Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  We finished our meal. The platters were cleared away and wine brought. Eamonn instructed the serving man that we were on no account whatever to be disturbed. There were two carven chairs by the fire, with a small table between. The box with the brandubh pieces, the elaborately patterned board stood there ready.

  “You wish to play?” queried Eamonn as he settled himself opposite me.

  Not this game, I thought. “Maybe not tonight. I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate very well. Won’t your folk jump to certain conclusion, if the door is closed and they are told to keep away? Whatever good reputation I may have had will be gone forever.”

  Eamonn regarded me levelly. “As you see, I did not bolt the door, nor will I. You are under no threat from me, Fainne. I am not a seducer, whatever opinion you may have formed.”

  “My memory of your behavior the other day does not quite support what you say.”

  “I have apologized for that, and do again. I don’t know what came over me.”

  I raised my brows. “I could hazard a guess.”

  “You have not made it particularly easy for me. This morning, you—I am at a loss to understand what it is you want from me.” He poured wine into my goblet, refilled his own. The wine was very strong, with a mellow flavor that spoke of sun-drenched hillsides and meadow flowers. I sipped cautiously, conscious I must keep all my wits about me.

  “First things first,” I said. “Have you an answer to my question? For it seems to me, if the two of us are to move on in any way whatever, the past must be dealt with. And I can help you with that. Believe it.”

  “I cannot see how, Fainne.” Eamonn stared into his wine cup as if it might hold the answer to some puzzle. “With all the good will in the world, you are, after all, very young and quite inexperienced. You could scarcely comprehend what lies between me and—”

  “And Liadan?”

  “Her, and others. You said it yourself. That you had been brought up in isolation, away from the halls of men. You could not conceive of the evil things that have taken place. You are an innocent. How could you help me?”

  “I see.” I rose to my feet. “Then there’s no point at all in this, is there? I may as well return to Sevenwaters. The girls have been asking when we can go home. I’ll tell them we can leave in the morning.”

  “No.” Eamonn was up in an instant, and I felt hand close around my arm. “No. That was not what I meant. Please, sit down, Fainne.”

  “Difficult, isn’t it?” I asked quietly when I was seated again, and he had unclamped his fingers from where they gripped me, and returned to his place. “You don’t understand what I want, and I have no idea what you want. I’m not sure you know that yourself. Why don’t you start by answering the question I gave you?”

  Eamonn did not reply. His jaw was tight, as if he clenched his teeth hard to keep words back.

  “You dismiss my question?” I queried. “You think it—what is that word you favor—inappropriate?”

  His lips stretched in a smile completely without mirth. “It was appropriate enough. I suspect you could give me the answer.”

  “Maybe. But I want you to give it.”

  Another silence.

  “I have never spoken of these things,” he said after a while, his tone muted, almost apologetic. “Not in all these years. Why should I do so now? Besides, I am bound by a promise. I cannot tell you the full truth, and will not.”

  I said nothing, but waited.

  “What you said, one thing you said, has been in my mind all day. That if I did not act now to change the path of my life, he would indeed have conquered me. If you want me to name the ghost I must lay, it is that one. The Painted Man. He killed my men, he stole my woman, he robbed me of my sons. He took my future for himself. I cannot contemplate another life until I place my two hands on that man’s neck and squeeze the last breath from him. I want to see him suffer and die. Is this what you wanted to hear? Is it?”

  “Tell me.” My voice was not quite steady, but I kept control. “Doesn’t it trouble you that the woman you once loved would then lose her husband, and face a future of grief and loneliness? For you still care about her, do not deny it.”

  “Love? You use that word again. The word is meaningless, Fainne. You’ll grow to realize that. Liadan condemned me to a life of emptiness. Does she deserve any better? Besides, Inis Eala is bristling with men. Feral creatures like him, every one. She could take her pick. Her bed will not stay cold long when he is gone.”

  “That’s a little harsh.”

  “You think so? After what she did?”

  “Tell me. Is there not the tiniest hope, somewhere beneath your lust for vengeance, that once this man is gone, Liadan will have a change of heart and come back to you?” I was watching him closely, timing my words to his mood. “Is this why you have remained so long unwed? Did you not say, once, these halls are kept bright for her?”

  “Huh!” It was an explosion of scorn. “I’m not a complete fool. Nor am I entirely without pride. She debased and sullied herself by letting that man take her. She is no longer a fit partner for a man of quality. That was her choice. I would not offer her another chance, not if she begged me.”

  “Besides, she is no longer of an age to bear your sons with any safety.”

  Eamonn looked at me, and I willed myself to gaze steadily back.

  “So,” I said. “You must kill this fellow, the Painted Man. Then you can forget, and have your life back. If this is all, why did you not take the initiative years ago? Why waste so much time? You have the resources, surely? I understand the man is some kind of outcast, rejected by all respectable folk, for all he holds an estate across the water. And he’s a Briton. An enemy. It should be simple. Why wait so long?”

  “You think I have not tried?” Eamonn’s voice grew harsh, and he got up and began to pace across the room, to and fro, to and fro. “The fellow’s slippery as an eel, and not to be cornered; devious and quite devoid of scruples. With his marriage he put on a thin coat of respectability. In time he acquired Harrowfield as well as his bizarre establishment in the north. So now he has powerful allies as well as enemies. You say I have resources. They are nothing to his. He is ingenious, a trickster who will turn anything and anyone to his own advantage. He knows how to slip through the finest net, how to outpace the swiftest hound. My pursuit of him has been relentless, Fainne, through the years. I have never even come close. That’s the man he is.”

  “A clever one.”

  “Clever? Rat-cunning, that’s all. Sewer scum.”

  “This man is Sean’s ally, and the father of his heir. That must be a little difficult. Wouldn’t it jeopardize my uncle’s venture against the Britons if the Painted Man were killed? Muirrin told me each of the partners in the alliance has a vital role to play if Sean’s great endeavor is to succeed.”

  “That’s as may be,” he said, scowling. “My quest to destroy this man is not Sean’s concern.”

  “Still, the warriors of Inis Eala will fight alongside your own forces in the battle for the Islands. Will not the Painted Man be your own ally then?”

  “That man is evil,” he said coldly. “He cannot be viewed as an ally, not under any circumstances. He was marked for death at my hands long ago.”

  “What are you telling me?” I asked him. “Is your thirst for vengeance stronger than your desire to see the Islands preserved for Ulster? How can that be?”

  Eamonn muttered something, still pacing.

  “What?”

  “I can’t discuss this further. I told you, I am bound by a promise.”

  “A promise to whom?”

  “To her. Don’t ask me, Fainne. This is something that cannot be told.”

  “Very well. I understand what must be done. It seems to me you need inside information. A spy, maybe.”

  “Nobody spies at Harrowfield. Nobody gets in and out without that man’s nod. And he always knows. I’ve tried. As for Inis Eala, it’s impregnable. Not one of my men got as fa
r as the settlement on the landward side, let alone over the water. The Painted Man has a network of intelligence to rival that of Northwoods himself. He travels often between Ulster and Britain, and far beyond, but he does so in secret. Nobody tracks him. Folk used to say he and his men were some sort of Otherworld creatures, outside the laws of humankind. Sometimes I find myself half believing it, fool that I am.”

  “Right,” I said. “No spies. Not human ones, anyway.”

  “What other kind can there be?”

  “Ah. I’ll come to that later. But believe that I can help you. More wine?”

  I refilled his goblet; added a drop or two to my own. Eamonn was gazing at me in disbelief.

  “You, help? Forgive me, Fainne, but I cannot see how.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. I’ll explain in time. First, I have another question.”

  “I hope it’s not as difficult as the last. It seems to me this is somewhat more taxing than brandubh.”

  “I want you to tell me honestly why you think me unsuitable as a wife. Make your words plain.”

  He opened his mouth and shut it again.

  “You think this question inappropriate,” I said coolly. “That much is obvious.”

  “Your education has certainly been somewhat lacking,” he said, tight-lipped. “This is not a question a young woman asks a man.”

  “I have asked it, and I want your honest answer. And if you want to consider what is inappropriate, perhaps it is not so appropriate for a man in your position to take his kinsman’s niece out riding alone, and put his tongue in her mouth and his fingers—”

  “Stop it, Fainne! You sound almost—coarse.”

  “I knew nothing of such matters until you taught me,” I said demurely, hating the look of distaste in his eye.

  “I made an error. I have already said I’m sorry. You are a lovely young woman, and you have a manner about you that catches the eye, and the imagination, and makes a man itch to take you in his arms and do those things of which you so bluntly remind me. It is natural for a man to feel thus, Fainne. Even an innocent convent girl must understand that.”

  I nodded, eyes downcast. “And for a woman to feel the same. That is what brings two people together, a stirring of the blood, a longing to be close. I understand. But I have told you, I will not give myself to a man outside marriage. And you have made it plain enough it is not your intention to wed. Yet you brought me here; and you do not seem eager to see me go.”

  Now he was looking into the fire, reluctant to meet my eyes. “Indeed no. As I told you, I find you pleasing as a companion, quickwitted, clever, competent. Good with children; patient and sweet-tempered. And full of surprises. I’m coming to realize I do not dislike surprises as much as I thought. I cannot deny that I hoped you might—that you might let me teach you the arts of the bedchamber, Fainne. This has been in my mind, disturbingly so, since first I saw you with your cousins at Sevenwaters, so out of place in that house, like an exotic bloom set among wildflowers. But marriage? I could not consider it.”

  My heart was cold with fury. I breathed slowly and carefully. Feelings were irrelevant. Feelings only got in the way, and stopped you from doing what had to be done.

  “So you thought I might stay as some sort of—unofficial wife, was that it? To warm your bed, and sit demurely by you as you worked, and be whisked out of sight whenever folk of consequence came to visit?”

  “No, Fainne.” He sounded quite wretched, but this time I could not summon a shred of sympathy. “I had no such thoughts. I behaved foolishly, from self-interest, and without thinking things out. A lapse of judgment which I will not make again. It was as if you were a bright flame, which I wanted at my hearth to warm me.”

  “Poetic. But you would not take me as a wife. Why not?”

  “I had not thought to wed at all. It seemed too late. Besides, when a man in my position takes a wife, she must be a woman of proven pedigree. Don’t imagine it did not occur to me, when first I met you. I made inquiries. I asked my sister, and I asked Sean. I asked the druid. All of them were remarkably evasive about the identity of your father. That was sufficient to alert me to an irregularity. A man does not put his prize stallion to some wild mare, Fainne. The progeny would be tainted, not worth raising.”

  I swallowed my humiliation with great difficulty. I wanted badly to hit him. Instead, I allowed myself to blush faintly, and took a sip of my wine.

  “I see. You understand, a good marriage could make a great difference to me. I am not without skills and talents; indeed, I have some you could scarcely guess at, Eamonn. But in my uncle Sean’s house I am no more than a poor relation. Without a good match, and a worthy man to guide me, I face a future of obscurity. Servitude, almost.”

  Eamonn scowled. “I would offer you a place here. You would be well cared for. Everything you wished: fine clothes, adornments, the run of my house and my estate, my company when I am here. I could provide a life of quality for you, Fainne. You need not return to be a drudge in my sister’s household. And—and I would initiate you gently into those pleasures you spoke of. I think you might not be averse to that.”

  “But you would not place your ring on my finger, or give me your name, or have me bear your sons. Rather than endure that shame, you would have no sons at all. In all things, I would be a poor substitute for her, would I not?” My voice shook, despite my best efforts.

  “Oh, Fainne. I’ve done this badly, and I’ve distressed you. Marriage is out of the question, my dear. It would be frowned upon by everyone. Such a match would be viewed as foolish and wasteful, an indication that my grasp was slipping. I’d become a laughingstock.”

  “If you do not wed, you have no legitimate sons. When you die, carrion descend on your estates and tear them apart. Is that what you want? Have you lost the will to fight for what is your own, to preserve a birthright for your children? You disappoint me. You have let your enemy win, after all.”

  There was silence again.

  “Tell me then,” said Eamonn, putting his goblet down heavily on the table and taking both my hands in his. “Tell me who you really are, and why you came here. For one thing is certain, I will not wed a woman who has no father.”

  My strategy was fraught with risk, and this was the trickiest part. A man with such a strong sense of propriety would recoil from the truth. I must tell him, and I must keep his interest long enough so he would hear what came after.

  “Very well,” I said with a hesitancy that was quite natural, “I will tell you the truth. You won’t like it. I’ll have to extract a promise from you, I think. That you will let me finish. Give me your word.”

  “Of course,” said Eamonn, and his thumb moved slightly against my wrist, as if in the back of his mind the pleasures of the flesh still held him in their grasp, despite his better judgment. If it were so, that gave me an advantage, and I must use it though it sickened me.

  “Very well,” I said again. “This is difficult for me, you understand? It is like admitting I am—somehow flawed. I am not what you have believed me, Eamonn. I never told you I was raised in a priory, by Christian sisters. I let you believe what you chose, that was all. I grew up with my father in Kerry, just the two of us alone. My father taught me all I know. He was once a druid, but is no more, since he met my mother and took her away. His name was—is—Ciarán, and he is half-brother to Conor of Sevenwaters.”

  There was a very long silence. Eamonn kept hold of my hands, but now his own were still as if frozen in time.

  “What?” he said so quietly I could barely hear. There was deep shock in his eyes.

  “My father is the child of Colum of Sevenwaters by his second wife. She took him away when he was very small; but his father brought him home to the forest, and they raised him as a druid. He is a good man, a wise and honorable man. He has been my only family, my guide and mentor, all these years.”

  “But—but that means—do you understand what it means, Fainne?” Now he released my hands.

  “Oh,
yes. It means the union between my mother and my father was forbidden. They were too close in blood, for her mother was his half-sister. But they did not know that when they fell in love. Nobody told my father whose son he was, until it was too late.”

  “But—but your mother, Niamh, she was wed. She was wed to one of the Uí Néill, and she was abducted from my own fortress at Sídhe Dubh. She was taken away by—by—the Dagda guide me! You cannot tell me that Liadan knew of this incestuous passion, and helped her sister flee to the arms of her lover? That Liadan aided this, with the assistance of—this is abhorrent beyond belief! That such a thing might occur in my own home, with my own sister present! Did Sean know of this?”

  “He knew of their love for one another. That was why my mother was given to another man, and sent away to Tirconnell. She was very unhappy. Her husband was cruel to her.”

  “He punished Niamh, perhaps, on finding she had committed an act of base depravity. It seems her judgment was as flawed as her sister’s.”

  I bit back my rage.

  “Now you know who I am, Eamonn. This is the truth. You can understand, perhaps, why my kinsfolk were evasive in their answers.”

  He seemed to have no more to say, but stood glaring into the fire, arms folded. I though maybe he was considering what a lucky escape he had had; thanking the gods that he had not, after all, taken me to bed.

  “Enough of that,” I said with a lightness quite at odds with my heavy heart. “We have other matters to discuss: your enemy; your vengeance. For it seems to me that is foremost in your mind; so powerful it outweighs your loyalty to your allies and kinsmen.”