You’d think they’d have called someone already, with the headaches so bad and all. But I’m not the healer, so I keep quiet. And so does the prince. He’s stroking the dog and looking as if he wants to be somewhere else. Which makes three of us, I’m guessing.
‘This is more than the headaches, isn’t it, my lord?’ Blackthorn’s sounding almost kindly, which is a surprise. ‘In my experience, sometimes it’s easier to get these things out if you make them into a tale. We’ll hold our counsel until you’re done.’
That’s what he needed, seems like. Out comes the story, and it’s nothing we would have expected. A tale like one of those old ones, true love, magic, tears and sorrow, everything. Seems Prince Oran fell in love with Lady Flidais’s picture. Then they wrote letters. Love letters. Only when he met the real lady she wasn’t what he expected. Or, she was in looks, but not in much else. One thing’s plain: the prince is deep-down unhappy.
‘You know what I’ll say,’ says Blackthorn when the story’s finished.
‘That it is all in my mind. That such disappointments are common in arranged marriages, which are made for reasons of strategy, not love. That I should be glad my betrothed is young, healthy and pleasant to look upon. I understand those arguments. I know I was foolish to expect more. But . . . her letters . . . I cannot believe they were not heartfelt. And I cannot believe that Flidais, as she is now, could have written them.’
‘Your lady is a chieftain’s daughter,’ Blackthorn says. I hear in her voice that she’s being careful. It’s awkward to talk about this without seeming to insult the lady, and folk get punished for a lot less than that. ‘Chieftains have scribes. Skilful ones.’
‘The letters were . . . poetic. And personal. Very personal.’
‘How long did you say it was until the hand-fasting?’
Oran holds the dog against his chest; it stretches up and gives him a lick on the chin. ‘Just over one turning of the moon.’
‘And what exactly are you hoping we can do? Are you suggesting the lady is here under false pretences? That this is an imposter?’
‘She cannot be.’ His voice is flat. ‘She is the image of her portrait, and that came from her father to mine. Besides, she travelled here with her own folk and none of them has mentioned anything amiss. The only oddity is . . .’ His face goes red.
‘What?’ If Blackthorn has noticed he’s embarrassed, she’s not showing it.
‘Bramble,’ says the prince, looking at the dog. I’m sure he was going to say something else and changed his mind. ‘In the portrait, and in the letters, Flidais was devoted to her little dog. Bramble went everywhere with her. Slept on her bed; loved to go for long walks in the woods. But Bramble’s behaviour changed from the day they arrived here. She seems in great fear of Flidais. She has bitten her more than once. And Flidais wants nothing to do with her. My aunt, Lady Sochla, has been caring for the dog.’
‘Bramble seems to like you well enough,’ Blackthorn says.
The prince doesn’t answer for a bit. He’s fondling the dog’s ears, looking at her, not at us. Then he says, ‘She reminds me of the dream. The dream that Flidais and I would be happy together. In the portrait, Flidais was holding Bramble so tenderly. It touched my heart from the first glance.’
I’m thinking this man’s far too soft to be a prince. But then I remember the council and how he spoke to Branoc, and I think, it takes a brave man to admit he’s got a weak spot.
‘My mother has been urging me to wed for several years now,’ he says. ‘I refused a number of suitable women who were suggested. I insisted on waiting for the right one; for someone I could love, someone I could be truly happy with. I loved the portrait, but I did exercise some caution. Hence the correspondence. Flidais’s letters won me over completely. So the marriage was agreed, and she came here. And from our first encounter I found myself . . . confused. Surprised. As time has passed, that confusion has become a deep and unsettling doubt. The hand-fasting is drawing ever closer. Lady Flidais’s parents are in a difficult situation, with a powerful neighbour threatening their holdings; she cannot be despatched home, and even if she could, I have no real grounds for taking such drastic action. I remind myself, daily, that if I had not been so insistent on marrying this particular woman, I would not be in such difficulty now. And neither would she.’
‘Have you spoken to Lady Flidais about your doubts?’ Blackthorn asks.
‘What could I possibly say?’
There’s a silence, then she says, ‘Prince Oran, are you asking me to spy on your betrothed?’
‘I don’t know,’ says the prince. ‘I don’t know what it will take to find the truth.’
‘The truth might be that you made a mistake.’ Blackthorn says it straight, not trying to sweeten things. ‘That your hopes and dreams didn’t match up with the reality.’
Prince Oran’s looking like a ghost. He’s looking like the saddest man in the world. Seems to me he’d be better off without the lady. From what I’ve seen of her, I’d be guessing they’re not much of a match.
‘Yes, that is possible,’ he says. ‘I almost believe it. But not quite. Something is wrong, Mistress Blackthorn. Deeply wrong. Lady Flidais . . . She does not behave at all like the woman I was expecting. Not at all.’
‘In what respects?’ Blackthorn asks.
The prince doesn’t answer. The silence goes on, and I’m wondering what the lady might be doing that isn’t very ladylike. Things her own folk must be keeping quiet about. Because he said they hadn’t mentioned anything being out of the usual.
‘If you want me to investigate this,’ says Blackthorn, ‘you need to give me all the relevant information, my lord.’ And when he still doesn’t, she says, ‘I’m not asking these questions to embarrass or shame you or Lady Flidais. I have no reason to do that. Let’s start with something easy. You said the headaches are stopping her from reading and writing. But not all ladies enjoy scholarship.’
‘Flidais does. Did. The letters . . . She wrote poems, beautiful poems. And we shared a love of old tales. She has completely lost her interest in such things. I understand about the headaches. But the Flidais of the letters would still have wanted to talk about poetry and tales, and perhaps to have me read to her. And . . . there was a certain book, Lucian’s Bestiary, which we discussed at some length in our correspondence. A book held in her father’s library; a volume she particularly loved. I had a perfect copy made as her wedding gift. When I gave it to her, she did not know what it was.’
‘Odd,’ observed Blackthorn. ‘You’re convinced a scribe did not pen those letters for Lady Flidais, my lord?’
‘I’m not sure of anything. Her last letter was written when she was far from home, and far from her father’s scribe, and it was in the same mode and the same hand as the others. You may think I am clutching at straws.’ This fellow’s lost his dreams, and it’s broken his heart. Doesn’t know how lucky he’s been to keep them until he was a man grown. ‘But something’s wrong,’ he goes on. ‘I feel it in my bones. Something strange has happened. So strange it seems almost . . . uncanny. I owe it to . . . I owe it to what might have been, to seek out the truth.’
‘May I look at Lady Flidais’s letters?’ Blackthorn asks, straight out.
‘I burned them.’
That’s a surprise. Blackthorn gives him a look, as if she thinks he’s a silly boy, and he says, ‘All but one.’ And fishes it out of the pouch at his belt, which is not so easy with the dog lying on his knee. ‘Don’t ask me to read it,’ Prince Oran says. He sounds as if he might cry, but he doesn’t. He’s a prince, after all. Letter looks a bit the worse for wear. He passes it over.
‘Why did you burn the others?’ Blackthorn asks.
‘There was a time . . . a moment . . . when I . . .’
‘Never mind that.’ She’s reading the letter. The look on her face says she’s interested now.
; ‘Long walk for a little dog,’ I say to the prince, to fill in the silence.
He manages a smile. ‘Bramble loves her walks. My aunt says that is typical of terriers.’ Bramble lifts her head and takes a good look at me. Pretty little thing. I go over and squat down beside the prince. Could be useful to find out if Bramble’s a biter, or if the only person she snaps at is Lady Flidais. When the dog doesn’t growl, I reach out a hand, slowly, and she gives my fingers a good sniff. I tickle her behind the ears. She pushes her head against my hand, almost like a cat.
‘Seems friendly enough.’
Prince Oran nods. ‘To those whom she trusts, yes.’
‘My lord,’ says Blackthorn, with the letter in her hands, ‘you know I’ll have to talk to Lady Flidais. And to her women. And to many other folk in your household. Any reasonable person will be asking questions about why I’m in and out of your house every day, even if I say I’m trying to find a cure for the lady’s headaches. Besides, that’s not going to work if Lady Flidais doesn’t want me tending to her.’
‘Ah,’ said the prince. ‘But won’t the two of you be looking for somewhere to stay while your cottage is being rebuilt? I understand the arrangement with Fraoch is only for the short term. I can accommodate you here; it would be an appropriate gesture of thanks. And if you are here, in the house, you’ll be perfectly placed to . . .’
‘Spy?’ Blackthorn sounds the way I feel, very uncomfortable with this idea. Though it makes sense.
‘To talk, in a natural way, with those others you mentioned, Flidais’s waiting women, my own folk. That should give you time to win Flidais’s trust.’
‘Just over a turning of the moon, I think you said.’ Blackthorn’s frowning. ‘You expect a lot of us.’
‘It would not be necessary for Grim to be here all the time; he could continue his work on the cottage. Even stay elsewhere, if you prefer.’ Prince Oran gives me a glance, and looks a bit surprised. What I’m thinking must be written all over my face. If I’m not with her, I won’t sleep. If I can’t sleep how can I do a good job on the cottage? Anyway, I’d worry about her, is she all right, who’s looking out for her and so on. Not that I want to stay here either. But it’s not for me to say yes or no.
‘No,’ says Blackthorn. ‘If you want answers in one turning of the moon, you need both of us. I didn’t solve the puzzle of Ness’s disappearance on my own. Besides, we need to talk to the men of the household too, in particular the guards who rode here with Lady Flidais. That’s best done in casual conversation, and they’re more likely to talk to Grim than to me.’ She looks at me. ‘You can still go and work on the cottage some of the time. And it’s not as if we’ve had no offers of help.’
‘Niall has one of the farm cottages vacant,’ the prince says. ‘That would allow you some privacy.’
That’s good. A cottage to ourselves means we can shut the door on the prince’s folk when we’ve had enough.
‘I must clarify,’ he goes on. ‘Flidais and I will be expected to travel to court at least seven days before the hand-fasting, perhaps earlier. So we have something less than a full turning of the moon. After that it would be too late to . . . to change the plan.’
‘Just as long as you understand,’ says Blackthorn, ‘that the answers we give you might not be the ones you want.’
‘I accept that,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘I know you’ll do your best.’
‘About the offer of a cottage to stay in,’ Blackthorn says. ‘That won’t do. With so little time to solve the problem, I’ll need to be sleeping in the women’s quarters. And Grim will have to be somewhere he can talk to the guards when they’re off duty.’
Wish she wasn’t right, but she is. If we want to hear secrets we have to get in there next to the prince’s folk. Make friends of them. Blackthorn’s going to love that. It’s Fraoch’s place all over again, only with ten times more people and no getting away.
‘Of course,’ says the prince, putting Bramble down. ‘You can be accommodated; I’ll have a word to Aedan. It’s understood, is it not, that what we have just discussed will not be aired before anyone else? That includes not only my household but the wider community. And my family.’
‘It’s understood,’ Blackthorn says. ‘Though I might come close once or twice. To get answers, sometimes you have to take risks. Especially when time’s short, my lord.’
‘Very well. I appreciate your discretion. You’ll be wanting to go and collect your belongings from the smithy. Let me know if you need assistance. When you return, ask for Aedan.’
There’s been no more sign of Donagan. Seems his job was to go and fetch us then make himself scarce. Wonder if he’s been let into the secret, and if not why not.
Blackthorn looks at me. ‘Grim needs to work on the cottage today, to take advantage of the weather. And I must gather herbs in the wood. We’ll move here after supper. There’s nothing much to bring.’
‘We can find our own way out,’ I say. Got a heavy feeling in my chest.
‘I’ll bid you good morning, then. And I will speak with you again soon. Mistress Blackthorn, I understand that your work will sometimes take you out into the community during this period. Of course you must continue that. But I believe that once you are in residence here, the folk of my household will consult you more regularly. Opportunities to talk to them in confidence may be quite easy to find.’
‘Maybe so, maybe not,’ she says. ‘Best if you leave us to get on with the job, my lord, and if we have questions, or something to report, we’ll find a way to let you know. You might need to develop a mysterious ailment.’
It’s a joke, but the prince doesn’t smile. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘For believing in this enough to try.’
‘Just one question,’ I say.
‘Yes, Grim?’
‘Does anyone else know about this? Your problem, I mean, and why we’ll be here?’
Now he does smile, but it’s the sad smile of a man who’s all alone with his troubles.
‘Only Bramble,’ Prince Oran says. ‘And she can be relied upon not to tell.’
27
~BLACKTHORN~
I cursed Conmael for the seven years of obedience he’d bound me to, and I cursed the prince for seeking my help. The mystery of Lady Flidais was all very well; I’d do my best to solve it, even if the whole thing ended with me telling the prince what he didn’t want to hear. I was even somewhat interested. The letter wasn’t the kind of thing any scribe would pen with ease; whoever had written it was at least half a poet. And if anything was sure, it was that the young woman I’d encountered that first day in Dreamer’s Wood, the woman I’d heard at the council suggesting Ness might have lied to Emer, could not have written such a letter. There was no pretence in it, no contrivance. It was sweet, romantic and a little tentative, the outpouring of a young girl who loved her dog and old tales and walks in the woods, a girl who was not yet quite sure whether to trust the man who seemed to be offering her not only a marriage that would one day make her a queen, but his heart along with it. If I were asked to say what sort of woman had written that letter, I’d have said a woman who believed in dreams; a woman who was very like Prince Oran himself. I had to admit that the whole thing was intriguing.
It was the way I’d have to go about it that I hated. Too many folk, too close, too loud. Prince Oran’s residence was swarming with them. I cursed myself for not accepting the farm cottage, even as I knew that if I wanted people to drop their guard with me – or with Grim – this was the only way. Especially with time so short. Pity I wasn’t a different person, one who liked mending and embroidery and wasting half the day gossiping. Pity I didn’t enjoy the company of fools.
The women’s quarters had a degree of comfort that was little short of ridiculous. The place was vast, almost another house in itself, with a long sleeping chamber for serving folk and attendants – this was where I had been al
located a bed – and a separate, private area for Lady Flidais and Lady Sochla. Flidais had her personal maid, Mhairi, sleeping in an alcove near her. Lady Sochla had brought a number of maidservants with her from court, including her own attendant, Sinead. Sinead slept in the communal area with the rest of us. Sometimes she walked, fed or brushed the dog, Bramble. Sometimes she helped Lady Sochla to dress, but the prince’s aunt was an early riser and fiercely independent. Like her mistress, Sinead seemed a sensible person, someone who might answer questions without leaping to all manner of conclusions. But since she and Lady Sochla had only known Flidais since her arrival at Winterfalls, they would not be much help to me.
It seemed sensible to start with the three handmaids Flidais had brought with her from Cloud Hill, if I could get them to talk. Mhairi had evidently become Flidais’s personal attendant after the other one, Ciar, drowned in Dreamer’s Pool. She and Flidais seemed very close. The other two were Deirdre, the woman who had spoken kindly to me on the day of the drowning, and the older Nuala. Between them they looked after the lady’s wardrobe, ran to fetch things when she asked for them, made conversation to keep her entertained during the long hours spent over handiwork, and generally made sure her day ran as smoothly as it could.
Nuala’s husband, Domnall, was leader of the men-at-arms who had travelled in Flidais’s party, but for now the two of them were sleeping apart. That was apparently quite usual in households such as the prince’s; you took your opportunities where you could, and hoped that in time a cottage or other married quarters might become available. The prince’s offer of private accommodation for me and Grim had been more generous than I’d realised. If we’d accepted, we’d no doubt have put a few folk’s noses out of joint.
There were levels of authority in the prince’s household, and they took me a while to work out. Him at the top, of course, though he didn’t go around giving orders – things ran smoothly without any need for that. Lady Flidais and Lady Sochla were family, folk of noble birth. Then came Donagan – both servant and friend, only a step away from the prince himself. Aedan the steward had responsibility for the smooth daily running of the entire household, and was assisted by his wife, Fíona. Brid ruled the kitchen; Niall was in charge of a great body of farm workers; the grooms and stable hands answered to the cantankerous Eochu. The guards were led by a big man called Lochlan, Prince Oran’s master-at-arms. At the bottom of the heap were ordinary servants such as kitchen workers, seamstresses, folk who scrubbed floors or dug the garden or looked after the cows. Lady Flidais’s waiting women seemed to believe themselves on much the same level as Donagan, superior to all but the prince’s blood kin. That made approaching them tricky.
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