‘Later what?’ asks Grim.
‘Nothing.’ He moves away from Ripple, away from Grim. Curls in on himself, arms up over his head, eyes squeezed shut. Willing that night away. The night he lost her. The night he lost himself.
32
~Blackthorn~
‘I have a question for you, Ide. I’m not sure you’ll be prepared to answer.’
‘You can try me.’
I had finished my examination of Fann and her baby son, and had pronounced both to be in good health. I’d planned to pass on the instructions for my healing salve to Ide, but I didn’t seem to have my notebook with me. Stupid not to check before I left the prince’s house. Could I have been careless enough to leave it in the library? I’d have to retrieve it as soon as I got back. For now, it was good to sit with Ide and enjoy a brew while Fann and the child slept. ‘It’s about Bardán, who used to live in that cottage on the hillside a long while ago. And his wife, and their child.’
‘And why wouldn’t I want to answer a question about them?’
‘Because someone paid you to keep your mouth shut? Or threatened dire consequences if you spoke out?’
Ide looked at me, brows lifted, smile crooked. ‘Why the interest in them? Dáire’s long gone, and the fellow . . . He was never one of us. Not even when he lived among us. Folk tolerated him. He was a fine craftsman. But he never belonged.’
I liked and respected this woman. She was wise, practical, a plain speaker. Even so, I must tread carefully. Reveal too much of what I knew about Bardán and the past, and I might get Grim in trouble. I’d just been warned off, after all. Don’t meddle. ‘I don’t think I mentioned that I’m staying on Prince Oran’s holding while he and Lady Flidais are away,’ I said. ‘And so is Master Tóla’s daughter, Cara. She and I have become quite close.’
‘I don’t see the connection, Mistress Blackthorn.’
‘No?’
‘No. Maybe if you ask the question, I may understand you better.’
‘That day when I first came here, when Fann was in labour, someone mentioned a kinswoman having been a wet-nurse. In Tóla’s household. At around the time when Bardán was first employed there. I think it was Osgar who spoke of that. His aunt, was it? That would make her your sister.’
‘That’s no secret. My brother’s wife, Luíseach, was feeding her infant son then; she had enough milk for the girl as well. Luíseach wasn’t in that household long. Three turnings of the moon at most.’
‘Does she still live here in the settlement? Could I speak to her about that time?’
‘You could, I suppose. She’s still here, though her house is a bit of a ride away. If I were you, I wouldn’t. It might be seen as unusual curiosity. If that got to the wrong ears you might find yourself in trouble. And so might Luíseach.’
My good deed in seeing Fann’s baby boy born safe and well had evidently won me a high degree of trust. If, as I suspected, Tóla had been paying the folk of Longwater to keep quiet about the past, they risked a great deal in speaking to me about that time. ‘I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,’ I said. ‘That includes Cara, who is intent on finding out the truth about her father and that place he’s hired Bardán and Grim to construct for him. If there is an unsavoury secret behind all that, I’d sooner Cara didn’t get hurt stumbling across it.’
‘You didn’t ask for my opinion, Mistress Blackthorn, but I’ll give it. The truth will hurt that girl no matter how she discovers it. She’s safe, she’s healthy, she has a father who’ll give her the world if he can. Why not leave things be?’
‘Because it wouldn’t be right,’ I said.
I made my way around the top of the lake, then along a broad track that ran between grazing fields. I was out of the Wolf Glen forest here and my horse seemed happier with the open country. The sheep had well-grown lambs at foot; here and there farm workers moved animals between enclosures or checked on the stock. There was the same evidence of prosperity and good management that could be seen in Longwater settlement.
Ide had suggested I take Osgar with me, but I’d said no. The fewer folk who were party to this, the fewer I could get in trouble. As I rode I considered how I might best broach the subject of what had happened at Wolf Glen all those years ago. From what I’d heard, Tóla’s wife went away from Wolf Glen so early in her pregnancy that she was not visibly with child, and did not bring baby Cara home until she was old enough to sit up in the saddle and toddle across the yard in pursuit of chickens. There’d have been no need for a local wet-nurse, since a child who could walk would be able to drink goat’s milk. Indeed, she’d be eating porridge or a mash of vegetables. It seemed Luíseach was hired to feed a different infant: Bardán’s baby, Brígh.
Who had told me that story first? Osgar? I thought he’d meant his aunt was wet-nurse to Cara. Ide had not contradicted me when I’d implied that. But I must have been wrong. The story, as folk knew it, was odd but possible. Bardán had been hired to build the heartwood house; part of his payment was good care for his motherless baby daughter, and that included the services of a wet-nurse. He stayed only three turnings of the moon, then he ran off with his daughter and abandoned her in the forest, where she died that same night. Bardán fell down a hole into the Otherworld, where he remained for fifteen years, returning with his wits scrambled and his memory gone. A strange story but possible. And Suanach, finding herself with child at around the time baby Brígh was in her household, left home and travelled to stay with her kinsfolk, where about two seasons later she gave birth to Cara. Whom she did not bring home until the child was at least nine turnings of the moon old. Even then Cara must have been an early walker. That part did not surprise me; she’d probably been climbing trees not long after. But why had Suanach waited so long to come home? Had she still been frail, unwell? She’d died quite soon after her return, when her child was less than a year old. Had she been afraid of her husband? Was Tóla an abuser of women? The master had loved his wife. He loved his daughter. But then, love could take curious paths.
I toyed with the possibility that Bardán and Suanach had been lovers; that baby Cara had been Suanach’s daughter but not Tóla’s. That would certainly account for Tóla’s hatred of the wild man. It might account for Suanach’s choice to leave Wolf Glen so early in her pregnancy, perhaps as soon as she had suspected she was with child. It might even be connected with Bardán’s flight through the woods and his fall to another world. The piece that did not fit in that particular puzzle was Brígh. Nobody denied that Brígh had existed. She had been born, her mother had died and been buried, her father had taken her to Wolf Glen. And she’d been abandoned in the woods. Or she hadn’t. Had Bardán fathered two little girls, one destined to die alone in the chill of the forest, and the other to grow up as a rich man’s daughter? Or had there only ever been one child? If Brígh and Cara were one and the same, if the willowy girl who talked to trees and crafted little creatures from wood was the daughter of the wild man, the master builder, then some truly appalling lies had been told. Lies that had broken hearts and destroyed lives. Lies that had severed the sacred bond between father and child. The damage those lies had done was surely beyond mending.
Maybe Gormán was right. Maybe I should let this go. Maybe I should trust that Cara would not find the story of the heartwood house, or that if she did, it would not lead her to the truth. But then, if the tale held no enlightenment, why had Gormán reacted so strongly to the news that Cara was searching for it? There must be something revealing in it, some insight. I did wonder how an ancient tale of magic could shine any light on what had happened here. This was a human story, not one of those grand accounts of gods and monsters. It was a story in which the threads of truth had become hopelessly tangled with what might be, with what could be, with what one person believed and another discounted. Bardán and Suanach? I didn’t think so. Tóla would have killed him. He might have killed her too. A man like him wouldn’t b
e able to bear such a blow to his pride; that kind of man believed he had a natural entitlement. In that, Tóla was like Mathuin of Laois: both would ride roughshod over others to get what they believed should be theirs.
I rode on. The farm buildings were in sight now; this was a well-maintained holding. There were horses grazing in an enclosure, their coats glossy under a watery sunlight, their manes neatly plaited. The drystone walls dividing the fields were in perfect order. Smoke rose in a lazy plume from the chimney of the dwelling-house; somebody was at home.
Maybe I’d let my thoughts lead me too far down the path of the unlikeliest story, the most unpalatable truth. I knew very little about Suanach. I did not know if she’d been the kind of woman to cuckold her husband. Maybe she had lain with Bardán. Maybe his grief over the loss of his wife had addled his good judgement. But even if Tóla had forgiven Suanach, a man like him wouldn’t accept that child. He’d never go along with the pretence that she was his own flesh and blood. Bardán had been considered odd even then, with his half-fey mother and his Otherworld-raised father. Tóla recognising that man’s daughter as his sole heir? That really was impossible.
And yet, and yet . . . there was Cara. Cara shinning up trees to perch high above the ground, surrounded by birds; Cara as unhappy at Winterfalls as a wild creature caged; Cara telling stories to trees and hearing their answers; Cara standing barefoot in Dreamer’s Pool, so perfectly still she might have been part of the forest, part of the wild. Cara echoing the words of a lullaby that could only have been sung to her by Bardán. When I had first met her, I had not seen anything of the fey in her. Now, I wondered that I had missed it. Unlikely as it seemed, I’d wager half of Grim’s bag of silver that she was Bardán’s daughter.
Now here I was at the farmhouse, and here was a young man coming to greet me and take the horse. I explained that I had come to visit Mistress Luíseach and thanked him when he offered to tend to my mount. Being the only healer in the district did have its advantages. Few doors were closed to me, even when I arrived uninvited.
Luíseach was some years Ide’s junior, a broad-faced, no-nonsense person who welcomed me into her kitchen without hesitation and got on with her baking while we talked. I invented a story about wanting to visit every household in Longwater so I’d know who had chronic ailments or old injuries that were likely to keep needing my attention. Luíseach listened and kneaded her dough. Her young assistant made a brew, set the cups on the table, then at a nod from her mistress, left us.
‘Help yourself, Mistress Blackthorn. I’ll let mine cool awhile. I must shape these bannocks and set them to rise again. The fellows will be hungry when they come in. Old injuries, you say? What sort of thing?’
It was a good opening. I told her about Bardán’s hands and how I had made a salve especially for him. ‘Not that I can cure a condition like his,’ I said. ‘He has hands like an old man’s, and I don’t imagine he’s so very old – around my own age, perhaps.’
‘He’d be three and thirty at most,’ Luíseach said. ‘They married young. Him and Dáire. Too young, her kinsfolk said. They’d have liked her to wait for a better husband, one who was more like the young men of the settlement. But Dáire was a strong-minded girl. Some would have said wilful.’
‘Did you think she was wilful?’
‘She was a fine girl, Mistress Blackthorn. Nothing wrong with knowing your own mind. She was full of hopes for the future, and whatever folk might think of the fellow she married, she was good for him. Brought him out of himself; made him smile. But she died birthing her daughter, as I’m sure you will have heard. A sad loss. Made even sadder by the way they all set to squabbling over the child, with the earth barely settled on her grave. But you don’t want to hear that sorrowful story.’ She covered her tray of perfectly uniform bannocks with a clean cloth and set it on a bench near the fire. ‘I’ll just go and wash my hands.’
There was a scullery area out the back. While she was splashing there and I was thinking hard, the young man came in.
‘Horse is enjoying a rest and a drink, Mistress,’ he said. ‘Fine mare, that.’
‘She’s one of Prince Oran’s. My purse doesn’t stretch to a creature of that quality.’
‘You’re Mistress Blackthorn, aren’t you? The healer?’
‘How did you know?’ The lad was young, sixteen at the most. And he had a familiar look about him. ‘Oh. You must be Mistress Luíseach’s son. Osgar’s cousin.’
‘I’m Fedach, yes. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘Likewise.’ Someone had taught this young man excellent manners. If my son had lived, perhaps he would have been like this, forthright but courteous, full of goodwill. Healthy and strong. With an effort I forced Brennan back into the locked corner of my heart which was his keeping place. ‘Do you breed horses here?’
It seemed they did, and Fedach was keen to tell me about it. I nodded and smiled and tried to ask intelligent questions until Luíseach returned, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘What are you doing in here, Son?’ she asked. There was such love and pride in her tone that it did not seem like a criticism.
‘I came in to tell Mistress Blackthorn her horse was being well looked after.’
‘And stayed to pass the time of day, from the sound of it. Aren’t you supposed to be helping your father? Mistress Blackthorn’s come down from Wolf Glen and she’s still got to ride all the way to Winterfalls. She doesn’t have time to listen to your horse talk.’
‘What are you baking?’ Fedach asked with a grin. ‘It smells good.’
‘Not ready yet,’ said his mother. ‘Off with you, now. I’ll see you later.’
On the threshold, Fedach hesitated. ‘Do you know the girl from the big house?’ he asked me. ‘Up at Wolf Glen?’
I got in before Luíseach could speak. ‘Cara? I know her quite well,’ I said. ‘She and I are staying in Prince Oran’s household at present. Why do you ask?’
‘That’s –’ Luíseach began, but was interrupted by a man’s voice, calling her name from out the back somewhere. Muttering something under her breath, she got up and went out.
‘Cara’s like someone from an old tale, isn’t she?’ Fedach said. He leaned closer, his eyes bright, his tone confidential. ‘Like a lovely wildwood creature. She’s the one I’m going to marry, Mistress Blackthorn. Someday. If she’ll have me. That’s a secret, though. Don’t tell my mother.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Fedach. Does Cara know about this?’ It seemed unlikely; as far as I could recall, she had never mentioned this charming young man. Sadly, a farmer’s son was unlikely to meet Tóla’s requirements for a future son-in-law.
‘Oh, no. We’ve hardly spoken to each other. Her father doesn’t let her out much. But I’ve seen her at the lake, with Gormán, once or twice. Had a word or two. When it’s the right time I’ll ask her. And she’ll say yes. I know it deep down, Mistress Blackthorn.’
His shining, hopeful eyes made me sad. ‘Whatever lies in your future, I hope you will be happy, Fedach,’ I said. ‘And I hope the same for Cara.’
I waited, hands curled around my empty cup, while Fedach took his leave of his mother and went back out to the horses. I waited while Luíseach made another brew.
‘That sorrowful story you mentioned,’ I said. ‘I would be interested to hear a little more. Am I right in thinking Master Tóla hired you as wet-nurse for Bardán’s daughter, not long after that fine son of yours was born?’
Luíseach was standing opposite me, hands twisted through her apron. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I had enough milk for two. My son and . . . the girl.’
‘Who went up to Wolf Glen with her father. And never came back.’ The baby who’d been abandoned in the forest. The baby who had died alone and cold, in the night. If that story was true.
‘She was an odd little thing.’ Luíseach was staring off into the distance now, r
emembering. ‘Long and spindly, all legs and arms. I fed her, yes. But the one who was always walking around with her and holding her and singing to her was Mistress Suanach. Calling her pet names: my precious, my sweet, heart’s dearest. Didn’t like anyone else tending to the girl.’
‘She must have been heartbroken when the baby died.’
‘We never heard how she felt. One day I was wet-nurse in that household, the next day the baby girl was missing, the day after that they told me she was dead and I was packed off back to Longwater with a purse of silver for my trouble. Mistress Suanach went away to stay with her kinsfolk that very same day, or so the story went.’
‘To come back later with her own child.’
Luíseach nodded.
Now the most awkward question; I hoped she would not tell me to mind my own business. ‘She was away a good while, wasn’t she?’
Luíseach gave me a very direct look. ‘Poor thing wasn’t a mother long. My son was born in the autumn. By the next autumn Mistress Suanach was dead. An ague, they said.’
Morrigan’s britches. So Cara could not have been Suanach’s natural daughter. ‘Before Cara was a year old,’ I murmured.
‘As you say.’
‘It’s . . . a very sad story.’
‘It is, Mistress Blackthorn. And you did not hear it from me, or from anyone in this household.’
‘Understood. Your son is a fine young man, Luíseach. You’ve raised him well.’
‘I have a good husband. He’s shown Fedach what a man should be.’
Curse it, what were these sudden tears? I turned my face away, but not before she saw.
‘I’m sorry, Mistress Blackthorn. Have I upset you?’
Den of Wolves Page 30
