FAOLAN HAD PUT a system in place whereby he was informed of any comings and goings at Briar Wood. There was a kennel hand who had no particular reason to love Alpin, having borne the brunt of his anger after saving a pup that was less than the perfect specimen the chieftain sought for his breeding stock. The lad had not drowned the creature as ordered but raised it covertly, and now it followed him everywhere like an adoring acolyte. Dovard had been happy to be Faolan’s eyes where the small exit alongside the kennels was concerned. All that was required in return was to scratch his hound behind its drooping ears and comment on what a handsome creature it was.
So Faolan heard, even before the master of the house did, that a certain visitor had arrived unexpectedly: a pale, hooded man with the appearance and accent of a Gael. Dovard did not know his name, only that he had been to Briar Wood several times before, and that the rule was that nobody but Alpin or Dregard was to know he was here. The visitor would follow his usual patterns, Dovard said: he’d wait in the chieftain’s chamber and hold a private meeting when Alpin returned from his morning ride. Later in the day, the fellow would slip away unseen.
A Gael. Faolan wished momentarily for some power similar to Drustan’s, which would allow him to become a fly or beetle on the wall of Alpin’s council room and listen to their conversation. This might reveal the very information he needed to turn the tide; to declare the marriage contract and the treaty a sham, and bear Ana away from Briar Wood before it was too late. The druid was expected tonight; tomorrow, Ana would become Alpin’s wife and there would be no going back.
No going back … He did not want to go back, not to that part of his own history that was full of blood and terror and impossible choices. But White Hill offered him a place and a purpose. He had been with Bridei more than five years now, and knew his bond with the young king went far deeper than he had ever planned to allow. Now this wedding was almost upon them, and if it unfolded as Bridei had wished, in two days Faolan could be on his way back to White Hill to report the treaty concluded, Ana bedded by her oaf of a husband, and a mere matter of the loss of the entire escort to balance that indubitable success. What evidence did he have, after all, to suggest Alpin’s ready promise of peace was less than it seemed? He’d done his best to ferret out what information there was over the course of two turnings of the moon, and he was good at what he did. But all he had were the words of a man supposed to be quite out of his wits, telling him Alpin would make his choices with scant regard for treaties, and the subtlest of hints from Deord, a man who only talked when it suited him. It was not enough. Bridei needed this marriage; he needed Alpin tied to him by bonds of kinship. The thing could not be halted without good reason. It could not be stopped without hard evidence, and Faolan was forced to admit that there didn’t seem to be any. He’d had plenty of time to dig out the truth, if truth was to be found. He would swear that, if Alpin intended to betray the king of Fortriu, nobody here knew of it save the chieftain himself. If such a plot existed it had been expertly concealed.
Until now. A Gael, a covert meeting, one of several. There had to be something in it. Unfortunately even the most able spy in all Fortriu could not insinuate himself into Alpin’s private chamber past a heavily armed guard. There was the other door, of course, the one that led to the hidden apartments of Deord and Drustan. Faolan considered attempting a variant of the exercise he had planned once before, a spot of wall-scaling, an entry through the grilled roof of their enclosure, and a request that Deord honor the Breakstone code by allowing him to eavesdrop through that little door. He discounted it. There were too many guards about today; the ramparts were bristling with them. Besides, the women would likely be up there with their handiwork in the afternoon; he could just imagine how they would react if he suddenly popped up over the wall of their secluded courtyard. The plan was too risky. There was not even any certainty that he’d be able to hear from in there. He cursed quietly to himself and bent to pat the hound, which seemed to have taken a fancy to him, gods only knew why.
“She likes you,” observed Dovard, who was chopping meat on a slab, preparing a meal for the hunting hounds. In their enclosure at the rear of the kennels they milled about making anticipatory whining sounds.
“She tolerates me,” Faolan said. “You’re the sun and moon for her.”
“Ah, well.” It was evident this comment had both pleased and embarrassed the boy. “She’s a good dog.” With a shrug, Dovard turned his back and moved over to the rear enclosure, to be greeted with a frenzy of excited barking. His own hound edged across and filched a strip of meat from the slab. The look in her eyes begged Faolan to appreciate this act of cleverness.
“I’d best be gone,” Faolan said. “Thanks for your help. Keep an eye on this feast, or there’ll soon be none left.”
As he went out into the courtyard, it came to him that another variant on the plan was possible, one that required only that Deord decide to come out to the hall and go back to his quarters at least once before the secret meeting commenced; that, and an opportunity to have a word with him alone. Simple; perfect. He could get the information he wanted with no risk to anyone. And if what he really wanted was for Bridei’s treaty to fail so that the loveliest woman in all Fortriu need not wed that coarse bully, nobody but himself need ever know that. It was a thought unworthy of the king’s emissary. Whatever future Ana faced, the man standing by her side would not be himself. He was nobody; he was just a tool for carrying out other people’s business. Ana had shown him his shield was not impervious; he had no control over his dreams. But he had ever governed both words and actions expertly and he must do so now, and put the marriage, put her, to the back of his mind.
11
THE KING OF Fortriu was at Raven’s Well, Talorgen’s holding by Maiden Lake. He and his escort would remain there, keeping up a pretense that nothing was afoot for the benefit of any Dalriadan spies who might be in the vicinity. The nature of their own particular mission meant they would be the last piece to slot into place in this great game of war. While Talorgen himself joined Uerb in a seaborne assault on the coastal settlements of Dalriada, Ged would combine his force with Morleo’s, heading for the south by stealth to circle around and attack Gabhran in the heartland. The main mass of Priteni warriors, under Carnach’s command, had already moved westward and broken up into smaller groups. By now they should be encamped in the hills, ready to descend on the smaller fortresses and settlements of the Gaels between Gabhran’s stronghold at Dunadd and his northern borders. Bridei himself would wait until the time when all the others should be in place. On a designated day, counted out from Midsummer, his party would sally forth to Galany’s Reach to link with Fokel’s fighters and retake the fortified encampment that had been the scene of a youthful Bridei’s first taste of battle, more than five years before. From there they would move southward to meet up first with Talorgen, then with Carnach. The complement of Caitt warriors mustered by Umbrig would join them on the road. By the time the army of Fortriu marched on Dunadd, it would be a mighty force indeed.
Bridei stood in the yard at Raven’s Well, looking down between the dark pines to the cool gleam of Maiden Lake. A shiver ran through him: the recognition of time passing, and the knowledge that within the great circle of birth, life, death, rebirth there came other circles, other repetitions. If one did not learn something from them, one was surely doomed to a life wasted. He had stood here in this selfsame spot once with an old and true friend, a friend who, not long after, had died in Bridei’s place. The guilt of that was something he had not been able to shed. He had sent Faolan away; Faolan, the only one who had come close to taking Donal’s place in his life. He remembered telling Faolan he expected them to become friends, and the Gael’s cool response that he did not have it in him to be more than a man who did a job and received a payment. It was Bridei who had been right, though Faolan had never acknowledged that. He had accepted the mission to Briar Wood as a servant accepts an order; his distaste for it had been plain. Bridei wondered why h
e had made Faolan go. True, he had wished to spare the Gael a choice between fighting his own people or failing to protect his king and employer. The real reason had probably been to preserve him. There was a very real chance, on the perilous course facing the men of Fortriu this autumn, that the king’s personal guard would fall in his master’s service. Perhaps, Bridei thought, his own motives had been quite selfish. He shrank from adding the burden of another friend’s sacrifice to that he already bore.
All the same, right now he wished Faolan were here. Breth was effective, strong, good at his job. In his way he, too, was a friend. But it was the Gael who had seen Bridei at his weakest, his most exposed. When they were away from home, in the men’s world of campaigning, he did not have Tuala at his side to listen to his fears and problems and offer the grave, wise counsel on which he depended so strongly. At those times it was Faolan to whom he opened his heart when doubt and uncertainty plagued him. Faolan’s responses could be dry; he often seemed a man incapable of emotion. But he could be relied upon to be completely truthful. It was ironic that his stock in trade, as a spy, was concealment and subterfuge. With Bridei, Faolan was scrupulous in his honesty.
Bridei’s sharp ears caught a movement down the hill: someone approaching on foot, two men or three. Breth had been standing guard at a slight distance, knowing Bridei wished to be alone. Bridei signaled him over. Together they looked down the hill in the moonlight, but could see little.
“It’s late for anyone to be coming in,” Bridei murmured.
A moment later the dogs began to bark, the guards called a challenge, and voices answered from the track under the dark pines.
“Messengers from Umbrig of the Caitt!” one shouted. “We come peacefully; wolves delayed our arrival. I am Orbenn, my companion Hargest, both of Umbrig’s household. Can you shelter us here?”
“Come up to the gate!” the guard commanded. “Closer. Stand in the torchlight. Now drop your weapons. All of them. Turn around. Now kneel and don’t move until you’re told to.”
It was standard procedure. Raven’s Well being only a stone’s throw, so to speak, from the borders of Dalriadan territory, spies frequented the lands to the west. It was rare for visitors to Talorgen’s stronghold to be admitted unchallenged.
Bridei and Breth made their way indoors to the council chamber. It was not long before the guards brought in two young men. Two very young men; Bridei would have called them boys, save that these lads were so big and ferocious that one would hardly dare insult their manhood thus. They wore the skin cloaks favored by the Caitt, and their fresh, beardless faces were already decorated with the first of their warrior tattoos, the intricate detail in the pattern work identifying the wearers immediately as the northerners they had said they were. One lad was broad faced, broad shouldered, and muscled like an ox. The other was marginally slighter. Both of them were glaring; it seemed to come naturally.
Bridei was wearing no signs of his status, neither circlet nor tore nor silver clasp. Nonetheless, as they saw him each of the young men bent his head respectfully. “My lord king,” the two of them mumbled together. It had been well rehearsed.
“A difficult journey, from the sound of it,” Bridei said. “Did you mention wolves?”
“Yes, my lord.” The slightly less massive youth squared his shoulders and tugged his tunic straight. “I am Orbenn of the household of Umbrig. I’m to give you his message and then go back to where he’s camped. My lord said you’d know where that is.”
Umbrig, then, was already moving into position. “And your friend here?” Bridei asked. “Is the message so weighty it requires two to carry it?” He had hoped to lighten the mood, for the bigger of the two youths seemed wound so tight he would snap if touched. The boy’s cheeks flushed red at the remark, and Bridei regretted it.
“I am Hargest,” the young man growled. “I’m here—I came here to—” His fists were clenched. His eyes, of an unusual light blue color, were narrowed and inimical.
“He came along uninvited,” Orbenn tossed in, provoking a furious scowl from the other.
“I can speak for myself,” Hargest snapped. Then, taking a deep breath, “I apologize, my lord king. I can explain myself.”
“Then do so,” Bridei said coolly. “It’s late and we’re busy. You must understand, surely, that in such times as these a household cannot welcome with open arms any man who happens to turn up at the door. Why have you come here?”
“I would—that is to say—” The young man shot a glance at his companion, looked at Breth, armed and dangerous by the king’s right shoulder, gazed around at the men-at-arms who were posted strategically about the council chamber. “I don’t wish to speak before all of them,” Hargest blurted out, cheeks reddening still further.
“You think the king a fool?” challenged Breth. “He doesn’t give private audiences to complete strangers, not even in times of peace. Now state your business or you’ll be put out to try your luck with the wolves again. Stop wasting the king’s time.”
“My personal guard, Breth,” Bridei explained mildly. “What he says is true. However, I think we can arrange to feed you while you talk to us. Imposing as the two of you are, you’re surrounded by the best-trained warriors in all Fortriu here, and I’m sure they relieved you of every one of your weapons before they let you in here. Enfret?” He addressed one of his own guards, a Pitnochie man who had come in his personal escort. “We need some food for these travelers; see to it, will you? And have the men stand back just a little; give them room to breathe.”
Once they were seated on a bench, with bowls of mutton-fat porridge in their hands and ale cups beside them, the young men’s demeanor relaxed slightly. Orbenn’s message was not secret, and he delivered it quickly between large mouthfuls of food. “My lord Umbrig says he’ll meet you as planned, and he says if you want a number, it’s three hundred and twenty, give or take a few.”
Bridei’s eyes widened. Three hundred and twenty fighting men: that was a sizable force and, under Umbrig’s leadership, one to be reckoned with. “Thank you,” he said calmly. “Anything more? Did he mention any other chieftains?” There had been talk of Umbrig linking up with Fokel of Galany; each had expertise in transporting men and supplies over seemingly impassable terrain. Bridei had hoped, as well, that by now Alpin of Briar Wood might perhaps be part of the plan, though he would not say so, not to this youth of whom he knew nothing.
“No, my lord king,” Orbenn said, and took a long draught of ale. “By the Flamekeeper’s manhood, that’s a good drop. Those were the only words in the message. You’re referring to Fokel of Galany? You expect him to join you?”
There was an awkward silence.
“For a young fellow who’s still wet behind the ears,” Breth said, “you seem to think you know a lot. Who are you to be asking the king such questions?” On occasion, when Bridei’s bodyguard spoke, folk said they could hear the scrape of a drawn sword in his voice. This was one of those times. Orbenn’s hand stilled with the ale cup halfway to his lips.
“You understand,” Bridei said, “such matters are for private councils among chieftains and druids. As a messenger, your job is to bring the words and pass them over accurately, no more, no less.”
“I know that,” Orbenn muttered, setting the cup down.
“This’d be the first time Umbrig’s trusted you with such a job, then?” put in Enfret with a grin.
There was no reply. It could not quite be said that the messenger sulked; for all his youth, he was too formidable a figure for that. He simply seemed to close in on himself.
Bridei waited until the two of them had eaten their fill. Then he sent Orbenn off with Enfret to find a corner of the sleeping quarters that could accommodate the travelers. Hargest he retained with a small gesture of the hand.
“Now,” he said, “let’s hear what this is all about. You’ll have to speak up in front of Breth here; he’s my personal safeguard, and stays by me at all times. The others aren’t interested, believe me
. Who are you and why are you here? I’ve no wish to anger Umbrig just because you’ve taken it into your head to have an adventure. What’s your position in his household?”
“I’m a fighter.” This was spoken defiantly, as if expecting derision or at least challenge.
“Mm-hm,” Bridei said. “You’ve the build for it, no doubt of that. So, you’re one of his men-at-arms?”
Hargest looked down at his boots. “In a manner of speaking,” he said indistinctly.
“Why did you come? Protection for a friend? Safety in numbers?”
The boy did not reply.
“Speak up!” Breth folded his arms, glaring. “If you can’t provide an explanation for your presence here we’ll be obliged to lock you up until we can find out the truth. Right now I can’t think of a single reason to trust you.”
Hargest looked up again. He had regained some of his composure, but his eyes were angry. His manner had something in common with a young bull’s, aggression and uncertainty mixed. “I want to do a job,” he said. “A real job, one that will test me. I want a job like yours.” He glanced at Breth, who stared back in genuine surprise.
“In what capacity?” Bridei was torn between amusement at the lad’s boldness and a real admiration for his approach. As a warrior, Hargest would surely be the one to charge in first, heedless of his own safety. “If you’re the fighter you say you are, don’t you already have a job with Umbrig?”
A flicker of emotion passed across the young man’s broad features. “He won’t let me fight,” Hargest said. “One small skirmish, that was all, and then he put me back in my old job. Looking after the horses.”
“So you are no warrior, but a stable boy?” Breth grinned.
“You think I can’t fight?” Hargest snarled. “Just try me!”
“Ah—no need for that,” Bridei said calmly. “Tell me, Hargest, how old are you?” He wondered if the boy would lie, and if he would be able to tell.
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