‘I can only agree with you,’ Blackthorn said. She was eating her cake now; a good sign, Cara thought. ‘But even if you were still at Wolf Glen, you’d be ill advised to search for them again. They sound like a particularly unpleasant branch of the fey. Malign, almost. But since, as you say, you’re going to be stuck in this house for a while, there is one thing you could do.’
‘What?’
Blackthorn waved a hand at the shelves of books and manuscripts that lined the library walls. ‘The prince and Lady Flidais are very fond of old tales. I have wondered if, somewhere in this collection, there might be a version of the heartwood house story. I would be interested to see it and I imagine you would too. So there’s a challenge for you. Search through any likely volume or manuscript and see if you can find it.’ Blackthorn smiled. She was almost back to herself. It was amazing how much better that made Cara feel. ‘Rather a daunting task, in view of how large the collection is,’ Blackthorn went on. ‘But more to your taste, I imagine, than spending your mornings embroidering with Mhairi. And as I have some writing work of my own to do, I could keep you company.’
‘I suppose I could do it.’ It sounded pretty tedious, just leafing through all those books. But she did want to know the heartwood house story. What if it was the key to everything? Hadn’t those voices said, I know what he’s building, as if that were somehow important? And spending her mornings in the library would mean she didn’t need to talk to anyone except Mistress Blackthorn. That was worth a little boredom. ‘All right, I’ll try.’
‘Of course,’ Blackthorn said, ‘it’s possible you could go through every book and manuscript in the place and still not find the story. A pity we don’t have a druid handy. When they are training they learn just about every tale there is, and they never forget them.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Now, if I’m to move over here I’d best go and have a word with a few folk. Find out about a cottage. Let Emer know what I’m doing. Bring some things across and lock up at home. Send word to Grim, if I can work out how. I’ll have to go back to Longwater in a day or two. Maybe one of the men there could take a message.’
‘I’ll start looking for books of old tales,’ Cara said. ‘I suppose some of them might be in Latin. I don’t know very much Latin.’
‘We may be able to work it out between us. If not we’ll have to wait for Oran and Flidais. And I imagine their minds will be on other matters.’
‘What – Oh, you mean Lady Flidais’s family and that man who’s overrun their land.’
‘I mean that, yes. Cara, be mindful of one thing. You may find the story. It may unlock the puzzle. But knowing the truth doesn’t always put everything right. Truth can hurt like a knife in the belly. So be very sure you want to do this.’
‘I’m sure,’ Cara said. ‘I know my father’s not a liar and I’m going to prove it.’
Blackthorn was staring at her now.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘You’re different today,’ Blackthorn said. ‘Not hiding away anymore. Sure of yourself.’
‘I’m trying to be more like you,’ said Cara.
26
~Grim~
Things change quick now the master’s seen sense. Matter of ten days or so and we’ve got our crew on the job. Five men, all from Longwater or close by. None of them builders, but all of them strong and fit. Willing to turn their hands to whatever needs doing. Weather’s turned sunny, spirits are up, Gormán and Conn get a chance to go back to their own work and leave the heartwood house to me and my helpers. Ripple’s happy. Job of builder’s dog suits her. The fellows like having her there. Plenty of pats and morsels of food.
And there’s Bardán. The crew are going home at night, coming in every day. Bardán’s staying where he is, in Tóla’s barn, and that means so am I. Promised to keep an eye on him day and night, so that’s what I’m doing, best I can. Been hoping he’d stop going on about his daughter, his baby girl, where is she and so on. But since he heard Tóla talking the night Cara went missing he keeps on coming back to that. And even though it’s nonsense, just his mind mixing things up, the way he says it makes me deep-down sad. Wonder if they tried to tell him what happened, when he first came back? How could you do it? You stole your own baby and ran off into the woods and left her, and she died cold and hungry and scared. You couldn’t say it to him. Losing his memory’s a mercy. If he did remember, how could he live with himself?
When he says it on the job, Where’s my daughter?, the other fellows take no notice. Or they tell him to shut it. Or they start singing to drown out his voice. But Bardán talks about his daughter at night, too. Sings that rhyme, or other ones like it, about the birds, and nothing harming his child. Asks me over and over what happened to her. I say things like, I wasn’t here, or I don’t know. Makes me think about telling lies. Makes me wonder if it’s better to tell the truth even if it’ll hurt someone. Even if it’ll destroy them. Thing is, if nobody tells him he might hear it by accident, someone saying, Do you know what that man did? That’d be even crueller.
Time passes; summer’s coming. We get the roof beams in place. Make the framework for the thatch, nine courses, like it says in the story. And I get my second bag of silver from Master Tóla, which comes as a surprise even though I’ve earned it fair and square. Couple of the fellows work on the top part of the walls, the wattle-and-mud. Tóla hasn’t asked for shelf beds or a hearth or anything else useful inside the heartwood house. Bit of a wasted effort if nobody’s going to use the place for anything. I don’t say that out loud. Nor do the Longwater men. Quiet bunch. Except when they’re singing. Can’t help wondering if Tóla’s paid them off. Handed out a few silver pieces for folk not to talk about Bardán or himself or the heartwood house or his daughter. Those houses down at Longwater, they’re well looked after. And the folk have got riding horses, as well as carts and suchlike. Didn’t notice anyone wearing clothing with patches, or worn-out boots, or shawls with holes in. Makes me wonder how much they’re paid for taking stuff up and down the lake. I don’t ask, though. How could I, without sounding nosy? But they must know about Bardán. About him taking his baby daughter over to Wolf Glen with him all those years ago and what happened to her. His wife was a local girl. She and Bardán lived near that settlement. But not a word. Not even when he mutters about his daughter in their hearing.
We’re still sleeping in with the animals, him and me. Made it a bit more comfortable, proper straw mattresses, floor swept clean down our end, cleared a bench for our stuff and put up a couple of pegs to hang things from. Conn cooks for all of us. Now the weather’s better, we go outside to eat, couple of benches and a table. Means they’ve got no reason to complain about Bardán’s stink. Told him I’d give him a shave and cut his hair any time he wants. Get him warm water for a wash. He said, Not yet.
Missing Blackthorn. A lot. Worrying about her, which is stupid. I know she can look after herself. Know she’s probably glad to get me out of her way for a while. But I worry anyway. Got word from one of the Longwater men that she’s moved over to the prince’s house, so she’s not all on her own. Doesn’t make me feel better, though. Every time I make a brew I want to put a cup out for her. Like that might make her come walking up out of nowhere, saying, How are you, big man? Almost wish one of us would do himself an injury, give me an excuse to go and fetch her.
I’m not sleeping much, between the wild man’s muttering, my own stupid thoughts going round and round, cows shuffling and mooing. In the night I do exercises. Bardán doesn’t complain. Sleeps through it or lies there looking at me but not seeing me. There’s a high window, up where the owl roosts. Open to the sky. That’s how I know if Bardán’s awake or not. His eyes give back the moonlight.
By morning I’m always tired. Mostly I know what needs doing, so I tell the crew and we all get on with it. Sometimes we’re starting something new and we have to wait for Bardán to explain. He tells about the fiddly bi
ts, the bits I can guess are part of the heartwood house story. Little wedges here and there. Those wattle-and-mud walls, up above the stone part. All needing to be done exactly by the rules. Seventeen wattles side to side, five-and-twenty bottom to top. Why? Who knows. But make one mistake and the luck drains right out of the place. That’s what Bardán says. Nobody tells him it’s rubbish. Nobody says it’s making the build three times as hard as it should be. They just get on with the work.
The master comes up every day to have a look. If I spot him in time I get Bardán out of the way. Can’t be sure I’d keep my temper if he hurt the wild man again. Day comes when I need to ask Tóla about the thatch.
‘Fellows have done a good job,’ I say. ‘Be ready to start thatching well before you were planning. You should be looking for someone who’s got the straw now and wants to sell it. Someone who had more than they needed for the winter. And kept it dry. Can’t have anything mouldy.’
‘How long?’ Tóla asks.
I cast my eye over the place. Couple of men up ladders, working on the roof timbers. Two doing the fiddly stuff with the wattles. Bardán out of sight, since I told him to go inside until I called him. Looks like Ripple’s gone too. One man’s inside the heartwood house doing some measurements. ‘Ten days at the most,’ I tell the master. Feeling proud of a job well done and surprised we’ve managed it so quick. ‘I know a lot of folk around the district. Done work for most of the farmers. If you want, I can ride around and find out for you.’ And I could visit Blackthorn. We could have a brew and a catch-up. I could tell her about Bardán and ask what she thinks. Though I don’t need to ask, really. She’d say everyone deserves to be told the truth. Even if it’s painful.
‘You’re needed here,’ Tóla says. Which I thought he would. ‘You know why. But you can give me some names and I’ll send someone out.’
I tell him to start with a sheep farmer named Cliona, and if she can’t help, to ask her for more names, anyone who grows oats or rye. He lifts his brows a bit but doesn’t say A woman? the way some folk might. If he’d heard Cliona stand up for herself at Prince Oran’s council, on the matter of whose dogs were worrying a neighbour’s sheep, he’d know she’s a straight talker with plenty of common sense. I suggest Prince Oran’s home farm, something Cliona might not think of. Talk to Niall, who’s the farmer there. He’ll know who grows what around the district. And talk to Scannal the miller, about who he buys his grain from.
Not going to be quick, even if they do find what’s needed. Takes a fair bit of straw to thatch a roof the size of this one. They’d have to bundle it, load it on a cart and haul it up here. Track through the forest would be pretty well impossible. Means they’d have to bring it the other way, through Longwater. Could take a while. Morrigan’s curse, I can’t wait till this job’s over. Day time’s all right, working with the crew. Nights are wearing me out, messing up my head.
There’s a question in there and I don’t want to think about the answer. When we’ve finished this, got the heartwood house built and thatched and all done, everything in its right place, what happens to Bardán? Does he get his pay like the rest of us and head off home? Does he walk away into the forest and vanish? Or does he hang about Wolf Glen muttering his rhymes and singing his songs and asking about his daughter, the one he killed but doesn’t know it? What’ll Tóla do to him when I’m gone?
It’s night. I’m lying on my straw mattress, under my blanket. Done my exercises over and over till every part of me aches. Head full of rubbish, worries and memories and snippets I’ve heard. We’re so close to the end, crew won’t be needed at all soon, only one or two men to help me with the thatching. Sometimes I’ve thought the job would never get finished. Now it feels like it’s gone almost too quick. Been almost too easy. What I’m thinking of most is the times Bardán’s done that odd laugh, like he’s got a secret. Like there’s something important about this and he’s the only one who knows it. Put that together with how much he and Tóla hate each other and you’ve got trouble.
Can’t ask him straight out. Got to go into it another way.
‘You awake?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘Just thinking. We’ll be thatching soon. Is that as tricky as the rest of the build?’
‘Tricky enough.’
‘Wanted to ask something. When I’m doing a whole roof myself, I like finishing off with some creatures for the top. Weave them out of straw, tie them on tight.’ I was proud of those animals I made for the scriptorium at St Olcan’s. Though two of them ended up with a bit of a fey finish. ‘Last time, for a monastery, I did salmon, dove, raven and fox. Up here, maybe some birds.’ I’m thinking of those birds that came when Cara was down in that dark place. That was odd. It was odd enough to make a man think something uncanny was in play. ‘Crow, owl, couple of others. What do you think?’
‘You won’t need those,’ Bardán says.
Odd way to put it. ‘More a case of liking than needing,’ I say. ‘Ever seen a roof done that way? The creatures look nice up there. Gives a sort of rightness to the place. And . . . well, it feels like good luck.’
I think he’s not going to answer. I think he may have dropped off to sleep. Then I hear a kind of low chuckling. Makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. That laugh, the secret laugh.
‘Forget I asked,’ I say.
‘Got to be done by the rules, Grim. Every part by the rules.’
‘So what are the rules for the thatch? Apart from needing to be straw.’ Hoping it’s not something that’ll make the job stretch out into autumn after all. Hoping it’ll be quick and simple.
‘Never mind that,’ Bardán says. ‘Wait till the master’s got his straw, then I’ll tell you.’ He laughs again, and someone, Gormán or Conn, calls out ‘Shut it!’ from next door.
‘Thing is,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to wait and then find out it’s a job that’s too hard for one thatcher and a couple of helpers, or a job that’ll take all year. Better if you can tell me about it now.’
Silence. He’s not going to oblige. Then he says, ‘Grim?’ Not laughing now. All serious.
‘What?’
‘Where’s my daughter? My little Brígh, my lovely one? Where did she go?’
Morrigan’s curse. My guts tell me the time for I don’t know is over. Never heard him say his daughter’s name before. ‘You know I wasn’t here then. When you came to work for Tóla the first time. So all I know is what they told me. Tóla and Gormán.’
‘What? What?’ He’s up in a flash, crouching down by my pallet, trying to grab me only he can’t with his crooked hands. I sit up, take hold of his arms, wish I was somewhere else.
‘Calm down. It’s only a story. But it’s a sad story. Bad news. I’ll tell it if you want, but you won’t like it.’
‘What?’ His whole body’s tight.
‘Sit down, then.’
He sits where he is, right next to me.
‘There’s no good way to break the news, brother. They told me your daughter died. Long ago, when she was only a baby.’
There’s a heartbeat of quiet, then he says, ‘No.’ It’s a deep, sad sound, sad enough to bring tears to the eyes. Like an animal in pain. ‘No,’ he says again, ‘no. She can’t be dead. My Brígh, my baby . . .’
Me, I’ve got the Red Giant story in my head again. A sorrowful tale. But this one’s worse by far. The Red Giant story’s got a good future in it, for some at least. This one’s got no hope at all. You can’t say to a broken man, Go out, make a new life, find a new woman, father another child. Things aren’t so easy. What about Blackthorn, her terrible story? No, I mustn’t think of that. Can’t let myself.
‘How could it be?’ Bardán says. Voice a wisp now, faint as faint. ‘How could my girl be dead? I was running, running. In the night. Then falling down, down . . . But she . . . she was safe. She was! She was! Safe and sound. Snug and peaceful, all wrapped up.’<
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I see it in my mind. The wild man running through the woods, why I don’t know, but running away from something. Could be a master who beat him, who knows? Could be his wife’s death had caught up with him, torn his heart, scrambled his thoughts. She wasn’t long gone then. Running to a place like that one Cara fell into, not an ordinary hole in the ground but an uncanny spot. A doorway. And I’m wondering. Wondering if, when a man’s scared half out of his wits, he might put his baby somewhere he thinks will be safe, or at least safer than staying with him. Planning to come back and get her later. Or hoping someone will find her in time. Or, if a man’s running so hard he can’t think straight, he might trip and drop what he’s carrying and not even notice. Just keep on running until he falls into another world. Is that possible? Wish I could ask Blackthorn.
‘Tell me,’ Bardán says. Voice like a knife now, wanting blood. ‘Tell me what happened to her.’
‘That night when you left Wolf Glen,’ I say, trying to pick the right words, ‘they said you took her with you. Your baby, who was being looked after in Tóla’s household. They said you went running off into the woods with her. They went searching straight away. Couldn’t find you. Couldn’t find her. Searched for two days. No trace of you. But they found your daughter and – I’m sorry, brother, but she was dead.’
He bows over, puts his head in his hands. No words now, but he lets out a groan, a sound that ties my guts in a knot. Someone hammers on the wall and yells, ‘Be quiet!’
Can’t even get up and make a brew, which is what I do at home when Blackthorn can’t sleep or has a nightmare. Have to go through the foresters’ quarters to do that. A pox on this place!
‘Where?’ whispers Bardán. ‘Where did they find her?’
Den of Wolves Page 26
