Dreamer's Pool

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘At what time did you find them?’ asked the prince. ‘Later that night, or in the morning?’

  ‘Same night, my lord. Heard barking, but by the time I got out there with a lantern, the dogs were gone. Had to slit one ewe’s throat, put her out of her agony. Another was already dead. The third I’ve got in the barn, with a nasty wound to the foreleg.’ He glared at Cliona, who scowled back at him.

  ‘Could not this attack have been carried out by animals from further afield?’ asked Master Tassach. ‘By wild dogs, perhaps, or even wolves?’

  ‘It’s her dogs,’ said Brocc, hands on hips. ‘Must be.’

  ‘Why are you so certain?’ asked the prince.

  ‘She’s got those long-legged herding hounds. Sprinters. Jumpers. Over the wall in the blink of an eye. Besides, woman trying to farm on her own, stands to reason.’

  Prince Oran’s eyes narrowed just a little. If I’d been Brocc I would have been starting to feel uneasy at this point. ‘What exactly stands to reason, Brocc?’

  ‘Bound to be slip-ups, errors, things going wrong. Too much for a woman, keeping up a big place like that.’

  ‘That is opinion, not fact,’ said the prince, ‘and irrelevant to the matter in hand, though I know Niall thinks highly of Cliona’s breeding stock; we’ve acquired some of her young ewes for our home farm, I believe.’ He glanced over at a tall man clad in the household colours, and the man gave a nod and a half-smile. ‘Brocc, unfortunate as your losses are, without further evidence this cannot be proven one way or the other. I assume you are seeking compensation. On the basis of what we know to be fact, there are insufficient grounds for me to rule that Cliona should pay it.’

  I agreed with him. But I could see how a failure to resolve this type of petty dispute might lead to unrest in the district, with a continuing series of challenges and counter-challenges setting neighbour against neighbour.

  ‘May I speak, Prince Oran?’

  It was the richly dressed lady with the lap dog. She put the creature down and rose to her feet. Murmurs from the assembled crowd; this was as much of a surprise to them as it was to me.

  ‘Please do, Lady Sochla.’ The prince looked toward the crowd. ‘My aunt is a renowned breeder of terriers, and something of an expert on canine behaviour.’

  ‘You say this can’t be proven one way or the other,’ said Lady Sochla. The prince’s aunt; that made her a sister to the king or queen, and went a long way to explaining her authoritative manner. ‘But if the attack took place such a short time ago, and if you have the surviving ewe in your barn, Brocc, I believe it can be. Were the dead ewes butchered for the pot? What became of the skins?’

  ‘I’ve got the skins, my lady,’ Brocc said. ‘But a bite’s a bite. One big dog’s the same as another. Makes no difference if it’s a wolf or a herding dog.’

  ‘To you, perhaps not.’ Lady Sochla managed to convey that she thought him something of a fool. ‘Show me the skins, show me the injured ewe, and show me this lady’s farm dogs, and I’ll tell you if they did it. I can’t help you any further if they didn’t; I’m not planning to examine the teeth of every dog in the district and then start on the wolves.’ A ripple of laughter from the crowd. ‘But if her animals were responsible for the attack, I can confirm it. I’ve done this many times before.’

  A short silence. Cliona looked at Brocc; Brocc looked at Cliona.

  ‘Haven’t got time to mess about with all that,’ Brocc said. ‘I need compensation now. She should be made to pay up.’

  ‘Let’s get this quite clear,’ said the prince. ‘Cliona, are you prepared to have Lady Sochla attend your farm and examine your dogs’ teeth?’

  ‘None of us has got spare time,’ said Cliona. ‘But if that’s what it takes to prove this fool wrong, then yes.’ She hesitated. ‘Nobody likes to lose their stock; nobody likes to see a sheep mauled. It’s a cruel way for them to go.’ She glanced at Lady Sochla. ‘Pity you can’t find out whose dogs really did this,’ she said. ‘Seems to me, my lord, that what matters is making sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘Wisely spoken,’ said the prince. ‘I believe we have a choice. We can accept Lady Sochla’s offer to examine the evidence and give us an answer. That would mean the matter could not be resolved today and any compensation would be determined at a later date, probably at the next council. It would also mean that, should Lady Sochla find that Cliona’s dogs were not responsible, there would be no compensation payable unless the true culprits were discovered, and then only if their ownership was known.’ He drew breath; looked gravely at one party then the other. ‘Or we can compromise in the interests of maintaining goodwill in the community. Cliona sells Brocc his first choice of her ewe lambs next season, at a fair price. Niall compensates him for the second sheep with one from our home farm, with no payment required. Brocc, in his turn, ensures his fine breeding animals are not left out overnight in a pasture with walls low enough to admit dogs, wolves or other predators. If you do not do attend to that, Brocc, then you’ll have no justification for bringing any further complaints of this kind to the council. I’ll allow you a little time to think about this.’

  Lady Sochla resumed her seat. She picked up the lap dog and settled it on her knee again. I found myself impressed by her forthright manner; it seemed that in her case, at least, power and privilege had not got in the way of common sense. As for the prince’s judgement, it was not at all what I had expected, and made me wonder if he knew something about this case that he was not making public. Had that last part meant Brocc had a history of bringing complaints? Perhaps an ongoing resentment toward this female neighbour who, for all his derogatory remarks, sounded to be doing quite well as a sheep farmer?

  I imagined Mathuin of Laois confronted with the same issue. He’d have found Cliona guilty at the drop of a hat, made her pay, and laughed her out of the council while he was doing so. Or done to her what he had done to me.

  The parties had conferred; the buzz in the hall died down as the steward gestured for quiet.

  ‘Cliona?’ asked the prince.

  ‘I’m happy to go either way, my lord,’ she said. ‘But I’m busy. We all are. Easier to sell him a lamb than check the skins and the teeth and all. And save the lady a lot of bother. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing how she does it.’

  ‘Brocc?’

  ‘The ewe from your home farm, my lord – you talking about a breeder for this season, or a spring lamb?’

  ‘Whichever you prefer, Brocc. It is a generous offer; do not undervalue it.’

  ‘No, my lord.’ Brocc scratched his head; shuffled his feet a little. ‘I’ll accept the compromise, my lord.’ He shot a glance at Cliona. ‘But I want her dogs kept in. I don’t want them coming onto –’

  ‘Enough.’ The prince’s tone, quiet as it was, silenced the complaint instantly. ‘You accept the compromise, and with that you cease this kind of talk. Cliona has told us her dogs are kennelled by dusk, and she’ll make sure that is so. You’ve agreed to improve your sheepfold, and you will do it as soon as possible. You’re being compensated to an extent. And we’ve saved my aunt some work, though I, too, confess that I would have found it interesting to observe your method, Lady Sochla.’ He smiled at the lady. ‘Very well, this matter is concluded; Niall will speak to you about the ewe, Brocc. Aedan, what’s next?’

  More disputes were heard, grievances aired, points of law clarified by the visiting experts. And then, at last, Aedan directed the guards to bring out Branoc the baker.

  The prisoner was haggard, with a stubbly growth of dark beard. There were colourful bruises on his neck, legacy of his not-so-gentle capture in the woods. If I had not managed to drag myself out of my nightmare that day and go after Grim, he would have killed Branoc with his bare hands. He’d wanted to, that was plain. The irony of it was, I’d run after him thinking to support and protect him. I hadn’t thought I’d need to stop him from c
ommitting murder.

  Branoc cast the three of us a glance; his eyes lingered on Emer, and I heard her draw in a breath. The baker had a burly guard on either side, and his wrists were shackled. He wouldn’t be going far.

  ‘This is a very serious matter,’ Prince Oran said, ‘and already well known to the communities of both Silverlake and Winterfalls, I’m told. I remind all parties that today’s hearing is of the facts, not the gossip and rumour surrounding them. I have studied all the information to hand, and so have our two learned friends, Master Tassach and Master Cael. Master Cael’s role will be to interpret this in terms of the law and to ensure our proceedings and our judgement comply with that law in every respect. Master Tassach has discussed the matter in question with Branoc and has advised the accused of his rights. He will, as required by law, speak in Branoc’s defence.’

  A rumble of protest from the crowd indicated what they thought of this. Donagan lifted a hand and the noise died down.

  ‘I will judge with fairness and impartiality, taking all the facts into consideration,’ Prince Oran said. ‘This is a complex case, and if any element of it cannot be resolved today, it will be held over to the next council.’

  Get on with it, I thought, though in fact this kind of preamble was usual in a council; even Mathuin had expressed worthy intentions before he condemned both the guilty and the innocent to his wretched piss-hole of a lockup. Emer was shivering. I took her hand again.

  ‘Master Cael, will you read out the charges against Branoc?’

  Master Cael stood up. He was not a tall man, but he had an air of calm authority that told me he had been presiding over proceedings like this for years. ‘Branoc, you are charged with the following: that on or around the day on which Ernan, the miller from Silverlake, died of a head injury at his mill, you abducted Ernan’s daughter Ness, aged sixteen, and imprisoned her in your barn. There you subjected her to various indignities, including beatings and worse, while concealing her presence from the entire community. In addition, you are charged with setting fire to a cottage at Dreamer’s Wood, the residence of Mistress Blackthorn, the healer.’

  Branoc attempted a toss of the head, as if to say, rubbish. One of the guards cuffed him on the ear.

  ‘And further, you are under suspicion for the murder of Ernan the miller, whose death was assumed at the time to be accidental. The circumstances of Ernan’s demise are still under investigation, and that matter will be not be heard today.’ Master Cael looked up from the document. His gaze was level; his expression was expertly guarded. ‘Branoc, if you are guilty of these crimes, you should admit it now and spare witnesses the need to revisit these disturbing events.’

  Did I detect a sigh of disappointment from the crowd? To folk who did not know Ness well, or who did not realise what it would cost Emer to speak up today, this might seem like good entertainment. A story full of drama, and none of it quite real.

  ‘Admit to crimes I did not commit? Why would I do such a thing? It is lies. Nothing but lies.’ Branoc was all defiance. He squared his shoulders, and a grimace of pain passed over his features. That day at his house I had felt the knotted muscles, tightened by repeated kneading and stirring. When he’d had me in his grip, I’d aimed my head right for the spot where it would hurt him most.

  ‘Branoc does not wish to make a confession,’ said Master Tassach calmly. ‘The evidence, such as it is, should be heard in full. It is possible, otherwise, that statements may be accepted that are mere heresay or outright untruths.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Master Cael, ‘we will proceed with statements from the witnesses. Branoc, be seated.’

  The guards took Branoc to a bench and he sat, with a man on either side. Master Cael looked toward the three of us.

  ‘Mistress Blackthorn, we will hear your account first. Step forward, please.’

  You are not in Laois now. This is not Mathuin. Do this for Ness. Do it for all those women who had no voice.

  ‘Mistress Blackthorn?’

  I stood up. Stepped forward. Cleared my throat and found my voice. ‘Some time ago, Emer here told me a story that may be familiar to you. Her friend Ness had disappeared, and it was generally believed that she had run away to be with her sweetheart, one of the travellers. Folk also said Ness had stolen her father’s life savings.

  ‘The night Ness vanished, her father, the miller Ernan from Silverlake, was killed in what appeared to be a freak accident, crushed by his own grindstone. Folk said he was careless because of his grief over what his daughter had done. Emer told me she couldn’t believe that version of events. She knew her friend well. She said Ness was loyal to her father and would never leave home without his blessing.’

  Emer, snow-pale, gave me an encouraging nod. Grim had his gaze fixed on me; he managed a little smile.

  ‘Some time later, Grim found a kerchief on the cart he had used to deliver a load of flour to Branoc’s premises. He thought it was mine – it is very similar to one I own – and made nothing of it. But eventually we noticed there were two kerchiefs in our house where there had been only one, and that one of them bore an embroidered inscription: A loves N. It was a lover’s token. Such items can be purchased at the travellers’ markets.’

  I took the two red kerchiefs out of my pouch and walked over to the table to lay them before the prince.

  ‘It came out, then,’ I said, ‘that on the day when Grim had delivered the load of flour, he had heard noises from Branoc’s barn, from up in the loft. Perhaps Grim should tell the next part of this story.’

  ‘Lies!’ shouted Branoc, struggling to rise. His guards shoved him back down. ‘It’s all lies! These folk are nothing but meddlers!’

  ‘Be silent,’ said Prince Oran. ‘In due course you will be given an opportunity to respond to these statements, or Master Tassach will do so on your behalf. Any further interruptions, and you will be removed immediately from this hall. If that occurs, you will lose your chance to hear the evidence against you. Do I make myself clear?’

  Branoc grumbled something that might have been, ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Grim, we’ll hear from you,’ said Master Cael. ‘Tell us what happened that day at Branoc’s barn.’

  Grim rose to his feet. He had his hands clasped together in front of him; perhaps only I knew that this was to prevent the shaking from being visible. He, too, had had his day in front of Mathuin; his time of humiliation and despair. ‘Heard a sort of shuffling up in the loft,’ he said. ‘Made a joke about rats, saying I’d bring Branoc a cat along with his flour next time. He didn’t like that at all, got snappy with me. And he didn’t want me carrying the bags up there, though it would have saved him a lot of work. Loft looked the right place to store the flour; downstairs was a bit damp.’

  ‘It wasn’t until much later that we put the pieces together,’ I said. ‘It seemed possible the kerchief might have been dropped down onto the cart from Branoc’s loft, through a crack in the floor or between the shutters. Once we thought of that, it all seemed to fit, in a way that troubled me. The kerchief, very likely a gift from a traveller boy to his sweetheart. A loves N. Then there were the noises up in the loft and Branoc getting annoyed with Grim for mentioning them. Branoc not wanting Grim to go up there. He even took the ladder away.’

  ‘This pointed to a possible abduction,’ Prince Oran said. ‘But you chose not to bring it to me.’

  I wanted to tell him I had no cause to trust princes and the like, especially where the plight of abused women was concerned. But that argument wasn’t going to help anyone. ‘I suspected Branoc might have a prisoner up there,’ I said, keeping my gaze on the calm features of the prince and the wise ones of the two lawmen, and telling myself that perhaps not all men in positions of authority were like Mathuin. ‘But there was not enough evidence to bring it to your attention, my lord, or to anyone’s. I believed, rightly or wrongly, that you might dismiss my concerns as being witho
ut foundation. Emer had told folk in both Winterfalls or Silverlake that Ness wouldn’t have run away, and nobody had believed her. The evidence was flimsy; there was no proof the kerchief came from Branoc’s. Nor did I know, then, the name of Ness’s sweetheart. We might have made a big fuss, all for nothing.

  ‘But we knew that if we were right, that young girl must be suffering unspeakable misery. We weren’t going to leave her in that loft any longer than we had to. So we went straight over there to find out for ourselves.’

  The audience was hanging on our words now; I felt a hunger in the hall that was quite disturbing. I wanted to elbow my way out and take my companions with me, leaving the community to deal with Branoc. But I could not do that. I hadn’t had much justice in the past. At least, today, I could help deliver justice for Ness.

  ‘Grim?’ said the prince.

  Grim gave an account of our visit to the bakery, and how he had found Ness in the loft and rescued her. I told my side of that day’s story – how I’d used Branoc’s sore shoulders as an excuse to keep him out of the way while Grim rescued Ness; Branoc’s fury when he realised his captive had been freed; his assault on me and his escape.

  ‘Ness’s injuries are very serious,’ I said. Just how serious, most of these folk could scarcely imagine; Ness had been lucky to survive. She would never be as she had been: a good daughter who had kept house for her widowed father, a lively young woman who had loved to go dancing. ‘I can provide you with further details, my lord, but I will not do so publicly. I am a healer. I confirm that Ness was beaten, abused and robbed of her innocence while kept prisoner. Denied the basic comforts of life. Kept compliant with threats. Ness’s physical wounds will mend in time. But there are deeper hurts that may never heal. I remind you that she is just sixteen years old.’