13
INTERROGATION. BEATING AND being left for dead. Summary execution. A combination of these. As Faolan’s captors hurried him into the darkness under the trees, he considered the possibilities and how he might deal with each one. They had not blindfolded him. He assessed their clothing, their weaponry, the way they carried themselves, and deduced they were a chieftain’s household men-at-arms or warriors from the court of Circinn. An organized fighting force. Not Carnach’s unless his troops had put off their chieftain’s colors, for these wore anonymous garb, brown, gray, nothing to draw attention. If they were the new king’s, they showed no particular sign of that, either. Drust the Boar had borne his emblem on a red background; one might have expected the same from his brother. The gag made questions impossible. Instead, Faolan observed the way they followed, the twists and turns traversed with ease despite the dense shade under the old oaks; wherever they were leading him, the path was so familiar to these men they trod it without needing to think.
They halted at the foot of a natural stone wall higher than a man’s head. The trees grew close, but more light filtered down here, illuminating the mosses and tiny ferns, the fungi and creepers that occupied each chink and crevice in the rock.
“Through here,” someone said, pulling Faolan by the sleeve.
There was a narrow gap in the stone, well concealed by the undergrowth, hard to spot unless a man knew what he was looking for. They sidled through in single file, Faolan awkward with his bound hands. The chink opened to a sheltered space bordered by great stones and floored with grass. Here horses stood hobbled and men were packing up gear in apparent preparation for a move. Beyond this scene of activity two men stood together talking. As the tall, red-haired man turned to look in his direction, Faolan made his features impassive. He made sure he gave no sign of recognition. Carnach’s eyes rested on him thoughtfully. Then the other speaker turned his head, and Faolan’s hands clenched themselves into fists behind his back. The dark-eyed, grim-featured man by Carnach’s side was Bargoit, chief councillor from the court of Circinn.
Faolan was good at what he did. He stood calmly while one of his captors walked over to Carnach and gave what he assumed was a quick report. Then he was led forward to stand before the chieftain of Fortriu and the weaselly councillor of Circinn. The gag was removed. The rest of the men turned their attention to horses and gear.
Silence was the best course initially. This looked bad; it looked like a conspiracy. Carnach, then, would have to choose interrogation followed by summary execution. On the other hand, it seemed Carnach had decided not to recognize him. Faolan kept his breathing steady. Wait; do not speak. Be ready for whatever they may throw at you.
“State your name and your business in these parts!” rapped out Carnach. “Be quick about it. We’ve had reports of a man asking questions. Too many questions. If that’s you, you’d best ask them now, and tell us who sent you here to gather information.”
Faolan thought very fast indeed. A game; a perilous game with Bargoit standing there. He must play as cleverly as Carnach, and hope he had guessed the rules correctly. “My name’s Donal,” he said, aiming for a tone of innocent confusion. “I’m a farmhand, my lord, looking for work to tide me over. Things are not so good at home. My father-in-law threw me out. You know how it is.”
Carnach regarded him thoughtfully. “And where might home be?” he asked.
“Place called Fiddler’s Crossing, my lord. Other side of Pitnochie, in Fortriu, far to the west.” He did not think Bargoit would remember him. It was six years now since the last time the councillor could have seen him, when Bridei was elected king, and Faolan was expert at the art of blending in. Besides, his appearance had changed; hadn’t Eile said he looked at least five-and-thirty now?
“What’s this father-in-law’s name?” Bargoit snapped, quick as a snake. “If you’re a farm worker, where are your tools?”
“Garth,” said Faolan. “I made the error of getting too friendly with a certain lady; my wife didn’t take too kindly to it, and her father’s got a heavy hand. She’ll have me back. She always does. I didn’t bring tools. It’s a long way to carry a pitchfork.”
Carnach took a step forward and hit him on the jaw, hard. “Hold your tongue,” he said, mildly enough. “Don’t waste our time with your rubbish about wives and dalliances. What are you, a fool?”
Faolan said nothing. What was the truth here? Guess wrong and Carnach must kill him to stop his mouth. Guess right and he might not, after all, need to find some way of evading a large number of armed men in a confined space with not even a knife to his name.
“A pitchfork?” Bargoit’s suspicious eyes narrowed still further. The snake seemed ready to strike. “Since when do folk stack straw in springtime?”
“In fact,” Faolan looked at the ground, “he took my things. Father-in-law. Locked them up. Didn’t leave me so much as a—”
“Yes, yes,” said Bargoit in irritation. “Why come so far? Pitnochie’s halfway down the Glen. Surely there’s work nearer home?”
Faolan fixed a dull gaze on him and did not attempt a reply. Carnach and the councillor exchanged a glance.
“Now—what did you say your name was? Donal?—now, Donal, I will put a question to you,” Carnach said with a slight curve of the lips, giving the impression that he found the hapless farm hand something between amusing and tiresome. “Why should this father-in-law take you back, eh? Indeed, why should your wife do so, if you’ve a habit of straying? Maybe you should be seeking new pastures. Circinn has fine farming land; opportunities for a fit fellow such as yourself.”
Bargoit was getting bored; his gaze had moved to the men-at-arms, and he gestured to someone, indicating a certain horse should be saddled.
“He’ll take me back because, underneath it all, he trusts me, my lord,” Faolan said. “And my wife will take me back because there are certain activities I’ve a particular talent for. Why would she want to put another fellow in my place when I give her perfect satisfaction?” He looked into Carnach’s eyes, but kept his tone light. Sniggers arose from the men standing closest.
“My advice to you, then,” Carnach said quietly, “is to be off home without delay. Be there by Midsummer; get your back into your work and show your wife and her father that you have at least a scrap of loyalty left. You’re a fool and, I suspect, a braggart; don’t make things worse by wasting the goodwill of your family. If they’ll have you, you’re a luckier man than you deserve to be.” He turned to Bargoit. “This fellow’s a halfwit; he’s of no account.”
“Mm?” Bargoit had not been listening; now he fixed his penetrating stare on Faolan once more. “A fool deserves a beating. You, and you!” He jerked his head at two of the men who had brought Faolan in. “Take him back to the place you found him. Teach him a lesson, but don’t take too long over it. We’ll meet you where the path branches north.”
So it would be beating and being left for dead after all, Faolan thought as they retraced the way through the forest. He wouldn’t be able to fight them, even though there were only two; attempt that and they’d know instantly that he was no farmhand. Trying to escape carried the same difficulty. He did not care to submit to a thrashing; it went against all his instincts. Not hitting back was one of the hardest skills to master.
They threw him down in the straw by the wall, his wrists still bound. Fortunately they were in a hurry; less fortunate was their decision to use their boots. He was still conscious when they left; still able, vaguely, to recognize that this morning’s episode equated to good news for Bridei. His leg, the one already damaged from last autumn’s battle with wolves, was full of a stabbing pain, a pain that made his breath falter in his throat. As the sun rose higher and the day warmed to a hint of early summer, he curled himself on the straw and observed with detachment that there was a fair amount of blood. Then he surrendered to the dark.
BREDA WAS NOT sufficiently recovered to attend her handmaid’s funeral rite, a small private ceremon
y. Only those closest to the girl were present: Cella’s father, of course, as well as Keother and the young women who had been her fellow handmaids. Bridei and Tuala were both in attendance. The official confinement period following Anfreda’s birth was not quite over, but the queen of Fortriu had made it known she felt great sorrow for this loss, and wished to acknowledge the fortitude of the young woman’s father by offering her sympathy in person.
Eile knew this because she had been asked to stay with Derelei and Anfreda while Tuala was at the ritual. Dovran was on guard and one of the nursemaids was also in attendance, but Tuala had said she felt most confident that Derelei would stay out of trouble when Eile and Saraid were there. It was a warm day, the garden full of sweet scents, the flowering lavender and rosemary alive with bees and butterflies. Eile busied herself pulling out wild grasses from the beds; Saraid and Derelei were lying on their stomachs, side by side, staring into the pond. The nursemaid sat outside the door to the queen’s apartments with Anfreda beside her in a basket draped with fine lawn to keep out insects.
It felt good to be asked to help; good to be trusted with the royal children after so brief a time at White Hill. The sorrow was still there underneath. It surfaced every time Eile saw Dovran walk past the foot of the private garden, sometimes with eyes sternly ahead, once or twice with a glance in her direction and a hint of a smile. At least she hadn’t offended him. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t bear his touch.
She was sad for Cella, too, though it was probably too late for that. Whatever happened when a person died, it had already happened for Breda’s handmaid. Either she was in some other realm, or her spirit had been reborn as a new baby, human, or creature, or she was just beginning the long, gradual crumbling away to dust and the thing inside that had made her eyes shine and her skin flush pink and her body run and dance and ride was gone altogether, snuffed out as easily as a little candle.
Eile pulled up a root of wild endive that had sprouted between the lavender bushes and put it in her basket. Weeding was an odd occupation. What was a weed, after all, but a perfectly good plant that had simply decided to grow in a place somebody happened to have chosen for something else? Endive had a medicinal use; Elda had told her so when she was revealing the secrets of the stillroom. It seemed a shame to pull these up, really. By setting root here they had shown enterprise and strength. They had shown they were survivors. Eile glanced at Saraid again; she was up on her elbows, looking at Derelei, who lay utterly still with his gaze on the water. We’re like weeds, her and me, she thought. A couple of scrawny little grasses, sticking our heads up in a bed full of grand, blooming flowers. The idea made her smile.
A polite cough from a short distance away. She straightened. There was Dovran, standing a few paces down the garden. Eile got to her feet, heart hammering foolishly.
“Good morning,” the bodyguard said.
“Good morning.” Best think of this simply as an opportunity to practice her new language. No reason for fear; none at all.
“You are well?”
“Er—yes. You?”
Dovran smiled. It was possible to see how, to some other woman, he would appear charming, kindly, and handsome with his long brown hair and his good teeth.
“I have a message for you.” He was speaking slowly so she could understand. “Lady Breda wants to see you. She sent a maid.”
“Lady Breda?” That didn’t sound likely; not at the very time of the funeral the princess had been too unwell to attend. Eile sought for words to say, Are you sure? or, That can’t be right.
“She asked if you would go to her chamber now. I told her maid you were watching Derelei. She wishes to see you as soon as you are free.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
He smiled, shuffling his feet a little. His awkwardness was incongruous with his impressive stature, his leather breast-piece and array of weaponry, sword, knives, crossbow on his back. “Will you…” he began, then stopped to clear his throat. “Will you be at the feast tonight, Eile?”
It was the first time he had addressed her by name. For a moment she was too surprised to reply. Then she said, “Perhaps… be with children again. King and queen… must go feast.”
Dovran gave a nod that could have meant anything, then headed off on his march around the garden. As Eile watched him go, she thought of Faolan, who had asked her not to put her proposition to any other man without speaking to him first. Well, he wasn’t here, was he? He showed no sign of coming back. If he never came, what was she supposed to do? She could see that Dovran was interested. She could see that he was eligible. He was precisely the kind of young man she probably should ask, as he had revealed a reticent kindness that suggested he would not be a selfish lover. Eile grimaced. She’d never ask him; not in a hundred years. One touch of his hand had been enough to tell her how impossible that was.
She shivered, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Drustan and Ana were gone. They had left early, making no secret of their longing to be away. It had been hard to say farewell. She had not known them long, but they had become dear friends. Before they left Ana had asked her, in halting Gaelic, to tell Faolan she hoped he would be happy. Drustan had bid her remember she was her father’s daughter, and that Deord would be proud of her. He had added that they hoped to see both Eile and Faolan at Dreaming Glen some day; that Saraid would like the garden and the two small lakes that lay by his house there, Cup of Sky and Cup of Dew. No words had seemed adequate to thank them for their kindness.
“We must go now,” Drustan had said. “Tell him…”
Ana had said something in the Priteni tongue, too difficult for Eile to follow.
Drustan had looked Eile straight in the eye; she would always remember the bright intensity of his gaze, like that of a wild creature. “There will come a time when he must stop running,” he had said. “Every being has its need for shelter, every man his desire for home.”
“But,” Eile had asked, “what if you can’t find home? What if you don’t know what it looks like?”
“The search needs patience. Endurance. Keen eyes and a strong heart. He will recognize it before too long.”
Eile had offered no reply. In her mind, still, was the response, But what if I don’t? The safe walls of White Hill, the comfortable chamber, the hand of friendship extended even by kings and queens, that was shelter, of course. But it was not home. It was not her own little house, Saraid with the striped cat on her knee, Eile cooking with her own pots and tending to vegetables in her own garden. It was not… Somehow it was not complete. You want too much, she told herself. But this morning she had nodded to Drustan, blinking back her tears, and waved farewell as the two of them made their way out through the gates of the king’s stronghold with their modest escort, and off down the Glen.
“Eile?”
Her daughter’s voice broke into her reverie, and she moved over to the pond. Saraid was sitting up now, Sorry on her lap, while Derelei did not seem to have stirred at all. His eyes were fixed on the still water.
“Derry’s sad,” said Saraid.
Perhaps he was; more alarming to Eile was his preternatural stillness, uncanny in so small a child. For a moment she wondered if the boy was in some kind of fit, and reached down to touch him, but something held back her hand. She perceived that he was finely balanced, his energies entirely concentrated on what he saw, his ears deaf to the world that held herself and her daughter, the nursemaid, the baby, the bees buzzing in the garden. He was behind an invisible wall; he had one foot in another world.
“He’s fine, Saraid,” she said quietly. “We need to watch over him and wait.” She hoped she had got this right; Tuala had left her in charge, and the boy’s behavior was quite odd. But then, Derelei and Anfreda were not like other children. With them, she supposed one must expect the unexpected.
Eile seated herself on the flagstones two paces from Derelei, and Saraid edged in closer. They waited. Saraid sang softly to Sorry, a little lullaby Eile had learned
somewhere long ago, and had hummed in an undertone night after night in that wretched hut at Cloud Hill, soothing her troubled child to sleep:
Cow in meadow, sheep in fold
Sun is setting, red and gold
Babe in cradle, bird on nest
Moon is rising, time for rest.
“That’s lovely singing, Saraid,” Eile said. “Is Sorry asleep now?”
Saraid shook her head solemnly. “Sorry’s sad. Crying.” She held the doll against her shoulder, patting its back.
“Oh. Why is she sad?”
“Sorry wants Feeler come back.”
It was like a punch in the gut. She had thought Saraid had forgotten him; she had assumed new friends and a safe haven would drive the memories of that long journey across country, just the three of them, from her daughter’s mind. Foolish. The images of that time were still bright and fresh in her own head; she dreamed of them every night. Why should Saraid be any different, just because she was small? Eile wondered what else Saraid remembered.
She wanted to say, Faolan will be back soon, but that was to raise false hope. Saraid must not endure what she had, the endless years of waiting for a loved one who never came home. That was too cruel. “Faolan is on a journey,” she told her daughter.