“I wouldn’t know,” I said, unpicking a couple of stitches.
“Or perhaps they are searching for escaped prisoners,” she said lightly. “My lord informs me he intends to dismiss his master-of-arms, since it seems there has been some neglect of duties here. Strange. They put so much energy into it all. And yet captives go mysteriously missing in the night. One wonders how such an error could occur.”
I was suddenly chilled to the bone. She knew. She had as much as said it. I remained silent as she turned back toward me, smiling.
“Poor Sorcha, I’m boring you, child. Of what interest could all this be to a little girl, after all? Blood feuds and missing hostages? You have indeed had a strange childhood, growing up in such a household. It’s as well I am here now to tend to your education. Now, show me what you have done. Oh dear, this is quite crooked. I’m afraid it must be unpicked yet again.”
Finally I was free to go and I sought out Finbar; for surely Father could not really be intending to get rid of Donal, who had been a part of his garrison for longer than I could remember, who had overseen every part of my brothers’ training since they were small, whose grim features and sturdy frame were as much a part of our household as the stone walls themselves. But Finbar was not to be found; instead I was waylaid by a girl from the cottages, come to seek help for her grandmother, whose fever would not go down. How could I tell her I was forbidden to help? These people relied on me. So I fetched my basket, threw on an old cloak and my sturdy boots, and set off.
Once they saw me in the settlement, others came to seek my help. After tending to the woman with the fever I moved onto Old Tom’s, to reassure him over a boil that had erupted in a very awkward spot. I treated him, and he heaped thanks upon me, and praised my brother, Conor, who had given his grandsons work in the stables, and so, said Tom, got the lads out of his daughter’s hair and taught them something useful at the same time. Then I was called to a tiny, sickly babe. I left the anxious young mother some herbs to make a tea which would help her milk, and promised to bring fresh vegetables from my garden.
By the time I was finished it was midafternoon, and I made my way home as quickly as I could. It was a long time since breakfast, and I could almost taste Janis’s oatcakes on the crisp winter air. A fine mist was starting to settle around the hawthorn bushes as I headed up the path toward the kitchen garden. I was deep in my own thoughts, and nearly walked into Father and Donal as I turned a corner of the hedge. They were absorbed in conversation and did not see me. I stopped dead in my tracks, then faded back into the concealment of the hedge for the quiet intensity of Donal’s voice told me this was a deeply private interchange.
“…not my intention to challenge your decision, my lord. But at least hear me out before I leave.” Donal’s voice was under the same tight control he exercised over his mounts, and his sword, and his men at arms.
“What can you have to say to me?” returned Father coldly. “My decision is made. What more is there?”
They had stopped right in front of me, and I could not move without being detected. Father had his back to me. Donal stood erect as ever, but the deep grooves around his mouth and nose betrayed his emotion. “I accept full responsibility for what happened. There is no excuse for such an error. My men have been duly disciplined, and I have received your chastisement. The past cannot be undone. But this degree of punishment is unwarranted, my lord Colum.”
“A prisoner escaped. Not the first. An important prisoner, this time. How can I sanction such an error? I leave here with the man safe in custody, not just securely guarded but unconscious, scarce able to walk, let alone make his way out of here. The next day I receive a message to say the captive is nowhere to be found. Your men were drugged. There must have been help from inside. As a result of your negligence our position has been much weakened. Who knows what advantage such a hostage might have brought us? I cannot afford another such mistake. If you cannot maintain an adequate level of control among your men there is no place for you here. You should count yourself lucky that I allowed you to remain in my service while the matter was investigated. I should have dismissed you the day I returned home.”
“Father.” I had not realized until he spoke that Liam was there, out of my view back along the path. His boots crunched on the stones. “Hear Donal out, please. Has he not been our guide and tutor these fourteen years and more? All our skills we owe to him and his patience. Surely dismissal is too harsh a penalty for one breach?”
“This is my decision, not yours,” snapped Father. “You are overyoung yet to meddle in such affairs. Perhaps you do not appreciate the importance of this particular breach. Because of this piece of ineptitude, and the delay in informing me of what had happened, our British captive may even now be back home spreading his knowledge of our troops, our terrain, and our positions among his fellows. His group was no ordinary raiding party. We cannot afford to expose ourselves thus again.”
“He was near death, that night,” said Donal. “He could not have traveled far. Besides, we had already established he had nothing to tell. I believe you misjudge his importance.”
“I misjudge? I?” Father’s voice rose. “You are hardly in a position to question my judgment.”
“Maybe not,” said Donal, “but there is a question of loyalty. I have served you well, as your son says, these fourteen years. Since your lady’s day, when this household was a place of joy. I have turned your sons into fine young warriors well fit to battle beside you for your lost islands; well trained in all the arts of war, to defend your lands and bring honor to your name. I have taken the time for them which you could not spare. I have seen your daughter grow up in the image of her mother, as sweet and fey a girl as ever these forests gave birth to. I have drilled your men in body and spirit, and their loyalty to you is beyond question. But now—by the lady, Colum, I must speak out, since it seems there is nothing further to lose by honesty!”
“I will not hear this,” said Father grimly, and his cloak swung out as he turned on his heel.
“You will, Father.” Liam laid his hands on Father’s shoulders, halting him, and I saw Father’s clenched fist rise as if to strike him, and then come down again slowly.
“You find it hard to look at me, and to listen to my words.” Donal spoke with some difficulty. “Believe me, it is even harder for me to speak to you thus, and I do so only because I must leave this place which has become my home. My lord, I never asked for much, beyond my keep and the chance to do a good job. But I beg you now to listen.”
There was a silence. Eventually my father said “Well?”
“I’ll be plain, my lord. I know you well, better sometimes than you do yourself. In all these years I’ve never known your judgment to falter. As your men say, you can be hard at times, but you’re always fair. That’s why they follow you, even to death. That’s why you are master of wide lands from the great forest to the marshes, feared and respected throughout the north. You don’t make mistakes. Until now. Until—”
“Go on,” said Father in the chill tone he normally reserved for Finbar.
“Until you met my lady Oonagh,” said Donal heavily. “Since then, your mind has not been your own. Her will is behind every decision you make, and her influence has blinded you—”
“Enough!” My father’s fist swept through the air and cracked sharply across Donal’s cheek. The master at arms held his ground as an angry red mark bloomed on his face.
“I speak the truth, and in your heart you know it,” he said very quietly. “You have never struck me in anger before. You do so now because of her. She has poisoned your thoughts, and now you lose your judgment. Take care, my lord, for if your men lose faith in you, your lands will not hold.”
“Be silent!” My father’s rage was palpable. “Do not speak my lady’s name, for your words sully that which is spotless. You repay me thus for my trust in you? Get out of my sight!”
“Father, he begs you simply to listen.” Liam’s voice shook slightl
y. “Donal is not alone in these thoughts. The lady Oontagh has a power which—which affects us all. Your men are uneasy, your household fearful. Eilis and her father were forced away. Your lady seeks to divide brother from brother, father from son, and friend from friend, until each of us is alone. She will destroy this household if you let her.”
There was a long pause this time, and I could hear Father’s breathing, and see Liam’s white, anxious face. He had taken a great risk. After a while Father said slowly, “What do you mean, forced away? The girl had a weak stomach, that was all. What can that have to do with my lady?”
“There was poison in the food,” said Liam quietly. “Very specific poison, and in her dish alone. We tried to tell you. Sorcha knows much of these things, which was fortunate for Eilis, who else might have died. There is no proof who put it there, but rumor runs fast.”
“To blame my lady is as foolish as to blame my daughter herself,” said Father, but his tone had changed, as of he were at last hearing what they were saying. “Why should she wish to do such a thing?”
To divide father and son, I thought, so that her own child can inherit. Or perhaps her plan is bigger still.
“There was poison before,” said Father. He looked Donal straight in the eye. “You said your men were given a sleeping draft, the day their captive escaped. But that was before ever the lady Oonagh came here. These theories are nothing but inventions, fantasies to salve your pride, a ruse so I will change my mind and perhaps keep you on here a little longer.”
“Not so,” said Donal, and he picked up the small pack he had by him. I noticed, then, the sword by his side, the bow over his shoulder. “My heart is here, and my life’s work, but I will leave as I am bidden. I ask only that you heed my words, and your son’s. Be warned, and be watchful.” He reached out to clasp Liam by the elbow, and there were tears in my big brother’s eyes. Then Donal was gone, out of sight down the path. I heard the jingling of harness as he mounted his horse, and the hoofbeats going steadily away into the distance. Father stared after him through narrowed eyes.
“First Eilis and her father, now Donal,” said Liam. “If you do not wake soon you will lose us all, one by one.”
Father looked at him. “Perhaps you had better tell me what you mean,” he said. Liam moved closer, putting one hand on Father’s shoulder, and began to speak very quietly. A moment later, there was a peal of laughter, and a sound of running footsteps, and there was the lady Oonagh, a vision in velvet running down the path on dainty slippers. Her cloud of red hair whirled about her flushed cheeks, and her breasts were barely cupped by the tight bodice of the blue gown. A tracery of fine veins showed on her pearly flesh, and suddenly I knew, perhaps before she did, that she carried his child. Her alabaster skin seemed to glow from within. Behind her my brother Diarmid trotted in pursuit, all dimpled earnestness.
“My lord!” She fanned herself with her hand, feigning exhaustion. “So solemn, so serious! Here, let me cheer you up! It is too fine a day for such portentous looks!” She stood on tiptoe, both small hands grasping the front of his tunic, and kissed him full on the lips. Liam’s moment was lost forever. My father’s arm went around his wife possessively, and she clung to him like a vine to its tree as they turned back toward the house. I watched as Diarmid followed them, crestfallen and confused. I watched as Liam scooped up a handful of stones from the path and hurled them, hard, back to the ground. I saw him stride off toward the stables, his frustration written clear on his face. Then, only then, I crept out of my hiding place.
It took a moment or two, after I went through the house and into the stillroom, to realize something was wrong. When a place is so familiar, so much your own, you just take it for granted, scarcely seeing the colors and shapes around you save as an extension of yourself. So, it was a moment or two. I took off my cloak and hung it on the peg. I turned to put my basket on the table. Then I saw. The shelves were bare, the hanging herbs, the plaits of onion and garlic, the drying plants were gone. Every jar and bottle, every knife and bowl was missing. My spices, my ointments and tinctures, my cloths and basins and bundles, all the tools of my trade had been taken away. There was a scattering of dried lavender on the flagstones, and the outside door was ajar. Heart pounding, I walked out into the garden.
Right down the bottom, by the wall, a small fire burned, and its fragrant smoke cast a gentle haze over the devastation before me. On either side of the central path, every bed had been dug up, every plant uprooted, and a confusion of broken stems, pale exposed roots, and shattered paving covered the whole area. I stumbled forward in a daze. Lavender, wormwood, tansy, and chamomile. Mallow and rosemary. I walked across their tumbled remains, and the sweet smell from their bruised leaves drifted up in farewell. Larger branches were strewn on the ground or piled up for burning. My lilac tree had been cut down. Never cut live wood, Conor had said, unless you must. And never without a warning for the spirit that lives within. Do not destroy her home without good reason. Still I was silent, shaking, wandering blindly from one victim to the next. The early bulbs whose secret life lay hidden deep within their protective coverings; the crocuses I had bedded down so carefully against the chill of winter. Shredded, crushed, exposed on the ravaged soil. My tender creeper, ripped from the wall and chopped into a thousand pieces; it would never open its tiny white star-flowers to welcome the spring sun again. I walked on. The little oak tree, most cherished of all, barely shoulder-high, gentled and guarded since I was eight years old; I had expected to watch it grow, year by year, to shade and protect my domain. It was snapped off at the base, and would never bud again with new season’s life. I fell to my knees, scrabbling wildly in the soil in a vain effort to save something, anything; but I could not cry. This went beyond tears, beyond thought. In my heart, I gave a great wordless scream of anguish.
I did not call my brothers aloud, but two of them heard me. Finbar was there first, putting his arms around me, stroking my hair, swearing under his breath. A moment later, there was Conor, striding up the path with a face like thunder, roaring for the gardeners, turning his fury on two men I had not noticed, who were cowering now by the bonfire, spade and rake in hand, wilting under my brother’s ferocious interrogation.
I gripped Finbar’s jacket and fought to get my breathing under control. My head was exploding with rage and grief and shock. After a moment or two he stopped talking and sought to calm me with his mind.
Weep, Sorcha. Let go. What’s done cannot be undone.
Even my violets! Even my little oak tree! They could have left the oak tree!
You have survived. We are strong. And these things can grow again.
How can they grow with such evil here? How can anything grow? My herbs, my herbs are gone, all my things—how can I do my work without my things?
Weep, Sorcha. Let go. We are all here for you. Let go, little sister. The earth takes your garden to her heart. She weeps with you.
He was strong, and finally I collapsed in angry sobs, and soaked his shirt front while he held me; and then Conor came.
“This was at my lady’s orders,” he said tightly. “Very specific orders, with no detail omitted. The men cannot be blamed, they had no choice; they know now to check with me first. But it is too late for you, little owl. I’m sorry. I know how you have worked on this haven, and loved its inhabitants. I know what it means to you and those you tend.”
“Just because—just because—” I hiccupped.
“Did you offend her in some way?” asked Conor gently.
“There is no need to offend.” Finbar’s voice was as cold as I had ever heard it. He sounded like Father. “The lady Oonagh needs no provocation to take such action. She will destroy us one by one if she is not stopped.”
“She—she told me not to go to the village,” I managed, blowing my nose on the square of linen Conor produced. “But they sent for me and I never thought—I only wanted to—and she—and she—”
My brothers exchanged glances.
“Sorch
a, take a few deep breaths,” said Conor, leading me over to the stone seat that was the solitary survivor in the wasteland. “Sit down now. That’s better.”
They knelt one on each side of me, and Conor took both my hands in his. “Good girl.” Down by the fire, the two gardeners were raking up debris, throwing more shattered branches on the pile. They threw nervous looks in our direction.
“Now, Sorcha. I want you to go to my quarters and I want you to remain there for the night. You must not try to see her, or Father, until we have all spoken together and decided what to do. I know you are sad; but Finbar is right. Plants can grow again, and with your skills and your love, they will flourish in the hardest of places. You are safe. That is the most important thing.”
I could not speak. The pain in my heart was still overwhelming, and tears poured unabated down my cheeks. Now I had started crying it didn’t seem possible to stop.
“We must talk, all of us,” said Conor. “I believe you may hold the key to this, Sorcha. But first, you must come inside, and you need time to collect yourself.”
“It’s not safe for her here,” said Finbar bluntly. “This strikes at her very self, and through her at all of us. It was a blow well calculated, and aimed with skill. We cannot stand back and let our sister endure such things. We should send her away, before it is too late.”
“Not now,” said Conor. “Sorcha must rest. And you, brother, keep yourself in check, for hasty words now can only put us all at more risk. Do not seek to have this out with the lady Oonagh, or with our father. That is not the way.”
“How long? How long must we wait to take action? How long before we make him see what she is, what she can do?”
Daughter of the Forest Page 15
