The Well of Shades

  “Best get those sheets back on the boil,” said the other. “I reckon you’ve got just enough time to wash them again before she hears the story and sends for you. Watch that child of yours. Biting, eh? Little wild thing. I don’t know why the lady ever took the two of you in.”

  The first maid whispered something and the two of them giggled. Then they were gone. Eile knelt down. “Saraid?”

  The child was shaking with sobs; she would not take her face out of the apron.

  “Saraid, listen to me. It will be all right. I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

  Words between the sobs, the tone full of woe. “Sorry’s dead.”

  Eile’s heart turned over. “No, she isn’t.” She wrapped her arms around the weeping child. “I can clean her up and stitch her back together. She won’t be exactly the same. She’ll have… honorable wounds. Saraid, you mustn’t bite people. It hurts them.” She wondered what she would say if the child pointed out that Eile had hit Fionn, and that hitting people hurt them, too. But Saraid put her head against Eile’s shoulder, pressed the two parts of the muddy plaything against her chest, and said nothing at all.

  SOME TIME LATER, Eile stood before the Widow in her great room, with Maeve silent by her side. Saraid had cried herself to sleep and, reluctantly, Eile had left her in the bedchamber.

  “My son will be chieftain here one day,” the Widow was saying. “What he may or may not have said or done is immaterial. You struck him. Your child sank her teeth into his leg; I saw the mark she made. Such acts of violence against his person cannot be tolerated.”

  Eile had given the most honest accounting of events she could, and the lady’s response startled her. She had expected better. What she had done today was, in her view, entirely justified. “My lady,” she protested, “your son insulted me. He ruined my morning’s work. He destroyed something Saraid loved—”

  “Enough.” There was not the slightest spark of compassion in the Widow’s eyes. “We spoke of power once, young woman. It’s plain to me that although you crave it, you do not understand its nature. Power bestows privilege. It bestows the right to make decisions. I learned that lesson early; I was far younger than you. Tell me, does it not concern you that your child is acquiring bad habits from her mother? A bite one day, a knife in the heart the next?”

  Eile was outraged. The fact that there was a grain of truth in this statement did not diminish its hurtfulness. “She retaliated; defended her own. That’s only natural.”

  “Her own? Oh, you mean the doll.” The lady gave a mirthless laugh. “Your daughter’s better off without it. A filthy old rag, was the way my son described it.”

  Eile clenched her fists. “Tell me,” she said, “does it not concern you that your son may be growing up just like his father?”

  Maeve sucked in her breath. The Widow rose to her feet. Her features were as well governed as ever, but something dangerous had stirred in her eyes.

  “I had thought we might make something of you, Eile,” she said in ominously quiet tones. “I sheltered you out of a certain fellow feeling; your circumstances were pitiable, and your act of violence, while ill-considered, could be seen as self-defense or even as just vengeance for the wrong your uncle did you. But you’ve disappointed me today. You seem to imagine I can allow an assault on the future chieftain of Blackthorn Rise to go unpunished. My power is absolute here. It remains thus because of the steps I take to maintain discipline within my household and within my territories. Maeve, the girl is to have a whipping. Ten strokes will suffice. And three for the child. I’ll expect your report in the morning.”

  “No!” Eile threw herself forward, not sure what she intended but desperate to make this woman hear her. Maeve’s strong hands restrained her as the Widow departed the hall, back straight, head high, a somber figure in her elegant dark gown. “No!” Eile screamed again. “Not Saraid, you can’t—” The lady was gone, and her guards with her. “Let me go! Maeve, let go!” Eile fought, twisting and kicking.

  “Shh!” Maeve’s voice was almost inaudible. “Shh, now, lass. Stop fighting and listen to me, will you? We don’t have much time.”

  Eile’s heart was pounding, her palms were sweaty, her skin crawled with terror. A whipping. Saraid. They couldn’t, they just couldn’t. She’d die before she let them touch her daughter.

  “Eile! Listen!”

  Through her terror, she registered Maeve’s expression; she felt the restraining grip on her wrists change to a supporting arm around the shoulder.

  “Pack up your things during supper,” the housekeeper whispered in her ear. “Don’t let anyone see you doing it. Bring the child to my quarters. Be angry; be afraid. Let everyone think I’m going to go through with this.”

  “You… you won’t hurt her?”

  Maeve’s jaw tightened. “I’ve disciplined a wayward maid or two in the past. The lady’s testing me; testing my loyalty. Well, she’s got it wrong this time. That little wretch Fionn…”

  “But she’ll know. Everyone will. You’ll get in trouble.”

  “You’ll have to go away, lass. You’re right, she will know, and if you stay here she’ll get someone else to carry out her whipping. Once you’re outside the walls, you and Saraid, you’ll be on your own. I can get you out, give you a few coppers and a bite of food for your journey, but that’s all. Go now,” in the face of Eile’s whispered thank-you. “Make it convincing. After supper I’ll show you a way out. Good thing the moon’s full. You’ll need to cover as much ground as you can before morning. She’ll send men after you. She doesn’t forget easily.”

  “Maeve?”

  “What?”

  “Faolan. You know, the man who was with me. I thought I heard him today. Surely she can’t still have him locked up, after all this time?”

  “I’ve some advice for you. You’re in deep enough trouble already; don’t go out of your way to make it worse. That’s a dark story, him and her, and folk who know what’s good for them stay well out of it. Now go, before someone hears us.”

  BY NIGHT, EILE stood inside an unobtrusive doorway cut in the stone wall, a bundle on her back. Saraid, warmly cloaked, was clutching a little bag of her own, a receptacle Maeve had given her to hold the two parts of Sorry, for there had been scant opportunity for sewing. The gray dog had gone out ahead of them and was sniffing about in the bushes. A mist hung low. It would obscure their way. At the same time it would help conceal their flight.

  “You’re a good girl,” Maeve said soberly. “If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t mind if you were her. Take care, now. Those fellows from Cloud Hill will be after you again once she tells them you’re gone.”

  “But—”

  “She never called in the brithem,” Maeve said. “Never did the formal process. That means once you’re out of her protection, you’re still accountable for the killing, under the law. You’d best run as far away as you can.”

  Eile nodded, knowing that if there were any chance the Widow had lied about Faolan, running away was not an option until Eile had ensured he was all right. This was not something she could explain to Maeve. “Thank you,” she said. “If you were my mother, I’d tell you to move away from here and find someone else to work for.”

  Maeve sighed. “I’ve been with her a long time,” she said. “Since before she wed Echen. She’s got her reasons for being the way she is. I couldn’t leave her now. All folk need love, Eile. Even the ones that don’t seem to want it. Off you go, then. Good-bye, poppet.” She bent to kiss Saraid’s cheek, and Eile thought she saw the glint of tears in the housekeeper’s eyes. Then the door swung to behind them, and they were on their own again.

  Eile crouched to whisper. “It’s an adventure, Squirrel. In the dark, with only the moon to light our way. We’re going to be as quiet as mice. Better take my hand; it might be a long walk. We’re going to Fiddler’s Crossing.”

  6

  ON THE FIFTIETH day, in the morning, the big guard came and let Faolan out with his ankles hobbled, so
the best gait he could achieve was an old man’s shuffle. They searched him first, and he was glad he had not yet begun to put his escape plan into action, since its initial step would have been to take his smallest knife out of its concealment in his cell.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, and heard the hoarse croaking of his voice, as rough-edged as a weapon left too long idle.

  “The lady sent for you.”

  “I see.” Faolan was struggling to keep up with the other man’s walking pace. He had done his best to maintain his body’s fitness during the long, empty days, but the chamber where he had been confined was not spacious, and these leg restraints did nothing to help. It came to him that only someone familiar with his life after he left his homeland would think it necessary to curb him thus. In the old days here in Laigin, he had been young and harmless, a bard in training, a second son who never lifted a weapon until the day he was forced to slit his brother’s throat. Even when Echen put him in Breakstone Hollow, it was not for fighting or intrigue or treachery, but for simple defiance. He’d refused to work for a man he despised. It was enough to earn him a season in that hellhole. It was only on quitting his home shore that the young bard had begun to make his living with fists, weapons, and a newfound talent for duplicity.

  There had been no music after the night Echen came to Fiddler’s Crossing. Faolan had not touched a harp again until last summer, when circumstances had required him to play the part of a musician. How word could have reached Blackthorn Rise that the unobtrusive traveler at the bridge was a spy for Fortriu, he could not imagine. Surely, if folk here recognized him, it would not be for that, but for his family’s dark tale. No doubt that had provided years of fodder for local storytellers; it was the reason why people spoke the name of Fiddler’s Crossing in a special tone, a tone guaranteed to put folk off going there if they could avoid it. Echen had given the place its own special nightmare.

  They halted outside a formidable oak door.

  “What does she want?” Faolan ventured. “What am I supposed to have done?”

  “I’m not the one you need to ask.” The big guard glanced at him with a certain sympathy. “The Widow makes her own rules; often they’re beyond folk like you or me.” He rapped at the door, then opened it. “Go on, then.”

  The Widow was seated in state, her grand chair placed on a dais. She was a small woman, but the position of her seat was one of authority. It was necessary for Faolan to perform his ungainly shuffle down the full length of the spacious chamber, between armed guards, narrowing his eyes against the bright lamps that stood by the raised platform. He was dazzled; his cell had been a dim place even on winter’s rare sunny days. After so long confined, the broad space and the light were unsettling. He schooled his features and came up to the high seat.

  His vision was disturbed by the lamps, and the Widow sat behind them. All he could discern was the pale heart shape of her face, the dark swathing folds of her head scarf. He held himself still, waiting. Let her speak first. Let her tell him what in the name of mercy she was up to, and why, through the tiny window of his cell, he had heard Eile screaming out in the yard. Let her explain what she knew of him and then he would decide what to tell.

  “Faolan,” said the lady.

  He gave a nod.

  “Was it a long time to wait?”

  She sounded young; young and chilly. He squinted and made out a pair of emotionless blue-gray eyes in the pale face.

  “I cannot say, my lady. Until I know my misdemeanor, I cannot tell you if the penalty was appropriate.” He strove to match her cool tone, but his voice let him down; he could not disguise the rough edge.

  “Was?” Her tone was light. “Oh, I’m not finished with you yet, Faolan. That was just a taste. I can test your patience far more severely than that, and if I choose to, I will. I wonder what would be apt? A season? A year? Two, perhaps. You might be a little less facile in your comments after that.”

  Faolan did his best to maintain a steady gaze. “When I play games,” he told her, “I prefer to know the rules in advance. It’s so much fairer. What am I charged with? And what have you done with my companion, Aoife?”

  “Companion. What a bland word. I thought you said she was your wife.”

  “I heard her calling out, not so long ago. She sounded distressed. I heard a child scream. If you are the lady known locally as the Widow, it is your responsibility to ensure folk you shelter within your walls are fairly treated.”

  “Twice you’ve spoken of fairness. I should have thought you, of all people, would have learned that life is essentially lacking in that quality. Life is full of inequities, of cruelty and grief and abandonment. It abounds in folk who turn their backs when they should hold out their hands to help. Fairness exists only in the minds of those who have lived solely in the shelter of some haven where folk cling to notions of ideals. There is no fairness. The only things that matter are survival and power. It amazes me that you have not learned this.”

  A curious feeling was coming over Faolan; the sensation of familiarity, as if he had met this arrogant woman before, in very different circumstances. He breathed deep; he blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus properly. “Do I know you?” he asked. “It seems you know something of me, though perhaps less than you imagine.”

  “I know you inside out,” the Widow said, her voice small and cold. “I know you better than you know yourself. I’m the voice that is never silent; the one you hear in your dreams. I’m the nightmare that never goes away. Or maybe not. Maybe you did forget. Perhaps you put it all behind you and moved on to a new life, one in which your past could be reconstructed to be more pleasing, more palatable.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He found himself trembling, and clenched his fists to force his body still. “Tell me where the girl is, and the child. They were under my protection. I’m concerned for their well-being.”

  “Answer a question. Why did you choose that name for her? Aoife?”

  “It is her name.”

  “Don’t lie to me! I know who the girl Eile is, and what she did. Why the name?”

  “It was the first one that came to mind,” he said lightly.

  “For her?” He saw the Widow’s brows lift in scorn. His eyes were working better now, and he could make out the straight, short nose, the guarded mouth, the delicate contours of the face. The tight, implacable jaw. She was familiar; her features teased at him, stirring old memory. “For that wretched little thing with her straggly hair and her stinking, abused body?” the lady went on. “You named her for a great beauty of the daoine sidhe? What kind of a man would do that?”

  “A man who was once a bard,” Faolan said. “Eile has her own kind of beauty. Her father was the same. They’re a rare breed.”

  “Really? Well, she’s gone now. You asked about some noise in the yard. Your rare beauty attacked my son, who is barely nine years old. The child marked him with her teeth. I ordered a beating. The two of them ran away rather than remain here within my walls and under my protection. The girl’s not only violent, she’s a fool.”

  “When? Where did she go?”

  “Ah; a spark of feeling at last. I don’t think I much care for that, Faolan. It disappoints me that you have become the kind of man who attaches himself to vulnerable young girls for no good reason. Why so concerned? Are you upset that your newly acquired property has escaped you? What’s the matter, don’t you fancy a cold bed? Don’t look down your nose at me like that; you did say the girl was your wife. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess what you expected in return for your offer of protection.”

  With an effort, Faolan swallowed his anger. “I traveled to Cloud Hill to bring Eile some news. Her father died in the autumn. I was not instrumental in what happened after I left that house. I seek only to establish that she is safe and well provided for. That is the very least I owe Deord.”

  “Oh, she’ll be back at Cloud Hill by now,” the Widow said casually. “She had charges to
face. I can’t protect her any longer; she hit my son.”

  “What is this? Why are you doing this? You know who I am, that’s clear enough. Do you plan to carry on your husband’s feud with my family even now? Will you pursue his mindless drive to punish us until we’re all in our dotage? Why are you holding me prisoner? And how dare you beat Eile and expose her to that rabble from Cloud Hill? She’s not much more than a child herself, and she’s been badly hurt by that wretched uncle of hers. Imagine how she feels—”

  He fell abruptly silent. The Widow had risen to her feet and stepped forward. The lamplight shone on her face, and Faolan’s heart stopped. He waited to wake up, but the nightmare continued.

  “Seamus, Conal,” the Widow said, “I wish to interrogate this prisoner in private. Bind his hands, then leave us. Wait outside the door.”

  “My lady.” The guards obliged, the big one coming up with rope to tie Faolan’s wrists together behind his back. Briefly, Faolan considered putting up a fight, then abandoned the idea. What he needed were answers, not a beating and a prompt return to his lonely cell. Who knew how long this madwoman would leave him there next time?

  “Very well, Faolan.” The Widow stepped down from her dais and came to stand before him. She had to look up to meet his eyes. His breath caught in his throat; his heart hammered.

  “You asked me how I think your Eile feels,” she said. “I know exactly how she feels. Abandoned; disillusioned; betrayed. The poor wretch made the error of trusting you, based, I imagine, on your tale of being the father’s friend. She expected rescue; she anticipated that you would be there when she needed you. I told her that was foolish. I told her men do that, make women trust them, then simply vanish when they can’t cope with a challenge. I should have explained more clearly, since the girl isn’t educated. Eile, I should have said, if you wait for that man to come and rescue you, you’ll wait forever. You’ll wait and wait, and every day you’ll shed one less tear, and your heart will grow just a little harder, and when ten years have passed, give or take a little, you’ll find there are no more tears to weep. You’ll discover your heart has turned to flint. You’ll realize there’s no need to wait any longer, because you’ve stopped caring. I know it’s the truth, Eile, I should have told her. I know because they did it to me: my father, and my brother.”