Den of Wolves Page 6

  Anyway, he says yes to everything, the horse, the payment, the other things I’ve asked for. He wants me to give my word, again, about sticking to his rules. Can’t see any reason he’d need them, myself. Wolf Glen’s on its own, a fair ride from the settlement. Not the sort of place you pop in to say good morning because you happen to be passing. And none of the locals at Winterfalls have talked about these folk, the way they do about Oran and Flidais and their household, or even about people who live in the other settlement, Silverlake. So why all the secrets? I don’t ask, though, just tell him I’ll keep my mouth shut if that’s part of the job. Then I say since I’m here already I can put in a day’s work now. ‘Make a start on clearing away the old stuff. Getting the site levelled off and ready. Bit of help with lifting the stones would be handy, if you’ve got a lad free. Since the fellow who’s giving the orders can’t do that. With his hands and all.’

  The master smiles. He’s got one of those faces that’s always a bit sad, though. ‘I’m glad you are so keen to get started, Grim. Handle the pieces with respect and care; everything is precious.’

  Could’ve fooled me. Lot of old crumbling stones and splintered timbers. I don’t say that out loud, just nod. ‘Might take a look at your materials, if I can,’ I say to Gormán, who’s come down with me. ‘See what’s set away. Give me an idea of how long it’ll all take.’

  ‘I’ll lend you Conn for today,’ Gormán says.

  ‘And Bardán?’

  Funny look on Master Tóla’s face, like he’s swallowed something nasty. ‘The wild man? He’ll have his rules for preparing the site, no doubt, same as for all of it, and you’ll need to stick to them. I just hope you can make some sense of his gibberish.’

  ‘He’s clear enough,’ I say. ‘I’ll be getting on with it, then.’

  End of the day, I’m aching all over but happy with what we’ve done. Conn’s as skinny as a bean pod, but he’s strong. And not a talker, which suits me. Odd team, but it worked well enough, Bardán watching and telling us how it should be done, Conn and me shifting the stones to the spots where they needed to go. Felt like a jumble at first. But the wild man knew what he wanted. Broken bits in one pile. Bigger pieces stacked alongside the edges of what’ll be the new house. Out the back of the barn they’ve got shaped stones from the old build, piled up neat. And inside the barn, keeping dry, is the wood they saved. Oak, ash, beech, like the wild man said. And more. All sorts. Some of it cut to size, some logs with the bark still on. Makes it easier for me to guess what kind they are. Looking at all that wood, I’m thinking I might have taken on too much. If Bardán knows how it’s going to fit together he must be the best builder in all Erin. Which he could be, who knows? Can’t judge a man by how he looks. Or how he talks.

  I’m off home then. Riding Sturdy, leading the horse I’ve been given for getting to and fro. Nice big grey, a mare, name of Mercy, which I like. Gormán’s said they’ll switch between her and another horse so as not to wear them out. Scannal can stable them for me.

  Ride feels shorter on the way home, though I’m tired and so is Ripple, running alongside. Make sure I get out of the woods before dusk falls. Cuts the working day a bit short, but still. Common sense. That forest isn’t the sort of place you want to linger in after dark. Could be all sorts of things in there, and I’m not just talking wolves and the like. Glad to get clear of the trees and head over to Scannal’s. I drop off the horses, have a word to him. He says he’ll look after Mercy, no trouble, and just come and fetch her in the morning. Then I’m off across the fields for home with dusk turning everything to soft shadows. Ready for bed right now, every bit of me worn out. Only supper first would be good. And didn’t I promise to do something for Blackthorn?

  Good smell of cooking from the cottage, something with meat in it. Ripple pushes past me, forgetting her manners. Blackthorn’s been busy. Row of little jars on the shelf, with labels stuck on. Some potion she’s made with Emer. I remember what it was I said I’d do. Catch up on the reading and writing lesson I missed. Head’s so fuzzy I couldn’t tell one letter from another.

  ‘Long day,’ Blackthorn says, ladling whatever it is into a couple of bowls. Gives me a good look over, as if she doesn’t much like what she sees. ‘Eat up, go off to bed, don’t bother about anything else.’ She sets our bowls on the table. Puts a dish down for Ripple.

  I eat. Try not to fall asleep between one mouthful and the next. ‘Good dumplings,’ I mumble. They are good; made with onions and mutton fat. After, I feel a lot better.

  ‘Got a story for you,’ says Blackthorn. ‘If you can stay awake long enough.’

  ‘Mm-hm?’ Hearth fire’s burning, place is cosy. Ripple’s lying across my feet, twitching in her dreams the way a dog does. Miles away from Wolf Glen and the wild man and all the stuff I’m not supposed to talk about. Different worlds, and I know which one I like best. A story would be good. Right way to end the day.

  ‘I’m not going to tell it,’ Blackthorn says. ‘Not all of it. You have to help. You read one part, I tell the next part.’ She takes a wax tablet from the shelf, the one she uses to teach me and Emer our letters. She opens it up on the table, and there’s writing in it, not practice letters but whole words. They swim around like little fish; can’t make any sense of them.

  ‘Might be a bit tired,’ I say, wishing I’d been born a clever man. ‘Can’t see it clear.’

  ‘That’s why I kept it short,’ says Blackthorn. ‘Come on now, one word at a time. Point as you go. Start here.’ She puts the tablet on the table in front of me, guides my finger to the spot. Words skipping about like finches in a fruit tree, dancing out of reach. ‘Breathe slowly,’ she says. ‘You can do this.’

  ‘A . . . a bird . . .’ I narrow my eyes, try to catch each word in turn as my finger touches it. ‘A bird calls. Called.’

  ‘Good.’

  She’s right beside me. Her arm against mine. I remember in that place of Mathuin’s. Anyone laid so much as a finger on her, she’d lash out. Even after we were free, long after, she’d flinch if anyone reached out to her. Couldn’t bear even a friendly clasp of the hand, she was so hurt. And now she’s here, so close, not scared anymore.

  ‘Go on, Grim.’

  ‘Wake up! Wake up! Summer is here,’ I read.

  ‘Try this word again.’ She points.

  ‘Sun . . . sunrise. Sunrise is here.’

  ‘Well done. Now my turn. Telling, not reading. It was a fine spring morning and a man was setting off on an adventure . . .’

  She’s got this all ready for me while I’ve been away. Tells a bit of the story, about a fellow who goes off fishing and finds a strange creature in a lake. Every so often she stops, and the next part of the story is there on the wax tablet, nice and simple for me to read. Not that it’s easy; wouldn’t be even if I was properly awake. Wish I was quicker at it. But I get through it, word by word. Creature turns out to be a beautiful woman in half-fishy form, and she tells the fellow he has to give up something he loves if he wants to keep her as his wife.

  ‘My horse,’ I read. ‘No, I cannot do it. My dog. No, I cannot do it. What can I give?’ I look up at Blackthorn. ‘Sad ending, is it?’

  ‘It depends,’ she says, smiling. I like the way a smile changes her face, warms it up. ‘The ending can be whatever you want.’

  What can I give? is the last writing on the tablet. ‘You want me to finish it?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Harder than I thought. I see in her eyes that it’s a sort of test, not only the reading part, but this too. Remember a time, not so long ago, when I finished one of her tales with blood and destruction and sorrow all round. Upset a few folk. Want to get this right. Try to put myself in the fisherman’s shoes. Try to think the way a water creature might. Why’s she asking him to give something up? Does she want to be in human form? Or is this some kind of bad magic?

  ‘Fisherman thinks, w
hat else is there to give? My freedom; my name; my home. My good health; my strength; my courage. Says to the water creature, What do you want? Speak without fear. If you would rather be free, I will walk away and never trouble you again. Costs him a bit to say this. He’s a lonely man, and the water creature’s beautiful. Fair face, long green hair, all shiny, eyes like forest pools. And the tail of a fish. She can’t live on land, can’t be his wife without changing. Ah. He sees it now. If she changes, she’ll get a good husband. But she’ll lose something a lot more precious. If he won’t give up his freedom, how can he ask her to give up hers?’

  ‘Oh, very good,’ Blackthorn murmurs. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Water creature doesn’t say anything. Just stretches up to where he’s sitting on the bank and plants a kiss on his lips. That kiss goes straight to his heart. Like a flash of lightning deep inside, it is. Then with a whisk of her tail and a twist of her body she’s back into the water and away. Fisherman gets up, all dazed and dizzy with what’s happened. Calls his faithful dog. Takes the rein of his dear old horse. Walks away home. Not thinking, How foolish I was to let her go. Not thinking, I just missed my one chance of happiness. No, even when he’s back home, horse in the stable, dog sleeping by the fire, fresh brew in the pot, he’s thinking: How wonderful. How remarkable. I just saw something I’ll remember my whole life. That night he dreams only good dreams.’

  Blackthorn says nothing at all. Just nods, then goes to put the kettle on the fire.

  ‘Didn’t make you cry, did I?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she says, wiping her eyes. ‘Peppermint or chamomile?’

  I yawn my way through the brew, too tired to talk now. Time enough to tell her about the heartwood house and the wild man another day. I remember something. ‘How was that girl? The one from Wolf Glen?’

  ‘Didn’t make an appearance,’ Blackthorn says. ‘Just as well, really. It meant I could take Emer through all the steps of a decoction and give her a reading lesson and cook supper. Washed a lot of clothes, weeded the vegetable patch.’

  ‘Good. You might be needing to do a bit more in the garden, if you can find the time. Looks as if I’ll be up at Wolf Glen most days for a while. Big job.’ Can’t stop yawning. Put a hand over my mouth.

  ‘Off to bed,’ Blackthorn says. ‘I’ll tidy up here. So, early start tomorrow again?’

  ‘Mm. Horse at Scannal’s. Tell you all about it later.’ Too tired to move.

  ‘Come on, big man.’ She takes me by the arm, gets me over to my bed, helps me lie down. Second-last thought I have is, Glad I took my boots off. Last thought is how good it feels when she tucks the blanket over me. Then I’m asleep.

  6

  ~Cara~

  She had to get out. Not out riding with Lady Flidais and her attendants, all dressed up and talk, talk, talking along the way, expecting answers Cara could not give, expecting smiles she did not have in her. Not out walking to the settlement, so Lady Flidais could drop in to every cottage and check on someone’s welfare. Out, away from the prince’s holdings, out where only wild things lived, out beyond the trappings and the boundaries of this place where she didn’t fit and never would. Out to run, to climb, to hide. To go home. Only she couldn’t go. Not home, not out, not anywhere.

  There was no point in asking Lady Flidais or any of her women – Deirdre or Nuala or Mhairi – because every single person in the household knew Cara was not allowed beyond the walls without an escort. And escort didn’t mean just one of them, it meant a guard as well. What did they think she was, a wayward child of six? It almost made her wish she were a married woman and ruler of her own household. But she didn’t wish that. She would not have her own household, not truly, until Father died, and she couldn’t bear to think about that. Even while she cursed him for sending her away, she still loved him. He was her family. Why couldn’t he live forever?

  There was a spot near the stables where, if she screwed up her eyes and concentrated hard, she could almost catch a glimpse of the home forest. The hills rose in the distance, lovely under their green blanket. It looked far away but it wasn’t so far. Barely an hour on horseback. She could be there and back on the same day. Why would Father forbid that? And why wouldn’t he explain? If she could get there, if she could surprise him by simply turning up, maybe she would find out.

  The trouble was, everything at Winterfalls was organised. The riding horses were kept in the stable, where there was always someone keeping an eye on them. When they were let out for exercise or to graze in a field, there were workers nearby, grooms, farmhands, folk going up and down the tracks with carts or barrows or herds of cows. Even if she could take a horse without being noticed, she’d have to pass through one of the gates to get out, and all of them had guards, except for a little one up near a copse of birches. Even there, someone would most likely see her. She might manage to gallop a short distance, but she’d be stopped before she even got to that patch of woodland across the fields. Dreamer’s Wood, it was called. Where that wise woman lived, the one she was supposed to go and talk to. It was days and days since Flidais had asked her to ride over there. She was running out of excuses for not going. A wise woman! Some old crone who’d tell her to pull herself together and be thankful for her blessings. Why would Flidais imagine she’d want to unburden herself to someone like that?

  It wasn’t that Flidais was unkind. She was all right, as ladies went. She was youngish. She meant well. But she didn’t know what to do with Cara any more than Aunt Della did. She suggested looking at the books in the prince’s library. She invited Cara to sit with her and the other ladies in the mornings, when they all did sewing or spinning together. She didn’t mind Cara walking or riding around the home farm, but she always sent someone to tag along with her, Mhairi or Deirdre asking questions, trying to make her talk. And if it was Mhairi, she brought a wretched little dog, the snappiest, most ill-tempered thing Cara had ever met. When she’d tried to make friends it had bitten her finger.

  In the evenings they all sat around and listened to folk playing music, or they told stories, or sometimes Prince Oran or Lady Flidais would read from a book of tales. Cara didn’t mind the tales. They let her pretend for a while that she was somewhere else. Or that she was someone else, someone who could speak when she needed to, someone who could go where she pleased. Except that when the story was finished and the book was closed the longing for home came back tenfold, an ache in her chest so strong she thought she might be sick from it.

  It was ages since Father had dumped her here without a proper explanation, and he hadn’t come to see her, not once. When she told Flidais, yet again, that her stomach hurt and she didn’t feel like riding, Flidais said she would send for Mistress Blackthorn, the wise woman. Cara said there was no need, she’d be fine tomorrow. Or the next day.

  ‘Oh, good.’ Flidais smiled. She was always nice, even when she thought she was being lied to. But Cara wasn’t lying. She did feel ill. Being away from home made her heart ache. ‘Then you will be able to go over and see Mistress Blackthorn at last,’ Flidais went on. ‘You’ll like her, Cara. She’s very – direct.’

  Cara managed to stammer out a Yes, my lady. It was plain there could be no more excuses; she’d have to go and see this wise woman. If Blackthorn was direct, she’d probably ask all kinds of questions, and Cara’s words would vanish the way they did when Father got angry, or when Aunt Della lectured her about her inadequacies. She wanted to stand up for herself. She wanted to speak. But when people she loved got cross and cold and unkind she could feel herself shrinking down, like a creature going into its shell to hide. And when she shrank the words spun away, out of reach. That was why visiting a wise woman was pointless. Blackthorn wouldn’t say the only thing Cara wanted to hear, which was, You should go home.

  She went to have another look at the side gate. It was done up very securely. Getting out that way would require dismounting, unfastening the gate, leading the horse throug
h, then closing the thing properly behind her if she didn’t want to let a flock of sheep out. It did seem odd that there was the one entrance without its own guard, but she guessed anyone who came in this way with ill intent would be stopped before they could get near the house. There were always plenty of guards closer in. Prince Oran was the only son of King Ruairi and would be the next king of Dalriada. And the baby boy would be king after Oran. So it was fair enough for the place to be well protected. Just inconvenient.

  There was an old bench under the birches. Cara settled herself there and tried to make a plan. There was no point in getting out only to be stopped within a few miles. If she did that, they’d put her under lock and key so she couldn’t try again. Not actual lock and key, but the next nearest thing. They’d have someone shadowing her every waking moment. Even in the privy. So the plan needed to be foolproof. Therefore, no horse. She’d go on foot. Once she made it as far as Dreamer’s Wood she’d have a good chance of evading pursuers. She just needed to choose the right time. There was open ground between Dreamer’s Wood and the much bigger forest of Wolf Glen, quite a long stretch of it, but she was quick, and she knew how to find hiding places where other folk might miss them. If she was unlucky and someone saw her before she got to Dreamer’s Wood, she could say she was going to visit the healer. On her own. Which she’d been told not to do. And she’d only say it if she could actually get the words out.

  The voice of common sense spoke up. What would Father think when she turned up on the doorstep? Wouldn’t he be angry? Wouldn’t he pack her off straight back here, telling her a daughter should obey her father?

  She would tell him she loved him. It was true. She would promise to be on her very best behaviour, every moment of every day. If he let her come home, she would not go into the forest without Gormán, she would not even go out of the house without a maidservant, she would . . . Only she couldn’t. When she was a child, not so very long ago, she’d been able to talk to Father, talk to him properly as she still could to Gormán. But as she grew older, that changed. It became harder to please him; harder to be the daughter he seemed to think she should be. And every time he got angry, even a little bit angry, it got harder to speak. The words just went away. Catching even one or two, saying Yes, Father or No, Father was like climbing a mountain. Nobody understood that. Everyone thought she was just stubborn. Except for Gormán, and Gormán hadn’t done a thing to stop Father from sending her away. And Alba – she’d been able to talk to Alba. But Alba hadn’t come here with her, and in her heart she knew Father had dismissed her maidservant for what had happened that day. What had happened, exactly? How could it be such a terrible thing to climb a tree and be up there when a stranger passed beneath? But it must have been terrible, somehow. She didn’t believe all that talk about court manners and meeting a wider circle. Those couldn’t be the only reasons he had sent her away.