Feabhal was saying something, congratulating me. I needed to pay attention. ‘Thank you for your kindness,’ I murmured with a distinct lack of sincerity. He and I had never been friends. ‘Master Oisin, you may wish to retire soon. I’ll walk with you over to the cottage.’ The cottage lay across a meadow from the main dwelling; Niall and his wife had vacated it for the duration of the celebrations to allow the druid a modicum of peace and quiet.
‘In person, Prince Oran?’ Oisin smiled, while Feabhal frowned in disapproval – he would consider it more appropriate for one of the serving people to escort the druid, no doubt.
‘I need some fresh air. It’s been a long day.’ Bramble would have liked a walk, but I could not think of a plausible excuse to go and fetch her. Most likely Brid’s helpers had taken her out earlier. Or Donagan might have done it. He and I had been almost like strangers today; he had laid out garments for me, brought warm water for washing, been at hand when I needed him. But we had not talked; not of the things that mattered.
The druid and I walked outside into the autumn chill. A man-at-arms offered to accompany us, and I told him his services would not be required, though I did ask him to fetch me a lantern. I should have asked for a cloak as well. I had never enjoyed dressing up in the kind of garments a prince is supposed to appear in on formal occasions, even though Donagan took great care with sponging, brushing and pressing. I probably owed it to him to wear my best attire with more pride. At least the rich blue tunic and trousers were of wool, though the weave was so fine there was little real warmth in them. And the embroidered silk shirt I had on underneath did not help much. Oisin was better off in his druidic robe.
‘Cold, my lord?’ He regarded me with a half-smile. ‘Shall we walk briskly?’
We did. Oisin, whose legs were shorter than mine, kept up a pace that had me somewhat breathless by the time we reached the cottage door. Conversation had been out of the question.
‘Well, now,’ said the druid, reaching to open the door. ‘I feel I should offer you a brew, the chance to sit by my fire awhile – if it is still burning – and to recover yourself from a day that I believe has left you exhausted. But this house is yours. It is not for me to invite you in. And you’ll be wanting to get back to your guests.’
The lantern light illuminated his plain features and glinted in his kindly, shrewd eyes. Here was a man who saw beneath the surface of things; the kind of man I should be able to confide in.
‘Thank you for the offer, Master Oisin. I am indeed very tired; I have been sleeping badly. Another full day tomorrow, for you as well. Don’t worry about the brew. You should get off to bed.’
He examined me a few moments longer. ‘It is a time of profound change for you, my lord. And for Lady Flidais. Are you content with the arrangements for tomorrow’s ritual? Still happy for me to entertain your guests with a tale or two afterwards?’
Why did I feel he was not asking about rituals and tales, but something much closer to the bone?
‘I’ll be happy to see the ritual performed by such a trusted friend. I should get back to the hall, yes. Donagan will be wondering where I am.’ I had hardly seen Donagan all evening; today, my welfare seemed to be his last concern.
‘My lord.’ Oisin spoke as I was turning away, his voice little more than a murmur. ‘Is all well with you?’
Sudden tears pricked my eyes; I was glad my back was to the lantern light. ‘As you said, it is a time of change.’
‘Do not lose sight of the wisdom that is all around you. The rising of the sun, each day’s new hope; the moon gliding above, watchful and mysterious, reminding us of the tides within. The flight of birds; the quick grace of the running deer; the affection of a loyal hound. You have grown up in the understanding of these things. The wonder that resides in them also exists in a promise between husband and wife. A betrothal is the beginning of a new story; it is a compact of hope and possibility. All marriages have their difficulties, no doubt of that. But the bond between husband and wife is precious beyond jewels.’
Before Flidais came to Winterfalls, I had believed this wholeheartedly. My vision of true love had been a little unrealistic, no doubt. As for married life . . . I had seen that it was sometimes difficult – my parents had had their fallings-out, though those were mostly short-lived and always well concealed from the public eye. Of course, my mother and father were past the age when physical passion might be expected to play much part in their lives – they often seemed more like old friends than husband and wife. Among common people, I had seen that marriage could be a fine thing. In my household there were several married couples, some with children; entire families had grown up at Winterfalls. I had seen trust, friendship and tenderness there, as well as an enjoyment in working side by side. It was not a grand passion like that of Diarmid and Grainne, or of Deirdre and Naoise, but that was just as well, since both tales ended tragically.
‘Prince Oran?’
‘Thank you for your wisdom, Master Oisin. I’d best be on my way; the night is chilly.’
He opened the cottage door. ‘Ah. The fire still burns under its blanket of ash, and the house is warm. Sure you won’t come in awhile?’
‘Thank you, no.’ If I went in, if I sat down and he continued to coax answers from me in his gentle, understanding way, I would disgrace myself by shedding tears. A sorry specimen indeed. ‘I’ll bid you good night.’
‘Good night, my lord. May the gods walk with you and your lady.’
17
~BLACKTHORN~
The betrothal ritual was over, thank the gods, and most of the guests were gone from the prince’s house, which meant folk had started talking about other things. Which was just as well, since I’d had a hard time not snapping at them. If I’d heard about that cake once, I’d heard a thousand times.
I came home from a visit to one of the farms – a fellow with a scythe wound to the leg; he’d been lucky not to bleed to death – to find Grim sitting at the table shelling beans into a pot. I hung up my cloak and set the basket down.
‘Saw the prince riding out this morning,’ Grim said. ‘Lady Flidais too.’
‘Why would I be interested in that?’
He fell silent.
‘I’ve heard nothing but Prince Oran this and Lady Flidais that ever since the betrothal. I’m sick of the two of them and their household.’
Grim picked up the kettle; poured water onto the beans.
‘Sorry,’ I made myself say. ‘It’s the young girls who carry on about it, and their mothers aren’t much better.’
‘Harmless enough,’ said Grim, stirring. ‘Dumplings?’
‘Mm-hm.’ I sniffed. ‘Grim, what have you been doing this morning?’
‘This and that. Helping a fellow with some pigs. Why?’
‘You stink. Leave the cooking, I’ll do it. You find some clean clothes and wash the ones you’ve got on. You can do those other things too; I’m sick of them lying in the corner. Bring in some more water and I’ll heat it up. You’re not going to get that smell out in cold.’
It came to me, as he headed out to the well, that I was sounding like a nagging wife, which wasn’t good. Still, there was only so much pig smell a person could tolerate at close quarters. I salved my conscience by picking up the small mountain of dirty clothing and taking it outside for him. It was mostly shirts and hose; autumn weather being what it was, our heavier garments were lucky to get a sponge and a brush around the hems to take the worst of the mud off.
That was odd; there was my red kerchief, the one Grim had bought me at a fair, crumpled and filthy at the bottom of the heap. I couldn’t recall wearing it for a long while. What in the name of the gods was that all over it? It looked as if someone had used it to clean the floor. Never mind; it wasn’t as if I’d ever liked the thing much.
The house went quiet, with only a bit of splashing from out there as Grim scrubbed and rinsed
and wrung, and a bit of stirring inside as I made herb dumplings and thought about Emer and her disappearing friend, the miller’s daughter. I wasn’t sure why the story was bothering me, since there was an obvious conclusion to be reached, the one everyone but Emer seemed to believe. Perhaps it was that Emer was a good girl, a clever girl, and that she’d sounded so sure. Ah well, when the travelling folk came it would be sorted out one way or another.
18
~GRIM~
I’m hanging up the wash when Blackthorn comes out. I expect her to say the food’s ready, but she just stands there. She’s got her red kerchief in her hands. Which is funny, because I’ve just put her red kerchief on the line after scrubbing all the flour out of it.
‘Two of them,’ I say. And when she doesn’t answer, I say, ‘What?’
‘I don’t like people giving me things.’
She means she doesn’t like me giving her things, though at least she hasn’t thrown her kerchief away. Even wears it sometimes. I hang up a pair of stockings and a shirt. Blackthorn’s still standing there, staring at me and the washing line. ‘You mean the kerchief?’ I ask. ‘Which one?’
Blackthorn takes her time answering. ‘The one you didn’t buy at the fair,’ she says, coming down the steps.
That day comes back to me, the trip over to Silverlake, the load of flour, the red kerchief under the sacks on the cart. Out of place. But it’s out of place here, too. The one I got at the fair is in Blackthorn’s hands right now, clean and folded. Last time I saw her wearing it was the day Prince Oran and his man Donagan dropped in, the day she made sure she wasn’t home.
‘Found it on Scannal’s cart one day when I got back from a delivery,’ I tell her. ‘He said it wasn’t his. Thought it must be yours. Thought I must have had it in my pocket, from the last wash. Or snagged on my cloak.’ Sounds far-fetched to me, and her face tells me she thinks so too. Though if I was giving her another kerchief I’d pick one in a different colour. Green would look nice on her.
‘Mm-hm.’
‘All over flour, so I put it in the washing pile.’ I remember why I didn’t tell her. That was the day the girl drowned in Dreamer’s Pool. The day Blackthorn had to look after the prince’s lady. She had enough of a tale to tell, without mine on top of it. ‘Would have said. Slipped my mind.’
‘Mm-hm.’ That’s all she’s got to say, so I hang up the rest of the wash, and after a bit she goes back inside. It’s only when I’m all finished that I take a look at the kerchief on the line, and I see it’s not the same as the other one after all.
19
~ORAN~
Donagan did not come back to sleep in the antechamber. Our old friendship, the easy way we had been with each other for so long, was entirely gone. He behaved exactly as a superior kind of serving man behaves, performing his duties to perfection, setting not a foot wrong. He said only what was required to ensure I was washed, brushed and where I was supposed to be. He was cool. Distant.
I should have taxed him with it. I should have challenged him. Even, perhaps, played him at his own game, assuming my most princely manner and ordering him to return to the old arrangement, so we could resume our late-night talks over a jug of mead. But I could not. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps, once a prince married, it was inappropriate for his body servant to sleep next door. And though Flidais and I were not yet wed, we had most certainly anticipated the event.
The arrival of Aunt Sochla had meant Flidais was no longer coming to my chamber at night. I lay awake nonetheless, wondering if she might take it into her head to pay me another secret visit, right under the nose of her chaperone. If she did, I would have to say no this time; I would have to bundle her physically back through the connecting door, awkward though that would be. What had occurred could not be allowed to occur again. And yet my treacherous body wanted it; even now, the memory of those two nights was stirring me to readiness. I despised my weakness.
What if my father should die soon? I would become king of Dalriada. How fit was a man to rule a kingdom if he could not even rule himself?
I had not imagined, back in the time of the letters, that I would be sorry to see my mother leave Winterfalls. But I watched her ride away with deep regret, knowing in my heart that I owed her the truth. The next time I saw my parents would be at Cahercorcan for the hand-fasting.
The royal party left behind Aunt Sochla and a contingent of the Cahercorcan serving folk. My mother believed Winterfalls required additional retainers now that Flidais was in residence. I left the domestic arrangements to Aedan and Fíona, and since Flidais was now the lady of the house, I asked them to report direct to her. I was aware of a certain unrest in the household, unsurprising at a time of such change, but I trusted my steward to deal with it.
Flidais’s headaches were still troubling her, and she took to spending most of the day in the women’s quarters. I wondered if she was avoiding me. I tried to think what I had done wrong, what I might have said to offend her. I suggested, once again, that we summon Mistress Blackthorn to the house, and Flidais answered as before. It was nothing. I was not to worry. She would be better soon.
One lady of the household, at least, did not care to spend her days shut away indoors. Aunt Sochla, breeder of sturdy terriers, was in the habit of striding out energetically come rain or shine, and she plainly had no intention of letting her duties as chaperone alter this. I was accustomed to rising early – my sleep was still fitful – but she was generally up before me. I often glimpsed her heading out along the farm tracks with no companion other than Bramble, who trotted obediently at her heels. Should I be out walking myself and encounter the two of them at close quarters, Bramble would run to me, whimpering with excitement, wanting kind words and caresses. I observed with interest how well she responded to my aunt’s commands, which were delivered with gentle authority, and was glad the little dog was calmer.
Sadly, all Aunt Sochla’s good work had not improved Bramble’s behaviour when Flidais was nearby. The dog’s fear of her former mistress remained. In Flidais’s company Bramble cowered. She growled. She panicked, leaving puddles on the floor and biting people at random. It seemed Flidais had lost the devotion of her little pet forever.
I pulled myself together. Told myself to stop worrying and get on with things. With the next open council drawing ever closer, I must ride out to visit my people again, and this time I must take Flidais with me. On the night of the betrothal folk had come to Winterfalls for the bonfire and merriment, but she’d had scant opportunity to talk to them. She would be their lady, and that meant taking an interest in their affairs, keeping an eye on their welfare, ensuring small difficulties were noted and dealt with before they grew into major problems. Far easier for Flidais to play her part at the approaching council if she had made herself known in the district beforehand.
I called Donagan to my chamber.
‘The weather seems good for riding today,’ I said. He was looking pale; was he unwell? ‘I plan to go to Winterfalls village and speak to a few folk. Perhaps also ride over Silverlake way. Will you convey a message to Lady Flidais, please, letting her know I require her company for the day? The fresh air and exercise can only do her good. You may tell her I said so.’
Donagan looked me in the eye. ‘Will that be all, my lord?’
‘I doubt if Aunt Sochla will be wanting a long ride, so Lady Flidais should bring one of her attendants. And you will come too, of course. Please put the usual arrangements in place.’ Gods, this was hard! What was the man doing, that he stood there gazing at me as if I were a stranger, and one that he did not especially care for at that? I swallowed the urge to blurt out what was in my heart – that he was the nearest thing I had ever had to a brother, and that a man needed the support of his brother when he was lonely and confused.
‘Yes, my lord.’ A pause. ‘My lord, Lady Flidais may prefer that I stay behind.’
That sent a strange chill down m
y spine. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That is for Lady Flidais to say, my lord.’ Donagan’s tone was oddly flat.
‘Donagan. You always come with me. What possible reason could Lady Flidais have to object to that?’ Even if a reason existed, it was not up to Flidais to make the decision.
‘As you say, my lord. I will deliver the message.’
I had expected him to return with Flidais’s reply, but he did not. I changed into my riding clothes unassisted, waited awhile for Donagan, then from my window spotted Eochu bringing a string of horses down from the stable: Snow for me, Apple for Flidais, a mare for her maidservant and a couple of mounts for men-at-arms. No Star and no Donagan, though as I watched, Flidais came out of the house clad for riding, with Mhairi by her side.
I went down, and we waited, and still Donagan did not appear. Eventually I sent one of the men to look for him. The fellow returned alone.
‘My lord, Donagan sends his apologies. Some kind of crisis in the house that requires his immediate attention.’
‘What crisis? Should I be concerned?’
‘He said not, my lord. Only asked if you wanted someone else to accompany you in his place.’
It sounded like a trumped-up excuse not to come. As for taking a substitute, there was nobody else who could do what Donagan did for me. The duties of a body servant, maybe, but not the wise counsel, the honest talk, the friendship. What had got into him? Could he really have been so shocked by what had occurred between Flidais and me – I had little doubt he had heard us, that first night – that I had lost his trust entirely?
‘Never mind that. We’ll ride on as we are.’
We headed out, Flidais and I side by side, Mhairi a length behind, the guards flanking us.
‘The weather seems set fair, at least until late afternoon,’ I observed, thinking that Flidais looked charming in her fur-trimmed cloak, deep blue to match her eyes, with her hair in a complicated sort of plait. Like something from an old tale. My spirits lifted in anticipation of the ride. Autumn colours were everywhere; the trees wore brilliant capes of scarlet and gold, and the recent rain had left miniature lakes here and there on the fields, silver sheets under the sun. On such a day, in my imaginings, Flidais and I had walked out together, just the two of us with Bramble, to enjoy the beauty of growing things and muse on the passing of the seasons. Perhaps to invent a poem or two, trying with words to capture the enchantment that we saw. After her response to my gift, I hesitated to suggest anything of the kind.
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