(from Brother Suibne’s Account)
We are building a boat. A farmer has given us use of an old barn, and no questions asked, although he looks at us strangely as we labor, thinking it no doubt an odd occupation for winter. Brother Colm, eager for new shores, sees in the work of our hands and the sweat of our brows a way to draw our whole community into his vision. On the far shore of his dreams a life can be lived wholly in contemplation of God’s love, each moment a prayer. It can also be lived wholly away from his troublesome kinsfolk. I would not put it thus bluntly in his hearing. Were this account intended for eyes other than mine alone, I would choose more circumspect language. I mean no criticism of the man. His situation is difficult; a lesser soul might snap under the strain. God’s love puts iron in Colm’s sinews; God’s breath moves in his lungs and fills his voice with a fervor that cannot fail to carry the rest of us along with him, lacking though we may be in the skills of carpentry and tanning, of caulking and rope making and the hundred other trades a man must ply to construct a seaworthy craft.
I hope it is seaworthy. My stomach clenches when I contemplate that choppy passage between the two lands named Dalriada, one in my homeland and the other in Fortriu: the waves; the swell; the endless soaking spray. My heart quails to contemplate another trip so soon. God tests me. I do not fear powerful men, or new experiences, or challenges of the mind. Indeed, I relished my dealings in the courts of Circinn and Fortriu, and my experiences in the last days of the Gaelic court of Dalriada. My fondness for such work is perhaps greater than is altogether appropriate for a man of the cloth. So God, in His divine wisdom, does not place before me the obstacle of a difficult chieftain to placate or an awkward dialogue to render into a foreign tongue. He faces me with a wooden boat, twelve clerical companions, and an expanse of storm-tossed sea. I praise Him for His perspicacity and thank Him with all my heart that we need not go until spring.
I feel some relief that, this time, the vessel is being built from solid wood and not from ox hides stretched over withies. I wish, all the same, that I were the son not of a scholar but of a fisherman, for then I would find the surge of the sea not sickening but soothing: the rocking of the world’s great cradle.
My hands ache. They are all blisters and cannot hold the quill steady. Let the work be done soon. God grant my spirit obedience and my body strength.
Young men come here from time to time, seeking to join us in our temporary shelter. We have had two in the last seven days. One was clever, keen, well spoken. I would have welcomed the skills he had in reading and writing, for such abilities are rare. The young man, in his eagerness, let his words spill too freely, and mentioned Cúl Drebene—a miracle, he said. Colm was severe. He bade the youth finish his growing up and come back in a few years’ time. By then, if the boat does not sink, we will be far away in Fortriu.
The second youth was a quiet, lumpish sort of lad, steady-eyed. He gave his name as Éibhear, and said he was the son of a sailor. We took him.
SUIBNE, MONK OF DERRY
EILE AWOKE FROM a dark dream in which she was reaching for the hidden knife and could not find it; a dream in which Dalach was laughing and raising his fist and Saraid’s small face was shrunken with terror. Blood… so much blood… She sat up, breathing hard. A cold light was coming through the unshuttered window space of the ferryman’s hut. It was morning, and she was freezing. Saraid. Where was Saraid?
Eile leaped to her feet, looking wildly around. The fire had gone down to ashes. Not only was the child nowhere to be seen, but both dog and man were gone as well. Faolan’s pack was still there, by the hearth; her own bundle lay by her makeshift bed, and she’d had Faolan’s thick cloak over her. No wonder she’d slept so soundly.
Her heart was thumping. He’d taken Saraid. Where? What had he done? Eile ran to the door and wrenched it open. After this, after all this, how could she have stayed asleep and not kept the child safe? It was true, what Anda had said. She would never be a good mother, she just didn’t have it in her.
Eile took two steps outside and halted. Saraid was sitting on an old bench, legs dangling, looking down toward the bridge. The dog crouched by her, chewing on something it had caught. Above them gulls flew in crying chorus toward the east. The constant voice of the river came close to drowning their calls. As Eile came out, the child turned her head and put a finger to her lips.
Eile crouched beside the bench and whispered in her daughter’s ear. “Where did the man go? Faolan? Where is he?” They could not afford to waste any time. They must be over the river and away before pursuit could reach them.
“Shh.” Saraid touched her mother’s lips this time.
“Did he tell you—”
“Shh.”
A moment later, Eile saw Faolan coming along the path by the willows, an old sack held up to keep his head dry. Of course, he had given her his cloak.
“Inside,” he said, coming up to the door, and they obeyed. He sounded calm, but Eile’s stomach was churning with anxiety, the need to move clawing at her. It was morning; they must pick up their things and cross the river. They must go on the rope again.
“What?” she hissed as soon as they were back in the hut. “What is it?”
“We have company.” Faolan sounded like a man who is used to convincing others that all is well when, in fact, the sky is about to fall. “Seven or eight of them, all armed after a fashion and, I’m sorry to tell you, speaking of a violent death and the need for the perpetrator to account for herself. Take a deep breath, Eile, and stay calm. We’ll get out of this.”
Eile gulped in air, aware of Saraid’s eyes on her. “I am calm,” she said. “You’d better go on without us. No point in you getting in trouble as well.”
Faolan grimaced; she could not tell what he was thinking. “I have a better suggestion,” he said. “We brazen it out. They didn’t see me, I made sure of that. We wait until the fellows come to mend the bridge. Then we lie. At least, I do. You don’t say anything. I didn’t see Brennan or any of those men from your settlement out there. I’ll say you’re with me.”
The man was more of a fool than she’d thought. “They’re searching for me and her. A girl and a child. Who’s going to believe you? Anyway, they’ll come up here looking and find us before the bridge gets fixed. It’s a stupid idea.”
Faolan looked at her. He did not seem upset or angry. “You think I should fight them all at once? I did say seven; perhaps you didn’t hear that.”
“My father could have done it.” She could remember him practicing. Back in those days, Father had been like a warrior from a story, a hero who could never be defeated. It must have taken a remarkable man to kill him.
Faolan’s eyes had gone strange; he was seeing something she couldn’t. His mouth had become a thin line.
“We’re going.” Eile picked up her bag, reaching out the other hand to take Saraid’s. “Up the river, away. You don’t need to fight anyone. I’ll cope.”
“You won’t get two miles before they catch you, Eile. Is that what you want for your daughter, a chase, a violent ending to this, perhaps confinement among strangers? You said you didn’t want her taken away; that was your reason for refusing the priory. Do this, and you’ll lose her before midday.”
She hated him for speaking the truth. “Nobody’s going to believe you,” she said. “What were you planning to say, that I’m your little sister? Your daughter?”
“Neither. Folk will know me once we’re over the river. They’ll know I have—had—three sisters in Fiddler’s Crossing. But I’ve been away a long time. More than long enough to have acquired a wife and child.”
Eile said nothing. The idea made her feel sick. The need to repudiate it warred with the realization that it might possibly get them over the bridge. “So long as you don’t expect anything,” she said.
“I told you,” said Faolan mildly, “I’ve given it up for the sake of my peace of mind. Eile, I can hear someone shouting out there. I think you were right; they’re coming closer. I want a promise from you.”
“Listen to me. When it’s my plan, it’s my rules. When it’s your plan it will be your rules. Agreed?”
“What, then?”
“Don’t say anything and don’t throw anything. Look after Saraid, keep her quiet and do what I tell you.”
“Huh!”
“Just until we’re across the bridge and out of earshot. A silent, submissive wife, that’s what’s required.”
Eile glared at him. The voices were nearing the hut; there didn’t seem to be any choice. She felt Saraid’s arms around her leg, clutching, and bent to reassure her. “It’s all right, Squirrel. Nobody’s going to hurt us. Now be quiet, hold Sorry tight, and stay close to me. Faolan’s going to look after us. We’re going over the river to a new house. A nice one.”
“Sorry?” Faolan murmured.
“That’s what she calls her doll. It was how she used to say her own name. Hush now!” she hissed as the dog began to bark in warning.
It was clear that Faolan was not the type of man who waited for trouble to find him. He picked up the pack, threw open the door, and strode out, and the dog went after him with hackles up, hurling its challenge at the approaching group. Saraid’s grip tightened on Eile’s thigh. The child was trembling. I’m not afraid, Eile told herself. I’m all she’s got. I can’t be afraid. In her mind, her hand thrust and thrust until knife and fingers were sticky with blood; until Dalach was so limp and heavy on her she thought she might never struggle free of him. She’d believed that once it was done the dark things would flee from her dreams, but they were still here. They hovered close even now, when she was wide awake.
“… sheltered for the night,” Faolan was saying. “Not safe for my wife… expecting a child, sick all the time… you know how it is…”
“Shut your dog up, will you? Can’t hear myself think,” someone said.
Faolan snapped an order at the dog, which continued to bark. He looked over his shoulder. “Wife’s creature,” he muttered. “Won’t obey me. My dear…?”
Eile called the dog back to the doorway, quieted it, held on to the frayed piece of rope that was its collar. She took the opportunity to glance quickly around the circle of faces. One or two of them were familiar from the market at Cloud Hill. She lowered her eyes. Submissive was easy. She just had to act like Aunt Anda.
“We’re looking for a girl,” one of the men said. “Young woman with a child. You seen them?”
“The only woman and child I’ve seen are my own,” Faolan said easily. “We’re on our way to Fiddler’s Crossing; just waiting for the bridge to be made safe.”
“You might have a long wait.”
“Only if the men I saw here yesterday are liars,” Faolan said. “I’m supposed to help them this morning, as soon as they bring the materials. Then we’ll be on our way. Sorry I can’t assist you.”
“Bid this wife of yours come out where we can see her properly.” A new voice, this, one with more authority. “And the child. We’re seeking a fugitive. We can’t take your word that she’s not in there.”
“Search if you want. As for my wife, she’s poorly, I told you. And I don’t take kindly to orders where my family’s concerned.”
Eile took Saraid’s hand again and moved out of the hut to stand by Faolan’s side. They’d know her, she was sure of it. How could they not know? If her face didn’t give her away, her shaking hands surely would.
“What’s your wife’s name?” the man snapped, eyes narrowed.
“Aoife,” said Faolan without hesitation.
“And the child?”
“We call her Squirrel, mostly. I think I see someone at the bridge. I promised to help, as I told you. We’ll look out for this fugitive on the road. Is she dangerous?”
Eile set her teeth in her lip. He kept on frightening her, with his stupid names and his foolhardy questions. Her feet wanted to run; she could feel the same restlessness in Saraid’s small body. A sob of sheer panic was welling up in her; she fought to suppress it.
“Excuse us,” Faolan said. “My wife is quite unwell, as I said… Best you let us pass, unless you want her breakfast all over your boots.”
A joker as well. Gods, she felt so sick right now she might do a very good imitation of an expectant woman, not that there was much in her stomach to bring up.
“You sure she’s your wife?” The leader of the group had motioned his men into the hut to search, while he himself moved closer to Eile, scrutinizing her face. “Looks the right age for what we’re seeking, and the child as well, three-year-old girl, dark hair… Where are you from? What’s your business in these parts? Why is she wearing men’s clothing?”
The questions had been thrown at them like knives. Eile cleared her throat.
Faolan took a step back. His arm came around her shoulders and she felt him draw a long breath.
“I’m the son of the brithem from Fiddler’s Crossing, Conor Uí Néill,” he said. “The surviving son.”
The strangest thing happened. The man’s face changed before her eyes, a look of fascinated horror crossing his features. He said not a word.
“I’ve been away a long time,” added Faolan quietly. “I had neither wife nor child when I left these parts. I made my home far from this shore. Folk who remember me will tell you I’m a bard, and a bard travels. I thought it was time to introduce Aoife here, and my daughter, to the family. Now we’ll be on our way, if you please.”
They stepped aside and let him pass. She was certain, almost certain, that at least one of the men must recognize her. She’d been at the market now and then, though Dalach preferred Anda to go. He had his reasons for wanting Eile to stay at home. Besides, Anda refused to look after Saraid unless she absolutely must—“It’s the girl’s by-blow, let her tend to it”—and Eile didn’t trust her aunt to be kind to the child. Anda was jealous. So foolish, as if Dalach’s attentions were something to be coveted.
Well, it was over now, that part of it, at least, and it looked, incredibly, as if Faolan had just talked them out of trouble. She gripped Saraid’s hand, fixed her eyes on the ground and moved forward, keeping pace with him. No choice in that; he still had his arm around her. His touch made her edgy and afraid; she wanted to break free, to push the arm away, to be her own self again. He’d better not think he was going to step into Dalach’s shoes, with his talk of wives. Given it up, huh! Men didn’t give it up. They took it when they wanted, they didn’t know how to go without. Faolan was a liar like the rest of them. Like Deord, who’d probably never intended to come back.
“All right?” Faolan murmured as they reached the willows and the knot of men behind them broke into rapid, muted talk, of which nothing was clear enough to understand.
“Mm.”
“Keep moving. I’ll carry Saraid if you want.”
“No. You need your hands free. She can walk.”
“If you say so. Keep quiet until we’re over the bridge. We’ll have to wait until the wood’s in place. The child’s not going over that rope, nor am I.”
They emerged from cover. There was a clear view of the rushing river and the broken span of the footbridge. On the other side a group of men was gathering, and materials had arrived on a cart: lengths of wood, coils of rope, tools. As Faolan and Eile walked along the river path, a party of riders appeared behind the laborers, a group of ten or so clad in tunics and breeches of blue and black. Their clothing seemed of fine quality, their shirts of pale linen, their boots well polished. Here and there a silver chain, a hat with a plume or a bronze sword hilt showed their status as members of a great household. They must be waiting to cross the other way; perhaps that explained the workers’ early start.
The wait was long. Faolan made play of finding somewhere for her and Saraid to sit, and she swallowed a curt denial that she needed his help with anything so simple. They sat. Faolan coerced a couple of their pursuers to help with the bridge. It looked tricky, grabbing the planks as the men on the other side slid them out, lining them up, then fastening them with more ropes on this side. She watched her father’s friend as he leaned out over the rushing water, and pondered what her next move would be if he fell in and drowned. She’d probably give herself away the moment she said anything; he was the one who could tell lies and make them sound like the truth. He was the one with authority. Maybe she could fall down screaming and weeping, as Anda might have done, and get them to take her to this brithem, somebody Uí Néill. That name she knew; everyone did. They were big people, landowners, chieftains and kings. Eile could imagine the look in their eyes if she and Saraid turned up on the doorstep. Besides, what could she say? “I’m your son’s wife?” That was a joke. Anyway, she couldn’t scream and cry, even if Faolan drowned before her eyes. She couldn’t do that to Saraid, who was already like a little ghost, silent and scared.
The rest of the men were talking. Two conversations: she could hear bits of both as she sat huddled in her cloak, with Saraid leaning up against her and the dog at her feet. One of them was about her.
“I’m sure it’s her.”
“But he said…”
“Take a look. You can see what he is: wealthy, highborn, speaks like he owns the place. She’s a scrawny bit of nothing; roadside rubbish. Wife? I hardly think so.”
Eile tried to scrunch up on herself; to make herself beneath any kind of notice. She prayed. Let us get away. Please, oh, please. She fought the urge to jump up, grab Saraid and run. His plan; his rules. She’d probably been stupid to trust even for a moment.
The second conversation was about Faolan, and made her wonder.
“You know what he did, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t bear thinking about. Bet his father never thought he’d come home.”
“Don’t know how the fellow can live with himself.”
“Looks normal enough.”
“You reckon?”
“Wonder where he went, all those years.”
For all the difficulty, the bridge was serviceable before morning was well advanced, and the men on the far side invited Faolan to be first across, since he had helped them while under no obligation to do so. The mounted party had tethered their horses and waited at a distance while the work was done. Now they moved up, and Eile could see a cloaked and hooded figure among them, someone who seemed to be giving all the orders.
At last they could go. She put Saraid in the sling and lifted the child onto her back. Faolan came over to them, his hands bleeding, his good tunic somewhat the worse for wear.
“Ready?” he asked, as if this were an everyday sort of journey, and the three of them a small family going to market or to visit kinsfolk. Those were the sorts of things ordinary families did together. Maybe she had done them with Father and Mother, long ago when she was little. She wished she could remember.
The rope remained as a handhold, but now the planks made a secure, though narrow, purchase for feet. Below, the river coursed in frothy white around the bridge supports. Faolan stepped onto the timbers and turned back to face her, extending his hand. “One hand in mine, the other on the rope,” he said. “One step at a time.”
“Shut your eyes, Squirrel,” Eile said, pitching her voice above the noise of the rushing water. “Count up to ten, as slowly as you can, and then again, and we’ll be on the other side.” Clenching her teeth, she took the first step.
“You know,” Faolan observed, walking backward, “that child is the best behaved I’ve ever encountered. You’ve done a wonderful job with her. Where I come from, there are several little boys, and they seem to run about yelling quite a bit of the time. I think Squirrel there would be quite taken aback by it…” He kept on talking, and leading her forward without once looking where he was going, and before he had finished they were on the other side. She had not once thought of falling.
Eile stepped down off the bridge and heard him say quietly, “Well done.” A moment later a sharp voice snapped out, “That is the man!” and, before Faolan could so much as turn around, a pair of the blue-and-black-clad fellows had his arms pinned behind his back and were marching him away from her.
He fought. He fought quite well, in Eile’s estimation; the two men were joined by two more, and then by another, before they got him trussed up, a gag over his mouth, and threw him across one of the packhorses. One man’s nose was pouring blood; another was groaning, a hand to his head. A third lay sprawled on the ground, clutching his knee. Saraid had started to cry. Eile could feel it. The child wept soundlessly, a skill she had learned from her mother.
My plan; my rules. The plan had gone wrong now and the rules had to be broken.
“Let him go!” Eile shouted. “He hasn’t done anything!” But there was so much noise, what with the blue and black people cursing and shouting orders, and horses everywhere, and the voice of the river, that nobody seemed to hear her. She was standing in the middle of someone else’s place, someone else’s business, and it seemed she was invisible at last, just when she didn’t want to be. “Listen to me!” she yelled. “You! Listen! He’s innocent, he didn’t do anything!”
Someone lifted a hand, and there was a sudden stillness. Voices hushed; animals were quieted. A horse moved up beside Eile, a big horse with silver on its harness. The cloaked rider looked down.
“And who are you?” The voice was a woman’s, sharp, impatient. It was the same voice that had been giving the orders.
Eile drew a deep breath and looked up. The woman was straight-backed and proud, as she imagined a great queen might be. Her hair was entirely covered by a veil and neck-piece of deep blue, like the evening sky, in some gossamer-fine stuff. Rich people’s clothing. The eyes were grayish blue and hard as iron below the elegant brows. The woman did not look angry; she looked as if she was in a hurry and couldn’t be bothered listening.
“Please,” Eile said, forcing her voice steady as her heart raced. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, he’s just a traveler. Please let him go.”
“What concern is this of yours, girl?” The tone was crisp. “Conal, deal with this person, will you?” The woman began to turn her horse away.
“Please! You’re in charge, make them release him! This isn’t fair—”
The poised head turned back a little. “What are you to him?” the woman asked.
I’m his wife. No, not that; Faolan’s plan was for the other side of the river. “I’m his friend,” she said, wondering what it was that had made her stay and speak, when it seemed she could have simply walked away amid the chaos and been free. “Where are you taking him?” She could see Faolan’s face, upside down over a horse’s back; she could glimpse his furious eyes, see the labored movement as he continued to struggle while tied at wrists and ankles. Then a man with a club came up and hit him on the head, and the eyes closed. “Stop hurting him!” Eile screamed.
A hand clapped itself over her mouth and a large arm came around her waist. She felt Saraid stiffen with fright. Eile used her teeth. The hand let go. A moment later a searing pain went through her ear as the man cuffed her. Tears sprang to her eyes, tears of pain and of outrage, tears of sheer terror. No pitchfork; no knife; nothing but her bare hands.
“Gently, Conal,” the veiled woman said. “There’s a child there.” Her voice held not a trace of softness. It was more the tone of someone who sees the wisdom of safeguarding a new possession until its value is properly assessed. “Girl! Where were you headed?”
“Fiddler’s Crossing.”
“Oh? For what purpose?”
None of your business. “Visiting kin, my lady.” Torn between fear and fury, she forced the title out.
“And what kin would that be?”
What now? An outright lie? Or tell the truth, the truth that had for some strange reason got them away from those first pursuers? “His kin, my lady. The family of the lawman in that settlement. My friend is his son.”
The woman regarded her. The air seemed to go chill. “And your name is…?”
Eile bobbed a curtsy, hating herself. “Aoife, my lady.”
“Aoife, I see. Like the fairy woman in the ballad. How inappropriate.” The cold blue eyes raked Eile up and down; she saw herself reflected there, from lank hair to bitten nails, from grimy face to worn boots. Her too-large clothing, a man’s garments; the child’s small hands clutching her.
Eile squared her shoulders. “I suppose my mother and father thought me fair, as an infant,” she heard herself say. “We can’t all choose what we become.” Wrong, all wrong; she sent a mute apology to the unconscious Faolan. Silent and submissive, he’d said. With those sharp eyes on her, she couldn’t manage that.
“This girl is of no interest to us,” the lady said. “Leave her; ride on.”
“No!” They were ignoring her; moving off, one man leading the packhorse with Faolan limp over the saddle. “No! You can’t take him!” This wasn’t right. Someone had to make them understand.
“My lady?” A man spoke from behind her.
“What now?” The woman halted her mount once more.
“I’ve had a word with those fellows on the other side. This girl—she’s under suspicion for an unlawful death. A man stabbed: her uncle, not two days since. They want to take her back to Cloud Hill, deal with it properly.”
“Then give her to them and let us be on our way. I’ve no time for this.”
“The only thing is,” said the man, “the story the girl gave, and the fellow,” he nodded toward Faolan, “is that she’s his wife and the child his daughter. If not for that, they’d have taken her back straightaway. I thought you’d want to know, my lady.”
“It’s all right, Squirrel,” muttered Eile. “Don’t cry; it’ll be all right.” She had promised a new home; a nice one, if only Saraid crossed the river. She had lied to her own daughter.
“Are you his wife?” The words were like drops of ice; Eile could not tell if the woman was angry or amused or playing some strange game beyond other people’s understanding.
“We’re traveling together. The three of us. Please don’t lock him up. We need him.” Let this proud creature make what she wanted of that.
“They’re being quite insistent,” the blue-and-black-clad man said. “They want their own people to handle it. Shall I take her back over, my lady?”
No, please, no. Let him go and let us go. Somewhere far away. We will never trouble you again.
“I’ve changed my mind, Seamus. These travelers are on my land now, and under different jurisdiction. Tell those fellows we will deal with the matter under due process of law. Tell them to go home. Conal! Find this girl a mount. If she won’t keep her mouth shut, gag her. We’ve delayed long enough here; let us ride for home.”
“My lady, the child—and there’s a dog—”
“For pity’s sake, Conal, do you need step-by-step instructions? Put the girl and the child on the other packhorse and forget about the dog. If it wants to follow us, it will.”
A horse was found. A man tried to help Eile up, but she snarled at him when he put his hands on Saraid. She untied the sling, lifted the shivering child to the creature’s back, then allowed the fellow to cup his hands for her foot. Every part of her was strung tight. She wasn’t going to say she’d never been on a horse before. She had to keep up. She had to watch out for Faolan, since there was nobody else to do it.
The lady rode over to him now and got down from her horse. As Eile watched, she took hold of Faolan’s hair and pulled his head up so she could gaze into his white, unconscious face. Her eyes were strange; Eile thought for a moment that this fine lady was about to spit, or slap the stricken man, or scream a curse. Instead, the ring-decked fingers let go the dark hair abruptly, and the woman turned away to mount her horse once more.
“To Blackthorn Rise,” she called. It was a command. The group rode forward, away from the bridge. Balancing Saraid in front of her and gritting her teeth, Eile rode with them.
THE GREAT GLEN was in Bone Mother’s grip. It was close to Midwinter and the pines spread dark under a sky of slate. The waters of Serpent Lake lay sullen and dangerous from shore to shore, crisscrossed by changeable currents. Beneath the surface, unseen presences lurked close in the hungry season.
I will be a swallow, Broichan thought, winging to warmer climes on the breath of the storm. He walked on, regretting his decision to test himself by leaving the horse at a local farm and continuing to Pitnochie on foot. His sandals were heavy in the saturated mosses, his robe damply clinging. And he thought, I will be a deer, running swifter than the sunlight, sheltering in the birch thickets. Here the lake shore was broken by a number of sharp indentations. The water swirled in sudden small bays, cut deep in the thickly wooded hillside. There had been rock falls, earth falls. The serpent had swallowed chunks of the land. Here and there the path disappeared entirely. Broichan sought new ways, climbing until there was a fiery ache in his thighs. I will be a salmon, he thought, and swim the length of this great water in powerful surges; my scales will throw back the silver gleam of the Shining One like a melody of bright notes. I will be a bee, a snake, a moth…
When night fell he sought the hollow of an ancient oak well known to him and sheltered within, folded in his cloak. A druid has many techniques for slowing the body’s workings the better to endure privations. Of these skills he still had the mastery, even if the power to travel in forms other than that of man had left him as he fought the long illness for control of his body. The wondrous changes, the creature shapes, were now no more than vivid memories, a level of the craft of magic that would never more be within his grasp. His legs ached. His back hurt. His joints were stiff in the damp cold of the season. He was not such an old man in years, but tonight he felt old.
Rain came. The Shining One was veiled by clouds; the night was dark. Broichan made himself breathe in a steady pattern; his heartbeat slowed, his blood ran less swiftly, his body stilled within the swathing cloak, within the sheltering tree. He was a whisper of breath in the night; a pair of dark eyes amid the great shadow of winter. He prayed without a sound. I seek wisdom. I need a path. What is required of me?
And it seemed to him, after an endless time, that the answer was there in the wash of the lake waters against the shore, and in the sigh of the wind in the pines: Acknowledge your weakness. Learn acceptance. Open your heart to love.
But when he asked: Is it true? Is she my daughter? the voice was silent. The only answer was the slow beating of his own heart.
THERE WAS WORRYING news. Not long after Bridei’s return to White Hill, Carnach had sent a messenger to say that he was going home to his holdings at Thorn Bend over the winter, and was as yet uncertain when he might come back to Caer Pridne and to his duties as the king’s chief war leader. The forces in the northern fortress being much reduced already, he had left things in the hands of his deputies for the time being. The message was of concern not for this statement, but for what it did not say. Carnach had made his bitter disappointment at Bridei’s decision quite plain when they had met at Caer Pridne. Now, in effect, he was withdrawing his support as a result.
In the judgment of Bridei and his councillors, Carnach had not been serious about contesting the kingship of Circinn himself, although he was qualified by blood to do so, since his mother had been a woman of the royal line. But it seemed clear that, in deciding to let the opportunity pass him by this time, Bridei had lost a powerful ally and a friend. Carnach’s lands were strategically situated on the border between Fortriu and Circinn. Six years ago, his decision to support Bridei’s bid for the kingship of Fortriu had been critical; as an ongoing ally, he was invaluable. He would make a formidable enemy. Steps must be taken to win back his trust.
As for Broichan, Bridei wondered if he had misjudged his foster father. He missed him; he feared for him out in the wet and cold, on foot, alone and in precarious health. On the other hand, Broichan possessed an iron discipline, a core of strength Bridei understood all too well.
It had been a shock to find the druid gone from White Hill, and to know he had lost the opportunity to break the news of his decision to Broichan before announcing it to the court. That had filled him with misgivings. It had seemed a betrayal. Now, on the eve of the assembly at which he must make public the news of Drust’s death and his own intentions, what he wanted most of all was his foster father’s wise counsel.
Bridei had learned early that getting a man like Broichan to accept unwelcome news was a matter of presenting it in a certain way, clearly and honestly, with logical arguments to support it. If his foster father were here now, he would explain his reasons: the desire for peace, the need to heal his wounded country after the time of war, the urge to build alliances and strengthen borders. The inner conviction that, although it was the will of the gods to see Fortriu and Circinn reunited in the ancient patterns of faith, now was not the time for it.
Bridei sat alone in his small council chamber, pondering these things and considering the fact that leadership in time of fragile peace might be still more challenging than it was in time of war. Conflict drew folk together; it tended to make them follow willingly, provided they believed in the cause. It was when the danger was past that folk began to question. When not united against a common enemy, they invented their own disputes and disagreements. He would have welcomed his foster father’s observations on this. He would have enjoyed debating it with Faolan.
Bridei sighed. The longer his right-hand man was away, the more he seemed to need him. Faolan could have sought out Broichan. He could have gone after Carnach and assessed the risk in that quarter. Most of all, he could have served at White Hill as the king’s protector and sounding board. Faolan was as unlike Broichan as anyone could be, but the man had a particular wisdom that cut through irrelevancies like a knife through soft butter. Nobody knew what lay in Faolan’s past. He never talked about it. No, that was not quite true; it seemed that, in their long and arduous journey across the north last autumn, Faolan had unburdened himself to Ana and to Drustan, but neither would betray his confidence, and that was as it should be. Whatever the man’s history, it had made him strong. By the time Faolan returned to Fortriu in spring, Bridei judged, he’d have recovered from his broken heart—that had been a startling development—and be ready to resume his duties at White Hill once more. Meanwhile, the one who must receive Bridei’s confidences and help him through his quandaries was Tuala.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Bridei’s wife came in now, tapping gently on the door then slipping through. Although they had known each other since he was a child and she an infant, Bridei’s heart still turned over each time he saw her afresh. Tonight Tuala was wearing a tunic the hue of violets, cut wider to accommodate the growing child in her belly, over a skirt of gray wool and soft kidskin slippers. Her dark hair was plaited down her back, but wisps escaped around her pale face to form a soft halo, and her ribbon was half untied. Her eyes, turned on his as he came across to embrace her, were troubled.
“Oh, Bridei,” Tuala said, “you’re sitting here in the dark again, worrying. I’m so sorry. If I’d known Broichan would react this way I would have waited to confront him with it until after the crisis was over, Drust and the election, I mean—”
“Shh,” Bridei said, putting his fingers gently against her lips then bending to give her a kiss. Although her pregnancy was well advanced now, the swell of her belly was small; she had ever been a slight girl and this infant seemed likely to take after its mother in stature, as Derelei did. “Don’t apologize. Who among us would have predicted that Broichan would take such drastic action? He’s not known for being impetuous. I have been sitting in the dark, as you put it, planning exactly how I will explain my decision to him when he returns.” He detached himself and moved to light a lamp from the single candle on the table beside him. “I’m wondering if the future of the Priteni kingdoms may pale into insignificance for my foster father beside the news that he may have fathered the queen of Fortriu. I still find it hard to comprehend that it never occurred to him before.”
The lamp’s glow spread across the small chamber, making Tuala’s large eyes shine like an owl’s. “I hope he is safe,” she said soberly. “It’s so cold out there.”
They both fell silent, remembering a past winter, one in which Broichan’s determined efforts to shut Tuala out of his foster son’s life had seen her make her own desperate journey down the glen through the snow. If he were indeed her father, he had a great deal to come to terms with.
“You know—” began Tuala, then stopped herself.
Bridei waited.
She twisted her hands together, a small frown creasing her brow, then spoke again. “You know when I ran away from Banmerren with those two?”
She meant the boy and girl of the Good Folk, Otherworld guides who had aided her flight and come close to coaxing her away from the human world forever. Bridei could not remember that night of fear and wonder and death without a shudder. “Mm,” he said.
“You remember what I told you, how I got down from the wall by believing I was an owl? I must have changed, the way Drustan does, but only for a moment. I must have flown. But there was no spell, no incantation, nothing. I had no awareness of using magic. I did it without thinking. Bridei, I suppose I could do that again, or something like it, if I chose to.”
He was not sure where she was heading, only that she was deeply uneasy, pacing, fidgeting in a way quite unlike her. She had ever been his still center, his anchor and his repose. “I imagine you could,” he said. “And I understand why you have never attempted it since.”
“I just thought… I suppose I’ve been thinking about Derelei and what will happen with Broichan gone. Our son is too little to understand the concept of never. He looks for Broichan every afternoon. He sits and waits, more patiently than is natural for any child of his age, and when Broichan doesn’t come he curls up and puts his thumb in his mouth like a baby.”
“He still is a baby. Didn’t you say he is too young for such intensive study? Perhaps this will allow Derelei to spend more time being a child before he must become a mage or a druid or whatever future awaits him.”
“I do let him run about with Ban, and kick a ball, and play with Garth’s boys,” Tuala said, an edge in her tone that was unusual. “And he enjoys those things. Not long ago I would have told you that is quite enough for any child of his tender years. But Broichan was right all along: Derelei’s precociously talented. He can’t help what he’s inherited, from me, from you, from Broichan himself. He savors his tutelage in the craft. He craves it. Already he misses his lessons terribly. It would be so much easier if we knew how long Broichan planned to be gone.”
Bridei grimaced. “From the sound of things, there wasn’t a lot of planning in it. All I know is that, if he does not wish to be found, it will take a person of remarkable skill to track him down. I doubt the ability of Aniel’s man to do it.”
“Agreed,” said Tuala. “But I think I could. Not by scrying; Broichan will be using all his craft to block such seeking eyes. There is another way.”
“Wh—?” Bridei bit back his response. Tuala was not given to statements of the foolish or ridiculous kind. In that, she took after Broichan. “That fills me with trepidation,” he said. “If you mean what I believe you mean, it would be fraught with risk on so many levels I could barely start to list them. Broichan has acted unwisely. He doesn’t deserve such a response, Tuala. Besides, there’s the child.”
“This one, you mean?” She laid a white hand on her belly. “Breeding does not stop a vixen or a hart or a she-badger from traversing the wildwood, Bridei, whatever the season. As for deserving, if he is my father I’m bound to care about his safety whether he deserves it or not. You’ve gone white as fresh cheese, dear one. Don’t be alarmed, I’m not planning precipitate action, all I’m doing is thinking aloud. Perhaps we’ll get a message soon to tell us he’s arrived at Pitnochie and that there’s no cause at all for our fear. My mind turned to that partly because of Derelei. I think I may need to continue what Broichan began with him. He had learned some tricks now, some skills that could prove perilous if left to develop unguided.”
Bridei nodded; this, he had been expecting. Not the other. “Set safeguards in place,” he said. “Take Aniel into your confidence. He is completely to be trusted and thinks highly of you. Wid could be useful, too. I’m confident you have the goodwill of everyone at court now, but those who come and go are less of a known quantity, and we’re heading into a difficult time, thanks to Drust’s demise.”
“I’ll be careful,” Tuala said. “I wouldn’t do anything to undermine you, Bridei. I hope you know that.” She sounded suddenly close to tears.
“I didn’t mean that—Tuala, don’t cry, please. Of course that wasn’t what I meant.” He wrapped his arms around her, aware of how slight she was, unborn child and all. “If I speak of safeguards, it’s because I fear for you, not for myself, dear one. I won’t have you hurt, not by the least cruel word. You know the way some folk think. They’ll seize on the slightest oddity in the king’s personal life if they think it’s a means to discredit him. In the light of my decision not to stand for the dual kingship, we’ll be under ever closer scrutiny.”
“Oddity. I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.” Tuala grinned through her tears.
“I’m joking, Bridei. I seem to weep over the silliest things these days; I put it down to having a child on the way. Once she’s safely born, I trust this weakness will cease. And don’t worry about my other suggestion. If I take it into my head to attempt a magical transformation I’ll warn you first, so you know that beetle on your pillow may actually be your wife.”
“Just as long as you can change back again,” Bridei said lightly. The terror that clutched his vitals at the very thought of her trying such a thing, he kept entirely to himself.
A REGULAR, JARRING pain. A horse, cantering, each step another stab through his neck, another jolt of his lolling head. He was over a saddle, head down. They forded a stream and it wet him up to the eyes. All he could see was the horse’s side and a leather strap with a buckle. Gods, this hurt.
Eile. Where was Eile? Nobody was talking; this was serious riding, swift and purposeful. If he’d been unconscious a while, those fellows back at the bridge might already have her and the child well on the way back to Cloud Hill and punishment. Curse it! Why in the name of all the powers had Echen’s people taken it into their heads to apprehend him now? At least, Faolan assumed they were Echen’s people, though their chieftain was said to have been gone these four years. He’d know that blue and black gear anywhere. He’d been seeing it in his dreams since his last night under his father’s roof, a night whose restless sleep had been preceded by another sharp tap to the skull.
Maybe the chieftain of Blackthorn Rise was dead, but his men hadn’t changed their methods. Surely the old feud wasn’t still alive, after all that had happened? Surely there was nobody, on his side at least, with any will to keep it going? Only himself; and his quarrel had been with Echen, not with the man’s kinsfolk. Now it was too late for vengeance.
Eile. Saraid. He had to get out of this somehow and go back for them. For all her bravado, the girl was scared, and with good reason. What she’d done had to catch up with her sometime, and in the face of formal justice she’d be powerless. Chances were the child would be handed over to the aunt, and not receive a kindly welcome. As for Eile, he was not certain what penalty she would face, but he could think of several possibilities, none of them pleasant. He couldn’t let that happen, not to Deord’s daughter. The girl was frail; skin and bone. He had to get her, get them, to safety.
The horse was going uphill. Faolan’s head was jolted about, his teeth biting involuntarily into his tongue. He tasted blood and caught a glimpse of other riders, black boots, blue shirts, and the glint of silver on their harnesses. A hill with birches; a tower. He thought he recognized the place. A dog. He knew that, too. Persistent creature. Its flanks were heaving and its tail was down, but it kept pace. So maybe she was here. Why? Why take her?
The muddy track turned to gravel and then to flagstones. They had reached somewhere. The horse halted; rough hands untied Faolan from the saddle and dropped him to the ground like a sack of turnips. The dog licked his face, above the gag. He sought Eile with his eyes but could not see her, only a circle of male faces.
“Take him in, lock him up,” a woman’s voice said. “Don’t untie his hands and feet until you have him secure. He has a reputation for getting away. Don’t dawdle, move.”
A large man who smelled of garlic picked him up bodily. He was conveyed over this person’s shoulder to a stone building, dumped on straw and then, mercifully, bonds and gag were removed by the big man while two others held thrusting spears with the tips uncomfortably close to Faolan’s chest.
“After that ride,” he croaked, “believe me, I haven’t the inclination so much as to attempt a crawl to the door, let alone make a bolt for freedom.” Gods be merciful, could this be the prelude to another sojourn in Breakstone Hollow? His skin crawled at the thought of it. Deord, my friend, what have you done to me? “Don’t tell me my informant’s got it wrong, and Echen Uí Néill’s not dead after all?”
“Shut it, will you?” muttered the big man. “It’s the Widow gives the orders here, and it’s not for you or me to question them. Now don’t try anything stupid or we’ll have those bonds back on before you can so much as blink. Here.” Another man, perhaps a groom, had appeared with a blanket, and the big fellow tossed it into the straw where Faolan half crouched, half lay, willing some feeling into his cramped limbs. There was no point at all in trying to resist. It would only get him spiked. The blanket seemed a positive sign.
“Thank you,” he muttered, pulling it closer. “There was a girl. And a child. Did you—?”
But, at a word from their leader, his guards had backed out of the room. “No funny business,” the big man said from the doorway. “There’s an armed man up the end and more outside.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Then, as the fellow moved away, “I don’t suppose you can tell me why I’m here? What is it she thinks I’ve done, this widow?”
“No idea. We just do as we’re told. Looks as if you’ve offended her somehow. She’ll tell you when she’s ready.”
“Now why don’t I find that reassuring?” Faolan murmured, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.
The big man folded his arms, leaning on the door frame. “She can be tough,” he said. “As tough as any man. But if you’ve a clear conscience you’ve nothing to worry about.” The grilled door closed; Faolan heard the bolt slide home with a clang. Footsteps retreated.
What now? It seemed an interrogation was coming. He was practiced at those. It would help to know what this woman wanted with him. Who was she? The Widow; it had been spoken like a title. He had to assume that meant Echen’s widow, though he did not remember the fellow having a wife back in the old days. Someone had said, across the river, that she held the lands for her son; that Echen’s brother, who’d stood to inherit them, wasn’t interested. So she was powerful; her husband all over again? Faolan caught himself shivering and forced himself to stop. It had been years since the summer his brother had led a local resistance against Echen’s cruel chieftaincy and paid, not just with his own life, but with the very fabric of family.
Did this widow know who Faolan was? One of those fellows at the bridge last night had seemed to guess at his identity. Could his return have been of sufficient interest to spark an urgent message to this lady, precipitating her appearance on the riverbank this morning? Surely not. She’d know the story, of course; everyone in these parts had to know, it would be part of local legend now. But nobody had confronted him with it in her hearing. He had not had time to give his name before they disabled him. Maybe this was a simple case of mistaken identity.
There was another possibility. She was an Uí Néill, by marriage at least, kin to the High King and to Gabhran, deposed monarch of Gaelic Dalriada. And he was on this shore as a spy. He was in the pay of the enemy: Bridei of Fortriu, the very man who had just scored a stunning victory over a force rich in Uí Néill princes. He didn’t think she could know this; he was expert at covert missions. They’d taken his bag, but very fortunately had not asked him to strip. They did not know, therefore, the amount of silver he carried, nor the full extent of his concealed weaponry. He could deal with this.
Faolan made an efficient examination of his place of imprisonment. The last time he’d been locked up, in Alpin’s fortress at Briar Wood, a bird had come to fetch him the key. That wasn’t going to happen here, nor was a more ordinary kind of escape, for the single window was sturdily barred, the door was strong and, short of starting a tunnel under the stone walls, there was not much he could do. An image of Eile and the child was in his mind, captive and marching back to the scene of that bloody killing. That bloody and altogether justified killing. It disgusted and repelled him to think of it, that wretched lump of a man forcing himself on her, stealing her childhood, making her a kind of slave, using her love and fear for the little girl to keep her compliant… The aunt was no better: too weak to do what was right. Eile had only survived, in Faolan’s estimation, because she was her father’s daughter. Strong; indomitably strong, for all her waifish build. He must hope she would be safe until he could reach her. He must hope she wouldn’t do anything foolish, like try to fight or make the wrong people angry. In Fiddler’s Crossing, long ago, he’d been robbed of the opportunity to try to save his sister. But he could save Eile. He could save her and her daughter, and he would, no matter what it cost him. They were survivors, the two of them; he would help her. He lay down on the straw, the blanket over him, his eyes narrowed to slits. Whatever might come, he would be ready for it.
“NO!” EILE PROTESTED, her voice rising to a shriek despite her efforts to control it. “She’s frightened! Don’t take her away, please—”
“She can’t stay here the way she is, and nor can you, girl.” The speaker was a large woman in plain, good homespun, a snowy linen apron wrapped around her waist. “I can see the vermin crawling in your hair. Nobody’s putting her head on one of my mattresses in that state.”
“Let me go with her—”
“In the name of Brighid, girl, stop your caterwauling, will you? It’s only a bath. The nursemaid will tend to the child and I’ll keep an eye on you. Anyone would think the two of you had never seen hot water before. Now hush your mouth and come with me. The girl’s not crying, is she? Good as gold, quiet little thing. And if she’s not upset, why would you be?”
Saraid was in the arms of a sweet-faced young serving woman, being borne away to some other part of this enormous dwelling. She was silent all right; she had learned the necessity for that over three years in Dalach’s cottage. Eile hesitated a moment, then wrenched free of the large woman and darted across the chamber to snatch her daughter back before she could disappear forever.
“No!” she said. It was not quite a shout. “If we have to wash, we will; but together.”
The two serving women seemed perplexed, but something in Eile’s face stilled their protests.
“Come on, then,” said the older one. “Aoife, is it? Funny name for a girl like you. And what’s your little sister’s name?”
“Squirrel.”
The woman eyed her strangely. “Oh, yes? Poppet, isn’t she? So quiet. Can she talk?”
“She’s three years old. Of course she can talk.” Eile gritted her teeth. “She’s scared, that’s all. Where is this bath?”
The woman led the way into a chamber that seemed to be a scullery or wash room, though it was bigger than the whole of Dalach and Anda’s place. There was a fire burning on a hearth. There were buckets and brushes and cloths, racks for drying things, pots and bottles and crocks on shelves. A large pan stood in the center of the flagstoned floor; vapor arose from it.
“I’m Maeve,” the large woman said. “The housekeeper. Take off your things. The child, too. Then get in. We’ll have our work cut out, Orlagh. You’d better find some oil of rosemary for the hair. And ask one of the maids to seek out some fresh garments for both of them. What’s this you’re wearing, anyway, lass? Some fellow’s trousers?” Her nose wrinkled.
“None of your business,” muttered Eile, eyeing the steaming tub. She could not remember the last time she had bathed in hot water. It had been before she came to live with them, certainly. Anda had only allowed cold, except for Dalach, and he didn’t wash much anyway.
Saraid had a fist to her mouth and the doll clutched in her other hand.
“All right, Squirrel,” Eile murmured, crouching beside the child. “We’re going to take off our clothes and have a wash, and these nice ladies are going to help us. Put Sorry over there; let me take her. See, she can sit up on the chest and watch us. Now I’ll take off this shirt and you do yours…” She tried to let neither her daughter nor this alarmingly capable woman see that she was afraid. Nobody had said who their captor was or what was to become of them. These folk knew what she had done; that man back at the bridge had told them. They might take Saraid away any moment. They might lock Eile up and throw away the key, and she would never see her daughter again. There was no knowing. Since they had come here, nobody had said much at all except orders like: Through there! Give me the bag! Sit down!
“Do you know…” she began, shivering as she slipped Faolan’s shirt over her head. “Yes, that’s good, Squirrel… I wonder if you know where the man is who came here with us. The one they slung over a horse. He’s our friend.”
“Can’t tell you.” Maeve was waiting, arms folded, foot tapping. “Quick now, get those things off, I don’t have all day. Orlagh! Where’s that oil?”
But Orlagh wasn’t moving. She was standing there staring as Eile stripped off the trousers and her ragged smallclothes. For a moment Eile could not understand why; it was bad enough having to be naked in a house of strangers without some woman gawking at her. Then she realized it was the bruises. She was so used to them, old ones fading to gray and yellow, new ones blue and purple, she’d never really thought how many her body wore, or that perhaps women like this well-fed housekeeper and her inquisitive assistant did not have men who held power over them; men who beat them as a matter of course. Anda had bruises, too. Being on Dalach’s side had not spared her his fist. Eile tried to cover herself with her hands, feeling a sudden sense of shame and, with it, a curious defiant pride.
“It’s all right, lass,” the housekeeper said quietly. “Orlagh, I said get the oil.”
Eile took Saraid’s hand and stepped over to the tub. The child stiffened; a tiny whimper emerged from her.
“It’s not as hot as it looks,” Eile said, dipping in a cautious hand. “See, nice and warm. Come on, Squirrel: one, two, three.”
A little later, sitting in the warm water and feeling the comfort of it seeping through her weary body, Eile wondered if the whole thing was some kind of strange dream. Maybe she would wake up and be back in the hut with Dalach, and she’d have to do it all over again. But this time there would be no knife… She jerked back to reality. The woman, Maeve, was scooping water over her hair, then rubbing something in with vigorous fingers.
“You do the child,” Maeve ordered. “The whole scalp, mind, we want every one of these creepy crawlies out before either of you sets foot in the rest of the house. This’ll take a lot of combing. Brighid save us, girl, who’s been looking after the pair of you? This is criminal.”
“We look after ourselves,” Eile retorted, stung by the criticism. “She’s well enough, isn’t she? What’s a few bugs?” She saw Orlagh exchange a look with Maeve; there was no reading it.
The housekeeper’s fingers made their painful way across Eile’s scalp; a sweet herbal smell filled the steamy air. Saraid was up to her neck in the bathwater, sitting between Eile’s knees; she submitted silently to the hair wash, but Eile could feel the anxiety in the small body, the same restless urge for flight that she felt in her own limbs, for all the delight of being warm again. She was naked, wet, and among strangers. She did not know what was coming. And she was full of questions, but they were all ones she couldn’t ask. What will she do to me, this fine lady? They’ll punish me, won’t they—lock me up, hurt me? Don’t let them take Saraid, please, please…
“Where must we go, after this?” she asked. It seemed reasonably safe.
“I’m bid get you clean, suitably dressed and fed, no more.” Maeve was rinsing off the oil now, a hand keeping the water out of Eile’s eyes. “You can have a pallet in a corner for tonight, if she doesn’t send for you before then. The two of you look as if you could do with a good sleep.”
“Send for me?” Eile made sure her voice sounded strong.
“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? The law’s after you, and in these parts the Widow is the law. She’ll expect you to account for yourself, and then she’ll decide what’s to become of you. Don’t look like that, lass. She’s no reason to be anything but fair with you. Here, use this scoop to rinse the poppet’s hair, then we’ll get dry. She can’t keep this thing here, it’ll be crawling with vermin.”
The housekeeper walked across and picked up the rag doll gingerly between thumb and forefinger. She turned toward the crackling hearth fire.
Saraid screamed. The sound tore through Eile like a knife, and she jumped from the bath, sending a wave over the clean floor.
“No! She needs it!”
Maeve had blanched. Silently, she held out the limp scrap of cloth with its dark staring eyes, and Eile snatched it.
“Saraid, shh, shh. See, I’ve got Sorry here, she’s safe. Hop out and let the lady dry you, and then you can have her. She’s fine, Saraid. Hush, now.”
There were thick cloths to get dry with and then garments to wear, not as fine as Faolan’s things, but of good quality, with hardly any patches or mends. Saraid got a little gown and stockings and a woollen shawl in which she cocooned the doll tightly. Eile donned a shirt, a skirt, a kind of overdress. It was a long time since she had felt so warm, and her skin was tingling and strange from the hot water and scrubbing. She felt tired, as if she could sleep right now, although it was still day.
They were led to a different chamber, and while Orlagh combed out Eile’s long hair with painstaking thoroughness and a considerable amount of muttering, Eile tended to Saraid’s, an easier task by far since the child was used to having her dark curls brushed daily. It came to Eile how short of the mark her pitiful attempts to maintain standards at Cloud Hill had been. It was plain to her that these women, servants themselves, thought her and Saraid wretched, weak, and filthy. The shame of that was hard to bear. She had tried to keep Saraid nice. She had done the best she could.
“You don’t need to stare,” she snapped, intercepting Maeve’s look as the housekeeper came back in with a tray in her hands. “We’re not wild animals!”
“Is it true what they’re saying?” Orlagh’s voice was tentative. “That you killed someone?”
“Orlagh!” Maeve’s tone was a sharp warning.
Eile pulled free of the comb, wincing. “If you think I’m going to answer that, you’re stupid. I’ll do this for myself, thanks. I don’t need folk tending to me. If this lady of yours thinks we’re not good enough to be in her fine house, maybe you can just let us out the back door and you never need clap eyes on us again. Nobody asked for a bath.”
“Orlagh, we don’t need you any longer.” Maeve set down her tray and the younger woman withdrew at the frosty look in the housekeeper’s eyes. “Lass, maybe you don’t understand. Come, sit here by the fire, get some food into you, and I’ll try to explain it. I’m sure the little one would like a bowl of soup and a bit of bread. Come on, now.” She might have been coaxing a wild creature out of hiding.
Eile remembered something. “Our dog; the dog that was with us. Where is it?”
“Dog? I couldn’t tell you. I suppose it’ll be in the yard somewhere, if it hasn’t wandered off.”
“Could you find out?” The soup smelled wonderful; as good as the breakfast Faolan had brought them, two very long days ago. “You can eat it, Squirrel. Sit up straight and take small mouthfuls.”
“A dog’s the least of your worries, lass. What I’ve been told is that you’re accused of an unlawful killing. You’ll need to explain yourself to the lady first and then, depending on what she decides, you may have to go up before a brithem, a lawman.”
“I know what a brithem is. I’m not ignorant.”
“Eat up, girl. You look half starved.”
Eile broke her bread into four pieces and set one back on the platter, then hunted for pockets in her borrowed garments; the three remaining bits would last Saraid a day or two. She looked up and met Maeve’s sharp eye.
“No need for that,” the housekeeper said. “We feed folk properly here. There’ll be supper later. This is for now. Your little sister has pretty manners. I couldn’t have trained her better myself.”
Sudden treacherous tears sprang to Eile’s eyes and she sniffed, willing them not to fall. Why would this stranger decide to be kind unless she wanted something? “I’ll answer this lady’s questions,” she said. “But only if you let Saraid—Squirrel—stay with me. I’m all she’s got. I can’t let her be frightened.”
“There are children here in the house; playthings; nursemaids. No need for her to—”
“Nobody’s taking her.” Eile had set down her spoon with the delicious soup, full of grains and vegetables, barely begun. “I don’t go anywhere or do anything without her. And I want to know where Faolan is. They hurt him. I didn’t like that.”
Something suspiciously close to a smile was hovering on Maeve’s lips.
“Don’t laugh at me!” Eile lost her precarious control.
“Eat your soup, child. One word of advice. It’s best to hold on to your temper with the Widow. She admires strength. She likes it even more when it’s properly harnessed. You may find her intimidating, but you’ll do all right if you’re courteous and honest. That’s what will help you most. Come on, eat that, it’s good for you. Your sister’s already finished and she’s only half your size.”
“She’s my daughter,” Eile muttered. If she was supposed to be honest, this seemed a good place to start.
“Brighid save us,” said Maeve mildly. “You poor little thing. Now listen. I’m going to stand here and watch until you finish every scrap of that, and the bread, too. Then I’m going to tuck the two of you in bed for a rest. The lady won’t want to see you until later; there’s time.”
Saraid’s eyelids were drooping. Before the fire, her hair was drying to glossy curls.
“Will you ask about Faolan? Please?”
“We’ll see. Come on now, do I have to spoon-feed you like a baby?”
Not long after, Eile was conveyed to a bedchamber that seemed to her quite grand, with pallets in rows and chests for storage. A ewer and bowl stood on a side table, and there was a window with blue-painted shutters.
“This is where Orlagh and the other maidservants sleep,” said the housekeeper. “You take this bed, pop the child in the next, and I’ll make sure you’re left alone awhile. You look worn out and she’s half asleep already. Here, give her to me, I’ll tuck her in—”
“She can go in with me.” Eile held the child firm. “That’s what we’re used to. Are you sure—?” She could not quite name what she feared: the sudden coming of strangers less kindly than this one, curses and blows, folk who would take her away from Saraid. It did not seem safe to sleep; not without Faolan to watch over them.
“I’ll call you in plenty of time. You won’t be disturbed.”
When Maeve was gone, Eile put Saraid in one of the beds and sat by her, humming while the child fell asleep with the shawl-swathed Sorry held in a tight embrace. She could remember making Sorry from one of her mother’s old gowns, and how cross Anda had been at the waste of materials. Eile thought maybe she could remember a doll of her own, from long ago in the house on the hill. Woolen hair long enough to plait; little shoes made from scraps of leather; green eyes like hers. Maybe it was only in her imagination. Sorry was a poor thing, bits and pieces stuffed into coarse homespun, and getting less and less like a human shape the longer she survived. To Saraid, she was the most beautiful doll in the world.
Maybe she’d lie down for a bit. She could stay alert and still rest. Her back was aching from the ride and her head was spinning. She lowered herself to the bed beside the slumbering child. A warm blanket; they treated their servants well here. A soft pillow, which seemed to be stuffed with feathers. No wonder that woman hadn’t wanted Eile’s filthy head on it. She observed, with detachment, that her hair was drying out quite a different color from its usual muddy hue. It seemed to have all shades of red in it, from fox fur to autumn beech leaves. Back in the old days, Father had had red hair. When he came back from that place, Breakstone Hollow, it had gone white, and he’d shaved his head. Mother’s hair had been soft brown, like Saraid’s.
“Father,” Eile whispered, “I’m afraid. But I’ll do my best. Mother, I’ll look after her. I promise.” And she was asleep.