Dreamer's Pool (14 page)

‘My . . . my father’s holdings are under threat,’ Flidais whispered. ‘We had to get away quickly, yes. I don’t want to talk about it.’

An awkward silence ensued. The lady sipped her drink. Her attendants had run out of things to say, or at least, things they were prepared to say in my presence. That didn’t stop them having a good look: at the sleeping arrangements, at the bundles of drying herbs and the plaits of garlic and onions hanging from the roof, at the jars and bottles and bags containing various substances I used in my craft. At the boxes Grim had made to hold my supplies, with their carved lids, and the basket he’d woven for firewood. At the neat pegs to hold clothing, the well-scrubbed hearth, the rush-strewn floor. Whatever these ladies might think of me, nobody was going to say I was a slattern. A healer kept things orderly; couldn’t do her job otherwise. When wise women appeared in the old tales, they were often toothless hags living in caves festooned with dangling bones and full of wriggling things in jars. As hags went, I was a youngish one, and though I had lost a tooth or two in that place, I could still bite hard. If my story was ever told by the fireside, it wouldn’t send folk to bed with good dreams.

As for the wriggling things, my work was mostly cleaning wounds, stitching up cuts and mixing draughts for the flux. It was delivering babies and sitting by the beds of the dying. On occasion, folk did ask for what might loosely be called spells. I’d had two requests for love potions and one enquiry about bringing down ill on an old enemy – that one I understood all too well. I’d talked the love potion girls out of the idea with a few truths about the nature of men. As for the fellow who wanted to punish his enemy, I’d told him I did not deal in such matters, and that he’d be better off taking his grievance to the village elders, or to Prince Oran – that was if the prince bothered to listen to the troubles of ordinary folk. The man hadn’t wanted to take no for an answer. Offered me an incentive in the form of silver. I’d held on to my temper by the merest thread. In the back of my mind, I’d wondered what I was supposed to do when helping one person meant inflicting ill on another. Would refusing add another year to my seven? On balance, I thought not. The first thing Conmael had asked me to do was use my gift for good, not ill; to carry out my work in the manner a true healer should. It could be said that refusing the man
was
helping him. Helping him to see the error of his ways. Helping him avoid worse trouble. At least, I hoped so.

A knock at the cottage door; I was jolted out of my thoughts. It was one of the guards. ‘Lady Flidais, there are riders in sight; I think it may be the prince and his party.’

Flidais rose to her feet, passing her cup to one of her women. Lifted her chin; straightened her back; squared her shoulders as if preparing for a battle. It seemed she wasn’t such a wilting lily after all.

‘Mhairi, my cloak,’ she said, and I heard the effort she was making to keep her voice steady. ‘Deirdre, my shoes. Nuala, keep Bramble out of the way until someone brings her travelling basket. I wish to greet the prince in an appropriate manner. We’ll do so outside.’ The women scurried into action, obedient to her commands. Cloak on, shoes on, dog tidied away. Damp hair quickly pulled back with a scarf, which Mhairi – the tall one – tied up in what appeared to me an elegant manner, not that I would know about such things. Flidais stood perfectly still, allowing them to prepare her. Then she moved toward the door, and I thought she was about to leave without a second glance, taking all of them with her, giving me back my space and my silence. But at the last moment she turned to look at me. The blue eyes blazed with determination; the delicate jaw was set firm as a warrior’s. ‘Thank you for your assistance,’ she said.

I nodded, saying nothing. I admired her courage. At the same time, her tone – haughtily dismissive, the voice of a fine lady addressing the least of underlings – set my teeth on edge, and if I had let myself speak, something unforgivable might have come out. I was angry with myself as much as with her. This shouldn’t matter. After everything, it shouldn’t matter in the least.

‘You will be compensated for your trouble,’ Lady Flidais added, then without waiting for a reply she swept out the door with her ladies after her. Deirdre – the one with plaits – turned back before she left. She had the little shaking dog in her arms, and on her face there was a look of genuine apology.

‘Thank you, Mistress Blackthorn. We’ve caused you a great deal of disturbance, and you’ve been so kind and helpful.’

‘Just doing my job,’ I said. Which was the truth, though not all of the truth.
Just doing my job because otherwise I’d be dead and Mathuin would never face judgement. Now take yourselves and your business out of my house so I can shut the door on you and breathe again.
Which was less than fair, since it wasn’t this woman’s fault that her mistress had taken it into her head to ride to Winterfalls by the slow route and stop for a swim along the way. I wondered if it had occurred to Lady Flidais that her maid’s death sat squarely on her own shoulders?

They were gone. Out of the house, at least. Morrigan’s curse, I hated being among folk! Noble folk in particular; their pretensions were like a burr in the clothing, a constant, scratching annoyance. Even their serving folk had airs and graces. Just as well I wouldn’t be tending to Lady Flidais in the future. There’d no doubt be some court physician in Prince Oran’s residence to look after her kind. The ordinary folk I could just about tolerate, in small doses.

The house was mine again, at least until Grim got home, and he knew how to keep out of my way. I tidied up and put the kettle back on, thinking to sit in the quiet until he returned. Dimly I heard horses outside, voices, folk moving about. They’d be away soon; I might go out then, and see if the garden had sustained any damage from the tide of uninvited guests. Grim would be less than pleased to lose any of his new plantings.

Someone knocked on the door. Bollocks! Why couldn’t these folk leave me be?

I was inclined to wrench the door open and snarl in the face of whoever it was. I took a breath, then walked over and opened it with restraint.

A man stood there, tall, russet-haired, youngish, dressed like a courtier. Vaguely familiar.

‘Mistress Blackthorn?’ he enquired.

Fool. Who else would it be? ‘I am Blackthorn, yes.’

‘My name is Donagan. I am Prince Oran’s companion.’

Ah. I’d caught a glimpse of him that day when I’d fled into the wood and left Grim to deal with our unexpected visitors. The memory did not bring warm feelings.

‘The prince has asked me to thank you for your assistance to Lady Flidais and her party. He wishes to compensate you for your services.’ On his palm, he held out a little drawstring bag in pale kidskin.

I wanted to refuse it. Why, I wasn’t sure. Stubborn pride? The knowledge that I had only helped because of the promise? My dislike of chieftains and princes and fine ladies? I opened my mouth to deliver a withering retort, and at that moment I saw Grim approaching along the path, his pace easy.

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the little bag. I almost dropped it – the thing weighed twice as much as I’d expected. Grim would indeed have thought me foolish if I had told the prince’s lackey to keep his money. ‘I wish I had arrived in time to save the woman who was drowned. When I got to the pool she was already gone.’

‘So the men-at-arms told us,’ Donagan said. ‘Still, Prince Oran appreciates your kindness to the lady. He passed on his regret that he could not thank you in person.’

Donagan must have made up that part himself – what prince would say such a thing? I made no comment, just stood there waiting for him to go. But he didn’t seem in a hurry to move on.

Grim came up, not rushing, stopped a couple of paces away with his gaze on Donagan, put down the sack he was carrying, didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to, since everything about him said,
What do you think you’re doing here?

‘Grim,’ said Donagan in a friendly enough tone. ‘Prince Oran’s been hearing good reports of your work in the district.’ And when the two of us only gaped at him, he went on, ‘It seems you’re skilled not only in thatching, but in several other crafts.’

‘Do what I can,’ Grim mumbled, then shot a glance at me. ‘Has something happened here?’

‘Story to tell,’ I said. ‘Later.’

‘Prince Oran may well wish to make use of your skills in the future,’ Donagan said, looking at Grim. ‘And yours,’ he added hastily, glancing at me.

‘We have work already,’ I told him. ‘Plenty to keep us busy.’

‘Ah, well.’ Donagan was unruffled. A courtier, skilled at keeping things running smoothly. ‘Thank you again, and I’ll bid you good day.’

Grim managed a grunt; I gave a nod. Donagan strode off to his horse, which was tethered under the trees at the far side of the garden.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Grim as we watched the king’s man ride away.

‘Come inside and I’ll tell you. How were the flour bags?’

Grim gave me a funny look. ‘Heavy.’ He cast his glance over the garden; he sniffed like a hunting dog. ‘Folk have been here; not just him, a lot of folk. And horses. Just as well I fixed the wall around the vegetable patch. Here, a bit of this’ll be good in the brew.’ He leaned over the dry-stone wall and plucked a few sprigs of basil, a few leaves of thyme. ‘Good pile of horse dung over there. I’ll dig it into the new patch.’

‘Brew first. Dung later, if you insist.’

11

~GRIM~

I
’ve come home with a story to tell. But Blackthorn’s got her own story and it’s bigger than mine. So instead of talking I sit down and listen.

It’s odd all right, a girl drowning with a whole crowd of folk around her, even if their backs were turned. Seems that’s what happened. Blackthorn says it’s just as well it was the maid who drowned on Prince Oran’s land and not this woman he’s marrying, since that’s the sort of thing wars get fought over. That sounds a bit hard to me, but most likely true. The maid was a person like me, well, maybe not so low, but far below Lady Flidais. The sort of person who can die and nobody cares much, except her closest family, that’s if she’s got any. I tell Blackthorn this and she says with some folk, not even the family cares, but yes, she knows what I mean, and she thinks Lady Flidais and her women won’t spend much time mourning this girl who’s died.

As for taking a swim in Dreamer’s Pool, that turns me cold. If Conmael and his kind don’t live in the wood, then something else does, something that isn’t animal and isn’t human. Last thing I’d be wanting, knowing it was watching, would be to strip off my clothes and get in the water. Not that I would anyway, seeing as I can’t swim. But the thought of it gives me the creeps.

Haven’t said this to Blackthorn, but if our cottage hadn’t been outside the wood, if it had been in there under the trees, I might not have stayed, even for her. Something wrong in that place. Can’t put my finger on what it is. Any time I go in for firewood or herbs or water I feel it, like an itch on the skin or a buzzing in the ears. Something different. Something not right.

‘I wonder how she’ll do as queen of Dalriada,’ Blackthorn’s saying, talking to herself more than to me. ‘I can’t say I took to the girl. But I have some sympathy. Especially if Prince Oran is anything like Mathuin.’

‘He’s young.’

‘That doesn’t make him good.’

‘Doesn’t make him bad either,’ I say.

‘What would you know?’

‘Seemed all right, the day they stopped here. Him and his man.’

‘Didn’t they only pass by to find out who’d moved in here? You hardly had the chance to judge his character.’

‘True enough,’ I say. ‘But there they are, just over the fields, and we’re stuck with them. Maybe this Oran will be a good husband to the lady and maybe he won’t. That’s not our business.’

Blackthorn gives me a look. ‘It’s hard, sometimes, not to make things your business. Like with Mathuin. If I’d stayed quiet, let the bad things keep on happening, I wouldn’t have been locked up. If I’d kept quiet all my life I wouldn’t have been in Laois at all.’

I don’t say a thing. Blackthorn never talks about the time before, and nor do I. For us, the story starts when she was brought into that place and we were prisoners together. I know she fell foul of Mathuin because she spoke up about the wrongs he was doing, taking women against their will, getting them with child, nobody saying a word because of who he was. But before that, nothing at all. Until now.

‘That’s my problem,’ she says. ‘I never did learn to keep my mouth shut. And I can’t now, if the same thing happens here, Prince Oran doing the wrong thing by his folk, I mean. Conmael made me promise to use my abilities for good, not ill. That means speaking up if something isn’t right. A wise woman is supposed to be . . . wise.’

‘Might be wiser to keep quiet,’ I say. Wouldn’t take much to get us thrown out of here, on the road again, nowhere to go. Her with more and more years owing to Conmael; me just a burden to her. Or worse. We might find ourselves locked up again. ‘It’s a healer these folk need, not a . . .’ Can’t find the right word.

‘Conscience?’ Blackthorn smiles, but it’s not a happy sort of smile. ‘Don’t look so worried, Grim. Maybe Oran’s a paragon of virtue, a prince among princes. And maybe he’ll be so busy preparing for his wedding that he’ll forget all about us.’ She spots the purse they gave her, on the table where she’s left it. ‘They seemed keen to pay me for my efforts, though I couldn’t save the girl. Have a look.’

When I loosen the string and turn the bag upside down, what spills out onto the table is a shiny stream of silver pieces. I came home proud of the money I earned from Scannal today, but this puts my ten coppers in the shade. I whistle; Blackthorn mutters an oath.

‘Talk about upside down and back to front,’ she says. ‘A small fortune for failing to save a girl from drowning.’

‘Paying you for your kindness.’ Seems plain to me. ‘Helping his young lady. Cares about her.’

‘He’s probably never seen her in his life before,’ says Blackthorn, sweeping the coins back in the bag. ‘He won’t give a toss about her. All that’ll matter to him is her father’s connections. See if I’m not right.’

I’ve got a half-bag of flour, thanks to my day’s work for Scannal, and there’s a rabbit hanging, snared last night. I make a pie, throwing in the vegetables Blackthorn’s cut up. While I do it I’m going over the day, my day, not hers. A good day’s work, hard enough to keep out bad thoughts for a while. Scannal’s not much of a talker, which is the way I like things. Trusts me with his horses and the cart. Big strong horses, gentle as lambs the two of them. Sturdy and Storm, their names are. Handle the load of flour bags like a dream. That’s the best part, driving the load from the mill to this other settlement, place called Silverlake, over to the east. Back along the road Blackthorn and I came in on, then take a fork to the left, and a few miles on, there it is, lovely spot, scatter of houses by the water, few fishing boats out on the lake, sun shining, trees all red and gold. Birds everywhere, swans, ducks, others I don’t know the names of. Scannal’s said the baker’s place is a bit further on, and I stop in the settlement to ask the way. A woman tells me how to get there. She’s got two little boys, and they stare at Sturdy and Storm with big round eyes. I give them turns on Storm’s back, not moving along, just sitting.

The woman tells me a bit of a story. Scannal hasn’t supplied this baker before. Silverlake has its own mill, but no miller, because the fellow’s died in a nasty accident. Found one morning crushed under his own grindstone. She says even if there was someone in Silverlake or surrounds who knew how to do the job of milling flour, which there isn’t, they wouldn’t be wanting to take over. Everyone thinks the mill’s got a curse over it, or a ghost in it, or both. The woman points out where it is, up on a rise behind the settlement. Then she remembers what I’ve asked, and shows me the path to Branoc’s place, which can’t be seen from where we are. I have to drive the cart further along the lake shore.

‘Better be getting on,’ I say, making sure the children are out of the way of wheels and hooves.

‘We’ll be seeing you again, then,’ says the woman, giving me a look up and down that’s a surprise to me.

‘Maybe,’ I say. I climb up and take the reins.

‘Drop by on the way back and I’ll give you a bite to eat,’ she says. ‘Big man, big appetite, I bet. Branoc won’t feed you. Doesn’t care for visitors. All by himself in that old place and seems to like it that way. Mind you, he does bake fine cakes. Like something from the Otherworld, they are. A body could spend a lifetime trying to make cakes like them and not come anywhere close.’

I nod my head, not saying if I’ll drop in later or not, then I’m gone. Out of the settlement, along the lake shore, and up to a house that must be the baker’s, since this is the end of the track.

It’s an odd-looking place, sort of cobbled together, with a roof that needs re-thatching and a damp look to it. There’s a yard where I can turn the horses, and a barn with a big door. I’m guessing that’ll be where he wants the flour bags. Nobody about, so I back the cart up there and call Storm and Sturdy to stand fast. I hop down. Before I can make another move a man comes round the side of the barn with a pitchfork in his hand, all ready to run it through me. I don’t bother to tell him what a bad idea that would be. I make myself hold still.

‘Come from Scannal’s,’ I say. ‘Brought your flour. Where do you want it?’

Pitchfork man gives me a good look over, not the way the woman in the village did, but as if he doesn’t like what he sees but thinks it’s too big to tackle on his own. From what the woman was saying, Branoc lives alone, so this must be him. He’s long and gangly, dark-haired, with a look about him that says he wants me gone soon. ‘In there,’ he says, jerking his head toward the barn door. ‘Wait.’

The door’s got big bolts across it. Fellow must be scared someone’ll steal his bread-baking secrets. I go to help him with the bolts and he snaps, ‘Leave it!’

I back off.
Bonehead
, a voice says inside me. I wait. I’ve been planning to feed and water the horses while I’m here, but now I’m thinking I’ll take them back down to the shore first.

Door’s open. Not much to see in the barn. Seems it’s only for stores, and the baking’s done somewhere else. A couple of full sacks, some sickles and forks and spades, barrels of this and that. Buckets, ladles. There’s a sort of loft, too dim to see properly, and a ladder going up through a trapdoor. Steep.

‘Where do you want them?’ I ask, loading the first sack onto my back. ‘Up there?’ I hope the answer’s no, though if it was me, I’d be storing my flour upstairs out of the damp.

‘I will carry them up later,’ Branoc says, surprising me – who’d want to be clambering up and down that flimsy ladder with a weight over his shoulder, if he had someone to do the job for him? ‘Place them by the wall, there, and be sure to stack them neatly.’ He takes the ladder down and carries it outside. Helpful, since that’ll make it easier for me to get the full bags over to the spot where he wants them.

I’m used to being treated like I’m nothing, so I keep my mouth shut and get on with the job. Branoc – a foreigner, I’m guessing, not only from his name but from the way he talks – watches me for a while, not offering to help. After a bit he wanders off to do something across the yard, and I keep carrying one sack after another into the barn. It’s a lot of flour. With luck it’ll be a while before I need to come back.

I finish off, making sure the sacks are lined up straight, grabbing a broom to tidy up after myself. Don’t want any fuss about the payment, which I’m supposed to collect for Scannal. While I’m doing this I hear a few noises from upstairs, clunks and scrapes, and when Branoc comes back over I say, trying to be friendly, ‘Should bring you a cat next time.’

He gives me a narrow-eyed look. ‘A cat? Why would you do this?’

‘You got rats up there. Heard them running around. Big store of flour, you wouldn’t want it spoiled.’

‘Your work is finished, yes?’

‘Mm-hm.’ I get myself out of the barn. I’ve annoyed him, not sure why. But some men don’t need a reason to get angry. I know that better than most. ‘I’ll be on my way, then.’ I fiddle with the horses’ harness, waiting for him to give me the money. All he does is shut the barn door and shove the bolts across. ‘Scannal asked me to collect his payment,’ I say when he’s done it.

He stomps off to the house. I hope he’s fetching what’s due. While he’s away I get the horses and cart all ready to go. Hoping I won’t have to hammer on the fellow’s door and demand the money. Hoping I won’t get into a fight. Thinking about Blackthorn and the cottage and the garden, and knowing I can’t get angry or I might lose everything.

Turns out all right. Branoc comes striding back from the house and gives me a bag of coppers. The weight tells me it’s more or less the right amount, but I shake the coins out and count them anyway. Then I get up on the cart and head off, knowing he’s going to watch me all the way down the hill, making sure I’m gone. Though why I’d be wanting to hang around I can’t imagine.

Down on the shore I get out the bread and cheese I’ve brought and when Storm and Sturdy have had a drink I give them their oats. We eat. I look out over the lake. If I lived in such a pretty spot I wouldn’t be bad-tempered like this baker. I’d be getting on with my work and thinking how lucky I was.

Horses make light work of the trip back. I drop the cart at Scannal’s and give him the payment, and he gives me my share and the half-bag of flour.

‘This yours?’ he asks me as I’m heading off, and he’s got Blackthorn’s red kerchief in his hand, all floury from the back of the cart where he’s picked it up from a corner. Must’ve got tangled up with something in the wash and ended up in my pocket, though I don’t recall it being there. Must’ve dropped it when I was unloading the flour bags.

I take it and stick it back in the pocket. Needs a good wash before she can wear it again, not that she does wear it much. I bid Scannal good day and walk home.

All this is in my head now while I cook the pie. I want to tell Blackthorn about my day. But she’s gone outside. She’s sitting in the garden, still as a stone, staring ahead of her. Wanting to be on her own. Wanting quiet. Needing to be left alone. So I keep on cooking, and later when she comes in we eat the pie without saying much. She’s had enough of folk cluttering up the house, fine ladies especially. She’s tired of chattering voices. And upset that a girl drowned and she couldn’t save her. Not that she says so, but I know anyway. So we sit by the fire awhile, and outside it gets dark so we go to bed, and somehow my tale never gets told.