‘Then you can ask Prince Oran about the road and the wood,’ I said, not caring that I sounded sharp. ‘He knows as much as I do.’
‘Not quite as much, surely. You live here, right on the edge of Dreamer’s Wood. The prince’s dwelling is some distance away across the fields. Your answers are the ones that interest me.’
‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but I have absolutely no idea who you are or why you would want me to divulge anything at all to you. A more effective approach might have been to visit me with the pretext of an aching belly or a sprained ankle, and just happen to fall into conversation about the oddities of Dreamer’s Wood. Anyone from the local settlement could tell you the place has given rise to many strange tales over the years. They would say it is not wise to enter the water of Dreamer’s Pool. Walking or riding along the track is fine, but taking too long about it might be inadvisable. As for who has passed this way in recent times, the local folk generally go by the more direct route, using the main track. People seldom bring their stock through the wood. Emer and I gather herbs there frequently, but the nature of our calling means we are safe provided we take no ill-considered action.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Forgive me, but unless you are a druid, I cannot understand how that can interest you in the least.’
‘Jumping into Dreamer’s Pool for a swim.’ Emer spoke up, sounding more like her usual self. ‘Cutting herbs without saying the correct words of thanks. Harvesting poisonous mushrooms, unless it’s for a remedy of some kind. Harming creatures.’
‘And you . . .?’ Cúan turned his delightful smile on Cara, who dropped her gaze immediately.
‘This young lady is visiting me for the day. She lives in the prince’s household.’
He seemed to be waiting for more.
‘You haven’t told us why you’re asking questions,’ I said. ‘And being less than subtle about it.’
‘If I had some nefarious intent, Mistress Blackthorn, I would be a great deal more subtle, I assure you. There was some trouble earlier. An altercation. It’s been dealt with, so you have no need for further concern. But it’s useful if I can be as fully informed as possible.’
‘You’re saying there was someone in the wood who shouldn’t have been there?’
‘It’s been dealt with, Mistress Blackthorn.’
There was no choice but to accept this at face value. Neither Cara nor Emer knew anything of my past or Grim’s. Nor, indeed, did anyone at Winterfalls. They did not understand how any stranger asking questions might be one of Mathuin’s spies, come to seek us out and silence us. They did not understand that any disturbance brought back the familiar terror. This young man had a way with him. But Flannan had been a charming man too. Not only charming, but an old friend of mine. I would not be trapped like that again.
‘You live here with Mistress Blackthorn?’ He addressed this to Emer.
I opened my mouth to say Mind your own business, but Emer was quicker. ‘I live in Winterfalls settlement.’
‘Emer is my assistant.’ I made my tone suitably quelling.
Cúan’s gaze moved from one side of the cottage to the other, taking in the two shelf beds, both neatly made up with blankets and pillows. He did not ask the obvious question, and I did not offer any information. When Emer seemed about to speak again, my frown silenced her.
‘You come from the island.’
We all turned to look at Cara; this was the first time she had spoken since Cúan’s arrival. The flat statement rendered the young man momentarily silent.
‘What island, Cara?’ I asked.
‘In the north. The warrior island. They all have the . . .’ She gestured to indicate the facial tattooing. ‘Serpent, bird, wolf, salmon and so on. I’ve seen you. Not you,’ she added, flicking her gaze over Cúan and away as if he were of as little interest as a fly on the wall. ‘But some of the others.’
‘Where was this?’ He was keeping his tone friendly, but I’d seen the way his eyes sharpened.
‘By the lake. At Wolf Glen. Gormán was selling them logs. For building.’
I asked what seemed the safest question. ‘What lake is that, Cara?’
‘Longwater,’ Cara said. ‘To the west. You can’t get timber in and out on this side; the track is too narrow. And tricky. That’s what people say.’
Now that she had started talking, I feared she would blurt out something best kept to ourselves. We knew nothing about this man. Good manners did not make him a friend.
‘What do you say?’ Cúan asked, before I could speak a word.
Cara gave him a shy, sweet smile. It brought a different look to his face, a softer one. Just as well he’d be on his way soon; that was a complication I could do without.
‘The forest is my friend,’ Cara whispered, looking down at her feet. ‘The paths lead me where I need to go.’
‘Then you are blessed indeed,’ said Cúan with gentle courtesy. ‘Mistress Blackthorn, it’s past time I departed.’ He rose to his feet. A tall man; though not as tall as Grim. Few were. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, and my apologies to you, Emer. You were so quiet, we did not know you were in the wood.’
‘It was nothing,’ Emer said.
‘All the same. If I may, I will come past in a few days and make sure you are quite recovered.’
‘So you’ll be staying in the district awhile?’ I opened the door, wanting him gone.
‘I can’t say,’ Cúan said. ‘Good day to you all, and my apologies once more.’ It seemed he had no horse with him; he headed off down the garden pathway, then took a track across the fields toward the prince’s residence.
‘I hope he doesn’t mind cattle,’ said Emer. ‘There’s a long-horned bull in the next field over, and the spring being what it is, he’s feeling the need to protect his ladies.’
‘What happened, Emer?’ I asked, watching the golden-haired figure as he walked away with easy strides. ‘Why did you scream?’
‘There was some kind of – of scuffle, not a fight exactly, but – I heard a grunt and a gasp and saw someone moving around under the trees and someone else running, with a knife in his hand. That’s when I screamed. They were really close, as if they might come down the bank right onto me. But they didn’t, because Cúan appeared and blocked my view. He took a while asking me who I was and where I lived, and telling me everything was all right and there was nothing to worry about. By the time he moved aside there was nothing to see. Then he politely offered to escort me back here, and that was that.’
‘He didn’t ask you about who I was or where I came from, or anything like that?’ I tried to sound calm, as if this question was of little importance.
‘I said you were the local healer and that I was your assistant. He asked if he could have a word with you. All very correct.’
‘Mm-hm. Cara, tell us some more about this island. Are you saying there’s a whole community of warriors there, all with animal names?’ It sounded more old tale than reality. On the other hand, I knew from experience how closely interwoven the two could be.
‘Gormán sells them logs,’ Cara said. ‘He takes them to the lake shore on the ox cart. There’s a settlement where they load the barges.’ A pause. ‘I’m not supposed to go over to that side of the forest. But Gormán let me go with him once or twice when Father was away. Just so I would stop pestering him about it. That was what he said. That’s where I saw the men with the . . .’ She made the gesture again, suggesting a facial marking. ‘Don’t ever tell my father. Gormán would get in trouble.’
There was a whole story behind this. It was sounding more curious all the time. ‘If I ever have the opportunity to speak to your father,’ I told her, ‘I’ll make sure I don’t mention it. Why wouldn’t he want you visiting this lake and the settlement there? If you stand to inherit Wolf Glen someday, surely you should be learning all about the place and the work.
’ If she’d been a boy, she would already have been helping her father run things.
‘It’s to keep me safe. Because he loves me. That’s what he says.’
‘Is this island in the lake? With its complement of warriors?’
‘No, it’s much further away. Off the north coast,’ said Emer, surprising me. I’d never heard of the place before, and I’d assumed she hadn’t either. ‘A sea island with a deep water anchorage. It’s called Swan Island.’
‘Populated by tattooed warriors who might have walked right out of some tale of Cú Chulainn.’
‘There’s a school of warcraft there,’ Emer went on. ‘Fraoch told me about it.’ Fraoch the smith was Emer’s brother, notable for his skill on the bodhran, and for being the only man in Winterfalls who approached Grim’s height and breadth. ‘Leaders send their men-at-arms there to learn . . . I’m not sure exactly what. Skills they can’t be taught at home, I suppose.’
‘Secret skills? Such as a druid or wise woman might teach?’
Emer grinned. ‘Not quite the same. But yes, secret skills. At a guess, things like spying and getting through locked doors and killing someone with your bare hands.’
‘Morrigan save us. Who’s in charge of this establishment?’
‘I don’t know, Mistress Blackthorn. It’s been there a long time. I’ll ask Fraoch if you like.’
‘No need for that. I do wonder why Cúan and his companions are here, and what actually happened in the wood. But I don’t want to seem unduly interested. Let’s just wait and see.’ Another thought occurred to me. ‘This island. How far is it from Cahercorcan? Would the king know about it?’
‘I think it’s quite close, within a few miles.’
‘Oh.’ So all sorts of people would know of it. Including Grim, most likely. We had stayed at court for some time. He had many friends among the men-at-arms, both in that royal household and the one at Winterfalls. ‘I wonder why I haven’t heard of the place before.’
‘It’s what Emer said,’ put in Cara. ‘Secret knowledge, like the things you teach her. Say Prince Oran wanted his men taught those other skills, spying or getting into places through locked doors, he wouldn’t want everyone to know about it, would he? The same for any leader who sent his men over there to be trained.’
Cara sometimes surprised me like this. Her manner was often vague and distant, as if she were not quite in the same world as the rest of us. Yet she would come out with a statement that showed she had not only been listening, but listening attentively.
‘That still doesn’t explain what they were doing in Dreamer’s Wood. But never mind that now. Emer, we should do some writing. Cara can help you.’ I’d been surprised to find that the girl was capable at reading, writing and numbers, thanks to the tutelage of her aunt.
We worked through the lesson, the three of us. Emer was diligent, as always. Cara kept looking out the window, distracted by every bird that flew past. And I was less than a perfect teacher, for my thoughts kept going to Mathuin, and to the man he had sent to track me down before, and to Cúan with his lovely blue eyes and disarming manner. The most courteous, the most guileless-seeming of folk may carry a hidden blade, ready to strike.
It was only mid-afternoon when I told the two girls we were finished work for the day. We wouldn’t wait for Cara’s escort to arrive, but would walk over to Winterfalls together. It seemed a good opportunity to ask Flidais if she knew anything about the Swan Island men. I had seen less of her than usual recently. There was some kind of problem in the south, where her family lived. Nobody seemed prepared to say much about it, but I sensed it was serious. Both Flidais and Oran seemed preoccupied.
Not for the first time, I wished I could tell them the whole truth: who I really was, why it was so vital that I bring Mathuin of Laois to justice and what was preventing me from acting now. The reason why, even on the sunniest and most peaceful of days, part of me was full of dread. But I could not tell. They trusted me. They trusted me with their little son, the apple of their eyes. I was an escaped prisoner, scarred and damaged almost beyond repair. Maybe they would forgive me for being less than truthful up till now. Maybe they would understand that I had reasons for being bitter and angry. I did not believe for a moment that they would hand me over to Mathuin, who had threatened Flidais’s father. But they might no longer want me as their local healer. And that would mean losing the cottage, and losing the community, and being on the road again. And if I lost those things, Grim would lose them too. The truth could be perilous.
As it happened, there was no chance to talk to anyone but Deirdre, who came to the door of the prince’s establishment to shepherd Cara inside. The household was in a flurry of preparation. Oran had been called to court for an urgent council, and Flidais was going with him, along with baby Aolú and various attendants. They would be heading off first thing in the morning and might be away some while. Deirdre did not know who would be at the council. But she told me there had been more bad news from the south. Flidais’s parents had left Laigin and sought refuge at the court of Mide. There had been an attack on their holdings with many slain, and Lord Cadhan and his wife had been lucky to escape with their lives. Their territory was now in the hands of Mathuin of Laois.
11
~Bardán~
Falling asleep, shivering with cold, he tells himself the story. It’s not yet clear to him, not all of it, but what he can remember soothes his hurts. It takes him back, far back, to the time when he was a boy of five or six. His father showing him how to smooth a block of beech wood, stroke by careful stroke. Patient, so patient. His mother close by, in a gown of willow green, her hair spilling over her shoulders, the sun turning its brown to gold. The song she sings, so familiar that he feels it still, running in his veins, sounding in the depths of him. Every birdling in the wood . . .
His father grew up in that other realm. They stole him out of the cradle and left a changeling in his place, a wretched, wailing creature with a head like a turnip and beady, knowing eyes. Once they stole, twice they stole, stole them right away . . . Where else could his father have learned the making of a heartwood house, but in the realm of the fey? Down, down, deep, deep down . . . They brought him up as their own. They taught him. They made him theirs, or tried to. But he did not belong in that other place; could never truly belong.
In the fey realm he lived and grew and became a young man. And his eyes lit on a young woman who was neither fey nor human, but half and half. Trapped in that other world, like him. The young man fell in love; so did the young woman. Discovered, they fled, hand in hand. She found the way out. She led him from the deep realm and into the light.
The fey were angered, for this was never meant to be. The young man was to stay there, to work, to use his skills in the service of the fey. Why else would they have nurtured him from a babe and taught him all he knew? They had raised him, they had trained him. He owed them. As for the young woman, the fey considered her one of their own. But it was too late. Both were gone. They were safe in the human world. Or so they believed.
When you stole from the fey there was always a price to pay, and that price could be high indeed. But those two, Bardán’s father and mother, did not think of that when they ran out together, making their escape. That was the way they saw it, an escape from servitude. To the fey it was theft. The young woman had been theirs, and the young man had not only turned his back on them, he had stolen her. At first, the fey left the two alone. That did not mean all was happy ever after. Inevitably, there would come a demand for restitution.
Bardán rocks to and fro in his meagre shelter, thinking of the good, trying to shut out the bad. They’d been young when they’d left that place, the two of them. His father sixteen, barely a man. His mother even younger. But they had been strong of heart, and staunch in their love for each other. So his father had worked as a builder, and his mother had taken in mending here and there, though folk thought
the two of them too odd to befriend. In time their only child had been born. Little Bardán. They had raised him simply, according to their means, but with kindness. There had been no more children, and his mother had died when Bardán was ten or eleven years old. It was not a violent death, but a slow decline over a long, chill winter. In the end she could no longer draw breath.
The local folk would not have her in the village plot. They could not trust a man who had lived in that other realm – never mind that it was through no fault of his own – and still less a woman who might have sprung from anywhere at all. Bardán’s father buried her himself, not far from their little house on the edge of the forest. He spoke words over her grave, and young Bardán, standing beside him, hummed the song she had loved. The song she had sung to her little boy, her only child, from the day he was born:
Starling, woodcock, owl on wing
Nightjar, chiffchaff, bunting sing
Goldcrest, warbler, thrush and jay
Redpoll, siskin darting by
Golden feather, scarlet, white
Bright as summer, dark as night
Weave a charm for luck and good
Every birdling in the wood
Feather bright and feather fine
None shall harm this child of mine.
It was an odd song. Back then, Bardán had not thought about what it meant. He had only known that it made him feel calm and happy and safe. It had told him he was loved.
And now, now that the boy who wept long and hard over his mother’s grave is a man himself, now that his father, too, is gone, Bardán understands. The song is about give and take. It is about keeping the balance. Look after the wood, and the wood looks after you. Respect all that dwell in the wood: the birds in the trees, the fish in the streams, the creatures that run and walk and creep on the land. The trees, every kind. And the fey . . . but there the meaning blurs. Respect the fey and they won’t play tricks. Leave a bowl of bread and milk on the doorstep at night. Tie offerings in the hawthorn. Build your house just right. That is what it should mean. But it isn’t so, can’t be, or why would the fey have stolen a baby and left that turnip child in his place? Had his grandparents failed to respect the laws of the wood? He’d asked his father this, but his father would not talk about them, the parents whose hearts had been broken on that long-ago day, the parents who had been dead and gone by the time their true son came back home with his unusual bride.
Den of Wolves Page 11
