other’s hand, and knew that, whatever tests the gods had set them in the past, nothing could ever be as hard as this.
On the third day of Derelei’s illness it was necessary for Bridei to ride to Caer Pridne; he would be gone a few days at least. The coastal fortress was now the headquarters for the king’s military endeavors, overseen by his kinsman and war leader, Carnach of Thorn Bend. It was here that the great endeavor against the Gaels of Dalriada was in preparation. It had become necessary for the king himself to put in an appearance to hearten, inspire, and challenge those who would all too soon be shedding their blood in his cause. Tuala knew Bridei did not want to go; not now. And she knew he had to go. She reassured him as best she could.
“Derelei seems a little better this morning. He’s breathing more easily; the herbs help. Try not to worry too much, d
ear one.”
Bridei bent to kiss her on the brow; to touch a finger to his son’s cheek, where the soft skin was hectically flushed. Then he left. His face was drawn and pale; it seemed to Tuala that he had reached that point of weariness where one scarcely understands what people are saying, and where one’s own words, too, seem to have little sense. At least, at Caer Pridne, he might get a few nights’ sleep.
The matter of Broichan had not been raised between them. Broichan, being a druid, was steeped in learning and skilled in herb lore. He had kept the old king alive for many turnings of the moon beyond what had seemed to all others the appointed time of his passing. Thus had he ensured that his foster son Bridei would be ready for the kingship when the opportunity offered itself. Tuala knew Broichan had been tending to other victims of this malady. He was a powerful seer and had the ear of the gods. Why not ask him for help? But Bridei had made no such suggestion, even with his little son burning in his arms. There was no need for him to say it. Tuala was afraid of Broichan. There were reasons for that, old reasons and new ones. She could not bring herself to trust him, especially with her son. She would not ask him and, knowing this, Bridei would not ask, either.
With Bridei gone, Tuala felt very much alone, even though White Hill was full of folk. She longed for Ana. Ana’s presence was restful; she went about her business quietly, spreading a feeling of warmth and calm, and she loved Derelei as if he were her own son. If Ana had been here, Tuala could have let go and wept, and not felt as if she were somehow letting everyone down. She wished with all her heart that Bridei had not sent Ana away. And she wished he had not sent Faolan, either. Breth had traveled to Caer Pridne as Bridei’s bodyguard, but Tuala did not think her husband’s personal safety was ever really assured unless Faolan were somewhere near at hand. With the assembly almost upon them, she feared knives in the dark, sudden arrows, poisoned chalices. Even the bestloved king has his enemies.
Blade of Fortriu Page 12