The Well of Shades Page 8

  The trees had their feet in the water, and he was relieved to find that the low building of stone and darkened thatch was set up a rise, above what he hoped was the flood point. There was nobody home, nor had there been for a while, for the place had not a stick of furniture. It was dry, and there was a jumble of wood by the hearth, enough to keep him going overnight. A search of an outhouse disturbed a colony of rats. Faolan found a pile of sacks, a bucket, and a blackened cook pot.

  After the last two nights, it was luxurious. He got the fire crackling and heated water. He had half the bannock left; this he steeped in the water to make a kind of soup, which he drank standing by the fire, looking out through the window and along toward the bridge as dusk crept across the fields. His ears were filled with the rushing of the river, but at least he’d see if anyone approached that way. The sound of the water made him edgy. It put him in mind of a place called Breaking Ford, where he had almost drowned. Ana had saved him. Ana… He saw her standing by a window, the sunlight on her pale features, her shimmering fall of hair touched to gold, her body graceful in the embroidered gown… her wedding gown… Thanks to his own efforts, Ana hadn’t married that beast Alpin. But she would marry Drustan, a man in every way suitable and deserving.

  He sipped at the bread-and-water brew, trying to banish Ana from his mind. She was a princess; he was a bodyguard, a spy, a killer. She had never been for him. His mind understood this all too well. It was a pity his heart was having such trouble accepting it.

  Once he had deemed it too late for passersby to see the firelight and decide to bother him for one thing or another, Faolan lay down to sleep. He was carrying a fair supply of silver, hidden here and there, and while he was more than capable of defending it and himself, he didn’t especially want to draw attention in these parts by maiming or killing anyone foolish enough to try to rob him. He slept with his head on his pack and a knife in his hand; the weapon left behind with Eile had been only one of several. The sacks did little to improve the comfort of the earthen floor, but the fire eased his bones.

  What woke him, he wasn’t sure: the moonlight seeping in now the rain had cleared, or the harsh cry of a night bird, or some sense developed over his years of needing always to be one step ahead of trouble. He rose in silence, knife at the ready, and made for the window, standing to one side as he scanned the shadowy landscape beyond the willows. Nothing stirred; all he could hear was the restless voice of the river. Unease still gripped him for all that. Something… something wrong, something there that shouldn’t be. He peered out again, looking toward the broken bridge, and this time he thought maybe there was movement down there, a darker form against the sward. Probably only sheep or cattle wandering by the riverbank. He’d be wise to stick to the shelter he’d been lucky enough to secure. If he ventured out he’d likely come face to face with some farmer’s prize bull. Best lie low, for all kinds of reasons.

  There it was again, a slight movement, too quick for cattle. And a figure, down by the bridge. Faolan’s scalp prickled. None of his business; no reason to interfere. Common sense said do nothing at all. A deeper instinct made him stick the knife in his belt, put on his boots and cloak, and set out cautiously along the riverside path toward the bridge.

  He could see where the ferry used to go. There was a tumbledown jetty, now all but submerged, and a couple of frayed ropes. Faolan was glad of the moon. One false step here and a man would be over the bank and carried away by the river before he had time to catch his breath. He was past the willows now, where they stood in the shallows like draggle-haired water nymphs, and passing over more even ground. Ahead loomed the shadowy form of the damaged bridge, rising from waters which, under the moonlight, resembled a boiling cauldron.

  A sudden sound: barking, high, hoarse, a hysterical warning. A moment later he saw the figure again, hooded and cloaked and apparently bearing a burden on its back, edging out onto the bridge, step by slow step. Someone was trying to cross over.

  “Stop!” Faolan shouted. “Stop! The bridge is down!” but the person kept going, one hand on the flimsy railing, the other stretched out for balance. The fellow must see soon, surely; must recognize that at a certain point the timbers gave way to no more than a flimsy pair of ropes, a foolhardy crossing even by daylight, unthinkable by night. “Stop!” Faolan yelled, breaking into a sprint, but he knew he would not be heard. The noise of the river swallowed his voice. He ran, heart in his mouth. As he neared the bridge the person got to the place where Faolan had tied the rope earlier, and halted, clutching the rail with both hands. Thank all that was holy, the reckless fellow had seen the break in time and would retreat now. Faolan supposed he’d have to offer to share his place of shelter and the warmth of his fire.

  The dog barked again, and now he could see it, a skinny gray thing, its eyes fixed on the figure hesitating by the ropes. Faolan swore. That dog. He knew it. As it turned its frantic eyes on him, he saw the person on the bridge put both hands on the upper rope and step out onto the lower, wobbling violently. He—she—was trying to cross.

  Faolan launched himself across the bridge, uttering a prayer to any deity that might be prepared to listen. Let me reach her in time, let her keep hold, let this wretched apology for a bridge not crumble under my feet… He reached the splintered edge; managed not to look down. Eile was a little way out on the ropes, just too far for him to stretch out an arm and haul her bodily to safety. His heart went cold. Haul them. She had that child, Saraid, on her back, fastened with a band of cloth.

  Quick, but not too quick, and not too loud. Startle her and she’d fall. Set foot on the rope himself and his weight would likely have the same result.

  “Eile,” he said, pitching his voice just loud enough for her to hear over the water, “I’m here. Faolan, remember? Come back. I have shelter and a fire. Bring Saraid back. If you want to cross, I’ll take you tomorrow.”

  She froze. He had no idea what she would do; obey him and retreat—let that be so—or try to go on, or maybe let go and fall. She and the child would both be lost then; the river would sweep them out of sight before he could so much as regain the bank.

  “Eile? You’re only a few steps out. Just back up a bit and I can reach you. This isn’t safe at night.” That was one way to put it; rotting timbers, suspect uprights, and only moonlight for guidance. She was utterly mad.

  Eile stood there, wobbling a little on the lower rope, hands clutched around the upper. “I’m scared.” Her voice was a child’s.

  Don’t look down, Faolan ordered himself. Just remember, it’s not Breaking Ford. “I’m coming to get you,” he called. “The rope’s going to move when I step on. Hold on firmly. Ready? Here I come, then.” Deord, he thought, I never dreamed how hard it would be to repay your generosity. I wish you’d taught your daughter common sense. He edged out, and Eile struggled for balance as the rope took his weight. Reaching her, he maneuvered until he was behind her, his feet on either side of hers, his hands gripping the rope and his body shielding both Eile and the silent child she carried. Gods, if he were a little girl in the middle of this he’d be caterwauling in sheer fright. Saraid made not a sound; in the moonlight he saw her pale, small face, her big eyes. Eile was breathing in gasps. Her slight frame was rigid with terror. He could not conceive of how, or why, she had started across the rope.

  The river coursed angrily below their feet. “Now,” Faolan said, making his voice as calm and assured as he could, “we go back step by step together. Four should do it. Think of that fire; think of being warm and dry. Ready? One… two…”

  The moment they were back on the bridge Eile wrenched herself away from him and made for the bank.

  “Careful,” called Faolan after her. “You could still fall in. Wait for me.”

  The dog danced about, jumping up frantically as Eile stepped off the bridge. The girl put out a hand to support herself against the nearest upright. Faolan knew how she felt; his own legs were like jelly. He could hear her breathing, harsh and uneven, as if she
were beyond tears. What was behind this he did not know. It was a lunatic escapade, reckless enough if the girl herself had tried it, beyond foolish with a small cousin in tow. Her aunt would be horrified. What had Eile been thinking of?

  “We’re all right now.” Eile was trying for an assertive tone, but he could see her shaking. He wished the child would make some sound. Her silence unnerved him.

  “Can’t say the same for myself,” he said. “Come on. Time enough for questions later. I’ve no food left but, as I said, there’s a fire. Follow me. Can you manage?” He eyed the child, a substantial weight, surely, for a little thing like Eile to carry.

  “We were managing fine!” Eile retorted instantly.

  Faolan refrained from comment. He just hoped she wouldn’t decide to bolt into the night before he found out what she was playing at. Changed her mind about the priory, he supposed, and decided to follow him. But then, why Saraid? The child belonged back at Cloud Hill with her parents. His heart sank. He’d have to take the two of them home in the morning, or send Eile on to the nuns and return the little girl to her mother and father. Thanks, Deord. I don’t suppose you realized how limited my talents are as a nursemaid.

  Inside the cottage, he bent first to stir up the fire and lay on more wood. When he rose, he saw that Eile had not moved. She stood as if frozen, arms clutched around herself, the child still in its sling on her back.

  “Here, let me,” he said, moving to untie the cloth that held Saraid.

  “Don’t touch her!” snarled Eile. Suddenly, the point of a knife was just before his face; she was certainly quick.

  Faolan took a step back, raising his hands, palms open. He looked at her; looked again at the knife, his knife that he had left behind. The blade showed dull red in the firelight. Eile’s hand, clutching the hilt, was shaking as if palsied. Silent tears began to spill from her eyes, making tracks on cheeks grimed with the dust of the journey. From her back, a tiny, polite voice was heard to say, “Down, please?”

  “I won’t hurt her, or you,” Faolan said quietly. “Let me untie her for you. You’re both cold and tired. Sit by the fire, rest and recover.” He reached very slowly to unfasten the sling, and this time Eile let him, lowering the weapon to stand shivering as he released Saraid. The child was cramped; she hobbled to the sacks and subsided to a crouch like a little wild animal. In her hands she held a shapeless rag doll, not much more than a small bag of old cloth with dark wool eyes. Saraid hugged it tight.

  “Give me the knife, Eile,” he said. “You don’t need it now. I’m your father’s friend. I will protect you.”

  She reached up a hand to scrub the tears angrily from her face. With the other hand she held out the knife and he took it. “What happened, Eile?” he asked. “What—” He fell abruptly silent. She had untied her cloak and dropped it to the floor. Underneath, from neck to knees, the front of her gown was stained dark with what he very much hoped was not blood.

  “We need to get away,” she whispered, casting a glance at the child. “We need to get as far as we can before they find us.”

  “You’re hurt! What is this? What’s happened?”

  “I’m fine.” The chin went up; the eyes dared him to be sorry for her. Behind her the dog, which had been standing just inside the doorway with its tail down, now slunk over to the fire and, when no reprimand came its way, settled itself on the earthen floor beside the child. “Later,” Eile added, conveying with her eyes that she would not give any further explanations in Saraid’s hearing. “She’s hungry. Haven’t you got any food at all?” She had the tears under control now, by sheer force of will.

  Faolan couldn’t take his eyes off that threadbare gown. It was blood; he knew it. Not hers, he should have realized; whoever had colored that homespun first crimson, then brown, must surely be dead. “Nothing at all,” he said absently, wondering if he would wake up soon from this improbable dream. “I gave most of it away and had the rest for supper. I wasn’t expecting guests.”

  Eile squatted beside Saraid, reaching into a little bag slung from her belt. Out came a tiny scrap of crumbling bread and the merest morsel of cheese, the last hoarded remnant of the meal he had provided. What had been intended to give one young woman a single breakfast had been eked out over more than two full days, and he suspected Eile had eaten little of it herself. Saraid’s shadowy eyes lit up; she clutched the doll in one hand, the food in the other.

  “Eat it slowly, Squirrel,” Eile told her. “Don’t gobble.”

  “What about you?” Faolan asked, busy rummaging through his own pack.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “How long can you keep that up, giving her your own share and expecting to live on nothing? You’re skin and bone.”

  “What are you, my father? I’m fine. I said so. Why did you stop us? We need to keep moving.”

  “You know,” Faolan said, finding what he sought, “Deord was a man of considerable intelligence. A risk-taker, certainly, but practical. It surprises me to find his daughter acting with reckless folly. It astonishes me that you brought the child with you. Maybe you don’t realize how close the two of you were to a watery grave.”

  “We’d have got over all right.”

  “Nonsense. You were frozen with terror, and don’t try to tell me otherwise. A grown man wouldn’t consider going across that thing by night. Here.” He tossed her the garments he had found, his own change of clothing. It seemed to be becoming a habit, giving his shirts and trousers away to women in distress. An image of Ana came to him, Ana in the outfit he had intended to wear as the king’s emissary to Alpin of the Caitt. The male attire had somehow rendered his princess more of a woman than ever.

  “What’s this?” asked Eile in tones of deep suspicion.

  “Wherever you’re going, and I hope you’ll do me the courtesy of telling me that in due course, you can’t wear that gown any longer. Take these, put them on, roll up the trousers or do whatever you need to do to make them fit. And I’d suggest we consign what you’re wearing to the fire.”

  Eile held up the fine linen shirt, the trousers of best quality wool. “These are too good,” she said flatly. “I can’t wear these.” The garments shook in her hands. “And if we burn mine, I can’t give yours back.”

  “Eile,” said Faolan, holding on to his patience, “just put them on, will you? I’ll turn my back if you want. Or I’ll go outside while you do it. But hurry up. It’s cold.”

  Saraid had finished her pitiful meal and settled herself down against the dog, eyelids drooping. Eile picked up her discarded cloak and laid it over the child. The tenderness of the gesture took Faolan by surprise; this girl was a bundle of contradictions.

  “Go on, then,” she snapped at him.

  He went out, closing the door behind him, and stood listening to the river and looking up at a night sky where stars were appearing here and there in windows between the restless clouds. The moon lay low and indistinct. What in the name of all the powers was going on here? He felt a profound hope that Eile had been killing chickens and had forgotten her apron. He knew it could not be so. Something far darker shadowed those green eyes and held the frail body taut as a bowstring. He’d stumbled into something he didn’t want, something he had no room for. But she was Deord’s daughter. That made Eile his business, his responsibility, no matter what had happened. Curse it. He should have gone to Derry first, on Bridei’s mission. A girl, a child, a dog… This was getting ridiculous.

  Behind him, the door creaked open. “Come in if you want,” Eile said.

  His clothing swamped her. She looked like a little boy trying on a big brother’s garb, save for the long hair roughly tied at the nape of her neck and draggling down her back. He recalled how fastidious Ana had been about cleanliness; how often she had combed her golden locks on that long journey across Caitt territory. This girl looked as if she hadn’t washed in months. And she had started to cry again, silently, although her stance, arms wrapped around herself, jaw clenched tightly and eyes
down, told him how much she hated to reveal such weakness before him.

  Saraid was asleep, head pillowed on the dog. Her cheeks were flushed pink; the fire warmed the two of them.

  With what he considered was great forbearance, Faolan said nothing at all, but set his pot of water to heat on the fire. And, after all, he did have something to offer her: his packets of medicinal herbs, one or two of which could be brewed into a tea that was a step up from drinking hot water, and whose soporific effect would do her no harm. He got them out and sprinkled a handful in the pot. The smell was good; that in itself had some capacity to ease the heart, he believed.

  Eile struggled awhile with her tears, shaking and sniffing. There came a point when her control crumbled and she began to sob outright. Faolan watched her without letting anything show on his face, waiting until she was ready to talk. She looked as if she needed her father and mother to put their arms around her and tell her all would be well. He did not think he could touch her. That would as likely trigger a knife in the face as any expression of gratitude.

  She wept, crouched by the fire, head in hands. Her shoulders heaved. Faolan took his time brewing the draft, then poured some into his traveler’s cup for her. He set it on the hearth beside her.

  “Drink this, Eile. It will warm you up. It might make you sleepy, but it’s harmless.”

  “Sleepy?” she hiccupped. “I can’t be sleepy, we have to go on…”

  “Shh,” Faolan said. “If you’re so keen to rush off at first light, I’ll wake you. But you’re not going anywhere tonight. The child needs her rest.”

  “How do I know it’s not a trick? It could be poisoned.”

  “You know because I’m Deord’s friend. If it helps, I’ll share it.”

  “Then you won’t wake up in time.”

  “Believe me, I will. Suddenly acquiring the three of you to look after is guaranteed to keep my sleep light.” He picked up the cup and drank, then put it in her hand. Questions hovered on his lips; he held them back.