Tower of Thorns Read online

  “You’re crazy. Why would those women risk everything, after what happened to them? Not only were they assaulted, they were then publicly shamed and ridiculed. Some of them have got Mathuin’s little bastards to raise. Some of them were thrown out by their families—they may be destitute. And you’re asking me to drag them all the way to Mide so they can stand up and perhaps face another dose of the same? I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I’ve made promises to folk here in Dalriada, Flannan. Promises I mean to keep, one of which is that I won’t try this again.” I’d refrained from telling him what I thought about his expecting me to walk back into Laois as if I had no fear of what Mathuin might do to me. I’d held back my opinion on Flannan’s expectation that I would do this when he wasn’t prepared to go back there himself.

  He’d turned a very direct look on me. I’d waited for another accusation of cowardice; waited for him to say I was no longer the woman he’d known and admired before my life turned to ashes. But what he’d said was, “I won’t ask who extracted that promise from you. As far as I’m aware there’s only one man in these parts who knows your story, and he’s got a vested interest in keeping you in the north.”

  For a moment I’d thought he meant Conmael, though there was no way Flannan could know about the bond that held me in Dalriada. Then I’d realized he was speaking of Grim. “It makes no difference who it was,” I’d snapped.

  “Shh. Keep your voice down.” Flannan had glanced toward the closed door of the stillroom.

  “Flannan, I have to be honest. The way you set it out, my part in this sounds ill-conceived. I’m assuming you dreamed this up once you found I was still alive. It’s hard to believe you would ask it of me.”

  “I ask it because you’re brave,” he’d said. “You’ve always been brave. I can’t promise the plot will succeed this time; nobody can. But it gives us the best chance we’re likely to get of seeing justice done. Yes, your part in it would be risky. I wouldn’t insult you by pretending otherwise. But I believe you can do it.”

  “What happens if this plot fails as the last one did?” I’d whispered, tempted despite all my reservations. Knowing that if I acted sensibly and said no, I would always regret the missed opportunity. “What if all the conspirators make their way to Mide, or to Laois to gather witnesses, and Mathuin’s henchmen find out what’s being planned before this council of Lorcan’s gets a chance to happen? It only takes one person to get scared and whisper in the wrong ear. It only takes one careless word, one misstep, and the whole thing comes tumbling down, and us with it. You know that.” One shaky breath. “And don’t you dare tell me this is what Cass would want me to do, or I swear I’ll hit you.”

  Flannan had been silent after that, leaning against the wall and looking at me with that same expression, the one that told me he knew how much I wanted to say yes, and how hard I was wrestling with my demons. Not a word about Cass; not a word about being brave or standing up to be counted. He’d simply waited.

  The words had been all ready. I won’t be part of this. Not under any circumstances. But what had come out was, “I can’t go anywhere without Grim. And I can’t tell him about this.”

  Still Flannan had stayed quiet. His brows had lifted a little in question.

  “If I did go south, I’d have to slip away, not tell Lady Flidais, not tell anyone.”

  A nod from Flannan.

  “Only there’s no slipping away from Grim. Where I go, he follows. And I wouldn’t want him drawn into this. He has as much to fear from Mathuin as I do. Besides . . .” Grim was the only one prepared to tell me, honestly, if I was making an error of judgment. The only one who could make me listen when a certain mood came over me.

  “Besides what?”

  I’d found myself suddenly reluctant to give Flannan further explanations. “I’m just saying that even if we went covertly, he would come after us. And if we went openly we’d invite the possibility of someone alerting Mathuin. He sent men after us, after Grim and me, when we . . . when we got out of the lockup.”

  “Ah.” Flannan had moved to sit down on the bench. “I have a plan, though I confess I had not thought to include Grim. We would not head south straightaway, but would leave court on the pretext of aiding Lady Geiléis with her monster in the tower. Or rather, you would; I would offer to ride with you in order to pay a perfectly plausible visit to the monastic foundation at St. Olcan’s. To make our movements still more convincing, you might actually assist Lady Geiléis with her problem. While you did so, I could spend time studying a certain manuscript I’ve heard they have in that collection. We could move on from Bann after midsummer—that would still allow sufficient time for what must be done. I could make use of the messenger pigeons at St. Olcan’s to check on the progress of our fellow conspirators. And we could head south by a different path, bypassing Cahercorcan entirely.”

  “We could? What path?”

  “Farther west into Tirconnell, then down through the pass from the north. That’s provided we can get across Lady Geiléis’s ensorcelled ford. Don’t look like that, Saorla. There are friends all the way. I have learned to be careful, I promise you. The fact that I am still alive and my own man proves it.”

  “You call me by that forbidden name and say you’re careful? This sounds . . . It sounds fragile, Flannan. Like a rope woven too thin, that would snap under the least strain.”

  “The rope is woven from courage, comradeship and hope. It is strong enough to bind an evildoer and bring him to justice. I promise.”

  No denying it had sounded good; inspirational, almost. Enough to make a woman turn her back on her other allegiances and march forward with the flag of justice held high, disregarding common sense entirely. Enough to make offending Lady Flidais and deceiving Grim unimportant. But something in the detail had troubled me, even so. “Flannan?”

  “Yes?”

  “When Grim and I met you on the road, were you really on one of your usual trips between monasteries? Did you encounter us purely by chance?”

  “How could it have been otherwise, since I didn’t know you’d survived? If I had known, I’d have gone looking for you in the south, not here. When I saw you down on the shore . . . When I realized who it was . . .” I’d seen a look in Flannan’s eyes then that startled me. Had my survival truly been such a miracle for him? “Finding you again—it was a gift, pure and simple.”

  For a while I’d fallen silent, for his eloquence had made it hard to go on arguing. “All very well to talk of being brave,” I’d said eventually. “But I suspect you haven’t thought this out properly. I was only in the lockup a year.” Only. Hah! It had been the longest year of my life. “What about before? Yes, I went south after Cass died. Stayed away years. But I came back. I told you before, I was in Laois for months, talking to the folk Mathuin had wronged, gathering what evidence I could, until eventually I confronted the man in public and got myself incarcerated. Why did nobody tell you about that? Even if they didn’t know we’d been friends before, I made enough of a stir to have folk talking. Or I thought I did. Surely someone in your network must have known about it.”

  “Mathuin is expert at making his enemies disappear. I don’t need to tell you that, surely. Besides, I imagine you were not using the name I knew. No word came to me at all, either from the community or from my fellow plotters. Nobody would have had cause to associate you with me. To all outward appearances I am a mild-mannered scholar, a quiet person who keeps out of harm’s way.”

  “Seems I made less of a stir than I’d hoped to.” All for nothing. All of it. Could I bear to go through the struggle all over again, perhaps with as little success?

  Flannan had made no comment. Into the silence had come the sounds of footsteps passing, conversations, the distant ringing of a bell beyond the closed door of the stillroom. Only a matter of time before someone interrupted us. “I knew, you see,” Flannan had murmured, “that you’d want to be part o
f it. Need to be part of it, once you heard. I knew how you’d feel if we confronted Mathuin at last and you weren’t there to add your voice. You were always so fierce in your quest for justice, even before Cass died. It was one of the things he loved about you. That your spirit burned as brightly as your hair.”

  A knock on the door.

  “I need some time,” I’d said.

  “It can’t be too long.”

  “I’m not stupid, Flannan. A day or two, that’s all. And if I do say yes, I can’t tell Grim.”

  “So he wouldn’t be coming with us?”

  “It’s complicated. Just don’t say anything to him, all right?”

  “Not a word.”

  • • •

  I didn’t need the day or two I’d asked for. The next morning I went to see Flidais. Being less than honest with her made me feel bad, but there was no other way. So I said that I was moved by Geiléis’s distress, knowing very well what it was to be a woman and to feel powerless, and that I wanted leave to travel to Bann and conduct the cleansing ritual Master Oisín could not perform in time. While I was there, I would see if I could find other solutions to Geiléis’s problem. I would return straight after midsummer, I told Flidais, whether or not I succeeded in banishing the monster from the tower. That part was the lie, or the half lie. If I decided to go south with Flannan, if I decided to walk that perilous path, I would never be back. Not to court, and not to Winterfalls. Saying what I did felt like stepping off a cliff. My stomach was churning with nerves. It was hard work maintaining a calm face. Flidais knew me well, and she wasn’t stupid. But she gave me her blessing to go. The truth was, the court physician, Caillín, would do a more than adequate job of delivering the baby, provided there were no complications. But Flidais wanted me, and I had promised to be there.

  I told Lady Geiléis I would come with her and was thanked with a beaming smile. Before I’d even left the room she was sending for Onchú, her head guard, to make plans for our departure. And then I told Grim I’d changed my mind about going to Bann. He’d known already that something was up. I’d had a restless night, full of dark memories. If one of us couldn’t sleep, the other generally stayed awake too. At one point Grim had gone downstairs to make a brew, and had asked if I wanted to talk, and I’d said no. He hadn’t pressed it; we understood each other too well for that.

  I told Grim nothing about the new plot against Mathuin. And I did not tell Flannan that for now, my yes went only as far as riding to Bann and attempting to deal with the monster in the tower. Geiléis’s home was remote, isolated—hard to reach even without the monster making the ford impassable. I would be safe there while I made up my mind; it was far from Mathuin’s clutches. And who knew? I might even succeed in banishing the creature. A small victory beside the one I so longed to achieve, but worthwhile all the same. Hadn’t Conmael bound me to use my talents for good?

  I would not let myself say an impetuous yes to Flannan’s plan. I’d nearly made a bad mistake last autumn when I’d rushed off south without thinking things through. I had to consider this soberly, when the thrill of terrified excitement had died down. I needed to weigh up the risks and advantages of each course of action. I could come back to court after midsummer. I could honor my promise to Flidais and respect my vow to Conmael. I could set aside the burning need that had kept me alive all those years since Cass and Brennan died, and all those filthy, desperate days in Mathuin’s lockup. Or I could choose to slip away with Flannan, turn my back on Dalriada, seize the unexpected gift of another chance. How likely was it, really, that Conmael would make good on his threat to send me back to the lockup if I went south? I could bear witness as Mathuin faced justice; I could have vengeance for my dear ones at last.

  As for Grim and what would happen to him if I chose the second course, I would face that difficulty when the time came.

  • • •

  So we rode out: Geiléis and her men-at-arms, Flannan, Grim and me, with the dog, Ripple, running alongside. Geiléis had told us the journey would take five days. I discovered at the end of the first day that the lady’s idea of camping was to have her men erect a tentlike shelter for her, make a fire, prepare her a meal and generally attend to all her needs. The men-at-arms had brought all the materials for a camp, either on the pack horse or in their saddlebags. They set everything up with such practiced efficiency that it did not feel right to offer help, though Grim did knock in a few tent pegs. Geiléis offered me a shelter of my own for the night, along with soft bedding, and I declined.

  “We’re used to sleeping in the open. And the weather’s dry. We’ll find ourselves a spot by the fire. But thank you,” I made myself add, thinking how odd it felt to be treated like a lady, even though Lady had been Grim’s name for me in that place, when it had been more or less the opposite of what incarceration had reduced me to.

  Cormac’s Crossing, where we’d stopped, was at the edge of some woodland, with a sizable stream nearby. We’d been well supplied from the royal kitchens, but from force of habit Grim and I dropped lines in the water and, somewhat to our surprise, caught enough fish for everyone to have a share. Grim cleaned them and cooked them over the fire; Ripple stayed close to him, eager for scraps. I gathered a supply of edible greens to make it into more of a meal. Flannan didn’t have much to say. He watched us with what appeared to be amusement, making me even edgier than I already was.

  “Your job’s washing the dishes,” I told him, though I suspected Geiléis’s men would do that as efficiently as they had made camp.

  One thing they didn’t do much of, and that was talking. There was no storytelling around the fire. They didn’t share jokes and songs. They fed and watered the horses, cleared away the meal, laid out their bedrolls and organized a watch with hardly a word exchanged even among themselves. Lady Geiléis retired to her tent as soon as she had eaten; before dusk. Somewhat later, the men who were not taking first watch settled to sleep. I had thought that the awkwardness of lying between Grim and Flannan, even at a discreet distance, might lead to a restless night, but I was so exhausted from the long ride that I fell asleep quickly and did not wake until the first birds began to announce the new day’s dawn.

  The weather stayed fair. We made good speed across farmland and through woodland, encountering few folk on the road. Some of the way was high ground, giving fine views north over the sea and south over hills and valleys fading into distant blue and brown and purple. Somewhere in that shadowy realm was Laois, and my enemy. Somewhere in that haze was the place where my man and my baby lay under the earth, still holding each other close. What would you want me to do, Cass? See justice done, or get on with my life in peace? Try to stamp out evil whatever the cost, or simply do good and keep out of trouble? The shade of my husband had nothing to say, which was entirely as I’d expected. Grim had once suggested Cass was watching over me, proud of my achievements. I was more inclined to think that on the day he died, my husband’s spirit was snuffed out forever, leaving no more than the pitiful pile of bone and ash the flames had reduced him to. I had buried him—buried them—with my own hands. That day, I had sworn that I would never shed tears again. The promise had been beyond me to keep.

  With Geiléis and her men close by, not to speak of Grim, I had no opportunity to talk to Flannan privately along the way. That was probably just as well. For all my good intentions—of taking time to decide, of weighing all the arguments—the secret still burned hot inside me. So I limited my conversation to the everyday. Grim, not a talkative man at the best of times, had become almost as silent as Geiléis’s retainers.

  So four days passed, and on the afternoon of the fifth, Lady Geiléis informed us that we should reach her holdings just before nightfall. “The creature will be growing quieter as the sun sets,” she said, “but you may still hear its voice. I should warn you. It can be . . . disturbing.”

  I had not given much thought to the monster. Flannan’s plot ha
d squeezed it out of my mind, and I had almost forgotten that in order to retain credibility with Grim, at least, I would actually need to attempt the task Lady Geiléis had entrusted to me. As we rode, I pondered what the word monster really meant. Monsters in ancient tales were often a disconcerting mixture of man and creature. They rose from swamps or lurked in dark forests, ready to leap out and sink their teeth into the unwary traveler. Monsters were ugly, fearsome, strange; they tended to attack without asking questions first. They might be dragons that demanded tribute in the form of young women to devour, or giant dogs that enveloped folk in dark clouds of nothingness. Every storyteller knew the tricks for making such creatures as terrifying as possible. But in my book, the vilest and worst was the human monster: a man like Mathuin of Laois, whose actions made it clear he was devoid of any good qualities. Compassion, for instance. Kindness. Fairness. Justice. The ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes. All humankind was flawed; I’d learned that over and over. We all had times when we failed to display those fine qualities. But they existed in us, provided we could dig deep enough. They seemed entirely lacking in Mathuin. Did that make him less than human? Or could even a monster like him somehow find a better self? It was hard to believe.

  “All right?” Grim had ridden up alongside Flannan and me. “Long ride.”

  “I’ll live. You?”

  “Be glad to get there, monster or no monster. Sure you’re all right? Looking a bit white.”

  “I’m fine. Tired, that’s all.”

  Lady Geiléis must have heard me. She reined in her mount and announced that we would stop for a brief rest before tackling the last part of the ride. We were close by a sizable body of water, almost a small lake. Ducks swam, wading birds foraged in the shallows, and willows dipped their long branches into the water.