“Good idea.” She’s made it all right to speak out. I wonder if she’s inherited some special skills from her wisewoman mother. Mistress Juniper often had a surprising insight into my thoughts, and I daresay Mistress Blackthorn is the same. “I’d be glad even of some horse liniment. I’ll take more care how I sit tomorrow.”
“Stack those platters for me, will you, and I’ll take them when I go.”
I manage the job without dropping anything or cutting myself on the knife. “Here.”
“Thanks. Bolt the door. I’ll knock three times when I get back. You don’t want uninvited guests. Though you dealt with your brother pretty well, I thought. Quick response, remarkably accurate. Not that I’d advise doing that sort of thing again unless you’re in fear for your life. As you said, he’ll remember every word. And every move.”
I don’t point out that she was the one I feared for in that moment. “Go, then.”
Nobody comes; for today, it seems my brother has had enough of me. I ponder the fact that Liobhan has left her bag here with her knives in it, and that I could make good use of them before she returns. But a promise is a promise. Besides, I can imagine what Seanan would make of my blood-soaked corpse being found in this comfortable chamber where Liobhan and I have just enjoyed supper before the fire. She’d be blamed, she’d be found guilty, she’d be the one strung up from the nearest tree, and Seanan would laugh as he watched, having rid himself of us both with minimal effort. This sends my thoughts down an unwelcome path. A pox on my wretched family! I can sit here and let the shadows overwhelm me, or I can get up and do something. Bend, stretch, make this aching body work for me. Be a warrior. Hah!
As I work my body through a modified version of the exercises Archu taught us—I am in a confined space and must avoid breaking things—I think of Snow and I think of Liobhan. My brothers always knew how to torment me. They were quick to identify a weakness and exploit it to the fullest. I loved Snow, and they turned that love into a tool to break me. If Garalt had not left that household when he did, they would have used the bond between us in the same way. I hear a similar intention in Seanan’s voice as he speaks to Liobhan. I can’t let that happen. Liobhan and I must don new masks, the masks of folk who care nothing for each other. She will work out her year of servitude and return to Swan Island. Until that happens, I will do my best to stay out of her way. I will be coolly courteous, no more. I will not play Seanan’s foul games. A year in my father’s house. May the time pass quickly.
Liobhan comes back. At her knock I unbolt the outer door then retreat to the main chamber. She and a servingman bring things into the anteroom; I hear the clanking of buckets, the sloshing of water. Liobhan tells him she’ll put the items outside the door later and her helper departs. I realize, listening, that I don’t want to lose whatever it was that held us in its spell as we sat before the fire. Mistress Juniper would have a name for it. It was a good thing. It was like the feeling I have when Liobhan sings, something deep and sure. It was like an anchor or the strong roots of an oak. I cannot bring myself to be cold to her. Not yet. Not tonight.
My companion is busy; the sounds suggest she is filling some kind of bath. “You go first, Dau,” she calls through the open doorway. “Come through, I’ll show you where everything is.”
I make my way into the anteroom.
“Here’s the tub,” Liobhan says. “Though it’s more of a shallow pan. There’s a stool here with soap and a brush. A scoop for rinsing. And over here on the shelf is a cloth for drying yourself.”
“Thank you. I’m sweaty; I stink. You should go first.”
“Bollocks. You go first. I’ll be in the other room. Not looking until you have your clothes back on. I didn’t see a nightshirt in that bag. What do you want me to fetch?”
I’m accustomed to sleeping in nothing at all. “Shirt and breeches, I suppose. They’ll have to do for tomorrow as well.”
She finds them, brings them in. “Here. Call me if you need anything. I’m not talking about personal services such as having your back scrubbed, you understand. My nursing assistance goes only so far.”
I strip and wash; it feels good after the long day. In the other room, Liobhan is quiet. Until I’m getting dressed.
“Dau?”
“Mm?”
“I could offer to keep doing this after we get there. Be a sort of assistant to you, I mean. I know your father may have a resident healer, but you won’t need that sort of expertise all the time.”
I’m astonished by how badly I want to say yes to this. The fire and the food and the good company are even more dangerous than I thought. “That’s not a good idea,” I say, donning the shirt with some difficulty. Why are the armholes so hard to find?
“No? It sounds practical to me. Your father would get my moderately expert services for free. And it would keep me out of people’s way.”
“It wouldn’t get you out of the way, it would put you right in the middle of my family, which is not a place you want to be, believe me. Besides, you’re the last person they’ll listen to. Don’t suggest anything. Make yourself as unobtrusive as possible.” I picture Liobhan’s tall, athletic form, her flowing red-gold hair, her vivid expressions, and know I’m talking rubbish. “Bath’s free,” I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “The floor got a bit wet.”
We exchange places. She bathes, I sit before the fire. We seem to have run out of things to say. After a while I hear splashing sounds as she scoops the water back into the buckets, then metallic ones as she hefts everything back out into the hallway. The outer door closes.
“If the floor wasn’t sopping wet before,” Liobhan says, “it is now.”
The anteroom was already getting cold when I bathed. With the fire banked up, this room will be far warmer. As Liobhan comes back through, treading so lightly she must be barefoot, I say, “Bring your bedding in here. There’s room in front of the fire. It’s not as if we haven’t shared close quarters before.” I recall a night spent in an outbuilding at the court of Breifne, and Liobhan falling heavily asleep with her head on my knee.
“I’ll be all right out there. If your family is so terrible, I may need to get used to sleeping somewhere cold and damp.”
“It’s no laughing matter. Please. Bring your bedding in and sleep before the fire. Or take this bed and I’ll sleep on the pallet.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Liobhan says, but she sounds as if she’s smiling. “What would your brother think? All right, I’ll sleep on the floor in here. It does make sense for both of us to get a good night’s rest. Another long day tomorrow, and who knows where they’ll put us after that.”
She settles by the fire. I lie down on the soft bed, knowing I’m exhausted and need to sleep, but unable to still my tumbling thoughts. I try to think of good things, but instead my head is full of dark imaginings. I cannot see the future in Oakhill. I cannot imagine what they will do with me. They never wanted me, even when I was whole and healthy. I was a daily reminder of my mother’s death. Why are they bringing me home now that I am nothing but a burden? And what might my brothers do to Liobhan? I remember Garalt, who found me one day with a noose around my neck, ready to kick away the stool I balanced on. Garalt, who saved my life and my sanity, who found me a safe haven, who taught me hope. What price that hope now? I remember Snow, and I think of Seanan’s laughing reference to dogs. My jaw aches; my head throbs. I can’t stop grinding my teeth. I turn one way then the other; I can’t keep still. I listen to Liobhan’s steady breathing. I can’t wake her. I won’t wake her. But it’s so dark. It’s like the darkness when my brothers shut me in the root cellar and left me there; it’s like the darkness when they stuffed me into the old oak chest and said they’d kill me if I made any noise. It feels like the end of the world. I wish it was the end of the world. Let it stop, let it stop . . .
I wake. Heart nearly jumping out of my chest. Head screaming. Body tight
as a coiled spring, everything hurting.
Someone holding my hand. Someone singing in the dark.
Often he mourned the loss of light
The blaze of sun, the candle bright
Yet there was joy in touch and sound
The wet nose of a loyal hound
The joyful laughter of a child
The cry of birds in forest wild
A lover’s kiss, a friend’s strong arm
To shield him, safe from . . .
She falters; the song ends. “You’re awake.”
She’s sitting on the bed, her hand in mine. I try to say something, anything, but all I manage is a strangled, meaningless sound. As she releases my hand, I realize my face is wet with tears and my throat hurts nearly as much as my head. I want her to go on singing. I want to lie here and listen and not have to ask if I’ve been shouting or crying or otherwise making an exhibition of myself. I try again, rasping out, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” Liobhan sounds fierce. “Don’t apologize, I can’t deal with that. Stay there while I fetch a cool cloth for your head and set the kettle on the fire. And if you’re worried about making a noise, don’t be. There haven’t been any knocks on the door. Let me fix your pillow—that’s better. Now stay there. I won’t be long.”
I hear her poking the fire, putting more wood on. Pouring water, doing something with the kettle. Going into the anteroom, coming back again. “What was that you were singing?” I ask.
“Made it up as I went along. A lullaby of the ‘Sleep, Little One’ variety didn’t seem appropriate.”
“Sorry I woke you.”
“Stop it! Why do you think I chose to sleep in here? Now I’m bringing you a cool cloth. Lie back again and I’ll put it on your brow, yes, that’s it. Stay like that while I make you a draft. Or better still, I’ll make an ordinary brew, something calming, and we’ll share it. It’s a thing I learned growing up. If you’re out of sorts with someone, sharing a brew is always a good idea.”
“Not out of sorts with you,” I murmur. “Only with my wretched body.”
Liobhan says nothing.
“Funny,” I say. “I wanted to hear you sing. But I couldn’t ask.”
“I’ve missed it,” she says after a silence. “And I’ll go on missing it for a while, I imagine. Whatever work I’m supposed to do when we get there, it won’t be music.”
13
LIOBHAN
It’s worse than I expected. When we arrive there’s no sign of family waiting to greet their long-lost son. Instead, as soon as he dismounts Dau is hustled off somewhere by Seanan with a couple of guards following. Beanón and Naithí speak to a man who looks like a steward, then head indoors. Dau’s family home is as substantial as either of the royal establishments I’ve visited. The main house is huge. It sprawls across the center of a well-kept domain, all encircled by a high stone wall. If I ever doubted that the family was wealthy, I doubt it no longer. At some distance there are outbuildings, including stables. Servants are unloading our horses, and grooms are waiting to lead them away. Before I can retrieve my bag or Dau’s I’m confronted by two guards, both armed and both big even by my standards. Like the rest of the men-at-arms here, they’re wearing blue tunics.
“This way,” one of them barks.
“My bag,” I say, holding my ground. “Where did they take it?”
“This way,” the man repeats, seizing my arm. I could wrench free and punch him in the jaw, with a kick for the other fellow, but I resist the urge. They’re obeying orders, I suppose. I breathe slowly and walk on with my escort, away from the house, away from the pretty gardens, down toward the furthest of the outbuildings. Beyond the outer wall I glimpse a stretch of farmland on rising ground and, at a distance, forest. It’s probably good if they put me somewhere away from the house, provided that means away from Dau’s family. I might even be able to play the whistle occasionally. But what about him?
“Down here.”
We pass a stable block with a well-kept courtyard and neatly walled exercise area. We pass a barn, where several men pause in their work to give me a thorough look-over. I could smile. I could stick out my tongue. I could make a crude gesture. Instead, I take careful note of what I see: walls to hide behind; doors to use for escape, should that ever prove necessary; ladders that might be handy for one thing or another. In one field there’s a big bull that doesn’t look friendly. I see an enclosure with geese, and further away there’s a pigeon loft. My companions are grim-faced and silent. They keep up a striding pace, which I match despite my saddle-weariness.
“You’ll be in here, and you’re not to move until someone comes to talk to you.” Here is a hut of mud and wattle, with a thatched roof that’s badly in need of repair. It’s a sad little place that brings to mind the term hovel. The hut stands alone at the edge of a low-lying area, and there’s a smell. Impressive as the main dwelling is, I suspect the drains are not very good; or maybe this is where they empty the contents of the privy. Ah. That’ll be my job, sure as sure.
“Next door to the cesspool.” I can’t hold the words back.
“We’re just following orders. Lord Scannal wants you separate from the household.”
“Would this be your choice of accommodation for a young woman? Your sister, for example?”
“Not for me to say,” the first guard responds, but the other speaks over him.
“It would depend on what she’d done,” he says.
“And what have you been told about that? About why I’m here?” Gods, the smell is truly vile. My father would be horrified. He always did believe in good drains.
“Enough,” says the first man, and I don’t know whether he’s shutting the other one up or making a comment on my misdemeanor, whatever it’s supposed to be. “Go in and stay in until someone comes to fetch you.”
I peer in the doorway of the hut. No lamp. No hearth, which is perhaps just as well considering the hut’s poor state of repair. A crude shelf with one rough blanket. An empty bucket in a corner. No sign of food or drink. No fresh water. I choke back the first comment that comes to mind. They can’t plan to leave me down here. Whoever is coming to talk to me must surely tell me about meals and washing and what work I’ll be expected to do. I’m grubby after another day’s riding and I’m tired. But it doesn’t seem wise to complain.
“Thank you,” I say, striding into the hut only to find the ceiling is so low I can’t quite stand upright. “What about my bag?”
“Can’t answer that question.” The first guard frowns. Perhaps this is the first time he’s seen inside the place. “If you give your word you’ll stay put, we won’t lock the door. The smell’s pretty bad.”
I don’t point out that the smell will still be there whether I’m locked in or not. He’s being kind and probably disobeying orders. “I’ll stay put. If you can, please ask someone about my bag. There are . . . there are things I need in it. Personal things.”
The guard grunts a response that could be anything, and the two of them depart. I see them gesturing to each other as they walk back up the rise. It looks as if they’re arguing, perhaps about what evil deeds I might get up to if I’m not safely under lock and key.
Between the long ride, the stink, and the tide of sadness that would overtake me if I weren’t so angry, I don’t have the least inclination to get up to anything. I’m hungry. But thirst will be the killer. I could walk back up to the stables, where there’ll be a well or a pump. But if someone’s taken a risk on my behalf, even a small one, I don’t want to get him in trouble by taking advantage of it. I do go outside to piss, making sure I’m out of obvious view from those working areas. Now that I’m down on cesspool level, I can’t get much of a view over the wall, which truly is massive. It’s at least as high as the one at the court of Breifne, which was of wooden stakes, not stone. It must have taken an army of fo
lk to build this one. Dau hasn’t said anything about his father’s lands being under threat, disputes with other local chieftains, or anything of the kind. I wonder how long this house has been here.
Back inside, I test whether the smell is worse with the door closed or open and decide it makes no difference. I close it for privacy. It doesn’t lock from the inside. If this really is where I have to stay, I’ll do something about that. I’m not my father’s daughter for nothing.
I lie down on the shelf bed, rolling up my cloak as a pillow. I think about the night when Dau started shouting in his sleep, then screaming, then sobbing, and I held his hand and sang to him until he quieted. For a bit, in the middle of all that, I wished I’d given in to the mad impulse that seized me during today’s ride, to snatch Dau’s reins and gallop off while our escort’s attention was elsewhere. To lose ourselves in the forest before they had time to act. To ride and ride until we found a safe place, and never to go home again. Yes, it was crazy. If we’d tried and Seanan’s men had caught us, the consequences would have been dire. I was tempted, all the same. But I couldn’t do it. I stood up in that hearing and promised I would go to Oakhill for a year. A person doesn’t break that kind of vow. Dau needs the sort of help only a rich man can afford. There’s no way I’d be able to provide for him properly, and even if I could, he’d be too proud to accept. It would be the leap from the clifftop or the sharp knife in the dark for him, and a lifelong burden of guilt for me.
They’d better look after him properly here. If they have someone like Fergus or Jabir, expert and kind, he should be all right. They need someone who’s physically strong, too. Dau is both strong and quick—the way he grabbed his brother’s arm so fast, even though he couldn’t see, is evidence of that. They must do the right thing; they’re his family. And this place attests to what I already know: that they have the resources to do so very well indeed. Yes, they hate and resent him. But the house is big, the grounds are expansive, they could set him up with his own healer and someone to act as body servant and companion. He wouldn’t need to see his father or brothers unless he wanted to.
A Dance with Fate Page 13
